Author: NaughtyLtlGirl

It was in the final days of summer when a princess fled from the gates of her capital, each hurried gallop of her chestnut horse taking her farther from a marriage to a pimpled, old man. The King had declared that because she had not yet found her love, a husband must be found for the princess, for the commonfolk would soon think her an unlovable spinster and reject her as their future ruler. When her tears had ceased and her mount tired, the princess found herself at the wooden gates of the Alabaster Abbey.

The white-robed matron took one look at the young woman before promptly feeding her and drawing her a bath. She listened intently as princess spoke of her misfortune, nodding her head gravely.

“Spend some time among my daughters,” the matron urged. “Perhaps you will find what you have been searching for.”

And so the princess took up the humble chores and routine of a nun, assisting in the stables and the kitchens, although it could hardly be said that she was much help in either. When she kneeling in prayer, it was then that the princess noted the eyes of a nun upon her. With her face cocooned by her white robes, bright hazel eyes and a generous smattering of brown freckles across her nose, the princess thought that the nun was the most enchanting being she had ever seen. Read more »

The winter was at its zenith when the auburn-haired nun of the Alabaster Abbey wrapped her arms around herself and declared that she could not get warm. The winds blew through her cloak with hardly an apology, and the snow dampened the leather of her boots. It was her first winter at the Abbey, and even the stone bowls of steaming broth and hearty apple cider could not warm the slender sister. She shivered, shook, and quaked, and decided that something had to be done.

On the first night, she knocked on the door of the matron of the Abbey.

With a fire burning in the hearth, the matron taught the sister how she warmed herself against the coldest nights. Fingers exploring, the gentle teasing of pleasure to its peak, the hidden nooks of her own body. The auburn-haired nun gasped and shook as the matron watched and smiled. The nun thanked the teacher and they both fell asleep by the fire.

However, the cold still nipped at her toes, and the nun shivered. Read more »

The dark-cloaked traveler stumbles down the mountain pass, weary from exhaustion and uncertainty. Stumble coats his cheeks, hollow eyes stare out from above the scarf that is wrapped around his mouth and nose, warding off the cold. His fingers are numb, barely grasping the wooden rod that he slides into each snow drift and uses to push himself forward.

He collapses just shy of the gates of the Alabaster Abbey.

It is the youngest of the nuns who first spots him there, the unusually dark shape in their hidden valley. She calls to her sisters, and a sleigh is fetched.

It is a well known fact, especially among the sisters, that the best way to cure a man (or woman) of death of cold is to lie with them unclothed. Sharing of body heat slowly returns life to the sufferer, which is why when the man is bundled into a spare room in the Abbey, he is immediately stripped and slid under a pile of rabbit hides. His wet clothing is laid out by the fire, which is hurriedly stoked by two sisters. Another two, including the youngest, discard their white robes, slide under the hides, and press their smooth flesh to his. Read more »

The Alabaster Abbey of the Kalgan Pass is named as such for the soaring white cliffs that line either side of the valley, like the pale spread thighs of an Alabaster nun.

The sisters of the Abbey wear their habits cinched tightly against the autumn chill, their rosy cheeks, bright eyes and puckered mouths the only means of discerning their identities, the remainder of their figures hidden in the snow-white coverings. While they do the daily work that is required to maintain a nunnery, glimpses of their hands – long and delicate – can be seen by the patient observer.

Not many visitors encounter the nunnery, despite the wandering, clearly marked paths that guide pilgrims. This is probably for the best, for there are many carefully guarded secrets. The odd visitor who does stumble past the gates leaves with a new cloak, well-fed, sure-footed, and with a tale they will nar repeat, except perhaps in confession.

You see, deep down in the oldest chamber of the Alabaster Abbey, there is a stone pedestal. Rising to about the height of a man’s waist, there is a saddle carved of the pale, soft stone of valley, with a slim pillar rising from its middle.  Read more »