### MSL-18 ###
The Nun’s Secret Sex Diary
by Unknown


FOREWORD

The following story is told in the pages of a diary, recently discovered and now locked in 
the vaults of a museum in Spain. The diary remains in the private collection of the museum, 
because many, if not all, of its exposures would embarrass the church, despite the fact that the
diary is believed to date back to 1492, the year of the Spanish Inquisition.

It is the diary of a young nun, Raquel, and in the pages she tells of the unnatural practices 
which took place in the confines of the church, which made its own rules and regulations as to
what methods should be used to punish young girls for the sexual stirrings in their lovely 
bodies.

Many of the inscriptions were written in the afterglow of sexual encounter, and though 
they seem unbelievable, they are true. The inscriptions were penned in secret, just as they are 
kept within the secret archives of the Museum of Spanish History today.

When visiting the museum, I was able to secure the manuscript for a day. I did steal the 
diary, but only long enough to have the pages copied so that I could expose the writings of 
the diary to the world. The book is back in the possession of museum, and nobody there knew
that it was gone.

Raquel probably would have been shocked to learn that so many will be reading a diary 
which she held to her bosom in all secrecy. But the story of the priest and this young nun is 
too powerful to remain suppressed.

If the sexual torture of a teenaged virgin in the name of God is too intense for your 
sensibilities, you are asked to go no further in the reading of this book. But if you are curious, 
read on. Don’t say that you weren’t warned.


CHAPTER ONE

I know not what makes me write these words on these pages. I write for no person but 
myself, knowing that these private words will not, and should not be seen by those who would
not understand me and the things I do.

It is a strange time. People are leaving the towns and fleeing Spain for Holland, and other 
cities away from here. They leave their possessions behind, and the Spanish Inquisitors come 
for the belongings.

They steal the jewels and use them for the church. I can not understand how the church 
would see fit to use stolen gems in the center of their crosses. It makes no sense to me. But 
then, what does make sense in these times?

Perhaps I need religion. I know that I must need something, because there is a stirring 
inside of me that has never existed before. There is something that I want, although I know 
not what that something might be.

I am going to the church of Father Peter. I have a job to do there. I only hope that I shall 
be able to resist the powers of the church and this Father Peter, for I know that what I will be 
doing is wrong.

I must write here what it is that I plan, because by writing it and getting it out onto the 
parchment, I feel cleansed. What other way is there to cleanse the soul?

The paper will not judge my actions. It will not call me bad for what I do. I feel that I have 
to do this, because Raphael saved my life when my father was in danger. I must repay Raphael
for what he did, even though I do not believe in what Raphael is doing now.

Raphael is a thief. So many people are thieving now, even the church, and so it seems a 
normal thing to do. Of course, I feel that thieving will be punished at some time, if not by 
other men, then by God Himself.

Sins must be purged.

But good deeds must also be repaid. That is what I am doing by participating in Raphael’s 
plan. He wants me to go to the church of Father Peter and make an offering. He says that 
Father Peter is a strange man, a churchman who has an eye for young girls such as myself!

That sounds most peculiar to me. It was my understanding that a holy man like Father 
Peter would lower his eyes when a pretty girl passed his way, rustling her underskirts for his 
benefit. But Raphael says no. He says this Father Peter will invite me into the church and will 
show me around, just to keep his eyes on me.

I know that there is a convent attached to the church, and the nuns there wear the habit 
which protects them, head to foot, from the prying eyes of men. Perhaps that is why Father 
Peter is curious, and enjoys seeing a girl such as I.

He may be a priest, but he is only human.

My purpose is not to speak of religion with the Father. My true purpose, according to 
Raphael’s plan, is not to give the donation, or to see the inside of the church for the saying of 
prayers.

I shall go there to look the place over.

Raphael wants me to see where the jewels are kept. He says that the priests are stealing 
the silver, gold and precious gems of the land. He says that it is a sin for the church to hoard 
these riches.

Raphael wants these things for himself. He believes that they should go back to the 
people, since they were stolen from the people in the first place.

I cannot see how stealing from the church to repay the people will be of service to anyone.
But I must show my thanks to Raphael for saving my life. He was like a father to me. I can’t let 
him down now.

I will report to Father Peter and let my eyes search the church, while the eyes of Father 
Peter search my body. I will not mind.

Then I will tell Raphael what I have learned, and he will take it from there. I expect that he 
will try to make his own entrance into the church, and will attempt to reclaim the riches.

By that time I will be long forgotten by Father Peter, I am certain. I will have paid my debt 
to Raphael, and perhaps I shall be set free.

Perhaps I, too, shall leave Spain, and travel on to a country where there is more freedom 
for the people; freedom to pray or not pray. Freedom to have religion as one sees fit.

And the freedom for sex ah, that is something I wonder about, too. I wonder if it exists. I 
wonder what it feels like.

I know that sexual awakening is coming over me. I can feel it growing, every day. I am 
nearly eighteen years old. I have never been with a man. I never had the desire to.

But now things are changing. I feel a stirring in my young body, and it seems to be 
awakening me to new things; wondrous things. I long to be filled.

I wonder what it feels like to take the thing of a man inside one’s body. My own opening 
seems tight. I have placed my fingers into the hole, feeling the sex lips spread. The sex lips 
have yielded, and inside there is moistness.

It is warm inside that womb. I can understand why infants might not want to leave that 
dark, enclosed place. It seems so protective inside.

It seems almost like a nunnery! At least, I imagine a nunnery to be like my vagina. Both are
dark, enclosed, protective and virginal!

Yes, of course I am a virgin. When I place my fingers in beyond that very sensitive button 
of flesh, I feel the membrane which stretches across. That must be the end of my vagina, and it
seems shallow to me.

I wonder if there is a man who would not be too large, or too harsh to accommodate me. I
wonder if such a man exists.

Forgive me, God, for the thought which just came into my mind. The image of Father Peter
is on my mind, since the time for me to enter the church is drawing near.

For a moment the thought of Father Peter entering my private box, came into my head. I 
know I shall be punished for such a thought. And well I should be punished.

But I couldn’t help it. I think the devil enters my soul at such times. I wish that I could be 
rid of the devil’s influence, but it seems that I am cursed.

No person or thing shall know of these thoughts, except you, dear diary. You shall keep 
them secret, of that I am certain. I feel that I have to explain myself to someone, something. 
Only God, and these pages, shall know the stirrings which go on inside of me.

I must stop now. I must stop and relieve some of the tension which is building up inside of
my body as I think about the sin I must commit. Thieving is a sin, I am sure. But I have to repay
my debt. I cannot pretend that it doesn’t bother me.

So let me go and relieve the tension as I have learned to do. I feel that I shall someday be 
punished for doing this, for it involves the tender massaging of the entrance to my soul!

It must be wrong, because it feels so good. There must be sensitive nerve endings in this 
portion of my body. They respond to the touch.

I find myself indulging in this activity night after night. It is the only pleasure I have at this 
time in my life. I pray that I will somehow develop the willpower to stop, for this must be the 
work of the devil. What other force would cause me to find pleasure in such a way?

I can’t imagine. I know it must be unnatural, but I am not yet ready to stop. If it is the 
working of the devil, then I must be headed for hell.

The inner flesh is like the petals of a flower. The flesh is rich and damp, and as I rub my 
fingers around inside, it provokes a liquid to flow from the lips.

At night I do this, and I can then fall asleep, unhaunted by the nightmares of these times. 
When I force myself to go a night without touching myself in that way, when I awake in the 
morning, my bed is soiled with the liquids, anyway. I believe that the undulations of my private
part go on even when I sleep. I would rather feel the sensations of my fingers, than have it 
happen while I sleep.

Perhaps I will look back upon these pages some day in the future and better understand 
what I am going through now. I hope so.

For now I must do what I can to make my life easier. If it means stealing from the church, 
or creating friction inside my wet membranes of sex, then I will do it, and I will face the 
consequences when the time for retribution comes.

*

I write now of my experience with Father Peter. It was worse than I ever expected! I hoped 
that it would all go well. I hoped that God would look down on me, and in His infinite wisdom 
know that I had no choice but to help Raphael with the plan.

But God must not have seen it that way.

It was a quiet day. The birds were singing and the trees were swaying in the breeze. To 
observe nature at work, with the singing birds and the swaying trees, one would never have 
imagined what terrible things were happening in Spain.

The church stood high on a Spanish hill. A tall gate separated the church from the outside 
world. I saw the cluster of bells attached to the center spokes of the tall gate. I pulled the rope
which connected to the bells, and I heard the bells ringing.

I was dressed very plainly. My long dark hair was parted down the center and pulled 
straight back from my face. I wore a mantilla over my head, in respect to the Virgin Mary. My 
frock was buttoned up to my neck. The chemise hung to the floor. I was completely covered, 
although my breasts did protrude.

That I couldn’t help. In the recent days my breasts have grown steadily, despite my 
bandaging of them to keep them down in front. It hurts too much to suppress their growth 
like that, and besides, I am finding that it is to no avail. They have a way of exerting 
themselves despite my efforts to keep them down.

Nobody responded to the ringing of the bells. After a brief wait, I rang them again.

This time, the door to the church opened, and there was a nun! I was afraid, because this 
was not in keeping with the plan. Raphael had told me to expect Father Peter to come to the 
gate. Father Peter, Raphael had said, would let me in without question once he saw my 
youthful loveliness.

But this nun might be a more difficult person for me to approach. She didn’t look all that 
kindly as she came from the church door to the gate. I could see that her eyebrows were 
arched in defiance. This frightened me, for I knew of nuns who were very cruel. Girlfriends of 
mine who attended schools run by the nuns had complained of these sex-starved women.

I always found the nuns I observed to be sweet and gentle, but the girls who trained under
the nuns had a different viewpoint, and I had to heed their words because, after all, they 
worked most closely with the sisterhood.

This nun seemed to me to be one of the cruel ones. The look on her face was one which 
seemed to always be there. Her eyebrows were curved upward, and it wasn’t that she was 
born like that. I felt that I eyebrows curved upwards in that manner after years of being harsh 
and critical.

That was why the expression remained on her face at all times. It was a warning to others, 
and a punishment from God, perhaps, that she was always that way.

“Yes, what is it, child?” she said to me. Her voice was not all that harsh, but her facial 
expression never changed.

“My name is Raquel. I’ve come to make a donation to Father Peter,” I replied.

The nun did give me a small smile. “How kind of you,” she said. “I will give it to Father 
Peter. I’m sure he will be pleased, and will put it to good use,” she told me.

“But is it possible for me to see the Father himself?” I asked. “I’ve come a great distance. 
I’ve heard about his good work, and I wanted to be blessed by the Father.”

The nun looked at me in what seemed to be a quizzical look. Perhaps she didn’t believe 
that I had come a great distance to see Father Peter. Perhaps she saw that I was still fresh from
my bath, and that my shoes were not worn down from travel.

Or perhaps her surprise came when I told her that I had heard of the Father’s good works. 
I couldn’t be certain.

“I’m afraid that Father Peter is busy at the moment. It will not be possible for you to see 
him, however, I will tell him what you said, and I will ask him to say a special prayer for you. 
Would that do?” she said.

I stayed silent for a moment. I was trying to think of something to say that would get me 
into the church without seeming too forward. I couldn’t let this nun know how important it 
was for me to look inside the church. I didn’t want to arouse her suspicion.

Just then, a man stepped out from the church. The nun turned back toward him.

“What is it?” he asked her.

“Nothing, Father. Just a girl,” the nun replied.

The man was dressed in the garb of a priest. She had called him Father. I wondered if he 
was actually Father Peter. I felt that he was.

The man was not able to see at a distance. I saw him well, though. He wasn’t very old. In 
fact, he was much younger than I imagined. I had expected a very old man with grey hair and 
spectacles. This man was tall and lean, with a handsome face. He must have been in his late 
thirties, or very early forties.

“A girl, you say?” the man said as he walked nearer.

“Yes, but I’ll take care of it,” the nun said.

I was angry with her. I had a feeling that she was trying to make certain that the priest and 
I didn’t meet. For some reason she tried to keep us apart, I was certain of it. I was also growing
more convinced that the man was Father Peter.

The priest came closer and closer, still squinting so that he could see me better. When he 
came close enough to bring my form into focus for his eyes, he smiled and looked up and 
down my body.

“So, a girl is here to see me,” he grinned.

The nun seemed very angry. Her eyebrows arched even higher and straighter. “Don’t say I 
didn’t try,” she snapped at me.

I wanted to ask her what she meant, but she turned away. She was very rude, and 
obviously quite disturbed that the Father had come to see me. She huffed off back into the 
church. I saw her out of the corner of my eye as she climbed the steps leading to the entrance 
of the stone structure.

She turned back long enough to look at me again. I saw her shaking her head in a 
disapproving manner.

“Don’t let Sister Sara bother you, my dear,” Father Peter said to me. “She is a frustrated 
woman. Life in a convent can be difficult if one is not of the calling. A woman must know that 
her love belongs to God. It can be difficult if a woman craves the human flesh, and 
experiences the human lusts.”

As he spoke those words, his eyes rested on my breasts. I knew that I should have 
bandaged them down!

I spoke up. “My name is Raquel,” I said. “I’ve come to make a donation.”

I handed Father Peter a gold coin, given to me by Raphael. “You are Father Peter, aren’t 
you?”

“Yes, I am Father Peter,” he replied.

I smiled.

“You must be hungry, child,” he said to me. “When was the last time you had something to
eat?”

I told him that I couldn’t remember.

“Oh, my poor young girl,” the Father said. “Do come in.”

He pulled open the gate through which we had been speaking. I smiled to know that I was
now entering the other side, the holy side of the gate. I hoped that this holy man could not 
read my thoughts. I hoped that he was not gifted in that way, as God’s workers sometimes 
are.

If he could read my thoughts, he would know that I was there to find out where the 
treasures were hidden. I was there to take the information and give it to someone who would 
steal the treasures and run.

As it was, I felt I could read his mind. He wanted something of me. He was very friendly, 
but I felt that he had some motive. I wasn’t sure what. I suspected that he was simply awed by 
the charms of a young girl.

I didn’t fall to the sin of pride about my charms, because I know he would have reacted the
same way to any shapely girl who happened upon his church as I did. I was soon to learn, 
however, that he would have reacted in the same lecherous manner to most any girl, and that 
was no compliment. He had a special plan of his own, and it was not one that I would find 
amusing. Not at all.

He led me inside. I was pleased to find myself inside the walls of the building. It was a 
large place. The walls were made of stone. Huge stones climbed up high. The ceilings were 
high. The windows were carved out of the stone. They were tall and narrow, like rectangles 
placed with the long sides horizontally.

Our feet clicked along the stone floors as we walked.

“I understand that your church houses many beautiful things,” I told Father Peter, thinking 
that such words would encourage him to show me some of the treasures it was my intention 
to steal.

He seemed delighted that I said what I did.

“Yes, we have many treasures here. Some of the things which now belong to the church 
were once the property of the heathens. It is only fitting that they are housed in a temple of 
God. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh, yes,” I replied. “I agree.”

“Let me take you downstairs where some of these treasures are kept,” he said.

I couldn’t have been happier. It was going much more smoothly than I’d expected when 
the sour-faced Sister Sara met me at the gate. Already I was being led into the cellar where 
the treasures were stored.

Or so I thought.

As soon as I entered the dungeon-like cellar, I knew that something was wrong. I knew 
that this was not where the treasures were stored. Not at all!

The halls were filled with strange noises. They were the sounds of young girls in pain. It 
was impossible to tell what was causing their grief, but the moans and cries were definitely the
utterances of females in agony!

“What are those sounds?” I asked.

The Father behaved as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “The novice nuns are sorry for 
having done wrong. They are willing to atone for their sins,” he replied I could hear the whistle
of the whip in the air. I could hear the whip cracking across the flesh, and then the unearthly 
weeping of a repentant sinner. The sound chilled me to the very depths of my soul.

“Father, there is something wrong here,” I said, this time more insistent. I couldn’t believe 
that he could take this so lightly.

“Let me show you some of the things that we are keeping here in the church. We have 
such delightful works of art. Some of them must be suppressed. They are the works of liberals 
and heretics,” the priest told me.

He was going to show me some of the valuable objects; the very thing that I had hoped 
for; the very thing I had come for. And yet, I felt very uneasy. I felt uncomfortable at the side 
of this man who smiled through the sounds of young girls in pain.

“Father, I’m sorry,” I blurted. “I think there must be some mistake. I really better go,” I said. 
I was beginning to think that leaving was the best idea. I didn’t want to go through with the 
theft plot. I didn’t want to spend one extra minute in this church. Perhaps the Father, with his 
gifts from God, knew that I was there to set up a theft plot. Maybe he was leading me to a 
dungeon where he would imprison me, and torture me! If he saw to it that the novice nuns 
suffered such a fate, he would surely want a non-religious thief to suffer worse torment!

“You shall not be leaving this church,” Father Peter said, raising his eyebrows. He spoke 
more firmly than he had before.

“You can’t keep me here,” I told him. I started to run.

There was a light down at the end of the corridor. I could hear the sounds of whipping and
girlish agony up and down the hall. I had to get out of there before something happened to 
me. I would explain to Raphael later.

I raced toward the light, thinking that the light was the outside. Father Peter made no 
attempt to capture me. He continued to walk slowly down the hall as if all of this were normal.
In that church, it probably was.

My heart was pounding in my breast. I could hardly breathe. All I knew was that I had to 
get out of there.

I saw the gold doorknob of the door at the end of the hallway. I grasped it, turned it, 
opened the door and… it is almost too terrible to tell. The room was filled with young nuns. I 
could tell that they were nuns because they were wearing the head piece of their habits on 
their heads. But the rest of their bodies, below the head pieces, were bare!

The room was a huge, cavernous room. It was circular, and above the main area was a 
second level which stretched around in a circle above the room like a balcony. It was an 
observation balcony, and looking down on the nude nuns were a set of older nuns. Sister 
Sara, the nun who had greeted me at the gate was there. She had her hands up under her 
habit. She was masturbating herself!

As soon as I opened the door and took my first step into this room, mostly on the force of 
my forward running, I gasped. I realized that I had made a big mistake. I was in the wrong 
place.

The young nuns, I quickly discovered, were sitting on pegs. The pegs were, dare I even say 
it, pressed into their bodies! The young nuns were impaled on the pegs!

“Oh, my Lord!” I gasped. “Jesus, please help me!”

“That’s exactly what we are here for,” a voice said from behind me. “We are here to ask 
Jesus to help these sinful young nuns. They must learn to give their love to God. They must 
take punishment to drive the devil from them.”

It was Father Peter. I spun around. He was standing there, grinning.

“All of this religion is fine,” I said, knowing that I dare not go against the principles of his 
church. That was why people were being tortured in this period of Spanish Inquisition. “But I 
must leave now. I just wanted to give my small donation and be gone.”

“Not so fast!” Father Peter said, stepping closer and placing his long, bony fingers on my 
shoulder. He pressed down as he spoke. “You are going nowhere. You have learned of our 
secret place. Once you learn of our secret place, it is up to us to make certain that the secret 
remains with us alone.”

“I won’t tell anybody,” I told him.

“I know you won’t,” he replied, flashing a grin which I never expected to see from a priest. 
It was a wicked grin, touched by the devil himself.

I tried to wriggle from his grasp, but he held me in place.

“I think that I shall give this young visitor a closer look at our penitence room,” the priest 
smiled.

The nuns circling the observation balcony smiled and applauded. Sister Sara, still fingering 
her privates beneath her habit, called down to me. “I warned you to stay away. You didn’t want
to listen. Now you must pay.”

The other nuns began applauding again.

A horrible creature with a hunched back and a pointed chin appeared in the corridor, 
outside the room. He was so pale. His skin seemed the color of parched earth. “Will you be 
needing me, now, Master?” he groaned, in a creaky voice.

“Not now, Turlock,” Father Peter replied.

“Very well, Father,” this strange hunchbacked man whined. “My tongue will be very hot 
later. Perhaps then I will be of use,” he added. He then stuck out a long pointed tongue, like 
the tongue of a frog. He flicked it out in front of him, curling the tip up so that it nearly 
touched his nose.

“Yes, later,” the priest told him. “We have a new girl who has come to be a nun.”

I looked at him. I wondered if he was referring to me. I hadn’t come to be a nun. Certainly 
not. I had no desire to live my life behind the walls of a convent, without the sexual attention 
of human males. And what did the priest and this Turlock mean by the talk about a hot 
tongue? I didn’t know. Not then, anyway.

The freak called Turlock closed the heavy door with a thud.

“Each young nun is punishing herself,” Father Peter told me. I looked around. There were 
no less than six other young girls, all with strained and agonized expressions on their faces. 
The wooden pegs on which they were impaled must have hurt terribly.

The priest continued. “Each peg is marked.

The markings indicate the width and length of the peg. These girls were all tight in the 
area of their sinful sex holes. But they were not tight enough to keep the devil out. Each day 
the novice nuns are moved onto larger, thicker pegs. We are stretching them so that they will 
feel the pain inside of them, and know what it would feel like, should the devil himself ever 
enter them.”

I watched in disbelief as the priest approached one of the nude nuns who seemed to be in
terrible pain with her sex lips enclosed around a peg marked six inches. It was a thick peg in 
circumference. As for the young nun, she appeared to me to be no older than sixteen or 
seventeen, very close to my young age.

“Repent for your sins, in the name of God,” the priest leered at her.

I felt a stirring in my own sex hole. I recalled what I had been doing of late in the confines 
of my bedroom. I thought about the sex liquids which flowed from my pit when I touched the 
deeply sensitive places, “Have you said your prayers of forgiveness?” Father Peter asked the 
impaled nun.

“Yes, Father. I have been saying those prayers all day. No relief comes to me. I am in pain 
on this peg. Please let me free.”

“Only the Lord has the power to let you free,” Father Peter snapped back. “If He didn’t 
believe that you should suffer on that peg, He would remove you from it. Obviously, He knows
that you need this suffering to purify your soul.”

With that the priest bent down and grabbed on to a little handle which extended from the 
side of the wooden peg. He began to wiggle the handle and the nun’s legs suddenly flailed 
out and began kicking. Apparently, the handle made the peg wriggle itself more deeply up 
into the pit of the young nun’s arousal organ.

She began screaming and writhing about as the priest moved the peg up inside of her. 
The nuns on the observation balcony began to respond. “Ahhhh,” they responded as a group 
at the cruel sight.

Sister Sara fell down on her knees. At first I thought that she was praying to the Lord. But 
another nun stepped up beside her. She reached down and drew Sister Sara’s head into the 
mound between her legs.

“This is absolutely wicked!” I declared. I couldn’t hold back. If, as I was beginning to fear, I 
was going to be a prisoner in this church, I would set the record straight from the beginning. I 
was not about to be dominated by the bizarre religious practices of a church cult.

“You are the ones who should be arrested,” I said. “It’s no wonder that the people don’t 
want to follow the dictates of your church. You’re church is sick!”

Father Peter dropped the handle of the peg and stood up. Every vein in his head was 
pounding, pulsating, and his face became crimsoned with rage.

“Bitch,” he shouted at me. “You God forsaken bitch.”

There was a flurry of a whispers and gasps from the observation balcony. The nuns looked 
down with intent interest. One of them, perhaps a Mother Superior, quieted them down with 
the words, “Hush, hush.”

Father Peter strode madly toward the heavy rope which hung from the ceiling. He tugged 
on it forcefully. It must have been a bell of some kind. That hunchbacked church servant, 
Turlock, returned with a twisted grin on his face.

“You rang, Master?” he groaned.

“Yes, Turlock. Fetch me my whip!”

“Yes, Master,” the ugly monster replied, licking his lips with that perverse tongue of his, 
and chuckling under his breath. A moment later, he’d returned with the long, black leather 
whip.

Father Peter took it in his hand and cracked it against the cement floor. The crack echoed 
through the cavernous room. The girls on the pegs shuddered at the sound.

“I’m a God-fearing priest,” he bellowed. “How you expect to be a nun if you have no fear 
of God?”

“But I have no desire to be a nun,” I protested. “Especially not in this weird place.”

“Bitch!” the Father snarled again. He pulled his arm back and flogged me, once, with the 
whip. I felt the biting sting go through my clothing.

“Stop it!” I cried. I was rewarded with another lash, and another and another. They came in 
increasing fits of fury. Each blow was harder than the one before it, and they came so quickly, 
the black whip was a blur in the air.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

The nasty whip ripped the material of my chemise. It was tattered, and the burning pain 
was throbbing in my flesh. I could feel the heat from the wound when I placed my trembling 
fingers on top of the welted, whip-stung area.

“Sister Sara!” the angry priest called, and the nun got up from her knees and hurried down
a stairway which led from the observation gallery.

“Yes, Father,” she replied, bowing her head as she approached.

“Her clothes are tattered. Rip them from her body. We must examine her and test for her 
virginity. Then she must be punished for holding beliefs which go against church dogma. We 
must beat the devil from her, so that she may be a nun.”

“I warned you,” Sister Sara said, digging her fingers into the flesh of my arm and dragging 
me from the chamber. “I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen.”





CHAPTER TWO


“Oh, Lord, save me,” I cried.

“There, you see, you have already started praying to the Holy Father. Our methods are 
having an effect on you,” Sister Sara said to me as she brought me to a small room down in 
the depths of the church.

In a way, she was right. I was never a very religious person. I suppose that if I had been a 
religious person, I never would have agreed to the plan of Raphael’s, and I never would have 
been caught in the web in which I seemed trapped.

Still, I was praying to God only minutes after arriving on the church grounds. If God exists, 
I pray that he helps me now.

Sister Sara removed my clothing. She ran her hands over the aching welts which rose from 
my previously unblemished skin. The welts were throbbing and they were an angry scarlet 
color across the pale peach of my flesh.

“The red is the color of the devil,” Sister Sara told me. “It is the devil trying to get out.”

“That’s nature’s blood,” I answered angrily. “It’s the work of God flowing through my body.
I am the work of God. My feelings are Godly.”

I felt that I was as good a person as this nun. I was speaking truth, as I saw it. I was not 
ashamed of myself, despite my shame at certain things I had done in my life.

“Have you no devil in you? Is that what you are trying to say to me?” Sister Sara said, 
pulling her hands away from my hot flesh, suddenly.

I had to think about that for a moment. Certainly the devil did exist within me. What else 
would make me do some of the things I had done in my young life. There was this plan for 
Raphael. True, I was doing it to repay him, and that was good, but the deed itself was wrong. I 
knew that from the beginning. I could see how I was responsible for allowing myself to get 
caught like this. Perhaps I subconsciously felt that I needed punishment. I don’t know.

Then there was the new sensation which had been coursing through my young body. It 
was the feeling of sexuality, and I knew that the church frowned on some of the thoughts I 
experienced while fingering my velvet-lined wet pit of arousal.

Oh, some of those thoughts! Yes, I could see where I had thought about sin. If I had 
indeed desired to be a nun, those thoughts would have to be driven from me.

But I didn’t want to be a nun! Why were they insisting that I had come to bear the pain of 
the nunnery? Was it because I had seen something that I shouldn’t have seen? Was it because 
I had seen the secret penitence room of the novices?

“I imagine that I do have the devil inside of me, a little bit,” I had to admit.

“Fool!” Sister Sara said. She slapped her opened palm upon my sorest bruise.

I looked at her, thinking that she was cruel and sadistic. But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t 
want to arouse her anger, since she was in charge of me for the moment. She continued to 
speak.

“A girl is either pure or not. She either has the devil inside of her, or not. A nun must be 
free of such sin. It is like pregnancy. You cannot be a little bit pregnant. It’s black and white. 
You either are, or you’re not. There is no grey in between the two. It’s the same with the devil. 
If the devil is in you, the devil must be driven out. Who can better fight the devil than we can?”

I didn’t doubt that there was some truth to what she was saying. But there was something 
perverted about the church, and about the people I had seen there.

I wondered if the other girls, the girls impaled on the wooden pegs, had really come to 
train themselves in religion, or if, like me, they had been recruited by Father Peter for some 
reason of his own.

The atmosphere of the punishment room was very strange. It was nothing like what I 
would imagine a church to be. The nuns seemed to be excited, even aroused, by the sight of 
the punished teenagers. Perhaps they were pleased to see the girls becoming purified, but 
then, why had Sister Sara placed her head between the legs of another nun?

I was soon to find out. Sister Sara dropped to her knees again. She was accustomed to the 
position, but not from constant genuflection. She had an unceasing appetite for young female
flesh!

“What are you doing?” I said, trying to writhe away from her grip. It was hopeless. She 
didn’t answer me in words. Her actions told it all.

Suddenly I felt her hot tongue at the naked mound of my sexual core. I felt the wet muscle
find the cleft, and press its way between the softness of the lips, into the inner dampness.

“Oh, my God,” I gasped, again uttering the name of the Lord. It seemed the only thing to 
do. I realized that I was speaking God’s name as the tongue of a holy woman entered my 
body.

This was Sister Sara’s way of cleansing me. I felt the woman’s tongue probing inside of me.
She licked the inner lips and flicked her tongue across the button of flesh which made me 
tingle so.

I was terribly embarrassed because I could feel the nectar from my hole. I could feel the 
female juices flowing, and I realized that Sister Sara was sucking them out of me.

I imagine that the juices contained the poisons of the devil. Perhaps that was why this nun 
was drinking them from me. I wondered if Sister Sara realized that by taking my virgin juice 
into her body, she was swallowing the evil of Satan?

I guess that she had the ability to kill the evil spirits which existed in the fluids. That was 
probably why she was sucking the juice from me. I began to think that she was not all that 
bad. She was doing a wonderful service for young girls like myself. She was purifying us, just 
as the wicked whip purified us.

I could see that the blood and the cuntal fluids each could contain the sins of the devil. I 
let her drain me.

I was beginning to feel dizzy and lightheaded. I leaned back and moved my fingers down 
to where Sister Sara was sucking. I touched the soft membranes and spread the lips apart, 
giving her probing tongue deeper entrance into me.

She sucked more furiously, then, swirling her tongue up, down, and all around the expanse
of flesh between my legs. The fine golden fur which lined my virgin territory was wet from the 
nun’s saliva. I could see the clear drops dripping from the fine strands of hair.

When Sister Sara pushed her tongue into my hole, she stopped when she touched the thin
membrane which defined my virginity. I felt her tongue go limp when she touched the tightly 
stretched maidenhead. She licked it gently.

“You are a virgin,” she replied, pulling her head from my groin for a moment. A smile 
formed on her lips, which were glossing from my female juices.

“Yes, I am,” I replied. “It is important to my family that I remain a virgin until marriage. My 
family was looking for a proper man for me, but something happened to my father. I was 
brought up by a man named Raphael who…” I wanted to explain my story. Perhaps Sister 
would let me go if she understood my life. But she didn’t seem interested. As I spoke, she 
replaced her lips to my lower lips. He tongue pressed forward again, burrowing its way into 
me until it found the warm, damp womb in which it fit so well.

I felt the tongue swirling slowly inside my undulating vagina. I couldn’t help but moan. I 
closed my eyes and tilted my head way back. I turned my head around in circles as Sister Sara 
purified my soul.

It felt so good to feel the poisonous juices flow from me into her. She was a woman. She 
had the same sexual equipment as I had. There was no shame in this act; not for Sister Sara, 
and now, not for me. I was beginning to understand.

It didn’t feel badly at all. In fact, it was a marvelous feeling. It was even better than the 
feeling I created within myself, because her mouth and tongue were wet and warm, and their 
movements kept surprising me.

In fact, when she found a place in which the devil existed more strongly, she worked very 
hard to purify me in that spot. I have a button of flesh inside of my young vaginal hole, and 
I’m certain that the devil has chosen to live inside that spot. It really tingles when it’s touched.

Sister Sara must have sensed all this. When she started on that spot, she continued to 
work on the area, purifying and cleansing it until I thought I would absolutely pass out.

It was hard work for her, I’m sure, because I could hear her moaning and groaning at my 
core. Of course, the sounds were muffled because her face was so deeply embedded in my 
muff. But she didn’t stop. She continued to tease the wicked area, even though her own 
breath was coming in gasps.

Perhaps the evil from my body began to enter her body as it had been in mine. It 
happened very quickly. Only moments after she had swallowed some of the flow from my 
innocent hole, Sister Sara reached under her habit and began to massage her own private 
area.

I knew that the tingling which I had been feeling in me had now gone to her.

I felt a bit guilty that my tingles of the devil should enter her body. I almost wished that I 
could purify her, as she purified me, but of course, that would be impossible. I was not yet a 
nun, as she was, and if I took the poisons back into my system, the Sister’s work would have 
been for naught.

How ashamed I was that I had misjudged the Sister. She was such a kindly woman, she had
even sapped the poison from one of her sister nuns up there on the balcony overlooking the 
punishment room.

I could not quite understand the purpose of the pegs on which the girls-suffered, but I was
beginning to believe that there must have been a purpose for that, too. These church people 
wanted to give directionless girls a purpose in their lives. They felt that they could do it 
through religion, and through their strange, but most important, practices of exorcism.

I knew that Sister Sara knew what she was doing when I felt a series of tremors shake me 
from inside. My heart began to pound, this time even louder than when I discovered the 
punishment room, so, dear diary, you can imagine what was happening to me.

I couldn’t control my body. The quaking was intense, and the sensations grew and grew. 
The entire area of female flesh which was in the nun’s mouth was quivering.

Sister Sara must have known that something was happening inside of me. Her teeth 
grazed that button of flesh which the devil had overtaken. She became more frenzied in the 
movements of her hand beneath her religious frock. I could hear the groans which echoed 
into my hole. It was a fight with the devil, I was sure.

I began to sweat. The droplets rolled down my face in rivulets. I felt the warm perspiration 
trace a wet path down my neck, onto my breasts.

Even my breasts were reacting to the cleansing of the impurities in my body. The nipples 
were swollen. They were firm and standing at attention on the soft mounds of sensitive flesh.

I was shaking so, the breast flesh shook, too. The nipples were more red in color than I had
ever seen them. Another sign of the devil, no doubt.

With her free hand, Sister Sara dug into the flesh of my thigh. I gritted my teeth and took 
the pain. I knew that it must be for a reason. A fight with the devil could not be expected to be
easy.

Obviously, the powers of the devil were fighting back. The uncontrollable tremblings and 
tremors which were consuming my body were manifesting themselves in the nun as well. We 
were both climbing to a fever pitch. It was maddening.

“Oh, oh, oh, Sister Sara. Oh, oh, God,” I cried. “I don’t know what’s happening. I think that 
I’m going to scream. Ahhhhhh,” I cried. I shouted the name of the Lord, trying to purify my 
soul.

Sister Sara groaned, too. I could feel the devil leaving my body in gushes.

Then Sister Sara slumped on the floor. Sweat poured down from her. She was trying to 
catch her breath, and was unable to even speak. She rested on the floor, and I thanked God 
for her.

She left without saying a word. She merely got up at one point, and left the room, bolting 
the door behind me.

*

Because she left my clothing in a neatly folded pile on the floor, I reached inside the 
pocket of my chemise and brought you out, dear diary. The room in which she left me was 
bare except for a narrow cot and a small writing desk.

What more did I need? Nothing at the moment.

The quill in the desk top was fresh, and in the afterglow of that first experience with Father 
Peter and Sister Sara, I write all this. I want never to forget it.

I must keep this hidden from Sister Sara and Father Peter. It mentions the secret 
punishment room where the young nuns were impaled on wooden pegs. It mentions too 
much that could be taken in the wrong way by the wrong people. I know that Father Peter 
would confiscate these pages if he found them, and so I will keep them hidden from him, 
writing entries whenever it is possible.

I know that Raphael must be wondering what’s happened to me. It was arranged that I 
report to him as soon as completing my mission. Now it appears that I shall be kept here for a
longer period than I expected.

I cannot say that I have no fear about what goes on here. The sounds of moaning girls was
just too intense for me to forget about. Even though the punishments must be for the purging
of sins, I have fears about such things. Sometimes it just seems easier to remain in the devil’s 
possession.

I have to give careful consideration to what is happening to me. The talk is that I should 
become a young nun. In these times, I wonder if it is perhaps the most wise thing to do. After 
all, all around me, back in Madrid, people are being punished if they do not take God into 
their lives.

Even I felt the devil making his presence known inside of me. I felt the tinglings which 
seemed like pleasure. I was almost about to give myself up to such pleasures. But now I know 
that this would be wrong.

There is much to think about. Perhaps that is why I am here. In this holy and quiet place, I 
will have time to think. I will have time to review my young life and make choices.

The church is showing me a pathway to God. It’s not easy. That is why the young nuns 
were suffering so. In the end, they know that they will be given a place in heaven for the pain 
they suffer now.

Oh, I hear footsteps. They are coming closer and closer. One of the approaching people 
must be Turlock, the hunchback. I noticed that he dragged one foot when he walked. He’d 
take a step, and then pull the other leg across the floor.

That sounds like him, approaching, approaching, approaching. And the crisp steps of the 
other person. It must be Father Peter. Father Peter, the man who whipped me. I touch the 
swollen, broken flesh. I can barely allow my fingers to press the delicate aches.

But I hear them at the door. The bolt is being opened. I must hide this diary and bow 
down in submission, for they are coming for me.

*

I find it difficult to write, and yet I must. My writing is not clear, because my hand is 
shaking so. I am not even sure how long it has been since my previous entry in this diary. That 
is because Turlock and Father Peter entered the room when last I closed the pages of this 
volume, and since then I have been through so very much.

Time was no longer an element in my existence. I was in a state of timelessness, knowing 
not whether it was day or night. The two blended together, just as the pain and the pleasure 
blended together so that I could not tell which was which.

It was the working of Turlock and Father Peter. I write this” now so that there will be no 
mistake. There may come a time when higher authorities make their powers known to the 
members of this church.

At this point, I cannot say whether the priest and his assistant are good, or if they are 
messengers of the devil. They claim to work for God, but there is something more going on.

When these higher authorities come, if ever they do, there will many explanations from 
Father Peter and the nuns, I’m sure. There is little doubt that the authorities would place 
higher faith in the testimonies of the priest and his nuns, than they would in a young girl who 
ventured upon the church and was offered training in the service of God.

But if I write all this here, it will be a document in which a higher degree of belief will be 
placed. Perhaps the authorities will be able to prove that everything I write in these pages is 
true.

Even if I am no longer around, perhaps the words I write will live, and serve a purpose. 
Perhaps they will save other girls from the fate I’ve just endured.

It began when Father Peter and Turlock entered the room in which I’d been placed by 
Sister Sara. Naturally, I was nude, wearing only the welts of the punishing whip which the 
priest had used on me earlier.

The priest was wearing his vestments. A cross hung down from a chain around his waist. 
The crucifix was positioned over the bulge of his manhood.

“We have just spoken with Sister Sara,” Father Peter told me. “She says that you are 
virginal. She says you are a virgin.”

“Yes, Father. That is correct,” I replied.

“Have you thought about having sexual relations? Have you thought about fornication?”

I felt uneasy.

“Yes, Father. I have thought about such things. Never have I engaged in the actual 
activities, but the thought of those activities did come to me.”

“Placed there by the devil!” Father Peter announced. His eyes were flashing wildly.

“Yes, but Father, I know that the devil is being drawn from me. Already the poisons have 
flowed from my body,” I told him. I wanted him to know that Sister Sara had done an excellent
job with me.

“What are you talking about?” the priest asked, as Turlock looked on.

“I am speaking of Sister Sara’s purification of my soul. She sucked some of the devil’s 
poison from my possessed orifice.”

Father Peter looked stunned. I could see that it would have been better for me to stay 
quiet about this. This was not the first time that Father Peter became outraged by something 
I’d said in all innocence.

“I’ve warned Sister Sara to keep her mouth off the new ones,” Father Peter cursed. “There 
is hell to pay for this. And you are the vixen who will do the paying!”

Apparently, Sister Sara had been told to examine my private place to see if I was still a 
virgin. That alone had been her assignment from Father Peter. The man was outraged that she
had gone farther with me.

“I have my own ways of seeing if you are a virgin!” he announced. “Turlock, bind the bitch 
and bring her to the cross.”

“Yes, Master.”

Turlock took a length of rope from his robe.

It was thick, heavy rope, and he had been trained to use it. Turlock grabbed my hands and 
pulled them behind me. He raised my arms up on my back. It was a most uncomfortable 
position in which to hold my arms, but I had no choice. Father Peter was watching all of this, 
and he was holding a cat-o-nine-tails in his hand!

I felt the cruel rope digging into my wrists as Turlock wrapped it around several times and 
pulled it tight. He then withdrew a sharp knife from the pocket of his robe. I gasped at the 
sight of it glinting in the dim light.

I was afraid that he was going to cut me with it, but he only used the knife to cut the rope. 
When he had the abrasive rope at the length he wanted, he tied several knots in it. I tried to 
move my wrists, but I couldn’t.

He had secured me very tightly, and I could already feel the circulation in my hands 
stopping. With my hands and arms up in the position he’d placed them in, my rear was left 
bare. Father Peter stepped behind me and raised the cat-o-nine-tails.

I started to cringe, because I could only imagine how hurting the thin strips of knotted 
leather would be when nine of them hit my unprotected bottom with the force of Father 
Peter’s swinging arm.

There was that deadly moment of silence in which I sucked air into my stomach and held 
it. Then the whip came whistling down into my vulnerable bottom flesh.

“Ah!” I cried, tears coming to eyes immediately. I tensed my body and jumped from the 
stinging blow. I could actually feel nine little points of terrible pain rising to the surface of my 
young, round buttocks.

Whack! Father Peter, pleased with the results of the first blow, swung the cat again. Again I
cried, this time so loud, I didn’t even realize that it was my own voice hurling up my throat and
out into the air.

I couldn’t help screaming, even though I knew that nobody would come to my aid. I 
thought about the cries I had heard earlier, down in the corridor leading to the punishment 
room. I was beginning to wonder just how many innocent girls were being held here against 
their will.

I wondered how many of them were being punished by the whip, all in the name of God 
and the Spanish Inquisition.

The second and third strokes of the cat against my soft flesh burned hot pain into the 
entire area of my twin globes. No longer could I feel the individual points stinging me. Now 
the entire area burned in one throbbing mass of pain.

Father Peter turned away after making my bottom red hot and glowing. Turlock took the 
remainder of the heavy rope and wrapped it around my neck. I thanked the Lord that he 
didn’t tie it tightly. It was just intended to serve as a collar around my neck, with a connecting 
leash on which he led me to the cross.





CHAPTER THREE


Father Peter gave my crimsoned behind another swat with the cat-o-nine-tails, just to prompt 
me along. He treated me like a mare, and used the whip on me as one might use the whip on 
the flanks of a horse.

Didn’t he realize that I was a young girl? My hindquarters were ample, and fleshy, but 
hardly strong enough to take the abuse of the cat.

Turlock led me on the leash of rope. The harsh surface of the rope scraped at my neck, 
leaving a redness in my white flesh wherever it touched.

We approached the large wooden cross which was standing in a small chapel.

“On this we shall tie you, and on this we shall punish you,” Father Peter announced. His 
voice was deep and I was feeling great fear. I wondered what would happen. I knew that it 
wouldn’t be pleasant. I wasn’t there for pleasure, although I couldn’t be sure about Father 
Peter and his assistant. Their motives were unclear.

My hands already felt numbed from the loss of circulation created by the binding rope. It 
had served its purpose, having humbled me and made me vulnerable to the cat. I was unable 
to protect my young bottom with my hands, because the rope held my hands in place. If I had
lowered my hands, they too would have felt the sting of the wicked cat-o-nine-tails.

“Untie her so that we may fasten her to the cross,” Father Peter said.

The ugly Turlock obeyed the command. I could feel the man’s hot breath on my wounds 
as he stood close and untied the ropes. He pressed his body up against mine, only when 
Father Peter was not looking. He rubbed the bulge of his manhood against my trembling, 
naked flesh. I was repulsed, but what could I do?

I didn’t dare complain because the priest would certainly have sided with that Turlock 
creature. It was a losing battle for me, and so I submitted in complete servitude.

It was like the servitude one gives to the church. It made me realize how humble I was in 
the eyes of God. I bowed my head. I strained to offer my wrists, pulling them away from my 
back so that Turlock could untie me.

Oh, it felt so good to be out of that rope bondage. I rubbed the circulation back into each 
wrist. But my freedom was short-lived.

“It is with pleasure that I shall bind you to the cross,” Father Peter said. “Forgive her, Father,
for she has sinned,” the priest prayed.

Turlock and Father Peter bound me to the cross, which was made of two lengths of thick 
wood. The cross bar was tied to the vertical bar with a criss-cross of robe. Then I was tied to 
the cross with a thinner rope, but one which secured me.

The rope crossed over my wrists. It was wrapped around the beam about four or five times
before the final knots were tied.

Another length of rope was used to secure my lower torso to the cross. Father Peter 
wrapped the rope around the post and around my thighs as well. He tied it around the area 
several inches above my knees, and several more inches below my buttocks.

Turlock clasped my ankles together to heavy bands which were made of a silver substance.
This material was harsh, and cut into my flesh. I didn’t dare move in the bondage, for any 
movement, I soon found out, caused more pain than it was worth.

I felt weak up there on the cross. I felt sick.

And yet, something told me that this was meant to be. Surely it was no accident that I 
found myself bound to a cross at this time in history. I was to be purged of my sins.

I looked into the face of Father Peter. He stood in front of me. He was several feet from 
me; just far enough back so that he could observe me fastened there.

He seemed pleased with what he saw. He let his left hand fall to the lump which pressed 
forward into his holy vestments. As for his right hand, he held the ominous cat-o-nine-tails. It 
dangled at his side. The strips of knotted rawhide rubbed against the material of his robe, and 
I tingled to think of the pain those strips of leather could cause me.

“Will you hurt me, Father?” I asked. My voice was just a whisper, and it trembled terribly.

“I will hurt you, child. I will hurt your physical body. But your spirit will be better for it. It is 
your spirit that lasts, long after the body has perished,” he said to me.

“Yes, but it is my physical body which will suffer when the whip cracks into my flesh. That 
cat has a wicked bite. The kisses leave deep purple reminders of the terrible pain.”

“I know that,” Father Peter said. He flicked the whip against his opened palm. “I know that 
very well.”

My body was a vulnerable target for his whip. He stepped forward, and told me to pray. 
“Pray for forgiveness,” he told me. “Pray while I beat the demons from you. You have thought 
of fornication. And even worse, I’m sure.”

“Lubricate her,” Father Peter ordered. Turlock grinned and placed his head between my 
legs.

I tried to escape, but the ropes and the clamps cut into me. I was bound to the cross. I was
there to be punished. There was nothing I could do. I was their victim. They had me. I could 
only follow the priest’s command that I pray. Only prayer could help me.

Turlock extended his peculiar tongue. He let the long thing lick my private parts, teasing 
me as he went. He started with the inner thighs, working his way up closer and closer to the 
area which had been cleansed by Sister Sara.

This tongue was not even like a human tongue, and when it reached my undulating center
of desire, I cried. The unusually shaped tongue muscle snaked its way inside of me. I felt it 
slide over regions which Sister Sara had lubricated.

The dripping of my tender girl-organ dripped down my bare and hairless legs. It created a 
wet path which cooled in the breeze, sending shivers into my cuntal realm. From time to time, 
Turlock glanced up at the Master, Father Peter. He was looking for some sign from the man, 
and Father Peter beckoned him to continue two or three times.

Then, he directed the hunchbacked assistant to stop.

“I cannot trust Sister Sara. She must flog herself for some of the things she has done. I 
have my own test of a girl’s virginity,” the priest said.

He took the cat-o-nine-tails. The handle was shaped for the grip of a palm. The handle 
was also shaped as a thick male organ. Father Peter placed the end of the whip at my virgin 
hole!

“Oh, please, Father, please,” I begged. “Don’t insert that black piece in my private place. I 
am a virgin. I swear to you that I am a virgin.”

“Pray to God,” Father Peter told me, again. “Pray, and tell me about your sexual fantasies. 
Confess. Confess them all to me. Only when you put them out in the open will they be 
released from your body. If you hold them inside, they will stay with you forever. Then you will
be damned.”

The black handle was placed between the soft mounds of my nearly hairless pussy. The 
priest intended to twist the handle into my hole as I spoke. Pain and pleasure would merge, as
I told him of my sexual fantasies.

It was not easy to speak of such things. It was not easy at all. But I had to come forward. I 
had to speak.

“I have imagined that I am lying naked on a bed,” I told him. “I feel that strange tingling 
and I spread the lips of love. I await the coming of the man.”

I wasn’t even sure who the man in my fantasies actually was. At least, I wasn’t sure until 
that moment. Always I had seen his tumescent organ, swelling up between his legs and 
curving out many inches from a dark patch of pubic wire.

Always I had parted my virgin sex lips to entice this man into me. I told Father Peter this, 
and he pressed the handle of the whip into the cleft. The place was wet from Turlock’s tongue,
Sister Sara’s tongue before that, and from the flowing nectar which my quivering quim could 
not hold back.

The black handle became damp and the priest twisted it into me. I cried, but he told me to
keep praying, and to continue with my uncovering of my desires. I obeyed.

*

“He brandishes his powerful organ and he places it at my opening,” I said, tearfully. I could
look down from my position on the cross. I could see the face of Father Peter as he tested my 
virginity. I could feel the thick stump of black handle inside my body. It was pressing deeper 
and deeper, reaching the maidenhead.

The organ opened up for him. The yielding passage made way for the black intruder.

And then I relived my fantasy on that cross. I imagined the handle of the whip to be the 
hard organ of my dream lover. I looked at him. Instead of Father Peter, I saw another man.

It was Raphael! For the first time since my fantasies began to overtake my body and my 
mind, I actually confronted the vision to the fullest extent. It was Raphael whom I desired. He 
was the man I longed for.

It was his organ which I wished would ravish me.

“Oh, give it to me. Hurt me with that thing,” I begged, feeling the black handle of the whip 
and imagining that it was Raphael’s flesh and blood tool.

I was snapped from my fantasies by the reality of Father Peter’s harsh voice. He withdrew 
the handle of the whip. My tender young sex lips hugged at it, splashing inner wetness on the 
handle. I wanted it.

“She’s a virgin,” Father Peter said. Apparently I had passed his test.

“But a possessed one, ey, Father?” Turlock replied.

“Yes, a possessed one. We shall have to cure her of that,” the priest said.

The next thing I remember, I saw the priest raise the cat-o-nine-tails. He stood back far 
enough to have the full length of my naked, cross-bound body as his target. He teased me by 
showing me the wicked whip up behind him as he placed it in the ‘swing’ position.

I started to pray. I prayed to the Lord that he wouldn’t swing that cat down on my 
vulnerable front. My back and buttocks were bound against the wooden cross. Only my 
unprotected front was available for the kiss of the whip.

My naked breasts began to tingle, with the knowledge that the sensitive breast flesh might
feel the kisses of the hurting cat. And my lower regions! The thought was too much. My naked
pussy had been introduced to the handle of the whip.

I hated to think what the business end of the whip would do to my tender female flesh.

With the mercy of God, I passed out. I felt the first fierce blow of the whip on my naked 
breasts. I felt the devil fly from my breasts, overtaken with stinging pain.

When I finally came to, my nodding head was facing downward. I saw the scarlet 
criss-crosses which laced my delicate, white flesh.

I indeed thanked God for sparing me the agony of the pain of the cutting lashes as they 
were delivered. Now, however, the stripes were aching and swelling. They marked the front of 
my young body all the way down to my lower thighs.

I shed a tear, and the salt of the tear burned into the abused flesh as it slid over the deep 
welts and bruises.

Father Peter had done a thorough job with the whip. I felt relieved. I was sure the devil had
left my young body for good after that session of the cat!

My wrists and ankles were aching terribly with a dull throbbing which matched the beat of 
my pulse. I had been tied to the cross for God only knew how long. The room was enclosed, 
with no windows. It was dark. I didn’t know if it was day or night.

I didn’t know how long I’d been secured to the cross, and I had no idea how much longer 
they would keep me there.

Time crept on. It stretched on and on. I was hungry. I was thirsty. I wondered if they had 
left me to die on the cross. I was terrified, but too weak and dizzy to think about it with 
anything but grief and longing.

I thought about Raphael, the man whose face appeared to me in my confession. I 
wondered if it was really a sin to want him as I did. I wondered if I would ever see him again, 
or if I had indeed begun my voyage into the life of a nun.

Finally, after what must have been no less than twelve hours, I heard new footsteps. It was 
Sister Sara.

“Sister Sara,” I cried. “I’m so happy to see you!”

She didn’t show any expression in her face. “You fool,” she said, as she untied the knots 
which bound me to the cross. “You told Father Peter what happened between us.”

“But I thought… “

“Never mind what you thought,” Sister Sara snapped. “I have been well punished for the 
act.”

I was surprised to learn that Sister Sara was subject to the same discipline as the novice 
nuns. She too was a servant of God, and a slave of Father Peter.

“You’ll get yours,” she said heartlessly, unsnapping the tight bands around my captive 
ankles. “Someone came looking for you today. It became apparent to Father Peter that you 
did not happen to stumble upon the convent by accident, and the donation you offered the 
church was for an evil purpose.”

My throbbing, burning skin was hot, but my inner flesh froze.

I had been severely disciplined, and now I was found guilty of something which certainly 
was a crime.

“Please tell me more, Sister Sara,” I said, anxiously.

“A man came to the church,” the nun replied. “At first Father Peter told him that there 
must have been some mistake. He told the man that no girl who fit your description had ever 
come to the church to offer a donation.”

“But that was a lie,” I protested.

“It was for your own good. If the man were a messenger of the devil, it was Father Peter’s 
duty as a holy man to keep him away from our church and from you.”

“Who was the man?” I asked, knowing that it could only be Raphael.

“He said his name was Raphael, and when Father Peter heard the name, he knew that this 
whole thing had been planned. He knew that you and this Raphael were spying on the 
church.”

I had no explanation. We weren’t really spying on the church. We didn’t care what 
practices took place here. We hadn’t known that the practices which went on behind the walls 
of this holy place were anything but holy.

But we couldn’t say the real reason that I had come, either. “How did Father Peter Figure 
all of this out in his head?” I asked.

“He said that while he punished you upon the cross, you cried out for Raphael. You cried 
for Raphael, and now he has come to you.”

Sister Sara was sneering, and I knew that Raphael had been taken captive. If this cruel 
people abused me and the other young girls as harshly as they did, I hated to think of what 
they would do to a strong man like Raphael.

Sister Sara brought me to the room which she had placed me in before my ordeal on the 
cross. I was feeling great fear for Raphael, but I was happy to find that the diary, you dear 
diary, was waiting for me beneath the flat mattress of my cot.

The quill was still fresh, and so I write these lines now. So you understand why my pen 
quivers. My nerves are weak. I have been denied food. My hand shakes from these things and 
from the fear I experience for Raphael.

Raphael was so good to me. I still owe him something to repay him. I have spoiled my 
chance to follow through oh the plan we devised. But I feel certain that under the 
circumstances which exist in this place, there will be other opportunities for me to repay him.

I only wonder what the price will be.

*

Oh, Lord, forgive me. I do not feel that I have sinned, though in Your eyes, what I have 
done may be a sin of the highest order. I do not know, but I swear I did it for love.

It has been a while since I wrote in this book. Shortly after the previous entry, Turlock came
to me in this room. I hid the diary beneath the mattress. He didn’t see it.

“Did you feel the cutting edge of the whip?” he said, laughing at me and my pain.

“Yes, and I still feel it now,” I replied. “Tell me, Turlock. Tell me what is happening with my 
friend Raphael. Sister Sara informed me that he came looking for me. She said that Father 
Peter brought Raphael in.”

“News travels fast within these walls,” Turlock smiled, licking his lips.

I don’t know what made me say the things I did to a person such as Turlock. He should 
have been the last person I trusted. I had come in contact with Father Peter, Sister Sara, and 
Turlock since my arrival at the church. Sister Sara had shown me some compassion when she 
exorcised the devil from my young hole.

As for Father Peter, he was cruel, but I had to believe that his motives were just. He is a 
man of the cloth, and I have to believe that anyone who would pursue God as this man does, 
must have compassion within him.

Turlock was not a practicing member of the clergy at all. He was just a simple assistant to 
the priest, and a strange one, at that. He had done nothing but bring me misery since my 
arrival.

And yet, I was feeling vulnerable in that moment when he came into my tiny room and 
placed his hands on my welts, the welts of the whip which laced the front of my body. I 
decided that if I opened up my heart and spoke the truth to him, that he might respond in the
same manner. I asked him to tell me about this church. I begged him to tell me what the 
church was really all about, and to help me save Raphael from the torment which seemed to 
thrive here.

Turlock seemed moved that I should ask him these questions. He was a servant of Father 
Peter, and being ugly and hunchbacked, he must not have had anyone talk with him so openly
too often in the past.

“This is a Dominican church,” he explained. “The Dominicans are the ones who know the 
rules which must be followed to get girls like you into heaven. Father Peter is a good man. He 
is serving the Lord,” Turlock told me.

I was glad to hear these words. I believed Turlock. I asked him about the novices who I saw
impaled on the pegs. I couldn’t believe that all those young girls had decided to become nuns
of their own free choice. I had certainly been coerced into it. That was reason enough for me 
to have my doubts about the others.

“Some of them were captured by the Crusaders,” Turlock told me. “They were raped, and 
now it is the work of this church to purify their defiled souls.”

Turlock continued to tell me about some of the other girls. He explained that the law of 
the land was such that a man could inform the church that his wife was a heretic. He would be
protected, while the accused would face torture until she confessed.

Many of the girls had apparently confessed to sins to avoid the turn of the screw, or the 
torture of death by fire. Others admitted to infidelities which qualified them for life in the 
nunnery where they would be made to repent.

The only excuse for divorce was one of such a nature. Therefore, Turlock explained, it was 
not uncommon for husbands to tell the Dominican church wild stories which would never be 
checked except through the torture of the accused.

Once the accused confessed, as so often happened, the males were free to marry again. As
for the females, they were sentenced to life in the convent.

Some of the young girls who I’d seen on the pegs were really in training for their service as
nuns. Self-punishment, and the scourge of the priest’s whip were required to expel the devil 
from the body.

I realized that I fell into the latter category. Although I had not set out to become a nun, I 
did feel that the devil had entered my body. Why else would I suddenly be feeling these 
sensations of lust?

Father Peter had explained the connection between blood and the devil. I had recently 
been cursed. It was only within the recent past that blood began flowing from my young 
pussy. It comes at regular periods, and I know that it is a sign from the devil.

“But what about Raphael?” I asked suddenly. The thought of him came into my head once 
again, and I realized that his well-being was most important to me. It was probably more 
important to me than anything else.

Even my own survival came after the survival of Raphael. After all, I owed him so much.

“What about him?” Turlock replied. “Father Peter knows that you and he conspired to spy 
on the practices of the church. You probably planned to report the goings-on to higher 
members in the Dominican Order. It won’t work. They will never find anything. They trust the 
word of Father Peter.”

Turlock looked at my naked body as he spoke. I saw him looking closely at the bright red 
nipples of my abused breasts. I saw him take a feel at the lump between his legs when he 
glanced down at the criss-crossed area of my young virgin hole. The stripes of the 
cat-o-nine-tails marked the entrance to the pit.

“Of course, Father Peter is doing right in freeing the devil from the bodies of his charges. 
He feels that it is his mission in this life. His methods may be strict, but what less severe tactics 
would let the devil loose?”

I had to agree with Turlock. I knew that there had to be reasons for the severity of Father 
Peter’s actions.

“But you still haven’t told me about what Father Peter plans to do with Raphael,” I said 
pleadingly.

“Kill him,” came the simple reply.

“Kill him? Oh, no, no, that can’t happen. I won’t allow it. I love Raphael!”

Turlock raised his eyebrows and licked the tip of his hooked nose with his enormous 
tongue.

“I may be able to help you,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.

Naturally, I was eager to try anything to save Raphael. “How can you help?” I asked.

“Well, I have been known to have influence with Father Peter,” Turlock replied, tapping the 
tips of his fingers together in front of him. “He listens to me.”

“Oh, Turlock, please tell him that Raphael means no harm. If only Father Peter would let 
Raphael go. I would be so grateful. I would be able to spend the rest of my life in this place, 
learning to be a nun. I would be a good nun, I know I would, if only I could know that Raphael
were free.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Turlock replied.

I was so happy, I would have wrapped my arms around him and kissed him, but he was 
too repulsive for that. It wasn’t his fault. I guess that he was simply born that way. But I 
couldn’t bring myself to touching him like that. Not now, anyway. I did feel that if Turlock was 
able to get Father Peter to release Raphael, things would be different.

Then I would really be able to kiss Turlock, because then I would truly be satisfied and 
happy. I would have saved Raphael’s life, and that would bring me closer to God. That would 
help me find my calling, if indeed my calling was to be a nun. Perhaps it was meant to be that 
I get involved in the theft-plot with Raphael. Perhaps it was meant to happen to lead me on a 
new path.

Turlock’s whining voice interrupted my thoughts. “There is something that you’ll have to 
do for me to show me that you’re sincere about freeing this Raphael character,” Father Peter’s 
servant told me.

“What is it that you want me to do?” I breathed with excitement.

Turlock’s face changed. A grin spread across his face, contorting his already peculiar 
features into an expression of lustful desire. I could see that the look on his face had nothing 
to do with Godliness!

“You are going to have to let me take your virginity!” Turlock said.

I’m certain that my flesh must have paled and my jaw dropped slack at this demand. It was
horrible. And it seemed that it would lead to terrible punishment for me.

“But I am not supposed to experience such feelings in my vagina,” I told him. “I know that 
it must be a sin.”

“Nobody said that you would feel desire,” Turlock said simply. “I would take responsibility 
for my own feelings. You would only have to spread your legs and assist my large organ into 
your sex pit.”

“Oh, but I’ve been examined by Father Peter and found to be a virgin. I’m certain that he 
had a reason for the examination. Isn’t it true that to be a nun a girl must be chaste?”

“Yes, and she must remain that way,” Turlock replied.

“But I would lose my chance to be a nun. I would be defying Father Peter and I’m sure that 
he would check me again and discover what happened.”

“Do you want to save Raphael?” Turlock grinned.

I knew what he meant. There was no answer to be said in words. If I really wanted to save 
the life of Raphael, I would have to give up my virginity to the horrible Turlock.

He could see the trembling which I could not hide. He could see the heaving of my young 
breasts, and he knew that I was going to give in.

He grinned again, a slight little smirk, and he reached down to the front of his bagged 
trousers. He unbuttoned himself. The thing came out.

I almost fainted when I saw it. It was larger than I’d imagined it would be. I was frightened 
just looking at it.

“Wet it up,” Turlock said.

“What?”

“I said wet it up.”

I didn’t understand what he wanted. There was no water in the small room. There was no 
tub.

“With your mouth, you stupid fool,” Turlock said. He was harsh and crude.

I raised by eyes to heaven and uttered words of prayer. One thing was certain. Since 
coming to the church, I had done more praying than ever before in my young life. That much, 
the church did do for me.

The veiny column of this man was curved and long. He was holding it in his hand, and 
pulling back and forth on the skin of it. The pliable skin moved over the head, which was slick 
with a goo which emanated from the slit at the end of the head.

“Go on,” Turlock ordered. “Go on and suck it.”

I took a deep breath and then placed my girlish lips down on the pole which curved out 
from between Turlock’s legs.

Oh, Lord, forgive me, I said to myself, as I felt him press his organ forward so that the thing
moved into my mouth. The slick goo which coated the head made the organ slide beyond my 
lips and into the orifice of my oral cavity.

I closed my eyes because I didn’t want to look into the hairy patch which crowned the long
tool. I took it in my mouth as best I could. I feared that I might get sick, but again I prayed 
silently, and soon, something strange happened. I felt myself give in to the desire. I began to 
like it.

It seemed so sinful to be doing this within the confines of the church. I knew that such a 
sexual act was forbidden, by the church, especially if I were to be a nun.

There was no love between Turlock and I. This was a forced act, even though the man 
didn’t force me physically with brutality, as Father Peter did with his whips. Still, I was forced 
into it to save the life of Raphael.

But Raphael, who was in my thoughts as I began to suck, soon faded away. All that 
mattered was the dork within my mouth. The man named Turlock pressed his pelvis forward, 
arching his body so that the sticky head pressed onward down into my throat.

I pressed forward to meet his stroke. I tried to take the thing down into my throat. I 
wanted to swallow as much of it as physically possible. I wanted it all.

Turlock was now sitting on the cot. I was on my knees, as if in prayer. I was praying to the 
god of his cock.

My head bobbed back and forth on the extended rod. I felt it grow harder and harder in 
my mouth. I sucked up and down on it, taking it in until the fur which crowned the shaft was 
near my lips; near enough for me to feel it tickling me.

He was grunting. He barely sounded human at all.

I wondered if he was the messenger of the devil, there to tempt me. If he was, he had 
succeeded. He had me all excited at the act. My nipples were swollen with desire. They were 
red hot and extended and firm.

I could hardly believe what was happening, but I knew that the devil was inside of me 
again. I could feel the devil inside of me in every membrane; in every pore. The trembling 
which was overtaking my body; the shaking, the minor convulsions inside my young virgin 
hole. All of these things told me that the devil had entered me, right there in the church room.

I wished that I could see the feet of Turlock. I had heard that the devil has cloven hooves. I 
wondered if Turlock had toes, or… no, it was too terrible to think. What if the devil actually 
had his penis inside of my mouth?

I knew that if the devil didn’t take me directly to hell, I would suffer here on earth with the 
flailing of Father Peter’s whips. He would punish me for this.

I could still feel the stinging, burning pain in the previous strokes which he’d emblazoned 
on my flesh. It was like a tattoo of pain which served as a constant reminder of my life as a 
sinner. Every time I moved a muscle, I could feel the whip lashes on my skin, within my flesh, 
and I realized how sinful I had been.

Turlock was grunting more loudly. The shaft was very wet from the saliva which I sucked 
onto the organ. He pressed forward and started rocking into me. He grabbed his rod and 
turned it so that the curve cut into my inner cheek.

He continued to rock, hurting me with his penis. Now his penis was fully erect, and I could 
feel the vein pumping in my mouth. I could feel every inch of his spear inside of me. It was 
terrible, and it was wonderful, at the same time.

I knew that I was becoming a young woman, instead of remaining a little girl. My body was
telling me that, because I felt great sensations at my female parts.

My nipples were aching with desire. They were begging to be licked, sucked, pinched, 
tweaked, and bitten. My cuntal realm was quivering. The little lips were fluttering. I knew that 
Turlock wanted to fill me down in that hole.

Even my bunghole was tingling. Perhaps it was because my anus was so close to my 
vagina. Perhaps the sensations were associated with one another. Whatever, I could feel the 
tremblings in my rectum and I knew that it was the devil at work.

Lord have mercy, and please don’t damn me to hell forever, but I didn’t care. No, I didn’t 
care if it was the devil at work. It felt better than anything I’d ever experienced before.

There was the emotional element of it. Something inside of me longed for the insertion of 
this piece of thick man-meat. There was an emotional craving for it which I had never known 
before. Now that Turlock had forcefed me his shaft, I realized that the lust did bum within me, 
and when that happened, as it was doing, it was just impossible to suppress the desire.

I had to give in to it. I had to give in all the way and allow myself to feel the pulsations of 
Turlock’s penis pressing into me.

Now I really knew what it meant to be a sinner. What made me certain of that was the fact 
that I didn’t care. I just didn’t care! I wanted it! And I even wanted more.

I was supposed to be in training as a young nun. Well, the very atmosphere of the church 
was now associated with just one thing as far as I was concerned. It was associated with 
Turlock’s manly organ!

“Fornication! Fornication!” is what I would have shouted, if my mouth had not been filled 
with pumping iron. I would have begged Turlock to give me his curved rod inside of my tight 
young box.

I wanted to feel the pain of it curving into me. I wanted to feel the hot surface of it burning
into the walls of my inner flesh.

I wanted to be a sinner. I was going to be beaten and punished for my sins in any case. 
Therefore, I wanted to have something to be punished for. I wanted to earn the strokes of the 
whip, and know that I was truly being beaten to rid me of the devil.

But that would come later after I had indulged myself fully. I opened my eyes. I looked up 
into the pubic hair of the monster-fucker. I raised my eyes higher, up beyond the rippling 
stomach of the aroused man. I looked into his face from my humble position between the 
man’s legs.

He was no longer so horrible to me. The fact that he was a monster strangely appealed to 
me, because I was being taken against my own true will. I was being forced into this debasing 
act, right here in the church, because of a true love.

But the twisted man and his twisted corkscrew of a penis were far more exciting than even 
the true love!

Yes, I wanted to lie beneath a tree and gently stroke the handsome face of my lover 
Raphael. I wanted to cuddle with Raphael, and feel his gentle caresses. I wanted to take his 
perfect cock between my lips, into my mouth, down my throat, and then into my cunt.

But not as much as I wanted Turlock!

Turlock was driving me mad. I was mad with devil lust. There was no other explanation for 
the feelings which swept over me. They caused me to bump up and down. I was going wild on
the joystick of the priest’s assistant.





CHAPTER FOUR


“That’s right, that’s right,” Turlock told me.

He grabbed at my hair and pulled at it. He used my head for his own pleasure, holding me 
my the roots and banging my head back and forth on the nearly-bursting organ.

Then he pulled me off the cock, and held my head in place just a few inches from the head
of the shaft. When I raised my eyes, I could see his face staring down at me. When I looked 
straight forward, I saw the pulsing of the bulbous cock head.

“Now it’s good and wet from your mouth,” Turlock said with contempt. “Are you ready to 
really sin?”

I could feel the hot tears streaming down my cheeks. I hated to admit the truth. I didn’t 
really want to be a sinner, but I had to be. I wanted to and yet I didn’t want to. Does that make
any sense at all, dear diary?

I knew that all of this was wrong. I knew that it was doubly wrong, to be doing it with the 
priest’s assistant, in the church. And of course, I knew that I would receive terrible punishment 
for all of it. I would pay with strokes of the whip, or worse.

But I had to have it. It was difficult to get the words out. It was hard to say it, admitting it 
to another, as I had admitted it to myself.

“Yes, Turlock,” I replied, my voice a tremble, my mouth still tasting of his organ. “Yes, I am 
ready to really sin.”

“Good. Open up for me,” Turlock said.

He pulled me up onto the cot, placed me on my back, and parted my legs.

He was down between my smooth, spread thighs in a minute. His face was there, and his 
unnatural tongue snaked out from his mouth. The tongue muscle began to probe the lips, 
forcing them open.

He licked the insides of my pussy with his unfurled tongue. He did the same kinds of 
things that Sister Sara did to my private place, but he did not attempt to suck out the evil 
juices as the nun did.

He made certain that all of the liquid remained inside of me. Some of it was dripping out, 
and running down my legs. He didn’t attempt to lick that up. He let it drip down. He even spit 
into my sex organ, adding more lubrication.

I feared that he was spitting in the germs of the devil. I felt that these seeds from his saliva 
would sprout inside of me, unleashing the hell fire of the devil, for sins I was committing with 
him.

I had to stop thinking like this. Every time I began to enjoy the pleasure of the act, I 
thought of the devil. Well, that wasn’t the work of the devil, for the devil would have hidden 
these thoughts from me and made me know only the sinful pleasure.

It must have been God’s work and the influence of people like Sister Sara and Father Peter 
that was turning me into a quivering mass of flesh.

I gave in completely.

“Fuck me, Turlock,” I cried. “Fuck me!”

The tongue wasn’t enough. It was tickling my inner pussy and making me all wet inside.

It was starting a sex itch in my body. But I ..wanted the insertion that would scratch the itch
and fill me with hot passion.

I wanted Turlock’s cock.

The cock I had sucked with such abandon was throbbing now. I looked down and I could 
see that it was still very hard. It seemed to lurch involuntarily from time to time, indicating that
there was a lot of passion inside of it.

Turlock’s cock might have been set in motion by the devil. Perhaps the devil was inside of 
Turlock, causing him to behave this way, setting his cock on fire. The fire would have to rush 
out the hose. It would have to escape his body, jumping into mine.

“I’m going to spew my evil seed inside of you,” the demon Turlock told me.

“Yes, yes, I want your fire inside of me. I want to feel you fill me up with the hot fire of your
demon seed.”

Turlock was up on top of me. He was looking into my face and I could smell my own 
girl-scent on his mouth. His eyes were glinting fiercely.

“Lord, have mercy,” I cried.

Turlock was in me! He plowed inside with one mighty thrust. I didn’t even know what hit 
me. One moment I felt the flared head of his organ pressing gently in the cleft of my virginity.

Then, the next moment, a terrible pain shot through me. He slammed all the way in, 
breaking the membrane which defined my virginity as if it were an eggshell.

Oh, the pain was terrible. No doubt it was the pain which God brought to the cunts of 
young girls who sinned in this manner. This was my first time. It pained me more than I 
imagined.

Once he had gotten all the way inside, reaching the areas beyond the tattered hymen, he 
stayed inside. I could feel the organ pulsing as he breathed heavily. He was aroused to the 
high point of his life. I too, was aroused at the idea, but the pain was so great that I needed a 
rest period in which to get used to the invading member.

“Fuck you,” Turlock said to me.

And that was what he did.

*

It must have been some hours later that I found myself alone in the little room. The cot 
was very damp in several places where sex juices from Turlock had spilled.

My young, newly deflowered organ was aching. I could feel the heat of the liquid fire 
which Turlock had spewed inside of me, as he promised he would.

There was blood on the bed. Again, I thought of the devil and his quest for red blood.

My hair was tangled from the sweat which had bathed my forehead, matting my hair to 
my face. Down below, the strands of fine pubic hair were also matted after this terrible fucking
which had been so wild, so wonderful, so sinful and perverse.

It was all of those things. Had it been any less, I would have resisted a punishment for it. 
But this time, when the next punishment was offered, I would be ready, knowing that I 
deserved it. I would beg to have the devil beaten from my body.

“Flog me, Father Peter. Flog me,” I would cry.

There had been no discussion between Turlock and I regarding Turlock’s part of the deal. 
It had been originally agreed that Turlock would do his best to save Raphael if I gave him my 
virginity. I had kept my part of the bargain.

I wondered what Turlock would do. Would he really follow through? I hoped so. I prayed 
that Raphael would be delivered safely from this church house.

“May the Lord walk with you, and hold you in the palm of His hand,” I whispered, thinking 
of Raphael. As for myself, I feared that it might be too late for my salvation.

Perhaps I was just too far gone to survive the devil, and Father Peter.

Maybe I would have been able to survive one of them, but the two of them were just too 
powerful for me to overcome, even if I did become a nun and had the Lord on my side.

I remained on the damp cot for a long time, because I was too weak and tired to get up 
from it. I must have dozed off again.

When I finally awoke, I was hungry. Of course, there was no food for me. Father Peter 
believed that fasting was good for the soul. He said that fasting was a way of atoning, and he 
said that he was certain that I had a lot of atoning to do.

Now I knew that I did, too.

Since there was no food, no water, and since the door was bolted from the outside, I 
assumed that I was being kept in solitary confinement for a while. Perhaps Father Peter was a 
sadist. There would have been nothing for me to do if it were not for you, dear diary.

I took the time to write all of these thoughts; and give you all of the details of the 
encounter with Turlock.

Others may not believe that I did it for the love of Raphael, but you know that the words I 
write in this book are the absolute truth. This book is like an extension of myself, and why 
would I lie to myself at this late stage.

I say late stage because although I am young, I feel that I have gone too far as a sinner to 
return to my youth. Imagine the mind of a girl who comes to a church with the intention of 
aiding a theft-plot, and then winds up having sexual communication with the assistant of the 
church priest! I must be sick.

I must be possessed by the devil.

*

“Raquel, come with me.”

It was Father Peter. He unbolted the door and entered my small room. He saw me on the 
bed. I was nude. I heard the power in his deep voice, although he wasn’t yelling or bellowing. 
He was calm and restrained, but I felt that it was the calm before the storm. He was angry.

I guess that it wasn’t difficult for him to see that something had happened in that room 
which left me damp with sweat, and deflowered.

Or maybe it was something to do with Raphael. I didn’t know.

I walked like an obedient dog behind Father Peter. He walked me to the corridor down 
which the screams of punished young nuns could be heard.

I looked at the priest from behind. I wished that he would speak to me. I always thought 
that priest would be a person a girl could confide in. But not Father Peter.

I hoped that he wasn’t going to take me to the room with the pegs. I couldn’t stand the 
thought of having to sit on one of those pegs.

But that wasn’t what the priest had in mind for me.

“Go into that room,” he said, pointing to a room on the left, at the end of the corridor. 
“There is a tub there. Sister Sara will be in to bathe you.”

That was all he said. Before I could say a word, he was gone. I didn’t know what he had in 
made. I didn’t understand why he wanted me to bathe, but a bath would be refreshing for me,
since I was damp with sweat and sex juices.

I could feel the presence of Turlock on my body. I did want to take a bath.

The door to the room was unlocked. I entered. A large wooden tub stood in the center of 
the room. I didn’t have to disrobe. I was already nude.

Soon Sister Sara joined me in the room. She walked in carrying a drying towel. She was 
dressed in her habit, but she disrobed in front of me.

“I am going to bathe with you, and cleanse you as I do,” Sister Sara said.

“Why?” I asked, fearing that there was more to this than met the eye.

“Why?” she laughed. “Well, because being clean is like being close to God. You don’t think 
that the angels in heaven are in need of a bath, do you?”

I laughed. Perhaps I was being too sensitive or too serious about this place.

Sister Sara directed me to climb into the tub. I did. She carried a large pitcher of very hot 
water which she added to the water in the tub. This made it warm enough for me to bathe in.

Sister Sara removed her vestments as I watched. I had always wondered what a nun wore 
below her garments. Now I knew. I can’t say that all nuns are like Sister Sara in this respect, 
but I can say that Sister Sara was naked beneath her habit.

She pulled the collar over her neck. When she removed the gown, I could see her breasts 
for the very first time. They were large. They were larger than mine.

She cupped her hand beneath one globe and pushed it upwards. It was full-fleshed, and 
the nipple was sort of squared off at the tip, while my own young nipples were shaped like 
cones.

Her pubic region was covered in thick, coarse fur. She ran her fingers through the forest of
hair. She stepped into the tub.

Her breasts almost floated on the surface of the water as she stayed beside me in the tub. 
We were so close that I could feel the smoothness of her leg against mine below the water 
line.

She had a natural sponge with her.

“Turn around,” she said. I did.

She began to wash my back, rubbing patterns in the flesh with the soft sponge. I asked her
to please go gently on me, since I was suffering from the bruises inflicted by Father Peter’s 
whip.

“I know of those bruises,” Sister Sara replied. She turned and showed me her own back. 
Not only was it marked with freshly laid welts, but it bore traces of many past punishments as 
well.

“Don’t think that Father Peter gave me all of those wounds,” she explained. “I flog myself 
regularly,” she said.

“You flog yourself? But why?” I asked.

“To relieve myself of sin. I am a nun, you know. When you become a nun, you shall do the 
same thing, I’m sure. It becomes a way of life for us. It is very much needed. I feel much better 
for the pain.”

“Oh, Sister Sara,” I said. “I have my doubts about this whole thing. I didn’t set out to be a 
nun. I’m not at all sure that it is best for me.”

“All of us go through that. If we didn’t, it would probably mean that we were not taking 
our calling seriously enough. As for me, I know that I was brought into this earth for one 
reason. I am here to serve God. God fills me. It is in my blood to be a nun.”

“I want to be filled,” I replied. “But God does not fill me. I have been filled by a man, right 
here in the church.”

Sister Sara was startled. “But Raquel, when I examined you, you were a virgin.”

“No longer,” I told her.

The nun started praying for me. Then she spoke.

“I warned you, or tried to warn you, when I first laid eyes on you. I tried to keep you away 
from the church.”

“Yes, but I still don’t understand why. Was it because of the things that happen to girls 
here? The pegs, and the punishments, and all?”

“Of course. Father Peter runs this church with an iron hand. His word is law. God is in this 
church, but Father Peter becomes the god of girls.”

I began to tremble as she spoke. I knew that I had sinned, and had been punished with 
Father Peter’s whip. But since that time, I sinned even more. Much more. What would Father 
Peter do with me now?

Sister Sara reached around me. Her hands, below the surface of the water, found my 
young, newly deflowered hole. Her fingers began massaging the lips, and found their way 
inside.

I felt Sister Sara’s large breasts pressing up against me. The nipples poked into me. The 
flesh was soft.

I felt her fingers inside of me. She was probing. She was exploring. She wanted to see if I 
had been telling the truth.

“Please don’t tell Father Peter,” I asked Sister Sara, when it became evident to her that the 
thin membrane which had been protecting my inner pussy was no longer intact.

“I’m sure that Father Peter will find out soon enough on his own. He doesn’t miss very 
much of what goes on within the walls of this holy building,” Sister Sara replied.

Her grasp inside of me was gentle, so I knew that the nun wasn’t angry with me for losing 
my virginity.

“Who was it?” she asked.

Now, that had me stumped. I knew that Turlock was the one, but I didn’t think that I 
should tell Sister Sara that. What would she think of me?

“I was sleeping in my room,” I lied. “When I awoke, I found the cot was wet. I discovered 
that I had been taken.”

I hated to tell an untruth in the house of the Lord. I felt that he was looking down on me. 
But if the Lord really was watching over me, He would have made it an easier life for me inside
this church.

However, the Lord not accounted for. Sister Sara had a negative reaction. She was certain 
that I was telling an untruth. I guess she was able to see through the story. She began shaking
me back and forth in the water.

“Who was it? Who was it?” she demanded.

“Please, Sister Sara. I’m sorry. I just don’t know.”

I wasn’t going to get anyone else in trouble for what happened to me. If Father Peter 
found out that I had given up my maidenhead, he would destroy Raphael for sure.

Sister Sara was still shaking me when Father Peter walked into the room.

Sister Sara stopped. I froze. I was afraid that the angry nun would spill the secret. Then all 
would be lost.

“How is the bathing going?” he asked.

“Just Fine, Father,” Sister Sara replied with a little smile.

Ah, the nun was standing up for me. She wasn’t going to report me to the priest. Not yet, 
anyway.

“Good. When you have finished bathing the girl, send her to my private chambers. I want 
her fresh and powdered with the holy powder. Then I shall have a surprise for her.”

The priest turned to me and added, “You have a gentlemen caller, as you know. He will be 
waiting for you in my private chamber.”

Then the priest turned and walked away. Oh, I was so happy. It seemed that everything 
was working out for the best, after all. First Sister Sara had kept the faith, so to speak, and 
refrained from telling Father Peter the secret of my deflowering.

Now the priest was telling me that I had a gentleman caller, and that he would be waiting 
to see me in the father’s private chamber when I was finished with my bath, all powdered and 
fresh.

I hoped that the priest would give me a chance to visit with Raphael. And then, perhaps, 
the priest would see that I was best suited to the outside world. He might release me, after 
blessing me, and I would return to visit in the future. If that could happen, the entire 
experience in the church would have been for a good reason.

I hoped it would work out that way.

But things were not to be so rosy. As soon as Father Peter departed, Sister Sara turned to 
me. She grabbed me by the shoulders, pressing in to get a good grip on me. I pulled away, 
because the fingers of the nun were hurting the whip lashes which were clear to see on my 
body. But she grabbed me back and looked into my face.

“You owe me something,” she said. “I didn’t tell Father Peter on you. Not yet. When he 
finds out, he’ll flog you until the skin peels off your back. He’ll beat you until you learn what it 
means to sin.”

“Please don’t tell him, Sister Sara,” I begged.

“He’ll find out anyway. If I don’t tell him, he’ll think that I was negligent in my care of you. I
am supposed to examine our girls regularly to make certain that they remain pure. That is part
of the sacrifice that a young nun must make. She must be faithful to God. You have not been.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, bowing my head.

“You owe me something for not telling Father Peter then and there. You shall have to 
repay me.”

I thought about Raphael. I was paying him back by coming here in the first place. It 
seemed that I got myself into debt, and then the price of repaying became too high.

“How shall I repay you?” I asked, fearfully.

Sister Sara grinned. She exerted pressure on my shoulders forcing me down to my knees. I 
assumed that she was leading me into prayer. But no, once I fell to my knees, she told me 
what I had to do to repay her.

“I want you to eat me out,” she said. “Use your young girl tongue and your mouth. Work 
your mouth inside of my cunt.”

You, dear diary, can imagine my humiliation. I had never done such a thing in my life. I had
experienced the sensation of it when Sister Sara had done it to me. That was one thing. But 
now she wanted me to do it right back to her.

I gasped, but I realized that I had no choice. Sister Sara had been confined to the convent 
which was part of the church for many years. She didn’t have many opportunities for sex, since
she was among the same group of people day in and day out. They were supposed to be 
celibate.

“We are only human,” she told me as I looked up at her, after taking a look into the bush 
of female body. “There is a cemetery out in the back which is a testimony to the nuns who 
couldn’t resist the temptation of a man. The graves are unmarked. They are secret and 
forbidden. I am telling you something that if you ever repeat, you shall be punished. You shall 
be punished by death.”

“Sister Sara! You wouldn’t take my life! It is only for God to take a life. He gives life. He is 
the only one who can take it away.”

“No,” she replied. “If God didn’t intend for man to kill, he wouldn’t permit us to kill. 
Sometimes it is best to take a sinful person and make that person bum in hell.”

“Like the people in those graves?” I asked. “There are babies in those graves. When the 
priests and the nuns conceived infants, it was believed that the children were the sons of the 
devil. It was believed that their sins must be buried, because the children would grow up to 
take over the world with a perverse evil.”

I couldn’t answer. It sounded terrible to me. Innocent babies!

“But I am not like that,” she continued. “I have never given in to the temptation of a mortal
man. God is my husband.”

“What do you want to do with me?”

“I want you now to eat my pussy, as I ate yours. Yes, it is not a sin. We are both women 
cloistered in the nunnery. We are human. It is better that we do this than cohabitate with 
men!”

She moved her hands from my shoulders to behind my head. She pressed me forward into
her undulating organ of sex. The lips were pink and opened.

My mouth had so recently been wrapped around the organ of Turlock. Now it had a 
different taste coursing over the taste buds. It was a female taste. I wondered if my own young
pussy had the same flavor. Then I remembered the way it tasted on my mouth when I tasted 
my own pussy juices on the Ups of Turlock.

No, my pussy tasted different than Sister Sara’s. Different, but I couldn’t say that hers was 
better or worse. That would be making a judgement, and I couldn’t do that. All I could do was 
follow the instructions of the nun. I sucked at the organ, and licked around inside.

To my surprise, Sister Sara had a love button, just like the extra piece of flesh which glowed
red hot inside of my pussy when I was aroused. Maybe I wasn’t different after all.

I knew how excited I became when Turlock licked and bit at my love button. I did the same
thing to Sister Sara, and the sounds of her moans told me that she had the same reaction 
inside of her as I did.

That button was part of the female form, and I had never known that before. It triggered 
arousal, which might have been mistaken for the pleasure of the devil. But the body was 
created by God, and therefore, it must not be sinful.

At least, that is what I now imagined. But who was to say? That too would be judgments, 
and I wasn’t about to take the role of God.

“Suck it,” Sister Sara groaned. She seemed not like a nun at all. I listened as she told me 
how beautiful I was. She said that she wanted to feel my sweet, soft girl-mouth on her pussy.

I did the best that I could to fill her up with my tongue. Now that I knew what it felt like to 
have a penis inside of me, I tried to make my young tongue behave as Turlock’s penis had.

I thrusted my tongue back into the depths of Sister Sara’s organ. As far as my tongue 
extended, it was still not far enough to get all the way down to the depths.

I scraped my tongue back and forth, in and out, down into the cunt as far as my tongue 
would go. I heard her moan several times when I jabbed her, and I figured that the reaction 
meant that she was aroused.

Sometimes I licked lovingly inside of her hole. I didn’t really love Sister Sara, but I wanted 
to keep her satisfied so that she would keep my secret. Again, I found myself engaging in sex 
because of my love and devotion to Raphael.

I owed Raphael so much. Did I owe him this much?

Yes, of course. Besides, it was wrong for me to blame my actions on Raphael. I would have 
not come to the church if it hadn’t been for him, that much is true, but this act was not 
Raphael’s responsibility. It was mine.

If I had refused, I would have had it worse. Father Peter would have been informed of my 
deflowering. As for Sister Sara, she might have beaten me and forced me to have oral sex with
her anyway. For the young nuns, there was no fairness.

There was only obligation to God and to the clergy. So I did my duty. It did seem that 
Turlock had kept his promise and had put in a good word for Raphael and for me. That was 
probably why Father Peter seemed so kind toward me when he informed me that I had a 
gentleman caller awaiting me in his private chamber.

I could hardly wait to see Raphael again. This ordeal at the vagina of the nun was just 
something I had to go through before reaching my goal.

When I came to the church on my mission for Raphael, I never imagined that I would long 
for him so. I didn’t realize that I loved him. I thought that I was only repaying him for what he 
did for me, taking over and practically raising me.

But after the ordeal with Father Peter and the nun, and after the first experience of sexual 
intercourse with Turlock, I realized that it was Raphael that I loved.

“Don’t stop, child,” Sister Sara said. I had become lost in my thoughts of Raphael, and I 
had stopped working my tongue around inside her vagina.

“Go on and get your lips inside my lower lips. I want to feel your whole mouth inside my 
womb.”

I did as she said, pressing my lips forward into her. I could feel them pressing snugly at my 
face. They were moist and they clung to the sides of my mouth as my tongue continued to 
probe the walls and inner core of Sister Sara’s hole.

When I found a stroke which pleased her, she let me know it by moaning and groaning. 
She would tell me how beautiful I was, and how great the feeling of a young girl’s mouth was 
on her sex-starved sex lips.

When I began flicking the length of my tongue in and out of her with a fury, she began to 
make sounds which I hadn’t heard before. I wasn’t sure if she was in pleasure or in pain.

“Oh, ahhhhhh,” she sighed.

I didn’t stop. I knew that if she wanted me to stop; if I was actually hurting her, she would 
have told me so. She would have pushed me away.

Instead, she pressed my head closer into her body. The fuzz of her pubic hair was 
scratching my face. I knew that my lips were probably very red from the twisting of her body 
up against my face.

“Oh, Jesus!” she cried. “Oh, Jesus, Mary, Joseph!” she shouted. “Father, Son and Holy 
Ghost!”

I felt a flood of hot liquid. It rushed out of her. Sister Sara held my face in her womb. She 
wouldn’t let me back away. She kept my face there as she came.

“Ahhhhhhh,” she sighed. She was doubled over, holding my head in her vagina, moaning, 
grunting, and letting me feel her naked breasts down on my head.

She nearly collapsed. I did, too. I was exhausted.

“Don’t swallow it,” she told me.

I was glad she said that. I didn’t want to swallow her juices. True, she had swallowed mine, 
and I was grateful for that because I believed that in those juices lived the soul of the devil.

But I somehow had difficulty in swallowing the liquids from the vagina of a nun.

“Give me your lips,” she said, when I was finished taking her flow in my mouth. I placed my
lips up to her face. She kissed me, and sucked back her own cuntal fluids.

“It is like an offering to the God of heaven,” she said, after drinking down the nectar.

“Will you keep my secret now?” I asked her.

“For today, I will keep your secret,” she replied. “But tomorrow is another day.”

“Oh, Sister Sara!” I gasped.

She smiled. She took the towel and dried my body with it. She worked each area of my 
flesh lovingly. She was very gentle with the bruised parts, patting them with the soft cloth. As 
for my girlish breasts, she massaged them and rubbed them until they were red.

“Sister Sara,” I finally said again, this time with tears in my eyes. “Please don’t tell Father 
Peter what you have discovered.”

“I told you that I would keep the secret for today, but that tomorrow is another day.”

“And then you will tell him?” I asked.

“And then l will meet you again and give you another chance to make me keep the secret. 
This will go on day after day, and day after day I shall keep the secret all to myself, and each 
day I shall teach you new lessons in pleasure.”

I now knew what she meant. She was going to keep me on a string. I was to become a 
slave to the secret: a slave to the nun’s cunt.

I had no choice but to obey her wishes. She probably would have forced me into the same
thing if I hadn’t consented. Then it would be done under the pressure of the whip. So I would 
bide my time. I would meet Sister Sara every day, and learn what it was that the nuns did for 
pleasure.

Raphael was waiting for me in the chamber of Father Peter I kissed Sister Sara, and she 
pointed me in the direction of Father Peter’s room. I rushed off hoping to find happiness.





CHAPTER FIVE


The room was dark. I could tell that even from the outside because there was no light coming 
from under the door, and the corridor outside was also dark.

I knocked several times. I heard Raphael’s voice.

“Raquel, is that you?” he said.

“Oh, yes, Raphael. At last, I’ve found you.”

“I will let you in,” I heard Raphael say through the door.

The door was opened, and indeed, it was very dark inside. I couldn’t see Raphael, and yet I 
felt the presence of him at the door. I fell into his arms and he held me tight. This had never 
happened before. This was the first time that I had held Raphael in this manner. I could feel 
the lump of his manhood pressing into me between my legs. It showed me what temptation 
was all about, because I felt that I wanted to give in to him.

“Oh, Raphael,” I cried. “So much has happened.”

He didn’t answer. He stroked my hair and kissed my ear. I could feel his wet tongue licking 
me up the side of my neck and into my ear. He lingered there with his tongue in my ear, 
stroking and circling and making me sigh.

“Oh, Raphael,” I repeated. I didn’t dare say anything about anything that had transpired 
since my arrival at the church where I was being held captive. I couldn’t be sure that Father 
Peter wasn’t around. For all I knew, he might be hiding in the corner of the darkened room, 
listening to every word I uttered.

So I didn’t dare mention the fact that the plot to steal from the church had been foiled. I 
didn’t speak of Turlock, and the fact that I was no longer a virgin. I didn’t say that in my short 
time within the house of God, I had been exposed to all that was sinful, including sexual 
relations with a nun.

But I guess that it was obvious to Raphael that things had changed. Perhaps a man can tell
from the touch and from the kiss of a young woman, that the woman is no longer a virgin.

Perhaps he was aware of the growth that had taken place within me. I felt all of this 
because Raphael bent me all the way back and kissed me deeply. His tongue was down my 
throat, and then our tongues battled.

I had never even imagined that Raphael would ever be this passionate. He wasn’t speaking
in words. He was telling me how much he desired my freshly bathed and powdered body with 
the reaction of his own body.

In the darkness, even I could smell the clean scent of the holy powder which Sister Sara 
had patted on my body. It would help heal the wounds inflicted by the whip, she said, and it 
whitened by breasts, and sweetened my sex lips.

“Oh, Raphael,” I moaned. I was still afraid that Father Peter might be lurking somewhere in 
the shadows. I didn’t want to express my desire to have sex with Raphael. I was afraid that 
Father Peter would hear and flog me for it.

But I did respond to Raphael’s kisses. As he pressed his warm body into mine, it was 
obvious that he too was naked. No wonder he had been waiting for me in the total darkness. 
He didn’t want me to see his nudity. He wanted to surprise me with it.

He pressed downward, and soon he was on top of me on the floor. I reached down and 
felt his manhood throbbing. It was big and hard. It was thicker than Turlock’s.

I wanted to tell him how much I desired it. I didn’t dare. Not yet. I waited for him to take 
the full initiative, which he was doing. He was ruling my body with power. I was thrilled. I 
believed that he loved me and had come searching for me, now to find me, and culminate the
search with sex.

The head of his organ was poking at my tender sex lips. I arched my pelvis up, trying to 
make it easier for him to enter me.

“Oh, Raphael, do you think we should be doing this here on the floor of Father Peter’s 
private chamber?” I asked.

“Yes, why not?” he answered, but something was wrong. I knew Raphael’s voice. It was 
Raphael’s voice that had answered me from outside the door. But it was someone other than 
Raphael who answered my question now.

“Raphael, is that you?” I asked.

All I heard was a devilish laugh. A candle was lit.

“Oh, my God!” I gasped. It was Father Peter!

“Yes, pray to the Lord,” he said. “It is Father Peter.”

“But you are naked. And you have forced me down to the floor in a sexual position. What 
of my chastity in the name of the faith for which you are training me?”

“Don’t give me that line,” he told me harshly. “You know what the priests and the nuns do 
in this church. Face the truth!”

“Do you mean that you blaspheme your responsibility as members of the cloth?”

“We set our rules in this church. It is all for God’s way. If it weren’t, God would not give us 
such riches and such power. But look at us. We have everything that we want here. Young girls
come to us. They want to be nuns. We train them properly. We instruct them in God’s ways, 
and we teach them that they must punish themselves and be punished by us, besides. And we
fuck the devil out of them, for the devil infests the body and takes the form of lust.”

In the light from the candle I could see that indeed it was Father Peter who was on top of 
me, pressing his erect member into the cleft of my sex lips. And in the corner of the room, I 
could see the form of another man.

“So, you have discovered your Raphael,” Father Peter announced. “Well, let me light some 
more candles so that you may see him better, and so that he may see you.”

The priest stood up and lit other candles which rested on tables in the room. I looked over 
in the corner and there was Raphael. He was tied to a stake. Rope was wrapped around his 
body many times. He looked like an ancient mummy, all bound up and standing stiff.

“But you have tied him,” I exclaimed.

“And I gagged him, too, right after he answered your call at the door. He was not man 
enough to tell you not to enter. He didn’t dare tell you to run away, even though he knew that
it would be I who awaited you, in the darkness, in the nude.”

I looked at Raphael’s tortured face and I could see him struggling. Perhaps he wanted to 
tell me that if he had warned me, it would have been worse for both of us. I could certainly 
not get away from Father Peter. Not that easily.

I didn’t suspect that Raphael had anything but love for me. That was exactly why the 
wicked priest was performing this act with me now. He wanted to make Raphael watch as he 
devirginized me!

But the surprise would be on Father Peter. I had already lost my virginity to Father Peter’s 
deformed and demented assistant.

There was a low table in the room. Father Peter directed me to lie down on the table.

“Get down on your stomach. Press your breasts into the hard wood. I want to see your 
buttocks raised high.”

I was trembling. It was bad enough that I was going to be humiliated by Father Peter. To 
be humiliated in front of Raphael was twice as bad.

I felt my soft breasts pressing into the wood. I felt my young cunny pressing against the 
wood, too. I squirmed and I felt some dampness squeeze out the lips, onto the wood. I knew 
that my pussy was peeking out from between the round bottom globes.

Father Peter was staring right through me. I could feel the power of his hard gaze burning 
through my naked body. I cringed. I squirmed some more.

“Do you like the way your boyfriend looks now?” Father Peter asked me.

I looked up at Raphael and saw him straining at the ropes which Father Peter had tied 
around him. I could see the agonized look on his face. He wanted to protect me, but he was 
now helpless to do so.

I wondered about the church. I had always believed that it was a safe place, a sanctuary. I 
had trusted the clegrymen, believing them to be good people who were dedicated to the 
well-being of people.

How wrong I had been. Father Peter was a man who had power because he was the priest 
of this church. He misused his power, as far as I was concerned. He let it get to him and take 
over. It tainted him, and made him an evil person.

I thought now that Father Peter, who should have represented God, was actually a 
representative of the devil. It was Raphael who now seemed godly to me, and Raphael had 
started out as a thief!

How strange that the man who was supposed to be godly, was viewed by me as the devil’s
helper, while the man who society called a sinner, was much more of a saint.

I kept my eyes on Raphael as I remained stretched out on the wooden table. I kept my 
eyes on him as Father Peter wrapped the ropes around my body. He wasn’t going to be 
satisfied until he had me bound with rope.

“This will keep you down when the breaking of your hymen becomes too much for you. I 
want to see you struggle, but I don’t want you to get away,” Father Peter told me.

The view of Raphael was obstructed by the body of Father Peter. The priest bent over me. 
He kneaded the cheeks of my buttocks, and then he lowered his head down to the flesh. His 
mouth was opened and he began to bite.

First at one cheek, and then the other, the priest began to nibble. He let his teeth graze 
the flesh. The saliva dripped from his biting mouth, and covered my smooth globes.

Gradually, he increased the pressure of his bites. He was taking harder and harder bites so 
that the entire area of my round bottom was covered with the heat of the bites. I feared that 
his teeth marks might be seen on the sensitive flesh of the tender behind.

He was grunting softly as he did this. Apparently he was pleased that he had such a meaty 
behind in his clutches. There was enough flesh for him to really sink his teeth into it, and I felt 
the pain of it all.

When he began to bite over areas which had already been raised with the bites of his 
mouth, I started to cry.

I had hoped that my cries would be enough to make him stop, but he had no mercy. He 
continued to bruise my flesh with his digging teeth, and once he had the teeth in the flesh, he 
would move his head around to abuse the area which he had chosen for his target. Bound as I
was, my body presented a luscious target for his desires.

All the time I watched Raphael. With Father Peter in the way, I had to look up over the 
priest’s torso in order to see Raphael’s face. Then I looked down below the priest’s torso to 
see Raphael’s cock. His cock had not been bound against his body. At first, when I was first 
told to look at Raphael, I saw that his rod was soft. Now it was hard. Was Raphael aroused by 
what Father Peter was doing to me?

“Fm going to whip your bottom red hot. Then Fm going to have intercourse with you until 
you are raw,” Father Peter told me. “Yes, I put my meat all over you. I’ll run the head of it up 
and down and over your body. Every part. You’ll moan to feel the sticky drops oozing out over
your bruises and whip wounds.”

I wished that Raphael would break his bonds and rush to save me. And yet, with the 
hardness sticking out from between his legs, I wondered if he would save me at all. Perhaps he
would join in, or encourage the priest to flog me more.

I was very confused. Nobody could be trusted. Sister Sara helped me only to gratify her 
own needs. She promised to keep the secret of my deflowered girlhood, only in exchange for 
sexual favors.

As for Turlock, he too had used sex in exchange for a promise. But seeing Raphael tied up 
in the corner of the room made me wonder if Turlock had kept his part of the deal. It certainly 
didn’t appear that he had.

Father Peter was spreading my ass cheeks apart with his mouth. Each new bite was placed 
close to the hairless crack of my bottom. He was working his way down toward the cleft of my 
behind, and the saliva flowing from his mouth was wetting me up.

When I felt the warm wetness of his tongue in the tight crack, I knew that he was getting 
close to a private area which had never been touched in that manner before.

He had said that he would have sex with me. He had said that he would take my virginity. 
Now I feared that it was not the virginity of my frontal pit that he was speaking of. I feared 
that he wanted to engage in anal intercourse.

As Raphael was forced to watch, Father Peter spit globules of saliva down into the crevice 
which separated my cheeks. The rosebud of a puckered hole was centered there. I tensed it, 
trying to keep Father Peter out.

“Sometimes it’s better when you clench it closed like that,” the priest grinned wickedly. “It 
makes me feel as if I’m plundering you. Plunder is a sin. Buggering is also a sin. Sometimes I 
must perform sins so that I better appreciate the goodness which exists in all of us. If I were 
too good, that goodness would not be appreciated.”

I thought that the man was mad. I believed that he had some disease which had affected 
his brain. It was not uncommon in Spain at the time of Spanish Inquisition. Father Peter made 
such sense at certain moments. At others, he was like an insane man.

I couldn’t understand why he wanted to punish me like this, but he continued to bite me, 
always letting his tongue snake down between the cheeks so that he could get closer to my 
anal core. He bit down into the flesh of the crack of my bottom by spreading the globes apart 
and twisting his face down in the soft, damp structure.

He was grunting and speaking, too, but his words were muffled in the flesh of my ass. 
Raphael watched on. I watched Raphael. His cock was throbbing. It was standing up and out, 
and I believed that if his hands were free, he would have used them not to assist me, but to 
stroke the rod of flesh to orgasm.

I had to turn away from Raphael because I couldn’t bear to see him any longer. I couldn’t 
blame him for his feelings. Maybe he had never loved me. Maybe I was just a piece of meat to 
him, as I was to Father Peter.

There was the thought that he might really love me, and that all of the things I had 
projected onto him were the workings of my own mind, which I realized was now in a state of 
near-shock.

I couldn’t consider any of that any longer. My purpose was to satisfy the priest. I believed 
that it was carnal desire which raged in his organ, but if it were for the purity of my soul, as he 
sometimes claimed, than I had nothing to lose.

“I’m going to beat you now. You need that. You need to be beaten twice a day, every day. 
The nuns in our church perform the twice daily ritual on themselves. The flogging you heard 
when you first walked down the corridor the day you arrived, was the sound of the nuns 
giving themselves discipline.”

I wondered if I would ever get used to this place. It seemed that I was a prisoner here. It 
seemed that I was doomed. And even now as I write this, hours after the actions took place, I 
feel I am doomed.

Will I ever escape? I don’t know. I still ache from the punishments administered to me by 
Father Peter. Of course, something new happened when he flogged me this time. It was an 
appreciated change, because it helped me.

It happened when Father Peter began to whip me. He picked up the clothes of Raphael, 
which had been stripped from him. Over the trousers worn by Raphael, there was a strip of 
leather. This strip of thin leather was used by Raphael to keep the trousers in place on his 
body.

Holding the leather strip in two hands, with one end in each fist, Father Peter began to 
snap the leather. The sound of it made my ears rise like a dog’s. That’s how sensitive my ears 
were to that particular sound.

It frightened me, as I’m sure Father Peter intended. I knew that Father Peter would be 
using the leather for my beating, and I could feel the tiny hairs of my bottom stand up on end 
with my fear. They were like little nerve endings which were all aroused by the fearsome, but 
inevitable beating.

Of course Raphael continued to strain and buck in his bondage. When the priest took hold
of the leather strip, Raphael became more excited. He bucked and strained even more, 
probably because he realized that the priest was going to discipline me using an article of 
punishment which belonged to Raphael.

This is what made me think that Father Peter was a worker of the devil. His methods were 
so peculiar. They were twisted and involved so that I would be hurt on many levels; degraded 
in many ways at once.

Raphael was probably suffering, also, although the erection which pulsed and throbbed 
from his body showed no indication of that.

Father Peter began by cracking the leather between his hands, and then he let it drape 
over my naked curves. I felt the leather on my skin, and I shuddered to imagine what the 
leather could do to me.

“You are going to sin,” Father Peter said to me. “Because you are going to sin, I shall 
punish you. Then you shall be able to enjoy the sin, and later you will repent again. The 
combination of sin and repentance will purify you as a whole human being in today’s world.”

“Is that what you are?” I asked the priest. “Are you a saint and a sinner?”

“We are all both saints and sinners. We are all both good and evil. The opposite elements 
exist within all of us. Sometimes the two opposites tug at one another. Sometimes we are 
surprised when we see a very good person commit an act of total horror. Other times we are 
surprised to find a criminal expressing love, compassion, and ultimate goodness. Our surprise 
is what should be surprising. All of us are all things.”

“That is why I can sometimes understand you, Father Peter,” I told him. “Some of the 
things you do and say make sense to me. I want to be a nun in your church when I see and 
hear those things. Yet other things frighten me and alienate me.”

“The whip will take away your fright and alienation. Recall the words of the Bible. For I am 
your Master. Hallowed be My whip. And I must torture you for all the sins of hesitancy and 
fear which you have committed against Me.”

“You are my Master,” I repeated. “Hallowed be Thy whip. Please give me this day Your 
sticky load, and torture my body for all the sins of hesitancy and fear I have committed against
Thee. Please sink me into degradation and deliver me into the most sordid masochism for the 
pleasure of You, my Master, Father Peter, and all men.”

I couldn’t believe that I was saying the words. At First, when the sounds came from my lips,
I thought that someone else was speaking them. But then I realized that I was having a true 
experience of faith. The words of subservience, in the form of Biblical passages, was 
happening automatically to me.

I was recognizing my calling to be a nun!

How much the atmosphere of the church had to do with my experience would be difficult 
for me to say. If my lack of food was causing me to have these hallucinations, I cannot say, 
either. But I did feel dizzy, and I felt the calling of angels. They were singing, and telling me 
that I was born to serve God.

I was born to serve God’s men, all of them, starting with God’s messenger, Father Peter. 
The man I had taken to be a devil now seemed to be a good man. I now felt that I wanted to 
serve him, and I longed for him to flog me.

“Beat me, Oh, Father Peter,” I begged, “for this gift which I am about to receive through 
the bounty of ropes.”

“I am the Erection and the Load,” Father Peter replied in the chant of a prayer. “She that 
receiveth me, shall come.”

The priest raised the black leather above my white buttocks. I felt the air move above my 
tender orbs when the belt was positioned directly above my bottom. It rested in the air, held 
by the priest’s strong arm.

He was dressed in his vestments now. He had been naked, but when he had me tied, and 
was about to give me my dose of punishment, he put his holy clothes back on. That was the 
proper way for a priest to punish a young nun. The priest was always dressed in the 
vestments, and the young nun, if she were a nun of the church, would pull her habit up to 
bare her bottom for the priest.

A novice such as I, was made to strip naked before the clothed priest. That was how we 
were. The leather in his hand came down upon my bottom.

It cracked through the air and landed with an echo of a sound upon my right bottom 
cheek. A pink stripe appeared in the flesh where the leather struck. That was just a warm-up, 
as I soon discovered. The succeeding blows grew harder and harder.

Each stroke of the leather on my bottom made me understand that I needed to have the 
devil whipped out of me. I moaned each time the burning hot leather struck my yielding flesh.

Father Peter began to flog my upper thighs as well as my tender bottom. This really gave a
terrible sting to my body, as there was less natural padding up on my thighs than there was 
on my full rump.

Father Peter wasn’t content to stick to one area alone. He would alternate his strokes so 
that he struck every area of my body; every part that was exposed to him at the time. I could 
not escape, because the ropes kept me a punished captive.

I write here on these pages the way in which landed the blows, and where. I do this so that
I never forget. He was masterful. And later, when I read these lines, I will imagine again the 
painful feelings which he directed into my body from his.

I am certain that my flesh will cringe, and my body will feel the blows all over again. Every 
place which he made alive with pain, still retains the memory of the pain as it was freshly 
applied. Even as I write these words, my body feels the bitter stings inflicted upon it by the 
strict, but loving Father Peter.

I had been confused by him. I had thought him a demon and worse. And yet, I loved him 
now as he beat me.

Two quick strokes to the left bottom cheek left a criss-cross of welted flesh. Then he 
delivered two to the right cheek, making the pattern appear there also.

He started to laugh, which surprised me because the administration of the discipline had 
been so formal until that point. But there must have been something that amused him. I 
discovered very quickly what the joke was.

“Hot crossed buns,” he said. “I’m going to give you hot crossed buns.”

He took the leather and slashed it down into me, this time by taking another stance which 
allowed the new strokes to bite into my flesh in the vertical position, while earlier he had 
striped me with horizontal strokes.

The results were hot crosses on my bottom cheeks.

“You are a living testament to the church,” he said to me. “Each of your cheeks wears the 
cross proudly upon it.”

I could feel the hot crosses burning into each of my globes. I knew that the heat must have
been rising from the crimsoned crosses.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I said.

“And you shall sin again. You will be punished severely for all of these deeds. You will learn,
and take your place in heaven.”

It was like experiencing your prayers. The words were so spiritual, and the punishment 
seemed needed to make it all real, and not just a bunch of words uttered in a church by a 
bunch of parrots.

Father Peter continued to stroke the leather across my buttocks. After a half dozen strokes 
on each cheek, the welts which formed the red crosses were gone. The entire surface was once
again a mass of red, burning flesh.

Father Peter next worked on my thighs. The tip of the leather curled under my thigh and 
really bit into me. Oh, it hurt! It was like the kiss of the whip. It left a deep purple kiss mark.

I couldn’t control my quivering body. I felt myself trembling under the domination of the 
priest’s punishing lashes. But I did all that I could to force my bottom high, and then higher 
for the strap of Father Peter.

Only when my bottom was totally whipped and raw, did the priest begin work on my 
thighs and back. Finally I was red all over.

“I am going to have anal intercourse with you now,” Father Peter said.

“Oh, Father Peter, please be gentle. I have seen your organ and felt it. It is much too large 
to go into my narrow chute.”

“That is why I am going to open you up first. You will be ready to take it all when I finish 
with you,” he said.

He pulled at the bells which hung from the ceiling. Turlock appeared.

“You rang, Master?” he asked.

“Yes, Turlock. Fetch me the sheep’s bladder. I am going to wash away some of this sinner’s 
sins,” he told the servant.

“Oh, has she sinned since her arrival here?” Turlock asked.

“Of course, for she is human. What did you expect?” the priest replied.

“I don’t know. How severely has she sinned? Is she still a virgin?” Turlock asked.

Oh, that Turlock! That bastard! He was leading the priest on, steering the conversation 
toward my lost virginity. That wicked fool. If he managed to make the priest discover my 
secret, I would make certain that the priest was informed that it was Turlock who forced me 
into it. I vowed that to myself.

And then I remembered the holy words. “Do unto others as you would have others do 
unto you.” The Golden Rule! I would have to place myself in Turlock’s shoes and try to see 
things from his position. I would have to try to understand other people, because as Father 
Peter said, good and evil exists within all of us. Therefore, we should all understand the good 
and evil in others, since it exists within ourselves.

Lying in bondage before the punishing priest had already set my mind to high places. I 
was becoming more philosophical. I was beginning to practice the teachings of the Bible. I 
was beginning to discover my need to be a nun.

There was only one thing that was bothering me. What was Father Peter going to do with 
the bladder of a sheep?

As Turlock departed to fetch the peculiar request, I looked at young Raphael, still tied in 
the corner, watching my torment. I looked at Father Peter, who was stroking the growing 
organ of his manhood.

I began to pray.





CHAPTER SIX


Turlock returned, bringing with him the bladder of a sheep. Father Peter told the servant to 
place the bladder over the flames of the candle, to warm the inner liquid.

“This is a practice which is known in the church. Once a girl was brought to us. She was 
possessed by the devil. Not in the way that you and other young girls are possessed. You are 
only mildly touched by evil. She was fully taken.”

“Whatever did you do?” I asked, thankful for the information, and for the rest from the 
abuse.

“We did many things. It was a difficult task, because once the devil gets into a body, he 
doesn’t like to leave. It was a struggle, but with the will of God, the demon was exorcised. 
Then it was time to use the sheep’s bladder.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I still don’t see the connection.”

“Ah, you shall feel the connection very soon,” Father Peter said. He turned toward Turlock. 
“Turlock, the carved ivory, please.”

“Pardon me, Master?” Turlock replied, all hunched over.

“The carved ivory. Give me the carved ivory which was resting beside this bladder.”

“You didn’t ask me to bring that, too,” the servant said.

“You fool!” Father Peter cursed.

He grabbed the thonged whip which I had felt so stingingly on another occasion. He 
hurled the wicked whip through the air. It whistled down into the hunched back of Turlock. 
Once, twice, three times the biting whip cut into the body of the priest’s assistant.

“Get out of here and come back with the ivory!” Father Peter declared.

It was Father Peter’s temper which frightened me. He was a gentle man with a great deal 
of wisdom and power. Probably he was a genius, and certainly he was touched by God. That 
could make anybody crazy, I suppose.

The priest took the sheep’s bladder and held it up over the candle. In Turlock’s absence, he
began to explain what was going to happen. “I am going to fill your rectum with the contents 
of the bladder.”

I almost got sick right there on the low table. If I hadn’t been tied down, I swear that I 
would have run away. I would have done nearly anything to avoid such a thing. I would have 
even taken another whipping.

Turlock returned all too soon. This time he was holding a piece of white ivory in his long 
fingers. The ivory was carved so that it looked like a narrow tube with holes at each end.

“This will purify you. It will clean you out. And it will open you up. to prepare you for the 
filling up I plan to give you.”

I heard the priest’s words, and again I begged him. I prayed to him. I prayed, imploring 
him to do whatever he needed to do to train me in the ways of God.

“Oh, Father Peter, I do want to be a nun. And I do want to get to heaven. Help me. Purify 
me. Hurt me if you have to. I am willing to serve in any way and in every way you tell me to 
serve. I will sleep on the floor beside you, chained to the legs of your bed. I will flog myself, 
and I will sit on the pegs of punishment.”

I was willing to do all of that to become a nun. I was beginning to realize that all of this 
was meant to be. It was all for the purpose my enlightenment. I was now willing to do the 
things which repulsed me when I first observed the other young nuns doing them. I had 
thought that the crying and the whippings were terrible. I had thought that the room of pegs 
was the most horrible sight I’d ever seen.

But now I knew that I wanted to experience all of those things. I wanted to suffer in this 
human body, so that I could feel my spirit fly free.

“I shall ask Raphael to assist us,” Father Peter said. He took the ivory nozzle-like piece, and 
walked up to Raphael. Harshly, he tugged at the gag which prevented Raphael from speaking.
It was pulled down, and the man’s mouth was free for the first time since my arrival in the 
chamber of Father Peter.

“You bastard!” Raphael began to curse. He was rewarded with the insertion of the ivory 
piece into his mouth.

“Bite down on that and you’ll crack your teeth. I suggest that you suck on it,” Father Peter 
said. “Just pretend that it’s a nipple on this young nun’s breast. Suck it up good. Suck it like 
there were no tomorrow.”

The words cut into Raphael as much as the leather had cut into my flesh. He was told that 
he would be punished severely for any negative words which came from his lips. He used the 
carved ivory as a pacifier. He sucked on it.

“Good, I like to see a servant of God behave,” Father Peter said. “Get it good and wet with 
your spit. It is going to go up into the body of your girlfriend.”

Raphael sucked like a baby on that piece of ivory. He got it wet as demanded, and then 
Father Peter pulled it in a gentle twist from Raphael’s mouth. He placed the wet piece of ivory 
before my eyes so that I could see the object which was soaked with Raphael’s spit.

“Know that this is going from his mouth into your rectum,” the priest said to me.

Turlock was told to gag Raphael again. “Once he starts to see what we are going to do 
with his young girlfriend, he may get rowdy,” Father Peter said. “He’ll just have to learn that 
when Raquel serves God, she will have to cut her attachments to his unholy world. This is a 
cleaning-out of her sins, and his world.”

After Turlock finished replacing the gag, he returned to the table on which I was bound. 
He assisted Father Peter in the ritual of the cleaning-out.

Prayers were said.

“Forgive her, Father, for she has sinned. She has wronged the clean purity of her 
God-given girlhood by thinking thoughts of sin. If thinking thoughts of sin is sin itself, then we
are all guilty of trespasses, as none of us is pure from the thoughts inspired by the devil. But 
we as holy people can help this wayward girl learn the peace of pure love. Help us purify her 
now. Lead our hands into her body.”

My bottom flesh was still red and blazing from the kisses of the leather lash. It recoiled 
when the hands of Father Peter pressed into the abused flesh.

But he was not going to punish me there again. At least not in that manner; the manner of
the whip. He was only reaching down to part my globes. He was at the crack, and his tongue 
resumed what it had started earlier.

With long laps which stretched from my cuntal core on up beyond the rosebud of my rear 
hole, he licked me until I was very wet. Then he focused in on the bunghole itself, burrowing 
his tongue muscle into the yielding gathering of puckered flesh.

The tan rosebud opened up for the pressing, probing tongue. And then the warmed ivory 
was inserted into the opening!

It felt funny because it was hard and it touched flesh which hadn’t been touched by a 
person before. I clasped the cheeks of my buttocks around the far tip of the hollow cylinder. 
The near tip was already being hugged by the tight walls of my narrow anal chute.

Father Peter wiggled the little piece of ivory around inside of my rectum. He said that he 
wanted my body to become used to the feeling of the insertion. The wiggling stretched the 
tight walls by prodding them gently, beckoning them to open up for the upcoming ritual.

Father Peter also exerted some gentle pressure downward, so that the ivory rod reached 
down inside of me, almost to the depth of my young asshole.

“She’s ready for some of the spiritual fluid,” Father Peter said to Turlock, who then raised 
the sheep’s bladder in his hands. Together, he and the priest connected the organ of the 
animal to the ivory nozzle which had been put in my rectum. The connection was made with 
the tip which extended out from my clenched anal cheeks.

I tried to look back to see exactly what they were doing back there, but it was impossible 
to stretch my neck around so that I faced them. The ropes which bound me to the table kept 
me in place, and that was why it was impossible for me to watch their special work. The ropes 
were thick and rough, and it was hurting me enough as it was. I didn’t want to give myself 
more pain, unless it was special purifying pain as practiced by the young nuns.

I was able to look at the gagged face of Raphael. There was a expression of horror on his 
face. That didn’t encourage any, except that I was beginning to realize that there would be 
things that a man such as Raphael could not understand.

Raphael had not devoted himself to faith. He was not a living manifestation of God, as 
Father Peter and Sister Sara were. They could understand about such things as penance and 
the purification of the body and soul.

I felt something happening to me. It started with a feeling which I experienced at the 
globes of my bottom. I could feel the sheep’s bladder being held against me there, and then 
there was a slow, but steady pulsating movement.

Turlock was pressing at the outer sides of the bladder, which would force the liquid 
contained inside to pump out in controlled gushes.

It should have been spilling over onto the floor, or even onto my body, but there was no 
sound of liquid splashing to the floor. I only felt the pulsings at the skin of my behind on 
which the organ was placed.

Then I felt a ..warm trickle inside of me. I assumed, at first, that the saliva of Father Peter, 
mixed with the saliva which Raphael had placed on the ivory with his mouth, was entering my 
anus, dripping down from the nozzle.

But then I felt the pumping of the organ and the pumping inside my rectum coming at 
once. They were connected. The pulsing of the bladder as Turlock squeezed it corresponded 
to the pulsing which was throbbing in my insides.

I suddenly realized what was happening! They were filling my body with the fluids of the 
bladder. I began to squirm and moan.

“Stay still!” Father Peter said, slapping my aching left buttock to accentuate his command. 
“This fluid has been blessed. It is special, and must not be wasted.”

It was warm, since the priest had made Turlock warm it over the heat from the candles. It 
pumped in steadily now, and more quickly. I could feel myself filling up. I was getting bloated. 
I was growing heavy.

“Fill me up. Fill me up with the holy water, Father.”

The liquid was leaving the bladder of the sheep and entering my body. There was so much
in there, that it was beginning to press heavily against my stomach as I lay prone on the table. 
The table was wood, so it offered no give. The pressure of the liquid was becoming painful to 
withstand. I felt as if I wanted to squeeze out my inner muscles and evacuate the water from 
me.

“Do not release a drop of that,” Father Peter said to me, sensing perhaps that I was finding 
it difficult to keep it all inside of me.

“But it’s beginning to hurt me,” I said, pleadingly. “There is more heavy weight inside of me
than I can stand. I don’t think I can hold it in. I think I have to let it all out. Please, allow me to 
release it.”

“No,” Father Peter said. “It is for your own benefit. Keep it in.”

“Are you going to test her and tax her. Master?” Turlock asked the priest.

“Of course, Turlock. You know that part of the ritual is the testing and taxing.”

“Oh, good,” Turlock grinned, rubbing his long fingers together like a praying mantis. “I like
that part.”

“It’s not performed for your pleasure, Turlock,” Father Peter admonished the servant. “It is 
designed for the girl, to see how much stamina she has. Being a nun is not an easy job. It 
requires fortitude. Many of the young girls who enter the convent fail on that count. They 
have not developed the strength, the inner fortitude, which the Sisterhood requires.”

“I’ll be strong,” I said, now eager to keep the warm liquid inside of me. When Father Peter 
expressed it that way, I was willing to withstand the pain of a full body of liquid. It was hurting 
me, but that was part of what being a nun was about. Especially in times such as these, when 
the church was being questioned by some. They were put to death for their uprisings, of 
course, because they were heathens who had no faith.

But I was going to have faith. I was going to be a nun, even though it meant suffering. I 
would rather suffer for my sins on earth, under the lash of Father Peter, than writhe forever in 
hell.

The lash was going to be used again. This time it was to take the form of a long switch 
which Father Peter had broken from a tree.

“Let this piece, this branch of nature, teach you to suffer for your calling. If you fail now, 
your ability to withstand the trials of the nunnery shall be questioned, and rightfully so. But if 
you take the strokes of the switch, and still manage to keep the liquid inside of your body, you
will know that you are strong, and you will be able to meet the challenges of the position for 
which you are being trained.” Taking the switch alone would have been a task that many girls 
would crack under. But taking the administration of the switch while maintaining the full 
amount of warm liquid inside of my body was even worse.

I clenched my sphincter muscle, which clenched the cheeks of my bottom, making them 
hard and firm. The soft flesh was now free to receive the disciplining switch, and each stroke 
did not cause water to stream out of my hole.

No, I had to grit my teeth and close my eyes tightly, but I made sure that I kept every drop
of the liquid inside of me. That meant opening myself up so that the liquid flowed down into 
my core. My stomach seemed full from the liquid which stretched my rectum open.

Truly, I was stretched wider than a thick shaft of manhood could stretch me. Liquid is 
powerful when it is given in large doses. I felt as if I were being buggered by the sea.

Crack! The switch whistled through the air. I gasped. I held my muscles tightly. Every 
muscle of my girlish body was used to keep the liquid inside of me. Every muscle was tensed 
and strained.

There was that moment of deadly silence when the switch was raised from my red behind. 
Then I heard the swish of it as the thin wooden branch cut into my flesh once again.

The strap which Father Peter had used on me earlier had left my entire bottom sore and 
throbbing. The leather strip was fairly thick and it placed wide marks of pain on my young, 
previously flawless bottom.

This switch delivered a different form of pain. It was a stinging pain, and each stroke felt 
like Fire as it fell over the welted surface which Father Peter had previously created. All of this 
to absolve me of the devil. It was worth it.

“How many are you going to give her, Father Peter?” Turlock asked, licking his lips with his 
long tongue.

“The usual forty,” the priest replied, and again I nearly fainted. So far I had received fifteen 
with the switch, and the thought of twenty-five more made me feel weak.

But weakness was not to be cultivated. The nuns had to be a strong breed, and I intended 
to manifest that strength, no matter how painful the process was.

Again and again the priest flailed me with the switch while Raphael watched on. Over and 
over, new weals appeared at the insistence of the punishing switch as directed by the priest, 
Father Peter.

I felt that I was growing as I took the abuse. Instead of feeling like a child being spanked, I 
felt like the young nun I was becoming. I was seeing the importance of punishment for the 
first time. It was required if I was to become a better person; a better nun.

As Father Peter flogged me, forcing me to retain the liquid which bloated me, I looked at 
the crotch of his legs. The bulge there pressed forward into the front robe of his vestments.

As the priest punished me, I recalled that my own father, my natural father, had never 
whipped me. I was a spoiled child, in fact, because I soon learned that my father would not 
use the switch on me. It seems that he didn’t care enough about me to discipline me. While 
the others in my family were simple farmers on the outskirts of Spain, my father ventured into 
Madrid to become a revolutionary of some kind. We never heard from him again after he left 
our house to find his fortune.

I have given wondering if he is alive and well somewhere. If so, I would hate him for never 
letting his family know what happened. I watched the sadness take over my mother. Finally it 
killed her.

My brothers and sisters wanted to get out of Spain. Once the Inquisition began rearing its 
ugly head, it was no longer safe to stay.

I had been out in the fields, talking to the trees, one day in early Spring. When I returned 
to the house, everybody was gone. But they didn’t leave the way father had gone. They left in 
a hurry, under the pressure of the Inquisitors. I know that. The food for the afternoon meal 
was still on the table. They left without packing their most treasured valuables.

As for the few riches we had in our poor family, the silver and the wedding ring which my 
brother had fashioned from the earth for his wife-to-be, those things were gone. They were 
stolen by the men who forced my family into slavery.

It was by the grace of God that I was spared. I’ve never forgotten that. It stays with me, 
and lives within my every pore. The grace of God. The grace of God. I keep repeating that 
phrase over and over.

It was all that allowed me to go on in the days after the brothers and sisters departed. No 
father, no mother, no family at all. I was left alone, and my only consolation was the feeling 
that God had saved me for some purpose. I told myself that I would carry out the purpose 
when I discovered what it was.

I prayed that God would lead me, and keep me in His hands.

That was when I met Raphael. He was wandering aimlessly on the land near my family’s 
house one afternoon soon after my brothers and sisters disappeared. I could see in his eyes 
that he was friendly. There was an honesty there which could not be denied. It made me feel 
close to him. I knew that he was good.

Pleased to see a friendly face, I invited him in. I guess that I hoped that he would console 
me. He did, by his very presence, but he needed consolation, too. He told me that his family 
had all disappeared when the Spanish Inquisitors swept through the town in which they lived.

The same God had spared Raphael, as He had spared me. Raphael had been away from 
the house when the Inquisitors came. He felt badly about that. He said that he wished that he 
had been there so that he could have had the pleasure of telling them what he thought of 
them. He hated them. He absolutely hated them.

Raphael told me that there had been a feud between his family and another family, also 
living in the same town near Madrid. Raphael believed that the rival clan had reported his 
family to the Inquisitors, falsely accusing them of crimes against the church.

It was untrue, but the Inquisitors were not the most fair-minded people. They were much 
more willing to believe the accusers, than to believe the accused. The accused never got to 
see their accusers. The accusers were protected.

Raphael told me that he had been determined to unleash his bitterness on the rival family 
he believed had reported his family to the Inquisitors. He stalked them. He went to their house
to confront them.

When he arrived, he found the place ransacked. It was obvious that the Inquisitors had 
been there. That family was not the enemy. The Inquisitors were the enemies.

And so Raphael and I began to live together. I have often said that he was like a father to 
me, because he is several years older than I and I looked up to him in the way that a young 
girl might look up to her father. With my own father gone, I needed someone to take that 
place which he left vacant. Every girl should have a father.

When Raphael asked me to check out the church so that I could find out where the riches 
were hidden, I had to comply. I owed Raphael the favor because of his caring for me and 
because of all he’d been through.

He told me that the church Inquisitors used the gems and the silver which they confiscated
from the homes of their victims for their own purposes. He said that it was only fitting that we,
the people, should have the riches instead of the church which had stolen the things.

That was how I arrived at the church and started out on my adventure that had already led
me to the desire of being a nun.

I had already begun to realize that Raphael was not really a father figure for me. No, not 
nearly as much as I had previously thought he was. Looking at him as I received the lashes of 
the switch from Father Peter, I realized that Raphael was more a brother to me.

I had thought of him as a lover in my first days at the church, but that was because I was 
looking for a way out. I had imagined that he would be my reason for leaving the church. His 
love would prevent me from becoming a nun, because I could never be faithful to God alone 
when Raphael was near.

But seeing him again, there in the corner with his mouth gagged, was like taking a walk 
through a once familiar neighborhood many years later. Things were the same, but things 
were different, too. I saw him more clearly now that I had suffered the blows of religious 
punishment.

I saw that my love was for God and for Father Peter! Father Peter, who beat me with the 
switch, warning me to keep the liquid of the sheep’s bladder inside of me, was taking me 
higher and higher. I was heaven-bound!

Father Peter’s interest in my growth as a young nun was very important. It would involve 
suffering, but that was to be expected. That was part of the calling.

I felt that Father Peter wanted to protect me from the Inquisitors. As a nun, I would be 
safe. Other girls had the idea that they might remain safe from the Inquisitors if they became 
nuns, and the truth was, they didn’t really feel the calling.

“It has to be in your blood,” Father Peter had said about being a nun. “If you take the 
floggings, and read the prayer books, and remain chaste, and learn about God and His 
goodness, and have it in your blood, then you are bound to succeed.”

And so I was willing to work for all of this. Watching Father Peter’s shadow on the wall as 
his bulging manhood pressed forward into his vestments with each swing of the switch on my 
liquid-filled bottom, I imagined that I had the father I always wanted.

Even the times that my real father was with me, he never disciplined me, and never 
instructed me the way a directionless young girl needs to be instructed and directed. I was 
aimless and spoiled, I guess.

But Father Peter was like the father I never had, and as he stroked my bottom with the 
switch, I called out to him.

“Father, oh, Father,” I cried. “Flog the devil from me. Slowly squirt the liquid in my rear 
hole, so that I can feel it going inside of me. I will do anything I am told to do in the service of 
God. I am going to be a young nun, and you are my Father.”

When I said the word, father, I meant it in all respects. Just as God is the holy father of us 
all, Father Peter was now my maker and my guiding light.

I would honor him above all other men.





CHAPTER SEVEN


The blessed liquid remained inside my tortured body even as the final stroke of the switch 
came sailing into the battered red flesh of my behind.

Father Peter slowly unfastened the robes from his body. Each time he removed a garment 
he placed it under my belly, and under the region of my sex lips, raising my buttocks higher 
and higher each time.

The collar came off from around his neck. He placed the white material at my nostrils. I 
breathed in, knowing that the material was scented with Father Peter’s body since it had been 
around his neck all day.

I felt comfortable when I inhaled the collar, even though there was much to be 
uncomfortable about. My anus was still Filled, and my rear flesh was throbbing with striations 
of fiery pain laid over flesh which had already taken much abuse in the name of God.

“Take the bladder away,” Father Peter told Turlock. The servant followed the command, 
and removed the organ. He also pulled out the ivory insertion through which the liquid had 
been funneled. Some of the warm liquid did squirt out when the ivory was removed, but that 
was to be expected. I wasn’t going to be punished further for that.

With Raphael still observing every action, Father Peter, now totally nude, walked around to
the front of the table on which I was tied. He placed his member near my face. Taking it in his 
hand, he circled my face with it, rubbing the head against the softness of my skin.

He squeezed the head, and drops of his holy liquid oozed out like precious pearls.

I didn’t know if it would be correct to use my tongue to catch the drops. I wanted to 
remain in submissive subservience as a human must behave before God. I was humbled by the
punishment, and I awaited the word of my lord and master, Father Peter.

He seemed content to smooth the wetness from his penis over the surface of my velvet 
skin. He poked my nostrils with it, and then circled my face. Wherever his organ trailed, a path 
of wetness was left in its wake.

I was becoming aroused but I suppressed my carnal desire. I was there to serve as a young
nun. He was my priest, and I was to obey him and serve him in the act of this ritual which had 
begun with the Filling of my body with liquid.

“You may take the golden rod into your mouth,” Father Peter said.

“Thank you, Father,” I replied.

I was so glad. I knew that the sight of me taking the swollen organ of the priest into my 
mouth might upset Raphael who was bound and gagged in the corner of the room. But when 
I glanced over, I discovered that Raphael was still throbbing many inches in front of himself. 
His penis was erect and throbbing.

Perhaps the sight of a naked young girl bound to a table aroused him. Perhaps he was 
moved to see a teenaged buttocks whipped with a switch until the creamy whiteness turned 
pink, and then red.

Later the flesh would be purple and brown and black and blue. But those colors of pain 
would be crimsoned with a fresh layer of soreness. The bottoms of the young nuns were 
always bruised and battered.

Perhaps Raphael enjoyed watching the ritual which had taken place. From his position he 
had been able to see the warm liquid pumping into me. He had seen the fullness of the 
bladder of the sheep go down and down, as all of that water was pumped into me, flowing 
through my anus, filling me up.

Perhaps Raphael was able to appreciate the pain I went through. Surely he could see that 
to be whipped forty times with a switch on an already-sore bottom was not easy. But to take 
the forty over welts while the anus itself was expanded with several quarts of liquid, well, that 
was torture.

It was the torture of the body for the benefit of the soul. It was the cleaning out of the 
devil’s sins from my body, so that I could be a nun.

Was Raphael aroused by the way Father Peter pressed his large penis at my lips? Did he 
find it interesting that my young, budding breasts were pressed into the hard wood of the 
table? Did he like the way the heavy ropes circled my waist, binding me down?

Father Peter was almost old enough to be my actual father. Maybe Raphael enjoyed seeing
a fragile teenager, a young nun such as I, being punished by this older man, the punishing 
priest of this church.

Whatever had aroused him, I was glad. It made me feel that he was not being tortured, 
despite the fact that he was bound and gagged, and being forced to watch the sexual 
activities which transpired for the purpose of my training as a young nun.

Now I knew why the other young nuns were impaled on the pegs in the punishment room.
Some of them were merely trying to avoid death at the hands of the Inquisitors.

It was not unnatural. The desire to survive must be at the heart of all encounters. But they 
would have to accept the abuse of the pegs in order to prove their faith and pure desire.

And as for survival, of course they would survive! Even if they did not survive in the bodies 
they now inhabited, their spirits would live on, if they were pure.

So that was how I knew that all of this would hurt my body, but would aid my soul. My 
soul, my spirit, would be everlasting, and I would live in the house of the Lord forever.

I took Father Peter’s shaft into my mouth. It had been hanging from the wiry patch of 
pubic hair which crowned it. It was curved downward, and being soft, the priest had to take it 
in his hands and direct it into me.

It was warm when it entered my mouth, and I began licking the head of it with my tongue. 
I didn’t rush it. I went very slowly, because nothing else mattered now but his pleasure. The 
fullness which I was holding still, was not to be considered. I wanted only to serve his cock, 
treating it as the very God I worshipped as a nun.

My tongue swirled gently and lovingly, savoring the flavor and the soft texture of the 
bulbous head. The more I moaned and worked on the cock with my wet, warm mouth, the 
more the penis responded.

Gradually I took more and more of the organ into my mouth, and gradually the shaft 
swelled and became much thicker. It was especially down at the base, and I found that it was 
too difficult to take all of that thick part into my mouth.

But Father Peter saw that I was able to take it, since I did swallow it down once, even if only
for a moment. He was well aware that I was physically able to suck him all the way down to 
where my face was scratched with his pubic hair, and so he worked the thing into me until I 
had no choice but to accept it all.

This pressed the organ partially down my throat. I continued to suck gently on the erected
organ, giving it all the attention it deserved.

Few men were involved in this particular church. Mostly it was run by nuns, with Father 
Peter at the helm. Then there was Turlock, and now the prisoner, my friend Raphael.

I wondered how many of the young nuns had tasted the unique taste of the holy man’s 
cock. I wondered how often he allowed his mighty sword to enter the warm mouths of the 
delicious teenaged girls who flocked to the church in an effort to be saved from the Spanish 
Inquisitors.

And what of the nuns? I recalled what someone had told me about the graves which were 
hidden in the courtyard of the church. They were the graves of the children born to nuns.

Even the prostitutes kept their children with them in the whorehouses when the babies 
were born without fathers! But the nuns, who knew who the fathers were, destroyed their 
infants, believing them to be poisoned by the sins of their conception.

Dear diary, if anyone should ever chance to read these pages, I hope that they understand.
I hope, if they should discover this secret sex diary of a young nun, that they will know that the
times produced many of the actions and reactions which might be judged as wrong.

But it is only for God to judge whether something is wrong or right. We just do not have 
the scope to know of such things, and so we must not make judgments of others.

Except if we are like Father Peter, who was judging the way I was sucking on his 
ever-stiffening rod. I could feel the power swelling inside of him. I watched with open eyes as 
he plunged his pelvis back and forth into my face with a passion.

He gave me such hard strokes that my mouth ached. He rammed it into me again and 
again. I would have begged him to push it into me even harder, but my mouth was filled with 
his shaft.

I felt his heavy balls slapping into my face. He was thrusting the devil out of me. He was 
relentless and merciless. I thought of God’s mercy. Sometimes it seems that God has no 
mercy, but it must be accepted that in His infinite wisdom, He is going by His master plan.

So my master, my lord, my Father Peter rammed his thick shaft of life into my young 
throat, and I accepted that in his cruelty, he was going by some master plan. He knew what he
wanted of me, and even though it seemed difficult for me at times, the ultimate design was 
leading toward my acceptance as a young nun.

He held my head in place. It was an awkward position for me, because I was fastened to 
the table and I strained to take the thrusting of his strong shaft. I was unable to move beyond 
the limits of my bondage, but since my body was filled with liquid, it was best that I remain on
my stomach with my striped behind raised for further abuse if Father Peter so decided.

He was ramming his tool insistently into the depths of my throat and I met each full 
stroke. It was a quick and steady rhythm and I wondered how much longer I would be able to 
take the plundering.

Finally, just as I thought I would pass out, he removed his instrument of power from my 
willing but exhausted young mouth. My lips obediently caressed the full length of the organ 
as he withdrew it from me. I felt the thick skin upwards on the organ as it bunched up 
between my moist lips.

I flicked the tip of my tongue into the slit at the head of his organ, just to coax out those 
beautiful drops of pre-cum which were gifts I swallowed down.

Finally the flared head of his penis was popped from my young lips. I found that it was 
difficult for me to swallow without the shaft inside of me. I had grown attached to the 
intruding member. It was not an intruder after the first few thrusts. It had become a part of 
me, and I hated to let it go.

I wanted it to be an extension of me. I wanted it to fill me.

Still, it was best that my oral structure be given a rest from the pummeling. He wanted to 
keep me in good enough condition to always be ready to take more.

“I am going to complete the cleaning out process,” Father Peter announced.

He had a raging erection now, and he held it in his hand as he spoke the following words. 
“Fierce is the thrust of my cock. I, your Father, manly of rod, am ready for you to receiveth 
me.”

“Hallowed by Thy cock,” I uttered in complete worship and acceptance. I knew that his will 
would be done. It had to be that way.

He moved around and squatted over me. I could feel his naked feet at the sides of my 
body. He pressed his feet into both sides of my gut, giving a little squeeze which might have 
started the liquid flowing out of the body of a lesser girl.

But I was there to be his adoring subject. I was there to take my training as Father Peter’s 
young nun. I longed to be his most special nun, the one he would sneak in to be with each 
night. I wanted, too, to crawl into his bed at night, and cuddle up beneath the covers, sleeping
with my head between his legs.

I wanted him to insert his shaft of life into my young organ of sex, and keep it pressed 
inside all night.

Dear diary, these are the sexual thoughts of a young girl. As I enter the house of God as a 
young nun, I wonder if I should be having such thoughts. I had always heard that the nuns did
not have sex, and that abstinence was virtuous.

But my experiences were telling me that once inside the walls of a convent, reality was not 
as the outside world would believe. That is why I write these words on these pages now. Even I
might not believe that all of this has happened to me here inside the church. But it has, with 
all the passion I inscribe here.

Dear diary, you cannot imagine the excitement for a young teenaged girl such as I, when 
the presence of the priest of a church is felt upon my naked body.

I could feel the heat of Father Peter’s body as he squatted over me. His balls were hanging 
down and touching the still hot flesh of my upturned bottom. I was sure that the hairy, 
sweat-soaked balls were feeling the heat which emanated from my well-beaten buttocks. I 
strained at the bonds to raise my bottom higher for him, so that he could feel the soft globes 
against his manly balls.

The water which filled my posterior channels had stretched the opening of my bunghole. 
The pressure had widened me without much pain.

After warning me that he was ready to enter, Father Peter placed the dripping head of his 
powerful organ at the bitten, reddened slit which separated my bottom into two perfect half 
moons.

Without warning, he inserted his mighty rod all the way into my rear hole. The pathway, 
stretched and filled with water, yielded to his thrust. The liquid which filled me was 
immediately displaced by the plunging movement of his organ in me.

It gushed out of my canal, flowing over the welted globes of my posterior. I could feel the 
stinging of each welt as the warm, potent liquid coursed over the bruises inflicted repeatedly 
by the cutting branch which Father Peter had used to flog me.

“Ahhhhh,” I cried. “Oh, Jesus!”

“Yes, speak the name of the son of God as I give you the manna you deserve,” Father Peter
said.

He began using the battering motion he had begun in my throat. This time he was sliding 
in and out of my anal passage, and the friction was intense.

The liquid which had filled me was all being evacuated as he completed what he called the
cleaning out process. The liquid had been blessed and so it was a purifying process which 
linked purity with the hurting thrusts of the priest’s erected organ.

He was driving his cock in and out of me with a passion. I had been stretched by the water,
but still it hurt when the full length of his tool pressed the deepest part of my teenaged chute.
I prayed that he wouldn’t damage me. I wondered if the shape of my hole and channel was 
good for him. It did hurt me, but in a way which made the line between pleasure and pain 
disappear.

This was truly in keeping with the teachings of the nuns. The lines between pleasure and 
pain would have to be erased for them to do their good work. Now I knew, from direct 
experience, one of the ways that the task of erasing that line was accomplished.

Raphael was groaning. Even without touching himself (his hands were tied), he was 
coming close to his climax. Just the sight of the handsome priest, thrusting his manhood 
inside of me, aroused Raphael to the point of orgasm.

He was bucking back and forth, making the ropes dig into his flesh, but he didn’t care. He 
wanted his release.

It was then that Sister Sara knocked on the door. Perhaps she realized that she had a 
mission. It would happen in that very chamber.





CHAPTER EIGHT


Sister Sara’s jaw dropped and her mouth remained open in the ‘oh’ of awe. She saw me 
strapped to the table with my throbbing rear sticking high up for the insertion of Father Peter. 
And bound in the corner of the room, the naked body of the handsome Raphael.

Turlock was now in the corner of the room, sitting glassy-eyed while he stroked his own 
curved shaft of manhood.

“Perhaps I should come back at a more convenient time,” Sister Sara replied airily. Her 
response to the sight was not one of negative judgement. It was only to be expected, since 
she was genuinely startled and hadn’t had enough time to collect herself.

It was a strange sight to be taking place in the chamber of a priest!

“No, Sister Sara. This is a perfect time for you to join us,” Father Peter told her. I could feel 
the vibrations of his voice as he spoke. The vibrations were transmitted down the shaft of his 
penetrating penis.

“But it appears that you are, uh, shall I say involved?”

“Yes, that is correct, dear Sister Sara. But that doesn’t mean that God has done anything 
but create the perfect circumstance for your growth as a nun,” Father Peter said.

“What in the name of heaven do you mean?” Sister Sara said, seemingly a bit taken aback 
by the priest’s statement.

“Have you forgotten the things you were taught as a nun, Sister Sara?” the priest asked, 
still inside of me.

“I most certainly have not, Father. I flog myself at least twice a day, I say my prayers, I say 
Grace, I read the books and practice the faith.”

“Then you must recall that we Dominicans believe that there is perfect order in the world. 
The world is perfect. It is all God’s way.”

“Yes, of course, Father,” Sister Sara said. “The world is perfect. If it seems to be not perfect 
at any given moment, that is because man, in his humanness, has not recognized the 
perfection.”

“Yes, Sister,” Father Peter continued. “Everything that takes place here on earth is for a 
purpose. It may seem to be a mistake at the moment, but there are no mistakes in a perfect 
world.”

I had to intellect. I felt a bit foolish joining this serious conversation while the priest was 
impaling me with his flesh and blood weapon, but obviously the priest was not uncomfortable
about discussing the matter in midst of the act.

“Father, does that mean that the surrender of my brothers and sisters to the violence of 
the Spanish Inquisitors was for a reason?”

“Yes, my dear. I don’t know what their personal reasons were, but we believe that each 
person’s life is affected by the various things that happen. For your brother, for example, the 
reason for his surrender might have been so that he could learn to surrender. Too many of us 
are unyielding, inflexible. Sometimes it takes a dramatic and seemingly horrible act to teach us
the importance of surrender.”

“I’ve learned about surrender here from you.

I’ve surrendered completely to the majestic power of your dominance. God is on your 
side.”

Father Peter laughed. I was glad that I had amused him. And I could feel the ripples of my 
inner core as his laughter rocked my channel.

“Now, as far as your growth is concerned, the surrender of your brother was intended to 
teach you a lesson, also. What do you think the lesson might be?” he asked me.

I thought about it. “I think it could be many things, Father, and I’ll have to think about the 
possibilities. But I can see one purpose for the happening. It could have happened so that I 
would come to meet Raphael. The purpose of meeting and getting to know Raphael might 
have been to bring me here to the church, because it was Raphael who gave me the donation 
which brought me here.”

“And now you are on the road to a meaningful life,” Father Peter said. “I’m certain that 
much of what has happened has confused you. Even in the future you shall be tested at every 
turn. But that is also for the lessons you must learn.”

Father Peter returned his gaze to Sister Sara. “And what might the lesson be that you must
learn, Sister?”

The attractive young nun looked around the room. She again saw Raphael bound with 
rope, his body helpless.

She looked at the prominence which rose from between his muscled thighs.

She looked at me, all hurt and red as a cherry. She saw the priest, whose punishing penis 
was implanted firmly in the warmth of my anal passage. I was working my anal muscles to 
keep the priest’s penis hard.

Sister Sara knew that I had a secret which I wanted to keep from Father Peter. Even she 
had said that it would be difficult to keep the secret from him, considering the close contact 
he had with his young nuns. He got to know them inside-out, you might say. So far I had been
fortunate. He had worked on my oral cavity and my anal cavity. He had bypassed the delicate 
folds of pink flesh which had been deflowered by Turlock, the fifth person in the room.

People took Turlock for a fool because of his bizarre appearance. But Turlock knew how to 
get his way. He had taken my virginity, and by doing so, he did more than experience the 
pleasure of the act.

The church was like a little society all to itself, and it had the hierarchies of any society. 
Turlock had gained that much more power by taking my maidenhead.

He had something to use against me if he chose to tell the priest. I didn’t want to be a 
slave to Turlock, and I had even considered telling Father Peter myself before Turlock used the
information for his own purposes.

Yet, something stopped me from saying the truth. I hoped that the truth would not have 
to be said. That way I would not be lying. I would merely be keeping something quiet which 
was best kept quiet.

Sister Sara, in her wisdom, knew all of this. She had discovered my loss of innocence, and 
she realized from my statements that Father Peter had not been the man to make me a young
woman. That left Turlock, since he was the only other male on the grounds at the time, and I 
had said that a man had come and taken me as I slept.

There were numerous options for Sister Sara, and the one she chose to take made me fall 
in love with her from that moment onward.

“The lesson for me seems to be this, Father Peter,” Sister Sara began. “I have heard the 
story of Raquel’s journey here to become a young nun. She didn’t expect to answer the call of 
God when she arrived with a small donation, but fate has directed her in the hands of the 
Lord. Now she will be giving us a large donation in the form of her goodness as a nun in our 
church. And this young man, this Raphael, was responsible for sending Raquel to us.”

She didn’t question Raphael’s bondage, or anything else that had obviously taken place 
prior to her entry into the priest’s chamber.

“I feel that it is important to recognize the existence of sexual arousal in the human animal.
We are all humans. It is better for us to experience the full extent of our bodies than to 
suppress God’s work. God created us, and he made us sexual beings.

“That is why it is my suggestion that to celebrate this girl’s journey to the status of Sister 
Sara, we should congratulate her sponsor, the handsome Raphael. What better way to 
congratulate them both but to arrange the act of sexual communion between them?”

“Ah, what a wonderful idea, Sister Sara. And such a generous one,” Father Peter enthused. 
“They will both the joys of intercourse since they feel for each other. They have been through 
a great deal together. From that point we can set Raphael free to follow his path in life, while 
the new Sister Raquel shall have experienced sexual intercourse.”

“I think that it is important to experience all things,” I said, repeating something I had 
heard earlier within the walls of the church. “Yes, I don’t want to deprive myself of anything 
that God has created.”

“Good,” Father Peter said. “Then we shall begin. Let me get things started. Turlock… “

“Yes, Master?” the servant answered, not very enthusiastically.

“I want you to untie the knots which bind Sister Raquel to this table. And you, Sister Sara,” 
Father Peter added, “go untie Raphael as you suck divine life into the staff of his manhood.”

Oh, dear diary, no words can express the joy which beamed from every pore of my 
absolutely glowing body. The heavy ropes which rubbed my tender flesh raw were being 
unknotted.

I watched as Sister Sara fell to her knees before the outstretched manhood of Raphael. She
placed her hands on his balls and began to suck his erection, all the time stroking and gently 
squeezing the sac and its contents.

Then, as she continued to alternately blow on and suck on his penis, she moved her hands 
behind him to begin to unfasten the knots which had made him a voyeur and a slave for the 
previous hours.

Sister Sara bobbed back and forth on Raphael. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, 
and groaned. He had been visually stimulated for two hours. He’d had a throbbing erection 
the entire time, but not once had he been able to touch the aroused tool with his hands.

Now he had the warm mouth and sweet lips of the lovely young nun on his prick. She 
wrapped her soft lips around him and made love to what she sucked. I knew that she was 
doing for me. Sister Sara had become a lover of women at some point in her life. Whether it 
happened when she entered the convent, or whether the desire was one of her reasons for 
joining the nunnery, I cannot say. But I knew that of all the possibilities which presented 
themselves to her upon her arrival in our magic circle, the idea of having sex with me was the 
most appealing to her.

But instead of gratifying herself, she chose to spare me Father Peter’s anger. By suggesting
that Raphael have intercourse with me in the presence of Father Peter, she was giving me the 
perfect reason for the loss of my maidenhead.

There was little doubt that in the near future it would happen that Father Peter would have
access to my frontal privates. Now there would be no need for anger when he would feel the 
full depth of my unprotected cavern.

I think I shall never forget the expression on Raphael’s face when he approached me after 
Sister Sara had slicked his lovely penis with her warm Wetness.

It was a combination of love and lust which I saw reflected in Raphael’s handsome 
features.

I knew that it was not pure lust, because of the glow of adoration which I saw shining 
there for me. He loved me and had protected me since the day we met.

But there was more than love on his mind and in his heart. The lust was certainly raging 
within him. He had observed my beautiful naked body for two hours as the priest took me 
through my paces.

Father Peter’s arms were bracing me as he lifted us both from the table. He held me, his 
arms interlocked around my stomach. His flesh was olive and his arms were hairy, providing a 
striking contrast with the whiteness of my stomach.

He caressed the red weals which previous whippings had raised there.

He remained embedded within my anal cavity as he positioned me into a standing 
position. Now my rear was accounted for while the front side of my teenaged body came into 
full view and full access of Raphael.

Sister Sara dropped down on her knees once again so .that she could get a close look at 
the soft vagina which she craved. She placed her fingers on either side of my moistening sex 
lips, and gently opened my nectar box for the entrance of Raphael.

I told myself that I was going to scream very loudly when Raphael entered me, if only to 
convince Father Peter that Raphael was indeed taking my virginity with the thrust of his organ.

However, when Raphael pressed forward into me, I screamed loudly and it was for real! He
was built much thicker than I had imagined just by looking at his thing. Once inside of me, I 
could feel how wide and thick it was.

He began fornicating as soon as he had entered with that first wonderful stroke. Sister 
Sara placed her face up close to the prick which sliced in and out of my juicing girl-part.

She watched as the natural lubrications of our organs frothed.

As Raphael enjoyed the wonder of my young body from the front. Father Peter plugged 
and twisted me from behind. The two men ravaged me.

At first they timed their strokings so that a moment after Raphael slammed me from the 
front, Father Peter rammed me from behind. My naked breasts were bounced back and forth 
with every double-stroke. I was gasping with pleasure.

How could this be a sin? It felt too good.

I was having difficulty catching my breath as they bounced me back and forth. But then, 
just when I had become accustomed to the rhythm they’d established, Father Peter stopped a 
beat and began hitting the deepest part of my rear tunnel just at the moment that Raphael 
banged the deepest part of my young vagina.

I thought they would absolutely meet somewhere in the middle of me!

Back and forth they went, varying the rhythms and the movements until I thought I would 
just jump out of my skin. It was a true show of my humanness, that I could feel all of this, and 
yet I believed that it was all meant for my growth as a young nun, and thus, was an act which 
nurtured the soul and the spirit.

Sometimes Father Peter used a rotation which moved all around inside the circular tunnel 
of my rear. Other times he rammed me. Other times he merely kept his long thing deeply 
embedded inside of me while Raphael did all of the work up in front.

“Sister Sara,” Father Peter said, his voice a bit breathy from his own human body reactions, 
“you can do more than watch.”

It seemed that the young nun had been waiting for the nod from Father Peter. Her pink 
tongue muscle extended way out and even I could see the saliva on it. My underside quivered 
when the talented and passionate tongue found its way across that sensitive area between the
anus and the vagina of a young girl.

I moaned gently as Sister Sara licked the area. She worked her tongue back and forth and 
even found her way into both my front and back portals. Yes, both orifices were stuffed with 
manly prick, but Sister Sara muscled her tongue into the tight behind even as Father Peter 
fornicated with me.

I could feel both the prick and her tongue inside of me. Her tongue was actually licking the
priest’s prick inside of my young bunghole. Since Father Peter was a priest, and Sister Sara was
a nun. I believed that this was truly holy intercourse.

Then I felt the soft tongue of the nun slip out of my back door, and into the front. Raphael 
groaned deeply when he felt the addition of the warm, wet tongue muscle. Her female tongue
played with Raphael’s cock and my young pussy at the same time.

The sensation became too much for Raphael to withstand. The social climate in Spain had 
made it rough on Raphael, and he had not had the opportunity or desire to ejaculate for 
several days. He had a huge load of pent-up gism which had been teased for more than two 
hours. My young pussy could feel the stiffening of his shaft. He dug his nails into me in an 
effort to hold on as his approaching orgasm began to rumble. He was afraid the impact of the
rushing semen would rocket him away from the deep connection which bound us together in 
sexual ecstasy.

The pulsations of his cock triggered something in me. The head of his organ was touching 
the deepest part of me, while the thick base tickled the button which Sister Sara had referred 
to as a clitoris.

I was going to climax in multiple convulsions. My breasts tingled as if there were 
thousands of tiny pins placed delicately in every part of the upturned globes, including the 
firm tan nipples.

“Oh, Raphael, Father Peter, Sister Sara,” I moaned. “I can’t hold back. I am going to do it! I 
am climbing skyward toward the Lord!”

With that. Father began slamming his rod into me in earnest. He was racing for one thing 
now. He too wanted to cum, and he was working toward that explosion of energy.

The crimsoned crosses which his switch had imprinted in my rear globes were pressed 
against the priest’s body as I reached the point of no return. I started to scream. My cries were
nearly drowned out in the man-cries of Raphael and Father Peter. All three of us reached our 
peaks at the same time.

As for Sister Sara, she kept her tongue inside my frontal sex hole, lapping up Raphael’s 
thick gift of semen, and then, still thirsty, she moved back to my asshole to lick out the manna 
which Father Peter had deposited up in there.

It was bliss. All of us collapsed to floor.

There was nothing for us to do except thank God that we had experienced such joy. There 
was nothing like the thrill of sex, and Father Peter was one religious leader who was wise 
enough to recognize that.

Turlock sat in the corner, his eyes still glazed. He had a sad expression on his face. He was 
sexually frustrated. Even his plan of having something to hold over my head had failed. He 
would have to find another way to satisfy his perverted lusts.

Sister Sara had given up the desire to use my secret as a method for inducing me into 
lesbian relations with her. By sparing me Father Peter’s rage, she had earned my devotion. Of 
course I would have sex with her. Now it would be mutual, and it would be wonderful.

We would flog each other to atone for sins. They we would lick each other’s wounds. She 
would continue to lift me closer to heaven by guiding me toward higher wonders.

Raphael kissed me goodbye.. He wished me luck in my work with the Sisterhood.

As soon as I could, I rushed to my room to fetch you, dear diary. I wanted to write about 
my growth in the afterglow of the experience, while my young pussy was still churning with 
the burning spunk of my young lover, and while the crimsoned bottom globes of my tortured 
behind closed together to keep the abundant gift of semen within my sex-fulfilled body.

I had recognized my calling. I was born to serve God and to serve Father Peter. I am tired 
now. I have had a very hard day. It is one of many such days in the life of a nun, although the 
outside world has little idea of the things we must go through.

I caress the soft curves of my young body, feeling the lumps which my Master has inflicted
upon me. He is my priest. I am his young nun. I am going to bed now, and as I lie in my bed 
with my face toward heaven, I shall say my prayer to him.

“You are my Master. Hallowed be Thy whip. Please give me, each day, your abundant load, 
and torture my body for all the sins of hesitancy and fear I have committed against Thee. 
Please sink me into degradation and deliver me into the most sordid masochism for the 
pleasure of You, my Master, Father Peter, and all men.”

This was the code and nightly prayer for the young nuns who served the Lord in this 
church. Each time I say it, I fall gently to sleep, into sweet dreams of happiness and fulfillment. 
I have found my God.

*

Dear diary, you have become my secret sex diary; the secret sex diary of a young nun. I 
must keep you hidden at all times, for the secrets of the church must remain here.

Sometimes I imagine that the entire affair with Raphael was a dream. It is difficult for me 
to believe that Father Peter let Raphael return to the outside world so freely. He had no fear 
that Raphael would expose the secrets of the church.

Perhaps he knew that Raphael would become a victim of the Spanish Inquisition. That 
Raphael had been smited came to me in a vision. I had been without food for three days. By 
the end of the second day my hunger response had subsided to the point of disappearance, 
and by the third day I was lightheaded and ready for visions.

The knowledge that Raphael had perished came to me, and it was very real. It was a real 
part of life at this time in history. Imagine death being a real part of life. I already miss Raphael
more than words can ever say!

But at least I have the knowledge that I gave him my warm body before the end. If it never
happened, both of us would have been poorer when it came time for our entrance to heaven.

Ah, I wonder what will happen to these pages in the future. When others come to read 
these words, what will be the climate of the world in which they are read?

Hopefully, the years will educate the people and it will no longer be essential to keep these
facts of life under lock and key. Father Peter and Sister Sara have had dealings with other 
churches and they say that clandestine sexual communion exists in all of them.

Why must we persist in presenting a false front for the outside world? They must 
recognize that we are human, and as human animals, it is only natural that we share our love 
and sexual emotion amongst ourselves.

Perhaps as time moves on, the church will grow, too. Perhaps the church will see that it is a
sham to hide the truth. Perhaps the church will come to provide its true purpose in the 
support of all of God’s children.

Now is a difficult time. This period of Spanish Inquisition is a blight on history. Why must 
we punish those who are not like us? I don’t understand it. It is no wonder that there are those
who have tried to bum us down. It is only a reaction to what we have created Oh, I must hide 
you now, dear diary. I hear footsteps. Perhaps it is Sister Sara, coming to give me her feminine 
charms.

Oh, dear diary, my body aches. It was not Sister Sara. It was Turlock!

Turlock has done something terrible. He has rebelled against Father Peter. Turlock claims 
that he has Father Peter bound in the lower dungeon of the church. He says that Sister Sara 
has also been tied, and that he is going to free all of the girls from their pegs and allow them 
to run wild across the countryside.

To give me what he says I deserve, he introduced me to a new whip. It was a whip that he 
had been making in his spare time. He had gathered strips of leather and braided them. He 
didn’t bind me, but each time I tried to get by him, he flogged me with his whip. It had a 
terrible bite and I saw the red weals blaze up on my flesh each time he landed one of his 
strong-armed blows.

He kept me back with the whip, even to the point of backing me off into a corner. He was 
still raging with anger over the triumph that Sister Sara and I had concerning the secret which 
he wanted to use against me.

Now it seems as if Turlock may have the last laugh. He is a strange character. I am afraid of
him, despite my faith in God and God’s blueprint for our lives. If this supposed to be, I accept 
that,, but I intend to do whatever is needed to put an end to it at once.

Turlock must not be allowed to take over this church. To do so would be the end of all that
is just. I feel that as strongly as I feel the wounds which Turlock has inflicted. I must relax now 
and caress the aching stripes of pain. With the loving energy of my hands, I shall soothe the 
angry red welts. When it is safe to do so, I shall make further entries in your pages, dear diary.

*

Editor’s note:

That was the final entry in the diary which has come to expose the secrets of life in the 
church in 1492 in Spain. The sentiments of Sister Raquel, her wishes for an openness in future 
years are touching in light of the attitudes still expressed from the church today.

There were many remaining pages in Sister Raquel’s secret sex diary. Why they remained 
blank, we can only guess. Nobody can know for sure.

Historians tell us that the church in which the document was found all these years later 
had become a place of depravity for the young nuns. It is said that they had orgies there, and 
for all we know, the participants may have been the very girls Sister Raquel described when 
she spoke of the room full of pegs on which young nuns punished themselves.

We can learn much from Sister’s Raquel’s belief that all things arc meant to be. We can 
only assume that this belief spared her sorrow if Turlock took over the church, or if the church 
existed in the time when the plague swept Spain.

She had been forced to sexually service a priest and a nun, as well as the priest’s assistant. 
Instead of feeling bitter about the experience, she learned to use it for her own growth. She 
found her own goodness, which is an important part of being a nun. The story of this young 
nun can be an inspiration to us all. At the same time, one has to admit that the sexual acts 
which her diary exposes are arousing.

The life of Sister Raquel was one which inspires sexual as well as spiritual arousal, and the 
young nun would have wanted it that way, we feel certain.

That is why we had to bring her story to you, in her own words.

The museum in which the document is now stored under lock and key is run by the 
Spanish church. That explains why the museum would want to keep the diary a secret.

Hopefully they will never find out that the pages of Sister Raquel are exposed here. They 
would be enraged.

Yes, they would be enraged, but the Lord wouldn’t mind.

*

Dr. Bruce Freedele, noted religious scholar, has uncovered still another document from the
time of Sister Raquel. It is a page written in confessional style by a young nun who Freedele 
claims may well be the very same Sister Raquel of this volume.

Why this particular page became separated from the rest of the secret sex diary is 
unknown. Of course, the original document from which this book has been transcribed is kept
under lock and key. Freedele has not verified the handwriting as that of the young Sister 
Raquel.

As the reader, you are invited to judge for yourself. Do you believe that this testimony was 
written by the same young girl who came to wear the crimsoned crosses of the punishing 
priest?

*

It reads: “Spread your sex lips! I saw you writing in those pages. Give them to me and 
spread your sex lips for punishment!”

I cried and told the priest that he would never see my writings.

“I don’t care if nobody believes what l write. Every word is true,” I told him. Flog me, if you 
want to, but you’ll never take my writing.”

“I’ll do more than flog you this time,” the priest said wickedly. “You’ve earned more than 
an easy flogging. The devil must driven from you, and I’ll do it with this!”

The priest produced the instrument of torture. It was a piece of wood, carved in the form 
of a large penis. The painful prong had thorns jutting out from it.

“You’ve never felt this one before,” he grinned. “This is the object used to exorcise the devil
from the pussies of possessed nuns. The devil likes to infiltrate the sex organs of the nuns. It 
makes a mockery of us. But this drives the devil out for good.”

Older nuns rushed in to hold me down by my arms and legs. The velvet of my sex center 
ripped as the priest twisted the wicked tool into me. When he had it lodged painfully inside, 
he inserted his own flesh and blood staff.

I thought I would die, but somehow the aching walls closed around the priest’s shaft, 
hugging the penis of the man who tortured me.

I know that nobody will believe that what I write is true. They believe that sex and 
punishment do not exist inside the church. They believe it as much as they know that the 
earth is flat. It seems that obvious to them.

I might as well write that man can fly, or that we can travel to the surface of the moon. It is
that impossible to them. They would sooner believe that the earth revolves around the sun.

“Oh, Jesus, Jesus,” I cried.

“Yes, invoke the name of the son of God,” the priest told me as he pressed the ripping 
object of pain into my soft core with his own human rod. “Your prayers to the Lord will drive 
the devil from you.”

“Oh, Ahhh, Eyyyyy,” I screamed as he pressed the thorned penis in deeper, scraping it 
against the flesh of my inner organs.

“Father, please,” I cried, growing weaker. “Please, you’re killing me!”

“The spirit lives forever.” the priest told me.

“Ohhhhhh, it’s ripping me.”

“Forgive her, Father. The sinner is feeling me drive the demon from her earthly sex hole.”

The priest began ramming my tender and abused young tunnel with all of his might. He 
was still wearing his vestments. The skirts of his robe were hitched up so that his naked organ 
was able to fill me until the testicles slapped up against me.

“I can tell the truth,” I told him, “but this church is not a place where the truth may be 
told!”

The priest couldn’t hear me. He was too involved in the plunging of his shaft into me. The 
nuns held me down, allowing the wicked priest to do his evil work.

“Oh, oh, it hurts, it hurts,” I cried. All of the pain of the world seemed to focused in the 
most delicate part of a young female. All of the tortures of the nuns were now inside of me.

I cried. Even as I write these words, I cry. The tears I shed are tears of joy. At last the devil 
has left my body. I shall live in the house of the Lord forever.

THE END### MSL-18 ###

The Nun’s Secret Sex Diary

by Unknown

FOREWORD

The following story is told in the pages of a diary, recently discovered and now locked in 
the vaults of a museum in Spain. The diary remains in the private collection of the museum, 
because many, if not all, of its exposures would embarrass the church, despite the fact that the
diary is believed to date back to 1492, the year of the Spanish Inquisition.

It is the diary of a young nun, Raquel, and in the pages she tells of the unnatural practices 
which took place in the confines of the church, which made its own rules and regulations as to
what methods should be used to punish young girls for the sexual stirrings in their lovely 
bodies.

Many of the inscriptions were written in the afterglow of sexual encounter, and though 
they seem unbelievable, they are true. The inscriptions were penned in secret, just as they are 
kept within the secret archives of the Museum of Spanish History today.

When visiting the museum, I was able to secure the manuscript for a day. I did steal the 
diary, but only long enough to have the pages copied so that I could expose the writings of 
the diary to the world. The book is back in the possession of museum, and nobody there knew
that it was gone.

Raquel probably would have been shocked to learn that so many will be reading a diary 
which she held to her bosom in all secrecy. But the story of the priest and this young nun is 
too powerful to remain suppressed.

If the sexual torture of a teenaged virgin in the name of God is too intense for your 
sensibilities, you are asked to go no further in the reading of this book. But if you are curious, 
read on. Don’t say that you weren’t warned.





CHAPTER ONE


I know not what makes me write these words on these pages. I write for no person but myself,
knowing that these private words will not, and should not be seen by those who would not 
understand me and the things I do.

It is a strange time. People are leaving the towns and fleeing Spain for Holland, and other 
cities away from here. They leave their possessions behind, and the Spanish Inquisitors come 
for the belongings.

They steal the jewels and use them for the church. I can not understand how the church 
would see fit to use stolen gems in the center of their crosses. It makes no sense to me. But 
then, what does make sense in these times?

Perhaps I need religion. I know that I must need something, because there is a stirring 
inside of me that has never existed before. There is something that I want, although I know 
not what that something might be.

I am going to the church of Father Peter. I have a job to do there. I only hope that I shall 
be able to resist the powers of the church and this Father Peter, for I know that what I will be 
doing is wrong.

I must write here what it is that I plan, because by writing it and getting it out onto the 
parchment, I feel cleansed. What other way is there to cleanse the soul?

The paper will not judge my actions. It will not call me bad for what I do. I feel that I have 
to do this, because Raphael saved my life when my father was in danger. I must repay Raphael
for what he did, even though I do not believe in what Raphael is doing now.

Raphael is a thief. So many people are thieving now, even the church, and so it seems a 
normal thing to do. Of course, I feel that thieving will be punished at some time, if not by 
other men, then by God Himself.

Sins must be purged.

But good deeds must also be repaid. That is what I am doing by participating in Raphael’s 
plan. He wants me to go to the church of Father Peter and make an offering. He says that 
Father Peter is a strange man, a churchman who has an eye for young girls such as myself!

That sounds most peculiar to me. It was my understanding that a holy man like Father 
Peter would lower his eyes when a pretty girl passed his way, rustling her underskirts for his 
benefit. But Raphael says no. He says this Father Peter will invite me into the church and will 
show me around, just to keep his eyes on me.

I know that there is a convent attached to the church, and the nuns there wear the habit 
which protects them, head to foot, from the prying eyes of men. Perhaps that is why Father 
Peter is curious, and enjoys seeing a girl such as I.

He may be a priest, but he is only human.

My purpose is not to speak of religion with the Father. My true purpose, according to 
Raphael’s plan, is not to give the donation, or to see the inside of the church for the saying of 
prayers.

I shall go there to look the place over.

Raphael wants me to see where the jewels are kept. He says that the priests are stealing 
the silver, gold and precious gems of the land. He says that it is a sin for the church to hoard 
these riches.

Raphael wants these things for himself. He believes that they should go back to the 
people, since they were stolen from the people in the first place.

I cannot see how stealing from the church to repay the people will be of service to anyone.
But I must show my thanks to Raphael for saving my life. He was like a father to me. I can’t let 
him down now.

I will report to Father Peter and let my eyes search the church, while the eyes of Father 
Peter search my body. I will not mind.

Then I will tell Raphael what I have learned, and he will take it from there. I expect that he 
will try to make his own entrance into the church, and will attempt to reclaim the riches.

By that time I will be long forgotten by Father Peter, I am certain. I will have paid my debt 
to Raphael, and perhaps I shall be set free.

Perhaps I, too, shall leave Spain, and travel on to a country where there is more freedom 
for the people; freedom to pray or not pray. Freedom to have religion as one sees fit.

And the freedom for sex ah, that is something I wonder about, too. I wonder if it exists. I 
wonder what it feels like.

I know that sexual awakening is coming over me. I can feel it growing, every day. I am 
nearly eighteen years old. I have never been with a man. I never had the desire to.

But now things are changing. I feel a stirring in my young body, and it seems to be 
awakening me to new things; wondrous things. I long to be filled.

I wonder what it feels like to take the thing of a man inside one’s body. My own opening 
seems tight. I have placed my fingers into the hole, feeling the sex lips spread. The sex lips 
have yielded, and inside there is moistness.

It is warm inside that womb. I can understand why infants might not want to leave that 
dark, enclosed place. It seems so protective inside.

It seems almost like a nunnery! At least, I imagine a nunnery to be like my vagina. Both are
dark, enclosed, protective and virginal!

Yes, of course I am a virgin. When I place my fingers in beyond that very sensitive button 
of flesh, I feel the membrane which stretches across. That must be the end of my vagina, and it
seems shallow to me.

I wonder if there is a man who would not be too large, or too harsh to accommodate me. I
wonder if such a man exists.

Forgive me, God, for the thought which just came into my mind. The image of Father Peter
is on my mind, since the time for me to enter the church is drawing near.

For a moment the thought of Father Peter entering my private box, came into my head. I 
know I shall be punished for such a thought. And well I should be punished.

But I couldn’t help it. I think the devil enters my soul at such times. I wish that I could be 
rid of the devil’s influence, but it seems that I am cursed.

No person or thing shall know of these thoughts, except you, dear diary. You shall keep 
them secret, of that I am certain. I feel that I have to explain myself to someone, something. 
Only God, and these pages, shall know the stirrings which go on inside of me.

I must stop now. I must stop and relieve some of the tension which is building up inside of
my body as I think about the sin I must commit. Thieving is a sin, I am sure. But I have to repay
my debt. I cannot pretend that it doesn’t bother me.

So let me go and relieve the tension as I have learned to do. I feel that I shall someday be 
punished for doing this, for it involves the tender massaging of the entrance to my soul!

It must be wrong, because it feels so good. There must be sensitive nerve endings in this 
portion of my body. They respond to the touch.

I find myself indulging in this activity night after night. It is the only pleasure I have at this 
time in my life. I pray that I will somehow develop the willpower to stop, for this must be the 
work of the devil. What other force would cause me to find pleasure in such a way?

I can’t imagine. I know it must be unnatural, but I am not yet ready to stop. If it is the 
working of the devil, then I must be headed for hell.

The inner flesh is like the petals of a flower. The flesh is rich and damp, and as I rub my 
fingers around inside, it provokes a liquid to flow from the lips.

At night I do this, and I can then fall asleep, unhaunted by the nightmares of these times. 
When I force myself to go a night without touching myself in that way, when I awake in the 
morning, my bed is soiled with the liquids, anyway. I believe that the undulations of my private
part go on even when I sleep. I would rather feel the sensations of my fingers, than have it 
happen while I sleep.

Perhaps I will look back upon these pages some day in the future and better understand 
what I am going through now. I hope so.

For now I must do what I can to make my life easier. If it means stealing from the church, 
or creating friction inside my wet membranes of sex, then I will do it, and I will face the 
consequences when the time for retribution comes.

*

I write now of my experience with Father Peter. It was worse than I ever expected! I hoped 
that it would all go well. I hoped that God would look down on me, and in His infinite wisdom 
know that I had no choice but to help Raphael with the plan.

But God must not have seen it that way.

It was a quiet day. The birds were singing and the trees were swaying in the breeze. To 
observe nature at work, with the singing birds and the swaying trees, one would never have 
imagined what terrible things were happening in Spain.

The church stood high on a Spanish hill. A tall gate separated the church from the outside 
world. I saw the cluster of bells attached to the center spokes of the tall gate. I pulled the rope
which connected to the bells, and I heard the bells ringing.

I was dressed very plainly. My long dark hair was parted down the center and pulled 
straight back from my face. I wore a mantilla over my head, in respect to the Virgin Mary. My 
frock was buttoned up to my neck. The chemise hung to the floor. I was completely covered, 
although my breasts did protrude.

That I couldn’t help. In the recent days my breasts have grown steadily, despite my 
bandaging of them to keep them down in front. It hurts too much to suppress their growth 
like that, and besides, I am finding that it is to no avail. They have a way of exerting 
themselves despite my efforts to keep them down.

Nobody responded to the ringing of the bells. After a brief wait, I rang them again.

This time, the door to the church opened, and there was a nun! I was afraid, because this 
was not in keeping with the plan. Raphael had told me to expect Father Peter to come to the 
gate. Father Peter, Raphael had said, would let me in without question once he saw my 
youthful loveliness.

But this nun might be a more difficult person for me to approach. She didn’t look all that 
kindly as she came from the church door to the gate. I could see that her eyebrows were 
arched in defiance. This frightened me, for I knew of nuns who were very cruel. Girlfriends of 
mine who attended schools run by the nuns had complained of these sex-starved women.

I always found the nuns I observed to be sweet and gentle, but the girls who trained under
the nuns had a different viewpoint, and I had to heed their words because, after all, they 
worked most closely with the sisterhood.

This nun seemed to me to be one of the cruel ones. The look on her face was one which 
seemed to always be there. Her eyebrows were curved upward, and it wasn’t that she was 
born like that. I felt that I eyebrows curved upwards in that manner after years of being harsh 
and critical.

That was why the expression remained on her face at all times. It was a warning to others, 
and a punishment from God, perhaps, that she was always that way.

“Yes, what is it, child?” she said to me. Her voice was not all that harsh, but her facial 
expression never changed.

“My name is Raquel. I’ve come to make a donation to Father Peter,” I replied.

The nun did give me a small smile. “How kind of you,” she said. “I will give it to Father 
Peter. I’m sure he will be pleased, and will put it to good use,” she told me.

“But is it possible for me to see the Father himself?” I asked. “I’ve come a great distance. 
I’ve heard about his good work, and I wanted to be blessed by the Father.”

The nun looked at me in what seemed to be a quizzical look. Perhaps she didn’t believe 
that I had come a great distance to see Father Peter. Perhaps she saw that I was still fresh from
my bath, and that my shoes were not worn down from travel.

Or perhaps her surprise came when I told her that I had heard of the Father’s good works. 
I couldn’t be certain.

“I’m afraid that Father Peter is busy at the moment. It will not be possible for you to see 
him, however, I will tell him what you said, and I will ask him to say a special prayer for you. 
Would that do?” she said.

I stayed silent for a moment. I was trying to think of something to say that would get me 
into the church without seeming too forward. I couldn’t let this nun know how important it 
was for me to look inside the church. I didn’t want to arouse her suspicion.

Just then, a man stepped out from the church. The nun turned back toward him.

“What is it?” he asked her.

“Nothing, Father. Just a girl,” the nun replied.

The man was dressed in the garb of a priest. She had called him Father. I wondered if he 
was actually Father Peter. I felt that he was.

The man was not able to see at a distance. I saw him well, though. He wasn’t very old. In 
fact, he was much younger than I imagined. I had expected a very old man with grey hair and 
spectacles. This man was tall and lean, with a handsome face. He must have been in his late 
thirties, or very early forties.

“A girl, you say?” the man said as he walked nearer.

“Yes, but I’ll take care of it,” the nun said.

I was angry with her. I had a feeling that she was trying to make certain that the priest and 
I didn’t meet. For some reason she tried to keep us apart, I was certain of it. I was also growing
more convinced that the man was Father Peter.

The priest came closer and closer, still squinting so that he could see me better. When he 
came close enough to bring my form into focus for his eyes, he smiled and looked up and 
down my body.

“So, a girl is here to see me,” he grinned.

The nun seemed very angry. Her eyebrows arched even higher and straighter. “Don’t say I 
didn’t try,” she snapped at me.

I wanted to ask her what she meant, but she turned away. She was very rude, and 
obviously quite disturbed that the Father had come to see me. She huffed off back into the 
church. I saw her out of the corner of my eye as she climbed the steps leading to the entrance 
of the stone structure.

She turned back long enough to look at me again. I saw her shaking her head in a 
disapproving manner.

“Don’t let Sister Sara bother you, my dear,” Father Peter said to me. “She is a frustrated 
woman. Life in a convent can be difficult if one is not of the calling. A woman must know that 
her love belongs to God. It can be difficult if a woman craves the human flesh, and 
experiences the human lusts.”

As he spoke those words, his eyes rested on my breasts. I knew that I should have 
bandaged them down!

I spoke up. “My name is Raquel,” I said. “I’ve come to make a donation.”

I handed Father Peter a gold coin, given to me by Raphael. “You are Father Peter, aren’t 
you?”

“Yes, I am Father Peter,” he replied.

I smiled.

“You must be hungry, child,” he said to me. “When was the last time you had something to
eat?”

I told him that I couldn’t remember.

“Oh, my poor young girl,” the Father said. “Do come in.”

He pulled open the gate through which we had been speaking. I smiled to know that I was
now entering the other side, the holy side of the gate. I hoped that this holy man could not 
read my thoughts. I hoped that he was not gifted in that way, as God’s workers sometimes 
are.

If he could read my thoughts, he would know that I was there to find out where the 
treasures were hidden. I was there to take the information and give it to someone who would 
steal the treasures and run.

As it was, I felt I could read his mind. He wanted something of me. He was very friendly, 
but I felt that he had some motive. I wasn’t sure what. I suspected that he was simply awed by 
the charms of a young girl.

I didn’t fall to the sin of pride about my charms, because I know he would have reacted the
same way to any shapely girl who happened upon his church as I did. I was soon to learn, 
however, that he would have reacted in the same lecherous manner to most any girl, and that 
was no compliment. He had a special plan of his own, and it was not one that I would find 
amusing. Not at all.

He led me inside. I was pleased to find myself inside the walls of the building. It was a 
large place. The walls were made of stone. Huge stones climbed up high. The ceilings were 
high. The windows were carved out of the stone. They were tall and narrow, like rectangles 
placed with the long sides horizontally.

Our feet clicked along the stone floors as we walked.

“I understand that your church houses many beautiful things,” I told Father Peter, thinking 
that such words would encourage him to show me some of the treasures it was my intention 
to steal.

He seemed delighted that I said what I did.

“Yes, we have many treasures here. Some of the things which now belong to the church 
were once the property of the heathens. It is only fitting that they are housed in a temple of 
God. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh, yes,” I replied. “I agree.”

“Let me take you downstairs where some of these treasures are kept,” he said.

I couldn’t have been happier. It was going much more smoothly than I’d expected when 
the sour-faced Sister Sara met me at the gate. Already I was being led into the cellar where 
the treasures were stored.

Or so I thought.

As soon as I entered the dungeon-like cellar, I knew that something was wrong. I knew 
that this was not where the treasures were stored. Not at all!

The halls were filled with strange noises. They were the sounds of young girls in pain. It 
was impossible to tell what was causing their grief, but the moans and cries were definitely the
utterances of females in agony!

“What are those sounds?” I asked.

The Father behaved as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “The novice nuns are sorry for 
having done wrong. They are willing to atone for their sins,” he replied I could hear the whistle
of the whip in the air. I could hear the whip cracking across the flesh, and then the unearthly 
weeping of a repentant sinner. The sound chilled me to the very depths of my soul.

“Father, there is something wrong here,” I said, this time more insistent. I couldn’t believe 
that he could take this so lightly.

“Let me show you some of the things that we are keeping here in the church. We have 
such delightful works of art. Some of them must be suppressed. They are the works of liberals 
and heretics,” the priest told me.

He was going to show me some of the valuable objects; the very thing that I had hoped 
for; the very thing I had come for. And yet, I felt very uneasy. I felt uncomfortable at the side 
of this man who smiled through the sounds of young girls in pain.

“Father, I’m sorry,” I blurted. “I think there must be some mistake. I really better go,” I said. 
I was beginning to think that leaving was the best idea. I didn’t want to go through with the 
theft plot. I didn’t want to spend one extra minute in this church. Perhaps the Father, with his 
gifts from God, knew that I was there to set up a theft plot. Maybe he was leading me to a 
dungeon where he would imprison me, and torture me! If he saw to it that the novice nuns 
suffered such a fate, he would surely want a non-religious thief to suffer worse torment!

“You shall not be leaving this church,” Father Peter said, raising his eyebrows. He spoke 
more firmly than he had before.

“You can’t keep me here,” I told him. I started to run.

There was a light down at the end of the corridor. I could hear the sounds of whipping and
girlish agony up and down the hall. I had to get out of there before something happened to 
me. I would explain to Raphael later.

I raced toward the light, thinking that the light was the outside. Father Peter made no 
attempt to capture me. He continued to walk slowly down the hall as if all of this were normal.
In that church, it probably was.

My heart was pounding in my breast. I could hardly breathe. All I knew was that I had to 
get out of there.

I saw the gold doorknob of the door at the end of the hallway. I grasped it, turned it, 
opened the door and… it is almost too terrible to tell. The room was filled with young nuns. I 
could tell that they were nuns because they were wearing the head piece of their habits on 
their heads. But the rest of their bodies, below the head pieces, were bare!

The room was a huge, cavernous room. It was circular, and above the main area was a 
second level which stretched around in a circle above the room like a balcony. It was an 
observation balcony, and looking down on the nude nuns were a set of older nuns. Sister 
Sara, the nun who had greeted me at the gate was there. She had her hands up under her 
habit. She was masturbating herself!

As soon as I opened the door and took my first step into this room, mostly on the force of 
my forward running, I gasped. I realized that I had made a big mistake. I was in the wrong 
place.

The young nuns, I quickly discovered, were sitting on pegs. The pegs were, dare I even say 
it, pressed into their bodies! The young nuns were impaled on the pegs!

“Oh, my Lord!” I gasped. “Jesus, please help me!”

“That’s exactly what we are here for,” a voice said from behind me. “We are here to ask 
Jesus to help these sinful young nuns. They must learn to give their love to God. They must 
take punishment to drive the devil from them.”

It was Father Peter. I spun around. He was standing there, grinning.

“All of this religion is fine,” I said, knowing that I dare not go against the principles of his 
church. That was why people were being tortured in this period of Spanish Inquisition. “But I 
must leave now. I just wanted to give my small donation and be gone.”

“Not so fast!” Father Peter said, stepping closer and placing his long, bony fingers on my 
shoulder. He pressed down as he spoke. “You are going nowhere. You have learned of our 
secret place. Once you learn of our secret place, it is up to us to make certain that the secret 
remains with us alone.”

“I won’t tell anybody,” I told him.

“I know you won’t,” he replied, flashing a grin which I never expected to see from a priest. 
It was a wicked grin, touched by the devil himself.

I tried to wriggle from his grasp, but he held me in place.

“I think that I shall give this young visitor a closer look at our penitence room,” the priest 
smiled.

The nuns circling the observation balcony smiled and applauded. Sister Sara, still fingering 
her privates beneath her habit, called down to me. “I warned you to stay away. You didn’t want
to listen. Now you must pay.”

The other nuns began applauding again.

A horrible creature with a hunched back and a pointed chin appeared in the corridor, 
outside the room. He was so pale. His skin seemed the color of parched earth. “Will you be 
needing me, now, Master?” he groaned, in a creaky voice.

“Not now, Turlock,” Father Peter replied.

“Very well, Father,” this strange hunchbacked man whined. “My tongue will be very hot 
later. Perhaps then I will be of use,” he added. He then stuck out a long pointed tongue, like 
the tongue of a frog. He flicked it out in front of him, curling the tip up so that it nearly 
touched his nose.

“Yes, later,” the priest told him. “We have a new girl who has come to be a nun.”

I looked at him. I wondered if he was referring to me. I hadn’t come to be a nun. Certainly 
not. I had no desire to live my life behind the walls of a convent, without the sexual attention 
of human males. And what did the priest and this Turlock mean by the talk about a hot 
tongue? I didn’t know. Not then, anyway.

The freak called Turlock closed the heavy door with a thud.

“Each young nun is punishing herself,” Father Peter told me. I looked around. There were 
no less than six other young girls, all with strained and agonized expressions on their faces. 
The wooden pegs on which they were impaled must have hurt terribly.

The priest continued. “Each peg is marked.

The markings indicate the width and length of the peg. These girls were all tight in the 
area of their sinful sex holes. But they were not tight enough to keep the devil out. Each day 
the novice nuns are moved onto larger, thicker pegs. We are stretching them so that they will 
feel the pain inside of them, and know what it would feel like, should the devil himself ever 
enter them.”

I watched in disbelief as the priest approached one of the nude nuns who seemed to be in
terrible pain with her sex lips enclosed around a peg marked six inches. It was a thick peg in 
circumference. As for the young nun, she appeared to me to be no older than sixteen or 
seventeen, very close to my young age.

“Repent for your sins, in the name of God,” the priest leered at her.

I felt a stirring in my own sex hole. I recalled what I had been doing of late in the confines 
of my bedroom. I thought about the sex liquids which flowed from my pit when I touched the 
deeply sensitive places, “Have you said your prayers of forgiveness?” Father Peter asked the 
impaled nun.

“Yes, Father. I have been saying those prayers all day. No relief comes to me. I am in pain 
on this peg. Please let me free.”

“Only the Lord has the power to let you free,” Father Peter snapped back. “If He didn’t 
believe that you should suffer on that peg, He would remove you from it. Obviously, He knows
that you need this suffering to purify your soul.”

With that the priest bent down and grabbed on to a little handle which extended from the 
side of the wooden peg. He began to wiggle the handle and the nun’s legs suddenly flailed 
out and began kicking. Apparently, the handle made the peg wriggle itself more deeply up 
into the pit of the young nun’s arousal organ.

She began screaming and writhing about as the priest moved the peg up inside of her. 
The nuns on the observation balcony began to respond. “Ahhhh,” they responded as a group 
at the cruel sight.

Sister Sara fell down on her knees. At first I thought that she was praying to the Lord. But 
another nun stepped up beside her. She reached down and drew Sister Sara’s head into the 
mound between her legs.

“This is absolutely wicked!” I declared. I couldn’t hold back. If, as I was beginning to fear, I 
was going to be a prisoner in this church, I would set the record straight from the beginning. I 
was not about to be dominated by the bizarre religious practices of a church cult.

“You are the ones who should be arrested,” I said. “It’s no wonder that the people don’t 
want to follow the dictates of your church. You’re church is sick!”

Father Peter dropped the handle of the peg and stood up. Every vein in his head was 
pounding, pulsating, and his face became crimsoned with rage.

“Bitch,” he shouted at me. “You God forsaken bitch.”

There was a flurry of a whispers and gasps from the observation balcony. The nuns looked 
down with intent interest. One of them, perhaps a Mother Superior, quieted them down with 
the words, “Hush, hush.”

Father Peter strode madly toward the heavy rope which hung from the ceiling. He tugged 
on it forcefully. It must have been a bell of some kind. That hunchbacked church servant, 
Turlock, returned with a twisted grin on his face.

“You rang, Master?” he groaned.

“Yes, Turlock. Fetch me my whip!”

“Yes, Master,” the ugly monster replied, licking his lips with that perverse tongue of his, 
and chuckling under his breath. A moment later, he’d returned with the long, black leather 
whip.

Father Peter took it in his hand and cracked it against the cement floor. The crack echoed 
through the cavernous room. The girls on the pegs shuddered at the sound.

“I’m a God-fearing priest,” he bellowed. “How you expect to be a nun if you have no fear 
of God?”

“But I have no desire to be a nun,” I protested. “Especially not in this weird place.”

“Bitch!” the Father snarled again. He pulled his arm back and flogged me, once, with the 
whip. I felt the biting sting go through my clothing.

“Stop it!” I cried. I was rewarded with another lash, and another and another. They came in 
increasing fits of fury. Each blow was harder than the one before it, and they came so quickly, 
the black whip was a blur in the air.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

The nasty whip ripped the material of my chemise. It was tattered, and the burning pain 
was throbbing in my flesh. I could feel the heat from the wound when I placed my trembling 
fingers on top of the welted, whip-stung area.

“Sister Sara!” the angry priest called, and the nun got up from her knees and hurried down
a stairway which led from the observation gallery.

“Yes, Father,” she replied, bowing her head as she approached.

“Her clothes are tattered. Rip them from her body. We must examine her and test for her 
virginity. Then she must be punished for holding beliefs which go against church dogma. We 
must beat the devil from her, so that she may be a nun.”

“I warned you,” Sister Sara said, digging her fingers into the flesh of my arm and dragging 
me from the chamber. “I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen.”





CHAPTER TWO


“Oh, Lord, save me,” I cried.

“There, you see, you have already started praying to the Holy Father. Our methods are 
having an effect on you,” Sister Sara said to me as she brought me to a small room down in 
the depths of the church.

In a way, she was right. I was never a very religious person. I suppose that if I had been a 
religious person, I never would have agreed to the plan of Raphael’s, and I never would have 
been caught in the web in which I seemed trapped.

Still, I was praying to God only minutes after arriving on the church grounds. If God exists, 
I pray that he helps me now.

Sister Sara removed my clothing. She ran her hands over the aching welts which rose from 
my previously unblemished skin. The welts were throbbing and they were an angry scarlet 
color across the pale peach of my flesh.

“The red is the color of the devil,” Sister Sara told me. “It is the devil trying to get out.”

“That’s nature’s blood,” I answered angrily. “It’s the work of God flowing through my body.
I am the work of God. My feelings are Godly.”

I felt that I was as good a person as this nun. I was speaking truth, as I saw it. I was not 
ashamed of myself, despite my shame at certain things I had done in my life.

“Have you no devil in you? Is that what you are trying to say to me?” Sister Sara said, 
pulling her hands away from my hot flesh, suddenly.

I had to think about that for a moment. Certainly the devil did exist within me. What else 
would make me do some of the things I had done in my young life. There was this plan for 
Raphael. True, I was doing it to repay him, and that was good, but the deed itself was wrong. I 
knew that from the beginning. I could see how I was responsible for allowing myself to get 
caught like this. Perhaps I subconsciously felt that I needed punishment. I don’t know.

Then there was the new sensation which had been coursing through my young body. It 
was the feeling of sexuality, and I knew that the church frowned on some of the thoughts I 
experienced while fingering my velvet-lined wet pit of arousal.

Oh, some of those thoughts! Yes, I could see where I had thought about sin. If I had 
indeed desired to be a nun, those thoughts would have to be driven from me.

But I didn’t want to be a nun! Why were they insisting that I had come to bear the pain of 
the nunnery? Was it because I had seen something that I shouldn’t have seen? Was it because 
I had seen the secret penitence room of the novices?

“I imagine that I do have the devil inside of me, a little bit,” I had to admit.

“Fool!” Sister Sara said. She slapped her opened palm upon my sorest bruise.

I looked at her, thinking that she was cruel and sadistic. But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t 
want to arouse her anger, since she was in charge of me for the moment. She continued to 
speak.

“A girl is either pure or not. She either has the devil inside of her, or not. A nun must be 
free of such sin. It is like pregnancy. You cannot be a little bit pregnant. It’s black and white. 
You either are, or you’re not. There is no grey in between the two. It’s the same with the devil. 
If the devil is in you, the devil must be driven out. Who can better fight the devil than we can?”

I didn’t doubt that there was some truth to what she was saying. But there was something 
perverted about the church, and about the people I had seen there.

I wondered if the other girls, the girls impaled on the wooden pegs, had really come to 
train themselves in religion, or if, like me, they had been recruited by Father Peter for some 
reason of his own.

The atmosphere of the punishment room was very strange. It was nothing like what I 
would imagine a church to be. The nuns seemed to be excited, even aroused, by the sight of 
the punished teenagers. Perhaps they were pleased to see the girls becoming purified, but 
then, why had Sister Sara placed her head between the legs of another nun?

I was soon to find out. Sister Sara dropped to her knees again. She was accustomed to the 
position, but not from constant genuflection. She had an unceasing appetite for young female
flesh!

“What are you doing?” I said, trying to writhe away from her grip. It was hopeless. She 
didn’t answer me in words. Her actions told it all.

Suddenly I felt her hot tongue at the naked mound of my sexual core. I felt the wet muscle
find the cleft, and press its way between the softness of the lips, into the inner dampness.

“Oh, my God,” I gasped, again uttering the name of the Lord. It seemed the only thing to 
do. I realized that I was speaking God’s name as the tongue of a holy woman entered my 
body.

This was Sister Sara’s way of cleansing me. I felt the woman’s tongue probing inside of me.
She licked the inner lips and flicked her tongue across the button of flesh which made me 
tingle so.

I was terribly embarrassed because I could feel the nectar from my hole. I could feel the 
female juices flowing, and I realized that Sister Sara was sucking them out of me.

I imagine that the juices contained the poisons of the devil. Perhaps that was why this nun 
was drinking them from me. I wondered if Sister Sara realized that by taking my virgin juice 
into her body, she was swallowing the evil of Satan?

I guess that she had the ability to kill the evil spirits which existed in the fluids. That was 
probably why she was sucking the juice from me. I began to think that she was not all that 
bad. She was doing a wonderful service for young girls like myself. She was purifying us, just 
as the wicked whip purified us.

I could see that the blood and the cuntal fluids each could contain the sins of the devil. I 
let her drain me.

I was beginning to feel dizzy and lightheaded. I leaned back and moved my fingers down 
to where Sister Sara was sucking. I touched the soft membranes and spread the lips apart, 
giving her probing tongue deeper entrance into me.

She sucked more furiously, then, swirling her tongue up, down, and all around the expanse
of flesh between my legs. The fine golden fur which lined my virgin territory was wet from the 
nun’s saliva. I could see the clear drops dripping from the fine strands of hair.

When Sister Sara pushed her tongue into my hole, she stopped when she touched the thin
membrane which defined my virginity. I felt her tongue go limp when she touched the tightly 
stretched maidenhead. She licked it gently.

“You are a virgin,” she replied, pulling her head from my groin for a moment. A smile 
formed on her lips, which were glossing from my female juices.

“Yes, I am,” I replied. “It is important to my family that I remain a virgin until marriage. My 
family was looking for a proper man for me, but something happened to my father. I was 
brought up by a man named Raphael who…” I wanted to explain my story. Perhaps Sister 
would let me go if she understood my life. But she didn’t seem interested. As I spoke, she 
replaced her lips to my lower lips. He tongue pressed forward again, burrowing its way into 
me until it found the warm, damp womb in which it fit so well.

I felt the tongue swirling slowly inside my undulating vagina. I couldn’t help but moan. I 
closed my eyes and tilted my head way back. I turned my head around in circles as Sister Sara 
purified my soul.

It felt so good to feel the poisonous juices flow from me into her. She was a woman. She 
had the same sexual equipment as I had. There was no shame in this act; not for Sister Sara, 
and now, not for me. I was beginning to understand.

It didn’t feel badly at all. In fact, it was a marvelous feeling. It was even better than the 
feeling I created within myself, because her mouth and tongue were wet and warm, and their 
movements kept surprising me.

In fact, when she found a place in which the devil existed more strongly, she worked very 
hard to purify me in that spot. I have a button of flesh inside of my young vaginal hole, and 
I’m certain that the devil has chosen to live inside that spot. It really tingles when it’s touched.

Sister Sara must have sensed all this. When she started on that spot, she continued to 
work on the area, purifying and cleansing it until I thought I would absolutely pass out.

It was hard work for her, I’m sure, because I could hear her moaning and groaning at my 
core. Of course, the sounds were muffled because her face was so deeply embedded in my 
muff. But she didn’t stop. She continued to tease the wicked area, even though her own 
breath was coming in gasps.

Perhaps the evil from my body began to enter her body as it had been in mine. It 
happened very quickly. Only moments after she had swallowed some of the flow from my 
innocent hole, Sister Sara reached under her habit and began to massage her own private 
area.

I knew that the tingling which I had been feeling in me had now gone to her.

I felt a bit guilty that my tingles of the devil should enter her body. I almost wished that I 
could purify her, as she purified me, but of course, that would be impossible. I was not yet a 
nun, as she was, and if I took the poisons back into my system, the Sister’s work would have 
been for naught.

How ashamed I was that I had misjudged the Sister. She was such a kindly woman, she had
even sapped the poison from one of her sister nuns up there on the balcony overlooking the 
punishment room.

I could not quite understand the purpose of the pegs on which the girls-suffered, but I was
beginning to believe that there must have been a purpose for that, too. These church people 
wanted to give directionless girls a purpose in their lives. They felt that they could do it 
through religion, and through their strange, but most important, practices of exorcism.

I knew that Sister Sara knew what she was doing when I felt a series of tremors shake me 
from inside. My heart began to pound, this time even louder than when I discovered the 
punishment room, so, dear diary, you can imagine what was happening to me.

I couldn’t control my body. The quaking was intense, and the sensations grew and grew. 
The entire area of female flesh which was in the nun’s mouth was quivering.

Sister Sara must have known that something was happening inside of me. Her teeth 
grazed that button of flesh which the devil had overtaken. She became more frenzied in the 
movements of her hand beneath her religious frock. I could hear the groans which echoed 
into my hole. It was a fight with the devil, I was sure.

I began to sweat. The droplets rolled down my face in rivulets. I felt the warm perspiration 
trace a wet path down my neck, onto my breasts.

Even my breasts were reacting to the cleansing of the impurities in my body. The nipples 
were swollen. They were firm and standing at attention on the soft mounds of sensitive flesh.

I was shaking so, the breast flesh shook, too. The nipples were more red in color than I had
ever seen them. Another sign of the devil, no doubt.

With her free hand, Sister Sara dug into the flesh of my thigh. I gritted my teeth and took 
the pain. I knew that it must be for a reason. A fight with the devil could not be expected to be
easy.

Obviously, the powers of the devil were fighting back. The uncontrollable tremblings and 
tremors which were consuming my body were manifesting themselves in the nun as well. We 
were both climbing to a fever pitch. It was maddening.

“Oh, oh, oh, Sister Sara. Oh, oh, God,” I cried. “I don’t know what’s happening. I think that 
I’m going to scream. Ahhhhhh,” I cried. I shouted the name of the Lord, trying to purify my 
soul.

Sister Sara groaned, too. I could feel the devil leaving my body in gushes.

Then Sister Sara slumped on the floor. Sweat poured down from her. She was trying to 
catch her breath, and was unable to even speak. She rested on the floor, and I thanked God 
for her.

She left without saying a word. She merely got up at one point, and left the room, bolting 
the door behind me.

*

Because she left my clothing in a neatly folded pile on the floor, I reached inside the 
pocket of my chemise and brought you out, dear diary. The room in which she left me was 
bare except for a narrow cot and a small writing desk.

What more did I need? Nothing at the moment.

The quill in the desk top was fresh, and in the afterglow of that first experience with Father 
Peter and Sister Sara, I write all this. I want never to forget it.

I must keep this hidden from Sister Sara and Father Peter. It mentions the secret 
punishment room where the young nuns were impaled on wooden pegs. It mentions too 
much that could be taken in the wrong way by the wrong people. I know that Father Peter 
would confiscate these pages if he found them, and so I will keep them hidden from him, 
writing entries whenever it is possible.

I know that Raphael must be wondering what’s happened to me. It was arranged that I 
report to him as soon as completing my mission. Now it appears that I shall be kept here for a
longer period than I expected.

I cannot say that I have no fear about what goes on here. The sounds of moaning girls was
just too intense for me to forget about. Even though the punishments must be for the purging
of sins, I have fears about such things. Sometimes it just seems easier to remain in the devil’s 
possession.

I have to give careful consideration to what is happening to me. The talk is that I should 
become a young nun. In these times, I wonder if it is perhaps the most wise thing to do. After 
all, all around me, back in Madrid, people are being punished if they do not take God into 
their lives.

Even I felt the devil making his presence known inside of me. I felt the tinglings which 
seemed like pleasure. I was almost about to give myself up to such pleasures. But now I know 
that this would be wrong.

There is much to think about. Perhaps that is why I am here. In this holy and quiet place, I 
will have time to think. I will have time to review my young life and make choices.

The church is showing me a pathway to God. It’s not easy. That is why the young nuns 
were suffering so. In the end, they know that they will be given a place in heaven for the pain 
they suffer now.

Oh, I hear footsteps. They are coming closer and closer. One of the approaching people 
must be Turlock, the hunchback. I noticed that he dragged one foot when he walked. He’d 
take a step, and then pull the other leg across the floor.

That sounds like him, approaching, approaching, approaching. And the crisp steps of the 
other person. It must be Father Peter. Father Peter, the man who whipped me. I touch the 
swollen, broken flesh. I can barely allow my fingers to press the delicate aches.

But I hear them at the door. The bolt is being opened. I must hide this diary and bow 
down in submission, for they are coming for me.

*

I find it difficult to write, and yet I must. My writing is not clear, because my hand is 
shaking so. I am not even sure how long it has been since my previous entry in this diary. That 
is because Turlock and Father Peter entered the room when last I closed the pages of this 
volume, and since then I have been through so very much.

Time was no longer an element in my existence. I was in a state of timelessness, knowing 
not whether it was day or night. The two blended together, just as the pain and the pleasure 
blended together so that I could not tell which was which.

It was the working of Turlock and Father Peter. I write this” now so that there will be no 
mistake. There may come a time when higher authorities make their powers known to the 
members of this church.

At this point, I cannot say whether the priest and his assistant are good, or if they are 
messengers of the devil. They claim to work for God, but there is something more going on.

When these higher authorities come, if ever they do, there will many explanations from 
Father Peter and the nuns, I’m sure. There is little doubt that the authorities would place 
higher faith in the testimonies of the priest and his nuns, than they would in a young girl who 
ventured upon the church and was offered training in the service of God.

But if I write all this here, it will be a document in which a higher degree of belief will be 
placed. Perhaps the authorities will be able to prove that everything I write in these pages is 
true.

Even if I am no longer around, perhaps the words I write will live, and serve a purpose. 
Perhaps they will save other girls from the fate I’ve just endured.

It began when Father Peter and Turlock entered the room in which I’d been placed by 
Sister Sara. Naturally, I was nude, wearing only the welts of the punishing whip which the 
priest had used on me earlier.

The priest was wearing his vestments. A cross hung down from a chain around his waist. 
The crucifix was positioned over the bulge of his manhood.

“We have just spoken with Sister Sara,” Father Peter told me. “She says that you are 
virginal. She says you are a virgin.”

“Yes, Father. That is correct,” I replied.

“Have you thought about having sexual relations? Have you thought about fornication?”

I felt uneasy.

“Yes, Father. I have thought about such things. Never have I engaged in the actual 
activities, but the thought of those activities did come to me.”

“Placed there by the devil!” Father Peter announced. His eyes were flashing wildly.

“Yes, but Father, I know that the devil is being drawn from me. Already the poisons have 
flowed from my body,” I told him. I wanted him to know that Sister Sara had done an excellent
job with me.

“What are you talking about?” the priest asked, as Turlock looked on.

“I am speaking of Sister Sara’s purification of my soul. She sucked some of the devil’s 
poison from my possessed orifice.”

Father Peter looked stunned. I could see that it would have been better for me to stay 
quiet about this. This was not the first time that Father Peter became outraged by something 
I’d said in all innocence.

“I’ve warned Sister Sara to keep her mouth off the new ones,” Father Peter cursed. “There 
is hell to pay for this. And you are the vixen who will do the paying!”

Apparently, Sister Sara had been told to examine my private place to see if I was still a 
virgin. That alone had been her assignment from Father Peter. The man was outraged that she
had gone farther with me.

“I have my own ways of seeing if you are a virgin!” he announced. “Turlock, bind the bitch 
and bring her to the cross.”

“Yes, Master.”

Turlock took a length of rope from his robe.

It was thick, heavy rope, and he had been trained to use it. Turlock grabbed my hands and 
pulled them behind me. He raised my arms up on my back. It was a most uncomfortable 
position in which to hold my arms, but I had no choice. Father Peter was watching all of this, 
and he was holding a cat-o-nine-tails in his hand!

I felt the cruel rope digging into my wrists as Turlock wrapped it around several times and 
pulled it tight. He then withdrew a sharp knife from the pocket of his robe. I gasped at the 
sight of it glinting in the dim light.

I was afraid that he was going to cut me with it, but he only used the knife to cut the rope. 
When he had the abrasive rope at the length he wanted, he tied several knots in it. I tried to 
move my wrists, but I couldn’t.

He had secured me very tightly, and I could already feel the circulation in my hands 
stopping. With my hands and arms up in the position he’d placed them in, my rear was left 
bare. Father Peter stepped behind me and raised the cat-o-nine-tails.

I started to cringe, because I could only imagine how hurting the thin strips of knotted 
leather would be when nine of them hit my unprotected bottom with the force of Father 
Peter’s swinging arm.

There was that deadly moment of silence in which I sucked air into my stomach and held 
it. Then the whip came whistling down into my vulnerable bottom flesh.

“Ah!” I cried, tears coming to eyes immediately. I tensed my body and jumped from the 
stinging blow. I could actually feel nine little points of terrible pain rising to the surface of my 
young, round buttocks.

Whack! Father Peter, pleased with the results of the first blow, swung the cat again. Again I
cried, this time so loud, I didn’t even realize that it was my own voice hurling up my throat and
out into the air.

I couldn’t help screaming, even though I knew that nobody would come to my aid. I 
thought about the cries I had heard earlier, down in the corridor leading to the punishment 
room. I was beginning to wonder just how many innocent girls were being held here against 
their will.

I wondered how many of them were being punished by the whip, all in the name of God 
and the Spanish Inquisition.

The second and third strokes of the cat against my soft flesh burned hot pain into the 
entire area of my twin globes. No longer could I feel the individual points stinging me. Now 
the entire area burned in one throbbing mass of pain.

Father Peter turned away after making my bottom red hot and glowing. Turlock took the 
remainder of the heavy rope and wrapped it around my neck. I thanked the Lord that he 
didn’t tie it tightly. It was just intended to serve as a collar around my neck, with a connecting 
leash on which he led me to the cross.





CHAPTER THREE


Father Peter gave my crimsoned behind another swat with the cat-o-nine-tails, just to prompt 
me along. He treated me like a mare, and used the whip on me as one might use the whip on 
the flanks of a horse.

Didn’t he realize that I was a young girl? My hindquarters were ample, and fleshy, but 
hardly strong enough to take the abuse of the cat.

Turlock led me on the leash of rope. The harsh surface of the rope scraped at my neck, 
leaving a redness in my white flesh wherever it touched.

We approached the large wooden cross which was standing in a small chapel.

“On this we shall tie you, and on this we shall punish you,” Father Peter announced. His 
voice was deep and I was feeling great fear. I wondered what would happen. I knew that it 
wouldn’t be pleasant. I wasn’t there for pleasure, although I couldn’t be sure about Father 
Peter and his assistant. Their motives were unclear.

My hands already felt numbed from the loss of circulation created by the binding rope. It 
had served its purpose, having humbled me and made me vulnerable to the cat. I was unable 
to protect my young bottom with my hands, because the rope held my hands in place. If I had
lowered my hands, they too would have felt the sting of the wicked cat-o-nine-tails.

“Untie her so that we may fasten her to the cross,” Father Peter said.

The ugly Turlock obeyed the command. I could feel the man’s hot breath on my wounds 
as he stood close and untied the ropes. He pressed his body up against mine, only when 
Father Peter was not looking. He rubbed the bulge of his manhood against my trembling, 
naked flesh. I was repulsed, but what could I do?

I didn’t dare complain because the priest would certainly have sided with that Turlock 
creature. It was a losing battle for me, and so I submitted in complete servitude.

It was like the servitude one gives to the church. It made me realize how humble I was in 
the eyes of God. I bowed my head. I strained to offer my wrists, pulling them away from my 
back so that Turlock could untie me.

Oh, it felt so good to be out of that rope bondage. I rubbed the circulation back into each 
wrist. But my freedom was short-lived.

“It is with pleasure that I shall bind you to the cross,” Father Peter said. “Forgive her, Father,
for she has sinned,” the priest prayed.

Turlock and Father Peter bound me to the cross, which was made of two lengths of thick 
wood. The cross bar was tied to the vertical bar with a criss-cross of robe. Then I was tied to 
the cross with a thinner rope, but one which secured me.

The rope crossed over my wrists. It was wrapped around the beam about four or five times
before the final knots were tied.

Another length of rope was used to secure my lower torso to the cross. Father Peter 
wrapped the rope around the post and around my thighs as well. He tied it around the area 
several inches above my knees, and several more inches below my buttocks.

Turlock clasped my ankles together to heavy bands which were made of a silver substance.
This material was harsh, and cut into my flesh. I didn’t dare move in the bondage, for any 
movement, I soon found out, caused more pain than it was worth.

I felt weak up there on the cross. I felt sick.

And yet, something told me that this was meant to be. Surely it was no accident that I 
found myself bound to a cross at this time in history. I was to be purged of my sins.

I looked into the face of Father Peter. He stood in front of me. He was several feet from 
me; just far enough back so that he could observe me fastened there.

He seemed pleased with what he saw. He let his left hand fall to the lump which pressed 
forward into his holy vestments. As for his right hand, he held the ominous cat-o-nine-tails. It 
dangled at his side. The strips of knotted rawhide rubbed against the material of his robe, and 
I tingled to think of the pain those strips of leather could cause me.

“Will you hurt me, Father?” I asked. My voice was just a whisper, and it trembled terribly.

“I will hurt you, child. I will hurt your physical body. But your spirit will be better for it. It is 
your spirit that lasts, long after the body has perished,” he said to me.

“Yes, but it is my physical body which will suffer when the whip cracks into my flesh. That 
cat has a wicked bite. The kisses leave deep purple reminders of the terrible pain.”

“I know that,” Father Peter said. He flicked the whip against his opened palm. “I know that 
very well.”

My body was a vulnerable target for his whip. He stepped forward, and told me to pray. 
“Pray for forgiveness,” he told me. “Pray while I beat the demons from you. You have thought 
of fornication. And even worse, I’m sure.”

“Lubricate her,” Father Peter ordered. Turlock grinned and placed his head between my 
legs.

I tried to escape, but the ropes and the clamps cut into me. I was bound to the cross. I was
there to be punished. There was nothing I could do. I was their victim. They had me. I could 
only follow the priest’s command that I pray. Only prayer could help me.

Turlock extended his peculiar tongue. He let the long thing lick my private parts, teasing 
me as he went. He started with the inner thighs, working his way up closer and closer to the 
area which had been cleansed by Sister Sara.

This tongue was not even like a human tongue, and when it reached my undulating center
of desire, I cried. The unusually shaped tongue muscle snaked its way inside of me. I felt it 
slide over regions which Sister Sara had lubricated.

The dripping of my tender girl-organ dripped down my bare and hairless legs. It created a 
wet path which cooled in the breeze, sending shivers into my cuntal realm. From time to time, 
Turlock glanced up at the Master, Father Peter. He was looking for some sign from the man, 
and Father Peter beckoned him to continue two or three times.

Then, he directed the hunchbacked assistant to stop.

“I cannot trust Sister Sara. She must flog herself for some of the things she has done. I 
have my own test of a girl’s virginity,” the priest said.

He took the cat-o-nine-tails. The handle was shaped for the grip of a palm. The handle 
was also shaped as a thick male organ. Father Peter placed the end of the whip at my virgin 
hole!

“Oh, please, Father, please,” I begged. “Don’t insert that black piece in my private place. I 
am a virgin. I swear to you that I am a virgin.”

“Pray to God,” Father Peter told me, again. “Pray, and tell me about your sexual fantasies. 
Confess. Confess them all to me. Only when you put them out in the open will they be 
released from your body. If you hold them inside, they will stay with you forever. Then you will
be damned.”

The black handle was placed between the soft mounds of my nearly hairless pussy. The 
priest intended to twist the handle into my hole as I spoke. Pain and pleasure would merge, as
I told him of my sexual fantasies.

It was not easy to speak of such things. It was not easy at all. But I had to come forward. I 
had to speak.

“I have imagined that I am lying naked on a bed,” I told him. “I feel that strange tingling 
and I spread the lips of love. I await the coming of the man.”

I wasn’t even sure who the man in my fantasies actually was. At least, I wasn’t sure until 
that moment. Always I had seen his tumescent organ, swelling up between his legs and 
curving out many inches from a dark patch of pubic wire.

Always I had parted my virgin sex lips to entice this man into me. I told Father Peter this, 
and he pressed the handle of the whip into the cleft. The place was wet from Turlock’s tongue,
Sister Sara’s tongue before that, and from the flowing nectar which my quivering quim could 
not hold back.

The black handle became damp and the priest twisted it into me. I cried, but he told me to
keep praying, and to continue with my uncovering of my desires. I obeyed.

*

“He brandishes his powerful organ and he places it at my opening,” I said, tearfully. I could
look down from my position on the cross. I could see the face of Father Peter as he tested my 
virginity. I could feel the thick stump of black handle inside my body. It was pressing deeper 
and deeper, reaching the maidenhead.

The organ opened up for him. The yielding passage made way for the black intruder.

And then I relived my fantasy on that cross. I imagined the handle of the whip to be the 
hard organ of my dream lover. I looked at him. Instead of Father Peter, I saw another man.

It was Raphael! For the first time since my fantasies began to overtake my body and my 
mind, I actually confronted the vision to the fullest extent. It was Raphael whom I desired. He 
was the man I longed for.

It was his organ which I wished would ravish me.

“Oh, give it to me. Hurt me with that thing,” I begged, feeling the black handle of the whip 
and imagining that it was Raphael’s flesh and blood tool.

I was snapped from my fantasies by the reality of Father Peter’s harsh voice. He withdrew 
the handle of the whip. My tender young sex lips hugged at it, splashing inner wetness on the 
handle. I wanted it.

“She’s a virgin,” Father Peter said. Apparently I had passed his test.

“But a possessed one, ey, Father?” Turlock replied.

“Yes, a possessed one. We shall have to cure her of that,” the priest said.

The next thing I remember, I saw the priest raise the cat-o-nine-tails. He stood back far 
enough to have the full length of my naked, cross-bound body as his target. He teased me by 
showing me the wicked whip up behind him as he placed it in the ‘swing’ position.

I started to pray. I prayed to the Lord that he wouldn’t swing that cat down on my 
vulnerable front. My back and buttocks were bound against the wooden cross. Only my 
unprotected front was available for the kiss of the whip.

My naked breasts began to tingle, with the knowledge that the sensitive breast flesh might
feel the kisses of the hurting cat. And my lower regions! The thought was too much. My naked
pussy had been introduced to the handle of the whip.

I hated to think what the business end of the whip would do to my tender female flesh.

With the mercy of God, I passed out. I felt the first fierce blow of the whip on my naked 
breasts. I felt the devil fly from my breasts, overtaken with stinging pain.

When I finally came to, my nodding head was facing downward. I saw the scarlet 
criss-crosses which laced my delicate, white flesh.

I indeed thanked God for sparing me the agony of the pain of the cutting lashes as they 
were delivered. Now, however, the stripes were aching and swelling. They marked the front of 
my young body all the way down to my lower thighs.

I shed a tear, and the salt of the tear burned into the abused flesh as it slid over the deep 
welts and bruises.

Father Peter had done a thorough job with the whip. I felt relieved. I was sure the devil had
left my young body for good after that session of the cat!

My wrists and ankles were aching terribly with a dull throbbing which matched the beat of 
my pulse. I had been tied to the cross for God only knew how long. The room was enclosed, 
with no windows. It was dark. I didn’t know if it was day or night.

I didn’t know how long I’d been secured to the cross, and I had no idea how much longer 
they would keep me there.

Time crept on. It stretched on and on. I was hungry. I was thirsty. I wondered if they had 
left me to die on the cross. I was terrified, but too weak and dizzy to think about it with 
anything but grief and longing.

I thought about Raphael, the man whose face appeared to me in my confession. I 
wondered if it was really a sin to want him as I did. I wondered if I would ever see him again, 
or if I had indeed begun my voyage into the life of a nun.

Finally, after what must have been no less than twelve hours, I heard new footsteps. It was 
Sister Sara.

“Sister Sara,” I cried. “I’m so happy to see you!”

She didn’t show any expression in her face. “You fool,” she said, as she untied the knots 
which bound me to the cross. “You told Father Peter what happened between us.”

“But I thought… “

“Never mind what you thought,” Sister Sara snapped. “I have been well punished for the 
act.”

I was surprised to learn that Sister Sara was subject to the same discipline as the novice 
nuns. She too was a servant of God, and a slave of Father Peter.

“You’ll get yours,” she said heartlessly, unsnapping the tight bands around my captive 
ankles. “Someone came looking for you today. It became apparent to Father Peter that you 
did not happen to stumble upon the convent by accident, and the donation you offered the 
church was for an evil purpose.”

My throbbing, burning skin was hot, but my inner flesh froze.

I had been severely disciplined, and now I was found guilty of something which certainly 
was a crime.

“Please tell me more, Sister Sara,” I said, anxiously.

“A man came to the church,” the nun replied. “At first Father Peter told him that there 
must have been some mistake. He told the man that no girl who fit your description had ever 
come to the church to offer a donation.”

“But that was a lie,” I protested.

“It was for your own good. If the man were a messenger of the devil, it was Father Peter’s 
duty as a holy man to keep him away from our church and from you.”

“Who was the man?” I asked, knowing that it could only be Raphael.

“He said his name was Raphael, and when Father Peter heard the name, he knew that this 
whole thing had been planned. He knew that you and this Raphael were spying on the 
church.”

I had no explanation. We weren’t really spying on the church. We didn’t care what 
practices took place here. We hadn’t known that the practices which went on behind the walls 
of this holy place were anything but holy.

But we couldn’t say the real reason that I had come, either. “How did Father Peter Figure 
all of this out in his head?” I asked.

“He said that while he punished you upon the cross, you cried out for Raphael. You cried 
for Raphael, and now he has come to you.”

Sister Sara was sneering, and I knew that Raphael had been taken captive. If this cruel 
people abused me and the other young girls as harshly as they did, I hated to think of what 
they would do to a strong man like Raphael.

Sister Sara brought me to the room which she had placed me in before my ordeal on the 
cross. I was feeling great fear for Raphael, but I was happy to find that the diary, you dear 
diary, was waiting for me beneath the flat mattress of my cot.

The quill was still fresh, and so I write these lines now. So you understand why my pen 
quivers. My nerves are weak. I have been denied food. My hand shakes from these things and 
from the fear I experience for Raphael.

Raphael was so good to me. I still owe him something to repay him. I have spoiled my 
chance to follow through oh the plan we devised. But I feel certain that under the 
circumstances which exist in this place, there will be other opportunities for me to repay him.

I only wonder what the price will be.

*

Oh, Lord, forgive me. I do not feel that I have sinned, though in Your eyes, what I have 
done may be a sin of the highest order. I do not know, but I swear I did it for love.

It has been a while since I wrote in this book. Shortly after the previous entry, Turlock came
to me in this room. I hid the diary beneath the mattress. He didn’t see it.

“Did you feel the cutting edge of the whip?” he said, laughing at me and my pain.

“Yes, and I still feel it now,” I replied. “Tell me, Turlock. Tell me what is happening with my 
friend Raphael. Sister Sara informed me that he came looking for me. She said that Father 
Peter brought Raphael in.”

“News travels fast within these walls,” Turlock smiled, licking his lips.

I don’t know what made me say the things I did to a person such as Turlock. He should 
have been the last person I trusted. I had come in contact with Father Peter, Sister Sara, and 
Turlock since my arrival at the church. Sister Sara had shown me some compassion when she 
exorcised the devil from my young hole.

As for Father Peter, he was cruel, but I had to believe that his motives were just. He is a 
man of the cloth, and I have to believe that anyone who would pursue God as this man does, 
must have compassion within him.

Turlock was not a practicing member of the clergy at all. He was just a simple assistant to 
the priest, and a strange one, at that. He had done nothing but bring me misery since my 
arrival.

And yet, I was feeling vulnerable in that moment when he came into my tiny room and 
placed his hands on my welts, the welts of the whip which laced the front of my body. I 
decided that if I opened up my heart and spoke the truth to him, that he might respond in the
same manner. I asked him to tell me about this church. I begged him to tell me what the 
church was really all about, and to help me save Raphael from the torment which seemed to 
thrive here.

Turlock seemed moved that I should ask him these questions. He was a servant of Father 
Peter, and being ugly and hunchbacked, he must not have had anyone talk with him so openly
too often in the past.

“This is a Dominican church,” he explained. “The Dominicans are the ones who know the 
rules which must be followed to get girls like you into heaven. Father Peter is a good man. He 
is serving the Lord,” Turlock told me.

I was glad to hear these words. I believed Turlock. I asked him about the novices who I saw
impaled on the pegs. I couldn’t believe that all those young girls had decided to become nuns
of their own free choice. I had certainly been coerced into it. That was reason enough for me 
to have my doubts about the others.

“Some of them were captured by the Crusaders,” Turlock told me. “They were raped, and 
now it is the work of this church to purify their defiled souls.”

Turlock continued to tell me about some of the other girls. He explained that the law of 
the land was such that a man could inform the church that his wife was a heretic. He would be
protected, while the accused would face torture until she confessed.

Many of the girls had apparently confessed to sins to avoid the turn of the screw, or the 
torture of death by fire. Others admitted to infidelities which qualified them for life in the 
nunnery where they would be made to repent.

The only excuse for divorce was one of such a nature. Therefore, Turlock explained, it was 
not uncommon for husbands to tell the Dominican church wild stories which would never be 
checked except through the torture of the accused.

Once the accused confessed, as so often happened, the males were free to marry again. As
for the females, they were sentenced to life in the convent.

Some of the young girls who I’d seen on the pegs were really in training for their service as
nuns. Self-punishment, and the scourge of the priest’s whip were required to expel the devil 
from the body.

I realized that I fell into the latter category. Although I had not set out to become a nun, I 
did feel that the devil had entered my body. Why else would I suddenly be feeling these 
sensations of lust?

Father Peter had explained the connection between blood and the devil. I had recently 
been cursed. It was only within the recent past that blood began flowing from my young 
pussy. It comes at regular periods, and I know that it is a sign from the devil.

“But what about Raphael?” I asked suddenly. The thought of him came into my head once 
again, and I realized that his well-being was most important to me. It was probably more 
important to me than anything else.

Even my own survival came after the survival of Raphael. After all, I owed him so much.

“What about him?” Turlock replied. “Father Peter knows that you and he conspired to spy 
on the practices of the church. You probably planned to report the goings-on to higher 
members in the Dominican Order. It won’t work. They will never find anything. They trust the 
word of Father Peter.”

Turlock looked at my naked body as he spoke. I saw him looking closely at the bright red 
nipples of my abused breasts. I saw him take a feel at the lump between his legs when he 
glanced down at the criss-crossed area of my young virgin hole. The stripes of the 
cat-o-nine-tails marked the entrance to the pit.

“Of course, Father Peter is doing right in freeing the devil from the bodies of his charges. 
He feels that it is his mission in this life. His methods may be strict, but what less severe tactics 
would let the devil loose?”

I had to agree with Turlock. I knew that there had to be reasons for the severity of Father 
Peter’s actions.

“But you still haven’t told me about what Father Peter plans to do with Raphael,” I said 
pleadingly.

“Kill him,” came the simple reply.

“Kill him? Oh, no, no, that can’t happen. I won’t allow it. I love Raphael!”

Turlock raised his eyebrows and licked the tip of his hooked nose with his enormous 
tongue.

“I may be able to help you,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.

Naturally, I was eager to try anything to save Raphael. “How can you help?” I asked.

“Well, I have been known to have influence with Father Peter,” Turlock replied, tapping the 
tips of his fingers together in front of him. “He listens to me.”

“Oh, Turlock, please tell him that Raphael means no harm. If only Father Peter would let 
Raphael go. I would be so grateful. I would be able to spend the rest of my life in this place, 
learning to be a nun. I would be a good nun, I know I would, if only I could know that Raphael
were free.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Turlock replied.

I was so happy, I would have wrapped my arms around him and kissed him, but he was 
too repulsive for that. It wasn’t his fault. I guess that he was simply born that way. But I 
couldn’t bring myself to touching him like that. Not now, anyway. I did feel that if Turlock was 
able to get Father Peter to release Raphael, things would be different.

Then I would really be able to kiss Turlock, because then I would truly be satisfied and 
happy. I would have saved Raphael’s life, and that would bring me closer to God. That would 
help me find my calling, if indeed my calling was to be a nun. Perhaps it was meant to be that 
I get involved in the theft-plot with Raphael. Perhaps it was meant to happen to lead me on a 
new path.

Turlock’s whining voice interrupted my thoughts. “There is something that you’ll have to 
do for me to show me that you’re sincere about freeing this Raphael character,” Father Peter’s 
servant told me.

“What is it that you want me to do?” I breathed with excitement.

Turlock’s face changed. A grin spread across his face, contorting his already peculiar 
features into an expression of lustful desire. I could see that the look on his face had nothing 
to do with Godliness!

“You are going to have to let me take your virginity!” Turlock said.

I’m certain that my flesh must have paled and my jaw dropped slack at this demand. It was
horrible. And it seemed that it would lead to terrible punishment for me.

“But I am not supposed to experience such feelings in my vagina,” I told him. “I know that 
it must be a sin.”

“Nobody said that you would feel desire,” Turlock said simply. “I would take responsibility 
for my own feelings. You would only have to spread your legs and assist my large organ into 
your sex pit.”

“Oh, but I’ve been examined by Father Peter and found to be a virgin. I’m certain that he 
had a reason for the examination. Isn’t it true that to be a nun a girl must be chaste?”

“Yes, and she must remain that way,” Turlock replied.

“But I would lose my chance to be a nun. I would be defying Father Peter and I’m sure that 
he would check me again and discover what happened.”

“Do you want to save Raphael?” Turlock grinned.

I knew what he meant. There was no answer to be said in words. If I really wanted to save 
the life of Raphael, I would have to give up my virginity to the horrible Turlock.

He could see the trembling which I could not hide. He could see the heaving of my young 
breasts, and he knew that I was going to give in.

He grinned again, a slight little smirk, and he reached down to the front of his bagged 
trousers. He unbuttoned himself. The thing came out.

I almost fainted when I saw it. It was larger than I’d imagined it would be. I was frightened 
just looking at it.

“Wet it up,” Turlock said.

“What?”

“I said wet it up.”

I didn’t understand what he wanted. There was no water in the small room. There was no 
tub.

“With your mouth, you stupid fool,” Turlock said. He was harsh and crude.

I raised by eyes to heaven and uttered words of prayer. One thing was certain. Since 
coming to the church, I had done more praying than ever before in my young life. That much, 
the church did do for me.

The veiny column of this man was curved and long. He was holding it in his hand, and 
pulling back and forth on the skin of it. The pliable skin moved over the head, which was slick 
with a goo which emanated from the slit at the end of the head.

“Go on,” Turlock ordered. “Go on and suck it.”

I took a deep breath and then placed my girlish lips down on the pole which curved out 
from between Turlock’s legs.

Oh, Lord, forgive me, I said to myself, as I felt him press his organ forward so that the thing
moved into my mouth. The slick goo which coated the head made the organ slide beyond my 
lips and into the orifice of my oral cavity.

I closed my eyes because I didn’t want to look into the hairy patch which crowned the long
tool. I took it in my mouth as best I could. I feared that I might get sick, but again I prayed 
silently, and soon, something strange happened. I felt myself give in to the desire. I began to 
like it.

It seemed so sinful to be doing this within the confines of the church. I knew that such a 
sexual act was forbidden, by the church, especially if I were to be a nun.

There was no love between Turlock and I. This was a forced act, even though the man 
didn’t force me physically with brutality, as Father Peter did with his whips. Still, I was forced 
into it to save the life of Raphael.

But Raphael, who was in my thoughts as I began to suck, soon faded away. All that 
mattered was the dork within my mouth. The man named Turlock pressed his pelvis forward, 
arching his body so that the sticky head pressed onward down into my throat.

I pressed forward to meet his stroke. I tried to take the thing down into my throat. I 
wanted to swallow as much of it as physically possible. I wanted it all.

Turlock was now sitting on the cot. I was on my knees, as if in prayer. I was praying to the 
god of his cock.

My head bobbed back and forth on the extended rod. I felt it grow harder and harder in 
my mouth. I sucked up and down on it, taking it in until the fur which crowned the shaft was 
near my lips; near enough for me to feel it tickling me.

He was grunting. He barely sounded human at all.

I wondered if he was the messenger of the devil, there to tempt me. If he was, he had 
succeeded. He had me all excited at the act. My nipples were swollen with desire. They were 
red hot and extended and firm.

I could hardly believe what was happening, but I knew that the devil was inside of me 
again. I could feel the devil inside of me in every membrane; in every pore. The trembling 
which was overtaking my body; the shaking, the minor convulsions inside my young virgin 
hole. All of these things told me that the devil had entered me, right there in the church room.

I wished that I could see the feet of Turlock. I had heard that the devil has cloven hooves. I 
wondered if Turlock had toes, or… no, it was too terrible to think. What if the devil actually 
had his penis inside of my mouth?

I knew that if the devil didn’t take me directly to hell, I would suffer here on earth with the 
flailing of Father Peter’s whips. He would punish me for this.

I could still feel the stinging, burning pain in the previous strokes which he’d emblazoned 
on my flesh. It was like a tattoo of pain which served as a constant reminder of my life as a 
sinner. Every time I moved a muscle, I could feel the whip lashes on my skin, within my flesh, 
and I realized how sinful I had been.

Turlock was grunting more loudly. The shaft was very wet from the saliva which I sucked 
onto the organ. He pressed forward and started rocking into me. He grabbed his rod and 
turned it so that the curve cut into my inner cheek.

He continued to rock, hurting me with his penis. Now his penis was fully erect, and I could 
feel the vein pumping in my mouth. I could feel every inch of his spear inside of me. It was 
terrible, and it was wonderful, at the same time.

I knew that I was becoming a young woman, instead of remaining a little girl. My body was
telling me that, because I felt great sensations at my female parts.

My nipples were aching with desire. They were begging to be licked, sucked, pinched, 
tweaked, and bitten. My cuntal realm was quivering. The little lips were fluttering. I knew that 
Turlock wanted to fill me down in that hole.

Even my bunghole was tingling. Perhaps it was because my anus was so close to my 
vagina. Perhaps the sensations were associated with one another. Whatever, I could feel the 
tremblings in my rectum and I knew that it was the devil at work.

Lord have mercy, and please don’t damn me to hell forever, but I didn’t care. No, I didn’t 
care if it was the devil at work. It felt better than anything I’d ever experienced before.

There was the emotional element of it. Something inside of me longed for the insertion of 
this piece of thick man-meat. There was an emotional craving for it which I had never known 
before. Now that Turlock had forcefed me his shaft, I realized that the lust did bum within me, 
and when that happened, as it was doing, it was just impossible to suppress the desire.

I had to give in to it. I had to give in all the way and allow myself to feel the pulsations of 
Turlock’s penis pressing into me.

Now I really knew what it meant to be a sinner. What made me certain of that was the fact 
that I didn’t care. I just didn’t care! I wanted it! And I even wanted more.

I was supposed to be in training as a young nun. Well, the very atmosphere of the church 
was now associated with just one thing as far as I was concerned. It was associated with 
Turlock’s manly organ!

“Fornication! Fornication!” is what I would have shouted, if my mouth had not been filled 
with pumping iron. I would have begged Turlock to give me his curved rod inside of my tight 
young box.

I wanted to feel the pain of it curving into me. I wanted to feel the hot surface of it burning
into the walls of my inner flesh.

I wanted to be a sinner. I was going to be beaten and punished for my sins in any case. 
Therefore, I wanted to have something to be punished for. I wanted to earn the strokes of the 
whip, and know that I was truly being beaten to rid me of the devil.

But that would come later after I had indulged myself fully. I opened my eyes. I looked up 
into the pubic hair of the monster-fucker. I raised my eyes higher, up beyond the rippling 
stomach of the aroused man. I looked into his face from my humble position between the 
man’s legs.

He was no longer so horrible to me. The fact that he was a monster strangely appealed to 
me, because I was being taken against my own true will. I was being forced into this debasing 
act, right here in the church, because of a true love.

But the twisted man and his twisted corkscrew of a penis were far more exciting than even 
the true love!

Yes, I wanted to lie beneath a tree and gently stroke the handsome face of my lover 
Raphael. I wanted to cuddle with Raphael, and feel his gentle caresses. I wanted to take his 
perfect cock between my lips, into my mouth, down my throat, and then into my cunt.

But not as much as I wanted Turlock!

Turlock was driving me mad. I was mad with devil lust. There was no other explanation for 
the feelings which swept over me. They caused me to bump up and down. I was going wild on
the joystick of the priest’s assistant.





CHAPTER FOUR


“That’s right, that’s right,” Turlock told me.

He grabbed at my hair and pulled at it. He used my head for his own pleasure, holding me 
my the roots and banging my head back and forth on the nearly-bursting organ.

Then he pulled me off the cock, and held my head in place just a few inches from the head
of the shaft. When I raised my eyes, I could see his face staring down at me. When I looked 
straight forward, I saw the pulsing of the bulbous cock head.

“Now it’s good and wet from your mouth,” Turlock said with contempt. “Are you ready to 
really sin?”

I could feel the hot tears streaming down my cheeks. I hated to admit the truth. I didn’t 
really want to be a sinner, but I had to be. I wanted to and yet I didn’t want to. Does that make
any sense at all, dear diary?

I knew that all of this was wrong. I knew that it was doubly wrong, to be doing it with the 
priest’s assistant, in the church. And of course, I knew that I would receive terrible punishment 
for all of it. I would pay with strokes of the whip, or worse.

But I had to have it. It was difficult to get the words out. It was hard to say it, admitting it 
to another, as I had admitted it to myself.

“Yes, Turlock,” I replied, my voice a tremble, my mouth still tasting of his organ. “Yes, I am 
ready to really sin.”

“Good. Open up for me,” Turlock said.

He pulled me up onto the cot, placed me on my back, and parted my legs.

He was down between my smooth, spread thighs in a minute. His face was there, and his 
unnatural tongue snaked out from his mouth. The tongue muscle began to probe the lips, 
forcing them open.

He licked the insides of my pussy with his unfurled tongue. He did the same kinds of 
things that Sister Sara did to my private place, but he did not attempt to suck out the evil 
juices as the nun did.

He made certain that all of the liquid remained inside of me. Some of it was dripping out, 
and running down my legs. He didn’t attempt to lick that up. He let it drip down. He even spit 
into my sex organ, adding more lubrication.

I feared that he was spitting in the germs of the devil. I felt that these seeds from his saliva 
would sprout inside of me, unleashing the hell fire of the devil, for sins I was committing with 
him.

I had to stop thinking like this. Every time I began to enjoy the pleasure of the act, I 
thought of the devil. Well, that wasn’t the work of the devil, for the devil would have hidden 
these thoughts from me and made me know only the sinful pleasure.

It must have been God’s work and the influence of people like Sister Sara and Father Peter 
that was turning me into a quivering mass of flesh.

I gave in completely.

“Fuck me, Turlock,” I cried. “Fuck me!”

The tongue wasn’t enough. It was tickling my inner pussy and making me all wet inside.

It was starting a sex itch in my body. But I ..wanted the insertion that would scratch the itch
and fill me with hot passion.

I wanted Turlock’s cock.

The cock I had sucked with such abandon was throbbing now. I looked down and I could 
see that it was still very hard. It seemed to lurch involuntarily from time to time, indicating that
there was a lot of passion inside of it.

Turlock’s cock might have been set in motion by the devil. Perhaps the devil was inside of 
Turlock, causing him to behave this way, setting his cock on fire. The fire would have to rush 
out the hose. It would have to escape his body, jumping into mine.

“I’m going to spew my evil seed inside of you,” the demon Turlock told me.

“Yes, yes, I want your fire inside of me. I want to feel you fill me up with the hot fire of your
demon seed.”

Turlock was up on top of me. He was looking into my face and I could smell my own 
girl-scent on his mouth. His eyes were glinting fiercely.

“Lord, have mercy,” I cried.

Turlock was in me! He plowed inside with one mighty thrust. I didn’t even know what hit 
me. One moment I felt the flared head of his organ pressing gently in the cleft of my virginity.

Then, the next moment, a terrible pain shot through me. He slammed all the way in, 
breaking the membrane which defined my virginity as if it were an eggshell.

Oh, the pain was terrible. No doubt it was the pain which God brought to the cunts of 
young girls who sinned in this manner. This was my first time. It pained me more than I 
imagined.

Once he had gotten all the way inside, reaching the areas beyond the tattered hymen, he 
stayed inside. I could feel the organ pulsing as he breathed heavily. He was aroused to the 
high point of his life. I too, was aroused at the idea, but the pain was so great that I needed a 
rest period in which to get used to the invading member.

“Fuck you,” Turlock said to me.

And that was what he did.

*

It must have been some hours later that I found myself alone in the little room. The cot 
was very damp in several places where sex juices from Turlock had spilled.

My young, newly deflowered organ was aching. I could feel the heat of the liquid fire 
which Turlock had spewed inside of me, as he promised he would.

There was blood on the bed. Again, I thought of the devil and his quest for red blood.

My hair was tangled from the sweat which had bathed my forehead, matting my hair to 
my face. Down below, the strands of fine pubic hair were also matted after this terrible fucking
which had been so wild, so wonderful, so sinful and perverse.

It was all of those things. Had it been any less, I would have resisted a punishment for it. 
But this time, when the next punishment was offered, I would be ready, knowing that I 
deserved it. I would beg to have the devil beaten from my body.

“Flog me, Father Peter. Flog me,” I would cry.

There had been no discussion between Turlock and I regarding Turlock’s part of the deal. 
It had been originally agreed that Turlock would do his best to save Raphael if I gave him my 
virginity. I had kept my part of the bargain.

I wondered what Turlock would do. Would he really follow through? I hoped so. I prayed 
that Raphael would be delivered safely from this church house.

“May the Lord walk with you, and hold you in the palm of His hand,” I whispered, thinking 
of Raphael. As for myself, I feared that it might be too late for my salvation.

Perhaps I was just too far gone to survive the devil, and Father Peter.

Maybe I would have been able to survive one of them, but the two of them were just too 
powerful for me to overcome, even if I did become a nun and had the Lord on my side.

I remained on the damp cot for a long time, because I was too weak and tired to get up 
from it. I must have dozed off again.

When I finally awoke, I was hungry. Of course, there was no food for me. Father Peter 
believed that fasting was good for the soul. He said that fasting was a way of atoning, and he 
said that he was certain that I had a lot of atoning to do.

Now I knew that I did, too.

Since there was no food, no water, and since the door was bolted from the outside, I 
assumed that I was being kept in solitary confinement for a while. Perhaps Father Peter was a 
sadist. There would have been nothing for me to do if it were not for you, dear diary.

I took the time to write all of these thoughts; and give you all of the details of the 
encounter with Turlock.

Others may not believe that I did it for the love of Raphael, but you know that the words I 
write in this book are the absolute truth. This book is like an extension of myself, and why 
would I lie to myself at this late stage.

I say late stage because although I am young, I feel that I have gone too far as a sinner to 
return to my youth. Imagine the mind of a girl who comes to a church with the intention of 
aiding a theft-plot, and then winds up having sexual communication with the assistant of the 
church priest! I must be sick.

I must be possessed by the devil.

*

“Raquel, come with me.”

It was Father Peter. He unbolted the door and entered my small room. He saw me on the 
bed. I was nude. I heard the power in his deep voice, although he wasn’t yelling or bellowing. 
He was calm and restrained, but I felt that it was the calm before the storm. He was angry.

I guess that it wasn’t difficult for him to see that something had happened in that room 
which left me damp with sweat, and deflowered.

Or maybe it was something to do with Raphael. I didn’t know.

I walked like an obedient dog behind Father Peter. He walked me to the corridor down 
which the screams of punished young nuns could be heard.

I looked at the priest from behind. I wished that he would speak to me. I always thought 
that priest would be a person a girl could confide in. But not Father Peter.

I hoped that he wasn’t going to take me to the room with the pegs. I couldn’t stand the 
thought of having to sit on one of those pegs.

But that wasn’t what the priest had in mind for me.

“Go into that room,” he said, pointing to a room on the left, at the end of the corridor. 
“There is a tub there. Sister Sara will be in to bathe you.”

That was all he said. Before I could say a word, he was gone. I didn’t know what he had in 
made. I didn’t understand why he wanted me to bathe, but a bath would be refreshing for me,
since I was damp with sweat and sex juices.

I could feel the presence of Turlock on my body. I did want to take a bath.

The door to the room was unlocked. I entered. A large wooden tub stood in the center of 
the room. I didn’t have to disrobe. I was already nude.

Soon Sister Sara joined me in the room. She walked in carrying a drying towel. She was 
dressed in her habit, but she disrobed in front of me.

“I am going to bathe with you, and cleanse you as I do,” Sister Sara said.

“Why?” I asked, fearing that there was more to this than met the eye.

“Why?” she laughed. “Well, because being clean is like being close to God. You don’t think 
that the angels in heaven are in need of a bath, do you?”

I laughed. Perhaps I was being too sensitive or too serious about this place.

Sister Sara directed me to climb into the tub. I did. She carried a large pitcher of very hot 
water which she added to the water in the tub. This made it warm enough for me to bathe in.

Sister Sara removed her vestments as I watched. I had always wondered what a nun wore 
below her garments. Now I knew. I can’t say that all nuns are like Sister Sara in this respect, 
but I can say that Sister Sara was naked beneath her habit.

She pulled the collar over her neck. When she removed the gown, I could see her breasts 
for the very first time. They were large. They were larger than mine.

She cupped her hand beneath one globe and pushed it upwards. It was full-fleshed, and 
the nipple was sort of squared off at the tip, while my own young nipples were shaped like 
cones.

Her pubic region was covered in thick, coarse fur. She ran her fingers through the forest of
hair. She stepped into the tub.

Her breasts almost floated on the surface of the water as she stayed beside me in the tub. 
We were so close that I could feel the smoothness of her leg against mine below the water 
line.

She had a natural sponge with her.

“Turn around,” she said. I did.

She began to wash my back, rubbing patterns in the flesh with the soft sponge. I asked her
to please go gently on me, since I was suffering from the bruises inflicted by Father Peter’s 
whip.

“I know of those bruises,” Sister Sara replied. She turned and showed me her own back. 
Not only was it marked with freshly laid welts, but it bore traces of many past punishments as 
well.

“Don’t think that Father Peter gave me all of those wounds,” she explained. “I flog myself 
regularly,” she said.

“You flog yourself? But why?” I asked.

“To relieve myself of sin. I am a nun, you know. When you become a nun, you shall do the 
same thing, I’m sure. It becomes a way of life for us. It is very much needed. I feel much better 
for the pain.”

“Oh, Sister Sara,” I said. “I have my doubts about this whole thing. I didn’t set out to be a 
nun. I’m not at all sure that it is best for me.”

“All of us go through that. If we didn’t, it would probably mean that we were not taking 
our calling seriously enough. As for me, I know that I was brought into this earth for one 
reason. I am here to serve God. God fills me. It is in my blood to be a nun.”

“I want to be filled,” I replied. “But God does not fill me. I have been filled by a man, right 
here in the church.”

Sister Sara was startled. “But Raquel, when I examined you, you were a virgin.”

“No longer,” I told her.

The nun started praying for me. Then she spoke.

“I warned you, or tried to warn you, when I first laid eyes on you. I tried to keep you away 
from the church.”

“Yes, but I still don’t understand why. Was it because of the things that happen to girls 
here? The pegs, and the punishments, and all?”

“Of course. Father Peter runs this church with an iron hand. His word is law. God is in this 
church, but Father Peter becomes the god of girls.”

I began to tremble as she spoke. I knew that I had sinned, and had been punished with 
Father Peter’s whip. But since that time, I sinned even more. Much more. What would Father 
Peter do with me now?

Sister Sara reached around me. Her hands, below the surface of the water, found my 
young, newly deflowered hole. Her fingers began massaging the lips, and found their way 
inside.

I felt Sister Sara’s large breasts pressing up against me. The nipples poked into me. The 
flesh was soft.

I felt her fingers inside of me. She was probing. She was exploring. She wanted to see if I 
had been telling the truth.

“Please don’t tell Father Peter,” I asked Sister Sara, when it became evident to her that the 
thin membrane which had been protecting my inner pussy was no longer intact.

“I’m sure that Father Peter will find out soon enough on his own. He doesn’t miss very 
much of what goes on within the walls of this holy building,” Sister Sara replied.

Her grasp inside of me was gentle, so I knew that the nun wasn’t angry with me for losing 
my virginity.

“Who was it?” she asked.

Now, that had me stumped. I knew that Turlock was the one, but I didn’t think that I 
should tell Sister Sara that. What would she think of me?

“I was sleeping in my room,” I lied. “When I awoke, I found the cot was wet. I discovered 
that I had been taken.”

I hated to tell an untruth in the house of the Lord. I felt that he was looking down on me. 
But if the Lord really was watching over me, He would have made it an easier life for me inside
this church.

However, the Lord not accounted for. Sister Sara had a negative reaction. She was certain 
that I was telling an untruth. I guess she was able to see through the story. She began shaking
me back and forth in the water.

“Who was it? Who was it?” she demanded.

“Please, Sister Sara. I’m sorry. I just don’t know.”

I wasn’t going to get anyone else in trouble for what happened to me. If Father Peter 
found out that I had given up my maidenhead, he would destroy Raphael for sure.

Sister Sara was still shaking me when Father Peter walked into the room.

Sister Sara stopped. I froze. I was afraid that the angry nun would spill the secret. Then all 
would be lost.

“How is the bathing going?” he asked.

“Just Fine, Father,” Sister Sara replied with a little smile.

Ah, the nun was standing up for me. She wasn’t going to report me to the priest. Not yet, 
anyway.

“Good. When you have finished bathing the girl, send her to my private chambers. I want 
her fresh and powdered with the holy powder. Then I shall have a surprise for her.”

The priest turned to me and added, “You have a gentlemen caller, as you know. He will be 
waiting for you in my private chamber.”

Then the priest turned and walked away. Oh, I was so happy. It seemed that everything 
was working out for the best, after all. First Sister Sara had kept the faith, so to speak, and 
refrained from telling Father Peter the secret of my deflowering.

Now the priest was telling me that I had a gentleman caller, and that he would be waiting 
to see me in the father’s private chamber when I was finished with my bath, all powdered and 
fresh.

I hoped that the priest would give me a chance to visit with Raphael. And then, perhaps, 
the priest would see that I was best suited to the outside world. He might release me, after 
blessing me, and I would return to visit in the future. If that could happen, the entire 
experience in the church would have been for a good reason.

I hoped it would work out that way.

But things were not to be so rosy. As soon as Father Peter departed, Sister Sara turned to 
me. She grabbed me by the shoulders, pressing in to get a good grip on me. I pulled away, 
because the fingers of the nun were hurting the whip lashes which were clear to see on my 
body. But she grabbed me back and looked into my face.

“You owe me something,” she said. “I didn’t tell Father Peter on you. Not yet. When he 
finds out, he’ll flog you until the skin peels off your back. He’ll beat you until you learn what it 
means to sin.”

“Please don’t tell him, Sister Sara,” I begged.

“He’ll find out anyway. If I don’t tell him, he’ll think that I was negligent in my care of you. I
am supposed to examine our girls regularly to make certain that they remain pure. That is part
of the sacrifice that a young nun must make. She must be faithful to God. You have not been.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, bowing my head.

“You owe me something for not telling Father Peter then and there. You shall have to 
repay me.”

I thought about Raphael. I was paying him back by coming here in the first place. It 
seemed that I got myself into debt, and then the price of repaying became too high.

“How shall I repay you?” I asked, fearfully.

Sister Sara grinned. She exerted pressure on my shoulders forcing me down to my knees. I 
assumed that she was leading me into prayer. But no, once I fell to my knees, she told me 
what I had to do to repay her.

“I want you to eat me out,” she said. “Use your young girl tongue and your mouth. Work 
your mouth inside of my cunt.”

You, dear diary, can imagine my humiliation. I had never done such a thing in my life. I had
experienced the sensation of it when Sister Sara had done it to me. That was one thing. But 
now she wanted me to do it right back to her.

I gasped, but I realized that I had no choice. Sister Sara had been confined to the convent 
which was part of the church for many years. She didn’t have many opportunities for sex, since
she was among the same group of people day in and day out. They were supposed to be 
celibate.

“We are only human,” she told me as I looked up at her, after taking a look into the bush 
of female body. “There is a cemetery out in the back which is a testimony to the nuns who 
couldn’t resist the temptation of a man. The graves are unmarked. They are secret and 
forbidden. I am telling you something that if you ever repeat, you shall be punished. You shall 
be punished by death.”

“Sister Sara! You wouldn’t take my life! It is only for God to take a life. He gives life. He is 
the only one who can take it away.”

“No,” she replied. “If God didn’t intend for man to kill, he wouldn’t permit us to kill. 
Sometimes it is best to take a sinful person and make that person bum in hell.”

“Like the people in those graves?” I asked. “There are babies in those graves. When the 
priests and the nuns conceived infants, it was believed that the children were the sons of the 
devil. It was believed that their sins must be buried, because the children would grow up to 
take over the world with a perverse evil.”

I couldn’t answer. It sounded terrible to me. Innocent babies!

“But I am not like that,” she continued. “I have never given in to the temptation of a mortal
man. God is my husband.”

“What do you want to do with me?”

“I want you now to eat my pussy, as I ate yours. Yes, it is not a sin. We are both women 
cloistered in the nunnery. We are human. It is better that we do this than cohabitate with 
men!”

She moved her hands from my shoulders to behind my head. She pressed me forward into
her undulating organ of sex. The lips were pink and opened.

My mouth had so recently been wrapped around the organ of Turlock. Now it had a 
different taste coursing over the taste buds. It was a female taste. I wondered if my own young
pussy had the same flavor. Then I remembered the way it tasted on my mouth when I tasted 
my own pussy juices on the Ups of Turlock.

No, my pussy tasted different than Sister Sara’s. Different, but I couldn’t say that hers was 
better or worse. That would be making a judgement, and I couldn’t do that. All I could do was 
follow the instructions of the nun. I sucked at the organ, and licked around inside.

To my surprise, Sister Sara had a love button, just like the extra piece of flesh which glowed
red hot inside of my pussy when I was aroused. Maybe I wasn’t different after all.

I knew how excited I became when Turlock licked and bit at my love button. I did the same
thing to Sister Sara, and the sounds of her moans told me that she had the same reaction 
inside of her as I did.

That button was part of the female form, and I had never known that before. It triggered 
arousal, which might have been mistaken for the pleasure of the devil. But the body was 
created by God, and therefore, it must not be sinful.

At least, that is what I now imagined. But who was to say? That too would be judgments, 
and I wasn’t about to take the role of God.

“Suck it,” Sister Sara groaned. She seemed not like a nun at all. I listened as she told me 
how beautiful I was. She said that she wanted to feel my sweet, soft girl-mouth on her pussy.

I did the best that I could to fill her up with my tongue. Now that I knew what it felt like to 
have a penis inside of me, I tried to make my young tongue behave as Turlock’s penis had.

I thrusted my tongue back into the depths of Sister Sara’s organ. As far as my tongue 
extended, it was still not far enough to get all the way down to the depths.

I scraped my tongue back and forth, in and out, down into the cunt as far as my tongue 
would go. I heard her moan several times when I jabbed her, and I figured that the reaction 
meant that she was aroused.

Sometimes I licked lovingly inside of her hole. I didn’t really love Sister Sara, but I wanted 
to keep her satisfied so that she would keep my secret. Again, I found myself engaging in sex 
because of my love and devotion to Raphael.

I owed Raphael so much. Did I owe him this much?

Yes, of course. Besides, it was wrong for me to blame my actions on Raphael. I would have 
not come to the church if it hadn’t been for him, that much is true, but this act was not 
Raphael’s responsibility. It was mine.

If I had refused, I would have had it worse. Father Peter would have been informed of my 
deflowering. As for Sister Sara, she might have beaten me and forced me to have oral sex with
her anyway. For the young nuns, there was no fairness.

There was only obligation to God and to the clergy. So I did my duty. It did seem that 
Turlock had kept his promise and had put in a good word for Raphael and for me. That was 
probably why Father Peter seemed so kind toward me when he informed me that I had a 
gentleman caller awaiting me in his private chamber.

I could hardly wait to see Raphael again. This ordeal at the vagina of the nun was just 
something I had to go through before reaching my goal.

When I came to the church on my mission for Raphael, I never imagined that I would long 
for him so. I didn’t realize that I loved him. I thought that I was only repaying him for what he 
did for me, taking over and practically raising me.

But after the ordeal with Father Peter and the nun, and after the first experience of sexual 
intercourse with Turlock, I realized that it was Raphael that I loved.

“Don’t stop, child,” Sister Sara said. I had become lost in my thoughts of Raphael, and I 
had stopped working my tongue around inside her vagina.

“Go on and get your lips inside my lower lips. I want to feel your whole mouth inside my 
womb.”

I did as she said, pressing my lips forward into her. I could feel them pressing snugly at my 
face. They were moist and they clung to the sides of my mouth as my tongue continued to 
probe the walls and inner core of Sister Sara’s hole.

When I found a stroke which pleased her, she let me know it by moaning and groaning. 
She would tell me how beautiful I was, and how great the feeling of a young girl’s mouth was 
on her sex-starved sex lips.

When I began flicking the length of my tongue in and out of her with a fury, she began to 
make sounds which I hadn’t heard before. I wasn’t sure if she was in pleasure or in pain.

“Oh, ahhhhhh,” she sighed.

I didn’t stop. I knew that if she wanted me to stop; if I was actually hurting her, she would 
have told me so. She would have pushed me away.

Instead, she pressed my head closer into her body. The fuzz of her pubic hair was 
scratching my face. I knew that my lips were probably very red from the twisting of her body 
up against my face.

“Oh, Jesus!” she cried. “Oh, Jesus, Mary, Joseph!” she shouted. “Father, Son and Holy 
Ghost!”

I felt a flood of hot liquid. It rushed out of her. Sister Sara held my face in her womb. She 
wouldn’t let me back away. She kept my face there as she came.

“Ahhhhhhh,” she sighed. She was doubled over, holding my head in her vagina, moaning, 
grunting, and letting me feel her naked breasts down on my head.

She nearly collapsed. I did, too. I was exhausted.

“Don’t swallow it,” she told me.

I was glad she said that. I didn’t want to swallow her juices. True, she had swallowed mine, 
and I was grateful for that because I believed that in those juices lived the soul of the devil.

But I somehow had difficulty in swallowing the liquids from the vagina of a nun.

“Give me your lips,” she said, when I was finished taking her flow in my mouth. I placed my
lips up to her face. She kissed me, and sucked back her own cuntal fluids.

“It is like an offering to the God of heaven,” she said, after drinking down the nectar.

“Will you keep my secret now?” I asked her.

“For today, I will keep your secret,” she replied. “But tomorrow is another day.”

“Oh, Sister Sara!” I gasped.

She smiled. She took the towel and dried my body with it. She worked each area of my 
flesh lovingly. She was very gentle with the bruised parts, patting them with the soft cloth. As 
for my girlish breasts, she massaged them and rubbed them until they were red.

“Sister Sara,” I finally said again, this time with tears in my eyes. “Please don’t tell Father 
Peter what you have discovered.”

“I told you that I would keep the secret for today, but that tomorrow is another day.”

“And then you will tell him?” I asked.

“And then l will meet you again and give you another chance to make me keep the secret. 
This will go on day after day, and day after day I shall keep the secret all to myself, and each 
day I shall teach you new lessons in pleasure.”

I now knew what she meant. She was going to keep me on a string. I was to become a 
slave to the secret: a slave to the nun’s cunt.

I had no choice but to obey her wishes. She probably would have forced me into the same
thing if I hadn’t consented. Then it would be done under the pressure of the whip. So I would 
bide my time. I would meet Sister Sara every day, and learn what it was that the nuns did for 
pleasure.

Raphael was waiting for me in the chamber of Father Peter I kissed Sister Sara, and she 
pointed me in the direction of Father Peter’s room. I rushed off hoping to find happiness.





CHAPTER FIVE


The room was dark. I could tell that even from the outside because there was no light coming 
from under the door, and the corridor outside was also dark.

I knocked several times. I heard Raphael’s voice.

“Raquel, is that you?” he said.

“Oh, yes, Raphael. At last, I’ve found you.”

“I will let you in,” I heard Raphael say through the door.

The door was opened, and indeed, it was very dark inside. I couldn’t see Raphael, and yet I 
felt the presence of him at the door. I fell into his arms and he held me tight. This had never 
happened before. This was the first time that I had held Raphael in this manner. I could feel 
the lump of his manhood pressing into me between my legs. It showed me what temptation 
was all about, because I felt that I wanted to give in to him.

“Oh, Raphael,” I cried. “So much has happened.”

He didn’t answer. He stroked my hair and kissed my ear. I could feel his wet tongue licking 
me up the side of my neck and into my ear. He lingered there with his tongue in my ear, 
stroking and circling and making me sigh.

“Oh, Raphael,” I repeated. I didn’t dare say anything about anything that had transpired 
since my arrival at the church where I was being held captive. I couldn’t be sure that Father 
Peter wasn’t around. For all I knew, he might be hiding in the corner of the darkened room, 
listening to every word I uttered.

So I didn’t dare mention the fact that the plot to steal from the church had been foiled. I 
didn’t speak of Turlock, and the fact that I was no longer a virgin. I didn’t say that in my short 
time within the house of God, I had been exposed to all that was sinful, including sexual 
relations with a nun.

But I guess that it was obvious to Raphael that things had changed. Perhaps a man can tell
from the touch and from the kiss of a young woman, that the woman is no longer a virgin.

Perhaps he was aware of the growth that had taken place within me. I felt all of this 
because Raphael bent me all the way back and kissed me deeply. His tongue was down my 
throat, and then our tongues battled.

I had never even imagined that Raphael would ever be this passionate. He wasn’t speaking
in words. He was telling me how much he desired my freshly bathed and powdered body with 
the reaction of his own body.

In the darkness, even I could smell the clean scent of the holy powder which Sister Sara 
had patted on my body. It would help heal the wounds inflicted by the whip, she said, and it 
whitened by breasts, and sweetened my sex lips.

“Oh, Raphael,” I moaned. I was still afraid that Father Peter might be lurking somewhere in 
the shadows. I didn’t want to express my desire to have sex with Raphael. I was afraid that 
Father Peter would hear and flog me for it.

But I did respond to Raphael’s kisses. As he pressed his warm body into mine, it was 
obvious that he too was naked. No wonder he had been waiting for me in the total darkness. 
He didn’t want me to see his nudity. He wanted to surprise me with it.

He pressed downward, and soon he was on top of me on the floor. I reached down and 
felt his manhood throbbing. It was big and hard. It was thicker than Turlock’s.

I wanted to tell him how much I desired it. I didn’t dare. Not yet. I waited for him to take 
the full initiative, which he was doing. He was ruling my body with power. I was thrilled. I 
believed that he loved me and had come searching for me, now to find me, and culminate the
search with sex.

The head of his organ was poking at my tender sex lips. I arched my pelvis up, trying to 
make it easier for him to enter me.

“Oh, Raphael, do you think we should be doing this here on the floor of Father Peter’s 
private chamber?” I asked.

“Yes, why not?” he answered, but something was wrong. I knew Raphael’s voice. It was 
Raphael’s voice that had answered me from outside the door. But it was someone other than 
Raphael who answered my question now.

“Raphael, is that you?” I asked.

All I heard was a devilish laugh. A candle was lit.

“Oh, my God!” I gasped. It was Father Peter!

“Yes, pray to the Lord,” he said. “It is Father Peter.”

“But you are naked. And you have forced me down to the floor in a sexual position. What 
of my chastity in the name of the faith for which you are training me?”

“Don’t give me that line,” he told me harshly. “You know what the priests and the nuns do 
in this church. Face the truth!”

“Do you mean that you blaspheme your responsibility as members of the cloth?”

“We set our rules in this church. It is all for God’s way. If it weren’t, God would not give us 
such riches and such power. But look at us. We have everything that we want here. Young girls
come to us. They want to be nuns. We train them properly. We instruct them in God’s ways, 
and we teach them that they must punish themselves and be punished by us, besides. And we
fuck the devil out of them, for the devil infests the body and takes the form of lust.”

In the light from the candle I could see that indeed it was Father Peter who was on top of 
me, pressing his erect member into the cleft of my sex lips. And in the corner of the room, I 
could see the form of another man.

“So, you have discovered your Raphael,” Father Peter announced. “Well, let me light some 
more candles so that you may see him better, and so that he may see you.”

The priest stood up and lit other candles which rested on tables in the room. I looked over 
in the corner and there was Raphael. He was tied to a stake. Rope was wrapped around his 
body many times. He looked like an ancient mummy, all bound up and standing stiff.

“But you have tied him,” I exclaimed.

“And I gagged him, too, right after he answered your call at the door. He was not man 
enough to tell you not to enter. He didn’t dare tell you to run away, even though he knew that
it would be I who awaited you, in the darkness, in the nude.”

I looked at Raphael’s tortured face and I could see him struggling. Perhaps he wanted to 
tell me that if he had warned me, it would have been worse for both of us. I could certainly 
not get away from Father Peter. Not that easily.

I didn’t suspect that Raphael had anything but love for me. That was exactly why the 
wicked priest was performing this act with me now. He wanted to make Raphael watch as he 
devirginized me!

But the surprise would be on Father Peter. I had already lost my virginity to Father Peter’s 
deformed and demented assistant.

There was a low table in the room. Father Peter directed me to lie down on the table.

“Get down on your stomach. Press your breasts into the hard wood. I want to see your 
buttocks raised high.”

I was trembling. It was bad enough that I was going to be humiliated by Father Peter. To 
be humiliated in front of Raphael was twice as bad.

I felt my soft breasts pressing into the wood. I felt my young cunny pressing against the 
wood, too. I squirmed and I felt some dampness squeeze out the lips, onto the wood. I knew 
that my pussy was peeking out from between the round bottom globes.

Father Peter was staring right through me. I could feel the power of his hard gaze burning 
through my naked body. I cringed. I squirmed some more.

“Do you like the way your boyfriend looks now?” Father Peter asked me.

I looked up at Raphael and saw him straining at the ropes which Father Peter had tied 
around him. I could see the agonized look on his face. He wanted to protect me, but he was 
now helpless to do so.

I wondered about the church. I had always believed that it was a safe place, a sanctuary. I 
had trusted the clegrymen, believing them to be good people who were dedicated to the 
well-being of people.

How wrong I had been. Father Peter was a man who had power because he was the priest 
of this church. He misused his power, as far as I was concerned. He let it get to him and take 
over. It tainted him, and made him an evil person.

I thought now that Father Peter, who should have represented God, was actually a 
representative of the devil. It was Raphael who now seemed godly to me, and Raphael had 
started out as a thief!

How strange that the man who was supposed to be godly, was viewed by me as the devil’s
helper, while the man who society called a sinner, was much more of a saint.

I kept my eyes on Raphael as I remained stretched out on the wooden table. I kept my 
eyes on him as Father Peter wrapped the ropes around my body. He wasn’t going to be 
satisfied until he had me bound with rope.

“This will keep you down when the breaking of your hymen becomes too much for you. I 
want to see you struggle, but I don’t want you to get away,” Father Peter told me.

The view of Raphael was obstructed by the body of Father Peter. The priest bent over me. 
He kneaded the cheeks of my buttocks, and then he lowered his head down to the flesh. His 
mouth was opened and he began to bite.

First at one cheek, and then the other, the priest began to nibble. He let his teeth graze 
the flesh. The saliva dripped from his biting mouth, and covered my smooth globes.

Gradually, he increased the pressure of his bites. He was taking harder and harder bites so 
that the entire area of my round bottom was covered with the heat of the bites. I feared that 
his teeth marks might be seen on the sensitive flesh of the tender behind.

He was grunting softly as he did this. Apparently he was pleased that he had such a meaty 
behind in his clutches. There was enough flesh for him to really sink his teeth into it, and I felt 
the pain of it all.

When he began to bite over areas which had already been raised with the bites of his 
mouth, I started to cry.

I had hoped that my cries would be enough to make him stop, but he had no mercy. He 
continued to bruise my flesh with his digging teeth, and once he had the teeth in the flesh, he 
would move his head around to abuse the area which he had chosen for his target. Bound as I
was, my body presented a luscious target for his desires.

All the time I watched Raphael. With Father Peter in the way, I had to look up over the 
priest’s torso in order to see Raphael’s face. Then I looked down below the priest’s torso to 
see Raphael’s cock. His cock had not been bound against his body. At first, when I was first 
told to look at Raphael, I saw that his rod was soft. Now it was hard. Was Raphael aroused by 
what Father Peter was doing to me?

“Fm going to whip your bottom red hot. Then Fm going to have intercourse with you until 
you are raw,” Father Peter told me. “Yes, I put my meat all over you. I’ll run the head of it up 
and down and over your body. Every part. You’ll moan to feel the sticky drops oozing out over
your bruises and whip wounds.”

I wished that Raphael would break his bonds and rush to save me. And yet, with the 
hardness sticking out from between his legs, I wondered if he would save me at all. Perhaps he
would join in, or encourage the priest to flog me more.

I was very confused. Nobody could be trusted. Sister Sara helped me only to gratify her 
own needs. She promised to keep the secret of my deflowered girlhood, only in exchange for 
sexual favors.

As for Turlock, he too had used sex in exchange for a promise. But seeing Raphael tied up 
in the corner of the room made me wonder if Turlock had kept his part of the deal. It certainly 
didn’t appear that he had.

Father Peter was spreading my ass cheeks apart with his mouth. Each new bite was placed 
close to the hairless crack of my bottom. He was working his way down toward the cleft of my 
behind, and the saliva flowing from his mouth was wetting me up.

When I felt the warm wetness of his tongue in the tight crack, I knew that he was getting 
close to a private area which had never been touched in that manner before.

He had said that he would have sex with me. He had said that he would take my virginity. 
Now I feared that it was not the virginity of my frontal pit that he was speaking of. I feared 
that he wanted to engage in anal intercourse.

As Raphael was forced to watch, Father Peter spit globules of saliva down into the crevice 
which separated my cheeks. The rosebud of a puckered hole was centered there. I tensed it, 
trying to keep Father Peter out.

“Sometimes it’s better when you clench it closed like that,” the priest grinned wickedly. “It 
makes me feel as if I’m plundering you. Plunder is a sin. Buggering is also a sin. Sometimes I 
must perform sins so that I better appreciate the goodness which exists in all of us. If I were 
too good, that goodness would not be appreciated.”

I thought that the man was mad. I believed that he had some disease which had affected 
his brain. It was not uncommon in Spain at the time of Spanish Inquisition. Father Peter made 
such sense at certain moments. At others, he was like an insane man.

I couldn’t understand why he wanted to punish me like this, but he continued to bite me, 
always letting his tongue snake down between the cheeks so that he could get closer to my 
anal core. He bit down into the flesh of the crack of my bottom by spreading the globes apart 
and twisting his face down in the soft, damp structure.

He was grunting and speaking, too, but his words were muffled in the flesh of my ass. 
Raphael watched on. I watched Raphael. His cock was throbbing. It was standing up and out, 
and I believed that if his hands were free, he would have used them not to assist me, but to 
stroke the rod of flesh to orgasm.

I had to turn away from Raphael because I couldn’t bear to see him any longer. I couldn’t 
blame him for his feelings. Maybe he had never loved me. Maybe I was just a piece of meat to 
him, as I was to Father Peter.

There was the thought that he might really love me, and that all of the things I had 
projected onto him were the workings of my own mind, which I realized was now in a state of 
near-shock.

I couldn’t consider any of that any longer. My purpose was to satisfy the priest. I believed 
that it was carnal desire which raged in his organ, but if it were for the purity of my soul, as he 
sometimes claimed, than I had nothing to lose.

“I’m going to beat you now. You need that. You need to be beaten twice a day, every day. 
The nuns in our church perform the twice daily ritual on themselves. The flogging you heard 
when you first walked down the corridor the day you arrived, was the sound of the nuns 
giving themselves discipline.”

I wondered if I would ever get used to this place. It seemed that I was a prisoner here. It 
seemed that I was doomed. And even now as I write this, hours after the actions took place, I 
feel I am doomed.

Will I ever escape? I don’t know. I still ache from the punishments administered to me by 
Father Peter. Of course, something new happened when he flogged me this time. It was an 
appreciated change, because it helped me.

It happened when Father Peter began to whip me. He picked up the clothes of Raphael, 
which had been stripped from him. Over the trousers worn by Raphael, there was a strip of 
leather. This strip of thin leather was used by Raphael to keep the trousers in place on his 
body.

Holding the leather strip in two hands, with one end in each fist, Father Peter began to 
snap the leather. The sound of it made my ears rise like a dog’s. That’s how sensitive my ears 
were to that particular sound.

It frightened me, as I’m sure Father Peter intended. I knew that Father Peter would be 
using the leather for my beating, and I could feel the tiny hairs of my bottom stand up on end 
with my fear. They were like little nerve endings which were all aroused by the fearsome, but 
inevitable beating.

Of course Raphael continued to strain and buck in his bondage. When the priest took hold
of the leather strip, Raphael became more excited. He bucked and strained even more, 
probably because he realized that the priest was going to discipline me using an article of 
punishment which belonged to Raphael.

This is what made me think that Father Peter was a worker of the devil. His methods were 
so peculiar. They were twisted and involved so that I would be hurt on many levels; degraded 
in many ways at once.

Raphael was probably suffering, also, although the erection which pulsed and throbbed 
from his body showed no indication of that.

Father Peter began by cracking the leather between his hands, and then he let it drape 
over my naked curves. I felt the leather on my skin, and I shuddered to imagine what the 
leather could do to me.

“You are going to sin,” Father Peter said to me. “Because you are going to sin, I shall 
punish you. Then you shall be able to enjoy the sin, and later you will repent again. The 
combination of sin and repentance will purify you as a whole human being in today’s world.”

“Is that what you are?” I asked the priest. “Are you a saint and a sinner?”

“We are all both saints and sinners. We are all both good and evil. The opposite elements 
exist within all of us. Sometimes the two opposites tug at one another. Sometimes we are 
surprised when we see a very good person commit an act of total horror. Other times we are 
surprised to find a criminal expressing love, compassion, and ultimate goodness. Our surprise 
is what should be surprising. All of us are all things.”

“That is why I can sometimes understand you, Father Peter,” I told him. “Some of the 
things you do and say make sense to me. I want to be a nun in your church when I see and 
hear those things. Yet other things frighten me and alienate me.”

“The whip will take away your fright and alienation. Recall the words of the Bible. For I am 
your Master. Hallowed be My whip. And I must torture you for all the sins of hesitancy and 
fear which you have committed against Me.”

“You are my Master,” I repeated. “Hallowed be Thy whip. Please give me this day Your 
sticky load, and torture my body for all the sins of hesitancy and fear I have committed against
Thee. Please sink me into degradation and deliver me into the most sordid masochism for the 
pleasure of You, my Master, Father Peter, and all men.”

I couldn’t believe that I was saying the words. At First, when the sounds came from my lips,
I thought that someone else was speaking them. But then I realized that I was having a true 
experience of faith. The words of subservience, in the form of Biblical passages, was 
happening automatically to me.

I was recognizing my calling to be a nun!

How much the atmosphere of the church had to do with my experience would be difficult 
for me to say. If my lack of food was causing me to have these hallucinations, I cannot say, 
either. But I did feel dizzy, and I felt the calling of angels. They were singing, and telling me 
that I was born to serve God.

I was born to serve God’s men, all of them, starting with God’s messenger, Father Peter. 
The man I had taken to be a devil now seemed to be a good man. I now felt that I wanted to 
serve him, and I longed for him to flog me.

“Beat me, Oh, Father Peter,” I begged, “for this gift which I am about to receive through 
the bounty of ropes.”

“I am the Erection and the Load,” Father Peter replied in the chant of a prayer. “She that 
receiveth me, shall come.”

The priest raised the black leather above my white buttocks. I felt the air move above my 
tender orbs when the belt was positioned directly above my bottom. It rested in the air, held 
by the priest’s strong arm.

He was dressed in his vestments now. He had been naked, but when he had me tied, and 
was about to give me my dose of punishment, he put his holy clothes back on. That was the 
proper way for a priest to punish a young nun. The priest was always dressed in the 
vestments, and the young nun, if she were a nun of the church, would pull her habit up to 
bare her bottom for the priest.

A novice such as I, was made to strip naked before the clothed priest. That was how we 
were. The leather in his hand came down upon my bottom.

It cracked through the air and landed with an echo of a sound upon my right bottom 
cheek. A pink stripe appeared in the flesh where the leather struck. That was just a warm-up, 
as I soon discovered. The succeeding blows grew harder and harder.

Each stroke of the leather on my bottom made me understand that I needed to have the 
devil whipped out of me. I moaned each time the burning hot leather struck my yielding flesh.

Father Peter began to flog my upper thighs as well as my tender bottom. This really gave a
terrible sting to my body, as there was less natural padding up on my thighs than there was 
on my full rump.

Father Peter wasn’t content to stick to one area alone. He would alternate his strokes so 
that he struck every area of my body; every part that was exposed to him at the time. I could 
not escape, because the ropes kept me a punished captive.

I write here on these pages the way in which landed the blows, and where. I do this so that
I never forget. He was masterful. And later, when I read these lines, I will imagine again the 
painful feelings which he directed into my body from his.

I am certain that my flesh will cringe, and my body will feel the blows all over again. Every 
place which he made alive with pain, still retains the memory of the pain as it was freshly 
applied. Even as I write these words, my body feels the bitter stings inflicted upon it by the 
strict, but loving Father Peter.

I had been confused by him. I had thought him a demon and worse. And yet, I loved him 
now as he beat me.

Two quick strokes to the left bottom cheek left a criss-cross of welted flesh. Then he 
delivered two to the right cheek, making the pattern appear there also.

He started to laugh, which surprised me because the administration of the discipline had 
been so formal until that point. But there must have been something that amused him. I 
discovered very quickly what the joke was.

“Hot crossed buns,” he said. “I’m going to give you hot crossed buns.”

He took the leather and slashed it down into me, this time by taking another stance which 
allowed the new strokes to bite into my flesh in the vertical position, while earlier he had 
striped me with horizontal strokes.

The results were hot crosses on my bottom cheeks.

“You are a living testament to the church,” he said to me. “Each of your cheeks wears the 
cross proudly upon it.”

I could feel the hot crosses burning into each of my globes. I knew that the heat must have
been rising from the crimsoned crosses.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I said.

“And you shall sin again. You will be punished severely for all of these deeds. You will learn,
and take your place in heaven.”

It was like experiencing your prayers. The words were so spiritual, and the punishment 
seemed needed to make it all real, and not just a bunch of words uttered in a church by a 
bunch of parrots.

Father Peter continued to stroke the leather across my buttocks. After a half dozen strokes 
on each cheek, the welts which formed the red crosses were gone. The entire surface was once
again a mass of red, burning flesh.

Father Peter next worked on my thighs. The tip of the leather curled under my thigh and 
really bit into me. Oh, it hurt! It was like the kiss of the whip. It left a deep purple kiss mark.

I couldn’t control my quivering body. I felt myself trembling under the domination of the 
priest’s punishing lashes. But I did all that I could to force my bottom high, and then higher 
for the strap of Father Peter.

Only when my bottom was totally whipped and raw, did the priest begin work on my 
thighs and back. Finally I was red all over.

“I am going to have anal intercourse with you now,” Father Peter said.

“Oh, Father Peter, please be gentle. I have seen your organ and felt it. It is much too large 
to go into my narrow chute.”

“That is why I am going to open you up first. You will be ready to take it all when I finish 
with you,” he said.

He pulled at the bells which hung from the ceiling. Turlock appeared.

“You rang, Master?” he asked.

“Yes, Turlock. Fetch me the sheep’s bladder. I am going to wash away some of this sinner’s 
sins,” he told the servant.

“Oh, has she sinned since her arrival here?” Turlock asked.

“Of course, for she is human. What did you expect?” the priest replied.

“I don’t know. How severely has she sinned? Is she still a virgin?” Turlock asked.

Oh, that Turlock! That bastard! He was leading the priest on, steering the conversation 
toward my lost virginity. That wicked fool. If he managed to make the priest discover my 
secret, I would make certain that the priest was informed that it was Turlock who forced me 
into it. I vowed that to myself.

And then I remembered the holy words. “Do unto others as you would have others do 
unto you.” The Golden Rule! I would have to place myself in Turlock’s shoes and try to see 
things from his position. I would have to try to understand other people, because as Father 
Peter said, good and evil exists within all of us. Therefore, we should all understand the good 
and evil in others, since it exists within ourselves.

Lying in bondage before the punishing priest had already set my mind to high places. I 
was becoming more philosophical. I was beginning to practice the teachings of the Bible. I 
was beginning to discover my need to be a nun.

There was only one thing that was bothering me. What was Father Peter going to do with 
the bladder of a sheep?

As Turlock departed to fetch the peculiar request, I looked at young Raphael, still tied in 
the corner, watching my torment. I looked at Father Peter, who was stroking the growing 
organ of his manhood.

I began to pray.





CHAPTER SIX


Turlock returned, bringing with him the bladder of a sheep. Father Peter told the servant to 
place the bladder over the flames of the candle, to warm the inner liquid.

“This is a practice which is known in the church. Once a girl was brought to us. She was 
possessed by the devil. Not in the way that you and other young girls are possessed. You are 
only mildly touched by evil. She was fully taken.”

“Whatever did you do?” I asked, thankful for the information, and for the rest from the 
abuse.

“We did many things. It was a difficult task, because once the devil gets into a body, he 
doesn’t like to leave. It was a struggle, but with the will of God, the demon was exorcised. 
Then it was time to use the sheep’s bladder.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I still don’t see the connection.”

“Ah, you shall feel the connection very soon,” Father Peter said. He turned toward Turlock. 
“Turlock, the carved ivory, please.”

“Pardon me, Master?” Turlock replied, all hunched over.

“The carved ivory. Give me the carved ivory which was resting beside this bladder.”

“You didn’t ask me to bring that, too,” the servant said.

“You fool!” Father Peter cursed.

He grabbed the thonged whip which I had felt so stingingly on another occasion. He 
hurled the wicked whip through the air. It whistled down into the hunched back of Turlock. 
Once, twice, three times the biting whip cut into the body of the priest’s assistant.

“Get out of here and come back with the ivory!” Father Peter declared.

It was Father Peter’s temper which frightened me. He was a gentle man with a great deal 
of wisdom and power. Probably he was a genius, and certainly he was touched by God. That 
could make anybody crazy, I suppose.

The priest took the sheep’s bladder and held it up over the candle. In Turlock’s absence, he
began to explain what was going to happen. “I am going to fill your rectum with the contents 
of the bladder.”

I almost got sick right there on the low table. If I hadn’t been tied down, I swear that I 
would have run away. I would have done nearly anything to avoid such a thing. I would have 
even taken another whipping.

Turlock returned all too soon. This time he was holding a piece of white ivory in his long 
fingers. The ivory was carved so that it looked like a narrow tube with holes at each end.

“This will purify you. It will clean you out. And it will open you up. to prepare you for the 
filling up I plan to give you.”

I heard the priest’s words, and again I begged him. I prayed to him. I prayed, imploring 
him to do whatever he needed to do to train me in the ways of God.

“Oh, Father Peter, I do want to be a nun. And I do want to get to heaven. Help me. Purify 
me. Hurt me if you have to. I am willing to serve in any way and in every way you tell me to 
serve. I will sleep on the floor beside you, chained to the legs of your bed. I will flog myself, 
and I will sit on the pegs of punishment.”

I was willing to do all of that to become a nun. I was beginning to realize that all of this 
was meant to be. It was all for the purpose my enlightenment. I was now willing to do the 
things which repulsed me when I first observed the other young nuns doing them. I had 
thought that the crying and the whippings were terrible. I had thought that the room of pegs 
was the most horrible sight I’d ever seen.

But now I knew that I wanted to experience all of those things. I wanted to suffer in this 
human body, so that I could feel my spirit fly free.

“I shall ask Raphael to assist us,” Father Peter said. He took the ivory nozzle-like piece, and 
walked up to Raphael. Harshly, he tugged at the gag which prevented Raphael from speaking.
It was pulled down, and the man’s mouth was free for the first time since my arrival in the 
chamber of Father Peter.

“You bastard!” Raphael began to curse. He was rewarded with the insertion of the ivory 
piece into his mouth.

“Bite down on that and you’ll crack your teeth. I suggest that you suck on it,” Father Peter 
said. “Just pretend that it’s a nipple on this young nun’s breast. Suck it up good. Suck it like 
there were no tomorrow.”

The words cut into Raphael as much as the leather had cut into my flesh. He was told that 
he would be punished severely for any negative words which came from his lips. He used the 
carved ivory as a pacifier. He sucked on it.

“Good, I like to see a servant of God behave,” Father Peter said. “Get it good and wet with 
your spit. It is going to go up into the body of your girlfriend.”

Raphael sucked like a baby on that piece of ivory. He got it wet as demanded, and then 
Father Peter pulled it in a gentle twist from Raphael’s mouth. He placed the wet piece of ivory 
before my eyes so that I could see the object which was soaked with Raphael’s spit.

“Know that this is going from his mouth into your rectum,” the priest said to me.

Turlock was told to gag Raphael again. “Once he starts to see what we are going to do 
with his young girlfriend, he may get rowdy,” Father Peter said. “He’ll just have to learn that 
when Raquel serves God, she will have to cut her attachments to his unholy world. This is a 
cleaning-out of her sins, and his world.”

After Turlock finished replacing the gag, he returned to the table on which I was bound. 
He assisted Father Peter in the ritual of the cleaning-out.

Prayers were said.

“Forgive her, Father, for she has sinned. She has wronged the clean purity of her 
God-given girlhood by thinking thoughts of sin. If thinking thoughts of sin is sin itself, then we
are all guilty of trespasses, as none of us is pure from the thoughts inspired by the devil. But 
we as holy people can help this wayward girl learn the peace of pure love. Help us purify her 
now. Lead our hands into her body.”

My bottom flesh was still red and blazing from the kisses of the leather lash. It recoiled 
when the hands of Father Peter pressed into the abused flesh.

But he was not going to punish me there again. At least not in that manner; the manner of
the whip. He was only reaching down to part my globes. He was at the crack, and his tongue 
resumed what it had started earlier.

With long laps which stretched from my cuntal core on up beyond the rosebud of my rear 
hole, he licked me until I was very wet. Then he focused in on the bunghole itself, burrowing 
his tongue muscle into the yielding gathering of puckered flesh.

The tan rosebud opened up for the pressing, probing tongue. And then the warmed ivory 
was inserted into the opening!

It felt funny because it was hard and it touched flesh which hadn’t been touched by a 
person before. I clasped the cheeks of my buttocks around the far tip of the hollow cylinder. 
The near tip was already being hugged by the tight walls of my narrow anal chute.

Father Peter wiggled the little piece of ivory around inside of my rectum. He said that he 
wanted my body to become used to the feeling of the insertion. The wiggling stretched the 
tight walls by prodding them gently, beckoning them to open up for the upcoming ritual.

Father Peter also exerted some gentle pressure downward, so that the ivory rod reached 
down inside of me, almost to the depth of my young asshole.

“She’s ready for some of the spiritual fluid,” Father Peter said to Turlock, who then raised 
the sheep’s bladder in his hands. Together, he and the priest connected the organ of the 
animal to the ivory nozzle which had been put in my rectum. The connection was made with 
the tip which extended out from my clenched anal cheeks.

I tried to look back to see exactly what they were doing back there, but it was impossible 
to stretch my neck around so that I faced them. The ropes which bound me to the table kept 
me in place, and that was why it was impossible for me to watch their special work. The ropes 
were thick and rough, and it was hurting me enough as it was. I didn’t want to give myself 
more pain, unless it was special purifying pain as practiced by the young nuns.

I was able to look at the gagged face of Raphael. There was a expression of horror on his 
face. That didn’t encourage any, except that I was beginning to realize that there would be 
things that a man such as Raphael could not understand.

Raphael had not devoted himself to faith. He was not a living manifestation of God, as 
Father Peter and Sister Sara were. They could understand about such things as penance and 
the purification of the body and soul.

I felt something happening to me. It started with a feeling which I experienced at the 
globes of my bottom. I could feel the sheep’s bladder being held against me there, and then 
there was a slow, but steady pulsating movement.

Turlock was pressing at the outer sides of the bladder, which would force the liquid 
contained inside to pump out in controlled gushes.

It should have been spilling over onto the floor, or even onto my body, but there was no 
sound of liquid splashing to the floor. I only felt the pulsings at the skin of my behind on 
which the organ was placed.

Then I felt a ..warm trickle inside of me. I assumed, at first, that the saliva of Father Peter, 
mixed with the saliva which Raphael had placed on the ivory with his mouth, was entering my 
anus, dripping down from the nozzle.

But then I felt the pumping of the organ and the pumping inside my rectum coming at 
once. They were connected. The pulsing of the bladder as Turlock squeezed it corresponded 
to the pulsing which was throbbing in my insides.

I suddenly realized what was happening! They were filling my body with the fluids of the 
bladder. I began to squirm and moan.

“Stay still!” Father Peter said, slapping my aching left buttock to accentuate his command. 
“This fluid has been blessed. It is special, and must not be wasted.”

It was warm, since the priest had made Turlock warm it over the heat from the candles. It 
pumped in steadily now, and more quickly. I could feel myself filling up. I was getting bloated. 
I was growing heavy.

“Fill me up. Fill me up with the holy water, Father.”

The liquid was leaving the bladder of the sheep and entering my body. There was so much
in there, that it was beginning to press heavily against my stomach as I lay prone on the table. 
The table was wood, so it offered no give. The pressure of the liquid was becoming painful to 
withstand. I felt as if I wanted to squeeze out my inner muscles and evacuate the water from 
me.

“Do not release a drop of that,” Father Peter said to me, sensing perhaps that I was finding 
it difficult to keep it all inside of me.

“But it’s beginning to hurt me,” I said, pleadingly. “There is more heavy weight inside of me
than I can stand. I don’t think I can hold it in. I think I have to let it all out. Please, allow me to 
release it.”

“No,” Father Peter said. “It is for your own benefit. Keep it in.”

“Are you going to test her and tax her. Master?” Turlock asked the priest.

“Of course, Turlock. You know that part of the ritual is the testing and taxing.”

“Oh, good,” Turlock grinned, rubbing his long fingers together like a praying mantis. “I like
that part.”

“It’s not performed for your pleasure, Turlock,” Father Peter admonished the servant. “It is 
designed for the girl, to see how much stamina she has. Being a nun is not an easy job. It 
requires fortitude. Many of the young girls who enter the convent fail on that count. They 
have not developed the strength, the inner fortitude, which the Sisterhood requires.”

“I’ll be strong,” I said, now eager to keep the warm liquid inside of me. When Father Peter 
expressed it that way, I was willing to withstand the pain of a full body of liquid. It was hurting 
me, but that was part of what being a nun was about. Especially in times such as these, when 
the church was being questioned by some. They were put to death for their uprisings, of 
course, because they were heathens who had no faith.

But I was going to have faith. I was going to be a nun, even though it meant suffering. I 
would rather suffer for my sins on earth, under the lash of Father Peter, than writhe forever in 
hell.

The lash was going to be used again. This time it was to take the form of a long switch 
which Father Peter had broken from a tree.

“Let this piece, this branch of nature, teach you to suffer for your calling. If you fail now, 
your ability to withstand the trials of the nunnery shall be questioned, and rightfully so. But if 
you take the strokes of the switch, and still manage to keep the liquid inside of your body, you
will know that you are strong, and you will be able to meet the challenges of the position for 
which you are being trained.” Taking the switch alone would have been a task that many girls 
would crack under. But taking the administration of the switch while maintaining the full 
amount of warm liquid inside of my body was even worse.

I clenched my sphincter muscle, which clenched the cheeks of my bottom, making them 
hard and firm. The soft flesh was now free to receive the disciplining switch, and each stroke 
did not cause water to stream out of my hole.

No, I had to grit my teeth and close my eyes tightly, but I made sure that I kept every drop
of the liquid inside of me. That meant opening myself up so that the liquid flowed down into 
my core. My stomach seemed full from the liquid which stretched my rectum open.

Truly, I was stretched wider than a thick shaft of manhood could stretch me. Liquid is 
powerful when it is given in large doses. I felt as if I were being buggered by the sea.

Crack! The switch whistled through the air. I gasped. I held my muscles tightly. Every 
muscle of my girlish body was used to keep the liquid inside of me. Every muscle was tensed 
and strained.

There was that moment of deadly silence when the switch was raised from my red behind. 
Then I heard the swish of it as the thin wooden branch cut into my flesh once again.

The strap which Father Peter had used on me earlier had left my entire bottom sore and 
throbbing. The leather strip was fairly thick and it placed wide marks of pain on my young, 
previously flawless bottom.

This switch delivered a different form of pain. It was a stinging pain, and each stroke felt 
like Fire as it fell over the welted surface which Father Peter had previously created. All of this 
to absolve me of the devil. It was worth it.

“How many are you going to give her, Father Peter?” Turlock asked, licking his lips with his 
long tongue.

“The usual forty,” the priest replied, and again I nearly fainted. So far I had received fifteen 
with the switch, and the thought of twenty-five more made me feel weak.

But weakness was not to be cultivated. The nuns had to be a strong breed, and I intended 
to manifest that strength, no matter how painful the process was.

Again and again the priest flailed me with the switch while Raphael watched on. Over and 
over, new weals appeared at the insistence of the punishing switch as directed by the priest, 
Father Peter.

I felt that I was growing as I took the abuse. Instead of feeling like a child being spanked, I 
felt like the young nun I was becoming. I was seeing the importance of punishment for the 
first time. It was required if I was to become a better person; a better nun.

As Father Peter flogged me, forcing me to retain the liquid which bloated me, I looked at 
the crotch of his legs. The bulge there pressed forward into the front robe of his vestments.

As the priest punished me, I recalled that my own father, my natural father, had never 
whipped me. I was a spoiled child, in fact, because I soon learned that my father would not 
use the switch on me. It seems that he didn’t care enough about me to discipline me. While 
the others in my family were simple farmers on the outskirts of Spain, my father ventured into 
Madrid to become a revolutionary of some kind. We never heard from him again after he left 
our house to find his fortune.

I have given wondering if he is alive and well somewhere. If so, I would hate him for never 
letting his family know what happened. I watched the sadness take over my mother. Finally it 
killed her.

My brothers and sisters wanted to get out of Spain. Once the Inquisition began rearing its 
ugly head, it was no longer safe to stay.

I had been out in the fields, talking to the trees, one day in early Spring. When I returned 
to the house, everybody was gone. But they didn’t leave the way father had gone. They left in 
a hurry, under the pressure of the Inquisitors. I know that. The food for the afternoon meal 
was still on the table. They left without packing their most treasured valuables.

As for the few riches we had in our poor family, the silver and the wedding ring which my 
brother had fashioned from the earth for his wife-to-be, those things were gone. They were 
stolen by the men who forced my family into slavery.

It was by the grace of God that I was spared. I’ve never forgotten that. It stays with me, 
and lives within my every pore. The grace of God. The grace of God. I keep repeating that 
phrase over and over.

It was all that allowed me to go on in the days after the brothers and sisters departed. No 
father, no mother, no family at all. I was left alone, and my only consolation was the feeling 
that God had saved me for some purpose. I told myself that I would carry out the purpose 
when I discovered what it was.

I prayed that God would lead me, and keep me in His hands.

That was when I met Raphael. He was wandering aimlessly on the land near my family’s 
house one afternoon soon after my brothers and sisters disappeared. I could see in his eyes 
that he was friendly. There was an honesty there which could not be denied. It made me feel 
close to him. I knew that he was good.

Pleased to see a friendly face, I invited him in. I guess that I hoped that he would console 
me. He did, by his very presence, but he needed consolation, too. He told me that his family 
had all disappeared when the Spanish Inquisitors swept through the town in which they lived.

The same God had spared Raphael, as He had spared me. Raphael had been away from 
the house when the Inquisitors came. He felt badly about that. He said that he wished that he 
had been there so that he could have had the pleasure of telling them what he thought of 
them. He hated them. He absolutely hated them.

Raphael told me that there had been a feud between his family and another family, also 
living in the same town near Madrid. Raphael believed that the rival clan had reported his 
family to the Inquisitors, falsely accusing them of crimes against the church.

It was untrue, but the Inquisitors were not the most fair-minded people. They were much 
more willing to believe the accusers, than to believe the accused. The accused never got to 
see their accusers. The accusers were protected.

Raphael told me that he had been determined to unleash his bitterness on the rival family 
he believed had reported his family to the Inquisitors. He stalked them. He went to their house
to confront them.

When he arrived, he found the place ransacked. It was obvious that the Inquisitors had 
been there. That family was not the enemy. The Inquisitors were the enemies.

And so Raphael and I began to live together. I have often said that he was like a father to 
me, because he is several years older than I and I looked up to him in the way that a young 
girl might look up to her father. With my own father gone, I needed someone to take that 
place which he left vacant. Every girl should have a father.

When Raphael asked me to check out the church so that I could find out where the riches 
were hidden, I had to comply. I owed Raphael the favor because of his caring for me and 
because of all he’d been through.

He told me that the church Inquisitors used the gems and the silver which they confiscated
from the homes of their victims for their own purposes. He said that it was only fitting that we,
the people, should have the riches instead of the church which had stolen the things.

That was how I arrived at the church and started out on my adventure that had already led
me to the desire of being a nun.

I had already begun to realize that Raphael was not really a father figure for me. No, not 
nearly as much as I had previously thought he was. Looking at him as I received the lashes of 
the switch from Father Peter, I realized that Raphael was more a brother to me.

I had thought of him as a lover in my first days at the church, but that was because I was 
looking for a way out. I had imagined that he would be my reason for leaving the church. His 
love would prevent me from becoming a nun, because I could never be faithful to God alone 
when Raphael was near.

But seeing him again, there in the corner with his mouth gagged, was like taking a walk 
through a once familiar neighborhood many years later. Things were the same, but things 
were different, too. I saw him more clearly now that I had suffered the blows of religious 
punishment.

I saw that my love was for God and for Father Peter! Father Peter, who beat me with the 
switch, warning me to keep the liquid of the sheep’s bladder inside of me, was taking me 
higher and higher. I was heaven-bound!

Father Peter’s interest in my growth as a young nun was very important. It would involve 
suffering, but that was to be expected. That was part of the calling.

I felt that Father Peter wanted to protect me from the Inquisitors. As a nun, I would be 
safe. Other girls had the idea that they might remain safe from the Inquisitors if they became 
nuns, and the truth was, they didn’t really feel the calling.

“It has to be in your blood,” Father Peter had said about being a nun. “If you take the 
floggings, and read the prayer books, and remain chaste, and learn about God and His 
goodness, and have it in your blood, then you are bound to succeed.”

And so I was willing to work for all of this. Watching Father Peter’s shadow on the wall as 
his bulging manhood pressed forward into his vestments with each swing of the switch on my 
liquid-filled bottom, I imagined that I had the father I always wanted.

Even the times that my real father was with me, he never disciplined me, and never 
instructed me the way a directionless young girl needs to be instructed and directed. I was 
aimless and spoiled, I guess.

But Father Peter was like the father I never had, and as he stroked my bottom with the 
switch, I called out to him.

“Father, oh, Father,” I cried. “Flog the devil from me. Slowly squirt the liquid in my rear 
hole, so that I can feel it going inside of me. I will do anything I am told to do in the service of 
God. I am going to be a young nun, and you are my Father.”

When I said the word, father, I meant it in all respects. Just as God is the holy father of us 
all, Father Peter was now my maker and my guiding light.

I would honor him above all other men.





CHAPTER SEVEN


The blessed liquid remained inside my tortured body even as the final stroke of the switch 
came sailing into the battered red flesh of my behind.

Father Peter slowly unfastened the robes from his body. Each time he removed a garment 
he placed it under my belly, and under the region of my sex lips, raising my buttocks higher 
and higher each time.

The collar came off from around his neck. He placed the white material at my nostrils. I 
breathed in, knowing that the material was scented with Father Peter’s body since it had been 
around his neck all day.

I felt comfortable when I inhaled the collar, even though there was much to be 
uncomfortable about. My anus was still Filled, and my rear flesh was throbbing with striations 
of fiery pain laid over flesh which had already taken much abuse in the name of God.

“Take the bladder away,” Father Peter told Turlock. The servant followed the command, 
and removed the organ. He also pulled out the ivory insertion through which the liquid had 
been funneled. Some of the warm liquid did squirt out when the ivory was removed, but that 
was to be expected. I wasn’t going to be punished further for that.

With Raphael still observing every action, Father Peter, now totally nude, walked around to
the front of the table on which I was tied. He placed his member near my face. Taking it in his 
hand, he circled my face with it, rubbing the head against the softness of my skin.

He squeezed the head, and drops of his holy liquid oozed out like precious pearls.

I didn’t know if it would be correct to use my tongue to catch the drops. I wanted to 
remain in submissive subservience as a human must behave before God. I was humbled by the
punishment, and I awaited the word of my lord and master, Father Peter.

He seemed content to smooth the wetness from his penis over the surface of my velvet 
skin. He poked my nostrils with it, and then circled my face. Wherever his organ trailed, a path 
of wetness was left in its wake.

I was becoming aroused but I suppressed my carnal desire. I was there to serve as a young
nun. He was my priest, and I was to obey him and serve him in the act of this ritual which had 
begun with the Filling of my body with liquid.

“You may take the golden rod into your mouth,” Father Peter said.

“Thank you, Father,” I replied.

I was so glad. I knew that the sight of me taking the swollen organ of the priest into my 
mouth might upset Raphael who was bound and gagged in the corner of the room. But when 
I glanced over, I discovered that Raphael was still throbbing many inches in front of himself. 
His penis was erect and throbbing.

Perhaps the sight of a naked young girl bound to a table aroused him. Perhaps he was 
moved to see a teenaged buttocks whipped with a switch until the creamy whiteness turned 
pink, and then red.

Later the flesh would be purple and brown and black and blue. But those colors of pain 
would be crimsoned with a fresh layer of soreness. The bottoms of the young nuns were 
always bruised and battered.

Perhaps Raphael enjoyed watching the ritual which had taken place. From his position he 
had been able to see the warm liquid pumping into me. He had seen the fullness of the 
bladder of the sheep go down and down, as all of that water was pumped into me, flowing 
through my anus, filling me up.

Perhaps Raphael was able to appreciate the pain I went through. Surely he could see that 
to be whipped forty times with a switch on an already-sore bottom was not easy. But to take 
the forty over welts while the anus itself was expanded with several quarts of liquid, well, that 
was torture.

It was the torture of the body for the benefit of the soul. It was the cleaning out of the 
devil’s sins from my body, so that I could be a nun.

Was Raphael aroused by the way Father Peter pressed his large penis at my lips? Did he 
find it interesting that my young, budding breasts were pressed into the hard wood of the 
table? Did he like the way the heavy ropes circled my waist, binding me down?

Father Peter was almost old enough to be my actual father. Maybe Raphael enjoyed seeing
a fragile teenager, a young nun such as I, being punished by this older man, the punishing 
priest of this church.

Whatever had aroused him, I was glad. It made me feel that he was not being tortured, 
despite the fact that he was bound and gagged, and being forced to watch the sexual 
activities which transpired for the purpose of my training as a young nun.

Now I knew why the other young nuns were impaled on the pegs in the punishment room.
Some of them were merely trying to avoid death at the hands of the Inquisitors.

It was not unnatural. The desire to survive must be at the heart of all encounters. But they 
would have to accept the abuse of the pegs in order to prove their faith and pure desire.

And as for survival, of course they would survive! Even if they did not survive in the bodies 
they now inhabited, their spirits would live on, if they were pure.

So that was how I knew that all of this would hurt my body, but would aid my soul. My 
soul, my spirit, would be everlasting, and I would live in the house of the Lord forever.

I took Father Peter’s shaft into my mouth. It had been hanging from the wiry patch of 
pubic hair which crowned it. It was curved downward, and being soft, the priest had to take it 
in his hands and direct it into me.

It was warm when it entered my mouth, and I began licking the head of it with my tongue. 
I didn’t rush it. I went very slowly, because nothing else mattered now but his pleasure. The 
fullness which I was holding still, was not to be considered. I wanted only to serve his cock, 
treating it as the very God I worshipped as a nun.

My tongue swirled gently and lovingly, savoring the flavor and the soft texture of the 
bulbous head. The more I moaned and worked on the cock with my wet, warm mouth, the 
more the penis responded.

Gradually I took more and more of the organ into my mouth, and gradually the shaft 
swelled and became much thicker. It was especially down at the base, and I found that it was 
too difficult to take all of that thick part into my mouth.

But Father Peter saw that I was able to take it, since I did swallow it down once, even if only
for a moment. He was well aware that I was physically able to suck him all the way down to 
where my face was scratched with his pubic hair, and so he worked the thing into me until I 
had no choice but to accept it all.

This pressed the organ partially down my throat. I continued to suck gently on the erected
organ, giving it all the attention it deserved.

Few men were involved in this particular church. Mostly it was run by nuns, with Father 
Peter at the helm. Then there was Turlock, and now the prisoner, my friend Raphael.

I wondered how many of the young nuns had tasted the unique taste of the holy man’s 
cock. I wondered how often he allowed his mighty sword to enter the warm mouths of the 
delicious teenaged girls who flocked to the church in an effort to be saved from the Spanish 
Inquisitors.

And what of the nuns? I recalled what someone had told me about the graves which were 
hidden in the courtyard of the church. They were the graves of the children born to nuns.

Even the prostitutes kept their children with them in the whorehouses when the babies 
were born without fathers! But the nuns, who knew who the fathers were, destroyed their 
infants, believing them to be poisoned by the sins of their conception.

Dear diary, if anyone should ever chance to read these pages, I hope that they understand.
I hope, if they should discover this secret sex diary of a young nun, that they will know that the
times produced many of the actions and reactions which might be judged as wrong.

But it is only for God to judge whether something is wrong or right. We just do not have 
the scope to know of such things, and so we must not make judgments of others.

Except if we are like Father Peter, who was judging the way I was sucking on his 
ever-stiffening rod. I could feel the power swelling inside of him. I watched with open eyes as 
he plunged his pelvis back and forth into my face with a passion.

He gave me such hard strokes that my mouth ached. He rammed it into me again and 
again. I would have begged him to push it into me even harder, but my mouth was filled with 
his shaft.

I felt his heavy balls slapping into my face. He was thrusting the devil out of me. He was 
relentless and merciless. I thought of God’s mercy. Sometimes it seems that God has no 
mercy, but it must be accepted that in His infinite wisdom, He is going by His master plan.

So my master, my lord, my Father Peter rammed his thick shaft of life into my young 
throat, and I accepted that in his cruelty, he was going by some master plan. He knew what he
wanted of me, and even though it seemed difficult for me at times, the ultimate design was 
leading toward my acceptance as a young nun.

He held my head in place. It was an awkward position for me, because I was fastened to 
the table and I strained to take the thrusting of his strong shaft. I was unable to move beyond 
the limits of my bondage, but since my body was filled with liquid, it was best that I remain on
my stomach with my striped behind raised for further abuse if Father Peter so decided.

He was ramming his tool insistently into the depths of my throat and I met each full 
stroke. It was a quick and steady rhythm and I wondered how much longer I would be able to 
take the plundering.

Finally, just as I thought I would pass out, he removed his instrument of power from my 
willing but exhausted young mouth. My lips obediently caressed the full length of the organ 
as he withdrew it from me. I felt the thick skin upwards on the organ as it bunched up 
between my moist lips.

I flicked the tip of my tongue into the slit at the head of his organ, just to coax out those 
beautiful drops of pre-cum which were gifts I swallowed down.

Finally the flared head of his penis was popped from my young lips. I found that it was 
difficult for me to swallow without the shaft inside of me. I had grown attached to the 
intruding member. It was not an intruder after the first few thrusts. It had become a part of 
me, and I hated to let it go.

I wanted it to be an extension of me. I wanted it to fill me.

Still, it was best that my oral structure be given a rest from the pummeling. He wanted to 
keep me in good enough condition to always be ready to take more.

“I am going to complete the cleaning out process,” Father Peter announced.

He had a raging erection now, and he held it in his hand as he spoke the following words. 
“Fierce is the thrust of my cock. I, your Father, manly of rod, am ready for you to receiveth 
me.”

“Hallowed by Thy cock,” I uttered in complete worship and acceptance. I knew that his will 
would be done. It had to be that way.

He moved around and squatted over me. I could feel his naked feet at the sides of my 
body. He pressed his feet into both sides of my gut, giving a little squeeze which might have 
started the liquid flowing out of the body of a lesser girl.

But I was there to be his adoring subject. I was there to take my training as Father Peter’s 
young nun. I longed to be his most special nun, the one he would sneak in to be with each 
night. I wanted, too, to crawl into his bed at night, and cuddle up beneath the covers, sleeping
with my head between his legs.

I wanted him to insert his shaft of life into my young organ of sex, and keep it pressed 
inside all night.

Dear diary, these are the sexual thoughts of a young girl. As I enter the house of God as a 
young nun, I wonder if I should be having such thoughts. I had always heard that the nuns did
not have sex, and that abstinence was virtuous.

But my experiences were telling me that once inside the walls of a convent, reality was not 
as the outside world would believe. That is why I write these words on these pages now. Even I
might not believe that all of this has happened to me here inside the church. But it has, with 
all the passion I inscribe here.

Dear diary, you cannot imagine the excitement for a young teenaged girl such as I, when 
the presence of the priest of a church is felt upon my naked body.

I could feel the heat of Father Peter’s body as he squatted over me. His balls were hanging 
down and touching the still hot flesh of my upturned bottom. I was sure that the hairy, 
sweat-soaked balls were feeling the heat which emanated from my well-beaten buttocks. I 
strained at the bonds to raise my bottom higher for him, so that he could feel the soft globes 
against his manly balls.

The water which filled my posterior channels had stretched the opening of my bunghole. 
The pressure had widened me without much pain.

After warning me that he was ready to enter, Father Peter placed the dripping head of his 
powerful organ at the bitten, reddened slit which separated my bottom into two perfect half 
moons.

Without warning, he inserted his mighty rod all the way into my rear hole. The pathway, 
stretched and filled with water, yielded to his thrust. The liquid which filled me was 
immediately displaced by the plunging movement of his organ in me.

It gushed out of my canal, flowing over the welted globes of my posterior. I could feel the 
stinging of each welt as the warm, potent liquid coursed over the bruises inflicted repeatedly 
by the cutting branch which Father Peter had used to flog me.

“Ahhhhh,” I cried. “Oh, Jesus!”

“Yes, speak the name of the son of God as I give you the manna you deserve,” Father Peter
said.

He began using the battering motion he had begun in my throat. This time he was sliding 
in and out of my anal passage, and the friction was intense.

The liquid which had filled me was all being evacuated as he completed what he called the
cleaning out process. The liquid had been blessed and so it was a purifying process which 
linked purity with the hurting thrusts of the priest’s erected organ.

He was driving his cock in and out of me with a passion. I had been stretched by the water,
but still it hurt when the full length of his tool pressed the deepest part of my teenaged chute.
I prayed that he wouldn’t damage me. I wondered if the shape of my hole and channel was 
good for him. It did hurt me, but in a way which made the line between pleasure and pain 
disappear.

This was truly in keeping with the teachings of the nuns. The lines between pleasure and 
pain would have to be erased for them to do their good work. Now I knew, from direct 
experience, one of the ways that the task of erasing that line was accomplished.

Raphael was groaning. Even without touching himself (his hands were tied), he was 
coming close to his climax. Just the sight of the handsome priest, thrusting his manhood 
inside of me, aroused Raphael to the point of orgasm.

He was bucking back and forth, making the ropes dig into his flesh, but he didn’t care. He 
wanted his release.

It was then that Sister Sara knocked on the door. Perhaps she realized that she had a 
mission. It would happen in that very chamber.





CHAPTER EIGHT


Sister Sara’s jaw dropped and her mouth remained open in the ‘oh’ of awe. She saw me 
strapped to the table with my throbbing rear sticking high up for the insertion of Father Peter. 
And bound in the corner of the room, the naked body of the handsome Raphael.

Turlock was now in the corner of the room, sitting glassy-eyed while he stroked his own 
curved shaft of manhood.

“Perhaps I should come back at a more convenient time,” Sister Sara replied airily. Her 
response to the sight was not one of negative judgement. It was only to be expected, since 
she was genuinely startled and hadn’t had enough time to collect herself.

It was a strange sight to be taking place in the chamber of a priest!

“No, Sister Sara. This is a perfect time for you to join us,” Father Peter told her. I could feel 
the vibrations of his voice as he spoke. The vibrations were transmitted down the shaft of his 
penetrating penis.

“But it appears that you are, uh, shall I say involved?”

“Yes, that is correct, dear Sister Sara. But that doesn’t mean that God has done anything 
but create the perfect circumstance for your growth as a nun,” Father Peter said.

“What in the name of heaven do you mean?” Sister Sara said, seemingly a bit taken aback 
by the priest’s statement.

“Have you forgotten the things you were taught as a nun, Sister Sara?” the priest asked, 
still inside of me.

“I most certainly have not, Father. I flog myself at least twice a day, I say my prayers, I say 
Grace, I read the books and practice the faith.”

“Then you must recall that we Dominicans believe that there is perfect order in the world. 
The world is perfect. It is all God’s way.”

“Yes, of course, Father,” Sister Sara said. “The world is perfect. If it seems to be not perfect 
at any given moment, that is because man, in his humanness, has not recognized the 
perfection.”

“Yes, Sister,” Father Peter continued. “Everything that takes place here on earth is for a 
purpose. It may seem to be a mistake at the moment, but there are no mistakes in a perfect 
world.”

I had to intellect. I felt a bit foolish joining this serious conversation while the priest was 
impaling me with his flesh and blood weapon, but obviously the priest was not uncomfortable
about discussing the matter in midst of the act.

“Father, does that mean that the surrender of my brothers and sisters to the violence of 
the Spanish Inquisitors was for a reason?”

“Yes, my dear. I don’t know what their personal reasons were, but we believe that each 
person’s life is affected by the various things that happen. For your brother, for example, the 
reason for his surrender might have been so that he could learn to surrender. Too many of us 
are unyielding, inflexible. Sometimes it takes a dramatic and seemingly horrible act to teach us
the importance of surrender.”

“I’ve learned about surrender here from you.

I’ve surrendered completely to the majestic power of your dominance. God is on your 
side.”

Father Peter laughed. I was glad that I had amused him. And I could feel the ripples of my 
inner core as his laughter rocked my channel.

“Now, as far as your growth is concerned, the surrender of your brother was intended to 
teach you a lesson, also. What do you think the lesson might be?” he asked me.

I thought about it. “I think it could be many things, Father, and I’ll have to think about the 
possibilities. But I can see one purpose for the happening. It could have happened so that I 
would come to meet Raphael. The purpose of meeting and getting to know Raphael might 
have been to bring me here to the church, because it was Raphael who gave me the donation 
which brought me here.”

“And now you are on the road to a meaningful life,” Father Peter said. “I’m certain that 
much of what has happened has confused you. Even in the future you shall be tested at every 
turn. But that is also for the lessons you must learn.”

Father Peter returned his gaze to Sister Sara. “And what might the lesson be that you must
learn, Sister?”

The attractive young nun looked around the room. She again saw Raphael bound with 
rope, his body helpless.

She looked at the prominence which rose from between his muscled thighs.

She looked at me, all hurt and red as a cherry. She saw the priest, whose punishing penis 
was implanted firmly in the warmth of my anal passage. I was working my anal muscles to 
keep the priest’s penis hard.

Sister Sara knew that I had a secret which I wanted to keep from Father Peter. Even she 
had said that it would be difficult to keep the secret from him, considering the close contact 
he had with his young nuns. He got to know them inside-out, you might say. So far I had been
fortunate. He had worked on my oral cavity and my anal cavity. He had bypassed the delicate 
folds of pink flesh which had been deflowered by Turlock, the fifth person in the room.

People took Turlock for a fool because of his bizarre appearance. But Turlock knew how to 
get his way. He had taken my virginity, and by doing so, he did more than experience the 
pleasure of the act.

The church was like a little society all to itself, and it had the hierarchies of any society. 
Turlock had gained that much more power by taking my maidenhead.

He had something to use against me if he chose to tell the priest. I didn’t want to be a 
slave to Turlock, and I had even considered telling Father Peter myself before Turlock used the
information for his own purposes.

Yet, something stopped me from saying the truth. I hoped that the truth would not have 
to be said. That way I would not be lying. I would merely be keeping something quiet which 
was best kept quiet.

Sister Sara, in her wisdom, knew all of this. She had discovered my loss of innocence, and 
she realized from my statements that Father Peter had not been the man to make me a young
woman. That left Turlock, since he was the only other male on the grounds at the time, and I 
had said that a man had come and taken me as I slept.

There were numerous options for Sister Sara, and the one she chose to take made me fall 
in love with her from that moment onward.

“The lesson for me seems to be this, Father Peter,” Sister Sara began. “I have heard the 
story of Raquel’s journey here to become a young nun. She didn’t expect to answer the call of 
God when she arrived with a small donation, but fate has directed her in the hands of the 
Lord. Now she will be giving us a large donation in the form of her goodness as a nun in our 
church. And this young man, this Raphael, was responsible for sending Raquel to us.”

She didn’t question Raphael’s bondage, or anything else that had obviously taken place 
prior to her entry into the priest’s chamber.

“I feel that it is important to recognize the existence of sexual arousal in the human animal.
We are all humans. It is better for us to experience the full extent of our bodies than to 
suppress God’s work. God created us, and he made us sexual beings.

“That is why it is my suggestion that to celebrate this girl’s journey to the status of Sister 
Sara, we should congratulate her sponsor, the handsome Raphael. What better way to 
congratulate them both but to arrange the act of sexual communion between them?”

“Ah, what a wonderful idea, Sister Sara. And such a generous one,” Father Peter enthused. 
“They will both the joys of intercourse since they feel for each other. They have been through 
a great deal together. From that point we can set Raphael free to follow his path in life, while 
the new Sister Raquel shall have experienced sexual intercourse.”

“I think that it is important to experience all things,” I said, repeating something I had 
heard earlier within the walls of the church. “Yes, I don’t want to deprive myself of anything 
that God has created.”

“Good,” Father Peter said. “Then we shall begin. Let me get things started. Turlock… “

“Yes, Master?” the servant answered, not very enthusiastically.

“I want you to untie the knots which bind Sister Raquel to this table. And you, Sister Sara,” 
Father Peter added, “go untie Raphael as you suck divine life into the staff of his manhood.”

Oh, dear diary, no words can express the joy which beamed from every pore of my 
absolutely glowing body. The heavy ropes which rubbed my tender flesh raw were being 
unknotted.

I watched as Sister Sara fell to her knees before the outstretched manhood of Raphael. She
placed her hands on his balls and began to suck his erection, all the time stroking and gently 
squeezing the sac and its contents.

Then, as she continued to alternately blow on and suck on his penis, she moved her hands 
behind him to begin to unfasten the knots which had made him a voyeur and a slave for the 
previous hours.

Sister Sara bobbed back and forth on Raphael. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, 
and groaned. He had been visually stimulated for two hours. He’d had a throbbing erection 
the entire time, but not once had he been able to touch the aroused tool with his hands.

Now he had the warm mouth and sweet lips of the lovely young nun on his prick. She 
wrapped her soft lips around him and made love to what she sucked. I knew that she was 
doing for me. Sister Sara had become a lover of women at some point in her life. Whether it 
happened when she entered the convent, or whether the desire was one of her reasons for 
joining the nunnery, I cannot say. But I knew that of all the possibilities which presented 
themselves to her upon her arrival in our magic circle, the idea of having sex with me was the 
most appealing to her.

But instead of gratifying herself, she chose to spare me Father Peter’s anger. By suggesting
that Raphael have intercourse with me in the presence of Father Peter, she was giving me the 
perfect reason for the loss of my maidenhead.

There was little doubt that in the near future it would happen that Father Peter would have
access to my frontal privates. Now there would be no need for anger when he would feel the 
full depth of my unprotected cavern.

I think I shall never forget the expression on Raphael’s face when he approached me after 
Sister Sara had slicked his lovely penis with her warm Wetness.

It was a combination of love and lust which I saw reflected in Raphael’s handsome 
features.

I knew that it was not pure lust, because of the glow of adoration which I saw shining 
there for me. He loved me and had protected me since the day we met.

But there was more than love on his mind and in his heart. The lust was certainly raging 
within him. He had observed my beautiful naked body for two hours as the priest took me 
through my paces.

Father Peter’s arms were bracing me as he lifted us both from the table. He held me, his 
arms interlocked around my stomach. His flesh was olive and his arms were hairy, providing a 
striking contrast with the whiteness of my stomach.

He caressed the red weals which previous whippings had raised there.

He remained embedded within my anal cavity as he positioned me into a standing 
position. Now my rear was accounted for while the front side of my teenaged body came into 
full view and full access of Raphael.

Sister Sara dropped down on her knees once again so .that she could get a close look at 
the soft vagina which she craved. She placed her fingers on either side of my moistening sex 
lips, and gently opened my nectar box for the entrance of Raphael.

I told myself that I was going to scream very loudly when Raphael entered me, if only to 
convince Father Peter that Raphael was indeed taking my virginity with the thrust of his organ.

However, when Raphael pressed forward into me, I screamed loudly and it was for real! He
was built much thicker than I had imagined just by looking at his thing. Once inside of me, I 
could feel how wide and thick it was.

He began fornicating as soon as he had entered with that first wonderful stroke. Sister 
Sara placed her face up close to the prick which sliced in and out of my juicing girl-part.

She watched as the natural lubrications of our organs frothed.

As Raphael enjoyed the wonder of my young body from the front. Father Peter plugged 
and twisted me from behind. The two men ravaged me.

At first they timed their strokings so that a moment after Raphael slammed me from the 
front, Father Peter rammed me from behind. My naked breasts were bounced back and forth 
with every double-stroke. I was gasping with pleasure.

How could this be a sin? It felt too good.

I was having difficulty catching my breath as they bounced me back and forth. But then, 
just when I had become accustomed to the rhythm they’d established, Father Peter stopped a 
beat and began hitting the deepest part of my rear tunnel just at the moment that Raphael 
banged the deepest part of my young vagina.

I thought they would absolutely meet somewhere in the middle of me!

Back and forth they went, varying the rhythms and the movements until I thought I would 
just jump out of my skin. It was a true show of my humanness, that I could feel all of this, and 
yet I believed that it was all meant for my growth as a young nun, and thus, was an act which 
nurtured the soul and the spirit.

Sometimes Father Peter used a rotation which moved all around inside the circular tunnel 
of my rear. Other times he rammed me. Other times he merely kept his long thing deeply 
embedded inside of me while Raphael did all of the work up in front.

“Sister Sara,” Father Peter said, his voice a bit breathy from his own human body reactions, 
“you can do more than watch.”

It seemed that the young nun had been waiting for the nod from Father Peter. Her pink 
tongue muscle extended way out and even I could see the saliva on it. My underside quivered 
when the talented and passionate tongue found its way across that sensitive area between the
anus and the vagina of a young girl.

I moaned gently as Sister Sara licked the area. She worked her tongue back and forth and 
even found her way into both my front and back portals. Yes, both orifices were stuffed with 
manly prick, but Sister Sara muscled her tongue into the tight behind even as Father Peter 
fornicated with me.

I could feel both the prick and her tongue inside of me. Her tongue was actually licking the
priest’s prick inside of my young bunghole. Since Father Peter was a priest, and Sister Sara was
a nun. I believed that this was truly holy intercourse.

Then I felt the soft tongue of the nun slip out of my back door, and into the front. Raphael 
groaned deeply when he felt the addition of the warm, wet tongue muscle. Her female tongue
played with Raphael’s cock and my young pussy at the same time.

The sensation became too much for Raphael to withstand. The social climate in Spain had 
made it rough on Raphael, and he had not had the opportunity or desire to ejaculate for 
several days. He had a huge load of pent-up gism which had been teased for more than two 
hours. My young pussy could feel the stiffening of his shaft. He dug his nails into me in an 
effort to hold on as his approaching orgasm began to rumble. He was afraid the impact of the
rushing semen would rocket him away from the deep connection which bound us together in 
sexual ecstasy.

The pulsations of his cock triggered something in me. The head of his organ was touching 
the deepest part of me, while the thick base tickled the button which Sister Sara had referred 
to as a clitoris.

I was going to climax in multiple convulsions. My breasts tingled as if there were 
thousands of tiny pins placed delicately in every part of the upturned globes, including the 
firm tan nipples.

“Oh, Raphael, Father Peter, Sister Sara,” I moaned. “I can’t hold back. I am going to do it! I 
am climbing skyward toward the Lord!”

With that. Father began slamming his rod into me in earnest. He was racing for one thing 
now. He too wanted to cum, and he was working toward that explosion of energy.

The crimsoned crosses which his switch had imprinted in my rear globes were pressed 
against the priest’s body as I reached the point of no return. I started to scream. My cries were
nearly drowned out in the man-cries of Raphael and Father Peter. All three of us reached our 
peaks at the same time.

As for Sister Sara, she kept her tongue inside my frontal sex hole, lapping up Raphael’s 
thick gift of semen, and then, still thirsty, she moved back to my asshole to lick out the manna 
which Father Peter had deposited up in there.

It was bliss. All of us collapsed to floor.

There was nothing for us to do except thank God that we had experienced such joy. There 
was nothing like the thrill of sex, and Father Peter was one religious leader who was wise 
enough to recognize that.

Turlock sat in the corner, his eyes still glazed. He had a sad expression on his face. He was 
sexually frustrated. Even his plan of having something to hold over my head had failed. He 
would have to find another way to satisfy his perverted lusts.

Sister Sara had given up the desire to use my secret as a method for inducing me into 
lesbian relations with her. By sparing me Father Peter’s rage, she had earned my devotion. Of 
course I would have sex with her. Now it would be mutual, and it would be wonderful.

We would flog each other to atone for sins. They we would lick each other’s wounds. She 
would continue to lift me closer to heaven by guiding me toward higher wonders.

Raphael kissed me goodbye.. He wished me luck in my work with the Sisterhood.

As soon as I could, I rushed to my room to fetch you, dear diary. I wanted to write about 
my growth in the afterglow of the experience, while my young pussy was still churning with 
the burning spunk of my young lover, and while the crimsoned bottom globes of my tortured 
behind closed together to keep the abundant gift of semen within my sex-fulfilled body.

I had recognized my calling. I was born to serve God and to serve Father Peter. I am tired 
now. I have had a very hard day. It is one of many such days in the life of a nun, although the 
outside world has little idea of the things we must go through.

I caress the soft curves of my young body, feeling the lumps which my Master has inflicted
upon me. He is my priest. I am his young nun. I am going to bed now, and as I lie in my bed 
with my face toward heaven, I shall say my prayer to him.

“You are my Master. Hallowed be Thy whip. Please give me, each day, your abundant load, 
and torture my body for all the sins of hesitancy and fear I have committed against Thee. 
Please sink me into degradation and deliver me into the most sordid masochism for the 
pleasure of You, my Master, Father Peter, and all men.”

This was the code and nightly prayer for the young nuns who served the Lord in this 
church. Each time I say it, I fall gently to sleep, into sweet dreams of happiness and fulfillment. 
I have found my God.

*

Dear diary, you have become my secret sex diary; the secret sex diary of a young nun. I 
must keep you hidden at all times, for the secrets of the church must remain here.

Sometimes I imagine that the entire affair with Raphael was a dream. It is difficult for me 
to believe that Father Peter let Raphael return to the outside world so freely. He had no fear 
that Raphael would expose the secrets of the church.

Perhaps he knew that Raphael would become a victim of the Spanish Inquisition. That 
Raphael had been smited came to me in a vision. I had been without food for three days. By 
the end of the second day my hunger response had subsided to the point of disappearance, 
and by the third day I was lightheaded and ready for visions.

The knowledge that Raphael had perished came to me, and it was very real. It was a real 
part of life at this time in history. Imagine death being a real part of life. I already miss Raphael
more than words can ever say!

But at least I have the knowledge that I gave him my warm body before the end. If it never
happened, both of us would have been poorer when it came time for our entrance to heaven.

Ah, I wonder what will happen to these pages in the future. When others come to read 
these words, what will be the climate of the world in which they are read?

Hopefully, the years will educate the people and it will no longer be essential to keep these
facts of life under lock and key. Father Peter and Sister Sara have had dealings with other 
churches and they say that clandestine sexual communion exists in all of them.

Why must we persist in presenting a false front for the outside world? They must 
recognize that we are human, and as human animals, it is only natural that we share our love 
and sexual emotion amongst ourselves.

Perhaps as time moves on, the church will grow, too. Perhaps the church will see that it is a
sham to hide the truth. Perhaps the church will come to provide its true purpose in the 
support of all of God’s children.

Now is a difficult time. This period of Spanish Inquisition is a blight on history. Why must 
we punish those who are not like us? I don’t understand it. It is no wonder that there are those
who have tried to bum us down. It is only a reaction to what we have created Oh, I must hide 
you now, dear diary. I hear footsteps. Perhaps it is Sister Sara, coming to give me her feminine 
charms.

Oh, dear diary, my body aches. It was not Sister Sara. It was Turlock!

Turlock has done something terrible. He has rebelled against Father Peter. Turlock claims 
that he has Father Peter bound in the lower dungeon of the church. He says that Sister Sara 
has also been tied, and that he is going to free all of the girls from their pegs and allow them 
to run wild across the countryside.

To give me what he says I deserve, he introduced me to a new whip. It was a whip that he 
had been making in his spare time. He had gathered strips of leather and braided them. He 
didn’t bind me, but each time I tried to get by him, he flogged me with his whip. It had a 
terrible bite and I saw the red weals blaze up on my flesh each time he landed one of his 
strong-armed blows.

He kept me back with the whip, even to the point of backing me off into a corner. He was 
still raging with anger over the triumph that Sister Sara and I had concerning the secret which 
he wanted to use against me.

Now it seems as if Turlock may have the last laugh. He is a strange character. I am afraid of
him, despite my faith in God and God’s blueprint for our lives. If this supposed to be, I accept 
that,, but I intend to do whatever is needed to put an end to it at once.

Turlock must not be allowed to take over this church. To do so would be the end of all that
is just. I feel that as strongly as I feel the wounds which Turlock has inflicted. I must relax now 
and caress the aching stripes of pain. With the loving energy of my hands, I shall soothe the 
angry red welts. When it is safe to do so, I shall make further entries in your pages, dear diary.

*

Editor’s note:

That was the final entry in the diary which has come to expose the secrets of life in the 
church in 1492 in Spain. The sentiments of Sister Raquel, her wishes for an openness in future 
years are touching in light of the attitudes still expressed from the church today.

There were many remaining pages in Sister Raquel’s secret sex diary. Why they remained 
blank, we can only guess. Nobody can know for sure.

Historians tell us that the church in which the document was found all these years later 
had become a place of depravity for the young nuns. It is said that they had orgies there, and 
for all we know, the participants may have been the very girls Sister Raquel described when 
she spoke of the room full of pegs on which young nuns punished themselves.

We can learn much from Sister’s Raquel’s belief that all things arc meant to be. We can 
only assume that this belief spared her sorrow if Turlock took over the church, or if the church 
existed in the time when the plague swept Spain.

She had been forced to sexually service a priest and a nun, as well as the priest’s assistant. 
Instead of feeling bitter about the experience, she learned to use it for her own growth. She 
found her own goodness, which is an important part of being a nun. The story of this young 
nun can be an inspiration to us all. At the same time, one has to admit that the sexual acts 
which her diary exposes are arousing.

The life of Sister Raquel was one which inspires sexual as well as spiritual arousal, and the 
young nun would have wanted it that way, we feel certain.

That is why we had to bring her story to you, in her own words.

The museum in which the document is now stored under lock and key is run by the 
Spanish church. That explains why the museum would want to keep the diary a secret.

Hopefully they will never find out that the pages of Sister Raquel are exposed here. They 
would be enraged.

Yes, they would be enraged, but the Lord wouldn’t mind.

*

Dr. Bruce Freedele, noted religious scholar, has uncovered still another document from the
time of Sister Raquel. It is a page written in confessional style by a young nun who Freedele 
claims may well be the very same Sister Raquel of this volume.

Why this particular page became separated from the rest of the secret sex diary is 
unknown. Of course, the original document from which this book has been transcribed is kept
under lock and key. Freedele has not verified the handwriting as that of the young Sister 
Raquel.

As the reader, you are invited to judge for yourself. Do you believe that this testimony was 
written by the same young girl who came to wear the crimsoned crosses of the punishing 
priest?

*

It reads: “Spread your sex lips! I saw you writing in those pages. Give them to me and 
spread your sex lips for punishment!”

I cried and told the priest that he would never see my writings.

“I don’t care if nobody believes what l write. Every word is true,” I told him. Flog me, if you 
want to, but you’ll never take my writing.”

“I’ll do more than flog you this time,” the priest said wickedly. “You’ve earned more than 
an easy flogging. The devil must driven from you, and I’ll do it with this!”

The priest produced the instrument of torture. It was a piece of wood, carved in the form 
of a large penis. The painful prong had thorns jutting out from it.

“You’ve never felt this one before,” he grinned. “This is the object used to exorcise the devil
from the pussies of possessed nuns. The devil likes to infiltrate the sex organs of the nuns. It 
makes a mockery of us. But this drives the devil out for good.”

Older nuns rushed in to hold me down by my arms and legs. The velvet of my sex center 
ripped as the priest twisted the wicked tool into me. When he had it lodged painfully inside, 
he inserted his own flesh and blood staff.

I thought I would die, but somehow the aching walls closed around the priest’s shaft, 
hugging the penis of the man who tortured me.

I know that nobody will believe that what I write is true. They believe that sex and 
punishment do not exist inside the church. They believe it as much as they know that the 
earth is flat. It seems that obvious to them.

I might as well write that man can fly, or that we can travel to the surface of the moon. It is
that impossible to them. They would sooner believe that the earth revolves around the sun.

“Oh, Jesus, Jesus,” I cried.

“Yes, invoke the name of the son of God,” the priest told me as he pressed the ripping 
object of pain into my soft core with his own human rod. “Your prayers to the Lord will drive 
the devil from you.”

“Oh, Ahhh, Eyyyyy,” I screamed as he pressed the thorned penis in deeper, scraping it 
against the flesh of my inner organs.

“Father, please,” I cried, growing weaker. “Please, you’re killing me!”

“The spirit lives forever.” the priest told me.

“Ohhhhhh, it’s ripping me.”

“Forgive her, Father. The sinner is feeling me drive the demon from her earthly sex hole.”

The priest began ramming my tender and abused young tunnel with all of his might. He 
was still wearing his vestments. The skirts of his robe were hitched up so that his naked organ 
was able to fill me until the testicles slapped up against me.

“I can tell the truth,” I told him, “but this church is not a place where the truth may be 
told!”

The priest couldn’t hear me. He was too involved in the plunging of his shaft into me. The 
nuns held me down, allowing the wicked priest to do his evil work.

“Oh, oh, it hurts, it hurts,” I cried. All of the pain of the world seemed to focused in the 
most delicate part of a young female. All of the tortures of the nuns were now inside of me.

I cried. Even as I write these words, I cry. The tears I shed are tears of joy. At last the devil 
has left my body. I shall live in the house of the Lord forever.


THE END
