Hail Mary

Every Catholic will know what the Angelus is, and how it is announced, three times a day, by the ringing of a bell. At my school, the Angelus sounded at Midday, and before we went to lunch we had to say the Angelus prayers - amid the gurgling of hungry tummies. 

But never to be outdone in the pain and humiliation department, our bastard bitch of a head mistress made us have “Rosary Weeks. These were loosely tied into the church year - very loosely - and in reality it seemed to us that they came about when the Headmistress (we had four during my time there…all of them assumed the name of Sister Assumpta) thought we had been too sinful of late. 

No organisation in the history of he world does sin better than the Catholic Church…oh, they tell you it’s not about sin, but rather it’s about forgiveness…but you can’t have forgiveness without sin, right? They fucking love it. 

So…Rosary weeks. 

Our school day was split into four one hour lessons. During a Rosary week, each lesson began with us kneeling on the hard wooden floors beside our desks and saying one decade of the Rosary. The monk or nun leading the class would intone “Hail Mary full of Grace. Blessed art thou among women and blessed be the fruit of thy womb Jesus Christ.” We would chirp along with the response. “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death Amen.” Sometimes, if the headmistress was feeling particularly vindictive, we would have to say the Hail Mary and other rosary prayers in Latin.

Now, I happen to like the Hail Mary as a prayer - but not when it’s gabbled through as it was there. 

(Yes, I know, ST is about sex….just wait…I’m getting there.) 

During a school week, we could get through the whole Rosary twice! 

There’s something about a whole group of teenage girls on their knees praying that is horny. (See? I told you I’d get there.) and remember, by this age, some of us were breaking the rules by not wearing panties. 

I’m sure, beyond doubt sure, that some of the monks got pleasure from seeing us on our knees before them. I often wondered what dirty little thoughts were flitting through the brothers’ minds. 

And ours. 

Not all the monks we saw were wizened, craggy-faced old men of 80. One or two who passed through our school were in their early 30s, and two in particular we thought were a ‘waste of a good cock.’ (Not that we would have known what to do with a ‘good cock’ at that age…it was all theoretical.). 

So, anyway…we’re on our knees, and I realised that every time we did this, I became aroused. Oh, not ‘I have to masturbate now…this instant…” aroused, but definitely damp, and definitely with a nicely pulsating clit. I simply couldn’t work out why until I realised I am, by nature, submissive. Kneeling - especially kneeling in front of someone makes me horny. 

So, we would be saying our rosary, I would be flitting my attention between a sexy looking monk, or watching the girl next to me’s boobs rise and fall as she took in a breath for the next sentence, and I would maybe watch as she flicked her beads, wondering if that was a well-practised move from when she flicked her clit at night. I’d be wondering if she was feeling like I was…just nicely ‘buzzy’ down there. Was she wet too? This led to, ‘I’d like to slip my hand into her panties….’ And so the cycle of arousal established itself. 

With maybe one exception, everyone I knew masturbated. The one girl I was friends with who didn’t, Sarah, eventually told me why. 

Like all of us, once the boobs and pubes had arrived and the periods started, she felt, as she put it “dirty down there.” At first I thought she was talking about the horror that is pubes and periods, but it turned out the ‘feel dirty’ to her meant that she felt horny.

“I feel wet. I want to touch…it….and one night, I was in bed and I did.” 

You know, sometimes, fate takes a perfectly nice girl and craps all over her from a great height. Sarah had explored herself as all girls do, first starting by doing nothing more than feeling her own boobs and figuring out how her nipples responded - and how she responded to them. This naturally led on to her finding her little sex bean and playing with that. Then came the fateful night when, after weeks of what we would call edging, she finally tipped over and had an orgasm……and wet the bed…..big time. 

“Mum knew. She just knew. Why else would I suddenly be wetting the bed. It was horrific. She made me wash the sheet…by hand…and I wasn’t allowed to have my bedroom door shut anymore. That was worse. Both mum and dad saw me naked, getting changed, every day.” (Sounds like child abuse to me.) But then she said “whenever I kneel to pray…I get….THAT feeling again, you know…between my legs.” 

She never tried masturbation again. Not only that, but she is now part of a religious Order and in a few years will take her final vows and finally be cut off from the world. I’ll miss her. 

So, one Wednesday lunchtime. (we had just completed a whole Rosary - yay us!) we were sitting on the school field, me and the rest of the ‘panty flashers’, talking about how much our knees ached, when I flicked my glance around the other girls. Our of seven of us, six had visible wet spots…and not tiny ones either. I was never shy, and anyway, we mostly talked about sex during these little gatherings, and I know we got each other more worked up. I piped up with “I don’t know about you, but kneeling there make me horny.”  (Pause for reaction from group.) There was a general Chorus of “I’m ALWAYS horny”, but then the truth came out and a couple of girls said “I know what you mean….it’s like kneeling to give a blow job, isn’t it?” (Not that any, or rather most of us had actually given a blow job at that age, but holy crap, we had thought about it!). Slowly, the girls admitted that for some inexplicable reason, it was arousing. 

One thing I loved about the Panty Flashers, is that from time to time, one of us would say ‘FC’ which stood for ‘flash cunt’. The girl who said it would quickly pull the crotch of her panties aside and count as high as she dared. I got to see a lot of vulvas! Jenny was by far the most daring of us. Whereas we might call “FC”, and get to maybe 4 or 5 ‘Mississippi’s, Jenny would flop down on the field, cross her legs, arrange her kilt (oh, those fucking kilts! They were the bane of our lives. Stupid-assed things) and then say “Fuck it…tell me if a teacher comes. She would then tug the crotch of her undies aside and leave it there for the whole time we were sitting there. We all knew her cunt almost as well as she did. She also went commando on occasions, and even once…one glorious, heart-stopping lunchtime, peed on the grass in front of all of us. That drew a chorus of “Ewww’ from the group - apart from me. I thought it was terrific. 

Horniness and religion. You know, I often wonder if enforced celibacy isn’t at the heart of the awful abuse cases we read about. It must be terrible to have the most natural, healthy of desires strapped down like that…and all because the Vatican is terrified of sex. I know I went through periods when I fancied a priest (or two), and many is the time I’ve masturbated imagining being fucked by a particularly hunky young priest over the altar (with everyone watching of course.) 

At school Confession was almost obligatory, and we, dirty little bitches that we were, would often crowbar something sexual into the confession. After the usual “Bless me, Father. For I have sinned…and the priest telling us to have courage etc, we would churn out some low-level stuff like, I swore, I hit someone, or maybe, I used the Lord’s name in vain, the priest would urge us on with “Now, think carefully, my daughter. Is there anything else?’

I swear, we could hear the anticipation in his voice so sometimes we might add “impure thoughts, father.” Some priests would want the details, and if so, boy, we gave them. “What kind of impure thoughts?” ‘Well, father, I get these feelings - between my legs - and with them come these thoughts that I’d like to be touching myself there, father…or maybe I’d like someone else to touch me.” That’s usually enough, but I’ve met a few priests who pushed it, in which case they get “I put my hand inside my panties, father, and oh, I’m so wet down there. I touch my vagina, father, and sometimes, I make myself cum.” 

I love the heavy breathing from the other side of the screen! Sometimes, when there’s thirty adolescent girls all waiting to confess their sins, I wonder why the priest doesn’t take a box of tissues in with him! Oh, but we were evil to those younger priests though. They might get angry with us, but remember, they can’t tell anyone why, so we knew there would be no phoning our parents, or even discussing it with the Headmistress. Happy Fays!

Religion and sex. Like I say, I’m sure that all that pent-up, unresolved sexual tension has been responsible for much of the sexual abuse that happens…and the violence too. 

And if that isn’t a sin, I don’t know what is.