MSL-06 Behind The Convent Walls


FOREWORD

At first, the Prioress thought that Sister Jeanne might be ill, as she heard her moaning 
pouring through the door of her cell. The young novice was ill all right, but with an evil that 
laid her bare to the weakness of sensual depravity.

Inside the cell, the voluptuous young girl was playing with her crotch. As her fingers 
climbed up her firm, white thighs, the hem of her habit was raised upward, giving the Mother 
Superior a peek of the treasures that lay between those legs. The air was heavy with the smell 
of her sex as trickles of pussy juices oozed from the tender, aching slit.

Sister Jeanne removed her habit entirely, exposing the two lovely and swollen titties which 
adorned her chest. Jeanne stroked each of them slowly, with the tips of her wet fingers while 
she moaned. "Fuck me, Jesus! Fuck me!"

The Prioress gasped with revulsion. Surely this innocent child could not harbor such a 
terrible thought. But as the name of her Lord and Savior was muttered again and again, in 
time to the lusty stroking action of her fingers against hot, wanton flesh, the nun knew her 
novice was indeed possessed.

As the burning of her cunt grew more unbearable by the minute. Sister Jeanne literally 
screamed her Master's name, while the cunt juices slithered down her fingers and onto her 
small, slender wrists. The Prioress could stand no more of this perversion. She unlocked the 
cell door and pounced upon startled Jeanne. "I'll teach you to worship the devil!" she hissed, 
pressing the blunt edge of her crucifix against the novice's twitching cunt lips.

And shoved it in tight!


CHAPTER ONE

Sister Jeanne came to the convent a virgin. She was seventeen years old.

Born 1610, she was the daughter of a stonemason, Charles Dufay of Rouen. A young girl 
possessed with beauty and mysticism, she learned her catechism well, loved the smell of 
incense and the light which filtered through the large stained windows in the cathedral. It was 
very early in her life that Jeanne made the decision to uphold the law of God. She would enter
the company of Ursuline nuns in the newly completed section of the gothic edifice.

She took the vows, she gave her youthful body and soul to the Heavenly Father. She 
believed the Immaculate Conception and the Ascension. She did penance for sins she had 
committed, some real, but for the most part, the sins of her heart.

For it would be wrong to assume that Sister Jeanne, for all her inherent mysticism and love
of the company of God, did not feel the same emotions that other young beautiful girls felt in 
their hearts. There were many facts of life which were very interesting to the young novice... 
especially those of a carnal nature.

Sister Jeanne lusted for men. Many times, during the vows of silence, the voluptuous 
novice would be drawn into lustful fantasy, but fearful of the knowledge that her Heavenly 
Father was aware of her desires. And also, because her Lord and Savior meant as much to her 
physically as mystically. He was her lover... and she his bride!

She lay on her back in the tiny cell. It is he she desires, and as will happen in dreams of this
nature, he will come to her.

She is alone, standing before a tomb. The large stone which seals it miraculously rolls away
with the touch of her finger. He is inside... his body wrapped in linen, and Jeanne stands 
transfixed at the edge of the tomb.

He approaches her, his arms outstretched. She sees his strong body, hands and ankles 
scarred from the long, sinister nails that tore through the flesh as they affixed him to the cross.
His eyes are wild with an ephemeral excitement. Jeanne steps slowly forward, her heart 
pounding wildly.

"Do not touch me," he warns, "for I have yet to ascend into my Father's house!" But how 
she longs to feel his brown, tender flesh against her warm body. Her hands tremble, aching to 
caress his wounds. A tiny ball of sweat collects on her temple and rolls down her ear, hanging 
precariously from the soft, fleshy lobe.

She stands paralyzed and entranced. She closes her eyes tightly, still feeling the holiness 
radiate from his resurrected, masculine form. She feels his tongue against her earlobe... and 
her Savior licks the ball of sweat free of her ear. A tremendous passion shivers through her 
wanton limbs, her cunt groans in heated lust. He has touched her! He wants her for his own! 
He will purify her!

She feels his strong arms, covered with veins, around her waist. The fingers fondle and tear
at her skin and Jeanne grows weak with desire. He pulls her close to his bruised, scarred flesh.

Her hand slips into the gash in his side... the wound is smooth and delicious to her touch. 
His body smells not of the grave from which it came, but of sweet and precious oils.

She buries her head against his chest, rubbing her ear against the coarse, jet-black hair 
which grows there. She lashes her tongue against his nipple and coats it wet and hot with her 
warm mouth juices. Against her tender thigh, Jeanne can feel the heat and stiffness of his Holy
Manhood as it writhes under the linen. And slowly, with the help of her long, sensual fingers, 
the linen falls to his scarred ankles, his cock shining royally in the early morning haze.

It is thick, trembling with pulsating blood. Its magnificence threatens her. All along the 
purple shaft large veins, not unlike the larger ones protruding from his arms, rise against the 
taut skin. Jeanne takes it in her hand and feels it jump against her fingers. From the crimson 
head flows a wet and sticky substance which coats her palm. With every delicious stroke of her
fingers, her Master's cock grows harder and longer... thicker than the young novice can 
imagine.

His pierced hands touch her breasts and then she is no longer dressed, but standing 
naked before Him. A trickle of her pussy juices flow from her sweet crotch and rolls down her 
leg.

And kneeling before her, the Master licks this also from her flesh with his tongue.

It darts slowly, wet and hot, against her thigh. Shivers of shameful delight pour down 
Jeanne's back and into her hole. Her body is teeming with lustful desire as the Good Sheperd's
tongue digs into the warm, feminine flesh. As the wet muscle climbs slowly upward, tickling 
the soiled hairs of her sweet crotch, Jeanne knows in her heart that he will take her for his 
own. She will feel his Manhood against her aching pussy for the first time.

The hot tongue slithers into her hole. Surely Jeanne will fall against him. But his strong 
hands clutch firmly her naked asscheeks, massaging and stroking the heated flesh. She feels 
his thumb against her anal valley as it wiggles up and down the sweating furrow. Her nipples 
grow long and stiff as her breasts bum from the inside. Her core is boiling over as the slick, 
warm flesh of his tongue pokes through the pink, pouting folds of her womanhood.

It slithers back and forth, capturing the sweet essence of her deep chasm. The elixir pours 
from that unknown portion of her body, the secret well of desire which longs only to be 
drained again and again. She feels the juice drip faster onto his slippery tongue as the Savior 
cups and drinks from her warm chalice. And surely, the wine which touched His lips as it 
oozed from the Holy Grail tasted no sweeter nor smelled so divinely as the ferment of her fiery
core.

She falls to her knees. His tongue climbs her white belly with wet strokes, then slashes 
against her tender, dark nipples. He paints the burning breasts with his spit, the same that fell 
to the ground and turned the earth itself into a healing balm, when her Master brought sight 
to the blind man. The same spit that fell to the temple floor when He chased the money 
changers from the House of God. Her nipples grow stiffer and more lengthy with each 
impassioned kiss. He is drinking her milk from the centers of those precious breasts like a child
nursing at his mother.

"Take my body," she whispers. "Take me, for I am a sinner in thine eyes!" And not realizing 
that she is being watched closely, watched by her Superior, Jeanne finds her way through the 
folds of the long habit and her fingers slip hotly into her glistening hole.

In her mind's eye, it is her Master who is penetrating her. She feels his carpenter's tool hot 
and thick against the entrance of her cavern. The crimson head nudges against her 
maidenhead, ready to strike like a snake as it bursts through the taut membrane. His mouth, 
from which the wisdom of the Almighty fell to mortal ears, covers her own as His tongue 
slithers, licking at her own.

There was in the convent of Rouen, a Sister who had noticed the young Jeanne from the 
beginnings of her initiation to the order of God. She was the Mother Superior, a Sister 
Catherine, twelve years with the Ursuline order, and twelve years without the satisfaction and 
pleasure that Sister Jeanne dreamed of. Twelve years without the company of men is a very 
long time indeed, by any set of standards.

She had taken notice of Jeanne from the very first day of initiation. She found her gaze 
fixed in the young novice's direction more and more. And though she struggled to keep her 
eyes from falling to the voluptuousness which lay beneath the lily whiteness of the habit, 
Sister Catherine was still stricken with the novice's beauty.

Sister Catherine was, after much practice, more successful in controlling her bodily 
impulses than was the novice. And the sight of the young girl, wallowing in sinful self-abuse in
her cell, tormented the older sister to rage.

She stood quietly in the stone corner as the blood rushed to her face. The young novice 
was quietly masturbating, quietly but with great furiousness. Her hips were undulating slowly 
and her breathing could be heard rising and falling with each lustful move of her crotch. Our 
Sister Catherine was filled with disgust and anger, for surely this voluptuous novice was 
possessed by some sinister devil, a spirit which consumed her body and then laid her bare to 
the weakness of sensual depravity.

She heard the young girl's whispers as they increased in their intensity. "Take me, Master. 
Take my body, my soul. Fill me with your goodness and mercy!"

The long white habit was pulled upward, revealing to Sister Catherine the whiteness of our
young novice's leg. Even in the dim light of the cell, lit only by candles, Sister Catherine could 
detect the drops of cream rolling down the supple, smooth flesh as it leaked from her cunt.

The Mother Superior felt every bit as weak as the novice as she stood quietly, observing 
the travesty. Her eyes moved quickly up the white, tender legs, then to the sight of a blushing 
breast which had now been extracted from the confines of the habit. The young novice pulled 
and fondled the stiff, conical nipple, as Sister Catherine watched in heated terror. Something 
must be done.

She felt her pussy simmer hot, and drip with the same sweet nectar that flowed so 
profusely wet from Sister Jeanne's crotch. The large wooden crucifix, attached to the rosary in 
her hands pressed so hard against her palm that blood trickled from the wound. She tore 
furiously at the beads, so much so that they snapped from their rigging and fell, one by one, 
to the stone floor.

Sister Jeanne, though deep in her carnal fantasy, was not so stricken with her heat as to 
ignore the sounds of the falling beads. Quickly, she gained her composure. Had she been 
discovered? And by whom?

She turned around, then cried out in fright as she saw Sister Catherine searching for the 
keys to her cell. The Superior said nothing as she turned the iron key in the lock, then swung 
open the door.

"You harlot!" she cursed, and slapped the young novice across the face. It was no weak 
blow which Sister Catherine delivered, and Jeanne was knocked to the cold stone, her head 
stinging from the pain.

"You are possessed, Sister Jeanne. You are possessed with avarice and greed. The greed of 
your own satisfaction!"

"No!" she protested, and tried to cover her exposed breast. Her brown eyes remained 
affixed to Sister Catherine's horrifying gaze. "I-I was only... "

"You have defiled this most holy of orders! You have sinned against yourself, and those 
who are your sisters in Christ!"

The older woman fell to her knees and extended a hand to the frightened novice. But 
though Sister Jeanne expected to be helped to her feet, she was slapped once more, then 
again, and even more by the enraged Mother Superior.

"What is this evil that consumes you?" she asked. "What has entered your body? Tell me!"

"I have sinned, Sister Catherine. I have committed this sin in my heart."

"You will confess to me," the older woman demanded.

But how could the young girl confess her fantasy. I ask you now to think of your most 
personal longings, those secret desires that consume you in the dead of night. Could you, 
under the threat of physical harm, reveal those desires, those perverse fantasies, to your 
tormentor?

Sister Jeanne trembled in fear. For if she divulged these personal sins, sins she had 
committed for as many years as she could remember, she would surely be punished by her 
Superior. And it would be no merciful punishment. Sister Jeanne had many times heard the 
mournful screams of terror that rose from the dungeon of the convent, through the heavy 
stone walls those painful, tortured voices reached her ears.

"Confess to me, my child. We cannot pray for your redemption until we know what drives 
you deep in mortal sin." Sister Catherine stroked the young novice's leg and drops of blood 
from her gouged hand were wiped onto the folds of cloth. Sister Jeanne breathed heavily, still 
reeling from the painful, stinging slaps.

"I-I was thinking of a man," she began. "I was in his arms."

"Yes, my child. I understand your thoughts. Tell me more," she consoled, lightly draping 
her fingers across the tensed thigh. "I am listening."

"He was beautiful. He had me in his arms, he held me tightly to his body."

"Go on, my dearest. Everything is known to your Father in Heaven. There is nothing you 
can hide away in your heart, nothing!"

"I felt his tongue against my warm flesh. He licked me wet and I felt dizzy. I felt loved."

"It is only an illusion, Sister Jeanne."

"He kissed me, I felt his tongue slipping into my mouth. He breathed into me, he breathed 
his soul into my body!" The young girl's face was shining, almost illuminating the darkened 
cell. Sister Catherine toyed with the sweating brow, her fingers spread the salty drops over the
fevered flesh.

"And then, I don't know why, his crotch was up against my own. I could feel his manhood 
stiff and hot. He was penetrating my womb! I was... naked!"

"And tell me, my child, who was this man you dream of? Who is it that forces you to 
commit these sins against your vows?"

Sister Jeanne froze with terror. She could not utter a single word.

"Tell me, child. I must know. I must know who it is you desire."

"It is... it is Him!"

"Who?"

"Him. Jesus. Our Savior!" Her words were more like gasps, the silence around her more 
frightening than the screams from the dungeon.

"You whore!" screamed the Superior, grabbing the novice's neck. "You wicked, evil whore!"

The strong fingers clutched at her neck and the novice feared sudden death. If she were 
not struck down dead from the perversity of her desires, surely Sister Catherine would do 
God's bidding, and kill her then and there.

"So," groaned the Mother Superior, "you not only defile yourself, but the image of your 
Heavenly Father."

"I was evil. I will repent."

"Yes, you shall. Tell me, Sister Jeanne. Tell me what you wanted him to do to you."

"Please! I cannot. I will not! I have told you all that I can!" The fingers tightened around her
neck.

"You slut! You know what you wanted. You wanted his fat cock! His big, thick tool. You 
lusted after your Savior's cock!" The older nun's green eyes bursts into flames as a shower of 
painful slaps rained down on our young novice.

"You know you want him. Tell me. Tell me that you want to suck his cock!"

The slaps continued, then stopped as the enraged Superior waited breathlessly for an 
answer. "Tell me! Now!"

Sister Catherine fell against the novice, wrestling an answer from the frightened, 
humiliated girl. Those strong fingers grabbed her breasts and pinched the nipples mercilessly. 
The older nun's knee was sliding into the novice's ..crotch, spreading her legs wide.

"Yes! Yes! I wanted to suck his cock! I dream about it every night!"

"I know you do, you witch! And He knows too. What else do you want?"

"Please stop. You're hurting me," the novice cried. Sister Catherine's hands clutched 
fiercely at the tender breasts, the nipples were pinched tightly between thumb and forefinger.

"There is no pain that I can give you, none that is any stronger than the pain you must feel
inside your heart! What else do you want from Him?"

Jeanne struggled against the weight of the older nun. She was trapped! "I wanted... I 
wanted him to fuck me! Oh, Christ! I wanted him to fuck me everywhere."

"Where?"

"In my mouth. In my cunt! In my ass! Everywhere! I wanted his cock! It was so huge, so hot!
I wanted him inside me!"

The enraged nun spat, the vile juice oozed down the young girl's cheeks and mixed with 
the tears which flowed from her eyes. Jeanne recoiled from the insult, but panicked even more
when she felt the Mother Superior's hand, still clutching the wooden crucifix, climb up her 
legs.

"You wanted him to fuck you, yes? You wanted him to stick that fat cock up inside your 
cunt, yes? You wanted him to empty his seed inside your womb?"

Jeanne shook her head up and down, unable to speak another word. A rush of humiliation
and sinful self-hatred hurt her more than the grinning Sister Catherine.

"Say yes! Tell me it is so!" she threatened. Jeanne could feel the tip of the crucifix against 
her quivering cunt lips as Catherine leered, awaiting an answer.

"Yes. That's what I wanted. I've told you all."

"Yes indeed. You have told me quite enough!" She pushed the wooden cross harder 
against the folds of pink flesh. "Now I understand the depths of your depravity, evil whore! 
And this shall be your punishment!" Jeanne cried out in terror as the tip of the crucifix nudged
against her hymen. Sister Catherine held it there firmly, diminishing the pressure of her hand.

"So you are a virgin? Good! I hope this hurts you even more! I hope your cunt bleeds 
buckets! I hope you die!"

She pressed the cross hard. Jeanne felt the edge tear through her taut membrane as the 
crucifix slid into her hole. Her body tensed with pain and though she tried not to scream, the 
pain overcame her as it shot into her core.

"You will be fucked, Sister Jeanne. Your innocence has been taken from you. This is just the
beginning of your penance!" She pulled the crucifix out a few inches, then rammed it harder 
into the young novice's vagina. Spurts of blood oozed out onto her pink, quivering lips and 
onto the stone floor as it dripped from her thighs and bush.

The sharp edges of the crucifix felt as if they were actually tearing through her pussy walls 
as Sister Catherine fiercely stabbed again and again. She pumped the cross hard with fast 
motions of her wrist, a wrist now covered with red, wet blood. And while Jeanne writhed in 
anguish against her violation, biting her tongue with such force as to draw blood from the 
tender muscle, Sister Catherine continued to slap the tear-stained young face with her free 
hand.

"Take it up your hole, you witch! Take every fucking inch of it in your cunt! Roll around on 
it! Savor it! You know you love to feel it digging into your flesh!"

The crucifix was scratching Jeanne's tight and dry walls, now more blood poured from the 
crotch. Sister Catherine was sucking on one of Jeanne's firm, fleshy globes, biting the nipple 
hard between her sharp teeth.

The young novice prayed for death, longed for soothing sleep to relieve her of the 
torturous stabs of the crucifix. She would rather burn in hell for an eternity than to suffer Sister
Catherine's wrath. But the older nun kept up her humiliating torture, plunging the wooden 
cross father and harder into the bleeding cunt.

At last she removed it, holding it up to the young girl's contorted face. "Look at him, 
whore! Look at your Savior!"

Jeanne could not focus her eyes, so racked with pain and humiliation. She saw the bronze 
detail of the crucified Christ. It was covered with her own blood. Little drops of the liquid 
dripped from his feet onto her bruised and aching breasts. His face was lowered, his chin 
rested against his chest. It was horrifying!

"Lick him dry," she demanded. "Suck your wicked blood from his body. Taste your own 
wickedness, Sister Jeanne!"

She drew her head back in terror, but the older nun brought the crucifix against the side of
her head with a sharp blow. "Lick him dry, you know you want to eat him. I'm waiting!" Sister 
Catherine pressed the dripping image of the Savior against the young novice's parched lips. A 
drop of her own blood dripped onto her chin as she slowly stuck out her tongue. As Sister 
Catherine once more threatened her, the girl licked the repulsive bronze figure clean of the 
bitter, drying blood.

"That is right, Sister Jeanne. Dig your tongue between his legs! Lick it off his crotch! Just 
like you want it!"

The novice shook with waves of repulsion, her tongue wetting the smooth metal figure 
from the tips of His crossed feet to the crown of thorns around His sunken head.

"And the floor!" she demanded. "I want this floor clean, child! Clean it with your tongue!"

The young novice felt weak inside, as if she might puke. Sister Catherine kicked her over 
onto her stomach and pressed her face into the puddle of blood.

"Now eat it! Slide your tongue all over it! Drink your wickedness!" Sister Catherine stood 
tall now, her foot resting firmly on Jeanne's sweating neck.

Her humiliation and self-hatred grew. As she looked at the warm, wet blood seeping 
between the cracks in the masonry, her throat muscles contracted violently. A stream of vomit 
mixed with the puddle of blood as Jeanne fell weak with sickness and disgust.

"Yes, you should feel sick," said the Mother Superior. "You should puke up your own guts. 
Now eat it!"

But the young novice was so consumed with guilt and fear of damnation, she momentarily
fell into unconsciousness. Still, she could feel the pressure of Sister Catherine's heel against 
her nape as the older nun shoved her face around in the disgusting pile of vomit and blood.

"This is only the beginning of your punishment, my child. You have committed a most 
unusual sin. A most terrible sin against your Lord and Savior."

The young novice choked on the stench of her punishment, her eyes closed tightly as her 
cheeks slid against the cold, wet floor.

"You will be punished painfully, slowly! In the beginning, it will torment you, haunt you, 
degrade you minute by minute. But we will start very simply at first, and as your tolerance to 
pain increases, so will your torture!

"You will be made to long for pain, ache for it, lust for it! And by the end of your 
incarceration, you will want nothing more than the feel of the whip against your flesh, the 
sharp pain of the lash as it cuts through your youthful skin. The blood will flow from your 
welts, the pain will sicken you. And through it all, Sister Jeanne, you will not utter one single 
word. Not even a cry of pain as it absorbs your being. You will remain silent, as you pray to 
Our Lady for redemption."

Sister Catherine left the cell while Jeanne wallowed in her own vomit, pleading for mercy. 
As the heavy iron door to the cell was shut and locked once more, the young novice 
collapsed.

"Pray for your soul, Sister Jeanne," the nun advised. "Pray for your redemption from the 
powers of evil. You are well on your way to complete possession, Lucifer's possession of your 
body. Pray that it does not happen, Sister Jeanne, or your mind and body will be broken. You 
will cease to exist in your Master's eyes!"

Slowly, her body racked with the lingering pain, Sister Jeanne crawled into the corner of 
her cell. Tears stung her eyes, her crotch was matted with the drying blood. Her innocence had
been taken from her, all was lost.

For the remainder of the long night, the young novice prayed, wept, repeated her vows 
until finally she fell asleep, her head clasped in her hands. She would dream again of her 
Savior, who this time was not as loving as in her previous fantasy. He was filled with 
smoldering anger and revenge.

When she reached out, with trembling arms, to touch his fine body, he would glare 
menacingly, slapping her as hard as had Sister Catherine. "You are not fit to enter the 
Kingdom of Heaven!" he said in a thunderous voice. "Get out of my sight, you sicken me!"

She was beyond the grace of Christ, who forgave all sinners. Or so she believed that she 
was. Sister Jeanne tried to fight off her evil possession throughout the evening, but with no 
success.





CHAPTER TWO


At morning devotionals, Sister Catherine brought the young novice to the attention of the 
entire convent, by announcing publicly the young girl's struggle with evil possession, "This girl
before you," she said, "is infested with demons. They have caused her to commit the most 
horrible sin imaginable."

"And what sin is this," asked Sister Anne, an older woman twenty years with the Ursuline 
order. "What sin has she committed that is so urgent?"

"It grieves me to tell you, so horrible and wicked is her crime. I shall let Sister Jeanne tell 
you herself, since she is much more familiar with the nature of her sin."

Catherine looked menacingly at the young novice, who was made to stand in front of the 
gathering nuns. All eyes were upon her, anxiously awaiting the sordid, demented confession.

"Tell them, my child. Tell them what you told me in your cell last night, when you were 
fighting with the demons."

"And not very' successfully, it appears," laughed Sister Anne. "Go ahead, dear girl... speak 
up!"

Sister Jeanne blushed as red as the fiery halo of hair which adorned the head of the 
Mother Superior. "Speak up, Jeanne. Or has the devil got your tongue?"

There was more laughter, more tension filled the room. And finally, through the hushed 
whispers, the frightened girl confessed her crime to the anxious women.

"I-I was filled with lust," she said quietly. "I wanted a man."

"And not just any man, was it dear?"

"No, it wasn't. I-I... " But she broke up with tearful sobs. "I can't go on."

"So, she has carnal desires," interjected the older nun. "We have surely all confessed to 
such desires. It is human nature."

"These were no simple desires, as we have all experienced," shouted Sister Catherine 
above the lull of hissing whispers. "These were no girlish, foolish longings that can be easily 
controlled."

"I-I lusted for my Savior," she cried. "I craved and coveted his body!" The sudden 
announcement was greeted with silence. Mouths that were formerly engaged in conversation 
fell open. Eyes bulged from sockets, all pointed toward the front of the chapel.

"He came to me from the tomb, naked. His body was hairy, wounded, I had to touch him."

"Yes. Go on, my child," said Sister Anne.

"His skin was rough, yet hot and burning with a fever. His brown eyes stared through my 
own, as if he had some power over me!"

"Amazing!"

"And I reached out and took his hands. They were rough, covered with calluses. They 
scratched my skin, and I felt weak with desire!"

"Is this all that happened?" asked the older nun.

"No, there is more. Much more, isn't there?" demanded Sister Catherine.

"Yes, there is."

"Then continue," ordered Sister Anne, throwing sharp glances at the giggling younger 
members of the order. "You may proceed."

"His, his wounds were still fresh," she said, choking back her tears. "I slipped my hand 
inside his gashes. And then I licked them, kissed them over and over!"

"Appalling!"

"And then," she continued, her voice rising louder, "he knelt down on the ground before 
the tomb. He stuck his tongue in my crotch, and licked my pussy wet with His tongue!"

The chapel rose with laughter which reverberated from the high stone ceiling and rained 
down upon the confessing novice. "He drank my juices, all of them."

"Silence!" demanded Sister Catherine, clapping her hands together loudly. "She's not 
finished yet. There is more!"

Sister Jeanne appeared very willing to continue with her demented confession. As to be 
specific, a strange, deranged smile appeared on her lips. "I grabbed His Holy tool," she 
laughed, "and I jerked It up and down." And to further illustrate her actions, as if her sisters of 
the order were completely innocent of such manipulation, Sister Jeanne pumped her fist fast 
as she held it in front of her hips. In addition to this display, she made many lewd, obscene 
gestures with her youthful body and darted her tongue fast between her lips.

"It was soooooooo big," she continued. "The biggest I've ever seen! It was purple and 
thick, and there were lots of veins all over the shaft! So," she said, looking Sister Catherine 
straight between her green eyes, now filled with terror, "I licked every one of those veins wet 
and hot with my tongue! He tasted terrific!"

Sister Anne clutched her heart, gasping. Still, seemingly unafraid and anxious to relate her 
story in graphic detail, Sister Jeanne rolled her head from side to side. Her eyes crossed, then 
screwed up into her skull. She placed her hands against both hips and undulated them slowly.

"And then," she began, reverting to the language spoken in the poorer quarters of Rouen, 
"and then I took that fat, thick snake in my hand, and spread my legs wiiiiiiiiide open. He stuck
his wet, hot tongue against my tits, and they swelled up like BALLOONS!" At this point in her 
explicit narrative, Sister Jeanne placed both her palms flat on the floor and wiggled her ass 
seductively.

"Jesus stuck his Manhood against my pussy, and then the most wonderful thing 
happened," she moaned, a little sliver of spit oozing past her lips. "It tore against my cherry! It 
broke right through me! He fucked me! HE FUCKED ME! HE FUCKED ME! HE FUCKED ME!" 
Those shocking words bounced from the stone ceilings like lightning. "Oooooooh," she 
laughed, now wallowing on the floor like a sow, "it was soooooo goooooood!"

They watched in horror as Sister Jeanne raised her habit, giving all present a long look at 
her femininity. Rolling her head from side to side, she plunged her fingers deeply into her 
cunt. "Just like this!" she shouted through maniacal laughter. "Oh, Jesus! Jesus! Fuck me again,
and again. Take my hole, make it yours forever and ever into Eternity!"

Most of the younger sisters watched breathlessly as Sister Jeanne continued with her 
self-flagellation. "I hope," said Sister Anne, "that she can be cured of this spell. It would be 
scandalous if this were known."

"You see?" asked Sister Catherine. "Already she is possessed with another demon. And 
more violently than the night before, when I found her like this in her cell."

"Do you think there is a chance she might be contagious?" asked the older nun. "Should 
we touch her?"

"We must do something," said the Mother Superior. "I doubt that prayer will relieve her of 
the devil."

"Well," said Sister Anne, "that is obvious. I'm praying for her right now, and nothing seems 
to take effect. This is a very grave matter."

"And we can't have this sort of thing spreading through the convent," added Catherine, 
"since we know from other instances of possession that as soon as the spirit consumes one, 
then he invites his whole family to come over."

"Very grave indeed."

Sister Jeanne was writhing on the chapel floor while the younger nuns looked on in girlish 
delight. Several times, the voluptuous novice would stick out her tongue and wiggle it about, 
as if she were kissing her imaginary lover. This was greeted with much applause from the 
giggling novices.

"Stay away from her," shouted Sister Catherine. "She is obsessed. How would you like to 
be in such a wicked state?" And the nuns, cowering beneath the folds of their white habits, 
dispersed.

"Considering the gravity of this situation," suggested Sister Anne, "I think it best that she 
be confined."

"I have considered that. I have made arrangements to send her down below. Her hands 
will be shackled to the walls."

"Well," said the older nun, "you had better shackle her feet as well. The possessed are 
gifted with extra powers, such as the ability to contort one's body in strange positions. What's 
to keep her from doing that with her toes?"

"Agreed. I have also considered talking to the cure, and explaining this phenomenon to 
him. We may need his help."

"I would not go so far as to tell the cure," said the older woman. "Not yet, unless her 
condition worsens."

"And what if it does worsen? What if all our attempts to exorcize this demon fail?"

"I wouldn't fret so," she said. "You have had much experience, Sister Catherine, with 
solving problems of this sort, although I dare say it will be quite challenging for you. But I am 
sure you will have no problems at all. She'll be cured within the week."

They heard Sister Jeanne cry out, a foolish, insanely evil laugh as she exploded in her lust. 
Chills ran up spines, gooseflesh appeared on arms and legs. She was experiencing what was 
obviously a climax, lying prostrate on the chapel floor.

"Goodness!" cried Sister Anne, "I hope she's having a good time, regardless of who fucked 
her."

The congregating nuns, like so many wide-eyed cows, were herded back into the main 
chambers of the convent and put back to work. Sister Jeanne, now expended and quite 
pliable, was removed from the floor, still bursting with devilish laughter, and carried down to 
the dank antechambers of the convent. It was there that she was stripped of her habit, then 
chained fast to the walls, so that no further harm might come to her.

"You poor child," said Sister Catherine as she flexed the long leather whip for practice. "You
are so beautiful, so young. It will be sad to see your smooth, tender flesh scarred with welts 
and dripping with blood," she continued, "but when you return to your senses, you will thank 
us all for your salvation."

"Do what you will," she is reported to have moaned, still laughing hysterically in her 
delusions.

Now here we must consider the accuracy and strength with which Sister Catherine 
brandished her leather whip. It is reputed that the good woman of the order was possessed, if 
you will excuse the word, of a deadly aim. Comparable to those circus performers who strike 
objects from far across the room, so could Sister Catherine predict her target with the utmost 
accuracy. At this particular moment, Sister Catherine was oblivious to the moans and 
frightened screams of the other novices, shackled in like fashion to the stone wall, her eyes 
gazing on the blossoming, rosebud nipples that adorned the young Jeanne's breasts.

She snapped the long leather snake loudly, checking its tension and strength. She, 
however, did not have to adjust to the feel of the instrument... she had used this one, and 
others even more deadly, every day in this dark dungeon, with its lighted torches casting 
mysterious shadows on the walls, walls covered with lichens, blood, and the faint odor of 
human decay.

"Pray for your soul," she called out, "pray for your deliverance from this demon. I shall now
attempt to drive him out with force! Painful force!"

The good Sister Catherine stepped backwards, adjusting her sights with pinpoint accuracy.
Then she slipped into meditation, praying to Our Lady for judgment, guidance, and then, 
tagged onto the end, a complete disclaimer to any personal hatred or satisfaction in her 
actions.

She held her breath and looked straight at the young novice's heaving breasts. The whip 
was raised, it fell across the young girl's left nipple.

And then again, the tip of the lash popped the small piece of stiffened flesh. Sister 
Catherine gave the novice time to catch her breath and watched in fascination, as she had 
many countless times before, the small trickle of human blood ooze red and thick over the 
blushing skin.

"Be gone from her body!" she shouted as Sister Jeanne struggled against the confining 
chains. "Leave her alone! In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit!"

Her threats, however, seemed to draw no more than a gurgle of delight from the insane 
novice. And anxiously, as if time was at stake, she raised the whip once more across her 
shoulder.

This time, Sister Catherine aimed for young Jeanne's right breast, cutting an almost 
identical gouging welt in the unharmed globe. And this time, also, she put more force behind 
her aim. When Jeanne cried out for mercy, the viscous blood rolling under her breasts and 
staining the whiteness of her smooth belly, Sister Catherine felt somehow rewarded that her 
actions had brought the desired results. The demons were, of course, beginning to respond to
the pain, which they could feel as intensely as the woman they possessed. And though it was 
unfortunate that Sister Jeanne, who had no control over the actions of these demons, had to 
suffer through the beatings with those evil spirits, nothing could be done to relieve her plight. 
She would suffer, yes. But in the end she would be free once more, a lucid, free agent sworn to
do the will of God in Heaven.

Sister Catherine immediately struck again, this time at the undersides of both breasts with 
six consecutive snaps of the lash. And she continued to scream, bellowing out above the cries 
of the tortured young novice, her threats of eternal damnation to those who possessed the 
writhing, bound sister.

"Be quiet!" she demanded, snapping the whip not three inches from her mouth. "Be quiet, 
and leave her alone!"

But as Sister Catherine brought the whip across both of those tender, supple thighs, Sister 
Jeanne tensed against the binding chains with such force as to frighten the older woman. 
Surely she would tear her chains from the walls, and run loose terrorizing the convent!

This could not happen. Sister Catherine prepared for a series of stunning blows with the 
lash. It popped against the young novice's arms, each of her feet, her ears, and finally, with 
deadly vicious accuracy, into the hairy muff between young Jeanne's legs.

The young girl let out a horrific scream, her last. And then she fell forward against the 
chains, her head slumped to her breasts--resembling the image of their Savior bound to the 
cross.

"Tell me, Jeanne. How did our Christ die, in the hands of his own people, his own 
followers?"

But there was only a mournful whimper for an answer.

"Sister Jeanne," she shouted, cracking the lash against her left cheek, "tell me how our 
Savior died."

"He was crucified," she gasped.

"Say it once more. Louder!"

"He was crucified."

Sister Catherine stroked the tensed, smooth thighs with the back of her hand, spreading 
the oozing blood over the areas not as yet stained with the warm, thick liquid. "Yes, but do 
you know the cause of his death?"

The young novice hissed between her teeth while drops of blood trickled from her ear.

"He died from suffocation, Jeanne. It was not the nails, the tearing of his flesh, the betrayal
of his blessed servants. It was suffocation, Jeanne. Your Master couldn't breathe!"

The possessed novice rolled her head from either side, then gurgled and spat on the floor 
below.

"He was bound to the cross, in much the same way that you are now held prisoner, 
Jeanne. His arms were locked rigidly, just as yours are. As the hot sun blistered His flesh, His 
breaths became shorter and weaker, until at last He expired, as you shall. My child," she 
continued, her voice barely above a whispering, "you must help us deliver you from these evil 
forces, which threaten all of us. Not just your own salvation is at stake, Sister Jeanne. The seed 
has been sown, an evil seed grows deep in your womb. Soon, it will infect more of your 
sisters."

Her smooth body became less taut with tension, and soon her arms hung limp and 
motionless against the shackles. Perhaps, and this must certainly have crossed the older 
woman's mind, young Jeanne had suffered more than she was prepared for, and was now 
unconscious.

But more likely, thought the good sister, the demons had been frightened, and they were 
now hiding deep inside Jeanne's soul, feigning sleep.

As was mentioned in the previous chapter, a strange, delicious attraction had overcome 
Sister Catherine from the first day this beautiful young creature had entered the Rouen 
convent. And never was this attraction more strangely delicious than at the present moment, 
as Catherine watched the oozing trickles of blood congeal against the blushing, scarred flesh. 
Now, the voluptuousness of Jeanne's body seemed even more striking to her eyes.

And also to her hands, which gently stroked and massaged the welts which rose up red 
and deep crimson on young Jeanne's legs, arms, belly and breasts.

Those supple globes! How wonderful they felt to her touch! So ripe and youthful, like 
plums ready to be sucked dry of their juices.

There was a pail of cool water and a sponge which lay in the corner of the cellar, reserved 
for such moments as this. Tenderly, Sister Catherine washed the gashes clean of the blood, 
substituting her tongue for the thick sponge when enough of the drying fluid had been 
cleared away.

She rolled the flat of her tongue over each of Jeanne's scared and bruised nipples, sucking 
madly she pulled the flesh deeply into her mouth and caressed them stiff with long wet 
strokes.

And as she sucked, like a babe nursing on its mother, she felt the heat, warm and feverish, 
return to the young novice's body. Those nipples, tender as grapes against Sister Catherine's 
lips, began to stiffen once more with life.

And the breasts themselves grew even warmer, as if they burned from the inside, against 
the flat of the good sister's tongue. Licking the wounds thoroughly clean, Sister Catherine 
desired to taste the other delectable parts of young Jeanne's fine body.

Her crotch, which smelled of blood and sweat, was cleaned as thoroughly as her breasts. 
For only then could it teem with the foaming nectar that boiled inside, and only then could 
Sister Catherine savor the pureness of the girl's sensuous aroma.

Her legs were spread wide, chained to metal rings that lay embedded in the stone floor of 
the dungeon. Pulling her white habit comfortably aside from her legs, she knelt quietly to the 
floor, her mouth pursed in anticipation.

The pink cunt lips were free from damage and pouted deliciously. Licking her lips wet with 
her tongue, Sister Catherine pressed her face against the brown muff and began to make 
sucking noises that echoed throughout the cellar room.

She darted the long, slender tongue against the pink, raw flaps and soon they were coated
with warm spittle, glistening in the dim light of the torches on either side of the helpless 
novice.

Sister Catherine soon discovered that, like with most young girls, the more she sucked and
lapped, like a thirsty dog, at the pouting pussy lips, the wetter and muskier the warm crotch 
became.

The muscles of young Jeanne's thighs tensed if with each hot caress. Perhaps, thought the 
good sister, this poor child was recovering from her battle with demons. The warm aromatic 
cunt juices flowed free as wine as Sister Catherine partook of this lusty sacrament of 
communion. The bread and wine, no matter how divinely consecrated, were of no importance 
to Catherine now.

As she plunged the tip of her tongue more deeply into the fleshy chasm, the tortured 
novice began to show signs of resurrection. Low, lustful moans, pleasurable moans that 
contrasted sharply with the cries of brutal agony she uttered before, rose from her throat as 
Catherine applied lascivious pressure to the cupped tongue. She was overpowered with the 
smell of Jeanne's sweet femininity as trickles of the lustful cream poured onto the capturing 
tongue. They were then swallowed, savored first with savage rollings of the sick oral muscle.

Jeanne's asscheeks, shaped much in the fashion of a heart, were unscathed by the wicked 
lash. They felt smooth and supple, like those blossoming jugs, to Catherine's caressing touch. 
Slowly, and with great finesse, the good sister poked her index finger up against the hairy 
nether crevice, and at last sending the spiraling digit deep into the anal cavern.

As her tongue slipped in and out of the convoluted, dripping pussy, so did her long, 
slender finger slip and slide against the dry, tight and clenching butt walls. With increasing 
speed, the Mother Superior continued to poke at the asshole, until it grew hot from the 
frictioning finger. And, as would be expected, our young novice came quickly back to life as 
she realized her situation.

She began laughing, but not the type of deranged amusement she had exhibited earlier 
that day, during morning devotionals. This was a more subdued laugh, a laugh of sheer 
pleasure and delight. The chains clanked noisily against the granite walls as young Jeanne 
flapped her arms like a bird in flight, though not as fast nor as far. The fact that there were 
others in the dungeon, watching her and just as helpless as she, did not matter to her at the 
moment. The aching of her hole, the longing to be filled with something stiff and thick, was all
she felt. As Sister Catherine's wiggling tongue slithered fast against the wanton, glistening 
cunt lips, young Jeanne was literally vibrating with intense pleasure.

Pussy juices slithered out the folds of flesh, and were devoured in quick successive gulps 
by the madly sucking Sister Catherine, who had developed no mean technique in the twelve 
long years with the Ursulines. The warm, wet muscle flurried into the drooling hole again, 
capturing loads of the novice's elixir with every slimy caress.

Till, at last, the young bride of Christ erupted with the force of a volcano, spilling her 
lust-cream onto the sucking face of Sister Catherine. The good sister instantly secured a wet 
grip around the shooting cunt so as not to miss a single drop of Jeanne's spewing female 
nectars.

Her finger dug tightly into the tight ass walls. Sister Catherine was aware of her own hole, 
just as wantonly wet as her helpless initiate's. Drooling and aching with intense, fiery heat. The
loudness of her slurping increased as did the prodigious amount of spunk which poured from 
young Jeanne's core.

Like one who is intoxicated from wine, so Sister Catherine swooned, giggling and tipsy, on 
her knees before the erupting volcano of the young woman's muff. It became a virtual fever 
swamp for her senses. It delighted the taste as is delighted the smell, the feel of the hot, 
sweating buttocks against her hands was thrilling as well.

The cunt still frothed and twitched against Sister Catherine's face. Her eyes stung sharply 
from the small droplets which dripped from the bridge of her nose into the corners. Young 
Jeanne, in the throes of passion, possibly insanity, continued to make bird-like motions with 
her flapping arms, knocking the chain links against the stone edifice walls, creating a 
consistent rhythm of her lust. Possibly, as she felt this lust melt to liquid fire and flow from her 
body, she might have actually believed she were flying through the air, carrying dungeon and 
Sister Catherine away with her.

But, like a dying swan, Sister Jeanne's flappings grew less excited, less energetic and the 
young woman fell to guttural, explicit moanings and gnashing of teeth.

"Lick me!" she cried hoarsely. "Drink my pussy!" These grave ululations froze the blood of 
Sister Catherine while it flowed through her veins. And having quenched her thirst, she rubbed
her face clean with the hem of her white skirt, so as the fragrance of the young woman's 
carnal garden might be preserved until well in the afternoon.

From a convenient' pocket, a leather bag sewn together with gut and might usually have 
been considered to hold talisman, Sister Jeanne pulled from it two large and well-cast thumb 
screws. The were the blackest of iron, and big enough to accommodate the hand of a Samson.

But these instruments of torture had other uses as they could attach easily to any part of 
the body as well as the thumbs. Pinching a half inch of the tips of young Jeanne's breasts, 
Sister Catherine screwed the devices, which weighed some eight ounces apiece, to the rosy 
nipples and surrounding tit flesh. She turned the heavy screw until the threads fit tight against
the counter threads, giving the voluptuous novice reason to jerk about violently.

Jeanne's body, though flawless when she entered the convent, would all too soon be 
showing the signs of wear and tear. When her incarceration by the Ursulines is finished, 
Jeanne will have to carry the scars of her infected welts. She will lose sight of her right eye, the
sight snapped out of the sockets by her tormentor's evil lash during a connection with 
mystical rapture.

But we will deal with the rest of her story in other subsequent chapters. For right now, at 
the convent house in Rouen, screamings can be heard through the chapel, directly above 
where are Sister Catherine and Sister Jeanne.

"How do you feel, Sister Catherine," asked the oldest nun, Sister Anne. And the woman 
calmly explained, in impeccable golden-throated tones, that yet another member of the order,
a young novice Bridgette, had confessed to carnal lust with spirits.

She had been at work, selflessly cleaning the white tiled walls of the chapel, when all of a 
sudden, the child fell into entrancement. When reprimanded by a peer, Sister Bridgette took 
careful aim and kicked over her pail of hot water, burning the other sister's leg as it splashed 
against her.

Sister Marianne tried to reason with the entranced girl, and fell on top of her with both 
sets of fingers clutching tightly at Bridgette's throat. It was then that the young novice began 
to shout vile and pernicious threats.

"Has she confessed to having lusted for our Father, too?" asked Mother Superior.

"Good heavens," replied the older nun, "No! She claims to have fellated Lucifer himself, 
during the celebration of the Ascension."

Sister Catherine now realized the graveness of the present situation. Though demons had 
been somewhat successfully driven, with great expense of energy, from the body of Sister 
Jeanne, they had taken flight only to inhabit the living vessel of Sister Bridgette.

"I must report to the cure at once," she cried. "He must be informed!"

"But what can the cure accomplish, that we cannot?" asked Sister Anne.

"Much, much more!" replied the younger woman. And, rushing to her cell, the good 
woman of God wrote a brief letter demanding to see the priest at his earliest convenience. 
This she gave to Sister Anne, bidding her to make haste to the parsonage. The time was right 
for an exorcism, something Sister Catherine had read about, but as of yet had not mastered.

Lust had reared its sinful head.

And their fervent prayers went with it.

The devil would be surely routed.

She could not allow the devil's demons to get control. She feared for her very soul.





CHAPTER THREE


Catherine Sourin was born, though illegitimately in 1602, daughter of Jean-Jacques Sourin, a 
member of the Academy of Sciences and a professor of astronomy at the Sorbonne. Her real 
mother, laundress, had committed suicide during an overdosage of opium, shortly after 
Catherine's birth, when M. Sourin announced his marriage to the daughter of the first minister
of education.

The marriage was beneficial to both parties. For Jean-Jacques, it dismissed the possibility 
of future scandal concerning the legitimacy of the child. For Mile. Grandier, daughter of 
Guilliame Grandier, first minister of education, it was a chance to finally leave the nest as they 
say, being, at thirty-four years, unwed.

Charmaine Grandier possessed a physical deformity of the face, a hair Up which, although 
the best surgeons in Paris had been consulted, was pronounced irreparable. To correct the 
lack of palatization caused by a gaping hole in the roof of her mouth, Charmaine was Fitted 
with a piece of metal, which plugged the hole sufficiently for her speech to be understood in 
polite society.

But for the visual disfigurement, nothing could be done other than apply vast amounts of 
cosmetics, especially imported by her father from the East. And during the summer months, 
Charmaine would confine herself to the house, in fear that the deceiving pastes and balms 
would dissolve with the heat.

Constantly being around the disagreeable woman, young Catherine was taken to spells of 
dizziness and grippe. But what lacked in mother's love was made up for with the shower of 
presents bestowed upon the child by its "Grandfather." Though Charmaine was forced to sign 
legal responsibility for creating the child, avec M. Sourin, she hated the beautiful red-haired 
angel from the bottom of her soul. For with each successive year, Catherine grew more 
beautiful and quite intelligent for a young girl her age. While Charmaine was stuck with forty 
years of loveless marriage.

Then, when Catherine was eighteen, a scandalous occurrence at the Sorbonne stripped her
natural father from his position at the university, and from association with the Academie des 
Sciences. A thesis, required from Jean-Jacques and six months behind schedule of completion,
was finally handed to the Court of Review and, on their approval, published. It was no less 
than a thunderbolt, and launched the professor of astronomy on a spiraling career, which 
lasted short of two weeks.

For plagiarism had been cried, and by a young upstart trained, like Jean-Jacques, by the 
Jesuits. The young man, Rene, son of a poor lawyer Descartes, sued. On advice of his 
father-in-law, M. Sourin countered with charges of slander. A trial, set for the end of August, 
was never brought to session however, in view of M. Sourin's confessions to plagiarism. His 
wife, in hatred, had submitted an affidavit to the Board of Review, stating that she had recalled
seeing the maid line the larder shelves with manuscripts and correspondence bearing the 
signature of the plaintiff Descartes. Charmaine, realizing her hatred had not only ruined her 
husband's career, but her security as well, leaped from the balcony of their summer home and
though unbruised, choked dead on her false palate.

Catherine soon followed her mother's example, though not quite as terminally. After 
taking a hot bath, soaking in the tub until her skin was warped and wrinkled, young Catherine 
lay on her bed and stuck her wet feet out the window, and into the cold Paris winter. The 
child, though discovered half-dead, was revived from her pneumonia and pleurisy. And most 
revealing, it was during the throes of her high fever that the child Catherine experienced her 
first mystical experience.

The room had been lined with flowers and candles, a priest had been sent for lest the child
die suddenly. As Catherine looked around the room, she watched the candle light converge 
and expand. An angel, dressed in long luminescent robes, and holding a ball of fire in her 
cupped hands, addressed young Catherine as a messenger from Our Lady. And, no less, with 
an important charge from the Mother of God.

Catherine was destined to become, in the words of the angel, a "worker of God, to 
perform miracles, to cast out demons and to love the bride of Christ, in this case meaning the 
church.

And once healed from her sickness, young Catherine never forgot the intensity of that 
ephemeral visit from the "out there." It would come back to her often, especially during 
relapses of her pleurisy, which continued to plague her until the age of twenty-two.

Her father's scandal had stripped him of his reputation, his positions with the haute 
academia, and, most important , of his money. Catherine, though ravishing, was left with no 
dowry to insure her marriage to a person of the proper station. So, recalling her tete-a-tete 
with the celestial messenger, she joined the Ursuline house in Rouen, many miles away.

It was there that Catherine discovered and appreciated the powers of punishment in 
dealing with unruly and sinful peers. She quickly rose through the ranks, and at a time when 
tenure was reserved for the very oldest members of the order, took charge of the convent at 
the age of twenty-four, one year before the bizarre possessions of her charges.

Most of the young girls, and the older ones, in the company of forty-eight nuns were from
situations much like Catherine's. But those who were not were either ugly, or like Catherine's 
stepmother, deformed. After twelve years with the Ursulines, Sister Catherine began to take 
on a deformity herself. She would, for some reason not clear, be seen wandering aimlessly 
through the large rooms of the convent house, her head tilted strangely off to the left, her ear
almost touching her shoulder. Added to this, there was also a strange gait which accompanied
it, as Sister Catherine was taken recently to drag her right foot behind her other, so that the 
side of her foot would scrape along the tiles.

Sometimes, in her enraptured meditations, Sister Catherine would grin peculiarly and her 
eyes crossed, both staring at the bridge of her nose. And indeed, it seemed strange to the 
younger nuns, not used to seeing such a specter of Holy Enlightenment in their presence. 
Those who spoke unkindly of Sister Catherine were, however, dealt with straightforward, by 
the good sister herself. The leather guild at Rouen, after many attempts, had finally built, to 
her specifications, several lashes and other articles of torture which could hold up under the 
constant use of Sister Catherine's tireless arms.

Those arms, well-exercised over the years, had grown quite strong, and it was rumored 
that her strength equalled a Samson's, at least in direct conflict with others of her sex. So, 
naturally, when Sister Catherine attempted to subdue the newly possessed young novice, 
everyone was expecting the obvious.

But not so. Bridgette, now cursing and screaming at the top of her lungs and in tongues 
no less, picked up her drained iron pail and dealt a heavy blow to the side of Sister Catherine's
tilted head. For a few seconds, the Mother Superior saw fleeting, exploding comets across her 
mind's eye as she was drawn to her feet by the enraged and wicked novice.

In addition to her cast iron battle axe, Sister Bridgette also held a brush, the bristles of 
which were pig hair. With a lively slash, the young novice applied the bristly brush to her 
Superior's face, causing small trickles of human blood to form.

The ensuing argument lasted for some time, until at last Sister Catherine, with vicious and 
deadly aim, brought her knee up swiftly against Bridgette's crotch. The consumed novice was 
silent now, clutching her maimed pussy while a special device was brought to Sister Catherine,
with which to render the girl harmless to herself and others.

It was a straightjacket, much like the ones used by a contemporary of Sister Catherine's, 
one Marquis de Sade, who made the good woman's acquaintance when he directed the 
asylum at Rouen. But unlike the canvas jackets used to subdue the insane, this particular 
instrument was made of the toughest of cowhides, then shellacked to painful stiffness by 
painstaking hands.

In addition to numerous straps which fastened around the torso, breasts, arms and legs, 
there was a large leather ball attached to the contraption, which painfully gagged the 
prisoner, rendering him (or her, since it was never used outside the convent) speechless. 
Considering the vileness of Sister Bridgette's possession, the leather ball was slipped forcefully
between her teeth and strapped tightly, the reins cutting tightly into her cheeks.

Once stripped of her clothing, Sister Bridgette was bound into the contraption of torture 
and left lying on the floor as Sister Catherine walked slowly around the room.

"She is a witch!" announced Catherine, her eyes unfocused and rolling from side to side. 
"She is beyond our hope."

"A witch?" asked Sister Anne from the crowd of nuns who herded, like so much cattle, 
around the helpless novice. "In our order. No, this is impossible. I will not believe it!"

"And why should you not? For I will prove to you that she is, indeed, possessed wholly and
totally of the devil."

"She confessed!" cried an hysterical nun.

"Yes she did!" joined another. "She had relations with Lucifer, during evening Vespers."

"Yes," said Sister Catherine, eyeing the blood-stained cleaning brush. "Surely she is. And 
how did he feel, my child? How did it feel to wallow against his hot flesh?"

"Tell us," Sister Anne pleaded, "show us that she is a witch. We must have absolute 
evidence."

"I'll show you the evidence," snapped the Mother Superior. "If she is a witch, we shall find 
five spots on her body, from which blood will not flow when pricked with a needle."

"Astonishing!"

"Yes, but it is true." The good woman took from Sister Anne a large spike, which the older 
nun used for embroidery.

Sister Catherine stabbed the heels of Bridgette's twitching feet. "Here are two," she 
whispered. And indeed, though the stab was forceful, no blood oozed from the pierced flesh.

Two more piercings, this time applied to Bridgette's ear lobes brought the total of 
bloodless wounds to four.

"One more," said the Mother Superior. And she brought the spike against the possessed 
girl's thigh. This time, however, a trickle of blood oozed from the stab.

"What proof is this?" asked the good Sister Anne. "She bleeds."

"Yes," admitted the Superior, "but the odds are heavily in favor of my judgement! She 
doesn't have far to go."

Sister Catherine crouched to the floor, then pressed her face to the girl's muff. She 
breathed deeply for a minute, until Sister Anne suggested that a transference of the evil spirit 
might occur.

"Oh, poor child," moaned Sister Catherine, stroking the novice's supple breasts. "You are 
so young, so beautiful in the eyes of God. We want to help you, to restore you to the will of 
your Lord and Savior. We want to rid you of the demons that torture your soul."

"What will be done with her?" asked Sister Jenette.

"The cure has been informed of the matter," she explained.

"And will he help us?"

"God will help us, Sister Jenette. Our cure will act as his instrument!"



* * *



Urbain Guiervan de Saingfroid, the cure of St. Martin's and secular priest to the city of 
Rouen read the letter, hastily written and sealed, which was delivered mid-afternoon to the 
parsonage. It was signed by the Mother Superior of the Ursulines, one Sister Catherine, a 
woman who had caught the eye of the handsome priest many times. The letter begged his 
assistance in a matter most urgent, since there seemed to be some trouble at the convent.

Demonic spirits had possessed two of the members of the order, more were threatened. 
Both novices had confessed to copulation with Beezulbum and Lucifer, one serpent had come 
disguised as the Son of God and violated one sister with his deception.

"Ridiculous," said the cure, reading on. But there was much more in the brief letter.

Both of the novices stricken with the evil sickness were in many ways alike. Both had been 
virgins, both were beautiful creatures with fleshy limbs and ripe breasts. "On further 
examination," wrote Sister Catherine, "the cunts of each nun smelled as sweet and heavy as 
the first blooms of spring." And the closing paragraph urged the good man of God to bring 
assistance, as surely he could act as an instrument of Christ's will.

Urbain Guiervan curled his moustache briskly, reading the letter several times over before 
rising from his desk. A handsome man, in his youthful thirties, Father Guiervan possessed a 
power of oration and rhetoric that quickly made him the most popular priest ever to occupy 
the position at Rouen. His popularity also extended outside the power of the sacristies, as 
Urbain took heed to minister to the needs of many widows in the parish on a regular basis.

He had taken the vows of chastity in the same spirit that Sister Catherine had taken hers: 
reluctance rather than enthusiasm prevailed. The vows were necessary, and as Urbain 
Guiervan was determined to blaze a fiery career in the secular priesthood, he took them, but 
not seriously.

If indeed, this "possession" of the nuns was true, then steps must be taken before news of 
the scandal reached the citizenry of Rouen, or worse, the papal hierarchy. Dressing quickly in 
full vestments, straightening his biretta in the small shaving mirror, a gift from Madeliane 
Couseau, his current mistress, Father Guirvan departed from the parsonage and demanded 
admittance to the convent house.

"I have read your letter," he said, greeting the Mother Superior. "Is this some sort of 
madness?"

"No, Father." And she explained the situation once more, this time in great, vivid detail to 
the cure.

"These demons threaten the souls of every virgin in the convent," she added.

"I didn't know," he questioned, "that there were any among you." But his comment went 
unnoticed by the excitable Sister Catherine, and she led him straight through the large tiled 
rooms until they arrived at the chapel.

Sister Catherine pointed to the bound and gagged young novice. "She," said the Mother 
Superior, "was taken ill this afternoon, just hours after the first possession."

"And what does she confess?"

"She claims she was forced to fellate Lucifer himself!" shouted Sister Catherine, her arms 
dangling loosely from her sides. She tilted her head slowly to the left, then just as slowly to the
right as she spoke quietly, above a whisper. "She confesses to the most abominable sins."

"Shall we have a look at her?" he asked, approaching the girl. "My, she is beautiful."

"Yes, just as I explained to you, they are both beautiful creatures."

"Leave me alone with her," he said, waving Sister Catherine and the other nuns away. "I 
need privacy... and silence."

The nuns scurried out from the chapel, and Sister Catherine, with the help of two other 
members of the order, closed the heavy iron door that blocked the entrance, bolting it tight.

The young Bridgette looked up at the cure, her eyes painfully imploring. "So," he said, "you
have given head to Lucifer?" he said, unstrapping the leather ball from her mouth. "How was 
it?"

The girl, panting, gave only a sigh as a large grin spread from cheek to cheek.

"You must feel very pleased that you were chosen for such an event. Surely, the choice was
made on some grounds."

Bridgette shook her head up and down, her eyes screwed up into her forehead.

"You must have displayed some talent for this before you entered the convent, is that not 
so?"

The young novice writhed on the floor against her tight leather bonds. In addition to the 
numerous straps which held her hands and arms together, motionless, a thick breast strap was
fastened around her tits, pressing them flat against her chest.

"I want," he said, kneeling to the tiled floor, "I want you to show me exactly how you did 
this. Do not omit one single lap of your tongue. I want you to show me how you kissed his 
cock, where you kissed it, and how wet you licked it." And, after some adjustments, Father 
Guiervan lifted his vestment robes, revealing an enormous, stiff and purple pole which 
protruded short of eleven inches from his hairy crotch.

"Take it in your mouth, Sister Bridgette, and chew on it," he demanded, thrusting the tip of
the drooling phallus against her lips. The gargantuan cockhead throbbed crimson and stiff 
with blood as small droplets of sticky fluid oozed from the tip. And, much to the delight of the
cure, the girl gobbled the whole mass of his stiff tool with one magnificent gulp.

"Suck it, nice and slow!" he cried, pulling it from the tight, wet clutches of the ravenous 
girl. The speed at which she had consumed the raging cock, right down to the roots on her 
first attempt, had excited Father Guiervan so intensely that he feared his climax coming too 
soon.

Giving her only an inch at a time, Father Guiervan slipped the flaming, crimson cockhead 
and shaft past Sister Bridgette's wet, hungry lips. The young girl, enraged with evil and 
passion, so it seemed to our good cure, sucked madly on the blood-engorged tool, soon 
regaining her former hold on its massiveness as her lips pursed wet against the Father's 
corkscrew crotch hair.

Beginning with a slow tempo, the cure began to buck his hips very sensuously, while 
holding the back of Bridgette's neck and pulling her forward. She still kept the cockhead 
deeply in her throat, swallowing and massaging the bulbous crimson head with the wet, slimy 
muscles of her neck.

Closing his eyes tightly, Father Gueirvan dropped his vestment robes over young 
Bridgette's head, burying her in a tent of hot wool. And inside this tent, the odor of his 
sweating crotch perfume grew heavy and overpowering. The young novice's nostrils flared in 
passion, snorting his musky flesh.

The good priest was at a loss to perceive how Sister Bridgette could stay on his pecker for 
such extended periods of time. Surely, he thought, she had to come up, like divers in the sea, 
for air. Again and again, enraged Sister Bridgette kept his cockhead in her throat, wetly 
caressing the snake-like organ.

He felt her slip off the reddened tool, then gasps of air that came in short bursts, as if she 
were fighting against strangulation. But these frightening gasps lasted for no longer than a 
minute, and soon the cure felt her talented mouth suck down both of his balls.

Which was, in fact, the first time that anyone had accomplished this feat. For the priest 
possessed such large and swollen gonads that most women found it impossible to pull both 
balls together. Those who attempted always failed, either choking on his glands or biting 
them painfully, though by accident.

But Sister Bridgette had swallowed both hairy globes on her first attempt. Which, admitted
the Priest, was something of a miraculous happening. Perhaps, he reasoned, this woman was 
indeed possessed of some unearthly spirit.

Whatever her cause, the novice continued to suck wantonly on the huge eggs, until at last 
the cure had to grab hold of her jaw and her upper teeth. Only in this way could he disengage
his jewels from her wet grip. And still, she begged for more.

If indeed, Sister Bridgette was so anxious to suck on something, why not, he reasoned, 
give her more than she bargained for? Surely she wouldn't mind applying her tongue to his 
rear, especially if she were infiltrated by demented spirits.

He spread both cheeks wide, then slid his ass against her face and felt her nose against the
raw sphincter. The nose, warm and poking, felt good. But her tongue would most certainly feel
better.

With the manners of a gentleman of the King's court, Father Guiervan sat on the face of 
the young novice. Immediately, and with great gusto, the possessed sister darted her long, 
hot tongue against his puckered bung as she reamed him wet with her spit.

When, in the throes of intense passion, the cure would momentarily lift his arse from her 
lips, Sister Bridgette would raise her head and maintain her suckings at the hairy asshole. 
Father Guiervan was amazed at her persistency, but much more startled at the accuracy and 
pressure with which her tongue slithered against his sphincter again and again.

As she reamed and loosened his ass, the good priest began to jerk his member furiously, 
coating his fist with the flowing nectar of Sister Bridgette's boiling hole. As his cupped fingers 
slid into her glistening folds of flesh, the wanton tongue would bore into his flesh lasciviously.

Growing tired of this diversion, Father Guiervan once more gave the novice his purple rod. 
"Not so fast," he threatened, "or I will punish you."

She gobbled as quickly as before. "Drink me dry, my child," he moaned, not knowing, or 
caring if he did know, that twenty sets of ears were glued fast to the other side of the iron 
door.

She took it down her throat in the same fashion as before. But by now, the cockhead and 
cockshaft were so tender and excited, from the wet friction of her mouth, that it would surely 
explode within the minute. His balls jumped from tension, the very centers filled with fiery 
manspunk. His lusty snake grew another inch against the sides of her throat.

Sister Bridgette, however, was treated to an unpleasant and untimely surprise. Just as she 
began to feel the force of Father Guiervan's powerful explosion, the good priest withdrew his 
massive purple tool from her mouth and throat, and pointed it directly at her eyes.

"You didn't really think I would let you consume the essence of a man of God?" he said as 
his cock spewed long streams of milky substance onto the mad novice's face. The mucus scum
kept flowing, a fountain of lusty milk was soon dumped onto Bridgette's burning cheeks. "You 
evil, wretched soul! You are indeed possessed." The reasoning being, that she had done the 
impossible... she had swallowed his balls whole, a physiological impossibility!

The warm spunk flowed freely as the priest's phallus contracted and expanded with each 
long burst of passion. It oozed into her eyes, causing her to scream out loudly. And soon, 
before the priest had readjusted his vestments, she was recanting her vile threats, against the 
priest, against Sister Catherine, against Mary, Mother of God.

"She is sick," he announced to the sisters. "She will need further assistance."

"You must see the others," said Sister Catherine. They are in the dungeon, behaving 
viciously."

"You told me in your letter that there were only two nuns possessed."

"But now," explained the Mother Superior. "But now there are three. We have had another 
attack."

She explained briefly the circumstances of the third possession. Sister Jenette, while 
working peacefully, had attacked Sister Anne with no apparent reason. The nuns were busily 
at work weaving a straw carriage, drawn by six likewise woven horses, for presentation to the 
Chief Magistrate and his wife. Their new house, not half a league from the convent and 
adjoining cathedral had been commissioned by the King's architects, as Magistrate Renard 
had grown in stature with the civil hierarchy. To appease his good will, the good sisters were 
creating this special gift. Until, of course, Sister Jenette went berserk and destroyed months of 
tedious labor.

She had fallen ill at first, and Sister Anne came to her relief. But instead of thanking the 
woman, as Sister Anne was many years her senior, the younger nun struck her across the face 
with the straw carriage. To add insult to injury', Sister Jenette wrestled with the older sister, 
finally biting off one of her nipples in the struggle.

Sister Anne was carried to her cell, where she cried and, of course, prayed for the end to 
such possessions of the sisters. But, as Sister Jenette was now locked in the dungeon, 
screaming her confessions of sin, sin with the Virgin Mary, Mother of Christ, no end seemed in
sight. Another disaster had rocked the convent. Something, something useful, would have to 
be done.

"You see," moaned Sister Catherine, inserting the wide leather handle of her lash into 
Sister Jeanne's cunt, "she is no longer a virgin."

"An Abomination!" cried the cure.

"And this one," she said, pointing to the newly infected Sister Jenette, "has claimed to 
terrible things, more evil than the others!"

"We should call the surgeon," suggested the priest. "And I will send a message to the 
highest authority, begging assistance in this dread matter."

"To whom?" she asked.

"To the Prior of Coussay. I will request that an exorcism be performed before others are 
stricken with the evil."

They could hear both girls screaming as the heavy cast-iron door was locked, screaming 
pernicious ululations of sin. Sin with their Savior, sin with the Sacred Virgin, even sin with 
ancient idols. Baal's name was invoked, other blasphemies alluded to.

Returning to the parsonage, the priest disavowed all knowledge of any peculiar events 
inside the convent. A crowd had formed around the steps of the convent house, questions 
were posed-. Father Guiervan knew that an exorcism was imminent... the citizenry of Rouen 
were now suspicious.

A lengthy document, requesting assistance was drawn up hastily, signed and sealed within 
minutes, then given to one of the vicars. His instructions, to go to the summer mansions, 
fourteen leagues south, of the Prior of Coussay.

Sister Anne's bitten teat was worsening, infection was feared. M. Apple, the surgeon, was 
called. Sister Catherine, embittered and angered by the new development in her domain, 
returned to the dungeon for more exercise and meditation. It was during this session with the 
whip that the Mother Superior, blinded by her rage, missed her target for the first time in 
many years. The tip of her thick lash had caught Sister Jeanne's left eye, snapping it out of its 
socket. When she at last lay the whip aside, leaving the dungeon for a restful nap, the young 
novice was still heard whimpering, her swollen and bloodied eye dangled against her cheek 
from purple cords.





CHAPTER FOUR


Wherever M. Apple, the surgeon was called, it was certain that M. Buboe, the apothecary, 
would follow close behind. When news of the surgeon's attentions at the convent reached the
ears of Claude Buboe, the apothecary quickly dropped his pestle and grabbed his bag of 
potions, balms, ointments and made haste across the street to the surgeon's laboratory.

They were old friends. Indeed, they had spent many long years together, researching the 
effect of menstrual blood on lead and other common minerals. A Medal of Honor was 
pending for the surgeon, and certain recognition of the apothecary would soon follow.

The apothecary, aside from his business in Rouen, and aside from practicing alchemy, was 
also an amateur of letters, his specialty: verse. "How sweetly flows the steaming blood," he 
writes as an introduction to M. Apple's treatise, "which cureth many ills. Miraculously and 
thoroughly it taketh place of pills." There is much more of it, which, unfortunately, can not be 
reproduced in this space.

Oh, how M. Buboe loved the muses! But the muses, as is obvious from the above example,
did not love him. Well, if one could not write about poetry, one could certainly talk of it. And 
Buboe's tiny shop, in the north quarter of the city, became a meeting place for Rouen's lesser 
known literary talents, most of whom were out of work.

And like most idle people, with lots of time to talk and talk, rumors were the chief object 
of discussion. And for the past three days, many interesting rumors concerning strange 
going-ons in the convent house were explored.

When news reached the surgeon of Sister Anne's maimed teat, a conclusion was reached. 
"They really have gone mad, haven't they?"

"Quite right! I can't wait!" The surgeon packed his glass bottles, filled with freshly delivered
leeches, several sharpened instruments (courtesy of M. Buboe, who grinded them free of 
charge) and several bottles of secret potions, known only to he himself, with which to scare 
the spooks away.

Samuel Apple, an Englishman by birth, and self-exiled to avoid the wrath of his patients in 
the motherland, was short of stature and short of hair. His glossy skull was cleaned and shined
every morning with bee's wax, in this way M. Apple provided his more vain female patients 
with a shiny surface to admire themselves while he admired their feminine charms.

His appearance contrasted sharply with that of M. Buboe, who stood dark, lank and 
lugubrious, a toothy smile across his thin lips. M. Buboe was quite unique in that he was born 
without a sense of smell, which may have caused him trouble in his earlier years, but certainly 
not now. The concoctions he created in his laboratory were vile to the nostrils, and the 
apothecary worked long hours on his experiments with no unpleasant distractions.

"You of course," said the surgeon, "realize the seriousness of this case!"

"Most certainly," chuckled the apothecary. "Nuns possessed of evil spirits."

"Most likely an epidemic of tick-fever," concluded the surgeon.

"Or more so, they are all bleeding! Which in case," said the apothecary bawdily, "I brought 
along some bottles!"

Every good seventeenth-century chemist knew the powers of menstrual blood. It removed 
rust from iron and precious metals, dissolved asphalt, and, if not frequently rebottled and 
rotated, would eat through glass.

Thus equipped with their superior knowledge, the cronies at length arrived at the convent 
house, where they were shown to the good Sister Anne's cell.

"Good heavens," said the surgeon, "it's been bitten off!"

"She must be in such pain."

Sister Anne, though racked with pain, kept her rosary clenched between tight fingers, 
counting off the "Hail Mary's" as if nothing had happened that afternoon.

"Looks terrible. Why don't we amputate?"

"No," said Surgeon Apple. "Bleeding will be sufficient."

"And if infection turns it green? Why let it rot when we can save her much pain and 
torment?"

"Quite right!" said the surgeon. "It's the wisest, most humane thing we can do, considering
the circumstances. We mustn't act too hastily, though, my good Buboe."

M. Apple had good reason to act without haste. Especially when amputation was 
concerned. For once, during his practice in Leicaster, the surgeon had accidentally 
dismembered the wrong leg of the Duke of Marlborough, who had injured it in a riding 
accident while visiting his uncle. So now, instead of one leg coming off, both legs had to go. 
And since the Duke was famed throughout the county as an expert horseman, indeed, was a 
breeder of the finest thoroughbreds in Britain and the Continent, heads were bound to roll, 
especially the head of Surgeon Apple.

The mistake, luckily for our fine doctor, was not discovered for several days, when the 
Duke emerged from his coma. And by the time another surgeon was found to complete the 
dismemberment, Surgeon Apple had purchased a passage to Rouen, where his former 
mistress was currently living, seeking treatment for consumption. Their relationship bloomed 
full force once more, but ended when Miss Barrister accepted treatment from her lover, 
hoping to end the pain of her erosion.

The pain was treated with morphine and other experimental potions. Finally, after many 
injections, it came to an end. And so, unfortunately, did Miss Barrister when serum hepatitis 
began to crawl up her veins, leaving large red tracks on her pierced arms and legs.

Fortunately for M. Apple, now granted a license to practice his art and a French citizen as 
well, the death certificate could be conveniently drawn up and signed by he himself. And he 
himself listed cause of death as nothing more than an untimely attack of measles.

"No, no!" he said, coming to his senses. "Why go though all of that, when we can simply 
cauterize!"

"Brilliant, mon amie!" said the apothecary, producing two large iron pokers from the bag. 
"Call for a fire. We'll have to move her somewhere else."

The pokers were readied, soon they were melting red-hot, then white, against the flames. 
With M. Buboe at the bellows, the cauterizing instruments were ready for use in no time at all.

"Of course," he commented, "It will leave an unsightly scar. But who will notice?"

"I'm sure no one," chided the apothecary. "Shall we proceed?"

Forty-two nuns, eyes lit up like children, surrounded the operation, fighting for a view of 
the exciting procedure. The other five sisters of the order, not counting Sister Anne, were held 
in the dungeon. Since the departure of Father Guiervan three hours before, two more 
members of the order had fallen with the evil possession.

M. Buboe held the wounded teat, M. Apple now laid the white-hot iron against the gash. It
remained only a second... and the operation was finished, much to the chagrin of the curious 
nuns.

And much to the chagrin of Sister Anne herself, since her state of shock was not sufficient 
to prevent the ensuing pain from tormenting her body. She began convulsing in the most 
sinister of fashion, now she was yelling curses and vile threats against the doctor and his able 
assistant.

"Oh, my goodness!" exclaimed the apothecary, "they're dropping off like horseflies, aren't 
they?"

"Leave her be," admonished the surgeon. "Now, let's have a look at the others, shall we?"

Sister Catherine was more than willing to show the two gentlemen down the granite steps 
to the convent dungeon, wherein all five of the possessed women were shackled and chained. 
"Do what you can," she charged them, "for I fear our situation will worsen if they do not 
receive the blessings of God."

Messrs. Apple and Buboe promised straightforward that they would pray to Our Lady for 
guidance in administering their treatment to the fallen souls. And with their promise, they 
received the keys to the dungeon.

"Oh, what a charming little hole this is," said the apothecary, as he carefully descended the
narrow steps. "Full of surprises, I'll bet!"

"And one will assume, my dear Buboe, that the best surprises lie behind that door."

"Hark! I believe I do hear moaning nuns, in the throes of their agony."

"Perhaps we shall be able to help them," said the surgeon. And he straightaway opened 
the heavy door.

"Oh, my! What have we here?"

"They look so lovely in the torchlight, don't you think so?" asked the apothecary.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Surgeon Apple exclaimed. "Let's go inside!"

A torch was lit, and the two gentlemen entered the darkness of the convent dungeon, 
examining each of the possessed sisters with concerned detail.

"This one's really a mess, poor thing," said the apothecary. The girl of whom he took notice
was Sister Jeanne, the first to succumb to the devils. "That eye will simply have to go."

"Can't you, dear Apple, merely take the time to shove it back inside?"

"But then we run the risk of infection, dear Buboe. It's a snap!" He observed the girl's 
scarred body, the result of constant lashes from her Mother Superior. As he moved the torch 
near the young Jeanne's pussy, he caught sight of something protruding from the novice's 
hole.

"Hello? What's this!" he cried, anxiously examining the object in question.

"Good heavens! A dildo," said his faithful chemist, pulling the instrument, made entirely of 
leather and studded with tiny and sharp spikes, from her youthful cunt. "A nasty one, at that."

"Is bound to do some brutal business, my friend." The surgeon removed the dildo from his
companion's hand and examined it closely. "Handsomely made," he remarked. "Ooooch!"

"What my dear fellow?"

"I've seemed to prick my finger." The surgeon placed the dildo back into its fleshy 
receptacle. "But it's not serious. We'll work with her later. But first, we must examine the 
others."

There was another nun, sitting in her own excrement in the corner of the large cell. Not 
chained nor shackled like the rest, this nun was strapped into a remarkably inventive 
contraption of leather and iron.

"She looks as if she made it through without a scratch," said the apothecary.

"Quite so! Ravishing, isn't she?"

"Yes, yes, yes." M. Buboe rubbed his sweaty hands together incessantly as the two 
gentlemen approached the nun in bondage.

"This one must have been quite rowdy," guessed the surgeon. "They've gagged her."

"Shall we remove it?"

"No. Who knows what evil she will pronounce upon us. We must proceed with caution, 
dear Buboe."

They attached the torch in its holder, eying carefully the curves and feminine charms 
through the leather straps that bound her. And Buboe, who you will recall, was without 
olfactory nerves, decided that something could be done for her.

Pulling her out from the corner by her feet, the good chemist began to examine her muff. 
"So tight," he observed, "ohhhhh, she's a virgin too. What fun!"

"This one's quite attractive," said the surgeon. "But I'm afraid she's out of commission," He 
noted the linen which had been inserted in her pussy.

M. Buboe was hardly listening to his companion. For now, he had the young novice in the 
corner and was spreading her legs. "I've never done this to a virgin before," he commented. "I 
wonder what it will feel like."

Sister Bridgette looked at the sinisterly hideous chemist who now lowered his pants 
around his waist. She tried screaming, but only choked on her restraint. Her body, bound 
tightly into a most uncomfortable position, was cramped and tensed. And now, after rousing 
her from her sleep, this hideous man was going to violate her. A man which Bridgette had 
never before laid eyes on.

"Oh, don't try that," he said, slapping the youthful captive nun across the cheek. "You'll 
hurt yourself."

"Having troubles, Buboe?"

"She tried to kick me," he explained.

"Well, if you are going through all the trouble to fuck her, you might as well do it right!" A 
large wooden plank was found, and soon Sister Bridgette's feet were tied snugly to either end 
of it.

"There. Now she won't give you any trouble."

"Thank you, my friend." And the good chemist proceeded to jerk his fist along the length 
of his fiery manhood.

Sister Bridgette, though possessed by evil spirits, was now experiencing one of her more 
lucid moments. And, understandably, one of her most frightening. For the apothecary's huge 
phallus, though not as long as the cure's, was much fatter and thicker. It looked as hideous as 
the rest of his body, even more so. Large, varicose veins ran up and down the massive shaft 
and grew bigger as the chemist pumped it faster with his fist.

There was no way she could protest, no way she could scream out in terror. And even if 
she could have done so, her cries would have reached deaf ears, if they even passed at all into 
the upper chambers of the convent.

Bridgette closed her eyes, hoping that this, like everything else which had happened to 
her, was an illusion. But the illusion was closing in on her, already she could feel the crimson, 
drooling cockhead against her quivering lips as it pressed against her tender flesh. Soon, and 
very soon at that, it would tear through her cherry, deflowering her in the most pernicious 
manner.

So it did. Poor Bridgette--she had taken her vows of chastity so seriously at the beginning 
of her initiation to the order. But in a mere three weeks time, she had fallen deeply, thanks to 
a series of unfortunate spiritual mishaps, and was now paying the price of her greed.

For all poor Bridgette had hoped was to be noticed. Hadn't all the other sisters talked 
quietly and respectfully when Sister Jeanne was carted away, deep in the throes of possession 
by evil usurpers? They talked about how pretty she was, how strange that she would have 
been so susceptible to such perversity.

Well, if Sister Jeanne could have fantasies about her Lord and Savior, Bridgette could have 
some fantasies of her own. Jesus may be out of the question, Jeanne had already exhausted 
that possibility. But there were others who could serve her lust, in Sister Bridgette's hopeless 
case, the very devil himself, the archangel Lucifer! In her selfish demands for attention, 
Bridgette would have thought twice, or three times about making such a deranged confession
to the Mother Superior, if she had known what lay in store for her as a nun possessed.

What had begun as a game was now a real, very real situation. Sister Jeanne talked 
constantly, when conscious, about strange things that made no sense to innocent Bridgette. 
With the other nuns, shackled fast in their chains, Bridgette would often join in howling and 
screaming, just as loudly as they. When one started, the others would always follow. And when
Sister Catherine came down on her with the lash, Bridgette would always tell her what she 
wanted to her... that devils were surely lazing and wallowing in her soul.

She winced as the cockhead nudged against her hymen. With no regard for what she 
might have felt, indeed, thinking that the girl felt nothing at all, Buboe lunged forward with a 
quick buck of his hips and sent his crimson tool spiraling up the deranged nun's hole. He 
thought he might have heard her maidenhood burst from the seams as he rammed his 
mutated, veiny member far into her creaming pussy.

Whether M. Buboe heard such tearings of flesh or not, Sister Bridgette was conscious of 
the tremendous pain which racked her bound body as her taut cherry popped against the 
force of the ugly tool. Her arms tensed, creating less slack against the breast strap that rubbed
against her nipples so hotly. And the thickness of his cockmeat, which reminded poor 
possessed Bridgette so much of a salami or other cured edibles, was stretching her tight cunt 
to the very painful limits. She had been shocked, certainly, when the handsome cure had given
her his tool to suck, but at least she knew how, having much experience with young boys in 
her secular life before taking the vows.

That had been easy.

But this, this painful, torturous ramming of the chemist's prick was more than she could 
stand. Though her pussy did adjust at length to the stiffness and width of the ugly fellow's 
piston, she could not bear to look at his skinny, hairy ass as it rose and fell from the floor. In 
any case, Sister Bridgette was now praying that indeed the archangel Lucifer would inhabit her
soul, if only to scare this nasty fellow away!

It slid up tight against the farthest reaches of her crevice, then back down again, then once
more, with sharp thrusts, up her hole. By now, Bridgette bit so firmly against the leather ball 
that her teeth were imbedded firmly. The hot rammings of the chemist's tool continued, in 
fact, grew faster and more lurid with each successive plow.

Then, a strange, curious feeling began to grow, slowly at first, then with aching speed, in 
the depths of her hole. She noticed that her pussy, far from being dry and tight, was wet as 
the morning dew. Buboe's pumpings and pillagings became, in a short time, quite enjoyable. 
Considering that young Bridgette had felt no pleasure for the length of her incarceration in 
the dungeon, this was quite a shock to her.

She found, very simply by doing, that if she rolled her hips around slowly, then faster, and 
at the same time raising her wounded ass from the floor, she could easily accommodate more 
of the apothecary's fleshy spike. And when, during her rape, Bridgette imagined that some 
other man, some very handsome man, say--Father Guiervan for instance, was plugging her 
cunt, the heated nun felt as though lightning bolts of the summer storms struck her core.

His tempo quickened, she felt his balls swing and knock against her crotch, now dripping 
hotly with her nectar. Although she would have liked to experience this pleasure under 
different, more humane circumstances, it did serve as a break in the tedium.

The other nuns, all except the unconscious Sister Jeanne, began moaning and crying in 
their insanity, just as they did most of the day and night. But now they had a common bind, to
excuse the word, in the exhibition of human lust before them on the floor of the musky 
dungeon. A barrage of muted obscenities, some which Bridgette had never before heard, flew 
around the room.

While the good Surgeon Apple explored the fleshy crevice of one young sister with his 
trusty pincers, our apothecary was exploring another, wetter hole with his own stiff pestle. 
Poor M. Buboe, heaven help him, was inclined to make gurgling noises, and drool profusely, 
whenever he reached the point of his orgasm. This he was doing now as he sent his slithering 
prick faster into the possessed pussy.

The surgeon was distracted from his examinations, but no amount of protests on his 
behalf could quiet the gurgling chemist as he slowly reached his burst of carnal happiness. He 
stopped short, pumping the stiff tool completely into the nun's creamy crotch, and waited for 
the explosion which began in his balls.

The nuns screamed in unison, a blood-curdling scream of wicked delight as Buboe shot his
seed into the convulsing sister Bridgette's womb. He lay on top of her for some time, rousing 
only when awakened by the impatient Surgeon Apple.

"You've had your fun, my man," he remarked. "Now we must clean up this wretched mess."

"But they'll be tortured again, it's really no bother," suggested the apothecary.

"Yes, but don't you see? In order for them to get the fullest from their incarceration, they 
have to be healthy and strong." The surgeon was examining the welts on Bridgette's 
arsecheeks as the two gentlemen turned her over onto her belly.

"My dear Apple," asked the chemist. "Is it possible that these women are really possessed, 
as Sister Catherine tells us?"

"Quite so," he said, poking her butthole with a porcelain pestle, which was obtained from 
the chemist's bag. "They make strange noises. Perhaps they are speaking in tongues other 
than our own?"

"And what shall we do about that?" asked the chemist, pointing to Sister Jeanne. "She's a 
bloody mess."

"We'll have to cauterize again, to make sure it heals. Then, my dear Buboe, I am sure that 
somewhere around your quaint little shop, somewhere hidden in your treasures, is a lovely 
glass eye that will look almost genuine."

"Of course! Yes, I believe I do have one, left over from something." Buboe and Apple were 
in business once more.

On their way from the convent, Sister Catherine inquired about the condition of her 
charges.

"Well, I'm afraid we can't cast out demons," replied the surgeon. "That is for the clergy, not
for men of science."

"We can," mentioned the chemist, "bleed them. Perhaps they will feel weakened, and the 
demons will be fooled into thinking they are dead."

They returned, later that evening, with other instruments with which to perform the 
highly-complicated operations of the surgeons art. With the assistance of the good chemist, 
wounds were cleaned and balms were administered, though some of the concoctions 
employed were hardly soothing to the skin.

Sister Anne, that selfless tower of strength, was mercifully knocked unconscious with a 
large iron pipe, so great was her pain. "She'll be much cheerier tomorrow," promised the 
surgeon. "Let her sleep peacefully."

And, biding the good Sister Catherine a pleasant evening, the two men of science left the 
convent house. They did make one last promise to the Mother Superior, however. And this 
promise, secured in writing, was that both surgeon and apothecary would assist the clergy in 
any way they could, in the execution of the exorcism that was soon to be dictated by His 
Eminence, the Cardinal, from his summer palace not a day's journey from Rouen.





CHAPTER FIVE


Since Urbain Guiervan was a secular priest, though a powerful one at that, he was not 
authorized to make certain decisions. And in this unusual of situations, Father Guiervan would 
have to appeal to the papal hierarchy. So, he considered, why not start at the top?

For when he wrote his impassioned plea for assistance to the Prior of Coussay, he was 
actually appealing to the Bishop of Lucon.

And the Bishop of Lucon was none other than Armand-Jean du Plessis de Richelieu, newly 
returned from exile, and destined to rule the entire consolidated provinces of seventeenth 
century France.

To Cardinal Richelieu, exorcism meant a waste of time. It was boring, draining on the 
energies, unhealthy for the mind, and also required many changes of vestments.

But, on another side of the livre, Cardinal Richelieu had never heard of a whole convent 
falling to demonic possession. Half out of curiosity, the absolute ruler of France sent a reply to
the priest at Rouen, informing him of interest in this most unusual occurrence. A visit would 
be paid, not any time in the near future, of course, since pressing matters kept him at the 
Court of Louis XIII, his royal marionette. But once the present business of the country was set 
aside, (namely, the creation of a navy) a journey to Rouen would be arranged.

In the meantime, Urbain Guiervan occupied his time with reports from the convent, 
wherein new cases of possession were reported most every day, and with a certain Madeliane 
Marchant, who was none other than the handsome wife of the Chief Magistrate of Rouen.

It was through Madeliane that Father Gueirvan learned of Marchant's fears. The man was 
deeply concerned with certain rumors, scandalous rumors, of blasphemous activity in the 
order of Ursulines in his neighborhood. What if these demented creatures, though not 
responsible for their own judgement, were to escape from the convent house? What if, and 
heaven help us if they do, these fallen souls run free through the streets of the city, 
threatening the security and happiness of the good citizens of Rouen?

Unfortunately for M. Marchant, he never got an answer from either Mother Superior, to 
whom he addressed a letter asserting his fears, or from Urbain Guiervan, with whom he spoke 
personally.

For on the fifteenth of the month of August, 1627, M. Marchant met an untimely death 
when one of the servants in his household, in preparing to move into the new house near the 
convent, accidentally and with no ill intent pushed him down the stone steps that led to the 
wine cellar.

The manservant, a hunchback named Honneger, had been caught many times before 
stealing from the Magistrate's private stock. But this indiscretion was his only chief fault, and 
only in his later years had the manservant taken to strong drink at all. Lillian, his daughter, was
so attached to the servant that she begged her kind pappa again and again to let him stay on.
So, having personally lashed the poor hunchback, M. Marchant would invariably give him 
permission to keep his job with the household.

And why, the reader may ask, was Lillian, the beautiful daughter of the Chief Magistrate so 
enamored with this deformed manservant?

The reason is singular and specific: from her twelfth birthday to the present, Lillian and her 
father's valet would engage in certain games, games of a rather amorous nature, in the 
darkness of the quiet cellar. At first these games, innocent as they sound, were indeed no 
more than pecking and poking at flesh. Lillian would beg the poor Honneger to show his 
mutated back, and she, in turn for the favor to her curiosity, show him something in return.

Although frightening at first, Lillian soon learned to like the deformed back, its muscles 
twisted like thick knots, as it provided her with a comfortable resting place for her legs when 
the young mistress reclined in her favorite position: horizontally. Every Wednesday afternoon, 
when Pappa was busy with torts and courts, and Mamman was cavorting in the boudior with a
certain silk merchant from Venice, or so he claimed to be, Lillian and Honneger would hunch 
away at each other's crotches, after having consumed several bottles of the finest appellations.

It was Lillian who drank the heaviest, not the valet, though of course he would take the 
blame for all of the missing beverage. She had a never-ending thirst, and amazed the valet 
every week when she would drink liter after liter of Bordeaux or Claret, sometimes mixing 
them both, without many ill effects.

But this particular Wednesday, the day of her father's accidental stumbling, young Lillian, 
now sixteen, was feeling rather queasy as she had felt for several weeks. The symptoms of her 
illness, though the girl was no trained physician, pointed strongly to pregnancy.

So, after consuming at least a half liter of juice, and feeling very bold, young maitresse 
Lillian began to verbally assault her deformed lover, until at last she became dizzy and retched
in the corner.

The noise of her pukings reached the house above, though not causing great concern to 
poor Honneger. He knew, incorrectly, that no one was at home to hear. Magistrate Marchant 
was busy at work, Madame Marchant was rolling around in bed with the new handsome 
priest, Father Guiervan.

But not so today. The Chief Magistrate had come down with the gout, and an infected 
toenail besides to complicate matters. After consulting Surgeon Apple earlier that morning, 
the good M. Marchant decided to leave the present business of the courts open, for a day or 
so, while he recovered. And since the household was busy with the major move to their 
newest home, he could also be around to supervise in case articles happened to be missing.

He was upstairs in the kitchen, counting the silver, when he heard the unmistakable 
sounds of his daughter puking, as he had heard her do for some time recently, in the cellar.

And throwing the door open, he saw not his daughter, but Honneger. No doubt, he 
suspected, the old hunchback had delighted his innocent child with a bottle of his private 
stock, and Lillian was paying the price of her overindulgence.

Honneger was frozen with fear, of course suspecting that Magistrate Marchant knew the 
worst. But before he could speak, Lillian, still raging with anger, threw a bottle of Claret at the 
poor deformed manservant.

Luckily for the hunchback, Lillian was not seeing properly and the bottle missed his head 
by inches.

But pity the Magistrate! The bottle shattered on the stone stairs, soiling his clothing with 
the red wine. Furious at his daughter's behavior, the Magistrate threatened to thrash her. But 
here comes the hunchback now, to his darling mistress' rescue. Grabbing Marchant by the 
arm, he prevents the enraged father from descending the stairs.

But not from falling, however. Slipping on the wet surface at the same time he demanded 
the valet to release him, M. Marchant went tumbling, head first, down into his precious cellar, 
and cracked his skull.

Surgeon Apple was called, who shortly pronounced the man dead. Lillian, taking the good 
doctor aside, asked for advice on her unwanted condition. Promising to remain silent, faithful 
to his oath as a doctor, Surgeon Apple admitted that he would be more than delighted to 
perform a very simple and discreet operation on the unfortunate girl free of any charge.

But more trouble. Honneger, still feeling terribly about his employer's death, felt even 
worse when Lillian announced her decision to abort the child. Honneger insisted the child was 
half his: Maitresse Lillian held fast to her decision. So, three days after the funeral of his former
Master, Honneger, the broken soul, made an attempt on the life of Surgeon Apple.

It was a messy business.

Armed with nothing more than the meat cleaver from the kitchen, the hunchback burst 
into the surgeon's consulting room, while M. Apple performed complicated dentistry on his 
friend, the chemist. Other patients were waiting in the room. When they caught sight of the 
deranged hunchback, wielding the sharp blade, they feared the worse.

But though fear ran high, they were not quiet petrified. Strong hands intervened, the 
hunchback was knocked unconscious with a bronze candle stick. Pronounced insane by the 
director of the Rouen asylum, he was committed, against his will, to the large facility where, it 
was hoped, he would spend the remainder of his life.

As Urbain Guiervan considered this and other equally absurd episodes which had 
happened recently in the city, he concluded that indeed, the whole city was slowly going mad.
Inquiries, from the Board of Governors of the persistent rumors, rumors about depravity at the
convent house, were answered everyday. "No," he wrote frequently, "we have not determined 
the cause of the epidemic." Or, "No, these rumors are the fabrications of idle minds," and an 
idle mind, as every good Christian knows, is the devil's workshop.

Surely, no minds were more idle than a company of nuns. With no contact whatsoever 
with the outside world, no stimulation than the insulated self, the combined energies of 
forty-seven nuns was surely enough to bring about hell on earth. Which exactly the condition, 
presently, of the convent house of the Ursuline order at Rouen.

It was on the same day that Richelieu's agreement to check into the matter of mass 
possession reached the cure, that Sister Anne, recently recovered from her painful breast 
surgery, discovered naughty activity, blasphemous activity to be specific, in the chapel, after 
morning devotionals.

Sister Marianna, a young girl of twenty-three, not much younger than her Mother 
Superior, and a certain Sister Clarissa, a homely looking spinster of forty, were cavorting near 
the chancel. Their assignment, spelled out that morning by Sister Catherine, was to mop and 
clean the chapel floors "free of any dirt, dust and other obscene specks that ye may find." They
had gotten about as far with their assignment as one would expect from an army of infant 
mongoloids charged with the same.

Sister Anne was furious, for had not Sister Catherine mentioned that his Holy Eminence, 
would be paying them a short visit in the near future? These foolish nuns, instead of carrying 
out the master plan, were acting lewdly in the chancel, recreating a bawdy moment from 
some erotic Greek comedy.

Sister Marianna, mop in tow, was standing with the wooden handle poking obscenely 
through the folds of her habit. And, as if this were not enough, Sister Clarissa was lying on the 
chancel floor, on her back with her legs spread wide open, ready to receive the lusty wooden 
tool.

If it had not been that the content of their ensuing conversation was overheard by the 
good Sister Anne, the two foolish nuns would have probably gotten off with a hearty lashing.

But listen: "Oh, my heavens," shouts Sister Clarissa, "It is thou, my Horny Savior."

"Yes, I am the Light of thy Crotch, the Ruler of thy Womb!"

"But, my Son!" replies Sister Clarissa, shaking her ass against the floor. "My Son is perfect 
in the eyes of mankind! Thou wouldn't do such a terrible thing as to commit incest with Thine 
own Holy Mother?"

"Fear not," says Sister Marianna, in a gruff voice, "For verily I say until thee, My Holy Cock 
groweth bigger and poundeth with lust at every sight of Thine Immaculate Hole!" At which 
point, Sister Marianna crams the handle of her mop into the hairy crevice between the legs of 
Sister Clarissa.

And, at which point, Sister Catherine was sent for, so that she might observe, in the flesh, 
another case of this most unusual possession.

"Peace be with you, always!" shouts Sister Marianna in her foolishness. And just in time to 
be overheard by the good Sister Catherine.

She wasted no time in putting a stop to this blasphemous activity. Catherine began to 
walk slowly into the chapel, her head tilted now all the way to her left, her tongue lolling from 
the side of her mouth and drooling to her chin. The noise of her right foot dragging on the 
tiles, familiar now as a warning of her approach to all the nuns, shocked the silly nuns from 
their playful heresy. They stood straight in attention, their heads bowed low, as Sister 
Catherine, Mother Superior of the Ursuline order of Rouen, shuffled slowly into the proper of 
the chapel.

"So, my children," she asks. "What indeed seems to be the matter?"

"We, we were just mopping the floor," explains Sister Clarissa, adjusting her habit 
uncomfortably, and a bit too late.

"Pray tell, my children, can you mop the chapel floor, as I have told you, with the tip of the 
mop crammed into your hole?"

"I-We were just... experimenting!" cried the homely one, Sister Clarissa. "We were foolish."

"And, if you will," continues the Mother Superior, her eyes crossed and focused on the tip 
of her nose, "explain what you were experimenting."

"They were having a masque," shouted Sister Anne. "A masque without music."

"Oh, was this a miracle play?" asks the good Sister Catherine.

"Twas more than a miracle. It was unnatural!" And Sister Anne, intervening on the part of 
the two foolish nuns, told the story, relating in graphic detail the obvious allusions to Christ, 
our Savior, and the Mother of God.

Through the narration, Sisters Marianna and Clarissa fell into intense pained laughter. In 
addition to their bursts of deranged guffaws and mooings, Sister Marriana displayed her 
unusual physiological deformity by taking, inch by inch, the entire length of the broomstick up
her arse. By the end of the morning, two more possessed nuns were added to the collection in
the cellar dungeon.

For Sister Catherine who, it would seem, might be used to this sort of thing by now, the 
scope of the strange happenings at Rouen were now fully realized. For the first time.

It was certain that, if and when the exorcism was performed, it would be much to late to 
be considered effective. With each passing day, more members of the Ursulines, thought 
Sister Catherine, were basking in their own perversity and heresy. Those who, for reasons of 
their own piety, and of course, the everlasting mercy of God, had escaped the insane 
possession would most likely soon succumb. Some of the nuns in the cellar dungeon, chained 
fast to the walls, were already professing to be Huguenots!

And, with the addition of Sisters Marianna and Clarissa to the chamber of divine torture, 
Sister Catherine found herself in a position she had never faced in her entire twelve years with 
the order... she had run out of room!

Deep in the cellar, there was now a distinct lack of vacancy. The two newly possessed 
sisters, on the advice of Sister Anne, had to be chained together. No telling what they might 
be up to at this moment, thought the Mother Superior.

And something else unusual. Sister Catherine, though afraid to admit this to anyone, had 
experienced strange, unnatural rapture in her tiny cell the evening before. During her peaceful
sleep, strange, tiny little demons, with horns growing out the tops of their skulls, carrying 
three-pronged pitchforks, their bodies covered completely with fiery red hair, had entered 
Catherine's cell in the dead of night. Surrounding her, chanting madly as they pounced upon 
her body, their penises thumping against her belly and legs, the little devils claimed that they 
would bugger her to death unless she complied with their wishes.

And these wishes were: Sister Catherine was to open, on Sunday morning, the heavy iron 
doors that sealed the main chambers of the convent house from the street, and subsequently, 
from the outside word. The nuns, so said these devils who threatened Sister Catherine with 
death by painful buggery, would then be allowed to run wildly in the streets, cavorting and, in 
some cases, engaging in acts of terror and self-abuse.

But demons, as Sister Catherine and her Heavenly Father knew, would have to get up very 
early before dawn to pull such deception over on the Mother Superior. With little kicks from 
her feet, and arms akimbo, the good Servant of God swiped at the demons, with her accurate 
aim, and sent them flying to the floor.

Like so many red-haired rats, evil with revenge, the demons barred their teeth and made 
little stabs with their pitchforks at good Catherine. Invoking the name of their master, Lucifer, 
they threatened her within an inch of her mortal life. Catherine bolted forward, drew her 
crucifix close to her heart, and countered their advance by invoking the name of her own 
Master, the little devils burst into fire, chanted the Kyrie Eleison backwards, then vanished. 
Once more, and Catherine took only nominal responsibility as an instrument of God, 
goodness had triumphed over the-black forces of evil.

How long this luck would hold out, however, was unknown to Catherine. Little encounters 
with those demons were becoming more frequent, as Mother Superior had caught sight of 
several of them from the corner of her eye already this morning.

Even now, as Catherine descended the stairs to the cellar, her right foot dragging one pace
behind, the Mother Superior was certain they were following her. It was afternoon now, and 
time for a quick check of the possessed nuns.

Strung up like so many sides of beef, the sisters mooed, hissed and writhed against their 
chains when Catherine entered the dungeon cell. Some asked about the nature of her Holy 
cunt, some spat, other's giggled hysterically.

One of the giggling, gurgling nuns was Sister Jeanne. The first to undergo the rigorous 
tortures of the present incarceration, Sister Jeanne was by now thoroughly and undeniably 
mad. It was she who Sister Catherine unchained first, and laying the young girl's fine body to 
the floor, Mother Superior stood back to admire it.

Though the fine limbs looked slacker now, the face pale with exhaustion, the breathing not
quite regular, she was still ravishing to Sister Catherine. Those good men of science, Apple and
Buboe, had done an admirable job dressing her wounds. Most of the swelling had gone down,
welts were not running anymore and most remarkably, she was fitted with a new glass eye 
that looked almost like real.

Though not the same shade of brown as Sister Jeanne's natural eye, the new model looked
better than most. With no muscles attached to it, so that it might move in the same direction 
as the other, it would roll freely from side to side whenever Sister Jeanne wallowed on the 
floor. Mother Superior found this to be quite comical and would surely remark of this 
phenomenon the next time Surgeon Apple and his friend were employed.

Oh, how Sister Catherine's heart was torn when she thought about the poor child's 
situation, halfway and stranded between heaven and hell. If there were only some way, some 
personal way that the good Mother Superior could help her. Sister Catherine longed to work 
one real miracle in her lifetime, and opportunity, as they say, only knocks once upon the 
cloister doors.

Now was the time to act. Opportunity was not only at the threshold, it was standing with 
its foot inside the door. Sister Catherine took the abused Sister of Christ into her loving arms 
and stroked the short brown stubs of hair on the girl's small skull.

"So beautiful, so tender," cooed Sister Catherine as she kissed each eyelid. Young Jeanne 
lay, her head against the lap of her Superior, breathing softly. As the older nun slowly slipped 
her finger into Jeanne's mouth, the possessed nun sucked it in and lapped it wet with her 
tongue.

Catherine loved the warm, sucking action against her finger. She relished the hot tip of 
young Jeanne's tongue writhing up and over the nail, then under the crook, coating every 
pore with slick, warm saliva.

She poked another finger at Jeanne's lips, the girl sucked it as wet as the other. When 
Catherine's whole hand was licked clean by the young girl, the Mother Superior pulled it out 
of her mouth and applied it to the girl's tender breasts.

The girl moaned softly as the slick hand caressed her fiery globes. "My, my, doesn't that 
feel better, my child," implored the moved Sister Catherine. If torture and abuse had not saved
the girl, perhaps tender caresses and loving warmth would bring her round to reason.

But reason, as it is commonly known, was completely beyond the scope of young Jeanne's 
powers. For, during his cauterization of her wound, Surgeon Apple's steady hand slipped 
unusually, and he therefore accidentally severed part of her brain. For all practical reasons, not
known to Sister Catherine at this time, Sister Jeanne was mentally, as well as spiritually, insane.

Sister Catherine, appreciating the warmth and vigor with which her lover licked her hand, 
desired a taste for more. Gathering up the hem of her skirt, the good Mother Superior sat 
straightway down against Sister Jeanne's face, burying her nose and mouth inside the hairy, 
creaming muff between Sister Catherine's sweating legs.

She adjusted her position frequently, and squeaked like a mouse as her lover's wet tongue
slithered and slid against the warm, creaming folds of flesh. It was, unlike the dungeon, 
heaven on earth for Sister Catherine. Her squeakings and lusty moans grew louder, 
accompanied by the dreadful ululations of the possessed nuns on all sides of the large stone 
room.

It slid in, it slid out, then in again, each time farther and faster against the fleshy and 
tender cunt walls. Sister Catherine fell over onto her hands as the younger nun drank 
vigorously from her fleshy cup, the tongue licking and reaming the pink, wet hole.

Trickles of her pussy nectar flowed sweetly onto the tongue of Sister Jeanne as the girl 
drank and sucked it into her mouth. Her lusty laps brought more of the fiery wine from 
Mother Superior's core, soon the whole musky dungeon was filled with the scintillating odor 
of female sex.

A blast of the perfumy sweetness absorbed her nose as Sister Catherine lowered her face 
likewise into the cunt of her possessed but still ravishing lover. The youthful, flawless hole was 
boiling over, a veritable fever swamp of dripping lust, all easily consumed by the thirsty 
Mother Superior.

She placed her hands behind her, the girl's nipples were stiffening and hot to her touch. 
Sister Catherine died a thousand deaths, was resurrected a thousand times by the fertile delta 
of Jeanne's crotch. Cuddling her face closely to the humid, tropical forest, the nun's flaming 
and wet tongue lashed out against the pinkish folds of female flesh and sliced through them 
like warm, melting butter.

But sweeter than butter was the savory taste of Jeanne's cunt. Sweeter and more 
delectable than anything Sister Catherine had known in her mortal lifetime. It ran in little 
streams onto her lips and gums while Sister Catherine sucked loudly and firmly against the 
drenching pussy lips.

The good Superior rubbed her face against the hairy muff, laughing delightedly as the 
matted brown hairs tickled her chin and cheeks. Inside her core, Sister Catherine was by no 
means unaware of the thunderclap and eruption which now took place. The hot tongue was 
rolling around deeply in her cunt and thrilling her with the most delightful, ephemeral 
sensations.

Sister Catherine felt something hot and stiff poking against the bridge of her nose. 
Removing her face from the hairy lips, she noticed the size and fleshiness of Sister Jeanne's 
clit, now enraged to monumental proportions. It resembled, in all ways excepting its size, a 
male prick. Taking the crimson clit softly between her teeth, and pretending it was a grape 
with a thin sheathe of skin, Sister Catherine tenderly administered to the swollen clit by rolling 
it around the edges of her sharp white teeth.

This particular sensation, it should be noted, was much to Sister Jeanne's liking, and she 
responded by applying the same action to the likewise stiff and raw clit of her Mother 
Superior. Both nuns, the heavenly and the sinful, were howling with glee through their teeth, 
and rollicking lustfully on the stone floor.

For Sister Catherine, the sensations were devastating. Like long female fingers of flame 
tearing and lapping against her pussy walls, so did the sensations of the pinched clit shoot 
fast and collide against the fiery core of the good Sister.

In practically no time at all, Sister Catherine was enraptured by the rumblings and 
upheavings of her cunt. A climax was imminent, indeed, already little bursts of heavenly 
arrows, their points set aflame, were stabbing her wet and slithering womb walls.

Her firm thighs tightened around the possessed sister's face as Mother Superior braced 
herself for Heavenly Bliss. Breathing hotly into the little wet hole of Sister Jeanne's crotch, 
Catherine was determined to, during her revelation, breathe the spirit of Christ into her, curing
her of all evil.

But wait! It is no longer pleasure the good sister feels. It is a painful tearing at her cunt lips.
For Sister Jeanne, delirious in her heat, had grabbed hold of the fleshy lips between her teeth, 
and was tearing away like a dog that strips fat from an old bone.

Sister Catherine was petrified with pain. She couldn't breathe, nor scream, nor puke from 
her agony. It did not, however, have to be singular. This same pain, like pleasure, could be 
shared with Sister Jeanne. Snapping her teeth against her lover's pussy lips in like fashion, the 
Mother Superior gave her all to this savage ravishment.

The two nuns, one naked, one fully dressed, jerked and struggled on the floor, much to 
the absolute delight of the approving, chained nuns who watched. Like the chorus of a drama,
the nuns' voices, in all manner of strange tongues, echoed loudly from the ceiling and walls of
the dungeon, covering up the lusty, painful moans of the cunt biting nuns.

Sister Catherine's strategy was simple: by sitting on the young girl's face with all her 
weight, so that her crotch would be tight against the snarled face, and squeezing her strong, 
slack thighs tightly around her face, Sister Jeanne would simply suffocate, releasing her toothy
grip on the cuntlips.

And at the same time, with the butt of her lash, which lay within reach, Sister Catherine 
would ream the cunt of Sister Jeanne. With her face free from the hairy muff, Sister Catherine 
was sure to avoid the same. Jeanne would succumb to unconsciousness quickly, and be 
punished for her evil attack at the same time with the penetrating leather butt of the whip.

How Sister Jeanne held on to her energy! Even while being fucked hard with the evil dildo, 
much larger than your humble narrator's own lusty phallus, Jeanne bucked her arse again and 
again from the floor, until all of leather tool was taken into her hole. Sister Catherine shoved it
in again, then again. But with each pump, Sister Jeanne's bites seemed to strengthen rather 
than diminish. Clearly, something more had to be done.

The butt of the lash was coated and glistening with Jeanne's sweet nectar, and would 
easily slid into the young girl's bung. So, after many repeated attempts to locate the puckered
sphincter, Catherine, in one last selfless effort, plunged the large shaft of the whip up Sister 
Jeanne's tight and clenching rear.

The possessed child released her Superior's cunt lips, falling to lustful incantations as 
Catherine fucked the bung hole harder with her dildo. Her plans, to work those long sought 
miracles, had clearly failed. There was nothing more to do than punish evil Jeanne. Chained 
fast in her shackles, and causing no further trouble, Sister Jeanne laughed heartily as the 
Mother Superior made a last check on the other sisters of the order.

Emerging battered and bruised, and sticky with the residue of her many eruptions, Sister 
Catherine ascended the dungeon stairs, still clutching her crotch. In the solitude of her cell, 
the good sister was interrupted from her meditations by none other than Sister Anne, with 
good news no less.

The Cardinal Richelieu, known to change his mind frequently, did just that. In a 
proclamation issued that very morning, and handed to Sister Anne by a handsome messenger
of the King Louis XIII, His Eminence resolved to organize an expedition to Rouen, so that he 
might personally witness the "horrifying possession of the Sister's of Christ, and to make such 
judgment necessary for the prevention of the epidemic."

And, so read another official proclamation, the story of the demented Ursulines had 
reached the ears of none other than the King Louis himself. Curious of the heresy and 
perversion, the King would also accompany His Eminence to Rouen to observe the hearing. It 
was hoped, read the document, that the good Sister Catherine would have much to show 
them, since their time was most precious.

The Mother Superior sent straight away for Surgeon Apple and M. Buboe, reminding them
of their agreement to assist in any demonstrations. They immediately reminded her that 
special equipment, unusual tools of the Surgeon's trade, would be needed for this 
demonstration, and since none like them existed in Rouen, they would have to be specially 
created.

Dipping discreetly into the convent treasury, Sister Catherine gave them both four 
hundred livres, and told them to purchase anything necessary for the exorcism. Surgeon 
Apple restocked his supply of leeches and honey bees, bottling them carefully in glass 
beakers.

M. Buboe made haste to contact the Master of the Leather Guild, who was commissioned 
to manufacture specially designed tools of torture, drawn up by Buboe's own hand. Fascinated
by Sister Catherine's taste in punishment, M. Buboe desired to outdo her own creativeness. In 
fifteen days, the Kings army, a special regiment created and trained by the Cardinal, entered 
the city and announced the arrival, in another week, of His Eminence, and His Excellence. The 
show was about to begin.





CHAPTER SIX


Surgeon Apple and his cohort were more than anxious to help the Mother Superior. For both 
men, it would be a chance to exhibit their technical knowledge before the highest powers. For 
Surgeon Apple, it would also be opportune to try out some experimental surgery he had 
recently encountered in journals.

And for M. Buboe, it would be a chance to run amok with lovely young girls, something, 
because of his hideous countenance, the good chemist was lacking.

In addition to these wise men, two others were selected by Sister Catherine and Sister 
Anne to help transport the possessed nuns from the dungeon, and also to help the Mother 
Superior with her torture.

After contacting the new Chief Magistrate, a M. Trivette, Sister Catherine was allowed to 
select from the city's collections of drunks, madmen, debtors and other outcasts for recruits. 
She chose two, both tall and powerful looking.

The taller of the two men was called "Golgol" and he had been recently dismissed from 
service at the guillotine for drunkeness. During unattended executions of the poor, this 
"Golgol" had repeatedly urinated on the personages of those executed, let the conditions of 
the blades deteriorate to the point where several attempts were needed before complete 
decapitation, and had shown general unruliness and poor temper to his fellow workers.

The other, Popeye, also a drunk and a deviate besides, looked just as menacing as his 
friend. He had worked as an orderly at the asylum of Rouen, but was recently dismissed as he 
was taken to buggering female inmates.

This behavior, though repugnant to the Director of the asylum, would have not caused his 
dismissal had it not been for the fact that Popeye, after humiliating the female inmates, killed 
them also, by boiling them alive in the cellar claustral chambers.

Both men were heartily built, with barrel chests and great, sagging and hairy pectorals. 
Their arms, though flabby, were quite powerful still. And both men, much to the delight of 
Sister Catherine, were hung like mules.

For serving the Mother Superior's wishes, both men would benefit greatly. For Golgol, his 
job would be commuted; for Popeye, his life.

They were quite cooperative, and Sister Catherine found them pleasant and agreeable to 
work with. Though once, while drunk on sacramental wine, Popeye had carried off Sister Anne 
and buggered her, Sister Catherine's lash brought him soon to his senses, and no further 
indiscretions were noticed, though the Mother Superior suspected they occurred just the 
same.

One thing remained curious. After the two thugs were fitted in black leather cowls and 
given free roam of the dungeon, more and more of the older nuns succumbed to possession. 
Grunts and groanings, masculine huffs and puffs, could be heard outside the iron doors, 
mingling with the delighted screams and ululations of the damned nuns. The total count as of 
September One, 1627--twenty-one nuns had gone mad with the demons, almost half the 
order.

And in her cell, tossing and turning on the floor as she fought against those little devils 
that now attacked her nightly, Sister Catherine considered her lot. She had risen, in a brief 
period of time, to a high position in the papal hierarchy of Rouen. Now, her life works were 
threatened, her order scandalized by demonic spirits. How would this be taken, when news of 
the convent's mass conversion to heresy reached the ears of the Vatican?

With excommunication fresh on her mind, poor Sister Catherine felt that she, too, might 
be going mad. The convent was not the place for a proper night's sleep these days, those 
howling tongues in the dungeon echoed throughout the main chambers of the house.

No, No, no sleep tonight for Sister Catherine. Grabbing her rosary and adjusting her habit, 
pulling the folds of cloth from between her crotch, the good Sister quietly unlocked her cell 
door and wandered aimlessly, bouncing from the tiled walls as she stumbled, down the 
well-worn stairs to the dungeon.

Golgol and Popeye guarded the entrance to the cellar chamber, both dead drunk and 
snoring on each other's shoulders. A sheepskin flask dangled from the taller man's hand, 
Popeye gurgled like an infant.

Golgol was first awakened, by the familiar thump of Sister Catherine's right foot as it 
dragged behind. Groggily, as was his nature, the hairy fellow rose to attention as Sister 
Catherine slapped him hard against the face.

"We have work to do," she muttered, fumbling with the heavy iron ring which contained 
numerous keys.

And what work was to be done! The very nature of it excited Sister Catherine to blissful 
passion. Sister Clarissa had woken her with cries of dementia, begging to be penetrated once 
more with Mother Superior's wicked dildo. It was high time to give those devils what they 
wanted, so that Sister Catherine might return to peaceful sleep.

And with the help of her new assistants, much, much more could be accomplished, and in 
a shorter period of time. Dragging Golgol by the hand, Sister Catherine entered the darkened, 
dank cell, remaining still for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the exhausted 
torches.

No, not all twenty-one maddened nuns could be fit comfortably in the dungeon. There 
simply was no more room to accommodate them. Those who were not chained to the walls 
were roped and lashed to each other; likewise those who were stored upstairs, locked away in 
their own cells, were free to scream and moan incessantly, keeping the other sisters of the 
order on pins and needles.

The maniacal mooings and groanings of the nuns could be heard clearly out into the 
street. Petitions had been drawn, threats were made by the neighboring families. The new 
Chief Magistrate, unable to sleep and fearing possession as well, had vacated the newly built 
house around the corner. And when, in hearing of the abandoned house, Sister Catherine 
suggested storing some of the maddened sisters away inside the building, a suit was filed by 
certain citizens, an order decreed blocking the removal of the nuns from the convent. Sister 
Catherine was stuck with her cohorts in Christ, and the thought of spending another evening 
among the insane young cows made her ill.

So, until the exorcism was performed, Mother Superior would have to continue her efforts,
hopefully driving the demons out with her lash, which had broken at last, and disappointingly,
earlier that day.

Sisters Marianne and Clarissa, lashed with heavy black leather straps, their sweating 
buttocks writhing against each other's flesh, would have to be dealt with severely. And, thanks
to Golgol's tremendously inflamed pecker, thoroughly as well. The massive snake bulged out 
five fingers from his tight breeches, which caught the glance of the Mother Superior several 
times as they unstrapped the wicked nuns and lay them on the floor.

There was no struggle involved, both sisters being so totally consumed with foolish 
laughter. Ropes were tied around Marianna's wrists and arms. They dug into her flesh most 
painfully, yet the mad nun chortled her threats just the same. To her legs, manacles were 
attached, one to each ankle, and then fastened to convenient little rings in the cold floor, 
three feet apart from the other. The lengthy rope was throw high into the air, where it fell over
a cross beam, then dangled in mid-air. By pulling the loose end of the rope hard, Sister 
Clarissa's arms were drawn high above her head. So far, said Sister Catherine, so good.

The spiked leather phallus, now currently occupying the arse of Sister Bridgette, was in 
order. Indeed, at this moment, foolish Clarissa was begging for it, between threats involving 
the highest deities, to penetrate her cunt. So it would, thought Catherine. And something else,
besides.

Anointing the phallus with a special balm left there by the apothecary, and which 
produced an intense itching and burning when in contact with the skin, Sister Catherine 
proceeded to shout her instructions to Golgol.

While the Mother Superior administered the huge black tool, twisting it around the demon
infested cunt, Golgol was to plug Sister Clarissa's buttocks with his uncircumcised, lengthy tool
at the same time, with the same tempo. It was agreed, and wiping the spit from her face, 
which Sister Clarissa continued to project with great accuracy, Sister Catherine pumped the 
spiked and wicked cock into Clarissa's quivering hole.

However, as both Sisters Clarissa and Marianna had, for several days, wallowed in their 
own excrement, Golgol lost Iris urge to engage in such buggery. Repeated attempts to arouse 
him once more were made by Sister Catherine, the good woman of the Lord wrapping her 
mouth around the entire mass of flaccid meat and flicking it with her tongue. But no results!

Each time Golgol attempted to mount the nun's rear, his hard-on failed disappointingly. 
Even after Sister Catherine took the time to clean the arsecheeks with the hem of her habit, 
the cock remained flaccid.

This would simply not work! Golgol was dismissed, Popeye awakened from his drunken 
slumberings. The other man was sure to enjoy his task, and indeed, when aroused by Sister 
Catherine's mouth, a bulging, blazing hard-on appeared, the drooling cockhead stuck tight 
against Catherine's throat.

To this massive phallus. Sister Catherine applied the unknown ointment. Its properties, 
while intense, took several minutes to reach their peak. And Popeye, once feeling the itching 
and burning against his raging cock, would be sure to fuck her harder, to relieve his 
inflammation against the dry, clenching anal walls.

Now properly mounted, Sister Clarissa began to roll her hips devilishly around both the 
penetrating dildo and human phallus. Sister Catherine, though wanting to be done with this 
business in a hurry, took great pains to plunge the spiked tool in slowly, ever so slowly in fact, 
so that its sensations could be relished completely by the captive, maddened sister.

Luckily for Sister Clarissa, the tool of torture had not been properly maintained, due to 
Sister Catherine's confusion and lack of time, and the short, tiny spikes had grown dull from 
wear and tear. Still, the feel of the metal and leather, now drooling with her juices and trickles 
of blood, pained her cunt furiously. The apothecary's concoction, brilliantly assimilated by the 
talented man of science, was beginning to take effect as well. A distinct burning, much as if 
hot lard had been pumped into her hole, was noticed by the ravished nun, and in turn, her 
facial contortions and vile utterances were noticed by a thoroughly pleased Mother Superior.

Sister Clarrissa's feet were barely an inch off the floor, due to the fact that her body was 
pulled upward by the thick ropes around her wrists and armpits. And as the chains that bound
her to the floor were rather loose, Sister Clarrissa could easily move her hips around by 
shaking her legs against the chains and shackles. This she did more and more as she felt the 
burning sensation flood her arsehole, jerking her body violently as the enraged cockhead and 
shaft shot up her bung.

Popeye, delighted by the itching and burning, still wanted even more. He soon found that 
the friction of her dry, clammy ass walls made this sensation even more pleasant. With every 
downstroke of his mighty tool, Sister Catherine would, at the same speed, shove her artificial 
tool up deeply into the convulsing crotch.

Golgol, feeling somewhat inadequate and hurt, sat in the corner and held his tremendous 
pecker tightly between his fist. Golgol, like most other lower public servants in Rouen, loved 
filth and depravity of the highest order. If only he could have found a job in the King's court, 
for there he would have had his fill of perversity, indeed, might grow repugnantly ill from the 
overdose.

But we shall not make derogatory statements about the King Louis XIII, when we can find 
better anecdotes closer to home. Right around the corner, in the infamous Lower southwest 
corner of Rouen.

It went by many names, "human sewer " and "rat's nest," being the more popular, but now
successfully threatened by the more fashionable "boil." It was here that Golgol was born, here 
Golgol would live the rest of his life.

Brought to Rouen by his father, a drunken trouvere who sang bawdy verilais about the 
union of human flesh with that of animals, and his mother, a gypsy, now turned whore. 
Together, they fostered the child, creating an environment which would haunt the poor man 
to his death.

Marcel would beat the gypsy tramp mercilessly, and she would suffer periods of cloudy 
reasonings. After one fight, in which his mother was terrified to the point of pissing all over 
herself, she grabbed the ugly child in her arms and escaped the cellar room, leaving Marcel 
behind, stone drunk on the floor, humping his lute.

Remembering how the Egyptian concubine had found Moses wrapped in swaddling 
clothes in the bullrushes, floating in his little basket, the insane and fearful Gypsy took 
inspiration.

Many such baskets, as described in the story, were to be had for half a livre. Kissing her 
precious child on each eyelid, she bade him farewell with prayers for a happy life at the helm. 
Golgol was placed in the ditch and floated off into the sewers of Rouen.

The child was found, the authorities notified. Marcel was rounded up, the gypsy slut no 
where in sight. Marcel never saw the child in his life. Golgol was placed in the authority of the 
city, as a ward he grew up. Of course, there wasn't much use for education. While other boys 
of Golgol's age were sent of to the Jesuits, Golgol roamed freely through the streets, finding 
excitement at the execution grounds which adjoined the orphanage.

His chosen profession satisfied, but not completely. For it deprived young Golgol of his 
deepest yearnings: the pain suffered by the tortured as they expired slowly.

The guillotine was too fast, too nimble. When the curtain dropped, the ballet was over. It 
was here, deep inside the convent house, that Golgol found true satisfaction.

Here, in the bowels of mad perversity, Golgol watched his cohort and Matron practically 
rip Sister Clarissa apart. Her body was as tense as a crossbow, occasionally heaving for lack of 
air. Trickles of sweat ran freely from her arms to her thighs as her tormentors wrestled with her
soul.

It must have been difficult for the nun to decide which orifice of her body hurt more. Her 
buttocks, though aching and itching, were not bleeding. And drops of her red fluid were 
mixed thoroughly with her elixir as it flowed from her cavern.

Golgol was as excitable as his companions, and felt the rushing of blood as it pumped into
his tool. Instantly grabbing it, he began to stroke it sensually, savoring the heat which rose 
from it, with his clenched fist. Eyeing Sister Marianna, who was undoubtedly the more 
beautiful of the two, unbound and twitching across the large dungeon room, the horny 
deviate approached her slowly and sat upon her, tearing the breath from her lungs.

He mounted her with the same force, thrusting the powerful tool deep into her cunt. His 
tempo increased with every thrust of his crotch against the wet hole, and Sister Marianna took
small bites of his shoulder as she threw her arms around his thick, sweating neck.

"My Son! My Holy Son!" she moaned into his ear. And Golgol, not knowing fully of the 
sister's peculiar fantasy, felt strangely inside. This woman, in the wickedness of her possession, 
had confessed untruthfully, she was not his mother.

The woman tore off his leather mask, Golgol resisted not an inch. At the first sight of his 
face, scarred from the pox and rendered hideous, Sister Marianna sunk her teeth into the 
captor's arm, tearing flesh from limb.

While Popeye and Mother Superior continued to abuse their prey, Golgol rammed his 
plentiful cock with hard, vicious strokes, his hands red and tight around the sister's throat.

His orgasm was long, and it was during his explosion of seed that Golgol, in his rapture, 
fucked the nun to death. Clarissa spat blood; there were now twenty nuns of the order 
possessed with demons.

Sister Marianna struggled so tensely as to cause her constraining rope to. snap. Mother 
Superior was finished with her spiritual torment and could now return to slumbers. The thug 
and Sister Catherine stood outside the door, motioning Golgol to join them. But he refused, 
and after persistent orders had failed, Catherine locked the door and bolted it, leaving her 
assistant trapped inside, imprisoned with the mad Ursulines.

At dawn, the convent received another daily visit from the cure, Urbain Guiervan. He was 
shocked.

Sister Catherine, on returning from the dungeon in the dead of night, had found Sister 
Anne flogging herself with one of Catherine's whips. Though such behavior was tolerated, and
often encouraged at the convent, it was immediately guessed that Sister Anne herself had 
succumbed to the penetration of demons, a result of her physical weakness.

Sister Anne, with the convent since sixteen, had up until that point been chief advisor to 
the Mother Superior on matters of discipline. Unruly novices they were, too. A portion of the 
stone had been chipped away from the foundation of Catherine's fortress. There was no one 
to turn to but the cure.

Urbain was quick to point out that while Sister Catherine was not responsible for any such 
spiritual accidents of her convent, she was certainly responsible for her position as Superior. If,
for reasons that only she would be aware of, Sister Catherine might feel the pressures of the 
possessing spirits, perhaps she should consider such floggings. The pain had worked for short 
periods of time on the other mad nuns, he suggested, why not the same for Mother Superior.

Father Gueirvan, after having the good sister promise she could be counted on 
completely, bade her to sign several documents bearing the seal of the city barrister, and 
mentioned in passing that His Eminence's party had been spotted approaching the city's 
gates.

"And the King?"

Father Guiervan nodded. They would be in need of rest, but would want to see the 
exposition arranged for them at the earliest convenience to the Mother Superior. Plans made 
long ago were to be realized. Surgeon Apple and M. Buboe were consulted, both agreed to 
arrange the demonstration.

Surgeon Apple's large consulting room was cluttered with instruments specially ordered 
from Spain. Large bronze syringes, which were to be filled with boiling grease, were 
everywhere. In the corner, next to the glass shelves that contained bottles of fetuses carefully 
preserved in a foul-smelling liquid. The freshest of the aborted forms, the unborn child of 
Lillian Marchant and the hunchback Honneger, was given as a present to M. Bubue, to adorn 
his shop window.

In the chemist's shop, those daily discursions on the belle lettres were dismissed, since 
now M. Buboe must devote all of his energies to the creation of new and more potent balms 
and fluids. His knowledge of alchemy was thorough, his hands rubbed tensely together as he 
watched the beakers boil and spatter.

As time grew quickly to a close, Sister Catherine was more and more confronted with the 
demons, in her sleep and during her waking hours they jumped madly from her shoulders, 
spitting fire into her ears and crawling between her legs. And to prevent these violations, 
Sister Catherine was obliged to self-flagellation with her own lash, A special one, ordered by 
Surgeon Apple, was supplied for the occasion. After evening vespers, Sister Catherine stripped
naked before her sisters and held the whip, with its many dangling lashes and sharp metal 
spikes, before the excited congregation. Then, after tense moments, the Mother Superior 
flailed her personage full of welts and running wounds as she beat fiercely on her legs.

The sisters were astounded, and when Catherine began asking for their help in the 
beatings, only a few volunteered. The rest sat calmly horrified, their mouths watering with 
delight as they counted, out loud, the number of lashes Sister Catherine received.

The skin was stained by her oozing blood as the other sisters beat her. And as people 
generally behave when overcome with rapture, the nuns lost control of their restraint. Sister 
Catherine begged for more, they gave her everything she desired.

Mother Superior let out a short, choking scream which gave the congregation of 
impassioned nuns reason to believe she might be near death. The nuns by her side were 
dragged away and restrained, but the crowd soon panicked.

In the corner of the chancel, Sister Anette, a girl whom everyone suspected retarded, fell 
.to the floor, groaning as loudly as Mother Superior. She accused two other nuns of 
relationships with the demons, and confessed to her own possession as well.

She told of how Sister Jeanne had approached her in a dream, using her supernatural 
powers to escape the confines of the dungeon. The woman had, in her words, enticed her to 
sexual arousal. Weak with fear, young Anette had no choice but to comply. After a painful 
orgasm, Anette was obliged to watch the spirit of Sister Jeanne to seduce the other members 
of her cell, namely the two accused nuns, Geneve and Ursula.

They took this sudden announcement none too lightly, and pounced upon their cellmate 
with vicious blows. In the struggle to disengage the enraged sisters of God, a small riot had 
grown to full demonic hysteria.

Hair was pulled from the older nun's heads, pokes and swift kicks to crotches were 
abundant. And suddenly, during the noisiest peak of their screamings and fighting, a sudden 
lull overcame them; they were silent, even Sister Catherine. Their eyes grew collectively wider, 
mouths dropped to breasts in unison.

The nuns began swaying from side to side.

At first to the left, and then, slowly, to the right. The moved their heads in slow circular 
fashion as they stared to the floor tiles.

Hearing silence within the confines of the convent house was unusual for people who lived
nearest there. Suspecting an announcement of some sort, the crowd gathered in the street 
swelled larger around the convent gates. Soon, this mass of people became as quiet as the 
nuns as they strained to hear footsteps approaching from around the corner.

Like a roar of thunder, laughter rose from the bowels of the convent house. And more. A 
stampede of cow-eyed, rigid nuns.

The whole convent was now possessed, there was nothing more the cure could do than 
ask the magistrate for more fortifications. To Buboe and Apple, Father Guiervan gave a free 
hand in preparing the convent for the exhibition. Tomorrow, at dawn he would enter.





CHAPTER SEVEN


Surgeon Apple, after applying several coats of wax to his skull, polished the skin to the highest
luster it probably ever attained. For, as we shall see, he was off to the convent this morning, 
and with faithful Buboe to assist him, would supervise the inquiry, at least the demonstration, 
of the possessed nuns.

The nuns, though violent and rowdy throughout the evening, were subdued by Father 
Guiervan earlier in the day. It was no use locking them up, they were placid and meek as 
lambs.

The cure had ordered them all to wash and dress in clean robes. Today the nuns were 
taken to walking on their knees and palms, crawling over the tiles.

Golgol and his friend were put to work transporting the examining tables and various 
torture, racks to the convent. In addition to this weighty load, there were two trunks, just 
recently received from the guild, filled to running over with leather and steel contraptions, 
courtesy of the imagination of M. Buboe. Each of these, hopefully, would be used during the 
exhibition.

Hands were kissed, in the fashion of the day, from the lowest ranks of the clergy to the 
very hairy knuckles of His Eminence. The King, quite frightened by the staring, wild-eyed 
creatures around him, expressed fear that perhaps they might touch his person.

"Such repulsive things they are," he is reported to have greeted the cure. But. reassured 
that the harmless nuns were within control. The King was travelling to Rouen incognito, but 
from the size of his board of inquiry and the extravagance of His Highness dress, decked out 
in the height of fashion.

Cardinal Richelieu and his Highness indulged their noses in a snort of some white 
crystalline powder which they procured from handsome ivory boxes. These were followed by 
loud snorts of tobacco and watery eyes. Seemingly attentive and oblivious to all pain, the two 
Rulers of Divine France, one absolute, the other a mindless fop who meant well.

"They seem so enraptured," commented His Eminence, "perhaps they are just acting 
foolish, like masturbating girls."

"Why are they putting up those screens there?" asked His Highness, pointing to Golgol 
and friend. Indeed the two fellows were carting folding partitions which they set up at the 
front of the chapel. It was explained to His Highness that screens were employed so that M. 
Buboe and Surgeon Apple would have time to prepare their demonstrations, if perhaps a bit 
theatrically.

Surgeon Apple was given the floor. "Today," he said, invoking the powers of the muses, 
"you will witness proof, positively revealing, of the possession of these innocent children of 
God."

"Fm sure we'll be amused," remarked the Cardinal. "How can you be so sure of such a 
remarkable occurrence?"

"The nuns themselves claim to it!" And. dispatching Golgol to the dungeon. Surgeon 
Apple promised them a confession on the spot. A confession of the first nun to succumb to 
the epidemic.

Brave Sister Jeanne. Now not quite lucid, but very enthusiastic, Sister Jeanne related her 
story to the astonished board of inquiry. Words had been changed and the story itself was 
expanded to new, more depraved lengths, much longer than that fateful day that Jeanne 
made her confession to the convent. But the essence .of the experience remained true to the 
subject.

In graphic detail, Sister Jeanne recanted her obsessions with the man Christ, which had 
begun when she was only a child of thirteen. For many long summer nights during her 
adolescence, so she said, Sister Jeanne had dreamed lustfully of her Savior. But only after her 
initiation to the order of Ursulines had Sister Jeanne actually come close to his fine body, 
smelled the salt of his sweat, licked his mortal wounds.

Sometimes, during her narrative, Sister Jeanne would begin to laugh, though pained 
somehow, and her glass eye, courtesy the good M. Buboe, would wiggle, causing much 
joviality throughout the board of inquiry.

Once fallen to these little seizures, Sister Jeanne was reluctant to return to her story. 
Instead, she swayed from side to side, while flapping her hands as if killing imaginary flies 
which buzzed around her. Fearing boredom of His Eminence, who was indulging in more of 
the contents of his snuffbox, M. Apple bade his servant Golgol to slap the poor creature back 
to lucidity.

Regaining her bearings, Sister Jeanne continued her narrative of lust. Standing outside His 
tomb, she recalled, Sister Jeanne had first seen His face. Taking her in His strong arms, Our 
Lord and Savior proceeded to seduce her with warm licks of his most Holy Tongue.

She described examining the wounds of His coarse flesh, a veritable lust counterpart to the
doubting Thomas. But, as Sister Jeanne explained, the only thing which she was doubting at 
the moment was whether she could contain ail of her Master's lurid, fleshy tool, poking out 
like a pig's sausage from his crotch, in the tight confines of her virgin hole.

To make this very simple, Jeanne confessed to having been deflowered by the Savior 
himself, as he rammed His Immaculate Cockhead straight and true. She liked the part of her 
story concerning his wounds the best, his torn brown flesh against her face as she reamed 
them wet. Soon, Jeanne was reduced to lustful reiterations concerning the encounter, and was
dragged away, still screaming her desires, by Golgol.

A charming story, indeed. While the King fought for his silk breeches against the 
implorings of a demented young nun, Cardinal Richelieu snorted with laughter.

"Well?" he asked the Surgeon. "What next?"

The story had little impact on the thoroughly debauched King Louis XIII, "is that all?" he 
asked his friend, "surely I am bored."

Sensing the ennui rising amongst the ranks, Surgeon Apple pulled another high card from 
his sleeve. This time, it was Sister Anne's turn to take the stand. Brought up from the dungeon,
still bound with large leather straps, the good Anne was introduced as the selfless tower of 
strength she was formerly, and as the pitiable wretch of female flesh to which she was 
transformed.

"Well, come on with it," commanded His Eminence. "Tell us what you've been up to."

What Sister Anne had been up to was indeed stranger than fiction. Weakened by her 
operation, the good Sister had been feeling poorly for several days prior to her possession.

"And what were you suffering from, my child?" inquired Richeliu.

"A bite, Your Eminence, a wound to the teat." And, following the instructions of Surgeon 
Apple, the older Sister of the order was released from her bonds by faithful Buboe, so that her
scar might be admitted as evidence to the board.

"Hideous," commented the King with an air of revulsion unusually strong for even him. 
"Put it back. Take it away!"

Surgeon Apple waited for compliments on the remarkable condition of the breast, and his 
brilliant cauterization. When none were uttered, the man of science bade Sister Anne to 
resume.

Secrets, deep, dark secret longings had made themselves known to Sister Anne for the first
time, while she was knocked unconscious by M. Buboe. During her slumbers of the following 
days, Sister Anne was approached by several angels, all carrying torches, the color of the 
flames that burned being jet black. Frightened by the apparitions, Sister Anne prayed to the 
Virgin for release.

When none came, Sister Anne took charge of the situation herself. "What is it that you 
want from me," she had said.

One of the angels, a man with three fiery red penises, all enraged and drooling with dark 
liquids, answered. "Your hole."

At which point, Cardinal Richelieu burst into amused chortles, which was picked up and 
strengthened by the surrounding nuns, also deeply entranced with Sister Anne's confessions.

Proudly, Sister Anne recalled how she had struggled against the evil messengers of Lucifer,
And successfully, no doubt, since she remained unscathed by the incident, her hymen still 
intact.

But the confrontations continued, despite painful penance. Stealing one of the Mother 
Superior's wicked lashes, so she said, Sister Anne proceeded to flog herself free of the 
dementia.

Her age was advancing, she was not a strong woman. Sister Anne apologized to the board
for not having enough energy to beat herself into enrapture. Pity, too, because at that very 
moment, those creatures from the nether world had pounced upon her, and began to ravish 
her in the most vile manner.

When concluded,' Sister Anne's story was somewhat unique. The injured woman confessed
to no less than three hundred orgasms in succession, confessed to having taken three penises 
simultaneously up her cunt and in her throat, and ended this thrilling account with a promise 
that she would do it all again, gladly, when she was returned to the dungeon.

Needless to say, the board was shocked, but not as greatly as Surgeon Apple had 
calculated. This time, the good man of science would play his trump... Sister Catherine was 
brought from the dungeon below.

Clearly, thought the cardinal, this woman would not be forced to speak. But the more he 
observed her actions, the more interesting she appeared. Maybe she should have her say, the 
Holy Eminence suggested.

Catherine, with her long, ravishing red hair and luscious globes, now only partially bruised,
was clearly the best looking of the wretches brought up from the cellar of the convent house. 
Instead of being dragged to the front of the chapel, as had the others interviewed by the 
cardinal, Sister Catherine did a little gigue, her feet unbound at the request of M. Apple. With 
a clumsy curtsy, Sister Catherine introduced herself as the Mother Superior of the Ursulines at 
Rouen.

She talked on and on, only once or twice did she actually construe a complete sentence, 
the cadences of her musings cut shorter every passing second with bursts of spit.

"I will," announced Apple, his melodious voice dripping from the walls, "I will now show 
you physical evidence, astonishing evidence that this woman is positively filled with demons." 
No mention of the fact that M. Apple disregarded demons as a foolish indulgence. Samuel 
Apple merely told the church what it needed to hear. And since the church not only believed 
in demons, but ruled all of France as well, demons, for better or worse, existed in Rouen.

"How so?" asked the Cardinal Richelieu.

"She is possessed with strange, inhuman powers, the power's of bizarre contortion!" 
Buboe and Apple were clearly in business once more, as all eyes in the room, including the 
demented nuns', fell to Sister Catherine.

"And pray tell, my good Surgeon," posed the Cardinal, "what is so astonishing about a 
contortionist?" Circus performers were not expected at Rouen, neither were they appreciated.

"Because, in the throes of her lusty, evil trances, this woman commits the impossible!" No 
further elucidation on M. Apple's part, Catherine was lowered to the floor on her back by the 
two burly drunkards.

She tried, failed, tried again. Requesting assistance, Buboe unchained her manacles and 
the Mother Superior made full use of her hands. Grabbing her feet, then her legs Firmly, Sister
Catherine indeed attempted the impossible.

"She's not!" cried the young King Louis. At last, something he had never before witnessed, 
not even during his childhood at the palace in the company of his Royal Father's mistresses. 
Catherine was inching her way towards cunnilingus, her own hole the target of her lashing 
tongue.

It was no less than a sensational event when the Mother Superior finally licked her hairy 
crevice. Mouths fell open, eyes jolted from the sockets, thought not as completely as the once
beautiful Sister Jeanne's. A hush was broken, however, when the King, having taken another 
touch of snuff, sneezed uncontrollably onto the Cardinal's vestments.

Sister Catherine was as diligent as she was persistent, soon her legs were locked behind 
her, the mouth thirstily sucking her own sweet nectar. The entire chancellery was filled with 
the overpowering perfume of her sex as the pussy drooled and leaked with her vaginal 
lubrications.

Inspired by the Mother Superior's amorous adventures with her own body, several of the 
deranged nuns, though not possessed with the same magical powers of contortion, followed 
suit. In every corner of the chapel, nuns were attempting the same endeavor, feet and legs 
rested against walls.

Some gave up in exasperation, others continued cursing and deploring their failures, but 
most took to sucking each other's cunts. Shortly, the moanings of Sister Catherine were joined
with other lusty grunts and moos from the herd of wanton Ursulines. And the show had only 
just begun.

Each amazing wet lick to her own hole was as thorough and as deplorable as the one 
before, much to the pleasure of the young King. Once, as a boy of eighteen, Louis had 
experienced great interest in such doings, and was secretly looking for someone in the palace 
who could demonstrate this most remarkable procedure. Surely, he thought, out of all the 
women employed by the palace as servants, and out of all the women who were maintained 
by the court, someone must be able to suck their own holes.

He looked long and hard. No one has the right to slap a child of the King, especially the 
first manchild born to a king of France in a century. But they could ignore his demands, 
treating him like the wretched little brat he was as an adolescent.

Well, if not his friends, he considered, why not his enemies. There was one in particular, a 
chambermaid named Georgia, who while spoke no French as she was from Africa, the young 
Negress knew exactly what young Louis was talking about when he suggested to her that she 
attempt to ream her own cunt. The infuriated girl, already enraged by her treatment at the 
palace, slapped the young Louis across the face and was subsequently placed in the palace 
dungeon.

Stripped of her clothes and chained arm and leg to a wooden slab, young Georgia was a 
welcome morsel for the keeper of the keys, Baban, a commoner with the imagination of a 
Galileo, when it came down to matters of carnal sin.

The young prince Louis, venturing one afternoon into the bowels of the palace, presented 
the terrifying Baban with several sticks of hemp, in exchange for Iris services at the controls of 
torture.

Baban agreed, the young girl was reshackled in a number of different positions, still the 
desired effects were not realized.

So, thought the young prince, why not help her along? A cast iron collar was placed 
around her throat, and after walking her around the dungeon, pretending she were his 
favorite lap dog, Louis once more desired to watch young Georgia perform this most perverse
acts of self-abuse.

Tire chain which attached to the iron collar was also attached to the rack wheel, young 
Georgia's feet remained shackled and suspended from the ceiling. As Baban eagerly turned 
the wheel, Georgia's head was drawn forcefully, against her protests, toward her chocolate 
and velvet bush.

It took some doing, of course. The young negress snapped against the pressure, and so 
did, unfortunately, her spine. Georgia spat blood, then mucus, from her choking throat, turned
bluish grey, then expired. Baban was sworn to secrecy, each week several sticks of hemp were 
taken down to the dungeon as gratuitous presents, the young prince soon found other 
amusements in the large rooms of the palace.

His Highness was listening carefully for sounds of cracking bones now, as Catherine 
concluded her performance. "I'm convinced," he told an astonished board of review upon 
returning to Paris, "of her possession."

And evidently, so was Cardinal Richelieu. Sister Catherine remained, unaided by any force 
or restraints, attached deeply to her crotch, madly sucking at the wet folds of flesh as she 
reamed the puckered hole again and again.

Obviously bored with the tedious proceedings, many of the deranged nuns fell fast asleep 
against the floor, an innocent flock of sheep.

And Apple and Buboe, perhaps feeling that too much of a good thing is, in the long run, 
unhealthy, roused Sister Catherine from her overindulgence with jabs to the soles of her feet. 
Sister Catherine took her cue admirably, bowing to the overwhelming applause of the board 
of review. When asked if she could repeat the performance at some later date, the Mother 
Superior Catherine began cackling like a hen infected with plague. Obviously in no condition 
to make decisions, Catherine was reshackled and bound to a table which lay directly out of 
sight behind the folding screens.

"There you have it, Your Eminence! Complete proof of her possession by demons." M. 
Buboe was anxious to interject that much, much more of their sordid demonstration would 
follow, after a brief luncheon at the parsonage, hosted by that firebrand of a priest, Father 
Urbain Guiervan.

It was a sumptuous feast, fit for a. well dear readers, a King. Louis XIII found the watercress
sandwiches delightful to his palate, although the liver pate had been destroyed with too much
salt, that bane of poor health which would eventually hasten His Highness' untimely demise.

Thoroughly refreshed and now sipping cordials from the cure's private stock, the 
degenerate Louis began to discuss the bizarre entertainment devised for them by the 
apothecary and surgeon. "I've never been so shocked," he said, straightening his silk stockings
and noting a run. "Simply scandalous!"

"Yes, Your Highness. An unfortunate occurrence." Father Guiervan, true to his Jesuit 
training, was being agreeable to those of higher authority.

"But what I can't understand," he continued, announcing loudly enough for all present to 
hear, "is how these wretched little things became nuns in the first place. Don't the Ursulines 
have some sort of , of screening procedure?"

Father Guievan explained to His Highness that the society of Ursulines, in competition with
the Carmelites for the prestigious convent house, took just about anyone, including people 
from the Boil, that notorious sector of Rouen, into their ranks as Sister's of God. During the 
inception of the order at Rouen, anyone of proper age, even if they had recently walked up 
from the sewers, were accepted as initiates. The Carmelites, furious of such tactics, and their 
popular reputation in jeopardy, filed suit against the Ursulines in the Papal courts.

The petty row over the convent house grew to monstrous proportions. The Carmelites, 
made a large sum of money from the Image de Notre Dame, a statue of the virgin that was 
reputed to cure all ills, physical and spiritual, and also brought good fortune to those who 
kissed it.

Like the fashions of clothing, certain treatments are just as petty in the eyes of a bourgeois
citizenry. La Image de Notre Dame was destined to be famous for all of two years, yet the 
Carmelites insisted that it was the Ursulines who, by recruiting fallen whores and infamous 
sluts into their ranks, destroyed the good name of their society as well.

The Ursulines, unlike their rivals, made their good fortune from more tangible means of 
support. They specialized in weaving baskets, much like the wicker basket used by the gypsy 
trollop, mother of Golgol, to insure her son's safety during his journey through the sewers of 
Rouen.

The baskets, stored close together in a closet of the convent house, went up in flames, 
along with several of the sleeping Ursulines. The Carmelites were accused, indeed, one sister 
confessed., to setting the deadly blaze. The society was excommunicated, the young arsoness 
burned at the stake, a fitting end. The Ursulines signed the deed for the Jiouse, weaved even 
more baskets and other trinkets, and flourished to the present.

"Oh," said the King, "and what of their future?"

"The citizens are demanding their removal," stated the cure. "I have personally come to 
their aid, in any way that I could, for many months. But now, it seems hopeless."

The nuns were one thing, and coping with their plight was enough to drain the energies of
any normal human being. Now the cure had other problems. A reappearance of the plague, 
prevalent in the southwest corner of Rouen but successfully contained until the present, was 
discovered in the opposite end of the city. Penitents were dropping dead like so many rats, 
confessionals grew shorter every day.

One of the diseased was Lillian Marchant, the former Magistrate's lovely daughter. She was
failing quick, her lovely body covered with festering sores. Just the past evening, in fact, 
Madeliane's household was quarantined. No more fun and games with the attractive widow, 
and a round in the sack with Lillian was aborted just as thoroughly as her child.

The cure had been busy for many days, consulting with Surgeon Apple and the authorities 
at court. Combined with the trauma of the Ursuline nuns, constantly usurping his energies, the
good cure was understandably tired. Several times during the exhibition that morning, Father 
Guiervan had fallen fast asleep, roused only by an occasional wayward nun, crawling into his 
lap.

What should be done with the nuns? That was a good question. Still, no decision could be 
made until the rest of the evidence, creatively assembled and displayed bit by bit, had been 
considered. M. Buboe was at the door right now, requesting that because of the late hour, the
board of review might consider reconvening at their earliest leisure.

The King remained, curious to as the whereabouts of old friends from his youth. "And, 
dear cure, whatever happened to Magistrate Marchant?"

When advised of M. Marchant's untimely demise, at the height of his brilliant career, the 
King searched his memory. He could not, he explained, remember hearing of the death, nor 
could he remember approving an appointment for the vacated position. "When did this 
happen, dear cure?"

"Several weeks ago, Your Highness." And the sleepy cure introduced the confused young 
Louis to M. Trivette, the new Magistrate.

As it would occur, M. Trivitte was immediately recognized by the King as the little scamp 
who had , at the age of fourteen, carved quite a reputation for himself at the Summer palace, 
where his father was employed as Court Barrister.

Jean-Phillipe Trivette had surprised most of his father's mistresses by committing an 
unnatural act. But not unnatural in the eyes of the disturbed child, Jean-Phillipe. While his 
older lover's patiently gave him head, M. Trivette was fond of urinating in their mouths.

Before the summer had ended, Jean-Phillipe, exhausting the supply of young maidens and
old, took to various farm animals around the estate, caught the pox and was sent back to 
Paris, where he later studied law at the Sorbonne, and incidentally, studied astronomy with 
Sister Catherine's father Jean-Jacques, as classmate.

The King and his public servant had many things to talk about, the young Louis given to 
melancholic musings of his life as a young prince. Things had changed now, not for the better.
Louis XIII could not decide which pair of stockings to wear in the morning, much less what the
national policy toward Huguenots should be. So did Cardinal Richelieu come to power.

Mssrs. Apple and Buboe called at the parsonage once more begging the attentions of the 
board of review. Invited by the parson to partake of the tasty repast still on the tables, the two
men of science declined, mentioning that it was now three o'clock in the day, and the restless 
nuns were anxious to continue.

"Tell me, dear cure," asked the King confidentially, "is there any danger of contamination 
with such demons as those who possess the Sisters?"

The cure assured him no, that in fact, all those possessed so far in the disaster were 
members of the female sex, who were naturally more inclined to such carryings-on.

The procession was begun, within the hour they were seated once more in the chapel.

A bell was rung thrice, M. Buboe was calling the attention to the proscenium. "Now, with 
the help of our friends," he said, pointing to Golgol and Popeye, those seemingly hapless but 
powerful deviates, "we will demonstrate further the levels of possession. The demons are 
violent in nature, as you will see as we incite this poor creature to attack good citizen Golgol."

The poor creature mentioned by Buboe was none other than Sister Bridgette, the same 
who Buboe had deflowered on his first visit to the convent. While the visiting court cowered. 
Sister Buboe, still tight in her leather contraption, was rolled out on a wooden examining 
table.

A branding iron was brought from the fire, white-hot it glowed as Buboe presented it, with
gloved fingers, to Golgol. And, taking careful consideration, the hot iron was brought down 
directly against the young novice's ass flesh.

"How absolutely wicked," uttered the King, his eyes wide like those childish nuns around 
him. For, in an amazing show of strength. Sister Bridgette managed to bite straight through 
her leather gag, and spat it out on the floor.

The iron was removed, the wound doused with water, and Bridgette began to wretch a 
peculiarly revolting fluid from her bowels. While she convulsed, the attentive Buboe (it was 
decided by the two friends that the chemist would present the second half of the exhibition) 
carefully unstrapped her harness; now the angry demons inside the girls body were ready to 
seek their revenge.

She stood on her haunches, at first painfully rubbing her wounded ass, then growling, like 
a rabid bitch readying to strike, at the massive hunk of Golgol, who made stabbing gestures at
her with the poker.

And then she flew, like a bat out of hell itself, grabbing the massive Golgol and knocking 
him to the floor with a loud, resounding thud.

Surgeon Apple, remembering how Golgol had killed the young Sister Marianna when 
bitten, decided that this demonstration could go no farther. Already, the young Bridgette was 
tearing the flesh from his thick, hairy neck. Amusement and elucidation were in order, 
certainly not murder. Popeye, Apple and Buboe tore the demon's woman from her perch atop
Golgol's chest, once more binding her arms tightly with the leather contraption.

Still, though her movements had been restrained, her anger ran high. It was while Surgeon
Apple bandaged his bitten finger with gauze, that Sister Bridgette confessed something totally
unexpected.

"I am lying!" she moaned, writhing against the digging, rubbing straps. "I am possessed by
nothing!"

The alert Buboe had her gagged before anything more could escape her lips. "Heed not," 
he advised the court, "her words. These demons are clever, though have no sense of effective 
timings."

Some mention of the gagging device used for Sister Bridgette: like Sister Catherine's 
infamous dildo, the gag was in the form of a huge phallus which, when inserted past the 
young girl's chapped and flaking lips, reached all the way to the back of her throat. Thanks to 
Surgeon Apple, who had taken the measurements of Bridgette's mouth himself, the same day 
he extracted the gold fillings from her rear molars. It was an admirable fit, soon Sister 
Bridgette's face turned blue as the tension on the gagging device's straps was increased.

But unlike the now mad Sister Catherine's noted instrument of torture, this phallus was 
somewhat hollow, the hardness of the shaft reinforced with pig cartilage. So, although no 
utterances could escape the poor sister's throat, anything and everything that. the reader may 
imagine could be poured in. Animal fat was applied to the insides of the phallus gag, and 
Buboe, asked if their were any volunteer's from the board of review, or even His Eminence 
himself, who would be interested in ejaculating into the living vessel, now wallowing on the 
tiles against her lurid bondage.

The Cardinal declined, Father Guiervan, thought titillated, was too tired to produce a 
hard-on. The King, finding this all rather delightful, would rather watch her swallow.

"But I might suggest," he said, remembering the presence of his friend, M. Trivette, now 
Chief Magistrate, "that my most humble and loyal public servant be allowed to participate." 
Though powerless in matters of foreign or domestic nature, the King still retained quite a bit 
of authority over social matters, such as whom sat next to whom at dinner parties, who won 
the prize for most original costume at many of the masqued balls, and so forth. M. Trivette felt
obliged to rise from his chair, make his way through the seemingly endless herd of nuns, and 
remove his stiff pecker from the inside of his silk breeches.

Bridgette was held up, against her will, by the two deviate thugs. Forcing her to her 
scarred knees, Sister's head was conveniently held in an obtuse angle. M. Trivette's pecker was 
stiffer with the sensation of peeing than was it from lust, and the new Chief Magistrate, 
astonishing everyone except the King, forced his flaming cockhead and veiny shaft into the 
slippery hollow device. At length, the man emptied his bladder into the nun's throat, and 
having no control over her muscles there, Bridgette was reduced to little more than a living 
pissior for the delight and amusement of the papal court.

Buboe and Apple had so many, many more things to show the influential audience, but, as
the Cardinal pointed out, time was of the essence. A decision would be made, regarding 
authorization of the exorcism, before His Holy Eminence left the city on Friday. Disappointed, 
but happy with their diversions, the apothecary and his surgeon friend packed Bridgette once 
more off to the dungeon.

That night, having gotten very drunk from mead, Mssrs. Apple and Buboe had a fight, the 
first in many years. The Surgeon playfully insulted the quality of Buboe's verse. Buboe 
challenged that the Surgeon was nothing more than a scalpel toting henchman, a cowardly 
intellect, and a hack. At which the surgeon, feeling sensitive to criticism (it brought back too 
many painful memories of Miss Barrister) attacked his friend by assailing that Buboe knew not 
human excrement from the lotion he used to polish his boots.

Buboe grabbed the bottle, from his shop window, containing the foetus of Lillian 
Marchant's given to him as a gift. Throwing it against the fireplace, he missed aim, hitting 
Surgeon Apple squarely on the side of his head. Buboe immediately realized the gravity of this
situation, and reviving his friend with certain smelling salts of his own concoction, Buboe 
waited for Apple to regain his consciousness.

Yes, he said, he was sorry for the mishap, his rage unchecked. But, though accidents will 
happen, they are nonetheless separate and distinct from the workings of reason. Reason told 
Buboe that his friend was betraying him, in hopes of claiming all the glory for the day's 
presentation. "Get out!" he demanded, and slamming the door fast behind the sulking 
surgeon, M. Buboe vowed never to talk to this Judas until an apology was received, in writing, 
from the good doctor.





CHAPTER EIGHT


Father Urbain Guiervan had shown wise judgment by writing directly to the Cardinal's offices. 
A lengthy document authorizing the mass exorcism of the Ursulines, and signed by the Pope 
himself in one of his unusual sober moments, was delivered within a fortnight.

So now, at long last, the story of the Ursulines, possessed by creatures from the nether 
world of fire and brimstone, demons which no one having a strong academic training even 
took seriously, draws nigh to a close.

But wait. Apple and Buboe, once the best of friends, are not speaking to each other. Their 
friendship, richly rewarding and profitable, had been destroyed once and for all. The affidavit 
which bore the Signature of Sister Catherine, Mother Superior of the convent at Rouen, was 
voided; Catherine presently considered spiritually "incommunicado."

What to do. The good men possessed all the needed paraphernalia for a delicious 
exorcism... to have more manufactured would take up precious time and expense. No longer 
held to their original agreement with Sister Catherine, the two men of science refused to 
discuss their roles in the exorcism. Buboe was furious, so was the doctor.

Tire wound between them grew larger, however, when Samuel Apple, the distinguished 
author of the highly distinguished treatise on Menstrual blood, and its use in medicine, was 
awarded the coveted Medal of Honor.

No such award was destined for M. Buboe, the muses having betrayed him, like his former 
friend, once again. In the new publication of the treatise, Buboe's clever little sonnet was 
removed from the title page along with his name. Buboe took to drinking mead and strong 
wine, the Surgeon's practice grew steadily.

The cure, hoping that a settlement might be reached shortly, approached both men with 
an interesting proposition: that if the two men would grant their invaluable assistance to 
Father Barray, who would perform the rites of exorcism en masse, some rewards for their 
services would be not only promised, but delivered as well.

Oh, how the binding cords of fraternal love grow fast again, even until death the two 
gentlemen swore their constant trust. Images of a ministry in the Academy of Sciences danced
through Apple's head, for Buboe, a nice comfortable professorship of literature at the 
Sorbonne.

It was nice to be back in business. Sister Catherine, now presently confessing to have cast 
the spell, being in league with witches who lived in the Boil, on the entire convent herself, was 
examined first. "Clearly she is wicked," asserted the good apothecary.

The news spread like wildfire. Parties of enraged, sickened citizens searched every quarter 
of the city for other witches, finding one of particular interest.

Her name, so she claimed, was Marie. An ugly, almost terrifying woman in her sixties, 
replete with warts in all the proper places, she was by no means willing to cooperate with the 
authorities. But finding life in Rouen a little tense nowadays, this homely witch was also 
charged with a proposition.

Singularly: if ugly Marie promised to confess, under oath, and before the secular courts of 
Rouen, that Sister Catherine's infamy as a sorceress was known far and wide amongst the 
cabalist of France, she would be given one hundred livres, a new warm coat, and tickets for 
the next coach out of Rouen.

Ugly Marie snatched the money, outer garments and coach tickets gleefully. No more 
knockings of angry, torch carrying mobs on her door to rouse her from her dreams. No more 
living in a sewer of human degradation: for one hundred livres, a person could live in any 
reputable hostel for a month.

And no more Rouen, a city which, for the most part, had worn thin against constant 
friction with the authorities. On the same day she was to leave on her extended vacation, Ugly 
Marie appeared before the highest Magistrates of Rouen. Her message was brief but succinct: 
Sister Catherine had taught the witch everything she knew of the black arts, though in another
lifetime. Sworn, sealed and approved by the secular courts, the exorcism was not only legal in 
the eyes of the church, but in the eyes of the state as well, though no distinctions between the
two need be, in this case, made.

Sister Catherine was unaware, in her rapture with unknown forces, of her present 
predicament, nor of the sentence proclaimed that afternoon by Chief Magistrate Trivette. If, 
after repeated attempts, all carried out in the best of faith, the church could not redeem the 
soul of Sister Catherine, she would be burned alive at the stake.

Sister Catherine was also equally unaware, when making her confession of responsibility 
for the plague, that indeed the sickness had reappeared in the more fashionable quarters of 
the city. Sister Catherine's confessions, to just about everything imaginable, came so quickly 
these days that an official scribe had to be hired to record them for posterity. They were 
subsequently serialized, and posted in the market square, on the doors of the large Cathedral, 
and were available, on request, from the Magistrate's office. Sister Catherine was a menace to 
the sanity of the city. She had brought havoc and spiritual damnation to her charges. Anyone 
could take control of a convent, young nuns being very impressionable. Sister Catherine had 
spoiled it all, baskets had to be imported from neighboring provinces at inflated prices, 
houses surrounding the convent were vacated. The Ursulines, regardless what happened to 
them during the exorcism, whether they were brought back into the saving grace or turned to 
salt, were through. Finis.

Father Barray arrived in Rouen, with documents certifying his identity and stating his 
charge. The good cure, after serving a sumptuous meal, explained to the anxious priest over 
wine that yet another obstacle, would they ever cease, had brought the exorcism to a 
standstill.

Golgol and Popeye, in their off-duty hours from the convent, had, for purposes of their 
own greed, sold tickets, not authentic, to the exorcism at the public market, and during the 
noonday executions. For half a livre, anyone, or so thought the citizens of Rouen, could 
purchase a choice seat for the bizarre spectacle. Exorcisms were not, unlike executions, 
something one saw every day. And a mass debauchery, such as this one, was indeed a once in 
a lifetime event.

Father Guiervan, enraged at the audacity of these deranged thugs, had issued a 
proclamation explaining the wrongdoings of the ex-public servants. He also called for their 
arrest, assuring that each person holding a ticket would be refunded their half-livre.

But too late. Golgol and Popeye, having sold hundreds of counterfeit seats to an 
unassuming audience, had left Rouen on the same coach as Ugly Marie, their destination: 
unknown.

The angry cure complained to the Chief Magistrate. Didn't Sister Catherine, on choosing 
the thugs in the first place, enter into some sort of legal bindings with his office, a warranty of 
some sort?

Yes, he admitted she had. But now, he reminded the good cure, Sister Catherine's 
signature was not worth the parchment it adorned, and besides, more thugs could be had for 
the asking. Two more able bodied men were removed from the public stocks and sent 
straightway to the convent.

And more trouble! The sisters, deranged though they be, had started conversing with one 
another in strange tongues. They were making certain demands, ridiculous demands, which 
were recorded by the scribe and handed to the cure on his last visit to the pillaged convent.

The sisters, having heard about a private lottery, executed daily in the offices of the 
Magistrates, wanted a cut of the proverbial pie. The lottery prize, as could be guessed, was an 
admission to the exorcism. The money should be, in the demands of the possessed sisters, be 
placed in a special trust fund... the interest received to be applied to the building of a 
monument commemorating the fallen sisters. It was enough that the church was attempting, 
at great cost, to redeem them; these women wanted to have their embarrassing episode 
preserved for eternity! No, no, it simply cannot be. The nuns would be exorcised whether they 
liked it or not, and without the benefit of financial retribution.

For Father Barray, it was an unusual assignment. Having just left the Jesuits, and only 
recently ordained, this would be his first exorcism, and, from the confusion surrounding the 
situation, his last. But one good miracle, one solid success at the beginning of his career was 
all that was needed. Here was the opportunity to launch him to success.

He had requested this charge, he would carry it through. Contacting the good Messrs. 
Apple and Buboe, consulting them way in advance, Father Barray was more than relieved 
when at last, on the following Saturday, he was allowed to enter the reinforced gates of the 
convent. The exorcism would soon be over, Father Barray could return to his mistress in 
Cologne, the nuns would at last be free moral agents, free to do God's bidding whether they 
were allowed to remain in Rouen or no.

Since it was Sister Catherine who had taken full responsibility for casting the spell, it would
be foolish to start with anyone other than the Mother Superior herself.

She was brought into the chancellery in chains. Ravishing still, Father Barray wondered 
exactly how she had managed, in the face of great danger to her soul, to stay so youthful. 
Sprinkling her with the contents of his vial of Holy Water, Sister Catherine fell straightaway to 
the floor, moaning repugnant utterances of sudden death to her tormentor.

"Be quiet!" he demanded. "In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit!"

Other nuns giggled to themselves, Sister Catherine laughed out loud, unashamed and 
seething with evil energies from the nether world. "You can tell the Father, the Son, and the 
Holy Spirit to shove it," she directed, "up their cosmic asshole!"

Father Barray, outraged and not as yet desensitized to such utterances, called for the 
assistance of doctor and chemist. The devils would have to be laundered from her soul with 
the cleansing powers of the apothecary's potions.

"Let's get her on the table," he said, rubbing his clammy hands. "Then, we can shoot her 
full of this!" Buboe pointed to a boiling caldron which dripped and spattered with molten lard.
The time had come to employ, if necessary, the full arsenal, much to the gleeful satisfaction of 
both doctor and apothecary.

She was strung up thusly: on her back against the wooden slab, her hands shackled fast to 
two metal rings at either corner, her feet likewise. A pillow, for reasons described further on, 
was placed under her asscheeks.

"Good Buboe," asked the surgeon, "how much of that are you going to give her?"

"Oh," he answered, checking the syringes, "as much as she can hold, I would guess." There 
were no leaks, thanks to impeccable craftsmanship, in the large bronze vessels. They 
measured roughly some thirteen inches in length, and in diameter five inches. They were 
designed, in the fashion of the day, in a shape resembling human phalluses. After filling two of
the vessels with boiling, popping lard, and after having dressed his hands in heavy gloves, 
Buboe was now ready to plunge the phallic syringe deeply into the cunt of Sister Catherine.

While Father Barray, though wishing he were already finished, continued to chant from the
liturgy, his monotone accented by hissings from the Mother Superior, Buboe, with his friend 
watching over his shoulder, placed the edge of the monstrous syringe against those pink, 
palpitating lips. Sister Catherine jerked violently against her bonds when the hot bronze 
touched her flesh, she tensed as solid as granite when at last the syringe, with its boding 
contents, was plugged into her hole.

Father Barray continued to chant. Sister Catherine, apparently unharmed by the hot 
bronze phallus against her pussy walls, was subjected to more tortures from the two 
assistants. Pushing the plunger of the syringe gently, M. Buboe forced a little stream of the 
molten lard into the frying vagina. At last, he thought, we're getting somewhere. Sister 
Catherine's revolting ululations were quieted, the only noises heard above the priest's 
incantations were the sizzlings of the hot lard against flesh. And, seeing the progress already 
made, hoping for a complete renunciation of all her demon inhabitors, the priest motioned 
for more of the thick, bubbling lard be forced into her cunt.

"Do you, Sister Catherine, renounce these forces of evil from your body?" asked the priest. 
Sister Catherine's only reply was "never!"

Starting from the beginning, the priest read again from the liturgy, while his able-minded 
assistants shoved another lengthy bronze phallus, still burning with the gurgling animal fat, 
into Catherine's bung.

It was a tight fit, and the surgeon congratulated his friend heartily when at last the length 
of the bronze shaft was embedded deep into her anal sphincter. Stepping aside, the good 
chemist gave his cohort the reins, so to speak. The lard was pumped in fast; Sister Catherine, 
in an amazing and enraptured state of grace, renounced the demons.

Hands were shook, compliments were exchanged. Though surely near the point of 
expiring, Mother Superior was at last divulged of the tormenting devils, the assumption of her 
soul into the Heavenly Kingdom a certainty.

And since Catherine was setting the trend, the rest of the exorcism would be a cinch. Sister
Anne, already prepared days before, was rolled into the room. Leeches had been applied to 
her skin, in order to render her weak and, it was hoped, to make things so intolerable for the 
usurping demons that they might simply pack up, like thieves in the night, and depart.

The leeches grew to the point of bursting, still Sister Anne refused to acknowledge the 
possession of her soul by the Christ Almighty. Treatments with the lard were merely a novelty, 
other devices were to be employed for Sister Anne. While the surgeon placed globed beakers,
filled with buzzing bees, rim side down against each of Sister Anne's breast, his friend Buboe 
dressed yet another sister in a tightly fitting suit of black, thin leather.

It was Sister Bridgette, still wearing her clever mouthpiece. The gag was left untouched as 
Buboe, feeling the forces of lust against his enraged penis, and having grown quite fond of 
this particular sister of the order, prepared to spill his seed into her throat.

Bridgette moaned, though inaudibly, as the chemist once more coated the inside of her 
device with fatty substances. His huge, bulbous knob slipped in first, followed by the 
grotesque and hideous shaft. Having the foresight to mold the device from the contours of his
own tool, Buboe was amazed with the wondrous fit against his phallus as he pumped the 
raging hard-on fast into her muted mouth.

Bridgette recoiled, as best she could, as Buboe's huge, swollen and hairy gonads bounced 
off her chin. Excitable as the man was, it didn't take him long to reach his orgasm. Hot male 
spunk, bitter and fiery, poured into her throat. Bridgette, unable to spit it back, was obliged to 
swallow every drop.

Sister Anne proved to be more difficult that was expected. The priest, growing tired of his 
chantings, took other measures. Grasping the two glass globes as if-they were crystal breasts, 
the bees infuriated by the jostlings of their nest, Father Barray slowly eased his flaming 
manhood into the screaming nun's pussy, made pliable and softer with the same fatty 
drippings used by Buboe.

Sister Anne felt the powerful phallus spread her walls wide open. And although she had 
formerly confessed, at the invitation of the papal court, to having accepted three penises at 
once into her hole, it must have been during her sleep. Because, as advanced in years as she 
was, Sister Anne's taut cherry was still clinging to her vagina, the lusty crimson cockhead of 
Father Barray nudging against it with great pressure.

The hymen was ripped asunder, the nun filled at last with his holy scepter. So it was that 
Sister Anne was reconverted to her faith with forceful pumps of the Reverend's hearty cock.

Since the nuns could not be moved from the convent proper, and because of a humanistic
tugging of the cure's heart strings, those nuns not acting terribly violent were left to wander, 
free of confinement, throughout the convent house. No one had expected them to run amok, 
since the cow-eyed creatures were thrilled with the excitement of the exorcism proceedings.

Not so. An unfortunate mistake on the part of Father Guiervan. Now in Paris, discussing a 
possible appointment as Bishop of Lucon, the position newly vacated by the ever busy 
Richelieu, he will be stripped of all powers, short of excommunication, when news of the grave
mishap at Rouen reaches the ears of His Eminence.

Twenty-five nuns, their arms akimbo and eyes glazed over with despicable rapture, have 
now ascended the chapel. And descend, no less, on Surgeon Apple, surrounding him in a sea 
of white flowing robes characteristic of the Ursulines. With arbitrary kicks and pokes to his 
personage, the surgeon is quickly subdued. The priest is interrupted from his services to Sister
Anne, but his words fall to deaf ears.

Throughout the past month, a permanent crowd would gather outside the convent gates 
at noon, the exorcism having won out in popularity over the guillotines across the city. It was 
at noon, then, when an army of the possessed nuns, sporting Surgeon Apple as a battering 
ram, his shiny bald head pointed at the gate, emerged from the bowels of the house of 
torment.

They charged quickly. Surgeon Apple's head forcefully knocking against the solid iron 
gates. Mercifully, his skull cracked open instantly, on the very first plunge. But not so merciful 
for the terrorized mass of citizens. For the heavy wooden bolt was giving way.

In an attempt to distract attention from the scandalous activity at the convent, the 
regiment of Rouen infantry was removed from the streets and adjacent buildings. Father 
Guiervan had insisted to the Chief Magistrate that they remain in place, M. Trivette held to his 
stance. The exorcism would soon be over, the guards were needed in other parts of the 
province, and so on.

Regrettable though his decision was, Magistrate Trivette could not possibly conceive of the
enraged nuns breaking through the fortress. But listen: already the heavy oak bolt, secured 
just this morning by one of the vicars, is beginning to crack. Tossing Apple aside, his 
usefulness expended, the nuns have returned to the chapel, where they are now busily ripping
the convent apart. With no real leadership, acting as a unified mind, the mass of nuns 
besieged the priest. Sister Anne's examining table, for reasons of portability, is fitted with 
casters. The table itself is larger than the maimed body chained to it, and weighs so heavily 
that at first the sister's have difficulty in moving it.

Architects have only recently invented the corridor, to move from one room to the next in 
the convent, all one has to do is to pass through a series of large chambers. No entranceway 
is too small to obstruct the table; Sister Anne and company reach staggering speeds as they 
race towards the gate. The oaken bolt snaps like rubber, the gates open, and the wretched 
contents of the house spill out into the streets of Rouen.



* * *



At shortly past sundown, a count of the maimed and killed in the incident reached the 
Magistrate Trivette's temporary lodgings. But like all others holding high court and 
government positions in the city, Trivette is busily occupied with packing. Already his wife and 
children have been transported safely from the town, he will soon share a private coach with 
your narrator, the Chief Prosecutor. Both, having sympathetic friends and, more important, 
money safely in storage, will assume new names and occupations, Trivette as a drunken 
scoundrel, myself as a Trappist monk in Gibraltar.


EPILOGUE

It is now finished, for better or for worse. My task, to record as faithfully as I could the 
incredible and perversely wicked events that besieged the convent at Rouen, was no easy 
charge.

But still, the memory of that harrowing experience lives on in my dreams, now thirty years 
after the convent house was burned to the ground.

What of the sisters themselves? What became of them? The answer is simple: all the 
surviving Ursulines, after their rampage through the city, were captured or killed. Those who 
were taken alive, at great expense, were once more contained within the walls of the convent.

The dead were numerous, but more so were the maimed. Seventeen dismemberments and
thirteen lives later, most of the damage was for the most part over. Madame Marchant, the 
wife of the former Magistrate Marchant, must be listed as two separate deaths, for the child 
she carried in her womb, the child of Father Guiervan, was ripped from her womb by the 
clutching fingers of Sister Jeanne.

Reverend Barray, the priest who set his sights so high, the man who would think himself a 
worker of miracles, was never rescued from the convent,. Indeed, no one would enter those 
gates, for surely madness and depravity of sickening proportions existed therein. I can only 
hope that the good priest was, like Surgeon Apple, destroyed long before the convent house 
was set ablaze by angry citizens, for the remaining twenty sisters of God were burned alive.

Today, as I am told by those who have passed through the city, the sight formerly 
occupied by the convent house now contains a private residence, like others surrounding it, 
built expressly for the Public servants of the king. However, it remains empty, as no sensible 
person will enter, much less than actually live there.

And what of that colourful apothecary, Gaude Buboe? This I cannot answer, the location of
his soul being a cosmic mystery. It is worth noting, however, that the charred skeleton of a 
human male, corresponding to that of M. Buboe from dental records kept by Apple, were 
found. The enraged nuns, fortunately for the chemist, had smashed his skull open with some 
blunt instrument, perhaps the heavy brass phalluses used to exorcize the demons from Sister 
Catherine. Even in death, Buboe was true to his friend Apple, may God rest their tormented 
souls.

Mme. Trivette and her daughters? On arriving at Marseilles, they were not waiting as had 
been instructed. Instead, they were lying dead, their coach set aflame by three unidentified 
henchmen, an ugly woman accompanied by two deviate thugs. The coachman, found 
half-dead by a drunken trouvere, confessed that all three passengers had been raped and 
beaten in the "most wicked manner," then left to rot in the noonday sun.

The trouvere, a man named Marcel, found fame once again by travelling the countryside, 
singing a perverse rondeux concerning the possession and ensuing tragedy at Rouen. As his 
popularity increased, so did the political content of his ditties enrage the Cardinal Richelieu. 
Marcel was beheaded in the execution grounds not far from where his bastard son, Golgol, 
had grown to maturity.

When, after many weeks after the tragic occurrence, plague once again claimed the lives 
of those with least resistance, many unfortunates were released from the hospitals and 
asylums to perform the thankless task: removing the bodies from the city's limits. Honneger 
was one of these unfortunates, but he remained until the very end, dumping the black bodies 
in the ditches of Rouen. Until, at long last, the poor hunchback contracted the disease himself.

To those who may read these pages, I ask you to take pity on your narrator, for his job was
by no means rewarding. It was completed out of duty, out. of a sense of moral obligation. The 
ones claimed by the madness suffered greatly, but at last they were mercifully destroyed.

Whereas I, living in seclusion, still suffer from bouts of depravity and hallucination, and will
be haunted unto death. It is a sordid end, is it not?


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Little is known about the author, Frere Guilliame Marehaut, except that he did for a time 
serve the position of Chief Prosecutor to the secular court of Rouen, during the time of the 
alleged possession of the convent and the ensuing exorcism. He was, however in later life, the 
author of many bawdy stories, the few that remain in existence support his fascination with 
violence as well as sex.

In 1660, Frere Guilliame was removed from the Trappist order, and placed in an asylum, 
where he died two years later.


The End
