Random Acts of Lust

by Primula Bond

  Olivia felt as if a bucket of cold water had splattered over her. She let go and rolled on to her back. She was shivering with excitement and frustration and fury. A pulse was throbbing between her legs. ‘Why the hell do you want to go back into that prison, anyway?’

  ‘Open your eyes. Watch me, Livvie.’

  Sister Benedicta was kneeling above her, blocking out the sun, and for a minute Olivia was dazed, but then she saw that with her long pale fingers her nun was undoing her buttons. Tossing aside the bib that covered her front, the apron, exposing more buttons round her neck.

  ‘Let me do these ones.’ Livvie knelt up behind and undid the endless tiny buttons down the back, and pulled her dress down, then unlaced the undershirt, and underneath that were surgical-looking linen bandages, binding and flattening Sister Benedicta’s chest.

  Sister Benedicta turned round to face her. They were both shaking now, even though the sun was back, still fingering them. Livvie’s knees were buckling. Her pussy was weeping into her knickers. She took hold of the hideous grey bandages and forced herself to take it slow. The nun’s mouth was open, her white teeth biting into her lip, as Olivia unwound the cruel covering. Her own breasts bulged and swelled with excitement and then she whipped away the last bandage and there were Sister Benedicta’s breasts, firm and pale and soft, her nipples slowly changing colour from pale pink to an urgent, dark, red.

  ‘Let me, now,’ whispered Sister Benedicta, and much more easily she pulled Olivia’s shirt off, saw her breasts bulging out of her bra, unhooked that quickly, and caught her breasts as they fell into her hands. The two women knelt in front of each other on the grass, feeling each other’s breasts, their breath coming in uneven gasps of longing.

  Sister Benedicta’s fine, delicate features blurred and fused as she came closer and her fingers stroked Olivia’s breasts, her back, her legs under the little netball skirt, sending ripples of pleasure through her. She closed her eyes, letting her head droop backwards as the soft caresses lulled her. Then Sister Benedicta’s mouth bumped up against hers, just like it did in her bedroom all those days ago. They both waited, mouths just touching. Olivia’s breath stopped totally. She couldn’t move away. Her lips softened and parted. Sister Benedicta rubbed her mouth harder against Olivia’s. Olivia slid her hands under the nun’s heavy skirt, felt the white skin on top of those ugly black stockings, the voluminous cotton bloomers still there, and she felt a pressure of violence inside her and as Sister Benedicta’s tongue flicked again inside her mouth she pushed her down on the grass, sucking her tongue in between her teeth, so that their faces were moulded together and their bare breasts and hard nipples were rubbing against each other, their bodies tangling together again.

  This would be enough, Olivia thought. This kissing. Perhaps if this is all, we won’t have sinned. We can go back inside the convent, and no one will ever know. But it was like setting a taper to a candle as they feasted on each other. She was smouldering from her feet upwards.

  And those violent urges kept on coming. This must be how boys feel, she reckoned, when they want to fuck. She lifted Sister Benedicta’s skirt up and there were the voluminous white cotton bloomers. She stroked her hand over them, over the mound of Sister’s pussy. Sister Benedicta squealed, and smacked at her hand, but Olivia didn’t care. She stopped kissing her and bent to watch what her hands were doing. She unlaced the bloomers at the waist and pulled them down over Sister Benedicta’s narrow hips, running her fingers over the ghostly white cold skin pulled taut over her bones and her flat stomach. She wanted to see her pussy, but she didn’t know what to do next. She was overcome with shyness. They both were. Sister Benedicta started to cross her legs, tried to pull Olivia’s hand away, but the touch triggered the madness all over again. Olivia ripped the bloomers right off and there it was, the awesome chestnut triangle of hair, untouched, untrimmed, what would the Princesses say, already sporting their Hollywood waxes ready to please their glitzy boyfriends?

  A manic giggle bubbled in her throat as momentarily she imagined them all standing round on the grassy hill in their tight jeans and cropped tee shirts, smoking, flicking their highlighted hair, swearing and slowly bending nearer to see more closely, biting their pumped-up, glossy lips, sucking excitedly on their long fingernails as she pushed her face into Sister Benedicta’s russet curls, damp with sweat, edged her nose in between the hidden lips, breathed in the unmistakable sharp tang of aroused female. Her own pussy twitched frantically. Sister Benedicta took hold of her head and tugged her away, back up for another kiss. Olivia moved her face back over Sister Benedicta’s stomach, over the rough folds of skirt, back up to her naked breasts, closed her eyes as she rubbed her face against the hard nipples, and then back to her mouth, her lovely, warm, wet, open mouth, and kissed her again, licked her mouth and pushed her tongue inside because that really felt the best.

  But as she kissed her, she started to rub herself against Sister Benedicta’s slim white leg. She couldn’t help it. Her body was tight, coils of desire unwinding with all the sensations, and she couldn’t help shoving her hand into the warm space between Cecille’s milky white thighs.

  Down in the valley the bell tolled.

  Olivia forced herself to stop. ‘Oh God, Sister, that sounds like your coda!’

  ‘Fuck my coda!’ Sister Benedicta growled, tossing her head from side to side, little bits of grass sticking to her short, cropped hair. ‘Lick me, Olivia. Lick my sex. Bring me back to life!’

  ‘Calm down, Sister! I’ll lick you till you’re begging me to stop!’

  Olivia giggled softly, but anxiety pricked at her as the bell echoed round the hills and trees. Sister Benedicta arched her back defiantly and as the wretched coda beat through the warm evening air she grabbed Olivia’s face and pushed her roughly so that she slid back down her long, slim body, down her stomach, and she opened her legs, hooking her thighs round Olivia’s head, pulling her face into her fanny, and now Olivia’s nose and mouth were sliding into her crack and it was already so wet, the secret chestnut hairs curled over it, tight with moisture.

  Olivia closed her eyes and smelt her lover’s new smell, felt the grass scraping her knees. Sister Benedicta pressed her thighs around her ears, trapping her there. Her fingernails raked at her shoulders, yanking at her hair, burying Olivia’s face into her cunt, and then Olivia knew what she wanted to do. She lifted the nun’s white buttocks in both hands and held her pussy up in front of her face like a gift. She saw the juicy treat opening stickily before her, curls of hair clinging for dear life to keep it concealed, then she dipped her head and ran her tongue up the dark pink crack to lick up that moisture, shocking her senses with the untried, sweet-salt flavour and almost coming with the thrill of it as Sister Benedicta started to buck and moan in response.

  Once more the bell rang, echoing round the hills.

  Olivia’s tongue parted the nun’s soft lips, probed deeper, past the tender frills of skin inside, found her tongue being sucked into the tight, never-touched cunt. It was all piss and sweat and honey in there, that dark wet place hidden so long from the world, and now she was going to deflower it. Her fingers hooked into Sister’s buttocks and slithered into the warm crack between her cheeks and her own cunt flashed tight and loose with mad excitement as she burrowed her face into her lover’s cunt and Sister Benedicta writhed and lifted beneath her, and then Olivia’s tongue touched the little bump of her lover’s clit, and when she swirled her tongue round it Sister Benedicta moaned and tossed herself about like a porn star.

  Triumph surged through Olivia then, she was on it now, and she sucked hard, opening up the lips like petals, and the nun really screamed out then, reared upwards and slammed and thumped against the grass as she started to shake and as she started to shudder with her climax Olivia fingered herself quickly and roughly, as she’d done so often in bed, in the bath, in French classes, but this was something else, finger-fucking herself while she licked out the beautiful Sister Benedicta, and her cunt gripped tight
ly at her fingers as she came, too.

  The sun dipped behind the trees and a faint breeze rushed like hushed voices.

  ‘I want to stay here,’ said Olivia, rolling up to kiss Sister Benedicta’s slender, sun-starved neck. ‘I think I’ve heard that call. That voice from on high that I’ve dreaded all my life. It means no sex. No boys. No clothes. No fun. But I want to stay –’

  ‘With God?’ Sister Benedicta tried to look stern, but then she kissed Olivia in an incredibly wanton, lustful rush, pushing her mouth open again, pushing her back on the grass, straddling her girl, pinning her there, her turn to be dominating. ‘Or with me?’

  Immaculata, immaculata, ora pro nobis

  The chapel was empty after the service. Lilies, candles, prayer books. Olivia bent down to pick them up, and felt Sister Benedicta lifting up her heavy skirt, opening up her milky white thighs to push her long white fingers up inside –

  ‘Lie down, Olivia. Lie down, Sister Benedicta.’

  They stood up, straight as soldiers.

  ‘Both of you have sinned.’ Sister Antonia stood on the steps of the altar, hands folded into her sleeves. She didn’t look beautiful and serene any more. She didn’t look like someone who’d been finger-fucked by the choir master. She looked like the statue of some avenging angel standing at the gates of hell. ‘We have watched you all summer. Prayed that this sinful infatuation would pass if we welcomed Olivia in to the realities of convent life, away from her friends, tried to separate you from Sister Benedicta. We hoped it would pass, drop away with the autumn leaves, but here we are in December on this special Feast day and finally we’ve caught you.’

  ‘Sister!’ Olivia fell on to her knees, her white novice’s veil flapping awkwardly across her face. ‘Sister Benedicta has been my guide, that’s all. My guide to the holy life –’

  Sister Antonia glared over her head as Sister Benedicta came up behind Olivia and placed her hands on her shoulders to calm her.

  ‘Don’t compound your sin by lying about it, Olivia,’ Sister Antonia barked. The chapel door opened, and there was the swish of habits and the restrained tap of shoes on the polished flooring as all the nuns re-entered the chapel.

  ‘You will both be lashed.’

  Olivia gave a kind of whooping snort. ‘Sister, lashing went out with the ark –’

  Sister Antonia didn’t smile. Instead she produced a slim whip from the folds of her habit. ‘We can punish whomever, however, and for whatever reason we choose. And you two have sinned beyond endurance. Now, down on your faces. Father Michael will do the honours.’

  Olivia felt tears blocking her throat. But Sister Benedicta’s face was alight with excitement. Olivia remembered what she’d said. The elation. The stinging pain. The dark humiliation turning to darker pleasure.

  She smiled back at her lover, running her tongue across her lower lip.

  ‘I love you, Cecille,’ she said, spreading her arms out on the polished wooden floor.

  Eating Figs

  THE MATTE-BLUE SKY closed in like a helmet being lowered over her aching head. Salome fanned the baking air with her guide book, waiting for her charges to scour the temple for final nuggets of interest before the carriages could trot them back along the corniche to their muslin-wafted cruiser.

  She’d had her fill of faded hieroglyphics, soaring monuments to omnipotence, giant slabs of granite or limestone fashioned into strutting Pharaohs. What had started as a favour, become a hobby, wound up a very well paid chore, was almost over. This was the final private tour before she could start her real job.

  A cold glass of petrol-tasting Cru des Ptolomees wine was beckoning from the boat, shimmering like a mirage. A shower, a last feast of roast pigeon and stuffed vine leaves, then a dip in the tiny pool on deck under the stars. And finally, of course, that cosy chat and fat cheque from Mrs Weinmeyer.

  The Egyptian silence buzzed louder, swelling and blistering in her ears.

  Sweat trickled between her breasts, wetness spreading through the gauzy turquoise top she’d bought yesterday in Luxor market. She’d attracted quite an audience as she twirled before the mirror held up by the lecherous stall holder. Even a couple of scruffy policemen, lounging near the heaps of terracotta spices, weren’t sure whether to caress or arrest her as she lifted her arms, showing forbidden armpits and bare stomach, to drop the kaftan over her tiny camisole. Well, she was used to the staring. An auburn-haired, white-skinned Westerner got ogled and groped all the time. In museums, shops, trains. Hence her repertoire of fruity curses to send the men packing.

  Not so easy when the clients came on to you. She could hardly tell the freckled Scottish professors, imported to give learned talks on Howard Carter, that they were the sons of camels. Or the sandals-wearing English daddies, giving their families the trip of a lifetime, that their mothers were whores.

  And how to refuse Mrs Weinmeyer’s vodka-fuelled and extremely tempting requests, every night of the cruise so far, for a threesome to jazz up her fading marriage?

  She tried to swallow. Even her saliva had dried up. She swayed against the honey-coloured pillar. Her feet felt shackled to the dust, as if she was a galley slave. Sweat was matting her hair, pouring down her back, yet she was shivering. Hurry up, campers, for fuck’s sake.

  But the silence was absolute. No voices bouncing off the ancient stones. No scuffling feet. No clicking of cameras. Only the fresh white cotton of a gelabhia flapping above a brown foot. A man was sitting under the massive decapitated head of Ramses II drinking Seven-Up. Salome groaned, eyeing the beads of condensation on the lime green can.

  ‘My group. Fain?’ She waded through the heat towards him. ‘Where are they?’

  The man’s eyes above a full black beard were brown and unblinking. Unusual. Egyptians were usually clean shaven. He shrugged, flicked away a fly, and tipped the can up over his open mouth. Salome would have sold her sister for a sip, but when the man held it out, inviting her to share, she felt sick.

  ‘Change money?’ the man asked gruffly, fumbling beneath his robe for some hidden pocket. She backed away with her hands up, but the man brought out a wad of dollar bills. He cocked his head at another man in jeans and a dazzling white shirt standing with his back to them in the shadows. ‘Change husband?’

  Salome’s thoughts were jumping like grasshoppers in a jar.

  ‘Not mine,’ she croaked. She glanced towards the entrance of the temple, where ram-headed sphinxes waited in a row as if expecting Elizabeth Taylor any minute.

  But the entrance wasn’t there. Just a wall of stone. The silence and sun were suffocating her. The man with the Seven-Up had gone. The ground was almost white in the heat, sphinxes and statues casting shadows thick as pitch.

  Then, in a far corner, she saw two silhouettes wavering in the heat like skinny candles. Between them she could see the glint of the river. Sweat dripped in to her eyes, but she was afraid to blink in case these figures, too, disappeared.

  ‘We can go back to the carriages now, if you’ve all finished looking round.’ Her voice wheezed across the emptiness, and she stamped across the dust. The silhouettes seemed to collapse together for a moment, merging like two streaks of watercolour. One of them waved a stick-like arm. She came closer. It wasn’t Mr Weinmeyer, or Mrs Weinmeyer, or any of the other guests. It was the man with the Seven-Up. He was wearing sunglasses now. And the man with the Persil-white shirt. He looked as cool as if he’d just stepped out of the shower.

  ‘I’ve put your people in here,’ he said in a deep, terse voice. He pointed to a dark slit between two pillars. ‘This is the sacrificial chamber of Sekhmet, the greedy cat goddess.’

  ‘Yes, I know that.’ Salome snapped impatiently. ‘But what are you doing?’

  ‘Eating figs.’ He held out a straw basket, his hand dripping with juice. ‘Do you want one?’

  She stretched out her hand towards the gleaming fruit, licking her dry mouth, but suddenly he pushed her through the doorway and she fell to the ground, grit scratching her
elbows.

  A sour draught licked through the chamber. She didn’t recall it being so small. Shadows shifted and whispered. One of them was bending over her, fingers like tentacles sinking in to her arm.

  ‘Let go of me!’ she hissed, trying to shake it off. The pinching stopped, and something scuttled away in the sand. ‘Now, can someone tell me what the fuck is going on here?’

  ‘Salome, thank God, you’ve got to get hold of the ship’s captain or something!’ Mrs Weinmeyer was gasping. ‘These guys are after some kind of ransom.’

  The others crowded round, jostling and questioning. She pushed her way back to the two men.

  ‘An iznak​?’ she barked at the two shadows blocking out the sun. ‘Excuse me. What’s going on?

  The men folded their arms. Someone behind her began to cry. ‘They say there’s scorpions –’

  ‘I can’t breathe –’

  ‘Salome,’ said Mrs Weinmeyer quietly. ‘They’ve taken us prisoner.’

  ‘Correct,’ one of the men said. ‘Rich foreigners. Your captain or your families will come looking for you and then we will tell them what we want.’

  Salome felt the panic, thick as blood in the hot space. So thick she couldn’t breathe.

  ‘No, you bastards, I’m in charge here, not you.’ She stood up dizzily and jabbed her finger into Mr Seven-Up’s face. ‘You want a hostage, take me. These people hired me as their private guide. You let them go. They’ll get you money, or guns, or whatever you want.’

  There was a pause. Another scuttling in the sand. Then an arm came round her throat and started to squeeze.

  There was moonlight outside the louvered window. The slats printed lines all over her, binding her in hoops of shadow. Every so often someone flickered past, near enough to touch. She shifted her leg and there was a weird clank of heavy metal.

  Outside there were noises. Echoes off water. Cockerels. It must be early in the morning. The cockerels were crowing frantically, as they do before the knife comes.