The private study of Lady Beatrice’s manor was entirely too opulent, entirely too quiet, and entirely too intimate. Thick velvet curtains blocked out the afternoon sun, leaving the room bathed in the flickering, warm glow of a roaring fireplace.
Sister Isabella sat stiffly on a plush velvet settee, her large theological commentary book clamped tightly in her lap like a shield. Across from her sat the widow, draped elegantly over a chaise lounge, swirling a porcelain teacup with a manicured hand.
Lady Beatrice didn't know about Isabella’s curse. She didn't know about the demon, the "shepherd’s staff," or the absolute chaos currently unfolding back at the convent pastures. She was simply a young, obscenely wealthy, and profoundly bored widow who enjoyed pushing the boundaries of the local clergy. Corrupting a sweet, flustered young nun seemed like a marvelous way to pass a Sunday afternoon.
"Tell me, Sister Isabella," Beatrice purred, leaning forward so her low-cut mourning gown offered a generous view of her porcelain cleavage. "Does the church teach much about... the comforting of the flesh? Surely a devout soul like you understands how lonely a big, empty house can get."
Isabella swallowed hard, her eyes darting frantically to the ceiling. Her curse, highly sensitive from her recent ordeal with the cow-girls, was already beginning to stir from the sheer volume of pheromones Beatrice was putting out.
"The... the scriptures teach us to find comfort in prayer, Lady Beatrice," Isabella squeaked, her knuckles turning white against her heavy book. "We must guard ourselves against... worldly distractions."
"Oh, what a shame," Beatrice murmured, a predatory glint in her eyes. She stood up, smoothing down her sheer silk skirts, and glided over to the settee with a fresh pot of steaming chamomile tea. "I was hoping for a much more... hands-on demonstration of your faith."
Beatrice leaned over Isabella to pour her a fresh cup. She deliberately leaned too far, her heavy breasts brushing lightly against Isabella's shoulder. Isabella flinched, her heart hammering against her ribs, and her hidden, curse-endowed asset gave a sudden, violent throb beneath her robes.
"Oh, goodness!" Beatrice gasped dramatically.
With a theatrical slip of her wrist, Beatrice tilted the teapot. A splash of warm chamomile tea poured directly down the front of Isabella’s heavy black habit, soaking the thick wool right over her lap.
"Look what I've done! I am so terribly clumsy!" Beatrice cried, though her face wore a look of pure, mischievous delight. She immediately dropped the teapot onto the table, grabbed a silk handkerchief, and dropped to her knees right between Isabella’s thighs. "Let me dry you off, Sister! We can't have you catching a chill in those heavy layers!"
"No! Lady Beatrice, please, it's quite alright—ah! "
Isabella tried to scramble backward, but Beatrice’s hands were already working. The widow aggressively pressed the silk cloth against the soaked fabric of Isabella’s lap, wiping down with a firm, brisk stroke.
And then, Beatrice’s hand hit a literal wall.
The widow froze. Her manicured fingers, still pressing the handkerchief against the habit, didn't find the soft, flat anatomy of a normal nun. Instead, she encountered something impossibly rigid, incredibly thick, and radiating a sudden, massive wave of intense, furnace-like heat.
Beatrice’s eyes went wide. She blinked, her hand instinctively giving a firm, curious squeeze.
Beneath her palm, Isabella’s massive, curse-endowed "staff" gave a powerful throb, growing visibly larger and harder by the second under the widow's touch. The sudden, intense contact triggered the succubus curse into full survival mode, and a thick cloud of sweet, intoxicating pheromones instantly filled the small study.
Beatrice’s breath hitched. She looked up from Isabella’s lap, her face instantly flushing a deep, breathless crimson as her aristocratic composure completely disintegrated. She wasn't looking at a cute nun anymore. She was looking at something entirely otherworldly.
"Sister Isabella..." Beatrice whispered, her voice trembling as she slowly slid the silk cloth away, her bare hand wrapping completely around the unmistakable, colossal silhouette lifting the wool fabric. "What... what in heaven's name is...this? "
Isabella’s face was a map of pure, unadulterated panic. She pressed her back against the cushions, sweating profusely. "It—It is a heavy cross I am forced to bear, Lady Beatrice! A medical anomaly! A holy relic of discipline!"
"A relic?" Beatrice breathed, her sharp, predatory mind instantly connecting the dots. The sheer girth of it was mind-boggling, pulsing against her palm with an insatiable, demonic energy. The widow's inner horny demon didn't just awaken; it took total control. A wide, manic, completely obsessed smile spread across her face. "Oh... oh my. Sister Isabella... your 'faith' is... so large. So firm and steadfast."
"Lady Beatrice, please—"
"No, no, Sister," Beatrice purred, her eyes glazing over with pure, unholy lust as she aggressively yanked the heavy commentary book out of Isabella’s hands and tossed it onto the floor. She gripped the hem of Isabella’s habit with both hands, her knuckles white. "I am a grieving woman. I am in desperate need of... a spiritual awakening. Please... administer your holy rod of comfort to me. Right now."
With a sudden, forceful tug, Beatrice yanked Isabella's skirts straight up, exposing the fully awakened, glistening, and furious monster of a curse to the warm firelight.
Beatrice let out a soft, whimpering moan, her aristocratic dignity completely vanishing as she lunged forward, her lips parting to claim her new, mandatory Sunday afternoon blessing.
Lady Beatrice’s definition of "intensive scripture study" was an absolute athletic event.
By the time the grandfather clock in the manor's private study chimed five times, the plush velvet settee had been pushed entirely off its rugs, several expensive porcelain saucers lay shattered on the hearth, and the elegant, wealthy widow had been thoroughly, profoundly "comforted." Beatrice was currently draped across the plush carpet like a content, high-society cat, her dangerously sheer mourning gown torn aggressively at the shoulder, her breathing light and shallow as she clutched a leather-bound Bible to her chest with a blissed-out, cross-eyed smile.
Isabella, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with a mixture of raw physical exhaustion and overwhelming spiritual panic.
She scrambled out of the manor’s grand mahogany doors, her habit hastily rearranged, though the fabric still felt damp from a combination of spilled chamomile tea and the thick, sticky aftermath of Beatrice’s frantic, aristocratic corruption. The summer air hit her face, but it did nothing to cool the raging furnace of her succubus curse, which was still twitching, hypersensitive, and heavily satisfied beneath her skirts.
The walk back down the winding cobblestone hill toward the Saint Jude Convent was a waking nightmare of Catholic guilt.
Isabella’s boots clattered aggressively against the stones, her knees knocking together with every shaky step. Her hands were shoved deep into her pockets, her fingers flying over her wooden rosary beads at a manic, supersonic pace.
"Hail Mary, full of grace... the Lord is with thee... blessed art thou among women..." Isabella chanted, her voice a ragged, breathless whisper as she sweated bullets beneath the suffocating wool. "And blessed is the fruit of thy womb... oh heavens, the fruit was far too sweet today... forgive me, Father... I have completely desecrated the nobility..."
Every time she closed her eyes, she didn't see holy visions; she saw the wild, manic look in Lady Beatrice’s eyes when she had wrapped her manicured fingers around the "staff" and demanded the "holy rod of comfort." The sheer, aggressive stamina of the wealthy widow had pushed Isabella’s demonic curse to its absolute limits.
"Clean thoughts. Think of white clouds. Think of unbuttered bread," Isabella whimpered, wiping a thick bead of sweat from her forehead. "I am just a simple nun. I am a vessel of the church. I will go back to my cell, lock the door, and fast for a week."
As the high stone walls of the convent finally loomed into view, Isabella took a deep, shaky breath, trying to smooth down her crooked veil. She just needed to slip past the kitchen before Clare and Mary spotted her and avoid looking toward the outer pastures where the cow-girls were likely still basking in the hay.
She slipped through the main iron gates, sticking to the shadows of the cloisters, and practically sprinted toward the rectory to file her afternoon report.
"Ah! Sister Isabella! You've returned from the hill!"
Isabella froze in the hallway, her heart violently leaping into her throat. Father Thomas was standing right outside his office, a grin so wide it threatened to split his jovial face in half. In his hands, he was holding a massive, leather-bound ledger and a heavy, velvet pouch that clinked with the unmistakable, glorious sound of high-denomination gold coins.
"F-Father Thomas," Isabella squeaked, her hand instinctively dropping to her lap to guard her still-throbbing anatomy. "Yes. I have... returned from Lady Beatrice’s manor. The... the theological discussion was... exceptionally rigorous."
"Rigorous? My child, it was a total, miraculous triumph!" Father Thomas boomed, clapping her enthusiastically on the shoulder—a gesture that made Isabella’s knees nearly buckle right then and there. "Just ten minutes ago, a carriage from the estate arrived with a second donation! Look at this! It is more gold than this parish has seen in a fiscal quarter!"
Isabella blinked blankly at the bulging velvet pouch. "She... she sent more?"
"Not just more, Isabella! She has officially become a reformed, hyper-involved regular!" Father Thomas beamed, opening his ledger to show a freshly signed contract. "Lady Beatrice sent a letter stating that your 'spiritual awakening' methods were so profound, so deeply penetrating, that she wishes to renew her faith every single week! She has committed to a mandatory, high-tier Sunday afternoon scripture block. She explicitly told me to remind you every Sunday morning to pack your heaviest study guide and come over."
Isabella’s jaw dropped. The trap hadn't just closed; it had been plated in twenty-four-karat gold and funded by the nobility.
"And that's not all," Father Thomas chuckled warmly, completely oblivious to the sheer, unadulterated horror dawning on Isabella's face. "Sister Clare and Sister Mary were so inspired by your dedication that they’ve been waiting in your dormitory all afternoon, preparing a 'muscle-relieving' holy oil for your return. Go on, Isabella! Go get your well-earned rest!"
Isabella stood frozen in the corridor as the priest walked away, humming a joyful hymn. She looked down at her hands, which were still clutching her rosary beads, and realized with absolute certainty that she was going to be the most heavily used, highly demanded, and thoroughly exhausted servant of the cloth in the entire kingdom.