Four writers for the price of one blog
A Nightmare & Vision by Redbud
She wakes. Startled.
“Get up!” The stern and angular silhouette of Mother Conscience leans over her. Her bed is in a long row of other beds – beds filled with sleeping girls. They hold their Teddy Bears tightly in crooked arms. Their beds are pinks and pastels, but not Mother Conscience. She is a gray and gaunt old Nun in a habit as black and white as guilt.
“What did I do?”
“You know perfectly well what you did!” She pulls you out of bed by the back of your nighty. Then her iron grip is at the back of your neck, leading you out of the comfortable room where the other girls still sleep.
“I swear!” you say, panicky, heart-racing. “I didn’t mean it.”
“That’s what they all say.” Her voice is as steely as her grip. She leads you through the lovely garden where you played just the day before. The little faeries won’t meet your gaze. The Unicorn turns away. The butterflies won’t come and the birds grow quiet who sang before.
“Please! I’ll do anything! I don’t want to leave!” Santa Claus meets your pleading glance, but his smile is sad and wistful. Peter Pan flies away. “No! Wait! Come back!” But Mother Conscience’s fingers are cold as ice. You’re out of the garden. You want to go back but she closes a door made of oak and iron.
“Father will be here shortly.”
“I don’t care!” you snap, fists clenched. “You can’t make me tell!”
She turns to you with narrowed eyes, old, creased and black. “Yes I can.” In a trice, she has you by your hair and bends you over her knee. A ruler is in the other hand and she’s smacking your bared bottom again and again and smacks it until your twisting, red faced and pleading. Your nipples burn like fiery little knots against your nighty. She’s unbuttoned the flap that covered your rump. “Look at you twist and arch your little back,” she scolds. “You’re not fooling anybody! There’s not a boy alive who wouldn’t know what you’re good for now.”
“Please! No more. I’ll do anything.”
“Cross your wrists behind your back.” You do. She binds them. “Get up on the table.” Her voice crackles like the ruler. You do as she tells you and she trusses you fast. She lifts your nighty, spreads you legs and ties your ankles to your calves. “Father will be hear shortly.”
“No! Please! I won’t do it again.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“I swear! And you can’t prove anything anyway!”
Her long, crooked, middle finger finds your clit, the very tip, and circles, circles, circles.
“Oh God,” you groan. “Please don’t let Father see me like this.”
“It will be over soon.”
“Please,” you sniffle. “I’m sorry.” Your abdomen flutters and your legs reflexively clench. Mother Conscience’s gaze is stern and expectant. Your back begins to arch. “Oh God,” you beg. “Please. Please don’t. You’re going to make me. It’s embarrassing!” You hear the creak of the heavy oak door. A giant and implacable shadow fills the room.
“Father,” says Mother Conscience matter-of-factly.
“My child,” he says, “do you have something you would like to confess.”
You feel his gaze on your opened thighs, your spread pussy, the thick wetness covering Mother Conscience’s finger. Another spasm wracks your body. Your back remains arched this time. Mother Conscience knows. She knows just how to touch you. She knows your little secrets. She knows the shameful agony widening your thighs, bending your neck and lifting your young back off the table. Your fingers flail helplessly behind you. You grunt as the inevitable confession rises upward from your clit, your belly button and into your heaving nipples.
“I didn’t meant it!” Your voice tightens like your muscles.
“My child,” he asks once more, “do you have something to confess?”
“Yes she does,” says mother conscience.
“Please,” you beg. You’re ashamed. You can’t hide. You can’t close your thighs. You feel the truth slipping out of you and there is nothing you can do to stop it. You give one last pleading cry, ‘No!’ but your slender body betrays you. Your body, that never betrayed you before, obeys another. And it will again. What say do you have? Your orgasm kisses her finger over and over as a boy’s white seduction spurts and dribbles out of you. Your thighs drip with him. The table drips with him. You see him yourself, pushed out from between your legs, as your head and knees rise upward with each spasm.
“You see, Father,” says Mother Conscience with long downward glace at you. “See what she was hiding inside?”
“I see, young woman. I see.”
You’re red, embarrassed, ashamed and you can’t hide. Is he disappointed? Mother conscience pushes her finger inside you. You stiffen – is it pleasure? Then she holds her finger up so you can see the white syrupy confession that covers it. Sperm. She waits for you speak but knows you won’t.
“You may escort her out.”
“Yes Father,” says Mother Conscience. She releases your legs. You quickly close them but your thighs are dripping. She leaves your wrists bound, your nighty bunched at the small of your back, your bottom uncovered and naked. She guides you, hand at your neck, to the other door – the door from which you can’t return.
“But there are boys out there!” you cry.
Mother Conscious pushes you out, hands still bound, your thighs and bottom naked. You know all too well what boys will do when they find you like this. You hear the door slam shut behind you with an iron clank. You turn, but it’s your own bedroom door and now you’re in your own bed. Your mother is in the doorway.
“You turn eighteen and you think you can stay out all night?”
“What have you been doing?”
♠ William Crimson October 10 2011