- Title: A Slippery Slope in a Nunnery
- Subtitle: where none of the nuns may dress improperly
- Series: Forced to Work in Girls’ Dress
- Author: Yulia Yu. Sakurazawa
- Transgender Category: MTF
Alex Pinto is the protagonist of “None of the Nuns May Dress Improperly” (Magdalene Sorority). Alex is quite a good-looking boy, 5 feet 9 inches tall, with an athletic body, honey-brown eyes and copper-streaked hair. He has a long face, a noble nose and full-lips: features that earn him the ‘beautiful’ sobriquet.
Mesmerized by the beauty of Irish nun, Stella Mary, Alex trespasses into nunnery grounds. He is caught and bullied by the young nuns, led by three lethal females called the Three Musketeers. Much to Alex’s embarrassment, the Three Musketeers decide to punish him by forcing him to wear a pale pink tunic and a wimple. Since they haven’t had much straight sexual activity in recent times, they also get Alex to pleasure them.
None of the Nuns May Dress Improperly
Series: Forced to Work in Girls’ Uniform
Chapter 1 – The Lovely Young Nun
The dew was crisp. The air carried with it the promise of fragrance. In spite of the glorious lightness of nature around me, I felt the customary weight in my heart. I was 21 years old and a final year BA student in a secluded Bangalore college, a stone’s throw away from my house, and was currently walking towards it with satchel on back. This had been my routine for the past three years.
In spite of being a theoretical ace at how the mind works (psychology), an expert at how news circulates (journalism) and the growth and progress of the economy (economics), I felt lost. My personality was one-dimensional and I hadn’t had any interaction whatsoever with the members of the opposite sex. My father, a strict disciplinarian, had made sure that I had studied in an all boys’ school and now in an all male college. I hadn’t had an opportunity to meet my mother as she had died after counteracting an infection a few days after giving birth to me. She hadn’t left me with any siblings either. In a strange irony, the few cousins I had on the maternal and paternal sides happened to be male.
There were girls living in my neighborhood, but I was too frightened to speak to them. Living in India can be very tricky: boys and girls are not allowed to mingle as freely as youngsters in western countries are. Dating is frowned down upon and is usually to be done stealthily. I knew a few people who had a boyfriend or girlfriend; they behaved as if they had committed a crime.
Like any young person my age, I had my share of….”urges”. I spent a substantial portion of my study hours dreaming about some half-dressed dolled-up heroine I’d seen in the movies. At nights, I fantasized about them and jerked off. Many a times, I had thought about going to the red-light area and having paid sex, but had backed off in the last moment. What if I got an STD in spite of using a condom? Furthermore, what if any of my father’s acquaintances saw me and complained to my father? My father is a short-tempered man. If he ever got a report to that effect, he would have skinned me alive.
As the tall, imposing nine feet wall made of stone came into view. I was momentarily distracted from the carnal nature of my thoughts. Magdalene Sorority. A home for nuns and religious sisters. Girls. Ladies. Colleens who covered themselves from head to toe. Women who were kept cloistered from the world, ostensibly to devote their lives to prayer, solitude and community service. Ladies whose duty was to pray for the world and redeem those who didn’t pray.
At that time, little did I guess about the true nature of Magdalene Sorority. Little did I imagine how different it was from other nunneries.
Lo now! The gates were opening! For some inexplicable reason my heart leapt and got caught in my mouth. It was almost as if my reaction was a precursor for what was to enfold. The gate opened an inch wider. I saw a tall figure whose form was nearly hidden by the pale pink tunic she was wearing. As she swung and latched the gate shut, I caught sight of a long scapular trailing down her noble back. And as she turned and looked in my direction, my heart stopped beating. For one whole minute, I was a dead man.
The prohibitive concealment provided by the wimple couldn’t hide her beauty. She had a Celtic marmoreal well-chiseled face that was free of all flush. Dark untrimmed yet most beautiful eyebrows cut through her delicate skin, forming two magnificent arches. A few tendrils of hair that had managed to escape the severe clutches of the wimple were the palest dandelion yellow I had ever seen. Her nose was straight and noble. The lips underneath were full enough but lacked sin. I was certain that no lusty tongue entertaining lascivious thoughts had passed over them. I was certain she hadn’t ever been kissed.
But it was her eyes I couldn’t forget. Those clear dark pools were more noble, honest and chaste that I had seen in any human being. They were those of an angel who had never lied, even to herself. Or never had a bad thought or committed even a semi-horrible deed.
I conjectured the young nun’s age to be about mine. She was as young, but had a purity and tranquility about her that belied her tender years. I know this is a sinful thought to entertain about a nun, but that night brought dreams… perhaps of an inappropriate kind. In them, she would slowly divest herself of the cross hanging in front of her body, gently keep the rosary aside and removed her scapular. She would then slowly take off the grey wimple covering her hair and shake those pale dandelion yellow locks free. Her hair, shaken from their confinement, would fall in soft uninhibited waves over her slender shoulders. I could see beads of pristine dew on them. Then she would demurely pull the pale pink tunic off from over her head. A pair of legs, as gawky, slender and coltish as a school girl’s would come into view. Then she would pull her slip up to the crotch and reveal untainted white cotton panties. The slip would come off tugging along with it the sensible white bra, revealing small rock-firm breasts with the palest nipples I could ever imagine. The panties would slither off those boyish thighs to reveal the most innocent pubis I could imagine on a grown woman. A Celtic triangle flushed a slight rosy pink showed between her legs. Her stomach was so flat and stretched that the slit of the naked pubis was clearly visible to my eye. Then she would stand watching me with a shy, yet suggestive gaze.
Madonna. Magdalene. A lady of immaculate conception. Also the common whore.
For a good one week, I couldn’t eat much. I spent my nights tossing and turning waiting fervently for the young nun (whom I’d labeled “Madonna” in my mind) to come and take off her habiliments. To come tease and get her to place my coarse lips on her tender ones. The rest—I dare not say.
I had changed, yet the mirror in front of me proved I was the same. Standing 5 feet 9 inches tall in my socked feet. With a face as long as Madonna’s, but infinitely browner and weather-beaten. With eyebrows that looked as if they had been neatly trimmed and hazy honey-colored pools for eyes. I had a fairly manly and agile body like most boys my age. But my face that had a rather fine nose and full red lips prompted many others to say that I was “beautiful”. An adjective usually reserved for girls was occasionally used to describe me.
Sunlight dappled over my artificially-colored copper hair and reflected at the nunnery. Stark granite stucco walls stared at me. Guava and eucalyptus trees—dense foliage—that were higher than the walls sneaked from above those forbidding falls. A board claiming “Entry not allowed. Trespassers will be prosecuted” blared loud and black-lettered at the entrance. A somewhat stern-looking security guard stood at the gate.
I stood for a whole hour waiting for her to appear. Then another. Time crawled by in the uncanny way that always does. The security guard bolted and locked the gate, put the key in her pocket and went off, presumably for lunch. I couldn’t bear it any longer. I had to see her. I made a stirrup of a few boulders lying in the corner and steeped on them. Then made a spring for the walls. I managed to encircle my arm around the high ornamental pillar by the side of the gate. I then hauled myself on to the wall. However, since it wasn’t flat, I slithered off its surface. I was thrown off a height of a good nine feet and landed on the ground. Luckily, the small bed of soft hay that happened to be lying below broke my fall. I wasn’t hurt, only mildly stunned.
I was on the other side. Inside the nunnery campus.
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