Chapter 2: Chapter 2
The footsteps halted. The silence that followed was absolute, a vacuum that sucked the air from the room. Agnes’s heart hammered against her ribs so violently she was certain the sound would betray them. Magdalene’s body was a tense arc above her, one hand still clamped over Agnes’s mouth, the other braced on the mattress. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, were fixed on the thin line of light under the door.
A shadow passed through that light, obscuring it. Mother Superior was standing right there, listening.
Agnes could feel the damp heat between her own thighs, the scent of sex unmistakable in the close air. Her own terror was a metallic taste in her throat, mixed with the lingering salt of Magdalene on her lips. She prayed, a frantic, wordless scream inside her skull. Please, please, please move on.
The shadow lingered. A lifetime passed in ten seconds.
Then, with agonizing slowness, the shadow shifted. The footsteps resumed, moving away down the corridor, fading into the deep silence of the sleeping convent.
Magdalene didn’t move for a full minute. Then, gradually, the tension left her shoulders. She removed her hand from Agnes’s mouth, her fingers trembling slightly. They stared at each other in the guttering candlelight, the aftermath of terror and interrupted passion hanging between them.
A wild, hysterical laugh bubbled up in Agnes’s chest, but it came out as a choked sob. She covered her face with her hands. “She knows. She has to know.”
“She suspects,” Magdalene corrected, her voice a low rasp. She rolled off Agnes, sitting on the edge of the bed, running a hand through her dark hair. “But suspicion is not proof. And she didn’t knock.”
“Why didn’t she knock?” Agnes whispered, uncovering her face to look at Magdalene’s profile, strong and pensive in the dim light.
“Because she is a creature of rules. To knock on a sister’s door after hours without ironclad cause is against protocol. She was fishing. We didn’t bite.” Magdalene turned her head, and her gaze was different now. The predatory amusement was gone, replaced by something darker, more intense. The shared danger had stripped a layer away. “But she’s circling. The Bishop’s visit won’t be a formality. It will be an inquisition.”
The cold reality of it settled over Agnes, dousing the last embers of her climax. Excommunication. Scandal. A life ruined. She sat up, pulling her nightshift down over her knees, a pathetic attempt at modesty. “What do we do?”
“We?” Magdalene echoed, a faint, bitter smile touching her lips. “There is no ‘we’ in her eyes, Agnes. There’s a corrupting influence and a victim. You’ll be forgiven, provided you repent and name me as your seducer.” She stood up, walking to the small table and pouring a cup of water from a clay jug. She drank deeply, her throat working. The linen shift clung to her back, damp with sweat.
Agnes watched her. The fear was still there, a cold stone in her gut, but beneath it, the desperate hunger, so recently fed, was already stirring again. It was worse now. It had a taste. “I don’t want to repent.”
Magdalene turned, leaning against the table. The candlelight carved the curves of her body from the shadows. “What do you want?”
“You.” The word was out, simpler and truer than any prayer Agnes had ever uttered. “I want what you haven’t given me yet.”
A slow, knowing heat rekindled in Magdalene’s eyes. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“You know.” Agnes’s courage was fragile, borrowed from the darkness and the near-miss. “In the scriptorium… you talked about more than your hand. You talked about… fucking me. Hard. Until I forget my name.”
Magdalene pushed off from the table and came to stand before the bed. She looked down at Agnes, a queen surveying a willing subject. “I did. But that was before our holy mother almost caught us with my head between your legs. The risk is higher now. The stakes are absolute.” She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of Agnes’s jaw. “Are you sure you want to pay them?”
In answer, Agnes leaned forward and pressed her face against Magdalene’s stomach, breathing in her scent through the thin linen. She felt solid, real. Agnes’s hands came up to grasp her hips, and she felt it then—a firm, thick ridge against the fabric, pressing against Magdalene’s lower belly. Not the softness Agnes expected, but a distinct, unmistakeable hardness.
She froze, her mind stuttering. Confusion, then a dawning, shocking understanding washed over her. She pulled back, her eyes wide, searching Magdalene’s face.
Magdalene held her gaze, a challenge and a confession in her green eyes. She took Agnes’s hand and guided it down, placing it firmly over the linen-covered length. It was hot, heavy, and undeniably erect. “Is this what you want, Agnes?” Her voice was gravel. “This is the truth of me. The sin Mother Beatrice can’t even imagine.”
Agnes’s fingers curled, feeling the shape of her through the cloth. A rush of vertigo hit her, not of disgust, but of blinding, consuming curiosity. This was forbidden on a level her mind had never conceived. It was terrifying. It was electrifying. Her own body, still throbbing from Magdalene’s mouth, clenched with a fresh, desperate need.
“Yes,” Agnes breathed, the last of her resistance crumbling to dust. “God, yes. I want it. I want you.”
A groan escaped Magdalene’s lips, part triumph, part raw desire. She tugged her shift up and over her head in one swift motion, letting it fall to the floor.
Agnes’s breath caught. Magdalene’s body was a revelation—full breasts, a narrow waist, the flare of her hips. And between her legs, nestled in dark curls, was a cock. It was thicker than Agnes had imagined, the head flushed a deep red, already beading with moisture. It stood proudly against her belly, a blatant, beautiful obscenity.
“Look your fill,” Magdalene commanded, her voice thick. “This is what will ruin you.”
Agnes did. She reached out, her touch tentative at first, her fingers tracing the velvety skin of the shaft. It jumped under her touch. She wrapped her hand around it, marveling at the heat, the solid weight, the intricate map of veins. A possessive thrill shot through her. This was Magdalene’s secret, her power, and it was in Agnes’s hand.
Magdalene closed her eyes for a moment, her jaw tight. “Enough looking.”
She pushed Agnes back onto the bed, coming down over her. This time, there was no teasing. Their mouths met in a savage kiss, all teeth and clashing tongues. Magdalene’s hands were everywhere, pushing Agnes’s shift up, cupping her breasts, pinching her nipples until she cried out. The rough treatment stoked a fire in Agnes she didn’t know she possessed. She was wet, so wet, her folds slick and open.
“Tell me you want it inside you,” Magdalene growled against her neck, her hand sliding down to test her. She pushed two fingers in easily, making Agnes arch. “Tell me.”
“I want it inside me,” Agnes panted, her hips circling against Magdalene’s hand. “Please. Now. Fuck me with it.”
Magdalene positioned herself, the broad head of her cock pressing against Agnes’s entrance. She held it there, applying a relentless, tantalizing pressure, but not entering. “This is your last chance to be a good girl, Agnes. To run back to your cell and your prayers.”
“Fuck your prayers,” Agnes snarled, the profanity a key turning in some deep lock. She wrapped her legs around Magdalene’s waist and pulled.
Magdalene drove into her with one deep, shocking thrust.
Agnes screamed, a raw, torn sound she muffled by biting down on Magdalene’s shoulder. The stretch was immense, a burning fullness that bordered on pain before melting into a pleasure so profound it felt like annihilation. Magdalene was buried to the hilt inside her, their bodies fused.
“Christ, you’re tight,” Magdalene gasped, her body trembling with the effort of holding still. “So fucking tight and hot.”
She began to move. Withdrawing almost completely, then slamming back in. A steady, punishing rhythm that shook the bed frame, the wood groaning in protest. Each thrust punched a moan from Agnes’s lungs. Magdalene fucked her with a focused, brutal intensity, her eyes locked on Agnes’s face, watching her come undone.
The world narrowed to the slap of skin on skin, the wet, filthy sound of their joining, the ragged symphony of their breaths. Agnes clawed at Magdalene’s back, her hips meeting every plunge. The earlier orgasm had been a spark; this was a forest fire. The thick drag of Magdalene inside her, hitting a place deep within that made her see stars, was all that existed.
“Is this what you needed?” Magdalene gritted out, her pace quickening. “This cock filling up that empty, holy little cunt of yours?”
“Yes! Oh, God, yes!” Agnes sobbed, her head thrashing on the pillow. The coil was winding again, tighter, hotter, fed by the sheer vulgarity of Magdalene’s words and the relentless invasion of her body.
Magdalene shifted her angle, driving upwards, and Agnes saw white. A sharp, blinding pleasure speared through her core. “There! Right there, please, don’t stop!”
“I’m not stopping until you come all over me,” Magdalene promised, her thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more precise, hammering that perfect spot with unerring accuracy. “Come on, Agnes. Scream for it. Let the whole convent hear who owns you.”
The permission broke her. The climax detonated, a cataclysm that ripped through every nerve ending. Her back arched off the bed, her cunt clamping and fluttering around Magdalene’s cock in violent, rhythmic pulses. A broken, endless wail was torn from her throat, a sound of utter surrender.
Feeling her convulse, Magdalene’s control shattered. With a guttural roar, she pinned Agnes down and drove into her three final, deep, claiming strokes before stilling, her body seizing. Agnes felt the hot, sudden rush of release inside her, a flooding intimacy that was more shocking than anything that had come before. Magdalene collapsed on top of her, their sweat-slick bodies heaving as one.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their struggling lungs. The candle had burned low, casting the room into deep, dancing shadows. The scent of sex and sweat was overpowering.
Slowly, Magdalene softened and slipped from her body. Agnes felt the loss acutely, a hollow ache where there had been glorious fullness. Magdalene rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand, looking down at Agnes. Her expression was unreadable.
Agnes reached between her own legs, her fingers coming away wet with their mixed release. She stared at it, then looked at Magdalene.
“No going back now,” Magdalene said softly, tracing the tear tracks on Agnes’s cheek.
Agnes caught her hand, brought her sticky fingers to her own mouth, and sucked them clean. The taste was bitter, salty, primal. “I don’t want to go back.”
A real smile, one devoid of mockery, touched Magdalene’s lips. It was a rare, fleeting thing. “Then we have a week.