The aftermath of the vestry ritual had turned the Saint Jude Convent from a sanctuary into a psychological minefield. Sisters Clare and Mary were no longer sweet, helpful novices; they were highly organized, utterly insatiable "shepherd’s staff" enthusiasts.
Isabella spent the next twenty-four hours in a state of absolute, hyper-vigilant terror. If she turned over in her sleep, a soft, eager hand immediately slipped under her blanket to "check the pressure." If she tried to wash the courtyard steps, Clare and Mary would flank her, their eyes locked firmly on her lap, whispering about "the heavy weight" she was forced to carry.
Driven to the absolute brink by a cocktail of intense pleasure, mounting anxiety, and crippling Catholic guilt, Isabella knew she had to confess. She needed to purge her soul before she completely succumbed to the demonic bliss.
Slip-sliding through the stone corridors during the quiet afternoon hour, Isabella ducked into the dark, comforting woodwork of the main confessional booth. She slipped into the penitent's side, dropped to her knees, and let out a long, trembling sigh.
Forgive me, Father, she rehearsed internally, her hands gripping her rosary. I have entirely corrupted the youth. The curse has claimed them.
A floorboard creaked. Isabella blinked in the dim, shadowed cubicle as the heavy velvet curtain behind her rustled. Before she could even turn her head, two small, warm bodies slipped into the cramped space with her, instantly pressing against her from both sides.
"S-Sisters?!" Isabella squeaked in a terrified whisper.
"Shhh, Sister Isabella," Clare purred, her breath hot against Isabella’s ear as she reached around her waist. "You can't keep all this penance to yourself. We told Father Thomas we’d shadow you everywhere."
"Yes," Mary whispered, her small hands already boldly lifting the thick wool of Isabella's heavy habit, sliding right past her undergarments with practiced efficiency. "We can feel how tense you are. The devil is building up inside you again, Sister. Let us help you discharge it before the priest arrives."
"Wait—stop! We're in the house of—ah!"
Isabella’s protest mutated into a breathless gasp as Mary’s soft, nimble fingers locked firmly around the absolute unit of a problem hiding beneath her robes. The moment those cool hands made contact, the succubus curse flared to life like a struck match. The massive, rigid appendage surged forward, pulsing aggressively against Mary’s palm and throbbing straight into Clare’s waiting hands.
"Oh, goodness," Clare whimpered, her pure eyes glazed over with absolute, unholy devotion as she joined in, using both hands to firmly stroke the heavy, heated shaft in a rapid, synchronized rhythm. "It’s so thick today, Isabella... you must have been suffering so much..."
"Ah... mmmgh..." Isabella bit down hard on her own veil, her hips giving a helpless, involuntary twitch against the wall of the booth. The friction was dizzying, a double-team assault of soft, eager hands that knew exactly how to work the supersonic wrist technique she had accidentally taught them.
Slide.
The heavy wooden partition on the opposite side of the booth suddenly slid open with a sharp clack.
Isabella froze, her eyes widening in absolute horror as the silhouetted profile of Father Thomas appeared behind the latticed screen.
"Ah, bless you, my child," Father Thomas’s warm, booming voice echoed through the partition. "I am ready to hear your confession. What heavy burdens weigh upon your heart today?"
Isabella’s entire nervous system fried. She was pinned on her knees. Beneath her raised skirts, Clare and Mary were practically vibrating with excitement, their small wrists moving in a furious, hushed blur, pumping the raging, throbbing "staff" up and down. The raw, nerve-shattering pleasure was competing directly with the paralyzing panic of being caught by the head priest.
Every frantic stroke from the novices sent a wave of electric heat straight to Isabella's core, forcing her curse to grow even larger, swelling massively in their tight grips.
"F-Father..." Isabella choked out, her fingers digging so hard into the wooden kneeling bench that her nails threatened to splinter the oak. "I... I find myself... in a position of... deep... ahhh... deep contemplation..."
"Take your time, Sister Isabella," Father Thomas said sagely, adjusting his spectacles in the darkness. "The spiritual battle is a heavy one. In fact, I wanted to inquire—did those two young novices I assigned to you begin assisting with your daily duties? Have they been helping to handle your load?"
Down in the shadows, Mary let out a smothered, incredibly lewd giggle, her palm sliding over the slick, glistening crown of Isabella's curse, collecting the heavy, clear moisture that was starting to bead at the tip. She leaned down, licking her lips as she aggressively pumped her fist, while Clare used her free hand to gently knead the heavy weight at the base.
"Oh... nghh... yes, Father..." Isabella gasped, her head hitting the wooden wall of the booth with a soft, rhythmic thud-thud-thud as the novices accelerated their pacing. "They are... they are handling it... right now... with... extreme...dedication..."
"Wonderful! Truly marvelous!" Father Thomas beamed through the screen, completely oblivious to the fact that the entire wooden structure was subtly vibrating from the frantic, double-handed friction happening on the other side. "I knew those girls had a good work ethic. Is the burden feeling any lighter, my child?"
Clare couldn't help herself. Overwhelmed by the intoxicating, sweet succubus pheromones radiating in the cramped space, she leaned forward, her lips parting as she gasped directly through the fabric of Isabella's habit, murmuring out loud:
"Oh yes, Father... we are handling it so well... but it is a very heavy, rigid load... aaah... we're pulling out every bit of the devil we can find..."
Father Thomas blinked, tilting his head toward the screen. "Eh? Sister Isabella, did someone else just speak in there?"
Isabella’s heart stopped. The climax was rushing up on her like a freight train; the frantic, relentless up-and-down stroking from four soft hands was pushing her over the absolute edge. Her vision blurred, her curse throbbing so violently it felt ready to burst.
"It—It is just the echo of my sins, Father!" Isabella cried out, her voice pitching into a high, breathless wail as her hips bucked forward into the novices' tight grips. "The devil... the devil is... COMING!"
With a final, desperate gasp, Isabella’s body went completely rigid. A massive, unholy torrent of thick, curse-fueled release erupted from her, completely coating Clare and Mary’s hands, wrists, and the lower half of their robes in a warm, sweet-scented sticky glaze. The sheer volume of it splashed against the wooden interior of the booth with a heavy, unmistakable slap.
Isabella slumped forward, panting heavily, her forehead resting against the latticed screen, completely spent and trembling from head to toe. Clare and Mary collapsed against her shoulders, covered in the sticky aftermath, wearing identical, blissed-out, cross-eyed expressions of absolute corruption.
On the other side, Father Thomas nodded solemnly, wiping a sudden, mysterious stray droplet of warm moisture that had somehow seeped through the wooden lattice onto his cheek.
"My, what a powerful spiritual breakthrough," the priest murmured, deeply moved by her intense vocal display. "You have truly cast the enemy out, Isabella. Your penance is served. Go in peace, and keep up the good work with those girls!"
The screen slid shut.
Isabella sat in the sticky, heavily breathing darkness of the booth, looking at the two novices who were currently licking the sweet residue off their fingers with predatory smiles. She realized, with absolute certainty, that she was going to need a much bigger hiding place.