Sister Maria and The Philanderer’s Stone by Amber Villette
Chapter 1– A Ride To London
Sister Maria Eloise Bellefonte walked into the Mother Superior’s office, anxiously fingering the plain wooden crucifix dangling on her bosom. Sister Maria had joined the convent over six months ago, yet she remained susceptible to unchaste thoughts, and they troubled her in the silent nights in her cell. Would that her musings were restricted to fevered imaginings in the dark, but her rowdy notions could intrude at any moment. She had shared her concerns with the Mother Superior. Now, whenever she was in her mentor’s presence, Sister Maria knew that those penetrating green eyes read her every improper whim.
The Mother Superior was past forty, though still a beautiful woman, both in a spiritual and in a worldly sense. Sister Maria imagined that once men had fallen at the voluptuous nun’s feet begging for her favour. She flushed as her imagination conjured a lover’s hands on the Mother Superior’s buxom body, curvaceous even under her white habit. Helplessly, Sister Maria lowered her eyes to hide her torrid musings.
“Blessings on you, sister,” said the Mother Superior, rising behind her teak desk.
The shutters were open on the window, and the green fields beyond the stone walls offered a welcome distraction to Sister Maria’s aroused sensibilities. A white beam of sunlight cut across the room. She stepped into it, and stood, dropping her hands from her crucifix, clasping them together.
At the Mother’s side stood a slim young nun with aquiline features. Her name was Sister Rebecca. She had joined the convent a year before Sister Maria. Her small lips would be pretty to a man, Sister Maria thought.
“And you, Mother,” replied Sister Maria, after a pause. She lifted her eyes just enough to meet the Mother Superior’s even gaze, before meekly lowering them again.
“Thank you for coming. Please sit down.”
Sister Maria’s hands shook as she sat.
“Calm yourself sister,” said the Mother Superior kindly. “You are not here to be chastised.”
Sister Maria looked up. Rebecca wore a timid smile.
“I called on you because I require your assistance,” said the Mother Superior.
“My assistance?” Sister Maria’s brown doe eyes widened. Service was her calling, but she could not imagine for what the Mother Superior needed her help. Her days were spent in quiet prayer, chores, and quelling the tempestuous ardour that seemed to stir whenever she looked at her sister nuns. Not that she had any unnatural attractions. She simply found herself exploring their bodies with surreptitious glances, wondering how men would see them.
In her fancies, men preferred Sister Maria’s slender white limbs, her round peach bottom, her delicate kissable lips, and her widely spaced conical breasts. In reality she was certain no man would glance twice at her, with her straight cheeks and her thin nose. Her shame at her thoughts only worsened when her fantasies fell into their inevitable self-effacing low. She was still learning what it was to be married to God. Faithful in spirit and deed, she was not faithful in thought. She wondered what special task she could fulfil in her current state.
“Yes,” confirmed the Mother Superior. “We have a most dire situation, sister.”
“I will help however I can,” replied Sister Maria humbly. Inside, she was a frothing cauldron of emotion. Dire? What could the Mother Superior expect of her? She was in a constant struggle with passion. Please let her decide on another, she thought.
“I know you will, Maria,” said the Mother Superior. She glanced at Rebecca. “You may leave us now, child.” Rebecca gave a small bow and quietly exited. The Mother Superior continued, “Allow me to explain. Over the past five years the Church has become aware of an alarming rise in the number of women leaving the sisterhood, even some from this convent.”
“Surely not, Mother,” exclaimed Sister Maria.
The Mother Superior nodded grimly.
“It is heartbreaking,” she said. “We thought at first that the lost sisters were merely lacking in faith. It is a hard calling, our life, and no one can be blamed for not having the strength to endure it. Our suspicions were aroused however by a report from one sister who openly confessed to a most shameful undertaking. We know now that there are sinister forces working to undermine our good work.”
Sister Maria waited, not breathing.
“Our wayward sisters were seduced by a man,” continued the Mother Superior. “This man bewitched then deflowered them.”
Sister Maria gasped, reeling with shock.
“But he is no ordinary man,” said the Mother Superior. “This beast is possessed of an unnatural charm, and power that our mortal weaknesses cannot resist. He is the basest creature, and he must be brought to justice.”
“What manner of man would deflower a holy sister?” asked Maria, her fingertips settling on her cheek. She was flushed with alarm. Such a man would surely claim her womanhood, given her present susceptible temper. Forgive me Lord, she thought. She was weak.
“We do not know, sister. That is why the Church and your sisters need your help,” said the Mother Superior. “We have clues to this villain’s haunts, and we suspect he is presently in London, but we need a lure to draw him out.”
Sister Maria gaped numbly across the desk.
“You can’t mean,” she began.
“You are the ideal candidate, Maria,” said the Mother Superior. “I know of your inner struggle, and I think this will be a good test of your faith.”
“But Mother Superior, I can’t,” protested Sister Maria. She blanched, biting her lip and looking down. Contradicting the Mother Superior was woefully insubordinate.
“Do not worry, my child. Your task is a simple one. Allow him to seduce you, then –”
“Mother Superior!”
The Mother Superior met Sister Maria’s moderated outrage with a dominating stare. Flinching, Sister Maria returned her attention to her skirt.
“I have every confidence that you will uphold your vows, Sister Maria,” said the Mother Superior, “but you must understand that to truly control our natures we must first understand our natures. Take every opportunity to observe and learn. Keep chastity in mind and you will be able to control his seductions. Once you are assured it is he send a message to the Saint Magdelaine Convent in Westminster.”
In a timid whisper Sister Maria replied, “I mean no disrespect Mother, but I am unready for this trial. I – if this man has such allure…”
“I have faith in you, Sister Maria,” said the Mother Superior. “Have faith in our Lord.”
Sister Maria once more met her superior’s eyes. “How am I to begin?”
“Visit his haunts, the drinking houses, gambling dens. Make yourself known.”
Sister Maria’s forehead crinkled with faint lines of dismay.
“But what of the diocese?” she asked. “If I am seen in such places, and word reaches the bishop, what will he think?”
The Mother Superior smiled as she opened a drawer on her desk. She took out a folded square of paper and a cloth purse. These she handed to Sister Maria.
“This is a letter indicating that you are discharged to conduct social investigations of the underclasses as part of a sanctioned Church study in their behaviour and conduct,” said the Mother Superior. “The purse contains sufficient funds to maintain you in modest lodgings for a few weeks. If you require further monies contact me here, by letter.”
Sister Maria looked uncertainly at the letter and the drawstring purse.
“You were an educated woman before you joined us, Maria. I trust you have intelligence enough to exercise discretion,” said the Mother Superior. “Should your true purpose be discovered the scandal to the Church and to our Order would be immeasurable.”
“I understand,” said Sister Maria in a forlorn murmur. “When must I leave?”
“Immediately, I fear. It is several days to London. A local farmer has kindly agreed to take you to meet the stage at York. There are a few small practical matters for us to discuss, then you may go.”
Sister Maria listened as the Mother Superior gave her instructions.
Sister Maria discovered later that the Mother Superior had already ordered her few belongings packed into a small bag, her bible, her rosary, and a change of underclothing – the French fashion of wearing drawers had been adopted at her convent since it was an effective method of ensuring modesty beneath the habit. Further instructions on her lodging were also packed, alongside a writing set and paper. She took her bag, fighting tears as she said goodbye to her sisters, and met the farmer by the gates.
Farmer Matthew Mitchell was rustic but civil. Riding with him in his horse-drawn cart, jogged by the cobbles of an old, broken Roman road, Sister Maria said nothing throughout the entire journey. He, on the other hand, met her uncomfortable silence and downcast eyes with friendly glances and breezy chatter about the weather, and politics that meant nothing to Sister Maria.
Born in the village of Ringwood, in the New Forest, Sister Maria had led a reclusive childhood. Her father, a miller, had no hand in her upbringing, and her mother, overprotective, had introduced her to a limited picture of the world through books. She had never visited a large town or city, and when he spoke of Tories and Whigs, and the erosion of the Country Way, she only understood what he spoke of in the most abstract sense.
That a farmer should be better informed than Sister Maria irked her, though her sinful pride bothered her more. Before joining the convent she had been part of her uncle’s household in his mansion north of Ringwood, acting as governess to his children for three years, and had come to think of herself as more than a commoner. Few women of low birth could read, and her uncle had shunned her family before he discovered her talent. She never felt comfortable in his house, always aware of her inadequacies. She could not teach etiquette or music, and though the children warmed to her, she never felt her uncle had. She suspected that her uncle only hired her because he could offer her a pittance and call her employment charity. Always a pious woman, in deed, if not sufficiently in thought, she had known she was destined to become a nun at a very young age. She was twenty-two now, and she knew she was as innocent as a young girl when it came to worldly knowledge.
The famous twisted spire of York cathedral rose above the city as the road wound towards the peripheral houses. Farmer Mitchell flicked the reins, spurring on his carthorse.
“Nearly there, sister,” he said genially.
Sister Maria nodded politely.
Though Farmer Mitchell was a man of ordinary bearing, if uncommon intelligence, Sister Maria was as awkward with his gender as with his superior knowledge of society. He was the first man she had seen in six months, except in her wicked fantasies, and, incredibly to Sister Maria, her obsessive musings were now more colourful and engrossing than when she joined the convent. From his powerful hirsute forearms to his broad chest under a ragged parchment brown shirt, each time she dared to glance up, Sister Maria was confronted with his masculinity, and her own needs, buried too close to the surface.
Farmer Mitchell’s jolly yet respectful demeanour deepened her flush when she hastily averted her eyes. Occasionally the cart would hit a bump and Sister Maria would be thrown against him, her soft thigh crushed to the ruggedness of his. The mad flutter of her heart in these moments was unbearable.
So, as the guileless farmer pointed out the merchant quarters and the buildings of note, Sister Maria let her eyes wander over the milling city folk, never lingering more than a moment on any one man or woman. She felt extremely self-conscious in her habit. She had not left the convent since joining. Common women in their plain skirts and cotton bonnets greeted her with respectful calls of ‘sister’ as the cart trundled deeper into the city, before continuing about their affairs. Terse smiles were the only responses Sister Maria could manage. It seemed unfair of her. The civil war was long past, but there were as many detractors of Catholics as there were of the royalists, especially with King James’ radical reforms. The equanimity of the people of York was an unexpected kindness. Sister Maria though was caught in her distractions, and did not think long on their charity.
Vividly aware of the men, labourers baring their sweat-streaked backs in the balmy spring weather, and the occasional gentleman in his fine doublet and cravat, Sister Maria forced her thoughts to her assignment.
The stagecoach would not arrive until the morning, and the Mother Superior had instructed her to lodge at a local tavern, the Blue Drummer Inn. On their arrival, Sister Maria tried to give Farmer Mitchell some money. When he stubbornly refused, she left him with a kind word and resolved to remember him in her prayers.
Sister Maria was unhappy about not making her presence known to the local clergy, but the Mother Superior was very specific. She was not to draw attention to herself, except in her assigned task. Consequently, she prayed alone in her room, seeking guidance in a way she never had before. The very idea of her assignment brought colour to her cheeks, a guilty shine. She was a honey trap for this beast. How much was he to taste before she closed it? Could she even control the lure? She was in a confused whirl, and she had barely begun her journey.
Before returning to her room, Sister Maria had asked for food to be sent up to her. Sitting on the unwelcoming bed, she decided that she could not hope to succeed if she made a cell of her every lodging. Jesus had walked amongst the criminal and licentious, and as the Mother Superior always said, to fight sin we must understand the sinner. This was a test, and just as turning her face from Farmer Mitchell was an admittance that she could not rule her urges, and see him simply as a good and pious man, so hiding in her room was confessing her inability to be any less licentious and libidinal than the patrons below. Resolved then, she headed down for the inn’s common room.
Though crowded, and buzzing with conversation, the common room was neither bawdy nor a hotbed of raunchy liaisons. Bakers, millers, shop-owners and labourers shared stories, or argued about politics and foreign wars, while barmaids filled tankards and dodged occasional groping hands. Sister Maria sat at an empty corner table near a lavishly dressed couple who sat holding hands openly as they talked over a candle in a glass bowl. They were incongruous amongst the commoners; the lady with her hair in ringlets, pearls around her neck, her tanned cleavage scandalously low to Sister Maria’s mind, and to standards of decency, her dress with its lustrous pink bodice hugging her shapely frame, her face lightly powdered and her lips painted, the gentleman with his swarthy dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and straight jawbone highlighted in the circular glow of the candlelight, a dark vision amongst the earthy patrons. He peered at his woman with sensual eyes.
Mesmerised by his luscious lips, Sister Maria only realised she was staring when the man became aware of her unwavering gaze and turned from his partner. He flashed her a lewd smile, and Sister Maria turned away sharply. She said a prayer of thanks when the barmaid chose that moment to arrive with her food, setting a plate of spiced potatoes, soup and some bread rolls on the table. The barmaid curtsied, unnecessarily Sister Maria thought, and then left.
Swallowing, knowing that the gentleman’s eyes were studying her with inappropriate interest given her attire, and his wife beside him, Sister Maria picked up the bread and broke it. Her heart was a background drumming to the inn’s clamour, and the eyes were still staring, she knew it, stripping the habit’s skirts from her femininity, peeling the wimple and veil from her head, and stroking her short, boyish hair.
Fingers shaking, she dipped her bread in the soup, casting a furtive glance at the gentleman. He was leaning across the table, touching cheeks with his wife as he whispered in her ear. Her own cheeks hot, Sister Maria bit into the bread, soaked as it was in tangy onion soup.
“Hey-up sister,” said a puff-faced man, dropping into a chair beside her. He hiccupped and Sister Maria wrinkled her nose at his beery breath.
“Good evening,” said Sister Maria noncommittally.
“’Eadin’ t’ London, eh?” said the drunk. He put a solicitous arm around Sister Maria’s shoulders.
Sister Maria’s lips tightened.
“Y’know, sister, if thee’s lookin’ fer a man baint no need t’ trouble ’em southerners,” said the drunk, leering.
“God will forgive you, sir,” said Sister Maria, bristling.
“Heh, no need t’ be coy, sister,” burbled the drunk.
“Please unhand me,” said Sister Maria, squirming.
“Aw, you don’ – hey!”
The drunk’s ogreish advance ended abruptly as a barmaid twisted his ear and coaxed him from his chair with uncouth expletives, and the tweaking of lobes. The drunk cowered at the barmaid’s coarse harangue, though he was a large man and if he drew straight he would stand a head taller than her.
“You ought to be ashamed of yoursel’ Billy Myers,” scalded the barmaid as she pulled him away from the table.
“Leggo me ear, will you?” whined Billy.
The barmaid released him and stood, arms akimbo, daring him to do anything but walk away.
Too inebriated or too insensible to grasp the warning the drunk turned to Sister Maria. But where his bloodshot eyes had been brimming with drunken lust now they were suddenly lucid.
“It’s in his stone, sister. Watch out fer his stone,” he said.
“I’ll show you what you can do with your stones,” growled the barmaid, shoving the drunk with both her hands. “Out,” she ordered.
Sister Maria watched the drunk ejected, feeling a swell of pity for him. She dismissed his cryptic remark as drunken ramblings, and said a brief prayer for the return of his reason before resuming her meal. She glanced one more time at the gentleman. He did not look back.
Later that night, as Sister Maria was drifting to sleep, she was suddenly jarred awake by a muted scream. She sat up, listening, already anxious about her alien environs.
Another scream came, and she started, but as her heartbeat mellowed to normalcy she realised that the screams were not of distress. They undulated, and there was a breathlessness to them. Hearing a low male grunt beyond the wall, two spots of heat warmed beneath her ears. She clasped her hands between her bosoms, her lip trembling at the thought of the touches that brought such screams.
Never having seen even a picture of men and women together in passion, her imagination visualised the man’s hand grasping the plump posterior of his lover as their hips ground together and their chests rubbed, female softness to masculine muscle.
Sister Maria’s breathing deepened as she listened, sweat beading her forehead as she pictured the man, a gentleman rogue like the scoundrel who leered at her in the common room, his full lips clamping to her neck, sucking her skin, lusty as a demon, while his sex pressed, like a rod of stone, to hers.
The passion cries grew higher and faster. Sister Maria squirmed, rubbing her thighs together, squeezing tight her eyes as though she could shut out the dampening inside her forbidden chalice. But the liquids came, seeping out onto her inner thighs as she rubbed her flesh together, twisting her hips on the bed, and bunching the bed sheet in her hands.
The woman gave a climactic cry, and Sister Maria gasped, her legs trembling with tension. Whimpering at her irrepressible release, her whole body became water. Not daring to open her eyes, knowing that to do so was to confess that this imagining was not a dream or a delusion of senses, but a wilful fantasy, she lay quietly, listening to the breathy aftermath of passion.
“Forgive me,” she murmured, and she was more ashamed of her momentary lack of guilt than of the flesh thoughts that she had admitted. The moisture felt good, warm, the loose sensation in her heat made her eyes water with emotion. For a fleeting moment the promise of Heaven was delivered through the vessel of her own body. That thought did shame her. She cleared her mind, the passion spent, and returned to sleep.
The coach was set to depart soon after sunrise. As Sister Maria stepped off a footstool and into the carriage she caught her breath. The lady and gentleman from the common room were the only other passengers.
Resplendent in her coiled pearl necklace and dangling pearl earrings the lady seemed too affluent not to have her own carriage at her disposal. The gentleman with his grey silken cravat with a ruby pin and shiny night blue doublet was the picture of an English noble. Sister Maria could not fail to notice the prominent colourful codpiece over his breeches. Wishing the colour from her face, Sister Maria looked down at his brown leather boots. She knew instantly that it was them she had heard, and invited into her fantasies.
The gentleman’s hand settled gently on her forearm and he helped her into her seat. She looked at him, eyelids half-lowered.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
The gentleman smiled, and released her arm.
“How do you do, sister,” said the lady. She offered her hand limply. Sister Maria touched her fingers.
“Sister Maria,” said the nun, quiet as a summer breeze.
“Your pardon?” said the lady.
“Sister Maria,” repeated Sister Maria louder.
“My name is Charmaine Rose,” said the lady.
“Cyrus Romane,” said the gentleman. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Sister Maria barely stifled a shocked gasp. She looked at the lady’s hands. There was no wedding ring.
“Are you travelling all the way?” asked Charmaine as the coachman closed the door with a firm slam, jostling the coach.
“Yes,” replied Sister Maria. She glanced out the window. Were there no other passengers, she wondered. There was room for three more in this compartment, then another six in the one behind.
“Is it your first time?” said Charmaine.
Sister Maria nodded.
“Delicious,” chuckled Romane.
Charmaine slapped her lover playfully on the shoulder.
“Oh do behave, Cyrus,” she said.
Sister Maria smiled, not understanding.
Romane sniffed, as though the suggestion of proper behaviour was an ill-thought quip.
The coach lurched and the horses began a slow canter into the streets of York, heading for the main cobbled thoroughfare.
“London is a very exciting place, sister,” said Charmaine.
“She’s a nun, Charm. I don’t think she’ll be too interested in the sort of excitement you’re thinking about,” said Cyrus, sounding bored by her banter.
“I intend to study many things,” said Sister Maria, less intimidated by the couple now. The Mother Superior told her to learn, and only a worldly gentleman would travel by public stage. She had thought only the common people used it till now.
“Indeed, sister,” said Romane, leaning towards her, “what sort of things?”
Romane’s sudden closeness made Sister Maria’s fingers clench in her lap.
“I am to conduct to conduct social studies for my order,” she said, caught in his hypnotic stare. She swallowed.
Romane leant back, scoffing lightly.
“Cyrus, stop,” scalded Charmaine. She patted Sister Maria’s knee then sat back. “It sounds fascinating. Is the Church planning a new initiative on the poor?”
“If the poor showed their own initiative they wouldn’t be poor,” Romane remarked blandly.
Sister Maria’s brow knitted. She disliked this arrogant rogue, she decided. Love and forgiveness, she reminded herself. Even men like him were creatures of God.
“God provides for those with faith,” she responded. “But we have a duty of charity for the less fortunate.”
“If God provides for those with faith, I’d warrant he’s not paying attention,” said Romane. A loose cobble jostled the carriage, but Romane’s supercilious gaze fixed on Sister Maria and did not waver. “I do not have any.”
“I will pray for you,” said Sister Maria, wishing she had avoided the conversation.
“Most women do,” said Romane, grinning at his own witticism.
“Oh Cyrus. Sister, I’m sorry –” began Charmaine.
“Don’t apologise for me,” interrupted Romane harshly.
Charmaine looked down into her lap, cowed, clasping a small velvet purse. She fell silent.
Sister Maria looked out the window as they departed York, her skin prickly and hot, aware that this time Romane was staring at her. His beliefs were offensive, his manner brash, and his conceit inflated, but she felt a sensation of animal desire, and the harder she tried to deny it the deeper the flush on her cheeks. With skin as pale as hers she felt like a fool, because the warmth of her face must be fierce as sunrise, even with her wimple hiding most of it. She tried not to think of his domineering eyes, and his swaggering demeanour, but each time she risked a glance he met her with a mocking stare and a fixed grin. She wanted to slap him, something she had never wanted to do to anyone.
Reasoning away her reaction was also ineffective. He was the typical modern man she imagined, self-reliant, irreverent, probably a proponent of parliamentary power and well read in the new philosophies arriving from Europe. Sister Maria knew that there were men with secular notions who denied the very existence of God, although she had never met one. It was ironic that she should find one such heathen alluring when she was struggling to maintain thoughts more in keeping with her vows. Without God, how could there be love? And how could there be ecstasy? She thought of the rising sighs of the previous night.
“Cyrus, no,” murmured Charmaine, but her protest was accompanied by a giggle.
Sister Maria looked across at the couple, and saw Romane gathering the folds of Charmaine’s dress, hitching the skirt up to her knee. He kissed beneath her ear, easing aside her ringlets with his free hand.
A numbing sensation froze Sister Maria as she watched Romane’s dark pink tongue form flicking circles around Charmaine’s diminutive earlobes. He glanced sidelong at Sister Maria as he spiralled into the centre. Charmaine gave a helpless gasp.
Sister Maria, glaring coldly at Romane, felt the warming between her closed thighs as Romane kissed down Charmaine’s neck, lips brushing her pearls, fingers fluttering over Charmaine’s knee, easing open her legs.
“But Cyrus, the sister,” protested Charmaine. In contradiction, her right hand reached between his legs, and flattened onto his codpiece, pushing it against his concealed sex.
“Shh,” said Romane. “She’s studying us.”
Sister Maria’s cold mask was cracking, and offended outrage was transforming with implacable momentum to wilful voyeurism. The moisture under her habit, at first mild, increased rapidly. She wanted to avert her eyes, but her sense of impropriety was a butterfly fighting a whirlwind. Captivated, she watched Romane’s fingers delving into the crimpled folds of Charmaine’s petticoats, seeking her through the material, the painted lady parting her lips in a wet red oh, her eyelids fluttering as Romane’s fingers pushed, and his tongue slid down into her bronzed valley. Charmaine heaved up, and he pulled down on her loosened bodice, exposing more of her warm flesh.
Romane trailed his licks and kisses back up Charmaine’s body as he pulled the dress sleeve from her shoulder. He kissed her collarbone, suddenly flashing his eyes at Sister Maria. Nudging his fingers in tender thrusts through her attire Romane pleasured Charmaine’s sex as he addressed Sister Maria.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked.
Sister Maria was too buffeted by her conflicting emotions to consider a reply, and when Romane returned his attention fully to his lady, Sister Maria felt her legs part slightly, as though of their own volition. Trembling, knowing with every fibre that she was wrong she pushed two fingers into the fold of her habit’s skirt, sinking it towards her saturated, glowing heat.