The Burning of Innocence
by Dilbert Jazz
Copyright© 2026 by Dilbert Jazz
Horror Sex Story: In the frozen heart of occupied France, 1943, a remote nunnery becomes a crucible of sacrilege. SS soldiers descend, executing the men and claiming the thirty nuns for seven days of unrelenting violation. From altar to ashes, innocence is stripped, burned, and reborn in fire. A haunting tale of survival, defiance, and the dark resilience that endures beyond the flames. A Week of Sacrilege in the Snow.
Caution: This Horror Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Teenagers Blackmail Coercion NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Slavery Heterosexual Fiction Historical Horror War BDSM DomSub MaleDom Humiliation Rough Sadistic Spanking Torture Gang Bang Group Sex Orgy Anal Sex Cream Pie Double Penetration Exhibitionism First Facial Oral Sex Sex Toys Tit-Fucking Voyeurism Clergy Public Sex ENF Nudism .
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The events, characters, and organizations portrayed in this book are fictional. The depiction of historical settings, military organizations, and wartime events is not intended to represent real historical facts, persons, or institutions accurately. This work is not a historical document, documentary, or endorsement of any ideology, political view, or action.
Content Warning
This book contains graphic depictions of sexual violence, non-consensual acts, BDSM elements, religious desecration, and other mature and disturbing themes. It is intended for adult audiences only. Reader discretion is strongly advised. If you are sensitive to explicit content involving coercion, humiliation, or trauma, please do not proceed.
Age Restriction
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First Edition Published 2026 Author: Dilbert Jazz
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Content
Day 0 – The Arrival 10
Gefreiter Heinz 10
Sister Agnes 20
Gefreiter Karl Müller 32
Mother Superior Therese 46
Day 1: The Breaking 60
Gefreiter Heinz 60
Hauptmann Erich von Kessler 70
Sister Agnes 84
Sister Marie 92
Sister Claire 102
Day 2: The Humiliation 112
Gefreiter Heinz 112
Sister Marie 120
Sister Claire 130
Gefreiter Karl Müller 142
Leutnant Hans 151
Day 3: The Suspension 160
Gefreiter Heinz 160
Sister Marie 170
Sister Claire 182
Feldwebel Otto 194
Day 4: The Orgy of Pain 206
Gefreiter Heinz 206
Sister Marie 216
Sister Claire 226
Hauptmann Erich von Kessler 238
Day 5: The Edging Endurance 250
Gefreiter Heinz 250
Sister Agnes 260
Feldwebel Otto 272
Day 6: The Role Reversal Tease 286
Gefreiter Heinz 286
Sister Claire 296
Mother Superior Therese 306
Sister Claire 319
Day 7: The Grand Finale 331
Gefreiter Heinz 331
Sister Marie 341
Mother Superior Therese 353
Sister Genevieve 363
Day 8: Exile 375
Gefreiter Heinz 375
Sister Marie 383
Gefreiter Wilhelm Becker 395
----
Epilogue: Ashes and Echoes 407
Gefreiter Heinz, 1949 – four years after the war’s end 407
Sister Agnes – thirty-five years old, 1949 – four years after the war’s end 419
Hauptmann Erich von Kessler – 1949, four years after the war’s end 431
The Abbey’s Aftermath – Four Years Later 445
Day 0 – The Arrival
Gefreiter Heinz
We had been marching in the dark for days.
Snow so deep it swallowed boot-tops, wind that cut through wool like glass, nights spent curled in shell-holes with only body heat between us. The patrol was down to twenty men—two lost to frostbite gangrene back near Epinal, another shot by his own hand when the pain got too loud. We were tired in the bones, hungry in the soul, and mean in ways that don’t wash off.
Von Kessler never faltered.
He rode the last horse we had, a bony bay mare we’d taken from a dead farmer. He sat straight, cap low, eyes scanning the white like a hawk. When he raised his gloved hand at the ridge top, the column stopped without a word. We knew that gesture. It meant something worth seeing.
Below us, the valley folded in on itself—pine-black slopes, a frozen stream glinting like steel, and in the center: the abbey.
Gray stone walls are low and thick—a single bell tower, tall and narrow. Two thin columns of smoke rising straight up in the windless dusk. It looked like a picture from a prayer book—peaceful, remote, untouched by the war that had already eaten half of France.
Von Kessler studied it for a full minute.
Then he turned in the saddle, voice low enough that only the front rank heard.
“Intelligence was correct—partisan relay point. Priests suspected of funneling messages to the Maquis. Destroy the buildings. Liquidate male personnel. Females...”
He paused, letting the word settle.
“ ... to be processed at my discretion.”
No one asked what discretion meant.
We knew.
We descended in loose formation—two squads flanking, rifles ready, bayonets fixed. No hurry. No noise. The snow muffled everything. The groundskeeper was the first to see us. An older man, maybe sixty, carrying a lantern across the courtyard. He froze when the light caught our helmets. Mouth opened. Otto’s Kar98k spoke once—sharp crack, lantern exploding in shards of glass and flame. The older man dropped without a sound, lantern oil spreading dark across the snow.
The priests came next.
Two of them—gray-haired father and a young one, barely out of seminary—burst from the cloister door, shouting in French. The older one held a crucifix forward like a shield. Hans raised his MP40 and fired a short burst. The father jerked, crucifix flying, body folding into a heap. The young one turned to run.
My finger was already on the trigger.
One round. Center mass. He pitched forward, arms flailing, face down in the powder. Blood bloomed fast and black under the lantern glow.
The chapel doors were heavy oak, unlocked.
We kicked them wide.
Inside: incense, candle-wax, fear.
Thirty women in black habits and veils, clustered near the high altar like frightened birds. Some dropped to their knees, rosaries already clutched. Others stood frozen, mouths open, but no sound came out. A few of the younger ones—three or four—looked like they might bolt. They didn’t.
Von Kessler entered last.
He removed his cap, tucked it under his arm with parade-ground precision, and walked the aisle between the pews. His boots echoed. Every step is deliberate. He stopped at each woman, lifted veils with the muzzle of his Walther P38. Old faces. Middle-aged. Then the young ones.
He paused at the redhead.
Tall for a woman. Lean. Shoulders back even now. Copper hair spilling out when the veil came away. Eyes the color of winter pine—sharp, unblinking. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t drop her gaze.
Von Kessler smiled. Thin. Cold. The smile meant the game had already begun.
“Her,” he said quietly.
Otto and I moved. Grabbed her arms. She didn’t fight—didn’t waste energy on useless struggle. Just breathed faster, chest rising and falling under the thick wool habit. We pulled her to the center of the nave, directly in front of the altar rail, where everyone could see.
The captain nodded once.
“Strip them. All of them.”
We did.
Habits torn away in rough handfuls—black wool ripping like paper. Veils yanked free. Simple linen chemises followed, wool stockings peeled down, plain cotton drawers cut with bayonets—everything piled beside the baptismal font. Naked skin appeared in the candlelight—pale, goosefleshed, trembling. Breasts rose and fell with quick breaths. Hips shifted. Thighs pressed together instinctively.
The redhead—Claire—stood straight when we reached her.
Didn’t cover herself. Didn’t cry. Just stared at von Kessler like she was memorizing every line of his face for later.
We bound them last.
Rope from the bell tower—thick hemp, still smelling of bell-grease and old dust. Wrists crossed behind backs, tied tight. Ankles loosely roped so they could shuffle but not run. A long length threaded through each collar, linking them into a single chain of thirty bodies.
Thirty women. Thirty pairs of eyes still clinging to some shred of belief that God might intervene.
Von Kessler stepped onto the sanctuary step and turned to face us.
His voice carried easily in the vaulted silence.
“Morale has been low. The men have earned relief. We will take it here. In this place. Every day, every night, until every soldier is satisfied.”
He looked at the women.
At Claire.
“Then we burn it. All of it.”
No one spoke.
Outside, snow began falling again—thick, silent, covering the blood in the courtyard, erasing the footprints, burying the bodies of the men we had killed.
Inside, the candles burned low.
I stood near the back, rifle slung across my chest, heart hammering so hard I thought the others could hear it.
I looked at the redhead one last time.
She looked back.
And in that single, frozen heartbeat—before the first rope was pulled taut, before the first glove came off, before the first violation shattered the last illusion of sanctuary—I understood something terrible and true:
This place would change us all.
Some of us would never be clean again.
Some of us would never want to be.
Sister Agnes
The first gunshot cracked the world open as a bell struck too hard.
I was folding linens in the cloister—old sheets for the infirmary, threadbare from years of washing, the same motion I’d repeated every Tuesday for fifteen years. The rhythm had become prayer: smooth, mechanical, numbing.
It kept the memories quiet.
The village boy who used to wait for me behind the orchard wall.
The way his fingers had trembled when they first found the curve of my breast under my blouse.
The heat that had bloomed low in my belly, shameful and bright, before I ran to the convent and begged the abbess to take me, to scourge me clean, to make me forget how good sin could feel.
Fifteen years.
Fifteen years of cold stone, coarse wool, midnight flagellations until the skin split and the want bled out.
I had learned to hate my body—its softness, its fullness, the way it still remembered pleasure even when my mind screamed vows.
Then the gunshot.
I dropped the sheet.
It drifted down slowly, like a dying bird.
Another shot.
A scream—cut short.
I pressed my back to the cloister wall, heart slamming against ribs.
Lord, if this is judgment, let it be swift.
The men poured in.
Black uniforms. Helmets. Rifle’s low.
They moved with the certainty of conquerors who had already won.
The groundskeeper crumpled near the gate, lantern oil spreading dark across the snow.
Father Etienne burst from the sacristy, crucifix raised like a weapon.
Automatic Fire—three rounds.
He jerked, fell backward, arms flung wide.
The young seminarian—Paul—turned to run.
One rifle shot.
He pitched forward, face down in the drift, blood blooming fast and black.
I felt it then—the old heat.
Not fear alone.
Something darker.
A pulse low in my belly, treacherous, familiar.
No. Not now. Not after all these years.
The chapel doors burst open.
They herded us inside—rifle barrels nudging shoulders, boots kicking at heels.
We stumbled into the nave, black habits rustling, veils slipping.
The air was thick with incense and terror.
Votive candles trembled as though they understood.
The officer entered last.
Tall. Sharp. Eyes like winter ice.
He removed his cap with slow ceremony, tucked it under his arm, and walked the aisle like a man entering his own cathedral.
“Sisters,” he said in careful French, “your sanctuary is forfeit.”
He moved down the line.
Lifted veils with the muzzle of his pistol.
Old faces. Tired faces.
Then the younger ones.
He stopped at me.
I stood straighter than I meant to.
Thirty-five years old.
Body that had never quite surrendered to the convent: full breasts, wide hips, the soft swell of belly and thigh I had scourged until it bled.
I had hated this body.
Whipped it.
Starved it.
Tried to make it disappear.
His gaze traced me—not with lust, not yet.
With appraisal.
Like a sculptor recognizing good stone.
He smiled—thin, cold, knowing.
“Her,” he said quietly.
Two soldiers seized my arms.
Rough.
Certain.
I didn’t struggle.
Struggling would only bring more pain—for me, or for Marie, or for Claire.
But inside—inside I felt the old want rise like a tide I thought I’d drowned.
They pulled me forward to the center of the nave, before the high altar.
The captain nodded once.
“Strip them. All of them.”
Hands tore at my habit.
Black wool ripped away.
Linen chemise shredded.
Stockings peeled down.
Drawers cut with bayonets.
I stood naked before the altar.
Breasts heavy.
Hips wide.
Thighs are trembling not only from the cold.
I felt their eyes—twenty men, hungry, waiting.
And beneath the terror, beneath the shame, beneath fifteen years of penance—
The heat bloomed again.
Low.
Insistent.
Unwanted.
Undeniable.
My nipples tightened in the chill draft.
A slow, shameful slickness gathered between my thighs.
Forgive me, Lord, I thought, the prayer cracking even as I formed it.
*Forgive me for the way my body remembers.
For the way it still wants.*
They bound us last.
Thick rope around wrists, crossed behind backs.
Ankles loosely tied.
A chain threaded through collars—linking thirty naked women into one trembling body.
The officer stepped onto the sanctuary step.
“Morale has been low,” he said. “The men have earned relief. We will take it here. In this place. Every day, every night, until every soldier is satisfied.”
He looked at me—directly, deliberately.
“Then we burn it. All of it.”
No one spoke.
Outside, snow fell thicker—covering blood, erasing footprints, burying the dead.
Inside, the candles burned low.
I stood in the chain, wrists bound, naked, feeling the slow drip of fear and desire between my thighs.
Fifteen years of penance.
Fifteen years of scourging the flesh until it learned obedience.
And in one evening, with one glance from a man in black, the old want woke again—sharp, hungry, alive.
I closed my eyes.
Lord, if You are listening, I prayed,
*Strike me down now.
Before I discover how much I still want to burn.
Gefreiter Karl Müller
I was the youngest in the patrol.
Twenty-one.
Barely shaved more than twice a week.
They called me “the kid” behind my back, and sometimes to my face.
I didn’t mind.
It was better than being called what I really was: scared.
We’d been marching for seventeen days straight through snow that never stopped falling.
Boots soaked, fingers numb, rations down to the last crumbs of hardtack.
I kept telling myself the war would end before spring.
I kept telling myself a lot of things.
When Hauptmann von Kessler raised his hand at the ridge top, we all stopped like dogs on a leash.
Below us: a valley.
Pine trees black against white snow.
A stream frozen solid.
And in the middle—a stone abbey.
Walls are low and thick.
A single bell tower like a finger pointing at God.
Smoke rose thin and straight from two chimneys.
It looked peaceful.
It looked like something that shouldn’t be touched.
Von Kessler studied it for a long minute.
Then he turned in the saddle, voice low.
“Orders are clear.
Suspected partisan support.
Destroy the structure.
Liquidate male personnel.
Females ... to be dealt with at discretion.”
He let the word hang.
Discretion.
I knew what it meant.
We all did.
We moved down the slope in silence—boots crunching through crust, breath fogging.
No shots until we were inside the gate.
The groundskeeper was first.
Older man with a lantern.
He saw us.
Mouth opened.
Otto’s rifle spoke once.
Lantern shattered.
The man dropped.
Oil spread dark across the snow.
Then the priests.
Two of them—a gray-haired father and a kid not much older than me—burst from the cloister door.
Father Etienne held a crucifix forward like it could stop bullets.
Hans raised his MP40.
Short burst.
Father jerked.
Crucifix flew.
Body folded.
The young one—Paul—turned to run.
I had my Kar98k up before I thought about it.
Finger on the trigger.
One round.
Center mass.
He pitched forward, arms windmilling, face down in the powder.
Red spread fast beneath him.
I stared at the body.
My hands shook.
I’d killed before—Russians on the Eastern Front, partisans in the woods.
But this was different.
This was a kid in a black cassock.
This was a church.
The chapel doors were heavy oak.
Unlocked.
We kicked them wide.
Inside: thirty women in black habits and veils.
They clustered near the altar—some on their knees already, rosaries in hand, lips moving.
Others stood frozen.
A few of the younger ones looked like they might scream.
They didn’t.
Von Kessler entered last.
Removed his cap.
Tucked it under his arm.
Walked the aisle like he owned the place.
“Sisters,” he said in careful French, “your sanctuary is forfeit.”
He moved down the line slowly.
Lifted veils with the muzzle of his Walther.
Old faces.
Middle-aged.
Then the young ones.
He stopped at Agnes—full-figured, thirty-five, eyes that remembered things.
Then Marie, the kid, nineteen, eyes huge with terror.
Then Claire—the redhead, tall, lean, staring back like she was memorizing his face.
He smiled.
Thin.
Cold.
“Her,” he said quietly.
Otto and Heinz dragged Claire forward.
She didn’t fight.
Just breathed faster.
They tore her habit away—black wool ripping, linen underneath shredded—until she stood naked before the altar.
Pale skin.
Small high breasts.
Legs that looked made for running.
Rope from the bell tower.
Wrists high.
Ankle wide.
They spread her open right in front of the altar.
I stood near the back—rifle slung, heart hammering so hard I thought the others could hear it.
Von Kessler removed one glove.
Traced a finger down her chest—between breasts, over stomach, stopping just above the copper curls.
Then the first slap.
Crack.
Red handprint on her thigh.
She jerked.
Ropes sang.
I felt something twist in my stomach.
Not pity.
Not guilt.
Something hotter.
Otto took the flogger—belts knotted together.
First stroke across her breasts.
Red lines.
She arched.
Second.
Third.
Fourth.
By the fifth, she was breathing in sharp, ragged bursts.
Then Otto stepped between her thighs.
Freed himself.
Drove in.
She gasped—body jolting.
He fucked her hard—hands on her hips, using the ropes to pull her deeper.
Breasts bounced.
Welts darkened.
When he came, he stayed buried, then pulled out, thick white leaking down her thigh.
Von Kessler turned to us.
“First fruits,” he said. “Take your share. Carefully. We have six more days.”
I was fifth.
By then, she was slick—Otto’s spend mixed with her own.
I stepped up.
Hands shaking.
Entered her slowly—felt every inch as her body stretched around me again.
Hot.
Tight.
Still quivering.
I fucked her steadily—watching her face, watching the way her lips parted, the way her eyes fluttered when I hit that spot.
Watched the moment she couldn’t stop it—when she clenched, milked, came with a broken cry.
I followed—spilled inside her, hips jerking, vision narrowing to the sight of myself disappearing into her.
When I pulled out, seed leaked in slow ribbons.
I stepped back.
She hung there—chest heaving, thighs trembling.
The others took their turns.
By the end, she was covered—welts, handprints, drying wax, glistening trails.
Von Kessler returned last.
Cupped her cheek.
Brushed away one tear.
“Day one,” he said quietly. “And already you sing.”
They lowered her to her knees—still bound, still dripping.
I stood in the shadows—twenty-one, rifle slung, heart still hammering.
I looked at her one last time.
She looked back.
And in that single heartbeat—before the candles guttered, before the snow fell thicker outside—I understood something terrible and true:
I was no longer the kid.
I was one of them.
And part of me—small, secret, unforgivable—
was already counting the hours until tomorrow.
Until I could feel her again.
Until I could watch her break again.
Until I could pretend I hadn’t just helped burn something holy.
Mother Superior Therese
The first shot came just after Vespers.
I was in the sacristy, folding the altar cloths—old linen worn thin from decades of use, the same cloths I had pressed and blessed every week since I was thirty.
The rhythm had become prayer: smooth, mechanical, eternal.
It kept the world at bay.
Then the crack—sharp, unmistakable, echoing across the courtyard like thunder in winter.
I froze.
Another shot.
A scream—cut short.
I moved to the door, slowly and deliberately, the way I had moved through every crisis in forty-five years as abbess: head high, hands folded, voice calm even when the heart raced.
By the time I reached the cloister archway, the men were already inside.
Black uniforms.
Helmets.
Rifle’s low.
They moved with the certainty of conquerors who had already won.
The groundskeeper lay face-down near the gate, lantern shattered beside him, oil spreading dark across the snow.
Father Etienne stumbled from the sacristy door, crucifix raised like a shield.
Automatic Fire—three rounds.
He jerked, fell backward, arms flung wide.
The young seminarian—Paul, barely twenty—turned to run.
One rifle shot.
He pitched forward, face down in the drift, blood blooming fast beneath him.
I pressed my back to the stone wall.
Sixty-two years old.
Forty-five years in this habit.
I had faced floods, famine, and two wars.
I had buried sisters, comforted the dying, kept the rule when the world outside forgot it existed.
I had thought nothing could shake this place.
I was wrong.
The chapel doors burst open.
They herded us inside—rifle barrels nudging shoulders, boots kicking at heels.
We stumbled into the nave—thirty sisters in black habits and veils, rosaries already in hand, lips moving in silent prayer.
The air was thick with incense and terror.
Votive candles trembled as though they understood.
The officer entered last.
Tall.
Sharp-featured.
Eyes like winter ice.
He removed his cap with deliberate care, tucked it under his arm, and walked the aisle like a man entering his own cathedral.
“Sisters,” he said in careful French, “your sanctuary is forfeit.”
He moved down the line slowly.
Lifted veils with the muzzle of his pistol.
Old faces.
Tired faces.
Then the younger ones.
He stopped at Agnes—thirty-five, curves the convent had tried but failed to erase.
Then Marie, the child, nineteen, eyes wide with the purity of someone who had never truly been tempted.
Then Claire—the redhead.
Tall.
Lean.
Eyes that did not drop.
He smiled—thin, cold, knowing.
“Her,” he said quietly.
Two soldiers seized her.
She did not struggle.
Just breathed faster.
They tore her habit away—black wool ripping, linen shredded—until she stood naked before the altar.
Pale skin.
Small high breasts.
Legs that looked made for flight.
Rope from the bell tower.
Wrists high.
Ankle wide.
They spread her open right in front of the altar.
I stood at the head of the chain—oldest, tallest, the one they had not yet touched.
I watched every detail:
the way the thick hemp bit into her wrists,
the way her small breasts lifted when her arms were pulled overhead,
the way the candlelight caught the first red handprint von Kessler left on her inner thigh,
the way her body jerked—once, twice—then began to tremble in a different rhythm.
And beneath the horror, beneath the terror for what was coming to all of us—
something else stirred.
Not desire.
Not want.
But memory.
Memory of the girl I had been at seventeen—terrified, defiant, determined that no man would ever use my body again.
Memory of the forty-five years I had kept that promise.
Memory of the nights I had scourged myself until the skin split, until the blood ran, until the want bled out.
I had thought I had killed it.
Now—watching Claire stretched on the altar, watching the first slap land, watching her gasp—
I felt it wake.
Not in my flesh.
In my soul.
A quiet, ancient rage.
Not for myself.
For them.
For the child Marie, who had taken vows six months ago and believed they would protect her.
For Agnes, who had scourged her own body for fifteen years only to see it used anyway.
For Claire, who had run here to escape the Fire and now stood burning on the altar.
And for me—sixty-two, abbess, mother superior—who had kept the rule, rung the bells, prayed the hours, and still could not protect them.
The officer turned to his men.
“First fruits,” he said. “Take your share. Carefully. We have six more days.”
Heinz was third.
He stepped up, shaking—just enough to betray him.
Entered her slowly—watched her face, watched the moment she broke, watched her come with a cry that echoed high in the vaulting.
I watched.
And the rage burned brighter.
Not hot.
Not wild.
Cold.
Steady.
Ancient.
I had kept the rule for forty-five years.
I had prayed for peace.
I had believed in mercy.
Now I stood here—old, bound, naked—watching my daughters broken on the altar,
and something inside me—quiet, certain, unbreakable—spoke only one thing:
They will not take everything.
They will take our bodies.
They will take our silence.
They will take our tears.
But they will not take the Fire.
The Fire that has kept this house standing for centuries.
The Fire that has kept us alive through plague, war, and famine.
The Fire that has kept me standing here—sixty-two, unbroken—when younger women would have fallen.
They will burn this place.
But they will not burn us.
Not completely.
I closed my eyes.
And in the darkness behind my lids,
I made a vow.
Not to God.
Not to the rule.
To them.
To the thirty women who stood chained beside me.
I will remember.
I will survive.
And when the flames come,
I will walk north with you.
And the Fire will walk with us.
Because some things—
even after everything—
cannot be extinguished.
The candles burned lower.
And the Fire inside me burned higher.
Silent.
Steady.
Unbroken.
Day 1: The Breaking
Gefreiter Heinz
The chapel was still warm from the execution, smoke drifting in under the doors.
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