The morning sun over the Saint Jude Convent did not bring peace. To Sister Isabella, it brought a raging, throbbing reminder that she was a deeply, profoundly cursed woman.
Inside her small, spartan stone cell, Isabella was on her knees. Her knuckles were stark white, the wood of her prayer beads clicking like an aggressive metronome as she cycled through them with the speed of a frantic auctioneer. Sweat beaded on her forehead, rolling down her nose and dripping onto the cold stone floor.
"Our Father, who art in heaven," she chanted under her breath, her chest heaving beneath her heavy wool habit. "Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy kingdom come... come... oh, heavens, please don't let it come yet..."
She bit her lip, a soft gasp escaping her pouted mouth. The rhythmic chanting had completely backfired. The sheer repetition of the word come had taken a swift, wicked detour straight into her vivid, highly forbidden imagination. Her mind had slipped into the gutter, and like a well-trained soldier, her body was following suit. Beneath the thick, restrictive layers of her holy garments, a sudden, heavy pressure flared to life.
It was a very un-nun-like physical addition.
"Deliver us from evil," Isabella whimpered, her thighs squeezing together in a desperate bid for friction control. "Deliver me from TEMPTATION!"
It was no use. The holy thoughts were entirely losing the battle against her anatomy. Realizing her room was no longer a sanctuary, and that she was about to completely desecrate her small cot if she stayed put, Isabella snapped her eyes open. She needed a bathroom stall. She needed a deadbolt. And she needed it in the next ninety seconds, or morning mass was going to be an administrative nightmare for the entire diocese.
She scrambled to her feet, adjusting her veil with trembling hands, and flung her bedroom door open.
Isabella flew into the corridor like a woman possessed, her long skirts billow-trailing behind her. She rounded the first stone corner at a full-blown sprint, completely blind to the rest of the world, and instantly plowed straight into a solid wall of soft, lavender-scented linen.
"Oh!" a voice gasped.
The collision was catastrophic. Isabella and the other nun went tumbling to the floor in a chaotic tangle of black robes and white veils. Sheets and towels flew through the air like confetti. Isabella landed face-first, her nose burying directly into an exceptionally plush, incredibly soft pair of breasts belonging to Sister Beatrice—the convent’s notoriously beautiful senior herbalist.
"Sister Isabella?" Beatrice blinked, her face flushing a deep crimson as she looked up from the floor. "Are you alright? You're practically burning up!"
"I—I am—" Isabella started, but the words died in her throat.
The impact had shifted her robes. Right now, her hidden, curse-endowed "staff" was pressed firmly, unmistakably against Beatrice’s thigh. Beatrice let out a small, confused whimper, her eyes widening as she felt the sheer, rigid heat radiating through their combined layers of clothing.
"My, what a... sturdy rosary you have in your pocket, Sister," Beatrice stammered, the tail end of her sentence hitching.
"The fires of hell! They are chasing me!" Isabella shrieked in absolute panic.
She scrambled backward like a startled crab, leaped to her feet, and took off down the hallway at double her previous speed, leaving a thoroughly bewildered and deeply flustered Sister Beatrice sitting amidst the ruined laundry.
As Isabella’s leather boots clattered aggressively against the cold stone floor, her mind spiraled into a frantic, internal monologue. Why me? she screamed at the heavens. Why did I have to touch that stupid box?
The narrative of her undoing was a tragic comedy of errors. As a teenage orphan living at the church-run orphanage, Isabella had been a bit of a troublemaker. One afternoon, while avoiding her chores, she had snuck into the restricted, overgrown crypts beneath the old chapel. There, sitting atop a dusty pedestal, was an ornate, sealed relic. Being a curious child, she popped the latch.
She hadn't found gold. She had found a very annoyed, incredibly lazy, and heavily hungover Succubus who had been taking a century-long nap.
Annoyed at being awakened by a pimply human youth, the demon decided to play a cruel, ironic trick to spite the holy institution. With a flick of her tail, the Succubus cursed young Isabella with an insatiable, demonic libido and a massive, fully functioning futanari physique. “Let’s see how long the church keeps you now,” the demon had laughed before vanishing into smoke.
But the Succubus had severely underestimated Isabella’s sheer, stubborn naivety. Instead of leaving the church in ruin and shame, a crying Isabella had run straight to the main chapel, thinking, 'If I just stay inside the holy house and work really hard, the divine energy will shrink it and it will disappear!’
It hadn't shrunk. Not even a millimeter. In fact, over the next few years, it had only grown more robust. Isabella had been forced to become an absolute grandmaster of the "silent release," perfecting the art of relieving her built-up tension during high-pitched choir practices and long, droning sermons, desperately daydreaming about the very sweet-faced nuns who were trying to teach her modesty.
The flashback snapped shut like a steel trap as Isabella finally skidded around the final corner. The wooden door to the communal restrooms loomed ahead like the gates of paradise.
She threw her weight against the door, burst inside, and practically dove into the furthest stall. She slammed the heavy wooden door shut and slid the iron deadbolt into place with a resounding, echoing CLANG.
Safe. She was finally safe.
Isabella rested her sweating forehead against the cool wood of the stall door, her breath coming in ragged, desperate pants. The air inside the restroom was quiet, save for her own heartbeat drumming in her ears. Her hands moved down, lifting the heavy, suffocating layers of her black wool skirts to reveal the absolute unit of a problem her curse had manufactured for the morning. It was throbbing, furious, and completely uncooperative.
She closed her eyes, biting down on her own knuckles to stifle a whimpering moan as her fingers finally made contact.
"Forgive me, Father," Isabella whispered into the empty stall, her hips giving a helpless, desperate twitch. "But the devil is absolutely making me do it."