After School

Chapter Three-1

Chapter Three

Lucy’s First Visitor

Lucy had not been at the cloister three days when they took her quietly from her cell in the dead of night and hustled her down the dank corridor to a room outfitted in what might be called Contemporary Inquisition décor. The stone walls dripped dampness, the furniture was late 12th century wrought iron. The accessories included horizontal and vertical racks, multiple rusted rings on the walls and in the floor, tiny barred cages, metal boxes for heads and feet, upright adjustable posts mounted in the floor, suspension chains, two whipping posts, an iron maiden and a smoking brazier with various branding irons, large pliers, a few sturdy metal picks and other implements of torture stuck into the glowing coals.

Sitting in a massive raised chair was an obese male figure in a draped red garment with gold piping and sash, plus a small red velvet cap. He wore a half mask and a lascivious grin as he watched the guards drag Lucy into the chamber, her hobbled feet and legs trailing behind her. In the usual silent manner of the order, the guards unstrapped Lucy’s arms from behind her back and bent them painfully upward to be locked in a set of the hanging manacles. They unlocked her hobbles, substituted a spreader bar with rigid ankle cuffs, and hoisted her just high enough so that her toes touched the cold and dirty stone floor. With her arms extended upwards in apparent Godly supplication, Lucy tried to find a comfortable position. She was tired and anxious. Her chest rose and fell with her ragged breathing and her n****e ringed breasts shook enticingly. The spreader bar was long enough to force her legs wide apart, providing excellent exposure for her s*x.

The seated man gave a familiar Papal wave of his red-gloved hand and the guards left the room, slamming the heavy iron bound door behind them. With his sunken, beady eyes locked on Lucy’s succulent figure, the man in the chair laughed an ugly laugh. Lucy cowered, trying to turn away, but only succeeding in twisting the chains a bit and then spinning back to face the man in red.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the man soothingly in what was nearly a whisper. “The code of silence doesn’t apply here. I’ll relieve you of this bridle and gag. You can scream all you want.”

Lucy whimpered, salty tears filling her eyes. This was stuff out of horror movies and Edgar Allen Poe, she thought, not something that really happened in today’s world. She tugged ineffectually at her chained wrists over her head and tried in vain to bring her widely separated knees together. It was, in her confused mind, a repeat of the school in Vermont, only with a religious twist.

The man in red got slowly out of his chair, shuffled over to Lucy and unfastened the bit and gag bridle, allowing it to drop with a clang to the floor. Lucy’s freed mouth was dry. She could not speak and she had nothing to say. She learned in Vermont that the best thing to do was never speak unless asked a specific question and even then to wait until given permission. If this man was going to torture her, talking to him made no difference anyway, she thought.

Once again, for the hundredth time, she wondered why she had ever agreed in Vermont to being sent to the nunnery. “How could I have made such a stupid mistake?” She often wondered. Indeed, Lucy had, after several sessions with the head mistress at the Vermont Summer School, agreed that she would benefit from the religious tutoring in this far off cloister. She read and signed documents that said she was an adult and free to make her own decisions. There was already no doubt in her mind that this had been a wrong decision, but it was too late now.

“I am,” the man said in perfect German, staring into her tear-filled eyes, “The Bishop of Nightmares… ha, hah, ha,” he laughed in a rumbling voice. “You will remember me long after you have forgotten the others who beat you or f****d you. You will remember me because of the brand I will put on you tonight. You will also remember me because I doubt that you have ever seen a d**k like this before...” As he spoke, the Bishop pulled off his single garment, the red cloak, revealing a grossly fat, hairy body with a leather harness that held a monster prick and balls at his crotch and encompassed his torso with criss-crossed, studded leather straps. Lucy shuddered and tried to look away, but she was also fascinated by the fact that in the dim light of the chamber, it appeared that the man’s d**k was not, as it first appeared to be, an artificial strap-on, but a really monstrous flesh and blood male member.

“My God,” Lucy croaked, trying again to turn away and not stare at the huge, erect thing that sprouted between the Bishop’s hairy legs.

“Yes, dear. It’s all mine. Took years to develop it. Lots of money and lots of painful surgery. But then, what else do I have to do, really? Between surgery and f*****g little entertainment items like you in the nearly virgin cunt or ass, my life is simply one of bleak, although luxurious, religious crap, so I chose this route to pleasure and it has allowed me to serve God and his slaves well. With money, you can get almost anything.”

The Bishop walked to the brazier, took up a heavy leather glove hanging on a side hook and stirred the coals with one of the longer iron pokers. The fire sputtered and sparkled. Lucy could feel and smell its heat, even though it was more than ten feet away.

“Do you have any preference for your brand, sweet thing?” the Bishop queried, his eyes fixed on the glowing hot coals. “Let’s see. I have a nice conventional cross, a larger Saint Andrews version, a couple of symbols of the Trinity, a small rendition of a Bishop’s miter…. Any favorites of yours?”

“No,” said Lucy weakly. With a lifetime of wheedling favors and material things from her parents and friends, she was still capable, when she concentrated on it, to speak in smooth, cajoling tones and to get men to do her bidding. “But, Your Grace, why not do that later,” she heard herself say, almost involuntarily.

“Oh, really?” said the Bishop, laughing again, his head turning around to survey Lucy’s lush and sweat-covered, tightly suspended body in the fire light. “Yes, you may be right. We can always get to that kind of thing later on. And I do hate all the howling and struggles that go with it. Besides, you exceed all of the descriptive illustrations the silent nuns here gave me about you.” He reached out and poked her left buttock teasingly. “Your body. Ah, yes, our Lord created your body for extreme pleasure. These alone,” he said as he lightly stroked her firmly conical breasts with their heavily ringed n*****s. “These alone are worth the high degree of attention I am prepared to devote to them.”

The bishop stood a moment in the smoky chamber as if contemplating his next move, then walked slowly around Lucy’s tautly suspended form. His eyes surveyed Lucy, her long hair flung back over her shoulders, her arms, torso and legs covered with fear sweat, the naked skin glistening in the dim firelight of the brazier. With an intensity and focus usually devoted to inspecting newly acquired jewels and rare gold coins, the Red Bishop studied the tight, beautifully rounded ass, the swelling hips, the smooth stomach and long sculptured thighs, the toes struggling to touch the floor. “Yes,” he said finally. “We can leave that until later.”

With that, he stepped away from the brazier and came up behind Lucy, his still gloved right hand roaming down over her hardened, ringed n*****s and stroking her smooth belly while the fingers of his left hand roughly probed her s*x. Lucy moaned.

“First, I think this harness needs to come off,” he said, bending with surprising ease, digging into the folds of his dropped cape and coming up with a ring of keys. Finding the right keys for the harness took a few seconds and he had trouble focusing on what he was doing because his hands kept drifting to Lucy’s ripe body. Somewhat distracted by Lucy’s less than obsequious attitude, he alternately pinched, slapped and squeezed her taut flesh while seeking the proper keys. Finally, he unlocked each lock and the spreader bar and harness fell away, taking the double dildoes with them. Inspecting and sniffing his left hand, he noted that Lucy was already wet in her crotch and that despite the massive size of the double prongs that she had worn; they just slid out and dropped to the floor, carried by the weight of the heavy harness.

“Ahhhh,” intoned the Bishop, marveling at Lucy’s apparent readiness to accommodate his massive impaler. “Let’s see if your empty p***y will like this one as much as it seems to have liked that one…I think we’ll try the cunt first,” he said.

He was behind her and she could feel the head of the heavy prick poking between her legs, seeking the wet space inside her already slightly open lips. Lucy lowered her head, bending forward a bit at the waist, affording the Bishop an even more direct route to her now streaming cunt. As much as she hated herself for doing this, she in fact was already deep into her submissive role and anxious for the s****l reward that she knew would follow. The Bishop thrust upward quickly, running several inches of his massive prong deep inside her, squeezing her ringed t**s hard between the rough fingers of his one gloved hand, then pulling back and ramming again to send another several inches deeper into her cunt while his other hand pulled her waist closer to him. Lucy jumped and shrieked at the impact, bending her elbows and raising herself on the chains a bit to slide a few inches up on the impalement. Then, unable to sustain the lifting, releasing herself and coming back down to meet the vigorous upward ram from the Bishop. That was the extent of the prelude. The Bishop was not one for foreplay of any kind, so he was quickly up to speed and f*****g Lucy with all his energy, burning calories with all of his strength while Lucy tugged at her chains, thrashed her legs and alternately tried to escape or envelope the huge thing drilling deep inside her p***y.

It almost seemed like they were performing a well rehearsed exercise, with him steam-hammering her cunt while Lucy pulled herself up and down on the massive shaft, her elbows and knees bending as she gripped the chains to lift herself off the floor, continuing to take in as much as she could get, while the Bishop grunted and pounded away, doing this task far more energetically than might be expected from so obese a man standing behind a chained, hanging girl.

The scene lasted only a few minutes until the Bishop let out a louder series of grunts, reared back and delivered a final cunt-shattering thrust, then toppled over onto his side, either dead or totally exhausted.

Lucy shivered and shook from the sudden, untimely withdrawal, cursing in spite of herself that she had not gotten where she wanted to be and now dangled, unfulfilled, while the fat Bishop lapsed into a snoring slumber. Her prior conditioning and experience at Summer School left her expectant of some sort of post-coital punishment, perhaps a strict flogging or some other pain-inducing activity that would, as it always did, bring about a more satisfying and spectacular orgasm and release.

“s**t,” was all Lucy could offer in a tired and unhappy voice. It was a term she learned in Vermont. Until then, such words were not in her vocabulary, nor was the concept of having a fat, older clergyman f*****g her while she hung helpless in chains in an underground chamber.

She stayed there for more than an hour, muttering to herself and trying to relieve the strain on her wrists while the Bishop’s semen ran slowly down the inside of her thighs. Then the Bishop roused himself, waddled over to a shelf on the wall and came back with a metal chalice of red wine, which he offered to Lucy. She shook her head.