For Dr Evie Morton, epiphanies usually came when hunched over her desk in the museum basement, not at 3am when her unborn son booted her bladder. She rolled to face the ceiling, mind spinning like the fan, disturbed air barely a whisper against her skin at this distance. Everything fell into place. All the puzzle pieces, the research, the late nights. All connected.

Excitement rose.

Occam's razor. Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate.

The maxim that the simplest idea in any set of competing theories is usually correct is widely attributed to Ockham, but it wasn't solely his work. Before that, his contemporary, Durandus of Saint-Pourçain, taught the concept that a person should prefer the conclusions of their own reasoning to any authority, except in articles of faith.

And that was where he went wrong. Blinded by faith, it allowed Ockham to generalise the concept and gain notoriety. After all, why should faith get a free pass? Why should the Bible be taken as gospel without critique? And why should anyone who questions it be discredited as a non-believer? A heretic. A crazy.

Her husband gave a stuttered snore, and she turned to face him. Slid her hand beneath the covers and stroked his pecs. He muttered incomprehensible vowels as she twirled stray hairs on his chest, her voice a throaty whisper. “I've got it. All the research. Everything. This could be huge.”

“Wha…”

“Shhh, sorry. Didn't mean to wake you. Junior’s on spin cycle.” She grasped his hand and placed it on her belly. “Feel that?”

His palm roamed. Paused. “Mmm-hmm.”

"This is probably going to sound ridiculous, but... how did he get there?”

John rolled his head to latch onto her gaze. Rubbed one eye, then the other. “When two people love one another, magic happe…”

She shoved him. “Silly.”

He smiled. “You mean biologically?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need a diagram?”

“No. I've seen you play Pictionary.”

“Ooft.” He stroked her belly. Walked his fingertips up until they were within an inch of her breasts. “How about a demonstration instead?” Evie rolled her eyes, and John shrugged. “Hey, it's the least you can do for waking me up. And, y’know.” He lifted the thin duvet to show her the beginnings of an erection.

She sighed. “Fine.”

Shuffling beneath the covers, she slithered a leg over his and rolled to straddle him. She tried not to let it annoy her that it took so much more effort than a few months ago.

He took in her form. The way the faint moonlight that bled through the curtains kissed her shoulders. The way her recently fuller breasts hung and skimmed the top of her swelled tummy. He slid his hands upward across its roundness and cupped her chest. She purred. Twisted away when he squeezed.

“Sensitive.”

He eased his torso up, face inches from her breasts, caught her eye and swabbed his tongue over each nipple in turn. “How about that to soothe them?”

She screwed up her nose. “Tickles a bit. Maybe… do it again, just to be sure?”

With slower, more deliberate strokes of his tongue, John lapped at his wife's firming nipples. Took one between his lips and sucked. She moaned. “Oh yeah, okay. That works.”

Offering her other breast, he drew the cap between his lips and suckled, releasing the wet peak with a plop.

“Works?”

Evie rolled her hips, smearing arousal up his firming shaft. “Works.” She set up a rhythm, dragging his cock through her progressively wetter slit, groaning every time the flared tip brushed her clit. “Mmm. Amazing that everything moves on, but sex hasn't changed in thousands of years.”

“Yeah, just think. Christopher Columbus, Mozart, even Jesus might have done exactly this.”

“Yeah,” she exhaled through her nostrils. “And before. That’s what woke me.”

He arched an eyebrow and rested his hands on her shapely hips. “Not like you to be woken by the Lord.”

“No. But it was something I read while researching this exhibit. I made the connection just now.” She twirled her hips, grinding his stiffness. “The virgin birth story is bollocks.”

“Well duh.”

“Yeah, but millions of people believe it.” She switched to rocking back and forth, juices clicking between them in the quiet room. “It’s repeated in every Bible, and referenced in a tonne of psalms and carols and sermons the world over. Why?”

He dug his fingertips in and guided her to rest with his tip at her wet entrance. “Because it's the cornerstone of the religion, perhaps?”

She wagged a finger. “More fundamental.” Tracing the fingertip down his chest, over his abdomen, she grasped his cock, aligned it with her pussy and slithered down, hissing as each millimetre filled her. “Joseph was a cuckold.”

Their hips met, and she breathed out, sitting still to allow them both to adjust. Then began micro movements, gradually building until her hips swirled in sync with her breaths. He stroked her belly. “That's a bold claim.”

“Mmm but think about it. What do all religions need?”

“Abolishing?”

She smiled. Ground her hips. “Money. They're a business, like the health service and schools. New roofs aren't cheap.” 

Lifting her hips, his shaft slithered free, and she hovered, circling so he nudged her folds. “And how do they get money?” She locked gazes and slammed onto his cock. “Power.”

He gasped as she took his entirety, but she didn't linger. Lifted free, then eased downward, shivering as he split her labia, swelling member gradually disappearing. “They have a huuuuge endowment,” her voice caught as he filled her, and she exhaled. “But there's been lots of speculation about how ethical that is. Being funded from arms deals, oil and so on isn't a good look.”

“Quite.”

His hands took in her curves as she rocked.

“They've cleaned up their act a bit recently, but the coffers are still,” she sighed as he rubbed her belly, “swollen with disreputable dealings.”

“Mmm. Do they have legit income?”

“Yes and no. They have a tonne of land. The Catholic church alone owns over 170 million acres, let alone the other branches of the faith.”

“Wow,” he slithered his hands up to cup her tits and took their weight, “impressive.”

She exhaled. “The rest of their income is from convincing the congregation to part with cash. For nothing.”

Hoisting her boobs, he thumbed the caps, and she gasped, swirling her hips on his rod. “And they do that through fear. Fear that if you don't do it, terrible things will happen to you. If not now, some time in the future.”

John gripped her nipples and pinched. She gasped. Smiled. “Naughty naughty. You're not gonna make it to heaven like that.”

“I'll take my chances.”

“Mmm. And that's what separates you from the flock. Fear drives them to comply.” She took a shaky breath when he pinched and rolled her nipples harder. “Think about it. If you're gaslit, week in, week out, reiterating how bad you've been. How much sin there is around. How much worldly temptation you must resist, well, it'll take its toll. You'll live in fear.”

He released her boobs and grabbed her hips. Guided her up and down on his length in a steady rhythm. “With you so far.”

Evie ground her hips in her husband's lap and sighed. “But there are slivers of hope. One: you can buy your way into heaven by helping the church funds. Two: if you believe, and you're good in this life, good things will happen in the future. So when they bury you in a box, you'll be resurrected as something better and have a better life than now.”

“Sounds too good to be true.”

Lifting herself free, John's wet cock slapped his belly, and she slithered down his legs, stooping to play her breath across it, eyeing him. “It's a miracle.”

She curled a hand around him and lifted his manhood to vertical, wanking slow strokes. “And how do you sell the miracle that you can come back to life? It's easy!” Kissing her way up and down his sticky shaft, she nibbled her way up to the crown. “Find some powerful historical figure to demonstrate it.”

With practised ease, she slipped her lips around him and descended almost to the base. He exhaled. “Jesus.”

Evie grinned around his cock. Sucked and slurped, rising to pop clear, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “But is one miracle enough to convince people? No! So let's tell stories of this guy performing miracles throughout his life. Feeding 5000, turning water into wine, curing leprosy, making blind people see, rising from the dead, everything.”

She sucked him again, a little further, only reversing when she almost gagged. Taking a breath, she added, “And then, to really hammer home the magic, how did that miraculous person come into existence in the first place?” Rising to her knees again, she shuffled to position herself over his staff, and guided him in. Sighed. “Immaculate conception.”

They bucked on the bed, her hands on his chest as she rode his length. “Making people believe in miracles requires demonstration. But who’s witnessed one?”

“Well, our insurance premium went down this year.”

She laughed. “Okay, aside from that, the only way to convince people is indoctrination.” She bounced a little harder. “Repetition. Over and over. Until it's gospel.”

John’s breathing deepened as their actions sped up further. “That's quite an accusation. You sure you want to go public? It'll piss off some powerful people.”

She waved his concerns away. Rode him harder. “It's only conjecture. Nobody can prove it one way or the other. Like that claim that someone mistranslated 'young woman' as 'virgin' and the church ran with it.” Their hips slapped in the night stillness, and she moaned, tipping her head back.

His excitement stepped up another notch. Then another, the pace of their bodies steady, reaching a plateau. He slid his hands to her belly and rested them, rocking in sync with her. “You're so sexy, my love. So strong and brilliant.” He bit his lip. Inhaled. “Fuck. I'm gonna cu—”

The sentence hung, unfinished, and he drew a second sharp breath, stiffening. She moaned and rode as he pulsed inside her, gently stroking her swelled tummy. Evie's eyes fluttered as a mini climax surfaced, flushing her chest. She shivered through it and gently rode him, slowing as his groans subsided.

Clambering off, she flopped to her side and propped her head up on her hand, gazing at her husband. He scooched in and hugged her, gently stroking her side. “That was lovely.”

“Mmmm. But you distracted me from my story.”

“Oops.”

“Where were we?”

“Umm, indoctrination I think.”

Evie screwed her eyes up in concentration. “Ah yes. Okay. So all these miracles are probably founded in bits of truth and hearsay passed down through generations. Remember, the church as we know it didn't exist at this point—it was allegedly formed in the first century by Jesus, and its values were founded on good deeds. Family: one man and one woman in holy matrimony, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, and all that. So when they were compiling these stories to demonstrate good, they'd be scrabbling around for miracles.”

“Which are few and far between, I expect.”

“Exactly. But there's these stories of poor Mary and Joseph who have been trying for a child and not managed it, then all of a sudden, bam, she's pregnant.”

“A miracle!”

“The perfect miracle.”

John stroked her belly and nuzzled her neck. Paused. “So you're saying… Joseph was shooting blanks?”

“That’s what I've concluded. But she's committed. Wants a child. Where does she get one? There's no IVF clinic in Nazareth.”

“Someone else.”

“Not just anyone. A Roman soldier. I uncovered an account from a nosey villager.”

“Really?”

“Aha. But the Romans persecuted the early Christians. The fledgling religion was at odds with the prevailing Roman imperial cult. So they gloss over that bit and concoct a story that the Holy Spirit impregnated her and an angel told Joseph in a dream: it's okay, dude, you can make an honest woman of her and marry her, instead of running away to have the kid in secret.” She waved her hand. “I'm paraphrasing, but that's the gist of Matthew 1:18-25.”

He carried on drawing circles round her tummy and nibbled her shoulder. Rolled her onto her back and kissed his way down over her breasts, her belly, her thigh. He caressed. Nuzzled. Knelt up and massaged her legs in languid strokes. “Go on.”

She purred at the touches, then continued. “Whether you believe that the spirit fucked her or not, whichever way you slice it, Joseph was cuckolded, and the church had to twist the truth to support their fledgling values. And as the book was compiled, if they lied about that to protect their credibility as an organisation, they have to keep spinning the yarns forever to save face.” The excitement in her eyes caught the moonlight. “Begs the question: what other bits of the Bible are made up?”

John lengthened his massaging strokes, from knee to hip, occasionally brushing the soft hairs of her mound. “Well. That's a tall tale.”

“Mmm. No taller than the ‘official’ story. Some finger descends from the heavens, points at Mary and bellows It's You, and she bears a child.”

“I guess. So how did it,” he bent and kissed her pussy, flicked his tongue through the tangy folds as she sighed in satisfaction, “go down?”

“Mary either put the feelers out for a virile bull soldier, or chose one from the neighbouring town, Sepphoris. Arranged a visit after hours.”

He fluttered his tongue, still stroking her thighs. “And Joseph watched?”

“Yeah. Imagine. It fits with Roman arrogance. They liked to make a statement.”

He traced his kisses up, pausing to flick her clit. Carried on up and crawled alongside, then trailed a fingertip down her tummy to seek her wet folds. Stroked and she sighed. “From the accounts I uncovered, the soldier didn't travel alone. There were three; two to guard Joseph by the chair as the chosen one leads her to bed. Spreads her legs and gazes at her pussy.” John began circling her clit, and she gasped. “He'd struggle at first, but the guards would hold him, while the soldier belittled Joseph's pathetic lack of sperm.”

“That's insane. Why would any man put up with that?” He slithered a fingertip between her labia and gently began fucking her.

“Think of the times. Romans ruled for 500 years for good reason. They're very, ohhh, persuasive.”

“Mmm. So Joseph sits there as this centurion takes off his battle gear. Strips down and strokes himself hard?”

“Yup. He'd play to the audience. Demonstrate his might. Show Joseph what a real man loike and the poor guy would probably even get hard under his toga as this strapping giant of a man hauls Mary to the bed edge, gazes down and enters her.”

John picked up speed fingering his wife's pussy, and she parted her thighs. His free hand drifted to a breast, and he massaged it. Pinched her nipple.

“He'd grab for her chest. Rip her tunic and clutch her tits, looking over at Joseph as he pounded his soon-to-be-wife. She'd be beside herself, having never been taken this way. Joseph would have been a gentleman. Patient and loving, and here she was getting royally…” Her husband upped the pace again. Anchored a thumb on her clit and she gasped, “Fucked.”

“Mmm, I know someone who likes that.”

“Yeah,” she breathed hard. “It’s very different, being manhandled. She'd have been sighing and groaning as he split her over and over, driving deep into her fertile channel.”

John rocked his palm, one finger, then two, gliding deep inside Evie’s wet pussy. Her narration started to break up as filthy squelches filled the room. “Nnggn, so good… poor Joseph though. Watching this stud rail his p… partner. Seeing the pleasure rise as he… fucks. And fucks. Maybe he pulls, aahhhfuck, pulls out. Hauls her onto all fours. Makes her face Joseph ohh fuck that's good. More. Harder.”

He obliged, raking his fingertips along the inside wall of her pussy. “Is that what she was saying?”

Evie smiled, frowned, smiled, jaw dropping. “Ohhh. Probably louder when he grabbed her hair. Tugged her onto his massive cock. He'd be… ohhh God, right there,” She swallowed. “He'd be beside himself watching her get owned. Ploughed. Destroyed by this… beast of a man. Can you imagine their hips slapping together? Her groans ringing out each… each time he thrust.”

Her eyes rolled back as John dug deeper. Harder, wetness tumbling from her slit around his knuckles. “He'd own her. Completely ruin her. Bang her into the bed, holding her head up by the hair so Joseph could s… see the ecstasy painted on her face. So he could… detect the rapture, the very moment the soldier roared and unleashed the first spurt of potent cum into her womb. And every jet thereafter.”

She gasped as he beckoned his fingertips back and forth inside, progressively faster until his hand blurred. The squelches became more intense, her rasping deeper, escalating until it led to the shriek of climax, her resolve crumbling, thighs clapping together at the waves of release pulsing through her body.

Her frame quaked, droplets of liquid spraying across the sheets and drizzling from their skin, her sharp cries echoing round the room. Her skin flushed, muscles stiff, insides rhythmically clawing at his buried digits until it all became too much. She twisted away, releasing his soaked hand and panted hard, still dripping as John hungrily licked his palm and fingers clean alongside, patiently waiting for the storm inside her to fade.

When she rolled over and faced him, he stroked hair from her temple. Moonlight caught his smile. “Was that the second cumming?”

She giggled. “Silly.” Blew a stray strand of hair from across her lips. “Who'd have thought my research would make me horny.”

“I approve. So, you're sure that's how it played out? It's pretty wild.”

Evie shrugged. “The evidence is there, in print, hidden in plain sight, but everyone is scared to address it. I'm not. When you strip away the faith that blinds us, what's left? Occam's razor.” She took his hand and cradled it to her hot cheek. “Who knows, maybe the bull went more than one round. Y’know, to be absolutely sure. Gave Mary the debauched night of her life while Joseph sat there powerless, flanked by guards in a pool of his own jizz, watching her pleasure cresting and overflowing time and again.”

“That's quite the picture.”

“It is. But there's more. What if the centurion and his soldiers were The Three Wise Men paying a visit at the birth? Checking up. Reminding Joseph of his place.”

“Wow.” He let it sink in. “So, not gold, frankincense and myrrh, but threat, recapitulation and awkward stares.”

“Precisely.”

He shook his head in wonder. “C’mere, you.”

Snuggling against her, he stroked her skin, the life between them shifting every so often until it, too, quieted with her lengthening breaths and they all slept.

~=≅=~

Opening night at the museum was packed. Probably the most patrons Evie had ever seen. A low-level murmur and the clink of glasses filled the gallery space she'd been allocated on the third floor as she sipped a flute of champagne and threaded through the crowd. She paused every so often to acknowledge the pleasantries and shake hands or kiss the dignitaries, VIPs and members of the press who offered congratulations for curating the collection.

Dotted throughout the exhibition space were subversive works by contemporary artists and sculptors, depicting various parts of the fable as she believed it, not as the church did. The project had been under wraps for months, shrouded in secrecy, with viral teasers released at key points in the Christian calendar: Christmas, Lent, Easter, and Pentecost, primarily. The big unveiling today, Trinity Sunday, marked the culmination of a year or so of research, appointing like-minded artists, commissioning the works, and liaising with the museum and endless contractors. It helped being on the museum payroll.

Evie put down her empty flute on the tray of a passing staff member, and smoothed her cocktail dress. It was snug, but the yoga and pilates were paying off, and her mummy tummy wasn't as bad as she'd feared.

John was at home with Liam. She had invited her husband, pledging a babysitter for the night off from fathering, but he said he'd just be a spare part. And besides, it was her night, her research, her work, and she should be the sole focus to bask in the glory.

She circled the room doing just that, until she stood alongside the exhibit’s centrepiece; the most incendiary of the collection. It was a specially commissioned oil on canvas piece by renowned artist Antony Lapazuli that depicted Joseph, head hung low, with a pair of soldiers stationed either side of his chair. Opposite him, Mary was on all fours on the bed, mouth agape, the centurion kneeling behind her, their hips touching, both clearly in the throes of passion.

The title of the work was prominently displayed beneath:

Cunnus Immaculata

Roughly translated as The Immaculate Cunt.

She admired it. The stark brushwork and attention to detail evoked echoes of the impressionist Degas, but it was uniquely Lapazulian.

A voice to her left startled her.

“Quite the bombshell.”

“Thank you.” She regarded his tailored suit, the stubble dappled with grey flecks, and his piercing brown eyes. “I don't believe we've met.”

He extended his hand, and Evie took it. “Gareth Arundale. Special envoy to the Pope. I wonder if you have a moment to discuss a business arrangement.”

Evie withdrew her hand, tilted her head. It didn't sound like a request. “As you can see, I'm rather busy. Another time, perhaps?”

His smile was thin-lipped. “I'm afraid I must insist.” He stepped aside and extended his arm in invitation. A gentlemanly gesture, but one which revealed a sidearm concealed beneath, tucked in a small holster.

Colour drained from Evie's face, heart thumping. She turned away, scanning the room for some way to escape, but the only exits were the main gallery doors ahead of her or the emergency doors behind.

“Please, Mrs Morton.” He nodded to the main entrance.

She sighed. Slumped her shoulders. Moved. Each step seemed to take an age, mind whirling. Fresh air from beyond the doors greeted her, contrasting the heat of the hundreds of bodies in the gallery.

“Left,” Gareth commanded. “Downstairs.”

She turned, heels clicking in the open space of the wide staircase.

As surreptitiously as possible at a dogleg on the 2nd floor, she unsnapped her clutch purse. At the next floor, she reached inside and held the side button of her phone, praying it was long enough to connect her one emergency contact: John.

The ground floor loomed, deserted this time of night. No sooner did she reach the bottom, two pairs of hands grabbed her. Evie’s shriek was silenced by a gloved hand across her mouth, then a Hessian bag was looped over her head and secured around her neck.

She was dragged backward, kicking her heels. One fell off, left behind with her dropped clutch bag. Inside it, a tinny voice emanated: “Evie? Can you hear me? The connection’s terrible. Evie? EVIE?!”

Gareth stooped. Picked up the items. Regarded the display and powered off the phone to silence the voice, then followed his colleagues to the waiting van, climbed in, and it drove away at pace.