Clarissa Beaumont of the wealthy Beaumont Dynasty had been sent to Saint Marina’s Retreat after her family discovered the texts from her boyfriend, Thomas. Her parents thought the lake air and scripture lessons would cleanse her of such poor judgment. They were unaware that her "cousin Marianne", a nervous, sturdy-looking girl who stood a foot taller, had arrived a month later to share her quarters.

Instructive sermons took place every afternoon in the chapel, in which the women lectured on obedience. The cousins sat close together, holding hands where the priest couldn't see.

Perched on the hard wooden pew, Thomas had to admit that the one saving grace of the oversized silicone implants his girlfriend had had sewn into his posterior was that he always had a cushion to sit on. All the chairs at the retreat were of cold, hard wood with curved backs intended to force a demure poise into the spine, but Thomas, at least, was always sitting pretty.

"A woman should learn in quietness and full submission. I do not permit a woman to teach or to assume authority over a man; she must be quiet. Timothy Two, Eleven," intoned Father Gideon.

Thomas seethed, for he knew the purpose of the sermons was to train his girlfriend like a dog, to shape her into another man's wife. But he seethed silently, for a good woman was meant to be seen, not heard. And he was, as far as the priests knew, a woman.

In the evening, they were permitted to relax in their quarters and indulge in handicrafts. Today was knitting. Outside, the snow fell, stifling everything except the quiet clack of needles and the crackle of the log fire.

"At least they'll never make a housewife out of me," he sighed, looking down at the uneven lump of yarn he had tangled together in his lap. He looked over at her work. "Is that a belt?"

Clarissa held up her work proudly. "I'm making you a skirt," she smirked.

"Babe, please," he whispered, staring at the scrap of wool. "Knit me some real clothes. A sweater. Pants. Anything."

She held the knitted strip up against the swell of his ass.

"Why? I'm sure Father Gideon will just love seeing you in this," she teased. "Don't you just love seeing him rushing off to the confessional every time he sees you jiggling?"

Thomas shuddered. He already felt the eyes of the priests on him whenever he walked around the camp in the latest item of handcrafted clothing his girlfriend had made him, each perfectly suited to emphasise and display the work her surgeons had done.

"But-" he protested.

"Hush," she said. "The clothes suit you. And besides, the more the priest's attention is on these-" Her hands cupped the underside of his silicone chest. "-the less they'll be on your face. And how strange it is that my 'cousin' looks so much like the ex-boyfriend my father warned them about."

His nipples were stretched tight and sensitive across the surgically-crafted orbs. As she lifted them in their cups, her touch rubbed against the rough material, and he stiffened at the stimulation.

With no television or internet in the retreat, he had become her only source of entertainment, and she seemed to delight in tormenting him, despite the sacrifices he had made to be with her. She smiled and looked down between his thighs.

"Naughty girl. I'll have to knit you a woolly chastity cage next," she giggled.