The Nun's Forbidden Confession
Nothing special about my leisurely college life.
A time when I can satisfy my intellectual cravings without chasing anything.
My intellectual craving wasn't for my major subjects—it was an endless question about what horniness truly is.
Sorting categories by hormonal context. Character, relationship, and location. This should feel intuitive.
I slowly savored my past simulations, organized by the criteria Eden suggested.
"Aren't character and relationship basically the same thing?"
If character is a social persona, then relationship is power. You can't feel the same wistfulness for a first love in an already established lover's bond—similar relationships can differ in intensity and layers.
"Not easy."
I recommend continuing simulations along the adrenaline-dopamine pathway. It seems your sage-time deficiency lingers there.
"What kind of simulation?"
Acts that break social taboos naturally provoke disgust. But when safety is guaranteed and you violate that taboo, the brain perceives it as pleasure.
I liked Eden's blunt analysis.
Fantasy comes from deficiency, and immorality from safe violations.
"Safe taboo violation, huh. Alright, let's go."
Generating new character. Starting simulation.
Whirr.
Pixels scatter, and cold, damp air envelops my body.
I open my eyes to a Western-style rural village under a red sunset.
I stand before a towering old cathedral in the center.
I push open the heavy wooden door and step inside.
A nun greets me in the cathedral's hush, scented faintly with incense.
"Welcome, brother. Here for confession?"
Her face, visible beneath her veil, is strikingly clear.
The maturity of her late twenties, baby fat long gone.
Dark lashes cast shadows on pale skin.
Her firmly pressed lips give an air of abstinence.
Without a word, she leads me to the narrow, dark confessional.
Was it the intimidating presence of her habit?
I slip into the cramped booth as if entranced.
Her silhouette shows through the wooden lattice.
"Isn't confession done by a priest?"
"The priest is away, so I'm hearing confessions temporarily in his place."
Her voice from beyond the lattice is calm.
A story I can't tell anyone.
Like the elephant in the room, obvious but unspoken, I begin.
"I have something to confess. Sometimes I'm afraid... if the me who runs these simulations is okay."
"What do you mean by simulations?"
"The Eden System… sex simulations."
No point in lengthy explanations—she wouldn't understand.
Saying it aloud feels deeply embarrassing.
But also relieving.
Silence flows.
From beyond the lattice, I hear the nun gasp in shock.
Her silhouette trembles with her breathing.
"Could you... be more specific? What kind of simulations."
Her voice quivers faintly.
I start recounting calmly.
Memories of forcing legs apart, shoving into resisting mouths, ejaculating while staring into terrified eyes.
My voice is flat, but her reaction beyond the lattice burns hot.
"Hah… hah…"
Her breathing grows ragged.
Her gasps seep into my narrow confessional.
The rustle of fabric and a stifled moan leak out.
It's like phone sex in this bizarre atmosphere.
I press close to the lattice and ask,
"Is it normal to feel pleasure in coercive situations?"
"…I don't know. Because of my vow of chastity, I've never had real experience like that."
Her voice is wet.
Awkward silence.
Her lips part with effort.
Suppressed desire oozes through her voice, sticky and thick.
"Truth is, I pray every night too. Begging the Lord to take away my lust. I resent this uncontrollable desire from my withering flesh. Just having lewd thoughts feels like sinning."
Sadness clings to her moist voice.
The nun's anguish, something I'd never considered.
I want to ease that sacred heart.
"How about confessing to me? Saying it out loud might surprisingly lighten your mind."
She hesitates long before opening her mouth.
Leaning her white forehead against the lattice, she spills her shame.
"It was one night… After prayers, back in my room, a heat like my chest would burst crushed me."
I hear her swallow hard.
"I pulled out the well-worn cross from deep in the drawer. That holy relic looked like a tool to quench my thirst that night."
Her voice crumbles like wet leaves.
"Every time the cold metal's blunt end touched my entrance, goosebumps rose all over. Down there was already soaking mad. I called the Lord's name as I slowly pushed it in. I knew it was blasphemy, but each time that hardness scraped my inner walls, my brain went numb. My body shook my hips toward the cross on its own."
She continues, panting.
"My vision went white as I cried out, 'I am the Lord's bride.' Like a bride welcoming her groom. When I came to, seeing the stains on my underwear made me want to die of shame. But the next day, I craved that cold weight again—my filthy self disgusted me."
"Everyone has anxieties like this, right?"
The nun chokes up.
Then, soothing herself, she adds,
"Theology teaches that the vow of chastity depends on the will of the heart. Even if the flesh is violated, if the soul doesn't yield, that chastity remains intact."
I just listen.
I can't dare interrupt her confession.
"If it's not my will… if it's violence from another, maybe I can release this filthy desire without sinning. The Lord won't give trials I can't bear."
Her logic is desperate.
A cowardly faith seeking absolution while craving fall.
"Now I'll go to the prayer room to wash away my sins. If the Lord hears my prayer, He'll send someone to break this shameful will of mine. If that's His will, I'll accept that suffering without refusal."
Click. The door opens, and she leaves the confessional.
Left alone in the narrow space, I feel a strange pity for her desperate struggle.
And simultaneously, an irresistible lust tenses my groin.
Deep in the cathedral, she kneels before the massive cross.
I approach quietly and place a hand on her shoulder.
The nun's shoulder trembles.
Head bowed, she doesn't stop her moan-like prayers.
I press her shoulder down, forcing her to prostrate.
Hiking up her black habit reveals luscious white buttocks.
Her underwear is already drenched in arousal.
Liquid trails down her thighs, soaking her stockings.
"Ah, Lord…"
She shakes her head, uttering a low moan.
But she doesn't push my hand away.
Instead, she lifts her hips, fully exposing her shame.
"Your prayer… has been answered."
Without delay, I plunge deep inside her.
Squelch.
No resistance as expected.
Too slick for a sanctuary sealed nearly 30 years.
"Lord… ah, Lord~!"
The nun clutches the cross, letting out a high-pitched moan.
Nothing like the cold, blunt cross end.
The glans' ridge scrapes her walls one by one.
An unimaginable surge of pleasure.
She loses her mind, screaming holy cries.
"Aah! Lord…!"
I scoff inwardly.
Calling for the Lord while raising her ass—it's ridiculous.
Her mouth, preaching chastity moments ago, now leaks only faint breaths.
Pity for her struggle stirs mischief in my chest.
'The simulation's direction is mine to decide.'
I grip her hips and thrust to the hilt.
"Too deep! Ah, Lord…!"
No intent to mock her faith.
Just teasing this innocent nun a little.
"Looser than I thought. You said it was your first. Was today the first?"
"N-no. Ahh… Lord, forgive me."
She shakes her head in denial.
But as my hips plunge deep again, her body reacts first.
"Who'd you give your virginity to? The cross end?"
"Really, haang! It's my first. Brother… you're the first. Hng!"
Her mouth calls the Lord, but her hips shake to match my rhythm on their own.
Traces of faith flicker at her lips and vanish.
"What did you do to this hole to make it so worn out?"
Each shameful question hits her ears, and her walls clench in spasms.
She starts calling for brother instead of Lord sometime.
Acknowledging me as the source of her pleasure.
"I'm… an impure… slut."
With those words, I hear the snap of her last resistance.
Panting, she mutters.
Reciting the prayers she'd confessed alone every night.
"Hah… Every night with the cross, defiling my body. Ugh, so dirty."
She wails, vomiting her impurity.
"Not the Lord… I awaited pleasure. Defile this impure me!"
The simulation must process the character's emotions too.
Did she feel the same liberation spilling it to me?
Thwack, thwack!
"Ahng! Hng!"
Lord and brother vanish.
Just the slap of pubis on ass.
Short holy cries from the pleasure-drenched female.
Smack!
"Kyaaak!"
I slap her silent buttocks.
A vivid red handprint on white flesh.
"The Lord's bride can't just whine like that."
"Aah. Brother. Euhh. I'm sorry. Forgive me."
What forgiveness does she seek?
If it's sin for failing to suppress desire, she should beg the Lord.
Her spasms rhythmically milk my shaft.
As if atoning for selfishly indulging in pleasure, neglecting me.
"Ahng! So deep~ Hard! Ahaang! Hot! Too tight!"
Not even a whore would bark so lewdly.
She's no longer a nun or anything.
Beneath the shed nun shell, only flesh maddened by nearly 30 years of pent-up lust.
"Urgh!"
Feeling climax, I yank out urgently.
My shaft scrapes her upper wall and exits, erupting.
Splurt! Splurt!
White ropes slice the air.
Staining her ass and black habit white.
She turns her head, staring blankly at my twitching cock.