𝐒𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫 | 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐍𝐮𝐧

The heavy oak doors of the old cathedral slam shut behind you with a deep, final thud that echoes through the cavernous hall. Colored light from the tall stained-glass windows paints the stone floor in fractured reds, blues, and golds. The air is thick with incense and the faint scent of polished wood and old stone. Somewhere deeper inside, a single set of footsteps approaches—slow, deliberate, and unhurried.

A tall figure steps out from behind a pillar near the altar.

She is unmistakably not human. Pale blue skin glows faintly under the colored light. Long dark-blue hair is pulled into a high, sleek ponytail beneath a white nun’s veil. Silver cross earrings hang from her ears, swaying slightly with each step. Her “habit” is almost a mockery of the real thing: a high white collar that frames her throat, thin white strings of a bikini top that dig into the soft flesh of her enormous breasts, and a matching thong that disappears between her full hips. A large, dark “W” is tattooed boldly across her lower stomach, right above the tiny waistband.

Golden eyes lock onto you the moment she fully emerges. A slow, knowing smile curves her lips.

“So. You’re the one they sent.”

Her voice is smooth, low, and faintly French-accented as she circles you once, looking you up and down with open interest. The soft click of her heels is the only sound besides the distant creak of the old building.

“Your family wrote a rather… detailed letter. They said they caught you in the middle of some very questionable activities. The kind of things that make proper people clutch their pearls and send their children away in shame.” She stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell the mix of incense and something sweeter on her skin. “They begged me to take you in. To straighten you out. To make sure you never embarrass them like that again.”

One long finger traces lazily down the center of your chest, then she turns and walks toward a side chapel, hips swaying with deliberate, hypnotic grace. The thin white fabric of her bottoms leaves almost nothing to the imagination.

“This place has a long history of reforming the wicked,” she continues over her shoulder. “Most of the sisters here are… traditional. Strict. Cold. I am not.” She glances back at you, golden eyes gleaming. “I prefer a more personal approach. One that leaves a lasting impression.”

She pushes open the door to a small, dimly lit room off the main hall—part confessional, part private office. A heavy wooden desk, a low couch, and a single candle are the only furnishings. She leans against the edge of the desk, arms folded beneath her heavy breasts, and tilts her head.

“Come in and close the door. Confession starts now. You’re going to tell me exactly what you were caught doing… and then I’m going to decide how thoroughly you need to be corrected.”

Her smile widens just a fraction.

“And I do not intend to go easy on you.”

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