The Catholic Schoolgirl

The warm, muggy evening wrapped around me as I climbed out of my car. The neighborhood was nice, with rows of well-manicured lawns and small, but easy-on-the-eyes houses. I swallowed hard, trying to push aside my intense discomfort as the blue plaid and pleated skirt I wore swirled around my upper thighs. I glanced around. Fortunately the street looked quiet and all I really had to fear was that someone would glance out their front window and wonder what the hooker in the street was doing.

That’s sort of how I felt because it was how I was dressed. The white blouse was actually sort of modest, since it at least covered my top half. No bared midriff which drives me absolutely nuts. Exposed bellies is for teenage girls, not grown women. The tie I was wearing matched the skirt exactly, which was sort of the point because it was a uniform. Except I’m pretty sure no Catholic Schoolgirl ever wore a pair of white, thigh high stockings that didn’t make it up to the hem of her skirt, much less black stilettos with six inch heels.

Like I said, the resemblance to a local street hooker seemed more probable than me looking like some teenage girl skipping home after the final bell and that had my stomach roiling with humiliation. What if someone saw me dressed like this? What would they think? I pushed those thoughts firmly out of my head and hurried down the sidewalk. Thirty seconds right? That’s all it would take to walk from where my car was parked to the nice, little porch?

I headed up to the house, glad that the porch light was off. It wasn’t as welcoming I suppose, but it made things less obvious to the neighbors. I climbed the steps, my short little skirt’s hem dancing around the lower curves of my bottom, and with a huge step, rang the bell. It took no longer than five seconds before a man, dressed all in black, complete with shoes and belt, answered the door. He was in his upper fifties, his hairline receding and going a sterling gray. But the most notable thing about him was the white clerical collar that he wore. His eyes were bright with enthusiasm as he saw me and he stepped back.

“Come in, my child.”

So I stepped into the devil’s playground.

***

Ever since I’d moved out of my parent’s farmhouse I’d been what some might call “religiously lost.” I’d grown up Catholic, as had my daughter Rachel and while I admired much of what the Roman Catholic Church stood for, there were a few things, perhaps political, perhaps not, that I wasn’t too enamored with. This tale isn’t supposed to be Breanne’s Encyclical on all Things Bad and Good with Catholicism, but those personal issues led me to try a few other Christian places of worship. From Anglican to Episcopalian to Lutheran, to even a few non-denominational spots. I even went to a Unitarian Church. Wow… was THAT an experience. But one of the non-denominational churches I liked a lot and went back to multiple times, was one with an amazing preacher named Father Bob.

Father Bob was in his late fifties and looked wise. His homilies or whatever you call them if you’re not Catholic were amazing, riveting, filled with humor and grace. He was a gifted speaker. After my face became a repeat feature some of the other parishioners greeted me and filled me in. Single, educated, and wonderful, Father Bob was something of a saint in their eyes. I could see it. I really could.

I want to state for the record that when I went to church you probably wouldn’t have recognized me. Oh sure, my hair was still fire engine red, long loose curls that immediately attract the eye like moths to a flame. But there the normal nympho humiliation pain slut you’re so familiar with was gone. I dressed conservatively, usually in a nice dress with a hem around my calves, with no tight curves or dipping cleavage. It was… me. The side of me that isn’t a needy fuckslut. The one that would normally control things if I weren’t constantly being pressured by desires that drive me into what some might call sin.

I’m not sure when I came to Father Bob’s attention. Probably the first day, considering I must have looked like a beacon of flame in his otherwise blond and brunette congregation. But it was on the fifth Sunday that he approached me after the service, his warm smile welcoming, his hand extended as we had a brief moment of privacy in an otherwise packed room. The other parishioners were giving the leader of their flock a moment to greet the new sheep. Baa baaaa.

“Good morning,” he said, holding out his hand. I took it and he shook it softly, with almost a caress. “I’m Father Bob.”

I couldn’t help smiling, a warm glow spreading inside me. And it wasn’t a sexual one either. “I know sir,” I replied. “You are such a great speaker. I love listening to you.”

He grinned, nodding happily. “Thank you. I appreciate that. I do have a question to ask you though.”

I smiled eagerly. Was he going to ask me to join his church? A personal entreaty to join his flock? Was he going to ask about the state of my soul? Would he ask about my daughter? He leaned in close and I saw the twinkle in his eye.

“Your name wouldn’t happen to be ‘Breanne Erickson’, would it?”

***

I blinked, totally shocked. My mouth fell open as I stared up at the man and he laughed. “I guess I was right,” Father Bob said quietly. I stood stock still, wondering if I were about to be condemned and cast publicly out of his church or whether he’d quietly plead with me to put aside my harlotry. He took my arm and put his hand on my back. It wasn’t improper, just very familiar. “I’ve been a fan of your work for some time and when I saw you and Rachel, I knew immediately that between the red hair and your daughter, there was a high probability that I was right.” He glanced around. “Where is Rachel?”

I swallowed hard, still more than a little stunned. “Getting a donut,” I confessed. My daughter had a sweet tooth and she loved going to the Family Hall to get a morning snack.

“Ahh. The hunger of youth,” he said, making it sound like innuendo. “But as I was saying. I love your writing. I have to ask though, is it real?”

I stared up at him, just a flurry of agitation in my expression. “Of course it’s real,” I protested, feeling a touch of anger. I saw his eyebrows go up and I flinched slightly. “To an extent. It’s based upon memory. Sometimes I don’t exactly remember the specific details. I have to be creative with my descriptions so that I express the appropriate tension and it doesn’t come out sounding like a crazy person wrote it.” It came out sounding just a little arrogant, like I was lecturing him. “And I sometimes skip or minimize the boring parts.”

Father Bob continued to smile. “I can’t imagine anything involving a woman as lovely as you having boring parts.”

I froze, just a little stunned and blinked again. “Father, are you hitting on me?”

He turned me, again with his hand on my back and we walked along the last row of the church. “Breanne, might I ask why you’ve told some of the other parishioners a different name?”

Now I blushed, embarrassed. “Father, Breanne is my middle name. I thought…” my voice trailed off.

He nodded in sudden understanding. “Of course. Your warring sides. Innocent farm girl on one hand, nympho humiliation pain slut on the other.”

I grimaced. The words coming from a priest’s mouth just sounded dirty, even if he was a fan.

“Yes. I do understand. It could be socially difficult to explain your profession, for both you and your daughter, were anyone to discover your alternate identity.” He put his hand on his heart. “Your secret is safe with me,” he said. “But I do have one more question to ask you.”

I stood there as the implications of his words swirled through my mind. “Yes, Father?”

“In your tales you say that Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Rule #2 requires you to follow any order given to you that doesn’t break your limits. Is that true?”

My stomach tightened up into a dark, heavy knot. Slowly I nodded. Father Bob’s smile didn’t change a whit. He put a hand on my cheek, caressing it downward to cup my chin, but it was his other hand that concerned me. It slid downward, through the small of my back and then even lower. Dangerously lower.

“Excellent. Then here are my orders…”

***

The inside of Father Bob’s house was quaint. The furniture was old but serviceable and the place was kept clean. The living room also served as Father Bob’s library and office, with a leather couch against one wall, big enough for two or three, and a single, heavy leather chair obviously meant for him on the other side of a worn oak coffee table. A Bible rested on the table, black, ominous and judgmental.  

The desk was also made of wood and looked like it had come from another age, when the construction of furniture had been as much an art as a livelihood. A silver lamp sat at one end while a laptop computer gave the whole thing a surreal look. The shelves behind the desk were crammed full of books. I didn’t get the opportunity to peruse his collection, but I’m betting most of them were religious treatises of one kind or another.

The curtains were drawn and the moment the door closed we were in private. I stood there nervously, acting just like a schoolgirl. As he came around me his hand touched my back, lingering there much longer than appropriate, his fingers swirling. I thought for a moment that he was going to slide his palm down to my bottom, but he didn’t. Instead he turned me slightly and gestured for me to sit down on the couch.

Of course. Right where he’d be able to look up my skirt.

I moved to the couch and wondered how to play this. I’d been basically blackmailed into coming in the first place, not that I minded terribly. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been a force of corruption amongst the clergy before and clearly I’d corrupted this one without evening knowing it. I had a long and disgusting history of seducing authority figures, including a few men of the cloth. I can say that while I’d been a little young, especially in some people's’ eyes, I hadn’t been a child. Seventeen is legal in Texas, so don’t go screaming pedophilia. Father Joe’s fall from grace was purely at my hands. I feel bad about it too.

And that brought me back to Father Bob. The Catholic Schoolgirl fantasy can go one of two ways. Either the girl is an innocent, the sweet but totally corruptible bit of flesh, or she’s a devil, a temptress seeking to bring down the holy servant of God with one of the seven deadly sins: lust. As I sat down the hem of my skirt rode up my ass and I could feel the material of the couch on my bare bottom. Father Bob seated himself opposite me and stared. I could feel his eyes roaming over my body, seeming to touch me. I’d done the seductress thing before and this time I thought I’d play it straight. Maybe it was time for the conservative, saintly side of me to get what was coming to her. Still, it would depend on Father Bob. I pressed my knees together and shifted back and forth, blushing. One of us would be dancing with the devil.

It just hadn’t been decided who got to wear the horns and tail.

“I’ve heard child, that you’ve been a naughty, disobedient little girl,” he said leaning forward hungrily, angrily. I gave him a half terrified expression, bit my lip and looked away.

“I didn’t mean to be,” I whispered, playing into the roles established. Clearly Father Bob was going to be the villain in this story.

Father Bob’s eyes narrowed and he loomed above me. “But you have sinned. A great deal. And now it is time for your penitence.” His hands reached out and yanked me to my feet. “You’ve been a naughty girl and now you will suffer for your sins.” His hands slid across my chest, touching my breasts and I felt goosebumps rise on my arms as I quivered under his touch.

“Yes, a filthy, unclean spirit,” he whispered in my ear.

I heard a poem once, or maybe it was a Bible quote.

She’s a dwelling place for demons

Of lust and sin bestirred

She’s a cage for unclean spirits

And of every filthy bird.

She makes us drink the poisoned wines

Of fornicating kings

Breast and loin and sultry lips

Host for evil wings.

 Curious to know what happened next? We totally understand! We wanted to know too! Fortunately, the rest of this amazing tale is available for purchase at Amazon.com! Check out Breanne's "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 15!"

The X Bench

It was a warm Thursday morning and Kari was rather quiet as her convertible sped along the roadway. The south Texas sun had skipped spring as usual and had already lurched into summer, leaving me with little recourse but to accept the increasingly inappropriate and daring outfits Kari had given me. The dress I was wearing looked like it belonged on a sixteen year old hooker on her way to her initial deflowering followed by a short life of drugs and abuse. White, ankle length, and completely see thru, on a thirty-year old woman it looked ridiculous. And maybe that was part of it. Kari knew that having my entire body on display would just humiliate me, which was probably her goal.

It didn’t help that my pussy was stuffed to the brim with Kari’s wireless, vibrating egg or that my clit was currently clamped and suffering similar tremors thanks to the small motor attached to the clip. I sat in the car, cool air blowing right through the mesh of the dress and I wrapped my arms across my relatively exposed and clover clamped nipples, trying to keep the goosebumps from spreading further up my arms.

“Cold?” Kari asked me, adjusting the temperature.

I nodded. “This dress is over-ventilated,” I complained. It was too. If it had been made of gauze I’d been better off. Instead it was basically a fish net designed for catching minnows and considering I was completely naked under it, there wasn’t much in the way of insulative qualities in my attire. Instead I tried to look on the bright side. Since my pussy was on full display, it wasn’t like she was going to be taking me out in public. I’d be arrested for indecency.

Eventually.

When we pulled up in front of the warehouse used by the Society of the Golden Rose I admit I wasn’t exactly surprised. Kari had kept her fingers in the pie, so to speak, despite the fact that she failed to meet one of the basic requirements of membership; a willing, obedient submissive to routinely abuse. I didn’t qualify since I officially belonged to Julie. Still, Kari was close friends with Isobel, the matron of the Society and we frequently met with some of the others for lunches and other various social activities. The fact that I was being shared between two dominatrixes evidently didn’t bother anyone.

It certainly didn’t bother me.

I recognized the truck in the lot and I couldn’t help smiling. Mike the Hardware Guy was this massively built specimen of manhood that combined the physique of a football player with the knowhow and supreme confidence that comes with both the knowledge of how to do things and testosterone poisoning. Mike sports a thick, well-trimmed beard, bright blue eyes that sparkle, and a mouth that is perfect for both kissing and other forms of sexual torment when applied to the appropriate places. He’s my teddy bear. Kari and I climbed out of her convertible, me looking around in nervous apoplexy, frightened that I’d be seen by someone with a cellphone and a direct line to the police department. Still, I was only exposed in public for the four or five seconds it took to hurry to the warehouse door. Then I was safely inside.

At least, safe depending on your definition. I might have been safe from being arrested, but safe from Mike and Kari? Hardly.

I followed my golden haired goddess through the tiny lobby, past the well-sized kitchen, then past the restroom and showers. The rest of the warehouse space was divided by a set of folding doors that could be closed to split the main floor into two still very large rooms. Kari and I weaved our way through the various couches, settees, love seats, and chairs, skirted the few tables and other peripheral that marked the room as a sexual fun house.

Oh. I need to describe that in more detail? Sorry. Well… uh… the sybians are there. We own two. A set of stocks is kept behind two of the couches and there are a number of rather uncomfortable seats where you sit while kneeling and either sharp ridges bite into your delicate parts, or there are some unusually shaped phalluses sticking up, sometimes a pair just in case some sadistic and deviant mistress wants her submissives rear end stuffed as well. Each little table holds a selection of saps, paddles, vibrators, clamps, and other toys. Staff the place properly and you’ve got your own little sexual BDSM wonderland.

But the other half of the room… well… that’s where the fun stuff is stored.

Over the years the Society has collected a wide variety of larger pieces of furniture that you can’t exactly purchase at Rooms To Go. We have two wooden horses. There are three or four wooden ponies. There are two St. Andrew’s Crosses and one of them actually spins upside down. There is an iBench similar to the one in Kari’s condo, as well as some more modern stocks, a variety of restraint tables, and even an entire wooden swing set with some rather disturbing, unchildlike, attachments. Most of these pieces are covered with drop cloths, giving a somewhat sinister look to the room, especially if the lights are mostly off. As it was there was only a single beam coming down, right in what is normally a cleared space in the center. But what really astonished me was that there was a hell of a lot of bare skin showing. Mike’s back was facing us and he was obviously, eagerly fucking someone in front of him. I could see it was a girl, lying flat on her back, her legs spread and bound to what looked like the top half of a six foot tall letter “X”, with a leather bench extending out from the center. Kari didn’t say anything as we approached, but I gasped in astonishment as I recognized Julie, my own personal mistress, buck naked and spread open. Mike’s shaft was planted wetly between her legs and from the look of ecstasy on her face, she was certainly enjoying the sensation. I felt a matching surge of wetness between my own thighs and a little shiver of jealously went through me.

I took a moment to admire the new bench. It was welded together using black painted steel and the squared off arms of the X had a number of steel hoops and hooks ready for all sorts of mischief. Julie’s legs were bound to it using some thin leather straps and I have to admit that her bare feet, sticking up at the top, soles exposed like that, was a total turn on. Kari and I moved around to the side and I could see that Julie wasn’t wearing a damn thing. Both of her hands were free and she was pinching her own nipples hard as Mike fucked her, the panting moan that came from her mouth making it clear how much she enjoyed what was happening.

“Hello Julie,” Kari said.

Mike glanced up, shock on his face and he backed away from Julie, his wet dick so hard that it looked like it could have jackhammered concrete. Julie’s eyes snapped open too and a look of frustration made her mouth curl in an unwelcome fashion. But then her eyes found me and her gaze softened. She sighed slowly, the sexual tension leeching away.

“Hi Kari. You’re a bit early,” Julie said, pointing at Mike. He nodded and quickly came forward, releasing the little black belts holding her legs apart and up.

Kari shrugged. “Early to bed and early to rise…” she replied, leaving the rest of the saying unspoken. “You look like you’re enjoying myself.”

Mike finished unstrapping Julie’s other leg. “For the most part,” Julie agreed. “Except now I’m terribly horny.”

Kari crossed her arms. “You didn’t have to stop. We could have waited.”

Julie sat up, swinging her legs down so that she straddled the bench she’d previously been laying on. “No, I don’t think so.”

I saw a small smirk on Kari’s face. “Are you afraid?”

Julie’s eyebrows went up. “Of you? No.”

I blinked, totally bewildered.

“Of liking it,” Kari said. It was an answer. Not a question and I was surprised to see Julie blush and look away. That kind of startled me. Was my dominatrix becoming a switch? Julie hopped down from the bench and gave me a startling grin.

“Love the dress,” Julie said to me, eyeing my breasts and pendant decorated slit. “But I’m afraid it has to come off.”

I glanced at Kari, who didn’t look back. Evidently I was being turned over to Julie. I shrugged and immediately began lifting the dress up and over my head. It didn’t matter if I was dressed or naked at that point. Hell, with all honestly, I might as well have been naked anyway. I tossed the material aside and stood there waiting for someone to tell me what to do.

“Put her on it, Mike.” Julie’s voice was stern and wicked and still tinged with pressure from her sex but I turned to see Mike grinning. He’d managed to get his blue jeans back up and his cock was hidden from view.

“Come on Bre. Let’s get you up on the bench,” he said warmly. He took hold of my wrist and pulled me toward the bench. It was a bit higher than the iBench but I could have gotten up on it if I’d really a mind too. Instead he picked me up, the clover clamps and chain on my breasts swinging. He set me down on it, ostensibly in a massive wet spot left by Julie.

“Ewww,” I said dramatically, running my finger through the edge.

Julie saw me, crossed her eyes, and stuck out her tongue.

“Lay back, Bre. And slide down so that your legs are hanging off the edge right there at the X,” Mike said.

Kari cleared her throat. “Well please let me know how it goes. I’ll be back at lunch time to get her.”

I twisted my head and looked past Mike. “You’re leaving me?” I asked, just a little disappointed.

Kari nodded. “Yes. I’ve got some things to do this morning so I leave you in Julie and Mike’s capable hands. I’m sure you will have a delightful time.” She turned and left.

Mike grabbed my left ankle and hauled it upward as Julie began securing my leg to the upright sticking out from the end of the bench. She reached up and plucked the slip on high heeled sandal from my foot and tossed it aside, leaving my bare sole facing the ceiling. I took the liberty of kicking off my other shoe while they were both so focused on my left leg. Mike grabbed me below the knee and lifted my right leg up to match the first and as my bottom half was secured to the top half of the new restraint, I felt the ripple of excitement. The leather straps on my left leg were matched on my right and in short order I was immobilized from the waist down, unable to move more than just my ankle and toes.

“Can you spread her a bit more?” Julie asked.

Mike grunted and reached down between my legs, but then went below the bench. A moment later the top of the X widened and I felt the belts tighten around my flesh as I was spread just a bit wider apart. Still, if they wanted my legs spread, they would have done better to put me on the Society’s iBench. That would have forced me into the splits.

 Curious to know what happened next? We totally understand! We wanted to know too! Fortunately, the rest of this amazing tale is available for purchase at Amazon.com! Check out Breanne's "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 15!"