The walk back from the outer pastures was a blur of aching muscles, trembling knees, and a profound, terrifying sense of physical defeat.
Sister Isabella practically dragged her boots along the dirt path, her face a permanent, dazed shade of scarlet. In her right hand, she loosely clutched the handle of a tin bucket, which was now filled to the brim with warm, exceptionally thick, sweet-scented fresh milk.
Behind her, hidden away in the dark, hay-scented bliss of the barn, lay three thoroughly satisfied, blissed-out, and happily bred cowgirls. Bessie, Daisy, and Clover were currently napping in a pile of tangled limbs, snoring softly with smiles on their faces, their tails giving occasional, content little twitches.
They had made it abundantly clear before Isabella managed to slide the barn door open to escape: they expected regular top-ups. Bessie had even checked her calendar, completely unbothered by her nakedness, and told Isabella that "the herd requires a strict breeding schedule to maintain peak production."
Isabella stumbled into the convent kitchen like a ghost returning from the underworld. She set the heavy tin bucket down on the counter with a hollow thud, her arms numb.
"Ah, Sister Isabella! You've returned!"
Isabella jumped a mile into the air, her hand instantly slapping over her lap out of pure, deep-seated survival instinct.
Sister Clare and Sister Mary were standing by the pantry, holding a fresh batch of dish towels. The moment they saw Isabella, their eyes lit up with that predatory, insatiable hunger that had become their new signature look. They immediately noticed her disheveled habit, her flushed face, and the distinct, intoxicatingly sweet scent of succubus pheromones clinging to her clothes.
"My, look how much milk you brought back," Clare purred, stepping closer and eyeing Isabella’s trembling thighs with a wicked little smirk. "But you look absolutely exhausted, Sister. Your load must have been so heavy out there in the fields."
"Yes," Mary whispered, flanking Isabella on the left, her hand already casually brushing against the fabric of Isabella's skirt. "Why don't we take you back to the dormitory? We can help you... untangle your robes and relieve all that built-up tension from your long walk."
"No! No, thank you, sisters!" Isabella squeaked, her voice pitching an octave higher as she backed away from them, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her curse, still incredibly sensitive from the relentless milking session in the barn, gave a violent, defensive throb beneath her robes. "I am... I am perfectly fine! I must... I must go speak with Father Thomas immediately about... village outreach! Yes! Charity work!"
Before the two novice devils could lock their hands around her, Isabella spun on her heel and bolted from the kitchen, running for her absolute spiritual life.
"Father! Father Thomas, please hear me!"
Isabella burst into the rectory office, practically throwing herself across the priest’s heavy oak desk. Her veil was crooked, her breath was ragged, and she looked like a woman who had been pursued by a pack of wolves.
Father Thomas blinked up from his ledger, entirely startled by her sudden, dramatic entrance. "Good heavens, Sister Isabella! What is the matter? Did something happen out at the pastures?"
"The... the cowgirls are a handful, Father!" Isabella gasped out, sweating profusely as she tried to compose herself. "They are... highly productive! But I realize that my true calling... my absolute, desperate need for spiritual growth... lies in the village! I must do house visits, Father! The sick, the elderly, the lonely! Please, send me to the farthest manor in the parish! I need to be a normal servant of the community!"
Father Thomas’s eyes welled with sudden, emotional tears. He slowly stood up, clapping his hands together in profound, holy awe.
"Such selflessness... such boundless, tireless energy for the Lord's work!" the priest breathed, deeply moved. "Most sisters complain about the long walks to the village, but here you are, practically begging to expand your ministry! It is a true miracle, Isabella. And as it happens, a solution has just presented itself!"
Father Thomas reached into his drawer and pulled out a heavy, beautifully sealed envelope, along with a massive, incredibly thick stack of gold coins that practically gleamed in the sunlight.
"Just an hour ago, Lady Beatrice, the wealthy widow who lives at the grand manor on the hill, sent a generous donation to our parish," Father Thomas explained, beaming with pride. "The poor soul has been terribly lonely since her husband's passing. She requested—no, she begged—for a devout, energetic sister to visit her estate every Sunday afternoon for intensive scripture study and... personal comfort."
Isabella let out a long, shuddering breath of pure, unadulterated relief. A wealthy widow, she thought, her shoulders finally dropping. An elegant, elderly lady who just wants to read the Bible and drink tea. Perfect. Safe. Normal.
"I will go, Father," Isabella said earnestly, bowing her head. "I will provide her with all the spiritual comfort she requires."
"Bless you, my child! Lady Beatrice is expecting you this very Sunday," Father Thomas smiled. "Go and administer your holy guidance!"
Two days later, Sunday afternoon arrived.
Isabella walked up the winding, cobblestone pathway toward the massive, lavish manor on the hill. For the first time in a week, she felt a sense of genuine peace. She had managed to sneak past Clare and Mary while they were cleaning the cloisters, and the cowgirls wouldn't expect her back at the barn until Tuesday.
She smoothed down her freshly washed habit, took a deep breath of the crisp air, and knocked firmly on the heavy mahogany front doors.
"Ah... you must be Sister Isabella."
The door swung open, and Isabella’s peaceful facade instantly shattered into a million pieces.
Standing in the grand entryway was Lady Beatrice. She was not a frail, elderly grandmother. She was a stunningly gorgeous, incredibly elegant, and voluptuous woman in her late twenties, wearing a dangerously sheer, tight-fitting black mourning gown that left very little to the imagination. Her eyes were sharp, dark, and predatory.
"Please, come in," Beatrice purred, her gaze slowly tracking down Isabella’s frame, lingering with a strange, intense curiosity on her midsection. "The nights have been so cold and empty since my husband passed, Sister... I am in desperate need of a... very rigorous, spiritual awakening."
Isabella swallowed hard, her throat feeling completely dry. "L-Lady Beatrice... I have brought the heavy commentary texts on the book of Psalms..."
"Wonderful," Beatrice smiled, a slow, wicked curve of her lips as she closed the heavy mahogany doors behind them and slid the brass lock into place. Click. "Let us go into the private study. I’ve heard rumors that the convent possesses a very... vigorous, healing energy. I intend to study your text very closely, Sister."
Isabella stood in the lavish foyer, looking at the beautiful, hungry widow leading her into the dark mansion, and internally, her soul began to scream all over again.
She was officially out of places to hide.