Charlotte had been a vicar for four years now, and honestly, it had all been easier than the time studying for ordination. It had been then that people had asked her if she was sure, then that her friends had expressed concern about her ‘believing’, then that she’d had to put it all together. While it could be hard to be everything a congregation might need, she had time in between her encounters with them to unwind, and those friends who’d stayed with her understood that her faith didn’t mean she was anyone but the woman they’d always known.

The other big bonus had been that now, she got far less aggro about her refusal to date. Charlotte didn’t find sex a priority, and hadn’t really enjoyed dating or navigating the dating pool through school or university. She’d missed the term ‘asexual’ and probably would have dismissed it as not describing her at all if she did, though she would have gone on to worry privately that it might be more relevant than she was willing to admit.

All the same, it was nice to have people stop trying to set her up with men or, on that one particularly uncomfortable afternoon, a woman. It was all a part of life she didn’t feel like she wanted to deal with; obviously other people just had different priorities.

If there was a downside to her occupation it was the fact she would, from time to time, be asked to relocate. These requests weren’t frequent, but they were difficult to turn down and did require her to upheave her life.

She’d spent her first years working in a Northern city. The inner city church’s parishioners were a wide variety mixed between older folks and young students, between the comfortably unquestioning and the dogmatically idealistic. The new calling was a bigger church, a larger congregation, a more beautiful part of the country in the southeastern Midlands, in a riverside town which had simply never taken off and grown in the years since the industrial revolution.

The countryside was scenic, the town wasn’t too big, the local industry didn’t stink the air out, and the church, while almost five hundred years old, was in good enough repair that the usual fundraising wasn’t necessary. Agloe was a prize patch in many ways, and Charlotte wouldn’t have turned down the opportunity to take the parish on in any case. It was still a shame that she was now so far away from her friends, but she was sure there’d be opportunities to catch up from time to time.

The Vicarage was… surprisingly roomy; apparently it had been rebuilt in the late 1800s when the resident of the time had decided he needed additional rooms for scientific research. Whatever he might have been doing in those rooms, there was no trace of it any longer; Charlotte, though, was delighted to get her exercise equipment out of her bedroom. She had a strict exercise regimen; there was, unfortunately, an expectation among most parishioners that a female priest would be short, dumpy, and plain. Charlotte wasn’t interested in romance, but she had decided early in life that she liked to catch people’s eye.

From some perspectives, the long blonde hair and the clerical collar was one of the best ways she could stand out. But in a nod to propriety she kept her hair tied back, either in a bun or, if she was feeling lazy, a simple ponytail. For the same reason she’d gradually moved from clothing that clung to loose, baggy items that suggested her curves rather than proclaim them.

Without a local university she knew her congregation would skew a little older on the average. Many of them would have started attending services before women could be priests, and she knew some percentage would think women priests had been a mistake - there were always some who did. She didn’t know how seriously Agloe would take that overall, and hoped it would be a quiet, grudging minority. But she had to be prepared in case it wasn’t.

*

Her first Sunday had been a busy one; already in town for most of the week, she’d met the local council, encountered a few others among the most devout, and even sat with Jack Davison and Laura Holloway on the Thursday evening. They’d taken tea with her and the three of them had discussed their expectations for an upcoming church wedding. Following her duty, Charlotte had gently probed to be sure they understood what marriage meant, and that they were together for the long haul.

They’d seemed very much in love; Laura couldn’t stop looking at Jack and he was constantly touching her, a hand always on an arm or a shoulder. They were all smiles. Charlotte didn’t think Laura was particularly smart, but that was an uncharitable thought so she kept it firmly to herself. At any rate, there were plans to see them married in a few weeks, and they didn’t seem too upset at the delay.

Then it was on to the Sunday, her first service. She’d expected that the turnout would be larger than she should expect going forwards; what she didn’t expect was how young the congregation skewed. Charlotte was in her mid-20s and usually expected to be twenty to thirty years younger than her average church attendee, with a few outliers looking to get a letter of recommendation for their child’s school. Here, the average parishioner was around her age, most of them being in their 20s with a steady seasoning of people up to their fifties.

Just as strange, there were no children present; when she asked afterward she was told ‘Sunday school’, though she’d never spoken to whoever was in charge of the Sunday school and never seen a church completely exclude children from the service. It didn’t seem at all right.

Everybody stared, but there was no trace of the suspicion or distaste for a woman in her role that she’d feared. Instead the congregation were largely smiling. Shaking the hands of her parishioners as they filed out, Charlotte didn’t learn much from the conversations but was left with the impression that everyone was glad to see her. Perhaps the previous incumbent had caused some upset in the community? It didn’t seem polite to ask.

The men had seemed disinterested in her sermon for the most part, though they’d listened politely. The few who’d reacted to her key points had shown understanding and appreciation for her points, so there was something of a positive there. The women had largely been raptly attentive, smiling broadly - but as she spoke to them on their way out, Charlotte was reminded over and over again of Laura. Those smiles showed kind, loving hearts, but she couldn’t help thinking they largely concealed fairly empty heads.

Most of them were locals; she made a mental note to see if the children had that same odd vacancy. It seemed likely that there was a terrible teacher or two involved, who over a couple of decades’ tenure might have driven a number of women to give up on their own education and assume they were too dumb to improve. She’d known a couple of her friends who’d had that experience.

*

When she finally met the woman running the Sunday school, a Miss Malone, the first thought to go through Charlotte’s head was, Oh no, not you too. She was far from the sharpest tool in the box, but she was clearly trying to make up for that with her enthusiasm for the children. Her grasp on Biblical detail was poor - Charlotte didn’t think she’d ever forget hearing the woman describe Joseph as a humble butcher - but she understood the spirit and the morality that should be conveyed.

Not a one of Miss Malone’s charges would fail to understand the equality of all and the importance of fairness and support to your fellow man.

There was so much about Agloe that just seemed out of the ordinary, though, and Charlotte found herself wondering, often, if she were imagining things - because how could so much be so odd? Surely she must be overlooking sensible reasons for at least some of it.

That feeling redoubled at her first parish council meeting, about halfway through, when it became clear that she was the only member of the parish council who was not also on the town council. She was also the only woman - but this didn’t entirely surprise her, given her own private opinion of the women she’d met in Agloe so far.

Phone calls to her friends gave her plenty of opportunities to go over everything strange, and they were reassuring; each time, they agreed that she must be missing something. That the town couldn’t really be like that. The sanity check kept Charlotte’s spirits up, and a promise from Penelope that she’d come down to visit soon lifted her spirits. At least she’d have one friend she could talk honestly with.

Lying awake one night, she realised what it was that made her so uncomfortable, so suspicious. Agloe was too much built around the church; it wasn’t what she expected, and she had no problem with how things usually were. The town council and parish council being identical was unheard of; a church that was packed out with the younger adults of the town wasn’t expected; the odd divide between the sexes made no sense either.

Agloe conformed to every stereotype Charlotte’s life, upbringing, and even her professional training had taught her was untrue, and it set her on edge.

It didn’t occur to her to wonder how she could change the town. As she saw it, her dilemma was either to renounce her posting - and probably hurt her career ever after - or to continue doing her best for the souls of those under her care. Perhaps she might see things improve over time - but even there, she was mostly concerned with the vacant, cowlike attitudes of the women in the town.

She decided quickly not to attempt a sermon on the subject. Something like this would require a more careful, measured approach.

*

You would always find Charlotte at home on a Friday night, going back years. Friday nights were the worst at the clubs for men getting handsy, dancing too close, and refusing to take no for an answer. Midway through her time at university she’d realised she had a lot more fun if she just delayed until the Saturday. Now, five or so years past her student days, she didn’t often head out on a Saturday either.

She’d taken to making Friday a day of indulgence, at least once she was done with her daily workout and any ecumenical business.

Usually, mid-afternoon she’d start cooking something a little more time-consuming than usual. By the time she sat down with it, the evening would be firmly under way. She’d pour herself a glass of wine, tuck her feet up under her on the sofa, and watch something interesting as she ate. It was a ritual she’d started long before Agloe, and she’d certainly seen no reason to adjust now she was there.

She’d been on the sofa for about ten minutes, enjoying her butter chicken, when there was a loud knock at her door. Charlotte blinked in surprise; it was a long time since she’d had a surprise caller so late in the day. Usually even if a member of her flock were soul-searching, they’d phone ahead. She set her plate down beside the sofa - suddenly glad she hadn’t got around to getting a cat yet, so her food was safe - and went to see who was calling.

Laura Holloway stood on her doorstep. Something about her sent a worried shiver down Charlotte’s spine, in spite of Laura’s smile. The way she stood, arms behind her back, twisting slightly, it didn’t fit the smile, it looked nervous and apologetic and even a little scared, but the expression on her face was delighted and loving and warm.

“Good evening, Laura,” Charlotte tried. “Can I help you?”

“Um,” Laura said, and drew in a deep breath, then, with a sunny smile, she said “no. Thank you, though.”

Charlotte frowned as she tried to process this. She took a step out of her front door, reaching out a hand sympathetically. “Are you OK?”

“Oh, I’m wonderful,” Laura giggled. “How about you?”

Nothing about the way the woman was acting made sense. Charlotte touched her arm. “Laura-” she began, but as she spoke, Laura whipped the other arm out from behind her back. Charlotte barely saw what she was holding, but it sprayed something; her face was suddenly coated in moist vapour. Her eyes squeezed shut against it and she felt someone grab her arm, someone who’d been hidden to the side of the door.

She opened her mouth, intending to scream. Instead more of the vapour fogged into her mouth. Out of pure panic reflex she gulped it down. It tasted of chemistry sets and artificial sweeteners; of medical wards and lollipops. And as her mouth closed around it, as her scream choked on it, she felt as if the fog was somehow expanding beyond her throat. It tingled across the nerves of her neck, the skin of her shoulders, and it seeped into her head. Her senses reeled.

There was the most pathetic of noises, a strangled squeak, and nothing more had escaped her. Her mouth opened and closed again, gulping down the vapour, hungry for it somehow. Whoever had taken her arm moved behind her, took her other arm, and drew her backward into her house. Her eyelids flickered, seeing for just a moment - seeing Laura reach in and close her front door, giving her a little wave as she did. But even that glimpse wasn’t quite right; the sheen of vapour on her eyes had changed how she saw.

Laura had gone from a charming if foolish woman to a sex symbol Charlotte could not push out of her head. Her figure, her smile, and her wave remained in her vision even behind closed eyes, and the heady, chemical, whirling sensations running through Charlotte’s very being were like nothing she’d felt before. Nothing she was prepared for.

As the person who’d dragged her backward released her, her knees buckled. She felt a sharp jolt as her knees met the thin carpet of her hallway, but the pain didn’t penetrate the dawning pink. She felt euphoric on her hands and knees. No idea why, no real idea how. She could just about hear the TV chattering in the background, but the giddiness in her head, coupled with the distance from the quiet speakers, kept her from making out the words.

She felt helpless and lost and horny, so horny, horny like she’d never been before. Her limbs shook, felt weak, could barely support her, certainly couldn’t help her get back up and run away or act. And in any case, she couldn’t see, couldn’t open her eyes. Her breath came in ragged pants. She had little focus, little attention to give, and what she had didn’t give her enough to act on even if she could.

Her heart was beating so loud it was pounding in her ears and she couldn’t tell if it was panic or fear or arousal.

She felt his hands close to her body as he fumbled the buttons undone on her shirt, one by one. He took a moment to slip her dog collar loose from the shirt, then drew the shirt backward. Her body was briefly lifted by the tug, her arms going back without resistance, before her hands popped free of the shirtsleeves and plunged down to the floor, making it just in time to stop her face from hitting the carpet.

Judging by the tugging at her waist, her belt was next to go, followed swiftly—denim slid unstoppably along her legs—by her jeans. As a seeming afterthought, he pulled her slipper-sox off. She realised that all that stood between her paralysed self and nudity were her bra and panties, and wished that the realisation had prompted some physical response. Sweat, shakes, hair standing up—anything to suggest she might soon be able to move again.

She felt a man’s hand on her throat, holding firmly by the sides of the neck, exerting enough force to lift her kneeling form from her hands. As it brought her body upright, lips brushed against hers, just briefly; a chaste kiss. Then there was another, deeper, as her mouth opened with an unfamiliar need. Whoever was with her, she kissed them with an excitement and a passion she had never known before, lamenting the limpness of her limbs that prevented her doing more.

She was new to this active sexuality, and did not fully understand it; all the same, her body was drawing her along, just as much as it could.

There was a sharp pain in the back of her neck, and from the pain she felt a strange, sensual coolness seem to pour into her self. Charlotte whimpered, even the cool draught from under her front door now a delicious, ridiculously supercharged sensation as it brushed against her skin. For the first time she understood just how erotic the world could be. Was this something she’d missed? Something she hadn’t understood?

The man who’d kissed her grabbed one of her breasts through her bra and squeezed. Charlotte’s eyes opened wide in shock, then rolled back in her head at the second squeeze - and she passed out.

*

She came back to awareness. She was seated on the floor, back against her sofa, legs splayed out. One hand rested against the floor, supporting her upright. The other was between her legs, fingers slick with her own juices, two knuckles deep inside herself. The back of her hand and her wrist were complaining, forced into an awkward position, but she couldn’t stop. Not with her eyes wide open, staring at the laptop someone had put in front of her computer.

Staring at the spiral, and at the words that seemed to shimmer, just too briefly to be seen. Just vaguely aware that there was a camera on a tripod, studying her, capturing every moment. Watching her nude body giving in to its own deep desires. Watching her weak mind overwhelmed by lust and needs until it was steered, puppeted, by her body.

And her body in turn was a puppet to the spiral.

She was aware of her own breathing, unsteady, low, needy, coming out more in moans than anything else, but she heard it only faintly over the sounds in her ears. They swam in and out, in time with the spiral, in tandem with the words she could never quite read. She had headphones in place, bulky enough that she could feel the weight, heavy enough that if her body shook with pleasure they didn’t risk falling out.

Charlotte had no idea what the words were, what she was being told. It didn’t matter. It had been the case, once, that Christian worship was carried out in Latin, which only the priests spoke. The worshippers had been carried along by respect and emotion, knowing nothing of the teachings they followed.

Charlotte had always thought that was a ridiculous idea. Now she felt as if she understood. The divine were there to be worshipped. Those below them and their priests could only do their best. They would never understand, because there was too great a gulf between them. The flock - and she knew now she was part of the flock - were not wise enough. Theirs was to worship.

She loved God; but if what she felt for God was love, then this was lust. Primal, raw, and powerful; she was now its creature. A creature driven by need, incapable of understanding the world around her.

Her breath was slowly becoming words, gasped out, barely audible, and she wasn’t even sure what she was saying. It probably had to do with the spiral and with the new creed it was teaching her.

So much of religion was mindless repetition. This was not an opinion she’d ever held before, but she held it now, as she mindlessly repeated her new beliefs.

A new word came through her headphones. Something with only one syllable but still beyond her conscious brain to interpret. Orgasm exploded between her thighs and through her mind, and her creed was lost in a single euphoric scream.

*

Six thirty in the morning. The alarm clock shrilled and she awoke. Another fine Sinday to enjoy, she thought, and she briefly gave thanks to the divine for understanding the need for times of purest pleasure and indulgence.

Not long after the alarm the doorbell rang, and Charlotte sprang from bed, casting around for the preparations she made every Saturday for the joyous celebration of Sinday.

Only half done. What had she been doing last night, that she wasn’t ready to bless her few early parishioners with sinful communion?

Well - what’s done is done, and she would give penance later. For the time being she would just have to improvise. The white stockings were something she slept in on Saturday nights - not her choice, but many of her churchgoers were silk fetishists, and she couldn’t let them down. No worshipper should be denied entrance to the temple of her body.

Charlotte skipped much of her costume, stopping only to pick up the crisp white clerical collar with ‘God’s Slut’ printed on it in a deep crimson. Some symbols were too holy to be abandoned, but the first service would be relatively simple.

She hurried downstairs and flung wide the Vicarage door.

Charlotte didn’t question her ingrained habits, nor wonder that they had formed since her last sermon; she had forgotten entirely that she was new to Agloe, and would have told you firmly that she had been its vicar for years if you had raised the question. Never mind that this did not fit the evidence around her; belief was much more important.

There were many hours of worship ahead this Sinday, and Charlotte looked forward to the rites to come, in the church itself. But for certain busy, important members of the flock, Charlotte would happily take the time to get their Sinday started right.

Jack Davison and his fiancee Laura Holloway were among the first of the devout to visit. Laura looked quite correctly vacant and happy, but then that was one of the things Charlotte most approved of about her; she always behaved according to their creed. A willing, cheerful fucktoy, just as the divine intended - and to prove it, her shirt was only barely buttoned, and her wide, flowing, floor-length skirt no doubt concealed a beautiful Sinday outfit from anyone who might be offended if they glanced out of their window.

Charlotte couldn’t wait to officiate at their wedding, to ride Laura’s face while sucking Jack’s cock as the link that tied them together. The sin would be much deeper once there were wedding vows to pervert. Strange, though - as well as she’d known them and for as long as she’d known them, she could only remember one encounter with Jack before… or Laura, for that matter, though she had some confused recollection of something two nights ago. She just wasn’t at all clear on what.

A smile spread across her face, knowing, welcoming, inviting. “Good morning,” she purred, shuddering slightly in pleasant anticipation. Sinday was properly beginning; her excitement was building. Her thighs squeezed together excitedly and she stepped back to free up the doorway. “Won’t you come in?”

The young couple nodded, stepping over the threshold. As the door closed behind them, Laura shed her shirt. From the waist up she was almost completely naked now, only a pair of black nipple tassles for decoration. Charlotte reached out in greeting, graceful fingers tickling the sensitive underside of Laura’s breasts, and Laura smiled. Jack had already moved on past them, walking like he knew the house. He hung his suit jacket on the banisters and headed up toward the master bedroom, undoing his shirt as he did.

Charlotte took the free moment to kiss Laura, exploring her mouth and, as the two pressed against each other, one another’s body. It still felt fresh after all these years, and the way Laura melted against her was positively delightful. She felt Laura’s fingers against her own pussy. Her thighs parted slightly, and Laura rewarded her, slipping her fingers inside her, teasing her. They took a tentative step each toward the stairs and Laura withdraw her fingers, smearing Charlotte’s juices across her own lips, then offering her fingers for Charlotte to suck clean.

Charlotte smiled, and gestured for Laura to lead their way up the stairs. She moved forward, tying back her hair into a ponytail. Laura’s eyes fell on a small scar in the back of her neck, a pock-mark like one an injection might have left behind. She decided not to ask; this wasn’t something she needed to pry into, though it made her vaguely recall the sting of an injection in her neck of her own. When had that been? Why?

She didn’t remember before she realised that she needed to hurry. Jack was waiting for them both, naked, standing by her own bed. He gestured to it, and Charlotte willingly slid herself into place, lying back with legs parted. Between her excited dreams and the mood now Sinday was upon them, the scent of excitement was strong in the room.

Having paused outside to shed her skirt, Laura walked into the room. Revealed now was a construction of thin black leather interlacing strips around her crotch, hips, and buttocks. Ingeniously crafted, it still left her utterly accessible, but somehow seemed to heighten the attraction she possessed. Thigh-high black PVC boots completed the look.

Jack settled onto the bed beside Charlotte, taking her tit in hand and squeezing it like she belonged to him. “Just a quick communion before the service, don’t you think?”

“Oh, we have time for a long one,” Charlotte purred.

Laura climbed onto the bed. Charlotte was too far gone in her Sinday lusts to worry about the stiletto heels leaving holes in her sheets and her duvet, but as Laura came to a halt, squatting with implausibly perfect balance just above the vicar’s mouth, nothing else mattered. The woman of God slipped her tongue into the waiting pussy, her hands coming up to grip Laura’s buttocks through the leather harness. So steadied, Laura arched her back, reaching down behind her. Her hands found Charlotte’s tits and began to squeeze and tease as if the two had known each other for years. Behind them both, Jack slipped his arms under Laura’s thighs, pushing them up until he had the perfect angle to impale her on his cock.

If her mouth hadn’t been otherwise occupied, she would have smiled and then given thanks to the Divine.

*

Laura grabbed a brief shower before heading to the service. Her dog collar waited on the side. She sank to her knees facing the nozzle, closed her eyes, tilted back her head and opened her mouth.

It was like sucking cock without the cock. Not as good, but something satisfying, and something that kept her focused on a fine Sinday morning.

Once dry, she clipped her collar back into place. Then the too-tight red harem girl waistcoat. The crotchless white silk panties, and the white silk stockings, with garter belts in place.

Everything was as it should be. She settled her robes of office into place over the outfit, ready for the big reveal, and walked out of the vicarage and across to the church where the men of Agloe would be gathering with their fucktoys. At least, those who had heard the good word would gather.

And after her own time seeing the light of the spiral, Charlotte was keen to help the men of the town convert many more to their cause.

But first, it wouldn’t be a proper Sinday communion if she didn’t get her immaculate silks stained in as many inventive ways as possible.