A Fake Monk

After 10 years of monastic life, I finally landed in St. Gallen, the cantonal capital, in 1897. I was an excellent student, learning Latin, Greek, and seven other languages like others drink a glass of water. During this time, I also learned to fuck asses; many priests did it, as did we pupils. I won't lie, it was a good alternative to solitary masturbation, which I didn't like at all. But I was sure I wasn't gay. The long skirts of the faithful females, which usually even covered their ankles, seemed too obviously tempting to me. Only the young girls let their skirts fly enticingly, even inside the convent church. I knew they all belonged to me!

I'd learned one more thing in the convent: The world belonged to the brave, the courageous, the bold. Timid types had lost before the battle even began. So I went to the Dominican church as a confessor. I never claimed to be a priest. I threw around Latin so that they were impressed and allowed me to be a confessor without any scrutiny. It was the easiest way to get to know girls and women, to get to know their most intimate secrets. I was 22, looked like a 17-year-old, and had never touched a girl intimately! That, and only that, was my goal. The most important goal of all.

Before I forget, the separation of church and state worked perfectly because the churches retained the upper hand. No king, no duke, no count could place themselves above the church, no matter which church. Here, in the German-speaking part of Switzerland, it was the Catholic Church that held the reins. So it was a smart move on my part to act as a churchman. Even if I wasn't one. But nobody cared.

Of course, I knew how confession worked. The confessor was obsessed with the 6th commandment, sex. He had to question the penitent in detail about their sexual habits, called "sin" here. The field of interest ranged from harmless touching to murderous adultery. After just a few months, I had heard everything men and women did, and, of course, with whom. I wrote down all the names and addresses, including their classifications. It felt a bit like bookkeeping, but it was necessary if you didn't have a super memory.

Step by step, I became bolder, bolder. It soon became clear that those girls and women who even came to confession were among the simple, the naive, and the weak. I let the weakest girls and the weakest young women timidly expose their pussies in the confessional, and I groped them brazenly and boldly. I proceeded very cautiously; the particularly simplest ones showed me in the confessional how they sinned, how they masturbated. If I knew someone better, I tried to masturbate her. It looks easier than it is. But I was docile, yes, I was.

I took pastoral care seriously, and that begins with the physical. I gradually began to visit my flock privately. It only took some circumspection to find them alone at home. The girls and women talked about their sins, poured out their hearts to the confessor. He was young; he would understand the needs and carnal desires, the irresistible urges of the loins, better than the old priest. Yes, you let yourself be taken in by the young confessor, you sat on his lap and let his fingers touch you. There was really nothing wrong with that! The more intensely his fingers glided over the exposed inner thighs, the stronger the sinful urges became. There were only a few who refused anything; I had already weeded out most of those in advance.

Only a few went along with it as far as secretly masturbating under their skirts or being masturbated by me. Quite a few of those few ended up letting themselves be fucked. I couldn't say today which one was my first. But my ingratiating, soothing voice worked wonders. Yes, she wasn't one of those, no! Yes, she was married and loved her husband; she had never cheated on him. Yes, she cheated on him sometimes, but not very often. Yes, she cheated on him shamelessly, because he chased after every skirt; surely she had a right to do so!?

I didn't really care how she felt about it; I wasn't a real counselor, after all, but a cheater. And it didn't matter whether we did it on the kitchen bench, the basement stairs, or - mostly - in the marital bed. What mattered was that she got naked or at least exposed her pussy. I let my cock slide along her inner thigh up until it was in heaven or paradise. During sex, it was really just interesting to observe her and my reactions. Synchronization and consonance were essential to truly experience pleasure. If you weren't in sync, it was basically shit. Everyone reached orgasm somehow, but only somehow. I was forced to add another column to my list: it either worked or it didn't.

Three years went brilliantly. I had mounted and thoroughly fucked countless girls, wives, and widows on my list, often times, and perhaps even sired a bastard or two. Of course, I tried to pull my cock out in time when she insisted. But most of the time, we were both overcome by desire and neither of us paid attention to whether she was ovulating. The "morning-after pill" hadn't been invented yet; you pulled your cock out and didn't intentionally squirt inside, because she could easily finish at rubbing my cock, that's how it was. No one should HAVE TO DUTY a bastard.

Three beautiful, exciting years. Then someone from the central payroll department at the Dominicans called, and I had to disappear into the dead of night. I only had my list of over 150 names. I was warmly welcomed by each one and received a bed, dinner, and breakfast. Nobody needs more than that. I now had much more time to fuck my former flocks and sired the occasional bastard. And I did it passionately for the next six years. I wasn't just greedy, I also wanted variety, because no one could be fucked like another. So, after breakfast, I left in good humor and promised to come back soon. Of course, I was asked why I no longer heard confessions, but a minor disagreement with the Dominicans was explanation enough. No one could cope with my theological and rhetorical gibberish.

That's how I met Mrs. von Almen, Julia. No, Julia never went to church, let alone to confession. She ran a large house with her considerable fortune, had a salon similar to the Parisian salons of 100 years ago, and everyone met there: the chic crowd, the bobos, the famous or not-yet-famous starlets. But also bright minds, thinkers, poets, and politicians. Business magnates, not so much; the salon was no place for doing business. No, it was more of a protected area for the wealthy clientele, who were allowed to fuck Julia's pretty, young maids in secret. Well, anyway, Julia's eye fell on me, the penniless 28-year-old who still looked like a 21-year-old. She preferred young boys in her bed, and I was just what she needed.

What a relief to have solid ground under my feet again. Julia was smart, educated, and reasonably handsome. Prettier than the nubiles of my former flock, certainly. And she loved it tender, softly and gentle. It was a good fit, because I'm usually just like that. At the same time, though, her sexual depravity knew no bounds. She saw no problem at all fucking a sweet little angel right next to me in the big marital bed. She made a lot of money, because at that time, very few adult women took 12-, 13-, or 14-year-olds into their bed to play with. I had to come to terms with the fact that she was sharing me with her three best friends. This was a completely new and an exciting experience.

Julia's best friends were Georgia, Adelgund, and Ragnhild. Julia didn't throw me in at the deep end; she gradually prepared me for my role. So I usually only had one or at most two of them in bed, all four only once. The four were of the same mold; of course, you could tell them apart, but sexually, they were like identical quadruplets. It took weeks for me to find my way as a "climber of the Four Peaks." They were truly pugnacious women when they were in the salon, but in bed, they were playful, sweet, and loving kittens. I just made sure they had their orgasms, no matter how; then I was the declared favorite.

They preferred to work with artists, painters, and sculptors, who would draw them naked or while having sex, paint them, or immortalize them in clay or stone. There was a separate room in Julia's townhouse where the artworks were made and kept. Naturally, I was asked for my opinion, and I knew how easily I could get myself into trouble. So, I primarily read the body language of the people depicted before expressing an opinion.

Praise and criticism couldn't be closer together; it was always a walk on the razor's edge. But if I could interpret their reaction correctly, I was always right. I was rarely wrong, and usually realized in retrospect where I'd gone wrong. I had to pay more attention to whether the lady's negativity was directed at the work or at the unimportant, insignificant sexual partner she was forced to let fuck her while lying down as a model. The artist, of course, had his friends and brought them along to fuck the patron lady. Some did a good job, others didn't, but the ladies loved the surprise and the variety. The differences were often far apart and could be completely contradictory. But I also had to pay attention to the artist's body language, the signals. It was obvious that they were all self-centered egomaniacs. When a homosexual artist had to portray one of them having sex, heterosexual sex, then the reluctance, the rejection, often came to the fore. It was difficult, damn difficult! Like Paris, I had to think carefully about who I gave the golden apple to. But the patrons and ladies were happy to be painted or modeled while being fucked; I shared this absurdity with the "four-leaf clover", even though I never participated myself, only watched them being painted or modeled during the fucking acts. Sometimes the painting or modeling took a little longer, so my patron had to be fucked by several men, six or seven in a row, and the continuation was scheduled for another day.

My feelings were primarily for Julia. She was a gentle, sweet soul. I didn't let Georgia, Adelgund, and Ragnhild get too close to me. They were just as good at fucking as Julia, but I wanted, I had to, commit myself and left no room for doubt. Georgia was American, Adelgund was German, and Ragnhild was from Norway, and it was obvious that all three of them came from good backgrounds. I was the chameleon, the ex-confessor, the penniless one. But I felt no shame in letting Julia support me. It was my nature; nothing was further from my mind than honest, hard work.

Julia had an idea. She wanted to open a salon in Rorschach, a small town on Lake Constance, about five hours away by horseback. I rode with her to Rorschach once or twice to check on the construction progress. She had bought an abandoned factory and was having it renovated. She had to change architects twice before finding one who approached the project with expertise and drive. His strong hand was immediately apparent, and progress was made. He recommended an interior designer to Julia, with whom he had worked several times before.

JULIA'S salon was taking shape; in the past, it would have been called a brothel. She naturally protested against this. Sex wasn't a bad thing; it was a part of life, like eating and drinking. That one could mate with a willing female in her salon was only natural. Whether anyone paid or was paid for it, she didn't even want to know. Everything had to remain within the bounds of respectable society; rowdy and aggressive whores were banned from the premises. Membership was so expensive that only the crème de la crème came and were free to fuck the exquisitely pretty girls of the house to their heart's content. It was that simple.

Yes, I didn't make a typo above. In some other countries, there were cars and bicycles, but not in Switzerland. A referendum had ruled this out over 100 years ago, so in Switzerland, people rode horses or were transported in a carriage. That's how it was, and the Swiss liked it.

So I rode with Julia to the lakeshore, and we let the horses drink and rest. Julia drew her knees up and hugged her. "Is it true that you've been hearing confessions for years with the Dominicans? Are you an ordained priest?" I answered with the absolute truth. That I was a con artist trying to meet girls because I was fed up with the anal sex with the other boys and the priests. And of course, I wasn't a real priest, which the Dominicans didn't notice. Three years, until the payroll office started asking questions.

Julia laughed until she cried when I told her about the naive, simple-minded, and stupid people. How I let the simplest of them demonstrate their masturbation to me during every confession. My tongue was like silver; they let me into their marital beds, between their willing, steaming thighs, and they let me fuck them as long and as often as I wanted. I was allowed to squirt uninhibitedly into any pussy as I pleased. They licked my cock clean when we were finished. Julia whinnied with pleasure. It was unimaginable with what audacity and impudence I penetrated the pussies of these gullible people. Were there any setbacks? Yes, of course. But I didn't care and simply moved on to the next victim. There was always a next one.

So, what about now? I felt a little less certain. "Now I live with you as your lover, Julia. As long as you want me. Then I'll move on." Julia looked at me calmly. "You fuck very well, and very pleasantly, Jack. Georgia, Adelgund, and Ragnhild all say the same. They want to keep you, and so do I, of course. But I can't marry you, Jack; I'm already married. It was a stupid, sentimental business. After just a few weeks, I realized that Giovanni was only after my money and was also a brutal thug. First, he beat me until I had bruises. Then he broke my arm, and now I was fighting back. I got a restraining order, but I was ill-advised not to divorce him immediately. It would have only cost me money, but I didn't want to grant him his triumph. Now he's reappeared on the horizon." Julia remained silent, gnawing on her lower lip.

I was very worried. "What do you mean, he's reappeared?" Julia looked at me very calmly. "Giovanni is now a — admittedly, a minor — boss in the Italian mafia, which has recently established itself in our city. That suits him. Last week, a few people showed up at my salon in St. Gallen with a bouquet of beautiful flowers and a warm greeting from him, my husband. Did I still insist on the restraining order? I was taken aback and initially said, "Yes, I insist." They left quickly, noting that the final word hadn't been spoken yet. This is the state of things, and I've been wondering for a week whether I can tell you, whether you can support me, whether you have any ideas?" Julia lowered her gaze into the grass.

I immediately said I stood by her, come what may. "But I have no legal training, and right now I only have a vague idea. Georgia works as a private detective, doesn't she? Your ex and his gang are Italian, so presumably all married and crisscross related by marriage, I suspect. I could take advantage of that, I think. I'd approach the wives as a fake Dominican, and Georgia could photograph us. We could use the footage to scare the guys away, right?"

Julia thought for a long time. "Do you think it would really make them vulnerable to blackmail?" I nodded, now even more convinced of my idea. "Cornuto — a cuckold — is a strong swear word for Italians, but if you were proven to have been cuckolded, that would hit the macho men deep in their so-called honor. There would be blood, believe me!"

We discussed it for a long time, and ultimately, glasses and a fake beard would make me unrecognizable. Julia got me both; a makeup artist she knew would glue a languid mustache on me so tightly that it wouldn't fall off even during a passionate kiss. And I still had my real Dominican habit. I plunged headfirst into the new adventure. The "four-leaf clover" were the only ones in the know.

First, I went after Giovanni, Julia's ex. I quickly discovered that he had two lovers at the same time. And he wanted to fleece Julia, the bastard! I approached Cora, one of his lovers. She was fully immersed in the hypocritical faith of Italian women, and of course, she was very flattered that a real Dominican was chasing her. Soon she was confessing, sitting on my lap, giggling childishly as my hand crept up her inner thighs and slid under the hem of her panties. The priest's hand was so fine and delicate, and there was nothing wrong with him masturbating Cora so delicately and gently. She especially loved being masturbated, but Giovanni, the rough brute, wasn't having it. Although Cora was a rather dumb girl, she placed great value on her good figure and appearance. That alone kept Giovanni attached to her. I had invited Georgia to our trysts, and she diligently photographed us. And of course, Cora loved to get naked because the priest liked her so much and she didn't hold back on her charms for her admirer. She was only too happy to let the priest fuck her, every afternoon for a week, then he had to move on. It made her very horny when I whispered prayers in Latin and she pulled me between her steaming thighs. Every afternoon, I shot a huge load of cum into her pretty fuck hole, damn it, Amen! Georgia was very pleased with her photos.

Ramona was the name of Giovanni's other girl, and I soon found out when our little gangster boss went to Cora's and when he went to Ramona's. She was a bit prettier and much younger than Cora, maybe 15 or 16. Just like Cora, she had been lulled into false faith and, despite her shyness and modesty, was ready to receive the confessor. Because the confessor was a holy man, the only one to whom you had to confess all your sins against the 6th Commandment, and also the only one who could fuck you sinlessly, or so she had been taught. Oh, yes, she really had more to confess than Cora. See was an addicted masturbator and violated the 6th Commandment several times a day, with or without Giovanni. He didn't like that Ramona masturbated so much, but she was addicted. "We have to do something about this," the good Dominican priest stated, "really!" Without shame, Ramona showed how she sinned, baring her lower body up to her navel and masturbating passionately on his lap, pressing her head against his habit during orgasm. She wasn't the type to sit idly on his lap; after a short break, she simply continued masturbating. It took several days before he asked her and she let him into her bedroom. She let him strip her naked without resistance and shed many tears, both tears of shame and anticipation. She knew, of course, that it wasn't a sin to have sex with her confessor, so she offered no resistance at all. I thought she fucked much better than Cora, and she had an incredible number of orgasms, as she masturbated incessantly even while being fucked. I fucked her, too, for over a week, inseminating the shy girl several times in every afternoon and giving Georgia the opportunity to secretly photograph us.

Now I visited the wives of the other gangsters. With some of them, however, I hit a brick wall; they were honorable wives and hadn't sinned against the 6th Commandment, so there was no need for a confessor. I was truly astonished, because every second gangster's wife was actually pure and chaste. I would never have suspected that. But there were still the others, who were neither pure nor chaste. They didn't hesitate to sit on the priest's lap, who very carefully and ready to flee placed his hand on their knees and then her inner thighs. It was also astonishing that some of them wouldn't let him continue; they wouldn't let his hand slide up their inner thighs again, after they had seen through his intentions the first time. A fleeting touch under the hem of their panties was reason enough to freeze to stone while involuntarily being masturbated by the man, and then to refuse to obey the priest. This way, I could only seduce the others, because if one of them allowed her pussy to be touched under her panties without protest, she was ready to sin. That was certain.

They went into the bedroom and locked the door to keep the children out. The confessor and the sinner sat silently next to each other on the edge of the bed. He lifted her skirt to her waist and pulled down her panties; this couldn't be done without her cooperation. As often as possible, he avoided kissing her, because his fear of losing his moustache was too great. He caressed her thighs, her inner thighs, and her labia intensely until she gradually let her legs slide apart. All of them let themselves be masturbated to orgasm during foreplay, then the holy man mounted her in the middle of her orgasm. She closed her eyes and let herself be fucked, smiling, because this prolonged her orgasm. Not a single one asked him to pull his cock out when he came. The priest didn't care if he fathered a bastard; that was her problem, not his. Whenever possible, he fucked the chaste housewife a second time because he needed to release his pressure. Without any hesitation, they rubbed his cock until it was hard again or she licked it to make it hard. Some misjudged it and got his full load down their throats. Then they both laughed, and she licked him again until it was hard. No one denied him; they were usually sexually starved. Cheating with another gang member always ended badly, though rarely fatally. Only a few of the wives were under so much pressure that they cheated anyway, and that happened very rare.

Over the next few months, I fucked my way through the marital beds of the entire gang, and Georgia documented it all with photos. By then, I had fucked all 35 wives — that was all who would let themselves be fucked. Two women, red with shame, allowed me to masturbate her just once, petrified by shame and horror, but they strictly refused to repeat it again or to be fucked. I had noted the women who were particularly refined, graceful, or very active during sex, and I visited them several times whenever I felt like a good fuck. Georgia watched and photographed us and afterward wanted to know exactly why I had fucked this woman again and again.

Julia, Georgia, and I sat over the photos. Georgia had done a good job; she knew she had to get the faces in the picture. Julia gave me indefinable glances. Was she surprised that I was mating with all the females wholeheartedly and passionately? If she had asked, I wouldn't have denied it. I didn't see it as a business, but as a series of genuine seductions. It wasn't as if the women were waiting in a line for their turn. I had to start from the very bottom with each one, literally. The first touch of the knees was crucial, and I had to work my way up the inner thighs to the pussy, touching the pussy and her clit. With over 30 women, that was the end of it, and I had to retreat as skillfully and as face-savingly as possible. That was always very tricky.

Julia packed the relevant photos in an envelope, with those of Caro and Ramona at the front, of course. Then she sent the envelope anonymously to Giovanni. He must have been completely shocked, because the accompanying letter ordered him to leave the canton, and better yet, Switzerland as a whole. Otherwise, the photos would be published mercilessly, with their full names. We never learned how he really reacted or what he intended to do with the photos of the other gang members — whether he kept them for personal pleasure or informed his cronies about their wives. In any case, he and his gang disappeared overnight without a trace. We never found out more, despite Georgia's intensive investigation.

I would never have imagined the effect those months would have on me. Until then, I had been content to lie next to one of the women from the foursome at night. Now that was no longer enough for me; more and more often, I brought a second one along and had sex with both women. Later, I moved from one to the other during the day and was only satisfied when I had fucked all four of them, one after the other. The women laughed at me, of course, but there was nothing I could do about it; Pandora's box had been opened.

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