Sister Oatlash

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Nymphomaniac Nun is on a Mission from God.
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The Mutt
The Mutt
52 Followers

Sister Mary Oatlash had a reputation as a strict disciplinarian. The boys at Saint Ignatius called her the Sister of No Mercy. But only behind her back, and only after looking carefully around to be sure she wasn't lurking about.

None of the boys would dare speak in her class. No one dared pass a note. To cross Sister Oatlash meant swift and severe punishment. But no transgression would stir her wrath more than the sin of impure thoughts. If she caught a boy's eyes lingering too long over a girl's body, or worse yet, another boy's, she would keep that boy after class. Sometimes the boy did not return to school for days. When they did, they sat gingerly in their desks. Not a boy had ever breathed a word about what went on in the classroom after all the other's had gone. God's wrath was fearful, and its name was Sister Oatlash.

The bell rang at 2:50 pm, dismissing Sister Oatlash's class. They boys snatched up their books and fled the room. All except for young Mr. Conway, who had been kept after. He sat at his desk with a look of defiance on his face, almost as if he were there by his choice and not at her command.

As Sister Oatlash had walked the aisles, the class working on their math problems, Mr. Conway had quickly turned the page of his notebook as she approached. Too quickly, to her practiced eye. Sister Oatlash had grabbed the book and flipped through it. She found that he had been drawing pictures of superheroes, and not pictures of fight scenes. The illustration depicted Wonder Woman kneeling before Superman. The top of her costume was pulled down and she was fondling her basketball-sized breasts, pinching shot-glass sized nipples. Superman's trunks were down and a phallus the size of a man's arm from the elbow to fist jutted out, dripping jism on Wonder Woman's upturned face. Sister Oatlash's rage was tempered only slightly by the skill and artistry of the drawing. It was deepened by the stirring of lust she felt between her legs. She checked her rage and only informed Mr. Conway that he was to stay after. He seemed unafraid, but the fear among the other boys was palpable. Now he sat with a smirk on his face.

She ordered the boy to the front of the classroom and ordered him to assume the position. It was one he was familiar with. But this time, instead of shyly turning his back and pulling down his pants as little as possible, the way all the boys did, he boldly undid his belt and dropped his pants in front of her. His cock was nearly erect and quite large for a boy his age. Her face reddened. She put down the ruler she had intended to use for his whipping and removed from her desk a switch. It had been cut from a rose bush. Thick as a thumb at its base, it tapered to a whip point three feet beyond. It was studded with thorns that stood like shark fins along its length. One thorn had been left at the gripping end, to dig into the wielder's palm, to remind her of the pain she was about to inflict.

She caught a handful of his long hair in her fist and slammed his head down on the desk. She raised the switch and brought it down with a fierce swoosh onto his bare buttocks. His taut, round, pink buttocks. As she whipped him, she felt herself grow wet between her legs. It angered her and the angrier she got, the harder she whipped. But the sight of the bloody stripes she was inflicting excited her more and more. She faltered, shocked at her loss of control. She threw the switched across the room and screamed at the boy to get out. This command he was happy to obey. When he was gone, she slumped to the floor, tears in her eyes.

"Why, God? Why do you torture me with these feelings? Why am I tortured by lust every waking hour?"

And it was true that she was. Sister Oatlash had not so much joined a convent, but fled to it. Fled from the passions and yearnings that filled her mind and threatened to grow beyond her control. Her faith was strong and her devotion to her Lord was true, but she was hiding in her habit, hiding from the unnatural lusts that caused her to go wet between her legs at the sight of every pretty boy and leggy girl she saw, that had caused her to masturbate several times a day, that caused her to give herself to man after man after man. She wept, looking at the bloody wound in her palm, so like the wound Christ suffered on the cross.

"Lord, am I not your faithful servant? Have I not denied myself these years? What must I do, Lord? How may I be cleansed?"

But no answer came. She dried her eyes, straightened her habit and headed back to the convent to pray for her soul. Her mind was so much in turmoil that she did not see the tall man until she was nearly upon him. Dressed all in black as he was, he stood hidden in the shadows until he chose to reveal himself. He wore a black suit, ankle length trench coat and slouch hat. His face was severe, his nose prominent, his eyes steel grey. In his flapping coat he looked like a great bird of prey. When she tore her eyes away from his piercing eyes, she saw that he wore the Roman collar of the priesthood. Around his neck was a crucifix on a heavy, steel chain. There was something odd about it, but before she could define what, he spoke. His voice was like the crack of glacial ice.

"Sister Oatlash?"

"Yes, Father."

"This is for you."

He handed her a thick, ornate envelope. He nodded to her when her questioning eyes asked if she should open it. She slit the wax seal. Inside she found a heavy page of letterhead, the letterhead of the Vatican! Her hands trembled as she read the hand-written letter;

"Sister in Christ,

Your immediate presence is required at the Vatican. Leave at once. Tell no one. Take nothing. Ask no questions. The bearer of this letter will see to your needs."

When she saw the signature, she dropped to her knees and crossed herself. It was signed by the Holy Father himself! The raptorish priest took her hand and lifted her to her feet. Her legs wobbled and he supported her with a firm grip.

"Will you come with me?" He asked.

"Yes, Father."

And she did. The next 20 hours were a whirlwind of private cars and private jet. The priest spoke not another word to her and she dared not ask a question. She ate only lightly the fruit and bread he offered her. She slept not at all. As if in a dream, she found herself crossing the familiar plaza before the Offices of the Holy See. She was ushered into an ancient hail and down long flights of stairs. She was directed into a small room with six chairs. She was the last to arrive. The other chairs were filled with young nuns like herself. No one spoke. They looked at each other clandestinely, from the corners of their eyes. Then a door at the end of the room opened and a woman entered. She was one of the most beautiful women Sister Oatlash had ever seen. She felt the familiar, forbidden moisture between her thighs. The other nuns seemed to squirm in their chairs as well.

The woman wore the habit of a nun, but instead of coarse cloth, it was made of soft, black leather. Around her waist, in place of the usual rough rope, was a braided whip. The phallic handle hung at her side. She wore the same crucifix as the priest around her neck, but now Sister Oatlash had leisure to see what it was that had made it seem so odd. The figure of Christ on the cross, instead of the usual pose of lifelessness, was straining mightily at the nails that held him to the wood. And his muscular body was naked; his Holy Godhood hung well down his thigh. His face was a mask of rage. The leather-clad Sister moved to the front of the room and spoke.

"Sisters in Christ. Give thanks to God, for you have been chosen from among the many for a special task. A task our Holy Father feels is the most important facing the mother church. You have been chosen for your special qualities. You are all young. You are all beautiful. Your faith and your calling are strong. Your devotion to the church unquestionable. Your desire for discipline unarguable. And you are all plagued by the sin of wantonness. What our secular scientists would call nymphomania. Your sin has tortured you. Has confused you. Now it will serve you and the Church. Your sin will serve your God. There is a great plague afflicting our Brothers and Sisters. The plague of unnatural desire. The plague of Homosexuality. You are to be the instruments by which the Church will cure this plague. For the next two years you will remain here in the Convent of the Order of Magdalene. You will learn your mission. You will learn the skills you will need to carry out that mission. These shall be your teachers."

The Mother Superior clapped her hands once and the door opened again. Into the room came three women, each more stunning than the next. Each one of them magnificently naked. Sister Oatlash felt a gush of woman's juices at her center. She felt a trickle down her thigh. The women walked gracefully to the front of the room and stood unashamed before the trembling nuns. The Mother Superior walked to each and introduced them.

The first was a tall and slender. Brown hair hung loose about her muscular shoulders. She seemed to be of Euro Indian extraction. Her flawless skin was the color of Honduran mahogany. Her breasts were large and round, with chocolate colored nipples the size of cherries. Between her legs was a thick thatch of black curls that rose to the lower curve of her belly and trailed up to her naval. Thick curls peeked from under her arms. The Mother Superior spoke again.

"This is Constance. She has trained the concubines that have served the finest families of Europe and the Orient. She will teach you the secrets of your bodies. How to eat, how to move, how to channel your lusts into a power the likes of which you have never known." Constance nodded to the girls and stepped back demurely.

The Mother moved to the next in line. She was a stunning Chinese girl, her black hair tied in a ponytail that hung to her tight, round ass. Her breasts were small and pointed. Between her legs, the hair was long and wispy. Sexuality rose from her body like the waves of heat from a radiator.

"This is Leiko. She will teach you the carnal arts. The ways of sex. Of carnality. Of passion." Leiko bowed and glided back.

The Mother moved to the last in line. She was as tall as a man, broad shouldered and strongly muscled. Her hair was white-blond. Her breasts were huge and low slung, tipped by long, pink nipples. The hair between her legs was like flax. There was something wicked in her ice- blue eyes. Something cruel.

"This is Inga, formerly of the East German secret police. She will teach you the ways of persuasion. The limits of endurance. The narrow border between pleasure and pain." Inga looked at the girls the way a cat looks at a crippled bird. She stepped crisply back.

The Mother Superior stood before the girls with her hands on her womanly hips. She looked them over with a practiced eye.

"From this day forth you shall have no contact with the outside world. You will devote yourselves entirely to your training and your prayers. At the end of two years you will be the finest specimens of womanhood ever to grace God's earth. Our Lord has given us a great task, a Crusade. We must not, will not fail. The fate of the church is in your hands. Go with God, my Sisters."

Sister Oatlash felt a wave of grace and joy wash over her. She knew, as sure as she knew her own name, that this was the task for which she had been born. A powerful orgasm shook her to her core.

She was to be God's whore.

3 years later...

Father Michael had just finished putting up the basketballs and locking the gym door behind the last of the boys on the team. He sat behind the desk of the P. E. office. He enjoyed these times, alone in the school. He took a pint of Irish whiskey from the drawer and took a small swallow. The feeling of naughtiness was as nice as the burning of the whiskey in his throat. He sat back in the chair, sweat still gleaming on his shaved head. But his revere was interrupted by a knock on the door. He opened it to see a familiar face. It was David, the star guard from his team 2, no 3 years ago. David smiled and gave him a hug. Father Michael nodded to a chair and sat back behind the desk.

"Well, David. What brings you back to Saint Ignacius?"

"I'm still on Christmas break. Just thought I'd come by and say hi to my favorite coach."

"How goes the season?"

"Not bad. We could use a power forward."

Father Michael retrieved the pint from the drawer and the two men passed the bottle back and forth as they talked old times. And David was a man, Father Michael noticed. He had grown several inches in the intervening years, but he was still slender and lithe. His bright blue eyes had a hint of mischief in them, and they seemed to linger over Father Michael's muscular legs. Michael noticed this too, and put his foot up on the open drawer. The loose leg of his gym shorts draped open and his cock hung out beneath.

When David went to screw the top onto the bottle to pass it back, he dropped it, on purpose. It rolled under Michael's chair. The young man knelt between Michael's legs to pick it up. His face was inches from Michael's growing cock.

Father Michael's hand gripped the edge of his shorts and hiked them back. His cock and balls were freed. The thick rod jutted out towards David. He needed no further invitation. With one hand he cupped Father Michael's big balls. With the other, he grabbed the big cock and guided it to his mouth. His tongue slipped out and began to lick and tease its purpled head. Father Michael groaned and ran his fingers through David's long, blond hair. He rested his hand on the young man's head as David took the full length of the fat cock into his mouth. He sucked him with skill and care, engulfing him, then drawing him slowly out until he could plant a kiss on the tip. His head bobbed back and forth and Michael's cock grew slicker and harder. Then David stood and dropped his pants. He turned his back to Father Michael and bent over. Michael buried his nose between his cheeks and began to tongue his pink bunghole.

The sensation made David squirm. His own slender cock was rock hard now, and Michael reached between his legs and began to stroke it. David rested his chest on the desk and reached back and grabbed his ass cheeks. He spread them wide. Michael reached back to the medicine cabinet and grabbed a jar of Vaseline. He took a glob of it on his finger and began to rub it onto and into David's tight, puckered bung. Then he dropped the jar and stood behind his former star player. He pressed the head of his cock to the tight opening and began to ease it in. Then the door exploded.

The two men staggered back, their eyes wide and their cocks jutting out toward the apparition standing in the door. It was a Nun. At least it seemed to be a Nun. She wore a modified habit of black leather. Her head was covered by the traditional coif. Her legs were clad in black fishnets and her breasts hung bare beneath her scapular collar. She wore a wide belt from which hung a holster and a coiled whip. The holster hung in front of her bare crotch, barely hiding her thick bush. There was a look of rage in her eyes.

She snatched the whip from her belt and it lashed out like a snake. It coiled around David's neck and she yanked him toward her. He hit the floor at her feet and she wrapped the other end around the radiator. David was held fast. Then she drew the Webley revolver from her holster and pointed it at the priest.

"Get on your knees, sinner!" He obeyed.

"Such bad boys, such bad, bad boys."

Sister Oatlash stalked around the room. The two men cowered. She strode up to Michael and put a foot up on his desk. Her furry cunt was before his face.

"I cannot begin to list your sins, Father. But the greatest of them is your unnatural urges. This should be the object of your desire, your sinful lust."

She put the barrel of the pistol to his head.

"This is my body, Father. Take it and eat!"

He did as he was told. The tang of her juices was strange to him, but not unpleasant. He tongued her wet cunt. Though he had never known a woman, his years teaching sex education served him well. He found her clit and began to roll it under his tongue. She encouraged him with whispered orders. He plunged it into her wet slit as deep as he could. With her free hand, she grabbed his bald head and ground his face into her juicy muff. Her breasts heaved. When she was nearing orgasm, she pushed him away and with a slash of her arm, cleared his desk.

"On your back on the desk, sinner", she barked.

He obeyed without hesitation. She holstered her pistol and grabbed his ankles. She pulled him to the edge of the desk. His long legs dangled. Then she turned her attentions to David. She strode to him, turned her back and shoved her ass in his face. She forced him to eat her cunt as she had the priest. David was too afraid to refuse. Michael was too afraid to move.

Her juices were dripping down her thighs now. She grabbed David by his hair and led him to the desk. She bent and picked up the jar of Vaseline. She grabbed his long cock and forced the jar over it, like she was chalking a pool cue. Then she climbed onto the desk and squatted over Michael's big cock.

"This is the holiest of holies. This is that for which you were made. Thank God for his wisdom. Pray God for his forgiveness."

Then she impaled her sopping cunt on his thick rod. She drew her pistol again and twisted around to point it at David.

"My ass is God's altar. Worship it. And do it well."

David came up behind her and put the head of his cock to her bunghole. He pushed it in. It slid easily into her welcoming hole.

"This woman's body was made by God for man's use. Use me! Use me hard!"

And they did. Their fear turned to lust. They fucked her hard and fucked her well. They could feel each others cock pounding her, filling her. Father Michael kissed her hot mouth with a passion he had never known. David's hands stroked and caressed her magnificent ass. She muttered soft prayers between her shrieks of pleasure. Her cum drenched their balls as they slapped against each other. A look a divine glory came over her face as her body was rocked with climax after climax.

David's back arched and he shot a hot load of jism into her battered bung. Michael dug his fingers into her strong shoulders as he flooded her cunt with cum. David fell forward across her back and kissed her neck. They clung to her as to salvation. Their breathing calmed and their eyes were filled with tears. Sister Oatlash whispered quiet prayers of thanks. She extracted herself from the tangle of bodies and straightened her habit. She walked to the blasted door as the two men dressed. She looked back at her conquests and smiled.

"Go, my sons. Go and sin no more." Then she was gone.

David and Father Michael could barely meet each other's eyes. They dressed quickly. David stammered, "I...I had better be going. I promised Betty King I would look her up."

"Yes. Betty. A nice girl, as I recall."

"Yeah. See you around, Father."

"Goodbye, David."

When the boy was gone, Father Michael reached into his desk drawer. His hand paused over the whisky bottle. Then he took up his rosary. He fell to his knees and prayed.

David and Betty were married 5 months later.

Father Michael transferred to The Immaculate Conception School for Girls.

He never again forgot his vows.

The two men never spoke of what had happened that night in the gym.

God's wrath was fearful, and its name was Sister Oatlash.

***

The Mutt
The Mutt
52 Followers
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AnonymousAnonymousover 15 years ago
Sister Oatlash is yummy!

I want her! hehe

Rev_LovejoyRev_Lovejoyover 18 years ago
"The harvest is plentiful ...

... but the laborers are few ..."

May the Order of Magdalene grow and prosper until all the lost sheep have returned to the fold, chastened and contrite.

JenniferMidnightJenniferMidnightover 18 years ago
Sister ooooooo lala

Sister O - now that's my kind of Super Heroine. Righting the pathetic ones lost in wanton...knowing just what to do with each misguided soul. Her techniques are irresistible, using what might seem, at times, cruel yet arousing methods. I think we should make her Literotica's Sex Heroine.

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