Chapter 4: At the Convent of the Holy Martyr

The Prioress was terrifying. Not just because she seemed to ooze an authority which I couldn’t quite come to terms with, but also because she turned out to be a demon at Scrabble. If a nun can be a demon, that is! She insisted on three mentally exhausting games before releasing me to my work in the garden. I spent the day working alone, looking up every now and again in the half-hope that I might see Sister Agatha, or even Sister John. But the convent seemed as dead as a grave.

The following morning I presented myself as usual at the convent gate and, as the elderly nun who usually admitted me was leading me across the courtyard, we were intercepted by Sister John. The older nun who had been leading me, nodded to her and slipped away silently, leaving us alone. She was dressed very much as before, though the tights seemed to have changed from pink to pale purple.

As we made our way to the walled garden, Sister John gave me a sideways grin and murmured: ‘So, you’re rubbish at Scrabble then?’

I laughed. ‘So you heard about that?’

‘There’s not much that goes on in a convent that isn’t known by everyone soon enough.’

Obviously I hoped this wasn’t completely true.

‘Any way, the Prioress beat me every time.’ I said. ‘She’s a terror.’

Sister John nodded. ‘Why do you think no one else will play with her? We’ve all had our time being thrashed. Now any visitor who can’t escape gets trapped for a couple of hours. Like you.’

We picked up tools from the garden shed and some kneelers, and set off to weed one of the beds. Sister John was in a cheerful mood and we worked the bed kneeling face to face so that we could chat.

She had been at the convent for four years and had chosen the life because it helped her escape from a difficult past. I didn’t like to ask more, but left it to her to tell me more. However, something distracted her and the moment passed.

The sun quickly rose over the trees beside the garden and its heat was soon baking the ground around us. At one point Sister John whipped off her hat and stripped the scarf from around her head. As she replaced the hat something about her face plucked at a distant memory. But whatever it was, it was too distant for recall, and I said nothing. But shortly after noon, things changed. And how!

We had returned to the long garden shed, thinking that the terracotta tiles might prove a barrier to the heat that was blasting the grounds around us, and indeed we were right. A suffused sunlight was filtering in through dust-thick window glass and the roof beams were ticking sporadically in the heat.

Sister John drew up two tall-wooden stools next to the bench and we sat on these facing each other as we ate our lunch. She had kicked off her soft leather boots and was sitting with her feet resting on one of the rungs of my stool.

After a few minutes she casually pulled off her straw hat and fanned herself with it. For the first time I saw her properly. Her dark hair hand been cut short, but had a rather attractive tousled look to it. She caught my eye and smiled.

Thinking it an appropriate moment, I returned to our earlier conversation, and asked her what she had been doing before joining the order. There was a pause and then she said:

‘I worked for the BBC.’

And suddenly a huge penny dropped.

‘Bloody Hell! You’re Jenny Rutter.’

There was no doubt about it. The woman sitting in front of me may have been a few years older, but now that I could see her face and hair clearly, it was clearly her.

‘You used to front that travel program. The one where you did all those walks around the country.’

She nodded laughing quietly.

‘Yes, ‘fraid so.’

Suddenly I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Jenny Rutter had been my secret schoolboy passion – in fact I think every boy in my school had a thing about her. She had this bubbly, sexy personality and her clothing always seemed on the point of revealing something as she walked or climbed. Then there was that feature in one of the weekly magazines. We all had a copy of that – or even more than one. Because the centre fold was a double picture of Jenny Rutter seating on a sofa with her legs up – and between her thighs there was a very clear glimpse of panties.

Jenny Rutter had been more than a sex symbol to us. She had been a sex goddess.

And then she disappeared completely. And now here she was, sitting just a few feet in front of me.

‘Oh my God, Jenny!’ I spluttered. ‘I used to really fancy you.’

She burst out laughing. ‘USED to!’

I felt myself flush with embarrassment. But before I could speak, she lifted one of her feet and gently pressed it into my crotch. Then, using her stockinged big toe, she drew a line up and down over the bulge of my penis.

‘USED to fancy me. INDEED!’ she snorted in mock offence. Then, laughing, she withdrew her foot and slipped from the stool. ‘Time we got back to work I think, partner.’ And picking up her boots she literally skipped past me and out into the sunlight.

She left me stunned and amazed by this revelation. Not only was this nun my young teenage sex idol, she had teased me with an astonishingly erotic playfulness. I finished my tea and staggered out into the brightness of the afternoon. Sister John, or Jenny, was kneeling to pull on her boots.

‘We’ll carry on with the same bed as before,’ she said. ‘It shouldn’t take long and then we can start somewhere else.’

Feeling both numb and dumb I followed her back through the flower beds and we knelt as before. I wanted to ask her more about her life before the convent, but somehow a barrier seemed to have risen between us. After all, she was no longer just the rather nice Sister John.

It may be that she sensed a new awkwardness, because after a while she asked me if I was alright. I assured her that everything was fine, but I noticed that she gave me several anxious glances. Eventually, she rose, wiping sweat from her forehead with a cloth and asked me to get some drinking water from the shed.

‘There are some empty water bottles by the sink,’ she explained.

So I rose and made my way to the shed. True enough, at the far end of the shed was a large stoneware butler’s sink and brass tap. I picked a bottle from the shelf above and filled it. Then as I reached up to get another bottle, two arms went round my waist and a hand slid down inside the front of my jogging pants. Before I could react, the hand cupped my genitals and, taking my penis between thumb and forefinger, began a gentle massage. The hands were warm and hard, and confirmed what I had instantly guessed. It was Sister John. She pressed close behind me and pressed her lips to my ear, whispered: ‘USED to fancy me?’

By this time, by penis was already responding. She withdrew her hand and turning me round, dropped to her knees. Then, with one quick movement, she gripped the waistband of my pants on either side, and slid them quickly down onto my thighs.

My penis sprang out in response, sensing freedom in the fresh air.

As I looked down, Sister John looked up at me through dark lashes and, taking my penis on one hand slipped her lips over the tip. I almost fainted as the soft, wet warmth of her lips closed on me. A tremor went through my body, and she closed her fingers around the base of my shaft and gave a squeeze. Then she sucked in her cheeks and sucked me deep into her mouth.

I know that I moaned. I couldn’t help it. She looked up at me again and slipped her lips back along the shaft pausing, as I slipped from her mouth, to probe the little eye of the penis with the tip of her tongue. I was rock hard now, and she took me between her lips again, and drew me in, using her teeth gently to nip the shaft.

I bent over her, gasping and put my hands on either side of her head. She gave a little ‘hmmm’, a sound which just made my penis vibrate with pleasure. She drew back again, but instead of lifting her mouth away as before, she suddenly plunged her face forward driving me deep into the back of her mouth and throat. I gasped, and she repeated the movement. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked hard, and I felt the pull deep in my balls.