Abbess's New Dog
Copyright© 2026 by Thomas Spencer
Chapter 1
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Transferred to the isolated Abbey of Sainte-Croix, young Nun Éloïse expects a life of prayer and quiet devotion. Instead, she falls into the clutches of the powerful and seductive Abbess Isolde - a secret dominatrix who rules the nunnery with iron discipline and insatiable lust. What begins as confusing touches and humiliating "exercises" quickly escalates into brutal spankings, strapon training, pet play, and total sexual surrender. Éloïse's innocent body is stretched, used, and broken until sh
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa ft/ft Fa/ft Fa ft Mult Teenagers Blackmail Coercion NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Romantic Slavery Lesbian BDSM DomSub FemaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Rough Sadistic Spanking Torture Gang Bang Group Sex Harem Orgy Polygamy/Polyamory Anal Sex Analingus First Fisting Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Sex Toys Squirting Voyeurism AI Generated
The cartwheels creaked over the rutted road as the first pale light of dawn touched the hills of northern France. It was the year of our Lord 1032. I, Sister Éloïse, sat rigid on the wooden bench, my hands folded tightly in the lap of my new black habit. At nineteen I had taken my final vows only six months earlier at the smaller priory of Saint Agnes. The Bishop had ordered my transfer to the Abbey of Sainte-Croix, a remote house nestled in the dense woodlands near the Norman border. I am of average height for a woman—five foot six—with a thin waist that flares into wide hips, full DD breasts that I always tried to bind modestly beneath my habit, thick chestnut-brown hair hidden beneath my wimple, and striking blue eyes that I kept lowered in prayer.
The abbey appeared as the trees parted: grey stone buildings encircled by a high wall, a modest church tower rising above the chapter house. Smoke curled from the kitchen chimney. A bell tolled Prime as our cart rolled through the open gates.
A tall woman waited in the courtyard, flanked by two other sisters holding lanterns. Even in the dim light she commanded attention. She stood five foot eleven, with a slim but slightly muscular build that spoke of unusual strength for a woman of the cloth. Her hair, where a few strands escaped her wimple, was a deep red, and her blue eyes were sharp and piercing. This was Mother Isolde, the Abbess, around forty-five years of age.
“Welcome to Sainte-Croix, Sister Éloïse,” she said, her voice low and perfectly controlled. “I am Mother Isolde. The Bishop’s letter speaks highly of your devotion.”
I knelt and kissed her ring. The cool touch of her skin sent an unexpected flutter through me that I quickly suppressed.
Mother Isolde gestured to the two sisters beside her. “This is Sister Marguerite, our scriptorium mistress, and Sister Blanche, who oversees the herb gardens and infirmary.”
Sister Marguerite was a kindly older nun with ink-stained fingers and a gentle smile. Sister Blanche, perhaps in her thirties, had a practical air and strong hands from working the earth. They both nodded warmly as Mother Isolde led me on a brief tour before Prime.
We passed through the cloister, the chapter house, the refectory, and the dorter where I would sleep. The stone walls felt cool and solid. I tried to memorize every turn, my wide hips swaying slightly under the heavy habit as I walked.
The morning unfolded in the familiar rhythm of the Hours. We chanted Prime in the church, the Psalms rising pure and haunting. I was given a place near the front, close enough to feel Mother Isolde’s presence. After the Office came chapter meeting, then breakfast in silence—porridge, bread, watered wine—while a novice read from the saints’ lives. I kept my blue eyes on my bowl, aware of the Abbess’s occasional glance.
The rest of the morning I spent in the scriptorium with Sister Marguerite, copying Augustine. The scratch of quills and scent of ink calmed me. At midday we attended Sext, ate the main meal of vegetables and salted fish, then worked in the herb garden with Sister Blanche in the afternoon. The sun warmed my shoulders. The lavender smelled sweet, and for a moment I felt almost at peace in this new home.
Vespers came, beautiful and solemn. After Compline, as the nuns dispersed to their cells, a soft knock sounded at my door. One of the younger sisters informed me that Reverend Mother wished to see me.
I followed through the darkened cloister, heart beating faster. Mother Isolde’s private quarters were larger, lit by a single candle. She sat behind the heavy oak table, still in her full habit.