The Naughty Magazine

The Naughty Magazine (A Vignette)

A word from the author: This is a true story. It happened over thirty years ago, to a person who is now a good friend, and who does not want to be identified (hence the lack of description of her). And yes, at the time, she was a nun.

The Naughty Magazine

The young nun stared down at the cover of a magazine lying on the grass. The nun was as virginal as any nun ever was. She had never been touched by a man, let alone by a woman. Yet she had heard of such things as naughty magazines, even though she had never read one. And now she had one in front of her.

She stared down at the lurid cover. It had a title in some Scandinavian language. She did not know what the words meant. But she could guess, just looking at the cover picture of a naked busty brunette hanging in chains, while another equally busty brunette threatened her with a bullwhip.

The nun opened her mouth just a fraction, without even realising that she was doing it. Her nipples were starting to harden. Images flashed before the nun’s mind, of what that whip would do should its cruel leather ever land on the naked flesh of the chained up woman. In her mind’s eye the nun saw stroke after stroke of the whip descending without mercy, as the victim screamed and begged. But mercy there was none. The whip lashed down at the chained woman’s back, reddening the flesh, until the entire back was a reddish-pink hue. But the whipping did not stop there. No, it continued until the flesh began to be cut, and blood seeped through the lines of agony.

The nun had closed her eyes, seeing only the animated scene of torture that played out in her mind’s eye. Her breath came in little gasps, and the pink end of her tongue now pointed out through her parted lips. Was she imagining herself as the victim or the torturer? Not even the nun knew. But she was turned on, even though she would never have admitted to such a fact.

In her imagination the woman wielding the whip moved around to the front of her torture victim. She began to whip the brunette’s breasts, the whip whistling down, but barely heard over the screams of agony…

The nun opened her eyes. She looked around the clearing. But she was alone in the wood. Nobody was about. Nobody was watching her. Nobody would ever know.

She grabbed the magazine. She had to see if there were pictures of one woman whipping another woman’s breasts. She had to see. But she was disappointed to find that it was only the cover of a naughty magazine, and that the insides were missing. Disappointed, she turned over the magazine, to discover that the back of the magazine had an advert for four other magazines in the series. She stared down at the pictures.

In the first picture a young woman, with short black hair, was kneeling on a bed. Another woman, maybe ten years older, was holding a long needle and threatening to insert it into a hard brown nipple. The nun saw that the younger woman already had several needles inserted into her breasts. The young woman’s mouth was open. But whether in pain or pleasure the nun could not tell.

What was it like to feel such things? The nun’s hand crept up to grasp her own breast, through her clothes, without realising what was doing. Her face reddened, perhaps in embarrassment. Her eyes glanced down at the second picture.

In the second picture a woman was chained face down on a bed, the chain links which spread-eagled her clearly biting into her ankles and wrists. She had short, red hair. Because of the way in which she had been bound her face could not be seen. Also on the bed, kneeling between the chained woman’s spread legs, there was a muscular black woman, with very short curly black hair. The light shone of the black woman’s skin, as though she had been sweating, or perhaps anointed with some oil. The black woman was naked apart from a large, black strap-on, at least ten inches long. The rounded end of the sturdy strap-on was not aimed at the bound woman’s hairy cunt, but was just touching her anus.

The nun stared at stared. Surely there was no way that the… the thing could fit, was there? And did people really do things like that? Did women do things like that? Yet here seemed to be the evidence of such activities. The nun imagined what it would be like to have her tight anus slowly parted by that strap-on monster, and the hard, black plastic slowly slide inside, where no such thing should ever intrude, the way that the nun had been taught. Her religion did not approve of such things. It did not approve of unnatural relations between women. So why was she so turned on? Why were her nether regions beginning to get hot and wet? Why did the nun want to rub her crotch, a desire which she managed to resist.

Yet, as she stared at the dirty picture, she also had a desire to be the black woman, with a naked victim defenceless before her. She wanted the strap-on around her waist, so that she could… she could fuck the other woman. Yes, she knew that word, it was impossible not to know it, no matter how innocent she might appear to be. A person heard such things.

More images entered the nun’s mind’s eye: of Sister Catherine being the naked woman chained spread-eagled to the bed, her anus defenceless against that plastic intruder. The nun realised that, with such an artificial device, it would never go soft, and it would never come (which she knew that men’s things did). The woman wearing the strap-on could fuck her victim for as long as she wanted, and the other woman could do nothing.

The nun could not help such wicked thoughts. He face was now bright red, and her quim dripping with juice, despite the holy vows which she had sworn. Her gaze flicked to the third of the four pictures. The nun wanted to see more. She wanted to see all of these dirty things which she had never seen before.

The third picture was even worse, as far as the nun was concerned. It, again, featured two women (and the nun had already guessed that the Scandinavian title of this dirty magazine translated to something like Lesbian Torture). One woman, in her twenties, with short blonde hair, was standing in the middle of some sort of dungeon. The other woman was in her fifties, with grey hair cropped short. Both women were naked. The blonde’s breasts had been bound at the base with white cord. The blonde’s breasts were large, much larger than the nun’s. But the cord had been tied so tightly that it was sinking into the skin, turning the breasts into a pair of purplish footballs. The blood had been trapped within them. But that was not all. The tortured blonde also had a pair of clamps crushing each nipple. The clamps were made from two small, flat pieces of wood, joined at each end by a pair of screws. The grey-haired woman was turning the screws so that the wood of the clamps almost touched, with purplish-black nipples protruding out of those wooden torture devices. The grey woman was laughing at the camera, as though crushing the nipples of another woman was the funniest thing in the world.

But it was the face of the blonde which got the nun. Her head was back, and her mouth was open, and it looked as though she was being overwhelmed with pleasure, along with the pain. Her arms were down by her sides, so that she could have resisted the torture of the breast, had she wanted to. But she made no effort to do so. It was as though she welcomed the pain. The nun, without realising that she was doing so, squeezed one of her nipples, as hard as she could, wanting to feel what the blonde woman was feeling. The nun would have given anything to have a copy of the advertised magazine. If that was the cover, then what would the pictures inside be like? The nun wanted to see it all. She wanted to feel it all. She wanted to be the woman in the photo, her breasts turned purple by the rope bondage, her nipples crushed down to almost nothing. The nun did not realise it (or perhaps a part of her did) but she was close to cumming, although she had down nothing but fondle one of her own breasts and squeeze a nipple.

Then the nun gazed at the forth picture, and she could not tear her gaze away. The picture was of some woman’s crotch, which had been shaved clean of all hair. The picture was a close-up, showing no more of the anonymous woman. But that shaven cunt was not the only woman in the picture. There was the head and forearms of a woman with short black hair. That dark-haired woman was holding the labia of the shaven cunt apart. The photographer had picked up the fact that the cunt was glistening with arousal. The nun had never seen a woman’s cunt portrayed in such a matter.

That was not all. In her other hand the woman was holding a lit cigarette. The glowing end of the cigarette was very close to the shave cunt. Perhaps it was about to be plunged into the spread wetness. Perhaps it was about to singe the erect clitoris. Of course the picture had only been posed, and no contact was made. But there was a knowing look on the dark-haired woman’s face, as she stared into the camera. It said you would, wouldn’t you? Yes, if you had the chance to stub out a cigarette on the end of a woman’s erect clit you would do so.

The nun realised that she would. But she also wanted to feel the agony of feeling her own little nubbin burned by that cigarette. She wanted to be both tortured and torturer at the same time.

As she imagined what it would feel like to really, really be burned in such a sensitive area she gave out a little shrink and fell to the ground, overcome by a powerful orgasm.

There is little more to tell. The nun, when she recovered, did not keep the cover of the naughty magazine, or even look at the contents. She went back to the nunnery, not telling anybody what had occurred. But a change had come over her, and from then on her dreams were haunted by images of lesbian domination, some of them many times crueller than those portrayed on the back of that magazine. Eventually – although after the passage of several years – it would lead to her leaving the nunnery, to pursue such irresistible desires.

The End.