On somewhat dubious medical grounds, Sister Abigail has been persuaded to give “hand relief” to Peter, a boy who she is supposed to be nursing in the convent infirmary. Will it end there?
The next morning, neither Abigail nor Peter mentioned the incident, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it during the day, even when she should have been at prayer. She wondered what she would do if Peter asked her to rub his prick again? She repeated to herself that, as his nurse, she ought to do anything to make him feel better, and if helping with his prick was part of that care, then so be it. The thought of asking Mother Clare’s advice did cross her mind, but she quickly dismissed it. She feared the Abbess might be angry and forbid her to see Peter again.
That evening, when she returned after vespers to prepare his dressings for the night, Peter seemed inclined to be talkative. He told Abigail more about his family and his work at the smithy, and how he hoped eventually to become formally apprenticed to the blacksmith. Abigail was pleased to see that he was looking forward to returning to work. She knew that Mother Clare had spoken to the smith and had been assured that Peter would be welcomed back to work as soon as he was well again. The smith had spoken well of him, as a hard-working intelligent lad, who had the potential to do well.
Despite herself, she wanted to see Peter’s prick again. He appeared to be avoiding the subject, so she decided to come right out and ask.
“So how is your prick this evening?” she asked, blushing as she used the dirty word.
Peter seemed unwilling to answer, so she lifted up the blanket to see. His organ was curled up, nestling in the thick dark mass of hair between his legs. But even as she looked, it began to twitch and swell, and was soon almost as large as it had been the day before.
“It’s you looking at it that makes it grow,” he said, blushing himself.
“Would you like me to rub it again?” asked Abigail.
“Please, yes, I think it would be good if you did,” admitted Peter.
This time, she knew to handle it carefully, and it was curiously exciting to feel it swell to an even greater size as she stroked it. As she slid her hand up and down, she observed the veins standing out, and the drips of thin liquid that leaked from the hole in the end.
Peter was starting to breathe heavily. He seemed to be trying to hold himself back. Abigail remembered her lesson from the day before and squeezed gently on the shaft.
“Ah, God’s blood, that’s good,” gasped Peter without thinking.
Abigail dropped his prick in horror.
“No!” she exclaimed, “You must not talk like that!”
Peter blushed, ashamed of himself. Even his mother used to box his ears when he uttered the Lord’s name in vain, but he knew that doing so in front of the nuns was unforgivable, even one who was handling his prick.
“I’m sorry, really I am. I won’t do it again, I promise. But it just felt so good. Please don’t stop.”
But Abigail was not to be mollified.
“If you cannot control your mouth any better than your prick, you must look after your needs yourself,” she announced. Dropping the blanket back over his wilting organ, she gathered up her things and flounced off. Peter stared disconsolately at the diminishing bulge. If Abigail didn’t come back, he feared that his bollocks might swell up and explode.
Fortunately, the next morning Abigail was back with her cloths, water and ointment, although she still looked cross. Wordlessly, she changed his dressings, but inside she was trying not to smile at how miserable Peter looked.
At last he could hold it in no longer.
“I’m sorry, Sister Abigail,” he blurted out. “I know I shouldn’t have used those words. I prayed about it last night and asked His forgiveness. Will you forgive me too?”
“Well, only you will know if He forgives you,” said Abigail tartly, “but as long as your confession was sincere, maybe you’ll only have to spend an extra two hundred years in Purgatory for your wickedness.”
“Please release my prick from Purgatory, Sister,” pleaded Peter. “I think it might burst if you don’t help.”
Mollified, Abigail folded back the blanket and began to fondle his prick. It was enjoyable feeling it grow warm and hard in her hands, and she watched as the skin stretched tight around its length, the veins bulging.
She stroked her hand up and down the shaft, amazed as before at how large and solid it became. Not as big as the pricks of the horses on the local farmsteads, but quite big enough to fill the hole between her legs. She blushed crimson at that wicked thought. Distracted, she forgot to lean out of the way when Peter let out a low moan, and his seed erupted from the end of his prick. The first rope of sticky white emission splashed over her face, some of it going up her nose and running down her cheek.
She dropped his prick and watched as more seed spilled out of the end over Peter’s stomach. She licked at her lips, where some of the sticky substance was adhering. It tasted salty, a little like the porridge they sometimes had for breakfast. She wiped some more of it off her cheek and sucked it off her fingers. She realised Peter was looking at her with a smile.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “It just came out. But I think you need to clean it all off before the Abbess sees. She probably wouldn’t understand.”
The next day, the Abbess made Abigail help in the refectory all day, saying that she wanted to see for herself how well Peter’s wounds were healing. For some reason, Abigail was troubled at not seeing him, and she found herself missing him. Was it his company, or his prick, that she missed most? She pushed this thought to the back of her mind. Helping him with his recovery was one thing, but she knew it was very wrong to think about his prick at all, never mind looking forward to touching it again.
That night she lay in her bed, unable to sleep. She could hear the night-time noises made by her companions; breathing, creaks of beds, cries of nightmares. Outside, an animal screamed, whether in pain or passion she couldn’t tell.
Carefully, Abigail pushed up her shift and slipped her hand between her legs, feeling for the warm wet hole hidden within her thick mat of hair. She trembled as her finger slipped inside, and she wondered what it would feel like to have Peter’s hard prick inside her, squirting his seed into her body. It was thicker than her finger, much thicker, and she knew that taking something that big inside her body would irrevocably split the delicate skin of her maidenhead.
But she knew (having been shown by Sister Dorcas) how to rub the hard bud of flesh at the top of her slit, and what strange feelings of elation this could bring if she rubbed it enough. Feeling for it, she was surprised at how much it was already standing out from the little folds of flesh. Trying to be silent, she couldn’t help a low moan of satisfaction as her fingers circled around the bud. Instead of stopping once her body began to tingle, she rubbed harder. A surge of ecstasy engulfed her, and she curled up on the rough bed, her young body shaking. As her frenzy subsided, a wave of shame swept over her. She knew she shouldn’t have aroused herself like that. Pleasure was frowned on by the nuns as a distraction from contemplation of God’s purpose. But surely if He hadn’t wanted her to do it, why had He made it feel so good?
The figure of the crucified Christ, hanging from a rough nail above her bed, looked down on her. Usually a comfort to her in times of doubt and trouble, now it seemed to frown in merciless judgement. Closing her eyes, she prayed frantically:
“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,
Ora pro nobis peccatoribus,
Nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae.”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Pray for us sinners,
Now, and at the hour of our death.”
Over and over again, until she fell into a restless sleep.