Sister Abigail has been overcome by feelings of guilt at the sexual attraction she has started to feel for her patient, Peter. But will she be able to suppress them?

Abigail’s heart was beating as she crossed the courtyard to the infirmary the next morning. She had been unable to banish thoughts of Peter from her mind all night, and during both Prime and Matins she had found it hard to concentrate on her devotions. This upset her very much, for she knew it was important to focus all her thoughts on the words of the liturgy. But now she was looking forward to seeing him, and not just because he was her patient.

She unwrapped the cloths from Peter’s hands and noted that hardly any discharge had soaked into them overnight. In fact, the skin was clearly starting to repair, and while his flesh was still red and raw, it seemed to her as if the worst might be over.

Peter looked at her sorrowfully.

“Mother Clare said that they are almost healed,” he admitted. “She thinks I may be able to leave the cloths off overnight as well, as long as I am careful.”

“That is good news,” said Abigail, but inside she felt her heart sink.

“But it means I may soon have to leave. And then I won’t see you anymore.”

“I may have to return to my regular tasks now,” admitted Abigail, “but at least you will soon be able to play with your own prick again.”

“But I don’t want to,” blurted Peter, “I only want you to do it.”

“Don’t say that,” scolded Abigail, “at least now you can do it whenever and as often as you wish.” But she knew that she would miss her daily ministration to his needs.


That evening she didn’t even wait to be asked but took his prick in her hands willingly. It felt familiar to her now, and she was starting to recognise the shape of the veins that curved down the shaft, and that seemed to swell and throb as his prick became fully hard.

Then Peter spoke.

“Abigail…Sister Abigail, I love it when you rub me,” he stammered, “But would you do something else for me? Something my brother’s girl does for him.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. What is it you want?” She was worried, but interested despite herself.

“Would you, maybe just for a minute, put my prick in your mouth?”

Sensing her reluctance, he stumbled on. “Hannah at the inn does it for the men at the smithy. At least, that’s what they tell me.”

“Has she done it for you?” asked Abigail. Suddenly she felt a surge of jealousy at the thought of another girl doing things with Peter’s prick. She had started to think of it as her property.

“No,” admitted Peter, “The men won’t let me go with her. They say I’m too young still, even though I’m eighteen. But I’m old enough to drink, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t get my prick sucked.” 

Abigail decided she didn’t want anyone else doing it.

“I’ll do it for you,” she said, “but you must promise not to let Hannah suck it when you leave.”

“I only want you to do it, Sister,” said Peter. “Hannah’s just a … a dirty girl. You’re not like that.”

Abigail chose to accept that as a compliment. She lowered her head towards Peter’s prick. It looked even more enormous from this distance, the bulging head round and shiny like a purple egg. She opened her mouth wide and closed her eyes as she took the head into her mouth. For a moment there was no contact, then she closed her mouth around it, feeling the whole hot meaty length between her lips. She tasted the musky, masculine flavour as she began to feel it with her tongue. It throbbed excitingly and, as she licked at the tip, she tasted the salty clear emission that she had on a previous occasion licked from her hand. Peter thrust his pelvis forward, pushing his prick deeper into her mouth, and she gagged as she felt it reach the top of her throat.

She licked her tongue around it and sucked at the shaft, the thick veins throbbing. The dark mat of hairs around the base of his prick tickled her face. She knew what she was doing was wrong, but for some reason that didn’t seem to matter anymore.

She felt Peter’s hand stroking her head, as he began to moan quietly. Then suddenly he gripped her hair in his fist as he pushed his prick as far as it would go into her mouth and down her throat. Abigail felt herself start to gag, and pulled back, but as she did so Peter let out a stifled cry, and she felt her mouth fill with warm thick liquid. For a moment she wondered if it was ever going to stop spilling out, and she let his prick slide from her mouth, the last few drops of seed spilling from Peter’s prick onto the bed.  

Her mouth was full of his creamy ejaculate. She put her hand up, leant over, and let it drop into her palm, a thick white mass. The pungent scent filled her nostrils. A thread of cream slid between her fingers and hung for a moment before dripping onto her leg. Feeling embarrassed, she quickly grabbed one of the strips of cloth used to wrap Peter’s hands and wiped hers clean.

Peter looked embarrassed too.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do it in your mouth,” he confessed, “but it just felt so good.”

Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed her arm. Pulling her towards him, he planted a kiss on her cheek.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Taken by surprise, Abigail couldn’t think of anything to say. Her head was spinning, and without thinking she leant towards him and kissed him back, directly on his mouth. It was supposed to be just a touch, but suddenly his lips were pressed against hers, his arms around her. Abigail had been kissed by boys before, before she entered the convent, but it had never felt like this. Her whole body was trembling, the moment seeming to last forever, but then an image entered her head of Mother Clare, and she pulled away.

“I have to go,” she stammered, “They’ll be wondering where I am. But…that was nice.”

“Oh Abigail,” blurted Peter, “I… “

But she was gone before he could finish.


As she hurried across to the chapel for compline, Abigail’s mind was full of conflicting emotions. She had justified to herself the act of sucking Peter’s dick as just another way for him to spill his seed, but the kiss had been different. It had made her feel alive in a way she’d never felt before, and that was wrong. She was supposed to be dedicating herself to God; rejecting the ways of the world and making Him the centre of her life.

But now her thoughts were full of someone else. All through the service, she struggled to put all thoughts of Peter out of her mind, and to focus her thoughts on the grace of God, but whenever she closed her eyes all she could see was Peter’s prick, hard and thick and throbbing. She could still taste his thick seed in her mouth, and between her thighs she felt herself tingling with unrequited, forbidden, desire.

Back in the dormitory, when the last candle had been extinguished, she slipped her hand between her thighs. She could feel the heat from her secret place, and as her fingers brushed over the folds, they became coated in a sheen of liquid that seemed to well up from nowhere. The only way to banish the tingle was to rub once more at her hard little bud. Her fingers flicked over it, as she tried not to make a noise, and bit her lip as she reached the peak of her arousal. Even so, a gasp of pleasure escaped from her throat, and she heard a snigger from the direction of Dorcas’ bed.

“I can help you with that, Abigail,” whispered Dorcas.

Abigail turned her back and shut her eyes.


This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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