The following morning, Abigail returned after Prime. Peter was already awake and greeted her with what seemed to be genuine pleasure. She carefully removed the cloths from his hands and was pleased to see that already the flesh seemed to be less raw. Even to her inexperienced eyes, it was apparent that the burns had penetrated less deeply than had at first appeared.

“Mother Clare says that your hands need to remain unbound for an hour or two each day, to help them heal,” she explained. She laid a fresh cloth across the bed and instructed Peter to lay his hands on the clean material. As she finished, Peter spoke. He was blushing and seemed to have difficulty stammering out the words.

“I’m sorry, Sister Abigail. But there is one problem. I need to piss. Could you get the pot for me?” 

Abigail smiled. “There is no need to blush,” she reassured him. “Nuns have to piss too, like other men and women.”

She reached under the bed, and found the clay bowl for him to piss in. She put it on the bed and rolled him carefully onto his side before pulling up his shift for him. She could not help casting a quick glance at the large mass of his genitals, the meaty prick surrounded by a thick mass of dark hair. Before he could say anything, she quickly turned her back and stood in the doorway to allow him to perform. She could hear him shuffling awkwardly into position, followed by the flow of his piss into the bowl. It seemed to go on forever, and she smiled, guessing that he had been forced to hold in his water for a considerable period of time.

As she took away the bowl, she tried to avoid looking at his prick, but again could not help herself. From her conversations with the other postulants, many of whom seemed worryingly knowledgeable on the subject, Abigail had learnt that pricks were used for very much more than just pissing. Indeed, Dorcas quite openly talked of what she would like to do with the prick of any man, young or old, who came within the walls of the convent.

Peter gave her a shy smile as she came back. His shift was still up around his waist, and his prick was lying across his thigh. It seemed bigger than previously. She reached out to pull his shift down, and her hand just brushed against the plump flesh. She blushed, and fussed over his bedclothes to distract herself.

“Now you must lie still,” she said with a frown. “I will be back later to wrap your hands again before bed.”

~~~~~~

That evening, after Vespers, Abigail returned to the infirmary. Peter seemed pleased to see her, and a day in the air appeared to have helped to dry out the worst of the suppurations on his hands. Once more she washed them, soothed them with liniment, and bound them up carefully.

“Do you need the pot again?” she smiled.

Peter blushed very red and shook his head.

“Not this time; one of the other Sisters helped me earlier,” he stammered. “But, oh Sister Abigail, maybe you can help with something else.”

“Of course, if I can.”

“It’s my prick, it’s uncomfortable, and maybe you can help.”

It was Abigail’s turn to blush.

“I’m not sure,” she mumbled. “Maybe Mother Clare…”

“Oh no, please, Sister Abigail, she couldn’t do anything. Only you. Please, just look.”

Abigail was not sure about this, but she pulled back the blanket. She couldn’t suppress a little gasp of shocked surprise. Peter’s shift had somehow become pulled up around his waist, and his prick was in full view. But this time it was not curled up neatly between his legs, but rearing up proudly, the round smooth head bobbing right before her eyes.

Abigail was a bit shocked, although not as shocked as she probably should have been. Even so, she felt it was her duty to protest. “Master Peter, that is rude,” she said, “Showing me your thing like this.”

“But it’s painful, Sister Abigail. It gets big like this sometimes, and then I need to drain it. I rub it until stuff comes out, and then it goes down again, but with my hands like this, I can’t touch it.”

He paused, blushing even redder.

“But maybe, Sister, if you were to do it… It would be such a relief to me.”

Abigail couldn’t decide if he was making fun of her or not. She knew it was wrong, very wrong, to be looking at Peter’s prick like this. She glanced around, terrified in case someone was watching them. But she knew the other nuns would be otherwise occupied at this time, and only she was supposed to be here. But she couldn’t help looking back, fascinated despite herself.

“Please, Sister, just this once.”

Abigail considered the matter. Mother Clare had emphasised that it was her job to look after Peter while he was in the convent’s care, and if rubbing his prick would comfort him, then she supposed it would be all right. Hesitantly, she reached out and touched it, making it twitch and jump. Then she gripped it firmly. Peter gasped.

“Not quite so hard, Sister. If you just hold it and rub your hand up and down…”

Abigail began to do as she was instructed. She was intrigued by how solid and warm it felt. As she moved her hand up and down, the skin pulled back like a hood to reveal a smooth tip, rounded like a soldier’s helmet. A few drops of moisture appeared on the tip, making it gleam.

“Is this right?” she asked.

“Oh yes, just right,” moaned Peter. He was starting to breathe faster.

“Are you quite well?” she asked, worried.

“Oh yes, please don’t stop. Do it faster, I feel it coming.”

As instructed, Abigail pumped her hand up and down more quickly, and suddenly to her amazement, a great rope of white liquid came out of the end, splashing onto Peter’s chest. This was followed by several more, and a few throbs squeezed out the last of it, which ran down over her hand. The liquid was hot and sticky, although it was already cooling. She let go of Peter’s organ and sniffed at the white mess on her hand, the pungent scent curiously attractive. Coming to her senses, she picked up one of the soiled cloths and wiped her hand clean.

Peter’s face was red, and he was breathing heavily. “Thank, you Sister Abigail,” he said, “I feel so much better now.”

He thought for a moment. "And it felt much nicer when you did it than when I do it myself.”

“Well, that’s enough for now,” she said hurriedly. “You need to rest, and it is nearly time for Terse. I must go, or I will be in trouble.”

“Goodnight, Sister Abigail. I will see you tomorrow, I hope,” he answered with a smile.