Sisters Of Eden - Sex Stories

Sisters Of Eden

... pre-crepuscular torment was far from it. It became apparent to me early on that the regime was designed to starve overheating, hormonal young women of male influence, and in so doing to attempt to deny them of what the sisters saw as their ‘corrupt sexual urges’. During each and every long term, the only contact we ever had with anything resembling a male was during confessions. These took place once a week with Father Oliver, a priest who parachuted into the school for the purpose, and who none of us ever actually saw but only heard through the cocoa-coloured latticework of the confessional grille. I realised early that Father Oliver had a particular proclivity for wanting full and frank disclosure of ‘sexual sins’ above all others. Having discovered that the only consequence of breaching the ‘golden rule’ during confession was the repetition of a few words that I didn’t really believe in, this weekly event soon became a chocolate box of playful mischief for me, and spared many cold mornings in a freezing gymnasium. Looking back, I can now see that my confessional experiences at Sisters of Eden fell into three distinct phases. At first, and exhibiting more than a little naïveté, even at sixteen, I would recount in detail what was essentially my fabricated desire for boys of my own age, and how my body responded to thoughts of them. I would go into ever more graphic detail about, for example, how I wanted to unfasten their trousers, take out their cocks and suck them. I ...

... would embroider increasingly elaborate ‘desires’ from the depths of my febrile imagination, which sometimes took the entire week between confessions to hone to perfection. I gradually became aware that as the fantasies I was relating become more graphic and lurid, noises were coming from the other side of the thin grille that were clearly those of a man in the throes of surreptitious sexual excitement. It was obvious to me what Father Oliver was actually doing and, if I am perfectly honest, I found the power I could exercise over him in those few minutes each week more than a little intoxicating. After a while I decided to broaden my imagination. For example, on occasion I would tell Father Oliver about how I would lie in the warm confines of my bed at night and pleasure myself. What I discovered, however, was that his furtive fumblings and obvious self-gratification in the confessional were almost absent unless I was ‘confessing’ about young men, and slowly the truth opened its wide jaws; Father Oliver was fantasising about cocks, rather than the nubile, playful sixteen year old who was lying her heart out about them. I wasn’t in any way disappointed, although the discovery of this kernel of reality precipitated phase two. This particular phase demanded the exercise of skill, timing and the careful utilisation of everything I had discovered in phase one, and if executed perfectly always made me feel delighted. I recall with crystal clarity one particular instance of this. “Tell ...