Given the Catholic overtones, I should probably clarify that the choirboys are all aged 18 to 55 😐

Part One:

Mature Content

[minor heresy] The Book of Eve [TG/bimbofication] by Transviscera

Part Two:

Mature Content

Part Three:

Mature Content

Part Four:

Mature Content

Part Five:

Mature Content

The mass was over for another week, the masses satiated. The last of his choirboys filed out of the church. Pastor Roberts raised his hand to bless their departure, as they dragged the drugged body of the outsider with them, then he turned and stepped through a door into the blessed sanctuary of the sacristy at the rear of the church.

The smell of leatherbound books welcomed him. He heaved a sigh of relief. He loved what he did of course. Who could have imagined that he would have every male in the town eating out of his hand, quite literally as they swallowed the estrogen-soaked wafers he placed on their tongues at the end of the sermon? All those pliant young minds, spellbound, soaking in his every word. In return, he drank in their adoration. Ahh, to be worshipped! To be looked up to like a goddess, just as all women should!

But it was, at the same time, exhausting. He had to wake three hours before mass to apply his makeup and now found himself yawning. His old joints were sore, even the broad mechanical prosthetics of his hips, as his sculpted ass wiggled between the bookshelves. His slender finger traced along the leather spines until he located one of his favorite reading materials - The Viraginous Virtues. He placed it and his reading spectacles on the table beside the armchair. He poured himself a much-needed glass of communion wine - the normal stuff, filled with estrogen, not the sedative-laced drink they'd fed to the newcomer. He knocked back a glass. The hormones would make him emotional, irrational, he knew, but then why else did one drink wine? He found a comfortable bra to wear - supportive, as his aged body could barely withstand the weight of his implants, while not being too constrictive, knowing how puffy and tender his nipples would be from the wine in short order.

He'd read a little before having a much needed snooze beside the fire, he decided. When he woke, he could decide what to do with the interloper and his family with a clear head. The pastor hooked a finger into his thong, teased it from between his cheeks and shimmied it down his legs, pausing to rub the tight tendons grafted within his calves. The four-inch heels of his priestly vestments were murder on his arthritis ankles and knees after a long mass, forcing him into a delightful though unnatural gait that emphasized the shapeliness of his legs and rear. Unfortunately, the heels were vital, as much a badge of his office as the Pope's hat. Without them, he'd feel naked before his flock. Although admittedly he was normally mostly naked while wearing them.

He eased himself into the armchair and lit a cigarette. Perhaps he could call one of his boys back to massage his feet, he pondered. Or the outsider's son, he thought with a thrill. It had been so long since they'd had a new face around here, and his was very handsome indeed...

There was little light in the sacristy. The lower halves of the tall windows had been boarded over, sending shafts of daylight through the dusty air. There had been too many cases of peeping Toms at the windows, trying to get a glimpse of the old priest out of his vestments, and it wouldn't do for them to see... too much. Pastor Roberts buried his nose in his book as, in the dimness of one corner, the shape of Bishop Geldermann unfurled itself.