Chapter 24: the resurection
The hollow echo of his own sermons haunted Nathaniel more than any demon ever could. For weeks, he’d stood at the pulpit, his delicate hands gripping the polished oak, speaking of purity and divine order to a congregation that saw only a beautiful, sad-eyed young sister with a strangely compelling presence. The words were ashes. They meant nothing. All he could think about was the feeling of being full. The memory of the Velvet Rapture was a scar and a sacrament, a brutal baptism that had rewritten his nervous system.
His body betrayed him constantly. Arousal was no longer a simple, dismissible twitch. It was a deep, hollowing ache in his missing groin, a physical craving that made his knees weak. He’d catch his reflection in the rectory’s dark windows—the sweep of lashes against his cheek, the subtle curve under his black shirt—and feel a jolt of something that was not disgust. It was fascination. It was want.
The breaking point came on a Tuesday. He was trying to prepare a homily on temptation. The scripture blurred. All he could see was Celeste’s sneer, feel the phantom stretch of that first brutal entry. He’d dropped his head to the desk and wept, not for his soul, but because his balls ached with a need that only they could satisfy. That night, he didn’t pray. He rummaged through a dusty trunk of old vestments, his heart pounding a strange, frantic rhythm.
Now, he stood in the dim, smoky haze of The Velvet Underground, and the final thread of Father Nathaniel snapped.
The bar was a world away from the opulence of the Rapture. It was all exposed brick, scuffed leather, and the tang of cheap beer underlaid by something sweeter, muskier. A small stage held a lone pole, bathed in red light. The clientele was rougher, louder, a mix of burly shemales in tank tops and femmes in leather. Nathaniel stood out like a forbidden prayer.
He had modified a traditional nun’s habit. The wimple framed his face, a stark white contrast to his flushed skin and dark, kohl-rimmed eyes. The black dress was cut obscenely short, the hem brushing mid-thigh, and the neckline plunged, showing the creamy swell of his small breasts. A silver cross, cold against his skin, rested in the hollow of his throat. The long skirt was gone, replaced by the tight black vinyl shorts from that first night, now a familiar, shameful second skin.
Susan leaned against the bar next to him, a pillar of amused authority in a sleek pantsuit. She sipped a whiskey, her impressive bulge casually acknowledged by the patrons who nodded her way. “Sister Nathaniel,” she said, the title a velvet-wrapped mockery. “You look the part. Do you feel it?”
Nathaniel’s voice, when it came, was quiet but clear, stripped of its former righteous timbre. “I feel empty.” He met her eyes. “I need to be filled.”
“You know what that means here,” Susan said, gesturing with her glass to the room. “No ceremony. No velvet ropes. Just hunger. You offer yourself, they’ll take you. In the back room, against the wall, wherever they want. You’re just a hole now. Can you accept that?”
He looked at his hands, slender and pale against the dark bar. He thought of the knife, the cold steel, the terrible conviction. He saw Marie’s blank face. The hollow ache in his groin pulsed, a demand louder than any scripture. “Yes,” he breathed.
“Then go,” Susan said. “Kneel by the pool table. See what happens.”
The walk across the sticky floor felt like his last march. The jukebox blared a grinding rock tune. Conversations dipped as he passed. He felt their eyes on the cross, on his shorts, on the shameful curve of his ass. He reached the worn green felt of the pool table, its surface littered with empty glasses. Without ceremony, he sank to his knees, hands folded in his lap, head bowed. The posture of prayer, repurposed.
It took less than a minute.
A pair of scuffed work boots stopped in his line of sight. He looked up. The shemale was built like a dockworker, with thick arms covered in faded tattoos, a shaved head, and a flannel shirt tied above her waist, exposing a heavy, uncut cock that hung thick and half-hard against a muscular thigh. She smelled of motor oil and sweat.
“Well, fuck me,” she grunted, her voice a low rasp. “A praying mantis. You the new attraction Suze was talkin’ about?”
Nathaniel nodded, his throat tight.
“What’s a sister gotta do to get a drink around here?” another voice called, laughter in it. A second shemale, slimmer, with a sharp face and clever eyes, came to stand beside the first. Her cock was already straining against her jeans.
The larger one, whose name was Dex, reached a calloused hand down and cupped Nathaniel’s chin, forcing his head back. “You suck cock, sister?”
“Yes,” Nathaniel whispered.
“You take it in the ass?”
“Yes.”
“You swallow?”
“Yes.”
Dex grinned, a gap-toothed, wicked thing. “Communion’s served, then.” She fumbled with her belt, the rasp of the zipper cutting through the bar noise. Her cock sprang free, thick, veined, and already leaking a pearl of pre-cum at the slit. It was nothing like the polished cocks of the Rapture; this was visceral, animal. “Get to worshipping.”
Nathaniel didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, opening his mouth. The taste hit him first—salt, skin, pure masculine musk. He flinched, but didn’t pull away. This was his penance. His purpose. He took the head in, his lips stretching. Dex’s hand went to the back of his wimple, not gripping his hair, but holding the stiff fabric, guiding him down.
“That’s it,” Dex groaned. “Use that holy mouth.” She pushed deeper, and Nathaniel gagged, tears springing to his eyes. The second shemale, Ray, moved behind him. He heard the pop of a button, the slide of a zipper, then felt cold air on his exposed ass as Ray yanked the vinyl shorts down. A bottle of cheap beer was poured over his cleft, the liquid shockingly cold before a rough hand spread it, mixing with the lingering stickiness from his fantasies.
“Still tight,” Ray commented, a finger probing him. “Good.”
Dex began to fuck his face in earnest, short, brutal thrusts that battered the back of his throat. Nathaniel’s world narrowed to the smell of denim and sweat, the taste of pre-cum, the overwhelming stretch of his jaws. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t care. The ache in his own emptiness was being answered, not with relief, but with a deeper, more profound degradation that felt like truth.
Behind him, Ray spat into her palm, slicked her cock, and pressed the blunt head against his entrance. With Dex holding him impaled on her cock, Ray pushed in. The double penetration was a shock of overwhelming fullness. He was stretched front and back, a living sheath, his body forced to accommodate their girths. A broken, muffled scream vibrated around Dex’s shaft.
“Fuck, she’s tight as a fist,” Ray grunted, beginning to move, her hips slamming his ass forward onto Dex’s cock, creating a ruthless, rocking rhythm.
They used him like a toy, with a casual, grinding efficiency. There was no ceremony, no cruel commentary, just the raw mechanics of their pleasure. Dex cursed, her thrusts becoming jagged. “Gonna bless that throat, sister,” she snarled, and with a final, deep shove, she held him down. The first hot, bitter pulse hit his tongue. He swallowed reflexively, gagging, but taking it. It was thick, copious, and as he swallowed, a jolt of electric pleasure shot from his own barren balls up his spine—a phantom echo, a promise of a release he couldn’t have.
As Dex pulled her softening cock from his lips, gasping, Ray’s pace quickened. “My turn,” she panted. Her grip on his hips was vise-like. Her climax was quieter, a deep, shuddering grind as she emptied herself into his ass, the heat of it a stark contrast to the beer cooling on his skin.
They pulled out of him, leaving him on his knees, dripping from both ends, gasping for air. The pool game resumed around him. A glass was set near his knee. “For the sister,” someone chuckled.
He didn’t move. The hollow ache was still there, but it was layered now under a warm, filthy fullness. He felt used. He felt seen. And in that moment, kneeling in the spill of beer and cum, the last vestige of the rigid priest dissolved.
Susan appeared, looking down at him. She didn’t offer a hand. “Well?”
Nathaniel looked up, smeared lipstick around his mouth, his eyes clearer than they’d been in weeks. The conflict was gone, burned away in the crude furnace of the bar. “Father Nathaniel is dead,” he said, his voice hoarse from abuse but steady. “He died in your club.”
A slow smile spread across Susan’s face. It held no triumph, only a grim understanding. “And who are you now?”
He touched the cross at his throat, then let his hand fall, trailing through the mess on the floor. He brought his glistening fingers to his lips, and tasted it. Salt. Bitter seed. Truth.
“I’m Sister Nathaniel,” he said. “And I need another drink.”
“And I need another drink.”
The months that followed were a blur of shame, of gritted teeth and clenched fists, of his body being used as a communal ashtray for a hunger he still pretended to hate. He woke each morning in Susan’s spare room, the phantom weight of a phantom cock in his mouth making him gag into the pillow. He scrubbed his skin raw in the shower, trying to erase the smell of strangers, the sticky residue of their pleasure that seemed to seep into his pores. He saw Father Nathaniel’s face in every mirror—disgusted, accusatory, a ghost in the glass—and he’d spit on the reflection before applying mascara with a trembling hand.
The Velvet Underground became his new confessional. He’d kneel in the same spot, a fixture now, in his scandalous habits or tiny leather skirts. Dex and Ray were regulars, his first brutal patrons, who’d evolved from mere users to something resembling gruff mentors. “You’re still too fucking stiff, sister,” Dex would grunt, shoving her thick cock past his lips. “Relax your jaw. This ain’t a punishment unless you want it to be.” And behind him, Ray would chuckle, her hands on his hips less punishing, more instructional. “Arch your back, just like that. Makes it easier for us, feels better for you. Don’t fight it.”
He did fight it. He fought it every time a new shemale, some giantess named Mars or a sly fox called Kit, would use his mouth or his ass, dumping their loads into him with groans of satisfaction that felt like verdicts. He’d return to Susan’s apartment silent, vibrating with a self-loathing so profound it felt like his bones were humming with it. Susan watched, saying little, just offering a glass of water or a clean towel. “The body learns faster than the mind,” she said once, her own massive cock resting heavy against her thigh as she sorted scripts. “Your mind is a fortress of dead ideas. Your body is just seeking equilibrium.”
The shift was glacial, almost imperceptible. It started with a cigarette. After Dex had finished fucking his throat one slow Wednesday, she’d slumped onto the bench beside his kneeling form and lit a smoke. “Here,” she’d said, voice ragged, and offered it to him. The simple, casual sharing of a vice, not a command, broke something. He took it, fingers brushing hers, and took a drag. He didn’t cough. They sat in silence, the smoke mixing with the bar’ haze, his face still glazed with her spit and semen.
He began to learn their names. Not just their stage names or their dominant personas, but their real ones. He learned that Ray, the clever one, was a graphic designer by day, and that her domineering bar persona was a release valve for a mind too full of client revisions. He learned that Kit, who loved to make him beg, was a fiercely protective single mother to a young daughter. He held a shemale named Val’s hair back while she vomited in the grimy bathroom after a bad breakup, his small hand patting her heaving back, his whispered, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” as much for himself as for her.
The self-hatred didn’t vanish. It mutated. It became a familiar, bitter companion on the walk to the bar, only to be drowned out by the genuine laughter that greeted him when he arrived. “Sister Nate’s here!” someone would call, and a glass of his preferred gin would already be sliding down the bar toward his usual stool—a stool he now sat on, rather than knelt beside. He started talking. Shyly at first, then with growing passion, about the laws that targeted their clubs, the discrimination they faced in housing. He used his knowledge of scripture and rhetoric, now twisted, to help them craft counter-arguments. He became an unexpected scribe for a community he once sought to eradicate.
Susan approached him two months in with a clipboard and a contract. “The film pays eight hundred for the day,” she said, no-nonsense. “You’ll be bottoming for me and two others. It’s rough. It’s explicit. But it’s work.” He signed without reading it, the pen feeling heavier than any crucifix.
The set was clinical, bright with lights that showed every flaw. Susan, in full producer mode, was a different beast—commanding, precise. “Nate, position two. I need you to take her deep, show the camera your throat bulging. Good. Now arch. I want to see your asshole glisten.” It was degrading. It was also a job. He performed, and between takes, Susan handed him a bottle of water and discussed lighting angles with the crew, treating him as part of the process. The money he earned bought him groceries, a better wig, a sense of contribution that wasn’t rooted in degradation but in simple, sweaty labor.
The night it finally happened was a celebration. Val had won her custody case. The Velvet Underground was packed, throbbing with a victorious, reckless energy. Nathaniel was at the center of it, not as a kneeling supplicant, but as a willing participant, a friend. He wore a harness that held a modest, glittering strap-on, and he was fucking a giggling submissive shemale named Chloe against the pool table, to cheers. He’d sucked three cocks already that evening, drunk on gin and camaraderie, the taste familiar, almost welcome.
It was Dex who pulled him into the back room, where a tangle of limbs and glistening skin moved in the half-light. “Get in here, sister,” she grinned. He was passed from one set of hands to another. Ray bent him over a low couch, entering him with a smooth, practiced thrust that was now pure pleasure. Kit fed him her cock, and he sucked with enthusiastic greed, his fingers digging into her thighs. Another, a stranger, pressed against his side, and he reached for her, stroking her in time with Ray’s pounding rhythm.
He was everywhere at once—mouth full, ass full, hands busy—a single thread in a writhing tapestry of shared release. The old litany of hate was silent. The ghost in the mirror was gone. There was only the smell of their sweat, the sound of their pleasure, the overwhelming, validating truth of his own usefulness. He was not an object. He was a part of this.
Ray came inside him with a shuddering gasp. Kit pulled from his mouth and came across his face, hot stripes painting his cheeks and habit. And as he felt their releases, as he felt the warm drip inside and out, something in his own barren core tightened, then shattered.
A convulsive wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure, unrelated to any physical stimulation he could understand, ripped through him. It was a silent, internal detonation. His back arched violently, his mouth opened in a soundless scream, and for the first time since his change, a sweet, profound relief flooded his system, washing away the months of aching desperation. It left him weak-limbed and gasping, slumped forward on the couch, a pool of their mingled fluids beneath him.
The others patted his back, kissed his shoulder, moved on. He lay there, breathing raggedly. The hollow ache was gone. Not sated, but gone. Replaced by a deep, cellular quiet. He started to laugh, a soft, disbelieving puff of air against the vinyl. Then he cried. Clean tears, without shame, without conflict. They rolled through the mess on his face, cutting clean tracks.
He was, for the first time, simply himself. Nathaniel. No prefix needed. And he was, finally, at peace.