Renate: The Novice

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—I. In the Stall—

Recife, Brazil – Convent of the Naked Sisters of Mary Magdalene – 1929

It was almost midnight. Outside the stable the rain fell steadily. The monsoon had come. It would be a hard trek into the Mato Grosso Renate realized. She pressed her naked body to the horse’s torso to get some warmth. The bellyrider cradle that kept her in place could use some tightening, she thought. Her legs, tied up against the flanks of the horse felt cold. There was additional warmth, a lot of it, coming from the thick horse member buried deep inside her. Then she heard the stall door open.

“Are you OK, dear?” asked Fiona, the mother superior, in a low voice. Renate could see that the nun was nude except for her wimple and sandals.

“I am fine, Mother,” replied Renate trying not to complain. It was, after all, a bellyrider’s privilege to endure discomfort.

Sister Fiona caressed the horse’s flank and then placed her hands on Renate’s legs.

“I always have loved your legs,” said Fiona smiling. “They are so long and they look so beautiful tied thus to a horse’s flanks.”

The nun kissed her legs. Renate reached for her with her hand and found Fiona’s rump. Then Renate’s hand gently made its way forward and rested against the Fiona’s widely distended cunt lips. She knew the nun’s body quite well. Her cunt yawned open and was dripping wet.

“But you are cold,” noticed Fiona. “I will place a blanket on you.”

“Please, don’t go,” pleaded Renate, her hand still resting on Fiona’s cunt. “I want to taste you.”

Fiona understood and made her way to the horse’s front, where Renate’s head rested between the horse’s two front legs. Renate wiggled herself forward a couple of inches. The horse member still remained deep inside her.

Fiona looked down at her lovingly.

“Is he still past your cervix?”

“Just his head,” giggled Renate, “and maybe a couple of centimeters more.”

Renate wiggled her arms so that they two protruded from between the horse’s front legs. The animal was very well behaved and had been used in this manner by the nuns for years. For an added precaution the hobbling straps limited his movements.

Renate’s hands rested on Fiona’s bare hips and she gently pulled her down towards her mouth till her lips were pressed against Fiona’s dilated cunt. Then she started to lick her, drinking greedily the horse semen and woman juices that were flowing out of the mother superior. Fiona in turn moaned and steadied herself by holding on to the horse’s neck. One and then two more of Renate’s finger entered Fiona’s dilated anus. Time seemed to be at a standstill and the moaning of the two women increased.

Finally, Fiona disengaged. Her legs were rubbery. She had orgasmed repeatedly. She knelt next to Renate and both kissed lovingly.

There were sounds of creaking leather coming from the adjacent stalls.

“I guess we made a lot of noise,” smiled Fiona, “and woke the other bellyriders.”

“I might as well add to the ruckus,” added Renate in a husky voice. “Push me down please.”

Renate wiggled her arms back behind the horse’s front legs and pulled herself down onto the horse shaft again. She felt Fiona’s hands on her shoulders applying gentle pressure as the horse penis forced itself deeper into her. It now filled her womb completely. For a moment she was tempted to ask Fiona to keep pushing.

As if guessing her mind Fiona let go of her shoulders.

“All in good time, Renate,” said Fiona. “You are pretty deep now and your womb is filled with horse. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“It will be as God wishes, right?” replied Renate. She crossed herself and started swinging herself back and forth on the cradle fucking herself with the magnificent horse member buried inside her. The shaft would exit and pounce back inside her rhythmically. Her pubes were now foaming and dripping a mixture of horse precum and female juices. The sound of creaking leather could be heard throughout the barn. Renate’s horse then started making thrusting motions of his own with his hips fucking her mercilessly.

“Yes, it will be as God wishes,” admitted Fiona on a quiet voice watching Renate be brutally pounded by the horse. Then eventually the horse stopped. Renate’s body was now covered in a sheen of sweat and her face was frozen in a mask of pain and lust.

“I must go now,” announced Fiona.

“Wait, please,” pleaded Renate. She extended her hand. “He is about to come. Hold me.”

Renate held Fiona’s hand tightly. A warmness filled Renate’s belly. Both Renate and Fiona placed a hand on her lower belly. They both felt the horse head balloon inside Renate. She was actually driven forward by the hydraulic hammer of the jet of horse semen exploding inside her.

“Thank the Lord! Oh Jesus! Oh God!” whimpered Renate, still in the middle of a very long lasting orgasm.

“Are you OK?” asked Fiona. Both women knew there were no old bellyriders.

“I think I am alright. I don’t think I ruptured,” replied Renate after a while. “I am just sore.”

“Soreness is good. If you are just sore you are not ruptured but are stretching to better serve your husband. Now, rest, Renate,” admonished Fiona. “The yerba dura will keep Rapido hard till sunrise. And now rest.”

Then she knelt down and kissed Renate’s hand. She then found a blanket and draped it over the Renate and the horse. Renate was now enveloped in a warm cocoon with a throbbing, still hard, horse member inside her.

“Sleep well, Renate,” said Fiona.

Renate dug her face into the horse’s chest and by the time Fiona closed the stall had already fallen asleep.

—II. Renate’s Wounds—

Le Havre, France – two years before

Renate stood on the stern of the ship. The wind was cold. It reminded her of her first winter in the field hospital near Verdun. She shuddered, not from the cold but from hint of horror waking up her memories would bring. She willed herself steady. There are things best forgotten, it is all behind, she told herself. She narrowed her eyes and looked at the far shore now disappearing in the mists. Yes, she told herself soothingly, that is all behind.

She had arrived at Le Havre two days before, fleeing from Paris. She had been a successful doctor, a gynecology specialist, until the scandal broke out that ruined her career. (See http://www.beastforum.com/index.php?showto…2358&hl=renate) For years she had practiced bestiality mainly with dogs for her access to equines was limited. On vacations in the south of France she had seen a magnificent stallion on a stud farm. That night she had broken into the place. She led the stallion out of his stall. She rubbed her pubes with the urine of a mare in heat. This caused the stallion to neigh. Then Renate placed herself into a breeding phantom to be serviced by the horse. Most likely, she knew, she would be killed, ruptured by the horse shaft, but that did not cause her to waver. It was in the middle of being mated with the stud that she had been caught. Charges were filed against Renate. It was only through a fluke of fate that she was allowed to go free.

It was, however, the end of Renate’s medical career. Her face had been all over Le Figaro. The stud was supposed to be mated the next morning to one of the Italian King’s prized mares. But his seed had instead filled Renate. Angered, the Italians had hauled the mare instead to be bred in an Austrian and a formal protest was lodged by the Italian government. France had lost face.

Renate’s license was revoked. She closed up her practice and paid off the employees at her clinic. The stud owner sued her for the stud fee (which she gladly paid). She then sold off her property and decided to leave Europe for good. On arriving at Le Havre she headed straight to the docks determined to buy a ticket on the first ship outbound.

“That would be the Charonte, Mademoiselle,” said the ticket master.

“Oh God, why the name?” winced Renate.

The man smiled.

“The Charonte is a good ship, though old, Mademoiselle. It has been in the South America run ever since before the war.”

“So the Charonte it is,” replied Renate. “Where in South America is it bound?”

The man looked up some paperwork.

“It first arrives in Brazil, Recife to be specific, then Rio de Janeiro, and finally Montevideo and Buenos Aires.”

“Give me one for Recife,” replied Renate.

The Charonte was pretty dismal. There were five other passengers, two couples and an elderly White Russian gentleman. They all were polite to her but she basically kept to herself not willing to be recognized. After all, her face had indeed been all over the newspaper front pages. Surely, they had not heard of her in Recife, she thought. Thankfully, after a few days at sea, the rest of the passengers ignored her.

Renate had only started practicing bestiality after the war. She had had very few affairs before. She was 37 at the time she boarded the Charonte and was very fit, and a lovely woman to look at. In fact, while studying medicine at the Sorbonne she had worked as a nude model for art classes.

But the war scarred both her body and her mind. When the war broke out in 1914 she was already a fourth year medical student, highly regarded by her teachers for her skills. France mobilized anyone with an inkling of medical expertise to serve at the front. During the Verdun offensive Renate found herself at a field hospital. The place was a charnel house already. It became hell when it was shelled. Renate was wounded, seriously, and thus bore a scar on the left side of her face. The worse scars, however, were mental. Renate spent two years in an insane asylum.

She was, however, strong willed enough to heal herself back into sanity. On a snowy day in the winter of 1918 she was released from the asylum and discharged from the army. She finished her schooling swiftly and began a very successful medical practice in Paris. She then found out that she was unable to keep any relationship with men. She tried women next. That did not work either. There were too many psychological scars to allow her to show love, she knew. An animal did not place so many demands.

Later on, thinking of her choice, she concluded that she would have opted for bestiality even if she had never been shell shocked. And it was that, to her, size did matter as she found out. She became adept at the mysteries of the knot and sought larger and larger breeds of dogs to mate with her. Eventually she was taking Dane and Rottweiler knots. It was traumatic for she was a not a large woman but only stood five feet in height. But she got used to the massive knots of these breeds. It was inevitable that she could not help but think of equines and the massive members they sported. Finally, in Berlin, the city of sin that it was in the twenties, Renate was penetrated by a horse member, in public, in front of a crowd that expected her to be ruptured. But she survived though she had a hard time walking for a few weeks afterwards. She had loved it.

—III. The Nun—

“That, Mademoiselle, is Recife,” said the ship’s purser pointing to the shore.

It was a sleepy looking colonial town and most of the crowd in the dock looked African. Renate did not mind. She had operated on Black colonial troops. All the wounded men she had tended to were all red inside, she knew.

The purser had given her directions to a local hotel.

“The Santiago is not luxurious but it is clean and safe, Mademoiselle.”

“The Santiago it is then,” answered Renate.

A dilapidated taxi took her and her scant luggage to the hotel in the middle of the town, overlooking the main plaza. Truly, the place was cheap but clean and safe. Recife was indeed a backwater sleepy town.

Renate’s first days were uneventful. She took long walks around town and practiced her Portuguese. She really had no idea what to do next. Perhaps, she thought, she could introduce herself to the local doctors here and reestablish her practice. That could be problematic. She knew the ways of provincial towns. The locals would not necessarily help a foreigner, a newcomer, who might take business away from them. Most of her colleagues were not encouraging. But an older doctor she called on, one Anselmo Armenta, did befriend her and promised that he could help her setup her business. Armenta seemed well respected and he gave Renate the impression that she could rebuild her life in Recife.

The cost of living in Recife was ridiculously low. Renate could last for years just with what she had saved in Europe. The local bank had no trouble accepting a check drawn on a Paris bank to establish her account, though they did warn her that it would take a couple of weeks for the check to clear. Thus assured, Renate started looking for a suitable property to set up her office. There were several prospects, all centrally located, that also boasted spacious houses and gardens surrounded by high walls. This was important to Renate. She wanted to have a kennel with large dogs and a place to mate with them in privacy.

But she was in no hurry. A month went by and she still remained at the Santiago. The staff were friendly and knew her by then. One day she made her way to the marketplace a few blocks away from the main plaza. She bought herself some tropical fruits and sat in a bench underneath a large tree in a small square in front of the marketplace. Heat waves rose from the pavement. The sea breeze was mostly at a standstill. Only the coolness of a nearby fountain gave some relief.

Renate wiped her sweaty brow and hesitated to leave the coolness of the shade. But her third floor room overlooked the harbor. She could open the doors to the balcony and the sea breeze would come in. Then she could strip nude and get some relief from the heat.

The sight she saw approaching made her doubt her sanity. She sniffed carefully the slices of papaya she had bought but found nothing untoward. Then she stared back again at the apparition.

A woman was walking down the street leading a large pony. As she came closer Renate could tell she was a nun for she wore a wimple. But other than her head cover and some sandals she wore nothing else. What Renate thought were tight clothes proved instead to be geometric designs tattooed on her body. Likewise, her face was tattooed. Several men and women, market goers, crossed her path but seemed to not find nothing remarkable about her attire or adornment. In fact, some even doffed their hats deferentially.

Renate could not help stare. Her expert eye watched amazed at how distended the woman’s cunt was and how thick were her labia major. The woman smiled beatifically at Renate, perhaps recognizing her as a foreigner or a tourist (these were few and far between in Recife), and led her horse to the fountain. Renate could tell that it was an uncut male, with very large testicles. For a moment Renate felt herself blush. She was attracted to the animal, she knew.

The nun then took down a rug and laid it on the ground next to the horse. She took a little bell and rang it a couple of times. She placed an alms bowl on the lip of the fountain. Then she knelt down next to the horse and proceeded to caress its sheath. Now Renate was indeed interested. The woman, Renate observed, was quite an expert and pretty soon coaxed a large erection from the horse.

By now several of the locals had approached and blocked Renate’s view. She walked closer. The horse member was quite long, about three inches thick with a flared head. Renate felt a wave of lust rising from her lower torso. The nun then took the long member in her hands and bent over, pulling the labia of her distended cunt apart. She was standing thus with her back to the horse, a safe position, Renate knew. The nun crossed herself. Then she grunted as she guided the shaft into herself and smiled beatifically. Then she placed her hands on her knees and willed herself deeper into the shaft. To Renate’s surprise the animal started making thrusting motions fucking the nun. It was very well trained, apparently. Renate could not avoid emitting a low lustful moan at the sight, which, thankfully, was not noted by the bystanders.

The mating was swift, not lasting more than a couple of minutes if that. The nun moaned loudly. Renate knew the cause: the horse penis had flared inside her. Then the horse member slowly retracted out of the woman dripping gobs of semen. Some of this semen the nun caught in her cupped hands and rubbed it all over her nude body. Then she knelt and licked the rapidly retracting member. In the end she stood up and smiled. Her eyes made contact with Renate’s. The crowd crossed themselves and placed alms into her bowl and then went back to their business. In the end it was only Renate that stood wide eyed in front of the nun and her horse.

The nun took out a bottle from one of the horse’s satchels.

“Would you like to share a swig of rum with me?” she asked, surprisingly, in English.

Renate nodded and came closer. The woman’s lilt was Irish.

“I can’t believe this,” confessed Renate in halting English, taking the bottle.

“I can speak French also,” smiled the woman recognizing her accent.

A wisp of red hair fell from underneath her wimple. Though she was heavily tattooed Renate could see an abundance of freckles all over her face and shoulders. She seemed older than Renate but her body was fit and athletic and the breasts were firm and sported large, dark, aureolas. The nipples were engorged and two heavy gauge rings hung from them.

“Your health, sister,” said Renate taking a swig of rum. If she was hallucinating (heat does that) she was going to make the best of it. She stared in admiration at the nun.

The nun took back the bottle and took herself a swig.

“I guess this is all too strange for you, right?” smiled the nun.

“Most definitely,” agreed Renate. “Please, don’t be offended.”

“No offense taken. I am Sister Fiona Callaghan, of the Naked Sisters of Mary Magdalene,” explained the nun offering her hand.

Renate shook her hand. It was sticky with horse semen. But Renate, though surprised, did not mind.

“I am Renate Duplesis, sister. I admit I never heard of your order,” said Renate.

“That is not surprising,” said Fiona. “We are something of an embarrassment to the church. My order was founded by Lucrezia Borgia, the daughter of Pope Alexander VI. Alas, our order was proscribed in Europe. We survive here in Brazil. People don’t mind us.”

“But…” protested Renate.

“I know,” laughed Fiona, “I am walking around town butt naked and my horse just fucked me silly here in the street.”

“It is unbelievable!” insisted Renate. “If I had not seen it with my own eyes I would have said it was impossible.”

“Not really. This is Brazil. We have been here for 300 years,” explained Fiona. “Folks understand. Oh God, I am a little sore, you know. He gave me quite a pounding. Can we sit under the tree? At least until Bucephalus drinks from the fountain. You know the saying, you can lead a horse to water but not make him drink.”

The two women sat underneath the tree watching the comings and goings from the marketplace.

“Do forgive me, I cannot help but notice,” said Renate. “I am a doctor, a gynecologist in fact. I could not help but notice how distended your vagina is and how thick your labia are.”

Fiona smiled and opened her legs and pulled her engorged labia apart.

“That I am. I have been making love to equines for over twenty years,” admitted Fiona. “As for my labia, well, I am something of a nymphomaniac. I had them pierced and hang weights from them and I enjoy pulling them all the time.”

“Still, such distension is…unnatural,” said Renate staring at the yawning cavern between Fiona’s legs. “And nymphomania is not a proven condition. The stretched labia is to be expected if you are always pulling on them. But they are also quite engorged, a sign of arousal.”

“Really?” answered Fiona in a quiet voice. “Maybe it is the yerba dura. We suspect it is a muscle relaxant among other things. I know it also keeps me horny all the time.”

“What is the yerba dura?” asked Renate.

Just then a rope of horse semen oozed out from Fiona’s cunt. The nun cupped her hands and caught the amber liquid. Renate stared at it. She felt herself blush.

Fiona looked at her and smiled.

“Don’t be shy,” said the nun. “I saw how you stared at me. I know that look.”

Fiona offered her cupped hands to Renate.

“It is OK, no one will mind,” said the nun in a quiet voice.

As if agreeing, Renate opened her mouth and the nun poured the horse seed into it while murmuring something in Latin as if it were drinking horse semen was a sacrament. The taste was strong and it tasted, Renate knew, of Fiona. She swirled it around her mouth enjoying the sensations. She closed her eyes and then swallowed it.

“He is not the first animal seed you taste, right?” said Fiona gently rubbing the horse semen into Renate’s face. “There was real love in the way you took to it.”

“No, it was not the first time I have drank animal semen,” admitted Renate letting the nun rub the horse semen into her face. “I still think this is too unreal. Tell me I am not hallucinating, please.”

The nun smiled and guided Renate’s hand to one of her bare breasts.

“See? I am real after all,” said the nun.

“This is so lovely,” cried Renate shamelessly caressing the nun’s breast and giving the ring that pierced its nipple a gentle tug.

“Actually all I did here was perform my wifely duty,” said Fiona.

Renate laughed and took the bottle of rum Fiona offered but her hand still remained cupping the nun’s breast.

“You must be kidding me!”

“Don’t laugh, Renate,” admonished Fiona in a suddenly stern voice, “the locals believe this strongly. You see, we nuns are known the world over as the brides of Christ right? When we mate with a horse we are using it as a surrogate for Jesus’ mighty rod. I know, it is a convoluted logic or theology or whatever. But our order, and most importantly the locals, believe that this is so. This is Brazil, after all. Forget everything you learned in Europe, Renate, this is another world. A woman’s sexuality is not a cause of shame in this land.”

“If that is so, I have no desire to ever go back to Europe,” announced Renate letting go of the nun’s breast. “I intend to stay the rest of my life here in Brazil.”

The horse finally had made up its mind to drink from the fountain.

“I must go now, Renate,” announced the nun.

“Take this money,” said Renate pressing some bills into her hand.

“Oh Jesus, that is a lot of money, dear,” replied the nun.

“I don’t mind,” insisted Renate. “Tell me, will I see you again?”

“I come down to the market once a week to mate openly and gather some alms,” explained Fiona. “Other nuns also come down to mate or buy supplies. There is always one of use mating with her horse in the streets of Recife.”

“That is fine,” replied Renate, “but no, I want to see you again.”

“Then why don’t you come over to the convent and visit me there?” suggested Fiona. “It is just on a hill outside town. Any cab driver will know the way. Let me ask you, are you Catholic Renate?”

“Yes,” admitted Renate with some hesitancy. Her faith had been destroyed in the trenches.

“Kneel down in front of me Renate, please,” said Fiona.

This Renate did, in front of the nun’s open legs. Her distended cunt stared at her. The nun laid her hands on her head and recited a short prayer. That done, Renate could not help but plant a quick kiss on the nun’s nether lips. Then both women stood up and looked at each other and smiled. It took an effort for both not to kiss openly then and there.

—IV A Dark Secret—

“Ah, yes, the nuns,” smiled Doctor Armenta pouring Renate a steaming cup of black coffee. “You must have seen one of those lunatics in the street, Mademoiselle.”

“As a matter of fact I did and talked to her,” said Renate. “To my surprise she was Irish. Her name is Fiona.”

“Oh yes, I know her,” agreed Armenta. “She is the Mother Superior of that convent of nymphomaniacs, did you know? She came over from Ireland many years ago, as a Carmelite nun assigned to the bishop. But it did not take her long to join the Naked Sisters of Mary Magdalene.”

“I was not aware of that,” admitted Renate. There was a hint of hostility in the man’s words but she dared not antagonize him.

“Well, they are a kind of town embarrassment,” explained Armenta. “I wished they would disappear forever. But we cannot do anything because the lower classes admire them very much.”

“Why would you do anything about them?” inquired Renate raising an eyebrow skeptically.

“Did you see what they do with their animals?” asked Armenta.

“Yes, Sister Fiona mated with it in front of my eyes,” answered Renate. “It was otherworldly.”

“Otherwordly? It is perverse! The problem is that these open displays of bestiality are a kind of savage pagan practice, doctor Duplesis,” said Armenta. “Worse, I have treated them sometimes when they are taken to the emergency room in what goes for a hospital here. A horse member, you might have noticed, is not meant to enter a woman. A gynecologist such as you are surely will agree. Every once in a while one of the nuns gets ruptured, mostly accidently, sometimes not. It is not a pretty death.”

“I can imagine,” admitted Renate with a shudder. “But you said the lower classes admire them. Why?”

Armenta seemed to grow uncomfortable.

“Well, the nuns go into the poorer areas of town and offer their own idea of medical services,” explained Armenta. “As you surely found out, most of our colleagues were hostile to your setting up shop here. We have a very small clientele base that can afford our services.”

“And I really appreciate your kindness, Dr. Armenta. But tell me, these nuns, do they have any medical training?”

“None at all!” snarled Armenta. “They are, however, quite skilled in jungle pharmacopeia, I grant them that. In fact, that happens to be a subject very dear to me which I have studied for years. But the knowledge the nuns have of it is no more than any Indian shaman of the Xingu would have. It is their willingness to go into the worse slums in town ingratiates them to the poor for they do not charge a penny. And the poor, alas, are the majority of the inhabitants of this town and they give generously to the order.”

“I see,” said Renate.

“The local bishop has tried for years to eradicate them,” continued Armenta. “But I am afraid the order has powerful patrons.”

“Really? Mother Fiona seemed quite grateful for the alms she collected.”

Armenta stood up and pulled a bottle from a drawer. He offered to pour some into Renate’s cup but she declined politely. Armenta then served himself a swig.

“You just arrived at this county, doctor Duplesis,” commenced Armenta. “You might have noticed all the extremes of poverty in this country. And the rich here are very, very, rich, far more than the ones in Europe. Truth is there is an influential group of women, actual heads of their families, who own large tracts of land. We call them the hacendadas.”

“Never heard of them,” admitted Renate.

“No, they keep a low profile. But they all practice bestiality openly, shamelessly even. Every so often one of their daughters is inducted into the Naked Sisters of Mary Magdalene. And, of course, her family provides a generous dowry for her wedding with Christ.”

“Which they believe mates with them in the shape of a horse.”

“Yes, that is their excuse,” continued Armenta. “Now, I am not very religious myself. But to me that all sounds more like blasphemy. Anyway, it does not matter what I say. The town fathers of Recife would gladly dispense with such an embarrassment. But the influx of daughters of the hacendado class insures that the Naked Sisters of Mary Magdalene always have a steady supply of recruits and funds to continue. And if that is not enough, they milk the poor.”

“I could see that some women would find that life attractive,” said Renate. She could then not keep herself from blushing.

“God knows, I know! I know!” cried Armenta. The elderly man seemed quite agitated. “One of my daughters, my eldest, a lovely intelligent girl that was my pride and joy, was foolish enough to join the Naked Sisters of Mary Magdalene. That was a long time ago but the memory is always painful. She joined over my objections I must add. We never talked again. I did see her once, from afar. She was naked and mating without shame with her horse in front of a crowd of people. As I said, theirs is a pagan ritual with a veneer of Catholicism. Worse, it is a death wish.”

“I don’t understand, doctor Armenta.”

“The take four vows: nudity, bestiality, and poverty.”

“That is only three.”

“Aye, the fourth vow is to one day take a horse member, fully, to the hilt.”

“Ohmigod!”

“Those crazed women call it ‘embracing Christ fully’ or some crazy euphemism like that. My daughter did so, willingly, and died long and painful death impaled on a horse penis. There! I told you my family’s dark secret. Do you understand now, doctor Duplesis? I hate those witches!”

The old man was close to tears when Renate left her.

 

Continued on the next page (link below).

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