The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Paris, 1762

The house was three stories of pale limestone, arched windows on the lower floor, balconies on the next, above that attic windows jutting out from the blue slate of the roof. Not as imposing as the house of a wealthy noble, and of a set with its neighbours, but still a more than suitable residence for the wealthy merchant and his family who called it home.

The cleric paused at the foot of the marble stairs leading up from the street. Not the finest marble, and there were only four steps, but the stone was of good quality none the less, and the stairs wider than absolutely necessary. Father Patrice’s lips curled at the ostentatious display of wealth. It was frivolous. Almost ungodly. All were one in the sight of the Lord.

Coldly, he noted the condition of the stairs. Clean, not a leaf or even a speck of dirt marring their presentation. They were probably attended to every day. At the least. Another affectation. Father Patrice crossed himself and muttered a short prayer. Despite the initial impressions, he hoped that his visit would be a success. He was, after all, here on the Lord’s work. But it wasn’t his place to know what the outcome would be.

His will be done.

His cassock swirling around him, the cleric strode up to the door. It was a door most certainly more accustomed to receiving guests of prominence. Other merchants. Even the occasional noble in need of the merchant’s services. Not priests. But Father Patrice was no servant and he would not use the servant’s entrance. He knocked.

It was almost immediately answered, by a servant resplendent in red livery. Coat well made and buckled shoes shining, just as would be expected of a retainer of a well-to-do house. But he looked to be more than a footman or doorkeeper. At just over thirty he was probably someone who had served the family for many years.

“Father?” the man asked.

“Father Patrice,” the cleric announced. “I am, I believe, expected.” He was, this appointment arranged and settled. That he was greeted by someone above a doorman proved it so, yet civility demanded his announcement.

“Yes, Father,” the man replied, eyes downcast and stepping out of the way. “Would you like to see Monsieur Lefebvre?”

“I would not,” Father Patrice declared sternly, a firm eye on the servant. He would not have this matter unduly influenced. One way or the other. “My appointment is with Mademoiselle Lefebvre.” In particular, Marie Lefebvre, youngest daughter of the house. If the house was at all well-run then the servant should be aware of that. “If it is important then I shall speak to the young lady’s parents after our interview.”

“Yes father.” If the servant was taken aback by the rebuff to his master, then the man didn’t show it. A proper servant indeed. “This way, please,” the man added, indicating a door to Father Patrice’s left.

A nod indicated the cleric’s acknowledgement.

The door led to a well-appointed sitting room, pale blue the dominant colour, from the blue and white wallpaper above blue painted panels to the blue upholstered furniture.

Father Patrice wondered if the effect was meant to give the impression of being amongst the clouds.

Again, he wasn’t impressed.

Seated primly on one the lounges, back straight and hands demurely clasped in her lap was a young woman. She was dressed in yellow, not blue, though the white lace edging of her gown matched the room’s décor. Was she meant to be the sun amongst the clouds?

Father Patrice was even less impressed.

The girl looked up as he entered the room, honey blonde curls falling about her face, her attractive, rosy, features, a picture of innocence. The girl’s expression was suitably meek, that at least was in her favour. Her dress spread around her, even seated Father Patrice could see the width provided by the fashionable panniers underneath it. It was only to be expected. Her face, on the other hand…

Blessed saints preserve me, did she have to be a pretty one?

It didn’t matter. Father Patrice would carry out his task.

The girl had to be Marie Lefebvre, he didn’t need the grey clad-servant behind her to tell him that. The woman was obviously a guardian of some sort. Father Patrice knew the courtesies.

“Mademoiselle Lefebvre?” he asked, ignoring the servant.

“Yes,” the girl replied. “And you are Father Patrice?”

She sounded hopeful, even eager. At least she’d been told who to expect.

“I am,” he declared. He indicated a lounge opposite hers. “May I?”

The girl raised a hand to her lips, clearly mortified at her oversight. “Oh, my apologies. Of course.”

Father Patrice slowly lowered himself into the seat, his cassock billowing around him.

“Some formalities,” he began. “You are Mademoiselle Marie Lefebvre of the Fauborg Saint Victor and you are eighteen years of age?”

“I am,” the girl acknowledged.

“And I am Father Patrice and I have been commanded here in the year 1762 of Our Lord, at the behest of the most reverend Christophe de Beaumont, Archbishop of Paris.”

Of course, the Archbishop hadn’t personally commanded Father Patrice’s presence. He probably didn’t even know about the visit, such things too trivial to concern his excellency. But de Beaumont’s was the authority under which Father Patrice acted.

Marie simply sat there, waiting for him to continue.

“You may go,” Father Patrice declared, a simple wave of the hand taking in both the stiff maid and the finely liveried servant.

The maid’s back straightened, staring down her nose at the cleric.

“This matter is between myself, the Mademoiselle and the Lord,” Father Patrice announced. “No harm shall come to her.”

The girl looked questioningly up at her maid. She would, if she passed this test, need to learn to be without such support. But for now she still looked to the woman she probably saw more of than her own mother.

The woman probably wasn’t used to leaving her charge alone with a man, her lips forming into a thin line as her eyes met Father Patrice’s.

Then fell away.

Father Patrice was not used to losing such contests, certainly not to a mere servant.

“As you say, Father,” the woman allowed, giving a fair curtsey. She turned and left, the liveried servant following her silently.

At least the man had the wit to close the door behind him.

Father Patrice regarded the girl for a moment. Unlike her guardian, she didn’t try to hold his gaze, her eyes demurely downcast. “I am told,” the cleric began, “that you consider yourself to have a calling. I am here to judge the nature of that claim.”

The girl looked up at that, an eager light in her eyes. “Yes Father. I believe the Lord has called me to join an order.”

Father Patrice paused again. There was an expectancy about the girl. She clearly believed her own words. He hoped, for her sake, that they were true. He had heard so many girls say them, or their like, over his career. For some, they were genuine. Souls truly called by the Lord to take the vows. Others not. Some, the families were simply wishing to be rid of an extra daughter and not have to bear the expense of a dowry. For some it was simply a flight of fancy. In others it veiled something darker.

Father Patrice had never, in all his years at this task, failed to find the truth of the matter. It was to him that the Archbishop (or, more properly, the most reverend’s secretary) always turned in these cases. Those he declared fit had always proved the most virtuous souls. Lauded by their abbesses. Some had even risen that far themselves. Those he found not to have a true calling never objected, accepting his decisions.

Did she have to be so pretty? The girl looked so certain in her declaration. It wasn’t likely that a house this wealthy would have trouble with a dowry, even if she was the third and youngest of the man’s daughters. But the pretty ones? In Father Patrice’s experience, they were the ones most likely to be mistaken. The ones who held something hidden within themselves, no matter their comely exterior.

We shall see.

“First I would enquire as to the extent of your religious education. Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum.”

“Adveniat regnum tuum,” the girl continued the prayer quietly. “Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra.” She paused, glancing up at him.

“You have some Latin, then?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes, father,” the girl replied, her eyes now fixed on the hands still clasped in her lap.

“Knowledge is not commitment.” An education could be bought. Her answer had been quick. Perhaps too quick. Whatever Father Patrice’s doubts, the girl’s motivations were much more important in determining the Lord’s plan for her than her knowledge of Latin.

He began his questioning.

Sometime later, Marie’s head was spinning. The Father was, she thought, very stern. He had not, even still, removed his hat. And he asked her so many questions. When had she first felt the calling? What was its nature? Where did she hear it? Was it always the same place? The same time of day? Did she hear actual words or was it just a feeling?

“No, Father,” she answered. “I do not hear words. It is a feeling. Always.” It was only the truth. And she knew what could happen to those who claimed to hear the actual voice of God.

“A feeling?” Father Patrice looked at her dubiously. “No more than that? Perhaps is it just a childish whim?”

“I am no child!” Marie retorted. Then regretted her words, or at least the way she had spoken them. She should not speak so to a priest. It was unlike her to speak that way to anyone. But something…

“Indeed not, Mademoiselle Lefebvre.” Even if Father Patrice’s tone was one he might adopt speaking to a child. “But that is not the point. The point is whether your calling is a genuine one. Do you have no doubts?”

Marie opened her mouth to respond. The words would not come. Was she free of doubts? As she’d sat here, waiting for the man who would determine her fate, she’d felt no doubts at all. She’d been so certain. Even when Anne, her guardian, had questioned her just before he’d arrived, there hadn’t been the slightest shadow of doubt. Anxiety, yes, perhaps even a little fear. But no doubts.

At least not then. Now there was something. A shadow, at the edge of her awareness. Something making her doubt her own certainty. No. It was nothing. Just what was to be expected under all the questions she was being asked.

Father Patrice was still waiting on her answer.

“No, Father,” Marie said, shaking her head. “I have no doubts.” Whatever she was feeling now couldn’t be doubt.

Marie risked a glance in the cleric’s direction, quailing at the look on his face. As if he was considering her, judging her, Which, she supposed, he was. She had to convince him. No matter the uncertainty that was now preying on her. “I am certain.”

Father Patrice’s eyebrows rose “Are you? And if you are so certain, then what role are you called to fulfil? Our Father has a plan for all of us, but it is given to very few to know what that it is.”

“To be his servant!” Marie implored. “I know this! In my heart!” Before today it had all seemed so clear. But now nothing was. Doubts seemed to be rising all around her. Marie didn’t know from where. Had she been certain? Or was it all some silly whim, just a game she’d been playing on herself?

No. She shook her head, trying to clear it. That can’t be true.

Father Patrice watched as the girl shook her head again. He was becoming less convinced by the moment. For all the girl’s protestations he could sense the doubts within her. Perhaps this was a whim. Maybe she had convinced herself of some game she was playing. And then there was the wilful force of her earlier objection. He had feared such. Still, he was not yet certain himself. To be fair he would give the girl all the opportunity he could provide. “His servant? A noble goal, indeed. You do understand what such a calling would involve? What your life would be?”

“Yes, Father, I do.”

She sounded so certain, but he could detect the hesitation in her look, the nervous glance of her eye. Doubts. Indecision. He was sure they were there. “Hmm. You would be required to take vows of chastity, poverty and obedience. Your life would be very different to what it is now. Are you sure you are quite ready for that?”

“Yes Father,” the girl responded.

Father Patrice doubted that. Even in the genuinely committed, those from well-to-do families had difficulty adjusting to the monastic life.

“You would have to give up all you have here. No more servants. No more pretty little trinkets. Everything you have. Even the clothes that you wear.”

“Yes, Father.” The girl’s head was angled up now, her eyes almost meeting his. “I know this.”

She might say that she did, but did she realise the import of what she was saying? Father Patrice thought they were getting to the truth now. The way she was almost looking at him was not the demure façade the girl had put on earlier. It was almost wilful. Like her earlier slip. Yet there was almost something playful about it. Yes! There! Almost a twinkle in her eye.

He would put her to the test.

“Then we shall see,” he declared. “Remove your dress.”

“Father!” the girl exclaimed. “I cannot! It would be indecent!”

Father Patrice rewarded the girl with a reproachful look. “Poverty. Such a dress is hardly fitting for a simple servant of the lord. And obedience. You will need to follow instructions. Have no fear. I hold to my vows. Chastity included. And underneath will still be your underskirts and stays. Not at all a state of undress.”

Marie was speechless. He expected her to do what? Remove her dress? That would be unthinkable. Yet she was thinking of it. She looked at Father Patrice, searched his expression. She could see nothing there of the looks young men gave her at dances and balls. Looks she would never receive again if she entered a nunnery. Before today, before Father Patrice’s arrival, that had not worried her in the least. She had always done her best to ignore them. But now… Something about the memory of those looks pulled at her. Something almost made her want them… To be their source, their focus. Perhaps this was just part of the test. Marie could see what he meant about giving up her possessions. Perhaps he did need a demonstration of her ability to do that.

“Come, come,” the cleric huffed impatiently.

You want a demonstration? Well, I will give you one. Marie started at the force of her own thought. It was so unlike her.

“Very well,” she declared, rising to her feet. “But there are practicalities.”

“I am aware,” Father Patrice replied evenly, his voice so deep and serious that it almost made her laugh, the cleric rising to his feet in turn and signalling for her to turn around.

Marie felt her heart beating faster as Father Patrice removed the pins holding her dress in place, one then another then another. It was affecting her so… She didn’t have the words for it. It was understandable. No man had ever done this. Always it was her servants that assisted with her clothing. And she so wanted to prove herself to this man. Have him accept her calling. But where was the warmth she was feeling coming from?

Perhaps it was simply anxiety.

Marie allowed him to pull first one sleeve then the other from her arms, the girl wondering where the cleric had gained his familiarity with women’s attire.

But he made very careful not to touch her skin. And she sensed nothing untoward from him.

Even as he pulled her long skirt over her head and off.

Even as something in her almost wanted him to touch her.

“There,” Marie declared. It was all she could do stop her hands resting on her hips. “I am well able to do without such dresses.”

“I can see that,” Father Patrice declared pithily, eyeing the richly embroidered material of her outer petticoat. Such wasteful ostentation, the expensive fabric until now hidden to the eye. “Yet what does that tell us? You still have your stays and both your inner and outer skirts. Between them the panniers. A holy nun would never wear such.”

Marie glanced down at herself, to where the ornate fabric of her outer petticoat fell to the floor, its flowing shape supported by the ribbed structure of her twin panniers, the arrangement necessary to give the gown she’d removed its billowing look. The Father was right. It was nothing a nun would ever wear. He obviously wanted her to remove it and the supports. She would still have her stays and underskirt on. Let alone her chemise. And there was nothing about him that showed any carnal interest. Yet there was something about the idea of removing her clothing. Not wrong. Perhaps the very opposite of wrong. He had, after all, told her to do it. Obedience was one of the vows that she would have to take.

So she would. Remove some more of her clothing in front of this man. Display herself. And ignore the growing hint of heat wafting through her. The rising tightness in her breasts. As her hands fell to the knot in the cord that held up her outer petticoat it was if as she was shedding more than the garments themselves, that it was her old life she was casting aside as she cast aside her clothes.

Father Patrice watched as the girl untied the binding of her outer petticoat and stepped out of the garment before unhitching the panniers.

Stupid things. So elaborate and ostentatious. Twin ribbed constructs, hanging from the girl’s hips, reaching to the floor, designed only to support the outer petticoat and her gown. Fashion. The word tasted poisonous in his mouth. Yes, it was well that the girl was rid of them.

Yet still he wasn’t convinced. She was ridding herself of the signs of her old life, but what new life lay ahead of her? Were those eyes downcast demurely or so as to tease? That was the question. There had been something in her movements. Not just the simple removal of her outer garments, but just the hint of a show to it, a display. Just a shadow.

Of wantonness.

He hoped that he was wrong. Offered a silent prayer that he was. Yet he could afford no mistakes.

“Yet still, what does this prove? A woman may walk abroad attired as you are. Petticoat and stays,” he added, waving dismissively at the girl’s remaining garments. “You will see many attired in such on the streets.”

“Father!” the girl exclaimed. “But what sort of woman? Do you take me for a fishwife?”

The girl did have a point. While her remaining outfit was acceptable it was only barely and only then for the lower classes, not one of her station. If Marie ventured into the streets clad as she was now, it would be a scandal.

“I would never take you for such,” the Father replied. He spoke the truth. No servant girl or labourer’s wife would ever look like her. Not with her hair curling just so. Not with her lips painted red and the rouge on her cheeks. No, he would never take her for a fishwife. “But nor do you yet appear as penitent as a nun should be.”

He was not sure that she could be. A girl as pretty as her? In nothing more than a petticoat and stays so obviously expensive? Makeup adorning her face? No, she would never be taken for a fishwife. Standing there, so brazen, Father Patrice knew what some might think.

Whore.

He hoped it was not so. But yet…

“You have more yet to surrender,” he continued.

“My petticoat?” The girl exclaimed. “My stays?” with a hand she indicated the garment tightly binding her torso. “You would have me remove these? Stand before you in just my chemise and stockings? Do you take me for a whore?”

Father Patrice shook his head. He’d seen the way she had gestured at herself, at her chest. At where her breasts crested over the neckline of her chemise, twin half-moons supported by her stays. There had been something deliberate about the gesture, something intended to draw the eye. It was clear the direction the girl’s thoughts were taking. Or, at least, could be taking. “And why, Mademoiselle, would you bring up such a thing? Is your calling genuine? Or do you make excuses? Is this some attempt to hide your true desires? What is your true calling? That of a nun or a whore?”

The girl stared at him, spluttering. “F-Father Patrice? I do not know what to say. It is unthinkable. Impossible.”

Obviously, the cleric thought to himself drily, you do know what to say.

“I would not,” the girl continued, proving his point. “Why, no-one with any propriety would be seen consorting with such a person, let alone be one.”

Anger rose in the cleric. Perhaps the girl’s education was not what she had made out. “No-one with any propriety? Is that what you say? What would you call our Lord, Jesus Christ? Did he not take his ministry to such women? Does not the Gospel of Matthew tell us that the Lord said ‘Truly, I say to you, the tax collectors and the prostitutes go into the kingdom of God before you.’ I ask you again, what is the nature of your calling? Is it to be a nun or a whore?”

Marie’s head whirled. It was ridiculous. She had no desire to be, a, a… She could not think the word. Or words. She had no idea why she had spoken the word. Where had it come from? She had no idea, but it had spilt so easily from her lips. She was called to be a nun. Wasn’t she? But then why was her skin so warm? Why was there something about standing, half-undressed, before a man? Any man, even a cleric. Something she couldn’t identify, or even name, a feeling creeping over her body, perhaps strongest between her legs. No! She wouldn’t think of that. Could not. Nor of the tightness in her breasts. Perhaps Anne had fastened her stays too tightly this morning. Yes, that had to be it. It could be nothing else. She could not want to be a, a whore.

She had thought the word, even though she said it was unthinkable just moments ago. Thought about what it meant. Thought about what a whore did. Her breath caught. It was sinful. But Father Patrice had said…

“One can be Godly and a whore?” She still had no wish to be one. At least that was what Marie told herself. Yet she could not help herself ask the question, even as she was dismayed by the hopeful tone of her voice.

“Of course,” the cleric replied, his anger of a moment ago dissipated. “Prostitutes may partake of the mass as much as anyone. I myself have heard their confessions.”

Well, that is something, the girl told herself. But why would it matter to her? It was not as if she would ever be in such a situation. No, he is simply testing me. That was it. Certainly. Just another test. She would pass this as all the others.

And ignore the hint of moist warmth in her secret place.

“I still require an answer,” Father Patrice declared. “Are you a humble penitent before the Lord? Or a brazen strumpet, happy to be half-naked?”

Marie would show him. She was still certain of her calling. She had no need of her remaining petticoat or her stays. They could go. She could wear her shift as easily as a nun wore her simple habit.

Even if there was something delicious about removing another layer of her clothing.

“I will need help with this as well,” she said, indicating her stays. The binding at the back was out of her reach. It was another task for the servants. Does a whore have servants? Or is it their customers who do the honours? Quickly she banished the thought aside. “And in replacing it. I do assume that you do not intend to leave me simply in my chemise?”

“Indeed I do not. And I can assist in both regards,” Father Patrice replied gruffly. “Turn around and I shall undo the binding.”

The girl obliged, the cleric undoing the knot that held the cording of the stays tight before lifting the garment over the girl’s head. She was obediently following his instructions. As a devoted nun would. But also, as a whore with her client would. He was concerned, most concerned. Was that a flush in her cheeks, a deep breath which swelled her chest, a chest over which her hand fluttered? Did her eyelids bat? Was there a sinful eagerness that he could sense in her?

He feared that it was so.

“There,” the girl declared, stepping out of her inner petticoat. “I assume you wish me to remove nothing else.”

Indeed, Father Patrice did not. He was no patron of whores. All the girl had left was her chemise, the fine cloth garment finishing just below her knees, fine enough to show her womanly curves. Below that the cleric could see her stockings. And her heeled shoes.

“And now we come to it,” he said, almost sadly. Was she wearing the simple shift of a postulant, over which would go the habit? Or a scant chemise to tempt her would-be clients? He could see the girl quivering. Was it nerves? Or lust? He feared it was the latter. There was little of the penitent about her. And much of the harlot. But he would give her a final chance, whatever his suspicions. “I ask you for a third time, what is your calling, mademoiselle, to be a nun or a whore? Do your hands rise in prayer or for some other reason? Do you stand before me ready to throw off worldly desires? Or to give into them, a life of debauchery before you?”

Marie stared at him. How could he ask such a thing? And yet, and yet… There was something to his words. Something to the idea. Something to the delicious warmth running through her body. Even with her stays gone there was a tightness to her breasts, a need. The warmth running through her body was almost undeniable now. While she had never known the touch of a man, she was no innocent. She had seen the rutting of the animals at her family’s country estate. She knew what it was a prostitute would do. Could almost feel it, a tremor of anticipation running through her body. And did she not have a delightful young body? One men would be eager to see in a whore? Would they not love her long silken hair, her pert young breasts? Would it not be such fun to be desired? To be taken? To whore herself out and be impaled by man after man? Was she not ready, young and pretty and oh she felt so warm…

No, that is not me. She could not be a whore. Throw away her life, her family, her prospects, for such a thing. Yet would it be so bad? Whores were paid, they had money. Money for dresses and jewellery and more than that there would be an answer to delicious wanting …

No. Such things did not matter.

Her body craved to be touched, that warmth turning into heat. Beyond any thought of money there was the act itself. To be taken. Used. A yearning seized her. A desperate, glowing need. But it was unthinkable. Giving herself to any man, spreading her legs like a wanton slut.

Obviously, it was not unthinkable.

“No,” she managed. “I could not. I have no idea about such things. Why, I would not know where to go. What to do.” She had no idea why the questions mattered. She would not, could not do such a thing. “And my parents would never allow it.”

“Indeed, they would not,” Father Patrice agreed sagely, providing Marie with a moment of relief. “You would need to run away. I can provide you with the address of a suitable house.”

“What? How?” Marie spluttered, her momentary respite snatched away. “Are you not a man of God? Should you not be discouraging me? And how do you even know such things?”

“As I said, I have heard the confessions of whores. If this is what the Lord wills for you, who am I to stand in the way? And better you go to one of the more kindly houses than to a cheap cesspit.”

That made sense, the girl nodding. Why, if she was to be a prostitute, then she would want a good house. That would give a better class of customer, at the least. If she was to run away she would need to think about how to abscond from the house unseen. Perhaps in the evening. But then there would be the dangers of the street. Perhaps late morning, when everyone relaxed from their first duties of the day. Easier then to find her way through the city as well. Yes, that was it. There was the question of what she would be able to take. Little in the way of clothes, but there was her jewellery. How much could she carry? She would probably need to keep some, to adorn herself for potential clients. Others she could sell to tide her over before she was established.

It would be such fun to be a whore.

No, Marie told herself again, fear seizing her mind. Why was she thinking such things? It was absurd. She was to be a nun. She would raise her hands. Clasp them together in prayer. She would show Father Patrice what she was.

“Do you not wish me to be a nun?” she pleaded. “Surely that is better than to be a whore?”

“It is honesty that I seek,” the cleric replied gravely. “If your nature truly bends that way, better to admit it now than deny the truth. Would you wish to enter an order and then betray your vows?”

“But could I not resist temptation?” She was almost begging, wanting Father Patrice, anyone, to give her an answer. “Could my vows not protect me?”

“They might,” Father Patrice agreed. “But would you hold strong enough? Let us see. Can you bring your hands together in prayer? Or is it the temptations of the flesh that they are more suited for? If you cannot resist, even now, in my presence, in your parent’s house, well.”

“Prayer, Father, prayer,” the girl cried. “I shall not be a whore.”

But would it be so bad? If it was truly what the Lord wanted for her? Perhaps this why she had felt assailed by doubt earlier. Perhaps her true calling was as a whore, a prostitute, a harlot. Would it be so bad? Perhaps it would not. Perhaps it would be good. Perhaps that was what the warmth in her body was trying to tell her.

No, she told herself for a third time. No, no, no.

Marie’s hands began to move.

Father Patrice watched. He could see the struggle in the girl. He tried to refrain from judgement. All were one in the sight of the Lord. And better to be an honest whore than a dishonest nun. He would indeed prefer that the girl be an honest nun, but it was not his decision to make. Even if he suspected what it would be. He had seen the attachment of the girl to her worldly goods. He had felt the need radiating off her. Some women whored for money. Others revelled in it. He suspected Marie was of the later kind. He could sense what she truly was. He could see it now, in the way her chest heaved. See the way her chemise tented over the hard points of her nipples. The way her lips were forming into a pout.

Her hands were moving. One was rising to her chest. Would it be joined by the other? Clasped together in prayer?

He doubted it. He feared he was looking at a whore-to-be. A wanton slut, slave to her desires, a girl eager to sell herself to man after man.

The girl’s other hand stayed by her side as her first crept higher, laid itself on her chest, fingers tightening, sinking into her flesh through the fabric of her chemise, a moan escaping the girl’s lips.

Father Patrice simply nodded, his fears confirmed. He knew what this girl was.

Marie’s other hand was moving now, not to join its companion, but to the hem of her final garment. Slipping up her leg, tugging the edge of the chemise higher. It was past her knees now, the garters tied around her legs to hold her stockings in place clearly in view. Higher now, the girl’s eyelids fluttering, her right hand openly groping her breast. Father Patrice could see an expanse of pale flesh, the girl’s thigh, the skin creamy and smooth. Something forbidden, something only a husband should see.

He doubted that Mademoiselle Lefebvre would ever have a husband.

He could have stopped the girl. But this was necessary. The truth must out.

Marie could barely concentrate, her focus long gone. She was drowning, drowning in the sensations her own hands were summoning from her body. Just her fingers on her thigh, her hand on her breasts. She had never thought to touch herself so, never experienced anything like this. Glorious, wonderful, feelings, sparks going off in her brain. And just from this. What would it feel like if it was another’s hands on her skin? It would have to be something marvellous. What would it feel like if there was nothing between her hand and her breast? She had to know. Her breasts were aching and her nipples were so tight and she had to know.

Desperately the girl tugged at the neck line of her chemise, pulling it off her shoulder. She cooed in delight as her right breast fell free. It was a good breast. Very fine. Slight, perhaps, but beautifully curved. It was, of course, far from the first time Marie had seen her own breast. Yet she had never thought those things about it before. Was not sure where the thoughts had come from. Had never peered down at her breast, her nipple engorged, as the tip of one finger trailed down the side of her breast, the contact eliciting the most wonderful shooting sensations.

She needed more. Marie moaned, gasping for breath, as her fingers sank into the naked flesh of her breath, as she tugged at her nipple.

What would it feel like to have a man do this to her? To play with her breasts? What would it feel like to have his lips lock around her nipple? To lick and suck and nibble at it? It would have to feel so good, so much better than her own hands. And her own hand felt so amazing. If she were to give up on becoming a nun she could perhaps find a husband. A husband who would make her feel like this.

A whore would be taken by many men. The thought thrust itself upon her.

If one man was good, would not many be better? So much better. A whore could offer her breasts to so many men. They would take her, use her, buy her so many pretty things. What could be better than being paid to feel this good?

Her skin was so warm, need burning her up. Her hand stroked the smooth flesh of her inner thigh, so close to where the sensations from her breast landed, then swirled and expanded and shot through her again.

Her left hand trailed higher. Past where her leg met her torso, her skin so sensitive, her breath hitching with each little movement. A whore would not just offer her breasts to a man. She would offer him everything, give everything, let him take everything.

Marie cried out as her fingertips touched her secret place, as they trailed along her opening.

What would it feel like to have a man touch her there? It would have to be so good, so much better than it felt to touch herself. And a whore would be touched there so many times, in so many ways.

Marie gasped, her eyes shooting wide, seeing nothing, as her fingers found her nub, pressed it, pulled it, her thumb grinding down, her fingers tracing her length as her other hand squeezed her displayed breast. There was an emptiness, a need in her, in her. In her cunt. She knew the word, but of course she had never used it. She used it now. Her whore’s cunt.

She needed her cunt filled. With a man’s prick. Not her fingers. Not yet. Maybe once she had her first. Somehow she knew it would be so good, so glorious. She would want to be filled over and over and over again.

As only a whore could be.

She could feel it. See it. imagine it. The image filled her mind, the heat turning into a roar, something rising, a raging torrent, singing through her body. Then glorious, wonderful release, a crest sweeping her away, Marie sagging back onto the lounge, her hands now languidly playing at her body.

She knew what she would be.

“I think we have our answer,” Father Patrice declared sorrowfully.

“Indeed so,” the girl answered playfully, cupping her still naked breast, offering it to him. “I shall be a whore. Would you like to be my first customer?”

“As I said,” her replied icily. “I keep to my vows. All of them.” He would not consort with whores. “And now that you have decided, we must restore your garments.”

“Oh, must we?” the girl pouted. Even frowning, she was so very pretty. “I do so love being like this. It offers so many possibilities.” To emphasise her point she stroked her naked breast, gazing at him from under batting eyelashes.

“I do not think your parents would approve, Mademoiselle.”

Pah, What did her parents matter now? Her plans were fixed. Her new future before her. Marie frowned. Was it really new? Or was she just admitting what had always been the truth? Yes, she told herself. That is most likely the case. That in truth she always wanted to be a whore. To sell her body for a money. She felt a delicious tremor at the thought, her cunt so empty and needy. Just waiting for some man to pay for the chance to fill her.

She could let her parents suspect nothing. “Yes, I suppose I must put them back on.” She wanted to be naked, gloriously naked, with a man. Or perhaps partly so, so as to tease and tempt and promise. Yes, she could do that. Would do it willingly.

So many men.

Who would those men be? Not Father Patrice. Such a shame. But perhaps other men of the cloth. That would be amusing. So many other men. Most would be older than her. Something about that was thrilling. Why, perhaps there would even be associates of her father. What would they think, debauching a girl young enough to be their daughter? Would they recognise her? If they did, they would not give her away, too much danger to themselves.

Yes, She thought as the cleric helped her back into her petticoat, slipped the stays over her head, retied the binding. She could hardly wait until it was some man helping her out of her clothes. And if it was some man she already knew, some rival of her father’s, some boy who had smiled at her at a ball, that would be all the better.

Her panniers were back in place, followed by her outer garment, lastly her dress.

For all the world she looked no different than when Father Patrice had arrived. Perhaps she was not any different at all, simply having realised what was always true about her.

It did not matter. Marie knew what she was.

She was a whore.

Tonight, in her bed, she could touch herself again and think of the bliss to come. And tomorrow she could being her preparation. To run away. To her new life. To the life that she was always destined for.

She turned to Father Patrice, clasping one of his hands in both of hers. “Thank you father,” she exclaimed, a tear of joy escaping her eye. “Thank you for showing me what I am.”

Sometime later, outside the house, Father Patrice shook his head in resignation. He had informed her parents that Marie had been mistaken in her calling. The father had been stoic, the mother distraught. He wondered what they would feel when the girl disappeared. It was not his place to them her intentions. Perhaps it was best they remain in ignorance. It was a shame, in its way, that such an apparently respectable, beautiful, young woman would have such a life in front of her. Yet who was he to argue? It was clear to him that this was what the Good Lord had planned for her. The Lord does move in mysterious ways.

The girl had clearly been a whore at heart. He hoped that someday he would find a pretty girl with a true calling. He had never found one such as yet. All the pretty ones amongst the young girls he was called to judge turned out just the same as Marie.

Whores.

Father Patrice shrugged, setting off down the street. He had another call to make today. Another girl professing a calling. He hoped he might find a genuine postulant this time. But he had heard that this one was also a beauty.

He would see what he would see.