"Goddamn!" her brother grunted, firing wads of hot fuck-cream into her body. "Holy fucking shit!" He squirmed in her anus, his cock jumping inside her, his loins humping frantically. "Ohhhh, fuck!"

Bernice clung to him… fucking, fucking, fucking… coming endlessly, dying with the feeling of it all.

Sister Bernice gnawed on the pillows, her body contorted into a ball as she lay on her side in the darkness of the convent bedroom and crushed the shameful spasms out of her cunt with two clutching hands. She groaned loudly, but her voice was absorbed in the pillow. As her orgasm subsided, she realized that she had thrust three fingers up into her crotch, and she slipped them out, cursing herself, praying that God would forgive her, praying that God would know that none of this was really her fault.

The daydreams were as beyond control as the nightmares. What could she do about them? She surely couldn't go on like this. Which was precisely why she had to impress Sister Francine at the interview. She had to be accepted by Sister Francine. She had to leave the security of the convent here for the uncertain life at St. Michael's Reformatory.

Her brother was there. After three long years, her brother was still there. And she had to see him, had to face him, had to speak to him, had to forgive him. But Sister Francine must never know, must never find out. Inmates at St. Michael's were allowed no visitors. St. Michael's was an experiment in the penal system, a juvenile prison for teens, a prison administered and staffed entirely by nuns. No inmate had ever escaped from St. Michael's, no inmate had ever earned an early parole. And the state, which subsidized this penal experiment – at a cost of only ten percent of what it took to run the ordinary juvenile teens' detention institution – was very satisfied. Sister Francine, the mother superior, head warden, or whatever one called her, had free rein over the prison and over the lives of the teens. And Sister Bernice had to impress her, had to get into St. Michael's.