Chapter 22: divine irony
The crystal vial sat empty on the rectory’s dusty desk. For three days, Nathaniel had rationed the glittering supplement Susan had left, a few drops under his tongue each time the need began to coil, hot and insistent, in his gut. It didn’t bring pleasure. It brought a numb, functional peace, a chemical ceasefire in his war of flesh. It allowed him to think.
His thoughts were a prison. He saw Susan’s face, not in lust, but in a terrible, clear-eyed judgment. You get to worship the abomination. He saw Marie’s file, the clinical photo of the surgical site, neat and horrific. His own signature at the bottom. The doctrine that justified it now felt like ash in his memory, a brittle script he could no longer read.
The peace from the vial evaporated on the fourth morning. He woke at dawn, slick with sweat, his small breasts aching, the emptiness between his legs a throbbing vortex of demand. It was deeper than hunger, sharper than thirst. It was a cellular imperative. He fumbled for the vial, tipped it back. The last few drops, faintly shimmering, hit his tongue. The relief was weaker now, fleeting. Within an hour, the need returned, a cramping fist in his lower belly.
He couldn’t go back to Susan. The memory of the camera’s red eye was a brand. He wouldn’t give her that again.
Desperation bred a twisted logic. The supplement was fairy cum. Lila’s gift. But shemale semen was the trigger for his cursed body. A castrated shemale… their semen was clear, thin, reportedly inert. But it was shemale. What if the fairy’s gift had sensitized him? What if even that weak, pathetic fluid could now sate the need? The idea was a lifeline.
And he knew where to find one.
He found her in the spartan apartment above the laundromit, a single room that smelled of cheap soap and resignation. Samanthe opened the door, her eyes widening not with fear, but with a kind of reverent alarm. "Father? Is everything... is everything all right?" Her voice was soft, melodic, even after everything. She was pretty in a faded way, like a sketch left in the sun, her frame slight beneath a simple dress.
Nathaniel pushed past her, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Close the door, Samanthe." The authority in his voice was a brittle shell, but it worked. She obeyed, her movements timid. He turned, taking in the room, the narrow bed, the crucifix on the wall. His eyes finally settled on her. "You still believe in the path to purity, don't you?"
"I try, Father." She looked down, her hands knotting together. "Every day. It's... harder now. After. But your sermons, they give me strength."
A jagged laugh escaped him, sounding alien even to his own ears. "My sermons." He stepped closer, the desperate ache in his loins a pounding drumbeat. "I need to perform a new rite. A test of your faith. A test of... obedience." He could see the confusion in her face, but also the ingrained submission. He had crafted her, after all. He had sat with her and her parents in his study, his voice calm and sure as he explained that the soft, small penis between her legs was a demon’s lure, that its removal would free her soul.
"Anything, Father," she whispered, her belief a knife he would turn on them both.
"Remove your clothes. Kneel by the bed." The commands were stripped of all pastoral warmth, leaving only a harsh need. She flinched, but her hands went to the buttons of her dress, fingers trembling. He watched, his own body thrumming with a sick anticipation, as she revealed the smooth, hairless mound between her legs, the scar tissue neat and pink where her balls and most of her shaft had been. All that remained was a tiny, flaccid nub of flesh, perhaps an inch long. A monument to his conviction.
He unzipped his own trousers, letting them pool around his ankles, exposing his own cruel alteration. Her eyes went to the smooth, empty space, the lonely sac beneath, and a deeper confusion clouded her features. "But... you..."
"Silence." He gripped the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. "Your faith is spoken through action, Samanthe. Not words." He guided her face towards his groin, towards the small slit above his balls. "Your mouth. Use your mouth. Try to... anoint me."
She hesitated for only a second, a lifetime of doctrine warring with the visceral wrongness of the act. Then, with a quiet whimper of devotion, she leaned forward. Her tongue, timid and hot, licked tentatively at his opening. It was a bizarre, nerve-less sensation, like being touched on a scar. Nothing. No spark. The coiled tension in his belly tightened, screaming for a release this could not provide.
"Not there, you foolish girl," he hissed, yanking her head sideways, pressing her face against the inside of his thigh. His skin was slick with anxious sweat. "Your own sin. Attend to it. Produce the... the fluid of your former corruption. I will purify it with my acceptance."
Understanding, slow and horrible, dawned on her. Tears welled in her eyes as he manhandled her, pushing her onto her back on the thin mattress, spreading her legs. He loomed over her, his petite form trembling with frantic energy. "Do it. Make yourself ready."
She sobbed, but her hand moved. She took her tiny, limp remnant between her fingers, stroking it with a practiced, hopeless rhythm born of lonely nights. Nathaniel watched, his breath coming in short gasps, his own hand frantically rubbing his smooth mound, his tight entrance, seeking any friction. "Faster," he demanded, his voice cracking.
"It... it doesn't really get hard, Father. Not since... it just leaks a little," she cried, her movements becoming more frantic under his glare. A clear, thin bead of fluid welled at the tip of her nub. It had no shimmer, no vitality. It was the ghost of semen.
"Now," he growled, and he sank down over her, aligning his small opening with her pathetic member. He forced himself down, impaling his tight, wanting hole on that insignificant flesh. It was a grotesque parody of sex. He could barely feel it inside him, a faint, useless pressure. He rocked himself, fucking himself on her, his mind burning with images of Susan’s monstrous, satisfying girth.
"Come for me, Samanthe. Spill your corruption into me. Now!" he commanded, his voice raw.
A low moan escaped her, a sound of shame and involuntary response. Her body shuddered. A weak pulse, then a trickle of thin, clear fluid spilled from her into him. It was cool, barely there. He felt it, a pathetic echo of the glorious, shimmering heat that had wrecked him days before.
He collapsed off her, rolling onto his back, staring at the water-stained ceiling. The desperate, clawing need in his gut had not been sated. It had been mocked. It roared back, amplified, a furnace now stoked by humiliation and failure. Samanthe curled into a ball beside him, weeping quietly into her hands.
He lay there, the phantom feel of her useless emission inside him, the real need now a screaming, untouchable void. The fairy’s supplement was gone. The castrated shemale’s semen was nothing. There was only one source left, and the camera’s red eye blinked in his memory, a promise of further damnation.
He got up, pulled his clothes on with jerky movements, and left without a word. Samanthe’s soft cries followed him into the hall, a psalm for the ruined.