The Naughty Nun Three-Pack

by JJ Collins

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 -- JJ Collins

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Sins of the Flesh

The early morning sunlight was warm as Adella made her way up the winding path to the monastery. She craved some solitude, somewhere she could be alone, and the garden in the monastery was as quiet as one could get in the countryside. The monks were always early risers, and she could hear the hissing thunk of an arrow as it met its target; Brother Samuel would be practicing his archery in the garden, then.

It had not yet gotten into the blistering heat of summer that sapped the will of every living thing, the morning still nice and cool as a breeze wafted in from the seaside. The fresh greenery of the garden was soothing, and she paused to sniff at a new rosebush that sat in the shadow of one of the monastery’s many pillars. Brother Nathan was forever planting new varieties, all with subtle differences. Knowing that they would not mind if she took a single bloom, she trimmed one of the smaller ones from the back of the plant with a careful cut of her belt knife. She gave an appreciative smile as she brushed the soft petals of the rose with her fingertips before moving closer to the sound of Samuel’s early morning practice, twirling the stem between her fingers.

She found him in the secluded back corner, the view of the rest of the garden blocked by large, squared off hedges that soared above her head. This was the contemplation area, a place of peace and quiet where supplicants could come and reflect on personal issues. Wooden benches were arranged along the wall, and flowering bushes stood in large planters between them to give them a sense of privacy, even when two people were sitting on benches beside one another. Her eyes were drawn to the target set up along the back wall, however, and the man that stood in front of it.

Brother Samuel drew another arrow to the curve of his cheek, his grey eyes narrowed in concentration. She watched the flare of his nostrils as he lined up his shot, the sunlight turning the soft leather jerkin he wore for practice into a smooth, buttery tan. Trousers of worked doeskin accentuated the long lines of his legs, the muscles taut in concentration. He was a tall man, well-built and lean, his form one of corded muscle. He was, the ladies of the village agreed when they were sure no one else was listening to their gossip, a waste to the celibate life of the monastery.

He didn’t acknowledge her presence until he loosed the arrow, the shaft hissing to its mark with deadly accuracy.

“Good morning, Mistress Adella,” he said, turning and inclining his head toward her. “You are up early.”

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping. I thought I would come and greet the morning in the Lord’s house.” She gave a small shrug, the little white lie not hurting anyone but herself. She had hoped he would be awake and practicing – she’d had many dreams about the tall, broad shouldered monk that left her smallclothes sodden and her fingers overworked.

“All the world is the Lord’s house,” he said, correcting her with a gentle smile as he nocked another arrow to his bow and drew it to his cheek. He was a fine specimen of a man, and she allowed herself an oblique stare from the corner of her eye as she pretended to watch the target. His eyes narrowed again, his focus sharpening as he sighted down the arrow to his target.

“You have such unflappable calm,” she said, as he loosed another arrow, this one striking home in the center of the target next to the others. “Is that aided by a life of contemplation?”

He walked down the length of the wall to retrieve his missiles. “Some. We were taught at a young age by my grandfather to ignore distractions. It allows for more accurate shots.”

“It also allows for an attacker to slip into your blind spots,” she said, grinning at him. Just last week a pair of boys had surprised him at the creek, so intent was he on his laundering of his robes that he took a tumble into the chilly water before he knew what was happening.

He cleared his throat, replacing the arrows in his quiver as he sighted down each shaft for imperfections in the wood or the fletching. “Erm, yes, it does, but I have done it this way for so long that I know nothing else.”

“So, no distractions can bother you at all?” She twirled the rose between her fingers again, deep in thought. Did she dare?

“Not usually, no. Unshakable concentration is a boon when one is deep in prayer, so I suppose there is a side benefit to that.” He shrugged and gave a lopsided smile. “I haven’t found the distraction yet that can best me.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” she said. She had meant it in fun, but the competitive light that fired in his eyes sent a tingle down her spine. He nocked another arrow, turning to the target.

“Try it.” There was command in that voice, one that showed he was convinced it would never succeed. It lit a spark in her chest that tingled all the way down to her core, a twin to the one she saw in his eyes, and she stood from the bench along the wall, moving up behind him. He drew the fletching to his cheek, sighting down the arrow.

The arrow thudded into the dead center of the target, even as her fingertips ghosted over the back of his neck in a tentative caress. She heard, rather than saw, the smug smirk in his voice as he reached for another arrow.

“My grandfather would trail behind us with a feather, tickling our ears and necks so that a shot would fly wild. You’ll have to do better than that, Adella. My concentration is hardly broken.” He drew the fletching to his ear again, sighting his shot.

She glared at the back of his head for a moment before she hit upon a delightful and devious idea. She still held the rose, the petals softer than any feather, and she brushed it along his ear in a delicate swipe, tracing the outer shell. The arrow hit its mark once again, a finger’s breadth shy of the last one.

He nocked yet another arrow, his silence smug and yet telling. She had gotten to him somehow. She drew the petals of the small rose along the back of his neck, watching the gooseflesh ripple at the nape in the wake of her caress. His hand flexed around the grip of his bow, and she could hear the audible swallow as he adjusted his stance a fraction.

“So, what do I get if I can break your concentration, Brother Samuel?” She allowed her voice to slip into a low chuckle, her breath washing across his ear as he took aim once again. “Shall we make a wager of it?”

“I have nothing to bet that would interest you, Adella, even if I were to go against the teachings of the Lord and gamble.” His voice was a careful, neutral tone, and she knew she was getting to him then. She gave another wicked chuckle against his ear, and she saw his jaw muscles work as he grit his teeth.

“Oh, there are plenty of things I could think of,” she said, her voice a low purr as she allowed her competitive streak to get the better of her common sense. She stepped closer, pressing herself against his back. “We could work something out.”

The arrow struck home, still on target. He nocked another, drawing the fletching to his ear in controlled, precise movements. She grazed his ear with gentle teeth, hearing the shuddering intake of breath as encouragement. He adjusted his stance, his breath catching in his throat as she dropped the rose, palms sliding along his taut stomach muscles as they flexed against her hands.

“I can see the appeal of archery here, Samuel. Such dedication to your craft leaves you with such musculature.” Her wandering palms slid lower, as did her voice, dropping to a whisper as she palmed him through the buttery doeskin of his trousers. She gave an appreciative sigh as she ran her fingers across the hardening length of his cock. “And I do so appreciate good musculature.”

“Adella, I –“ The fingers on the bowstring trembled as she gave him a gentle squeeze through his trousers, and he lowered the weapon. “Adella, no…please…”

“You brought this on yourself, Samuel,” she said, grinning against his throat as she pressed a kiss to the jittering pulse point. She flicked her tongue across it and felt it jump. “You and your foolish pride. Surely mere temptation will not distract you now? Take your shot, if you can.”

He swallowed hard, raising his bow again. The shot was true, hitting the mark with a solid thump. Samuel gave a half turn, as if to dissuade her, and she squeezed him again. He trembled like a horse that had galloped for miles, his legs spread and his head down as he gulped in a great breath of air to steady himself.

“Was this your plan, Samuel?” she whispered, feeling him slump a little as her fingers worked his thick length through his pants. “Make a game of it, have the blushing maid place her hands on your shoulders, maybe your neck, and you could stop the game whenever you wished?”

She cupped him as she pressed him back against her, feeling him buck against her hand. She heard a groan slip from between his clenched teeth. “I am no blushing maid now, Brother Samuel, and I will not be toyed with. Take. Your. Shot.”

He gave a full-body shudder, reaching for another arrow even as she worked the ties of his trews loose from their moorings. Her hands slipped inside, the twitch he gave at her touch an indication of how much he wanted her to wrap her fingers around him and she obliged, stroking her long fingers down his shaft to the base. She gave a squeeze and a strangled sound came from the monk as he loosed the arrow. It was, to her surprise, on the mark.

“Again,” she said, giving him a languid pump in reward for his diligence to his craft. Her fingers glistened as she pulled him free from his trews. She worked her hand up and down, squeezing when it seemed he would spill his seed too early. Her lower lip reddened as she bit it in concentration while she massaged him.

He did as she asked, shaking hands steadying the moment they touched the arrow. He nocked it, drawing the fletching to his ear as she ran her hand up his length again, his teeth gnawing his lower lip as he took aim. Her thumb circled the head of his erection, and he loosed the arrow with a hissing outpour of breath. It was still on target, unerring as it flew through the air to strike within the inner ring of the bullseye.

“Well done, Samuel.” She pressed herself against him more, feeling the desire for him pooling into her belly as she worked her hand along his cock. She could feel herself grow wet with the idea of dominating the man who had plagued her dreams. She worked her fingers up and over the head of his cock again, squeezing as she arched her hips against him to relieve some of the pressure. The friction was amazing, her aching pussy rubbing against his hips made her moan low in his ear.

She made an impressed noise as the arrow met the target again, this time erring to land on the ring just outside of the center. He gave an irritated grunt that turned into a whine of need as she stroked upward, angling her hands so that it would be just as if he were taking his cock in hand. She nibbled his neck and let her tongue trail along his ear as he reached for yet another arrow.

“You know,” she said, her fingers sliding along the head of his cock once more as he lined up his shot, “you are maddening. Have you any idea how much you’ve infuriated me over the years?”

“N-no.” He gave a slow shake of his head, sighting his shot again. “I was…unaware.”

“Then you are a fool, and I should have done this sooner.” She stroked again, faster this time, and he gave a groan as his cock thickened harder than before. She nipped his neck, and was rewarded when his shot went wide, skipping across one of the wooden benches and clattering against the worked stone of the wall.

He dropped the bow and stood with his head down, shuddering as she pressed herself against him. She slid from behind him to kneel in front of him, his erect cock juddering as her breath passed over it. The flicker of a pink tongue brought his hands to her face before he slid them into her hair. He tugged, and she licked her lips, looking up at him with a questioning expression.

“Do it,” he said, his voice husky.

She did, sliding his thick cock past plump lips. He groaned at the first flicker of her tongue along the sensitive ridge of the head. She lapped at the underside before swallowing him whole, the pressure of her throat around his cock squeezing and stroking him before she came up for air. He staggered backward, sitting with a heavy thump on one of the carved stone benches, and she followed to kneel between his knees, crawling on all fours like a predatory cat. Her tongue traced his length, then dipped down to caress his balls. She suckled, placing gentle, nibbling kisses along the length of his cock before engulfing him in her hot, wet mouth again. She hummed in pleasure, the vibrations from her throat making his head tip backward as his eyes slid shut.

He slid an encouraging hand into her hair, guiding her and tugging as he groaned aloud to the empty air. It echoed off the walls of the monastery, and the noise made her release him, her hands gliding up and over him as she stripped his leathers and tunic. He stood, and grabbed her, lifting her with ease.

She felt herself pressed back against the warm stone of the wall as he plundered her mouth, his hands tearing at her bodice. When the ribbons that held it in place wouldn’t give, he dug for his belt knife and sliced them apart, pushing the bodice down and off. His mouth descended on her soft, pert breasts, his tongue flicking at her nipples in tandem.

She writhed against him even as he lifted her to get at her throat and chest. She gave a gasp as his teeth nipped the column of her throat, his growl a low rumble as she wrapped her legs around his waist and clung like a limpet, unable to weather the storm without support. Her hands raked through his short hair, and her nails drew furrows down his shoulders when his teeth found her nipple again.

His broad hands rucked her skirts up to her waist, strong, square-tipped fingers jerking aside the smalls she was wearing as he thrust into her sopping pussy without preamble, her cry of shock and lust swallowed in his mouth. He thrust up into her, the slap of flesh the only noise in the quiet garden as he took her against the wall.

He let her down, and she understood his meaning, turning to face the wall. She spread her legs as he instructed, her pussy dripping wet and aching. He brought his palm down on the round swell of her ass, and the slap echoed off the sun-drenched stone around them. He thrust in, rough and hard, and she squealed, but the pace became frantic, his hands at her hips digging in as his cock filled her to the brim.

She moaned, and he slowed, drawing himself out and then thrusting in, filling her with the thick length of his cock. She ground down against him, her voice incoherent as she begged him for more. His sped up again, his fingers digging into the curve of her ass as he drove into her again and again, hitting a secret, sensitive spot inside, and she felt her orgasm curl through her as she came hard. He snapped his hips against her, the violence of his reaction not at all what she expected but exactly what her body wanted as she shuddered through her climax. He jerked against her as he chased his own release, biting down on her shoulder with a snarled oath as he came. He filled her in hot spurts as they sagged against the wall of the garden, exhausted if not sated.

His breath was hot in her ear as she stood on her feet at last, clutching the torn remnants of her bodice around her breasts.

“Did you win your bet, then, Adella?” He braced himself on the wall, his forearms on either side of her head.

“I don’t know,” she said, and her grin was one of triumph. “Did I?”

XXX

Nun Too Chaste

The church dormitory was empty, and Sister Sara twisted in the sheets on her bed. Her hands roamed over her nightgown, the plush fleece making her twist harder as her fingers passed over a taut, erect nipple. A low, keening moan passed her lips, and her fingers dipped lower to brush the moist lips of her pussy. She bit her lip as her fingers began to explore, her eyes closing as her head lolled back.

So good.

So, so good.

Her fingers dipped into the wet folds of her pussy, sliding along the slick surface to her clit. Her lip went between her teeth, and she let out another low moan, turning her face into the pillow to avoid detection. She could see him, his collar gleaming white as he bent over her, thrusting hard into her wet channel. Her other hand slid up, stroking over her nipple as she tweaked it into hardness.

She heard his heavy breathing, smelled the light cologne he wore. She groaned as she imagined his fingers roaming over her body. Her fingers worked faster over her sensitive clit as she came hard, muffling her breathy moaning into the pillow. Her fingers were slick and wet, and she panted as she collapsed against the pillows.

It wasn't until the lights of the dormitory flickered on that Sara realized she had been caught. Shame washed over her features as Mother Superior stood over her bed with a look of disapproval written all over her face.

"Sister Sara," she said, and her foot tapped loud enough to echo across the empty dormitory. "Are you well?"

"Well enough, Mother Superior." She blushed hard in her shame, and drew the blanket up over her breasts. "Is something wrong?"

"Perhaps you should speak to Father Christopher." Mother Superior frowned. "If you're feeling ill, we will see about getting you medical attention."

Sara nearly panicked at the mention of the new parish priest. While Father Christopher was a good man, he was also young, with laugh lines around his bright green eyes, an easy, warm smile and a head full of rich dark hair.

He also might have been who she was thinking about while she touched herself.

Mother Superior frowned again, and Sara felt the disapproval waft from the old nun in waves. She hunched her shoulders in, and swung her feet out onto the cold floor. Mother Superior left her to herself, shutting the door just short of an angry bang. Standing, Sara dressed herself in her habit and wimple, tucking her lush brown hair in under the headpiece. She used the single mirror the nuns allowed themselves, and tucked her rosary in her pocket before she made her way down the hall to the small suite of offices located behind the church.

The door to Father Christopher's office was well worn, but the faceplate was new, and there was a light burning behind the frosted glass of the door. She gave a tentative knock, and waited while her heart pounded out a tattoo against her ribs.

"Come in." His voice was just shy of tired, low and vibrating through the door. She swallowed and turned the knob, stepping into the office and shutting the door behind her.

Father Christopher looked up, his collar gleaming white in the lamplight. His hair was disheveled and stuck up at odd angles, and a cup of tea sat cold on the desk beside him. Despite all that, he smiled and gestured for her to sit down.

"Sister Sara, what a surprise. What are you doing up this late at night?" He wiped at his face and adjusted his collar. "I was, uh, just going over this paperwork…"

"Mother Superior sent me to see you." Sara said. She swallowed. "She says I should talk to you."

His brow creased in confusion, then cleared. "Ah, yes, I remember. I asked her to send you to me. Is there something bothering you?"

"Bothering me?" She swallowed, and couldn't meet his eyes.

"Yes, Mother Superior has said that you don't sleep very well. Is everything all right?"

"Well, no, I…" She hesitated. Then, the dam in her burst. "I've been having…feelings."