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Sister Monica

By: ms72vt



He wondered how she would look without her blouse on. What secrets, what treasures did she conceal beneath her clothing? It was hard to tell, given how baggy her shirts always were, but Josh suspected that her breasts were full and bountiful, despite her otherwise petite figure. And what he would give to see her red hair loose, unencumbered, falling over her shoulders like liquid fire. She always had it pinned, primly in place like an old schoolmarm.

"Josh. Josh, did you hear me?" she said, and he shook his head, clearing it. "I really think you can do better. Don't you?"

He shrugged. He was sitting in her office, facing her from across her desk. It was a small, oak-paneled room that overlooked the back parking lot. At the moment, there were few cars out there. It was nearly four o'clock, and the day was already darkening. The sun hadn't appeared all week, and the February temperatures were fierce. That morning, when he got up, he checked the indoor/outdoor thermometer his roommate had hanging on the wall. Twelve below zero. It was hard to believe spring would ever arrive. He wondered, as he often did in winter, why he had chosen to attend a university so far north when he could have gone to Stanford or USC. Back home, clear across the continent, it would be sunny and seventy right now. Still, the Northeast had its advantages. One of them was sitting across from him, looking him in the eye.

"You're very gifted, Josh," she said, and she placed his paper facedown on the desk. "You should be turning in the best essays in the class." She tilted her head, chewed on her lower lip. It drove him crazy when she did that. He wondered how old she was. Early thirties, most likely. More than ten years older than him. But so what? She was the sexiest professor he'd ever seen. 

She was also a nun. Sister Monica, everyone called her. She was one of a handful of nuns still teaching at the university. Decades ago, it had been an all-Catholic, all-girls college. Now it was just a co-ed college, like any other. But the echoes of its past could still be felt—the chapel at the center of campus; the sister house, across the street from the main academic building, where the nuns lived; the 80% female-to-male ratio among the student body; and the few remaining nuns who still taught classes. They didn't seem like nuns, though. At least, not to Josh. Take Sister Monica. She wore regular clothes all the time, not a nun's habit and wimple. She never preached in the classroom, either. She just taught Shakespeare, as any other English professor would do. And yet . . . she was a nun. She had betrothed herself to her God. Josh wondered if she was a virgin. She might have slept around some prior to taking her vows. . . . But he doubted it. Sister Monica seemed too pure for that. She reminded him of the snow falling outside . . . unblemished, unsullied. Just waiting to be taken. . . .

"I know you can do better," she went on, and he regretted having won the Stevens Award for best written document on campus last year. At the time, he thought it was great. He won a fifty dollar prize to shop at the college bookstore—for a literary lover like him, and a broke one at that, that was like gold. But now his English profs all expected him to turn in perfect essays. Usually he could, with little trouble. But Shakespeare? He preferred contemporary literature. He'd never been a fan of the Bard.

He shrugged again. "I'll try," he said. She took a deep breath. "Please do."

He was about to get up, head out the door, walk down the empty hallway, and make the frigid journey across the grounds to his dorm room. But then he decided to take a chance. 

"Sister Monica, can I ask you something? I mean, it has nothing to do with class."

She looked at him, her face full of questions. "Of course, Josh."

"When did you first decide you wanted to become a nun?"

Her eyebrows arched. "Hmm. And why would you ask me that? Are you perhaps considering seminary? Do you feel you have a calling, too?"

He laughed. He didn't mean to, but he just couldn't help it. "No, no, it's nothing like that. It's just . . ." This was it, either take the plunge or back off . . . "It's just you're so pretty, Sister Monica. It's hard to believe you haven't . . . I mean, did you ever . . .?" 

She coughed. He expected she'd tell him it was none of his business and to promptly get lost, but she actually went along with him. "Wow. I didn't expect a question like that." He noticed her cheeks were flushed, but that just made her sexier. He looked at her chest, again wondering what secrets were concealed there. "I went on dates in high school, like any other girl," she said. "And I've been kissed a few times. But, Josh, I felt my calling when I was very young. So . . . does that answer your question?"

It sure did. So she was a virgin. She had never even necked with a guy, by the sound of it—at least not by his definition. Likely, no one had ever seen her topless, let alone fully naked. What a waste. She was way too beautiful to be hidden like that. He actually felt offended.

"But don't you wonder . . . what it would be like?" he said. "I mean . . . don't you ever feel the need for a guy, for . . .?"

"Josh, I don't think that's an appropriate question." Her cheeks were on fire now. "I think you should go."

He felt a surge of courage. She was reacting to this. He was getting to her. Perfect. "Do you . . . do you ever wonder what it would be like with me, Sister Monica? Because I do. All the time. I wonder what it would be like with you."

She looked away, brushed her hand across her forehead. "Josh. Please go."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable or anything. I just think you're beautiful, Sister Monica. So much prettier than the girls on campus. It just seems . . . I mean, don't you ever have needs? Don't you ever just want to feel someone kissing you, touching you?"

He stood up, walked around the desk. She was still sitting in her chair. Her eyes were wide, and she was suddenly blinking too fast and too often. 

"Don't worry, Sister Monica. I would never hurt you. I just can't believe you don't ever get turned on. I just want to kiss you, okay? Just one kiss."

"Josh . . . this is so inappropriate it's not even funny," she said. But it struck him, it did—that she seemed turned on. Right from the first day of class, he thought she looked at him a certain way. He wasn't stuck on himself, but he knew he was handsome. Girls liked him. They always had. He was tall and athletic without being muscle-bound, and his thick black hair had a natural curl to it. 

He knelt down beside her, placed his hand on her shoulder. "It's okay," he said, and realized how lucky he was that the door to her office was shut. It wasn't locked, but who would just barge in on them? The place was deserted anyway. When he'd come for the meeting to discuss his last essay, he hadn't noticed a single other professor around.

"Josh, please . . ." She pushed her chair back, ready to stand up and issue him out the door. But before she could move, he kissed her. He gave her no time to react, no time to think. In a flash his lips were on hers. She jerked her head back. "Josh! I don't want to have to get you into trouble. Stop, before it's too late."

"Too late for what, Sister Monica? For you to resist? Admit it. You want me to kiss you. You want me to stick my tongue in your mouth and explore. You want to know what it feels like to have me suck on your breasts and chew your nipples. You want to show that sexy body of yours to me, after keeping it under wraps from guys all your life. Admit it, Sister Monica. You're feeling hot right now. You want me to leave because you're worried that if I don't go, you won't be able to control yourself."

The color of her eyes seemed to turn from brown to black. She scowled—he had no idea she could look so fierce. She had never looked more attractive.

"Get out of here, Josh. This is your last chance." She stood up. He did, too. And then he kissed her again. He put his arms around her, and held her to him, not allowing her to escape. She tried to pull away, but he was too strong for her. He waited for the moment when her mouth would yield. She was weak with desire, he knew it, could smell it, feel it Once she gave in, she was his. 

He kissed her bottom lip, then gently licked it with the tip of his tongue. She tasted so good. He kissed her again, slowly, softly, waiting, waiting . . . and then, finally, her lips parted, just barely, but they parted. A soft moan escaped her.

"Please," she said. "Please, Josh."

He continued with his silken onslaught, kissing softly, tantalizing her with his gentleness. Her mouth opened wider, and she began to kiss him back. He stroked her hair, trying to find the pins that trapped it. He loosened one, unfastened it, then unfastened the other one. Lustrous red hair fell away, halfway down her back. He stepped away for a moment. Without question, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He told her that. She blushed again. And before she could say a word, he was kissing her again, making love to her mouth. She still showed a hint of resistance, but it was melting away like spring snow. He stuck his tongue out, tickling the tip of hers. Then he thrust his tongue deeply into her mouth, gently swirling it about, exploring the cavities and hidden recesses, as if searching for jewels. Suddenly she pulled away and pushed him.

"That's enough," she said. She looked disheveled, her red hair all a mess. She was a goddess. "I can't. . . We can't go any further, Josh. You know that."

"No I don't," he said. "We both want it, Sister Monica. I damn well want you, I can tell you that. And I know you want me."

She shook her head. "No. I can't. I don't. I won't! Don't you understand?"

"No. If it's the fact that you're my teacher, who cares? Teachers mess around with their students all the time." He snickered. "And a teacher who looks like you . . . And if it's the fact that you're a nun . . . well, I think God understands, Sister Monica. I mean, you're still young. What are you, thirty, maybe?"

"Thirty-seven."

Thirty-seven. Wow. She looked great for thirty-seven. Then again, she looked great, period. She put twenty-seven-year-olds to shame. "Well, see? You're thirty-seven, not seventy-seven. You're not some dried-up old prune. You're a gorgeous, sexy lady. God would understand. Besides, don't you think He knows how sexy you are? Why would he waste all that beauty on you just so you can hide it and keep your true self under lock and key?"

She again scowled at him. "My true self? My true self is not some slutty whore who accepts the advances of her student!"

"Sssh." He went to her again. "It's okay. We can keep this a secret. Just between you and me." He kissed her. Immediately she kissed him back. There was such fire in her, such untapped lust.

"No." She pulled away again. "This isn't right."

"Why won't you just listen to what your body wants?" he said, and, in one fluid motion, removed his shirt. He was in good shape, and knew it. Sister Monica's breath quickened at the sight of his bare torso. 

"You're just a boy," she said. "It's wrong.'

"Just a boy? I'm twenty years old. Besides, you know I'm not a boy, don't you, Sister Monica? You know I'm strong and have stamina, and you know . . . I'm not a boy where it counts." He brushed his hand against the tent forming in the crotch of his jeans. 

"Oh, Josh. Please go." She almost seemed ready to cry. Behind her, through the open window, a bald man in a black winter coat opened his car door and got in. Before he closed the door, Josh saw him blowing on his hands.

Sister Monica followed his eyes, looked out the window herself. This stirred her to action. She reached for the blinds, but before she could shut them, Josh was on her, holding her hand in place.

"No, don't," he said. "It's more exciting keeping them open. Besides, no one will see us. It's getting dark, and we'll keep the lights off. And isn't it romantic, anyway? You. Me. In here. The snow and the dusk outside. It just seems right, doesn't it?"

"Put your shirt back on."

He pulled her to him, kissed her. Her lips parted and he thrust his tongue in her mouth. This time she reciprocated. He could tell she was new at this, her tongue was clumsy, overly aggressive. He slowed his movements, made them gentle, showed her how it's done. And she was a fast learner. Within seconds their tongues were slowly making love to each other, the contact soft, like velvet. 

"Mmm," she said, as they continued to kiss. She put her arms around his neck. He stroked her hair, and then felt her hands caressing his bare back. She pulled him into her, closer, until the bulge in his jeans was firmly pressing against her. "Ohh," she whimpered. 

He broke the kiss. "See? Isn't that nice?" He didn't wait for a response. Instead he leaned in and kissed her neck, her ears, her hair. He loved her hair. Embers burned in its luxurious length. "Take off your blouse," he whispered in her ear. 

She looked down. She had been lost in the moment, lost in the passion. But now her conscience seemed to be making a last stand.

"Josh. Josh, I think we've gone far enough. I want you to put your shirt back on and then leave, is that understood?"

Her eyes betrayed her. There was a hunger in them, a lifetime of repression aching to be released. He took a step back, then, with the speed of a panther, took two steps forward. Their faces were inches apart. He grabbed her arms, raised them above her head. She tried to free herself, but he wouldn't let her go. He kissed her. This time she resisted, but only for a moment. When he probed her mouth with his tongue, she was ready, eager. 

With tongues enjoined, he quickly dropped his hands to the bottom of her blouse and yanked it up. She hadn't lowered her arms, and it was easy for him to lift the shirt up and off of her. He threw it aside. It landed on the desk, atop his essay.

He got a good look at her. She was even more beautiful than he imagined. Her breasts, milky white, generously stretched the simple cotton bra. She was embarrassed, and she covered her chest with her arms.

"Don't do that, sexy Monica," he said, and gently pulled her arms down to her sides. "You're the most beautiful creature I've ever laid eyes on. Don't hide."

She swallowed, nervously. He reached up and touched her heart. It was beating wildly. With anticipation? Fear? Shame? Lust? Maybe all of those. Maybe more. 

He leaned in, kissed her left breast, licking the fabric of her bra. He sucked on her hardened nipple. 

"Oh yes," she said, and threw her head back.

He couldn't take it. Those perfect round breasts needed to be freed. He reached behind her, unfastened her bra, and it fell away, sliding off of her. Now he really went to work. He massaged her breasts with his hands, kissed them over and over, teased the nipples with the tip of his tongue, chewed them with his teeth, gently. 

"Oh, dear Lord," she said. "I can't believe how good it feels."

He kissed her then, and she kissed him back hungrily. 

"You see?" he said a moment later. "Why fight it? And if you think this feels good . . . well, just wait." He kissed her again, then stepped back. He unzipped his jeans, kicked them off. He didn't hesitate with his underwear. He slid them down his legs, then handed them to Sister Monica.

"For you," he said. "You can keep them."

"But . . ."

"Ssh. Sniff them, Sister Monica. Sexy Monica. You know you want to." And she did. She put the briefs to her nose, inhaled. Then she smiled and threw them aside. They landed on top of her blouse, on the desk.

"Good shot," he said.

She looked at his manhood. It was fully erect. She had him so aroused he worried he might come too quickly once they started. He was hung, and he knew it—a solid nine inches, and thick. He was going to be quite an initiation for her.

"Josh . . ."

He knew what she was thinking. "It's okay. I'll be gentle. I promise. I want this to be good for you, too."

"But . . . I don't . . . I don't think I can do this. Kissing was bad enough, and . . ." She suddenly seemed to realize that she was topless. She covered her breasts again.

"C'mon, sexy Monica. I've already seen them. And touched them. Kissed them. Hell, even nibbled on them. And I sucked on your aroused, hard nipples. So don't cover up now. It's a little too late for that, don't you think?"

She shook her head. "I don't know what I was thinking. Please put your pants back on. This can't happen."

He took one giant step and was upon her. He pulled her into him, and kissed her. She didn't resist. He knew she wouldn't.

"Sexy Monica," he said, "it's already happened. Don't you know that?" And he bent down to his knees, unfastened her slacks, and slid them down her legs. Her legs were perfect, just like the rest of her. Again he felt a flash of anger. What kind of God would ask such an exquisite example of creation to keep herself hidden? 

When her slacks fell to her ankles, Sister Monica did not hesitate. She raised her left foot, then her right, making it easier for him to remove her pants. He didn't hesitate either. He reached up, pulled down her panties, and she allowed him to throw those aside too.

He stood up. They faced each other, completely naked. She wasn't trying to hide from him behind her arms anymore. They were hanging at her sides. But she looked nervous, ashamed. She met his eyes, then looked away.

"You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, sexy Monica," he said. "You should be proud of your body. You must do a lot to keep in such great shape."

She blushed, swallowed, shook her head. "Not really. I watch what I eat. I like to walk a lot. But that's it."

"Well, I guess God decided to bless you naturally," he said. "It's a gift, Sister Monica. Most women would kill for a body like yours. It's a damn shame to keep it covered up the way you do."

"Josh . . "

"No, don't say anything. I know you must be asking yourself if this is right or wrong. I know there must be a small part of you that's still telling you this is impossible. But it's not impossible, sexy Monica. It's right here, staring you in the face. And it's not wrong, either. You want me. You want to be made love to, you want to know what it feels like to have a man inside of you. You can't tell me you don't."

She said nothing, she just looked at him. Her eyes were submissive, starving, voracious. He wondered if she'd burst, literally. Her need was palpable.

He hugged her, kissed her, made love to her mouth again. "Mmm," she said. And when they broke the kiss, "Make love to me, Josh. Please. I do want you. I . . . I can't pretend I don't."

He kissed her again, softly, softly. Then he lied down on the carpeted floor. The last hint of dusk light filtered in through the open window. Standing in the faint glow, Sister Monica's flaming hair seemed to ignite—it was almost as if he could feel the heat.

He motioned for her to lie down beside him, and she did. He climbed on top of her, kissed her. He kissed her eyelids, her mouth, her neck, her breasts.

"I will make this good for you, Sister Monica," he said. "Trust me. I'll be as gentle as you need me to be." She nodded, and a feeling of warmth descended over him. This beautiful lady, this holy lady, was putting all of her trust in him. 

He crawled down her body, and kissed her clitoris. It throbbed and pulsated against his lips. He licked the lips of her vagina. She was soaking wet. Her mound was thick with red hair—she had clearly never shaved or even trimmed in her life. But that was okay. It aroused him. Somehow it further spoke of her innocence, of her sexual purity and naiveté. 

He kissed and licked her clitoris for minutes, until she was thrashing and squirming and moaning. Then he mounted her. 


Sister Monica



"Are you ready, sexy Monica?"

She nodded, and kissed him. He entered her, slowly, and she bucked and moaned. "Oh my God," she said.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"Yes, but not bad."

He nodded. "It'll hurt worse in a second, but it will pass, Sister Monica. Trust me."

He pushed in farther, then felt the barrier he knew he'd encounter. "Are you ready?"

She knew what was about to happen. It had been there, for thirty-seven years. Her symbol of sexual purity. But if she was having any last-minute second thoughts, she didn't let them show. 

"Yes, Josh," she said.

He pushed forward, and broke through. She grunted, but that was all. "Are you okay?" he wanted to know.

"Mm-hmm." She was gritting her teeth. It must have hurt. But she was obviously fighting not to show how much. He smiled. She was magnificent.

He inserted his penis further, further, going slow. Finally, he was all the way in. It had taken several minutes—she was remarkably tight—but he had done it. He pulled out of her, slowly, then thrust forward again, trying to get her acclimated to his girth. He repeated it—out, in. Out, in. Out, in. Slow, soft. And as he persisted, he noticed a change come over her. She was no longer gritting her teeth. Her mouth had fallen open, her grunts had turned into moans.

"Oh my God," she said as he pressed forward again. "That feels so wonderful, Josh."

That was all he needed to hear. He slid out, then in again, only a little faster this time. The restraints were starting to come off. She began to pant and buck at the hips. Each time he pushed forward, she would push her hips up to meet his thrust. He leaned in close and kissed her. She pushed her tongue into his mouth, moaning. "Oh God, oh God," she said, freeing her mouth from his. He felt her vaginal walls tighten. She was about to come. "Oh God!" Her body jerked wildly, actually leaving the ground, and then she went limp. "Oh. That was . . . unbelievable. I never imagined anything could feel so good."

He smiled down at her, and kept up his thrusting, in and out, in and out. He was only twenty, but he knew what he was doing. Each time he pushed all the way forward, he would rub his pelvis against her clitoris, grinding it for a moment, before lifting up again. "Josh, I'm not sure if I can take any more," she said. "Oh, you can, sexy Monica," he said, smiling. He backed off, got up, and sat in her desk chair.

"What are you doing?" She half-sat up, leaning on her elbows for support. He loved how un-self-conscious she was acting, completely comfortable in her nakedness now. He motioned for her to come to him. "What . . .?"

"Sit on my lap."

She did, and she didn't need to be told how. His penis was rock hard, and she slid herself onto it.

"Oh dear God, that is so good," she said.

"Not half as good as it can be, sexy Monica. Press your feet firmly on the ground, and make love to me now."

She looked confused for a moment . . . but only for a moment. She raised herself up several inches, then sat back down again with a sigh. Up . . . and he loved the sensation of his penis sliding up the wet walls of her vagina . . . and then down. Up . . . down. Up, down. Her breathing grew more rapid, and he reached for her breasts, massaging them, mauling them, kissing and sucking them as she made love to him. She threw her head back and orgasmed. "Oh," she said. 

He felt his own orgasm coming, and warned her. She got off of him.

"Kneel down," he instructed. "Take me in your mouth."

"But I don't . . ."

"It's easy, sexy Monica. Just make love to my dick with your lips. I'll come in your mouth. But hurry. I need to!"

She knelt down, tentatively took hold of his penis, stroked it, then wrapped her lips around it. He told her to kiss the head, suck it, pretend it was an ice cream cone, and then slide her mouth up and down the shaft. She got the hang of it quickly, and once she did, he knew he wouldn't last. He squirted his load deep into her throat, and he laughed when her eyes bulged out. But she took every drop, and swallowed. She even licked the tip of his penis when a few extra drops leaked out after he'd come. "Kiss me," he said. And she did. They again made love to each other's mouths with their tongues, tasting each other, sharing with each other. 

"Thank you," she said, minutes later. "Thank you, Josh. That was, I can't believe I'm saying this, but that was probably the most spiritual experience I've ever had."

He had put his pants and shirt back on, and so had she. They stood in the near-darkness, looking at each other. "Thank you, Sister Monica. You are incredible. You put the college girls to shame."

She smiled. "You keep saying such nice things to me. Did you really think I was . . .?"

He went up to her, hugged her, kissed her. "You were the best, Sister Monica. You're the best I ever had, and you're hands down the sexiest creature I ever laid eyes on." 

She shook her head, as if in disbelief.

He picked up his essay. He pointed to his underwear, on her desk. "Remember. Those are yours to keep. Don't throw 'em out."

"I wouldn't dream of doing that," she said.

"And you know," he said, as he walked toward the door, "I really think I need some private lessons with you, Sister Monica. You know, about Shakespeare? I can't seem to get into his plays enough. You said yourself I can do better, and I want to. I want to get an A on my next paper. But I think I need some tutoring. Do you think you can fit me in?" He winked.

"Hmm. How about tomorrow afternoon?" she said, and winked back.



Sister Monica Ch. 02



"And so what Shakespeare is trying to say here is . . ."

But Josh wasn't interested in Shakespeare. Who cared about Shakespeare when your professor was a red-haired, smooth-skinned, hourglass-shaped goddess who had surrendered her virginity to you just the day before? 

He had to give her credit. She was composed, business-like, lecturing away as if nothing had happened. But there were clues—subtle clues, if you knew how to look for them. She was avoiding eye contact with him, for one. Normally during class, she made it a point to look at all of her students. Also, she seemed a little disoriented. A couple of times, she had stumbled over her words and had to start over. Again, nothing too obvious. No one would have suspected what the two of them had shared in her office yesterday.

Speaking of which . . . what about their "appointment"? They had left it that he'd pay her another visit this afternoon. He wondered. Would she change her mind? Was she still up for it? He would need to ask her after class.

She turned to write something on the blackboard, and Josh watched her with hunger in his eyes. That soft, round butt of hers was concealed under the loose-fitting slacks, but he had touched it, kissed it, caressed it yesterday. He couldn't get her naked body out of his mind all last night or this morning. He kept seeing her long red hair flowing loose, cascading over her shoulders like flowing lava. It was such a shame the way she always kept it primly pinned up the way she did. He was hoping their encounter yesterday would help to loosen her up in front of the class, but no such luck.

"And for Friday, please read Acts II and III," she said, turning back around to face the class. "Okay, I guess it's about that time, isn't it?" 

The students shuffled their papers and books, and got up. They wasted little time leaving the room. Why linger, after all? There were more classes to attend, homework to get a head start on, lunch to eat. But Josh stayed at his desk, arranging papers that didn't need to be arranged.

When everyone else had left, when it was it was just Sister Monica and himself in the classroom, he approached her desk.

"So," he said, "I'll be seeing you later, right?" He smiled, winked.

She took a deep breath. "I don't think so, Josh," she said. She glanced out the open door, into the hallway. Students rushed past, darting this way and that. "Yesterday was . . ."

"Amazing? Incredible? Sexy beyond belief? Hot? Awesome?" 

She let out a little chuckle. "All of those and then some," she admitted. "I'll never forget it. But it was wrong, Josh. I can't do that again. I—"

He kissed her. She gasped, but his mouth quickly locked onto hers, shutting it. She tried to pull away, but he held her there. 

"You're crazy!" she said once he let her go. "What if someone saw us?" 

Ignoring her, he pulled a folded, wrinkled grocery sack from his pocket and tossed it onto her desk. "There," he said. "A gift."

"Josh . . ."

"I'll be up to see you at your office at four o'clock," he said. "You be there, Sister Monica. And you put those on for me." He pointed to the grocery sack. "And don't worry, you'll like what I bought you. You'll love what I bought you. Because you're a sexy girl at heart, aren't you?"

He looked out the door, into the hallway. It was nearly empty now, by the sound of it. The rush of underclassmen, the buzz of voices and laughter had been replaced by silence. 

He swooped in and kissed her again. This time he was more forceful, his mouth more persuasive. He kissed her upper lip, then ran his tongue across her lower lip. Her mouth gave way, opened. He put his arms around her, and she reciprocated. Their tongues danced and wrestled, exploring, thrusting, parrying. 

"Mmm," she said.

He pulled away, and immediately she looked at the open door. 

"Don't worry, no one's out there anymore," he said. "Believe me, I wouldn't do anything to get you into trouble, sexy Monica. I wouldn't want them to fire you. How would I occupy myself this semester without my favorite nun on campus?" 

She was breathing hard, in quick gasps. Her face was red. He wanted her, here, now, this second. But he could wait. The anticipation would only make what came later that much sweeter.

"Remember, I'll be at your office by four," he said. "The rest is up to you. If you want this to stop, don't be there. But you will be, won't you, sexy Monica? Because you know how much you want me again. And if you're there at four—and you will be—you make sure to wear the things I bought you." He again pointed at the grocery sack. "Sorry I couldn't have them gift-wrapped. Pressed for time, you know?" He smiled. "See you later, sexy."

And he left. He turned back once, when he reached the doorway. Sister Monica was just standing there, mouth agape, her hand over her chest.

    ♣

Her office door was closed when he got there. He had little doubt that she was inside, though. He knocked.

There was a pause, then a small voice said, "Come in." 

He grinned, opened the door, stepped into her oak-paneled office with the volumes of the great classics lining her shelves, then reclosed the door. She was sitting primly in her chair, behind her desk, hands folded in front of her. Her hair, he was dismayed to see, was still pinned up. He wondered if she was wearing his gifts, but he'd find out soon enough.

He sat in the other chair, facing her. Through the window, behind her, a cold, meager winter sun was offering its last light of the day. Late-afternoon shadows spread along the pavement of the parking lot like two-dimensional silhouettes seeking a warm place of refuge.

He reached into his winter coat pocket. He had a surprise in store for Sister Monica. Feeling around, he made sure the items he needed were in there. Of course they were there. Why wouldn't they be? 

"Glad you decided to show up, sexy Monica," he said. She took a breath, said nothing. "You probably thought about this all day, didn't you?" She swallowed, bit her lip (she looked so sexy when she did that), nodded. "I did, too, Sister Monica. We're gonna have fun, don't you worry. I'll rock your world like you can't imagine."

Already her breathing was quickening. Her need, her desire, oozed out of her. 

"I bet you snuck off into a bathroom today and sat on the toilet and acquainted your fingers with your clit. Am I right?"

Her face flushed. Her breathing grew faster still. 

"It's okay," he said. "Nothing to be ashamed about. You kidding? I had some quality time in the bathroom myself today. Last night, too." He smiled. "But we're not alone anymore, are we?" 

He stood up, took his coat off, placed it on the chair, then walked around her desk. She was still sitting down, and she looked up at him with so much lust in her eyes he worried he'd come right then and there.

"Take out your hairpins," he said. "You have such sexy, long hair. It's a sin to keep it pinned up that way." She immediately obeyed, taking off first one pin, then the other. Her long, flowing red hair fell over her shoulders. His erection got just a little bit harder at the sight of it. She had the most beautiful mane of hair he'd ever seen. 

"Much better, sexy Monica," he said, and then squatted down to kiss her. She kissed him back with fervor, thrusting her tongue in his mouth, moaning with desire. 

They kissed, made love to each other's mouths, for nearly ten minutes. When he pulled away, she was literally gasping, her cheeks touched with fire, her hair alight. 

He went back to his chair, reached for his coat. Time to unveil his surprise. . . 

Suddenly there was a knock at her door. He dove into his chair, put his coat on his lap, covering the tent in his jeans. Sister Monica's mouth dropped open, her hand went to her mouth, and she pushed her chair in tight against her desk. The top button of her blouse had been undone while they necked, and she frantically rebuttoned it.

"Sister Monica?" a voice from beyond the door said. It sounded like Professor Keyes, the English department chair, a fat, bald old man who taught, among other things, the Romantics and Victorian literature, specializing in Dickens. Josh had taken a class with him last fall.

"Umm, y-yes, Dr. Keyes, the door's open," she said.

He opened it, and it was hard for Josh not to laugh. Professor Keyes's eyes bulged out at the sight before him. It wasn't so much that Josh was there—nothing unusual about a student having a private conference with his teacher. But likely the good professor had never seen Sister Monica's hair unpinned.

She smiled at Professor Keyes, and Josh felt his desire for her increase, if that were possible. She was great under pressure. 

"I . . . I didn't know you were with a student," Professor Keyes said, flustered. He nodded at Josh. Josh nodded back. 

"Oh, that's okay, Dr. Keyes," she said. "Did you need to see me about something?"

"Uh . . . no, not really. I was just about to head home, and I recalled that I had seen you come into your office a little while ago. So I thought you might still be in. I just wanted to remind you about the staff meeting tomorrow. Ten A.M. in Carroll Hall, Room 201."

She smiled again, nodded, and twirled her hand through her lustrous red hair. It must have been an unconscious action—but the effect was magnificent. Josh smirked when he looked at Professor Keyes's crotch. Was he mistaken, or was there just the hint of a bulge there now?

"I'll be there," she said. 

"Very good," the professor said. "Uh . . . see you tomorrow then, Sister Monica. Good seeing you, Josh." And he was gone, closing the door behind him as he left.

Sister Monica exhaled. "Oh my." 

"Did you see how he was looking at you, Sister Monica?" Josh said. "I'd say he noticed your sexy hair, wouldn't you?"

She blushed. "This is so crazy," she said. "I should have my head examined."

"Aw, admit it. It turned you on. The excitement. The secrecy. So close to getting caught red-handed."

She smiled. "It was exhilarating, I'll say that. But, just to be on the safe side, would you mind locking the door?"

"Gladly." He again worried that he was going to squirt in his pants before he even touched her. She was so eager, so ready. Any pretense of resistance had long since vanished.

"I have a surprise for you, sexy Monica," he said, and reached for his coat. From the pocket, he pulled out a disposable razor, a can of shaving cream, and a small bottle of grapeseed oil.

"What's that for?" she asked. Behind her, in the parking lot, Josh saw Professor Keyes walk briskly to his car. The wind was whipping, and the bald department chair's fast walk turned into a run. When he got in, he turned the headlights on. The sun was setting rapidly now, the sky morphing from ice-blue to pink. 

He set the items on her desk. "You'll find out soon enough. But now I want to see if you put on the gifts I bought you."

She blushed again, and he knew right away. She had put them on, all right. 

"I still can't believe any of this," she said, as he again walked over to her side of the desk. "I mean, nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I thought . . . I thought I knew myself. But now, I'm feeling things I never felt before. And I . . ."

"You want me, is that it?" He motioned for her to stand up. She did. "You can't stop thinking of me kissing you, sucking you, sticking my dick deep into you, licking you from head to toe, making you squirm and beg for more. Is that it?"

She swallowed, looked away. "Yes. I . . . never felt a need like this before. It's scary. And it's . . . I mean, I have a calling, don't you see? At least, I thought I did."

"You can love God and love sex at the same time," he said. "I never understood why someone needs to be a virgin in order to be 'in love' with God."

She shook her head. "It's not that simple, Josh. It's . . ."

"Sssh," he said. "Don't worry about it, Sister Monica. You're a good person, a nice person. Everybody knows that. And I'm sure God knows it, too. Don't think about it. This is a secret, between you and me."

"And God," she said, quietly.

He took a breath. This was turning into a slippery slope. If he wasn't careful, he'd lose her now. He needed to act. Words weren't any good.

"Look at me," he said, and she did. And then his mouth was on hers. He kissed her with all the passion, all the gentleness, all the lust that was in him. He ran his fingers through her beautiful hair, kissed her forehead, her ears, her nose, then her mouth again. "I want you, Sister Monica," he said. "I've never wanted anyone the way I want you. Don't worry about a thing." And he kissed her again. He loved kissing her, and she had gotten very skilled at it, very fast. Her tongue worked wonders in his mouth, and he found himself meeting her moans with his own. They kissed for many minutes, and he didn't pull away until the last hint of daylight had been bled from the sky. In the parking lot, the lights turned on, cutting a beacon through the darkness. 

"We better turn on a light," he said. He flicked on her desk lamp—not too bright. Mood lighting.

"Do you think anyone can see us through the window?" she said. She was looking outside, and he came up next to her, placed a hand on her butt, rubbing it through the fabric of her slacks. She closed her eyes and sighed. 

He looked out the window. Only a handful of cars remained. More would surely arrive soon, though, as evening classes were about to start. He hated to do it, but with the light on inside the room, he thought they better close the blinds.

"Have you read all these books?" he asked her once the blinds were shut. He gestured toward the many volumes that sat on her wall shelves.

"Yes," she said. "I am an English professor, remember?"

"Hmm, so now we're getting smart, are we?" he said, and he kissed her. Would he never tire of her lips? But this time he pulled away quickly.

"I need to see my gifts," he said, and he slowly unbuttoned her blouse. She rested her arms at her side, looking him directly in the eye. There was no shame, no embarrassment left. When her blouse was fully open in the front, he pulled it off of her shoulders, and she led it slide down her arms, to the floor. He gasped. Her perfect breasts were hugged tightly by the thin black lace bra he had bought her. The black color contrasted wonderfully with the lily white of her breasts. He couldn't resist. He leaned in and kissed them, licked them, and when her nipples grew taught and erect, he nibbled on them through the lace. He felt her heart beating frantically in her chest. She moaned, threw her head back, ran her fingers through his thick black hair. 

"Oh yes," she said. "Yes, Josh."

His head was buried between her mounds. They were full and soft—and he felt proud—and aroused—that the 34C bra he'd bought her seemed to fit her just right. He was glad to know he had a good eye.

He straightened up and kissed her on the lips again. "Now to see if you completed the set," he said. He moved like lightning, unbuttoned her slacks, slid them down her legs. She kicked them off, unasked, eager to share. And there it was. The black lace G-string. The sight of her thick red bush protruding through the sides jacked his lust up several notches. The G-string barely covered her, and her mound of red hair looked wild, untamed. He licked his lips, looked at her desk, at the razor and cream.

"Turn around, sexy Monica," he said. She did, immediately, and the sight of her butt, the snow-white flesh encased within the black straps of the G-string, was too much. He went up to her, bent down, and licked her butt cheeks. Then he took them in his hands, and kneaded them like soft clay. He reached around, slid his index finger inside her G-string, and inserted it into her vagina. She was soaking wet, and she moaned loudly at the touch. He pushed it in deep, then out, then in again. Making love to her with his finger. He thrust in his middle finger, too, and she moaned louder, and he felt her knees buckle, slightly.

"Oh God," she said. "That is so good."

That was all he could take. She needed to get naked, and quick. He (reluctantly) removed his fingers from her, and pulled down the G-string. Then he stood up and unfastened the skimpy bra. It fell to the floor, joining the expanding collection of discarded clothing. He turned her around, facing her. She was completely naked and he was still completely clothed, but she didn't try to hide. On the contrary, she pulled him to her and kissed him deeply. She took charge, making love to his mouth. Then she raised his arms above his head, reached down and brought his shirt up, over his head. He tossed it aside, so aroused by her boldness, her eagerness, he was sure he felt a drop of pre-cum ooze out of him.

He pulled away from her. This goddess was too much. If he weren't careful, he'd mess up his briefs in a second. He couldn't believe how sexy she was. It never stopped amazing him. Everything about her drove him wild.

She smiled, her eyes full of lust, and playfulness. He could tell she knew she had gotten to him, and that clearly made her feel good about herself.

He unzipped his jeans in record-setting time, ripped them off, and then slid his briefs down his legs. He was rock hard, and she stared at his erection, her mouth open. It took him a moment to realize it wasn't his nine inches she was gaping at—it was his lack of pubic hair.

"Oh, yeah," he said, and he actually felt a hint of shyness descend over him. He didn't like that. It wasn't supposed to work that way. "I shaved my pubes last night. I figured, what's fair for you is fair for me. You like it?" He had to admit, he liked it, himself. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, but the net result made his penis look even bigger than it was. And he was surprised how much he enjoyed touching the smoothness. The sense of touch was stronger, more sensitive, now that the genital hair was removed. He had been careful, too, and only a few ugly red bumps had formed. He'd soaked the area with grapeseed oil once he was through, and that had helped to ease the irritation.

She looked at him, questions forming in her eyes. "What do you mean, Josh?" she asked. "What's fair for you is fair for me? What does that mean?"

He smiled. Now the shy feelings, the questioning feelings, had gone back over to her, where they belonged. 

"You like?" he asked her, sidestepping her question.

"I . . ." She approached him, knelt down, licked the tip of his penis. She brought her hands up, rubbed his smooth genital area, cupped his smooth, hairless balls. "It feels so nice," she said. Then she took him in her mouth, just the way he'd showed her yesterday. Sliding her lips up and down his shaft. She moaned as she sucked him, and he reached down, stroked her flaming red hair. Suddenly, he felt a rush inside of him. He had reached the point of no return, and he let loose in her mouth, squirting and squirting. She was surprised, but handled it gracefully, eagerly swallowing his fluid, then licking the remaining come from his tip. 

She stood up. "Sorry," she said, licking her lips. "I don't know what came over me. You take off your underwear, and I'm all over you. What you must think of me . . ."

"I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever known in my life, in every way," he responded, and she blushed. He kissed her, and she accepted the kiss, and returned it, with the passion he had come to expect from her. 

"Now," he said after they broke the kiss. "It's your turn, sexy Monica. Your body is so smooth, so flawless. Why don't we make your mound match the rest of you?"

She swallowed hard, looked at the razor. "But . . ."

"Did you feel sexy when you put on that bra and G-string earlier?" he asked.

She nodded. "I felt strange. I've never worn anything like that before. But yes, I felt good, too." She smiled, the color in her cheeks darkening. Did she have any idea, any idea at all, how sexy her blushing was? 




Sister Monica Ch. 02



"Well, you'll feel ten times sexier when your pubes are smooth and hair-free," he said. "Trust me."

"But . . ."

"I'll be careful, you won't feel a thing," he assured. "Believe me, the last thing I'd ever do is harm or injure that sexy, perfect body of yours. Now, where is the best place?"

The desk. That was the ticket. She could lie down on her back on the desk, with her legs dangling off the side, her genitals wide open before him. 

He told her his plan, and together they cleared away the clutter on the desk top. She still acted nervous, but she would go through with it.

"Where did you put the underwear I gave you yesterday?" he asked her as she laid down on the desk. 

"In the drawer," she said with a smile.

"Did you sniff them today?"

"Probably a hundred times," she admitted with another blush. "I was sniffing them just before you got here, at four o'clock."

He smiled. "You are a naughty girl, aren't you, sexy Monica? I love it. And now you're going to be a naughty girl with a smooth mound . . ."

He squirted some shaving cream on his hand, and applied it on her, being sure to rub it in smoothly, slowly. She squirmed, moaned at his touch.

"Now, I'm glad this turns you on, sexy Monica," he said. "But once I start shaving, you gotta keep still. Can you do that, you horny girl?" He kissed her clitoris, and when he raised his face, shaving cream was plastered onto his nose. She laughed, and he wiped it off. 

"I can keep still, sexy Josh," she said, and he thought he would faint. That was the first time she had called him sexy. Probably the first time she had ever uttered the word in her life.

She was ready. He brought the razor down, made one fluid stroke. A thick wad of red hair stuck to the blade, along with the cream.

"Damn. I forgot—no running water, no cup of water to rinse."

She gestured to a cobalt-blue vase on one of her shelves. It was empty, perfect. But where would he get the water he needed?

"There's the bathroom at the end of the hall," she reminded him. 

"I'll be right back," he said. When he returned, she hadn't moved. The trust she had in him was remarkable. She was fully exposed, fully vulnerable. 

He brought the blade down again, and removed another strip of cream and hair. Sister Monica stayed perfectly still, though when the blade was in contact with her flesh, she bit her lip and scrunched up her eyes, as if readying herself for an accidental cut. But none occurred. Josh was as careful as he'd promised. And when he was through, she was perfectly smooth, perfectly hairless. 

"How do you like it?" he asked. She got off the desk, stood up. She stroked herself, rubbed herself. She smiled.

"I love it! It feels so nice."

"Mmm, looks nice, too," he said, and winked. "Does it feel irritated at all?"

She shook her head. "Not really, no. That oil you applied really helped, I think."

He loved this. Here they were, he and his nun-professor, fully naked, fully comfortable with each other, sharing their bodies with ease and confidence. 

"Come here," he said. She came, and he kissed her. Again they tongue-wrestled, again for many minutes. He tasted the hint of his manhood on her lips, which gave him an idea.

"Here we are, both freshly shaven for each other," he said. "Let's enjoy the fruits of our labors."

He motioned for Sister Monica to lie down on the floor, on her back. He climbed on top of her, his face over her freshly shaven mound, his penis hanging, rock hard and fully erect again, just above her mouth. She didn't need instructions. He felt her take him in her mouth, and he lowered his head and began to lick her clitoris. He flicked his tongue like a snake, teasing, tantalizing. Meanwhile she sucked on his penis with gusto, and he could hear her moaning even with her mouth full.

He attacked her clit more aggressively now, nibbling it, sucking it, and she bucked at the hips. He inserted his tongue into her vagina, probing as far as he could. She tasted so good, so musky, so aroused. Like nectar. He flicked his tongue inside of her, and she bucked her hips so hard his head was snapped back. 

He felt her release his penis. "I'm sorry, Josh," she said breathlessly. "Are you okay?"

"I'll show you how okay I am," he said, and he turned his body around, positioned his penis just so, and slid inside her. 

"Mmm," she said. 

He kissed her, and they tasted each other on their lips. They probed with their tongues, sharing their juices, their arousal. 

He went into her slowly, softly, allowing her to adjust to his size. She was so tight, and so small. But she was so wet, he slid in and out of her with ease. It didn't take long before his full nine inches was buried inside of her.

They continued to kiss as he made long, slow love to her, the two of them moaning in each other's mouths. 

Then he picked up the pace. He broke the kiss, arched his back, and went after it. In and out he thrust. When he thrust all the way in, he would grind his pelvis against her clit, causing her to squirm and gasp. In, out. In, out. Her breathing degenerated into pants. "Oh God, yes," she said. "That feels so good." He picked up the pace even more, thrusting, thrusting. Suddenly her hips jerked and spasmed and she screamed. "Ohhhhhh!" Then she went limp. 

He looked at her. She was sweating, her hair was a mess. No woman had ever looked more beautiful. He was still inside of her, but he had stopped thrusting. He leaned in close, kissed her. 

"Oh," she said. "My God, Josh. That was . . . I can't even describe it."

"You can do better than that, sexy Monica," he said, and kissed her again. "You're an English teacher! Your job is words. I want a poem from you next week, describing the sensations you just felt."

"You what??" She giggled like a schoolgirl. He began to thrust again inside of her, slowly, slowly. "Mmm," she purred.

"Well," he said, as his breathing began to become more rapid, "we can keep it short. I know you're busy and all. How about a haiku?" He picked up the pace.

"I don't . . . know . . . if I . . . mmmmm.. . . could ever . . . describe . . . this feeling," she said.

He pulled out of her. She frowned.

"Don't worry, sexy Monica," he assured, "we're far from through. That bathroom at the end of the hall has a shower, you know."

Her eyes bulged. "No," she said. "No way. We couldn't."

"We could, and we will. The offices are deserted. All the profs are at home, having supper, banging their wives, or teaching the evening classes. No one'll see us. Besides, we can just lock the door."

He stood up, then reached down to take her hand, helping her up.

"C'mon," he said, and opened her office door.

"Josh, no! We're naked!"

"Really? I hadn't noticed. Last one to the shower's a genetically mutated armadillo."

He took off, running down the hall. Turning around, he saw Sister Monica at his heels. Her breasts jiggled, up and down, as she ran. She was smiling. It was hard to believe this was the same prim and proper nun who wore loose-fitting clothes in class, with her hair pinned up tightly like a schoolmarm in a children's television special set in the 1880s. 

He let her beat him to the bathroom, and as soon as he closed and locked the door, she was on him, kissing him, hugging him, taking him by the hand and dragging him to the shower. What passion, what untapped sexuality must have been burning within her, under the surface, for decades.

He turned the water on, adjusted the temperature, then activated the shower. They stepped inside the tub, holding hands. The water flowed over them, hitting their hair, their faces, their chests. Sister Monica's bright red hair straightened and darkened as it got wet, falling all the way to the small of her back. They joined their lips, their faces getting soaked, and they kissed and laughed and tickled each other. 

He took her in his arms, hugged her close. The feelings inside of him were intensifying. He hadn't counted on this, hadn't ever experienced feelings like this before. He felt such tenderness for her, such warmth. It was crazy. Not only was she his professor. A nun. She was also seventeen years older than him! This was supposed to be harmless fun, sexy play. Nothing more. Why, then, the flutter in his heart? The pang he felt when she pulled away from their kiss and looked deeply in his eyes?

He couldn't take it—not one second longer. He pushed her against the wall, positioned himself properly, and was inside of her. He pinned her arms against the wall, his hands in hers, their fingers laced together. He kissed her, and kept kissing her the entire time he made love to her. She moaned and squirmed, as the water struck their undulating bodies, running down their arms, their backs, their legs. 

He was about to come, so he pulled out and squirted in the shower. In an instant, she was on her knees, taking him in her mouth, getting him hard again.

His heart beat so fast, he thought it would burst through his chest. She was insatiable!

"Let's go back to my office," she said, after they had toweled off a few minutes later. Who was he to argue?

Back in the office, he sat down in her chair, and she sat on his lap, her back to him, her feet firm on the floor. 

"Please turn off the desk lamp," she instructed. He didn't know why she would want him to do that, but he did it. A moment later, he had his answer. She reached up and opened the blinds, letting the lights from the parking lot filter in through the window. 

"Make love to me, Josh," she said, and she positioned herself, sliding onto his once-again fully erect penis. "Make love to me as we look up at the stars."

And there were stars out. It was perfectly clear. He wheeled the chair closer to the window, and they both looked up at the sky. No one was in the parking lot, as least not as far as Josh could tell. Even if they were, they probably would not be able to see inside Sister Monica's dark office. 

She lifted herself up on his lap, then slid back down again. Up, down. Her vaginal walls felt like a hot glove squeezing his penis. He reached in front of her, cupped her full breasts in his hands, massaged them. In front of his eyes, her red hair bounced as she did—up, down, up down. He sniffed her hair. It smelled like flowers on a spring morning, with the dew on them. He asked her to turn her head back, toward him, and they kissed. 

She turned around and faced front again, peering up at the stars as she rode him. He felt her vaginal muscles constrict, and she threw her head back. "Ohhh. Yes," she said. "Yes, oh God, yes." 

He kissed her hair, continued to fondle her breasts. 

She got up, then sat back on his lap again, this time facing him. They kissed. They kept on kissing deep into the night, and they made soft love again, and then they fell asleep, wrapped in each other's arms. 

When dawn came, when the first hint of daybreak filtered in through the window, Josh got up, softly. Sister Monica was still asleep. She looked like an angel lying there.

He quickly dressed, then bent down to kiss her on the cheek. She didn't stir.

"I think I'm falling in love with you, Sister Monica," he whispered to her.

Then he stood up, went to the door, and silently let himself out into the hall, closing and locking the door behind him. 



Sister Monica Ch. 03



Josh didn't see, or hear from, Sister Monica the rest of the week, but he actually welcomed the break. He needed time to think, to corral his feelings and desires, his budding love for her. He had hoped it was just something that had mushroomed out of control during the moment, during their night of soft, beautiful lovemaking, and that it would wane and drift away as the days pushed ahead. But it hadn't. If anything, his feelings for her intensified, his longing for her doubling, tripling, in her absence.

"This is crazy," he said to himself on a subzero Saturday night, alone in his dorm room, studying. "How the hell can I be falling in love with my freakin' English professor?" What was worse—how the hell could he fall in love with a nun? She was off-limits, never to be his, never to be anything more than a sexy FWB when the urge hit. That's all he had wanted her to be—more than he'd dared to hope, really. But now, sitting there in the lamplight of the quiet dorm room, it didn't seem nearly enough. He wanted to be with her. Not just in her office having earth-shattering sex. Not just in her classroom, listening to her lecture about Shakespeare. He wanted more than that.

He wanted to hold her hand as they strolled, side by side, along the sidewalk, on their way to see a movie or a concert. He wanted to spend the night with her at a five-star hotel overlooking the sea, and make her feel like the most special woman in the world. He wanted to snuggle up with her at the break of day and talk openly about his fears, his dreams, his plans, for the future. He wanted to be with her. . . . And what did she want? How often had she thought of him this weekend? What would she act like on Monday, during class? If he approached her afterwards, once the other students had left, what would she say? 

He closed his book. It was no use. How could he study? All he could do was think of Sister Monica, her lips on his, the fall of her lustrous red hair all around him, the hot, slick wetness of her vaginal walls as she milked his penis, her tongue licking and sucking his balls, her breasts rising and falling, rising and falling, as she panted with arousal. 

"Josh, how the hell did you let yourself get sucked in so deep?" he asked the walls. "She probably doesn't even give a shit about you." That was the irony. In the beginning, he was the one who just wanted to have some fun. Now here he was, wanting so much more. For all he knew, his sexy English prof was perfectly content with things as they were—a few afternoon sex-fests, some great orgasms, nothing more. For her, this was all new. He had introduced her to the world of sex. Why should he expect her to want anything more?

"Or maybe she's done with me altogether," he said. Even the sex would stop. She'd stop seeing him, period. He guessed that was the most likely scenario. Given that she was a nun, he figured she was probably spending the weekend on her knees, asking her Lord for forgiveness. 

Yeah, he figured. He guessed. That was the hardest part—the not knowing. He had an urge to go across the street, to the sister house, and find her there. But of course he didn't. That would humiliate her—and that was the last thing he wanted to do. Screwing her senseless in her office was one thing. Embarrassing her in front of her colleagues was quite another. No. He would just need to wait until Monday.

In the meantime, he needed to let off some steam. He didn't want to see anyone else but Sister Monica, but he could not just brood the weekend away. Maybe Sharon was available tonight. She was tall, blonde, and had the IQ of a drowned water rat. She was also the easiest girl on campus. If she wasn't already on her back, in some guy's dorm, she would probably jump at the chance for some Saturday-night sex.

"Well, why the hell not?" he said.

He whipped out his cell, called her.

"Hey, Josh," she answered after just one ring. "What's up?"

"Wanna have some fun tonight, sexy?" he asked. No reason to beat around the bush. "My bunkmate'll be out all night, probably. Why don't you come on over, Sharon?"

"Mmm, sounds good," she said. He'd "played" with her a half-dozen times since the fall. They were definitely not a couple. Just playmates. Perfect for a cold, lonely, insomnia-laden night like this one. 

"Hope you won't be wearing anything under your coat," he said, and disconnected the call. Sharon always took the bait. She'd be knocking at his door within minutes. . . 

♣

"Hey, you look great," he said, as he let Sharon into his room. And she did. She had long, straight blonde hair—a natural blonde, too—blue eyes, a slim, toned body, and a year-round, salon-produced tan. Her breasts were small, but she had a butt even Nicole Kidman would die for. 

She smiled, showing off pearly white teeth that Josh figured must have been chemically enhanced at the dentist's on more than one occasion. 

He shut and locked the door behind her.

"So," she said, "you're feeling lonely tonight, is that it?"

"Something like that." He approached her, took off her coat. She let it slide to the floor. She wasn't wearing a shirt, or pants. Only a white lace bra and a matching G-string. Damn. She really had stripped off her clothes underneath her coat. He whistled. 

"You like?" she said.

"Who wouldn't?" He kissed her, and she responded hungrily. He tried not to think of all the guys she'd been with. At least fifty, probably closer to a hundred. That used to turn him on, thinking how promiscuous she was. Now it made him feel like vomiting. Still, the girl was talented. She knew how to kiss. No one could deny that.

"Hmm, we're getting a little perky, aren't we?" she said, and grabbed his crotch. A good-sized tent had formed there. "Well, no need to keep him all restrained and shackled up, is there?" She unzipped his jeans, yanked them down, then, in one fluid, well-practiced motion, pulled down his briefs. 

In a moment, she was on her knees, face-to-face with his nine inches.

"Wow! You look great, Josh," she said, and he suddenly realized. She had never seen him shaved before. He'd shaved the other day, before his last sexual encounter with Sister Monica. "You are sooo kinky. I knew coming here was a good idea." And just like that, she took him in her mouth. One thing he had to say about Sharon. She gave the best blow jobs. She had perfected the art, and in a manner of moments he squirted in her mouth. She winked up at him, and gladly swallowed his load.

"Yum," she said, and then started sucking him again, getting him hard once more. 

It didn't take long. But his mind, he realized, was elsewhere. He looked down and saw not Sharon, but Sister Monica. He closed his eyes, shook his head, looked down again, and this time saw the blonde head, bobbing up and down on his shaft. Sharon. Sexy, nineteen years old, horny as a rabbit, and yet—a total turn-off. 

He backed away . . . Sharon crawled along on her knees, her mouth gripping onto his penis like a vacuum cleaner. He laughed in spite of himself. The girl wanted it, and bad. But he didn't. Not with her. 

He nudged her, gently, gestured for her to stop.

"Hey, I was just gettin' started," she whined, and licked the tip of his dick with a snakelike flick of her tongue.

"And you're awesome, as always," he said. "But . . ."

She tilted her head, looked at him sideways. "You got a girlfriend now, Josh? Is that it? You screwing around behind her back?"

"Well . . ."

"Damn, I thought so!" She stood up, her small, perky breasts bouncing within the constraint of her bra. "You have that look."

"I do?"

"Sure. I knew it right away. But I figured, it won't bother me if it doesn't bother him. You don't want me to leave, do you?" She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. Again, he found himself thinking of all the guys she had swapped spit with, and broke the kiss.

"I'm sorry, Sharon," he said. "I really thought I wanted to have fun tonight. I guess . . ."

She shrugged. "Hey, it's okay, don't worry about it. The night's still young. I'm sure I can find someone else. . ." She put her coat back on. "But, y'know, I hope the chick who locked you in knows how lucky she is. You're hooked on her, man."

"I am?" He swallowed. Was it that obvious?

"You kidding? A girl can see these things, Josh. I knew it right away. Is she someone I know?"

He nodded. "I think so."

"Damn shame," she said. "We could've had a blast tonight. Maybe even a threesome, if she was game. Is she cute? But no hard feelings, okay? And if you change your mind, you know my number."

She kissed him again—with plenty of tongue—and left. The only thing he could think of was how she had said, "You have that look." It kept him awake all night long. . . .

♣

Sister Monica looked so sexy in her flower-print skirt and white blouse. The garments were loose-fitting, as always, but at least she had ditched the drab slacks for one day. And she didn't seem to be showing any unease. During the lecture, she continually made eye contact with Josh, not displaying even a hint of embarrassment. This made him feel better, reassured. Still, who knew? Maybe it was all just a false front.

The period dragged by. He desperately wanted it to end so he could approach her. He repeatedly glanced at the clock, which seemed to be standing still. 

Finally, the class came to a close, and the students filed out. Josh stayed behind, trying not to make it too obvious. He pretended to read a few lines from the play they were studying, but the whole time he was peeking over the top of the book, waiting for the right moment.

When the coast was clear, he snapped the book shut, got up, and approached Sister Monica. She was arranging a pile of papers, collecting them to take with her back to her office. 

"Hey," he said. 

"Hello, Josh," she said and smiled. He looked at her, closely. God, she was beautiful. Even with her hair all pinned up, primly, she still put Sharon to shame.

"Uh . . ." Now that he was with her again, he didn't really know what to say. He had never felt this tongue-tied with her before. He didn't like it. 

"I thought about us a lot this weekend, Josh," she said.

"You did?"

"Of course. How couldn't I have?" She smiled again, shyly. 

"Yeah, last week was unbelievable," he said. "I wanted you so bad this weekend, sexy Monica." There. He had to take control again. The way he had before. Get her worked up. 

She held her smile. "We really need to talk, Josh," she said. And he knew they did. Of course they did. Still, he didn't like the sound of that. "Can you meet me at, say, four-thirty, in my office?"

"Sure."

He wanted to move in and kiss her, take her in his arms. He longed for the taste of her lips, the feel of her nakedness. But now wasn't the time. 

"Don't look so worried," she said. 

He offered her a faint smile—or thought he did. Maybe it was just a frown. Don't worry. Yeah, right. It was going to be a long afternoon, waiting to see her. . . . 

♣

"Ya know, man, you haven't seemed like yourself lately," Josh's roommate, a twenty-year-old chubby kid named Steve Dightmann, said. He was a decent enough guy—didn't get in the way, didn't ask after Josh's personal life—at least until right now. The two of them were amiable with each other, without being best friends. 

"What do you mean?" Josh asked. It was a little after four. Almost time to see Sister Monica. At last. . . . 

"You've been, I don't know, kind of in a daze lately," his roommate went on, as the wind, fierce off the lake, whined against the window. Snow, getting heavier by the minute, fell from a sky the color of lead. "You don't seem like you're here anymore, even when you're here." He sat on his bed and grabbed a handful of chips out of the bag he had on his nightstand. "You meet a girl or something?"

Josh ignored him. None of his damn business. Steve took more chips, stuffed them in his mouth. Somehow, he had gotten lucky over the weekend with a Biology major (he'd blabbered on about it all night on Sunday)—a cute girl with a thick set of glasses. Maybe that's how he did it—have her take off the glasses so she couldn't see who she was with. "Hey, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to," Steve went on. "But I can tell. You have that look."

"Geez. Why don't I just wear a freakin' sign," Josh said. "I mean, what the hell? Is my life just fair game for everyone?"

"I'm just saying . . ." Munch, munch. More stuffing chips into his mouth. Josh rolled his eyes. "I gotta go," he said. It was still too early to see Sister Monica, but anything was better than a heart-to-heart with his suddenly emotionally sensitive roommate. 

♣

He entered Carroll Hall at quarter after four. He was used to the building as an English major—all of the English profs had offices here—but lately there was only one office, in particular, that he cared about. . . . 

Sister Monica's office was the fifth one on the left. From the sounds of it, several of the professors were around. He heard voices floating out through open doors, laughter, the faint rustling of papers being shuffled, arranged, and rearranged. The last couple of times he had visited with Sister Monica, the building had been deserted. No such luck this time.

He approached her door. It was closed. What was she doing in there? Sniffing the briefs he had given her during their first encounter? Reaching beneath her blouse and pinching her nipples, getting herself ready? Or thinking of the best way to break the news to him that she wanted to end their trysts, cut things off entirely? Was she—

The door opened, and Josh moved away, startled. A student in the Shakespeare class, a fat girl whose name escaped him, walked out into the hall. 

"Hi," she said. "You gonna see Sister Monica, too?"

Josh nodded, smiled. "Uh-huh."

"We can study together, if you want," the girl said. "I mean, when you're done? I can't get into what we're reading now and could really use the help. 'The Two Gentlemen of Verona.' Yuck. Give me 'Merchant of Venice' or 'Midsummer Night's Dream' any day over that. I'll be in the library till it closes, if you want to study with me." She eyed Josh, clearly infatuated. 

"Uhhh, I don't know if I'll be able to make it," he said. "I'll see, though." Sure. Uh-huh. Absolutely.

"Well, I hope to see you later," she said, and walked down the narrow hall, putting her hood up before exiting. 

Josh eyed the door. He was fifteen minutes early, would it be okay to barge in? Well, why not? What was he supposed to do—just stand there, outside her door for fifteen minutes like an idiot?

He knocked, then walked into her office without waiting for a reply, closed and locked the door. 

Her mouth dropped open, slightly, at the sight of him. "You're early, Josh," she said. "I didn't know you were out there already."

He shrugged, sat down in the chair opposite her. "Sorry, but I couldn't wait," he said. 

She offered a half-smile. "I understand."

He looked around at the walls, the shelves stocked with Dickens and Shakespeare and Bronte, and so many others. That she was an English professor was sexy. He loved literature, being and English major himself. He thought of making love to her under a hot sun on a secluded corner of some Mediterranean beach, discussing the major themes in David Copperfield as they both rode the wave toward orgasm. But then, that was pointless. Why fantasize about it? Sister Monica was right here. Her door was locked. It was just the two of them. 

"So, what did you want to talk about?" he asked her. In the parking lot, behind her, a fat, middle-aged man waddled to his car, got in, turned on the headlights, and drove off. It was still snowing heavily, and the forecast was for half a foot before midnight. The lights in the parking lot flickered on, as the dusk grew thicker.

She looked down at her desk. "Josh, I—"

But suddenly, irrationally, he didn't want to hear it. He'd waited all day to listen to what she had to say, but now, when the moment finally arrived . . . What if she wanted to end it? What if she told him they were through? She probably was going to say something just like that! But before he let her, he at least needed to kiss her one more time, touch her one more time. . . 

He stood up, suddenly, halting her, mid-sentence, walked around her desk, took her hands, and urged her to stand up. Now, face-to-face, before she could speak another syllable, he kissed her.

A second later, he said, "We'll talk, sexy Monica. We'll talk all night if that's what it takes. But right now, let's not talk, all right?" He leaned in, kissed her again, and she responded lustily. Then, suddenly, she pulled away.

Her chest heaved beneath her white blouse, and he thought of the breasts underneath, so full and firm and beautiful—only the slightest, almost indistinguishable hint of a sag despite her thirty-seven years. 

"Josh," she said. "We really need to talk. Please."

It almost sounded like a plea—as if he were in control. This made him feel like a Greek god. She was irresistibly drawn to him. They would only talk if he allowed it. But if he pressed onward, there was no way she could restrain herself. She wanted him just as badly as he wanted her. 

"I know," he said. "But first, I want you, sexy Monica. We'll talk afterwards."

"Josh . . ."

He cut her off with a kiss, sealing her mouth with his. She tried to push him away, but he held her close, and a moment later, her resistance ended. She thrust out her tongue, and they tongue-wrestled. He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her, and she ran her fingers through his curly black hair. She moaned, as they continued to kiss. 

He reached around, cupped the cheeks of her butt through the fabric of her skirt. He squeezed and rubbed, and felt her tongue become more aggressive in his mouth. He grabbed hold of her skirt, lifted it, slowly, and then reached underneath. Now, he caressed the bare flesh of her butt.

"Mmm," she said into his mouth, continuing to French-kiss him with abandon.

Her butt felt so nice, so soft. He couldn't resist. He spanked her. Not a hard one, just a gentle love-tap. "Mmm," she repeated, and he hit her again, and again, and again, his force slowly increasing.

"Oh," she said, finally breaking the kiss. Her legs wobbled. 

"You like that, don't you, kinky girl?" he said, spanking her again, harder still.

"Oh God," she said. 

"You are so hot and naughty, sexy Monica," he said. Spank-spank.

"Mmmmmmm," she said, throwing her head back. She seemed on the verge of orgasm.

Suddenly, there was a sharp knock at the door. "Oh shit," she said, and he suddenly felt his arousal jack up a notch, if that were possible. That was the first curse word he'd ever heard her utter. She pulled away from him, straightening her clothes, trying to get herself under some semblance of control. But her face was flushed, and she was breathing too fast.

"Sister Monica?" a voice from the other side of the door said.

"Y-yes?" she said. I'm here."

"It's Don," said the voice. And Josh realized it must be Dr. Jenkins. Don Jenkins. He taught contemporary literature and creative writing. Josh liked him. But right about now, he wished the son of a bitch would get out of there. 

"Hi, Don," she said, motioning for Josh to hide behind her desk. It didn't take a genius to figure out why. The door was locked, and Sister Monica was obviously aroused. Having someone see Josh under those conditions would be inviting disaster. 

"May I come in?" Dr. Jenkins asked.

"Of course."

Josh heard the doorknob stick, not opening.

"Just give me a second," Sister Monica said, then, taking a deep breath, she went to the door, opened it. Josh heard footsteps approach the desk. 

"I'm sorry to interrupt anything," Dr. Jenkins said, and Josh could picture him giving the room a quick once-over. "Nonsense," Sister Monica said. "I didn't even realize the door was locked. Please sit down. How's your day been, Don?"




Sister Monica Ch. 03



She came back around the desk, sat down in her chair. Josh was crouched beside her. She crossed her legs, the flowery skirt primly draping all the way to her ankles.

"Busy," Dr. Jenkins said. Through the opening in the underside of the desk, Josh could see his tailored black slacks and shiny black shoes. "But listen, I don't mean to keep you. I just wanted to talk about . . ."

Josh tuned him out. He could care less what Professor Don Jenkins wanted to talk about. Not with his sexy Shakespeare teacher's legs right there in front of him. It was too much to resist.

He reached under her skirt, gently stroked her calf. Up to her knee, then down to her ankle, then to her knee again, in a small, circular motion. She started to shake her leg a little, apparently trying to get him to cool it, but instead, he reached up higher, caressing the soft, smooth flesh of her thigh. He pulled on her leg, wanting her to uncross them, wanting full access to her panties. 

She was prattling on about something to Dr. Jenkins, remarkably composed. But then she uncrossed her legs, as he continued his velvety assault. He reached up higher, took hold of her panties, pushed them aside. He rubbed her shaved mound (he could tell she had shaved it again herself within the last twenty-four hours; apparently what he had started last week, she wanted to maintain), then stuck his thumb into her vagina. It was soaking wet. He heard her gasp.

"Are you sure you're feeling all right, Sister Monica?" he heard Dr. Jenkins ask. "You don't look so well, if you don't mind my saying. I know there's a flu going around . . ."

"No, I'm fine," she said, as Josh inserted his middle finger and index finger inside of her. He pressed firmly against her G-spot, and her body jerked. "I . . . I, uh, mmm, I guess I'm just a little tired. It's been one of those days, y'know?" He imagined her smiling, trying to remain calm and ladylike, and that just turned him on all the more. He reached up with his other hand and massaged her clit, all the while continuing his onslaught on her G-spot. 

"Well, I'd better get going anyway," Dr. Jenkins said. "Thanks for your time, though." Josh heard the chair move, then heard the footsteps receding toward the door. "Would you like me to lock the door, Sister Monica?"

No reply at first, then, finally, "Umm . . .mmmmm. . . . no, no, that's not necessary, Don."

Then he heard the door open, and close. In a flash, she stood up.

"I can't believe you did that!" she said.

He got up, too, and smiled. "Aw, c'mon, sexy girl. You loved it. Admit it, it was fun."

She started to speak, then burst out laughing. "What am I going to do with you?" she said. "How about this?" And he was on her again, kissing her, his tongue doing a ballet in her mouth. God, she tasted good. And her kissing skills were now top-notch. She kissed with such passion, such spirit.

"No," she said, and forced herself to pull away. "Gosh, I just totally lose all control when I'm with you." She took a few deep breaths. "Now, please, Josh. We really need to talk. Okay?"

More voices, loud and close, rose and fell beyond her door. 

"Ugh, this place is such a zoo right now," she said, still breathless. A few strands of her red hair had come loose from her pins, and the effect was extremely sexy. "I wish it were quieter. I don't want us to be disturbed again."

His brain raced. He wanted a quiet spot, too, where we could ride her to an overpowering climax without being interrupted. Sure, they would talk. But she would come first—several times, hopefully. 

But where . . .? He got it! The library! Upstairs, in the corner at the end of the Medieval History section—no one ever went there. Josh had studied at the light wooden table there many times. He had never once been disturbed. He'd even started to think of that back corner as his own private little world. They'd be safe there.

When he told her, he half-expected her to protest. It may have been a neglected portion of the library, but it was, after all, a public space. They could still be distracted if the situation wasn't right. But she agreed. As he left her office, he told himself that the sex they were about to have would be so good, she'd have no choice but to keep seeing him. If this talk she wanted to have was designed to end things, he'd just have to change her mind and leave her panting for more. . . .

♣

The library wasn't very large, by college campus standards—it was a small university, after all. But it was big enough to find a place to yourself—and the Medieval History section had been his refuge on more than one occasion. One time, he had even necked with a freshman there. He would have gone all the way, but she was too nervous, worried that they'd be spotted.

He arrived first, and paced the floor, absently flipping through the old, dusty volumes on the shelf. The thought occurred to him that Sister Monica might possibly stand him up. But no, even if she did intend to break things off, he didn't think she'd do that. It wasn't in her nature. She'd be there.

He took his coat off—they always had the heat turned way up in here. He heard it humming, droning, as the stale, dry air filtered through the floor vents. Meanwhile, outside, the snow was coming down even harder. This was turning out to be quite a storm. Looking out the window, he couldn't see anyone. It was like a ghost town out there—the light from the lampposts cutting a swath over empty pathways, filling up, moment by moment, with snow. 

"Hello, Josh." He turned around. He hadn't even heard her footsteps. "You're right. It's really quiet up here. I don't think I've ever even been in this little corner of the library."

She took off her coat, rested it over the back of a wooden chair, positioned alongside the rectangular wooden table where he'd spent hours studying for his midterms last fall. For some reason, he thought of the chunky girl from his Shakespeare class. When he'd walked in the front doors, he saw her right away, her nose in a book, seated in a chair not fifteen feet away. He was able to get passed her without her seeing him. Apparently, Sister Monica had been just as fortunate. 

"Yeah," he said. "It's like a mausoleum up here." He spoke softly. Yes, it was like a mausoleum, but the main floor was beneath them, and, twenty feet to their left, though blocked off by a succession of book shelves, a railing overlooked the reference area, where a silver-haired matron and a middle-aged brunette (who Josh thought was quite attractive) studiously tapped on computer keyboards. If Josh and Sister Monica weren't careful, the reference librarians, or someone else, might overhear them. 

She went up to him, looked at him, her eyes the color of autumn woodlands, deep brown, full of mystery and wonder. "So," she said. "Can we talk now, Josh? I mean, really talk?"

No. Not yet. Not until he made love to her, right here, right now. But instead of the direct approach, he chose subtlety.

"Sure," he said. "Let's sit down, okay?"

He didn't go to the table. Rather, he went to the ledge by the window. It was really a long, low book shelf, full of books no one would ever read unless they absolutely had to. The top of the shelf, smooth, wooden, was perfect for sitting. And for other things. . . .

She sat beside him, as he hoped she would. When she turned to face him, he leaned forward to kiss her.

"Josh, no," she said. "I—"

"Sssh," he said. "I know we need to talk, Sister Monica. But first . . . I want you so bad. We can talk afterwards."

"Josh . . ."

But his mouth was on hers. And there was no resistance. She kissed him back with everything that was in her. She was so full of lust, so full of sexuality that needed to be released. She was his. And he was going to make this very worthwhile for her, for both of them.

"Josh . . ."

He responded by cupping her right breast, rubbing it through the cotton of her white blouse. 

"Someone will see us . . ." she said.

"I don't think so," he said. "As long as we're quiet, no one will come back here. Trust me."

She looked at him, chewed on her lower lip (that always drove him crazy; did she have any idea, any idea at all, how sexy she was?). She shook her head. "I must be losing my mind," she said with a laugh. "I can't believe the things I do with you."

"I can." And he was on her again, kissing her, caressing her, reaching underneath her blouse, fondling her breasts. He reached behind her, unsnapped her bra, and removed it, pulling it out from under her shirt, placing it in his pocket. "You have my underwear in your desk drawer," he said. "It's only fair that I keep something of yours." He punctuated this with another kiss. She responded with a moan.

He reached underneath her shirt again, and squeezed her naked breasts, cupping their fullness, circling the nipples with the tips of his fingers. 

"You have the best tits, sexy Monica," he said. "You really do." He squeezed them harder for emphasis, and she moaned again, resting her head back against the window. And then he felt her fingers on the zipper of his jeans. She unzipped him, and he shimmied out of them. Then her hand was on his rock-hard penis, stroking it through the thin material of his briefs. Meanwhile, he continued to fondle her breasts underneath her blouse, pinching her nipples—which she seemed to love. 

His dick was starting to hurt, caged the way it was. He directed her hand to his waist, had her pull his briefs down, and then his penis sprang out, standing, tall, and ready, pointing up toward his belly button. Sister Monica licked her lips at the sight of it. 

She scrambled down to the floor, on her hands and knees, and took him in her mouth. He moaned with pleasure—it felt so good, her lips sucking him, her mouth sliding up and down his shaft—and he rested his head back, against the window. 

It was quiet, only a few voices occasionally drifting up from the main floor of the library. And the drone of the heater, as the hot, stale air wafted through the vents. And Sister Monica's lips, making soft slurping sounds as she sucked him. 

"Damn," he said. "My God." He couldn't hold it in any longer. The fluid rushed out of him, streaming into her mouth. She took it all, and swallowed. Then, as she had done to him before, she licked the tip of his penis, cleaning it of the last straggling drops of cum. And then she took him in her mouth, and didn't stop until he was rock-hard again.

"You know, sexy," he said, "you're lucky I'm a young, horny guy with a lot of stamina. Most guys wouldn't be able to keep up with you."

She blushed, but smiled. Any notion of talking had been whisked away. She looked ready, so eager, just yearning to feel him deep inside of her.

He motioned for her to lean forward onto the window-shelf, her nose almost pressed against the glass. The shelf was short enough that she could rest her arms on it and still have her knees on the floor. She looked so sexy, fully clothed, except minus her bra. Which reminded him. He pulled her skirt up, exposing her legs, butt, and white cotton panties. He pulled them off of her, picked up his discarded jeans, and put them in the pocket, to join her bra there. He knelt behind her, stroking her naked butt, and she purred with approval. Next, he reached for the pins in her hair, removed them. Her red tresses fell luxuriously down, over her shoulders, some of it escaping to fall in her face. He ran his fingers through it. It was the sexiest hair he'd ever seen. He would do his best to persuade her to wear it loose from now on, even when she taught class. That was if, of course, she wanted to continue seeing him. That was if this little lovemaking session didn't represent the end. If she—

Shut up. Now wasn't the time. What the hell was he doing? Brooding, wondering. Worrying. Here he was, with his sexy nun-professor eager and ready for him. Now was the time to act, not think. 

He reached in front of her, his hands going under her blouse, and cupped her breasts. He pinched her nipples, hard, and she moaned, throwing her head back, her hair cascading behind her like a scarlet waterfall. 

Her skirt had fallen back down, and he lifted it up again. Not wasting any time, he positioned his penis at her opening, then thrust it in. He had made love to her a half-dozen times since last week, but she was still very small and tight. She had been a virgin for thirty-seven years, he reminded himself. So go gently.

"Mmmm," she purred. 

"What do you want, Sister Monica?" he said, as he gently thrust, in and out, allowing her to get acclimated to his nine inches. She was soaking wet, her juices enabling him to slide in and out of her with ease. He pinched her nipples again, then squeezed the full mounds of her breasts.

"I want you . . . to make love to me," she said. Her breathing was getting very choppy.

He pinched her nipples again, then removed one hand from under her shirt, and grasped onto her hair. He pulled it backwards, and her head snapped back, her eyes looking at the domed ceiling. 

"No," he said, and he felt the rush of lust explode throughout his body like never before. He sensed that she enjoyed his control, enjoyed for it to be rough. And she had so much untapped sexuality inside of her. She had released some of it already, but much of it remained, beneath the surface. He wanted to help her let it out. Because underneath the loosely fitted clothing, the all-too-often pinned hair, the prim exterior, she was a kinky, sexy, horny goddess. 

"No," he said. "You want me to fuck you, sexy Monica. Say it."

He expected her to resist. But she didn't. At least not verbally. She said nothing, and so he pinched her nipple again and pulled her hair, this time harder. 

"Oooh," she said, and he felt her vaginal muscles constrict. She was close. Too close. 

He pulled out of her, backed away.

She looked back at him, confusion in her eyes. And frustration. "Josh . . ."

"You have to tell me what you want."

"I . . ."

"C'mon, sexy Monica. There's no reason to play games with me. I know you want it. And I know you're a naughty girl underneath that staid façade of yours. There's no secrets with me. You won't be struck by a lightning bolt for admitting what you want. Just tell me."

He reached under her blouse again and stroked her left breast.

"Tell me," he said, and pinched her nipple, harder this time than before.

"Mmmmm," she said, her body jerking. "Oh God, yes. Please!"

"Please what?" He placed his penis at the entrance of her vagina, rubbing his tip against her but not entering. He brought his hand back, then brought it down, hard, on her left ass cheek.

"Ohh. Please f - - - "

He slipped inside of her, half an inch, then pulled out again. 

"Until you tell me, sexy Monica, I will have to keep you waiting." Another pinch of her nipple, another half-inch thrust—in and out in a heartbeat. Another slap. "Now you tell me what you want."

"Please," she said, as he spanked her hard and thrust into her, just half an inch again. "Oh God, please fuck me!"

He leaned in, kissed the back of her head, and she turned her head around to offer him her lips. He kissed her, and her tongue had never been more aggressive. It snaked in and out of her mouth, wrestling with his tongue, vying for supremacy. Then she turned to face the window again and thrust her hips back. He got the message, and he entered her, all the way this time.

"Oh yes," she said. "That is so good. Oh God." In and out he thrust, and her hips matched his rhythm in perfect harmony. He was gentle now, his hands running through her fiery red hair, caressing her blouse-covered back, her full, fleshy breasts. And she was moaning and panting, completely oblivious of their whereabouts—to the point where he became worried. Would someone hear them? 

"Ohgodohgodohgod," she panted more than said as he rammed in and out of her. This was the first time they had done it doggie style, and his penetration had never been deeper. "Ohgodohgodohgod," she kept saying, and then she arched her back, her muscles tightened, and she shrieked. He had never seen a woman come quite like that before. 

He pulled out of her, looked around, waiting for them to be caught. But no one came. How could no one have heard that? But apparently they hadn't. Breathing a sigh of relief, he went back to his sexy professor. She was sitting on the floor now, her expression one of perfect contentment.

"Oh my God," she said again, and offered him a tired smile. "I am speechless, Josh."

"That's a switch," he said, and she playfully hit him. "But really, I thought you were gonna give us away, Sister Monica. I mean, jeez! I can't believe no one heard us." 

"I know," she said. "But I couldn't help it. I never felt anything so incredible in my life."

"You liked talking dirty, didn't you?"

She blushed, sweat beading on her forehead, her hair a mess. She looked breathtaking.

"Yeah. It really turned me on."

"You're a sexpot, you know," he said. "Underneath it all, you are a horny, sexy, kinky, naughty sexpot. And I really wanted to draw that out of you, sexy Monica. It's like you're a force of nature, just wanting to be unleashed." She laughed, and so did he. "But . . . I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"Of course not. How could you have?" She looked genuinely puzzled.

"I mean, when I pulled your hair and spanked you. I sensed you wanted it rough, you know? But I didn't mean . . . I mean, I didn't . . ."

She caressed his cheek with the palm of her hand. "It's okay, Josh," she said. "You didn't hurt me. I loved it all. I've never felt so completely alive. You didn't hurt me at all. But thank you for asking. You're sweet."

Now it was his turn to blush. The way she was looking at him. Could she be feeling the same thing he was? Could she be falling in love, too? Could she really?

She motioned for him to sit beside her. He did, and she kissed him. "Do you want me to, um, relieve you?" she asked, winking. He was still fully erect. 

"You can't get enough of me, can you?" he said.

Her answer was to lean forward and suck him. He ran his fingers through her hair as she did, and slid his hand beneath her skirt, massaging her clit. She moaned, and he moaned, as he came in her mouth. 

A minute later, he was fully dressed. And he knew, now, that there was no way to put it off any longer. 

They sat down on the window ledge again, their backs resting against the glass. Behind them, snowflakes, fat and sticky, fell against the pane. 

"Josh . . ."

He took her hand and squeezed it. "I guess it's time for you to tell me what you've been wanting to tell me," he blurted out, and then swallowed hard. He looked out the window. A couple of students walked along the snow-strewn pathway, moving fast, wanting to get out of the cold.

"Don't be afraid," she told him. 

"Yeah, easy for you to say," he said.

She looked hurt, and he instantly felt like a jackass. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean that. It's just . . . I never thought anything like this would ever happen. I mean, I liked you right from the beginning, Sister Monica. Thought you were so sexy. And I really just wanted to have some fun with you, y'know? I mean, yeah, I admit it, it turned me on that you're a nun. And then, when you told me you were a virgin . . . and you're just so freaking beautiful. But I didn't mean to get in so deep. I didn't think . . ."

He shook his head. He didn't know how to tell her he was falling in love with her. He hated feeling so vulnerable. He absolutely hated it.

"I was attracted to you right away, too," she said then, and stroked his cheek. "That's very unusual for me—to feel so drawn to one of my students. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. And so when you came into my office that day, and . . ."

"Yeah, you couldn't resist me, could you?" he said. Then he kissed her. He needed the reassurance of her lips. Before he knew it, his hands were back inside her blouse and they were full-on necking, moaning in each other's mouths. Finally, he pulled away.




Sister Monica Ch. 03



"Damn. I can't keep my hands off you," he said. 

"I'm not doing any better, am I?" she said, and they laughed, nervously. He was scared. And he sensed that she was scared, too. "And that's the trouble, Josh. Here I am, wanting to talk to you about something, something very important, all day. And what have I done? I've . . ."

"Behaved like the sexy, kinky girl you are?"

She shook her head, laughed again. "I feel so young and carefree when I'm with you, Josh."

"Great. Then there's nothing to talk about, is there? We can keep—"

"Josh, please. No more. I really have to say something now. Okay?"

He nodded. He couldn't stall her any longer. It would all have to come out now.

She swallowed, looked down at her lap. "This whole past weekend, I tried telling myself that what we did last week was a terrible mistake. I prayed a lot, asked for forgiveness. But through it all, I kept missing you, Josh. I was saying one thing, but feeling something else entirely."

He sat there, waiting, waiting. He still couldn't tell where she was going with this, but he felt like everything—the world, the universe, everything—rested in the balance of what she was about to say.

"I always felt that I had a calling," she said. "I take it very seriously, and I always thought it was the most important aspect of my life. But now, after last week, after today, I'm just not sure anymore. I never felt anything like this before. When we're not together, I find myself wanting to be near you, to kiss you, hold you. It's so scary, Josh. And it seems so wrong. That's what I keep trying to tell myself, but then I just keep wanting to be near you."

She put her head in her hands. He wanted to comfort her, but he was so confused. Was she giving him the brush-off, or not? She was talking in circles.

"Look, Sister Monica . . ."

"Please let me finish," she said. 

"I just need to know if you want to see me anymore," he said. "Because I'll tell you right now, and I was so damn scared to say it, but I'm saying it. I never felt this way toward anyone before. I'm falling in love with you, Sister Monica. Right, wrong, who knows. But that's the way it is."

She looked at him, hugged him. "Aren't you going to say anything?" he asked. He felt like he was going numb. Again, he realized how much she affected him. He had vowed not to let anyone get to him like this, ever. Some vow that had been.

"Josh . . . you're very young . . ."

"Oh, fuck that!" he spat out. "That is such bullshit. I'm so young . . . I'm old enough to know what love is."

He stood up, ready to go. If she wanted to break things off, that was her right. But don't patronize him.

"Josh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . ."

"Look, can you just level with me? I didn't intend for this to happen. I thought we could have some fun together. That's all I wanted. I didn't fucking want to fall in love with you!"

She got up, too, approached him. "Please don't be upset, Josh. I'm not saying I don't want to see you anymore."

"Yeah, then what are you saying?" He was losing his temper, and he didn't want to. He just couldn't help it. This woman had his heart in her hands, whether she wanted it or not.

"I just need time," she said. "That's all I really wanted to tell you today. I need some time, alone. To figure things out. To come to grips with my feelings, with my calling, with everything I thought I knew about myself, but which these past few days have challenged. I just need some time, Josh. I want to make the right decision."

"What do you mean by 'time'?"

From the main level of the library, a voice called out, and a series of "sshhhs" followed. As far as Josh was concerned, those voices may well have been on a different planet.

"Please just give me a week, maybe two," she said. "I need to make a choice, and I don't want to make any choice this significant until I'm sure."

"So I won't see you?"

"Only in class," she said. "But it won't be for very long, Josh."

"Unless your decision is to end it with me." Pouty. He was being pouty. But he couldn't help it.

"I wish I could give you my answer right now, what I want to do," she said. "But I can't, Josh. That wouldn't be fair—to you or to me. I've spent years pursuing a calling, something I have always felt I was meant to do. Please understand. I just need a little time."

"You mean, you might give up being a nun?" What a dunce. He had just figured that out now? "There's no way I can choose to keep seeing you like this and say I have a calling at the same time," she answered. "I have to make a choice. And as soon as I decide, I'll let you know."

He nodded. "Okay."

She put her arms around him, kissed him. "Thanks. I'll see you in class on Wednesday, right?"

"Right."

She smiled, put on her coat, and turned to leave.

"Sister Monica?" He wanted to leave her feeling upbeat, wanted to let her know how special she was.

"Yes?"

"You're the best."

Her top lip quivered, and then she smiled. She came up to him, put her arms around him, kissed him again. 

Then she walked away. He watched her retreating figure until she reached the stairs and descended out of view.



Sister Monica Ch. 04



Josh realized that Sister Monica wouldn't have an answer for him by class on Wednesday. Still, he hoped for a sign—a certain hidden message in her movements, her smile, the way she looked at him when their eyes met. But there was nothing. She simply went through her regular in-class routines—engaging the students in discussion, expostulating on the meanings and nuances of Shakespeare's words, trying to bring the material to life for 21st-century students. And he had to give her credit—she was a fantastic teacher. It was clear that she knew her stuff and loved to teach. 

She turned to write something on the blackboard, the outlines of her butt barely visible, encased, as it was, by a pair of loose-fitting brown slacks. The same ass he had spanked, again and again, on Monday, causing her to moan with pleasure. How was he supposed to come to grips with the fact that he might never touch that beautiful, smooth butt again? God, he felt so lonely these past two days—always longing to be near her. Longing to know what she was thinking. She had to be leaning one way or the other—either to remain a nun and ditch him, or renounce her vows and begin to see him regularly. 

"So, given that, what do you think the play is saying about human nature here?" she asked, turning around to face the class. He barely heard the question. He just stared (not too obvious, he hoped) at her face—the full, kissable lips, the slightly too long nose, the hint of an overbite (that he found extremely sexy), the high, fashion-model cheekbones. The lustrous red hair, constrained by two of her annoying hairpins. She was still beautiful, even with her hair pinned up—she couldn't be anything but beautiful, really, no matter what she did with her hair. And she looked no older than thirty—it still amazed him that she was thirty-seven years old. But when she had her hair loose, when it flowed over her shoulders like winter fire, she looked no older than a graduate student—she could readily pass for twenty-five. 

It was scary how much he wanted her, how much he needed her. He desperately wanted to rid himself of these feelings. They made him far too vulnerable.

His eyes lowered, and he looked at her chest. He adored her breasts. They were absolutely perfect—full and soft and high, without being too big. Just right. He felt them again in his mind, the supple flesh, kneading under the gentle force of his fingers, the perky, sensitive nipples that liked to be pinched. What he would give to kiss those breasts, massage them, fondle them after class. 

He shook his head. This was no good. He had to snap out of it. If he didn't, he'd lose his mind, fail his courses. He just hoped Sister Monica didn't wait too long to reach her decision. He couldn't take many more days waiting like this.

When the class ended, he didn't wait around. He just left along with everyone else. He glanced back at her once, just before he walked through the door. She was looking off into space, as if not really seeing at anything at all.

♣

On Friday, it was more of the same. No word from Sister Monica. She just taught class, same as always. When the period ended, he lingered for a moment, hoping to catch her eye. He did, too. But she just looked away.

He couldn't take it. He needed to talk to her—if even to say hello! Things shouldn't be so distant, the two of them acting like strangers.

Once the other students were gone, he took a deep breath and approached her desk. She was standing, fiddling with the Shakespeare textbook, clearly uncomfortable by his nearness.

"I had to at least talk to you for a second," he said. "It's been so hard not even saying a word to you since Monday."

She swallowed, continued to look down at her desk. "I know," she said. "I miss you, Josh."

He grabbed her, gently, by the shoulders, turning her around so they faced each other. "Can't we talk about it . . . about us . . . now? Even if you haven't made up your mind . . ."

She shook her head. "What good would it do? I want to know what I'm going to decide before we talk about things."

He glanced out the door. The hallway was rapidly emptying. He longed to kiss her. But he restrained himself. This wasn't the time.

"Can you at least tell me if you're leaning a certain way?" he wanted to know. He was so desperate for her answer! Couldn't she see that?

She bit her lower lip—a little tick she had that always drove him wild. In his mind's eye, she was naked, underneath him, panting, sweating, her body rushing toward a thundering climax. 

"I don't want to say anything until I'm absolutely sure," she said. "Please be patient with me, Josh. I know it's hard. I promise, I'll tell you next week. I'm going to think about this, probably nonstop, all weekend. I should know for sure by Monday."

The torture would persist, then. She hadn't tipped her hand, one way or the other. 

Suddenly, he felt her arms around him—but only briefly. Just a hug, a chaste hug you would give anyone. "Please try not to worry so much, Josh," she said. 

He offered a smile, or tried to. It was a pretty feeble attempt.

♣

That evening, he went to the Borders bookstore up the road. He needed to get off campus, to go somewhere and just hang out, people-watch for a while, decompress.

He ordered a stale bagel with cream cheese from the café, sat down at a table by the window, overlooking the parking lot and beyond that, the main road. There was a lot of traffic—a constant drone of mufflers, an ongoing parade of headlights piercing through the darkness. 

He bit into the bagel. It tasted like cardboard, coated with a helping of sawdust for added texture and flavor. The only thing that made it edible was the cream cheese.

"Hey!" a female voice suddenly called out. "Josh. Is that you?"

He jerked his head up, and there was Lori Belkamp. She was an English major like him; they had shared several classes. He liked Lori—she was smart, perky, and witty. She wasn't taking Sister Monica's Shakespeare course this semester—but that was because she already had—last fall. "It's a tough course," she'd warned Josh late last year, knowing that he was signed up for it the following semester. "But Sister Monica rocks." At the time, little did he know how true that was. . . . 

"Mind if I join you?" she asked, but she sat down before he answered. She had also ordered a bagel—blueberry, by the looks of it—and a bottled water. "Wow. It's good to see you. It sucks that we don't share any classes this term."

"I know," he said. He wasn't really in the mood to talk, but he didn't mind the intrusion. Something to take his mind off Sister Monica for a while. 

"So, how do you like Sister Monica?" she asked, as if on cue. "She's awesome, isn't she? I hope I get her next year for Milton and Donne and the religious poets."

"She's . . . great," he said, and took another bite out of his sawdust special. "She really makes it interesting." You could say that again.

"I always found it hard to believe she's a nun," Lori said, as she bit into her bagel, then made a face at it. "She's so cool. I mean, not that nuns can't be cool . . . but, well, you know. I guess she goes against the stereotype."

He nodded. You could say that again. 

"So . . . you doing anything tonight?" Lori wanted to know.

Through the window, there was a screeching of brakes, then a horn beeped. But he didn't hear any impact. A close call, apparently. 

"Not really," he said. "Just hanging out, I guess."

She smiled coyly at him. "Wellll . . . I don't have anything going on, either. . . "

There it was. The opening. The invitation. He had never done anything with Lori—they were just friends. But she was unattached and obviously feeling horny tonight. The old Josh would have jumped at the chance. Lori wasn't a knockout, but with her straight, long brown hair and tall, slender figure, she was far from ugly. But this Josh, this strange, new Josh who had intense longings for only one woman—this Josh who Josh wanted to throttle and beat over the head—he didn't want to. 

"I . . . ummm. . ."

"Hey, it's okay," she said. "I didn't mean to put you on the spot like that." She looked out the window, embarrassed. "But . . . I do miss you, Josh. Like I said, it sucks we don't see each other this semester. We can just talk if that's all you want to do. I guess I'm feeling a little bummed tonight. I don't know why. And then I saw you, and was, like, great, there's Josh!"

He smiled. "Yeah. We can talk," he said. "That would be nice."

And they did. For over an hour. Sister Monica's name didn't come up again. But he thought about her the entire time. . . .

♣

The weekend dragged by. Josh spent it studying, watching TV, surfing the Web. Trying to pass the time, trying to make the hours melt, one into the next. By the time Monday morning finally arrived, he was ready to climb the walls. Sister Monica better not avoid him today after class. If she hadn't made her mind up by now, he literally thought he'd go berserk. 

Then again, what if she had made her mind up, and wanted to remain a nun? What then? But he didn't think about that. He didn't allow himself to. She had feelings for him. Intense feelings. He wasn't sure if she loved him, the way he knew he loved her. But she wanted him, badly. He knew that much. How could she turn her back on feelings that strong?

The class period sauntered along like an arthritic turtle. He tuned out everything Sister Monica said, focusing instead on her body language, her eye contact—searching, probing for clues. She would have made a good poker player, because, study her as he did, he simply couldn't tell what she was going to say to him once the period ended. 

She looked so sexy, wearing a short-sleeve blouse—loose-fitting, of course—and a knee-length skirt—as revealing a skirt as she owned, he guessed. The weather had finally turned over the weekend, and today the mercury was flirting with fifty. There would still be ample snow and cold to come, but this was the first shy hint that spring was just around the corner. 

When the class ended, Josh just sat there, wondering if any of the other students sometimes thought it strange how he so often lingered while they all left. But then, why should they? What was there to question, after all? Sister Monica was a nun. What were the chances that she, of all teachers, would get romantically involved with a student? 

That thought made him chuckle. If they only knew. If they only knew what kind of passionate sex kitten lay hidden beneath Sister Monica's prim, ladylike exterior. . . .

When the room was empty, save for the two of them, he got up, went to the door, and closed it. Then he approached her. He would be direct, to the point. This was no time to beat around the bush.

"Just tell me," he said. "Don't wait another second. What do you want to do, Sister Monica?"

He braced himself for a variety of answers. But the answer he received still stunned him. She didn't say a thing. Rather, she looked into his eyes, put her arms around him, and kissed him. She kissed him with all the passion, all the hunger that was in her. 

When she broke the kiss, she said, "Forgive me, Josh. I didn't mean to lose myself like that." He lightly stroked her cheek, causing her to blush and smile. "I tried all weekend to convince myself that I have a calling," she said. "That I can't get involved with you like this. That this is wrong, that it throws a wrench into everything I've ever planned for, everything I've ever done. That I'm too old, and you're too young . . . But it was no use. I just can't fight this anymore. I can't deny it any longer. . . ."

He kissed her, realizing that someone might open the classroom door and be in for a shock. 

"Have you told anyone about this yet?" he asked. 

She nodded. "They know." He realized the "they" must be her colleagues, at the sister house. "No one else does. It'll take a little time, but I told them my mind is made up. I am renouncing my vows."

He smiled, the reality of her words, the significance of them, slowly sinking in. "Did you tell them why?"

She smiled back. "Yeah, I did. But I chose my words . . . um, carefully." 

He kissed her again. She was so damn cute. 

"They didn't give you a hard time, did they?"

"No, not at all," she said. "I mean, they really wanted to talk to me, though. This was a real shock for them, I'm sure. No one saw this coming. How could they have? I didn't see it coming myself, until . . ."

" . . . until I rocked your world? Made you come like there was no tomorrow? Got you to realize how sexy, kinky, naughty, and freaky you really are?"

"Welll . . . yes," she said, and they laughed together again. It felt so good being with her, laughing with her. So good it terrified him. This woman could lift him to heights no one else could. Or she could rip his soul from him, and leave him hollow, a husk of a man. Again, he had a moment of self-ridicule. Allowing himself to get in so deep with her, allowing someone to hold such power over him. Allowing himself to fall in love. . . .

"Where will you live now?" he asked. He had no idea how the process was supposed to work. Were they going to kick her out of the sister house?

"Well, eventually, I'll get my own place," she said. "I have my eye on an apartment downtown. But I'll stay in the sister house through the semester, at least. As I said, it's not something that's over with just like that. It takes a little time."

"So, technically, you're still a nun?" he asked.

"Yes. Technically. For a little while longer."

"Can I see you tonight?" he asked. 

She bit her lower lip. "I'm sorry, Josh, I can't. I'm swamped today, and I really need to get started grading the essays for my Renaissance Lit class. How about tomorrow?"

"If I can wait that long before bursting," he said, kissing her. This time he worked his tongue into her mouth and she eagerly reciprocated. God, how he had missed her lips! The taste of her. . . .

She pulled away, her face flushed with desire. "We'd better stop," she said. "We've been in here a while."

He nodded. "What time tomorrow?" 

"How about quarter after five, in my office?" she said. "By that time, all the other professors should be gone for the day."

"I'll be there," he said. 

"Great," she said, and gave him a quick kiss. "Now you'd better go, Josh. We're pushing our luck in here." She frowned. "You know, I hate that we have to be so discreet," she said. "But with luck that won't be the case for too long. Once I get my own apartment. . . . And, you know, I think I'm going to apply for a position at the university downtown. It's close to the apartment I hope to get, and they have an opening for next year."

"Downtown?" he said. "You mean the city? That's a half hour from here."

"Yes, I am aware of that," she said, giggling. 

His mind raced ahead, worrying, obsessing. If she got a job and an apartment downtown, when would they see each other?

As if reading his mind, she put her arms around his neck, ran her fingers through his hair, and said, "Don't worry, Josh. You're the reason I'm even doing all of this. I love teaching here, but I guess I just a want a new start, you know? Everything's changed." She kissed him. "I feel like I'm starting a whole new chapter of my life."

He liked the sound of that—just as long as he would be the one to play the starring role opposite her. . . .

♣

Later that afternoon, after his last class for the day, he drove out to the adult store on the edge of town. There was one thing he hadn't tried yet with Sister Monica, something he very much wanted to do. That smooth, flawless butt of hers was made to be spanked, and she had loved that. But it was made for something else, too. . . .

He purchased a pink butt plug. He wanted her to wear it for twenty-four hours before tomorrow's little tryst, though, so he needed to see her today. She needed to wear the plug all night and all day tomorrow—hopefully that would be ample time to loosen her up, getting her ready for him. . . .

At four o'clock, he entered the English offices in Carroll Hall. The butt plug was hidden in his coat pocket. From the looks of it, several professors were in their office, so he made a point to be quick. No need to linger—that would come tomorrow. For now, he just needed to drop off his present.

Sister Monica's door was half-open. Peeking in, he saw her sitting at her desk, carefully reading an essay. And, hmmm. That gave him a little idea for tomorrow, too . . . 

He knocked and walked in, then closed the door behind him.

"Sorry, Sister Monica, I don't mean to barge in on you," he said. "Can I just see you for a minute?"

She put the paper down on her desk. "Of course, Josh. What is it?" She looked concerned, and he felt a moment of pure power. Was she worried, for a switch, that maybe he might dump her, rather than the other way around? Was she worried about losing him now that she had made such a life-changing decision, renouncing her vows? A petty part of him was glad to think she was. 

"Just wanted to bring you a gift, for our . . . um . . . affair tomorrow." He winked, and she smiled, the concern melting from her face. 

He pulled out the butt plug.

"What on earth is that?" she said, getting up from her chair.

He handed it to her. "It's for your butt. I want you to put it in, as soon as possible, okay?"

She just looked at him, not comprehending.

"It's easy, sexy Monica," he said. "You just insert it like this. . . " He took it back, showed her how to put it in. "No sweat."

"But . . . what's it for?" 

He gave it back to her. She felt it with her fingertips, curious. 

He didn't want to tell her the truth. She might balk at the thought of it. He would only take the plunge when he had her naked and worked up, begging for him to enter her. At that point, she'd be ready. But now, standing, fully clothed, in her office—now wasn't the time to tell her its true purpose.

"It's just a sex toy," he said. "I went to the shop today, looking for something that would suit a hot little sex-kitten like you. And I found this. If you wear it for twenty-four hours, it'll enhance the feeling, the mood. The guy at the store guaranteed it would work." He hoped he didn't sound as idiotic as he thought he did. He was counting on Sister Monica's naïvete. "Besides, it will make you think of me until tomorrow."

"Well, I don't need this to remind me to think of you," she said. "I do that already." 

He kissed her. "Please? Put it in. . . . It's supposed to feel really good."

She examined it again. "How does it go in again?" He showed her. She laughed. "Okay," she said. "But do I shower with it, even?"

"Oh yeah," he said. "Don't take it out. Put it in as soon as possible, and leave it in until we meet here tomorrow at five fifteen."

She shrugged. "If you say so . . ."

He took her in his arms, kissed her again. Tomorrow was going to be a lot of fun. In ways that Sister Monica could only guess . . . .

♣

It was four thirty, Tuesday afternoon. A half hour before he'd leave to see her. She had looked so damn sexy that morning. He had passed her in the hallway; she was wearing a pullover blue sweater (which clung to her body more than most of her tops, showing off her great breasts) and a pair of white slacks. He smiled as he watched her walk down the hall. Was she wearing the butt plug? Yes. Of course she was. She wouldn't have backed out. The thought of the plug, nestled inside her ass, gave him a hard-on. His heart rate accelerated. It was going to be a long wait until quarter after five.

Now, sitting in his dorm room, alone, he pulled out the bra he had taken from her last week at the library. He raised it to his nose, sniffed. It just smelled like cottony fabric now—the scent of Sister Monica having faded from the material.




Sister Monica Ch. 04



Suddenly the dorm-room door opened, and Steve Dightmann, his pudgy roommate, strolled in.

"Hey, Josh," he said, and then his eyes bugged out. "Heeeyyy. Whose is that?"

He reached for the bra. Josh let him have it. Why not? It's not like it had Sister Monica's name on it or anything.

"Damn," Steve said, studying the bra. "34C. Not bad, not bad at all. Of course, ideally, I'm more of a D-cup man, myself. You know how they say, anything more than a handful is too big? Well, I think whoever said that was so full of shit, he probably hadn't had a good BM since the Clinton administration."

Ah yes. The distinguished tastes and preferences of Steve Dightmann. A real connoisseur. Of course, Steve's favorite sandwich was peanut butter and salsa on rye—but who was keeping score?

Josh snatched the bra back, put it in his dresser drawer. 

"Who's the lucky babe?" Steve asked. Josh ignored him. "Well, whoever she is, she's on the conservative side, isn't she?" Steve went on. "That bra looks like it was crafted back in the '50s or something."

That did it. Josh put on his coat.

"Hey, where you going?"" Steve said.

"Out. By the way, you have any luck getting together with that Biology major again?" he asked as he opened the door. 

"Shit no," Steve said. He plopped onto the bed, laid back, placing his hands beneath his head. "I keep texting her, and nothing. Nada. Zilch. She acts like I don't exist. Not so much as a single reply. Damn. Guess you're lucky, Josh, having a girl who's stuck on you. At least you know you can count on someone."

"Yeah," he said. "You're right, Steve. I am lucky. Luckiest son of a bitch on campus, I'd guess." 

He started to whistle, thinking of the pleasure that was in store for him . . .

♣

Carroll Hall was deserted when he arrived, right on time at five fifteen. He ran, literally, to her door, and knocked.

"Come in," she said. He didn't need to be told twice. 

She was standing, in front of her desk, her hair unpinned, her face flushed with arousal. The sexy vixen must have been masturbating, while waiting for him to arrive. 

He took off his coat, ripped off his shirt, went up to her. She reached for his chest, and rubbed him in an up and down, circular motion. Then she wrapped her arms around him and they kissed. She was so turned on, so ready . . . he felt his erection stiffen.

They kissed for nearly half an hour, tongues making love to each other, hands feeling, squeezing, reaching, teasing. He reached around her as they kissed, lifted her sweater up enough to allow his hands access to her bare midriff. He caressed her sides, her back, loving the smooth, soft texture of her skin. She moaned in his mouth as he caressed her. Then he ran his fingers through her beautiful red hair. Freeing his mouth from hers, he licked her earlobe, then nibbled on it, wanting to taste her, explore every inch of her. He inserted his tongue in her ear drum, and she laughed. He loved the sound of her laugh. It was so free, so full of spirit, of life. 

"Make love to me, Josh," she said.

"Are you wearing your butt plug?" he asked her. With all the excitement of seeing her, kissing her, he had forgotten to ask until now.

"Want to check?" she asked, with a wink. 

He smiled, unzipped her slacks, pulled them down. She lifted her feet, one at a time, allowing him to remove the pants with ease. The sight of her panties, with a little wet circle-stain in the front, aroused him even further—though he was disappointed that she wasn't wearing the G-string he'd bought for her a couple of weeks ago.

"Turn around, sexy," he ordered. She did, and he pulled down her panties. Sure enough, there was the pink butt plug, firmly in place. He licked his lips at the sight of it. "How did it feel?" he asked her, reaching up to caress the cheeks of her ass. He kneaded the flesh, massaged her butt, and she moaned and squirmed at his touch.

"It hurt a little at first," she said. "But then it started to feel good, the longer I left it in. And now, I hardly even know it's there."

Perfect. The butt plug had hopefully stretched her out enough. They'd find out soon, one way or the other. 

Her butt right there in front of him, how could he resist? He drew his hand back, brought it forward. Slap! 

"Ooooh," she said, and leaned forward, bracing herself by grasping onto the desk.

He slapped her again, harder this time, and she moaned, threw her head back. Again. Slap! Smack. Slap. Red handprints formed on the ivory white of her flesh. He reached around, caressed her bare mound (it was freshly shaved; she must have shaved that morning), inserted his index finger into her vagina. She was soaking wet. He massaged her vaginal walls, sure to exert plenty of pressure on the rough grooves of her G-spot.

She turned around, unable to restrain herself. "Please," she said. "I need . . ." Her voice trailed off, as she blushed and looked away. She still had a little bit of shyness to her, still not completely free in expressing her sexuality. He intended to change that, though he had to admit, her shyness was adorable.

He stood up, hurriedly yanked off his jeans and briefs. His rock-hard penis stood, proudly, pointing up toward his belly button. He, too, had given his pubes a fresh shave that morning, and Sister Monica looked at his dick with lust in her eyes.

She reached down, cupping him in her hands, massaging his penis, stroking his hairless balls. Now it was his turn to moan.

He pulled her close, kissed her, reaching beneath her pullover sweater again, finding her bra strap, unhooking it. He pulled it out, threw it on the floor. He would remove her sweater soon, and then they'd both be completely naked. But he wanted her to wear it a while longer. He loved the way the wool fabric hugged tightly to her braless tits. She needed to buy more clothes like that—clothes that accentuated her beautiful body, instead of concealing it. 

Behind them, in the parking lot, the lights flickered on. It was full dark outside now, and gloomy in Sister Monica's office. The parking-lot lighting filtered in through the window, but brightened things only a little—the room was full of shadows, cool and soothing. There were no stars, no moon to shine in on them. Thick clouds, like bruises, covered the sky, keeping the temperature above freezing (though just barely), even now that the sun had set. 

"Mmmmm," she said, as he continued to kiss her.

Glancing at her desk, even as they kissed, he noticed she still had a pile of essays lying there. Great. Just what he wanted to see.

He stepped back, closed the blinds for privacy, then flicked on the wall light switch. Fluorescent overhead bulbs hummed to life. Not exactly mood lighting, but still—very bright, and better to see his professor's gorgeous body. For a moment, she looked shy again, likely feeling overly exposed in the brightness.

"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, sexy Monica," he assured her. "Don't be shy."

He went up to her, hugged her, rubbed her shoulders and back, and kissed her again. He felt any hint of tension, of tightness, melt from her muscles as he continued with the kiss. 

Eyeing the essays on her desk again, he pulled away, went over to her chair, sat down. He patted his naked thighs. "Have a seat, beautiful," he said. 

She sat on his lap, her back to him, as he cupped her breasts through the wool of her sweater, giving them a squeeze. 

"Have you finished grading those essays?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "Not all of them. I still have a few left." He squeezed her wool-encased tits again, and she moaned. She tilted her head back, kissed him.

"Well . . ." he said. "Why not get to it, Professor?" He picked up the top paper—a word-processed document authored by a student by the name of Sheila Coleman. Skimming the text, it looked like Sheila was writing about the essays of Sir Francis Bacon. He handed the paper to Sister Monica. "Read it, sexy," he instructed. He gave her breasts another squeeze.

"W-what? Read it?"

"Read it out loud. Read it as you ride me. Out loud."

He reached under her rear, nudged her to lift it. She did, and, without needing further direction, she repositioned herself just so, sliding onto him, his penis entering her.

"Mmmm," she purred. 

Much as he liked to squeeze her through the wool, he needed to feel her bare breasts now. He reached under her sweater and cupped her naked tits. He massaged them, loving the soft, supple feel of them. He kneaded, smooshed, rubbed, made circles with his fingertips, teasing her nipples. 

She began to ride him, slowly, as he continued to fondle her breasts. 

"C'mon, sexy," he said. "Read it."

"Josh . . . How can I . . . mmmmm . . . read it when we're doing . . . this." He began to match her rhythm with thrusts of his own. 

"I'm sure you can multitask, Sister Monica," he said. He pinched her nipple, and she threw her head back and moaned. "Now read the essay."

She looked down at the paper, continuing to ride him. "Francis B-Bacon lived almost f-f . . .mmmmm . . . five hundred years ago, b-but his words remain . . .ohh . . . relevant even to us of today," she began. Josh was impressed. A good, solid introductory sentence. But he was more horny than impressed with Sheila Coleman's prose. He needed to see his beautiful professor naked now, completely naked. 

He pulled the sweater up over her head, tossed it aside. Her dark, lustrous red hair fell against the porcelain of her back, and the contrast brought him to the brink of orgasm. He willed himself not to come, to slow down, think of his grandmother, think of baseball statistics. 

"B-bacon . . . mmmmm . . . would have been a . . . ohh . . . wise and needed counsel if he were alive in the first f-f-few years of the 21st century," Sister Monica soldiered on. And Josh had to admit defeat. With her right there in front of him, naked, riding his dick with ever-increasing speed, her slick vaginal walls gripping onto him like a lubricated vise, reading one of her student's essays, not even his grandmother would come to the rescue. He was going to come, and soon.

He told her to get up, he was on the verge! She needed a second to get a hold of herself—she was lost in the passion of the moment—but then she hopped off, got on her hands and knees and took him in her mouth. Her lips felt wonderful on his manhood. Her oral skills, though not perfected yet, were getting better and better all the time. She licked the tip of his penis, teasing him, then went back to sucking him, sliding up and down his nine-inch shaft. It didn't take long for him to come, and he let loose with a full load. She swallowed all of it, licking her lips when she was done. Her bangs stuck to her forehead, moist with perspiration. Some of her hair was stuck to her shoulders, also wet with sweat. And her face was red, flushed with lust and desire. God, she was sexy.

And the party was just getting started. 

"You just can't get enough of my dick, can you, Sister Monica?" he said.

She blushed again, breathing hard. 

"Well, I'm not one to disappoint a beautiful woman. Lean over the desk, sexy."

She didn't need to be told twice. She hadn't come yet, and desperately wanted to—that was obvious. 

She walked around to the front of her desk, leaned over it, her ass sticking in the air, her breasts firm against the papers and clutter on the desktop, her feet planted securely to the floor.

He came up behind her, stroked her butt cheeks, feather-like, with his fingertips. He smiled again at the sight of the pink butt plug. 

Now was the time. He pulled it out, and she squealed. 

"You like that, kinky girl?" he said.

"It tickled," she said.

She looked so beautiful, sprawled over her desk that way, her fair skin glistening with sweat in the revealing fluorescent light of the room. He saw that her butt had two large beauty marks, one on each cheek, and her back had several beauty marks as well. Somehow, this only served to rev up his engine even more. There was something so erotic about those marks. His erection stiffened, grew, if that were possible.

"You know," he said, "you should have worn the G-string and bra I bought you, instead of those old-lady things you had on. A sexpot like you shouldn't wear granny bras, Sister Monica."

He drew his hand back, then brought it forward. Smack! Right on the birthmark of her right butt cheek. "Ohh," she said.

"But I shouldn't keep you waiting. Sexy, kinky girls like you need a hard dick inside of them. Isn't that so, Sister Monica?"

She nodded, panting. He could almost taste her desire, her lust.

His lust was off the charts, too. Again, he told himself to slow down—don't come too soon. He glanced around the office, at the oak-paneled walls, the volumes of books on her shelves, the pastoral painting beside the door of a green, flower-filled hillside, sheep grazing on the high grasses. 

But what he wanted, what he needed, was his Shakespeare teacher's butt. Right now.

First, though, he thrust his penis into her soaking, slippery vagina. 

"Oh God, yes," she said. "That is so good, Josh."

She moved her hips back, in rhythm with his thrusts. She was moaning already, nearing a climax. He debated whether or not he should give it to her—this way. But he would. She deserved it. 

He increased the pace, reached underneath her, lifting her torso off the desktop far enough to cup her breasts—he never tired of fondling them. He squeezed them, pinched her nipples, and thrust his penis in and out of her with abandon. 

She was blabbering now, using her Lord's name in vain—which, considering the source—turned him on greatly. 

"Oh God, yes," she said. "Oh god, oh god, oh god!"

And then she came, with a scream. He had learned that about her. She was loud, and when she came, she came hard. 

"Ohhh," she said, and collapsed on the desk, her body going limp. Her arm brushed against Sheila Coleman's essay, the papers sticking to her sweat-soaked skin.

He pulled out of her, and said, "We're not done yet, sexy. Can you go another round?"

She looked back at him, panting, and smiled. "Just give me a minute."

Man, she was magnificent. Insatiable. 

But when she felt his penis brush up against the tip of her butt hole, he saw her ass cheeks clench.

"Josh . . .What are you doing?"

"What's it feel like, baby?" 

She looked back at him. "But I . . . It would hurt . . ."

"No, it'll be fine," he said. "That's what the butt plug was for. To loosen you up, get you ready for me."

She lifted her body several inches off the desktop. Now she was resting her weight on her elbows. "But, Josh . . ."

"Sssh," he said, and he bent down to kiss her back, right smack-dab on one of her glorious birthmarks. "I'll go slow. And if it hurts too bad, I'll stop. Trust me."

She swallowed, so hard it was an audible gulp. Then she nodded, bracing herself. Was it any wonder he had fallen in love with her?

"Besides," he said, "you're such a natural at sex, I think it'll go real smooth." With that, he caressed her butt cheeks, gently, so gently. Then he inserted his penis an inch into her butt hole—just to get her acclimated to the intrusion. She grunted, but her ass gave way easily enough, the butt plug having done its job. 

"I can't believe I was so stupid," she said. "I should've known what that butt plug thing was for!" 

He leaned forward, gave her a quick shoulder massage. At the same time, his penis sank in deeper. "Trust me," he said. "You're going to love this."

Slowly, he slid in, deeper, deeper. 

"Are you all the way in yet?" she said. He was only halfway, and said as much. "Oh God. I don't know if I can take all of you, Josh."

In response, he slid in another two inches. "How's that feel?"

"Like I have to go the bathroom," she said, giggling. 

"You mean, like you have to take a shit?" He pushed his way further in. Almost there. By talking to her, he distracted her from what he was doing. And the distraction seemed to be working.

His balls were just an inch away from her butt. One more gentle thrust would do it. Full to the hilt. He moved forward. In! All nine inches! Now the trick was to move in and out of her without there being pain. . . .

"I'm all the way in, sexy," he said. "Just thought you should know . . ."

She looked back at him. "Really? Wow. It's not bad. Not bad at all."

"It's about to get better."

He pulled out, slowly, then reinserted. She squirmed. Pulled out again, then back in, all the way. A soft moan escaped her. 

"Does it hurt?"

She nodded. "A little. But it's starting to feel good."

That's all he needed to hear. He pulled out, then thrust in, faster this time. Her butt wiggled. Out. In. He increased the tempo, the power of his thrusts, and within two minutes, he was full-on making love to her ass.

"Ohhhh," she said as he speared her again. "I never thought it would be so good." 

He rammed into her again, going faster, faster, working up a sweat. She was writhing now, moaning, squirming with pleasure.

He reached down, grabbed her hair, yanked her head up so she was looking at the ceiling. And he continued his frantic pace in her butt. 

"Mmmm, yesssss," she said. "Oh God, oh yesss . . ."

"Feel good?" he said, ramming home. 

"It . . . feels . . . .ohhhh . . . mmmmm. . .. incredible. . . " she said, and climaxed again, letting out a shriek. It was too much for him, and he came, too, squirting deep inside of her.

She slumped onto the desk, completely drained. "Oh dear God," she said. "I'm too old for this." 

He laughed. "Most twenty-five-year-olds couldn't keep up with you, Sister Monica," he said. "But hang on, I'll be right back."

But she was so spent, she barely noticed him leaving. He raced down the hall, naked, went into the bathroom, and scrubbed down his rapidly shrinking penis. 

"We're not through yet, old buddy," he said to his member as he washed it. "Not by a long shot."

Back in her office, he sat down in her chair again, and she sank into his lap, putting her head on his shoulder, wrapping her arms around him.

"How's your ass?" he said. "Sore?"

"Mm-hm," she said. "But I loved it, Josh. It was so good."

"You like it rough and you like it soft," he said. "I guess you're well-rounded, Sister Monica. You just love sex, period." He nibbled on her ear, and she laughed. 

"Hey, you know, I was wondering something," he said.

"What?" she said. 

He hesitated. He didn't want this to come out the wrong way. Still, he had to ask. "Do you . . . do you regret having been a nun for so many years? I mean, all those years, you could have been . . ."

She picked up her head, looked in his eyes. "No. Not at all. I really believed it was right for me. And I still believe that. It was right for me—at that time. I wouldn't give up those years for anything. I guess I've just moved on now." She kissed him. "Because of you."

He hugged her, and she put her head on his shoulder again. He kissed her hair, her ears, her cheeks, and before he knew it, they were making out, then making love. There was no hint of aggression this time—just slow, sensual lovemaking. Their bodies rising and falling together. And then, just sitting there, her on his lap, his penis deep inside her as she milked him. No thrusting, no thrashing, no squirming. Just joined together, in each other's arms.

"You know something, beautiful?" he said. "I'm starving. How 'bout I take you out to eat?"

She kissed him, their bodies still connected, still joined. He was only half-erect now, but it felt wonderful, it felt right. 

"You know, that reminds me . . . " she said. 

He leaned forward, took her left nipple in his mouth, sucked on it. "I'm all ears," he said.

"I . . . mmmm . . ." He was still sucking her nipple. "I . . . want us to spend more time together," she said. 




Sister Monica Ch. 04



He looked up at her. "Duh," he said. "And what do you think I want, sexy?"

She nudged him playfully. "No, silly. I mean, I want us to do things together besides, umm, well, you know."

"Besides giving ourselves unspeakable paroxysms of pleasure, besides bringing each other to earth-shattering orgasms, besides losing ourselves in sexy, kinky games, and having me make you moan and squirm and scream with lust and arousal?"

"Yes," she said, laughing. "Besides all of that! I want to get to know you better, Josh. I want you to get to know me better. I'd like to go to the museum with you, take walks, talk, and, now that you mentioned it, go out to eat together. For the time being, we'll need to be careful, of course, with where we go. Discreet. But I don't want this to be just about sex and nothing else. Okay?"

She looked at him with such earnestness, such purity of spirit. He couldn't let her down. He wouldn't. Besides, he wanted those things, too. Just as long as they were complemented with a healthy dose of Sister Monica on her back, begging for more.

"Okay," he said, and they kissed. 

"So, where are you taking me?" she asked. She began to ride him again, her hips moving up and down, as his penis slid in and out of her. He grew fully erect again.

"How about 'The Grille.' It's a burger joint a few miles from here. It's far enough away that most people from campus don't go there, especially on a Tuesday night in late February."

She was moaning now, lost in the sensations he was giving her. "Mmm. Sounds wonderful. Do they have veggie burgers?"

"Veggie burgers?? You a vegetarian?" He was getting close. He could feel his lust nearing the breaking point.

"Mmmmmm-hmm," she half-moaned, half-said. 

He couldn't hold it in any longer, and he motioned for her to get up. She got on her hands and knees, and sucked him until he came. 

Then he had her sit in the chair, and he got on his hands and knees, licking her and fingering her to orgasm. What was fair for one was fair for the other . . .

Moments later, fully dressed, they headed out her office door.

"Just my luck," he said. "Falling in love with a tree hugger."

She smiled. "You can eat the biggest, juiciest burger they have. I won't mind."

"Yeah, and I know something else I want to eat later, too—for dessert." He cupped her butt through her slacks, drew her close, and kissed her. 

"Watch it, young man," she said, with a giggle. "If you think this will make me go easy on grading your next essay . . ." 

He took her in his arms, hugged her tight, so tight. She was so much fun. She had so much energy and spunk. So much soul and passion for life. Without a doubt, she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. And he wasn't going to lose her. Not now. 

Not ever. 




Author's Note: Just wanted to thank everyone for all the comments. It's been great hearing from all of you. I am thinking this here will represent the last chapter of the Sister Monica story line. It's pretty clear what direction they're going in, and I also wonder if perhaps this story is now reaching a point of diminishing returns. What do you all think? Do you think there's a need for more chapters? Again, thanks for all the feedback. . . 



Sister Monica Ch. 05



Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for all the great feedback and suggestions. It's been fantastic hearing from you. The overwhelming consensus I received was to continue the story . . . and so here is chapter 5. I hope you enjoy it . . . 

*

"Oh, I should really buy this," Sister Monica said, picking up a jar of boysenberry jam from the wooden shelf. "Sister Catherine loves boysenberry!"

Josh smiled. It was a sunny, unseasonably warm Saturday afternoon in late March. Most of the winter snow had melted by now, and the promise of spring, of rebirth, was so close as to be palpable. It had been a month since Sister Monica told him she was renouncing her vows, and, without a doubt, it had been the best month of his life. They had to be discreet, of course, but they still managed to see each other quite often. Just last night, he had brought Sister Monica to three orgasms in her office, and he came twice. Today, he decided to take her out for a drive—just see where the road led them. And now, here they were, thirty miles from campus, walking, hand in hand, down the aisles of an old-time country store. 

He held up the shopping basket he'd picked up when they came in. It was empty save for a box of crackers and a package of sharp cheddar cheese—lunch. They would eat the cheese and crackers in the car. 

"Put 'er in, then, sexy," he said, and Sister Monica did. Actually, she put in three jars of jam. One for Sister Catherine, one for Sister Helen, and another for Sister Rosemary.

"You have to let me pay for those," she said.

Josh shook his head. He wouldn't hear of it. Every time he took his beautiful teacher out, he insisted that he treat her. His parents, back in far-off California, had provided him with start-up money for a checking account, which he'd set up at a local bank at the start of his freshman year. It was supposed to be a pragmatic fund, to be used for books, supplies, things he needed. The plan was that he'd get a part-time job, too, so he could earn an income while away at college. And during his freshman and sophomore years, that's exactly what he had done—manning the register at a gas station on weekends and some evenings. And he had supplemented his checking account with some of the money he'd earned from that job. So, at the start of this, his junior year, he decided not to work—to live off the money in his checking account—at least for a while. Maybe he'd get a job again in his senior year. Of course, at the time he made the decision to quit his gas station job, he didn't realize he'd soon be dating someone exclusively, someone he wanted to lavish with gifts and attention. In just the one month they had been seeing each other, Josh had already spent hundreds of dollars on Sister Monica—taking her out to eat, buying her new lingerie, a couple of new short-sleeved tops, two pairs of jeans, even a pair of earrings and a necklace. She always told him it wasn't right—that she should pay her own way—but up until now, he had been steadfast in his refusal.

"Nope," he said, as he fiddled with the jam jars. "If Sister Catherine and Sister Helen and Sister Rosemary are going to sink their teeth into these boysenberry preserves, I'll be the one to buy 'em. You just keep browsing, beautiful. And pick up anything you want."

She shook her head. "Okay, Josh. But this can't continue. I have to treat you to something sometimes, too, you know. Otherwise, I might start getting a complex." She smiled, and he kissed her. How many times had he kissed her since the middle of February? Hundreds of times, easily. And yet, each time they kissed, he felt his blood rush a little faster, his senses come alive a little sharper. He fell in love with her more every day.

And he loved the way she was gradually changing her wardrobe. When she taught class, she still pinned her hair up, and still wore loose-fitting clothing. Most of the time. Last week she had come to class with that sexy pullover sweater of hers, which clung to her breasts and showed off her hourglass figure. And when they went out, to eat, to the movies, wherever, she always had her red hair loose, letting it fall halfway down her back. And she usually wore either the tops and jeans he'd bought her or something of her own—something not revealing, but not concealing either. Today she was wearing one of the tops he'd bought for her—a blue short-sleeved shirt that fit her snugly and really showed off her figure—and a pair of the jeans he'd bought for her—they weren't tight but they hugged her butt and accentuated her curves—and the silver-chain necklace he'd purchased just last week. She was a knockout. A couple of the male customers at the front of the store had ogled her already. 

They walked under a low arch and entered a quiet back section of the store, where old dusty paperbacks lined the racks like a collection of orphans seeking to charm would-be benefactors. "Damn," he said. "I didn't think a store like this would have all these books." He scanned the selection. Romance novels, mostly, along with some regional nonfiction. But there were a few gems, too—Main Street by Sinclair Lewis, a collection of poems by Robert Frost, an anthology of the works of Edgar Allan Poe. And An American Tragedy. God, he hated that book. He had to read it for class last semester.

"Ick," he said, when he spotted it.

Sister Monica raised her eyebrows. 

"What? You like that?" Josh asked.

She smiled, shrugged. "Guilty as charged."

"But . . . Dreiser can't even write!" he said. "The book goes on and on and on! He can hardly put two adequately worded sentences together."

"Well . . ." Sister Monica grabbed the book off of the shelf, leafed through it. "It's the themes that make it a classic, Josh. Dreiser paints such a lucid picture of the dark side of the American Dream. You should read it again. Try to get past the prose style and look for the message underneath." She tossed it into their shopping basket.

"Hey, no way!" he protested.

"It's only two dollars," she said and put her arms around him. They kissed. Well, she could be persuasive, he had to admit. . . .

There was nobody back here—this little corner of the store was all theirs. Why not? 

He pulled her shirt out from her jeans, reached under it, caressed her back, feeling for her bra strap. Perfect. She was wearing her black lace. Probably had on the matching G-sting, too. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and she eagerly reciprocated. 

He lowered his hands, cupped her butt, through the denim of her jeans. She moaned in his mouth, probed a little further with her tongue. Then, suddenly, she pulled away.

"Josh, we can't," she said. Her face was flushed. "There are customers just a few feet away."

"They can't see us back here," he said. Of course, they might walk in here—but nothing ventured, nothing gained. . . 

He took her in his arms again, and he could feel the heat in her. She wanted it. They tongue-wrestled again, she ran her fingers through his curly black hair. He backed her against the book shelf, and her butt smacked into a shelf of the trashy romance novels. The shelf rattled with the impact and a few of the books fell to floor. "Oops," he said, and she giggled. Then he reached under the front of her shirt, cupped her breasts in his hands. He squeezed, mooshed, pinched her nipples through the thin lace fabric. "Ohhh," she purred, throwing her head back. It, too, hit the spine of a book, and the shelf again rattled against the wall. 

He peeled the front of her shirt up, up, until her bra-encased tits were exposed. God, she was gorgeous. He would never tire at the sight of her breasts. They were absolutely perfect. He pulled the bra down, exposing her nipples. Then, leaning in, he took an erect nipple in his mouth, sucking on it, chewing it. He felt Sister Monica's body shudder. And he told himself that he would do it. He would take her, right here, right now, in the back of this country store on this dot-on-the-map small town, on this beautiful March day. He was going to—

He heard someone clearing their throat. 

He jerked his head up, pulled down Sister Monica's shirt, and saw the shop owner—a thin old man with a gray five o-clock shadow coating his cheeks. 

"Oh dear," Sister Monica said, quickly adjusting her bra and tucking her shirt back in.

The old man winked at them. "Mind you, I'd have just stood here and watched ya," he said. "Been a damn long stretch since I been privy to the likes of that. But damn if I don't got some customers out here, and one of 'em looked in here and saw you." Josh heard Sister Monica gasp at this, but he just smiled. "Guess she didn't have the same affinity I do for public displays. God damn shame if you ask me. But I got to ask you to stop. 'Least till you get back in your car, anyway." He winked at them again. "Young fella, you are one hot-damned lucky son of a gun. If I was fifty years younger . . ." He eyed Sister Monica, whistled, and left the room.

"Oh gosh," Sister Monica said. "I am so embarrassed!"

Josh just laughed. "Come on, sexy lady. Guess we should check out, huh?"

Back in the main section of the store, Josh looked around at the customers, trying to guess which one had blown the whistle on them. There. He was sure she must have been the one. A thin black-haired, tight-lipped, scowling woman whose nose looked so sharp he thought maybe it could cut glass. Killjoy. 

At the register, the old owner continued to stare at Sister Monica. Josh couldn't blame the guy. Watching her make out had probably given the old-timer a hard-on. "I'm really sorry, sir," she said. "We had no idea . . . I mean . . . "

The shop owner chuckled, waved a dismissive hand. "Don't think nothin' of it, ma'am. Believe me, I've seen it all in my day. But, if you ever want a part-time job . . . I could always use the help." He winked again. "What do you do for a livin' anyway, miss? Curiosity gets the better of me these days, I find."

But before Sister Monica could respond, Josh blurted out, "Oh. Well, she's a practicing Catholic nun, who lives in a convent across the street from the university where she teaches."

Sister Monica's mouth dropped open, and her eyes bugged out. Josh fought hard to restrain himself from busting his gut with laughter.

"Is that a fact?" the old man said. "Well, I'm the archbishop of Canterbury myself. I just run this little country store in my spare time. You know, like a hobby."

Josh couldn't fight it any longer. He laughed—loud and hard. And when he and Sister Monica drove a few miles up the road, finding a private spot on what appeared to be an old logging trail, they ate their crackers and cheese and then made explosive, passionate love. Underneath her outward embarrassment, the entire episode had turned her on as much as it had him. 

♣

"I can't believe she gave me a B!" Josh was sitting on his bed, flipping through the pages of an essay he'd written for Sister Monica's class. It was a Tuesday afternoon, the first week of April. Mellow early spring sunshine filtered in through the window, highlighting the dust bunnies floating aimlessly around the room. He had worked hard on this essay! It was definitely A material. 

"Tell me about it," Steve Dightmann, his roommate, said. He was sitting at their shared PC, surfing the net for adult dating sites. "And hey, what's wrong with a B, anyway? I got a D on my Sociology test last week."

That was small consolation. Steve's standards weren't exactly top-notch. One time, last October, he'd received a C+ on a test and jumped up and down, doing what he called "The Dance of Joy." And this was the same guy who thought Mozambique was a spicy Cajun shrimp recipe.

"Aha!" Steve said. "This one looks like the jackpot. 'Meet lonely wives who aren't getting fulfilled at home.' Damn. I want some of that! You want me to set up an account for you, too, Josh, while I'm at it?"

"Forget it," Josh said, tossing the essay onto the floor. No way was that B material. No freaking way. What was she thinking?? "Most of the profiles on there are probably fake anyway. Besides . . ."

Steve turned his head around to look at him. "Oh, that's right. You're in love. Been seeing some babe with a 34C bra size for the last month or so . . .and I haven't even met her!" He got up, opened Josh's clothes drawer, pulled out the bra Josh had taken from Sister Monica back in February. He squeezed the cups, sighing. "Shit. Wish her tits were in there right now. You tell 'er yet to stop wearing June Cleaver-style lingerie, Josh?"

Josh stood up, took the bra away from his roommate, and put it back in the drawer. He glanced at the computer screen. A half-naked, big-breasted blonde looked back at him, her lips forming into a come-hither pout, her eyes beckoning. That confirmed it. There wouldn't be one real woman on that site. Nothing but a bunch of spambots. He almost felt sorry for Steve—the gullible slob. 

"When am I gonna meet her, Josh?" Steve said, sitting back down in front of the PC. "I mean, c'mon, man. You're obviously serious about 'er."

Josh took off his shirt, feeling his roommate's eyes on him. Steve was thirty pounds overweight, soft—some guys in the dorm called him Doughboy, or just Dough for short. Josh, meanwhile, was fit and trim—not musclebound, but well put together. He knew Steve envied him for that.

He threw himself on the bed. 

Steve looked at him. "What are you doing?"

"Taking a nap," Josh said. "I'm beat."

"A nap?" Steve chuckled. "Shit, what are you, six years old? When am I gonna meet your main squeeze, Josh? C'mon! You've never been so stuck on a chick before."

But Josh didn't reply. He just put the pillow over his head, closed his eyes, and thought of the B Sister Monica had given him. . . . 

♣

"So what do you think Shylock means by that?" Sister Monica asked the class. They were reading "The Merchant of Venice" now—a far superior play, Josh thought, to "The Two Gentlemen of Verona"—the yawner they had been assigned previously.

A girl with glasses and short blonde hair raised her hand, answered the question. But Josh was barely paying attention. He was looking out the window—at the muddy campus lawn, snowless now; the bare trees, with limbs like twisted fingers; the daffodils blooming in the distance, their yellow flowers incongruous against the otherwise nondescript grays and browns of early spring. And he was looking at Sister Monica, too. Her sexy figure concealed underneath baggy slacks and a loose-fitting blouse, her hair primly pinned up. But . . . she had on the pair of earrings he had bought her. They were silver hoops, quite large, very noticeable. It was the first time she'd worn any accessories into the classroom. 

He watched her move, the graceful way she had about her. She was very much at home in front of the class, lecturing away. But he would have to see her after class, ask her about his grade on that last essay. 

"And maybe we'll need to get a little spanking later, too," he said aloud, quietly, eyeing her butt as she wrote something on the blackboard.

When the period was over, he lingered behind. He'd been doing that less over the past month, so it was unlikely any of his classmates would find it odd now. When she saw him still seated at his desk, everyone else gone, Sister Monica smiled at him. "Did you want to talk to me about something, Josh?" she said, approaching him.

He stood up. He towered over her by several inches. He was close to six feet tall, while she stood just under five feet five. "Can I see you tonight?" he asked her. Some protest. And here he'd planned on bitching about his grade. But when she stood so close to him, when he could sniff the flowery fragrance of her hair . . . what did a B matter?

She bit her lower lip, which always drove him wild. "Hmm. I do still have a few more papers to grade for my Renaissance Lit class . . ."

That did it. Mentioning papers. Flowery fragrance or not, he needed to speak up.

"You know, Sister Monica, I can't believe you gave me a B on that last essay," he said. "I mean, c'mon. That was definitely A-quality stuff."

She glanced out the door. So did he. No one was out in the hall. 

She put her arms around his neck, looked into his eyes. "Well . . . maybe I was a little hard on you. You're a gifted writer, Josh. You're the smartest person in this class. I guess I just expect a lot from you."

He leaned in, kissed her, his anger over the grade melting away like sugar on her lips. "So you grade me with a double standard," he said.

This seemed to get to her. She pulled away, bit her lip again. "Do you have your paper?" she said.

He did. He fished it out of his notebook, gave it to her. She went to her desk, crossed out the B, and wrote in an A-. 

"There," she said. "Better?"

"But . . ." Somehow this disturbed him. "You didn't do that just because we . . ."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course not! I can still be objective with your work, Josh." She smiled, and that made him feel better. He worried that he'd insulted her, doubted her professionalism. He hadn't meant to. "Besides, you were right, what you said."

"About the double standard?"

She nodded. "I think I did grade you too hard on this." She held up his essay, then gave it back to him. "I'm sorry about that. It isn't easy grading essays, you know. It's really the part of my job I dislike the most."

He took her in his arms, kissed her ear. "Love the earrings," he said.

She giggled. "Well, the person who bought them for me has good taste."

"I need to see you tonight," he said. "I think I'll burst if I don't."

She kissed him. "Me, too," she said. "And I suppose the papers I need to grade can wait one more day . . ."

He heard footsteps in the hall, pulled away from her. He quickly picked up his Shakespeare book and flipped through it, trying to look studious. The footsteps grew louder, louder, then gradually faded.

"We really shouldn't kiss in here," she said. She had her hand over her heart. "It's too big of a risk."

He nodded. That was true. Infuriating, but true. "Yeah," he said. "Even when you're no longer 'Sister' Monica, it wouldn't be good for anyone to see us. How much longer do you think it'll be anyway?"

"Not long," she said. "Maybe by next week . . ." 

It still struck him as odd—the thought of calling her "Monica" rather than "Sister Monica." But she had made her decision to renounce her vows well over a month ago. It was about time they acted on it. She had also rented an apartment; she'd move in on the first of May. "When you get that new job teaching at the college downtown, will you wear your hair loose for your classes, sexy Monica?" he asked then.

She smiled. "I haven't got that job yet, Josh. Don't jinx me."

"Please," he said. "They'd be crazy not to hire you." He was sure she'd get the position. She had already gone through two interviews, and a decision was supposed to be made soon. "But when you get it, let your hair down, pretty lady. It'll be a whole new you."

"We'll see," she said. "I just might. If I get it."

He winked at her. She'd get the job. And he knew she liked to look good. She loved wearing her hair loose. When they went out together, he could tell—the way she carried herself, the way she would fiddle with her hair while they talked or ate at a restaurant. It was almost as if she were in the process of discovering how beautiful she really was, after years of repressing that beauty. 

"I know we shouldn't," he said, "but I can't help it." He leaned in close and French-kissed her. "Oh. By the way, how did the sisters like their boysenberry jam? I forgot to ask you about that."

"They loved it!" she said. ♣

He hated the mall, but he liked the lingerie store. And Sister Monica's wardrobe needed to be expanded. He spent an hour browsing the merchandise—not just trying to decide what to buy now, but also planning future purchases. 




Sister Monica Ch. 05



This time around, he found the perfect items. A black garter belt and matching stockings, to go along with a pair of black high-heeled pumps. . . . 

♣

He met her at her office at five thirty. None of the other English profs were around—Carroll Hall was like a ghost town. But . . . he didn't want to spend the evening in her office. Not this time. 

When he arrived, she was standing just inside her door, her hair unpinned, the two top buttons of her blouse unfastened. He closed and locked the door behind him, and a moment later, they were all over each other, kissing, caressing, their bodies rubbing together through their clothing. 

But he didn't want to get carried away . . . not yet. 

He pulled away, and she looked at him, questions in her eyes.

"Don't worry, sexy," he said. "We're gonna have a blast tonight. Just not in here."

"What?"

He had a store bag with him. He gave it to her. "Look what's inside, baby," he said.

She pulled out the garter, stockings, and pumps, raised her eyebrows. "Wow," she said, with a giggle. He couldn't help but smile. A month ago, she would have balked at such a gift. Now, she welcomed receiving sexy lingerie and kinky accessories. Slowly but surely, she was growing into her newfound sexuality.

"Something tells me you haven't ever worn a garter before," he said.

"Or stockings, even," she said. "I have worn high heels though. Do I get extra credit?"

"I'll show you extra credit." And before he knew it, his tongue was in her mouth, his hands were massaging her naked back as he reached under her shirt, his erect penis was grinding against her, through his jeans. Yeah, right. Don't get carried away. Who was he fooling? When he was alone with his beautiful teacher, how in the world could he not let himself get carried away?

He unbuttoned her blouse, then slid it off of her. She was wearing a skimpy navy blue bra he had bought for her just last week. "Nice," he said. "Were you wearing that sexy bra in class this morning?"

"Yes," she said, her voice husky, full of desire.

"Nice," he repeated, and kissed her breasts. He reached underneath the bra, cupped her tits in his hands, squeezed. She moaned, and he squeezed harder.

Not getting carried away was now a distant memory. Besides, he wanted her to put on her new gifts. She couldn't do that with her pants on.

He unzipped her slacks, pulled them down her legs. She was wearing the black G-string. He licked his lips at the sight of it. "And I take it you wore that to class today, too?"

"Yes," she said. "I did."

"You kinky sexpot," he said. "You loved wearing your sexy lingerie to class, didn't you?"

"Yes," she repeated. "It turned me on."

He clamped his teeth onto the G-string, pulled it all the way down her legs with his mouth. Then he attacked her clitoris, rubbing it, in a small circular motion, with his thumb. He kissed her there, too, and licked up and down her smooth, hairless mound. 

"Oh God," she said. He wanted her in the garter belt and stockings, but he figured he'd bring her to orgasm first. He continued his oral assault on her clit, inserting his tongue, then pulling it out. In and out, in and out. Making love to her with his tongue. Meanwhile, he reached around and squeezed her ass cheeks, hard.

"Ohhh," she moaned, and her legs wobbled. He drew his hand back, then brought it forward. Smack! A solid blow to her left butt cheek. Then another, then another, and yet another, each slap harder than the last. All the while, his tongue probed deeper, deeper inside of her. 

Finally, she shrieked, and her juices squirted into his mouth, saturating his tongue and lips. He felt her nearly fall over. She had to place her hands on his shoulders to balance herself. 

He stood up, licking his lips, loving the taste of her. Then he kissed her, thrusting his tongue in her mouth, allowing her to taste her own musky juices. Apparently she couldn't get enough, as she engaged him in a tongue-dance, a French ballet, her moans filling his mouth. 

When he broke the kiss, she said, "Josh, make love to me. Now. I want you so much." Again, he smiled. She was able to express herself sexually now without much shyness. She may not even have been aware of these changes in her, but he was. 

"Soon, sexy, soon," he said. "But first, I want you to put these on."

He handed her the garter and stockings. She looked at them, puzzled, panting, then put them on quickly—evidently hoping that the sooner she did, the sooner his penis would be throbbing inside of her. He loved her desire, her arousal. She was so turned on, he could smell it, feel it, right here in the room. It was a tangible thing, made manifest by the depth and strength of her need.

He couldn't help but stare. She looked great. The black garter and stockings contrasted beautifully with the lily fairness of her skin, and without panties on, her vagina was still visible—it was an incredibly erotic sight. 

"I hate to have you cover yourself up, sexy," he said. "But it's only temporary."

He bent down to put her slacks back on.

"What . . .?"

He smiled up at her. She lifted her feet off the ground, allowing him to dress her. "We're going out," he said.

"Oh." She gave him an "are-you-serious?" expression. Here she was, wanting to make love, to scream in orgasm, and he was taking her out?? Couldn't it at least wait another few minutes?

"To my dorm room."

He gave her back her blouse, and she put it on. She still seemed in a daze. The sexual energy, the release, must have still been coursing through her, not enabling her to think straight.

"Where?" she said.

"My dorm room. It'll be a breeze," he said. "Mike's the floor monitor tonight. He always cuts me some slack. He won't give us any trouble. And Steve—my roommate—he's out tonight, at some party. He won't be back till after midnight."

"But . . ."

"Trust me, beautiful," he said. "It'll be great."

Before she could protest further, he took her by the hand, led her out of her office, and proceeded to walk her across campus to his dorm. He took her on a roundabout course, being sure to avoid any passersby. 

When they got there, he told her to just look natural, at ease. Not to worry. Mike wouldn't know who she was. And his room was the second on the left. They wouldn't need to pass anyone along the way. There would be no trouble, no risk of her being recognized.

He sweet-talked Mike, and it went off without a hitch, just as he'd predicted. He had her in his dorm room a moment later.

"Well . . .what do you think, baby?" he said. "It ain't the Marriott, huh?"

She looked around the room, as if gazing at a foreign spectacle. Piles of clothes were heaped on the floor, neither of the beds were made, a half-eaten salami sandwich lay on a paper plate next to the PC.

"It's . . . nice," she said.

He laughed. "It sucks," he said. "And you know it."

"Are you sure it's safe for me to be in here?" she said. "There must be students of mine on this floor. What if they come in?"

"Door's locked, sexy, don't worry."

"And are you sure that person you talked to didn't recognize me?"

"Who, Mike? Nah. He's probably high anyway. He'd forget in the morning, even if he did. But no—for all he knew, you're just some sexy babe I met out somewhere. Don't worry, Sister Monica. It's all good."

He took off his shirt and jeans, sat down on his bed, wearing only his briefs. 

"Well, what are you waiting for?" he asked her. And he suddenly realized. This was the first time they'd be together in a bed. They had made love in the school library, over her office desk, on her floor, on her chair, in his car, in the shower. But never in a simple bed. Just that thought alone send a jolt of energy through his dick.

She stood there, still gawking at the room. She was clearly nervous.

He got off the bed, went to her, kissed her. "It's okay, baby," he said. "Just relax." He kissed her again, and she began to melt, kissing him back. He ran his fingers through her lustrous red hair, massaged her shoulders through the cotton of her blouse. 

"You relaxed?" he asked a moment later.

She smiled. "Getting there."

He took her by the hand, led her to the bed. He wasted little time, taking off her blouse and pants. Now she stood there, in her sexy lace bra, garter belt (with no panties) and stockings. To complete the look, he took the pumps out of the shopping bag, got on his knees, and put them on her. 

"You look so freaking hot," he said. 

She smiled, tossed her hair back with a flick of her head, and stumbled. "It's been a while since I've worn heels," she said. "I'm out of practice."

"Well, you're not out of practice with other things, are you?" he said with a grin, and he slid his briefs down his legs. His dick was standing at full attention, pointing up at the ceiling. 

He got on the bed, lay on his back, put his hands behind his head, and just enjoyed the sensations of Sister Monica taking him in her mouth. She had by this time perfected the art of oral sex, as well she should have—she'd sucked him probably a hundred times in just the last month. Over that time, she had become a master, sliding her mouth up and down his shaft just so, using her tongue in a tantalizing, teasing manner, and even deep-throating him when the mood struck her. 

"Ahh," he said. "That is awesome, sexy Monica."

She looked up at him, her mouth still working wonders with his penis. She cupped his hairless balls with her hand, gently giving them a massage. This sent him close to the edge. She sensed this and picked up the pace. Less than a minute later, he shot his load, squirting stream after stream in her mouth. She eagerly swallowed all of it, and then cleaned the straggling cum from his tip. 

She took him in her mouth again, and got him hard once more. He loved the way she always did that. She was so turned on, so ready to have his dick deep inside of her.

He sat up, and they kissed. As their tongues wrestled, he felt her hand grab his penis and caress it—up and down the shaft. 

"Careful, sexy," he said. "You'll make me squirt again."

She responded with a moan, but she did take her hand away. Glancing behind her, he saw her high-heeled feet hanging off the edge of the bed, and the sight of the heels on her nearly sent him over the top again. He had to have her. Now. "Lie down on your back, kinky girl," he instructed, and she eagerly did as she was told. God, she looked good. Her pussy lips glistened with moisture, exposed beneath the thin band of her garter belt. He felt a jolt surge through his loins. Easy now. Easy.

There was one last surprise for their evening. A bandana he wore when he went out jogging—he would roll it up into a band and tie it behind his head. That's what he did now—moving as fast as he could, he fished it out of his drawer, rolled it into a headband, then approached the bed again. 

"Turn over on your stomach for a sec, okay?"

She did, without hesitation. He again glanced at her pumps, the black, pointed heel protruding five inches from the surface of the shoe. It was one of the most erotic things he had ever seen—Sister Monica decked out in garter, stockings, and heels. 

"Put your arms behind your back," he said. Again, she did as told. And he tied her arms at the wrists, knotting the bandana tight—but not too tight. Just snug enough to hold her arms in place without causing pain. "Now turn back over, sexy."

On her back again, she smiled at him. "So you want me all tied up, hmm?" She was oozing sex. It seeped out of her pores, permeated the air in the room. 

He climbed on top of her, kissed her. He wasted no time. He slid inside of her, going slow, slow, until he was in all the way to the hilt. "Mmmmmm," she said, and squirmed at the hips.

He pulled out of her. "What do you want me to do, Sister Monica?" he said. He didn't always coax her into talking dirty, but every now and then he did. It turned him on to hear her use words she never would have before she met him. And it turned her on, too. She had admitted as much.

"I want you to make love to me," she said. But she had a dubious look in her eyes. That wasn't what he wanted to hear, and she knew it.

He reached forward, squeezed her breasts, still hugged tightly by the blue lace bra. 

"You can do better than that, baby," he said, and thrust his penis into her an inch, left it there a second, then pulled it out again. He repeated the motion, and she thrashed her hips wildly.

"What is it you want, Sister Monica?" he said. He reached under her bra, pinched her nipple. She moaned, threw her head back against the pillow, her arms pinned and bound beneath her.

In—one inch—then out again. In. Out. And he pinched her nipple again. 

"Ohhhh, I want you to fuck me," she said. "Fuck me, Josh!"

"You want my dick in your wet pussy, Sister Monica?" He thrust in two inches, then pulled out. She squirmed, thrashed, bit her lip, and nodded. "Say it."

"Please . . ."

"Tell me what you want, baby."

She was panting, her breath choppy. "I want you to stick your big dick into my wet pussy!" she said. He smiled. She had inserted the word "big" on her own.

Well, no need to keep the lovely lady waiting. He pushed all the way in, rubbed his pelvis against her clitoris, grinding it, trying to send it—and her—into sensory overload, and then pulled out again. 

He leaned all the way forward, French-kissed her, and she aggressively kissed him back, and moaned as he slid his nine inches all the way in again.

When he pulled out again, he lifted her legs, positioned them over his shoulders.

"Is that comfortable, beautiful?" he wanted to know. He'd never tried this position with her before.

She nodded. She was beyond words. She just wanted to come.

He rammed his penis deep inside of her, going faster now, working up a sweat. She was gasping and thrusting her hips in rhythm with his movements. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her bangs sticking to it. He glanced at her legs, resting on his shoulders for support, and again noticed her high-heeled pumps—swinging in the air as their bodies shook, linked together in their passion.

"Ohgodohgodohgodohgod," she kept saying as she neared release. The bed shook, and the head board rattled against the wall. "Ohgodohgod, fuck me!" she said.

And he did. He was moving in and out of her like a supercharged piston. Her moans and cries grew ever louder and then she screamed, coming with a thunderous climax. Her body spasmed and jerked, and then went limp. 

"Oh my god," she said. 

"It gets better all the time, doesn't it?" he said, still making love to her. He had slowed his pace, but hadn't stopped.

"Mmmmm, yes," she purred. 

He picked up the pace, and again she began to thrust her hips in rhythm. He wasn't going to pull out until he came, too. And he could now, without worrying. Shortly after Sister Monica had decided to renounce her vows and see Josh regularly, she had gone on the pill. 

He leaned forward, took her bra-covered left breast in his mouth, licked and chewed, and heard her sigh with pleasure. Then he sat up straight again and hammered home. 

And at some point, maybe five minutes later, as Sister Monica was once again uttering her Lord's name repeatedly in vain, he came. He sent a gushing stream deep into her womb, and then he fell onto his back, lying beside her.

"I love you," he said. "Do you know that?"

She kissed him. "I think I have a pretty good idea," she said with a smile. "But . . . do you love me enough to untie me now?"

Shit. He'd almost forgotten! He undid the knot, and lay back down, beside her, again. They embraced in a sideways lying-down hug, looking into each other's eyes. Then she nestled her head against his shoulder, and inched even closer.

They lay like that for a long time. She even fell asleep for a while, and he watched her. She looked like such an angel, sleeping there beside him. He vowed, then and there, that he would never hurt her, never break her heart. He loved this woman so much, it terrified him. He had no idea what he would do without her. It was crazy—it had all happened so fast. But there was no denying the power of what he felt. No suppressing the truth. 

She stirred beside him, opened her eyes. "Did I fall asleep?"

"Sure did. I guess it's understandable, though. You just had quite a workout. And you know, at your age . . ."

"Hey!" But she was laughing. "I'll show you who's old." She grabbed hold of the bandanna, blew some of the bangs out of her eyes (another thing she did that drove him wild), and told him to turn over, onto his stomach.

"What for?" he asked.

"It's your turn now," she said. 

He laughed. This was a switch. Most of the time, his sexy professor was very submissive in bed. Oh, she got into it and had the most powerful orgasms he'd ever witnessed. But usually she was content to let him take control, set the tone. But her wanting to tie him up? His penis began to stiffen. He loved it, just loved it. She had so much innate kinkiness to her. He wanted to help her release all of it, as time went on. This was another step in that direction.

He did as told, letting her take charge. She tied his arms behind his back, at the wrist—and she tied it pretty tight, too.

"Hey, easy now, sexy," he said.

She giggled, had him lie on his back. Then she took his penis in her mouth, licking him, sucking him, getting him good and hard. 

"Now," she said, a twinkle in her eye, "what do you want, Josh?"

"I want you to fuck me, Sister Monica," he said. "Ride me like a prize-winning cowgirl. Swivel those sexy hips of yours and throw your head back and toss your hair back and make yourself come on my cock."

She smiled. "Okay!" And she climbed on top of him, sliding herself onto his dick. "Oooh," she said when she sank all the way down. "God, that feels good."

Suddenly there were footsteps outside the door, and she tensed up.

"It's okay, baby," he said. "Remember, door's locked."

She nodded, breathed a sigh of relief, and Josh silently cursed dorm life. No damn privacy. It was all just one big mood-breaker. He looked forward to Sister Monica getting her own apartment next month. Then he could spend some nights over there without any worry of being interrupted.

She began to ride him. He wanted so much to reach up and grab those perfect tits of hers, but of course he couldn't. Well, he probably could get out of her knot, but he didn't want to ruin it for her. This was her moment to shine, her chance to be in control. He wanted her to have that.

She leaned in close to him, almost lying down on top of him, and kissed him. Then she flicked her tongue out, licking his lips, his nose, his eyebrows, his entire face. He was in heaven. She was being unleashed! 

Slowly she worked down his body, licking his chin, his neck, then his nipples. She took his right nipple into her mouth and chewed on it. 

"Damn," he said, and he felt his erection stiffen a little more, if that were possible, inside of her.

She looked up at him, smiled, then took his nipple in her mouth again. She bit down, hard, hard enough to cause a bit of pain. He clenched his body.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Did that hurt?"

He shook his head. He didn't want to discourage her in any way. 

She took his nipple between thumb and forefinger and pinched. A breath escaped him. All the while she continued to ride him, slowly, sensually. She leaned in close again and they kissed. For five minutes, ten, their tongues entwined as she had her way with him. She moaned in his mouth and he moaned in hers. No woman had ever taken control of him like this. This was new territory for both of them.

She sat up, but only partway, bracing her weight on her forearms. She moved in and out of him at an angle, making sure his penis was coming in full contact with her clit. Her breathing began to degenerate, as she rode the wave toward climax.




Sister Monica Ch. 05



"Ohhhh," she moaned as she continued to move up and down, up and down. It was killing him not to be able to use his hands. Her breasts were right there, in front of him—but he could only watch, not touch.

He met her movements with his own, thrusting up as she sank down, sliding out as she inched up. They were joined perfectly, in total synchronicity with each other. And when she came moments later, he came too. And then she fell onto him, spent.

"Oh my God," she said. "That was so wonderful, Josh."

It was wonderful. He loved every minute of it. But now he wanted the use of his hands back. 

"Will the fair lady be so gracious as to untie me?" he asked.

"Wellll...." She looked him over. "Hmmmm."

He gave her his best puppy-dog look. "Please?"

She laughed—that free-spirited, full laugh he had fallen in love with, and untied him. When she lay down on top of him again, he was able to wrap his arms around her.

She rested her head on his upper chest, then kissed him.

"'You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate,'" he said. "Or should I say, Sister Monica?"

"Hey," she said. "That's Henry the Fifth! Have you been reading Shakespeare on your own time?"

"Just the juicy bits," he said. "Now, kiss me, Kate."

She did. And then he heard a key inset itself into the door lock. "Holy shit!" he said. 

She just looked at him, stunned, like a frightened animal, frozen with indecision. "Josh?"

"It must be my roommate! I can't believe it! He wasn't supposed to be here."

The door opened, and sure enough, there was Steve Dightmann, big as life and twice as ugly.

"Wooo-baby!" Steve said at the sight before him, and it must have been quite the sight—Sister Monica lying on top of a naked Josh, in her garter, stockings, bra, and heels.

"Close the damn door!" Josh barked, and Steve did. "Lock it!"

"Well, well, well," Steve said. "Now I know why Josh decided to settle down. And I see we've definitely moved well beyond the June Cleaver lingerie." He wolf-whistled. Sister Monica turned her face away from him, closed her eyes. She looked like she was praying. 

Josh rolled out from under Sister Monica, managed to yank the blanket free, and covered Sister Monica and himself with it. 

"Hey, no need to do that," Steve said. "I was enjoying the view."

Josh suddenly realized—his porky roommate didn't seem to recognize Sister Monica. Then again, why should he? He wasn't an English major, and the closest thing he came to reading Shakespeare was the literature on the side of the condiment bottles. Maybe there was still hope, after all.

Under the cover, he held Sister Monica close, trying to comfort her. She still had her eyes closed, as if wishing Steve Dightmann away.

"So," Steve said, "does your girlfriend have a name?"

Sister Monica's eyes popped open, and she looked at Josh. What do we do? What do we say? That's what her eyes were asking him.

He gave her a nod. Nothing to worry about.

"Monique," Josh said, and Sister Monica's eyes widened. "She's a grad student. I met her in the library one night a couple months ago. English major, like me." Of course, this particular university did not have a graduate program for English. But Steve probably didn't know that. Josh felt Sister Monica tense up beside him, fearing, evidently, that Steve would see right through the lie.

"Really?" Steve said. "A grad student, huh?" He looked at Sister Monica, closely, and Josh could almost hear her thoughts. I'm thirty-seven years old! There's no way he's going to think I'm a graduate student. "Wow. Imagine that. Going for the upper crust, huh, Josh?"

And that was it. He'd bought it. Josh wasn't sure what he was more proud of. That he'd come up with a credible story in the blink of an eye or that his sexy professor could so easily pass for a woman in her mid-twenties.

"Now, would you please get out of here?" Josh said. 

"Well . . . I was gonna go back online, ya know?" Steve said. "Research, remember?" Yeah, he remembered. Lonely housewives.

"What about that freakin' party you were supposed to be at?"

"Oh that." Steve turned on the PC, and it hummed to life. He was settling in for the long haul. "Sucked. Bunch of losers. Don't know what I was thinking. But don't stop what you were doing on my account. Have all the fun you want, guys. I won't mind." 

"Josh, I think I should go," Sister Monica whispered in his ear.

He nodded, reluctantly. 

She managed to put her clothes on while still covered by the blanket, much to Steve's disappointment. 

"Nice to meet you, Monique," Steve said once Josh and Sister Monica were both fully clothed and ready to leave. 

"Um, you, too," she said, forcing a smile. She was cool under pressure. Josh had learned that about her before. Just another thing he loved about her.

They left together, and he walked her outside, being sure that no one saw them. It was easier now anyway, as dusk had fallen. When they reached a secluded spot at the back of the campus, he kissed her.

"I'm so sorry about that, Sister Monica," he said. "That dweeb assured me he'd be gone all night."

"Monique?" she said, and laughed. "A grad student??? I can't believe he fell for it."

"Well, I always try to tell you, gorgeous. You don't look a day older than twenty-five."

She hugged him. "You really make me feel beautiful when I'm with you," she said. "Thank you."

He hugged her back, tightly. "You are beautiful," he said. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, or will ever see."

They held each other for several seconds before she let go. "I just hate the way we have to sneak around," she said. "I want us to be able to be together with no worries."

"And we will," he said. "Soon. Once you get your new job, and your new apartment . . ."

She smiled. "I know. That will be nice. But I better go, okay?"

"Okay. Can I see you tomorrow, sexy lady?"

"I'd love to, Josh, but I already put off grading those essays for an extra day. I really should hunker down tomorrow. But I'll be free on Friday, after class."

"We should go back to that general store," Josh said. "Visit that old fart again."

She blushed, giggled. "Oh dear, not him."

He hugged her, kissed her again. "Sleep well tonight, pretty lady. You know damn well I'll be thinking of you and replaying what we just did in my mind."

"So will I," she said. "Well, all except for that last part . . ."

She smiled, kissed him one more time, and left, walking away toward the main campus grounds, headed for the sister house across the road. 

And at that moment, watching her retreating figure, he knew what he needed to do. He thought about the lingerie store at the mall. Always a fun place to shop. But there was another store, not far from it. He would go there next. It would clean him out. He'd have almost nothing left in his checking account once he made the purchase. But that didn't matter. It was merely a detail. 

His mind was made up. There would be no turning back. It was time to buy an engagement ring.



Sister Monica Ch. 06



"This is one of our most popular rings," the sales girl said, smiling. She had a pair of silver bracelets on her left wrist, which jangled every time she moved. It was hard enough for Josh to think clearly as it was, trying to decide which engagement ring to buy Sister Monica. He didn't need the added distraction of the bracelets. "She'll love it, trust me."

The ring in question was way out of his league—$5,000 out of his league.

"Um . . . do you have anything less expensive?" he asked, feeling like an idiot. She looked to be around his own age—maybe a couple of years older. Under different circumstances, and before he had fallen in love with a certain soon-to-be ex-nun, he'd have probably made a pass at her. She was cute—short blonde hair, tan, slim, and drenched with Chanel No. 5 perfume. 

She shrugged, jangled her bracelets, beckoned him to follow her with an index finger.

"This one's nice, too," she said. And it was. But again, way too pricey.

"Look," he said, "I can't really go any higher than a grand, okay? Do you have anything in that price range?" 

She tilted her head, looked at him like he was a lost orphan or something. "Of course," she said. "C'mere."

He was glad they had the store to themselves. He was embarrassed enough bargain-shopping for an engagement ring without having other customers gawking at him. He had deliberately come first thing on a Saturday morning, hoping to beat the crowds.

"This one's a nice little ring," she said. The strong scent of the Chanel No. 5 made him feel like swooning.

He looked at the ring. It was dainty, basic—just a run-of-the-mill engagement ring, if anything with an asking price of $999.99 could be said to be run of the mill.

"It's got a white gold band, as you can see," the sales girl crooned. "Fourteen karat. It's a cute little thing." It sounded to him like she was patronizing—but so what? He wasn't exactly operating out of a position of strength here.

"I'll take it," he said. He wished he could have bought the $5,000 ring. But at least Sister Monica wasn't materialistic. He had that much going for him.

"Wonderful," the girl said. "Would you like it gift-wrapped?"

He told her no. The sooner he could get out of here, the better. 

For a moment, when he was writing the check, he felt doubt. Was he doing the right thing? Did she love him, as he loved her? Was it too soon? Should he give this more time? 

No. The semester would be over soon, and he'd be heading home to California for the summer. He hated the thought of leaving Sister Monica that long. But at least he could leave her with this ring—if she accepted it.

He signed the check, took the ring. His checking account was nearly wiped out now—he'd need to cry poverty to his parents when he saw them, hope they could help him out. Some (hopeful) fiance he was . . . needing to ask Mommy and Daddy for money. But he'd make up for it one day. He had no doubt about that.

For now, his main worry was choosing just the right moment to present Sister Monica with the ring.

♣

"Hey, what's that?" Steve Dightmann wanted to know. Josh was sitting on his bed, in his dorm. Four hours had passed since he'd bought the ring, and he was twirling it between his thumb and index finger, examining it, hoping she would like it. . . .

"What's it look like?" Josh replied. 

"Damn. . ." Steve sat beside him on the bed, his eyes wide. "I can't believe it. For Monique?"

For a second, Josh's brain raced. Monique? Who the hell was that? Then he remembered. That had been the name he'd given Sister Monica when Steve walked in on them a couple of weeks ago. "Yeah," he said.

Steve whistled. "Man, I knew you had the hots for that chick, who wouldn't? And I knew you, y'know, liked her and everything. But I didn't know you were this serious."

"Yeah, well, I am."

Steve shook his head. "You, married? Doesn't seem right. What's the world coming to?"

"What about you?" Josh asked, eager to change the subject. He put the ring in his pocket. "Any luck with the lonely wives on that site you've been playing around with?" 

"Shit no," Steve said. "They keep e-mailing me stuff, but I can't write back! The damn site wants me to give 'em fifty bucks for one measly month. If I don't pay, I can't even respond to a freakin' e-mail."

That confirmed what Josh already had suspected. The site was full of spambots, nothing more. "You gonna pay the money?"

"I don't know. What would you do?"

Josh smiled. "Hey, don't look at me. I'm about to be engaged, remember?" Well, he hoped so anyway. His intended needed to say yes first. . . .

♣

He spent the next day downtown, at the museum with Sister Monica. He never thought going to a museum could be so much fun, but it seemed like everything they did together was fun. She was so interested in all of the displays, and her enthusiasm rubbed off on him. Still, after walking through the corridors and slowly browsing through the displays for nearly three hours, Josh had had enough culture. 

"You wearing the butt plug?" he asked her as they looked at a wax figure, which stared straight ahead, expressionless eyes watching them. He had asked her to put it in last night. He hadn't penetrated her ass in a while, and he really wanted it.

She smiled. "You'll just need to check later." 

He loved the way she flirted now. She had become very comfortable with it. Looking at her, he was awestruck, as usual. She had on a sleeveless blue top, which he had bought her just last week, and a knee-length skirt. Her hair was loose, flowing over her shoulders in lustrous red waves. And she was wearing a silver chain necklace—another of his many gifts to her. She was breathtaking, and Josh couldn't help but notice the many admiring looks she received as they strolled through the museum.

"I can't wait any longer," he said. "Let's get out of here."

She checked her watch. "Wow. We've been in here for hours! I completely lost track of the time. Are you hungry, Josh? It's way past lunchtime."

"I'm hungry, all right," he said. "But it's not food I'm wanting."

She giggled, took his hand, and said, "Mmmm, I like the sound of that."

"C'mon, sexy lady," he said. "Let's go somewhere more private."

They went to his car, and he quickly merged into traffic. It was a half hour drive back to the college, and he didn't want a minute to go to waste.

With one hand on the steering wheel, he used his free hand to unzip his jeans, and then slid them down his legs. Next, he lowered his briefs. His nine-inch penis was fully erect, and freshly shaved. 

Sister Monica shook her head, but couldn't contain a giggle. "Josh! There are cars all around us. Someone could look right in and see."

"Good," he said, and with his free hand, he slowly pulled her skirt up, bunching it around her waist. He licked his lips at the sight of the G-string she was wearing. "Pull that sexy G-string down your legs, baby," he said.

She said nothing, but she did it. He could tell she was feeling horny, aroused by the idea of doing something so daring. 

He wasted little time. He reached over, found her pussy lips, and began to rub, slowly, going in circles. But the access was limited. 

"Spread your legs, sexy," he said.

She hesitated, but then she did it, exposing her smooth, hairless mound. He inserted a finger into her vagina, and smiled. Moist already.

"Hey, I'm feeling a little neglected over here," he said, nodding down at his dick. "The big fella wants a little love, baby."

"Josh . . . " But her words were cut short by a moan. He had inserted a second finger into her vagina, and was rubbing the grooved folds of her G-spot. "Oooh," she purred.

A horn honked beside them, on the passenger side. Josh looked out the window. A car-full of teenagers waved at them, smiling so widely it looked like their faces might crack from the strain.

They hit a red light. The teenage driver next to them rolled down his window, and he motioned for Sister Monica to do likewise.

Josh didn't wait for her to do it. He rolled it down electronically, from the control panel on the dashboard. 

"Pull your shirt up!" the teenagers all yelled. "Show us your tits!"

Sister Monica turned away from them, looked at Josh. "Oh God," she said. 

"Don't worry, sexy," he said, as the light turned green. "We'll be out on the highway in a minute." The whole time, he continued to rub her vaginal walls. She threw her head back against her seat when he brushed his thumb up against her clit, apparently oblivious now to the car beside her.

"C'mon!" the driver next to them yelled. "Light's gonna turn green."

Then it did turn green, and Josh sped away. The teenaged driver honked at him again, several times. But a minute later, Josh lost them. They turned off on a side street, while he continued straight, heading for the expressway. 

He rolled the window back up, then continued with his silken onslaught. He pinched her clit, and she moaned. 

Then he grabbed hold of her hand, placed it onto his penis. She didn't need any more coaxing. She squeezed him, and began to jerk him off, running her fist up and down his shaft. Meanwhile, he inserted three of his fingers inside of her, thrusting them, slowly, in and out, in and out. Her breathing grew choppy, and her grip on his dick tightened.

She came a moment later, squirting her juices on his hand. 

"Oh my God, yes," she gasped. 

Her hand moved along his shaft more quickly now, and he was getting close himself. Several cars had passed him, some of the passengers looking in at them, eyes wide, with either smiles or frowns on their faces. 

He wanted to come in her mouth, and he told her that. She was so turned on, she didn't need to be told twice. Leaning over the arm rest between him, she got into position, and wrapped her lips around his dick. She started sucking immediately, her now perfect oral skills bringing him to the edge.

He reached down, stroked her hair. She glanced up at him, the lust in her eyes nearly making him come then and there. She was so completely turned on, she didn't even care about the other cars, the other drivers. But then she released him from her mouth, and voiced her one concern.

"This won't cause an accident, will it?"

They were on the highway now, and while there was ample traffic, Josh felt fully under control. Getting a blowjob while cruising down the road? That was heaven—not an accident waiting to happen.

"No way, sexy," he said. "Now hurry up, okay? He's getting cold down there."

She smiled, and went back to work, eagerly. She flicked her tongue out, licking his tip, then took him full in her mouth again, deep-throating him. He had patiently talked her through the deep-throating process weeks ago, and now she was great at it. She didn't even gag. 

He moaned as she sucked him. It felt so wonderful. He'd come in a minute, at this rate. He reached over her, lifted her skirt back up, and caressed her butt. Then spanked it. 

"Mmmmm," she said through a mouthful of penis. He spanked her again, and again, and then he came, squirting a huge load into her mouth. As she always did, she swallowed every drop and licked his tip clean when she was finished.

"Damn, I wanted to get back to campus and find a place there," he said, once she was back on her side of the car. "But I can't wait that long." He took the next exit.

"Where are you going?" she asked him. He was delighted to see that she hadn't pulled up her G-string yet, and her skirt was still bunched up at her waist. His penis was already springing back to life, with anticipation.

"I have no idea," he said. "First place I see that looks private, that's where we'll go."

Luck was with him. They came upon a softball field, the parking lot empty. Far off, in the outfield, a man was walking his dog, but there was no one else around. Softball season was a month away, and no would-be players were here. Still, he was surprised to find only one guy on the field. It was an unseasonably warm day for the middle of April, and a Sunday, too. But he wasn't complaining. Definitely wasn't complaining. . . .

"Now," he said, "let's see about that butt plug."

♣

When was the right time to show her the ring? The question nagged him, wouldn't let go. The week passed, and still he hadn't proposed. He was waiting for the perfect moment . . . but when was that supposed to be? Time was running out, too. The semester ended in two weeks.

"It's now or never, man," he said to his reflection in the bathroom mirror on Tuesday morning. Outside the window, the sun was shining, birds were singing, the grass had turned green, and the forsythia bushes were erupting in a shower of yellow leaves. The world was being reborn, and he needed to seize the moment, take charge, do what had to be done. 

He would ask her today. Sometime this afternoon, he would head to her office, and he would propose. 

The day dragged on. He sat, lifeless, through his Classical Rhetoric class. Then he trudged to the library, finding his private little refuge upstairs, the same place where he had made love to Sister Monica a couple of months ago, with the snowflakes falling outside the window. As always, there was nobody back here. Just what he wanted. He didn't have it in him to talk with anyone. He just needed to wait, to have the afternoon while away until the right time finally arrived. And when would that be? He figured four or five o'clock, when Carroll Hall would be mostly free of other professors. Of course, she might not be there herself, but he thought she probably would be. Yesterday she had mentioned that she needed to grade more of those infernal essays. She'd likely be studiously reading someone's paper when he got there.

But how to pass the time? It was only one thirty. He had three hours to kill. He thumbed through the volumes on the shelves—medieval history, mainly—god-awful stuff that he wouldn't read unless someone paid him to. Even then, it would need to be a hefty sum. 

He sat at the long rectangular table, dropped his head, pathetically, onto the table. Maybe he could fall asleep. That would make the time go quicker. But he was too nervous to sleep, too fidgety with anticipation. 

"All right, you win," he said to the books on the shelf. "Guess I have no choice."

He pulled out a dusty, fat volume on the theology of Pope Gregory the Great. But that only served to make him think of Sister Monica all the more. She had mentioned the official renunciation of her vows would be imminent. And he hadn't spotted her in the halls today. He wondered. Was she even Sister Monica anymore? Or just Monica? 

He closed the book, placed it back on the shelf. It was no use. Maybe he should go outside and jog five miles, get the endorphins pumping. Yes, that was the ticket. Do something. Be active. 

He ended up jogging seven miles, then took a shower. It was only three o'clock by that time, but he couldn't hold off any longer. He'd go crazy if he did. He left his dorm room, made the familiar walk across campus to Carroll Hall and the English Department offices. . . .

♣

He was in luck. Her door was half-closed, and, peeking through the crack, he saw her at her desk—not reading essays, just staring out the window. A couple of other professors were around, but that was okay. He wasn't planning on having her squirm and writhe beneath him, climaxing with a shriek. No, nothing like that. He just intended to ask her to marry him, that's all. No big deal.

He gently knocked on the door, let himself in. She swiveled her chair around. He saw that she had been crying.

"Hey," he said. "What's wrong?"

She forced a smile. "Nothing, Josh. Everything is right, I suppose. That's just it."

He went up to her, his left hand deep in his pants pocket, fingers massaging the ring. The band felt hot to the touch, as though it might burn him, even though he knew, intellectually, that it was cold. 

He knelt down in front of her, took her hands in his. "What is it, Sister Monica? Something must be eating at you."

"Not Sister Monica anymore," she said, still sniffling. "Just Monica now."

Was that it? But . . . why would that cause her to cry? She had renounced her vows two months ago. The process had taken some time, but so what? Was she having second thoughts, now that it was official? Was she regretting her decision?

"No, that's not it," she said when he asked her. She turned to look out her window again, at the parking lot, half-full with cars, at the still-bare trees in the distance, at the clouds that had formed about an hour ago, gray, swollen with water. More than likely, a downpour was in the offing. 

"Then what is it, beautiful?" He felt confused, out of his element. He didn't want to say the wrong thing.

"I don't know," she said. "I just feel . . . sad somehow. I don't regret it, Josh. But I don't know . . . such a crucial part of my life is gone now. I suppose that's what it is. It almost feels like I've gone through a divorce, if that makes any sense."

It didn't, not really. "Did anyone upset you? Say anything out of line?"

She shook her head. "They were all wonderful. Maybe that's what makes it so much harder." He didn't know what to say. He really didn't. Proposing was out of the question, now. It would have to wait . . . again.

"And . . ." she went on, sniffling again, "I got the job at the university downtown. I just got word a few minutes ago."

"Well . . . that's good news. Isn't it?" His head was spinning. Women. Who could figure them out?

She nodded. "Yes. It just feels like everything I've ever known is coming to an end. It's hard to describe. And on top of everything, I move into my new apartment in next week. It's all so fresh, too, I guess. So overwhelming. I'm sure I'll be better tomorrow."

Was that a subtle hint? That she wanted him to get lost?

"I'm sorry," she said, wiping a tear that was running down her cheek. "I'm acting so childishly." She took a deep breath, composed herself. "You obviously wanted to see me about something. . . ."

He stood up. "No. That's okay. It's nothing." Yeah, nothing. Good one, Josh.

She stood up, too, put her arms around him, and he held her. 

When she broke the hug, she kissed him, just a peck.

"Thanks for listening," she said. 

"But you want me to leave . . ." he said.

She nodded. "Just for today. I just need to be alone, to collect my thoughts, remember. Pray. You know—nun stuff, even though I'm not a nun anymore." She smiled—a real smile, the smile he had fallen in love with. Full of warmth and compassion and a window to the generous heart that beat within her chest. "Can I see you tomorrow, though, Josh?"

"Does a bear shit in the woods?" he said. She laughed, and it was good to hear. "I love you, Sister Monica."

"Monica," she corrected.

"Oh yeah," he said. "Sorry. It'll take some getting used to."

She nodded, gave him a wistful look. "I know," she said.

♣

He resolved to take her to the sea when the semester ended—for a weekend. He'd ask her to marry him then. He didn't know how he'd afford the five-star hotel he wanted to stay in, but he'd find a way. He had grown up beside the sea. That was the thing he missed the most, being at this university. It was located nine hours from the East Coast, nine hours from the beaches and wind-swept dunes and marram grass on the shore. He would take her there, they would have a special weekend together, and he would ask her to be his wife. 

Later that week, he told her about his plan, about the weekend ocean getaway, at the end of the term. At that time, she would have just moved into her new apartment, too. It would be a celebration of all the changes—in both of their lives.

She liked the idea, but insisted that she be the one to pay for the trip. Not all the arguments he could come up with would change her mind. This time, she would be the one to treat him. She was adamant. 




Sister Monica Ch. 06



As the end of the semester neared, as their weekend vacation drew closer, he was a bundle of energy—anticipation for the love they would make by the sea; agony over the good-byes that would have to be said upon leaving the hotel, as he headed back home to California for the summer; fear over what she would say when he presented her with the ring, and the question. He longed for the time with her, at the seaside, away from prying eyes and surreptitious ears. But he dreaded it, too. 

♣

The day she moved into her new apartment, he helped her unpack and get settled. Then he spent the night, and they made long, slow love in her new bed. He thought ahead, to the fall. The weekends, when he'd spend Friday and Saturday night here with her. That was something to look forward to.

"How do you feel?" he asked her, sometime after midnight, lying beside her. 

"Hmm?" She snuggled up against him, her head on his chest. 

"I mean, being here, in your new place. Do you like it?"

She lifted her head up, her long red hair falling away, still in contact with his chest, tickling it. "I feel good," she said. "At peace."

"You don't miss the Sister House?"

"I do miss it," she said. "And I miss them. And I know I'll probably cry again sometimes, and think about everything I've given up. A part of me will always be back there, I think. But, you know, it's okay. I'm okay. This is where I belong now. I know that."

He kissed her, with plenty of tongue, and she eagerly reciprocated. Then they made love again, her on top, riding him softly, softly, her breasts heaving, her eyes closed, her hair a fire in the dark. She had really come to grips with the huge changes in her life. She had apparently come to embrace them. 

But his thoughts were interrupted by her moans and sighs of pleasure, and then her screams as she came on his penis. 

She lay beside him again, her beautiful face flushed with arousal. He kissed her, wrapped his arms around her, and they fell asleep, their limbs entwined, their dreams and goals for the future also entwined. Or so he hoped.

♣

"Have a good summer, man," Steve Dightmann said. He was packing his things, getting ready to go back home, which, for him, was the farm country of central Ohio. 

"You, too," Josh said. He would pick up Monica at her apartment in just an hour, and they would drive for the coast.

"I can't believe you haven't asked that Monique chick to marry you yet, Josh," Steve said. "I'm working on it," Josh said.

"Yeah, at the hotel. How romantic of you. I never realized you're such a sap. You cry at chick flicks?"

Josh smiled. It was good to know he wasn't going to see his pudgy roommate again until late August. "Get lost."

"My thoughts exactly," Steve said. "But take my advice. Ask her to marry you after you bring her to an earth-shattering orgasm, okay? I mean, like, right after. Before she has a chance to think."

"I'll keep that in mind," Josh said. And he would, too. That was the pathetic thing.

"Don't know why the hell you want to get hitched," Steve said, heading for the door, dragging his luggage. "But I gotta hand it to ya. You got yourself a grade-A super-hottie. Wish I had a chance at her."

"Get lost," Josh said again. 

This time, Steve did.

♣

The hotel was spectacular, better than he had even hoped, and their room was a deluxe suite, complete with a Jacuzzi and queen-sized bed and a balcony with a perfect view of the sea. It was chilly—early May on the shores of southern Maine. But the sky was clear, and now, as evening approached, the sun arcing low on the western horizon, the sea sparkled in the mellow twilight, as if touched by diamonds. 

They checked into the hotel, went to dinner down in the restaurant next to the lobby. Monica (he still was getting used to thinking of her as just "Monica"—sometimes he would insert the "Sister" in his mind, then have to remind himself that that was no longer the case) raved over the marinara sauce she had ordered with her pasta, but Josh thought the steak that he had ordered was only just okay—nothing special. He watched her as she chewed, the high, sculpted cheekbones, the dark brown eyes that were full of spirit and passion, the sexy overbite that drove him wild, the white teeth, still without a dentist's filling. She was wearing a sleeveless, ankle-length dress that hugged her hips and accentuated her perfect breasts. He wanted her right then and there, at that dinner table in the hotel restaurant. She seemed to grow sexier, more beautiful, every day.

"Let me try a bite," he said, eyeing her pasta.

"Hey, no fair," she said. "You can try mine, but I can't try yours." 

He shook his head. "Aw, c'mon, one bite of steak won't kill you. How long have you been a vegetarian anyway?" It seemed absurd that he didn't know, but he didn't. He'd never asked her.

She bit her lower lip, that little tick she had that made him want to undress her and kiss every beautiful inch of her. 

"Hmm . . . let's see. It was ninety-two . . . so, seventeen years!"

Seventeen years. Without one bite of steak, without one hamburger. He couldn't imagine that. 

"Don't you get tempted?" he asked.

Their waiter, a graying, thin man with a long, narrow face and a hawklike nose came to their table.

"Are you enjoying your meal?" he asked in a clipped British accent. "Mmm, it's wonderful," Monica said with a smile, and the waiter actually blushed. Satisfied, he walked away, not even bothering to ask Josh.

"You been noticing the effect you have on guys, sexy lady?" Josh asked, taking a bite of steak. It was tough, chewy, and well done. Maybe a little too well done. And he'd have told the waiter that had the guy stayed around to listen.

She giggled, wrapped her fingers around her glass, took a sip of water. Then she said, "No. I don't get tempted."

"Well, I am tempted," he said. "I want to try your pasta. Besides, you can have a bite of my baked potato."

"Oh wow," she said, laughing. "Be still, my heart."

He cut a piece of his potato, speared it with his fork, and reached across the table, the fork now in front of her lips. She bit onto it, slowly, taking the potato piece. Then she did the same, wrapping some of her angel hair pasta around her fork, thrusting it in front of Josh, allowing him to take a bite. Somehow, this struck him as incredibly erotic, and his dick sprang to life in his pants.

"That is good sauce," he said. 

She winked at him, and took a bite. He watched the graceful way she ate, the way she moved her arms. Nothing was put on or artificial—she just had a way about her. She was so feminine, so attractive in every way. He wanted her. Now. They wouldn't order dessert. She would be dessert.

He told her he wanted to leave as soon as possible, go walk along the beach, which was deserted in the evening chill. She just smiled, knowingly, a twinkle in her eye, a touch of red coloring her cheeks.

♣

They walked along the water's edge, hand in hand, fingers laced together. It was windy, and bordering on cold, temperatures hovering in the mid-50s. Monica had thrown a sweater over her dress, but Josh hadn't put a jacket on. They didn't speak for a while, they just took in the enormity of the sea, the fading light of the day, the sound of the waves as they reached the shore, row on row, unceasing, eternal. A seagull soared overhead, perhaps scanning the shallows for an evening meal. And under foot, the sand caught between their toes, and lodged in under their toenails, as if seeking refuge from the elements.

"Are you cold?" he asked her. They had walked to the edge of the beach. Behind them, grasses on a windswept dune blew in the breeze. 

She shook her head. "I'm okay." He felt her hand squeeze his just a little harder. 

He turned her toward him, looked in her eyes (should he ask her now? he had the ring in his pocket), kissed her. The kiss started innocently enough, but it quickly escalated, and now their tongues danced together, as if in rhythm with the surf. He thought about Steve Dightmann's piece of advice—only ask her to marry you after she's orgasmed. But no. He wouldn't ask her in the heat of lovemaking. He wanted to wait for a quiet moment, a still interlude. First thing in the morning, when the sun was rising over the water, when a new day was dawning on the continent. He would ask her then. Not now. Not this evening. Right now, he just wanted her, wanted to hold her naked body next to his. . . .

He took off her sweater, then hugged her. "I'll keep you warm, Monica, don't worry." She responded with a kiss. He turned her around, pulled the zipper slowly down her back, and her dress fell away, sliding to the sand. She was only in her black lace bra and G-string now. He quickly undressed, and his penis stood, high and ready, pointing toward the darkening sky. She unfastened her bra, let it fall off her arms. Then she slid her G-string down her legs, kicked it off. 

Naked now, silent, they came together, kissed, sank down to the sandy beach. The wind blew though her hair, billowing it out like a shower of autumn leaves. He laid her down, on her back, and climbed on top of her. 

"I can't believe how much I love you," he said, and she smiled, kissed him. The seagull overhead sqwuaked again, as if complaining that the fish weren't plentiful this evening. 

He slid himself into her, slowly, and she was already moist, fully aroused.

"Mmmmm," she purred as he started to thrust. She brought her hips up, in sync with his movements. He was going slow, soft, relishing the vice-tight grip of her vaginal walls on his manhood, not wanting to rush. 

He leaned in close, kissed her forehead, her bangs, her ears, her chin. Then he teased her upper lip. She tried to meet his lips with a full kiss, but he wouldn't let her. He just feather-kissed her all over—her neck, shoulders, nose—breathing her in, licking the salty pores of her skin. The whole time, he continued to move in and out, slowly, soft like silk, his pelvis brushing against her clitoris, rubbing it, the friction causing her to writhe and squirm with pleasure.

As he made love to her, he thought of the timeless cycles, rhythms, truths of the sea. He thought of the fish under the water, miles offshore, swimming in the dark. He thought of the sharks chasing their prey, of whales slicing through the water like living, breathing battleships, of blind, glowing creatures, undiscovered by science, perhaps, who roamed the ocean floor, where it was perpetually night—another world, another universe. And somehow, someway, he felt united with the world, with everything in it. He thought about the continent across the sea. What were people doing in London right now? In Paris? Madrid? Prague? Warsaw? Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, across the great expanse of ocean, other lovers were joined together, too. Right now, at this very moment, some woman in Rome was climaxing. A baby was being born. Someone was losing her virginity. A couple, a nameless couple, perhaps in Marseilles or Edinburgh or Moscow was making love so good and so loud, their bed creaked, and maybe an old man in the apartment across the hall was listening, listening, remembering his youth, wishing he could go back, yearning for the days that were irretrievably lost.

So much life, so much energy, all over, everywhere in the world. And here he was, by the water's edge—just a speck, a single microscopic atom in a gigantic organism. And yet, he was something important, too. Monica was important. Their lives mattered, the path they would take, the decisions they would make. The proposal. The ring. It all mattered. To him, it mattered more than everything else put together.

"Mmmmm," she said, and she began to grind her hips at a quicker pace. He took the hint and really began to go after it. He upped the tempo, banging into her with abandon now, seeking release, sweet release.

"Ohgodohgodohgod," she said, and he knew she was close. Her breathing had quickened, she was sweating despite the chill. 

He pushed in, deep, and came out. In and out, in and out. With one hand, he grabbed hold of her right nipple and pinched. She squealed, and told him to fuck her. He smiled, and obliged, picking up the pace even more.

So close now, he felt the explosion nearing. Just then, she threw her head back against the sandy floor of the beach and screamed. Her body shuddered, her juices coated his penis, and then she went limp. But her orgasm pushed him over the edge, and he was squirting now, shooting rivers of his own juices deep into her. She moaned as he came, her arms holding him close, wrapped tightly around his back.

When he was through, he lay down beside her. "Oh my God," she said. "That was wonderful, Josh."

"We're far from done, beautiful," he said. "Think you can go another round?"

"Hmm, I think I can manage," she said, and she kissed him, climbed on top of him, and before he knew it, his penis was in her mouth. It took only a half-minute for him to get hard again. Then she slid herself down onto him, and with her back to him, she rode him. She was facing the sea, the waves, the endless symphony of the surf. He just rested on his back, letting her pick the pace, enjoying the view of her naked back, her long hair flowing freely, a beacon of heat, a cascading waterfall of burning embers in the twilight. The sun had set, moments ago, and now the first stars were visible in the sky, along with the moon, nearly full, shining down at them like a voyeur.

She threw her head back, moaned, her hair spilling farther down, almost reaching his abdomen. She leaned back, placed her hands on his chest for support, and continued to make love to him. 

He reached around, grabbed her breasts, gave them a squeeze. Then he massaged them, fondled them, kneading the soft, womanly flesh, causing her moans to intensify. 

She rose and fell, rose and fell, and he could tell she was approaching another orgasm. So her pinched her nipples, gave her breasts a good, hard squeeze, and then attacked her nipples again. That always pushed her over the edge, and this time was no different. She came with a yell, and then she fell to the ground, beside him, flailing her arms in the sand, as if allowing the night itself to take her.

"You cold at all, kinky girl?" he asked her.

"Mmmm, how could I be cold after that?" she said, inching closer to him, caressing his chest with her fingertips.

"You are so incredible," he said. "Damn, I'm lucky to have you in my life."

She leaned in to kiss him. "I'm the lucky one."

And then, out of nowhere, it seemed, he felt a sadness rush through him. He would be with her tonight, and tomorrow, but then he would leave for the summer. The thought of being without her made him feel so alone, the summer looming up before him like a barren granite cliff, devoid of life.

"You mind if we go back to our room, beautiful?" he asked her. He wanted to hold her in the bed, all night long, to make slow, sensual love to her in the Jacuzzi—just to be with her, in the warm confines of their suite. 

"Okay," she said.

They got dressed, went back to their room, and did indeed make love again. Three times. It was only just after two o'clock in the morning that they finally drifted off to sleep.

♣

She was on the balcony when he woke up, the morning sun striking her, making her dark red hair look almost blonde. He turned to look at the digital clock on the stand beside the bed. 7:07 AM. Was that all it was? No wonder he felt tired still. What time had she got up, anyway? She was looking out at the sea, her hands gripping the railing, her hair blowing in the wind. She had fallen asleep naked, and now she had a long robe on, surely still naked underneath—no bra, no panties. Just that thought alone sent a shudder of arousal through his penis, and he felt himself stiffen. But no. Now wasn't the time for that. Now was the time for his proposal.

He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, splashed cold water onto his face. He put on a nice shirt, dress pants. He wanted to look the part. He had no intention of asking her to marry him in a pair of jeans. 

He looked at his reflection.

"What do I say?" he asked the face in the mirror. "How do I ask?"

But he didn't want to rehearse. He wanted it to come out naturally, to flow in the moment. 

When he left the bathroom, he saw that she was still staring out over the water. The cries of hungry, scavenging gulls filled the air. On the beach, a little girl walked beside a young man, her little hand in his. That was it. No one else on the beach. Tourist season was still over a month away.

He had the ring in his hand, clutching it tightly, as if hoping to draw strength from it. He pushed open the glass doors that led out to the balcony, and joined her there. She still didn't see him.

He reached for her shoulder, gave her a tap.

She turned, startled, then she smiled at the sight of him.

"You scared me," she said. "I didn't hear you."

"Sorry." And he was. Looking up, he saw the flock of gulls, their shrill voices cutting through the quiet of the morning. But with the way his heart was pounding, with trip-hammer force, he wondered how he could hear anything above its ear-splitting rattle. Did Monica hear his heart beating? Could she tell how nervous he was?

"Josh . . . what's the matter? You don't look like yourself this morning." 

So much for that question. 

He didn't want to stall. He couldn't wait a second longer. 

He opened his hand, exposing, at long last, the ring. The diamond glittered in the morning sunlight.

All Monica could do was gasp. She placed her right hand over her heart. 

He looked her in the eye, hoping to find comfort there, reassurance. He only found surprise. But he pressed on.

"Monica," he said, dropping to one knee, "I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will . . . will you do me the honor of becoming . . . my wife?"

He took her left hand, placed the ring on her finger. 

"Josh, I . . ." She looked so shocked, almost horrified. And suddenly he knew. She wasn't going to say yes. She wasn't going to accept. . . .

He turned around, ready to head back into the room. He didn't want to hear it, didn't want to put her, or him, through the agony of it. But what was the problem? He thought she loved him too! Why wasn't she saying yes?

She grabbed him, not letting him go.

"Josh . . ."

"Forget it," he said. "I can see it in your eyes. Just forget it."

She shook her head. "No. No, you have it all wrong."

Hope, reawakened, pricked his skin, causing goose bumps to form on his forearms and at the nape of his neck. "You mean . . .?"

She shook her head again, and his heart sank. "I can't accept this ring, Josh. Not yet, anyway." She took it off, gave it back to him.

Now it was rage he felt. Why had she stopped him just to tell him that? Why had she said he had it all wrong? Was she trying to humiliate him? Rub it in?

"I can't believe you," he said, barely able to get the words out. "I thought you gave a damn about me. I thought we shared something special. What the hell? What have I been to you, Monica? Just a fuckbuddy?"

She looked as though she had been slapped. Clearly his words hurt her, stuck an arrow into her heart. Good. It's what she deserved.

"Josh . . . how can you say that to me? You know I wouldn't . . . ."

"Then what's the problem, Monica? Huh?" The back of his throat felt hot, acidic, as though a virus were being unleashed there.

"I'm not saying I won't marry you!" she said. "Will you please listen to me?"

"You . . . you're not?"

"No." She went to him, hugged him. And he cried. Her arms around him, her body pressed up against his. He didn't want to lose her. He couldn't live without her.

"You . . ."




Sister Monica Ch. 06



"Sssh," she said, stroking his hair. "I do love you, sweetheart. I do. I'm sorry. You just surprised me so much with all of this."

He pulled away, looked at her. From across the beach, he heard the little girl laughing, the sound of it riding the ocean breeze, frolicking with the waves, rising on the air like a taunt.

"Then you'll marry me?" He choked the words out more than he said them. He hated the way he had lost control of himself. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd cried.

She swallowed, kissed his cheek. "Josh. I love you. And trust me, I want to say yes, right now. But I don't think we should make this decision yet." He was about to protest, but she raised a hand. "Everything has happened so fast, Josh. And there are a lot of things to consider. Your family lives in California. You're seventeen years younger than me. Do you want to have a lot of children? I couldn't give that to you. Maybe one or two—but, Josh, I mean, I'm almost forty years old! What will you think of me when you're thirty five and I'm in my fifties? Or when you're fifty and I'm nearly seventy?"

"I'll think you're the most beautiful woman in the world," he said. "Monica, damnit, don't you understand? I love you! I love you. Don't you get it?"

"I know," she said, but he still wondered. If she knew just how much he loved her, she wouldn't even be raising these concerns. "But love, just by itself, isn't enough, Josh. There are so many things to think through, to talk about still. Are you really willing to spend your life here, in the Northeast? And I know I haven't talked about it much, but I'm still a person of faith, Josh. I may not be a nun anymore, but I will never walk away from what I believe. If we were to have children . . ."

He raised a hand now himself. "I don't care," he said. "I just know I can't live without you, that I want to spend my life with you. Nothing else matters."

She smiled, her expression softened. "Will you do something for me?"

"Anything, you know that."

"Go home over the summer, think about it more. Think of what I've just said, okay? Try to wrestle with all the practical things that are so easy to overlook in the beginning. Think about the future, our future, what it would be like. Not just the sex, either." She giggled. "But everything. The things you're giving up. The sacrifices you'd have to make. And whether you're sure, really sure, that you want to get married at such a young age. Can you do that for me?"

"But . . ."

"And . . . when you come back in August, if you still feel the same way you do now, ask me then. Okay?"

"And what would your answer be?"

"I think you know," she said, and kissed him. 

"Nothing's gonna change between now and then," he said. "Nothing."

She just smiled, mysteriously. What did that mean? And how could she doubt him? Why would he not want to ask her in August? Did she really think he'd go home, hook up with a few teenagers in California, and forget all about her, coming to the realization that he wasn't ready for marriage? Never. Never in ten trillion years.

It pissed him off, because she was treating him like a little kid, as if he weren't sure of his own feelings. If he had been thirty instead of twenty, he doubted she'd have responded this way. 

Another thought nagged him. Did she need the time to be alone, too, this summer? Did she need to find out if she, herself, was ready to get married? Worse, did she want to play the field with him gone? After all, he'd been her only lover. No longer a nun, aware for the first time of her raging sexuality and her effect on men, maybe she wanted to experience a few other guys before settling down. 

But what was the use? All of this speculation would just drive him to the nut-bin. She had all but told him she would accept his proposal if he still wanted to go through with things when he came back. He had hoped she would say yes today, but at least she hadn't said no. And when he returned at summer's end, he would prove to her what he already knew. If this was a test, he would pass it, and put to rest any lingering doubts she might have had.

"Let's go inside," he said then. "Thank you for understanding," she said once they were back in their room. "And for everything you've done for me. You've spoiled me, Josh. You really have."

He laughed. "This is nothing, Monica. Just you wait. This is nothing."

"Nothing?" She put her arms around him, kissed him. "You make me feel like a princess when we're together, Josh." They kissed again. Her lips were so eager for his. He told himself he had nothing to worry about. She would be his fiancée by the time he started his senior year. "And thank you for agreeing to go back to California, and wait a little while . . ."

He kissed her again. "If you asked me to go to hell for you," he said, "I'd go."

She squeezed him so tight, it almost hurt, and she put her head on his shoulder. "I'm going to miss you this summer, Josh."

"It'll be the last time we're ever apart," he said.

And, in a whisper, almost inaudible, she said, "I hope."



Sister Monica Ch. 07



Josh had always loved returning home for the summer. True, it had been his choice to go to school across the country, to experience the Northeast—but he still missed home. There was nothing like coastal central California. His parents, who still lived in the same house he grew up in, lived just a mile from the Pacific Ocean, and year-round the weather was comfortable—not too hot in summer, never too cold in winter. That's the thing he hated about the Northeast—the winter. When it was below zero and snowing on frosty January evenings, he usually dreamt of home, of the surf kissing the sandy expanse of beach, of the clear, blue California sky, of shirtsleeve weather and fields of poppies bobbing in the wind. 

But this year was different. Winter in the great white North had changed his life. He had fallen in love. And now, the prospect of summer away from Monica stretched out before him like an endless highway, leading to some unseen horizon. How was he supposed to get along for over three months without her? He had just arrived back home yesterday, and it was good to see his folks—Mom had lost twenty pounds and looked great—and Jeffrey, of course. Jeffrey, who had always idolized him, hung on his every word. Sometimes it was annoying having a kid brother, but Jeffrey was all right. Twelve years old, smart, full of questions (and answers). He had missed the kid.

But he missed Monica more. Only apart for twenty-four hours now, and already he longed to be with her, to look into the depths of her brown eyes, to run his fingers through her fiery red hair, to caress the soft flesh of her breasts, to feel her vaginal walls, slick with arousal, gripping his rock-hard penis as he thrust in and out of her while she moaned and rushed toward a thundering climax. He longed to just talk to her, hold her hand, smile, listen to the music of her laughter. 

How had he fallen so deeply, so desperately, in love? How had he allowed himself to get to this point—where a twenty-four-hour separation felt like twenty-four days? Worse—he had the entire summer to think about what she'd said to him. That she was seventeen years older than he was, that she couldn't give him a lot of children, that he needed to consider, soberly and with foresight, the prospects of marriage. He needed to think practically, with his head, not his heart. But all he was able to do right now was miss her. He lay back on the bed, his bed, looking at the walls of the room he grew up in. He still had a poster of Ken Griffey Jr. on the wall. It had frayed a bit, and one of the corners was ripped off, but other than that, it was in good shape. He'd always valued its presence—it was like a rock in a sea of change. When he first went away to college, he lay in his dorm room, missing that poster. When he came home for Christmas break, he looked at it and it provided him with comfort. Things were still the same, it seemed to say. Nothing's really changed. But now, it no longer said that. Somehow it looked older, like a relic from the distant past. It belonged to his life ten years ago, last year . . . not now. Everything was different now.

He sat up, turned on his cell, texted Monica a message . . .

"Hey sexy. Thinking of u, missing u. Wish you were here."

Not twenty seconds later, his phone chirped. "I miss u too," she wrote. "But try to have fun, Josh. Enjoy home.:)"

Yeah. Enjoy home. He'd never had trouble doing that before. But this summer, it seemed impossible.

*

"So . . ."

Josh looked down at the tabletop, at the back of his hands. "So" was what his dad said when he was pissed off. 

"May I ask . . . how did you manage to spend all the money in your account?"

He had just cried poverty, told his parents that he would need another grand for his checking account when he went back to school in August. "Um . . . you know," he fumbled. He hadn't told them about Monica yet. He wasn't sure why not. He would need to tell them, of course. After all, she was the woman he intended to marry. But now wasn't the time. Not so soon after getting back home. Besides, he had all summer to tell them. 

"No," his father said, folding his hairy arms, "I don't know. You care to enlighten me, Son?"

Josh swallowed. He needed to think quickly. "Books went up last year, Dad. And you know how it was. I tried to get through the semester without a job. Y'know, so I could give more time to my studies. But I had to keep borrowing from the account, then, 'cause I had no income. Things just added up, that's all."

His dad just shook his head. "No. It doesn't add up, Josh. And you know—"

"Oh, c'mon, Reed, give him a break." It was Mom—to the rescue. Just what he'd been hoping for. "It's not like we don't have a thousand dollars."

Dad sighed. "Honey, that's not the point . . ."

Mom pouted at him, then winked. Josh wanted to throw up. She was flirting. It was great that his parents still wanted to get it on, but he just didn't like to think of it. 

"Just give him a break, Reed," she said. "It'll pay off, big-time, if you do." Another wink, and she went up to him, massaged his shoulders.

Dad leaned his head back, enjoying the rub-down. "Okay," he said. "You win." Mom kissed him, more sensually than Josh would have cared to see, and the matter was closed. Geez. Mom was acting extra flirty now that she'd lost weight, and Dad was eating it up. 

"But I expect you to be more responsible with the money in the fall," Dad warned. "Understood?"

Josh nodded, feeling like a six-year-old. Then he got up to leave. Mom was acting way too frisky to his liking, and he got the feeling that his parents were about to get naked, real soon. Maybe right here in the kitchen. It was a sad day indeed when his parents were getting more action than he was.

*

He was horny, so horny. He had called Monica on the cell a little while ago and asked her to create an IM account. She said she had never done that, but he assured her it was free and easy. Five minutes later, she texted him, telling him she had created an account.

So now here he was, in his room, just after eight o'clock, chatting with Monica. It wasn't the same as being with her, but it was all he had at the moment. 

But just then, a knock at his door. 

"Josh?" It was Jeffrey. Josh groaned. He knew his brother wanted to talk after missing him all winter and spring. But why now?

He got up, unlocked the door, and Jeffrey walked in. Immediately he eyed the monitor, saw that Josh was on a chat site.

"Oh," Jeffrey said. "I guess you're busy."

"No, it's okay," Josh said, even though it wasn't. "I'm capable of having a three-way. Plant yourself on the bed, Jeff. 'Long as you don't mind my chatting online at the same time."

Jeffrey shook his head, sat down. Josh went back to the PC, keyed in that his brother had just entered the room.

"Oh," Sister Monica keyed in. "Well, maybe you should talk to him, then?"

Josh told her he could do both, and that his brother probably wouldn't stay for more than a few minutes.

"Hmm," she wrote back. "Why don't you give him some uninterrupted time, Josh. I'll still be logged on here for a while. Just send me a message when you come back.:)"

He frowned, but it was probably for the best. "Okay," he wrote. "I should only be away a few minutes. Stay where you are, gorgeous."

She sent him a smiley face and a wink. "I love these emoticon thingies," she wrote, and included another smiley face.

"So," he said, getting up and sitting beside his brother on the bed, "what's on your mind, Jeff?" He hoped he wasn't coming across as in a hurry. He was in a hurry, it was true. But he didn't want to be rude to his brother.

Jeff was to the point. "Girls."

Girls? Well, no wonder. The kid was twelve, after all. He'd be in junior high next fall. Hell, Josh had gotten hooked by the time he was eight. 

"I mean, there's this one girl—Kim. I mean, I really like her. But I don't know if she likes me. I mean, maybe she does. And maybe she doesn't. I don't know, though. You know what I mean?"

Josh smiled, nodded. "Been there, my man."

"But what do I do?" Jeffrey asked. "I mean, if I ask her if she likes me, she might say no, she doesn't. But, I mean, she might say yes. And if I don't ask her, I might never know. But, I mean, damn, I'm really afraid to!"

"You know what?" Josh said. "Just ask her. You're a good-looking guy." And he was, too. Jeffrey was a cute kid. "Just show confidence in yourself, Jeff. Walk right up to her and give off the signals that you know you're worth it."

"But . . . am I?"

He thought of Monica three thousand miles away, sitting in front of her PC screen, perhaps in the dark, all the lights turned off. It was after eleven back East. Maybe she was naked. He needed to wrap this up, and quick.

"The real question," Josh said, "is . . . is she worth it? Don't let some chick get to you this way, Jeff. Just remember who you are, and proceed with confidence. If she turns you away, well, then, it's her tough luck. She's the one who's gonna suffer. You? You'll just move on to the next girl. Got it?" Yeah, do as I say, not as I do, he thought. Move on to the next girl. If Monica ultimately decided to dump him, how would he ever manage to do that?

Jeffrey shrugged, got up, ready to leave. "Thanks," he said. "It's hard to talk to Mom and Dad about this stuff. I mean, they're cool and everything. Well, I mean, not cool, but they're okay. But, you know how it is. I mean . . ."

"Yeah. I know."

"I'm glad you're home, Josh," Jeffrey said, and then left.

Josh raced to the door, closed it, and locked it. 

"Okay," he typed a moment later, "I'm back. You still there?"

"Where else would I be, handsome?" was the reply.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe watching a naughty movie? Maybe in the shower, pleasuring yourself as you think of me coming deep inside of you? I'm feeling horny tonight, sexy. Don't want to talk about anything serious, okay?"

"Mmmmmmm. I'm turned on too," she wrote. The vixen. She probably had been masturbating.

He wanted her, so bad. So bad, it physically hurt. In some ways, chatting with her was like rubbing salt in the wound. It just made him miss her all the more. But he couldn't think like that. It wouldn't do any good. He had her online. He needed to make the best of it.

"Are you naked?" he asked her.

"No, but I can be," she responded, and included a wink.

"Strip, baby," he wrote. "I'm getting naked myself." And he was. He pulled off his pants and shirt, slid his briefs down his legs. His dick was semi-erect.

"K," she keyed in. "I'm not wearing anything."

God, how he wanted to look at her, touch her, make love to her. 

"Squeeze your sexy tits," he wrote. "Squeeze them good and hard, and then pinch those sensitive nipples of yours."

"Mmmmm," she responded. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, and inserted a wink.

"Hehehe," she wrote back. "Ummm, let's see. How about, squeezing your penis, and then teasing the head the way you like it. Oh, Josh. I wish you were here."

The ache in his heart grew, so much so that his erection actually softened. This wasn't helping. It only made things worse. But he had to play along. He had to stop being such a killjoy.

"So do I, sexy," he wrote. "But for now, I want you to keep squeezing and pinching, okay?"

"Okay":)

"You getting wet, kinky girl?"

"I am soaking wet," she responded. "Rub your clit now. And insert your fingers into your cunt."

"Ooooh," she wrote back. "Feels wonderful. It would feel better if you were doing it, though." His erection rebounded, stiffened again, as he pictured her in her apartment, naked, her breasts heaving as her breathing quickened while she pleasured herself. He began to jerk himself off. "Go faster, sexy!" he wrote. "And don't stop till you come. I'm going at it, too. Maybe we can come together." One way for him to come was to get her to talk dirty. He always loved doing that. "What do you wish was happening right now, horny girl?" he asked her.

"Mmmmm, I wish you were here with me. I wish we were making love."

"You still fingering yourself, baby?" he wanted to know.

"Yesss," she responded. "Don't stop till you come," he told her. 

"Oh I won't," she wrote. "I wish it were my hands stroking your penis right now," she went on.

"You wish my cock was deep in your pussy?" he wrote. "You wish I was fucking your tight little cunt right now?"

"Very much," she wrote.

"Tell me," he demanded. "Tell me what you wish for." He continued his assault on his dick. He was close to coming.

"I wish you were here with me," she keyed in. "I wish your beautiful cock was throbbing with heat deep inside my wet pussy. I wish I could hold you and kiss you while you fuck me. That's what I wish, Josh. I wish you were fucking me right now! Ohhhh! I'm coming!!!!!!:)"

He came, too. He squirted all over the floor. Oh well. He'd come on his floor many times before. No big deal. Just a little cleaning up to do, that's all.

"Oh dear," she wrote. "That was great, Josh. Not like the real thing, but it was nice."

"Instead of saying 'oh dear,' he wrote, "one of these times, I want you to say, 'oh fuck.'":)

She sent him a smiley face back, and said, "Hmm, well, maybe I'll surprise you one of these days, handsome."

"I love you, Monica." Somehow that was all he could say.

"I love you too, Josh," she wrote back.

They stayed on a few more minutes, then she signed off to go to bed. She told him she would sleep in the nude and that she'd think of them making love while she drifted off. . . .

*

"Hey, Josh, watcha doin' tonight?" It was Chuck Argyle, one of his old buddies from high school. They didn't talk much anymore, but whenever Chuck called, it usually meant a big party was in the offing.

"Nothing," Josh said into the phone. And that was true. Monica was spending the week at her sister's house, on Long Island, and wouldn't be available to chat online. Besides, he'd been home for nearly two months now, and he missed her outrageously. Chatting online was a poor facsimile for really being with her. Maybe it was for the best that they couldn't chat online for a few nights. And it wasn't like they were losing touch completely. They still had their cells.

It was odd, though. He still hadn't told anyone about her, and she hadn't told anyone about him, either. He wondered about that. Why were they hesitating? Why was he hesitating? Subconsciously, was he second-guessing his intention to marry her? Was that it? No. No way. He wanted her more than ever. So, then what was it? Why did she remain his secret?

"Well," Chuck Argyle went on, "have I got news for you. Jimmy's having a big soiree at his place tonight."

"Jimmy? Jimmy Crane?" Josh asked. Jimmy Crane had dropped out of school three years ago, but somehow managed to own a house. Josh guessed he made money by selling drugs. Jimmy sometimes hosted swinger parties, with plenty of pot and beer to go around. Josh had attended one of those parties last summer. If you were looking for easy, uncomplicated, NSA sex, it was the place to be.

"The one and only," Chuck said. "And, Josh, it's gonna be awesome, dude. Fifteen, maybe twenty girls are gonna be there, I hear. You can have your pick. And the ones who come with a date are lookin' to swing, so there aren't gonna be any restrictions."

"Well . . ." He was going to turn the offer down, of course he was. But then he thought about it. Maybe he should go. One last fling before getting hitched. Hell, he wasn't even engaged yet. He should have been, but Monica had to tell him to think about it more, to wait all summer. . . . Besides, if he went, that didn't mean he needed to have sex with anyone. He could just drink some free beer, maybe smoke a joint or two, and be on his way. What could it hurt?

"I'll be there," he said, and hung up. As soon as he did, he felt a pang of guilt. It didn't feel right . . . but man, he was so horny. Two months without sex, without anything at all—not even a kiss. Of course, he wouldn't kiss anyone at the party. He would just look at the girls, maybe watch a few of the couples make out and make love. Maybe, vicariously, the others' sexual play could quench some of his raging lust. But he wasn't going to so much as touch a girl at the party. *

When he arrived, the place was already buzzing. Chuck had been right—there were lots of girls. They were spread out throughout the living room, sitting on the sofa, chairs, even the floor. Some of them were topless, others wearing just a bra and panties, and several were already making out with guys. It was going to be quite a night.

"Hey, bud." It was Jimmy Crane, joint in one hand, beer can in the other. He was wearing a black leather jacket with no shirt on underneath, his hairless, thin chest exposed. "Good to see ya, Josh."

Josh nodded, and Jimmy offered him a puff of the joint he was smoking. Josh accepted, and coughed when he inhaled. He hadn't smoked weed in months, wasn't used to it. Jimmy chuckled, and walked away, disappearing in the bowels of the smoke-filled house.

Scanning the room, Josh looked for people he knew. There was Chuck, kissing an anorexic-looking blonde on the sofa, his hands hidden underneath her shirt. But Chuck was it. No one else looked familiar, which surprised him. He seemed to be losing touch with his hometown more each year.

"Hey there," a husky voice said from behind. He turned. There was a voluptuous brunette, with thick glasses and a dark California tan. "Hi," Josh said. 

"I saw you walk in," the girl said, having to speak up. Someone had just blasted some heavy metal music from Jimmy's CD player in the corner. "You're cute."

And then she kissed him. Just like that, her tongue was in his mouth, her arms around his neck. 

He pulled away, but noticed, to his embarrassment, that an erection was forming. He was even hornier than he had feared.

"Sorry," he said. "I . . . uhh . . ."

She just shook her head, mumbling to herself, and left. He told himself to get lost, he didn't belong here. Nothing but trouble, regrets, could come from his being here. But he stayed where he was. 

Chuck was naked now, and so was the Twiggy-esque blonde he was with. They were 69ing each other, right there on the couch. Another couple, seated on the floor beneath them, was having sex. At least half the room was naked now, and the moans of lovemaking were getting louder. It made him think of the masquerade orgy scene in Eyes Wide Shut. Except here, in Jimmy Crane's place, nobody was wearing a mask. 

He spotted an empty chair, off in a far corner of the room. He went to it, sat down, hoping to escape the notice of the others. "Why am I here?" he asked himself. Was he waiting for something to happen? If so, what? He realized, too, that he was missing Monica more than ever, amid the naked flesh and sighs and moans all around him. "This is fucking stupid," he said aloud, and was about to stand up and the get the heck out of there. 

But just then, a low voice, barely audible above the music and group lovemaking, said, "Mind if I join you?"

A thin, petite Japanese girl, with dark-green eyes and long, straight black hair stood before him. She was exquisite—one of the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen. In spite of himself, he felt his penis spring fully to life. Rock-hard, it formed a noticeable tent in his jeans.

"Uhhh, no, go right ahead," he said, not sure what she meant by "joining" him. In a moment, he had his answer. She sat down on his lap, her back against his chest, her long hair flowing before his face. Her hair smelled wonderful, like the woods after a rainfall—fresh and flower-filled, brimming with sweet spices. He was stunned at his arousal. He only wanted to be with Monica. Why was he so turned on by this Japanese girl?

"Hey, you wanna go somewhere a little more private?" she asked.




Sister Monica Ch. 07



No! he thought. Get out. Now. Before it's too late. But she was so pretty, so desirable in every way. He had never seen eyes like hers—the green was so deep, almost hypnotically so. And her lips were full and inviting, red against the beige complexion of her skin. 

He nodded, and they got up. She took his hand, lacing her fingers through his (and—again it shocked him—but the feel of her hand in his felt so good), and they walked through the dark heart of the smoky room, careful not to step on intertwined limbs or climaxing lovers. Nearly everyone in the room was engaged in sex now, and several threesomes had formed. Chuck, in fact, was making love to the skinny blonde and licking the pussy of the brunette Josh had spurned earlier, while she was sucking the penis of a fat bald guy who looked old enough to be her grandfather. 

They escaped into a narrow hallway. The girl opened the first door they came to, but two couples were in that room already. The next two rooms didn't offer privacy either, but finally the last bedroom at the end of the hall was empty. Josh felt both dread and arousal when he peeked in and saw no one. His mind was a cacophony of debate. Don't do it! Yes, do it! She is so damn hot! You're horny! You're not engaged yet, it's okay! No, it's not okay. You know it's wrong. Turn around and get out of here!

But he went in, and she closed the door behind them. 

"So," the girl said, "what's your name?" In one motion, she pulled her short-sleeve shirt over her head and threw it to the floor. Her breasts, encased within a black lace bra, were quite small (probably B cups, he guessed), but, on her petite frame, they actually looked surprisingly big. 

"Josh," he said. He didn't know why, but he found himself removing his shirt, too. "My name is Hanae," the beautiful Japanese girl said. 

"That's a pretty name."

"Thank you. It means 'flower blessing.'" She unfastened her bra, let it fall to the floor. Her breasts, a shade lighter than the rest of her, were beautiful, and she had huge nipples, which protruded from her with unashamed arousal. She was short, no more than five feet tall, and she probably weighed no more than ninety-five pounds. A strong gust of wind would knock her over. But she was exquisite. Josh couldn't believe how much she turned him on. He tried to think of Monica. Monica, the sexiest, most beautiful woman in the world. But Monica was on the other side of the continent, three time zones to the east. Hanae was here. Now. With him. And he wanted her. He wanted her so much, his face burned with the shame of it.

She went to him, put her arms around him, moved in close, her breasts squishing against him. God, it felt good. So good. She looked up at him, their eyes met, and he leaned in to kiss her. 

"Looks like you're ready to go," she said when they broke the kiss, as she eyed the huge tent in his pants.

He looked away.

"You're shy," she said. "That's cute." He nearly laughed out loud with the irony. Monica had been shy at first with him, and he had to help her overcome it. He, himself, was definitely not shy. He was just guilty, that's all. Guilty.

She reached down, unzipped his jeans, then pulled them down. Stop! He thought. Right now. But he kicked his jeans away, and then let her pull his briefs off. Now his full nine inches was exposed, his dick pointing at the ceiling, so needy, so desperate for the attention of a woman after weeks of neglect.

"Hehehehe," she said. "You like me, huh?"

She sank to her knees, not wasting time, and wrapped her lips around his penis. It felt so wonderful, he nearly came immediately. "Hanae," he said, "that's . . ." Then, absurdly, "How old are you? You look really young." Why did he say that? His mind was a mess, like a TV channel gone awry, the static blaring.

She released his dick, licking the tip once for good measure. "Don't worry," she said. "You won't get arrested for being with me. I'm not too young. Nineteen." And she went back to sucking him. She was good, she used her lips well, teasing him, getting him close to climax, then easing up, making him last, extending the pleasure.

Then she pulled away, stood up. "There. Now it's time for you to stick that thing in another hole, baby." She went to the bed, sat down on the edge. Just then the door opened. Two blonde girls and a fat brown-haired guy gawked in at them. "Sorry," they said, and left, re-closing the door. 

Josh sat down beside her, and they kissed. He ran his fingers through her midnight-black hair, caressed the smooth skin on her back. When he inserted his tongue in her mouth, she returned the favor. She was a great kisser. 

He kissed her neck, her breasts, paying special attention to her nipples, which tasted so good. Then he kissed her flat stomach, going lower, lower, until he was licking her smoothly shaved mound. She was lying back now, moaning and writhing under his ministrations. It felt so good to pleasing a woman again. Making her wet. If Monica—

Monica! Monica. What in the name of everything he held dear was he doing? He sat up straight, and he felt his erection shrink. He had allowed himself to get too carried away. He never intended to do something like this. If he went any farther, in no time at all, he and Hanae would be making love. He wanted her. Badly. But he couldn't do this. He couldn't betray Monica.

He stood up, gathered his clothes on the floor.

"Hey," Hanae said. "What the hell??"

"I'm sorry," he said. "I really am. I should never have come her, Hanae." He dressed himself in record time, covering up his nakedness. Hanae didn't seem to feel the need to do likewise. She was sitting up now, looking at him, still gloriously naked. 

"I thought you liked me," she said.

"I do. You're one of the most beautiful women I've ever laid eyes on. Under different circumstances, I'd have spent the night with you, doing everything I possibly could to make it feel great. Even now, I still want you. I want you so bad I can taste it. That's why I need to leave."

Her jade-green eyes never wavered, locked onto him. "There's someone else?"

He nodded. 

She chewed on the inside of her cheek. "She's lucky, having a guy as committed as you."

He shook his head. "No. I'm the lucky one. And I never should have come here. I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "It's okay. You're a nice guy, Josh."

He went to her, kissed her, a good, long, wet kiss. Something nice to leave her with. "You gonna go find someone else out there?" he asked her.

She shrugged again. "Don't know. I kind of had my heart set on you."

He kissed her again, realizing that this was it. The last time he would taste anyone's lips other than Monica's. And, somehow, that thought made him feel good. Right. As if he'd latched onto something precious.

When he left Jimmy Crane's he knew what he needed to do. Monica would be his best-kept secret no longer.

*

He thought his parents would hit the roof when he told them Monica had been his teacher last semester, that she was thirty-seven. But they took the news in stride. What really made them curious was that she used to be a nun. That she had been a nun when she and Josh fell for each other.

"I can't explain it," he told them. Jeffrey was there, too. "I mean, I just fell in love with her. How can anyone ever explain that?"

"So that's where the money went, in your checking account," his father said. "You spent it all on her."

"Yeah. And I bought this." He showed them the engagement ring. "I know I should've told you before I bought it. But . . ."

He was surprised when his dad put his hand up, stopping him. "It's okay, Son. I know what it's like to fall in love. Don't I, dear?" 

Josh's mom grinned. "You sure do."

They eyed each other, their lust palpable. What the hell was going on between them? They were acting like horny teenagers! Almost every night since he'd come back home, Josh had heard them going at it in their bedroom. Was the twenty pounds Mom had lost really that much of an aphrodisiac? 

"Well, you need to get her to come out here and see us, ASAP," Dad said then.

"Huh?"

Jeffrey's eyes widened. "Yeah. I wanna meet the nun you've been banging."

They all looked at him, and laughed.

"But . . . how?"

"Hmm, there's this little thing called an airplane," Dad said. "Neat little invention. Ever heard of it?"

"But . . ."

"We'll pay for her ticket, dear," Mom broke in. "We want to meet her!"

Josh was speechless. This all felt like a scene from The Twilight Zone. Why was everyone acting so nice? Why weren't they shocked or angry or upset? Who were these people? 

"Wanna go upstairs?" Mom asked Dad, and right there, in front of everyone, she French-kissed him.

"Lead the way, pretty girl," he said.

Horny people in love. That's who his parents were. And for the first time since returning to California two months ago, he was grateful for it. Because he was sure, if Dad wasn't getting any, he'd have lectured him all night long on how Monica was too old for him, how it was wrong to date your teacher. But as it was, how could Dad protest? He was on cloud nine. The springs on his parents' bed groaned and squeaked, the noise filtering down through the ceiling.

"Brother," Jeffrey said.

They heard a shriek—Mom climaxing. 

"Yuck!" Jeffrey said.

Josh just smiled. His parents' rekindled passion for each other was turning out to be one of the best things that had ever happened to him.

*

"I want to marry you," he said into the phone the next day. "There's no doubt in my mind." He didn't tell her how two nights ago he'd almost had sex with another woman, and how that experience made him realize that he couldn't keep his secret any longer. That was the kind of epiphany best kept to himself. "That's why I told my parents about you yesterday."

There was a long pause on the other end. Then: "Oh, Josh . . ."

He swallowed, all of his insecurities erupting like a volcano. "Oh, Josh." What did that mean?

He heard her crying.

"Hey," he said. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said. "Nothing at all. Everything's right." He waited, silently, for her to go on. "I'm just so . . . I don't know. It's amazing."

"What is?"

"I just told my sister about you, too! Yesterday, I decided I needed to tell someone. I was so tired of keeping everything a secret."

He smiled, his face lighting up like a hundred-watt bulb. Man, how he wanted to hug her, right now. And never let go.

"I love you," he said. "God knows I do."

She was still crying on the other end. "I am so glad you told your parents about me," she said. "I told them I'm going to marry you," he said. "You plan to make a liar out of me, sexy lady?"

She giggled into the phone, still sniffling. "Well . . . I can't have you telling your parents something that isn't true, now can I?"

"They want to buy you a ticket," he said. His words were frantic. He couldn't say them fast enough. He wanted everything to fast-forward, until he could have Monica in his arms again. "They want to meet you. And, you know, I have a little ring to give you. And this time, beautiful, I don't intend to take it back."

Silence on the line. Then: "Oh, Josh. But I can buy my own ticket. I don't want them to—"

"Nonsense," he interrupted. "They insist. I insist."

She laughed again. "I can't believe this," she said. "When you proposed to me before you left, I really did want to accept then and there. I just didn't know. And I worried. Thought maybe after you went back to California, spent time away from me, that . . ."

He thought about Hanae again. How beautiful she was, how strong his lust had been. But he'd resisted. When push came to shove, he knew where he belonged, and who he belonged with. There was no doubt, not a trace. 

"If anything," he said, "I love you more than ever, Monica. I didn't think that was possible. But there you have it. So . . . can I go ahead and tell them to buy you that ticket?"

"Yes," she said. "Yes!"

And he knew that her "yes" was also an answer to a far more important question, a question he had first asked her on the balcony of that seacoast hotel on the shores of Maine. Yes. That's what his mind kept repeating, too. Yes. Yes. Yes.

"Oh, and one more thing," he said.

"Anything, Josh."

"When you come, make sure to pack your garters and heels."

She giggled. "I'll even bring my butt plug," she said.

*

He met her at the airport, and when they spotted each other, they hugged. He worried he might crush her ribcage, he was squeezing her so hard, but she never complained. She just hugged him back just as hard.

They kissed then, passionately; two months' worth of absence were fueling this kiss. Their tongues danced together, as they made love to each other's mouths, right there in the airport, with people rushing by. But Josh didn't care. Let them gawk, let them stare, let them mutter. He was with Monica again, and he wasn't about to hold back.

"I can't put into words how much I missed you," he said at last, when they finally broke their kiss. She smiled, and hugged and kissed him again. When he led her to the car, ready to drive her to his home, to meet his family, he offered her the ring again.

"I can't wait," he said. "Besides, I want you to be wearing this when you meet everybody."

She let him slide it onto her finger. She smiled, and it was such a radiant smile. A wave of unreality washed over him. Was this a dream, a fantasy? No. It was real. Wonderfully real. The woman he loved had come to him, accepted his hand. There were no more doubts, no more what-ifs. 

"It looks good on you," he said, eyeing the ring. "Of course, everything looks good on you."

She kissed him again, and then buried her head against his shoulder. 

"I'm sorry I ever doubted you," she said. "I suppose I needed to have us be apart for a while. But now I see how foolish that was. I am so blessed to have someone love me as much as you do."

Now it was his turn to smile, be rendered speechless. "Let's go meet your soon-to-bes," he said a moment later.

She let out a long breath. "I am so nervous! I hope they like me."

"Who wouldn't?"

She smiled. "Careful, young man. Flattery will get you everywhere."

The entire drive back home, he felt like he was floating, like the wheels of the car were really wings, and he was riding the current of the mellow California breeze.

*

Everything went well, even better than he hoped. His parents loved Monica, and Jeffrey seemed to have a crush on her. He was ogling her the whole while. Josh couldn't blame him. Monica was a knockout in a thin, white, sleeveless sundress that flowed down to her ankles. Josh's mom even asked her if she was really thirty-seven.

"You look twenty-five," she told her, and Monica thanked her and blushed. It was weird. Monica actually was closer in age to Josh's parents than to him. But you never would have guessed that by looking at her. 

They asked her about her former calling as a nun, and were genuinely interested to hear about her experiences in the sisterhood. By evening, it felt to Josh that his folks had known Monica for months. There was an ease to the conversation, a familiarity that seemed beyond belief, considering that they had only met a few hours earlier. His mom, in particular, took a real liking to her. As for his dad, well, Josh caught him ogling Monica, too. *

Later, much later, they sat on the couch, side by side, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her. He kept looking at the ring on her finger, still trying to absorb the meaning of it, the wonder.

"Your family is wonderful," she said. They were alone now, at last. Jeff was up in his room, and his parents were in their room, too, probably having sex again. He wasn't hearing the bed springs, though. Maybe they were just gently making out, or going slow. Or maybe they were asleep. "I really like them."

"Well, they're okay, I guess," he said, kissing the crown of her head. "They fell in love with you. I told you not to worry about anything. How are you feeling?"

"Hmm?" She picked her head up, looked at him. 

"I mean, are you having any second thoughts? Wondering what the heck you're doing, planning to marry a joker like me?"

She shook her head. "Not at all. I feel a little overwhelmed. A little tired after the trip and meeting everyone. But no second thoughts. I feel completely at peace with things, Josh."

"I love you," he said, and kissed her. Before he knew it, his hands were lifting her dress up. He stroked the soft, smooth flesh of her inner thighs, and she moaned.

"God, it's been so long," she said breathlessly. 

"We won't have to wait a minute longer. C'mon."

He got up, took her hand, led her into the kitchen.

"Hmm," she said. "I kind of thought, maybe, that we'd head to your bedroom?"

He smiled. "Later, sexy. For now, it's time for some leftovers."

Before she could respond, he opened the fridge, took out the tray of carrot sticks and dip they had eaten as an appetizer earlier. 

"You hungry?" he asked her.

"Not for food," she said, arching her eyebrows. He loved the way she flirted now.

"Don't worry," he said. "This isn't for eating."

He took off his shirt, then whipped off his jeans and underwear. Naked, his dick fully erect, he went to her. She kissed him again, her tongue like a heat-seeking missile intent on conquering, invading, subduing. He knelt down, reached underneath her dress, removed her panties. He frowned, because they were one of her old granny-style pairs. 

"Hey," she said. "I was meeting your family today! What did you expect me to wear?"

His answer was a kiss and a nibble on her neck.

She giggled, but, suddenly worried, said, "Josh, do you think someone will come in here and find us?" He was now squeezing her breasts through the fabric of her dress. She threw her head back and moaned.

"Nah," he said. "Once my brother goes to his room, he's camped up there for good. And, trust me, my mom and dad are fully occupied upstairs." He rolled his eyes. "And besides, even if someone did see us, who cares? We're engaged! What do they expect us to be doing?" He emphasized this with another squeeze. 

"Take your bra off, sexy," he said then. "But keep the dress on, okay? I love that sundress. You look so damn hot in it."

She did as instructed, tossing her bra on the floor, on top of his jeans and shirt. She looked so beautiful, he almost came, then and there. Her lustrous red hair cascaded over her shoulders, her face was flushed with desire, her brown eyes alight with anticipation. He took a carrot stick and went to her. "Lean over the table, baby," he said. She did, without hesitation. She must have known he was up to something kinky, and after two months apart, she wanted it as badly as he did. He knew she'd be game for anything.

Her perfectly shaped butt was right in front of him, and he yanked the dress up around her waist. He licked his lips at the sight of her naked ass. It had been way too long.

He drew his hand back, then brought it forward. Smack! "Oooh," she said into the tabletop. He slapped her again, again, again, and he wasn't holding back. Red handprints formed on her flesh. "You like that, baby?"

"Oh God, yes," she said, turning around to look at him. "Hit me harder, Josh."

So he did, and she squirmed with pain and pleasure. He reached underneath her, his fingers finding her pussy. She was soaking wet. He inserted his middle finger, then abruptly pulled it out and inserted the carrot stick. She squealed.

"It's cold," she giggled.

With his free hand, he slapped her ass again. "Mmmm," she moaned. "Harder!" He smacked her, harder, all the while thrusting the carrot stick in and out of her. Her breathing was accelerating, and, when he pinched her clit, she came with a shriek and a shudder. "You can stand up now, kinky girl," he said. As soon as she did, he thrust the carrot stick in front of her face. "Suck it," he said. "Suck on that carrot and lick your juices, sexy."




Sister Monica Ch. 07



She did, and then she surprised him by munching on the stick, eating it right out of his hand.

"Mmmm," she said. "Tastes good."

He had seen her turned on before—she was a sexual dynamo—but never like this. She oozed sex, radiated sensuality. She was a tigress, wanting a night of passionate lovemaking. Well, he wasn't about to disappoint.

As much as he loved her in that sundress, he'd had enough. He needed her naked. Now.

"Take off that dress," he ordered.

"Thought you'd never ask," she teased, and off it went. He gasped at the sight before him. It's not that he'd forgotten how beautiful she was. Every night they were apart, he would visualize her naked body, imagine her beside him, or underneath him, moaning in desire. But now, looking at her for the first time in two months, he again understood the wonderful reality—he really was engaged to the sexiest, most beautiful woman in the world. 

She went to him, the tables turning. She was the one in charge now.

"Are any of the strawberries and cream still left?" she asked.

He was staring—at her naked body, at the diamond ring on her finger, the only item she still had on. He was frozen in place for a moment. Her beauty dumbfounded him.

"Uhhh, sure, I think so." They had eaten strawberry shortcake for dessert.

He opened the fridge. There it was. A bowl of sugared-up strawberries and a container of whipped cream. He took them out.

She grabbed two of the strawberries, and took the can of cream, knelt down before him.

"Lean back, Josh," she said. "Enjoy it." 

He leaned against the counter, waiting, wanting, desiring. . . 

She sprayed a small amount of the whipped cream on his rock-hard dick, then plunked the two strawberries on top. He closed his eyes for a moment, waiting to feel her lips wrap around his penis. When he did feel them, he felt his body jerk involuntarily. She was licking the cream off of him, slowly. She flicked her tongue out like a snake, licking his penis-head, teasing his sensitive ridge. Then she took all of him in her mouth and he could feel her sucking on the strawberries simultaneously. It was too much. He couldn't take it, and he let loose. He sensed that she was surprised by how quickly he came, but she wasn't fazed. She drank all of it, a strawberry and cum cocktail. When she was finished swallowing, she looked up at him, smiled, licked her lips. "Yum," she said, and then took him in her mouth again until he was hard.

She stood up, went to him, French-kissed him, their naked bodies pressing together. He was in heaven, her smoothness, softness, the friction of her skin sending heat waves of electricity through him. 

She handed him the can of cream. 

"Where do you want it, baby?" he asked her.

"Use your imagination," she said.

Well, nothing too imaginative to start out with. He sprayed some on both of her breasts, covering both of her nipples. Then he placed a strawberry on top of each one.

"Now that's a strawberry sundae worth eating," he said, and she laughed—that rich, full laugh he had fallen in love with. That laugh that reminded him of a jackrabbit bounding through a meadow, the wind on its face. That laugh that was free, like random, puffy clouds floating through a cornflower-blue summer sky. He took the strawberry from her left breast in his mouth, and ate it. Then he licked off the cream, taking extra time to suck on her nipple. When he moved to her right breast, he took the strawberry in his mouth, but kept it lodged between his lips, not chewing it. Instead he lifted his lips to hers, and kissed her. He pushed the berry forward with his tongue, transferring it into her mouth. She reciprocated—pushing it back into his mouth, and then their tongues joined, the berry in the middle. They kissed and played with the strawberry until, finally, he swallowed it. But he kept right on kissing her. She moaned, softly, in his mouth, and he ran his fingers through her hair. She caressed his back, moaning, still moaning. . . .

He had to have her. He couldn't wait a moment longer. 

He picked her up, still kissing her, their tongues performing a sensual ballet, carried her through the living room, and began to mount the stairs. She felt light in his arms, and so right. A perfect fit. 

Midway up the stairs, he gently put her down. The stairs were carpeted and comfortable—they would do just fine.

"Here?" she said, amused.

"Here," he answered, and before she could get another word in, he was kissing her again. She kissed him back with more passion than he thought any human being could posses. He mounted her, as she leaned back against the stair behind her. 

"Are you comfortable, beautiful?" he wanted to know.

"Mmmm, am I ever," she said.

He braced his knees on the stair she was sitting on, and kissed her again. He wanted to kiss her the entire time they made love. Their tongues danced, flickered, played. 

He entered her, and it felt so good, so good. The feel of her slick vaginal walls squeezing his penis nearly sent him over the edge. Easy, he told himself. Easy now. Make it last.

They had not broken their kiss. Still they made love to each other's mouths, while, at the same time, he made love to her. Slowly he thrust in and out. The half-sitting position they were in offered him a great angle, and he was penetrating her very deep. She moaned, louder, louder, in his mouth as he picked up the pace. 

For a moment, he wondered if Jeffrey might hear them and come out to watch, but he pushed the thought aside in a flash. Who cared? If he did, he did. The kid could use a sex-education lesson anyway.

He was really going at it now, hammering away, looking to climax. Their tongues were full-on wrestling now, aggressive, hungry. She was no longer moaning, she was screaming in his mouth. And then he felt her body shudder, and go limp. 

Finally she broke the kiss. "Oh God, yes," she said. She was beginning to sweat, her bangs sticking to her forehead. But he hadn't come yet, and she wasn't done coming, either. Not if he could help it.

He leaned in, licked her left breast, took her nipple in his mouth, and chewed. Then he kissed her neck, her nose, her hair, her cheeks, her eyes, and finally her lips. 

"You get to choose now," he said, still thrusting in and out of her as he spoke. "What position do you want, sexy?"

"Mmmmm," she said. He was thrusting with authority. "I . . .ooohhhh . . . want to be on top this time."

He pulled out of her. "You have a particular spot in mind?" he asked. "Or do you want to stay on the stairs? It's your call, baby. I want you to tell me."

She bit her lower lip, that tick she had that drove him wild. Not that he could be more turned on than he already was . . .

"Is that swing set in the back big enough for us?" she asked him. God, she was awesome. Such a kinky mind. He loved it. He'd seen her taking note of the swing earlier, while it was still daylight. The swing set had been there for years. He'd used it himself when he was growing up.

"You know, I think it is," he said. "Let's go!"

They raced out the back door, hand in hand, out into the warm night air. A cluster of stars shone on them, like heavenly jewels. He sat down in the swing—more snug than it used to be when he was ten, but it would do.

She sat on his lap, positioning herself just so, and he slid into her.

"Are we too heavy, do you think?" she asked.

"Nah," he said. "You're just a feather, sexy. It'll hold."

He reached around, grabbed hold of her breasts, and pumped his legs. Slowly at first, but surely, they began to swing. She joined in, too, and soon, they were swinging in a wide arc.

"Wheeeee!" she said. "How exhilarating!"

She turned her head around, and they kissed. Then she faced front again. She had no footing to brace herself, so she used her arms. She grabbed onto the side of the swing, her hands on top of his, and pushed herself up and down, up and down, as their legs continued to pump. For good measure, he thrust, too, matching her movements in perfect rhythm. And it was surprisingly effective—not as good as it would have been had they been stationary, but he was able to slide in quite deep. 

He pinched her nipples, kissed the back of her head through the rich, luxurious mane of red hair. She was moaning again, her breathing fast, choppy. She was nearing another orgasm.

And so was he. He pumped his legs and thrust his penis into her, her wet vaginal walls gripping onto him like a silken vice. Then, wanting to be able to penetrate full to the hilt, he stopped the swing. 

"Turn around, beautiful," he said, and she did, getting up, then sitting back on his lap, facing him. 

They kissed, as they made love. It didn't take long for her to come. They were both bracing their feet on the ground now, thrusting at full power. She broke the kiss, threw her head back, and screamed in climax. Just moments later, he came, too, shooting his juices deep inside her. And then they sank into each other's arms.

He stayed inside of her, neither of them wanting to separate. Eventually he grew semi-erect again, but they didn't thrust or move. They just sat there, linked, joined.

"I hope you don't regret all of this down the road," she said. A gust of wind rose up, and her hair billowed out behind her like a flaming red sail.

He looked her in the eyes, which sparkled in the starlight. "Never," he said. "No one ever loved anyone as much as I love you."

She kissed him, buried her head on his shoulder.

"God bless you, Josh," she said. "Thank you so much for coming into my life. For loving me the way you do."

He hugged her, tight, trying to draw her closer, closer. Even an inch of separation was too much, a centimeter too far, a millimeter too vast. Nothing would ever separate her from him again. Not ever.

There were things to talk about still, matters to plan, issues to solve. But they would solve them together. They were mere details, trivialities dwarfed into insignificance under the umbrella of their love. 

For right now, sitting in this same swing that he used to play on a decade ago—a lifetime ago—just a freckle-faced kid growing up on the California coast, he wanted to hold the woman he loved, the woman he wanted to grow old with, share a lifetime with. He wanted to feel her nearness, smell the flowery perfume of her hair, enjoy the warmth and smoothness of her skin as it pressed against his. 

The rest, they could take care of down the road. Together. She picked her head up again, looked at him, kissed him. And the breeze blew on them, all around them, carrying with it, Josh was sure, the whispering promise of ten thousand tomorrows.

THE END

Author's Note: Thanks again to all of you for your feedback and comments. When I began this story line, I intended it only to be a one-shot, single story. But your comments inspired me to keep going. Now it's finished, and I hope you've enjoyed the ride. It was truly fun and rewarding hearing from all of you throughout this process. Thanks for all the great advice and insightful comments. It all helped me enormously along the way. I really do hope you enjoyed this final installment in the series . . .