Much pleasure we have lost, while we abstain’d from this delightful fruit, nor known till now true relish, tasting. If such pleasure be in things to us forbidd’n, it might be wish’d for this one tree had been forbidden ten.

John Milton, Paradise Lost

May 12, 1933

Last night I dreamt that the stairwell door was ajar. I was laying awake in my bed, staring out the window at the waxing moon, trying to ignore the scratching at my door.

I know I wrote things yesterday that would make a stuffed bird laugh but every bit is true, and when I woke up this morning I was perplexed as to what I ought to do about it. If I didn’t have a place at Providence Abbey I’d be back in the alleys off Church Street.

I speculate that the abbess is keeping Mr. Dumonte captive without the knowledge of the other sisters, but without knowing for sure I’ll soon discover myself thrown out if I open up to the wrong Sister. I had been following Margaret that night, had she gone in the door? I decided this afternoon, as I dug near the Miskatonic for a future irrigation ditch, that I’d make another trip into the dungeon. I could ask Mr. Dumonte for an explanation and release him to go to the police in my stead if such was necessary.

As to the peculiarities of the evening… I haven’t the slightest inkling of how to deal with them.

While I pondered this oddity I was startled by a voice, Sister Margaret. She had come out after finishing her duties and offered to help me work. It was a sight to see the woman, larger than me though she was, struggle to wring life from the ground. Rosaries are clearly more suited to her disposition than shovels, but I appreciated the help, and I did not ask her whereabouts the previous evening.

When we came in before supper, we were a sight, sweaty as could be, I followed Margaret to the bath. As I undressed, I heard her lock the door behind me. I turned back, suddenly realizing I was about to be alone, and naked, with the woman.

She stood by the door, biting her lower lip and staring at me. “Keep going.” She said.

“It’s to risky…” I whispered.

She raised her voice and spoke as though she were my mother. “TAKE. OFF. YOUR. CLOTHES.”

I slowly began to strip, aware of her gaze as I did so. “Get on your knees.” She said as I finished.

“Margaret maybe we should do this later…” I weakly protested.

“Are you getting familiar with me?” She asked.

“I’m sorry?” I asked and apologized.

“It’s SISTER, do you understand?”

“Yes Sister Margaret.” I replied meekly.

“Now crawl over here.” She ordered me.

I complied, knowing that I shouldn’t, that it was wrong, that it was dangerous, that discovery meant expulsion. I crawled to her feet, my head hung low, my heart rate rising with anticipation.

“Look at me.” She said. As I raised my face to her she pulled her habit up, underneath was nothing, her bare, sweaty body was exposed to me.

“I’ve been thinking about this ALL DAY.” She explained. “My odor must be strong, don’t you think.”

I pressed my face forward, and breathed her in. She was right, it was strong, and salty, her skin dripping sweat from the spring sun. To my surprise she turned around, presenting her ass to me. “Start here.”

I shook my head, surely there are limits to my depravity. “Don’t make me have to make you.” She warned me.

My stomach was tied in knots, I squeezed my eyes tight and planted a kiss on her left asscheek. “More.” She commanded.

I kissed around the velvety skin of her ass, which was so white it may well have never felt the sun’s light. “More.” She demanded again. I sucked on the flesh, and ran my tongue along it, cleaning the sweat drop by drop. I felt her hand on the back of my head, pushing towards her dark valley. I shook my head, no!

She giggled, as though my discomfort were the whining of a puppy, and pushed, insistently. I gave faint hearted resistance, but part of me thought, what her delicate rosebud would feel like on my tongue, and then I did feel it. The surface, fascinating in its tightness, it’s wrinkled smoothness, was enthralling to me once I began kissing her there. I kissed her sweaty asshole passionately, and frenched it, forcing my tongue against the ring.

I reached up and squeezed her firm asscheeks, then pulled them aside, helping her bury my face deeper. Her full ass covered my face, pressing against my cheeks like pillows smothering me, her fingers intertwined with my hair, forbidding any retreat. She held me there and forced me back, crawling, against the wall. Leaning forward she pushed her ass back, trapping me. My tongue slipped through her anus and into her, wiggling among the soft insides.

“Uhhh God you’re such a dirty mouse.” She gasped through clenched teeth. I could only moan a reply, what am I to say? I have no defense. I am a filthy degenerate, not just a whore to get by but an enthusiastic ass licking lesbian. So I sucked and slurped, making the most perverse sounds fill the bath, my spit mingling with her pussy juices dripping down her thighs. She pulled back and I gasped for air. Margaret turned around, dropping her habit over my head. I was left in the dark, my face inches from her cunt. “Do it.” She insisted.

I opened my lips and started cleaning her ripe cunt. Each delicate fold was given great care. I started at the bottom and lapped up the dried sweat mixed with her sweet nectars, feeling Margaret shudder above me, “Stop teasing me Chuckaboo.” She muttered. I pressed my face into her folds, sucking her clit into my mouth. I wiggled my tongue against it, feeling her moan in appreciation. My hands ran up her thighs, grabbing her ass and pulling, I shoved my face against her cunt, sparks forming in front of my eyes as I trembled from lack of air, the heat rising from my pussy the only thing keeping me going.

“Yesss, you should be muff-diving for all the nuns in the abbey don’t you think?” God why does she say such things? More importantly, why do they stoke the burning in my lions?

“Would you like that, hmmm, would you like me to line up the girls outside so they can come in one after another and ride your face?” I found her clit with my lips and kissed it for all I was worth. Determined to shut her up by leaving her breathless.

“Caroline you’re making me cum you filthy dyke… ugghhh God yes…” Margaret shuddered above me as her juices flooded my mouth. I began to rub my own weeping pussy with one hand, needing to get off as I debased myself, dirty and sweating on my knees before this woman whom I derived such sick pleasure from servicing. The folds of her sex wrapping around my nose and mouth drove me to insanity, and I came while shaking from asphyxiation.

I found myself on the floor, and realized I had blacked out again, but from the look of things only for a moment. My pussy was still hot and Margaret stood above me, removing her clothes. “Let’s get cleaned up.” She said. “Not long til supper.”

She helped me up and into the bath where we cleaned each other, I wanted to lick her to another orgasm but there wasn’t time. As she washed my breast we locked eyes and it happened.

She kissed me. Her kiss was soft and gentle… and all to brief. My breath left my body from that kiss as surely as it had when she’d pinned me to the bed, and my head spun. I forgot all about the previous night’s events for a while, as we ate dinner together, although not all was bliss. I walked past the other nuns and although I’d bathed and changed clothes, I couldn’t imagine that I looked typical. How could there not be some visible change, I thought, as the world around me carried on, oblivious.

It was while we ate dinner that I pondered the practical needs of fulfilling my impractical desires. That this train could be stopped no longer entered my mind, I was committed to a conspiracy of sin with Sister Margaret, and I knew the path forward was learning how we might indulge these desires behind the backs of fellow Sisters. It was even more essential to me now that I not disrupt this new life, and I thought, could I simply ignore what I had seen the previous evening?

When I arrived at the dining hall after dressing Margaret was already there. She sat with two other Sisters and I slowed my step. In that moment I realized that I had largely sat alone in my time here until I began to know Margaret. I’ve had little interaction with the Sisters besides Mother Superior and Sister West, yet they beckoned me over and, breathing deeply, I approached.

One of the women, an older nun by her looks, greeted me. “Nice to have your company, Ms. Lapham.”

“It’s nice to have someone else be the new girl!” The other Sister interrupted. I saw that she was very young, the most junior Sister I had seen in my time here.

Margaret introduced me to Sisters Lillibridge and Dewart. “We call her Lily for short.” Margaret told me.

“But we shouldn’t.” Sister Dewart informed me. “Lily joined us at sixteen, like Margaret did. We had to wait until her 18th birthday to make her a full sister although she was past ready.”

“I didn’t mind.” Lillibridge told me. “I wanted to be a woman religious from the time I was a young girl, and there’s so much to learn after all.”

You’re still a young girl. I wondered to myself. My parents would have never let me leave the farm at sixteen, to much work to be done. I remembered the funeral then, and the dark days afterward on the streets of Arkham, though I tried to hide the thoughts that suddenly intruded.

“It’s about time you started making friends here.” Dewart said. I tried not to look surprised as she went on, telling me how Mother Superior said I was doing so well. Of course, I’ve been foolish, my shame isn’t written in lights on Broadway. To the nuns I’m just another postulant, soon to be one of them, an oddball yes as a farmer’s daughter, but I realize now that knowledge of my prior life is not making the rounds through the ranks. The sin of gossip isn’t prevalent in this abbey, the Mother Superior has kept my confidence.

---

May 13, 1933

Last night I fell asleep! I lay in bed waiting for the optimal time to sneak into what I have begun to think of as the dungeon and next thing I knew the sun was rising! I wondered of poor Mr. Dumonte locked in the cellar and felt awful. I resolved that I wouldn’t fail again. Towards this end I spent my day conserving energy. I did only simple task in the gardens and when Margaret came to visit, I ceased my labors. We sat together by the Miskatonic and daringly I stole a kiss, believing none were around and the trees would guard our secret.

Though we physically shared this affection our throats could not seem to voice it, for the cold light of day neither she nor I could verbalize our affair, despite the vulgar things we shared when our loins were hot.

I claimed fatigue after supper to escape back to my room in solitude, where I steeled myself for what was to come. I prepared a bag with a flashlight, a hammer, and a sickle. The hammer I would need to break Mr. Dumonte’s chain, and the sickle, w

All was quiet in the abbey as I snuck to the doorway, a chill silence settling on the abbey as if a graveyard closed for the evening. I’m pleased to report I can now open the door with only a few attempts, but I paused at the entrance, staring at the upward steps, could they go to the roof? From outside the abbey it doesn’t appear so but I couldn’t explore that mystery while a man sat imprisoned in the dungeon. I proceeded downward as silently as I could for I cared not to draw the attention of the abbess or whatever animal might wander this darkness.

I held my flashlight in reserve, working with the bit of light that I now knew came from a torch lighting Mr. Dumonte’s cell. At length I came to his cell and was pleased that I startled him.

“Ms. Prinn?” He asked, squinting at me in the dim light.

“No.” I replied.

“Oh it’s you, the ninja.”

“Ninja?” I asked, smiling despite the circumstance. “No, I’m just a humble applicant at this abbey, who found my way down her through curiosity. My name is Caroline Lapham.”

“Well I’m grateful for that. John Dumonte, at your service.” Dumonte was lying in bed, and now stood, letting the sheet fall off him. I was shocked by his lack of modesty but given his situation I forgave him forgetting himself.

He was a middle-aged man, just younger than my father, and in excellent health from the look of him. I inspected him rather immodestly myself. “Nice to meet you…” I said as he walked as far as he could up to the edge of the cell, his toned body coming more clearly into view. I see why the Mother Superior makes such use of him.

“Where are your clothes?” I asked him.

“Taken for misbehavior by your abbess.” He told me.

“How long have you been down here?”

“Perhaps three weeks.”

“And why are you here?” The most essential question. I regarded him carefully, reminding myself not to trust too quickly.

He sighed. “It’s difficult to explain…”

Dumonte began to tell me a tale. I could sense him holding back, considering what to tell me. He claimed that he was an investigator into cult activity. He had been searching for a cult operating in Arkham when he pieced together reports and interviews indicating that people where disappearing from the city. These people were vagabonds and drifters, folk whose disappearance would be excused as having moved on, their lives as substantial as the vapors rising from the cold sewers of Arkham’s streets, but their friends reported that they’d made no plans to do so, and some of them had started to set down roots.

The pivotal break in his case came when patrons of the poorhouse told him that the Sisters of Providence Abbey had been offering quarters to needy homeless, and that not one person who had accepted had been seen again. Dumonte interviewed some of the Sisters openly, a mistake he mused that was brought on by his perception that, as women, they posed no threat. He shook his head at this, laughing at himself.

“There’s no vagrants housed here.” I flatly told him.

“Well, there’s one.” He said, chuckling.

“What are you hiding?” I inquired.

He stood silent for a moment. “There are facts about this case that would cause you to doubt my story, things difficult to believe. They are of crucial import yet they do not change the substance of what I’ve told you. Be assured I have done no wrong to deserve this imprisonment if that is what concerns you.”

In truth it did not really. Even if Dumonte was a foul man the abbess could not enact her own justice upon him, though from the behavior I’d witnessed justice was not what she held him for.

I looked about his cell. The door was ajar, for it was not what contained him. Mr. Dumonte had a shackle on his right leg, attached to the bed which was itself attached to the wall opposite the door. I reached into my bag and withdrew the hammer, dropping it at his feet.

“Wait until I’m gone.” I instructed him.

“What is this about?” He asked, clearly somewhat confused by my plan.

“You will escape of your own accord. Bring the hammer with you please. I can’t be involved.”

Especially if it brings down the abbey. I wondered of how angry Margaret would be if she should find I’d compromised her home.

“I see.” He said, picking up the hammer and hiding it under his meager mattress. “My method of escape shall be a mystery to Ms. Prinn.” He then looked at my bag on the floor, the sickle sticking out. “Keep that close on the way out, and don’t come back here.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You seem safe enough down here.” I said, pushing the open cell door.

“The things down here don’t want me.” His statement hang in the air, sending a shiver down my back.

And so I left him there to his own devices, my conscious clear.

---

May 15, 1933

I am greatly curious what other secrets the dungeon holds. What lays further down that sloping tunnel, delving as it does into the earth and thus, if geologist are to be believed, into the past? What depths does the downward stairwell reach, and what heights? My mind comes to these questions again and again, as buzzards to the feast of Prometheus’s entrails.

I have distracted myself with farming, and with Margaret. I asked her openly today to come to my room tonight, when others are asleep, so that I can drink from that forbidden fountain, for which my throat is more parched than the driest county suffering under prohibition. She turned me down though, saying she was sore, from what she would not say. She then asked me to talk to the abbess on her behalf, to assure the abbess that she was overcoming the lesbian tendencies with my help, and that the abbess’s intervention would no longer be needed.

I agreed wholeheartedly, willing to be of service, and went to see the abbess after dinner, she says we will discuss it tomorrow evening, at which time she will determine if Margaret is on the right path.

---

May 16, 1933

It is difficult to write this, as I am exhausted from the day’s events, and I am ashamed of what I have to record. Still, I must put these events down, that I might not forget them.

Please forgive me Jesus Christ for I have erred.

When I arrived at the appointed hour the Mother Superior awaited me. She greeted me warmly, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The Mother Superior is an intimidating woman, her dark eyes seeming to cut through my defenses into the sin beneath. Margaret, she told me, was already awaiting her judgement in her office, but first she had some questions for me.

“How have you two been getting on?” She asked.

“Quite well.” I told her. “Margaret is a wonderful, devout woman who fears the Lord and whom I emulate.”

“And what has she confided in you regarding her troubles?” The abbess pried.

“She says the devil tempts her with unnatural thoughts about other women.” I said simply.

“What kind of thoughts? Specifically.”

I frantically wondered about how to talk Mother Superior into believing Margaret had repented. “She had thoughts of lying with another woman as with a man, but the sickness has been receding quickly.”

“And how are you treating it?” She sounded almost too curious on this note.

“We prayed together and worked the fields.”

“Nothing beats honest work, eh?” She asked. I sensed mockery in her tone.

“The farmer knows just what to do, for God has given him understanding.”

The corners of her mouth seemed to twitch at this. “Isaiah… very well let’s see what progress you have made.” She stood, motioning for me to follow.

The state of the Mother Superior’s “office” was, to put it mildly, shocking. She had clearly done some redecorating over the last week. The walls are now adorned with all manner of bizarre images and foreign objects. I couldn’t even guess at the function of some of them, but these esoteric artifacts were not the only peculiar presence in the room.

Sister Margaret lay on a square bench in the center of the room. Her head hang just off one side, knee high while her arms were bound to the ornate Victorian furniture, upholstered with soft red silk. I saw that her legs were open and pointed upward, the ropes on each ankle attached to the ceiling. She was stark naked, quivering (with cold, fear or anticipation?), her pale skin illuminated by the flickering of several oil lanterns scattered about the room, and by a set of candles on a coffee table next to her bench. I saw that she’d been blindfolded with a red cloth. The wondered that it should be me in her place rose unbidden in my mind.

The abbess turned back to me, putting a finger to her lips.

“How are you doing Sister Margaret?” She asked.

“I’m cold, Mother Superior.”

“I’ll soon remedy that, dear.” The abbess assured her.

The abbess stepped up behind me and put her hands on my shoulders. “Your new friend Caroline thinks you’re almost out of the woods.” She was speaking to Margaret, but she looked at me as she said it, and her hands began to work my shoulders.