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(Editor's note: I began working on this one last week. I was on the second section when I came across a story by the wonderful writer Kriz called "The Church of True Light." It was amazing how similar the two pieces were. My church was called, in those days, The Church of Devine Light. The woman had changed her name to Eve. So I sent Kriz a note and told her I was going to stop my piece to give way to hers. She urged me to finish it. I tweaked and polished, and came up with this. There really is a Women's Bible, and there is a group that thinks God is a woman, and a group that thinks Jesus was reborn female. The women's names are all from the Bible. So accept this treatise on the cult-like mentality of splinter religions. I offer it to you in peace. C.) Handmaiden of the Virgin By Cassandra Morgan God help me. Standing there in the foyer of the Church, scared and skittish, it seemed like an appropriate thought. There were 12 of us, the same as the number of disciples in the Bible, but that is where the similarity ended. We were the Handmaidens of the Madonna, clustered together in those final moments before the start of a mass. We were checking each other's makeup, assuring each other we were pretty enough, soft enough. I pushed my blonde hair back off of my face and looked around. Every other one of the Handmaidens was dressed as I was, in a pale blue frock that hinted both femininity and poverty. We all were wearing white aprons and a small piece of lace that was our hats. We all wore makeup and low heels. And we were all wide-eyed in our nervousness. Oh, you might want to know this, too. We we were all men. At least, we used to be. But that's the thing about the church of The Divinity of the Virgin. You don't get in if you present as male. We were all the mates of the priestesses, of the women who had dedicated their lives to the Virgin, and we had all vowed to follow our spouses into hell itself. We were the followers of St. Anastasia the Patrician, a patron saint of those who wear the clothing of the opposite sex. I am Rebekah. It is the confirmation name I selected when I was reborn unto the Church. Originally, I was Luke Johnson, the husband of Stacy. You might have heard of her. These days, she goes by Theresa. She is the leader of our flock, our mother, in the terms of the church. The 12 of us pushed against each other as we waited to enter. There was music -- an organ-based version of Spirit in the Sky -- and there was a crowd of women along the benches. "Are you okay, Rebekah?" a tall woman said to me. "Ruth. You look great. I'm fine, thanks," I said. Ruth was another handmaiden. She was taller than me, and her breasts were larger. Despite them, she still looked more masculine than the rest of us. But she was sweet, and she was committed. "Big day for the Handmaidens," she said. "Big step for all of us," I said. "Yes. May the Mother be merciful." I nodded. And I prayed that my mind would not wander as if often did. Were we a cult? A sect? A conclave? How many parishioners does it take to turn a cult into a congregation? Jim Jones ran a cult in Jonestown. David Koresh ran one in Waco. How about those kooks to wanted to ride the comet? Every so often, you'll hear of a cult buying guns or dinking Kool- Aid or committing mass suicide. But you never hear about the groups who have noble intentions but a different interpretation of the holy word. The Divinity of the Virgin believed in God. They just believed she was a woman. Jesus, too. They believed that Mary Magdalene not only was not a prostitute, but that she was a disciple. They believed that Eve was set up to fail, and that Delilah was misunderstood, and they wondered why Lot's wife wasn't even named in the traditional Bible. They believed religious leaders should be women, that women were smarter, and better leaders, and stronger. There was a reason that women delivered babies; men would let the population die out. In single file, the Handmaidens began to enter the church. Our heads were bowed, and our hands were folded. One-by-one, we took our places in the last pew of the church, back near the cry room. We knelt, submissively, and awaited the word. I glanced down the row and the adoring faces of my sisters. Some of them made for more natural looking women than others. Some were big, beefy. Some had always been transgender. Some were lost lambs looking for a place to belong. Then there was me, the blonde woman near the end. Heaven knows how I got here. * * Stacy had always been religious. She was a strong woman, iron in her faith, who had attended Catholic mass two or three times a week when she was young. She slept with her rosary beads wrapped in her hand. Our bedroom was filled with religious statues and paintings. There was a small statuette of Mary in a corner of our bedroom. Stacy prayed to it several times a day. Me? I worshipped the Green Bay Packers. Oh, don't get me wrong. I tried to believe. I went with Stacy to Mass most Sundays. When the subject of religion arose, I let Stacy take over the conversation. She knew the subject far better than I did. She saw the Bible through the eyes of a feminist. I went along. I wasn't as zealous as Stacy, but I tried to support her. Stacy argued about the religion the way some people argue about politics. She would tell you -- loudly -- how Rachel was deceived by her father. She would rant about how Miriam should be remembered as hero for her role in saving Moses. She would rave that Mary Magdalene was more a disciple than a fallen woman. Me? I would sit there dumbfounded and try not to mention that Darth Vader, too, came from a virgin birth. Maybe if I had been stronger, maybe if I had been more of a church-goer, things wouldn't have changed so drastically. But they did. Stacy had just turned 27 when she first heard of the Church. It was a hybrid sect that fused the teachings of modern's women's liberation and biblical teachings, and to her, it felt lie home. She became one of their biggest advocates and worked her way up the hierarchy. Suddenly, dogma seemed to come with dinner. "You ever hear of the Women's Bible," she said one night. "The Women's Bible?" "It's a book by Elizabeth Cady Stanton," she said matter of factly. "It was published more than 100 years ago. Even then, it seemed absurd that only men can be priests." "She sounds ... intractable." "If she was a man, you'd say she was strong. Anyway, St. Elizabeth points out the flaws of the Boston Tea Party. That these men, these revolutionaries, dumped all of the tea -- women's favorite drink -- into the harbor. But they left the whiskey alone, because it was man's drink." "And this woman is a Saint?" "Well, the Divinity of the Virgin says she is. She was inducted last year with Eleanor Roosevelt and Marie Curie." I shook my head. "Sounds like a strange church." She shot me a look. "I think it sounds wonderful," she said. "I think it sounds like heaven." A day later, she piped up again. "Did you know that Jesus was a woman?" "According to who?" "There was a group from Germany called the Morovians. That's what they believed.." "That must be why all those guys followed her around," I said. She frowned at me and went about her business. "A woman who wrote a book supposed that Jesus had a twin sister named D'Vorah. I'm just saying. There were no photographs. How do we really know?" "Well, it's in the Bible." "Which was written by men, right?" "Come on, Stacy. The Bible is supposed to be infallible." "Infallible? I've read that men took full books out of the Bible. One of the reasons is that women were too strong in it." "I hadn't heard that." She shrugged and walked away. The next day, though, she was back at it. "In China, there is a group called The Church of the Almighty God. They think that Jesus was reborn as a woman." "Stacy, I think you're going a little too far with this stuff. " "I'm going to the Pearly Gates. You can, too, if you'll just open your mind. Women are half of the earth. Do you want to ignore them?" "No, but..." "Think about it. Rebekah. Ruth. Sarah. Esther. There were a lot of women in the Bible we should pay attention to. Instead, I keep thinking about Da Vinci telling Mary Magdalene to move out of the way so he could paint The Last Supper with all the boys. Hell, Lot's wife doesn't even get named. Is that right?" "No, but ...." "Do you know that most people don't think that God is a man? Most think God doesn't have a gender." "It doesn't matter to me if he does or not. Why is everything about sex?" "Exactly," Stacy said. "That's why you should come to church with me sometime. Just to listen to different ideas. Besides, when our priestesses wear dresses to preach, they look better than a priest does when he wears them." "Stacy! Those are robes. They're not dresses." "Right. With little touches of purple and red. If you added panties, you could take them to the prom." * * * More and more, Stacy began to pull away from her home and gravitate toward the Church. She would talk about Saint Thecla for days, and the swarm of women who followed her around. She would defend Susanna, who was falsely accused of adultery. She would debate whether Deborah was a better judge than Soloman. And so forth. Eventually, Stacy stopped going to her Catholic Church -- St. Gabriel's -- completely. She joined the Divinity of the Virgin, and quickly became an elder in the church. One night she announced that she was now Theresa. She was being elevated to "Mother" in the church. "Wait," I said. "Instead of calling the person in charge 'father'" you call them 'mother,' right?" "That's right." "So you're Mother Theresa now?" She scowled. "Luke, would you try to get it? This stuff is important to me. Do I have to leave to get you to treat me better?" "I'm sorry, baby. I was just having fun. Look. I'll go to church with you next week, okay?" She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. "You can't." "I can't?" "Luke, men aren't allowed in our church. You know that. It's a women's congregation. If you go, you'd have to..." "What?" "You'd have to become a Handmaiden." "A what?" "A Handmaiden. You'd have to surrender yourself to the spirit. You would have to emulate most things that are feminine." "I could do that," I said. "You wouldn't, would you?" "Sweetie, if that's what it takes to ... give you respect, then I will." "You'd become a believer? A neophyte?" "Uh, I guess. I don't have to handle snakes, do I?" She laughed. "No, baby. You just have to go in for training. You have to learn the prayers, and the doctrines. After that, it's just a quick boob job, and you're in." "A boob job? What do you mean, a boob job?" "Silly. In our church, you have to worship the female form. You have to pay tribute to it. We think that breasts are God's greatest gift, given to us during one of Her finest moments. All of our members have breasts. Even the Handmaidens. Some monks flog themselves. Some take a vow of silence. Our members grow breasts. My mouth was open. I stared at her. "I don't want breasts," I said. "Oh, of course you do. Your hair is kind of long. You're little. You kind of look like a girl. Believe me, Luke, you'll love them. You love being a Handmaiden. It's like being a woman in training." I shook my head. "I can't do that, Stacy." "Theresa." "Whoever. I won't become a woman for the Church." "Oh, you won't be a woman. Not a complete one. That would be blasphemy. No one's going to cut off your little soldier. We're just going to control it. Besides, some Handmaidens still become fathers." "Is that possible?" "Anything's possible. In the Bible, Sarah gave birth at the age of 90." "Wow. Was she at her kid's high school graduation?" "Oh, Luke. You are funny in your special little way. But think about it. I think the possibilities are wonderful. I'll be a mother in the Church, and you'll be a Handmaiden. We'll have a wonderful relationship. After all of this, I'd hate to leave you." "Leave me?" She glanced out the window. "I've considered it, Luke. I have thought about a more devout partner. I've wondered if it should be a woman. Claire, maybe. Do you think Claire is attractive?" Her words seared into my soul. My wife? With her friend Claire? Doing...things... to each other. "What? Claire? That isn't religious. The Bible says homosexuality is wrong." "Does it?" she said. "It also says that eating shrimp is wrong. Working on Sunday is a sin. According the Bible, you can't covet your neighbor's wife...or his donkey." "Don't leave me, Stacy....I mean, Theresa. Let me think about this." "Yes, child. I will." * * * A man doesn't wake up one day and decide to start dressing as the other gender. For me, it was a gradual wearing-down. An ebbing away of my false male pride. Stacy took to holding up her skirts against my body and grinning. She would toss panties at me the bedroom. She would ask me about which shades of lipstick I preferred. Except for a time or two as a teenager, I had never been into cross- dressing. Oh, I knew there were men who couldn't live cross-dressed. But I desired to keep my wife, and I could feel the distance between us growing. Some members of cults do severe things to join. I was just asked to wear a dress one day a week. Just one. And more and more, I began to think about it. One day, Theresa -- I couldn't think of her as Stacy anymore -- handed me a pamphlet. It read "Accepting a Mother's Love" on the front. It had a photo of a Handmaiden, a pretty young woman with brown hair, looking adoringly ahead. She was wearing a plain light blue dress. She had on lipstick and eye-liner. "That could be you," Theresa said. "She looks like somebody's maid," I said. "Well, isn't that what a Handmaiden is? When you get right down to it, she's serving the Virgin ... and her priestesses. It's the way God intended in Her infinite wisdom. You just have to submit to Her will. Accept it. It's the path She has chosen for you." "But it's ... extreme."' "So is eternity, Luke. So is hell. Would you rather worship Satan? Would you rather wash a few dishes or roast in the hellfire?" "I just...." She handed me a plain white bra. It felt warm in my hands. There was no lace, no embroidery. Still, it looked foreign to me. "Put this on," she said firmly. And I did. Day by day, the clothes felt a little more ... normal. I got better in heels. I grew used to feeling my makeup on my face. My walk improved. My voice softened. Slowly, it all didn't seem so outrageous to wear a Handmaiden's outfirt Men had started most the wars on this planet. Throughout history, men had cheated on most of their vows. Maybe there was a kinder, gentler way. Yeah, maybe I was beaten down. But suddenly, the clothes didn't seem like so much to ask. Not if you were committing to a church. I tried to read the scriptures in Theresa's voice, to accept them, to embrace them. "Who are the Handmaidens, really?" I asked out of the blue one afternoon. "Think of them like nuns," Theresa said. "They're God's servants. They take vows and give up their worldly possessions. They look after the Church, and the elders. They teach Sunday school. They hand out missives. They visit the poor." "If I do this," I said carefully, "and I'm not saying I will, but how big will my breasts have to be?" She smiled. "As big as you want. They can be small and perky or big and bold. Your choice." "Will I get a new name?" "That's part of it. You'll get to pick a name from the Bible. And as you learn to fit into your role as a Handmaiden I'll wager any amount of money that you'll love it.." I closed my eyes. I swear, I could feel my heart beat behind my eyes. My mouth was dry. I thought I might faint. "You can remove the breasts? "If anything happens to us, sure you can remove them. But I don't think you'll want to. You'll adapt to your new life, Luke. This isn't just for Sunday. This is for all day, every day. Being a Handmaiden isn't a part- time job. It's a vow, a promise to God Herself." Her words burned into me. Was I ready for this? Did I want to be a servant in her church, mincing through the valley of evil? Was I ready to join a greater cause? Yes, I said, steeling myself. I think I was. Day by day, the clothes felt a little more ... normal. I got better in heels. I grew used to feeling makeup. My walk improved. My voice softened. Slowly, it all didn't seem so outrageous to me. Men had started most the wars on this planet, had grabbed the most land, had jailed the most innocents.. Throughout history, men had cheated on most of their vows. Maybe there was a kinder, gentler way. Yeah, maybe Luke was beaten down. But suddenly, the clothes didn't seem like so much to ask. Not if you were committing to a church. "Okay," I said. To me, it sounded like my Final Judgment. * * It was three months later, and I stood poised over a water basin as the congregation looked on. I was wearing a light blue dress. I was aware of my small earrings and the crucifix around my neck. I was wearing pale hose and black flats. Theresa, my Mother, cradled my head in her hands. She dunked it into the water. "In the name of God the Mother, the Daughter, and the Holy Spirit, I baptize thee ... Rebekah. Join your fellow Handmaidens and prepare to serve." I, Rebekah, emerged from the water, my hair wet around my face, and heard the applause. I had done it. I was a Handmaiden. I was a she. In hindsight, it hadn't taken that much conversion. I was kind of ashamed of how compliant I had been, of how quickly I had put on the bra and panties and gone to work. I actually liked having breasts, the weight of them, the warmth of them, the erotic sensations when I touched them. In the days to come, I would learn that my former friends were fading away fast. They thought I was a wing nut, a zealot who was dangerous and half-crazy. Time replaced them with new friends, sister Handmaidens like Ruth and Esther. We became close, shopping together, cleaning together, eating together. "How are you and Mother Maria?" I asked her one day. "They're wonderful," she said. "But, um, Mother has been acting like a Daddy lately." "A Daddy?" "Yeah. Now, this is just between us, but lately, she, um, likes to be aggressive in bed." "What do you mean?" "Do you know what pegging is?" "Pegging? No, I don't know." "That's when she straps on Moses, her dildo, and does my booty," Ruth said. "Wham, bam, her husband's a ma'am." "She...she fornicates with your rear?" "She does. Two or three times," Ruth said, giggling. "Oh, my," I said. "What else?" "She makes me ... treat it like a lollipop. Lick and suck." "That sounds awful." "Not really. I kind of like it when she pulls my hair and calls me names." "Wow. That's ... something. Mother and I don't have sex anymore." "Never? You might as well be in one of those metal cages. A lot of sisters wear them." "No need," I said. "We're caged by disuse. I've taken a vow of chastity." "That's tough. But still, I like this life," Ruth said one day. "It makes a lot more sense to me. Our roles are more defined." "I fought it," I said. "I thought Mother went too far." Ruth wrinkled her brow. "I you think about it, you and Mother Theresa, it's kind of like a maid and her mistress, isn't it?" "You're bonkers." "No, hear me out. We dress like women. We clean. When the elders have lunch, we serve the wine. They're sissies; we're sisters. What's the difference, really?" "The difference is Mother," I said. "She's so wise." "She spends a lot of time with Mother Claire, doesn't she?" I shrugged. "Women need an intellectual equal," I said. "Yeah. Especially one who is a good kisser." "Behave, Jezebel," I said. "Tamar!" Ruth said, returning the jibe. "Bathsheba!" "Salome!" Ruth laughed. I laughed. What the priestesses did was not of my concern. I was a lay woman. I did what I was told. I rose from the couch and straightened my skirt. I went back to work ironing Mother's robes.. As God intended. * * The old woman lay in her hospice bed as I gently swabbed her forehead with a damp cloth. She looked up at me, gratefully, and smiled a thin smile. It was Saturday, and the Handmaidens were tending the elders at the St. Priscilla Facility. The woman was named Jael, after the warrior who had killed Siscera in the Bible. She was one of the Matriarchs of the Church, an original member who time had caught up to. "You are sweet, child," she said to me. I held her aged hand. "Thank you, my lady," I said. "Do you like bring a transexual for God?" she asked. "I'm ... I'm not a transexual. I'm a Handmaiden." She smiled gently. "Is there a difference, child? You are wearing a dress. Your makeup is perfect. Your hair is permed. You're a transexual, child. Tell me: Does you pee-pee feel good in your panties?" "Ma'am. Please don't ask me about that." She nodded. "It's okay. Gender is matter of the flesh. Where we are going, the flesh does not matter. It's okay that you're a woman." "I ... I wouldn't describe myself as a woman." "Ah, but you are. You were looking at Carlos, the orderly of the floor, weren't you?" "No...no, ma'am," I said. "It's okay. I bet you imagine him naked. It is part of being mortal.' "Ma'am. I have taken a vow of chastity. I am married to Mother Theresa." "I know Theresa. She's with Claire, right?" I blushed furiously. "They're friends," I said. "A lot of Mothers are friends with each other. In a world where men are not equal, it's natural." "If you say so, Mother Jael." "Allow me to ask you this, girl. What color panties are you wearing?" "Excuse me." "For someone who isn't a transvestite, plain white underwear will do. What color are you wearing? I blushed. "Black lace," I said. "Who do you expect to see them?" she grinned. "No one. I just...thought they were pretty." She smiled. "Do you like having breasts?" "Um...well... they're okay," I stammered. "Most Handmaidens love their mammaries. They're so womanly. When you touch them, you feel closer to the Virgin, don't you?" "I just do my job, ma'am," I said. "Most sissies do," she said. "SIsters," I said. "Sissies," she insisted. "Let's call a spade a spade. You bow and scrape and clean and cook. Being faithful doesn't mean you're not a sissy. " "But I'm not..." "Child, let's speak candidly. I see you as being predestined to be a woman. I think if the Church hadn't happened, you'd have discovered yourself at Halloween or a costume party. Maybe playing your wife's laundry. You were born to this, girl. Religion merely got you here." I looked at the floor. I didn't want to agree with her, but the clothes did feel nice. She went on. "You're a natural submissive, child. If your Mother told you to suck a dick, you'd do it. You'd want to do it. If she told you to dress up like Barney and do the boogaloo, you'd do it. Because you do what you're told, like a good Handmaiden." "I've vowed chastity," I said. "It doesn't mean anything unless you are denying your desires, girl. And you're presenting as a woman these days. It's natural you would be attracted to men, that you would dream about them, that you would want them. Look at that man over there, Carlos. What's in your head?" It was wrong, I knew. But I looked at Carlos, and at his beefy arms, and at his small goatee. He had a nice smile, good teeth. I could imagine his penis. Suddenly, I was aware that I was wearing a dress, and lingerie, and makeup. "Don't you want him, child?" Jael asked. "No," I whispered aloud. "Yes," my heart shouted inside. * * * Some time later, at home, I stood in front of a hallway mirror, nude, and thought about the changes in my life. The image in front of me was female, except for one small difference. My hair had been permed into a long shag, and I was wearing makeup, as usual. This was me? This was the life I had chosen? "Hello, little one," Mother's voice came from behind me. Are you admiring the form that you have been given?" "Not...not really, Mother. I was feeling ashamed." "Shame is part of us, Rebekah. We bear our tiny humiliations and think of the grand glory." "Mother, remember when Ruth and I walked to the Women's Shelter yesterday? Some teenagers on the street called us awful names, faggots and homos, and they suggested we had anal sex with animals. It was horrible." "Oh, my child. Don't you think the Forgotten Ones were called names? Ostracized? Scorned? The Forgotten Ones were holy women, Mary Magdaline and Joanna, Susanna and Lydia. Not only were their names omitted from the gospel, most don't even know their names. How about Noelle? When she built the ark, her neighbors made fun of her." "That was Noah." She smiled. "Is that what you were taught? You probably don't even realize it was Deborah, Phoebe and Hannah in the Lion's Den. You need to read the new scriptures." And I did. So help me, Junia. * * I was at peace. I found contentment in my chores, in my prayers, in tending the small children of the flock. Some of the young men, I thought, would become fine Handmaidens themselves someday. I liked wearing the dresses, and I could hardly wait to graduate into a black uniform on the next step of my journey. One night, at home, Mother had asked me to bring tea to the parlor. When I entered, a gray-hair man who looked like Elvis' was sitting on the couch. "Rebekah, my child," Mother said. "This is Billy Bob Baker. He's the head of the Mount Union Episcopal Church, as you may know. They are proposing an alliance with the Divinity of the Virgin." I curtsied. I knew better than to speak. "Reverend Baker is aware that not even the men of his flock can enter our church, Rebekah. But his chapel needs tending, and we have all these Handmaidens with nothing to do. What do you think about cleaning for our brother?" I gritted my teeth. I had undergone so much scorn, so much ridicule over dressing like a woman. Hell, I couldn't even change during the week because of my breasts and hair. And this ... this used-car salesman was going to waltz in and make me work for him? "It is Mother's decision," I said aloud. "See. Reverend. Our girls are obedient." "Well, I only need one, maybe two, of the sissies daily." "The sisters, you mean," Mother corrected him. "You say potato," Billy Bob said. "I say Tater Tots," "How about if Rebekah serves you on Monday and Wednesday? We'll pass around a sign-up sheet for other days. Her buddy Ruth should be available." "That sounds good. Can you make them wear higher heels? I love a chick with a dick when she wears heels." "Brother, be nice," Mother said. "Oh, I'm very nice. You'll see, Becky." "Rebekah," I said. "Huh?" "It's not Becky, sir," I said. "It's Rebekah." "It'll be 'Man, my ass hurts' if you don't show some respect, girly, Now behave before I unleash the apostles on your ass. " "Yes, Sir," I said. Mother rose. She was sure that some of Billy Bob's congregation would see that her church offered a better path, one without men in the way. Philistine! * * Ruth may have been onto something, I thought as I swept the floor. We ARE maids. It is our lot. We clean. We submit. To God, and to everyone else. I emptied the waste baskets. How do waste baskets get full in a church? Do people leave their garbage here? Yet, there were filled. I moved around the place, cleaning, polishing. Then I turned, and Reverend Billy Bob was leaning back in the front pew. He had a sneer on his face. "Oh, hello, Reverend," I said. "I like your dress. Does it come in pink? I love my fairies in pink." "It's ... it's a uniform, sir. Our church uniform. The elders pick the colors." "So if a dick-smoker like you wants to wear a prom dress, can he?" "We wear our uniforms, sir," Rebekah said. "Well, you know what they say," Billy Bob said. "It ain't what you wear. It's what you take off." "If you say so, sir." "It's just you and me, Becky. Why don't we get to know each other better? You can be the white horse, and I'll be the Pale Rider. Hubba hubba." "Sir...I'm married, sir." "Hell, me too. Three times. What does that prove?" "Sir, I need to clean." "Becky, do you know about the Garden of Eden?" "Yes, sir, I've read the story in the traditional Bible and the women's Bible." "You know it involves a woman and the big, mean snake she couldn't say no to?" "Yes, sir." "Kind of like this one," Billy Bob said, dropping his trousers. He wasn't wearing underwear, and his short, thick penis stared at Rebekah. It was the golden calf of penises. "Sir, this is improper," I said. "Is it?" Billy Bob sat back down and spread his legs. "What do you think your mama would say?" "Mother would say no thank you." "I don't think she would. I think mama told you to be nice to the reverend, didn't she? I"m God's instrument; you should play me. She told you to do what I wanted, didn't she?" "I...I guess." "Then come give the cobra a kiss, girl. Your kind always wants to kiss a dick. You know it and I know it." "Sir. This isn't right." "If loving you is wrong..." Billy Bob warbled. I was appalled. But I didn't run. I stood there, frozen, afraid. Then started to move slowly forward, my submissive nature taking over. I was filled with desire at the sight of a naked man. My clothing, my lifestyle, were guiding me now. Lust, I thought, and I parted my lips. Lust was a deadly sin. And it overwhelmed me. * * Theresa watched me cry. She shook her head at her Handmaiden's weakness. I'd sucked off that heathen? For crying out loud. She stroked my hair. I slid to the floor, my head still in her lap. She ran her hands maternally through my hair. Long ago, when I was still Luke, she had sucked his penis, too. And it was good. But now, she looked at this sniveling little girl in front of her, sobbing, and she felt her own strength. She would never submit again. That was for the Handmaidens. "Rebekah," she said. "You did what you did for the church. We gained 41 new members this week. Our advertising is up. You did well for us." I sniffled. I looked at the Mother. "I'm sorry, madam," I said. "Don't be," she said. "The Bible is full of trollops. They all served their use. You will, too." "Trollops?" "Yes, Rebekah. We have found your calling. You're going to be the Whore of the Lord. You will continue to satisfy the men who work for and with Reverend Billy Bob. Men are sheep. They all need to be left weak and drained for the coming crusades. We may be onto an 11th Commandment here. 'Thou Shalt Blow Men for the Glory of the Mother.' I looked up, aghast. I was to be a harlot? A fallen woman (sort of)? Men were to use me for the greater good/ And Mother laughed loud and long. Softly, she started humming an old hymn. Wait. No, it wasn't a hymn. It was "I Am Woman." From my knees, I heard it as the sound of a heavenly choir. Hallelujah! Copyright 2020, Cassandra Morgan