Frank Brown
Raped nuns in chains
CHAPTER ONE
Sister Bernice awoke gasping, her pillow drenched with sweat, the sheet under her churning ass slimy with the juices that were bubbling out of her spasm-wracked cunt. She shimmied her thighs together and moaned feverishly in the electrically charged atmosphere of her convent bedroom as the lightning flashed again and again outside and the thunder roared like a demon. But thank God for the thunder, she thought.
Thank God the thunder was drowning out her pained groans. At least tonight none of the other sisters would hear her in her shameful misery.
As the lightning slapped her again with its hellish blue light, as the thunder rattled the rain-battered windowpanes, Sister Bernice arched up one last time, her eyes rolling back from the intensity of her spasm. "Oh, God, oh, my."
She fell back at last, the autumn dampness, chilling her, and she groped in the darkness alongside her bed for the bedsheets and her nightgown. Unable to find the gown – she might have hurled it across the room during her sleeping fit – she drew the sheets up over her nakedness and sighed.
She was still panting. It was as if she'd been wrestling with a demon. She felt drained, exhausted. She wondered how much longer she could withstand these nightmares before she ended up in an asylum.
There was a flicker of lightning, a low rumbling of thunder. Except for the rain, the storm had passed. In the quieting night, Sister Bernice listened to the hiss of the rain in the convent garden outside. She sighed again, her heartbeat normalizing. Maybe she could still get a little sleep in what remained of the night. The last thing she needed for tomorrow's interview with Sister Francine with bags under her eyes.
She turned onto her left side and folded her pillow under her cheek. Her heavy tits fell to the side, one pillowed atop the other. She scowled to herself. What kind of tits were these for a nun? What kind of overgrown tits were these for a petite young woman? All her big tits had caused her was trouble. Maybe if she hadn't grown such fat tits as an adolescent her entire life would be different today, her brother might not have gone to jail and she might not have entered the sisterhood.
Go to sleep, she told herself. Go to sleep and don't start thinking about it. Hadn't she thought about it much too much over the last three years? She'd relived that terrible night so many times that she could remember every lurid detail of it, could see and hear, could smell and taste and feel everything. In her nightmares, in her daydreams, she relived that night over and over, exactly as it had happened. And at the climax of each nightmare, of each daydream, she would experience an orgasm, an orgasm of nearly the same shameful intensity as the one she'd felt on that terrible night three years ago when she'd been robbed so brutally of her virginity.
Go to sleep, she told herself. Don't think about it another second. Sleep. Just sleep.
Make your mind a blank screen.