The Spear Of Destiny
The Spear Of Destiny
Published by E B Books
All rights belong to Karlie Knowles
This is a work of fiction.
All characters are 18+ years old.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced
or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written
permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a
book review. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to
persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely
coincidental. The characters are all products of the author’s
deviant and depraved imagination.
The story begins with a small, innocent child. Her name
was Destiny; yet, the only destiny this poor child had was filled
with pain and heartache. You see, Destiny lived in a small Catholic
town, raised by strict Catholic parents.
What possesses over-zealous parents to bear down on
their children, enforcing ridiculously high standards of morality on
them, is beyond me. Nothing, and I mean nothing, will guarantee that
the child in question will turn into the parents’ worst nightmare
more than the overbearing scripture of organized religion. Trust me;
I’m a nun, I know these things.
However, that was exactly what Destiny’s parents did.
They shamed her when her skirts didn’t reach past her knees. They
caned her when she had the audacity to question their faith, as
innocent as it was. Haven’t the best of us questioned our faith at
times? We, as humans, have a burning need to seek answers to the
unknown, and guidance, proper guidance, through the scriptures might
have done wonders.
But no, Destiny’s parents bruised her delicate behind
whenever she had doubts. They tormented her with endless hours of
Hail Maries, never letting her quit until her fingers grew blisters
and her knees bled.
And when it came time for her sexual curiosity to spark
up, they beat her some more, and made her pray harder. They also did
the one thing that would lock Destiny’s destiny into place. They
forbade her to associate with the opposite sex.
When a post-pubescent girl sees sex as taboo and lacks
the proper guidance, said girl will do one of three things: Become a
stripper. Become a whore. Or simply offer her body to any and all
that would take it. And the more the girl delves into this world, the
further she strays from God.
Destiny followed the third option, becoming the town
slut. It was a hard feat to accomplish, considering all the boys that
she grew up with were still wholesome and God-fearing. She had to
resort to screwing truck drivers and other drifters that passed
through her small, religious community.
She fucked for rebellion.
She fucked for spite.
But most importantly, she fucked because it felt good.
She didn’t care that the priest would banish her from the Church or
that her parents would disown her; and, if there even was a God, she
didn’t rightly give a fuck if he ever let her into the pearly
Then, she became with child. That poor little
blonde-haired child was going to be a mother. That sixteen-year-old
girl with the supermodel face and porn star body was going to have to
raise a child all on her own.
Not did. No, because her parents soon discovered her
secret. As the months flew by, she found it increasingly difficult to
hide her swollen belly as she made plans for escape. Escape from her
parents. Escape from her community. Escape from the judgmental Church
that would condemn her.
Her father’s first reaction was a backhand to her
delicate cheek. She took the strike to the face with delusional
pride, ready to tell her father exactly what she thought, right
before walking out of his life forever.
She never had a chance. His second reaction was to
demand to know who the father was, so that he could force the stupid
boy to marry her. You know, because obligated marriage is always the
right answer. Who needs love? Isn’t it in the scripture?
“Be obligated to thy neighbor.”
If Destiny hadn’t been so utterly terrified, she would
have found his expression amusing when she informed him that she had
no idea who the father was, nor could she find out. She gave him a
detailed description of the slue of strangers that fucked her in the
rundown motel on the edge of town.
That was how Destiny became me, Sister Mary Catherine. I
gave birth in the convent. I was able to catch a glimpse of the
slimy, bloody lump of clay that I had created, but nothing more. The
nuns took my baby to clean him off, at least I always imagine him to
be a he, and never brought him back.
I was never able to hold my child. I was never even
granted the privilege to gaze up on his angelic face. His adoption
would be a closed one, and the Church would make sure the paperwork
That is why I hate the Church.
Why I hate God.
That and the ridiculous underwear that we, as nuns, are
forced to wear on a daily basis. Do you want to know what it’s like
to be a nun? Strip naked and rub a burlap sack on your genitals until
you develop a rash, until your flesh is raw. That would be a day in
The other nuns don’t seem to mind the pain and
suffering. It shows commitment to our Savior. It shows that we are
worthy of His love. However, I believe that if I have to suffer in
order for God to love me, then I don’t want His twisted love. Fuck
His Love, and fuck Him.
But I played the part for years. When they prayed, I
prayed. When they remained silent, I remained silent. When I broke
the rules, which happened way too often, I took the punishment
without as much as a mutter.
I became the resident chambermaid. Mother Superior had
it in for me since day one. She knew there was no commitment behind
my words or actions. She knew that I never wanted to be there. So
every day, she found a broken rule, and I scrubbed the floors, the
walls, the toilets. I cleaned the sisters’ bedchambers. I peeled
potatoes. I also tended the garden.
That was my favorite punishment. Whenever I went into
the garden, the convent seemed to vanish. There was only the
mysterious beauty of nature and me. And my arousal.
Once a slut, always a slut. It mattered not that I
hadn’t an outlet for my sexual frustrations. I hand my fingers. My
deft, capable fingers that knew me so well. Knew how to bring me to
the unfathomable cliff of ecstasy, right before they pushed me over,
letting me fall into the bliss of my sexual high.
For two years, I had pleasured myself amidst hibiscus
and sage, lily of the valley and jasmine, rose and morning glory.
Then, a few weeks after my eighteenth birthday, Mother Superior
decided to check up on my punishment.
As I lay in the garden, my habit bunched up around my
waist, my fingers gliding through my silken canal, moaning with
pleasure, quivering with excitement, her sunken cheeks blazed red,
her pinched face contorted with rage, and she punished me threefold.
She stripped me naked in front of every nun, monk and
priest that happened to be at the convent that day. She let them gaze
upon my slender waist, my full C-cup breasts, my wide, curvy hips, my
tight, yet bubbly butt. She let them stare at me with lust in their
eyes. She made me watch as the men grew hard, their erections poking
through their trousers. She made me imagine the nuns’ nipples
stiffening against the heavy cloth of their habit.
Then she whipped me, the lashes cutting thin lines into
the soft flesh of my back. I could hear the moans of the witnesses as
they got off to my punishment. I could smell their arousal as beads
of crimson ran down my back, into the crack of my ass.
Then she shipped me off. I was too dangerous to have
around the convent. I would lead the other sisters astray with my
devil worshipping. My penance would be to spend my days as the
servant of Father Clinton.
He ran a small church in an even smaller town than the
one in which I grew up. The Mother Superior made it clear that I was
to serve the Father in whatever manner he required.
I arrived at St. Benedict on a Monday morning. The thin
veil of gray clouds in the sky had not only kept the sun from
shining, but had also let loose a light mist for the length of my
trip. Just as I left the town car that had transported me from the
convent, God decided to make it worse, unleashing a downpour, soaking
me to the bone.
By the time I made it inside the unorthodox church, my
habit weighed an additional fifty pounds, pulling me down, as if it
were guiding me straight to the pits of hell. I say that this church
was unorthodox mainly because it lacked the pomp and circumstance
usually found in cathedrals. The archdiocese acquired the building
from a Baptist ministry that went bankrupt.
I stood in the aisle, two rows of pews on either side of
me, looking at an old man hunched over the altar. He wore blue jeans
and a white button up shirt. His thinning gray hair was cropped short
and his eyes, when he looked up at me, smiled kindly.
“I’m looking for Father Clinton,” I announced. “My
name is Sister Mary Catherine. Please, sir, could you inform him of
He grinned at me, and began a slow, silent journey down
the aisle. When he reached me, I noticed that he appeared older than
I had first thought, maybe around eighty. When he spoke though, his
deep voice boomed with the virility of a teenager.
“I’m Father Clinton, Sister.” He extended his
hand, cupping it underneath mine. He had soft, gentle hands, and yet
they vibrated with power, as if he could crush every single bone in
my hand with the slightest squeeze. “And I have been informed of
your arrival.” His grin suddenly grew wicked. “As well as the
circumstance that brought you to me.”
As his eyes traveled slowly, creepily down my body, I
shivered, disgust rising within me, just as the bile began to rise in
my throat. “W-well, Father,” I squeaked. “I-I am at y-your
“That you are, child,” he agreed, turning away from
me. “That you are. Come; let me show you to your quarters. Get you
out of that uncomfortable garb. I had some normal clothing brought
here for you.” Knowing what I was thinking, he chuckled. “Don’t
worry about formality here, Sister. I don’t hold much by it.”
I followed him out the back of the church, across the
lawn and into the rectory, a small cottage-like building. There were
four rooms in the rectory. The first room on the right was the
Father’s office, across the hall, the bathroom. The other two rooms
were the bedchambers, the Father’s to the right, and mine to the
When we reached my bedchamber, he reached out with his
right hand, turning the knob and pushing the door open, while his
left hand went to the small of my back, causing my flesh to crawl,
and guided me inside the small room.
A small twin-sized bed sat in the back left corner, a
chest in the far right, just ahead of the doorway. In the third
corner sat a mahogany dresser, with three drawers. The hardwood floor
was freshly polished, as was the floor in the hallway; and just as
the cream-colored walls in the hallway, the walls in my bedchamber
looked as if they might still drip paint.
“I placed your dresses in the chest,” he informed
me, pointing at the rectangular contraption. “I’m afraid that
your dresser is quite empty, save for socks. I had no idea what size
undergarments you required. You are free to wear the ones you brought
with you, but I know how uncomfortable they can be. Or you can go
without them. I’m sure the dresses will cover you properly enough.”
I found his “permission” to go commando creepy. I
wanted to believe that the kind old priest was simply trying to make
me feel comfortable, but the fact that he still had his hand planted
on the small of my back, his fingers mere inches away from the curve
of my round butt made me believe that he had ulterior motives in
keeping me out of my underwear.
“Thank you, Father,” I managed to squeeze out of my
“Well,” he said, finally letting go of my back.
“I’ll let you get settled.”
After he left, closing the door, I walked over to lock
it. I cursed silently as I realized that there was no lock. I took a
deep breath, managing to convince myself that I was overreacting. He
was just a kind old man, and I had to stop thinking poorly of him. He
was a priest who had taken a vow of celibacy. He did not desire me.
I know what you’re thinking. What did it matter if he
desired me? I was a slut after all. Right? Well, I may have over
dramatized my sluttiness. Even though I had not required any intimate
knowledge of any given man before I spread my legs for him, I was
still choosey. I had never gone to bed, figuratively speaking, with
just anyone. And the thought of wrinkly old Father Clinton hovering
over me, thrusting his withered old cock inside me, his droopy,
decrepit balls slapping against my eighteen-year-old, shapely ass
cheeks just made me sick.
I shivered at the thought, but decided that it would be
best to humor him and put on one of the dresses he bought for me.
Besides, getting out of a habit, soaking wet or dry, filled me with
pleasure. Maybe, with Father Clinton’s relaxed environment, I could
feel normal again.
And although I didn’t relish the thought of going sans
panties around him, the thought of the burlap sack I was wearing made
my decision for me. I normally chose not to wear them, whenever I
felt that Mother Superior wouldn’t check; but I had donned them for
the trip. In just the few hours I had them on, they had already began
to chaff the intimate area of my body.
So I stripped the layers of my holy uniform from my
body, and took a moment to savor the fresh air as it caressed my
As I stood there, eyes closed, head tilted back, arms
outstretch, smiling at the freedom, the chamber door opened, and
Father Clinton burst through, eyes wide as he took in the tableau. I
turned toward him, startled. With a gasp, I quickly covered my breast
with one arm, while reaching the other downward, hiding my womanhood.
“Father!” I shouted. “Please, I’m indecent.”
He chuckled. He actually chuckled. “You are no more
indecent than the Good Lord made you, and there is no shame to be had
in the divine craftwork of our Heavenly Father.” His eyes traveled
over my naked form, taking in every inch of my sacred flesh. Wiping
away a bit of drool from the corner of his mouth, he continued. “I
just came to tell you to meet me in the nave. I have a job for you to
“Yes, Father,” I whimpered, feeling my flesh crawl.
Once again, he turned and walked out of my bedchamber.
Only this time, he left the door wide open. It looked as if I had had
every right to be suspicious of the creepy old man. I quickly closed
the door, wishing that it had a lock. Then, I made my way to the
plain, unadorned mahogany chest.
Kneeling down, I raised the heavy lid and searched its
depths. I rifled through the stacks of dresses, all of them
sundresses. Some of them were floral prints of various colors, some
of them were solid colors, whites, yellows and sky blues; all of them
were made from the sheerest of materials.
He had been right, I noticed after sliding on a white
sundress, it did cover my body. Yet, it also clung to my body, and
just from feeling the thin material brush against my breasts, my
nipples began to stiffen, protruding through the sheer cloth.
He knew that would happen.