Saint Augustine’s Boys Home, Grantsville Maryland – 1975

“Put them on Nancy!” the boys circled Nancy, taunting him.

“Yeah, put them on Nancy,” Will Logan shouted it a second time because he was a coward who was scared of the other boys and he needed their approval to make him feel accepted.

If you weren’t one of the bullies at Saint Augustine's then you were prey; milquetoast for the predators. The reality was that every boy at Saint Augustine’s was scared: scared that they were never going to be fostered or adopted by nice people, scared that they would be fostered or adopted by horrid people, scared of the Brothers, scared of each other.

“Put them on you Nancy boy,” Butch Parnell threw the clothes at Nancy.

Nancy took off his shoes and then his grey pants, which although they were clean and pressed had been patched and repaired many times. His crisp white shirt with the frayed collar joined his trousers on the basement floor, soon followed by his socks and underpants. Most of the boys wore hand-me-downs.

Nancy picked up the clothes that Butch had thrown at him and put them on. First the pink cotton panties, then the knee-socks, which had once been white but were now ashen, the toes holed. Then he put on the white cotton blouse, struggling with the buttons because it buttoned right over left. He stepped into the grey pleated skirt which fitted snuggly around his trim waist and finally, he stepped into the scuffed black Maryjane’s.

No one really knew where the girl’s clothes came from. Some said they were a uniform left over from when Saint Augustine's had been a home for both boys and girls but there were no records to support that claim. Some said that a girl had been smuggled into the home by bullyboys past and that she had ran naked and sobbing from the basement into the night after they had finished with her.

It made no difference to anyone really. When Butch Parnell had been given the clothes by Brother Ignatius and given instructions on what to do with them, he knew immediately who he was going to make wear them.

Nancy stood in the middle of the circle, head bowed, straggly blonde hair mussed, his breathing deep and ragged as his fight-or-flight response kicked in.

“Who’s got the lipstick?” Butch demanded.

“I do,” Will Logan held the gold alloy tube of bright-red lipstick aloft as it was a trophy.

Nancy was slim, with snake-hips, a round perky bottom and long toned legs. His face was effeminate, framed by his bedraggled long blonde hair which he refused to cut despite the insistence of the Brothers that he do so. It was an act of defiance which made him a target for the other boys.

Not that Nancy’s long blonde hair was the deciding factor that had sealed his fate. Butch was always going to subject him to what was about to occur in that cold dark basement anyway. Nancy was weak and the weak were easily intimidated and tamed.

“Hold her still!” Butch always referred or Nancy as ‘her’.

It somehow validated what was to follow.

Nancy’s fight response kicked in but he was no match for the four bullies who pounced on him and held him down while Butch smeared lipstick on Nancy's girlish lips.

When Nancy was finally dressed like a girl and his lips painted slut-red, the boys dragged ‘her’ over to the dank, stained mattress in the corner and held her down and took their turns. Butch went first of course and the rest followed in pecking order with Will Logan going last.

“Boys! Boys! Boys! What on earth is going on here?” Brother Ignatius emerged from the gloom where he had been watching.

“We’ve made her ready for you Brother,” Butch panted, a little exhausted by his efforts, his shirttail protruding from his fly where it had caught in the zipper when he pulled up his pants.

“Leave her with me and go about your chores. The dinner bell will be ringing soon,” Brother Ignatius said calmly, his voice soft and comforting.

But there would be no comfort for Nathan Parker, which was Nancy’s real name. When the boys left them alone in the basement Brother Ignatius removed his hooded cloak and his habit. He was naked under the simple, scratchy, brown vestments; his skin pale, his penis rampant. He removed his sandals and lay down next to Nancy on the filthy mattress.

“There, there my sweet child, what have they done to you?” Brother Ignatius cuddled Nancy, holding her close, kissing her red-lipsticked lips.

Nancy's anus was dilated and her breath musky with the scent of semen and her pink panties damp with the emissions of young men. The clotted semen in Nancy’s anus eased the passage of Brother Ignatius’s steely rod as he impaled her. Nancy had fought the bullies but she took comfort in the arms of Brother Ignatius. It was a coping a mechanism but it served its purpose and Nancy returned Brother Ignatius’s passionate kisses and she climaxed right along with him when he ejaculated deep inside her.

Brother Ignatius remained stoically silent while he dressed. He went back to his sparsely furnished monastic cell and knelt naked before the cross and flagellated himself with his leather whip.

While Brother Ignatius performed his act of atonement, Nathan Parker performed his own act of atonement alone in the deserted laundry. He dutifully washed the pink cotton panties, the ashen cotton knee socks, the cum-stained white cotton blouse and the grey skirt and hung them up to dry. He would return to the laundry later that night and press the blouse and carefully iron the pleats into the skirt then he would carefully fold the garments and roll up the knee socks and slip them inside the scuffed black Maryjane’s.

These were Nancy’s vestments and she would return them to the basement and put them in their hiding place along with the tube of red lipstick ready for when they would be needed again. The punishment for not doing so was unthinkable.

The ‘boys’ were in their eighteenth year and would soon be leaving Saint Augustine's but Brother Ignatius had already identified his next crop of bullies and was grooming them. He had also identified a petite young man whom he had decided was to be called Alice. He thought that Alice would benefit from some new clothes because the ones that Nancy had been forced to wear were quite ragged now. Maybe Alice should wear pantyhose instead of knee socks and high heels instead of Maryjane’s. These thoughts were a conundrum to be savoured by Brother Ignatius as he crawled into his cot that night after evening prayers.

Mike’s Bar and Grill, US Route 50, Nevada - 1985

Will Logan had not aged well. He walked into Mike’s bar and grill: a truck stop, saloon and greasy spoon, his substantial gut hanging over the longhorn belt buckle that hitched up his baggy jeans. Will had never seen a rodeo in his life let alone ridden a horse. He was on his way to Tahoe City to drop off his illicit cargo and had stopped at Mike’s because he’d heard stories about the clientele who frequented the dive.

The jukebox was playing a song by Donovan. It’s folk-pop, but there is an undercurrent of implied menace that portents things to come.

Down through all eternity
The crying of humanity
'Tis then when the Hurdy Gurdy Man
Comes singing songs of love…

The woman sat at the bar, a shot of JD and a bottle of Sierra Nevada pale ale in front of her. Her beauty wasn’t really discernible under the heavy makeup, her face illuminated by garish neon lights behind the bar, but there was no doubt that she was sexy. Her shoulder-length Pat Benatar flyaway bouf framed a pale face augmented by too much makeup: the black eyeliner, caked mascara and gaudy eyeshadow enhanced her icy-green eyes. Rouge highlighted her sharp cheekbones and her lips were embellished with bright red (some might call it slut-red) lipstick.

She was wearing a tight black t-shirt emblazoned with a caricature of Joan Jett on the front worn over a long-sleeve black mesh top and a faded denim miniskirt. She was fingering a small hole in her sheer tan pantyhose, the runner extended from her thigh to her ankle where it terminated at her red high-heel fuck-me pumps which were the same colour as her slut-red lipstick.

There was no doubt what type of woman she was and there were a few more like her sitting at the bar and scattered around the booths. A handful of others of her type were located in the front seats of cab-overs or in the sleeper compartments of the heavy haulage vehicles parked in the dark recesses of the parking lot outside Mike’s, earning their money with their mouths or their pussies.

Mike, the owner of the sleazy establishment, didn’t mind one little bit because the ‘lot-lizards’ drew the truckers and the travelling businessmen looking for a beer, a burger and a piece of stray on the lonely highway. The ‘ladies of the night’ also had to kick Mike twenty bucks up front or maybe pay a visit to the mangy old sofa, which Mike referred to as his fart-catcher, in the back office. But only if they were pretty and disease free.

Will homed in on the pale-skinned floozy with the runnered nylons, attracted to her like a moth to a flame. Even from across the poorly-lit saloon Will could tell that she was different from the other whores. He clocked her for a tranny as soon as he laid eyes on her.

Will sidled up to her but the woman ignored him and downed her shot and washed it down with a slug of beer.

“What’s new honey?” Will caught her attention.

The woman gave Will the onceover: shit-kicker boots, stained Levis, snap-buttoned, flap pocketed western shirt ballooning over his beer belly. He smelled of cigarettes and old spice and had a three-day growth.

“You know what I am?” the woman asked causally.

Her voice was smoky, breathy and sexy.

“Yep,” Will tapped the bar and two shots and two long-neck beers appeared almost instantly, the bartender snatching up the bills that Will dropped on the bar which was pockmarked with thousands of cigarette burns and scarred with lewd graffiti carved into the varnish by bored travellers.

“Just don’t want any complaints or demands for a refund when you pull down my panties and find what’s inside,” the woman drank down the fresh shot.

“Who says I’m pulling down your panties,” Will swallowed his shot and leered at the woman.

“Oh, I know your type. You won’t just settle for head; you like to fuck,” the woman smiled sarcastically at him.

For a split second Will thought he saw her eyes glow maelstrom red but it must have been an aberration caused by the flickering beer signs above the bar.

“It’s thirty for head or fifty for half and half,” the woman turned back to her beer and began to swallow the cool nectar.

Will watched the woman’s throat work as she swallowed the beer and his cock began to harden.

“I ain’t doin’ it in my car and I ain’t payin’ for a motel,” Will sipped his Sierra Nevada pale ale waiting for a response.

“I know a place down the road a little. It’s a dump but it serves its purpose but you gotta drop me back here after,” the woman snatched up her purse and the denim jacket that hung from the back of her stool in anticipation of the transaction being agreed to.

Will noticed that the chipped nailpolish on her long fingernails matched her lipstick. Her fingernails looked almost like talons and her skin was alabaster white, almost translucent, which made her painted face look all the more gaudy and her sparking green eyes so distinctive. For a split-second she reminded him of someone, but he shook off the feeling of déjà vu.

Will downed his beer and the woman slid off the barstool, flashing her pink panties at him as she did so. Will had a thing for pink panties that went all the way back his youth when he lived at the boys’ home. He patted the woman on her ass and followed her out the door.

There was little to be said in the cab of Will’s pickup. The woman gave directions and Will pawed at her legs with one hand and drove with the other. It was always prudent to test the merchandise before purchasing it and Will’s cock was aching for release by the time they turned down the dusty potholed road that led to the their destination which was only ten minutes’ drive from Mike’s Bar and Grill.

The Chevrolet’s headlights illuminated an abandoned roadhouse service station. It looked deserted. The Texaco sign was faded and broken, hanging drunkenly from a rickety pole. The dusty driveway was choked with weeks, the ancient gas pumps were rusted; the hoses had been ripped off them, likely by some scavenger. The awning over the gas pumps was equally corroded; holed and lopsided, almost ready to collapse.

“This place used to be a thriving rest stop and then they diverted Route Fifty over yonder to make it a four-lane and the place went broke. Mike opened his bar to take advantage of the passing traffic on the new road,” the woman nodded to the spectral glow above the sand dunes issuing from Mike’s fine establishment that was only a few hundred yards away as the crow flies.

“I don’t need a lecture in Americana, I need my cock sucked,” Will parked his pickup under the skewed, rusty awning hoping that it wouldn’t suddenly collapse on his near-new Chevy.

“Kids use this place to party and us girls use it to conduct business with tricks who are too tight to pay for a motel room,” the woman gave Will a sarcastic glance and climbed out of the pickup, once again giving Will a peek of pretty pink panty as her fanny-skimmer skirt rode up her thighs.

Will was having second thoughts but the sight of those pink panties, those long legs encased in shimmery nylons and the woman’s pouty moue on her red-lipsticked lips rekindled his lust.

Will looked at the dilapidated roadhouse diner and shuddered. It looked even more forlorn than the gas stand. The sheet-iron roof that had once been adorned with a Texaco logo was hitched and broke-backed, holed in places and corroded. The few windows that were not boarded over were dirty and cobwebbed and most of them were broken or cracked.

As they approached the door, which hung drunkenly from its hinges, they passed a rusty old Coke machine with the faded decal bearing the image of a smiling woman in a bikini drinking an ice-cold beverage with the words 'For Real Refreshment' peeling off it.

The woman led the way into the ramshackle building and Will followed; eager to satiate his lecherous ardour and leave this shithole.

Most of the furniture had been taken away or vandalised beyond use. The place smelt musty; a lingering stench of mildew, stale cigarettes, stale liquor, ditch weed and a faint undercurrent of ancient fried food. The filthy floor was littered with beer and liquor bottles, drug paraphernalia, cigarette butts and decaying used condoms.

A pair of red lace panties had been hung on a nail protruding from the flaking dry wall. Hastily scribed graffiti on the wall beside the undergarment read: 'I fucked this bitch good’. Whoever ‘this bitch’ was, she was long gone and was sans underwear. Will wondered if the girl in the denim moot-skimmer micromini who was accompanying him might be ‘this bitch’.

Beside the panties a series of nineteen-sixty era framed advertising posters had been hung from the wall, probably in an effort to provide cheap decoration and cheer up the baby-shit yellow painted walls. Besides the usual advertisements for cigarettes, beer, motor oil and other products one would expect in a gas station was an advertisement for Hanes Underall Pantyhose. It featured the buttocks and thighs of a woman clad in sheer pantyhose with the slogan 'pantyhose & panties all in one'. Someone had drawn an ejaculating penis between the buttocks of the woman with a sharpie.

Will nodded at the red panties and then at the Hanes poster.

"A budding artist at work," he said sarcastically.

The woman said nothing and led Will deeper into the gloom until they came to an old mattress in the far corner of the diner. On top of the mattress was a crumpled stained blanket and beside it were several used condoms, one or two of which seemed to have been recently filled.

“It’s not the Holiday Inn but it will do,” Will chuckled and began to undress.

The woman mooched around in her purse and produced a tube of KY personal lubricant and a condom. She waved the condom at Will.

“Up to you honey, I don’t care either way,” the woman said.

“I’ll risk it. I have Medicaid,” Will struggled with his boots.

The woman popped the Trojan back into her purse and dropped the KY Jelly next to the mattress, in easy reach. She sat down on the mattress and watched Will fold his jeans over the back of an old chair followed by his favourite snap-buttoned, flap-pocketed western shirt. He kept on his socks as he had no wish for his bare feet to come in contact with the filthy floor.

Naked, Will looked even more pathetic than he did dressed in his ‘pretend cowpoke’ ensemble. His skin was pasty white except for his arms and his face which were burnt by the sun. His beer-belly hung down to his groin where his erect penis sprang from a mat of wiry pubic hair.

Will was about to join the hooker on the mattress when he heard scurrying sounds coming from behind the counter. His neck swivelled toward the sound and he thought he saw a slight glimpse of beady red eyes. They were the same deep crimson that he imagined he had seen in the hooker’s eyes at Mike’s.

“What’s that?” Mike asked.

“Rats? Who cares? Do you wanna fuck or go looking for ghosts? You can kiss me if you want. Most of the girls won’t do it but I don’t care,” the woman lifted her skirt higher up her thighs and grinned up at Will salaciously, licking those red cock-sucker lips.

Will Logan never kissed prostitutes but there was something about this woman that intrigued him. Sure, she was attractive but there was something about that shade of ‘slut-red’ lipstick and those pink panties that elicited long forgotten memories. Back in his teens, somewhere in a basement not quite as rank as this roadhouse, but still dark and uninviting, he remembered a girl being held down by three other boys while Will lay on top of her, forcing kisses on her red lipsticked lips while he buggered her.

Of course she wasn’t a girl. She was boy dressed as a girl but that didn’t stop Will and his buddies. The memory inflamed his desires to fever pitch and he took his wallet from his pants and took out two greasy, rumpled twenties and a ten and tossed them on the mattress. The hooker made no effort to retrieve the money. She just smiled up at him and opened her arms, welcoming him to join her on the filthy bed.

The woman lay back and Will snuggled up to her. Her perfume was cloying: Dior Poison? But there was a very faint undertone of rotting flesh which Will thought might be coming from the mattress but wasn’t sure. He pressed his mouth against her red-lipsticked lips and any concerns he had about what she was and where they were dissipated when the woman slipped her tongue into his mouth.

Her kisses were fervid, almost demanding and Will became lost in the sensations of her mouth sucking on his and the perception of his cock rubbing on those nylon-sheathed limbs. The woman had made no attempt to disrobe and neither did Will want her to. For the hooker it was probably simply a matter of practicality, all she needed to do was open her legs and let Will have his way with her but for Will it was a fetishic necessity.

As much as he loved fucking transwomen, he had no desire to see or touch their genitals. It was the carnality and infelicity of fucking a woman who was, in his opinion, really a man that excited him. When Butch had goaded and incited Will to take his turn with Nancy Parker that first time in the basement of the Saint Augustine’s Boys Home he had baulked. But the look of apprehension and submission on the pretty face of the boy they called Nancy had incited him. That slutty-red lipstick and those pink cotton panties held a fascination that awakened a lust in him.

He remembered sliding aside Nancy’s panties and staring at her creamy soft buttocks before he slid his aching member into her tight void, lubricated by the boys who had been there before him. He remembered putting his phallus inside that warm wet mouth while the others held Nancy still.

Will was always the last to take his turn with Nancy but after he left the Boys Home he had from time to time indulged his fetish. If he found a suitable candidate he relished the pruriency of committing forbidden acts with women of undetermined gender. Will didn’t have to be last in line. These women were unsullied in his eyes until he defiled them.

The woman pulled Will closer and he pressed his body against hers, his hand scampering to her thighs where his fingers clawed at her already laddered nylons. He slid his hand under her skirt and kneaded her buttocks through those silky satin panties and she gasped into his mouth, encouraging him. She took him in hand and fondled him, kissing him deeply, bringing his cock to full tumescence.

“Forget the blowjob. I just wanna fuck you and get out of this dump,” Will gasped into the woman’s mouth and she smiled wickedly.

She reached for the KY Jelly while Will tore a hole in her pantyhose big enough to poke his cock through. She lathered his penis with the salve and lifted her legs, exposing her buttocks.

“Is this ok?” she asked, rucking her skirt out of the way.

Will could see that she was tenting her pantyhose and panties. She was aroused and she glared at him lasciviously and for a second her green eyes flashed red, which Will put down to vagaries of the light in the dank roadhouse diner. The woman’s age was indeterminate and she could have been twenty or forty for all he knew but there was no doubt that she was stunning. For a fleeting second he thought that he recognised her but the thought dissipated when she guided his swollen phallus to her puckered bud.

He lowered his face to hers and kissed her as his cock slid inside her anus as if it was slipping it into a silken glove. It was the most euphoric sensation that Will had ever felt. The woman’s anus was warm and inviting and seemed to clasp his cock with gossamer-like contractions. Her lips were soft and yielding and he let her slip her tongue into his mouth where it wormed and undulated, as if seeking out his essence.

Will fucked her, driving his cock in and out of her snug burrow, eliciting every scintilla of pleasure that he could from this whore. She wrapped her long legs around him and scissored them, her nylon-clad limbs rubbing against his flanks. She bucked beneath him, encouraging him, mewling into his mouth as she sucked on his tongue. It felt like her anus was milking him, softly rippling and undulating as she coaxed him to climax.

He sensed the woman climax, her milt soaking through her panties and nylons, her hard cock juddering against his belly as Will deposited his seed deep inside her as the most intense orgasm he had every experienced wracked his body.

Will was suddenly aware that her semen was ice-cold. How could that be? He opened his eyes to see that her face was contorted and misshapen, her eyes deep red coals. Razor sharp wedge-shaped incisors protruded from her blood-red lips.

Will couldn’t scream because the woman’s mouth clamped tightly against his, her eyes seemed to suddenly glower incandescently as she bit out his tongue and swallowed it. The woman’s strength was amazingly disproportionate to her slight frame and Will was unable to free himself from her clutches.

“You never asked me my name. It’s Nancy Parker,” she whispered in his ear before she bit it off.

The woman’s long fingernails became talons and she tore open the flesh of his back, her heels raked his flanks, ripping strips of fatty meat from his body. Her mouth clamped down hard on his and Will felt his entrails being sucked out of him through his oesophagus.

Then to his horror the woman’s penis, which was now crowned with a knifelike glans with spicules and hooks protruding from the shaft, sliced into his gut. The elongated appendage wormed and corkscrewed into his stomach and ingested his gizzards and then pierced his celiac artery and drained his blood.

Will died silently screaming, as the thing that was once a woman absorbed his life essences, holding him tight until he was just a desiccated husk of skin, bone and hair.

Nancy Parker pushed aside the integument shell that had once been Will Logan and lay still while her body digested his juices and viscera. Her body shook, becoming spectral as it morphed one again into the form of Nancy Parker, now radiant, refreshed and revitalised after feeding.

Nancy dragged Will Logan shrivelled husk behind the counter of the diner where the rodents and insects would devour what she had left. His hair would line a rat’s nest and his teeth would be carried away as trophies by other vermin. From her purse she produced a pair of pink cotton panties and a tube of red lipstick and placed them next to his skull; a little shrine or headstone if you will, to mark his final resting place.

The lipstick was in a gold tube. It was the same brand of lipstick that the bullies had made her wear at the Boys Home as were the plain cotton panties. Authenticity was important when one was taking revenge and keeping promises.

*****

Nancy takes her time cleaning up the remaining detritus: a little shred of skin here, an earlobe there. There is no rush. She adjusts her clothing and fixes her makeup before stuffing the greasy banknotes in her purse. Outside, she searches Will Logan’s truck and finds the almost one kilo of fine grade cocaine that he was delivering to Tahoe City. She shakes out three quarters of the package and watches the cool night breeze scatter it across the desert sands. The rest she bestrews around the cabin of the Chevy pickup.

She takes the nine millimetre semiautomatic pistol that she found in the glove compartment and fires six rounds into the cab of the truck, ensuring that she doesn't hit anything vital to the truck’s mobility. She tosses Will’s earlobe and a few shreds of his skin onto the back seat. His clothes will go into a dumpster somewhere far away from here.

Nancy wants any law enforcement agency that might get involved in Will’s disappearance to think that Will was stupid enough to try to rip off his connections in the white powder distribution business and had come to a bad end in the cab his own truck. There are plenty of bodies buried in the desert sands along US Route 50 and the officers investigating Will’s disappearance will assume that he has joined them.

She drives back to Mike’s Bar and Grill and parks Will’s Chevy next to her Caddy. She throws Will’s clothing and his shit-kicker boots in the trunk, jumps in her car and drives away. If the police questioned anyone at Mike’s, the most that they could say was that they saw Will leave the bar with a hooker in runnered nylons wearing a moot-skimmer denim skirt. How many hookers in runnered nylons wearing a moot-skimmer denim skirt plied their trade along Route 50? Nancy didn’t know but she guessed there were plenty.

Nancy drives along Route 50 sticking to the speed limit, paying attention to road. She sings to herself while she drives, her voice ethereal and harmonious: 'Tis then when the Hurdy Gurdy Man Comes singing songs of love.

After a four hour drive, stopping briefly for gas and to dispose of Will’s clothing, his wallet and his gun and to change her clothes and fix her makeup, Nancy arrives at The Holiday Inn and checks into a pre-booked room. Nancy looks nothing like a tranny hooker. She presents as a well-dressed businesswoman and the clerk tries his best to flirt with the older attractive corpulent young woman but his efforts are in vain.

Alone in her hotel room, freshly showered and dressed in lycra tights and an oversize T-shirt for comfort to accommodate her distended belly, she takes two days to fully digest her meal. She opens a leather-bound notebook. The black leather is creased and furrowed in places, worn from constant handling. In faded gold lettering embossed on the front of the book are the words: Promises to Keep.

There are pages and pages of scrawled notes, some which make sense, and some which appears to be gibberish. If any human was to read the contents of the notebook they would at first be confused and then horrified at the contents, but every word is coherent and consequential for Nancy.

She skips to the back page where there is a list of five names. Nancy carefully rules a line through the second-last name on the list: William Logan. Nancy has kept her promises and now there is only one name left on list: Brother Ignatius

Saint Augustine’s Boys Home, Grantsville Maryland – 1975

While everyone else is sleeping soundly Nathan Parker returns to the basement carrying the neatly folded grey pleated skirt, the white cotton blouse and the pink cotton panties. As soon as Nathan enters the basement his psyche switches and even though he is not wearing her clothes, he becomes Nancy (Let us call her that too shall we? She thinks of herself that way so it seems only polite). Nancy balances the black Maryjane’s on top of the bundled clothing. The knee socks that were once white are rolled up and tucked into the shoes.

Nancy is about to return the clothes to their hiding place on a shelf in an old discarded cupboard back in the dark recesses of the basement. The tube of red lipstick feels like it is burning a hole in his pocket.

To the uninitiated it is a bizarre ritual. Why would this boy, who is soon to be a man, meticulously care for the clothes he is forced to wear at the whim of the bullies? Why wouldn’t he tell the Monsignor what was is happening to him in the basement of the boys home at the hands of the bullies. Why would he not expose Brother Ignatius as the overseer and instigator? Why not simply run away?

The answer is both simple and complex.

Saint Augustine’s Boys Home is located miles from anywhere, so isolated that nobody could hear you scream. Running away is pointless. There is nowhere to go. Complaints have been made to the Monsignor by Nancy’s predecessors: pretty boys with effeminate qualities who Brother Ignatius preyed upon. The code of silence and denial perpetuated by the people who are responsible for institutions such as Saint Augustine’s is well documented so we needn’t examine it here. Suffice to say that the complaints were dismissed or fell on deaf ears.

Then there is the issue of coercive control, a term not yet in use at that time. Nathan is bullied by his oppressors. They torture him by stealing his food, roughing him up, they tease him, they keep him awake at night. But when Nathan was selected by Brother Ignatius to become Nancy things changed significantly.

Yes, Nancy was forced to wear the clothes and the lipstick. Yes, Nancy was forced to lie down on the dank, stained mattress and let the bullies do unspeakable things to her. Yes, Nancy fought and struggled a little because that is what her oppressors expected her to do, and to be honest, it made things a little more exciting for the bullies when she did. And for Nancy, resisting was a means of self-justification because when she finally stopped struggling and allowed the boys to take her, she could tell herself that she had tried her best to stop them.

For Nancy there was a sick feeling of belonging and acceptance. The boys desired Nancy, they wanted Nancy, they kissed Nancy. They ‘loved’ Nancy in their barbaric way and that was the only love that Nancy ever experienced at Saint Augustine's.

And then there was Brother Ignatius. He had selected Nancy from all of the other boys so she must be special. Brother Ignatius taught her the rituals: how to prepare herself, how to dress in the clothes, how to put on the lipstick, how to squeal like a girl, how to keep her genitals inside her panties at all times, how to behave when the bullies took her into the basement. He let her keep her hair long. He made love to her after the boys had finished with her. He kissed her, he caressed her, he cosseted her, he ejaculated his essence inside her and he let her ejaculate too, right along with him.

To Brother Ignatius and to the bullies Nancy was special so she wore the clothes and the lipstick and she followed the rituals and she was grateful that she was allowed to do so.

But…

Deep inside Nancy Parker, self-loathing and hatred grew. She nurtured it, she fed it, she allowed it to burn brightly but she kept it secret.

Nathan adored being Nancy. Not the Nancy who got down on her hands on knees so that the bullies could put their penises in her bottom and her mouth. She adored dressing in the little pleated skirt, putting on the red lipstick and walking and talking like a girl. Nancy even thought like a girl. Nancy would like to be a girl. A girl perpetually free of the guilt she felt after she stripped out of her pathetic skirt and blouse and wiped away the lipstick and became Nathan once again.

That would be wonderful. Nancy could live her life as a woman, and maybe, when the time was right, she could find the youths who had stolen her dignity and make them pay for it.

This is what Nancy prays for every night before she goes to sleep.

Nancy reaches the bottom of the stairs and switches on the light. The bare bulb throws out a weak yellow puddle of light that leaves the gloomy recesses and dark corners of the basement shrouded in shadows. The tiny casement window is dark but Nancy can see that the filthy glass is rimed with frost. Her breath plumes as the temperature in the basement plummets.

A feeling of malevolence and evil fills Nancy with dread. Something isn’t right. The walls seem to ripple and undulate. For an instant she thinks she sees swarms of cockroaches and spiders enveloping the whole of one wall, scurrying up and down, climbing over each other in their haste, their spiracles clicking and hissing as they dance their tarantella.

In the deepest corners, shadows dance and titchy little feet scurry. Tiny red eyes glow in the dark as hordes of rats dart here and there in a flurry of fur, claws and teeth, cavorting manically, squealing, squeaking, chirping and hissing.

Suddenly there is silence.

The cockroaches and spiders disappear into the cracks and crannies, the rats return to their rat holes.

A figure emerges from the gloom. A faint odour of decay precedes him.

The figure who steps out of the shadows is the most handsome man that Nancy has ever seen. His features are remarkable: his fair skin is unblemished, his red lips curve slightly upward, his nose is an elegantly chiselled downstroke, his jawline is swept at a perfect angle, eyes that once glowered red are now ice-blue and piercing and his glossy shoulder-length mane is raven-black.

The man is tall and svelte, dressed in a black bespoke evening suit with a crisp white shirt. His fingers are knitted together and his head is slightly bowed and then he looks up and extends one arm. A long manicured nailed finger points directly at Nancy.

“Hello Nancy. I see you are about to return your clothing to the hiding place,” the man smiles.

Nancy is speechless.

“Who are you?” Nancy’s voice is but a whisper when she finally speaks.

“Do you know why Bother Ignatius calls the clothes you carry your vestments?” the man ignores Nancy’s question.

“Because they are liturgical garments worn during religious services or by those who are to be sacrificed,” the man answers his own question.

“That is what he and his bullies are doing to you every time they invite you to lie there,” the man points at the dank, stained mattress.

“They are sacrificing you and although you feign repugnance at first, you always submit to being sacrificed and I know why,” the man’s eyes narrow.

“You like being Nancy. You crave being Nancy. You would like to be Nancy for every minute of every day of your life,” the man’s smile reveals perfect white teeth with pointed canines.

“Are you the devil? Are you a demon? Are you a vampire?” Nancy asks; her voice is tremulous.

“I am all of those things and I am none of those things. I have sometimes been called Lilu, so let us use that name for the sake of convenience shall we? I come to offer you salvation. I come to grant your wish. I come to offer you eternity,” Lilu’s smile widens sickeningly.

“I am going to take you Nancy. You can come willingly and live your life how you have always wanted live it or I can drain you of your earthly essences and take your soul. It’s your choice,” Lilu opens his palms to emphasise his point.

“You're telling me I can live as a woman… forever?” Nancy whispers.

“Of course you can but you will be neither truly man nor woman, neither human nor demon. You will have many questions of course but I have neither the time nor the inclination to answer them. Besides, I would not deny you of the satisfaction, the wonder, and the fulfilment that you will experience on the journey of discovery you will undertake,” Lilu’s smile expresses wonder.

“Should you take me up on my offer, of course,” the smile becomes a frown.

Nancy has no choice but to say yes of course but that feeling of self-justification returns. She could say no and let this devil take his due and die piously knowing that she was not tempted by the demon. But is it not the devil’s duty to offer favours at a cost that the foolhardy venturer could never imagine?

“Yes,” Nancy whispers.

And, just as she expected, here comes the preconditions.

“My gift to you comes at a cost. But let us not concern ourselves with consequences. I am a busy man and the woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep… as a poet who was plagued his whole life by grief and loss once wrote,” Lilu’s frown has become a smile again.

“Tonight you will undertake your investiture so change into your vestments,” Lilu begins to undress.

Out of both solicitude and fear Nancy turns her back on the cacodemon figure. Solicitude because even here in this rank basement she wants privacy; and fear because she is terrified of what form this demon might take when he is devoid of human garb.

The cold is biting when for the last time she strips out of her Saint Augustine regimentals and dons the pink cotton panties, the ashen knee-socks, the white cotton blouse, the grey pleated skirt and the scuffed black Maryjane’s. She turns around and is relieved to see that Lilu has not transformed into some canine-faced monster with abnormally bulging eyes, a scaly body, a snake-headed penis and the talons of a bird. His body is as beautiful as his face. He is svelte, his alabaster skin is flawless and his penis is long and semi-tumescent.

There is little doubt what form the investiture ceremony is to take.

“Don’t forget the lipstick,” Lilu’s smile is lustful.

Nancy fishes the gold alloy tube of bright-red lipstick from the pocket of Nathan’s trousers. She extends the waxy pigment from the base and applies it to her lips. She starts by applying the lipstick on the centre of her upper lip, just below the Cupid’s bow then she swipes the lipstick across her upper lip from the centre to both corners until her entire lip is covered and then she repeats the procedure on her bottom lip.

“Take your place on the altar. On your back please. You know how to present yourself, you have done so many times for Brother Ignatius,” Lilu indicates the filthy mattress with his open hand.

Nancy lies down on the mattress, her head on the equally filthy pillow, her legs open slightly and Lilu settles between them. He lowers his face to hers and before his lips touch hers she is once again astonished and enamoured by his handsomeness. His lips touch hers and for a second there is a tincture of fetidness on his breath, the scent of something dead and rotting, but it dissipates quickly and his breath becomes sweet, his icy lips become warm.

The kiss is like nothing Nancy has ever experienced. She closes her eyes and Lilu’s mouth brushes her lips softly, almost featherlightly. His lips linger there, pressed tenderly against hers. She opens her mouth in anticipation but Lilu continues to lightly brush his lips against hers. Nancy is overcome with desire, she wraps her arms around his lean torso and hooks her ankles around his calves and raises her buttocks off the mattress to press her body against his.

Nancy can feel Lilu’s lips transform into a smile, or is it a sneer? She opens her eyes and sees nothing but love and devotion in Lilu’s gaze. He strokes her hair and lowers his mouth to her face and this time he presses his lips harder against hers. He forces Nancy’s mouth open and slides his tongue into her; she can feel his sharp canines pressing on her tender lips and she flinches slightly when he draws blood.

He presses his body into her and Nancy can feel his long, hard appendage pressing against her belly. It is almost painful but also wonderfully immoral. The bullies often kiss her when they use her body for their gratification but they are seldom tender and to be honest she wouldn’t want them to be. She knows that it is excusatory behaviour, but because the bullies press on her their needs without any display of affection, she can justify to herself that she is not complicit, even when her body betrays her and she moans and groans and writhes on the mattress as they fill her orifices with their virile appendages.

What Lilu is doing to her is similar to what Brother Ignatius does to her after the bullies have finished with her. His tenderness, reserved passion, and attention to her needs are the antithesis of the savagery that the bullies inflict on her. But she knows that Brother Ignatius’ soft kisses and gentle caresses are predatory, a means of both seduction and subjugation.

Lilu’s kisses and caresses are different and have a purpose other than just gratification. His mouth moves to her swanlike neck and his lips caress her delicate flesh, he unbuttons her blouse and his fingers softly fondle her fledgling nipples, causing them to swell and become sensitive to his touch.

When Lilu sinks his fangs into her neck Nancy hisses, not so much with pain, as his needle-like cuspids pierce her flesh, but with wonder. As Lilu laps at the trickle of blood that leaks from the punctures, a wave of intense longing surges through her body.

Lilu’s fingers continue their journey down her torso; they circle her flat belly and come to rest on the waistband of her cheap cotton panties. Neither the bullies nor Brother Ignatius ever touch her down there. Although they are enamoured by the by the sight of her rounded buttocks swathed in the pink cotton, the swell of her haunches and the inviting crevice between them, they never touch her genitals, nor do they ever want to see them. That would spoil the illusion.

But Lilu’s fingers slip under the waistband and encircle her swollen appendage. He sinks his teeth deeper into Nancy’s neck as he softly strokes her bloated organ. Nancy’s fingers traverse the hollow of Lilu’s sinewy back, her fingers trace his spine down to his defined gluteal muscles. She feels sharp spiny protrusions suddenly emerge from his spine and just as quickly disappear. It might have been illusion except that she feels a sharp sting on one of her fingertips and blood trickles down her index finger.

Wavelets of pleasure radiate from her swollen penis and couple with similar sensations spreading from her nipples and her neck. Lilu’s appendage is pressing harder against her belly; the erectile tissue feels hot and steely. It is leaking a continual stream of pre-ejaculate. Nancy slides her hand between their bodies and fondles the inflamed protrusion. It feels different to the bullies’ penises. It is rigid, smooth and membranous, with no discernible foreskin or fleshy sheath. The tip is angled, almost knifelike.

Lilu quivers, his body undulates when Nancy strokes his organ and freshets of silky elixir leak from the eye of the appendage and spatter on her belly, at first burning her flesh and then becoming instantly icy-cold. Nancy is beginning to feel euphoric. She is unsure if this is because of blood loss as Lilu continues to suckle at her neck or if it some state of divine ecstasy as he strokes her penis to full tumescence.

She senses that Lilu is ready to mount her and she willingly opens her legs wider and raises her buttocks off the mattress. Lilu’s fangs withdraw from her neck and he places his blood-stained lips on hers. She tastes the saltiness of her blood on his mouth and feels his cock begin to undulate in her grasp.

Nancy instinctively knows what to do and she guides his penis to the valley between her legs and slides his engorged phallus inside the crotch of her panties and nestles it in her puckered bud.

Lilu kisses her passionately, driving his tongue into her mouth as his canine-like sword pierces her tight wrinkled sphincter, the unceasing alluvion of pre-seminal flux easing its passage. Her anus is filled with Lilu’s spongy mass which quivers and undulates inside her lighting up the pleasure centres ringing her sphincter and her prostate.

Nancy orgasms immediately, flooding her panties with her hot viscous seed. She clings to Lilu, holding him tight against her body, ignoring the perception that his smooth skin has suddenly become scaly and that his tongue feels forked as it writhes in her mouth. She feels his prepuce retract and Lilu’s cock seems to swell to the point that her anus feels it will burst open and then his dog-like cock judders and undulates and her innards become cold as Lilu’s frigid, glacial jism fills her anus.

Lilu rears his head and roars like a wounded lion as his orgasm peaks, pinning Nancy to the mattress as he drives his spear-like phallus deep inside her. Lilu feels Nancy’s cock pressed against his belly, excreting her scalding issue into those pathetic pink cotton panties. She writhes beneath him, quivering and shaking, clinging to him like a shipwrecked sailor clings to a raft.

He smiles wickedly and lowers his mouth to hers one last time and this time he spews forth a bitter essence that Nancy is forced to swallow just as her battered rectum is forced to receive his cold absinthial seed. Lilu holds Nancy down on the mattress as she begins to convulse.

Nancy’s transformation has begun.

She feels her heart slow until her heartbeat is almost undetectable. Her breathing becomes shallow to the point that it is imperceptive. Her body is wracked with pain when Lilu withdraws his sword-like appurtenance and climbs off her quivering body and sits back on his haunches to observe the sanctification of his newly created being.

Incredible pain wracks Nancy’s body as the physical changes begin to manifest. Her waist narrows and her hips widen, her body becomes more slender overall and her buttocks become more rounded and her chest muscles ache as her breasts swell and her areola become more pronounced and her nipples thicken. Nancy feels like her skull is being pressed in a vice as her forehead, brow and jawline are realigned, her nose becomes smaller and slightly upturned, her lips become fuller and the hair follicles all over her body shrink.

As her body morphs and the pain becomes indescribable Nancy enters an oblivious state where she dreams of devils and demons and angels and seraphs. She sees things that she has never dreamed of; terrifying things, beautiful things and then she is engulfed by a silent black void.

When Nancy awakens she is immediately aware of the changes to her body. Her breasts spill out the front of her blouse, the skirt is looser around her waist and tighter around her hips. She puts her hands to her face and examines the subtle changes with her fingertips. Then she lifts her skirt and scrutinises her pubis.

Her semen-soaked panties still bulge at the front where her penis nestles and the cotton crotch supports her scrotum. She looks disappointed and Lilu speaks.

He is sitting on a rickety wooden chair and is fully dressed in his dark suit appraising his work and he smiles to himself as he watches Nancy’s face light up with wonder and astonishment as she explores her improved body and then the surly scowl of disappointment when she sees that she still has the reproductive organs of a man.

“I warned you that you will be neither truly man nor woman, neither human nor demon,” Lilu smiles down on his creation.

“Do you feel your heart beating slowly? Do you sense your respiration is shallow? Can you feel the physical changes inside your body? Can you feel that your senses are heightened?” Lilu asks.

“Yes I can,” the register of Nancy’s voice has changed.

Her voice is feminine and sultry. She no longer needs to concentrate on projecting a feminine timbre.

“There are other, shall we say, subtle and not so subtle manifestations to your being that you are not yet aware of but will soon come to terms with. But as I promised I will not deny you of the satisfaction, the wonder, the uniqueness and the fulfilment of discovering the totality of what you have become. You will find out soon enough. I imagine the hunger is already gnawing at your belly. The craving is already manifest. You will need to feed soon,” Lilu’s smile is both evil and beatific.

“What am I then?” Nancy asks.

“You will hear words like succubus, vampire, wairua and eidolon used by mortals to describe our kind but you are my unique creation. I have created many, and each is different in his or her own way. I like to keep the essential earthly manifestation of those I bring forth into our wicked world, which is why you are what are,” Lilu provides an answer that only invokes more questions and he raises his hand to stop Nancy asking them.

“As I said, I am a busy man and I have promises to keep and so do you,” Lilu stands and helps Nancy to her feet.

“You will want to take revenge on the bullies who defiled you in this cold, dark dungeon and I fully understand that and you will. But not any time soon. You must away from this place and discover your true self then you may take the bullies one at a time. May I suggest that you take them in the order that they took you right there on that mattress,” Lilu points to what had until recently been Nancy’s altar.

“You must promise me that you will take Bother Ignatius last. His befouled piety and sanctity deserve special treatment and it is best that you hone your special skills on other mortals until you are adequately prepared to take his soul. His kind have skills and powers he can use to protect himself but he will be no match for you when the time comes,” Lilu puts his hands on Nancy’s shoulders.

He leans in and kisses her and it feels as wondrous as it did the first time.

“I have upheld my part of the bargain now you must uphold yours,” Lilu glances at Nancy one last time before he disappears into the shadows.

*****

Nancy left Saint Augustine’s Boys Home that night, never to return. She takes a final look back at Saint Augustine’s Boys Home. It resembles an archaic lunatic asylum with its dirty brick abutments, gothic arches, steeple-topped turrets and dark lifeless windows. The grounds seem barren in cold moonlight peeking from behind the drifting clouds, the grass is lifeless, the trees wind-bent and stunted. She has always struggled to describe the Boys Home but now she finally conjures up the word she is looking for:heartless

She took nothing except the clothes that she was wearing and the red lipstick. She walked for miles, at first across the barren fields where in summer the boys toiled to produce the food that the Brothers fed them, the excess sold at market for profit. She walked past the rusty old pickup that the older boys were allowed to drive during the harvest season.

She walked through the Savage River State Forest which surrounds the boys’ home, screening it from the outside world. She walked down the quaintly named Chestnut Ridge Road, then a little used country byway, moonlight lighting her way. She discovered that her senses were heightened. She could see exceptionally well, she could smell the scent of distant things, like the musky redolence of the red fox nursing her brood in her den in the woods behind her. Her hearing was acute and she could hear the rattle and whine of the old International Harvester pickup long before the glow of its headlights came into view. Taking the gold alloy tube from her pocket she freshened her lipstick and then put it back.

Dale Snitterman pulled his battered old truck to a stop beside her and Nancy could sense that he was a bad man even before she even mounted the running board to climb into the cab.

“What in tarnation is a pretty little thing like you doing out here all alone at night?” Dale greeted her with a friendly smile and patted the skeezy threadbare passenger seat, indicting for her to sit.

Dale had no real interested in Nancy’s plight. He was secretly thanking whatever deity he worshipped for bringing this treasure to him on this dark cold night right out here in the middle of nowhere.

“You must be freezing,” Dale said, although he didn’t offer Nancy the threadbare blanket he kept in the back of the truck.

He did not want his view of those long coltish legs and fine little titties obstructed by a blanket. The top two buttons of Nancy’s blouse were unbuttoned and she wasn’t wearing a bra so he had an uninterrupted eyeful of her perky breasts. Her skirt rested high on her thighs and he was sure that he glimpsed a peek of pink panty when she climbed in the truck. Her pretty mouth was tinctured with bright red lipstick but she wore no other makeup. She didn’t really need it.

“I don’t really feel the cold,” Nancy replied and smiled at Dale.

It was true. Nancy no longer felt the cold or the heat. Her new body regulated her temperature quite pleasantly.

She declined to make an excuse as to why an eighteen year old girl would be hitchhiking on a lonely country road in the wee hours wearing only a short skirt, cotton blouse and knee socks and Dale didn’t care a hoot. Dale was a collector. He collected women and girls and even boys if the fancy took him and kept them on his isolated farm until he tired of them or he wore them out and then he buried them in an adjacent plot.

Nancy did not know the exact magnitude of Dale Snitterman’s crimes but she sensed that he was an evil man and that was fine by her. She had decided that whenever possible she would feed on evil men or women, sating her hunger whilst doing the world a favour.

Dale made it very clear that Nancy was very welcome to stay at his farm overnight. He offered her a warm bed and vittles’ but failed to mention that the warm bed on offering was his. Fifty year old Dale Snitterman had a pleasant weather-beaten face that belied the evil that dwelled inside him and they made small talk while Dale drove Nancy to his farm, his eyes ogling Nancy’s pretty face, long legs, and pert breasts, occasionally glancing up at the well-travelled road.

Nancy fed on Dale Snitterman that night. She did him the courtesy of allowing him to bugger her first. Dale didn’t seem to mind one little bit that Nancy had a penis in her panties. He was an equal opportunity serial killer.

It was messy because Nancy wasn’t quite sure how to use her newfound talents properly and Dale screamed the house down when Nancy’s pretty face became contorted and misshapen and her razor-sharp teeth bit into him. She had to hold him down on the bed while she fed, sucking his entails out through his mouth, her talons stripping meat from his body, her penis transformed into a sharp-pointed proboscis that ingested his viscera and drained his blood.

She lay on the blood-soaked bed for the best part of two days digesting Dale Snitterman, sleeping dreamlessly for most of it. When she finally roused she kicked Dale’s desiccated corpse under the bed and went exploring. There were things she needed to survive besides sustenance.

In the wardrobe Nancy found Lurleen Snitterman’s clothes exactly where she had left them before she died of a massive coronary, collapsing on the kitchen floor.

Lurleen Snitterman had been good a looking woman but frugal when it came to coitus. After their honeymoon, Lurleen performed her conjugal duties only once a week, either in their marriage bed where she wore a shapeless cotton nightgown which Dale was allowed to raise only far enough up her legs to copulate with her, or if Dale was particularly concupiscent and impatient she might bend over the kitchen table and allow him to lower her drawers.

When Lurleen collapsed Dale had called the doctor and then the undertaker, who had prepared Lurleen for burial when the doctor pronounced her dead. Dale buried her in the family plot out back. That had been five years ago and that was when Dale began his crime spree, taking out years of sexual frustration on the women and young men he lured back to his isolated farmhouse.

Nancy found Dale’s pornography under his bed; the kind that would get you locked up for a long time if you were found with it. She found the tiny room in the root cellar where Dale kept his victims, the leg irons fastened to the granite wall and the handcuffs secured to the rickety metal cot foretold misery. Nancy’s heightened senses could fully conceive of what had happened to Dale’s victims in the tiny room or up in his bedroom if the mood struck him.

She found six unmarked graves next to Lurleen Snitterman’s final resting place and when she placed her hands on the mounds of dirt she could feel the misery that those interred in the loamy soil had endured.

She found close to four thousand dollars hidden in a hidey-hole behind the skirting board which Dale had kept hidden from his dead wife and the revenue man.

Nancy spent a day using the late Lurleen Snitterman’s cosmetics until she had perfected a look that she thought suited her. The pickings in the wardrobe were slim: shift dresses, dowdy skirts and blouses and one pair of low-heeled ‘Sunday going to meeting’ shoes. Lurleen’s underwear wasn’t much better but after she showered at least Nancy could don a pair of clean, plain cotton panties and a brassiere that didn’t quite fit but did the job.

Nancy drove Dale’s International Harvester around the farm until she got the knack of the sticky clutch and sloppy gears. She put on her makeup, a pair of ugly grey tights, the ill-fitting underwear and one of Lurleen’s shift dresses, took the cash which she stuffed into an equally ugly handbag, snatched up the keys to the truck and left the farmhouse, setting a small fire in the corner of the kitchen before she closed the door.

She was about five miles away when she saw the thin trail of black smoke above the trees in the rear-view mirror.

In the small city of Cumberland, the snooty female clerk at the department store gave Nancy a sneer and was about to utter a rebuke until Nancy took a handful of banknotes from her purse and then the clerk became instantly helpful. She helped Nancy select a fashionable wardrobe, lingerie, hosiery, heels and makeup. She purchased toiletries and other sundries and put all of her goods in a nice leather suitcase. All of the panties that Nancy bought were pink and of course she purchased a tube of bright red Max Factor Tru-Color Lipstick. Sometimes there is comfort in what is familiar.

Nancy changed into jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers and put on a warm coat and rode the Amtrak to New York and found a cheap bedsit apartment in the city. She had a lot to take in, not just adjusting to her new demonic self (if that’s what she is) but up until three days ago she had been a teenage boy who had spent most of his life living in a boy’s home in the middle of nowhere.

Nancy had to learn how to fully immerse herself in her female persona. She spent days sitting in coffee shops and public places watching young women and mimicking their actions. She spent delightful hours trying on the clothes she had purchased in Cumberland, for the first time feeling the sensuality of nylons on her shaved legs and satin panties on her genitals and buttocks, the flitter of the hem of her skirt on her legs. She learned to walk in high heels and practiced a feminine gait.

At night, if she dreamt at all, it was of Saint Augustine’s Boys Home which was transformed in her dreams into a smoking, vile charnel house where barefoot boys dressed in rags, slaved away while the Brother’s, now animal-headed demons, acted as sentinels, whipping the boys until they bled. The bullies, fat and bloated caricatures of how she remembered them, laughed at the poor wretches and selected the weakest and effete of them to dress in the vestments before they and the brothers defiled ‘her’ on a filthy, scorched mattress.

Nancy knew that this was her subconscious urging her to take revenge but she heeded Lilu’s warning that she must first discover her true self before she exacted her vengeance on the bullies one at a time.

When Nancy was confident enough she started to mingle with the mortals she soon learned that she exuded a potent power of attraction for certain men. She frequented sleazy bars and nightclubs and found and seduced a man who was highly placed in the New York DMV. She let him do things to her that delighted him and he educated her sexually. Wilbur Simpson, the man of eclectic tastes in special young women such as she, acquired a driver’s licence for her in the name of Nancy Parker.

Nancy was able to open a bank account and establish her bona fides but the money she had taken from the farmhouse would not last forever. Frequenting the places she felt most comfortable in, Nancy was approached by a pimp who promised her she could make plenty of money, not by working the street but as a callgirl. She would be in high demand being so young and attractive and unique. So Nancy worked as a courtesan, servicing gentlemen of high calibre in swank hotels. Nancy’s newly honed senses discerned that her pimp was a particularly bad man and she soon discovered that he dealt in drug trafficking and child prostitution and treated his chattels brutally, although there was something about Nancy that his sixth sense told him not to fuck with her.

When she had put aside a suitable nest egg working for the pimp she devoured him in his spacious uptown apartment, consuming most of his entrails and blood, cutting up his corpse and stewing the remaining body parts around the apartment to make it look like a vicious murder. The overworked and under resourced NYPD put the murder down to a reprisal killing by a rival gang and closed the case unsolved, secretly glad to see to see him gone.

Nancy spent a day in her bedsit digesting the pimp before she left New York. She moved from city to city building her confidence, honing her skills, becoming the woman she had always of dreamed of being and learning more about her special abilities.

And of course she had to feed. The need to feed would slowly but unwaveringly escalate. If she didn’t sate her hunger she would become frail and begin to become sickly and her innards would churn until she fed. She stuck to her credo and only fed on the most evil and vile people, using her keen intuition and clairvoyance to find them. Nancy usually ensured that she had no special relationship with her quarry and where possible she fed on them where she could fully ingest their nutrients and dispose of the desiccated corpses. If needs must she would make the scene look like a brutal murder or set a fire to disguise what had happened to her quarry.

Unlike in the vampire movies her kind did not hunt in packs nor did they need to feed daily, leaving behind a trail of corpses. Such nonsense is best left to the fertile imagination of the talented authors of the genre. The size of the city and the notoriety of her victims determined how long Nancy stayed in one place.

On the rare occasion that she encountered one of her own they would quietly acknowledge each other and move on. The curse of her existence was that she was perpetually lonely but it wasn’t really a curse. She enjoyed her existence for what it was and when she wasn’t working or stalking prey she enjoyed her freedom and did all the things she had ever dreamed of doing when she was institutionalised, which included sex.

Nancy loved sex and didn’t just use it as a tool to gorge on the abhorrent scum of society. She was quite able to keep her unhallowed demonic self under control when she found someone she genuinely wanted to make love with.

Finally she believed that she was ready to keep her promises to Lilu.

The Crazy Horse Saloon, Burwell, Nebraska – 1982

Nancy found Butch Parnell living in the small city of Burwell, Nebraska in the autumn of 1982. He was married with two small children and worked as a warehouse manager. Now in his mid-twenties Butch had been very successful and was well liked and a pillar of the community.

As part of his job Butch had to make monthly trips to Omaha, where the populous of the Burwell would be appalled to learn that their pillar of society practiced his predilection for ‘special women’, the kind of women who at that time were referred to as transsexuals. Many transwomen had little choice but to work in prostitution or the porn industry and Butch was a prolific client of the trade, although word had gotten around that he could be a little rough.

Nancy moved to Omaha where she didn’t really need to resort to turning tricks because by now she had sufficient capital to support herself but she needed to ingratiate herself with the trans community and in particular those undertaking sex work. She deliberately never took on Butch as a client but was able to befriend a girl who was one of Butch’s regulars. She told Nancy that Butch was a demanding and sometimes brutal john who liked his girls to wear pink panties. Something to do with an adolescence fetish, he once told her after too many bourbons.

Nancy paid the girl a generous sum to use take some polaroids of Butch having sex using the self-timer on the camera Nancy provided. She told the girl that the pictures should be taken while she was having sex with Butch, ensuring that the pictures explicitly depicted Butch in flagrante delicto with the transwoman. It was a hit and miss affair but over the course of several encounters, the girl was able to provide six good quality exposures.

Nancy bided her time, of which she had plenty, and finally found and answered an ad for a barmaid in one of Burwell’s honkytonk bars and moved to the town to take up the job using the pseudonym Nicole Parker. By now Nancy had acquired the documents required to validate her identity, bought and paid for with cash or sexual favours or a combination of both. She had also acquired identity documents under other aliases that would hold up to superficial scrutiny.

Butch was an easy catch. He liked to spend a few hours drinking at the Crazy Horse a few evenings a week and Nicole gave him preferential treatment, chatting with him idly when she wasn’t serving customers, laughing at his jokes and stroking his ego. She wore a little black skirt and a white blouse, sheer pantyhose and high heels to work and ensured that Butch got an eyeful of her bosom, her legs and her ass, deliberately flirting with him. The first time that Butch got an eyeful of Nicole’s pink satin panties he nearly creamed his jeans.

Nicole was a popular girl with the patrons. She worked hard and although she flirted, Nicole knew where to draw the line and her boss took a shine to her. After working there a month she confided to Eddie, the owner of the Crazy Horse saloon that she was a transwoman and Eddie had no problems with that. She was eminently passable and Eddie got a kick out watching the locals and visiting rodeo cowboys try their best to get in her pants blissfully unaware of her gender.

When Nancy thought she had Butch hooked she made sure that Nicole was in the Crazy Horse’s parking lot one Saturday evening fiddling with keys to her beat-up Ford Pinto looking distressed. She had been flirting with Butch all evening and was wearing what had become her uniform, her moot skimmer skirt just covering her pretty pink panties which she had ensured that Butch got a glimpse of every time she bent down to feed the dishwasher or take bottles and cans out of the under-bench refrigerator behind the bar.

“You got a problem there Nicky?” Butch asked as he came sauntering over.

“Fucking piece of shit won’t start,” Nancy feigned kicking the door to her car.

“Well I’m no mechanic but I can give you a ride,” Butch smiled at his double entendre.

Nancy chewed a nail coquettishly while she considered Butch’s offer, pretending to mull over his proposition.

“I don’t know Butch. You’re a married man and people talk, especially in a place like this,” Nancy countered.

“Hey, we aren’t doing anything wrong. I’m just a guy giving a girl whose car won’t start a ride home,” Butch gave her his best innocent smile.

“Butch, I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me. Flirting while I’m behind the bar is cool, I flirt with all the customers, a girl has gotta pump up her tips. But getting in a car with you and driving away from here… I’m not so sure,” Nicole/Nancy gave him a skittish smile, playful like a kitten, feigning unsurety.

“Come on Nicky, you’ve been flashing those titties in my face and showing off those fine legs and that tight ass ever since you started working at the Crazy Horse,” Butch closed in on Nancy, forcing her to back against her car.

“I told you. I flirt with all the patrons,” Nancy feigned fear and a little anger.

“Not like you do with me,” Butch leaned in and chased Nancy’s mouth as she tried to evade him and when he caught her, he kissed her and pressed his body against hers.

Nancy struggled just enough to profess her innocence and then she let him kiss her. He kissed her passionately, slipping his tongue into her mouth, tasting the sweetness of her but underneath was a scintilla of something foul like maybe she had some rotting meat caught in her back teeth that brushing had not dislodged. The taste dissipated and Butch drew in her perfume, Dior Poison, and felt the divine contours of her body against his. He had finally got to kiss those wonderful bright red lipsticked lips and they felt heavenly.

Nancy eased Butch away for her a little when he finally came up for air.

“There is something you don’t know about me,” Nancy bowed her head and studied her feet.

“I’m not what you think I am and when I tell you, you will run away and likely throw up,” Nancy whispered demurely.

“I’m a transwoman. What guys sometimes call a transsexual,” Nicole/Nancy began to sob.

“Hey, hey, hey honey, that’s fine. I’m a man of the world. I’m not prejudiced. The first girl I ever made love to was a, what did you call it, a transwoman,” Butch took Nancy’s hand in his and stroked it.

Nancy wasn’t duped. She knew that Butch’s fake solicitude and understanding was a ruse to get into her pants. She recalled the first time Butch had made Nathan wear the skirt and blouse and pink panties and put on the red lipstick in the Saint Augustine’s Boys Home basement. Nancy’s face pressed into the stinking mattress, held down on her knees by the bullies, while Butch spat on his hand, lathered his cock with the spit, eased aside her panties and shoved his engorged phallus in her virgin ass. Her screams only encouraged Butch and the others. Nancy soon learned to remain silent while they ravished her. The shame that came with admitting that she liked what came after with Brother Ignatius wouldn’t manifest until much later.

“Ok, but what about your wife?” Nancy continued to pretend to be pious.

“Becky doles out sex like it’s something special. Before the kids we fucked like rabbits but now she lets me have it like once a week if I’m lucky,” Butch whined.

“We would need to careful. No one could know. We would have to go somewhere discreet,” Nancy smiled salaciously.

Butch knew that he had Nicole and was even more overjoyed because she was trans. It was all it fantasies rolled into one: a tranny who worked at his favourite bar, lived locally and was going to let him fuck her.

He tried to grab hold of Nancy but she pushed him away.

“No! Not here Butch. You know somewhere we can go?” Nancy looked around the parking lot to make sure they weren't being watched.

Nancy leaned in through the open window of the Pinto and put the keys ignition and turned over the engine giving Butch a great view of her pink-panty clad ass.

“Guess I got it going now,” she grinned at him seductively.

“So you it was all just a ruse so I would come over and see you,” Butch grinned back at her.

“So where are we going cowboy?” Nancy sucked on a fingernail again and saw the bulge grow in the front of Butch’s jeans.

“Follow me,” Butch walked over and climbed into his truck.

Nancy hopped into her Pinto and followed Butch to Lake Calamus where Butch turned down a sandy trail that led into scrubland and parked in an isolated clearing that was used as a lover’s lane and dogging spot. Butch took a blanket from the trunk and laid it down on a bed of pine needles. The clearing was lit by bright moonlight and Butch’s flesh seemed to glow when he stripped naked, his big cock sticking out proud from his groin.

“Come on Nicky, let’s get to it,” Butch said impatiently

Nancy joined him on the blanket and they kissed, Butch’s tongue slithering into her mouth and his hands squeezing her buttocks. He hiked up her little skirt and squeezed Nancy’s bottom, his fingers digging into her satin panties, his cock pressing into belly. Butch’s hands went from her ass to her hips to her chest, virtually ripping open Nancy’s blouse and popping her perky breasts out of her brassiere.

Butch suckled on Nancy’s bloated nipple, nipping at it and circling it with his tongue. Nancy guided his mouth from teat to teat as the pleasure began to build. Then she reached for him and heard him groan around a mouthful of tit as she slowly and sensuously stroked his engorged phallus.

Butch was becoming impatient and he pushed Nancy down on the blanket and fell of her, pressing his cock against the front of her panties, rubbing it against the silky satin, his mouth locked on hers, his fingers tweaking her nipples. Butch could feel that Nancy’s cock was hard inside her panties and he didn’t mind it one little bit. So long as he didn’t have to actually see it or touch it, it turned him on immensely knowing that he was making Nancy as horny as he was.

He stroked her thighs, marvelling at the feel of her diaphanous pantyhose as he massaged her flesh. He worked his hands upwards to her panties and gripped her buttocks again, rubbing his cock harder against her, driving his tongue deeper into her mouth. Nancy locked her legs around him and scissored them so that her silky nylons grazed his flanks and her heels pressed into the small of his back, egging him on.

Nancy took his tool in hand and guided it between her legs, inside her panties and rested it in her gluteal cleft. She used a manicured bright-red fingernail to pierce her pantyhose right next to the seam and opened the hole until it was big enough to slide Butch’s cock through, which she did. His glans now rested in her pink puckered bud.

Butch was so enamoured with Nancy that he was trying his hardest not to cum before he got to give her a good fucking. She was so pretty with those wondrous green eyes framed by her blonde bob and those full lips coated in his favourite shade of bright-red lipstick, so wonderful to kiss. Her tight body, perky tits, big ass and long legs all wrapped up in a tight blouse, short skirt and nylons was his fantasy come true.

She tasted sweet, for a second almost sickly-sweet like spoiled meat but that soon dissipated but not the musky odour of her Dior Poison perfume which drove him wild. He could hardly believe that his fantasy girl was now living right here in Burwell working at his favourite bar. She would be at his beck and call. Once he’d fucked her he’d own her.

He could tell that she was no neophyte. Nancy had been in charge once they had lain down on the blanket and now she had his cock poised at the entrance to her ass and her tongue buried deep in his mouth. Those diaphanous pantyhosed gams were rubbing on his flesh; her nails raking his back, her sphincter seemed to draw in his rock-hard pizzle as he felt her anus open like the petals of a flower bud as he speared Nancy with his pulsing penis.

“Fuck me Buddy boy,” Nancy whispered in his ear and nipped his earlobe viciously.

Buddy’s cock felt like it had entered a velveteen tunnel that gripped his cock tightly and undulated, trying to express his essences which roiled in his scrotum, his penis as hard as it ever been, like a steel spike embedded in a snug satin burrow.

Nancy held Buddy tight as he began to fuck her, driving his cock all the way inside her anus then slowly withdrawing it whilst he kissed her and pawed at her, his fingers alternating between her tits, her ass and her thighs. He fucked her slowly, trying valiantly not to orgasm too soon.

“Oh jeez Nicky this is so fucking good!” Buddy gripped Nancy’s hips and began to pound his cock in and out of her tight sheath, ready to climax now.

“I’ve got another secret. I’m not Nicky… I’m Nancy,” she hissed into Butch’s ear and held him tight, locking her arms and legs around his muscled torso.

Her body was awash with pleasure as Butch fucked her with long hard strokes, driving her into a paroxysm of lust. She pressed her pantyhose-sheathed cock against his hard belly and ejaculated and Butch felt her scalding issue on his belly and smiled. He had made the tranny cum! Then suddenly Nancy’s semen turned icy-cold.

Nancy felt Butch’s cock judder and spasm inside her and she moaned into his mouth as he filled her with his issue. She let him climax, his tongue wriggling in her mouth. She sensed his bewilderment when her hot spunk suddenly became frigid on his belly but Butch was experiencing the most satisfying orgasm that he ever felt and Nancy’s glacial secretions on his belly were a mere flicker of concern.

As his climax peaked he suddenly remembered what she had said… ‘I’m Nancy!’ and too late he realised that the coincidences were not coincidences: the bright-red lipstick, the pink panties, the name Nancy were all intrinsically linked to his past.

He never got to explore those thoughts any further as he felt Nancy hold him close, clenching him to her, locking his body to hers, her anus seemed to be milking him of his essence, drawing it out of him almost painfully. He was unable to extricate himself even if he wanted to. He had surrendered to the pleasure which was suddenly becoming pain.

And then the agony became unbearable as Nancy bit out his tongue and swallowed it whole and began to suck his viscera up through his oesophagus, her fingernails became talons as she rendered his flesh from his back, flaying him. His last vision was of a face contorted in rage and hunger, her beautiful green eyes now terrifying glowing red coals, her mouth filled with razor sharp teeth, her lips red with his blood instead of her lipstick. The torment was unimaginable but thankfully short-lived before Nancy devoured Butch’s soul along with his entrails.

Nancy had plenty of time and she took it, picking over Butch’s corpse, her belly bloating as she filled herself with his blood, bile and sweetmeats. There was little of Butch left that was recognisable when she dragged the skin-sack filled with bones that had once been his body down the well-trodden track to the bluff that the locals referred to as Lover’s Leap and tossed his remains into Lake Calamus.

One might question why she wasn’t found by other lovers looking for a place to canoodle and fornicate on a warm Saturday night and indeed Jolene Benson and Sonny Williams, both married but not to each other, had turned Jolene’s Buick down the sandy track that led to the clearing but they had travelled only a few yards down the track when they were both overcome with feelings of dread, fear and a sickening nausea that neither of them could explain which only went away when Jolene backed her Buick back out onto the highway.

They decided to go elsewhere to consummate their tryst and neither of them uttered a word about that strange occurrence when word got out that Butch Parnell had thrown himself off Lover’s Leap the same Saturday evening that something malevolent had steered them away from the clearing near Lake Calamus used by young lovers and older adulterers.

Having disposed of Butch’s earthly remains Nancy stripped out of her blood-stained livery, walked naked down to a sandy cove and swam naked, washing away the gore. Her belly was distended like a pregnant woman, filled with Butch Parnell’s juiciest giblets.

She walked back to her Pinto, safe in the knowledge that the aura of evil and maleficence she manifested protected her like a malignant shield while she did what she needed to do.

She dressed in comfortable clothing that allowed for her swollen abdomen and took the incriminating pictures of Butch with the tranny hooker, bundled together in a plain white envelope, and put them on the front passenger seat of his car. She placed a tube of red lipstick on top of a pair of pink cotton panties beside them, making a little shrine of the pathetic items. She folded his clothing in a neat bundle and placed them on the back seat and left the keys dangling from the ignition.

Nancy wrapped her gore-soaked clothing in the equally gore-soaked blanket and placed it in the trunk of her Pinto to be disposed of in a dumpster on the way home.

Butch’s abandoned vehicle was found in the lover’s lane the next day and what was left of his almost unrecognisable body, gnawed at by fish, turtles and other freshwater dwellers washed up a few days later. His death was ruled a suicide and although the officers attending the scene were told to keep shtum about what they found in Butch’s car, word soon got around that Butch was a deviate who coupled with ladyboys. It was assumed that he became overcome with guilt and remorse had taken his own life. The polaroid pictures and the pathetic little shrine were testament to this.

Nancy had not only taken his life, she had defiled his legacy. The successful and popular pillar of the community was exposed as a sexual deviant and his wife and children moved to Wisconsin to live with her mother to escape the scandal.

After her gory work was completed Nancy enjoyed her rostered two days off lazing around her little rented apartment digesting Butch Parnell and revitalising her body. Nicole Parker resumed her shift at the Crazy Horse and listened to the gossip and speculation about what had happened to Butch Parnell.

There was no need to rush her departure from Burwell and she stayed there for a couple of months, relishing that she had not only taken revenge on Butch Parnell but had forever sullied his legacy.

Lilu came to visit her late one evening three days after she had killed Butch. He told her that she had done well and was glad that she had begun to keep her promises and warned her to take her time catching up with the others. Lilu remained in his earthly guise as did Nancy when they made love on her bed, his seminal essences filling her with renewed vigour and sense of purpose.

The next day Nancy went to the little curio shop and purchased the black leather-bound notebook. She had the cover embossed with gold lettering the words: Promises to Keep. In the evenings, when the mood struck her, she filled her demonic diary with scribbles that were unintelligible to humans but made for riveting reading by those who dwelt in the dark houses of the hellbound.

Saint Bartholomew’s Mission Church, Baltimore Maryland – 1986

Monsignor Ignatius bade farewell to the effete young man who left his apartments wracked with guilt. The young man would return to the halfway house that Monsignor Ignatius had arranged for him after the young man’s release from prison and lie on his cot and wrestle with conflicting thoughts about his gender identity and sexuality.

He had served most of his sentence in ‘Juvie’ where it wasn’t so bad. In ‘The Big House’, where had completed the last year of his sentence, he had been a ‘prison wife’ but only to seek protection from the many predators, willingly giving himself to an older heavily tattooed thug for the sake of his safety and sanity. It was there that the doubts began. Upon release he had sought the solace of confession and Monsignor Ignatius had taken the young man under his wing and advised him that the only way for the young man to find truth was to explore the conflicts regarding his gender and sexuality.

Of course the experiments were to be conducted in the utmost secrecy and that was best achieved in Monsignor Ignatius private chambers.

Monsignor Ignatius had acquired a pleated skirt, a white blouse, a pair of pink cotton panties, several pairs of cheap pantyhose and a pair of scuffed high heels for the young man to wear. Monsignor Ignatius dressed his young apprentice in the womanly attire and put red lipstick on him gave the young ex-con the name Wendy. He brushed out Wendy’s long blonde hair and told her how pretty she was. He kissed and cuddled her and made her feel safe, and of course, when he had Wendy’s trust and confidence, he made her fellate him and buggered her royally and Wendy was grateful that someone in this harsh world showed her affection.

Wendy was one of countless young neophytes that Monsignor Ignatius had groomed and used over the years. Sometimes he employed others to assist him like the bullies at Saint Augustine’s Boys Home. But now that he had risen through the ranks so to speak, Monsignor Ignatius found it more prudent to work in solitude. He had forgotten all about Nathan Parker, the young man who had run away from Saint Augustine’s Boys Home all those years ago. Nathan was just another young man used by Monsignor Ignatius for his perverse pleasure and there had been so many since that he had no reason to remember ‘Nancy’.

But Nancy remembers Monsignor Ignatius or Brother Ignatius as he was known then and she sits across the street from Saint Bartholomew’s Mission Church and watches Monsignor Ignatius farewell the young man we know as Wendy. Nancy can tell by the way ‘Wendy’ walks with his head lowered, downtrodden and subdued, still wracked by guilt, what has happened in the priests apartments.

Monsignor Ignatius does not even try to justify his actions to himself by proclaiming they provide any form of sanctification or salvation for his victims. Once he has brought them under his spell and feminised and fucked them they are of no further concern to him once he loses interest in them. Nor does he consider himself a pederast priest; he has made sure that every one of his victims had at least attained the age of eighteen before he defiled them. He knows the consequences otherwise. His superiors will shield him in the unlikely event that any of the unfortunates make a complaint, provided there is no scandal involving under-age boys of course. They have enough of that particular nastiness to deal with, thank you very much.

Monsignor Ignatius progresses from diocese to diocese, moving on when he feels that he has either exhausted the supply of potential candidates or his superiors start to become agitated. He has settled here in Baltimore where the pickings are plentiful and his transgressions are easily concealed.

Nancy Parker has crossed off all the names in her black leather notebook bar one: Brother Ignatius. She has watched him from a distance, studying the progress of the man who was responsible for her protection in the boys home but instead feminised her and gave her to his bullies. She knows that to some extent he was her salvation. With his assistance she realised who and what she really was but she figures there may have been better ways for her to discover her true identity than to be held down on a mattress in a dark and dusty mattress and repeatedly sodomised.

It was Lilu who had truly saved Nancy and brought her salvation and she had made him promises and now she would keep the final one. Finally it was time to keep that promise.

*****

Nancy waited until the church was empty of sinners looking for forgiveness in the confessional booth so that she is the last parishioner seeking absolution. She knew full well that Monsignor Ignatius sat on the other side of the partition. She knelt down and placed her knees on the little padded hassock provided for the penitents and heard the latticed opening between confessor and penitent slide open. Monsignor Ignatius is almost assaulted by the pungent scent of Dior Poison perfume and immediately his interest is piqued.

Nancy has dressed demurely for today’s performance: a knee-length pleated tartan skirt, a plain white blouse and a bolero jacket. Her makeup is subdued but enhances her fine facial features and her hair is pulled back and tied in a bun, although she is wearing her signature bright-red lipstick. What she is wearing underneath the ensemble however is not demure by any means.

Monsignor Ignatius examines the woman through the latticed portico and finds her quite attractive. If his inclination tended towards women she would certainly qualify for further attention. But then she speaks and Monsignor Ignatius changes his mind and offers up a small prayer. What a wonderful find. Right here in his confessional. It’s like someone has made him an offering that he just cannot refuse.

Nancy confesses her sins.

Monsignor Ignatius has always preyed on the effete, the feminine, the weak, the epicene, the unsure. He feminises them, he seduces them and then he defiles them. They are fodder. They are ripe for the picking. But this one is different. Of course he has heard of men who undertake enucleation in order to pass as women but he has never met one.

This one is almost perfect. She has breasts and a feminine figure, she talks like a woman, she walks like a woman; any reasonable person would assume that she was a woman. But underneath it all she isn’t. She has the genitals of man. She has told him so. She also told him, albeit under the seal of confession, that she is conflicted and confused and requests that Monsignor Ignatius provide her with absolution and validate the decision that she had made to live as a woman despite being born male.

This one does not require Monsignor Ignatius’ special brand of metamorphosis. She had done all the work for him. But she is still weak and uncertain and grist for the mill. He will take great pleasure in preying on her insecurities and doubts and use them to bend her to his will.

Monsignor Ignatius doesn’t know why he does these things; he just knew that he has to. It is something that he needs to do. It is a compulsion and besides… he likes doing it. It gives him pleasure.

“My child I cannot provide you with absolution here in the confessional. I will need to know more about you, about your past, about why it is that you have defiled the body that god gave you. If you can convince me that it is god’s will I can absolve you of your sins. Perhaps it would be better if we retire to my apartments,” he says and Nancy agrees.

“What is your name?” Monsignor Ignatius asks as he reaches for the latch to open the confessional.

“My name is Nancy,” she replies and Monsignor Ignatius nods as if he understands and opens the door.

The name Nancy does not even register. He has defiled so many that he has forgotten the names that he gave them while he did so.

“Please come this way,” Monsignor Ignatius indicates for Nancy to precede him out through the back of the large gothic church into the apartments provided for him.

He studies Nancy carefully as he guides her to the rectory. She clutches her large handbag to her side and her behind sways deliciously as she walks in her heels, the hem of her tartan skirt flickers delightfully around her knees, her long legs are sheathed in black nylon, her waist is narrow and her hips are wide. When she turns to him to ask for directions he sees her face, no longer veiled by the confessional screen, and his heart sings. She is beautiful. Her perfect visage framed by her tousled blonde hair, her emerald-green eyes accentuated by her bangs and dark eyeliner and mascara, her sculpted cheekbones accented by a hint of rouge and those full red lips painted with bright red lipstick. A miasma of musky perfume trails behind her.

The rectory is worlds away from the monastic cell that Brother Ignatius inhabited at Saint Augustine’s. The rooms are appointed with rich drapery and carpets, antique furniture and expensive baroque artwork illustrating the union between the heavens and the earth. Ornate pictures and stucco statuettes of angels and saints give the impression that they are looking up at heaven.

Nancy can sense that despite the religious accoutrements and paraphernalia decorating the rectory, there is no salvation to be had here. Monsignor Ignatius may do god’s work in these rooms but he also does the devil’s.

“Help me out of my vestments please Nancy,” Monsignor Ignatius smiles at her and kicks off his ornate pontifical sandals.

Nancy doesn’t hesitate. She steps up to Monsignor Ignatius and helps him remove his elaborate flowing chasuble which is beautifully decorated with Christian symbols. Underneath he wears a simple long sleeved white cassock with button closures that fits his body closely.

He is still a handsome man and his body is sinewy and well-defined. His eyes are icy-blue and Nancy recalls looking up into them when he lay on top her in the cellar, his full lips about to descend on her lipsticked lips. His face contorted with rapture as he climaxes inside her.

Unbidden, Nancy hangs the fine robes on the mahogany valet stand in the corner of the room and then turns to face Monsignor Ignatius. For a split second he sees her eyes become rufous and fiery, burning like crimson embers but it is an illusion caused by the sunlight trying to penetrate the thick red curtains pulled closed across the windows.

“Come here Nancy. Show me what you have done to yourself,” Monsignor Ignatius beckons and Nancy stands before him.

She tosses her handbag on a seat and removes the bolero jacket revealing the plain white blouse underneath. Her breasts push against cotton, heaving as her breathing becomes laboured.

“I’ve had surgery Monsignor Ignatius. I have altered by body. I have made myself a woman but now I am unsure if I have done the right thing. I present myself to the world as a woman but lately I’m not sure that is what I am. I have considered taking the final leap; of removing my last vestments of manliness but once I do it, it cannot be undone. There can be no return once I have done so and this is my conflict,” Nancy feigns tears, her body shakes as she sobs.

Monsignor Ignatius should be sympathetic but all he sees are Nancy’s perky breasts jiggling as she wails. This one will not be like the others. He will not need to feminise her; she has done it to herself.

“I can’t help you unless you show me everything you have done to yourself. You must undress Nancy,” Monsignor Ignatius is anxious to see what lies under that pristine white blouse and that pleated tartan skirt.

“I can’t. Will you do it please?” Nancy seems distraught and incapable of undressing herself and Monsignor Ignatius is overjoyed.

“Of course dear,” he whispers and lets her hair out of the bun and begins to unbutton her blouse.

Nancy’s breasts are ripe and perky, not too large, the perfect size for her slim frame. Monsignor Ignatius is delighted to find they are cupped in a pink satin brassiere and he yearns to heft her breasts in his hands but he resists the temptation. There is more of her to see.

He drapes the blouse over a chair and reached for the clasp on the waistband of her skirt. With trembling fingers he unbuttons it and unzips the side closing and the garment falls away, pooling around her feet.

Monsignor Ignatius gasps.

Her body is perfect, her flesh alabaster white and unblemished. Her breasts rise and fall, her belly is flat, she has an ideal hourglass figure with a small waist, wide hips and a buxom bottom. She is wearing pink satin full-cut panties that match her brassiere and her legs are sheathed in black stockings, the silicon embossed welts hold them up high up on her thighs.

Nancy has made no attempt to hide her genitals and the girth of her penis and the bulge of her scrotal sac are defined by the sensuous pink satin.

“You are an abomination Nancy. You are neither one thing nor the other but in the eyes of god and more importantly at this time, in the eyes of me, god’s representative in this holy place, you are still deserving of love and compassion,” Monsignor Ignatius states gravely.

“How does one such as yourself survive in this world?” Monsignor Ignatius asks although he can guess the answer.

“That is even more diabolical Monsignor. I do the only thing I can. I prostitute myself,” Nancy feigns a sobbing fit and Monsignor Ignatius pulls her towards him, pretending to offer her comfort.

“Show me these things you do. I cannot fathom such depravity without seeing it for myself,” Nancy can see that Monsignor Ignatius is erect under his cassock.

“I can’t,” Nancy whispers.

“You must,” Monsignor Ignatius replies.

Nancy hides a smile as she presses her body against the priest. She stands on tippytoes and places her mouth on his and kisses him primly. She can feel his cock pressing into her belly as she slides her tongue into his mouth.

At first Monsignor Ignatius pretends to be virtuously naïve and let’s Nancy squirm against him while her tongue flutters in his mouth. He tastes her lipstick and breathes her perfume as she clings to him; she clasps her hands behind his neck.

“What else?” Monsignor Ignatius whispers, his voice thick with lust when Nancy breaks the kiss.

“Men like to do this,” she takes his hand and places it on her breast.

Monsignor Ignatius feels the heft of it through the silky fabric; he can feel that her nipple is erect.

“And this,” Nancy slides his hand under the cup and it closes instinctively around her pert breast.

His thumb thrums her nipple and Nancy gasps.

His other hand seeks her breasts and he frees her bosom from the confines of the brassiere.

“They like to this,” Nancy guides the priests head to her breasts and Monsignor Ignatius suckles on her teat.

Nancy is smiling evilly, her eyes are burning coals, she has to suppress the urge to transform into her demonic self and tear him apart. Instead she cradles his head and guides his mouth from teat to teat.

Monsignor Ignatius is finished with her breasts for now. Magnificent as they are, his needs are pressing and he is sure that he will be able to coax Nancy back to the rectory whenever he feels the urge. He decides that he will dismisses Wendy, his latest concubine, and have her evicted from the halfway house. Wendy is nothing more than a criminal and she will have to fend for herself on the streets. Why settle for a chambermaid when you can have the princess.

He forgets about Wendy as his lips close on Nancy’s sweet mouth. Again she slides her tongue into his mouth and he tastes a tincture of rotting flesh but it is gone almost instantly, a mere suggestion of something foul. The scent of her perfume and the sweetness of her mouth replace it and the priest pulls Nancy close against him, making no attempt to hide his concupiscence.

“They want me to do this,” Nancy breathes into his mouth and takes his bloated organ in her hand and squeezes it through his cassock.

The priest gasped as Nancy slipped her hand under his cassock and took his engorged veiny phallus in her hand and began to stroke it. Their kisses became more impassioned as Monsignor Ignatius felt his desire escalate. He reached for Nancy’s breasts and pawed at them, feeling her nipple become engorged to his touch. She took one of his hands and guided it down to her belly where he caressed the velvety skin.

He baulked when she directed his hand down to the front of her panties.

“I won’t do that,” Monsignor Ignatius snatched his hand away.

“Then do this,” Nancy took his hand and placed it on her buttock.

Monsignor Ignatius was more than happy to knead Nancy’s plump buttocks through her gauzy satin panties and palpate her breasts. He drove his tongue into her mouth and humped her hand as she masturbated him to full tumescence. Then he removed his hands from her ass and her tits and pressed them down on her shoulders.

“They always want me to do that,” Nancy smiled up at him wantonly as she kissed his neck and then slowly made her down his body, licking his skin, teasing his bellybutton with the tip of her tongue and finally took his erect penis into her warm wet mouth.

She dropped to her knees and Monsignor Ignatius ripped off his cassock so that he was naked and placed his hands on Nancy’s head and guided it up and down his shaft, watching her red-lipsticked lips suck on his shaft while her tongue slathered his glans and fraenulum. He looked into her green eyes, now filled with lust, her red lips and her amazingly white teeth seemed almost vampiric as she nibbled at the purple head of his hard cock. Her canines extended over her lips briefly but once again the priest believed that it was an illusion.

Monsignor Ignatius did not believe in devils, demons and ghouls despite his church’s teachings. If did believe in them, then he would have to believe in hell and he knew that if such a place existed, then that was where he was destined to spend eternity given his crimes. This was no time to vociferate about such things. This gorgeous shemale was fellating him like he had never been fellated before.

When the priest felt his climax approaching he slapped Nancy’s face away from his groin and dragged her to her feet and kissed her again and mauled her breasts and buttocks. He could feel her hard cock pressing against his through the fabric of her panties and that was tolerable, even titillating, as long as he didn’t have to touch or see the thing unclad.

He marched her backwards towards the large desk that dominated the room, kissing her, pawing at her, until her buttocks slammed into the edge of the desk then he lifted her up so that her ass was perched on the edge, her long legs wrapped around his waist, inviting him to defile her.

“And most want to do this,” Nancy grabbed Monsignor Ignatius’ cock and guided inside the leg opening of her panties and nestled his steely rod in the pink puckered bud that was her sphincter.

She smiled up at him and then drew his face to hers and kissed him passionately as the full length of his member slid inside her tight, velvety anus. Nancy locked her ankles behind his back and he felt the diaphanousness of her sheer nylons rub on his flanks as he began to fuck her.

He knew that he wouldn’t last long. This she-man was beguiling, sexy and astonishingly beautiful. He was enamoured with her and he just wanted to enjoy her body. He put his hands on her thighs and pinned her to the desk and fucked her hard and fast, grunting into her mouth as he felt her anus cling to his bloated penis like a silken glove, kneading his engorged member, milking him of his seed.

Monsignor Ignatius felt Nancy convulse and she sucked and slavered at his mouth as she orgasmed, flooding her panties with her hot juices. He felt them on his belly as he ejaculated deep inside her, trying in vain to hold her still while he jackhammered his cock in and out of her tight channel. The most intense orgasm he had ever experienced washed over him. It was so intense that he was hardly aware that Nancy’s semen had suddenly turned icy-cold on his flesh, or that her mouth was suddenly filled with razor-sharp teeth.

He screamed when Nancy bit off his tongue and swallowed it whole. He tore his face away from hers and stared in apocalyptic horror at her demonic face, transformed into a nightmarish mask. Her nose and eye sockets appeared stretched, her skin sallow and ulcerous, her lips were red and bloody and her teeth were glistening ivory needles. The stunning young beauty was grotesque and repulsive.

The semen-saturated gusset of Nancy’s pretty pink panties tore open and a hemipenis renascent with spicules and hooks and a vicious spiked glans sprang forth. Nancy locked her arms and legs around the priest and used her immense strength to press his body against hers as her hellacious prong pieced his belly. The ghoulish appendage corkscrewed into his stomach and Nancy began to slowly ingest his gizzards. She wanted him to feel every scintilla of pain. She lifted her head as if she was about to kiss him with that ungodly demon-like mouth but instead she sucked out his eyeballs one at a time.

Nancy relished the taste as they popped in her mouth and she swallowed the aqueous humour and vitreous fluids, then she chewed off his lips, crushing her mouth against his to silence his screams. She held Monsignor Ignatius’ body like a praying mantis holds its prey, regurgitating enzyme rich stomach fluids down his throat and sucking up his liquefied entrails like a chitinous soup. Her teeth masticated chunks of flesh and her fangs finally pierced his celiac artery and she slowly drained his blood.

Monsignor Ignatius died in agony, pleading for a god he didn’t really believe in to come save him.

*****

When Nancy has finally finished with Monsignor Ignatius, she lays his tortured, desiccated corpse on the desk. She opens her handbag and takes out a pair of pink cotton panties and stuffs them in what remains of the priest’s mouth and sticks a gold alloy tube of bright-red lipstick in one of his eye sockets. She removes her blood-stained and gore-spattered bra, panties and stockings and puts them in a plastic bag. She wipes herself as best she can with towelettes and they follow her grisly garments into the plastic receptacle.

Nancy takes her time putting on her makeup and brushing out her hair then she steps into a pair of cheap tan pantyhose and puts on a fresh brassiere and steps into clean panties… pink satin of course.

Dressed in her knee-length pleated tartan skirt, the plain white blouse and bolero jacket, she leaves the church and the remains of Monsignor Ignatius to be discovered by some unwitting soul. Both the church and the police will be bewildered and horrified by the crime scene but she doesn’t care. Her skirt is tight around her bloated belly and she cannot properly button her blouse but it is dark outside and there are few people around.

Nancy returns to her rented apartment and falls on the bed exhausted and gluttonised. She takes three days to fully digest Monsignor Ignatius but she savours every second of it.

When she finally awakens, refreshed and resplendent she takes a bath then fixes her makeup and dresses. She takes her leather-bound notebook from her purse and rules a line through the final name on the list.

Lilu comes to her that evening and makes love to her and afterward they lie in bed in the afterglow and she speaks, satisfied that she has performed the tasks he set her. She has found the five men and taken their flesh and their souls have gone to Lilu and she honestly has no idea what happens to them after, possibly they now dwell in purgatory or maybe hell; if there is such a place.

“I have kept my promises Lilu,” she whispers.

Lilu doesn’t answer immediately and then he speaks: “There is more; there will always be more,” then he rolls Nancy onto her back and mounts her.

The End

Author’s Note: This is a 2024 Halloween Contest Story so please vote. Also leave a comment if you are so inclined.