A bad habit

 

  

I almost don’t recognize her when she calls to me on the street near our old high school.

After a decade and some college, I wanted to check out the old place to see if it stirred up nostalgia in me.

She calls me and I shake my head, she treating me like a long lost friend when I can’t recall her at all.

“Surely you must remember me,” she says when she reaches where I am standing across the street from the old church and high school building. “I’m Sister Cecelia.”

Sister? How can this be a nun, the way she is dressed, short skirt, tight blouse, sprawling brown hair that cascades onto her bare shoulders.

I can’t believe my reaction to her, to this new aspect of her.

Sister Cecelia was the young nun that came to our school a few months prior to our graduation, incredibly attractive even with the traditional nun garb that hid all the important curves and features young boys like me at the time ached for.

Her change of habit made her even more attractive, especially with the long eye lashes and dark eye shadow, and black line that frames her intense eyes that makes me stir uncomfortably in her presence.

My brain is percolating with the same dirty thoughts I had as a student, back when I wondered what she might look like under all those robes. Did she have big or small tits? What might it feel like to kiss her, hold her, or… all those other thoughts that guaranteed me an eternity in hell.

Her smile is so inviting I feel myself get hard.

“Look, we need to catch up on things,” she tells me. “I have some things to do back at the convent. If you have time, maybe you can come over with me and share some coffee as we rehash old times.”

The Convent?

I glance across the street at the brick building next to the church, the same building we seniors at the high school had helped fix up as part of our senior project before graduation.

I remember it all too well, and how we all spent hours there packing things for them, and how we arrived too early so that Sister Cecelia wasn’t quite ready for us.

 She was still getting dressed, and I saw her naked through the open bedroom door.

I’ve spent a decade suppressing that memory, and how guilty I felt about the thoughts her naked body generated in me, imagining how she might taste if I kissed her, how soft or hard her breasts might feel, how my fingers twitched at the thought of holding each breasts in the palms of my hands.

This still shakes me a little, but I was a boy then, full of hormones, unable to completely control those thoughts that popped into my head.

I’m an adult now, I tell myself. I should be able to control my desires, regardless of how intense they might be.

Besides, she’s a different person now, more mature herself, and she seems to be as kind towards me today, as she was back then, always taking special interest in me while in class or in the halls of school, asking me if I have everything I need, and that if anything pops up, I should come and see her.

I could not tell her then what I really needed.,

But Certainly, God won’t punish me for thinking those things back then. All boys think that way. (some men, too).

She leads me across the road, then up the front steps to the arched doorway, a route I have traveled many times in my dreams, only when we get inside, she steers towards the kitchen, not the bedroom where I saw her that time.

Other nuns – all in civilian garb – come and go as she pours out two cups of coffee and placed one in front of me on the table, her long fingers so delegate, just the way I recalled from long ago.

But it is her gaze that startles me, a glint in her eyes that is exactly the same as the one I saw back then, and suddenly, without real evidence, I realize my seeing her naked that day was no accident. And it is clear from her expression, the way she moistens her lips with her tongue, she still has a memory of that day as well.

“I’ve really missed you,” she tells me. “All of you, but you most of all.”

The tone in her voice, and the way she is looking at me, sends my brain back down those old terrible God-be-damned paths, making me take notice of just how tight her blouse is, how her nipples are hardening and show through the pale fabric.

I am absolutely convinced I am going to hell.

Worse, she keeps looking towards the other rooms, towards her bedroom where we were last time.

I take a deep swallow of my coffee. It scalds me as it goes down, helping to distract my attention away from other parts of my anatomy that are then reacting to her.

Burning coffee as punishment, maybe enough to remind me of the purgatory that awaits me.

I glance at the other nuns, as they come and go, hearing the rattle of the rosary beads they carry, a reminder of how holy these people are, all having taken vows of chastity I suffer from without choice.

I try not to look directly at her, but I can’t help noticing her soft lips, painting red, her deep stare, and this sense of mounting tension as much in her as in me.

When she reaches across the table to squeeze my hand, I nearly faint, undone, her warmth, spreading through my body like a wave of hot lava.

“You haven’t been here in so long,” she says, still smiling, still squeezing my hand. “We’ve done so much with this place since then. Let me take you on a tour.”

I croak out a response she takes as acceptance, then leads me by the hand, out of the kitchen, down the hall – in the direction of her bedroom.

This is holy ground and all I want to do is to fuck her; I am doomed.

The room is so different from the last time, I feel a bit relieved, although it is also more girly, and less religious, a dresser with a mirror and a line of cosmetics in front of it.

Apparently, she shares the room with another nun, who is seated in the corner of the room sewing when we arrive.

If the other nun knows what’s going on inside my head, she shows no sign of it.

Fortunately, I’m distracted by Sister Cecelia herself, how graceful she is, her body moving across the room as if in a dance, with her fingers entwined with mine as to make me her partner.

I take deep breaths, feeling my heart beat slow down along with my previous panic,

‘Come, sit here,” she says, patting the spot on the bed beside her.

I’m close enough for her perfume to swarm around me, in me, and she emits another, more primitive and yet much more seductive scent I can’t resist.

The other nun coughs, gets up and says, “I can see you two want to be alone.”

I nearly scream: Don’t go!

But Sister Cecelia still has my hand, and pulls me close to kiss me, a passionate kiss, the kind of kiss I’ve always dreamed of, her breasts pressing against my chest, her body quivering, as does mine.

“Don’t you think we should finish what we started long ago?” Sister Cecelia asks

I’m completely undone, every fantasy coming alive in me as I kiss her in return, my fingers groping to unbutton her blouse, exposing her breasts.

I kiss each, letting the tip of my tongue linger on the tip of each nipple. I can no longer control himself.

“All right. If I’m going to go to hell for this anyway, I might as well have a good time.”

I already know we’ve gone too far to turn back. The damage is done.

She falls back on the bed and spreads her legs, and I, like the good Christian, I kneel before her on the floor, holding her pussy apart as my tongue explores each pedal of that perfect flower, easing the tip of my tongue inside, tasting her juice, as potent as I could have ever imagined, her insides like plush pillows I ache to explore more.

I am as drunk on her as I ever was, and slowly I mount her, easing my hard cock into her ripe pussy, pushing it deep as I have a million times in his imagination, only without the burden of her habit.

She welcomes me, thrusting back for each of my thrusts, her face growing flush as I look down at her, at her perfect mouth, at her deep eyes. I thrust; she moans, going in and out as if she’s dreamed the same dream I have since that first time.

“Harder,” she tells me. “Give it to me harder.”

I comply, hips banging hard, repeatedly, I am as breathless as she is, her moans filling the bedroom like a religious chant.

I feel her pussy tighten around my cock with each thrust, as if she needs to hold onto this moment, to cherish it as something we should have done long ago, and now need to, if only to get on with the rest of our lives.

I fuck her hard, and she screams, “I love it!”

And if God is listening, maybe the All Mighty Father will understand, this is what we need to do, must do, or spend the rest of our lives wondering what we have missed.

And each stroke, going deeper and deeper, and raising more and more moans from her, telling me we haven’t missed anything.

This magic moment, this less than tender embrace, the woman of my dreams, habit on or off.

When I’m ready to cum, she tells me to pull out.

When I do, she grabs my cock in both hands and lets his cum pour into her open mouth, like communion.

Hours later, and miles away, the shock of it all hits him, and her final words at parting.

“You can come anytime.”

 

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