“Let not the newly arrived candidate be admitted too easily, but let care be taken, as the Apostle St. John advises, to try the spirits if they be of God.” — St. Benedict
May 3, 1933
I struggled to sleep again last night. Rain was trickling down the window of my room, which looks out over the abbey’s courtyard. As each drop made its way across the moon it distorted the beams of light slightly, forming a soft carnival of sorrowful light dancing on my naked breast. If a sister were to dare the damp evening she could have looked up to my window and seen my nipples, erect from the cold, as they pressed against the glass. Somewhere beyond the dale the miskatonic flows outward and past Arkham, but in the darkness it could not be seen.
Sleep has come in troubled spurts following each sunset since my passing time in Arkham’s briefly lived Hooverville. I trembled as my thoughts returned to the pain of those days and I craned my neck to look for the river. I imagined that if I could bathe in its waters I’d be cleansed of the sinful yearnings growing in my bosom this last fortnight, as some delusion festers within me that those indignities were desirable. I painted a scene from Matthew in my mind, with myself at the Jordan river being baptized by John. The water is cold, but its sting snaps me out of this fugue… I emerge renewed.
Something moved out of the corner of my eye and I turned, a gasp catching in my throat — my door was open. “Sister Margaret?” I whispered, almost afraid to break the quiet and interrupt the soft patter of rain as if it was a performance put on by the most serious actors of the stage.
No response came.
I approached the door slowly, perhaps I had left it unlatched. I peeked out and surveyed the hallway. At the western end of the hall, my right, stands a door which had been shut and locked with the most archaic mechanism I have ever encountered. The abbess, Mother Superior Prinn, explained to me upon my arrival that the door leads to a stairwell which is in a horrid state, and dangerous. As such the old door is kept locked and off limits, but now it stood open. There seemed to be a faint light, flickering as if by fire, emanating from the doorway, which I could see into enough to confirm that indeed it contained a stairwell descending to unknown places. I realized at this moment that there was no corresponding door on the first and second floor as one would expect, and a twinge of curiosity stirred in me… but I turned back into my room.
May 4, 1933
I was summoned by the abbess in the morning, and as I sat outside her office I came to the conclusion that I would be reprimanded for my manner of dress, or some other violation of the culture which I am still learning. My postulancy, being in it’s infancy, feels precarious, and the looks I have been noticing from the sisters tells me that rumor of my manner of life prior to arriving at the convent is spreading among the inhabitants. I wondered back to the day before when the warm spring sun caused me to absent mindedly strip to my underclothes while working on the garden.
Upon arrival to the convent I informed the abbess of my agricultural upbringing, and she showed me their modest garden. I promised her I could expand it and began new plots, for the convent had no shortage of land, but lacked the skills to wrestle some from the forest and into producing fields. As I worked the previous day I had found myself drenched in sweat, and bit by bit discarded the garments the sisters provided me. Near the end of the day, I had noticed Sister Margaret watching me closely as I bent over in the mud, yanking a stubborn root from the ground, my sweat drenched undergarments clinging to my breast and bottom. Margaret seemed to watch me for a long time, returning my nervous smile with a nod and a predator’s stare.
“First I want to thank you for all the work you’ve been doing in the gardens, Caroline.” The abbess said when I had seated myself in front of her. “Sister West has told me you planted potatoes out near the orchids in the dale.”
“Yes,” I replied, “They’ll be needing little tending and that plot is further afield.”
Mother Superior is an older woman, but surprisingly young to be in charge of this abbey. I guess her age to be maybe 40 years. She is dark of hair with brown eyes, and her face reminds me of the girls in the flicks I saw as young girl years ago. Although her habit somewhat disguises the shape of her body, I can tell her bosom is much larger than mine.
“And you planted cranberries north of the western road.”
“They take a few years to produce.” I informed her.
“If you’re to be running all over the forest planting crops I would ask that you consult with Sister Bowen first… where did you get the cranberry seed by the way?”
I grew even more nervous. “I scampered by the Whateley place and Noah was kind enough to provide. He and my father were on good terms.”
The abbess narrowed her eyes at me… “Did you… pay Mr. Whateley in some way?”
I wondered about the feeling of Noah’s cockhead on my lips, the strong salty flavor of his sweat, built up over hours of work on the fields, and the feeling of his rough hands pushing my head down on the shaft, which seemed so much longer than it looked as it wedged, inch by inch, into my throat.
“No.” I lied. I imagined her scolding me, “You filthy fricatrice! Been giving out French jobs?” In my head she was looking down on me, a fricatrice, a call girl, a prostitute… a whore. Instead, she changed the subject.
“Margaret could use some help.” She said, “She’s been struggling with some things that you may be more familiar with than the other Sisters.” She paused for a moment, inviting me to ask what things, but I was silent. “I’ll advise her to see you after dinner.” I nodded.
As I stood, feeling tense as a frightened hare, the abbess stood with me. She placed her hand on my shoulder before I left the office. “My son, despise not the chastening of the Lord, neither be weary of his correction. For whom the Lord loveth he correcteth; even as a father the son in whom he delighteth.” She recited, adding: “You’ll be alright.”
I nodded, taking her intention as comfort.
It was a difficult yet fulfilling day in the gardens, which I viewed as and would soon convert into fields, although after my conversation with the abbess I understood not to turn the grounds into a farm there was plenty of space to grow out of sight from the convent. I encountered one curiosity under the secretive earth on the southern property line: the ground was only a foot of topsoil beneath which was man-made stone. I concluded that it must be the foundation of some old structure come to ruin years prior, but I could not discover the edges of its northern side. It extended in each place I checked towards the convent, and after an hour of effort I decided daylight was wasting.
Sister Margaret awaited me in the dining hall and we ate together, though she broached no serious matters. She told me how she applied to the convent at only sixteen, it being her calling from a young age. Five years had seen her grow into a respected member of the convent and of Arkham society as well where she had just begun working when the crash of ’29 hit. A postulant at the time, she worked tirelessly to help the many destitute families that came from and to Arkham in those first chaotic years.
I was only a bit surprised when she asked to come by my room, whatever was eating at here most be something she didn’t want paraded in front of the other sisters.
My room was modest, although comfortable, and the only real mark I had made upon it was the contents of one bookshelf. Sister Margaret knelt in front of it, inspecting the works. Her fingers traced the bindings of the books, some quite worn with age, but each protected fiercely from damage by all threats save the ravages of time that no woman could turn apart. The room was dimly lit by a small lantern, the sun’s last rays receding over the horizon.
“Mother Superior doesn’t like this book.” She informed me, her hands stopping on my copy of Paradise Lost. “She told me so already,” I replied. “Said folks get thinking that Milton is another book of the Bible, but I know that well and she didn’t fuss at me none over it.”
Margaret reached up and pulled off her veil, letting her hair spill out as it fell to the ground. I took a deep breath as I saw how bright and long her hair was when free of its constraints. It fell down her back as she undid her bun, previously concealed. Next she removed her neckerchief and habit. Beneath the mass of her gown were simple white underclothes, rather tight against her body. Her bossom looked ready to burst from the cloth, the mass of her garments no longer concealing her voluptuous form.
“It gets stifling at times.” She said, extending her left hand to me. “Come, sit with me.” I took her hand and took my place next to her. Margaret reached over and undid my headdress. I passively allowed her to remove some of my own garments, although the simple dress I wore was not as formal and complicated as her habit, me being only a postulant.
She took my hands in hers when she was done and rubbed them. “You have such strong hands, Caroline.” She marveled. “The land toughens you.” I explained. Years of farming had given me strong hands, among other things, though I am somewhat small of frame.
Margaret’s hands started to wander a bit, and I thought at the familiarity. I had grown up with only brothers, was this appropriate? I silently questioned. She rubbed my thighs. “You must be sore from working all day.” She said.
“I’m used to it.” I told her.
“Why don’t you lay on the bed?” She asked me.
I complied, as I so often did with such request, and she began to message my body. “Uhhh…” I squeaked out as her hands worked at my shoulders.
“Have you ever had a massage?” She asked me. I shook my head. No, the only people who’d touched me of late had their own, quick gratification in mind.
“Relax.” She told me, her hands roaming down my body. “Ahhh, it hurts..” I muttered.
“Is it a good hurt?” She asked me. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but as she worked her thumbs against my thighs my legs wanted to curl up and I moaned.
“You like it?” She asked me. I nodded, huffing.
I wasn’t sure how massages worked, but what she was doing was arousing me. I began to worry, would she notice? What would she think? Was it my whorish, sinful nature that was causing my loins to stir in response to her fingers? You’re a freak. I wondered to myself. A nasty, filthy whore.
“Uhhhmmmm gaww… Sister…” I moaned into the pillow as she turned me onto my stomach, her hands kneading my muscles through the soft valley of flesh where my thighs met my bottom.
“Shhhh.” She whispered, pressing her tight body up against my back. “Others could hear.”
So this isn’t right. I wondered. Indeed, Sister Margaret was not behaving normally, it wasn’t just me. We were engaging in lustful, scandalous behavior. I thought if I’d tempted poor Margaret with my sin. She must have known what I was and wondered on it as she looked at me. I imagined her fascination at a whore coming to their Abbey, and how she must have envisioned committing all manner of sin. Seeing me in the garden that day ignited some sick lust inside her!
“Sister Margeret!” I entreated quietly but urgently, “You must stop!”
I begged her to stop, but meanwhile I was pushing my ass back against her. Her hands lost all pretense and she cupped my sex through my clothes, squeezing. I felt her nipples on my back as she cast apart her top, then pulled off mine. Her soft, heavy globes rubbed over my skin, eliciting goosebumps along my legs. When I felt her tug at my drawers I knew things were almost too far to stop.
Her hands paused on my body. I glanced back and saw her face, perspiration forming on her brow and a look of some confusion crossing her face. She looked genuinely frozen, so I turned myself over under her and wrapped my arms around her, and unconsciously, my legs.
“It’s okay.” I told her, stroking her hair. Such habits, ingrained in me so quickly… “We just got a little carried away. The abbess said you needed my help… what did you need?”
She looked flustered, her breathing heavy. “I’ve struggled for a long time with… thoughts about the other sisters… The abbess said you’d be able to help me.” Her hands started moving again, slowly.
I wondered about this for a moment. Just what had the abbess intended? A frank conversation? Surely not… this encounter. Something else occurred to me.
“Margaret do you… touch yourself?” I asked. She nodded, “Constantly… the abbess caught me a few weeks ago, and since then she’s been trying to correct me…” This caught me off guard. The last thing I expected was Sister Margaret to tell me she was frigging herself each evening.
“Do you want to see?” She asked, climbing up my body. I was shocked to see she had removed her drawers while I was facing the pillow, her sex was exposed to me, and it glistened with drops of moisture in the dim light of my lantern. I opened my mouth to protest but just gaped dumbstruck by the perverse act I was now witness to. I had never had a woman debase herself in my presence, or even ask it of me.
Margaret’s left hand gripped my breast firmly, pinching the nipple between her thumb and index fingers while her right slipped between her legs, the fingers parting her lower lips and beginning to rub up and down, becoming covered with her juices.
“Caroline… uhhh, watch me… I’m so wet.” Her scent washed over me, warm and rich like an ocean wave in August, each one lapping further and further up my body, until I felt it’s salty tinge on my face, wetting my cheeks.
I shook my head, no! Her thighs were settling around my face. “Yes…” She whispered. I opened my mouth to yell and she lowered herself on me. I tasted another woman for the first time. “Lick it… lick me.” Margaret insisted. Her pussy lips covered my nose and mouth, I couldn’t breathe!
I tried to shake my head no, the stifled motion of which elicited a moan from Margaret. I tried to speak, and the motion of my lips drew a sharp inhalation from my tormentor. I reached up and grabbed her thighs, so full and soft, and tried pushing her off, but I couldn’t get any leverage, and we began to wiggle on the bed. I shifted and thrashed under her as she ground her pussy on my face. Occasionally I caught a quick breath, but she then guided my mouth back to her cunt, taking my head in both hands and smiling down at me as her panting grew more intense. I was becoming increasingly desperate for air, but also for something else. I pictured myself pinned down on Hangman’s Hill the previous fall, a large man taking me, and how he had placed his hands around my neck for a moment before apologizing… and how I’d asked him to do it again.
Her right hand reached back and slid under my clothes. Finding my damp womanhood, her fingers began to dance across my sex, teasing and circling. She laughed at my shame as we both realized how aroused I’d become. “What a nasty little deviant..” She muttered. My lungs were now burning for lack of air, but bizarrely it heightened my arousal. In moments my hips were rising, and Margaret’s fingers were pushing into me. I came, so quickly, quicker than I ever had, and sucked her clit into my mouth, practically biting down on it. Margeret shuddered over me. “Oh oh oh you whore that’s right suck my virgin cunt!”
Abandoning all reason, I ran my tongue up and down through the folds of her sex. I felt myself drowning in a sea of flesh and womanly secretions. It felt as though a hose was pouring steaming water on my face, and I foolishly believed I could stop the flow with my tongue. My head spun from lack of oxygen, and my eyes rolled back in my head as I passed out, feeling Margeret cumming on my face again and again.
When I awoke she was gone, having left the door cracked. Perhaps it was her shame and regret that led her to leave me so carelessly exposed but regardless I was horrified at who might see me. I moved quietly to the door but before closing it I peaked out. Everything was silent, but the door at the end of the hall again stood open. I thought who kept using it at night, for it was at all times locked during the day.
I heard a murmur seem to come from the stairs, and curiosity got the better of me. Quickly dawning a nightgown I crept towards the door, past Sister West’s room which lay between mine and the end of the hall, until I came to the stairwell’s threshold. There was a voice coming up, as from deep below. I strained to hear, stepping onto cold stone of which the stairwell was constructed.
“I don’t know what you think you were doing, or why you think you wouldn’t be caught!” A woman’s voice, the abbess? Another voice spoke, and it was low… I couldn’t make out the words, but it was a man’s voice.
I wondered there were no men in the abbey.
May 6, 1933
It was not I who ignited the foul desires burning in Sister Margaret. She confided in me the day after our dalliance that she found a small comic concealed in the clothes of a man at Arkham’s poorhouse. It was titled, Go Down Sister and the cover portrayed one woman kneeling between another’s legs. I recognized her description as what men called “Tijuana Bibles” and she told me she had been trading for them from the vagrants who commonly pass through Arkham. She has amassed quite a collection but most featured men mounting women… it is the first one she encountered that she most covets. She hides her collection in a small chest under her bed.
“This is awfully dangerous.” I had warned her. What the abbess will do if she finds out I have no clue. Sister Margeret swears that she was not confronted by the abbess that night. Nor am I interested in learning what the abbess would think of the fornication we committed on my bed. It is known only to us and the peeping moon, whose confidence I am sure will keep.
We have become like co-conspirators, and I tell the abbess that I am supporting Margaret in her spiritual troubles. In truth Margeret is a source of great spiritual torment for my person. I must launder the sheets tonight for these past nights I have formed the abhorrent habit of sniffing my pillow where Margeret’s juices flowed onto it, and I can not stop imagining her wet sex, shamefully pressed over my nose, drowning me in her cum.
May 8, 1933
This evening I made the mistake of asking Margaret how Mother Superior Prinn has been trying to stop her private shame, which prompted her to start explaining in the most awful detail. We were sitting in my room, the last light of day fading in the window.
“She has been reading from psychologist.” Margaret explained that the abbess is fond of the work of Edward Lee Thorndike, who is a leader in the field of behaviorism, studying the how and why that men and beast do as we do. From him she learned a great deal about ‘reinforcement.’
“As God punishes man to teach him, we can also punish ourselves, and thereby avoid the need to bring the almighty into the matter.” Margaret leaned against me, speaking softly. She shuddered and I instinctively wrapped an arm around her for comfort.
The month before I arrived at the abbey Prinn brought Margaret to her chambers. Margaret was nervous of course, fearful of what penance the abbess had in mind. The Mother Superior had tied Margaret down to her bed, removing her clothes. Prinn had rubbed Margaret’s body from head to toe, smearing a pleasant-smelling oil all over her, anointing her.
The abbess then undressed down to her underwear, which Margaret noticed were a pair of lace panties, and leaned over Margaret, resting her bare breast on Margaret’s face. “Do you like these?” She asked.