Veronica Vespera
This story takes place on the outskirts of São Paulo, Brazil, within the vibrant and often intense world of a Pentecostal church community. A recurring figure in this setting is the obreiro—a lay minister deeply involved in church life. Though not ordained, obreiros help lead services, evangelize in the streets, and participate in spiritual warfare such as exorcisms. They are highly respected and committed figures within the church hierarchy.
“Brothers and sisters, I need to warn you. The Devil is all around us, trying to make us fall.”
In a Pentecostal church tucked deep in the working-class neighborhoods on the edges of São Paulo, Pastor Carlos delivered his sermon with intensity.
“Don’t expect him to show up red, horned, and with a tail. You’d run from that. No—he’ll come to you looking beautiful. Innocent. And you’ll start letting him into your life.”
The congregation listened closely, nodding at every warning. Pastor Carlos, now twenty-eight, was a rising figure in his denomination. At twenty-two, he had left behind his “wrong life,” giving up old friends, drinking, parties, and women. At church, he was drawn to the ministry and worked his way up. Single, he led the services whenever the head pastor was unavailable. This particular Wednesday evening was important; it was his chance to leave a mark on the congregation—and on those higher up.
With the senior pastor away, Carlos was the highest authority in the church that night. After the service, he led a closed meeting with the obreiros—the lay ministers who volunteered and worked closely with the clergy. All the faces were familiar. These were people he saw every day, devoted members of the church. But one face stood out.
A redhead.
A strikingly beautiful redhead in her early twenties whom he had never seen before.
“Who are you? I’ve never seen you here before,” he asked, speaking directly to her in a firm, pastoral tone.
“Pastor, my name is Verônica Véspera. I’m an obreira from the regional headquarters. I just moved to this neighborhood and was transferred here. I have a letter.”
Carlos accepted the answer, satisfied. He kept his serious demeanor, signaling concern over someone unfamiliar entering a sacred space. And now, he knew her name.
The days went by, and the beautiful Verônica Véspera caught everyone’s eye—especially Pastor Carlos’. She wasn’t just beautiful; she was dedicated. She evangelized every morning outside the church, then returned in the evening for the main services. She always had a Bible in hand and flipped to obscure books with ease. Zephaniah or Psalm 23—she knew it all. On Fridays, when exorcisms were most frequent, she was one of the most fervent participants—a true terror to any demon daring to manifest.
At the end of each day, after services, Carlos sought secret relief. His Firefox in incognito mode took him to XVideos. Since Verônica’s arrival, his search history had shifted. Faye Reagan now topped Lana Rhoades. His searches read: “redhead schoolgirl,” “redhead nurse,” “redhead threesome,” “redhead cop.”
He had never exchanged a word with her, yet she dominated his thoughts. He did his research. Yes, the transfer letter was real. Her social media profiles were discreet, filled with Bible quotes more than photos. And one detail stood out: her Instagram bio read, “Looking for a man of God to be my husband.” That was all Carlos needed. What was missing was the opportunity—and the courage.
One sunny afternoon, on a rare pastoral day off, Carlos was at the supermarket. In the parking lot, he recognized her immediately. It was the first time he saw her without her church uniform or a Bible in hand. Verônica Véspera was awkwardly loading groceries into a small red car.
“Hello, obreira. Need a hand?”
“Oh… hi, Pastor,” she replied, clearly flustered. “Yes, please. I stocked up big time—there was nothing at home.”
Inside the cart: real food. Proteins, vegetables, ingredients. No junk food.
“You eat very well,” Carlos noted.
“I love to cook. And I never eat junk. Our body is the temple of the Holy Spirit.”
Carlos took that as a sign from God. She was perfect.
After loading the car, she tried to reverse and nearly hit another vehicle.
“Careful!” he warned.
“I’m a terrible driver. Can you help me get out? The parking spot at my building is even worse.”
Carlos offered not only to park her car, but to accompany her home to ensure she made it into the tight spot safely.
She lived nearby. The path from the gate to her parking space was narrow. A real challenge.
“Well, since I’m here, I should help carry the groceries up,” Carlos volunteered.
“That would be great. I still need to clean and store all this.”
Carlos helped her with the bags and rode the elevator to her apartment. It was modest but comfortable, with religious items scattered around. What stood out was the abundance of pictures of herself—and the absence of family photos. She lived alone.
“Would you like some coffee, Pastor? As a thank-you?”
“Gladly.”
Carlos saw his chance. His romantic interest was strong.
She made the coffee the old-fashioned way, using a cloth filter. She offered sugar; he declined. The smell was divine.
“I’d like to know more about you,” Carlos said.
“About me? What would you like to know?”
“You just appeared one day. No one knows anything personal. You’re… mysterious.”
“That’s true. I don’t open up much. I don’t have many friends. I’m dedicated to my mission.”
Carlos’ eyes lit up.
“And you, Pastor? What can you tell me?”
He liked that she asked.
“Well, you see me every day. I’m a pastor. I preach.”
“Yes. And you really like redheads, don’t you?” Verônica said, direct.
“Excuse me?”
“You really like redheads. After the service, before bed, you watch those videos on your computer.”
A chill ran through him. Something was off. Terribly off.
“What are you talking about, obreira? What is this nonsense?”
“Pastor, tell me. If the Devil appeared before your eyes… would you recognize him?”
“I think so. I mean—they manifest during our services. You help exorcise them…”
“‘The Devil won’t show up red, with horns and a tail. You’d run from that. He’ll appear beautiful. Innocent. And you’ll let him in.’”
Verônica sat beside him and whispered:
“Pastor… I think you failed to recognize your enemy.”
Carlos jumped to his feet.
“What the hell is this?!”
“You started desiring redheads the moment you laid eyes on me. Every night, you search for: redhead schoolgirl, redhead nurse, redhead this, redhead that…”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’m there. But you don’t see me there.”
“You’re saying you’re… a demon?”
“Yes. My name is Véspera. ‘Verônica’ is just a disguise. My mission is to lead men like you into temptation.”
“This is insane.”
Véspera snapped her fingers.
The apartment changed instantly. Religious icons inverted into satanic symbols. The lamp turned into black candles. The whole room took on a sinister air.
She snapped again. Her clothes transformed into a provocative schoolgirl outfit.
“Let me see if I remember… ‘Oh, Professor, you gave me a bad grade, but I need an A. I’ll do anything.’”
Carlos stared in horror. Véspera laughed. Snap—now she wore a sexy police uniform.
“You like redheads in uniforms. ‘You’ve been a very naughty criminal. Time for your punishment.’”
Snap. Now, a nurse.
“This one really does it for you, doesn’t it, Pastor? Admit it. I look amazing in this.”
“I rebuke you, demon! You are bound!”
“Oh please. You know there are ranks, Pastor. And for my rank, that doesn’t work. Besides… you stepped into my lair.”
“You poisoned that coffee…”
“Poison?” She laughed. “The poison has always been inside you.”
Véspera walked to the apartment door and opened it.
“You know what to do. I’m giving you a chance to run—if you can.”
Carlos knew what he was supposed to do: flee. Fast. But his body betrayed him. Dry mouth. Heart racing. Sweat.
It wasn’t fear. It was desire. Sin, soaked in guilt.
Véspera began to unbutton the nurse outfit slowly, her eyes fixed on his, a smile on her crimson lips.
“You’re not going to run, are you, Pastor? You’ve already sinned a thousand times with me in your thoughts. All that’s left is to touch me.”
Carlos’s stomach turned. Sin was kneeling in front of him. Ready to devour his faith.
“This isn’t right…” he muttered, trying to convince himself.
“But it feels good,” Véspera whispered, slipping the outfit off her shoulders.
Her breasts—perfectly round, firm, pink-nippled—beckoned him.
He stepped forward. She didn’t flinch. She moved in closer.
“You always preach about spiritual warfare, Pastor… well, the battle is here now.”
She unbuckled his belt, slowly.
“This is… this is wrong…”
“This is inevitable.”
And she kissed him.
A fiery, deep kiss that made Carlos lose control. He responded with fury, pinning her to the wall, hands roaming the body he had fantasized about so many times. It was real now. The redhead, the schoolgirl, the cop, the nurse—she was all of them. She was Véspera.
She laughed between kisses, triumphant. Her hand found his hardness and stroked it expertly.
“See, Pastor? I’m your downfall. And you love it.”
They stripped. The Bible fell to the floor. The cross flipped upside down. They fell onto the couch, skin against skin, the scent of sin in the air.
Carlos didn’t remember how they got to the bedroom. Maybe they crawled. Maybe they exploded. All he knew was that she was riding him, her red hair wild, her face in ecstasy.
She lowered onto him with precision—tight, wet, hot. It had been years since he’d felt this. She moved with confidence, mastery.
“Oh my God…” he gasped.
“God?” Véspera mocked. “You’re mine now.”
Her rhythm was demonic. He couldn’t hold back. Years of repression dissolved in her.
She leaned down to whisper:
“Beg me. I want to hear your holy mouth say it.”
“I… I want you. Don’t stop. Never stop…”
She bit his lip and rode harder. He was lost. Moaning. Trembling. Possessed.
Then she slid down, taking him into her mouth—an infernal oral that pushed him over the edge. He came hard. She drank it all, like consuming his soul. She dug her nails into his back, leaving a deep scratch.
“You’re mine now, Pastor. You belong to me.”
Carlos passed out.
When he woke, he was alone. The apartment was empty. The lair had vanished. But the scratch remained.
He went back to church, pretending nothing happened. Verônica Véspera disappeared as suddenly as she arrived.
People whispered about her:
“She was so devoted. Too bad she fell away from the Lord…”
Carlos couldn’t speak. His sermons became lifeless. He couldn’t preach about demons anymore—not without remembering her. He craved her. His XVideos searches grew darker. He tried to relive that night.
One day, he was summoned by the head pastor. He’d been caught—an open XVideos tab in an email screenshot to the bishop. He was dismissed. His life—ruined.
One evening, he passed by the supermarket. A red Celta parked flawlessly between two tight spots.
It was her.
“You were looking for me,” Véspera said.
“You ruined my life. I can’t stop thinking about you. Life has no meaning without you.”
“I told you who I was. I opened the door. You should’ve run. Don’t blame me for your fall.”
“Did I really have a choice? I fell the moment I saw you.”
She laughed. Sweet and wicked.
“You said I’m yours now… what does that mean?” Carlos asked.
“It means I ruined you. You should’ve run. You should still be running.
But you failed.”
He embraced her. Kissed her.
“And you’ll keep failing…
Failing…
Failing…
Failing…”
