The Secrets of the Alabaster Abbey pt. 3 [mfmfmf] [fiction] [fantasy]

Irbid is the name of the town nearest to the Alabaster Abbey in the Kalgan Pass, although if you asked one of the villagers they would deny it fiercely, pointing over the ridge to the neighboring town. However, Irbid is undeniably closer despite what the inhabitants may wish to believe. It is a small collection of squat wooden and stone-brick houses, solidly built to keep out winter winds, at the mouth of the valley pass. Surrounded by surprisingly rich fertile soil. this has sustained the village through difficult times, and many men travel to nearby villages and towns to trade the fruits of the harvest for other goods.

There is only one caravan that rolls into Irbid, however.

Without fail, when the summer harvest has reached its peak, and the sweat hangs low on the brows of those returning to their homes from the fields, a white-tented caravan trundles up the pass from the Alabaster Abbey.

Five white-shawled sisters bare with them fine crafted goods: sweet honeys and teas, sugar-frosted cherries, intricately decorated rugs and shawls. The women of the village coo over the goods while the men take the horses from the sisters. Not daring to be rude, the villagers offer the sisters shelter in the largest barn for the night. A committee is hastily assembled to lead the transactions with the nuns, as the villagers fear the nuns – they always have – although they are not sure why. Perhaps it is the way the heat rises in their stomachs and between their legs, or perhaps it is the way the stars are brighter when the caravan is in town.

Regardless of why, the headman, the blacksmith, the blacksmith’s son, the widower, and the town cleric gather with the sisters in the barn, murmuring their thanks as tea is poured by one of the white-robed women. The blacksmith’s son blushes as she looks at him, and the cleric glares.

If the tea tastes sweeter than normal, the men do not say.

The terms of the trade are laid out in a swift manner, hands are shaken and kind words exchanged, and the men slip from the barn to return to their homes.

Many hours later, as the stars burn overhead, the men of the committee stumble from their beds and some from the sides of their wives, who do not stir. The reach the barn together, their eyes glazed, except for the naked forms of the sisters, waiting for them with open arms.

The headman allows himself to be mounted in a way that he never allows his wife to, and he grasps upwards at the sister’s pale round breasts – so like the moons, he thinks – as she slides up and down on him.

The blacksmith worries about the size of his bulk and manhood against the frame of the sister who folds her slender body around him, but the nun nods and smiles and takes him inside of her as-quick-as-you-please. The large man unfurls in her arms, and the fire that he stokes for his living burns inside of him.

The blacksmith’s son becomes a man in that night, gently coaxed into his erection by the soft palms of the nun. He thanks her profusely, just as he did for his tea hours earlier, as she falls to her knees, and then cannot speak when she surrounds him and all he knows is brightness.

The widower releases grief he did not know he still had, rutting into the nun from behind and biting the skin between her neck and shoulder. Both their knees scrape against the rough ground, but he does not stop.

The cleric falls to his knees and begs for mercy, but his flesh betrays him before sight of her round breasts. The sister mounts his swollen cock and he touches the delicate flesh of a woman for the first time in many years.

The men from Irbid cry out as they climax in harmony, each finishing deeply in the womb of the sister. The nuns sense it, although they do not say, the warm pulses deep inside their bodies and the quickening of their wombs. Each man groans and gives and collapses until he is empty, spent in the making of life.

When the caravan departs in the morning, the nuns of the Alabaster Abbey load their traded goods – bags of red onions, sacks of barley flour and spiced ale – into the caravan and stroke their stomachs with gentle hands, heartily thanking the gathered villagers for the trade. It was yet again a very amicable summer harvest, they all agree. The blacksmith’s son blushes when a smiling sister kisses him on the cheek.

It is only many years later when a similar caravan rolls into town, that the blacksmith’s son, now only the blacksmith, recognizes a young girl with bright eyes that he wonders if she is his sister or his daughter.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/95zn3a/the_secrets_of_the_alabaster_abbey_pt_3_mfmfmf

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