Chapter Text
Waiting on your knees in the middle of an empty room with your head bowed, draped in a black lace veil and nothing else, you eagerly await the beginning of the ceremony. The central point of the room, the area you were sitting, was covered in a large white sheet, a border of ash and dried flowers encircled you; something like a summoning circle. The room pulses a somewhat warm hue by candlelight and a fragrant sweet air wafts over your exposed flesh. You run your thumb over the scar in your palm, the result of your previous vows made in this same room. Typically this ceremony is held with at least five or ten sisters or brothers, but the church only required one sibling to receive the unholiest of oaths this time, and that was you. You’d witnessed the ceremony before so you know what to expect, but receiving the sealing spell directly was different, embarrassing.
This is a great honor, but to have a man I don’t even know—
The sound of the door startles you—he has arrived—the facilitator of the ritual, performer. He’s faceless, nameless, and doesn’t speak; typically a male member of the clergy. He dons a goat’s head and long black flowing cloak that shields his body—visage alluding to the Devil himself.
Suddenly you feel a little more self conscious about your appearance and clutch the edge of your sheer laced draping. He bows slightly, acknowledging you, and you do the same. Before approaching you, he collects something off the altar at the other end of the room—a basket containing the tools required for the ceremony. Bringing the items over, he places them down at his feet. The first item to be used, the rosary of the grucifix, was placed around your neck and veil. You rise from a sitting position to kneeling with your hands clasped tightly around the grucifix—anxious to receive his will.
“I welcome your presence, great one, please bestow your infernal hand upon me that I may receive your nefarious blessing,” you recite the first portion of the incantation.
His hand finds the crown of your head, accepting you as the recipient of his evil whims. Peeking slightly, you can see his body from the opening his protruding arm made, similarly to you he is stark naked under his cloak. Both of his hands are planted now firmly on your shoulders, symbolizing the burden being placed upon you. At this point his naked body is undeniably clear, you take in a real eyeful and swallow hard. It had been some time since you’d last been with a man, and felt uneasy about what you’re expected to do—sex had never been your forte, in fact you never quite enjoyed it, which is why you’d volunteered to bind yourself to Satan. In the past there were typically more siblings involved in the ritual and the highest ranking member was expected to perform as the direct receiver for everyone observing, but now it’s different, now it’s you.
“Please cleanse me of my past that I may serve you anew,” still adhering to the ancient incantation, now you look up at him.
He kneels down on the sheet with you, initiating the next step in the process—the anointing. He pours a light scentless oil in his hands and begins applying it, starting from your head. He smooths the oil down over your hair, traces from your forehead to your chin, and draws sacred symbols over your body. His hands are hot but the oil is cool, and you begin to notice your growing excitement. An easement begins relaxing you as his fingers dance across your skin, uncertainty wading under pleasing stimulus. You try not to be obvious, sneaking a look between his legs in order to see if he’s being affected at all—maybe slightly, but you try not to let your eyes linger. It’s strange, but you find yourself growing curious about him, perhaps it was because his touches were so light, or maybe there was something in the oil that had just been spread all over your abdomen; whatever it was it was intoxicating.
“Please, great one, accept my essence that I may bind myself to you.” You sweat a little at this point, knowing what follows.
On the ground between the two of you he places a wide mouthed chalice and retrieves the ceremonial dagger from the basket. He runs the edge of the dagger across his smooth palm, and allows the blood to drip into the chalice. Crimson droplets stream from his fresh wound and pitter patter in the base of the goblet.
His palm is smooth? This caught your eye, the palm hadn’t been slit before like the previous “old one’s” who preceded him. Those who’d conducted the binding in the past were never known, but they’d all had their palms split in previous rituals. Their identity, or identities, were never revealed and the number of facilitators were never divulged, but each ceremony you attended had been conducted by someone who already performed a pledge ritual; be that a binding or one of another fashion.
He extends his now bloodied hand, waiting for you to give yours, you oblige him with the right—it has to be the right. He cradles your hand, running his thumb along the scar as you did only moments before. Guiding your hand, he places it to his chest over his heart—this gesture symbolizing the bond between yourself and Satan. His chest was warm and slightly moist with sweat, rhythmic pounding reverberated to you. Before long he retracts your hand and glides the knife’s sharp edge through skin and scar tissue. You wince from the pain, but refuse to retract your hand. He curls your fist closed and squeezes it, encouraging blood flow. The two offerings meet each other in the chalice, your companion plucks the cup up and swirls it—aerating it as one would a fine wine. He offers the first sip to you, it doesn't really matter who drinks first, and you accept his invitation, receiving the chalice with two cupped hands. Looking in at the sanguine mixture, you almost don’t want to go through with it, but something bigger compels you to fulfill this deed—something that has the rim of the chalice pressed to your lips and the blood in your mouth and down your throat before you could hesitate any longer. The taste of iron spreads across your tongue, a thick bold flavor that sticks to the senses; one you’ve never been fond of.
After drinking about half of the offering, you present the cup to your partner, to Satan—or, at least, the man dressed as Satan. The liquid jostled inside with the shaking of your palms, but you weren’t shaking out of fear, no, the cause of the shaking was unknown and strange to you. The mysterious man receives the chalice and sneaks it away under his mask. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he finishes off the last of the mixture. Placing the goblet aside, he then grasps your hands—awaiting for your recitation of the final act of the incantation.
“Please, great one, accept my body that we may consummate our bond,” your chest flutters as the final word of the ritual falls from your lips, breath heavy in the air. You look into the cold, dead, prop eyes of the goat and can feel the man under the mask staring back.
You can tell he was beginning to feel aroused as his manhood stiffened slightly at your words. You lean back on your elbows, waiting for him, as he bows over you on hand and knee—chest puffing. He retrieves the oil used in the anointing and pours it over your body. Fingertips sliding across your skin as he indulges in quiet arousal—cupping your breasts, stroking your stomach, and spreading your thighs—his slick hands explore you. The blood from his palm ran across your glistening skin as he delighted your senses with meaningful strokes. His hands, his blood, your body heat all worked to warm the cool oil he carefully caressed over you. He plucks and twirls at your hardening nipples with slippery motions, drawing out a heated moan from deep in your throat. His attentions were so fleetingly light it left you on edge for the next pleasure he’d allow you.
Between your heaving breasts, down your abdomen, and finally reaching the mound of your sex; he graciously anoints you.
His fingers roll over your ever sensitive dew coated clit, causing you to jolt in surprise—and pleasure. A more direct action that leaves you gasping as his fingertips gently swirl at the quivering bead of your womanhood. Something stiff pressed against your leg, hardened by each gasp that escaped from your open mouth—pulsating with expanding vigor and wild passion. Pressing your lips into the exposed side of his neck, you stifle the moans that grow louder, hungrier for something more. Soon enough a finger, two fingers—index and middle—work their way inside and stretch the band formed round their middle joints. A weak murmur spreads over your body as his fingers plunge deeper, only to retract out and rub the entrance—the repetition of the act causes your back to arch, meeting his chest with yours. He angled his fingers up into the walls of your writhing insides and began stroking there; each motion a sweet gush of ecstasy. It had been some time since you last relieved your own urges, so to have someone else’s fingers stirring you up in this way was truly unheard of. It was as if he knew every inch of you to tease and stir. His fingers went in as deep as he could get them, down to the knuckles, and just as fast as he pushed them in he retracted them; over and over he did this. This sensation causes a start to come over you along with a rather loud moan that you quiet by nipping his nape.
Had it ever felt like this before? You can’t even remember the last time you’d felt such yearning.
Such sweet sensations, yet not enough to satisfy your burning, ceaseless desire that welled and breathed hot sparks of lust in you. You trail along the length of his body and stop at his throbbing cock that warmed your thigh, vocalizing your ache with a small whimper in the vicinity of where his ear might be. Stroking his girth lightly, you clench his fingers as a way to communicate your needs, and he seems to understand your unspoken words. This was absurdly bold and out of character on your part, but how could you resist this worshipful pleasure. The man rises from your body, hand and neck wet from indulging your senses in small delights. Slow pumps of his palm against his cock work to lubricate his erection in the slick coating left over from the oil—or you. With great anticipation, you stare between his legs as he holds it steady, nearing your entrance. You’ve forgotten all sense of doubt and instead crave him, crave his every touch. Heavy breaths cause your chest to rise and fall, and a small ticklish anxiety flutters sweetly within your stomach; one might call it butterflies.
With your legs spread and hips angled up, you position yourself—desperate—for him to enter. He teases the opening with his tip, hot and eager to pleasure your trembling carnal instincts. Slowly—his heat enters you slowly—and leaves you breathless as he inches inward.
“Fuck,” you gasp.
The pressure invaded your insides and spread you open farther than you’d thought it would. Though he was bigger than expected, he advanced smoothly and eventually seated himself completely within you. From inside the goat head you could hear the soft vibrations of a man losing himself to the wills of his own innate pleasures. With one hand he holds your thigh and the other your waist—and in a breath he thrusts in you for the first time. The sensation of his imposing manhood sends clear waves of the sweetest tingles all throughout you. His hips dig into yours with a tantalizing rhythm, grinding into places you didn’t know existed and causing you to twist with fervent cries for more. Each swing of his hips a new sweet tingle running through your body. With the cadence of his thrusts you feel yourself bobbing along and attempt to stop this by clawing at the sheet between you and the floor, but your efforts prove mostly useless. Still coated in oil, he can’t manage a grip on your body sufficient enough for his liking, so he leans more into you—imparting some of his weight onto you and into his thrusts. He means to keep you still by doing so, but this has the side effect of deepening his position and increasing the magnitude of each movement—fucking you into the floor. Now you hold onto the thin cotton sheet, defiled in sweat, for another reason. He squeezes your leg against his chest as he plunges into your depths over and over, caressing your piquing skin.
Involuntarily, you convulse around him and with that a jolt strikes his body and a soft sound seeps from under his goat’s visage. A man is certainly under there and he’s driving you crazy with each furtive groan he quiets in his attempt to remain in character. He’s still for a second and pants heavily before starting his pace again, obviously trying not to finish the deed before you do. That really turned you on further, so you urged him down overtop of you as he had been before and breathlessly sucked on his exposed skin. Removing the cape strings that had been tied at his neck, it’s as if he was insisting you continue what you were doing. Gleefully, you oblige, and run your teeth along the length of his neck, nipping and licking his hot flesh as his movements grow more erratic. You hum moans into his skin, arms and legs enveloping him in an embrace, and coil around his throbbing passion—fit to burst.
“Oh, Satan! You’re gonna make me come,” your voice quakes as your limbs shake and shiver.
Ecstasy welled up and trickled out in an iridescent wave of gratifying electricity that thrummed and purred, radiating from your pelvis and quivering snugly against the searing heat within you. A rapturous orgasm, one you never experienced before overtook you, causing your body to tremor as if The Unholy Spirit itself had possessed you. His shoulders shook and soon after he filled you with something warm, muscles tight as he did. You run your still trembling thumb between the bottom of the mask and his damp flesh, pressing your ear against the bristly side face of the taxidermied goat. Listening to his breaths from within the confines of his mask you can hardly make out a near inaudible whisper, but before you can process whatever was said you fell into a deep sleep; thus concluding the ritual of binding.
***
An urgent matter required all clergy members to converge in the worship hall of the church; to include ordinary siblings. At this time of day everyone was at each of their respective tasks. You were unfurling a luxurious sheet over Papa Emeritus III’s uselessly large bed when the call came over the intercom. Papa Emeritus III, or Terzo, was the current Papa and the one you were charged to serve directly as his chambermaid. Currently he’s out on his mission, bewitching the hearts of thousands, and spreading the teachings of Satan to the masses. He was expected back soon, so you reasoned his bed ought to have been made and presentable by the time he returns.
“All clergy members report to the grand hall immediately,” Papa Nihil wheezed the order over the loudspeaker.
You drop your current task at hand in favor of heeding the patriarch’s command. Unlike the others, you were a little ways away in the rectory where the Papas reside, an annex to the church itself, so you were going to need to hurry to make it in time. There was nothing you could do regarding the bedspread, you’d have to leave everything unfinished until you could return after whatever it was they were calling everyone for. You left just as the intercom clicked off.
By the time you made it to the foyer outside the main hall nearly everyone had already found their way in to their seats. A few stragglers remain in the halls, one of which caught your eye; a man you hadn’t seen before. He was dressed in a bright red cassock, no doubt he was a cardinal, gloved fingers fidgeting against each other in some perplexed manner. He seemed stiff and looked a little awkward as he turned round like a nervous dog. He paced a little outside the double door and muttered to himself about something unknown before entering. You followed not long after him.
The nave was beating with life as idle chatter of the buzzing crowd sitting in the garden of pews hummed. The entire clergy was called to the heart of the church for some reason or another, but not a soul knew why. The sea of heads before you swayed this way and that, hoping to catch every word of unfounded gossip about the possible reason for the wholly complete roll call.
“I heard Papa Emeritus II crashed the hearse and now he’s in some hospital,” one nun whispered, hand to ear.
“I think I was told that Papa Emeritus III was impotent, so now they’re having trouble producing an heir,” another squealed, unable to stifle her laughter.
“Not a chance!” Her partner in babble replied.
“If anyone’s impotent it’d have to be the old man,” no doubt referring to Papa Emeritus I.
Dear Lucifer, do these girls not have any couth? The constant jabber of inane group-speak was becoming unbearable and setting your nerves on edge. Your leg bobbed at a tedious rhythm just right of the leg of the bench you reclined on.
“What do you think, Sister?” The voice to your left impeded your loan wallowing of existential boredom with a rather unwelcome question. She leaned in close, eager for the opinion of a veteran nun.
“I think it would be very wise not to speak so rudely of the Emeritus bloodline, and wait for further instruction from the papacy,” rather harshly, you scold the newer devotee.
The girl retreated back to her own sullen space on the pew, a little wounded, but otherwise unharmed.
The bobbing of your leg stopped as you realized how rudely you reacted to a fairly innocent question; it’s not like she was asking you to gossip. Looking over, you notice she’s got this look of reservation on her face like a little scared animal.
You want to thread the words of an apology, but you’re ultimately interrupted by the resounding clatter of an opening double door at the back of the great hall. An uncharacteristically bright dawning light accompanied by unseasonal fog spilled in through the entrance. All sound of self assured murmurs and blatant disrespect hush to utter quiet, replaced by the clacking of heels on the delicately polished marble floor. No one dared look, as it was already apparent who it was exactly.
Sister Imperator—the dark mother—walks swiftly and uninhibited down the mouth of the wide aisle between the stacked wooden seats that flanked its sides. Her once blonde hair, now silver with age, swayed in a high ponytail with each beat of her foot on the ground. Shambling after her was Papa Nihil, complicated look fixed on his face, he kept pace at Imperator’s heels; oxygen tank clattering after him.
Not a whisper was offered as the two made their way up to the lectern that stood, facing the congregation. You quickly retracted your foot from the walkway and sat perfectly upright so as to not make an obstacle of yourself. Your head sinks in solemn prayer as Sister Imperator passes, your movements are that of a statue in her presence. She held an ethereal charm along with an otherworldly authoritative nature, something you’ve never personally had to experience due to your exceptional attendance and professionalism. In fact, it seemed she favored you to some degree as she has proposed you for many privileges within the church. She entrusted you with a rather hefty ring of keys, granting you access to nearly every inch of the church and the grounds that surround it. ‘My right hand,’ she has called you this once or twice in the past, and while she may favor you, you know best to keep yourself small so as not to incur her wrath. So far your efforts have paid off, and while the other siblings in the same position as you have slowly dwindled in number, Sister Imperator made sure you continued your work in the rectory as normal.
“Good morning children of Satan,” the gray man cleared his throat as he stepped up center stage. Sister Imperator was just to his left, stage right, standing tall and statuesque; sporting her signature corporate-chic visage.
“Lucifer’s light shine on you, Papa,” in unison the crowd responded.
Nihil gripped the sides of the lectern with shaky hands, and looked down at the rows of filled seats in dark contemplation before an elbow into his side from his companion urged him on.
“Well, my children, I come bearing most unfortunate news,” the elderly man wets his lips before continuing. “It is with heavy hearts that Sister Imperator and I come to you today to inform you that Papas Emeritus I, II, and III have all tragically passed away.”
The air in the grand hall thickened with a heavy worry and utter disbelief at the patriarch’s words. Shock, that is what replaced the inane jabber before. Absolute dead quiet sweeped over the masses. The room was awash in incredulity, how could this be true? No one in the crowd had the answer, but it had to be true, the church would never—could never lie. With that realization, that being the fact of the matter, weak sobs erupt from the more “devout” siblings in the room.
Surprisingly, you were unmoved by the news. Having served all three of them directly, if only briefly for some, in subsequent order as a personal chambermaid of sorts you found it strange how you seemed to lack the emotion that had compelled your brothers and sisters to cry aloud for their fallen Papas. What filled you—rather than despair—was this strange anxiety that had a way of shifting, ebbing and flowing. You were unsure of the future, and excited—good and bad—to see what the ever changing hand of fate might deal for you. You were, as of just now, still under the command of the late Papa Emeritus III after all.
Nihil raises his palm to calm the congregation, rendering the room silent once again.
“I understand your woe, but rest assured knowing that the three of them are resting in eternal damnation with his dark eminence.”
Imperator eyeballed him, brow in a superfluous arch.
“Ah yes,” the aged man coughed into his fist. “Please join me in welcoming the church’s new successor,” he gestures to a man in the front row.
The entire room locked eyes on the mysterious figure in the red cassock, standing from his seat to address his new station. You had trouble making him out through the gaps between shoulders and heads.
“Eh… Hello, how do you do,” he greeted, more than somewhat awkwardly. “I am Cardinal Copia.”
The members of the clergy looked on quietly at his uncertain display.
“I, eh-, look forward to,” his voice was small in the deep worship hall, “uh, serving you.” He stands awkwardly facing the audience in a rather slouched posture.
“The cardinal was selected in pectore, before the tragedy occurred, and will be taking over the late Papa Emeritus III’s duties until further notice.”
Murmurs hushly picked up again, echoing shadows of concern over this relatively unknown brother replacing the newly un-incumbent—and much beloved—Papa. Many sisters clutched the grucifix at the end of their rosaries in quiet prayer while others became borderline catatonic. Sister Imperator clapped her hands sharply, sending vibrations to the very under roof of the church which then showered down from above; indeed, she commanded quiet once more.
“Now that that’s over, back to your duties, business as usual!” She chimed, smile clear in her voice, but not nearly meeting the meaning of her words.
The worried flock filed their way out of the main hall in an orderly fashion, not a soul took any courage upon themselves to speak another word about the new heir. No one turned to watch or look or gawk at the man, still standing in place—aside from you. Not having the chance to get a good look at this Cardinal as he introduced himself, you toss a glance back over your shoulder to maybe see the face of the new highest ranking member of the clergy.
Oh, it’s him, you recognize the man from earlier, now understanding his nervous nature before.
His hair was a rather subtle ashy brown, and was slicked neatly behind his ears. A dark lip, tucked under a pencil-thin mustache, floated over the other in a parted bewilderment, possibly at the fast emptying pews. He was older than you, but rather attractive in a refined, dapper way—especially his eyes nestled in their black border of dark makeup. He scanned the room, chasing after his fleeing brothers and sisters in Satan who seemed too eager to return to work.
“Poor guy didn’t even get a chance,” you console him only at a safe distance as the mass trickled back to ‘business as usual’.
Unexpectedly, he looked directly at you. Like the Emeritus before him, his eyes were heterochromic in nature, intensely piercing through you, and profoundly dazzling. You found it hard to relieve yourself of his burning gaze, it caused your blood to boil in the most feverish way. That wave of anxiety you had felt before swelled with his eyes locked onto yours, as the ebb did flow in that way it does—you stumbled—fleeing from his intense look.
As you merged with the mingling bodies in the corridor you felt your tension relax slightly, but found it hard to catch your breath. Your face flushed a red that rivaled the crimson of the newly appointed cardinal’s frock causing you to fan yourself in an attempt to cool your titillated nerves. No Papa before had ever caused you this strange immobilization—an almost blood sickness—but you couldn’t help but ache with curiosity about what this strange intruder had done to you.
“Who’s in charge of the rectory laundry?” A voice cries out as the mass of nuns return to their stations.
“Me!” You reply, each step away from the Cardinal a small reprieve from the striking heat set upon you.
After sometime busying yourself with your duties, your body forgets the intensity of those eyes and reverts back to normal. As you strip the sheets of the late Papa Emeritus III’s bed you feel an ominous presence encroaching on you.
“Sister, might I have a word?” Sister Imperator beckons to you, standing cross armed in the doorway of the room you were working in.
“Yes ma’am,” you drop what you were doing at once and approach the matriarch obediently.
“I’ve decided that like the Papas before, you’ll serve Cardinal Copia as his personal maid.” She smiles, self assured that her word is law.
Your body shivers at the thought of his searing gaze penetrating you as it did before, but you can’t refuse her. “Of course,” you offer an understanding nod. “I’ll be sure to introduce myself first thing tomorrow morning.”
“No, go now,” her words cut through the air.
“Now?” You ask.
“His schedule is very full tomorrow, go now,” she insists.
“Yes ma’am,” not wanting to meet the brunt of her wrath you do as she says, leaving the laundry in a crumpled mess on the bare mattress.
“Please make sure to fill my position here,” you say as you step out into the hallway.
“No need to worry about that, take this and hurry along,” the woman wore a very corporate smile as she offered a sliver of folded paper between her fingers.
You reach for the paper but she retracts her hand swiftly. “Still keeping up with that vow of yours?”
“Yes?” You say, a bit confused by her asking. The binding ceremony had already taken place a month ago, but it seemed she wasn’t aware of it for some reason. Though you didn’t remember much of it yourself; that day was a blur.
“Good girl, now hurry along; no use worrying about the dead,” She once again offers the paper to you, actually giving it up this time, along with something else.
Looking down at what she had given you, you find a dark metal key wrapped in a small scrap of paper. Unfolding the paper, you find directions to the Cardinal’s chambers had been quickly jotted down in red ink. The key itself was cool to the touch and had a rather wicked looking serpent functioning as its handle and spine. You knew what this meant—as it did before—if your knock receives no answer, just let yourself in. Many times you’d find yourself in such a situation before, with each Papa. And they’d usually be engaged in some level of debauchery, too busy to grace your knock with any reply. You were discreet about any of the goings on that you’d been privy to while acting as the chambermaid, which is probably why you’ve been charged with serving ‘Cardinal Copia’—a mystery in the clergy. No doubt someone like him would be the subject of much talk, especially after today. You could only hope that he was not as open about his escapades as the ones before him. A few bedmates were bound to be witnessed leaving his chambers as he gained his popularity, but you really couldn’t stand the thought of witnessing the activity itself. With key in hand you made your way to the Cardinal’s quarters, to him.
Your journey began as the sun fell.