Monday. The rental agency is a one-room office at the edge of Main, with a young clerk who doesn't blink at cash. I sign for a mid-size sedan and take the wheel.
*I've got to buy a car. Two cars. One for me, one for Katie — with the school there'll be a lot of back and forth.*
Then the shop — tucked between a pawnbroker and a laundromat on the seedier edge of town, where the questions get fewer, the sign reading *Novelty & Theatrical Supply — Since 1978*. A bell jingles when I push through the door.
The man behind the counter is in his sixties, bald, reading glasses pushed up on his forehead. He looks me over once and doesn't ask questions. Good.
"I need a nun's habit." I give him Katie's measurements. "Full set. No cross, no religious iconography of any kind. And the accessories — white coif, white garterbelt, white stockings, mid-thigh. White heels. White bra. White panties."
He finishes writing. Looks up. "Anything else?"
I consider it for a moment. "Actually — a priest's cassock. My size. Nothing fancy, just the cassock."
He disappears into the back and returns fifteen minutes later with two garment bags. I pay in cash. Walk out before the bell stops jingling.
The bags go straight into the trunk of the rental. They ride behind us, out of sight, while I swing back to the building.
Katie's waiting by the door in a sundress, light makeup, her hair down. She looks good. She always looks good.
"Where are we going?" she asks, hand on the passenger door.
"I figured we could tour the school grounds together and get your input."
She raises an eyebrow — pleased, curious — and climbs into the passenger seat without another question. Good slave-wife. Trusting.
The ride is pleasant, the two of us chatting about nothing that matters — the weather, the neighbours, what the girls are up to this week.
I resist the temptation of a blowjob while I drive. The last part of the road is bumpy, and I'd rather not lose something precious to a pothole. Not to mention, somebody might see us.
I kill the engine in front of the gate and step out. Katie follows, her sundress bright against the weathered stone.
We walk it together. The entrance hall with its high ceilings and original hardwood. The mon rooms that will bee classrooms. The refectory, the kitchen built to feed sixty nuns. Up the stairs to the dormitory floor — the cells, and my plans for thirty double rooms. She asks questions, good ones, and I answer.
On the third floor, at the end of the novitiate wing, I stop in front of a plain door. "One more room."
I push it open. The space is bare — no windows, dust on the floor, the raw shell of what it will bee.
"After the renovation, this room doesn't exist. Hidden door behind the filing cabinet out there, soundproofing in every wall, no windows. Nobody will ever know it's here."
"Round bed in the centre, ceiling mirror above so they watch themselves."
"Glass cubicle over there — toilet, shower. Every angle visible. First girl we put in it, she'll break in a week."
"Rotating cross against that wall. Pillory here. Hoist on the ceiling, remote control, harness to suspend them however I want."
"Couch along the wall for whoever's watching. Wardrobe full of costumes. Tool wall with the whole collection."
"Cameras with red lights on — visible — so they know they're being recorded."
Katie listens, taking it in, then chuckles. "Hester first! She squirms so pretty."
I smile. That's the plan.
We leave the wing, and I stop at the car, pop the trunk, and pull out both garment bags. Katie watches, curious, but says nothing.
"e on." I lead her to the chapel and push the door open into a small anteroom — bare, dusty, peeling paint. Beyond it, a second door leads to the chapel proper: maybe twenty pews, an aisle, a raised dais where the altar sits. Stripped of anything holy. Just a stone slab and the dust of years.
Perfect.
I unzip the first garment bag and hold it out to her — the habit folded inside, the coif on top, the white lace and nylon bundled beneath.
"Ten minutes." I nod toward the second door. "Get changed. Everything you need's in here."
Her eyes widen. Then she smiles — that slow, knowing smile that means she's already figured out what I'm planning and she's already on board.
"Yes, master."
I push the door gently. She steps inside. I close it behind her.
Then I reach back into the second garment bag and pull out the cassock. Black fabric, floor-length, straight-cut. Simple. Clerical.
I strip where I stand in the empty anteroom — shirt tossed onto a bench, pants pushed down and kicked aside, boxers following. I stand naked in the cold for a long moment, goosebumps rising on my skin. Then I pull the cassock over my head and let it fall.
It settles on my shoulders, draping to my calves. Nothing beneath it. Just bare skin and the brush of fabric and the knowledge of what I'm about to do.
I stuff my discarded clothes into the second bag. Lean against the wall. Fold my arms.
And I wait.
Ten minutes pass. Enough for her to get changed, enough for the anticipation to build. I push off the wall, take the handle, and open the door. Roleplaying time.
I step inside.
Katie is kneeling at the altar. Not on the altar steps — on the bare stone floor, her knees pressed against the cold, her back straight, her hands folded in front of her. The habit covers her from neck to ankle — black fabric, white wimple framing her face, the coif sitting on her head like a crown. She looks up when she hears my footsteps, and her eyes are soft and submissive and utterly devoted.
No cross on the wall behind her. The chapel is stripped of iconography. Just a woman in a nun's habit, kneeling at a stone altar, absorbed in prayer.
I walk down the aisle slowly. My footsteps echo off the bare walls. When I reach her, I stop and look down at her.
"Father," she says. Her voice is quiet. Reverent. Perfect.
I don't answer. I circle her, taking her in — the clean lines of the habit, the way the fabric drapes over her shoulders, the white of the wimple against her skin. She stays still. Kneeling. Waiting.
"Stand up, Sister."
She rises smoothly, her hands still folded.
"You called for me, Sister. You said you had a confession."
"Yes, Father." Her voice trembles — just enough to be convincing. "I've mitted sins. Terrible sins. I'm afraid no amount of prayer can wash them away."
"All sins can be forgiven, Sister." I step closer, my voice low and even. "But they must first be confessed. Fully. Without shame."
She glances around the bare walls. "There's no confessional here, Father."
"There isn't." I gesture to the empty chapel. "The sisters took the box with them when they left. But the Lord hears every word spoken in His house — so kneel at His altar, and confess where He can watch you."
Her breath catches. Then she sinks back down onto the cold stone, hands folded, eyes lowered.
"Will you bare your soul to me, Sister?"
A pause. Then, so quiet it's barely there: "Will you hear it, Father? Even if it's filthy?"
"The dirtier the confession, Sister, the greater my duty. So speak. Let me hear what filthy words have passed your lips."
Her voice es out in a hushed rush, tripping over itself. "I — I touched myself, Father. In the chapel, while I prayed. I thought of a man's hands on me. His cock in my mouth. I wanted it, Father. I wanted to be used."
I listen. I don't interrupt. The confession pours out of her — every wicked thing she's done or imagined — until she's breathless and red-cheeked and trembling on the cold stone.
When she's done, I reach down and gather the hem of my cassock. I raise it — and my cock springs free, hard and heavy, inches from her face. She stares at it, lips parted.
"Even if in confession, Sister, such filthy words passed your lips — they must be cleansed."
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