Chapter 5 Convent of the Blessed Martyr

When Sister John pushed her wide straw hat back on, she looked gorgeous. Her face had a healthy glow to it, and her eyes were sparkling. She was so much the Jenny Rutter of my younger days that I wanted to possess her for ever. It was juvenile of me. But when you actually realise one of your all-time sexual fantasies, you really don’t want it to ever end.

But Sister John was older than me, and more mature. She had a grasp of the reality of the situation and slipped back into it with little difficulty. I had more difficulty, especially when I was kneeling next to her with my penis swollen and throbbing.

At the end of the afternoon, she drew me into the shed again and gave me a long passionate kiss, before silently patting me on the arm and sending me on my way.

I left the convent thinking that I would at least have the compensation of seeing her again. And indeed I did, but only at a distance – and once she blew me a very discrete kiss. But I didn’t get to work with her again. Instead I was put to work painting the woodwork of some external doors. Apparently they had to be smartened up, for some reason.

Then one evening there was there was a telephone call from Father Edward to say that the convent was receiving a special visitation, and that I wouldn’t be needed for a couple of days. The couple of days turned into a week. The telephone call came in the early evening. Could I go in immediately, despite the late hour. But when at last I returned to the convent, I walked into a very different place.

The elderly nun led me into the main convent building as usual, but the hallway was lined with crates, and boxes of various sizes seemed to be piled up all over the place. At one point two sisters passed me silently, bearing armfuls of bed linen. I asked no questions, but followed my guide to the Precentor’s office.

Sister Martha was, as ever sitting at her computer. The visitor’s chair had been moved and was now positioned at the end of her desk. A lamp on the desk provided the only other illumination. She looked tired but the softer light flattered her, highlighting a beauty which was normally less obvious. She looked a very well-preserved fifty, but there were small lines around her eyes, and small creases ran down from the corners of her mouth. Far from making her look older, however, these marks accentuated the ripe shape of her lips. Relaxed, her lips parted to reveal a glimpse of her front teeth, and I couldn’t help thinking how attractive she really was. Sexual even.

She was dressed differently today too. Her hair fell thickly to her shoulders, the lamp just highlighting a few streaks of grey amidst the rich chestnut. A small silver cross hung at her neck over a black silk-like shirt which was partly unbuttoned over a distinct cleavage. As she breathed, the fabric shimmered and clung, and the lines of her bra were clearly visible. Her breasts were full but not overlarge and looked firm, ripe beneath the layers of fabric.

For several moments she carried on typing, then she stopped and turned in her chair. Her knee-length black skirt had risen again and once again I glimpsed a black stocking top. Desperately trying not to let my eyes be drawn to her thighs, I stared at the flickering light of the computer screen...

I heard her sigh and then she picked up a pen and tapped absently on her desk.

‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the Church authorities wish to close us down.’ Her voice sounded low, accentuating the warm timbre of her Scottish accent.

I nodded. ‘I had heard something.’

Her eyes swung to meet mine. Rich deep brown eyes.

‘They claim that the convent is no longer sustainable. That the Order also is no longer viable.’ She sighed. ‘It is true that fewer young women wish to join the sisterhood than in the past. Yet, there are those who find the cloistered life and escape from the more ... more material world. They still come. And would continue to do so, given the opportunity.’

I nodded sympathetically.

‘The church commissioners were here. We are awaiting the outcome of their inspection. But in the meantime we are clearing some of the unwanted clutter of the last century.’ She paused. ‘Our plan is to convert part of the building to a guest house. We just might be able to generate more income that way. It might save us. Who knows?’

She rose from her desk, revealing a little more of her black clad thighs, and then brushed her skirt down.

‘However,’ she continued, ‘I think they may have a problem if they think they can dispose of the building.’

There was a pause and she turned to face me.

‘You will know a little, perhaps, of the origin of the Order of St Elfrith?’

‘Only a little. That it is a very old order.’

‘Yes indeed. A very venerable order. And this building itself shares some of that quality. Perhaps... ‘ she smiled, ‘Perhaps you would like to see what I mean?’

Curious, I nodded.

‘Come with me.’

She opened a wall cupboard and took two large keys from a hook inside. Then she led me from the office and back along the corridor. As before, I found the complexity of the building quite bewildering. There were corridors with sudden turnings and junctions that twisted and turned like a mini-maze. I followed her as she turned abruptly at the head of a narrow stairway and tripped lightly down below ground level. We were in another maze of subterranean corridors. At the end of one of these she stopped in front of a rather insignificant looking door. Inserting one of the keys, she unlocked the door and ushered me inside. I found myself standing in a small white-painted room with religious looking paintings hung on both sides. In the opposite wall was another plain looking door.

Sister Martha shut the outer door and locked it. She hung the key on a hook and stood for a moment tapping the other key in the palm of her hand. Her eyes were gazing at one of the pictures.

‘We have liked having you around,’ she said absently. ‘The sisters have spoken warmly of you.’

I mumbled something about how much I had enjoyed being there. Her glance flicked round to mine for a moment before turning back to scan the pictures.

‘You know, of course that we are a religious order. The sisters dedicate themselves to being Brides of Christ. Of serving Him.’ She nodded at a painting showing the scourging of Christ.

‘That may sound a little trite nowadays,’ she sighed. ‘But rejecting the material world and entering the spiritual can provide meaning, fulfilment, joy even.’ She smiled at me. I began to wonder where this was going.

‘The ultimate fulfilment for a follower of the Holy Spirit, is to find themselves absorbed into that state of being.’

Sister Martha looked at me, as if to check that I was paying attention, so I nodded.

‘The early Church Fathers sought to emulate Christ. I sometimes wonder whether they actually enjoyed being crucified. A few even attempted to outdo the Lord in the agony of their suffering.’

I think we both shuddered.

‘Nowadays, we don’t do that, of course.’ She smiled at me. ‘But we do seek spiritual fulfilment.’

I nodded. Then she turned and, opening the second door, led me through. Again she carefully shut the door behind us.

In front of us now was an iron-barred gate. Low electric lights glimmered on the walls and, beyond the gate, the walls were built of rough, cream coloured stone blocks leading to a stairway. Using the second key, Sister Martha unlocked the gate and guided me through before locking the gate behind us.

I was now beginning to wonder at all this security. She didn’t speak but led me to the stair, which turned out to be very narrow spiral stairway of considerable antiquity. On the wall as we descended, little electric lights had been position to cast a gentle glow on the steps.

At the bottom she stopped and stepped to one side to allow me to stand beside her. We were in an ancient low chamber with a roof of vaulted stone arches. Candles were glowing in sconces on the wall, and there was a powerful fragrance of incense. The floor was of smooth pale cream flagstones, and at the opposite end of the chamber was a low rectangular altar or tomb. Its stones were smooth a soft looking, rounded at the edges and corners. In the flickering light of the candle, it resembled a huge waist-high slab of butter.

Sister Martha moved closer to me, keeping her eyes on the altar. When she spoke, it was in a soft whisper.

‘This is our most sacred place. It was here that St Elfrith was murdered.’

Her whispers seemed to susurrate the silence about us. The atmosphere seemed heavy with significance.

‘Very few people are allowed here.’

I nodded feeling humbled by the weight of the history in the stones around us.

Sister Martha put her face closer to my ear and whispered.

‘How much do you know of St Elfrith?’

‘Nothing.’ I whispered back, my voice sounding harsh in the gentle silence.

‘No-one can hear us here.’ A smile flickered across her lips. The candle light was accentuating her high cheekbones and glinting in her dark eyes. ‘She was the 9^th century daughter of a Mercian king. Married to one of the princes of the East Angles. When her husband was murdered by the Danes, she fled to a convent. This convent.’

Sister Martha was silent for a moment.

‘People tend to think that the Anglo-Saxon martyrs were all young. But they weren’t. We are told that Elfrith was of mature years. That probably meant she was in her early forties. ‘

I nodded understanding.

‘Unfortunately for Elfrith, the priory wasn’t safe. One of the early hagiographies states that in 873 a band of Danes landed on the coast at what is now Walberswick. They made their way inland, pillaging and murdering as they went. And then they arrived here.’

There was a long silence.

‘The nuns tried to flee. Some of them managed to escape but others were cut down, butchered. Elfrith found herself trapped in the church, and as the Danes smashed down the door of the church, she tried to hide down here.’

I looked around, the candle light gave a shiver on the walls.

‘They found her here before the altar.’ Again there was a pause. ‘According to the chronicles, they raped her. Just there, on the floor.’

Sister Martha took a step forward and pointed down.

‘She was raped, repeatedly ... and unnaturally.’

I swallowed not knowing how to respond to this. Then Sister Martha turned and stepped closer to me. Her eyes looked bright in the soft light.

‘This may sound strange to you. But like many of the sisters, I too have dreamt of being able to reach the climax of spiritual fulfilment. For many, of course, that means a trip to the Holy Land. But for me it is different.’

Her eyes fixed onto mine and as she spoke I felt myself being drawn in.

‘My dream is to join our sainted Elfrith in the climax of her torment, here on the very spot where she suffered. For that to happen, I have to be raped, here.’

My mouth was dry now, but her gaze held me unrelenting.

‘I want to be raped. Here.’

The words sank in very slowly. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came.

‘Now,’ she whispered. ‘I want you to rape me.’

‘What?’ I gasped.

‘I want you to rape me. Here. Just as the blessed martyr was raped. I want to feel what she felt. To join her in that transcendence to martyrdom.’

‘What?’ I gasped again.

Sister Martha turned to the altar. ‘I already know that you are a man of experience.’ She smiled over her shoulder at me. ‘Don’t think I don’t know about Sister Agatha and Sister John. Nothing happens here that the Precentor doesn’t learn about sooner or later.’ Her smile broadened. ‘ The Danes were experienced too.’

‘But ... But,’ my lips and jaws seemed to have gone rigid. ‘I can’t... ‘ I protested, looking about wildly.

‘Think of it as ... role play.’ She said.

‘I don’t think... ‘

Sister Martha turned and stepped close to me.

‘Imagine Elfrith,’ she said softly. ‘ Crouching here. In the distance she can hear the cries of the sisters. The tearing of clothing. The shrieks as the men push them to the ground... ‘

Possibly by accident, the back of Sister Martha’s hand brushed the front of my joggers and I felt a sudden physical thrill in response.

Her voice had become husky. ‘ ... She kneels here, hearing their cries as they are raped. The shouts of men, the eager laughter. Then the footsteps on the stair behind her. Fearfully she turns as a Dane stumbles here into the cellar.’

Her face was turned to mine now, her dark eyes watching me closely. In the little glints of candlelight caught there I sensed her urging me to see the vision with her.

She turned her hand and her palm slowly pressed against my joggers and finding my penis, began to stroke it very gently.

‘She cries out in fear. The man hesitates, gazing at her ... seeing the shape of her body under her robe... ‘

Her hand was pressing harder now, the fingers moving rhythmically. My penis was hardening fast under her hand.

‘ ... and then he springs forward, wrapping his arms round her, pressing his mouth to hers.’

Sister Martha leaned forward and kissed me gently on the lips, and then she did it again, harder, more passionately. Her fingers were opening and closing on my penis.

‘She struggles to resist, but the Dane grips her tightly, his hand finds the opening in her robe ... slides in and finds her breast.’

Sister Martha pressed herself against me and I slid an arm round her waist pulling her close, meeting the heat of her lips with my own. I felt her stiffen and she began to wriggle as she kissed me, her breath hot on my cheek. I slid a hand onto her breast. Through the fabric the warm fullness filled my hand. I gave it a gentle squeeze.

‘Noooo.’ She moaned.

I released her suddenly, scared that I had misunderstood terribly.

‘Don’t stop,’ she hissed, pressing against me again.

I wrapped an arm round her neck and put my hand on her breast again, rubbing for the nipple.

‘No ... No! Don’t...,’ she wailed.

Her hand released me and she put both hands against my chest as if trying to push me away, but this time I held on, forcing my lips onto hers. Her mouth was quivering against mine. I put my fingers to the opening of her shirt and ripped downwards, tearing the front open. She was shaking her head now, her body quivering, moaning as if in terror.

Her eyes, which had been closed, opened in shock as my fingers grabbed the cup of her bra, pulling it down to release one of her breasts.

One of her hands was pushing hard against my shoulder as I took the breast in my hand and began to massage it, squeezing it into my palm, pulling the nipple up with my fingertips.

Then I began pushing her backwards step by step towards the altar. She resisted, initially, but was forced to give way as her heels met the low step at the base of the altar. I lowered her slowly, using the weight of my body to force her down. She brought her knees up trying to kick me off. I reached down and gripped the hem of her skirt.

Her head was shaking and she was making muffled cries as I kissed her. ‘No ... No.’

I lifted my face from hers, gazing down as I pulled her skirt up, revealing her left leg, exposing shapely athletic thighs, and a stocking top. My left arm was across her chest now, fingers playing with her breast as it hung from the bra.

‘Oh Lord, help me,’ She cried out beating at my chest.

I slid my right hand up her thigh, over the front of her panties and then thrust my fingers down inside the waistband. The elastic stretched up over the back of my wrist and my fingers slid down under the tightness of the fabric, across the warmth of her rounded tummy, into a tangle of thick bushy hair on her belly.

Her struggle became suddenly more emphatic as my forefinger combed through the hair and found the soft lips of her vagina. I felt her freeze for a moment and looking down I saw a look of shock on her face. Then I slid my finger inside her into the wet softness. She gave a cry as I straightened my finger insider her, probing deeper. Then she gave a wail and tried to hit me. I leant down harder, pushing my spare forearm under her chin. My lips crushed hers as I slid two fingers into her, working them round until a smooth cream began to coat my knuckles.