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“Archbishop Wozniak,” Pope Celestine VI had called out on the night of his inauguration. “Please, walk with me.”
The two men made their way to the Papal Apartments. Janusz had thought, at the time, that Celestine may have simply wanted to discuss the change in living arrangements. He saw now, in the wrong bed, wrapped in the wrong Holy Father’s strong arms, that he had been a fool.
The bed posts and furniture here are high, and the ceilings only higher, vaulted as if God was meant to be sharing the bed. A giant lover, willing and able to cradle Janusz’s horribly aware mind and body and soul like a father would his child after a nightmare.
The sheets of his hell are silken, slippery against his sweaty palms, and he can only mourn the half-drunk whiskey waiting for him at home.
He wonders, giving in to his fanciful tendencies once again, if he will ever go back to get it.
Three weeks of mostly sleepless, drunken nights later, Janusz dutifully follows Celestine back to the Apartments after dinner. This has been their routine since that first night, but as the door shuts behind him Janusz knows it to be different.
Celestine whirls, pinning him to the door, a loud thud echoing about the room. The Holy Father’s hand balls in the front of his cassock, stunning Janusz as he is pulled to be a hair’s breadth away from His Holiness’ lips. They spread in a twisted smirk, some cousin of a snarl, as his other hand inelegantly fumbles to lift his skirts, quite literally grabbing Janusz by the balls. Involuntarily, he yelps, and though he tries to cover it with a cough, Celestine’s grin only grows more predatory.
“He talked about you so fondly, you know,” he purrs.
“Your- Your Holiness, please, I ask that you reconsider,” Janusz stammers, head spinning. Everything about this is wrong, from the imposing figure which loomed over him to the scent of the room to the hands undoing his belt buckle as he shakes in place. He feels like the mouse trapped beneath the lion’s unforgiving claws, unable to reason his way to safety through the haze of his mind.
“You already know, Janusz, that I will not.” His mean eyes seem to soften for a moment before he seizes Janusz’s cock in a vice grip, squeezing his shaft with a force and mercilessness which not even the most ardent masochist could withstand. He cries out in pain, an unforgiving sensation that is almost enough to make him forget his reality.
He is pulled back to himself as Celestine begins to jerk him off in a mockery of passion, blessed and damned hands pulling his flesh to rawness. The cruelty of each stroke is in how it is designed to bring the Holy Father pleasure, delighting in each broken sob stolen from Janusz’s lungs, breath growing quick and shallow as he watches his loyal servant’s face crumble like ash in the low light.
There is no love here as he spills messily over Celestine’s fist. Only shame remains as he is made to suck his own release from those broad, manicured hands.
In the Holy Father's office, in the middle of the day, Janusz drops to his knees, trying not to gag at even the thought. He knows what will happen; before, it had been a way to serve his lover, his Clement. Now, as Celestine stands from his desk and approaches Wozniak, he tries desperately to turn his brain off, to revert into submission. His efforts are futile and he screws his eyes shut as the rustling of clothing and the growl of a zipper being tugged down fill the air.
His Holiness clicks his tongue disapprovingly. Cold, thick fingers grasp his chin as he tries to turn away, gripping so hard he lamely wonders if it will bruise. There is a low sound of disapproval, then the hand is moving and burying itself in the hair on the back of his head, tugging sharply until his head tilts back and his eyes shoot open as he gasps in pain. Janusz’s breath is cut off as a long, thick cock is shoved unceremoniously into his gaping mouth. It hits the back of his throat yet pushes further still.
He barely suppresses the need to vomit with an ill-timed swallow. Seconds later, a clammy hand strokes his neck. "There you go, good boy," coos the Devil. "Swallow again, go on." Holding back a sob, he complies and feels the cockhead slip into his throat. He's tugged forward, feeling it push through his sensitive insides until his nose is pressed against His Holiness’ pelvis, his jaw stretched nearly to breaking and his neck craned backward.
Celestine thrusts forward shallowly, making him gag around the intrusion. He pulls back in accordance, but just as Janusz thinks he will be given room to breathe his throat is filled again. He inhales through his nose, desperate and shallow, breath whistling as he is kept conscious by the barest minimum.
His throat spasms again and again, drawing up the taste of bile to mingle with musk and flesh in his mouth. Just as he believes he will choke on his own vomit, his head is gripped in two wide hands, the fingers digging into his scalp. A warm saltiness fills his throat then his mouth as the Holy Father slowly pulls away, leaving the last of his cum smeared across Janusz’s lips.
Narrowly avoiding collapse on the floor, he turns to the wastebin and retches until acid has washed away all physical traces of this torture.
Janusz cries quietly into His Holiness’ chest, the man’s cock softening inside him. He had taken him, as he does most nights, and used him brutally, in a way that Janusz could not even pretend was pleasurable.
Celestine snores deeply, shaking the very bones of this wretched place and Janusz’s mind along with them. He does his best to will himself to sleep.
Just as he approaches that edge of the darkness, he feels a stirring beneath him. The Holy Father shuffles beneath him and hands grasp his hips, holding him tightly still to Celestine’s pelvis. Suddenly, there is a warm rush within him, different from the sensations of being filled with a man’s seed, but rather as if with water from the lakes of Hell. He realizes with a sickening clarity that he has been used as if a bottle, pissed in as if he were a urinal.
There is more movement, then the cock in his ass slips out. He relaxes for but a moment before a large plug is inserted within him. Free at last but with seemingly no care for the state of his sheets, Celestine rolls over and resumes his rest.
As Janusz lies in bed, unfocused eyes mapping the ceiling in its shifting, grainy grey mass, his stomach begins to cramp. The human body was not made for this, he thinks. God did not design man to be desecrated. He considers rising to empty himself, but soon remembers the punishments he had faced when His Holiness had found him clean a few mornings before. The feeling of the lash still echoes across his skin.
With this in mind, he lets a final tear fall down the weathered slopes of his face and slips into what barely suffices for a dreamless sleep.
Janusz has long since stopped praying to God.
In the little free time he has he tries to sleep, to eat, to think about anything else at all. He has sustained months of this, months of pain and sodomy; he can only wonder what great sin he has committed to deserve this.
On the eve of the day that would mark one year of his waking nightmare, Janusz Wozniak tries his hardest to drink himself to death. He thinks of his Clement, his Pope, his lover, and only hopes that he may encounter him once more in Heaven, seated by Christ’s side.
His head and veins swim with delirium as strong, broad hands lift him from the ground, cradling him close as he wobbles from side to side. The figure in white seems like an angel, or perhaps God Himself, and Janusz goes willingly into the waiting arms of the Holy Father.