Breed the Nun

The question hangs in the air, corrosive and tempting. Your body screams for release, a taut wire thrumming with the nun’s frantic motion. Her transformed breasts, obscenely large, sway heavily with each impact, the silver cross bouncing between them. The plap, plap, plap of skin on skin is a counter-rhythm to the droning liturgy. You cannot think. You can only feel.

Your hands, which have been gripping the hard pew, move of their own accord. They settle on the swell of her hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh beneath the rough fabric. It is not a push away. It is an anchor. A acceptance.

“That’s it,” Inara murmurs, her lips brushing your ear. “She wants your blessing. Give it to her.”

A dam breaks inside you. It is not pleasure, not purely. It is a convulsive, total surrender, a flood of shame and animal relief so profound it blots out the stained glass, the incense, everything. Your back arches, a silent scream tightening your throat as you erupt.

You climax inside her.

The pulse is volcanic, a seemingly endless series of deep, pumping releases that makes Sister Angela shriek—a sound of pure, unhinged ecstasy that should shatter the church’s quiet. Her body clenches around you, milking you, drawing out each shuddering wave. You feel the hot rush fill her, an impossible volume that makes her abdomen distend slightly against yours.

No one turns. The priest clears his throat, continuing his reading. A baby fusses softly several rows ahead. The world remains meticulously, horrifyingly polite.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of her ragged breathing and your own, the wet, joined heat between you. Sister Angela slumps forward, her forehead resting on your shoulder, her habit a mess. She trembles. You are still inside her, softening, trapped in the awful intimacy.

Inara claps her hands together softly, a single, muted tap. “A successful prayer,” she says, her voice bright. Sister Angela slowly, mechanically, lifts herself off you. The separation is a shock of cool air. She stands on wobbling legs, pulling her habit back on with numb hands, and smoothes the fabric over her now-quivering stomach. Her eyes are clear, focused, and utterly empty of any recognition of what just occurred.

She turns and walks calmly down the row, stepping past the old woman with the missal, and proceeds toward the altar to take her seat with the other parish staff. She kneels, folds her hands, and bows her head in prayer. A perfect picture of piety.

You are left exposed, soiled, and utterly broken on the pew. The physical evidence of the act is stark and wet on your skin. Inara’s floral dress is once again pristine. She leans in, her final whisper a promise and a verdict.

“See?” she says. “No one noticed a thing. Your connection is now eternal.” She gestures a single finger toward the front, where Sister Angela prays. “I wonder what the morning sickness will be like.”

Then she is gone, leaving only the scent of jasmine. You fumble with clothes that no longer exist, your hands shaking too badly to function. You sit there, trapped in the echoing hymn, naked in every way that matters. The sermon ends. The people rise to leave, chatting about the weather and the choir. They flow around you, a river of normalcy avoiding a stone of pure disgrace.

You cannot move. You can only stare at the cross above the altar, and understand, with crystalline clarity, that there is no sanctuary here.