by Cook, Lori
Carol had been in the potting shed when Raúl died. His death had left everyone at the convent in shock. An air of confusion reigned among the nuns, who hardly knew what to think or do. From the Mother Superior down, no one knew how to deal with the situation, which was almost too sordid to comprehend. The news had been kept from the girls, but they also knew something was wrong, and they knew that Carol Schmidt was involved.
“So,” he said, his hands resting on the desk in front of him, “why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”
What had happened was straightforward enough.
At around six in the evening, Carol had sneaked into her secret place, as usual. And by now, it was also usual for the old caretaker Raúl to sneak in just after her. They never spoke about it, never even met. But each time she went there, he would follow at a safe distance, creeping silently into the potting shed and easing the door to the bulb room open a couple of inches. He would position a chair close to the door and sit, watching as she pleasured herself.
Thus had it gone on, every single day, for three weeks. She never heard more than a hint of his breath, just occasionally the muffled groan of the man’s prurient satisfaction. He sat there silently and watched her as she did whatever she wanted to herself. She could feel his eyes on her body, and as she turned and twisted and showed him new ways of revealing herself, she became hornier and hornier, loving every second of being the object of someone else’s lust.
After each session he always left well before she did. Yet a kind of fondness seemed to grow between them. In those faint breaths, and the sound of him shuffling on his chair, she sensed his longing, the irrepressible needs of a man who, quite suddenly, had found a woman willing to show herself to him, full and unguarded, to let him drink it in, albeit from a distance.
He had never pushed that door open more than two or three inches, and never attempted to go inside the room with her. And from everything she knew about men and their desires, this was a mark of his honor and respect, the actions of a true gentleman.
“Yes,” the Cardinal said, as she did her best to tell him what had happened.
She chose her words carefully, and did her best not to elaborate. But she didn’t avoid the truth, which was that for three weeks she had been taking herself to almost unimaginable heights of sexual delight, right there in the shed next to the chapel, while an employee of the convent, a married man, looked on.
The Cardinal seemed to appreciate her honesty. After all, she could easily have claimed that it had been the first time, or that she had been there for some other reason, that it had all been a coincidence, a mistake. But she didn’t. She told him the truth.
“And then,” she said, “one day I arrived and found the drawer of the workbench open a little. When I looked inside...”
She faltered, feeling the embarrassment rise in her cheeks.
“Please,” the Cardinal said, “in this room we are free to talk of whatever we wish. Please, Miss Schmidt, the truth.”
“... inside the drawer was a magazine, a magazine with pictures in it...”
“Yes, I have seen the magazine.”
“So you know?” she said.
“I would like to hear it from you. Everything.”
So she told him everything, leaving out no details, a sudden urge to be honest forcing her on through her shame.
When she entered the bulb room that day and looked into the draw, there was a pornographic magazine, opened at a page depicting a man and a woman fucking, both of them kneeling, he behind, at a slight angle so his thick cock could be seen halfway inside her. Carol had imagined similar scenes a thousand times, but now, as she saw it in all its glossy, full-color glory, she gasped.
Also in the drawer were a pair of black lace panties and a brassiere. At first she didn’t now what to do. But the message was obvious enough, and in any case her eyes were locked on the magazine, on the smooth, rounded behind of the kneeling woman, and a big, glistening penis that was being pushed inside her.
Almost without thinking, Carol took off her clothes and put on the black panties and bra. They were a perfect fit, the kind of underclothes that the girls in the convent dreamed of. Sometimes they’d mess about, pulling their convent-issue underpants up between their butt cheeks and pretending they were skimpy briefs, parading in front of each other provocatively.
Now Carol was wearing the real thing, and it made her feel fantastic. The soft, silky material against her skin felt as if someone was caressing her, there in the bulb room, with a man looking on, the man who had brought her these things.
She still had her back to the door, and she was still transfixed by the magazine. Slowly she flicked through its pages, one glossy full-color image after another, the guy’s cock dark pink, purple at the end, something deeply impressive in its girth and the way that just half of it seemed to make the woman choke when it was in her mouth.
She turned more pages, feeling herself getting wet already, wondering if it was OK to let her juices soak into the black panties she was wearing. Then she came to a picture in which the woman was wearing black panties and a bra, kneeling on the floor, legs apart, and letting the gusset of the panties pull her pussy lips apart; meanwhile, the cups of the bra had been pulled down and her tits hung awkwardly over the top, something sordid and sluttish in the way they overflowed. The man was also in the picture, but he was watching from the doorway, fully clothed, his penis in his hand.
Without a thought, Carol turned to face the door. Squatting on the ground, she eased the cups of her bra down. Licking her fingers she toyed with the nipples until they were hard, then let the breasts spill out, just like in the magazine.
By now she could feel the wetness of her pussy soaking into the thin crotch of the black panties. She leant back a little, using one hand on the floor behind her to steady herself, and reached down to finger herself.
From behind the door she heard a creak as Raúl shifted in his seat, his breathing a little raspy now, making no effort to hide it.
Her juices had already extended right along the gusset. She delicately eased the cotton fabric inside her pussy, enough so the lips could be seen emerging on either side. She widened her legs, felt the panties dig gently into her, shuddering with pleasure as the tight material pushed against her butt hole.
Through the panties she tickled her clit, bringing herself close, even now, as the thought of that guy’s cock in the magazine turned her mad with desire. She only had ten days left, less than two weeks before her eighteenth birthday, the day she would be free to leave the convent and feel all this for herself.
Closing her eyes, she let her fingers run up and down her sex, the fabric now slimy wet. She knew what Raúl wanted. He wanted these panties back, soaked in her juices, enough so he could smell her on them for days after. And she was going to give him them, a good-bye gift, a memento of the times they’d spent together; they had never spoken, yet they had both been so weirdly happy in each other’s company.
She leant back yet further, letting her fingers reach her butt and pushing the fabric of the panties slightly inside. From the door she could hear him groan. He was breaking the rules, but she didn’t care. He could open the door and stare right at her for all she cared.
Suddenly she flopped down on her back, unable to support herself, and struggled out of the panties. She wiped her crotch with them, making sure they absorbed every drop of her juices. Then, so quick that she hardly knew what she was doing, she leapt forwards and tossed the panties through the gap in the door, before immediately returning to her space on the floor. She lay on her back and started masturbating hard and fast, her thighs already shaking.
She heard the door creak open. But she didn’t care. Her fingers were going mad, as images of big, thick cocks crowded her mind. She let herself dither madly on the edge of orgasm, the kind that she knew she wouldn’t be able to control, her ass already thumping against the dusty ground, her pelvis grinding up and down like a machine that couldn’t be
turned off...
At the very moment she came, there was a loud thud, and a rush of air. Tears were streaming down her face as she brought herself off. She couldn’t stop. Her face was contorted into blissful agony and her sex was wet through.
Then, opening her eyes and looking over her body toward the doorway, she saw Raúl slumped there on the floor, face down, blood already trickling from his ear.
His heavy breathing had stopped. There was only silence.
He was dead.
Several seconds later, trembling so hard that she could hardly use her hands, she was dressed and back over the wall, panting and gulping for air as she staggered back up to the convent, forcing herself to appear normal.
She went straight to the bathroom, locked the door, ran a shower, and undressed. But when she looked down she saw the black bra, her breasts still hanging out of the cups. In the rush to be out of the shed, she had forgotten to change back. And immediately she realized that her own bra, neatly labeled with her name, was still in the bulb room, alongside a pornographic magazine and the dead body of Raúl Perez, a pair of damp, sex-stained panties in his hands.
“Please,” the Cardinal said as she finished her story.
He rose from his chair and stepped over to the window. He beckoned for her to join him. Down below, in the forecourt of the convent, was a state police car.
“Mother Superior,” he said, quickly moving away, perhaps so as not to intimidate her, going to the other side of the room as Carol looked down with horror at the large star painted on the vehicle’s white hood, “she had no choice but to call the authorities.”
“Am I to be...”
“You are safe with me. I represent a far higher authority, my child. I can make all this go away.”
“But I didn’t...”
“As far as those men in uniforms are concerned, someone induced the death of Raúl Perez. He was found in very strange circumstances, as you are well aware, Miss Schmidt. The evidence, I think you must agree, leaves little about doubt.”
She thought about the poor man, dead on the floor. She hadn’t seen the black panties in his hands when she ran, because he must have been holding them up to his face when he fell. The police would know that, too. They would work it all out. Everything.
“You see,” the Cardinal explained, making it sound very simple, “it has already been established that you were in the habit of disappearing every evening, and that Mr. Perez had taken to disappearing at the same time.”
Carol knew how bad it looked. As she had left the bulb room, buttoning up her clothes in a state of mad panic, she stepped over Raúl’s dead body. His trousers were undone, and his flaccid penis was visible, glistening with semen, more of which had dribbled down onto his trousers. She had brought him to this. It had been her fault.
Suddenly her face was white. She had no legal knowledge, but as she looked again at the waiting police car, she saw ahead of her not the freedom she had longed for, and which was now just days away, but a prison cell in a country not known for the luxury of its jails or the compassion of its penal system.
“You have a choice, Carol. You are free to take your chances with the Mexican police and the courts.”
She shuddered.
“Yes, I have been told that you are a bright girl. As I said, you have a choice, as long as I am here. Will you take it?”
Her mouth opened, desperately trying to form the word “what.” But nothing came out.
“I will make this go away,” he said, waving a hand in the direction of the window. “It will be as if it never happened. And in return you will do something for me. Something,” and a thin line of distaste crept onto his lips, “for which, it seems, you are more than amply qualified.”
For some considerable time neither of them spoke. And then he buttoned up his jacket and placed a hand on the door handle.
“I will be back later this afternoon, by which time you will have decided.”
He turned to go.
She swallowed hard, then spoke.
“I have already decided.”
He turned back toward her. Fear suddenly overwhelmed her, a young woman whose life had come crashing down around her. But as she saw his firm, uncompromising expression, his eyes cold but steady, she knew instinctively that they were the eyes of someone who would never lie to her, however unappealing the truth, however base and degrading the world turned out to be.
The Cardinal, she knew, was no ordinary priest.
So she agreed to do his will.
Chapter Twelve
“After the pictures have been taken,” the Cardinal explained to her several days later, “and regardless of whatever else is happening around you, leave the building by any means you can and make your way to the airport.” He handed her a passport. “This has been acquired for you. It is genuine. You will have no problem using it. You are now eighteen, and legally free to leave the country.”
She opened the passport, saw a recent picture of herself, taken for the convent registry some months previously.
“I am not eighteen until tomorrow,” she said, seeing that the correct date of birth had been entered.
“That is of little consequence,” he said. “By the time you get there, flights will have stopped for the night. Go directly to the First Class Lounge and wait there for the first flight in the morning. It is already booked in your name. New York.”
He handed her an American Airlines ticket.
“Once your finances are in order, you will be able to book your own flights,” he added. “First class is always best. No one asks questions in first class.”
“And when I get there?” she said, staring at the ticket.
But she was hardly listening. It was as if the Cardinal had been able to see into her dreams, that he had known that her fantasy had always been to escape the convent and go to New York. It had been the very first place she wanted to go.
“The Marriot Hotel on Times Square. A reservation has been made in your name. Await instructions there. Do you have enough money?”
She nodded. In her new purse was well over a thousand US dollars, left over from a wad of bills he’d given her to buy new clothes.
“I believe,” he added with what she took to be humor, although he did not smile, “that in New York the thing to do is to see a show. Feel free to do so. Then we will talk.”
With that the Cardinal was gone. She watched as he hailed a cab and drove off without looking back at her. She was already burning with excitement at the thought of going to New York, a new life, a new start. Before that there was only one thing to do, and after everything she’d been through, it didn’t sound as if it was going to be too difficult.
At precisely nine o’clock that evening, she rang the bell of an old, elegant apartment block on Castelar Street in the upscale Polanco district of Mexico City. It was on the other side of town from the convent, and she’d never been there before.
The main door buzzed open and she took the elevator straight to the top floor, as instructed. There were only five stories, and there had been only one bell for each story. Judging by the size of the building, each apartment must have been enormous.
As she rose silently up, she looked at herself in the mirror which took up one entire side of the elevator. And looking back at her was not the girl who had grown up in a convent, but a woman; a young, attractive woman who knew exactly what she had to do. Nervous? Yes, horribly, desperately. But the prize was such that her fear was hidden beneath a firmness of purpose that would allow for no mishaps. This was her chance.
On the landing there was deep red carpet on the floor, and lush potted plants all around. Even the corridors here were sumptuously decorated, a huge improvement on the convent, almost a palace. For a moment she stood there, taking in the rich smells of furniture polish. Then she walked up to the large, dark wood door and rang the bell.
The man who opened it was tall and fat. He was dressed in a full-length black cassock, but no collar; around hi
s neck the cassock had been buttoned up, but he looked strange, unlike any priest she had ever seen. Also, there was a smoldering cigar in his mouth.
“Miss Schmidt!” he said, removing the cigar and revealing a set of gleaming teeth which looked somehow odd on his fat, jowly face. “Please, come in.”
The apartment was extremely large, with high ceilings and framed paintings on every wall. The air smelled of cigars and there was music playing quietly in the background. She recognized it immediately: Bach’s B Minor Mass.
He walked through an archway and into what appeared to be the main living room. As instructed, she made sure the door was not quite closed, and followed.
There were several crucifixes on the wall, and an enormous depiction of Christ’s Passion took pride of place above a large marble fireplace, the oil painting stained with age, its gilt frame thick and ornate, almost as if the fireplace was an alter.
He turned, a broad, welcoming smile on his face, and she recognized Father Arturo Bonavente Rivaldo from that morning’s newspaper. He was one of the country’s best known priests, famed for his work with the poor and the champion of good causes. He was also tipped to be named the new bishop of the city, a position which would inevitably lead to him being elevated to the position of cardinal.
“This,” he said, with an ironical expression, “is perhaps a little impertinent of me, my child, but may I offer you a drink? I often have a small glass of something at around this time in the evening.”
She knew how this would go, and she didn’t want to disappoint. Lowering her head timidly, she answered:
“At the convent we older girls were occasionally allowed a small glass of sweet wine, Your Grace.”
The error was deliberate. The priest, who was perhaps fifty-five, straightened his back with apparent pride.
“Not Your Grace,” he said. “Simply Father.”