It’s my birthday today, so here is a gift. A selection from a project I am working on for Darling ALittleSpoonH.
CN: Fem Domme, Nuns, W/S, Slapping.
She couldn’t remember exactly what happened after Sister Georges slapped her, but when she awoke, she was tired, and angry. Her body felt limp and sore, and there was an awful taste in her mouth. She suspected, through her slowly clearing mind, that she had been drugged. Her mind was loose, foggy. Her vision was blurry; and though the room was dark, she rapidly closed her eyes to quell a rising wave of nausea, worsened by the harsh, clinical smell surrounding her. Somewhere between soap, iodine and the sting of alcohol.
Upon opening her eyes once more, she grew accustomed to the gloom, and found herself face to face with a young lady a year or two older than herself, with dark hair and eyes. Agnes jumped, and the woman laughed, making her long plait of dark hair shake.
“How you scream! You scream the loudest of any girl who came here before you.”
Her whispered voice was raspy. Her accent was almost English.
Agnes didn’t remember screaming, but when she swallowed, her throat was sore, as well as unpleasant-tasting, so she’d no reason to doubt her. She pictured Soeur L’Enfer’s wide, hateful eyes, her raised palm, in a white cotton glove. Her cheek seemed to sting at the thought. It wasn’t wholly unpleasant.
Still, the girl stared at her, smiling.
“Who are you?”
“Felicie.” The girl extended her hand as Sister Georges had done. Agnes held the fingers lightly. “Nervous hysteria, exhaustion and malaise.” She listed off her ailments like qualifications, or titles. “You’re naked.” She went on, matter of factly. “Aren’t you cold?”
Now Agnes raised a hand to her breast and belly; recoiling almost immediately. When had that taken place? Why?
“You were asleep, we didn’t think to wake you.”
“Nor dress me?”
She shrugged. “That’s not our place. Sister Georges brought you to us thus, naked and screaming, and we accepted it. Like we accept everything. You soon quietened down, anyway. It’s not a punishment. They probably just forgot about you. There are gowns in the dresser, over there.”
Agnes faltered, and as if knowing her thoughts, Felicie added.
“No one cares that you’re naked. They’re either asleep or doped up. You’ll soon grow so used to it that the sight of a breast or cunt will be as unremarkable as an arm, or an ear.”
The words in English, were jarring. She knew their meaning, though. Mme Delphine had been misinformed to the extent with which Agnes was familiar with the language of these isles. She would keep this fact from the grim band of sisters for as long as possible.
As soon as she moved, her skin rose in a wave of gooseflesh and she sprinted to the dresser, which was heavy and creaked when the drawers were slowly pried open. The first two rows held only stays and stockings; already Agnes was tired, her teeth chattering in the cold, but in the bottom drawer she found a sheaf of nightdresses. She shrugged the topmost one over her head – it was far too big for her, and gaped at the neck, baring her shoulder and breast.
“They all look like that.” Felicie commiserated “Nothing here fits correctly. Invalids do not deserve beautiful clothes. Only sacks with sleeves.”
Agnes was too cold to reply, slipping beneath the sheets and tucking them around her body like a piecrust. She shut her eyes fast and willed sleep to come, only suddenly her limbs ached terribly, even more than before. And she was still cold, of course. The sheets were thin and so icy they almost felt damp. There was silence, pierced only by the snores and mutterings of four other sleeping girls. Though her breaths were quiet, they shuddered out of her body, and the shaking made the bed frame moan.
“Here,” She was startled by a voice at her ear, and someone tugging at the bedclothes. Felicie was climbing into the bed beside her.
“I’ll soon warm you up.” She murmured, allowing her hand to settle, matter of factly, only for a moment, on Agnes’ breast, before looping her arm around her waist. She smelt sour, unwashed. Delicious.
Agnes said nothing, but in no time at all, she could not tell whose limbs were whose. Her body felt soft, as if dispersing into the ether, and sleep swallowed her up.
The next morning, roused by a piercing alarm at 6.30am, she was alone, and also less groggy. The room was filled with greyish light, and the noise of half a dozen girls waking, sneezing, coughing and in the furthest corner of the room, pissing in a china pan. When the woman lifting her gown to relieve herself caught Agnes’ eye, she simply shrugged.
“They lock us in here from 9pm to 7am. Where else are we to go?” Her hair was blonde, and waved. She was tall, and stout. The hair between her thighs was dark. Agnes still stared, until she had finished, wiped herself with the fullest part of her nightgown, and then pulled the whole thing off and wadded it up in her hands, heading towards a large laundry bin under the shuttered windows. She walked in an odd, shuffling way, and her arm, when she passed by Agnes’ cot, was rather withered. This was what reminded Agnes why she had been cast across La Manche to be convalesced.
The blonde goddess seemed to have set off a trend, for one by one the other women shrugged off their nightdresses and carried them to the basket. Blonde goddess had stopped by Felicie’s bed, her heavy breasts shifting as she sat, and leant in to kiss her.
The kiss was the most startling event Agnes had witnessed, surpassing even the public pissing. She had brushed her lips against those of her friends and acquaintances a hundred times, but never like this, never hotly, with her tongue damp and prying and her fingers gently drawing at the outline of their jaw.
The two drew apart, smiling.
“Good morning.” the goddess greeted her, smoothing a loose lock of Felicie’s hair away from her brow.
“Good morning” Felicie echoed, resting her head against the girl’s shoulder. They spooned for a few minutes, heedless of Agnes’ stares. They knew she knew no better. And besides, the Sisters would soon be at the door, and the war would begin again.
In time, Agnes was introduced to her room mates. Besides Felicie, there was Hilde (influenza), Nathalie (scarlet fever) and Mariette (scarlet fever). The blonde goddess was called Ernestine, but everyone called her Stine. She had suffered from polio badly in childhood; her right arm was almost useless, though her left was nimble, and in truth it was not such a hindrance as it looked. She only walked rather slower than the other girls. She commanded authority largely through height, and uncommon beauty.
Agnes had never seen so much queer prettiness all at once. At balls and luncheons, the women were stiff and guarded, preening for the attentions of wealthy and well-connected men, whether they liked it or not. Their breasts were artificially pert and their backsides padded. They were beautiful, too, but not in the same way. Their anxieties and drive masked the fairness each of us is born with.
The women crammed in the dormitory were sensuous, reckless. Maybe they didn’t know how luscious they were, but this was unlikely. Their careless moves were free.
Quite apart from Soeur L’Enfer’s intoxicating looks, Stine was comely and captivating, Felicie mischievous and daring. Hilde’s hair was red and poker straight; with it pinned behind her head, she looked like an illustration of a nymph in a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Mariette and Nathalie were best friends, both with chestnut curls and green eyes. They were coy, sweet as marzipan and delicate like china dolls.