Sisters in Sin

by Primula Bond

  I felt a demonic grin stretching my face as Mother Marta started to writhe and buck frantically on my fingers, just as I was writhing and bucking on her fingers and pushing myself back on to Carlo’s forcing, thrusting cock.

  ‘Ah, heavenly Christ, we’re ready,’ Mother Marta breathed suddenly, jerking quickly beneath me, her hot pussy frisking me into climax.

  ‘So do it,’ I gasped, shocked at the coarseness in my own voice. ‘Fucking do me!’

  The wave was there, ready to crash inside me, and my moaning seemed to trigger the other two, so that all three of us rocked and writhed and pushed and groaned, until one by one we came with total abandon, hands gripping, his cock thrusting on and on as if it would never stop, our pussies weeping, our mouths panting loudly, crying out as we collapsed in a heap of velvet and taffeta.

  ‘You can go now, Sister Perpetua,’ said Mother Marta after a few moments, pushing me off her. ‘Your little minder is here.’

  There was a tap on the door. I staggered helplessly across the floor, leaving them both sprawled on the couch. My heart was beating like a caged bird, and I was seeing double.

  ‘I’m ready, Mother.’

  Natalia was standing there, white-faced, wide-eyed, trying to look calm. But when her eyes flicked over to Carlo her little hands curled into fists. She was wearing an emerald-green dress exactly the same as mine. She looked smaller, younger and more furious than I’d ever seen her.

  Mother Marta pushed us to stand next to each other. Natalia flinched herself away from me. Had she seen me fucking Carlo? If so, she couldn’t possibly think it was my idea, could she? I couldn’t wait to get outside to speak to her alone, try to explain, but I felt as if I was nailed to the floor.

  Mother Marta quickly tied green sequinned and feathered masks on to each of us and stood back.

  ‘Remember, you are to bring her home.’ Mother Marta waved us away. ‘Think of this as a test.’

  Natalia turned without a word and her feet in their little green shoes kicked at my crumpled red scarf. She paused, picked it up, and handed it to me silently.

  Mother Marta shut the door in our faces.

  ‘Natalia, darling! Let me explain. I didn’t want to do it! It wasn’t my idea! They made me do it!’

  ‘You’re far too strong for that old excuse. No one makes you do anything.’

  She handed the scarf to me. I thought I glimpsed the glitter of tears in her eyes but then she turned and walked stiffly through the garden like an automaton, ignoring the lemon-smelling trees when they grabbed at her. It was as if she’d been drugged, too, or even hypnotised.

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong. They’ve given me something. Something in my drink. Something really evil’s going on here. Natalia! Let me explain!’

  But she whisked through the gate in her ballgown and as I stumbled after her something clicked in my woozy mind. With or without her, this was my chance to escape.

  On the other side of the gate there was a seething mass of humanity parading along the street outside. Easy to lose myself in this crowd, I reckoned, and then by hook or by crook I had to find my way back to the Danieli. I tried to turn against the tide, search for Natalia, but I was swept along by a solid wall of masked people. Some were gliding silently, some battered my senses with their violent revelry, banging drums, tootling tuneless trumpets, some were jerking like puppets or deathly as corpses, but all, of them, every one, had their heads turned stiffly to stare through sightless eyes straight at me as they paraded beside the water and over the spindly bridge.

  I couldn’t see Natalia anywhere.

  Now I was being grabbed by invisible hands and pulled into the swelling human tide of overwhelming noise and colour. My feet barely touched the ground as I was swept along, everyone drawn like magnets along the narrow calle, where they were forced to pause. I quickly hooked my red scarf over a rusty nail protruding from the wall on the corner. I needed some kind of sign to guide me back here, to claim Natalia when the time was right.

  I kicked and punched but my struggles and screams were drowned in the torrent of noise as we flooded through the colonnades and straight into the glare and music and colour of San Marco, which had been turned into a kind of giant ballroom, or disco, depending which way you looked. Gypsy music clashed with hip-hop, the string quartet outside Florian did battle with a heavy-metal guitarist on the other side of the piazza. There was no escape. I twisted and turned to see who was holding me, but it was no one in particular. My captors kept changing as I was shoved headlong and caught in a sea of masked faces and sumptuously dressed bodies. The mouths that were visible stretched into grins. The arms and hands, all trailing lace, rich velvets and long black gloves like so many tentacles, reached out of the crowd to wave and finger and grab at me and pull me in.

  Floodlights had been suspended from the corners of the cathedral and the Doge’s Palace and they spun like glitter balls, bouncing light off the walls and windows and shops, making the kaleidoscope of masked figures already twirling like dervishes in the centre all the more confusing. I was totally out of control now. Drunk. Stoned. Hallucinating.

  I realised there was no getting away from this crowd. That was when my panic changed into a kind of exhausted madness. I found my body moving of its own accord to the different strains of music competing all around me, and gave myself up to be pushed and waltzed between various masked companions. But then I was lifted right off my feet and tossed across the sea of bodies into the middle of the piazza where dancers moved round each other in Spirograph circles, moving me with them in the dance, and now gloved paws were going up my dress, pushing up between my legs, grabbing my bare pussy, still damp from earlier.

  I wasn’t the only one. Other women in all kinds of period costumes gyrated around me, invisible behind their masks. But another group caught my eye. They were attired vaguely like nuns but instead of sturdy black or grey serge, their habits and veils were of a floaty white and see-through material. They were like Vestal Virgins but their faces were covered like strict Arab women. Only their eyes, heavily outlined in shiny black eyeliner like Tutankhamun, were visible above their yashmaks.

  They were spreading their arms, tossing their heads back with unholy manic laughter as they offered themselves up to be touched and grabbed and fondled. As one of them was flung like an acrobat high into the air I noticed that her legs and feet were bare, and a gold tattoo snaked up her ankle. Before I could register why it was familiar, and what was the motif, someone scooped one of my breasts out and squeezed it, then others followed in a kind of feeding frenzy, velvet fingers poking up into my fanny before I was passed like a tasty morsel to the next partner, whose masked head would jerk curiously like a pigeon, white gloves waggling like a magician, and then a surge of energy rushed through me and I brazenly pulled open my bodice, thrusting out my bare breasts as the other women were doing.

  The filthy reality of this orgy scenario was staring to hit me. I spun round, dizzy with the opiate I’d been given, horny as hell again, high on the intoxicating atmosphere, dancing, flying. The drug dragged me up to an unbearable pitch of arousal, and I spread my arms and legs wide open to say Come and get me.

  Hands smothered me as I danced frenetically. A man covered in petrol-blue peacock feathers groped my buttocks. His fingers scrabbled up the warm crack dividing them, jabbing into the buttonhole of my anus. I jerked with delighted shock and curled my leg round his to keep hold of him and maintain my balance, but then he vanished, his finger sliding smoothly out again, and another figure in a flashing top hat like a circus master spun me round and rocked me from behind, pushing his erection into the bustle of my dress and bundling my breasts into his hands. His white magician’s gloves offered the ripe handfuls to the audience and one by one people started to approach, stretching out their hands coyly at first to have a feel, then squeezing or burying their heads in my cleavage, and then two small, slim men wearing cat masks wriggled up to me, clawing at one tit each, then bent their heads and drew the d
ark nipples between their teeth until they elongated and stung with painful pleasure.

  People around me started to whoop and clap, or even more sexily to moan, murmur, even sing, as I became the centre of attention, at least in that little circle of the piazza. The two mouths sucked at me and it felt so wicked and good that spots danced before my eyes. I leant on their shoulders, thrusting my nipples further into their mouths, loving the pain, the filthiness of two men like big babies sucking me while others watched, in fact while others copied, the larger women in particular opening up their bodices and pushing men’s heads into their bosoms to have a good suck.

  While my tits were sucked other mouths and hands touched me, hard cocks encased in velvet and lycra and leather rubbed against me. I pushed my two cat-men easily down to their knees, falling on top and straddling them, my pussy opening stickily under my dress, my tits dangling over them where they could suck and chew like kittens.

  Someone whipped my dress up over my bottom and huge hands gripped my hips from behind. Other hands parted my thighs, fiddling up and down the soft skin there, up between the sex lips which were really throbbing now and leaking pussy juice as electricity darted downwards from my tortured nipples. Finally one big thick cock nudged between my cheeks, and with no preamble shoved straight into my ready wet desperate cunt, nosing in like a battering ram, and my knees gave way with excitement. The cat-men were still biting my nipples, following the cock up inside me with their velvet fingers, making my hole big enough to accommodate anything.

  Faces all around pushed up to see, glittering, eyeless, featureless masks peering and prying, turning to each other, sliding over each other’s costumes, turning back to me, mouths agape with lust, elbows jostling for a turn.

  My body jerked forward as the stiff cock forced its way up the centre of my body. Its hugeness filled me and started to pound into me, slowly at first then faster, the people starting to clap in time with my invisible lover’s grunts and thrusts. On a small stage across the square I could see another woman lying on her back, legs splayed across the steps as a man in clinging snakeskin swiped his narrow pelvis in and out of her.

  I went limp, smothering the cat-men as they nibbled on my nipples, let the urges inside me drive the orgasm closer. A scream escaped me as the man behind me slammed into me, faster and harder, lifting me off my feet. The clapping and stamping accelerated to a frenzy. I ground my nipples into the mouths of my worshippers as the cock exploded, and an answering wave of ecstasy surged inside me. I arched wildly to lock in the sensation for a moment longer, but I wasn’t coming yet. I was too distracted. I wanted other men now. Other cocks.

  I pushed the cat-men away. Their mouths were wet from sucking my nipples and with wild screeches other women descended on them like birds of prey, yapping and ripping off the men’s tights and bending to suck on their swollen cocks. The tightness of my bodice had made me weaker than I realised. I couldn’t stand up on my own, let alone turn round, and suddenly I was surrounded by the women in white, their huge eyes glittering and snapping with glee above their gauzy yashmaks. They lifted me by the arms feet and carried me through the bowing, clapping crowd towards the lagoon, and the sea air slapping at my face brought me briefly to my senses.

  ‘No, ladies, please! Take me that way! I need to get to my hotel!’ I shrieked as we turned right instead of left, along the waterside past Harry’s Bar. ‘I need to get away from here!’

  ‘Oh no, Sister Perpetua! You’re coming with us. Those are our orders!’

  I squirmed and wriggled as they tittered but the feel of their little hands grabbing all over me was continuing where the excitement in the piazza had left off, and I realised I was absolutely exhausted. I let them carry me further and further away until the music became muffled by distance, and after a while they set me down on to a slimy walkway edged by elegant barley-sugar pillars beside a tiny canal where a trio of empty gondolas bobbed mournfully.

  One or two of the girls walked between two of the pillars up a steep ramp that led directly from the water into a kind of boathouse. And as they lifted their white skirts to step over the wet stones, I finally deciphered that their gold tattoos were of winged angels, painted to look as if they were flying up their legs. Flying up to heaven?

  ‘Welcome to Palazzo Monica!’ the leader of the group crowed. She lifted her white veil, and it was the same round-faced girl who had guided me from the Caffe Florian back to my convent to find Natalia. Except that tonight she was plastered in garish make-up, her face painted white with exaggerated red cheeks and lips.

  ‘You remember us? The Sisters from Santa Monica? We are having our own ball, right here in the palazzo next door to our convent, and you are invited. In fact, Sister Benedicta is already here!’

  I was dragged in to a vast ballroom with French windows all down one side and tables of food and drink down the other. Jewel-red light bulbs splintered their seductive light through cracked glass shades and confused the endless reflections on the mirrored walls. A heady perfume lay like mist across the ceiling, and it numbed my head.

  Up close I could see that the Sisters’ white dresses were cut so low that their young tits were just balanced upon the whalebone of the tight bodice, the red nipples exposed and positioned like cherries on white scones. The full skirts of the dresses were slashed at intervals from the waist, so that as soon as the girls moved the material fell away from their hips, revealing the shadowy dip and cleft between their legs. They pulled me further inside the room, which was dazzling with chandeliers, frantic music and a dancing mass of more masked figures, but as soon as the door closed behind us the music stopped and the air crackled with expectancy.

  The crowd parted before us. We filed into the centre. A low murmuring started up and people pressed round.

  A violin tested its strings and the orchestra swung into a fast waltz, a kind of corrupted version of the real thing which was totally anarchic and abandoned rather than graceful and grounded. We were surrounded by a group of guests. Somehow, as my round-faced nun and the others were taken into a waltz hold, I managed to sidle backwards out of the group. I was shaking all over, but gradually my head was clearing. I could see properly now, and what I saw was Natalia on the far side of the room, being spun from partner to partner. People were lifting her skirts to prod at her legs and pussy, just as they had done to me out in the piazza, until one or two of them lingered there, keeping their hands under her skirt.

  I tried to push through the crowd to get to her, but I was pressed back against the wall. A shaft of jealousy went through me when I saw Natalia’s face break into a smile. Because the smile wasn’t for me. It was for the round-faced nun who had reached her and now wound her arm protectively round her waist.

  The jealousy was like a knife. Tears gagged my throat. At some unspoken signal the round-faced nun, who I thought was my champion, toppled backwards on to a velvet chaise longue, her legs splayed open, the white skirt slashing invitingly to reveal her nakedness to the gaggle who thronged round her. As the mad dancers twirled past, I kept losing sight of the tableau in the corner, and again I tried to push myself through the crowd. If the nun was distracted, surely now was my chance to grab Natalia and flee?

  But then I saw her. My Natalia, in front of that crowd, and she was kneeling at the head of the chaise longue, holding the raised end of it to balance, and then she was lowering herself on to the round-faced nun, holding the emerald-green silk of her dress up over her hips so that everyone could get a clearer view of her white thighs on either side of the nun’s face, the nun’s brown hands grasping her legs, and her red tongue poking out like a little cock to start licking at my Natalia’s fair little bush.

  A rush of nausea gripped me. I knew it was useless to call out, to go to her, to do anything. It was time to think of myself.

  I slipped along the wall and out through one of the French windows. The balcony outside was just above the little nodding row of gondolas, disturbed by some faraway wash and corralled like wil
d horses. With one last glance back into the frenzied room behind me I clambered over the balustrade and jumped down on to the slimy narrow walkway beneath, slipping over in an undignified heap.

  ‘Eh, signora, let me help you!’

  A man stepped out from the shadows to help me up. I shook my head, got up and promptly slipped over again on the wet stones. It was impossible to get away from here, even with bare feet.

  I glanced up at the brightly lit windows, silhouettes jerking like marionettes behind the steamed-up glass. No one had come outside. No one had noticed I was missing. An idea came to me.

  ‘Can you take me to the Danieli Hotel?’ I asked the man.

  To my surprise he nodded and pulled me on to the nearest of the gondolas. I thought he would just grab the pole and we would push off in this one, but it tilted violently as he stepped through and over it, along to the next one, and I followed him to the furthest one, which had a sinister dark prow and curtained canopy. He thrust me into the cushions and pushed the gondola away from the quay and, as he steered us expertly up another canal and under a series of low arched bridges, I took a good look at his rich green breeches and splendid gold-frogged jacket.

  I felt a resurgence of my earlier, drugged lust, exaggerated by my relief to be free at last. I chuckled to myself. This final Venetian encounter was meant to be, because his costume matched mine. His face was painted chalk-white and as I stared at him his mouth split into a sly grin beneath an emerald-spangled mask with a long hooked nose.

  I lay back at last, getting my breath after all the dancing, running and fucking. Sweat trickled between my sore, exposed breasts although cold drizzle was falling. After hardly any time at all the man let the gondola bump along the side of a canal and tied it to a post. I knew this wasn’t the Danieli, because the hotel looked over the wide lagoon and we were moored up a side canal, but when he leant over me, running his hands over the rustling taffeta of my now ripped dress, I ceased to care. A few more minutes’ delay would make no difference now that I was far enough away from both those crazy convents.