Chapter 20: Holy Corruption
The vestry door clicked shut, sealing them in a silence that felt heavier than the old oak pews outside. Dust motes danced in the slants of crimson and cobalt light falling from the window depicting Saint Agnes. Anna kept her eyes downcast, the worn beads of the rosary biting into her palm.
“Your contrition is… notable, Anna,” Father Nathaniel said, his voice a soft, controlled thing. He did not sit behind his desk, but stood before her, a silhouette against the glowing window. “To embrace the silence of the flesh after its rebellion is the highest grace.”
“It’s all I think about, Father,” she murmured, letting a practiced tremor enter her voice. She thought of Susan, waiting in the warehouse, of Lila’s whispered instructions. Get him to break. Get him to show you what he really wants. “The absence. It’s a constant prayer.”
He took a step closer. The faint, clean scent of sacramental wine and soap clung to him. “The itch is gone?”
“The itch, yes.” She lifted her eyes then, meeting his piercing grey gaze. She saw it, the flicker deep within, like something trapped under ice. “But it’s been replaced by… a need to serve. To help others find the peace I’ve found.”
A lie, smooth as silk. The peace she’d found was a screaming, full-body climax from a fairy-touched asshole, a secret so profound it made her wet just thinking about it—a sensation that now gathered with a dull throb in her gut, with no clit to relieve it.
“Serve?” he echoed.
“Your burden must be heavy,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Hearing the confessions. Seeing the… deformities of the world. The shemales. Their perversion must sicken you.”
His jaw tightened. A barely perceptible twitch in his cheek. “It is a spiritual sickness. A rebellion against natural law.”
“They must tempt you,” Anna pressed, shifting on her knees, letting her blouse gape just slightly. “To test your resolve. Their… bodies.”
“Do not speak of it.” His command was sharp, but his eyes were locked on the shadow of cleavage her movement revealed.
“I want to help you,” she breathed, unfolding herself from the kneel, rising to stand before him. She was shorter, having to look up. She placed a hand, cool and steady, on the flat of his chest, over the rough black fabric of his cassock. She felt the rapid, birdlike flutter of his heart. “Let me take that temptation from you. Let me… absorb it. A living penance.”
His hand shot up, gripping her wrist. But it wasn’t to push her away. His fingers were long, slender, almost delicate, and they held her with a desperate tension. “This is a sin you propose.”
“Is it?” she whispered, her other hand moving to the buttons of his cassock. “Or is it a cleansing? You preach the mortification of the flesh. Let me be the instrument of yours.”
He didn’t stop her. His breath hitched as she parted the fabric, revealing the simple cotton trousers beneath. His body was as androgynous as his face, slender-hipped, with no discernible strength. She could feel him shaking.
“Their bodies are an abomination,” he gasped, as if trying to convince himself, his eyes glazing as she undid his fly.
“I know,” Anna soothed, her fingers dipping inside, finding him. He was small, as Lila said he would be, barely hard, a cute, pathetic little thing. She wrapped her hand around him. “But this… this is pure. This is a man of God. Let me worship it.”
She sank back to her knees, the hard stone floor a familiar ache. He looked down at her, his grey eyes wide with terror and a hunger so profound it contorted his pretty features. She didn’t give him time to think.
She took him into her mouth.
He was clean, tasting of soap and salt. A low, choked groan escaped him, his hands flying to her head, not to guide, but to clutch, his fingers tangling in her brown hair. She worked him with a feigned reverence, her tongue swirling around the tip, using the techniques Susan had laughingly taught her just hours before. She hollowed her cheeks, applying suction, listening to his breathing fracture.
“Anna… stop… this is…” he moaned, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary thrust.
She pulled off, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his cock. “Do you want me to stop, Father?” she asked, her voice thick with false piety. “Should I leave you to your thoughts? To the images of those… shemale cocks you try so hard to pray away?”
His face crumpled. It was the word. Cocks. A filthy, brutal word in this sacred space. It broke him.
“No,” he begged, the sound torn from him. “Don’t stop.”
She took him back, deeper this time, letting him hit the back of her throat. She relaxed, taking him all, her nose pressing into the fine, hairless skin of his pelvis. He cried out, a sound of pure anguish and release. His thrusts became frantic, shallow, his delicate body jerking. She could taste the pre-come, bitter and thin.
“You filthy girl,” he rasped, his voice cracking. “Your mouth… your sinful mouth…”
She increased her pace, bobbing her head, one hand cupping his balls, the other reaching up to knead at his ass, pulling him deeper into her throat. He was babbling, a stream of incoherent prayers and curses.
“Oh God… like a shemale would… you suck… you want this perversion…”
She did. She wanted him to come. She wanted his hypocrisy in her hands, in her mouth. She wanted proof.
His climax was a pitiful, shuddering thing. He whimpered, his whole body stiffening, and a small, warm spill filled her mouth. She swallowed deliberately, maintaining eye contact as she pulled away, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.
He slumped against the edge of the heavy oak desk, breathing ragged, his small cock already softening, glistening wet in the dim light. A profound silence followed, broken only by the distant sound of a door closing in the church nave. Shame flooded his features, tightening the skin around his eyes.
“What have we done,” he whispered, not a question but a condemnation. He fumbled to tuck himself away, his fingers clumsy.
“We’ve taken a step,” Anna said, her voice low and steady. She remained on her knees, a position of submission that now felt like control. “You feel it, don’t you? The clarity after the storm.” It was a line she’d practiced, something he’d want to believe.
He looked at her, his grey eyes searching hers for mockery. Finding only placid devotion, he seemed to settle. “The storm never ends, Anna. It batters at the walls constantly.” He straightened his cassock, a futile gesture. “The corruption is not just out there. It’s a whisper in the blood. A shape in the shadows.”
“What do you mean?” She rose slowly, smoothing her skirt, playing the attentive acolyte.
“The shemales… they are just the most visible blight.” He began to pace, a restless energy replacing his post-coital slump. “There is something else. A… a glamour. A poison that warps reality itself. It makes good people accept aberration.” He stopped, turning his intense gaze on her. “You’ve heard the rumors. Of people changing in the night. Waking up… altered.”
Anna’s heart hammered against her ribs. Lila. She kept her face a mask of innocent curiosity. “Folktales. Fairy stories.”
“No.” The word was sharp, final. “It is real. I have seen the… the results. The girl, Marie. Her mother, Susan. Their transformations were not natural. Could not be natural.” His hand drifted unconsciously to the small of his back, pressing there as if soothing an ache. “I am shielded, however. Protected by my devotion, and by… a relic. A holy artifact that guards my purity from such influences.”
“A relic?” Anna asked, tilting her head. She took a step closer, within his space again. “What is it?”
He shook his head, a faint, smug smile touching his lips. “That is not for you to know. Its power is in its secrecy, in its constant contact with the flesh it safeguards.”
She let her eyes go wide with awed understanding. Then, she let them drop, her fingers going to the button of her own skirt. “I have a relic too, Father. A testament to my devotion. My own… fortress against corruption.”
His breath caught as she pushed the wool fabric over her hips, letting it pool at her feet. She stood before him in just her blouse, glasses, and plain cotton panties. With a slow, deliberate motion, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband and slid them down.
The air in the vestry was cool on her naked skin. She watched his face as his eyes traveled down her body, over her small breasts, her flat stomach, to the smooth, unbroken expanse between her legs. There was no cleft, no folds, no hint of a vagina. Just seamless, hairless skin, a featureless plain that ended at the tight, pink pucker of her asshole.
He stared. His mouth opened slightly. A tremor ran through his hands.
“You see?” Anna whispered, spreading her legs just a little. “I had it removed. Everything. After you… helped me with my clitoris. I wanted to go further. To remove the gateway to sin entirely. Now, there is only this.” She reached back, brushed a finger over her anus. “A exit, not an entrance. A testament to my abstinence.”
A strangled sound escaped him. It was part groan, part prayer. “My child…” he breathed, stepping closer, his eyes devouring the sight. “Such… such profound sacrifice. Such purity.” His own hand went again to the small of his back, pressing harder. “You have outdone even my own disciplines.”
“Show me,” she urged, her voice a husky invitation. “Your relic. Let me see the tool that guards a warrior of God. Let me understand the full measure of your sacrifice.”
The conflict warred on his face—dogma against desire, secrecy against a desperate need to be seen, to be matched in his perverse rigor. Desire won. His fingers, still slick with a faint trace of his own spend, fumbled with the belt of his trousers again. He turned slightly, presenting his backside to her.
“It is… a mortification,” he said, his voice thick. “A constant reminder. A physical seal against invasion.”
He pushed his trousers and cotton shorts down to his thighs. There, nestled between his pale, hairless buttocks, was a smooth, dark shape. It was a buttplug, made of what looked like polished onyx or obsidian, its flared base snug against his skin. The stone seemed to drink in the vestry’s light.
Anna gasped, a perfectly performed sound of reverent shock. “You wear it… always?”
“At all times.” He was trembling now, with excitement, with vulnerability. “It is my shield. It keeps me clean, focused. It reminds my body that it is a temple, not a… a playground.” He looked over his shoulder, his grey eyes blazing. “Your purity… it calls to me. It makes the shield feel… unnecessary.”
“Then let me be your relic,” Anna said, turning and bending over the hard, cold edge of his desk. She presented her smooth crotch and the tight, secret star of her ass to him. The grimy window of the warehouse flashed in her mind, Susan’s thick fingers stretching her. “Use this temple. Consecrate it. Fuck the devil out of me, Father. Fuck him out of both of us.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice. She heard the soft, wet pop as he removed the onyx plug. It clattered on the stone floor, a sound of profound abandonment. He was on her in an instant, his body pressed against her back, his small, hard cock probing at her entrance. He was not gentle.
“You perfect, empty thing,” he snarled, his piety dissolving into raw, frantic need.
He spat into his hand, slicked himself, and shoved forward. The head of his cock breached her, a sharp, burning intrusion. Anna cried out, a real sound torn from her by the sudden, dry stretch. She was loose from Susan’s preparation, but he was forcing his way in with a frantic, angry energy.
“Take it, you pure fucking whore,” he grunted, his hips pistoning. He wasn’t big, but he was desperate, pounding into her ass with a speed that was its own kind of violence. Each thrust drove her hips against the unforgiving wood of the desk. “This is all you’re for now! A holy hole! A sealed vessel for my righteousness!”
Anna clenched her teeth, riding the burn, turning her face to the side. She saw their reflection distorted in the polished silver of a chalice on a shelf. His pretty face was contorted, a mask of ecstatic hatred. Her glasses were askew. She met his reflected gaze and moaned, a high, broken sound, playing her part.
“Yes! Oh God, yes, Father! Your holy cock! It blesses me!” The filthy words felt like ashes in her mouth, but they fueled him. His hands gripped her hips, his fingernails digging into her skin. His rhythm became sloppy, frantic. He was chasing it, chasing his own pathetic release inside the ass of the girl he’d mutilated.
“You’re cleaner than them!” he babbled, his philosophy unraveling into pure id. “No cunt! No fucking shemale dick! Just this… this perfect, sinful ass!”
With a final, shuddering thrust, he came. She felt the hot, weak pulse deep inside her. He collapsed over her back, his slight body heaving, whispering incoherent thanks to a god that had clearly abandoned this room.
In the silence that followed, filled with the smell of sex and wax, Anna knew. The relic was on the floor. His shield was gone. And Lila’s work could now begin.
And Lila’s work could now begin.
Anna felt him slip out of her, a trickle of his spend following. She straightened up, her ass throbbing with a raw, used ache. She didn’t look at him as she pulled her panties and skirt back on, the cotton sticking unpleasantly to her skin.
“You should go,” Nathaniel whispered, his voice hollow. He was fumbling with his clothes, his back to her, the onyx plug forgotten on the floor between them. “Before… before I weaken further.”
“Of course, Father.” Her voice was soft, obedient, a perfect mirror of the girl who’d first knelt here. Inside, her mind was screaming, Now, Lila, do it now. She turned and walked to the vestry door, each step measured.
She paused at the threshold, glancing back. He stood facing the stained glass, a silhouette of anguish again, but softer now, diminished. The late afternoon light seemed to cling to him differently, as if forming a faint, golden halo around his slender frame.
Anna slipped out, pulling the heavy door shut with a final, soft click. The sound echoed in the empty church. She walked quickly down the nave, her shoes whispering on the stone, not stopping until the cold evening air hit her face outside.
In the vestry, Nathaniel bent to retrieve his plug. A sharp, sudden ache bloomed in his groin, a deep, twisting need that made him gasp. He dropped the plug again, his hands flying to his stomach. It was a hunger, but lower, a desperate, empty yearning in his balls and behind them.
He stumbled to his desk, leaning on it for support. A wave of heat flushed through him, followed by a dizzying nausea. His skin prickled, as if a thousand insects were crawling just beneath the surface. He looked at his hands.
The knuckles seemed less pronounced. The faint tracing of veins on the back of his hands smoothed away, the skin becoming poreless, almost luminous in the dying light. “What is this?” he mumbled, but his voice was higher, a note of panic trilling through it.
Another cramp doubled him over. This one was in his chest, a burning, stretching sensation. He cried out, tearing at his cassock. The black fabric strained across his torso. Two tight, aching buds swelled beneath the wool, pushing against the cloth.
He ripped the cassock open, buttons pinging off the stone floor. His chest was no longer flat. Two smooth, pale mounds swelled from his pectorals, each capped with a nipple that was already hardening into a pert, pink nub. They were small, A-cups, but undeniably there. Undeniably female.
“No.” The denial was a thin, reedy whisper. He clutched at them, and a jolt of electric sensation shot from his nipples straight to his groin, a bolt of pure, unwanted pleasure. He moaned.
His hips jerked. A fresh, wrenching pain seized him lower down, a feeling of something unraveling, retracting. He fumbled with his trousers, still around his thighs, and looked.
His penis was gone.
Where his small, familiar cock had been, there was only smooth, hairless skin. His testicles remained, hanging in a delicate, vulnerable sac, but the shaft had vanished without a trace, as if it had never been. He prodded the area, his delicate fingers searching for a seam, a scar. There was nothing. Just blank skin and, below, the tight furl of his own asshole, which clenched under his touch and sent another wave of desperate need through him.
He scrambled to a small, tarnished mirror hanging by a vestment rack. The face that stared back was his, but perfected. His jawline had softened, his lips had plumped into a fuller, rosebud pout. His eyelashes were thicker, darker, framing his wide, grey eyes. His hair had grown, curling just past his ears in soft, black waves.
He looked like a beautiful, terrified boy. Or a very young woman. The lines had blurred entirely.
A horrific, grasping need coiled in his gut, centered in his new ass. It was a physical demand, an emptiness that screamed to be filled. He thought of Anna’s smooth crotch, of the tight channel he’d just violently occupied. His own backdoor clenched, spasming around nothing, and a pathetic whimper escaped his pretty lips.
He needed. God, he needed.
But it wasn’t a vagina he needed. The thought of one felt abstract, wrong. His body, humming with a new, terrifying frequency, screamed for something else. He thought of the shemales he preached against. Their bodies. Their cocks. The word made his mouth water. A violent, shameful craving ignited in his blood, a hunger so specific it felt like a geas.
He imagined it. A thick, heavy weight in his mouth. The musky, salty taste of a shemale’s balls. The feeling of being stretched, filled, claimed by that exact perversion he’d dedicated his life to eradicating. His new breasts felt heavy, his nipples painfully hard. His lonely balls ached. His asshole wept a slickness he’d never felt before.
He collapsed to his knees, the discarded onyx plug digging into his thigh. His relic. Useless. His shield was gone, and in its place was a body built for sin, craving the very poison he was meant to destroy. A cute, bubbly ass now begging to be filled, and a sensitivity tuned to a single, damning frequency: shemale cum.
The church was silent around him. The only sound was his own ragged, high-pitched breathing and the wet, shameful sound of his finger, slick with his own new lubrication, desperately pushing into his own needy hole.
His finger wasn’t enough. The thought was a scream in his skull, drowning out the last echoes of prayer. He needed more, something to split him open and fill this terrible, hollow ache. His grey eyes, wide and wet, darted to the floor.
The onyx plug glinted in the gloom.
He stared at it, this object of supposed purity, this holy shield. A broken sound escaped his new, soft lips—a laugh or a sob. His body moved before his mind could protest, before dogma could reassert itself. He snatched the relic from the cold stone. It was still warm from his body.
He didn’t think. He just got on his hands and knees, his cassock tangled around his waist, his new breasts swaying beneath him. He reached back, guided the smooth, tapered end to his slick hole. “Please,” he whispered to no one, to the empty church, to the god who had let this happen.
He shoved it in.
It was thicker than his finger, a stretching, burning fullness that made his vision blur. He cried out, a high, feminine sound that echoed in the vaulted space. He rocked back, taking more, the flared base lodging tight against his rim. A jolt of sensation, sharp and bright, lanced up his spine. He froze, panting.
Then he began to fuck himself with it.
He pulled it almost all the way out, the stretch a delicious torment, then slammed it back inside. Each thrust punched a wet, gasping moan from his throat. The plug’s curve rubbed against something deep, a spot that sparked white heat behind his eyes. “Fuck,” he slurred, the obscenity molten on his tongue. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He used to relish this. The quiet, private pain of the plug, the constant reminder of his discipline. A mortification. He’d kneel in his quarters, pushing it in, telling himself he was sealing the temple.
He’d been an idiot.
Every time he’d fucked his own ass with this holy stone, he hadn’t been defiling it. He’d been training it. He’d been teaching his hungry hole to crave exactly this: a hard, relentless pounding. He’d honed his own need into a razor’s edge. The relic hadn’t been a shield. It had been a whetstone.
The realization unspooled him. His rhythm broke into frantic, shallow jabs. “I made it hungry,” he gasped to the empty air, drool spotting the stone beneath his face. “I made myself… this.”
His balls, his only remaining masculine parts, drew up tight and aching. The pleasure wasn’t centered there. It was a storm radiating from his violated ass, washing over his new tits, making his nipples scrape against the rough wool of his cassock. He was a girl, on her knees, fucking herself stupid with a rock. The image should have shattered him.
It just made him fuck himself harder.
The base of the plug slapped against his skin, a wet, rhythmic smack. Pre-come, thin and clear, dripped from his empty slit onto the floor. He was going to come. Like this. From his ass. A dry, wrenching orgasm with no cock to spill from. The injustice of it, the perfect, grotesque poetry, pushed him over the edge.
His body locked. A silent scream tore through him. His channel clamped vise-tight around the onyx, milking nothing, as waves of useless, shattering pleasure detonated from his core. He collapsed onto his side, curled around the invading stone, shuddering.
Slowly, the feeling ebbed, leaving a deeper, more profound emptiness. He lay there in a puddle of his own sweat and spend, the plug still buried in him. The church was dark now. The stained glass window was a dull patch of black.
He needed a real cock.
The thought was clear and cold, settling in the ruin of his mind. Not a stone. Not a finger. Flesh. Heat. A shemale’s massive, musky dick, like the ones he’d seen in the confiscated, sinful pictures. He needed to taste it. He needed it to ruin this greedy, trained hole forever. A pathetic, hungry whimper escaped him.
He pulled the plug out. It slid free with a lewd, wet pop. The sudden emptiness was a physical agony. He clutched his smooth groin, his soft breasts, and began to cry—soft, hopeless tears for the man he was, for the thing he’d become, for the all-consuming need that was now his only scripture.
Somewhere in the city, Lila smiled. Her work was complete. The hunter was now the perfect prey. And he would come to them. He would have to.