Work Text:
Plaything
Hands bound in front of your body, your shoulders ache from the tightness of the ropes restraining you. A cold sweat breaks out across your forehead and you tense when his hand fists into your hair, forcing your head back painfully. "Remember - you asked for this, zoccola," he states simply. There is no warmth in his voice, no gentleness in his touch, and it's exactly what you want - it's what you need.
Terzo moves to stand behind you as you wait with bated breath for something - anything to happen. You hear the unmistakable sound of the dark Pope unbuckling his belt, you swallow down a lump of fear. "Bend over the chair in front of you," he demands and when you raise your head to look ahead, you notice a small cushionless wooden chair. Awkwardly, shuffling across the stone floor, your bare knees scrape against the hard surface. You know there will be marks there tomorrow.
You wriggle around and bend across the chair, confirming it is just as uncomfortable as it looks. "Do you know why you're here?" You swallow down a nervous lump that had formed in your throat and you nod. "You can speak, tell Papa."
You mutter out a denial of sin and to your surprise, you feel the sting of his leather belt across your exposed backside. You squeak in surprise because the pain is minimal and you recognize the careful strike for what it was: a warning. "Wrong and for every incorrect answer you’ll be punished further." Terzo places a palm against the tender skin and he gives it a squeeze.
“Tell me you understand.”
“I understand, Papa.”
“Good. Tell me why you’re here.”
You answer with another denial of sin, to which he responds with a fierce strike to one of the pale half-globes of your ass. The session continues with each answer followed by a hard clap of leather across your sensitive skin.
What seems like hours but probably only minutes pass, you turn your face away from the raven-haired man in an attempt to hide your tears. “Don’t hide from me. Just give me the right answer and this all ends,” he says and for an instant, his voice softens. You turn your head to the other side and you sniffle loudly. Face red and snot dripping out of your nose, you imagine you are an unpleasant sight to behold.
You take a deep breath and list another denial of sin. Terzo makes a soft ‘tsk, tsk’ and the next sound you hear is the zip of his slacks being drawn down. Your eyes widen, your breath quickens, both terrified and exhilarated. You’ve been coming to Papa for these sessions for months and not once has he ever removed more than his belt.
To your knowledge, he hasn’t so much as taken himself in hand while in your presence. He seldom goes beyond five strikes before sending you on your way, you should’ve known something was different this time. With little more than a few words of instruction for you to return the following Sunday. You tense when you feel the soft material of his slacks against the back of your thighs. He reaches over your shoulder, holding his palm in front of your face, “lick and be thorough.”
The implication settles heavily in the pit of your stomach and you slide your tongue across his palm, tasting his sweat and a hint of aftershave. Your mouth feels dry but you will your salivary glands to work and after another minute he withdraws his hand. There is a brief pause and you close your eyes, trying to fine-tune your hearing and just barely, you pick up on the sound of skin moving against skin. The muscles in your shoulders ache, your beaten cheeks burn, but that is nothing in comparison to the incessant throbbing at the apex of your thighs.
You yelp in surprise as an open hand smacks against your backside. You imagine if you turned around you might see a smile on his face but you can’t look far enough back to be certain with your face against the chair. Even before you can fully recover from the shock of the blow to your already burning skin, there is a press of a slick digit against your virginal pucker. It feels a lot more slippery than what your sandpaper tongue was able to accomplish and you suspect the fluid coating the finger tracing around your lock of muscle is Terzo’s saliva.
Soon you feel pressure applied to your body as his spit-coated digit demands entrance and he pushes his slender finger beyond the ring of flesh. He pumps the finger in and out of your body and although uncomfortable it doesn’t hurt. He crooks his finger and you feel the first spark of pleasure racing along your nerves. You can tell he’s trying to remain impassive and failing because now and then he bites back on a low moan.
You push back to take his finger in deeper but that action ceases action from the dark Pope and he removes all contact. Before you can mourn the loss entirely, something sizable and wet nudges against the pucker of muscles between your blazing cheeks. Your body tenses and again he makes the soft ‘tsk tsk’ sound. “It’ll only hurt worse if you don’t relax.” He says dryly.
You suspect that he knows this is your first time taking it and it’s going to hurt regardless. Without another word of warning, he presses forward, forcing the bulbous tip of his cock past the tight ring of your anus and only stopping once his crown head pops beyond the spasming clench of muscle. No amount of stubbornness will stop the flow of tears from spilling from your eyes and down your red cheeks. The burning stretch hurts more than the sting of leather or his hand ever could and you do the exact opposite of relax.
You grit your teeth and make pitiful noises at the back of your throat. Fuck! If it hurts this much with just the tip inside, taking the remainder of his girthy prick is going to be excruciating. Terrified of more injury, you are so immersed in your thoughts that you don’t realize he is stationary. A warm hand grasps at the muscles of your lower back as he firmly kneads at the tense skin and tendons.
“If you want me to stop - I will. Is that what you want?” He inquires. There is nothing malicious or cruel about the way that he speaks to you, he addresses you clearly - offering you a choice. He is a busy man, you reason and he seldom wastes time. You uncurl your fingers from their death grip around the edge of the chair and you shake your head ‘no’.
Terzo traces along your spine with clever fingers and when he reaches your shoulders he massages the tension away with relative ease. You realize you are being rewarded and your chest swells with pride at having pleased the dark Pope. The pressure in your ass returns and the raging heat of being spread, although significant, is slowly becoming bearable. Inch by painful inch, he guides his turgid flesh into you until he is pressed flush against your backside.
You can tell from the faint tremor of his legs against the back of your thighs that he is restraining himself to allow your body time to accommodate him. “D-” His voice breaks, clearing his throat, he speaks again. “Do you know why you’re here?” Emboldened by the chink in his reserve and the knowledge that you are the cause, you cannot help but smile. If it isn’t to confess your denial of sins or boast about those you took part in, you are at a loss.
Finally, you raise your head from the chair, “No, Papa.” The hand on your shoulder slides across your sweat-slicked skin as his tapered fingers firmly grab you by the throat. Terzo caresses your windpipe with the pad of his thumb and he slowly pulls back until only his glans remain within the lock of your muscles. “Do you want me to tell you?”
You can only nod dumbly as his question catches you off guard. He tightens his hold on your neck and forces you into a standing position in tandem with a rough roll of his hips that sends his engorged member deep within your quivering hole. “This is what you’re here for,” he grunts, fucking you just slow enough that you can still process what he’s saying. “Denial of so many sins,” he rasps, bowing his chest over your back so his painted lips are pressed to the shell of your ear.
“To take your pleasure while in the service of your Papa,” he all but whispers. Your lust-blown pupils have a hard time focusing on the chair in front of you or the bare stone walls of the room he uses for his sessions. Tears cascade down your face but they aren’t tears of pain or sadness. This is what you’ve wanted all along. To share in a moment with one of the elusive men at the head of the table and to feel whole.
With over eight inches buried in your ass, you’ve never felt so full in your life. Beads of sweat break out along your shoulders, trickling down your neck. You lick your lips, “yes, Satan - Yes!” Encouraged by your words, he scrapes his blunt teeth against the side of your neck, making low noises that are more animal than human. The hand at your throat tightens while he savages your swollen pucker with every powerful propulsion of his hips.
“You’re so good,” he purrs and you practically vibrate from the feeling of euphoria his praise inspires. The sound of the soft orbs beneath his shaft, slapping against your ass, and the obscenely wet noise of sex reverberate off of the stone walls, creating a symphony of lewdness. The death grip on your hip traverses to smooth along your ribs, then downward to tease at the sensitive flesh between your thighs. “So tight. La piccola puttana stretta di Papà.”
You clench your ass, attempting to milk his phallus and you can tell by the quickening of his pace and the rasped stagger of his breathing that he must be close. You bite down on your bottom lip, trying to stave off the inevitable but the heat surges through your veins, pooling in the pit of your stomach. “Are you close?” You shake your head up and down as the hand at your throat grips you tightly. “Cum, piccolo tesoro,” he demands. “Cum for Papa.”
The muscles across your back tense and in one shallow thrust, his glans brush against your internal pleasure point sending you shouting into bliss. A shuddering mess, you hear him say something but it comes out distorted. You try to focus on his words, “Inside. Please, Papa,” you all but beg.
His wiry arms surround you, he clutches you firmly against his chest, and in one final roll, from heel to toe, that sends him balls deep, thick ropes of hot semen flood into your welcoming body. Terzo moans throatily against your ear, his smooth actions become jerky in an effort to pump every drop into you. Standing on shaky legs, he steps back and his flaccid member slips free with a wet ‘plop’. Still blinded by the haze of lust, you feel the restraints fall away from your body.
Terzo seats himself in the wooden chair and takes your hand in his. His mismatched orbs remain locked on you, having tucked his spent phallus away, he guides you to sit on his lap. Strong fingers massaging at your wrists, forearms, and shoulders. The painted Pope kisses the hollow of your throat and he continues his inspection. He checks your upper body for injury and finding none, he breathes a sigh of relief. “I’ve made a mess of you and it’s only fair I clean you up. Join me for a bath?” You release a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, “Yes, Papa.” He ghosts a kiss across your cheek and you sigh contentedly.