The Night a Colonel Entered My Cell

It has been three years since I left the convent, but I still wake in the middle of the night smelling wet stone and stale tobacco. I never told anyone what happened there. Not even in confession. This is the first time I have put into words what happened between Colonel Damián and me.

It was October, and the rain fell over the mountains as though it wanted to bring the walls down. I was twenty-three, had been a novice for two years, and was one of the four women who inhabited that old building lost among the northern oaks. My brown hair hidden beneath my veil. I moved so quietly that the older sisters called me “the shadow.” They said I would go far.

All I knew was that every night, when I put out the candle, I thought of him. And that beneath my habit, my nipples hardened and my pussy grew wet on its own, without anyone touching me, simply at the memory of his voice.

He had first come at the end of August. He was a personal friend of the bishop, and we were asked to put him up for three days while some papers were being signed at the diocese. He arrived in a dark car with tinted windows, his uniform pressed and his decorations arranged across his chest. A man far too large for our narrow corridors.

When they introduced him to me in the courtyard, he lowered his head to look at me properly. He shook my hand with a firmness that was not that of a respectful visitor. I lowered my eyes. I felt all the blood rushing into my face.

“Sister,” he said, in that broken voice that dragged out every syllable. “Don’t be afraid to look at me.”

I did not look at him. But that night I dreamed of him, and woke with my hand between my thighs and my panties soaked.

He came back three more times before the October storm. Each visit was longer than the last. On every visit we found a reason to cross paths in the cloister: we talked about the cold, the vegetable garden, the crows nesting in the tower. His black eyes said something else, and we both knew it.

Hair shirt. Fasting. More prayer. I tried everything. At night I knelt on the stone floor until my knees could take no more. It was useless. The more I punished my body, the more alive I kept him inside me.

***

The fourth visit coincided with the worst storm of the autumn. The roads were blocked, there was no way down to the village, and the mother superior offered him one of the guest cells in the north wing. Directly across from mine.

I found out at dinner. When I rose from the table, my hands were trembling.

At nine I put out the candle and pretended to sleep. At ten the mother superior made her final rounds. At eleven the entire convent was silent. The only sounds were the rain, the crows, and my own breathing.

At midnight, footsteps.

Heavy. Slow. They were not a sister’s footsteps. They crossed the corridor and stopped outside my door. I was kneeling once again before the little altar, still dressed in my habit, with the candle trembling on the ledge. The door opened without a sound.

It was him. He filled the entire doorway. His uniform collar was open and his tunic unbuttoned, his cap gone, his gray hair disheveled by the rain. He smelled of tobacco and wet wood.

“Sister,” he murmured. “I couldn’t endure another night. I get hard just thinking about you.”

I rose slowly, my hands clasped in front of me as if I were praying, though I no longer knew to whom. He closed the door with his elbow and came toward me. The difference in size became more obvious with every step: me, small inside the black habit; him, broad and tall, with that firm belly bulging against his shirt. He wrapped both hands around my waist. They were enormous and hot.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I whispered. My voice came out so faintly that I hardly recognized it.

He smiled beneath his graying mustache and placed his palm over my lips.

“Hush, my girl. Just let me be with you for a while. Let me see what that habit is hiding.”

And he kissed me.

It was slow at first. Then it wasn’t. His mouth was hot, his mustache scraped my cheeks, and I felt his whole tongue entering mine, searching for it, sucking it as though he wanted to tear it out. His whole body pressed against mine through the fabric of the habit. Something large and hard was growing between his legs. I felt it against my belly, a throbbing bulge. I did not pull my hips away. On the contrary: I pressed myself against him, rubbing against him without meaning to, feeling his cock outlined completely beneath the uniform trousers. That was the first thing I did wrong.

“Damián…” I sighed against his lips.

It was the first time I had called him by his name.

“Say it again,” he asked, biting my lower lip. “Tell me my name, my girl.”

“Damián.”

He lifted me into his arms as if I weighed nothing and carried me to the stone bench beneath the window. He sat down. He spread his legs. I knelt in front of him without his asking me to. I was still wearing my veil, my habit intact, my heart beating in my throat.

I undid his tunic with clumsy fingers. I loosened his belt, his uniform trousers, and his black underwear. What appeared took my breath away: a thick, dark cock, crossed by heavy veins, completely erect against his belly. The tip gleamed with a thick drop that trickled downward. Beneath it, two heavy, swollen balls, full and taut. I looked at it for one whole second without touching it, trying to understand what a mouth like mine was going to do with it.

“Slowly,” he murmured, his voice no longer commanding but pleading. “However you want. There’s no hurry. Look at it properly first. Look at all of it, because it’s yours tonight.”

I took it in my hand. I was trembling. My fingers could barely close around it. I squeezed it gently and felt it throb against my palm, felt it swell even more. I ran my thumb over the wet tip and brought my finger to my mouth without thinking. It tasted of salt and man. He let out a hoarse moan when he saw me do it.

“Fuck, sister. Fuck.”

I kissed the tip first, an almost pious kiss, and he made a deep sound that echoed off the walls. Then I stuck out my tongue and licked him all over, from the balls to the tip, very slowly, tracing each vein with my tongue. I licked his balls too, one and then the other, while holding his cock in my hand and moving it slowly up and down. He threw his head back and struck the wall with his nape.

“That’s it, my girl. That’s it. With that saint’s mouth.”

Then I opened my mouth and took him in. Slowly. As slowly as if I were receiving communion. His head barely fit; my lips stretched, and I felt the hot flesh advancing over my tongue. I lowered myself little by little, never taking my eyes off him from below, until the tip touched the back of my throat and I had to breathe through my nose. I rose again, pulled him all the way out with a wet sound, and put him back in. Again. And again.

As I moved my lips up and down, one of my hands caressed his chest covered in gray hair, his taut nipples, his firm, warm belly. The other kept pace below, squeezing the base and playing with his balls. He had placed his open palm on my veil without removing it, simply resting it there, as if he needed to remind himself that it was me, that it was the sister, and no one else. Then he began to squeeze. To push my head down. To fuck my mouth slowly, with that broken rhythm he had when he spoke.

“My God,” he panted. “What a mouth. What a mouth you have, my sister. Suck me like that. All of me. Let that little mouth fill up.”

I was soaked beneath my habit. I felt my pussy swollen and throbbing, so wet that it was running down the insides of my thighs. I had not known the body could react that way without anyone touching it. His taste, the weight of his cock on my tongue, his voice, the feeling of being on my knees, of serving him, of not deciding anything… they carried me to somewhere new. I slipped one hand beneath my habit, between my legs, and touched myself. My clitoris was burning. With two fingers I began to rub myself while continuing to suck him. I felt the first shudder rise from my thighs. He noticed.

“Don’t hold back,” he said, his voice breaking. “Come with me in your mouth. I’m not going to hold back either. Swallow it, my girl. Swallow it all.”

I quickened my pace. I squeezed his balls with one hand while rubbing my pussy with the other as if my life depended on it. I felt his cock swelling even more between my lips, growing harder, throbbing. When he came, he did so with a deep growl unlike anything I had ever heard. I felt the first hot jet strike the back of my throat, then another, and another, thick, dense, long. His cum filled my mouth in waves. I swallowed what I could, but there was so much that it spilled from the corner of my mouth, ran down my chin, and stained my veil. I took it all, without pulling him out, eyes closed, while my own body surrendered beneath my habit and I came too over my fingers, my legs spread on the stone floor. It was a silent orgasm, without a cry, but so long that I had to brace myself against his knees so I would not fall to the floor.

Afterward, the only sounds were the rain. And my own ragged breathing, his semen still in my mouth.

***

He took my face in both hands and made me stand. He looked at my dirty mouth, my stained veil, and smiled with a tenderness that did not belong to a man who had just come down a novice’s throat. He kissed me on the mouth without caring about the taste, slowly licking the remnants of his own cum from my lips, as if he wanted to leave a mark that would last beyond that cell.

“Come, my girl.”

There was a small washroom with a tiny shower in the room. He carried me there almost in his arms. He removed my veil first, with a care I had not expected from such large hands, and then unbuttoned my habit, button by button, until I stood naked beneath the yellow light. My small, white breasts, with their stiff pink nipples; my flat belly; my brown pubic hair, shiny and still soaked. He stood looking at me for a long while without saying anything, breathing heavily.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Look how wet you are. All for me.”

He ran two fingers between my thighs, from bottom to top, parting the lips of my pussy, and drew them out glistening. He put them in his mouth. He sucked them slowly, closing his eyes.

“You taste like heaven, sister.”

He did not take off his shirt. He turned on the tap and, while the hot water fell over me, washed me himself: my small breasts, my waist, my thighs, my back. He stopped at my nipples, pinching them until I moaned. He put his hand between my legs again, with the soap, and slid his fingers inside me, two at first, and then three, opening me slowly, while holding me against the wall with his other hand. I clenched my teeth to keep from screaming. My skin turned red. My legs trembled. I came again against his hand, my forehead resting on his shoulder, biting his wet shirt.

“You’re very delicate,” he murmured, running his thumb over my collarbone. “There aren’t many women like you left.”

I cried beneath the water. I did not know whether from fear or relief.

“I love you,” I told him, in a voice that was not my own. “Even if it’s a sin. Even if we shouldn’t. I love you, Damián.”

He did not answer at once. He dried me with a large towel, kissed my forehead, then my temple, then my mouth. He took a thin white nightgown from the wardrobe, as though he knew the cell better than I did. And then he told me, softly, almost against my ear:

“And I love you, sister.”

We both got into my narrow bed. He was wearing only his underwear, but even through the black fabric I could feel his cock, half-hard again, against my hip. I curled up against his chest, against that firm belly, the thin nightgown wrinkling between us, and felt him wrap one arm around me and cover me with the sheet with the other. The rain continued falling outside.

“Sleep,” he told me, his mouth against my hair. “I’ll wake you tomorrow.”

***

I woke with the first rays of light and his hand inside my nightgown, closed around one breast, squeezing my nipple between two fingers. The storm had passed. Gray, clean light entered through the little window. He was already awake, watching me, and against my ass I felt his cock swollen again, hard and burning through the underwear.

“Good morning, beautiful sister,” he said in a hoarse voice, smiling beneath his mustache.

“Good morning, Damián.”

I buried my face in his chest. He smelled of sweat, tobacco, warm skin, and me. I kissed him over his heart. He pushed my nightgown up to my waist and ran his open hand over my ass, squeezing it, separating my cheeks, searching for my pussy from behind with his fingers. I was wet again. He penetrated me with two fingers all the way in, and I moaned against his skin.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time,” he murmured. “So small, so quiet, so mine. So tight, sister. You’ve got me squeezed so tightly here.”

He took off his underwear. He laid me on my back, very slowly, and settled between my legs. I had never been with anyone before. He opened my thighs with both hands and ran the tip of his cock up and down the lips of my pussy, wetting it with my juices, searching for the place. When he pushed, he entered little by little, an inch at a time, letting me feel him open me completely. It hurt at first, a clean pain, and then began to burn in a different way. When he was fully inside, his balls resting against my ass, he stayed still above me, cupping my face with one hand.

“There, my girl. You’ve got all of it inside you now. Look how it goes into my little sister.”

He began to move. Slowly. Very slowly. Every thrust filled me completely and drew a moan from me. I dug my nails into his back over his rumpled shirt. He lowered his mouth to my breasts, sucked my nipples, bit them gently, and returned to my mouth with his tongue. The iron bed creaked with every thrust. My nightgown bunched up to my neck. My brown hair, now free of the veil, stuck to my sweaty face.

“Damián…” I panted. “Damián, more… more.”

“Say it. Tell me what you want.”

“Fuck me. Fuck me, Damián. Please.”

I had never said that word aloud. It escaped me like a prayer turned backward. He smiled against my neck and sped up. He drove into me all the way, withdrew almost completely, then sank back in. I felt my pussy squeezing his cock on its own, contracting, preparing itself. I came first, my legs locked around his waist, biting his shoulder so I would not scream and wake the entire convent. The orgasm shook me in endless waves, and I felt my pussy milking his cock inside me. He held out for a few more thrusts, then pulled out abruptly, rose onto his knees until he was above my belly, and came in jets over my breasts, my neck, my chin. Thick and hot, in heavy waves that marked my white skin.

He stayed panting above me. He dipped two fingers into his own semen on my chest and brought them to my mouth. I sucked them without taking my eyes from his.

“Mine,” he murmured. “Mine for today.”

Afterward he cleaned me with the sheet, with the same tenderness with which he had unbuttoned my habit, and embraced me again. I did not answer at once. I was trying to memorize everything: the weight of his arm, the warmth of his body, the rhythm of his breathing, the smell of the two of us mingled together. I knew even then that this would be the only morning.

“I want to stay like this forever,” I whispered.

“Then stay. Today. Just today.”

And that was what I did.

He went down to the village at four in the afternoon, as soon as the road was cleared. I never saw him again. Three months later I read in the newspaper that he had died in his home, asleep. They gave him military honors. That night, the mother superior lit a candle in the chapel and prayed for him aloud, never knowing what she was doing.

I did not say goodbye then. I couldn’t. I left the convent the following year, without scandal, claiming I had mistaken my calling.

But this is my confession, and I am writing it down because I can no longer carry it alone: it was not a mistaken calling. It was one night that was worth all the ones I will never have.