It is the familiar echo caused by leather-bottom shoes dispersing throughout our sleeping quarters that ignites joy before disappointment sets in each night. We are all aware of the footsteps, as are we, of the outcome. Perhaps with out proof but, by experience we all know what they bring to these walls.
For just shy of eight months, only a single one of us has become intimately familiar with the outcome; that one person conceals the proof to put an end to all speculation. The rest of us remain wondering what about that intruder is special enough to obscure everyone else.
The destination of the footsteps isn’t a secret to anyone, nor are the things we assume happen in that location. Nothing is hidden from that room’s walls, less so, those adjacent to mine. The building is one of those where each sleeping quarter has access doors to adjacent rooms; they, the doors do, carry on and on. One may journey from the very first, to the very last dormitory with out having to step outside at any one time.
Most nights I am alone in my room coupling enticing images to each sound coming from them; always wondering how closely related to the truth I come. I smile in an awkward envy wishing that the past months had not carried out it as they have.
Thursday nights specifically bring about the largest gatherings to my room. The noises that find their way to us are used to guess, most times I believe, as personal wishes of what we each would like to be done to us. We quietly congregate about the door leading to their room, passing around a pad and writing utensil… we take liberties on their affair until the end of the night draws to a silence. Presumptions all, of course, is what we write.
In the know it is not even Sister Atel. She dares not to bring it up in conversation, even when it was she who lost her rightful place upon that intruders arrival. No one dares speak of it… and in fact, of us all she seems the most distressed during Thursday nights. Those were her weeknights, while the rest of us waited for our turn whenever, and wherever they might have come. They did come, and often, but not the lengthy durations as Sister Atel withstood for longer than I can remember.
Since it is in my room that we gather, I get first stab at the pad and notebook; just as I do sitting closest to the door. I don’t write what I think is happening right away, instead, I wait until the ambiance becomes more interesting. My many intrusions throughout the past few months dictate that the events are lengthy, and when it is time to write. There isn’t a need to be hasty. The other sisters bring tea and cookies as if movie night. The evenings where the action is more subdued, we read one another’s entries before passing on the pad; however, those nights where the ruckus is chaotic, we jot down quickly, passing the pad around to whomever is most desperate to participate.
A few times we’ve barely written. Not because we haven’t been enticed to make up a storyline but, because the sounds reaching us are vast, explicit and direct where shock is the least of our reactions. I personally enjoy when discernible chatter is heard, and loudly. Though there isn’t visual proof, it becomes apparent what’s taking place on the other side of the wall. He likes to observe her. He enjoys to watch his heart’s content before the screams and orders begin.
One of those Thursdays, Lord have mercy on Sister Atel, he mentioned her name loud enough that she walked right out of the room. I chased after her to no avail. She locked herself in the room and cried until falling asleep. By the time I returned, two of the sisters occupied my chair with the excuse that the story had just taken on new meaning. Until the wee hours of the morning, we were creative in depicting stories. The plethora of new audibles struck our creative fancy. None of the sisters, but for Sister Atel, slept that night. We were up all night humoring all our presumptions.
The sound of whips against flesh gave me goosebumps. I got the shakes writing what I thought was happening:
“Sister Marian — oddly, she carries the same name as the convent: Sister Marian Woods — refuses to be gagged, she can’t handle his ego down her throat, so he tore her dress from her body, bent her over the bed, leashed her, and whipped her until she agreed to suck all of him like he wanted.”
Someone else wrote:
“Sister Marian doesn’t play, she’s got a dog collar on Father Sebastian and is whipping him about the room while he walks on all fours; his penis hard against his abdomen excited about being dominated.”
The one I liked the most for that particular event was:
“Father Sebastian and Sister Marian are trading whips on each other whenever each one doesn’t enjoy the outcome of each command. He whips her, forces her to perform the act until satisfied, then she takes her turn making up for being lashed.”
When the slashing stopped, her voice came alive. She commanded him to place the collar around his neck, that she was going to pull it hard enough to raise his hands off of the floor, then digitally stimulate him. She had such a sweet voice, almost too sweet to be commanding anything or anyone. Despite that, behind those closed doors she ordered quite a lot.
I can already imagine him, engorged, being tugged by the collar and digitally simulated. I wonder, and often, if he ejaculated while it all happened. The shoving a digit inside of him making him ejaculate all over the floor. I wonder what they wore when this sort of dog-collar-behaviour took place. Were they totally naked? Was he, or even she tied in chains?
Any-who, it had been eight months with these sort of noises, that sort of “misbehavior” coming from that room. Yet, I can’t imagine why she struggled to be anally penetrated. Sometimes, as that Thursday night, her sweet voice cried, “I can not do this, I can not do this.” Naturally, we assumed anal intercourse just because it seemed fitting. This is when our stories went all over the place. During the moments we’ve anointed anal time, all one can hear is her voice yelling obscenities, moaning, begging of him to carry on. The pleasure lasts until her voice becomes shaky and long “ouches” fill the air. They are reminiscent of someone walking on the hot sand. That’s exactly what the “ouches” sounded like, except prolonged. “Oouucchhhh!”
My note read:
“He’s got her tied to the bed with her bottom up on the air, knees against her chest and her face down against the bed. He’s mouth seduces her vulva while his index finger gives her anus a prelude of what’s to come. He’s gotten so good a seducing many-a-vagina at the convent that he easily makes her squirt. Upon her squirting, he stands on the bed, squats down a bit, and rams his ego hard and deep; each slap of his pelvis against her glutes causes the “ouches”. He’s primed her enough not to hurt too much, but she still unable to effortlessly receive him all the way in.”
Another one of the nurses, she’s sort of psychotic, wrote:
“He’s got her hanging face up by the beam running across the ceiling. He stimulates her with many of his toys… both inside her vulva, as well as in her butt. From time to time he shoves his penis inside her mouth while using Tyron — Tyron is one of his toys, a rather large phallic device — in her butt. When he’s tired her to oblivion, he double-penetrates her ass with Tyron’s help. She’s only saying “ouch” because the exhaustion doesn’t afford the energy to fully depict what she’s handling.”
Who knows what goes on in there, or if even Tyron is inside of him while he penetrates her in the rear. I wouldn’t put anything past that man’s libido.
I really do enjoy the parts when she speaks. I guess because I never took control. I’ve always been fearful of what demons are dormant inside of me. So I allowed him to use me as he wished. He enjoyed it too; told me he liked watching himself become engulfed by me most… of all the nuns. That I wrapped him tightly and plenty. Makes me feel good he said that sort of thing, even if they were all lies.
There is this part that normally ends the night — not that Thursday night though — that she seems to have rehearsed to perfection. She says, in the least of commanding voices, this is verbatim, too: “You think you can leave that gooey residue dripping out of me, you come suck it clean, and make me come while you are at it. Do you enjoy hair pulling? Because I do!”
I would have gotten tired of that line after a few times but, it is followed by loud slaps against the skin. I presume back or buttocks, and his, too.
I imagine she pulls his hair and leads him to her dripping anus,has him lick it clean, then he performs cunnilingus until she climaxes.
That night they went beyond that point. They must have engaged in some sort of physical altercation. It sounded like she beat him silly with stone hands, while he slapped her hard and long. Ooh, I have always enjoyed a little shove and slap. I like to be grabbed by the neck tightly enough to prevent some air from flowing, then slapped on the mouth. After that, I love getting it in my mouth.
I imagine that’s what he does to her. After he subdues her, he chokes her, then as she gasps for air his penis goes deep in her throat. He tells her, suck it all in, suck it all in, sister.
One of the less perverse sisters had the following visions:
“Her torso is bare out the window exposing her breasts to the night. He spanks her vagina red trying to teach her to be a good sexual partner. He pulls on her dog collar forcing a bounce of her breasts with each collision of his pelvis against her vulva. Because she’s already sore, even the slap of his sack against her is cause for pain. She tries to fight back, but he quickly grabs both her arms and locks them in place behind her back. She can barely move because the pain keeps her just where he feels good taking her.”
And so are many of the other stories from that night. Secret is… even we don’t keep it hidden that some of us have touched ourselves while listening in. It’s hard not to when one wishes to be the one making the sounds for everyone to hear.