Mother Superior
"A young priest is sent to investigate rumors of impropriety at St. Catherine's Convent. What he finds isn't heresy—it's a sisterhood that takes vows of devotion very seriously. And they've been waiting for him."
The Bishop called me on a Tuesday.
"Father Michael, I have an assignment for you. Delicate matter. Requires discretion."
I'd been a priest for three years. Young, ambitious, eager to prove myself.
"Of course, Your Excellency."
"St. Catherine's Convent, up in the mountains. There have been... reports."
"What kind of reports?"
"The kind we don't discuss on phones." His voice hardened. "Go there. Observe. Report back. Tell no one."
St. Catherine's was two hours from anything.
A stone building on a clifftop, Gothic and imposing. Thirty-seven sisters lived there, led by Mother Superior Agnes.
I arrived at sunset.
The Mother Superior was waiting at the gate.
She was not what I expected.
Nuns in my imagination were frail, elderly, ethereal. Mother Agnes was none of these things.
Sixty-two years old. Three hundred and fifty pounds. Her habit strained across curves that should have been impossible under those black robes. Her face was round and beautiful, her eyes sharp with intelligence.
"Father Michael." Her voice was warm honey. "We've been expecting you."
"Expecting?"
"The Bishop sent word." She smiled. "Though we knew you'd come eventually. Men always do."
She led me through the convent.
Stone corridors. Flickering candles. Sisters nodding as we passed—all of them large, beautiful, watching me with expressions I couldn't decipher.
"The rumors," I began.
"Are true." Mother Agnes didn't slow down. "Mostly."
"Then you admit—"
"I admit nothing." She stopped at a heavy wooden door. "But I'll show you everything. Then you can make your report."
She opened the door.
The room beyond was not what I expected.
Soft lighting. Silk cushions. A massive bed draped in crimson.
"This is where we worship," Mother Agnes said, closing the door behind us. "In our own way."
"This isn't—"
"Appropriate?" She removed her veil. Silver hair cascaded down. "Neither is celibacy, Father. Neither is denying the body that God gave us."
"The Church teaches—"
"The Church teaches many things." She began unfastening her habit. "We've found our own interpretation."
"I can't."
I said it even as my body responded to her. Even as she shed her robes to reveal flesh that overwhelmed me—breasts that hung to her waist, belly that curved in soft rolls, skin pale as moonlight.
"You can." She stepped toward me. "You want to. I see it in your eyes, Father. The same hunger I've seen in every priest who's walked through these doors."
"Other priests?"
"Many others." Her hands found my cassock. "The Bishop knows. He sends them to us—the ones struggling with their vows. We help them find... balance."
"This is corruption—"
"This is ministry." She kissed me. "Just a different kind."
I should have resisted.
I should have fled back to the Bishop, reported everything, had this place shut down.
Instead, I let her undress me.
Instead, I let her pull me toward the bed.
Instead, I surrendered.
"The first lesson," Mother Agnes murmured, pressing me onto the mattress, "is receiving."
She straddled my face without warning. Three hundred and fifty pounds of flesh descending, her cunt wet and fragrant and inches from my mouth.
"Worship," she commanded. "Show me your devotion."
I licked.
She tasted like honey and incense.
I buried my tongue inside her while her massive thighs enveloped my head, while her weight pressed down, while she moaned prayers that mixed pleasure with piety.
"Yes—there—God, yes—service is its own reward, Father—"
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only serve.
She came on my tongue with a benediction.
"Blessed art thou—oh God—blessed—"
"Now the second lesson."
She rolled us over. Put me on top of her, nestled between her enormous thighs.
"Give."
She guided me inside. Her cunt gripped me with warmth I'd never known, never imagined.
"Give yourself to me," she breathed. "No vows. No restraint. Just flesh and desire and the love God intended."
I thrust into her.
And kept thrusting.
And forgot every vow I'd ever taken.
I lasted an hour.
Came inside her three times. Each orgasm she encouraged, praised, blessed.
"Yes—fill me—give me everything—"
By the end, I was empty. Drained. Transformed.
"The sisters will want to meet you," she said, stroking my hair while I lay collapsed on her belly. "Properly."
"The sisters?"
"All of them." She smiled. "We share everything here, Father. Including visitors."
The next three days were education.
Sister Mary—fifty-eight, two hundred and ninety pounds—taught me patience. Hour after hour between her thighs, learning to read a woman's body, respond to her needs.
Sister Catherine—forty-five, three hundred and twenty pounds—taught me stamina. All night sessions that pushed me to my limits and beyond.
Sister Grace—seventy, two hundred and seventy pounds—taught me tenderness. The difference between fucking and making love.
And every night, Mother Agnes collected me.
"Report your lessons," she would command.
And I would demonstrate. Show her everything I'd learned. Worship her body with new skills, new understanding.
"You're transforming," she told me on the third night. "Becoming what you were meant to be."
"What's that?"
"A man who serves women." She rode me slowly. "Who finds joy in their pleasure. Who understands that devotion isn't about denial—it's about giving."
On the fourth day, I called the Bishop.
"The rumors are false," I said. "St. Catherine's is... unorthodox, but holy. The sisters serve God in their own way."
"You're certain?"
"Absolutely." Mother Agnes was behind me, her hand in my cassock, stroking slowly. "No action required."
"Very well. Return when you're ready."
"That may be a while, Your Excellency."
Three years later
I never left.
St. Catherine's became my assignment—permanent, unofficial, perfect. The Bishop sends "struggling" priests to us regularly. I help with their... orientation.
"The new one arrives tomorrow," Mother Agnes tells me, her head on my chest after our nightly worship. "Young. Confused. Fighting his nature."
"Like I was."
"Like all of them are." She kisses my shoulder. "You'll help?"
"Of course." I pull her closer. "Service is its own reward."
She laughs.
And then she shows me a new way to serve.