Chateau on the Hill

The Chateau on the Hill

The monastery has a strange pull on Véronique

This story takes place in southeastern France, not far from Grenoble.

A huge thank you to my editor Ken. Without his help this story would have been a mess.

**

The château looked gorgeous. It was up on the tallest hill in the area, and as gorgeous as it looked, it looked equally foreboding. We girls were forbidden from going up to explore the château.

"Why?" I had once asked my mother. I was 16 at the time.

"Monks live there. They belong to an order with vows of silence," my mother explained. "You and your friends would not be welcome. You'd be disturbing their peace. They practice cenobitic and eremitic monasticism."

"What does that mean?"

"Some live together and others live as hermits. You really should learn more about these things."

I ignored Mom's dig, since after all we're Jewish and why should Jews have to know such bizarre things about monks? I blithely continued. "Who feeds them? Where do they get their food? Do they shop in town for toothpaste and toilet paper and such?"

"Why do you always have so many questions? Look, it's simple -- you cannot go to the château. It's too dangerous. The monks are supposed to be celibate, but they sometimes find that a hard dictate to obey."

"I guess they get hard, and that makes it hard to obey the chastity rules," I joked. Mom raised an eyebrow. After all, I was supposed to be her innocent little girl.

"Look Véronique, you cannot go up to the monastery. I forbid it. Got it?"

This was silly, and now it's two years later. I'm 18, and so I'm an adult. I'm a little sweetheart of a girl, or more properly a woman, since Pierre had seen to that in the backseat of his mother's Citroën right after my birthday. A couple of months before, I had gone on birth control as my birthday present to myself.

Pierre had been trying for some time, and he was surprised that suddenly I was willing. He was accustomed to getting me naked, and he would always try to get his cock inside me, but I was just too good at squirming. I'd squirm out of the way, and he never managed to get it inside me. I secretly enjoyed teasing him.

This time I changed tactics. I squirmed in such a way that he just slipped right in. I was already good and wet. He was a virgin, and he lasted only about 20 seconds before firing off inside me. I didn't hide my disappointment, but then he tried again around 10 minutes later and wow -- that was much better!

For the past two years, I'd volunteered to cook and serve at the home for the old and indigent, which was just outside of town. I wasn't even paid. As I said, I'm just a sweetheart of a girl.

One difference in finally letting Pierre have his way with me, on almost a daily basis, is that my style of dress changed. Now my skirts are shorter and my blouses are more revealing. I was pleased to see that this had some effects on the old men at the home. It made me giggle.

Most of the elderly at the home were women. We live longer than men. Pierre says it's because men marry women and living with a woman ages a man prematurely. I pointed out to Pierre he was a sexist asshole, but it wasn't a good time to make that observation since I was only half-dressed, and Pierre was slobbering all over my boobs. Men are so messy! He was angry because he wanted to fuck me yet again, but I kept saying no.

The old women at the home seemed bitter, and not that appreciative of all I was doing. They treated me with the contempt they must have had -- back in the day -- for their hired help. The old men, in contrast, always had a smile for me.

One day I came without a bra. It was not a big deal because my boobs are small and don't bounce around that much when I'm braless. Also, since the pandemic, many young women have routinely gone without bras. It's the fashion. Anyway, that day all my bras were dirty. Mom was on strike and not doing the wash -- I think it evolved from her fight with Dad. It was probably about sex. Most of their fights seem to be about sex.

Let me tell you, going without a bra and displaying my pokies got me big smiles from the old men. It also got me more scorn from the old women. One man even patted my behind, which is considered a serious offense by the home's management. I ignored it.

**

I knew from Pierre (and also from Marc, but that's top secret) that guys like a lot of sex. I do mean a lot of sex. It's way more than we girls like, at least in my experience. I mean, I have sex with Pierre to keep him happy; mostly to keep him as my boyfriend. Having Pierre as my puppy dog gives me a certain status among the girls. I like that. If I have to fuck him all the time to keep my status, well clearly I'm going to do it.

Don't get me wrong. I like sex. I like it especially when I get orgasms. The problem is that rarely happens, which is also why I tried out Marc on the down low. I figured maybe the problem was Pierre. But no, sex with Marc was even worse than sex with Pierre. Too bad.

It might be better if Pierre (or Marc) used their mouths, or even their fingers, down there the way -- I'm told -- they do in America. They wouldn't do it. It was just kiss me, play with my boobs, and then stick their cocks in and plunge away. It was nice, but I rarely got a climax. Later, I'd get myself off with my fingers.

I figured Mom was not giving Dad enough sex, and that's why they were fighting. It would also explain the lustful looks Dad was giving me. I was giving Dad wider and wider berths. Dad had Mom and also his young mistress Marie-Louise in Paris. She went by Louise, but Dad liked to tease her and called her Marie-Louise. He didn't need me, too.

**

Pierre is a bit of a wimp. It was a gorgeous, warm March day, and still he refused to go with me up the hill to the château. The ground had dried out after the snowmelt and the recent spring rains. It was perfect weather and conditions for a long hike up the hill. I told him it was just to explore and take some pictures. I'm a pretty decent amateur photographer. I guess I inherited my artistic talent from my mom. Maybe I could sell a picture to the boutique postcard company in town. You never know. Probably though I'd only get photos of hermit monks masturbating behind a tree or something.

I already had a photo like that of my cousin Claude. I even was able to capture the arc of his spunk when he ejaculated. It's not so much my photographic talent as having a great Leica camera with a telephoto lens and a shutter burst. It was a bit disturbing. I had thought he was beating off to a standard porn photo. In reality, though, he was using a dirty picture of me that Pierre had taken.

I should never have let Pierre take that photo. I was wearing only panties. As I mentioned earlier, my boobs are not big or anything. But they are

bona fide

boobs, and that's enough for most men, I guess. To compensate for their small size, I suppose, my nipples get huge when they are hard. My nipples are good and hard in the photo because Pierre took it right after he had played with my boobs. I knew the photo was circulating. I was furious at Pierre for a long time.

Still, Pierre is handsome, an athlete, and a good student. He still fucks me all the time, of course, but no more photos are allowed. Often his mother's Citroën smells of sex. His mother doesn't seem to care. She does look at me funny, however.

When Pierre refused to climb the hill with me I tried to get Marc to go. Alas, it turns out he's also a wimp. Even my offer of a reward like a sexual romp at the top of the hill, naked and in daylight, was not enough to entice him. He now had Hélène satisfying his sexual needs. Also, Pierre had found out about Marc and me. That made sex with Marc problematic anyway.

I learned my girlfriends are all cowards too. Everyone seemed to be afraid of the monks who lived in the château, or monastery if you will. Rumors had it they were a sex-starved bunch of men. Probably it's due to their vows of celibacy. I naively thought that was why God gave them nuns, but nobody agreed with me. Most of my friends were Catholics, so they should know better than I.

I figured that monks were deeply religious. They wouldn't rape anyone. My friends were just using a dumb excuse.

So one fine late spring Saturday I set off on my own. My backpack contained a lunch, a water canteen, and my camera.

The hike up to the château was exhausting. Pierre had given me some last-minute advice. He explained monks don't wear underwear, and if I want to be accepted by them I shouldn't wear any underwear either. I of course ignored Pierre's advice. I was sure he was just playing with me.

During the interminable hike, I began to think about Pierre's advice. About a quarter of the way up I removed my bra. I took a selfie of myself topless in deep nature and sent it to Pierre. My phone barely had enough bars to send the picture off. Afterwards, I got dressed but left my bra off. I also texted my Mom saying I was out in nature with my camera.

My T-shirt was tight and a bit too small, but fuck it. Nobody was about, and if I saw a monk he'd be too busy praying to notice my attire. I kept my panties on, because

Il ne faut pas exaggérer

, which means there's no need to exaggerate. Without my bra, I felt sexy -- perhaps even a bit risqué. My bra joined the canteen in my backpack.

I finally got to the château. One side faced a cliff, and it had windows overlooking the town below. A high stone wall surrounded the other three sides. The wall was too high and forbidding to scale. There had to be a door in the wall somewhere. I found it of course, although it took some doing.

I rang the bell. My camera was ready to go, the light meter perfectly adjusted. Nothing happened. Nobody came to the door. Why did they have a doorbell if there was no response when you rang it?

I was hot, tired, and frustrated. All this effort, only to be met by silence. I sat down and opened a small bag of cashews. A half-hour later I tried the bell again. Maybe the first time they were praying or in the middle of a Gregorian chant or something?

Still no response. Not even to say "Go away." What if it had been important? Or urgent? With that thought, I saw it. The medieval monastery had a modern camera, partially hidden. Someone could see me -- if they had bothered to look -- and must have decided I wasn't even worth the effort to say hello. And these monks were Christians?

Well, if they could see me, I could play to that. My sleeveless T-shirt had something in Hebrew written on it. Pierre had given it to me -- he had bought it in Israel. Even though I'm Jewish I could decipher only one word: בְּבַקָשָׁ. It's pronounced as

be va ka shah

, and it means

please

.

The monks supposedly were scholarly, so I figured they probably could read Hebrew -- the Old Testament and all that. I had planned to ask one of them to translate my T-shirt for me.

Pierre had gone to Eilat, the Israeli resort on the Red Sea. He was obsessed with fucking Jewish girls. I had given him a taste of what it was like, and he generalized. I knew he had also fucked a few Catholic girls, too. (Almost all girls in France are Catholic girls.) He didn't know that I knew. It seems he was disappointed with how they fucked, compared to me.

It was flattering I suppose, in a degrading sort of way. I don't know if Pierre had any successes in Israel, but Marc told me he bragged about several successful conquests, so maybe he did. I was not about to ask him about it.

I took a deep breath and put my idea into action. I looked directly at the tiny doorbell camera, and I gave my best smile while I raised my T-shirt up to my neck. I was exposing my tits to the camera and presumably to the eyes of at least one monk. That should do it! After all, monks are men, right?

Nope. Still nothing. Damn! Raise the stakes, right? I removed my jeans, showing off my panties and my shapely legs. I folded my jeans and laid them carefully on my backpack, so they weren't touching the ground. I have thin thighs and there's a gap at the top where my thighs meet my torso. That gap frames my bush in ways that men (well, at least Pierre and Marc) seem to like, Now I was close to naked, with my T-shirt bunched around my neck. I rang the bell yet again.

Eureka! A monk answered the door and pulled me into the château amazingly fast. I was in a kind of foyer, with a surprisingly high ceiling. It made the room look bigger than it was. The château's architecture was a mixture of Romanesque and Gothic. The high, pointed arches of the Gothic parts were pretty. I had been pulled inside so fast that my jeans and backpack were left outside the walls. Oops. I pulled my T-shirt down, covering my boobs, but there was precious little I could do about my crotch. Thank goodness I had left my panties on! They were my favorite white cotton panties. I bought them at Monoprix.

Everything happened so fast that I barely could take in the structure of the monastery. I could tell it had cloisters which led to a great room, which had an organ, but that was about it.

"I'm Véronique," I said. No reply. "What's your name?" I asked. The monk said nothing but he turned me around so he was facing my back, bent me over at the waist, and began to stroke my pussy, right through my panties. Double oops. I guessed the monks had taken vows of silence. Abstinence too, I had hoped, but that one was looking dubious.

I spun away from the monk, who looked puzzled at my resistance. He kept pointing at the Hebrew on my T-shirt, so I whispered, "What do the words mean?"

The monk pulled out a pad and a pen from somewhere within his robe. He scribbled some words on the pad. He gesticulated, making it clear he was indeed writing a translation of the Hebrew. He wrote,

Baisez-moi, s'il vous plaît.

"You mean my T-shirt says

Please kiss me

on it?"

The word for to kiss in French is

baiser.

Used in slang, however, it means to fuck. Was the monk telling me the T-shirt was asking for a kiss or a fuck? I didn't know.

He nodded slowly while smiling. His smile was a bit of a smirk. I was now wary, to say the least. The monk was about six feet tall and his face was chiseled, with nice features. He had a small scar near his chin. I wondered what that was about. Had he fought as a youth? Fallen off a bicycle? Somehow injured himself? No speaking meant I couldn't ask him.

He was around 50 years old, making him about 30 years my senior. He was also naked, having shed his robe. This made the story of his scar not that important just then. Pierre was right: he wasn't wearing underwear. He had an erection, too. He began to touch me. I freaked.

My screams attracted an audience, and soon half a dozen monks were in the foyer with us. After all of the monks had studied me carefully, my first monk, let's call him Alpha, gestured for me to remove my T-shirt. I declined. I was now terrified.

He led me around the room. Each monk smiled when he read the Hebrew. Each monk removed his robe and then kissed me right on the lips. Very obedient, these monks were. There I was, wearing only my panties and my flimsy T-shirt, and surrounded by six naked monks. Most of them kissed well. Better than Pierre kissed, in any event. Most even kissed better than Marc.

Loud organ music began to fill the monastery. It was Bach: the chorale prelude Nun danket alle Gott. Was I going to be fucked to Bach with five monks watching? I felt an urgent need to pee, as well as of course to leave.

I decided to leave. I walked boldly to the door, but three large monks blocked my passage, smiling and pointing to my T-shirt.

I figured prayer might help. A monk couldn't fuck you while you were praying, right? That had to be a sin, or at least frowned upon. The problem was I barely knew any Jewish prayers, let alone Christian ones. Wait -- I know -- The Lord's Prayer. Yes. I had learned it at summer camp.

I began to recite it. "Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name ..."

**

My parents had been so worried! I had simply disappeared and nobody knew where I was, or even if I was alive. My parents had even asked Pierre. My parents had never met Pierre, even if they knew all about him. Mom knew Pierre's mother, but that was it. They knew about my relationship with Pierre, and they didn't approve. They figured Pierre and I were fucking. They must have been truly worried to have asked Pierre. They got his number from his mom.

I would have called my parents to calm them but there was no cell phone signal around the château. Pierre told them I was hiking somewhere. He texted the topless selfie I had sent him to my mother but thank goodness not to my dad. My mom relaxed a bit and calmed down my dad.

I returned three days after I had left, wearing the clean robe of a monk, given to me by a disciple of Saint Pachomius the Great. It was a bit big on me but it covered me and kept me warm. The monks had kept my bra and panties as souvenirs. My parents didn't ask me what happened. My mother seemed to know, and she shut up my father when he began to inquire. They were thrilled I was alive and okay and in good health.

When Pierre found out I had returned he came running over. I learned he had bragged to Marc about the practical jokes he had played, first with the T-shirt and its phrase in Hebrew on the front, and second with planting the idea of no underwear.

"What happened?" Pierre asked, all concerned.

I waxed enthusiastic about the hike, the views, the beauty of the monastery, the great photos I had taken of the flora and some fauna, and how nice and welcoming the monks were, the gorgeous music of the talented organist.

"I'm sorry about the T-shirt. I should have told you what it says," Pierre said. He was fishing for information.

"Oh, the T-shirt turned out to be a blessing. It helped to convince six of the monks to give me a gangbang. They're a horny group of guys. I had so many orgasms during those two days of fucking, it's amazing. I guess it had been quite a while since they had enjoyed a teenage girl, you know? They want me to come by again and maybe bring a girlfriend or two with me. I had my first vaginal orgasms, too."

Pierre looked like he had seen a ghost. He sat down, speechless, seemingly catatonic. Then he vomited.

I had been teasing about their request for me to return with a friend. They'd never mentioned bringing a friend. I was so angry with Pierre that I didn't care what he thought. However, I did manage to convince him that I was only teasing about all the sex. I was impressed with myself: I told the truth and simultaneously arranged for Pierre not to believe it.

**

So what did happen? After the monks passed me around in my "Please kiss me" T-shirt, I panicked. Six men, all but one between 25 and 35 I'd guess, were naked and erect. The sixth man, Alpha, was older, as I've said, around 50. He was handsome, with nice hair and a fit body. He even had a six-pack. He had a tight ass, which I was sure would look great in tight jeans, even if that would never happen. I had come to like his little scar and his craggy face. I felt a strange attraction to him that I couldn't understand.

Just as the Bach music was getting to the good part, Alpha took my hand. He led me out of the great room, down the cloisters a ways, and then into a small room. It had a chair, a tiny desk, a sink, and a narrow bed.

Uh-oh, I thought. Alpha smiled at me. I looked up into his eyes, trying silently to ask if his intentions were honorable. I was honoring the code of silence.

Alpha conveyed his intentions by taking me into his arms, pulling my near-naked body flush against his (his hard cock angled up between us), and kissing me. The kiss was closed mouth, gentle, and loving. He kissed me a second time. And a third time. Next, he kissed my neck. He stuck his tongue briefly into my ear (that was new!). I was surprised by how gentle and loving he was. I realized what I had been missing with Pierre. I was finding it hard to resist him.