Portmanteau: More Than a Feeling: Part 3Sister Golden Hair. Journeys and choices.

Based on a post by Wendy Trilby, in 4 parts. Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories.

Grace

exited the bathroom carrying her shower kit and tiptoed quickly through

the empty hallway to her small room. Once inside, she shut the door and

pulled the lone desk chair to the door, wedging it tight so no one

could enter.

Outside, the afternoon sun filtered through the window, so she quickly drew the shades, careful not to be seen.

The room was sparse, with a wardrobe, a twin bed, a desk, a chair, and little else. Above her bed was a framed picture of Jesus.

Carefully she reached under her mattress and pulled out a glossy magazine with the bold title of Cunt Hunter,

featuring a vintage photo of a woman reeling back in ecstasy as a hairy

mustachioed man plants his cock deep inside her very hairy cunt. The

magazine seemed to be from the 70s, but that was hardly a concern for

her.

Sitting

on the bed, she opened her robe slightly, then held the magazine with

one hand and slid her other hand down her flat stomach until it met the

curls of her thick, strawberry blond, pubic hair.

Like

the woman in the magazine, Grace's pussy was a tangle of hair, unkempt

and wild. The darkness made the sweet pinkness of her inner folds more

evident as she ran her fingers up and down her slit finding her clit and

circling it while studying the crude and dated porn magazine.

She

continued to caress herself, turning page after page, examining the

increasingly intense stages of awkward sexual fucking. The photo story

turned interesting when a second woman entered the adventure. The worn

nature of the magazine hinted that these were the pages Grace loved best

as she increased her self-stimulation. Plunging several fingers into

her virgin clutch, she became lost in her rising orgasm.

A

sudden knocking on the door put an abrupt end to the pleasure, and

Grace sat up in fear. She quickly placed the magazine under the

mattress, quietly moved the chair, and opened the door to find a nun,

Sister Teresa, waiting patiently.

"Sister

Grace, Mother Superior has asked that you come to the school and help

the students. She's worried about some of the troublemakers."

"Of course, Sister. I just showered, so allow me to dress, and I'll be there soon."

"She

asked that you patrol the old dormitory and the library. I'm going to

be locking classrooms. It's the usual suspects you should be on the

lookout for." With that, Sister Teresa left.

Sister

Grace looked around her tiny room and at the open doors of the lone

wardrobe in the corner. Inside hung her black habit and on a shelf the

few civilian clothes that remained from when she joined the order six

years ago.

Dropping

her robe, she looked at the painting of Jesus as she dressed and moved

the wardrobe door so he could not see her nude body.

She

held up her old Red Sox sweatshirt, remembering her days at Fenway.

However, the Holy Cross congregation did not approve of such frivolous

activities. She finished dressing and went outside to meet the day.

It

was the day of the Senior Picnic, an annual ritual at St. Magnus, when

classes were canceled, and the students gathered on the campus grounds

for food and games. Fun for the students but a high-alert moment for the

school staff and the nuns who help run the place. Young Catholics have a

way of seeking out venial sins.

Sister

Grace removed her robe, leaving her naked. Her skin was milky white,

having never seen the sun since she entered the order six years ago at

eighteen. She was average in height and thin, with a flat stomach and

exceptionally large tits, which would have turned heads in any outfit

other than a nun's habit.

Without

her nun's habit, she looked like a California beach girl sans tan but

with beautiful, healthy blond hair. Relegated to never wearing shorts,

let alone a bathing suit, her pubic hair was an unkempt, wild tangle

with a light, happy trail leading to her navel and curls inside her

thighs. Looking at her bedraggled pussy, one might think it was 1974 all

over again down there, but that was 40 years ago.

Sister

Grace closed her eyes to enjoy the moment of freedom with herself and

her body. Looking in the mirror, she admired herself, then went to the

wardrobe and dressed. First, a no-frills bra that over-supported her

large tits pressing them tight against her body. The order frowned upon

showing any shape, so the bras were industrial and tight, and the

underwear bulky.

Slipping

on the robes and head covering, she finished the outfit off with the

wimple that surrounded her face in white and the veil of black and white

that let anyone around know this woman was a nun.

Despite

being inside Boston city limits, the campus of St. Magnus was large and

sprawling, with several buildings, playing fields, a cathedral, and a

convent. The students, girls in plaid dresses and boys wearing jackets

and ties, were participating in games or grabbing lunch and finding a

place to sit and enjoy the beautiful spring day. Teachers,

administrators, and several of the nuns were either taking part or

keeping a watchful eye out for mischief.

Sister

Grace walked toward the old dorm, pausing to look at the tall buildings

of downtown Boston that were only a few blocks away. Her eyes could not

avoid seeing the ornate brick and iron fence surrounding the campus.

While this was a venerated learning institution to most, it was a prison

to Sister Grace.

Entering

St. Hildegard Hall, she paused to look at a large painting of animals

sitting on a wooded hillside. Entitled the Peaceable Kingdom, the Hicks

painting had been donated by a billionaire alumnus. Now, it sat

unappreciated in the hallway of a convent dormitory that had been closed

for several years. Sister Grace felt sad that the beautiful painting

remained unappreciated in the dusty building that no one had ever lived

in or visited.

Her gaze on the painting was interrupted by the whispers of voices coming from down the hallway. She thought, whomever it was better have a good reason for being here, and crept toward the sound.