Were any man so foolish as to abroad on the stormy autumn night, they would not have seen the stagecoach through the darkness as it made its way up the treacherous slopes and onto the high plateau where the Monastery of Blessed Repentance sat. Only when it arrived at its destination, as lightning shattered the sky and bathed the desolate land in its harsh glow, was its shape briefly revealed; a heavy, solid contraption of oak and iron, black as the surrounding night, with its curtains drawn and coat of arms taken down in the name of secrecy. Its occupants did not linger long, for men were abjured in this holy place, merely long enough for the driver to dump his struggling cargo out in front of the sole gate, before returning whence he came. As the harsh jangle of limber, harnesses and iron-bound wheels faded back into the night, the gates creaked open and a quartet of holy sisters emerged, each clad in the plain brown habit, cowl and leather muzzle gag of the Order. Without hesitation, they took up their burden and bore her into the grim stone bulwark of the monastery, blind to her pleading glances and deaf to her muffled screams. After all, such behaviour was to be expected of an unruly penitent, especially one not there of her own volition, if the ropes tightened firm about her supple body were any proof.

In the front hall, Anita, Mother Superior of the Order of Blessed Repentance, waited to receive them, tapping a sandaled foot with impatience. After twenty-five years here, whatever beauty she might have once possessed was gone, and in its place stood a hard, heavyset woman of middle years, thin-lipped mouth cast downwards into a perpetual frown, head shorn so she might never feel a hint of vanity, and grey eyes as warm and welcoming as chips of flint. At last, the new arrival was dragged struggling in front of her, the heavy crash of the door bar provoking a fresh tide of gagged complaints, and Anita’s expression became even grimmer at the sight of her feminine loveliness. “Do you know why you are here, Lady Sandoval?”

“Mmmpppggghhh!” Erika Sandoval shrieked in protest, the wide leather strap bound over her mouth reducing her cries to pathetic babble, bound wrists flexing helplessly behind her back. At twenty, she was a mere wine merchant’s daughter with not a drop of noble blood in her whatsoever, any claim to the aristocracy she possessed by way of marriage to her husband, Sir Rodrigo. It was her looks that so ensnared the elderly knight, and Anita had to admit, they were considerable; a lively, heart-shaped face made attractive by rosy cheeks and wide brown eyes, curly blonde hair reaching down to the small of her back, and full breasts and hips, the latter accentuated by the flattering dress of green velvet she wore.

Of course, that was the problem. Old men with young wives soon worried about the prospect of infidelity, and with her generous looks and flirtatious nature, she was the sort of woman who attracted many eyes… and occasionally looked back. “You are here because you are a harlot, a sinner, a selfish tramp whose wicked ways will eventually lead you to ruin. We are here to ensure that does not happen. You will learn humility and chastity and obedience, so that when your husband desires that you return, you will do so the ideal wife, and one finally worthy of him. Begin.”

So ordered, the knives came out, and Erika gave an outraged scream as her gown was sliced away in swift, practiced strokes, her gagged insults rolling off her captors like rain trickling down a stone. With the exception of a few long-standing members such as Anita, most of the roughly sixty sisters present at the monastery were women like her, delivered to the Order for chastisement and reform. The four attending to Erika were amongst the most promising acolytes, having taken each and every lesson to heart, and Anita watched with no small amount of pride as they did not falter in their efforts, utterly silent behind their leather muzzle gags. The last of Erika’s clothing was stripped off, every intimate region utterly vulnerable to their scrutiny, and from there, the ropes came out, secured fast about her ankles, thighs, elbows and below her breasts, with one of the sisters taking care to replace Sir Rodrigo’s shoddy job on her wrist bonds with her own far superior work. “Mmmpppggghhh! MMMPPPPPGGHHHH!”

Snapping her fingers, Anita led the little party towards the novitiates’ cells, eager to get started. Then again, perhaps I should not be hasty to give this little tart what she deserves. After all, I might be calling her sister soon enough…