The freezing water of the shower stall had long since ceased to feel cold. Under the relentless, vibrating assault of Tabbi’s deep, throat-resonating purr, Sister Isabella’s core temperature had soared to match the fires of the deepest purgatory.
For several agonizingly blissful minutes, the catkin cleaner treated Isabella's curse like the ultimate prize of the hunt. Tabbi’s head moved in a tight, greedy rhythm, her small hands firmly anchoring Isabella’s thighs to the wet stone as she drew out every ounce of the demonic heat. The intense, motor-like humming inside Tabbi's throat didn't stop for a single second, continuously sending weaponized waves of electric ecstasy straight up the shaft and into Isabella’s completely fried nervous system.
"Tabbi—nghhaa—no more, I'm... I'm going to..going to.. CUMMMM! " Isabella wailed, her fingers digging desperately into the catkin’s soft shoulders as her vision blurred into a haze of white light.
The warning came far too late. With a final, violent throb that felt like it shook the very foundations of the washroom, Isabella’s body went entirely rigid. A massive, roaring eruption of curse-fueled release tore through her, completely filling the catkin’s throat.
Tabbi’s eyes blew wide once more, her throat moving in a series of heavy, frantic gulps as she bravely swallowed down the immense, sweet-scented torrent. When she finally slid off the shaft, a thick, milky trail of the unholy aftermath drizzled over her chin and down her collarbone.
"Mnyaaa..." Tabbi purred dopily, collapsing sideways against the wet stall wall. Her eyes were completely glazed over, her calico ears flopping limply to the sides, and her striped tail giving slow, content thumps against the tile. "Cream-filled... mouse...so yummy..."
Isabella lay flat on her back under the running water, panting like a landed fish, her chest heaving beneath her soaked undergarments. Her colossal appendage slowly began to soften, though it still throbbed with a residual, hypersensitive ache.
I am doomed, Isabella thought, staring blankly at the ceiling tiles. The nobility, the novices, the livestock... and now the domestic staff. The entire diocese is compromised.
She forced herself to sit up, her muscles trembling like jelly. The freezing well water was still cascading over her, but her "cold shower punishment" had been entirely derailed. She needed to get out of here immediately before Tabbi recovered enough to demand a second course.
"Tabbi," Isabella squeaked, her voice entirely hoarse as she scrambled to her feet, holding onto the iron pipe for support. "You... you must compose yourself. You are a cleaner of the church. We must dress and forget this... this demonic intervention."
Tabbi let out a lazy, blissed-out mewl, curling up on the wet floor of the stall like a cat basking in a sunbeam. "Tabbi is a very thorough cleaner, Sister... Tabbi cleaned the whole thing right to the base..."
"Yes, well, you did an exceptionally thorough job," Isabella muttered, her face burning a violent shade of crimson as she hastily grabbed her dry habit from the bench outside the stall.
She threw the heavy black wool over her head with frantic, uncoordinated movements, not even bothering to properly dry herself. Her skin was freezing, her clothes were sticking to her damp body, and her crooked veil was slapped onto her head askew. She was cutting her isolation time short, completely driven by the terrifying reality that a highly zealous, insatiable catkin cleaner was currently occupying her only escape route and refusing to leave the premises.
"I am leaving now, Tabbi! Clean the floors! Do your duties!" Isabella panicked, practically throwing herself at the heavy iron deadbolt of the main washroom door.
She slid the lock back with a loud CLANG, flung the door open, and made an incredibly hasty retreat up the stone stairs, her wet leather boots squelching loudly with every desperate stride.
Meanwhile, down in the washrooms, Tabbi remained slumped against the stall wall for several minutes, wearing a goofy, cross-eyed smile of absolute corruption. The sweet, intoxicating succubus pheromones still hung thick in the damp air, making her head spin with lingering delight.
Eventually, her calico ears twitched. Faintly, from the upper floors, the distant tolling of the evening prayer bells echoed down the stairwell.
"Oh!" Tabbi blinked, her feline instincts suddenly remembering her actual job. "The floors! Tabbi has to finish scrubbing before Mother Superior does the inspection!"
Scrambling to her feet with newfound, pheromone-fueled energy, Tabbi grabbed her wooden mop. She was a cat, however, and her focus was notoriously short-lived. In her frantic rush to splash water over the tiles and make the room look presentable, her dazed brain completely overlooked the actual stall where the encounter had taken place.
She thoroughly wiped down the main walkway, wrung out her mop, and happily marched out of the washroom, completely forgetting to clean the heavy, sticky aftermath of the unholy eruption that had splashed all over the corner stall's walls and bench.
A thick, sweet-scented puddle of Isabella’s demonic release remained pooled on the dark wood of the sitting bench, glistening innocently in the shadows, waiting for the next unsuspecting sister to come down for a late-night wash.
Back in the main corridor of the cloister, Isabella was walking at a brisk, frantic pace, her hands stuffed deep into her pockets as she aggressively rubbed her wooden rosary beads. Sweat was already bubbling back onto her forehead, the suffocating layers of her habit trapping the heat of her guilty conscience.
Just make it to the chapel, she reasoned with herself, her eyes darting left and right like a fugitive. If I can just hide in a pew and pray until midnight, I can avoid the dormitory entirely. Clare and Mary will eventually fall asleep. The holy oil will dry up. I can survive this day.
"Sister Isabella! There you are!"
Isabella’s stomach violently dropped into her shoes.
She froze mid-step, slowly turning around to see Sister Clare and Sister Mary marching down the corridor toward her. They were no longer wearing their dainty nightgowns; they were back in their pristine novice habits, but their faces bore a terrifyingly synchronized look of absolute determination. Mary was holding a small, decorative ceramic jar labeled Holy Myrrh & Sandalwood, while Clare was testing the slickness of the oil between her fingers with a slow, predatory smile.
"Father Thomas said you returned from the widow's manor completely exhausted," Clare said, her voice dropping into that sweet, dangerous purr. "We've been waiting in your room for hours, Sister. We even warmed up the oil just for you."
"Yes," Mary whispered, stepping right into Isabella’s personal space, her eyes tracking directly down to Isabella's lap. "You're shivering, Sister Isabella. You look so tense. Let us take you back to the room and help you... rub it all out."
Isabella backed away, her spine hitting the cold stone pillar of the cloister. Beneath her skirts, her curse gave a sudden, massive throb of pure, unadulterated panic, instantly standing straight back to attention against the tight fabric of her robes.
The day was nowhere near over, and Isabella was already entirely out of breath.