An outcast in a house of God, he could not have asked for better prey to feast on...
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CW: body dysmorphia, masturbation, object insertion, religious bigotry, semi-public, *minor themes of transphobia, underage, voyeurism
*(at this point in time, Pet still goes by and is referred to with she/her pn)
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• † • † • † •
Pt. I
Residing in a small, solitary convent in middle America, a young nun, Sister Perpetua, is once again stuck glooming over her stifling existence. Having been abandoned there since her very inception, the young woman slotted with the certainty that she would remain there forever, having nowhere else to turn, no knowledge of a surname, which left no traces of the family that did not desire to have her to begin with.
To make matters more trivial for the young nun, Perpetua had a deceptively skewed view of her self-image. Never once had she felt she belonged in the spindly vessel she was born in. Upon her budding maturity, her viseral self-repulsivness had only worsened. The indifferences or blatant distain from her fellow sisters did not help to hinder these thoughts.
Her body had grown gangly and long, deathly pale to the point of transparency was her skin that stretched over lithe muscles and sharp skeleton. Inky black tresses that fell down the length of her back were usually wound up tight, woven into a braid which laid hidden underneath a white veil. What she despised above all else, however, was the wretched reflection of her own face, which she had deemed just as marred and ugly as the rest of her. The convent seemed to share the same sentiment as she did, for she had been bestowed an extra piece of cloth to conceal the left side of her face, a "gift" given to her at the beginning of her fifteenth year.
These were the reasons behind Perpetua's strife...but as of late, a compulsivity had stirred and awakened within her. An all-consuming urge to delight in carnal sin, to vigorously touch and release her agony upon God and all of heaven to take. It became her only form of solace in her undesirable vessel, reaching a state of nirvana she had never felt before in all her years of worship. Overwhelming like a curse or how she imagined being graced by the Holy Spirit, a fever blossoming under her skin and driving her to commit risky deeds.
When her elder sisters learned of her newfound compulsivities, they were quick to reprimand them. An unconscious act Perpetua had performed out of divinity during mass one early morning had resulted in a brutal lashing, a scathing punishment meant to dissuade her from acting out again.
Unfortunately, that had only fueled the young nun to secrecy, deception, to hide and act out her innermost depravity once the convent was cloaked in the late hours of darkness. She had been daring one evening during nightly chores, nicking a copy of the key to their chapel from an elder's desk drawer. With it, Perpetua held the freedom to come and go as she pleased to the silent, holy sanctuary, free to kneel before the coveted altar and give herself up to the Lord above as she was compelled to.
• † •
A priest had infiltrated the convent one evening, a tall, cordial man with stark white hair that stood out like a sore thumb among the gaggle of nuns. Father Hetfield, he called himself, had fortunately stumbled upon their humble abode by the grace of God after his vehicle had quit five miles out.
Perpetua acted discreetly, tried in vain to pay their unexpected company little to no mind when he had joined them for supper, but it was a rare and special occasion when a brother of the cloth visited the convent. The elder sisters were especially attentive, doting on the old, but handsome Father, setting him at the head of their dining table. After pleasantries and prayers were exchanged, Perpetua could not help but admit to herself, that the priest's presence was...magnetic, with his large stature, striking blue eyes and charming, white smile. Oh, and his voice, a low, sauntering, timber tone that seemed to rattle Perpetua's heightened senses.
That infernal itch, her smoldering, internal need would spike whenever she heard the bass of his laugh or happened to catch his line of sight...but the young nun suspected he only glanced her way because the other sisters were whispering about her to him, and he was scrutinizing her as an oddity. Even still, Perpetua squirmed in her seat under that quick gaze, heat blossoming under her habit.
She quietly watched as he gingerly ate, more engrossed in conversation than his food. When he would bring a meaty morsel up to his mouth to savor, her attention would follow the way the tip of his tongue swiped over his utensil and bottom lip. Perpetua knew she would grow mad if she did not quarrel with this mounting heat later, her thoughts already turning hazy. For now, she contended with staring down at her empty dish, gnawing the inside of her cheek until it bled to stave off her impulses to grind her slick, hot sex against her chair. If the others caught wind of her present, horrid mood, no doubt she would receive another lashing.
But as it seemed now, with the fall of the sun and the dawn of night settling in, her strict manners and inhabitions seemed to dissipate like smoke. Soon, after dinner was done and nightly chores were finished, the convent would grow sleepy and dark. Only then would she be able to wander off to her special place and perform her private ritual.
• † •
The convent had grown near deathly silent after the lights dimmed and candles were blown out, leaving the secluded nunnery completely hidden beyond the canopy of pine that shielded their humble settlement from view. The nearest little podunk town was miles away and no neighboring landmarks sat other than the tiny chapel where the sisters communed for mass.
James could not have prayed for better circumstances if he were able to. Nor could he have predicted Sister Perpetua, an outcast, even in her own house of sanctuary and worship. Silently from the shadows, he watched this weird, gangly, adolescent girl sneaking out of the dormitory on her own, in the dead of night of all times. Recalling how the elder nuns hissed under their breath at the dinner table, remarking or more so, warning him of her odd nature and appreance, he leered at her now as she quickly made her way to the chapel, the length of her night gown hiked up to her waist and her pale skin flashing in the waxing moonlight. He could not have asked for better prey to satiate his nipping hunger.
He tentively slipped inside the holy space after the girl left the door ajar, pleased to discover that the structure held no blessings barring him from entry. That was when he heard the coo of a soft, desperate cry calling out from the dark and just there, past the rows of pews, he found Perpetua kneeling pathetically before the altar of Christ, pleasuring herself. Groping and caressing her own youthful body, all the while tears streaked down her pale face, blubbering for the Lord to forgive her.
Soon all tangible words melted into siren cries, unadulterated as her hand worked itself between her legs. When her fingers grew too drenched in her slickness, unsatisfying, Perpetua eyed the crucifix laid upon the alter table, the very one an elder nun had bragged to James about being a gift sent from the Vatican itself.
He lurked unseen and stifled himself when he saw the girl lunge for it, gathering her night gown once more to slot the crucifix against her weeping sex, baptizing it with her sinful wetness. His sensitive ears latched onto her soft gasps and whimpers echoing throughout the chapel as her hardened clit rubbed against the effigy of Christ nailed on the cross, the blunt, cylindrical end of the brass crucifix nudging her fluttering hole. James felt his taunt muscles involuntarily flex at the wicked display unfolding before him, the young nun writhing, begging for fullness.
Clinging to the shadows, seething in his hunger, James witnessed Perpetua lie upon her back on the altar table, tugging up her gown to splay her legs apart and insert the long end of the crucifix into herself. He was astonished, sinking his extended fangs into his lip as he forced himself to listen to her hitched little breaths and the rushing flow of hot blood coursing through her young, virile body. His own naturally reacted in kind at the wonderful display of blasphemy, his stomach roaring ravenously and his stiff cock throbbing underneath his stolen priestly garb.
James had planned to attack and drain the unsuspecting girl that night, but the vampire found himself too enthralled, admiring Perpetua's uncovered face basked in euphoria, her dark, unruly hair fanned out above her head as she fucked herself with the crucifix, tainting the holy relic with her carnal sin. He even found the gruesome scar marring the left side of her face and the flash of her strange, white iris enchanting. With his desire and curiosity peaked, he felt a great sense of potential in her, like an heirloom seed, deserving of the finest cultivation.
• † •
The days fluttered by and Father Hetfield still remained at the convent, much to Perpetua's growing frustration.
The young nun's attempts to entirely ignore the priest proved difficult when she couldn't shake off the chill she felt every time she noticed him staring at her. It made her anxious, made her check to see if her face covering was sitting just right. She couldn't fight the uncomfortable feeling that he was watching her for a whole other reason, her paranoia telling her that he somehow knew of her dirty deeds and was teasing her relentlessly with that damned stare.
Despite this, Perpetua's wicked urges would not cease, only growing stronger, but because of the anxiety brought about by Father Hetfield's proximity, she forced herself to go one fucking night without commiting her secret sin. That long, restless night had been spent tossing and turning in her cot, dipping in and out of sleep, only to be plagued with dreams of the priest. She could not escape that man, even in her slumber. However, when she was shaken awake after finally settling down, she balked to find a fellow nun looming over her, a look of annoyance and disgust plain on her face when they both discovered Perpetua's hand tucked inside her underwear, the white cotton thoroughly soaked in her shame.
She had spent most of the day in a heated haze, ruminating over the chance of defiling herself before God once more. She found herself stumbling back to the chapel that very night, her inner thighs already slick with anticipation as soon as the heavy doors closed shut. She rushed past the pews, intending to kneel at the altar all the same, her night gown already hiked, but she nearly toppled forward as she halted, and her eyes adjusted to the dark. There, leaning casually against the altar table and admiring the crucifix in hand, was Father Hetfield.
For Perpetua, it was like seeing the priest for the first time again, but only now did she allow herself to fully grasp his very existence. The visage of an older man just a few years past middle age, tall and broad in every sense of the meaning, something which most priests didn't possess. It brought a sort of menace to his appearance and his black priestly garb didn't stifle it either, only enhancing that evident broadness, which sent a shiver down Perpetua's spine. However, Father Hetfield's face held no air of indignation upon discovering her in the chapel long past curfew. He hadn't said a word. His face was one of quiet ease, his stark white horseshoe mustache quirked with a soft smirk and one pale brow arching up, wrinkling his forehead. It irked the young nun, giving her the impression that he had been patiently waiting for her to show up. And the sight of him holding that crucifix, the very one she had used to fill her aching maw, gave her the answer she had been dreading. That Father Hetfield indeed knew what she had done. He had known all along and had been leering down at her in mockery.
Now what? Would he mock her verbally, shaming Perpetua to filth? Spill her egregious secret to the convent in the morning? But why? What would he gain from this? Bragging rights for catching the resident freak in the act?
And why, oh, why in all nine hells did the very notion excite her still? Perpetua could feel her deceitful sex throbbing, drooling wet at the thought of everyone knowing, fully recognizing just how utterly disgusting and sinful she really was. To finally shed the suffocating veil she had been forced to wear and be set free...
She gasped, suddenly reminded, dropping the hem of her gown to cover her face, the left side which held her prominent disfigurement. A narrow, jagged, v-shape maring her forehead, brow, and cheek which framed her unseemly white iris, both of which Perpetua possessed since her birth. She grimaced as shame and embarrassment flooded her upon performing that reflexive action, hiding herself once more.
That garnered a sharp chuckle from the priest, the sound nearly deafening to the young sister's ears in the quiet chapel. Perpetua raised her uncovered eye to glare at the old man once more, to spite him and set him ablaze inside her mind--only to feel her blood run cold at the sight of two fangs, long, pointed and stark against his bottom lip. Father Hetfield stared back, meeting her gaze with his, his which seemed to gleam in the dark. He continued to smile at her, blatantly unveiling his very own strangeness. An uncanny, otherworldly creature, guising itself as man. An actual demon incarnate, standing before her?
"Be not afraid, sister." He spoke at last, startling her with his rumbling tone, laced in sarcasm. "Let down your guard. I've already seen and grown quite familiar with your...darling face."
She stiffened at his teasing slight, keeping her hands raised where they were. Repressed, sheltered, little Perpetua, whom the strict elder nuns had taught to keep quiet, obedient, and meek since infancy, now stared directly at this unholy creature, trembling in fear, yes, and yet...seething with insufferable curiosity.
"...If you are a demon, summoned from hellfire..." She asked timidly, surprised at herself. "How is it...that you are here? Standing in this place? In our church? Holding...that?" Her gaze dropped to the crucifix in his hand. "Shouldn't you have...burst into flame or crumpled to dust upon entry?"
"Shouldn't I have?" He parroted, raising the crucifix above his head. "Shouldn't my hand be burnt to the bone? Shouldn't the act of merely looking upon this scared relic damn my infernal soul back to the depths of hell?"
More mockery, Perpetua gleaned.
"Hm, maybe. Maybe it would have happened...if you, Pet, hadn't thoroughly desecrated this place yourself already with your...nightly rituals. Openly inviting sin to come and reside here."
As his words sunk in, she watched as he now placed the brass crucifix to his mouth, where his pale, nearly blue tongue appeared to lick up the length of its shaft til it flicked over the likeness of Christ. The girl's stomach churned violently at the sight and the meaning behind his words, a toxic mix of disgust, shame, terror...concupiscence, making her sick to the very core.
Dread trickled down Perpetua's spine, her feet shifting on their own accord as she began to back away, to make her escape down the row of pews to the heavy doors. Father Hetfield began to follow, pushing himself off the alter table and made long striding steps toward her, the tainted crucifix still in hand. Her hands dropped to gather her night gown once again, turning to bolt like a rabbit that had caught the scent of a wolf. She forced a scream past her trembling lips that burned her throat, a sound of alarm that she hoped would reach out and wake someone, anyone near to hear her plea for help.
Her desperate cry was cut short, however, muffled as a large, calloused hand clapped over her open mouth. Three, thick, violating fingers slipped inside her gaping maw, filling the hot, wet, teeth-filled space and nearly plunged down the back of her throat, the meaty thumb and pinky pinching painfully around her jaw. The intruding digits were inhumanly cold against her tongue, the heavy taste of salt and iron assaulting her senses as an arm came to snatch around her thin frame, crushing her back tightly against her captor's broad chest. Perpetua wept pitifully around those fingers as she was lifted off her feet and pinned against the chapel doors, the wood grain biting into her right temple and cheekbone.
Hot tears stung Perpetua's eyes as icy breath ghosted the back of her neck, brushing past her long, frizzy waves. With her arms clamped at her sides, she could only retaliate by kicking her legs to try and fend him off, which ceased when Father Hetfield slotted his knee between them, effectively and completely trapping her against him. Perpetua felt the edges of the crucifix digging into her side, making her squirm...only to freeze when she heard Father Hetfield sigh heavily into her hair and press his hips firmly against the swell of her backside. She whimpered and began to quake, vaguely aware of what was prodding against her.
She felt him sweep her hair away with the tip of his nose, parting it to expose her pale freckled and mole dotted neck.
''...poor, wretched little thing. You must know you wanted this, yes you did..." His whisper frosted over her, making gooseflesh rise. "...you were starving for divine corruption. Aching for it...be not afraid, Pet."
His freezing, clammy tongue swiped along Perpetua's skin, resting against her thundering vein, numbing the warm flesh there. Gagging around his fingers in her panic, she gnashed her teeth down against the knuckles until she heard them crack inside her skull and felt cool blood ooze in her mouth and down her throat. In return, Father Hetfield pierced her with his own sharp bite, groaning and grounding his hips against the young nun as he finally relished and gorged on her life essence.
Quicker than she expected, Perpetua felt her warmth being stripped away down to the bone, taken by the unholy demon holding her so suffocatingly close. Everything grew numb and hazy, fading fast. Father Hetfield's body grew hot, almost burning and she grew rigid with death, feeling her jaw slacken and her sight fade into a black abyss...
The Convent of Christ is a former Catholic convent in Tomar, Portugal. Originally a 12th-century Templar stronghold, when the order was dissolved in the 14th century the Portuguese branch was turned into the Knights of the Order of Christ, that later supported Portugal's maritime discoveries of the 15th century. It belonged to the Order of the Templars and was founded in 1160 by Gualdim Pais, grand master of the Knights Templar. Built over the span of five centuries, the Convent of Christ is a testimony to an architecture combining Romanesque, Gothic, Manueline, Renaissance, Mannerist and Baroque elements.
