Sisters Of Eden - Sex Stories

Sisters Of Eden

My mother’s decision to send me away to the Sisters of Eden Convent School to complete my education was made, she claimed, for entirely altruistic reasons; to save my soul and to instil the ‘necessary discipline’ to enable a young woman to survive and flourish in a harsh and increasingly immoral world. However, as she began to enthusiastically strip bare my wardrobe and feed items of my clothing and other essentials into a wide-mouthed and hungry silver-stucco Mossman, it seemed to me that it was also a decision which, coincidentally, dovetailed comfortably with her own interests. I was not wrong, as I found out later. Within hours of peremptorily depositing my belongings and I on the steps of my new alma mater, my mother had moved her new boyfriend and his irrepressible libido into her now perfect love-nest, and began learning, in my absence, to flourish in an increasingly immoral world. The Sisters of Eden School nestles inconspicuously between two sparsely populated villages in west Dorset, a few miles off the main road between Crewkerne and Maiden Newton. The main school building, which dated from the late medieval period, was a rambling, slate-grey edifice with imposing, obese, castellated turrets flanking the main entrance. It was, on any view, aesthetically stunning, although it still comfortably managed to convey a cold austerity that was in keeping with the ascetic regimen that the sisters rigorously enforced. To the front, a phalanx of pyramid yews trimmed ...

... obsessively to almost geometrical perfection guarded the approach; to the rear, an idyllic Italianesque cloister garden, complete with ornate stone water fountains, created a mystical, almost magical, ambience. After classes, many of the sisters would spend their time there in quiet contemplation, although this particular piece of man-made heaven was strictly out-of-bounds to the students. Of course, girls will be girls. From the outset it was clear that the virtually irrebuttable presumption of the sisters was that every girl who walked through the weighty moral doors of the school was a morally bankrupt whore-in-training and needed treating as such. The gravest punishments were reserved for the slightest infraction of the golden rule that all mention of boys, relationships with boys, communication or attempts at communication with boys or even thinking about boys was strictly forbidden. In spite of my Catholic upbringing, or perhaps because of it, paradoxically I had nonconformist blood pulsing through my veins and occasionally decided to push these boundaries. However, as a result I soon found myself pushing table tennis balls with my nose around an ice-cold gymnasium floor at five o’clock in the morning, on all fours, whilst being continuously and ferociously barked at by Sister Felicity, a cold-faced forty-something who for a long time I suspected of having been the victim of an unfortunate heart-removal operation at birth. I needed fun, but I soon realised that such ...