The dawn light pierced the stained-glass windows of the chapel like accusing fingers, illuminating the altar where I, Sister Maureen, had knelt in prayer so many times before. But today, as I dusted the sacred space under the guise of morning chores, my mind replayed the previous day's savagery in Father Elias's study. My a*s still bore faint bruises from his palms, a hidden testament to the slaps that had ignited my submission. The convent's silence amplified my ragged breaths, my p***y clenching at the mere thought of his command: 'We'll desecrate the altar next.' Fear and filthy anticipation warred within me, my undergarments already damp as I polished the candelabras, fingers trembling on the brass.
The church doors groaned open mid-morning, and there he was—Father Elias, striding in
