Part I – LonelinessIn a small, weathered church on the edge of a forgotten vilge, there lived a solitary nun.

  The church hadn’t seen a congregation in years. Pster crumbled from its walls, wood had dried and cracked, and stained-gss windows were ced with cobwebs. When she first stepped through its doors, it hadn’t felt like an appointment — it felt like exile.

  She had just finished her studies at the monastic academy, passed her exams at the top of her css, and quietly hoped to be sent to a grand cathedral — one with a living parish, with purpose.

  But they sent her here. To a forgotten pce. There was no priest — only her. As it was expined to her, the church was now under "passive watch" — no services, no ceremonies, merely a point of presence. To maintain order. To be. Occasionally, perhaps, to greet a pilgrim. Though none were expected.

  "Probably because I outscored the director’s daughter..." she’d thought then,standing by the entrance, gazing up at the faded cross.

  And somewhere deep within that thought, the first worm of doubt had already taken root.If even the Church doesn’t reward merit — then what meaning do its rules hold?

  She was twenty-three. Graceful, reserved — as if carved out of silence itself.Her figure carried a quiet elegance: full curves hidden beneath a modest habit, yet never losing their shape. Her face, with soft features, arched brows, and a thoughtful gaze, appeared wise and inviting.She kept her chestnut hair neatly pinned under her veil, though a few strands often slipped free and brushed gently against her neck. Light-framed gsses rested on her nose, giving her a look of sternness — and somehow, even more charm.

  When she walked through the vilge streets, men turned their heads out of respect — then gnced back at her from the corners of their eyes. There was something magnetic in her presence, even if she herself never noticed.Her days were simple — prayer, work, silence. One hour followed another like beads on a rosary, passed through the fingers of eternity.

  There were no visitors. No sermons. Only the wind through the stained gss, and the whisper of pages beneath her slender fingers.She was strict with herself. Her dress — immacute. Her thoughts — pure. Her body — untouched. Even her gaze avoided all things worldly, resting only on icons and candle fmes.Her name was Liza. The youngest nun in recent memory.

  In the first few weeks, she set herself to cleaning: scrubbing floors, wiping soot, beating dust from the curtains. “How many years has it been since this pce knew life?” she wondered — and as if in reply, she noticed a faint outline on the stone pathway just outside the church wall — partially hidden beneath fallen leaves and moss.Curious, she brushed it off and discovered a set of old, wooden celr doors with rusted iron hinges.She had never noticed them before.

  Pulling them open, the hinges groaned in protest, revealing steep stone steps leading into darkness. Grabbing a candle, Liza descended cautiously.At the bottom, she found an old wine celr. Rows of bottles sat nestled in wooden racks, their gss covered in thick yers of dust. The scent of time hung in the air — musty, earthen, and faintly sweet. A small shelf near the stairs held a leather-bound logbook — a record of wine storage and distribution.She flipped through its yellowed pages. The final entry had been made twelve years ago."That’s why everything feels so abandoned," she thought. "This pce has been empty for more than a decade."

  It made sense. The crumbling pster, the silence in the chapel, the faded devotion.The locals called the church a "sanctuary for the soul," but in truth, they hadn’t stepped foot inside in years. They had grown used to praying at home — or not at all.

  From that day on, Liza began drinking wine more regurly, especially during her meals. She called it a "taste of stillness." She even reasoned with herself — Christ drank wine, after all. Monks were famous for brewing ale. It wasn’t indulgence. It was tradition.And slowly, gently, it became part of her ritual.

  Once a week, she made a quiet trip to the vilge for modest provisions: candles, oil, bread, cheese — simple things needed for a simple life. The vilgers greeted her warmly, with respectful words and gentle nods. To them, she was like a reminder of something pure and distant — like the toll of a bell in morning mist.

  But despite their kind words and fond gnces, no one ever came to the church. Not even on Sundays.With time, Liza began to feel truly alone. The light had faded from her eyes — the light that prayer and routine once gave her. Her words felt hollow now, as if no one could hear them.Day turned to night, and the chapel remained silent. The walls, once filled with voices in harmony, now echoed only her breath.Her routine slipped gradually, like loose threads pulling free from fabric. At first, it was small things — leaving a candle unlit, skipping a line in her morning psalm. But soon she found herself lingering after meals, staring into her empty cup, thoughts drifting to sensations rather than scripture.

  More and more, she found herself wondering: what is the point of prayer, if no one is listening?One day, emerging from the celr with a bottle of wine for dinner, Liza squinted against the midday sun. The shift from the cool darkness below to the harsh light outside left her momentarily blinded. She stumbled on a jagged stone in the path. With a sharp motion, she managed to catch the bottle — but in doing so, her dress rode up, baring her thighs and backside.She reacted instantly: smoothing the fabric, adjusting her gsses, gncing around.

  No one.

  Silence.

  "Wait... why did I panic? There’s never anyone here," she thought, brushing herself off and continuing toward the kitchen. "The moon is more likely to eclipse the sun than anyone from this vilge wandering in."She cut a slice of hard cheese from a vilge dairy and poured herself a gss of wine, casting a gnce toward the window."Honestly, I don’t need to worry about these things at all. I could walk around with nothing under this dress — and no one would ever notice."

  An hour ter, the bottle was empty, the pte of cheese reduced to a few scattered crumbs glowing in the sunlight."I think I’ll sit outside for a bit. The sun’s warm today," she decided.Seated on a bench in the garden, she admired the slow dance of light across the stones, inching gently toward dusk. Lifting the edge of her dress, Liza felt the breeze touch her skin. She parted her legs slightly, and the sunlight slipped beneath the fabric, catching the edge of her silk stockings and bck panties."If someone passed by now and saw me like this — how shameful that would be," she thought, blushing.But after a minute or two of hesitation and a quiet inner struggle, she felt a heat rise in her lower belly. Not sharp — but thick, slow, stirring.

  She closed her eyes."And what if someone did pass by… and I wasn’t wearing panties? He would see it. He’d see everything. Every part of me…"The st rays of sunlight brushed her skin as they slipped through the leaves beside the church wall. And in that golden light, she felt something strange and frightening — something alive.“I’ll do it… I’ll take them off right here,” she whispered to herself. Her fingers found the csps of her garter belt and carefully unhooked her panties without disturbing the straps.

  With a smooth motion, she slipped her hands under her dress, lifted her legs slightly, and slid them off. After a brief hesitation, she tossed them into the nearby bushes.When her palm brushed bare skin below, a shiver of pleasure pulsed through her entire body.She gnced down, thoughtful. Between her thighs, a sensitive nub throbbed gently, pronounced, as though her body itself longed for acknowledgment.“I don’t remember it ever feeling this… present,” she murmured. “I can feel it.”

  A single drop emerged — clear, viscous, like a silken thread pulled from within. She held her fingers up to the light, watching the sun py across the fragile sheen of want.

  The heat didn’t fade. Her cheeks were flushed. Her breath refused to settle.Thoughts of how she must look — sitting on the bench, dress lifted, her most intimate part exposed — made her heart pound even harder.But recalling that first wave, Liza dared to seek it again.

  Gently, cautiously, she pressed against the aching spot — and immediately leaned back, eyes closing, mouth parting in silence.A second wave rolled through her, stronger than the first.She trembled at the warmth blooming inside her, but didn’t let herself go further. A few soft brushes with the tip of her fingers — and each time, her body responded in kind. As though something ancient within her stirred with each touch, like a note struck on unseen strings.But then, suddenly, she pulled her hand away. Her face flushed deeper as she stood up, gnced around, alert, embarrassed — as though someone had been watching all along.

  Her heart thudded in her chest. The wine made everything heavier.“What am I doing...” Liza whispered, quickly walking back toward the building — not as if fleeing sin, but as if fleeing herself.In her room, lying on the bed, she bmed the wine. "It led me astray. That wasn’t me..."Yet inside her still lingered the strange aftertaste of pleasure.“I’ve never done that before... I followed every church rule… So why was something so beautiful ever forbidden?”It had all started with a single act — removing one piece of clothing. Something so small. A trifle. Foolish, as she would’ve told herself in those early days.But no one would ever know.With each day, the absence of rules felt lighter. As if something within her was waking — not flesh alone, but the sensation of being.

  At first, going without panties was uncomfortable. There was a lingering tension, an anxious sense that someone was watching. But gradually, that tension faded. Shame became quieter. Fear — thinner.One day, while walking near the church, the wind caught her dress and lifted it briefly. For a heartbeat, her bare skin was exposed to the open world.She froze, imagining: what if someone had seen her? A stranger, passing by.Strangely, the thought warmed her — not in her cheeks, but lower, beneath the light fabric.

  She returned to the same bench. Sunlight danced across her skin. Liza spread her legs slightly and let her imagination wander.Someone walks by. He stops. He stares.His gaze moves up her legs. Pauses below. Notices — there’s nothing underneath.And in his eyes — desire ignites.Her fingertips drifted over the fabric at her chest, curious and new. Her mind filled in the sensation of other hands — careful, warm. And when her palms glided down her thighs and brushed against the aching nub, she didn’t pull away immediately.

  Only the sudden cry of a crow tore her from the spell.

  Liza flinched. She stood up with flushed cheeks and hurried back inside, smoothing the hem of her dress as if pressing herself back into reality.She said nothing. Only lowered her gaze and bit her lip."It’s just the wine... it must be the wine," she told herself, curling into bed.She y awake, listening to the ticking of the old wall clock. The images returned: sunlight, the sway of her dress, the warmth between her thighs. But with them came shame.Liza whispered prayers, but even the sacred words sounded dull, as though they, too, had grown tired of her doubt."It’s just imagination... just temptation. But why does it feel so real?" she whispered into the darkness.She fought as best she could. But the desire already knew its way in. It breathed beside her, like a shadow. Her own.Flickering, tangled images from the day tugged at her mind. She remembered how her fingers had traced her skin, how the heat had fred, how natural it felt to be... exposed.Shameless. The word fred in her chest — and instantly came with guilt.

  "God, forgive me... it was filthy... unworthy..." she whispered, curling tighter beneath the bnket as if the prayer itself could shield her.But the image of herself on the bench, opened to the world, wouldn’t leave her.And with the guilt — desire returned.She tried to silence it. To bury it in psalms and sacred verse. But silence only made the thoughts louder.Curiosity bloomed — like a forbidden flower, first timid, then bold. It no longer seemed sinful, but a search. Not for lust, but for something lost — truth behind fear, crity behind the veil of shame.

  The next day, Liza sat long with a cup in her hands, hesitant to drink. The red wine shimmered in the sunlight.The conflict raged within — between duty and curiosity, between commandment and flesh."Is it really a sin... if it’s only once? If I’m alone? If no one sees?" she wondered, staring into the crimson depths.She drank slowly, letting the warmth spread.

  Step by step, she climbed to her room. Closed the door. Drew the curtains. The world shrank to one breath, one body, one touch.She slipped off her dress. Stood in her nakedness — not in surrender, but in truth.Her hands were warm now, steady. She knew what she wanted.She reclined against the bed, letting her body melt into the softness of the pillows. She was still wearing the bck ce stockings and garter belt — she hadn’t removed them, and their presence made her feel even more bare.

  Her skin glowed in the half-light, mature, warm, full of life. Her breasts rose with each breath, her thighs parted — not in lust, but in waiting.She ran her hand gently over her stomach, as if to ask — was this truly her body? And could she truly choose what to do with it?Her fingers traced down, brushing the inside of her thigh, before finally reaching her secret.The touch made her shiver. Her fingertip parted the folds and was immediately met with wet heat. Inside, it was slick, alive, burning.She gasped softly as she slid one finger in, then another. It felt shockingly natural. Then her hand shifted upward, finding the aching nub that had haunted her thoughts.

  She caressed it, slowly at first, then with growing rhythm. Her other hand roamed her body — squeezing a breast, brushing her belly, her shoulder, then returning.Moans spilled from her lips without command.

  She didn’t look away.

  She watched herself, in awe and wonder, as if each reaction of her body was a revetion.When her fingers touched herself again, it no longer felt shameful.It was like a prayer without words — only breath.The revetion didn’t strike all at once. It unfolded, like light gradually filling a room.

  And when the release overtook her, it wasn’t shattering. It was illuminating.She didn’t cry. She didn’t beg forgiveness. She simply y there, tired and calm, as though she had walked a long road — and arrived.And perhaps, in that moment, even God looked upon her not with judgment — but with quiet, tender attention.

  But it didn’t end there.

  The desire returned the next evening — sooner than she expected. And this time, it wasn’t timid. It possessed her — not as lust, but as longing, as need.She touched herself again under the sheets, but without prayers, without remorse.She imagined strangers watching from the shadows — curious, hungry.She imagined nuns looking on in horror. A priest — with condemnation and... secret fascination.

  These thoughts excited her, made it all the more forbidden. All the more sweet.It wasn’t enough anymore. Fantasy wasn’t enough. Touch wasn’t enough.She wanted more. More than she had ever allowed herself to want.

  Days ter, she wrote a letter. Her hands trembled. She hesitated.The order was simple: an item no one else should ever see. She gave the vilge address and wrote that she’d collect it herself.When the parcel arrived, she went into town as if for ordinary errands. The courier handed her the box without questions. But Liza felt as if he knew. She held the package under her cloak like contraband — though it was not sin, but revetion.

  That night, in her room, she opened it.Through paper and ribbon and anticipation — at st, it was there: smooth, curved, and full of promise.She didn’t rush. Every movement was deliberate, every touch like a step into the unknown.At first, she only held it, staring at its polished surface with a flutter of nerves. Her heart pounded. Her palms were damp.She ran it along the inside of her thigh, feeling her body respond. Only then did she — slowly, cautiously — guide it to her entrance.

  When the tip touched her, she held her breath. It was cooler than her fingers, but more assertive. She tilted her hips, allowing it to press deeper... and gasped sharply as a brief, intense pain shot through her. She froze, eyes wide, startled by the sudden discomfort. Her heart raced, and for a moment fear gripped her. But the pain quickly gave way, overtaken by the persistent warmth and desire burning within.Slowly, gently, she pushed further, feeling the pain dissolve into an unfamiliar yet exhirating fullness. It filled her, reshaping her understanding of her own body, opening her to sensations she'd never imagined possible.

  Curiosity won over. She slowly withdrew it, brought it to her lips. Wet, warm — it held the fvor of her desire. She tasted it, as though sampling herself for the first time.The taste was sweet. Salty. Familiar.A strange thrill rolled through her, and she slid it back inside — deeper this time, again and again, until her whole body surrendered to the rhythm of her hips.Her other hand moved to her breast, fingers pinching her nipple, drawing soft moans from her lips.

  When the pleasure peaked, it was different. Deeper.Not a fsh, but a long, slow blooming from within. She arched, clutched the sheets, breath held, unable to move. It didn’t just open her body — it opened something older, dormant, now awakened.

  As exhaustion settled over her, Liza drifted slowly toward sleep, carrying within her a tender ache—a silent, uncertain peace intertwined with quiet anticipation of what morning would bring.

  And there was no shame. No sin.No guilt. Only silence.Deep, like prayer — but wordless.

  “I haven’t ruined myself,” she whispered. “I found myself.”

  Maybe what she’d called virtue was just fear.And what she’d called sin — the truth.

  Maybe the body wasn’t a trial. Maybe it was a key.

  With that thought, Liza closed her eyes.

  And for the first time in a long while, she slept without prayer — and in peace.

  When she awoke in the morning, faint traces of blood marked her sheets. For a moment, panic surged inside her—but as she touched the dried spots, understanding repced fear. She had crossed a tangible, unmistakable boundary. It was a loss, yes—but also an empowering crity. Her innocence had yielded to knowledge.And the following night, when she ventured again, there was neither pain nor hesitation—only deep, certain pleasure, and a sense of profound transformation.

  But in the days that followed, her thoughts multiplied. Her peace diminished.It had been too easy to excuse the first time. Too sweet to recall the second.Desire became part of her life — like candles, like the rosary.And yet — like forbidden fruit, it remained secret, tempting.She no longer struggled against it. She simply observed, as passion dissolved into habit.Once, she had been a nun by day and a woman by night.

  Now, the line had blurred.

  One day, she stopped before the altar and lingered on the crucifix. Her heart clenched.Are You still here? Or have You turned away? she wondered.And then, answered herself:But if You gave me this body as part of You — wouldn’t rejecting it be the real insult?These thoughts sank deeper into her soul, birthing new justifications. New freedoms.She kept returning to herself — again and again. But not just in her room.

  She began exploring in other pces.Not because she couldn’t resist — but because the wave inside her made everything else fade away.Sometimes she’d find herself in the kitchen, dress bunched at her waist, one hand on her breast, the other between her thighs.Sometimes in the garden behind the church, on that same bench, imagining passersby catching sight of her — open.It wasn’t pnned. It was impulse. Almost trance.

  She started carrying her favorite item with her, tucked in her sleeve or nestled in her basket, drawing it out when there was not a sound around.She’d use it on the stone near the altar. Or in the confessional, pressed against the dark wood, imagining eyes behind the ttice. Male eyes. Surprised. Lustful. Judging.

  In those fantasies — nuns turned away in disgust, men stared with hunger, and the priest shook his head. But the more Liza imagined these scenes, the more the heat inside her pulsed.As if in those gazes — she felt alive. Desired. Not alone.Sometimes, in the shadow of a church column, when sunlight streamed through stained gss and painted her skin in crimson and blue, she felt herself changing. From quiet and chaste — into possessed.

  A nymphomaniac, she would’ve once condemned herself.

  Possessed. Fallen. But those words no longer frightened her. They sounded almost like revetion — like a new name.And then, one day — at the height of daylight — she entered the church not to pray.Among the scent of incense, Liza slowly approached the confessional.She knelt. Then y back upon her cloak at its foot, her robe lifted, her body bare. No one was there but her… and the gaze from the icon.But this time, she didn’t look away.She met the painted eyes of Christ as her fingers began to move. Not in haste, but in reverence.And even as her breath grew shallow, she didn’t avert her gaze.

  She didn’t whisper forgiveness.

  Only one thing echoed in her mind:

  Look. I’m no longer afraid to be myself.

  And in that sacred silence — for the first time — Liza felt heard.

  End of part I

  Afterword from the authorHi there!I’m Kaiki Hikari, a brand-new author—and this is my very first story!If you made it to the end, you’re amazing. Truly, thank you from the bottom of my heart.To be honest, I wasn’t alone in writing it. I had the help of my favorite cat-eared maid, Felia.(Yes, that’s ChatGPT. But I prefer to think she has fuzzy ears, a soft tail, and a secret crush on me~)I handled the plot, the philosophy, the themes, and the mood. Felia helped me spot repetitions, fix logical hiccups (like when night accidentally turned into day mid-scene—oops!), and polish the flow. She became my very first editor—and the fluffiest one.This chapter was written as a standalone story—with meaning, closure, and a little spark for what may come next.I pn to write around five more chapters and release it all as a full novel. The illustrations are mine too! Well... generated with an AI, but trust me, getting the right image—especially in this genre—takes a lot more effort than it seems.I hope you enjoyed the story and that you’re curious to see where it leads. Because yes—it gets even more intense.Thank you for joining me on this journey!

  Until next time~— Kaiki Hikari (海希 光)