by Lily Miles
Her mattress creaks beneath her as she changes positions in an attempt to get comfortable, and then rolls over. It’s funny with Catherine, that when she falls asleep nothing about her changes. She thrashes about, moving back and forth as though she’s still running and roaming the castle grounds. Even awake she can’t sit still, and that remains the same story when her eyes close and her dreams steal her away. I, on the other hand, sleep like the dead. At least, that’s what she’d said after the first night we shared this room together. I woke to find her staring down at me, eyes wide and pink lips pursed, her nose barely a centimeter from mine.
She said she hadn't been sure I was even breathing.
I tend to fall asleep right after my prayers, which I do lying on my back with my hands folded above my breast by my heart. After my last “Amen,” I slip directly into sleep without moving an inch until sunlight warms my face the next morning.
I'm not sure whether it’s because of the food or the prospect of tomorrow, but now I find sleep does not take me as easily as it has before tonight.
Forcing my eyes shut, I try to remember my typical prayers, but I find my mind wandering towards Trevor and the sight of him this afternoon. What had been churning in his mind when he caught me without my veil shielding me? I’d never once seen a look like that before.
He’d been shirtless, I realize now, beads of sweat dripping down the lines of his huge, muscled body. I’d only seen a body like that on the sculptures and artwork around the convent, but he was chiseled just as if he could have been from stone.
A shiver rolls slowly through me, that same fervent blossom of heat igniting my crotch. I press my knees hard together to try and still the growing heat, but that only seems to kindle it more. The sensation keeps growing down there and I press one of my palms hard against my nightgown, as though trying to squish the feeling away, like it was a bug.
I don’t understand what this sensation is. It’s nothing like what I’ve experienced during my prayers. It only happens when my mind wanders to Trevor.
Again I see him against my eyelids, those piercing green eyes locked only on me, as though I was the only person in the world, and he’d never seen anything like me before. His naked chest, the sweat, the sharp curve of his jaw … I bite back a gasp when the tingling between my thighs grows stronger. I wiggle slightly underneath my blanket to edge up my nightgown so that I can prod at my lower stomach just below my bellybutton, and find the source of this throbbing but pleasurable sensation. I can’t describe the feeling entirely, just that it is hot like I have a fever, only in one forbidden area, and tingles like the tip of a long feather is being slowly dusted between my thighs.
My fingers trail lower, seeking the source of this odd feeling with increasing desperation; then my hand bumps into the hem of my white panties. I finger the edge of the fabric for a moment before my hand tentatively slips under the white lace.
What would it feel like if Trevor did this? I wonder. His calloused, rough hand stroking me where even I have never touched …
Is this wrong?
But as my hand moves on its own, I don’t pause to mull this question. One brave finger extends, trembling, the velvet pad slowly stroking over the soft thrush of dark curls growing between my legs. The hair is coiled and soft just like the hair on my scalp; I’d never been brave enough to touch it before. Even when showering, I clean that secret, forbidden place as quickly as possible, just to get it over with.
The feeling of my finger over the outer lips sends shockwaves through me, my back arching sharply towards the ceiling as I bite back another yelp.
I suck in a shallow breath and hold it, ears straining for any sound from Catherine, but she continues to quietly snore and thrash across the room.
Through flared nostrils, I let my breath slowly escape, my palm still pressed against those mysterious, throbbing lips between my thighs. I’d always been told it was naughty to touch myself here, but just touching near it feels so good that the room seems to spin.
Why would we be denied something pleasurable like this?
That brave finger again slowly moves, slipping between the outer lips to find something startlingly hot and damp. I bite my lower lip as electricity surges through my veins, and my finger glides over something small and round like a pearl, multiplying the intense sensation. I stroke over it a few times until I start writhing across my mattress just like Catherine does all night long.
Something inside of me grows hotter and hotter, a feeling like a rubber band stretching in my core. That’s how Catherine had put it, and it was true.
As the sensation swells, my back arches and my breathing becomes short, my eyes snapping open to peer through the intense darkness of the bedroom. Across the room, one ray of moonlight shines on the crucifix dangling over our doorway.
Just the sight of Jesus makes me snatch my hand from between my legs and shove my nightgown back down over my thighs. Yet, my chest still heaves and my whole body tingles. The rubber band is still stretched deep inside me, begging to be snapped and to send my body over the precipice of something terrifying and unknown, but I resist the urge now.
Even as my knees continue to tremble, the heat of my body threatening to swallow me whole, I close my eyes as tightly as I can and whisper out a muted chain of desperate prayers. I need to take my mind off this intense sensation, and fast.
I don’t know what that was, but I do know it was far too fun to be holy.
11
Trevor
I wake early, stretching slowly out on the lumpy bed.
The flimsy mattress is so short, my feet hang off the edge. I'm taller than the average man working on these grounds, but I can’t help but wonder how a couple of the other guys, like the nunnery doctor who’s even taller than I, sleep comfortably on these old beds with their old mattresses. Come to think of it, maybe just like me they actually don’t, and the uncomfortable, spartan beds are just our way of showing solidarity with the nuns and the harsh experience they’re having at the convent. I try not to think too much about how many people have slept in this bed before me, because the smells that drift from the mattress are gross and vaguely sour. Until I can get to town and buy air freshener, to ward off the unpleasant smells I’ve been bringing some of the flowers I tend during the day into my room.
I’d been trying to convince someone to take me into town so I could buy some new sheets, too, but so far it appeared that once you came to this place, you didn't readily leave. At least my bank account was steadily growing; I’d have a nice nest egg by the time I departed.
When I was ordered to come out here, I was informed I only had to work here for a year— of which three weeks has already passed—and after that, I'm a free man. Once I’ve completed my time here, as long as I continue to stay out of trouble, I’ll be able to follow my heart wherever it wants to go.
I have no idea where I’ll go or what I’ll do after I’ve served my time here, but I know I won’t be returning home: with my old crowd still there, there’s too big a chance of disaster. Instead, I’ll go somewhere new. Maybe somewhere near water, like a sandy beach or bay. Somewhere I can still feel the sun on my shoulders like I do here. Maybe I’ll even continue to do gardening work, considering how I’ve really taken to the flowers and shrubs. I didn't expect to love working with my hands so much, but I find I'm truly at peace when I'm watering my flowers and helping them thrive.
What would life have been like had I discovered the joy of a fulfilling job well done in my youth, before I wound up in trouble? I wonder what type of man I’d be today. Certainly not the type who works at a convent … but then I suppose had my life taken any other path, I never would’ve met Sister Margaret. It’s so strange to think about the fickleness of life; one different step, no matter how tiny, and your entire trajectory changes completely.
With a healthy yawn that echoes off the walls, I climb to my feet and walk to the nearby window to gaze out over the grounds.
A few of the other garden
ers, Henry included, have already taken up their hoes and shovels and are milling about the convent. He pauses as though he can sense me staring, turning slowly to peer back over his shoulder, his eyes not quite catching mine at the third-floor dingy window where I stand. I make my bed, giving thanks that though my room is small, at least it’s a private one: other workers aren’t as lucky. Still, the walls are so thin I can hear the others talking or moving about in their own rooms, but I’ve always been a heavy sleeper so it doesn’t bother me much.
I dress slowly, taking my time pulling on a clean, white shirt that clings to the lines of my hardened torso. Working here has at least been great for my body. I’d always been somewhat jacked from lifting a couple times a week, but now I like the way my arms and thighs have gotten bigger lately from full days of bending, squatting and digging. I tug on a pair of jeans that only have a small hole in the knee, cinching them around my waist with my old leather belt before walking down to the kitchen on the first floor of the dorm.
Dark-haired Doctor Cliff Clarke is slouched in a rickety wooden chair, his ankle crossed over his strong knee, his nose in the newspaper. He doesn’t seem to notice me as I roam about the kitchen looking for a granola bar, but when I find one and turn around, he’s lowered his paper to watch me with his storm cloud gray eyes, eyes that would remind me of Mother Antonia’s were those steely orbs not much younger and infinitely warmer. He’s been the doctor here for two years or so. From his clinic at the corner of the convent, besides the nuns and the convent staff, he also serves a number of locals who live closer to the convent than to the hospital in the town forty-five minutes away.
“Are you settled into your apartment?” he asks, folding the paper and laying it neatly before him. All of his movements are precise, which shouldn’t surprise me since his profession depends on his steady hands.
Huh. While this place seems like a dorm to me, I guess calling it an apartment makes it less like college.
“Getting there,” I answer with a smile, grateful to communicate with anyone who wasn’t laconic Henry. I don’t like to draw attention to myself—years in the foster system and escaping trouble on the streets had conditioned me that way—so I rarely go out of my way to talk to anyone here. But this guy seemed okay.
The doctor chuckles good-naturedly and climbs to his feet. He taps his white coat pockets, making sure he has everything he needs, and then his eyes widen just a hair. He glances around, steps closer to me, and withdraws a very familiar notebook from the inside pocket of his white coat. The second I lay eyes on my notebook, my stomach drops. I swallow hard, thinking of my drawing of Sister Margaret, and clamp my hand so hard down on the granola bar that it breaks in half, crumbs scattering at my feet.
Cliff discretely holds it out to me, a frown tugging at his mouth. “I wouldn’t be so careless with this, Trevor,” he says quietly. “I found it in the living room this morning. I don’t think anyone else has come across it. I wasn’t sure whose it was at first, but I recognized your handwriting.”
“Thank you,” I fumble, grabbing at the notebook a little too eagerly and with a little too much haste, then shoving it into my backpack so it was firmly out of sight.
Doctor Cliff doesn’t say anything more, but just gives a small nod and walks out the door of the building. Now without an appetite, I wrap my granola bar in a napkin to save for later and lumber out after him, my head still spinning from the interaction.
It’s a beautiful, warm day in early spring, but most days at the convent have been mild and pleasant. It beats Boston, which was often cold and gray and frequently rainy. But though normally I found solace in the sun’s rays, today I can’t focus on anything but my mortification.
In fact, the thought of my embarrassment has increased my blood pressure and made me sweat. I unbutton my shirt and open my torso to the welcome balmy breeze.
How could I have been so careless with my notebook?
I’d been alone in the living room late into the evening, working on my drawings, but I’d been so sure that I had put my notebook away …
I'm ripped from my thoughts when I hear two sets of delicate footsteps trotting over the damp morning grass. In a few hours, the dew will have dried and each perfectly trimmed green blade will gleam, but for now, everything is covered in a thin veil of mist that almost makes the convent grounds look like they’re shimmering beneath crushed pearls.
I try to relax, but it’s hard. What would happen if someone other than kind Doctor Cliff had found my notebook? With the drawing of Sister Margaret in it flagging me as what, a stalker? For sure I’d get dismissed, then go to jail.
Over the fields of green, two young nuns walk towards me, one looking much happier than the other.
Catherine walks slightly ahead of Margaret, a buoyant smile on her pale face. Sister Catherine strikes me as a Cheshire Cat type. When she’s smiling, you should be half afraid of the reason why. Her eyes are locked on me and I can tell they’re seeking me out, though I don’t have any idea what the reason for this may be.
“Sisters,” I muse in surprise, exploring Margaret’s shifty-eyed countenance.
The dark-haired nun is doing her best not to look at me, but her cheeks have flushed the faintest shade of pink, like the buds of a carnation. I want to brush my hand over her face and see if her skin is as plump as that delicate flower, but I dig my hands into my pockets and think of her dark, wild curls billowing against her cheeks, instead.
“Good morning, Trevor,” Catherine, the braver of the pair, says lightly. She talks as though she’s biting back laughter, her eyes occasionally flitting in delight towards her best friend.
“Maggie, don’t be rude. Say hello,” she adds with a gentle nudge at Sister Margaret.
I love the way Maggie fits her so much better than Margaret.
“Hello, Maggie,” I say when she just bites her lip and shyly casts her eyes downward.
Her eyes widen just a hair, eyes shooting back towards me at the sound of her name on my tongue. The pink flush of her face deepens to that of a garden rose.
“Hel-lo,” she answers faintly, tripping over the simple word.
It’s then that I realize her chest is rising and falling as if she’d been running, her breath coming in shallow pants. Her dilated pupils remain locked on mine until, with a slight gasp, she forcefully tears them away.
Something stirs in my core when her eyes meet mine, a recognition of some mysterious force behind her gaze; there’s more than shyness in that lovely face. Heat simmers in my veins and I feel electric sparks igniting me. Now, my own face is flushing. What was it in the depths of her beautiful, dark eyes that awakened this feeling?
Something about her has changed. Something is less … innocent?
Whatever it is, it makes me hungry for a taste of her ruby red lips and to see her beautiful white legs once more, while arousing other desires beyond those. My eyes tear across her habit, desperately seeking any trace of her body underneath—her heaving chest obliges my wish. I can imagine her breasts beneath the thick fabric, her pink nipples hard as rosebuds. I wonder what her skin would taste like under my tongue as it mapped every naked curve of her.
My eyes trail slowly up her long neck to her plump lips to her eyes, which are boring into mine once again. Her breath catches, her lower lip catching under her front teeth as she bites down hard on the supple flesh. I recognize the odd look in her eyes then.
It’s desire. Raw, carnal lust.
My little nun is horny, and she's horny for me.
Before I can help myself, I take a step towards her, my fingers itching to grab hold of her hips and drag her towards me. But the movement seems to have broken the spell of her attraction. She staggers back, slightly hidden behind Catherine, who was watching all of this with amusement dancing in her own eyes. I clear my throat hard and try to remind myself to behave. I can’t act like this. Not towards a nun. Not towards Maggie.
“Mags has something to tell you,” Catherine continues, her voi
ce still cool and amused. She moves out of the way of her sister so that Maggie is no longer concealed behind her, though Maggie looks like she’s fighting the urge to hide once more.
She shoots Catherine a withering look before drawing herself up slowly and turning back to face me, staring intently at her feet.
“We were told by the mother superior to pick a mission,” she says slowly, her voice strained and peculiarly pitched. “A sort of project that will bring us closer to God, while being of use to the convent. Some of our sisters are transcribing old edicts or cleaning stained glass …”
“And we want to work in the gardens!” cries Catherine exuberantly, clapping her hands together. “We just need some help here and there. We want to cultivate nature and our bond with our vows, or whatever. You think you’re up to the task?”
I arch an eyebrow, shoving my hands deeper into my pockets.
Is Catherine suggesting that we’re all going to be hanging out and working in the fields together? It seems a little odd to imagine nuns digging through soil and plucking bugs off leaves.
But … if it brings Maggie and me closer …
When I don’t answer right away, Catherine starts to pout. “Come on, Trevor. It took Maggie so long to think of this project, and now you’re going to be coy about accepting the proposal?”
Maggie flushes brightly once more and shakes her head. “Cat, I'm not the one who came up with this—”
Catherine, however, brushes away the claim, cutting her off, “Oh, hush, you modest girl. This was a genius plan. Own it, Mags.”
Maggie turns scarlet and tucks her chin against her chest.
“Well …” I say slowly, eyes drifting up and down the woman once more. It’s impossible to disguise my hunger. “Maggie, since this was your idea, I’d be happy to help. When should we start?”
“How about tomorrow?” Catherine answers for Margaret, whose head shoots up to look at me in surprise and a bit of eager delight, before she remembers not to look so enthusiastic. “Today we have prayers for hours and a meeting with Mother Antonia, but tomorrow we’ll have more free time.”