Maggie. Maggie had always been the odd kid, the loner, the one who stood out in the crowd. And yet she yearned nothing more than a life of peace. Of meditation. Of contemplation and prayer.
For, you see, Maggie felt the calling. The vocation. She was called by God to a higher purpose. She was to become a nun.
She jumped with glee every Sunday at the thought of going to Mass. She’d sit in the front row, eagerly listening to every word of the service. She’d be first in line for the eucharist. As soon as she was allowed online, instead of heading for porn, she headed for monastery websites. How do I become a nun? she’d type into Google, hoping to find an answer, hoping to find someone who’d listen to her call. And, finally, she found what she had been looking for. As soon as she turned 18, the Poor Clares invited her to visit the facility. Off she went, to Great Falls Montana, where she’d finally achieve her dream: the nunnery.
“prayer, community, silence and solitude” in service of God. This was the moral compass of the nuns, and this was Maggie’s dream. As she settled into her new life, she felt a peace she’d never felt. Walking around the streets of New York City, she felt off, she felt odd, she felt like an outcast. Here, surrounded by nothing but nature and prayer, she felt like she belonged. Centuries of women trapped in nunneries just like hers, they would have yearned nothing more than an escape, a way out, but for Maggie, the trap was freedom and the freedom was trap.
“Pray harder” the Mother Superior would tell her. “If you pray hard enough you’ll feel God. You’ll feel Jesus” she promised. If was the ultimate, the almost unattainable: praying so hard, entering a state of mystique trance, and feeling one with God as a result. Few had achieved it. Hard, relentless prayer was the key. Read the scripture. Pray. Read the scripture. Kneel down. Pray. Rinse and repeat every day 8 hours a day.
Maggie had not lost hope. She was not one to lose hope. She knew that one day she’d achieve that trance. She knew one day she’d finally meet God. She’d be able to ask those questions, get those answers. She wouldn’t even have to speak. Her senses would be one with the Lord. The ultimate outcome. The final victory. Why was she born? What was her purpose in life? Was she pleasing God with her service? Was her ultimate fate salvation?
When she was younger, she had had urges. Sometimes. Rarely. And even more rarely she had caved to them. Shyly, with embarrassment, she had let one finger gently slide up and down her labia, until she felt warm and tingly. She had never dared enter. Therein lied the cave of sin. She felt that entering herself, even slightly, would be defacing the temple of the Lord. She could wash the outside. But entering, it would be like allowing the devil to enter her body, it would be humiliation to God. It would be her own original sin. For she understood the snake to be a metaphor for a phallus. And she understood eating the apple to be a metaphor for letting the snake into your body. Her entrance was sealed. Sacred. It would forever be shut. She’d confess her caresses. “Father forgive me for I have sinned” she’d utter in shame. She’d get her forgiveness every time. Eventually, her body gave up on her. She had never felt those urges in the nunnery. It’s as if she had no hormones. She was youthful, fertile, and yet devoid of sexual drive.
Or so she thought.
It was night. It was the first night of winter. Which, in Montana, usually means it was sometime in October, and snow was falling relentlessly. Usually, the thick walls of the monastery, the space heaters, and the warm blankets, they would somehow suffice to fight the harsh cold. But that cold first night of winter, it had a unique quality to it. There was no relief in sight. It was just too cold. If a polar bear had knocked at the door asking for a warm shelter, the nuns would have not so much as flinched. It would have felt an obvious if parodistic consequence of the strength of the elements.
Maggie was laying down in her bed, two blankets on top of her, her body shivering with cold. The window to her room was shut, the space heater was on. And yet she was still cold.
She took her cross in her hand, put it on her chest, and started praying to Jesus for relief. Every nun had a cross. It was a thick metal cross, a few inches in width, half a foot or so in length.
She took it to her chest, and started begging God for warmth. “Warm me up oh Lord for I am cold. I come to you today asking for your touch, Lord. I come to you today asking for your love, Lord.” she mumbled, time and again.
The urges were sudden. Unexpected. They washed over her like a wave. They crashed against her like a rock. Unstoppable force, unmovable object. She had forgotten them. She had forgotten their strength. She desired that carnal pleasure. She desired to feel warm and tingly again. She tried to resist. She tried to pray harder. But with every word of prayer, the desire increased, the urge was stronger.
She couldn’t even say what happened. But, suffice it to say, the urges won. She was so cold. Anything to feel warm. Anything. Even the unspeakable.
She slid off her clothes, she took her panties off, she spread her legs. And she let the cross inside of her. She was a virgin. Her hymen as sealed shut as ever. And ever so slowly, she let the thick cold metal open her up. One gentle push at a time. She moaned. Squirmed. The pain. The pleasure. She felt the cold bar against her insides. She felt it push her open. She had never felt anything like it. No feeling was as strong as this: the feeling of being penetrated, of begin full.
She cried, for she felt she had given in to the devil. But she did not stop. Satan had vanquished her. Or had he? She said it in some sort of confused stupor at first, the words a surprise even to her. “Oh Jesus oh fuck me” she mumbled. And then she said it again. “Oh Jesus fuck me”. And again. Until, she realized. She had not lost. She had won. It was not Satan doing this. It was God. Jesus was giving her the warmth she craved. Jesus was fucking her. This was the mystique trance. This was the coming true of her prayer. Jesus would fuck her into warmth. Her tears washed off her face.
She started praying. She pushed the cross deep into herself. She bit her lip as she wanted to cry and scream from the pain. She had defiled herself. No longer a virgin, she was bleeding out to God. The worst of her pain was over.
Maggie started thrusting the cross inside of her. Inside. And outside. She had never loved a man. She had a vague understanding of the biology of it all. Those classes at school that she tried her best to ignore. And yet, she fucked the Lord like a Magdalene.
She pushed the metal deep inside of her. She begged Jesus to fuck her harder. She begged him to take her deeper. And deeper she pushed.
She felt warm. No, she felt hot. Her chest heaved. In the dark, her cheeks were flushed red. She found her nipples hard, she felt herself soaking wet. She tasted herself. She was sweet. She tasted like candy. A mix of blood and juices, she’d have to wash everything ever so carefully, or she’d be found out. It would a secret, between herself and her God. The other nuns would never know.
She had to be quiet. She wanted to scream. She wanted to arch her back to the heavens, look up to him, and scream for him to fuck her. But instead she barely mumbled it. She kept twisting her neck, from one side to the other. She had too much pent up sexual energy, she was restless. She pounded. And pounded. And pounded. She couldn’t quite cum. Not yet. It already felt to her a million times better than those awkward caresses, but she felt there was more, there was a higher echelon of pleasure, one that would truly take her to the heavens.
She took one hand to her own neck, and she squeezed it. Oh god fuck oh god oh fuck yes she mumbled as the air left her lungs, as she gasped for breath, as she took the life away from her own self. And then she let go, and pushed the cross even harder, even deeper. More pain. More pleasure. She discovered she could hurt herself into pleasure. She bit her own nipples, pinched them, and moaned and begged God to fuck her harder.
And eventually, when all else was done, when she had fucked a finger inside her ass, when she had choked herself, bitten herself into bruises, eventually, she begged God for one last gift. “God fuck your son into me like you did the virgin Mary” she prayed. And with that thought, of swelling with God’s only son, of being pregnant for him, of her body being so much more than a temple of God, she had her first real orgasm.
God was breeding her, as she writhed and convulsed in her bed in her room in the nunnery in Great Falls Montana that was her home. Maggie, the virgin, the nun, the odd one out, she dreamed of giving life, of being chosen by God to spawn.
A month later, Maggie told the other nuns she had been asked to go into town to help a bible study session at the local high school. She never came back. She had found a new way to serve the Lord: she’d fuck every priest she could, and bear to life their children.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/do0wgm/f_mast_caution_maggie_poor_clare