The priests made me their puppet, used me upon the old man.
And the pope, blameless, they said—because he laid there and allowed his cock to be used in my cunt.
Yes, I knew those words. I had younger brothers up to all manner of mischief.
I thought of the chambermaid I’d spied in the halls long ago, of her tears.
I thought of my brother who had used her.
I thought of the mother who had brought me here so I might be torn upon the pope’s staff.
I thought of my father and the whore he kept.
I thought of the servants I’d watched starve over the years.
All this while my eyes tracked over the old man licking his lips while he watched my tits bounce from my forced movements up and down his shaft. And then my eyes fell upon the golden crucifix over his bed.
My lord and savior suffering on the cross…
He too had been impaled by a spear and bled.
In that moment, I gave up.
Sagging in the hold of so many, I felt another pair of hands take my hips. My pelvis was rolled forward and back even as my whole torso was continuously raised up and down.
Lewd, my cunt on display, torn and full of a doddering ancient ready for the grave.
I gagged on vomit, and then heard a noise that would haunt me to death.
The pope, in a voice laden with sickness, called out for Jesus.
My hips were slammed down, the burn of his member jerking against my savaged walls.
Every last person in the room began to rejoice.
Except myself. In that moment my true innocence had died.
Lifted from his body, I was made to lie down beside my holy godfather. My legs held together, stinging warmth seeping out from where he had pumped me full of foulness.
For once, it was not Cardinal Beluni who gave me an order. It was the Spanish Cardinal, his face no longer hateful but passionate as he looked over my naked body. “Do not spill his seed. Our God in heaven must see his son reborn.”
The force of the cough that ripped from the pope’s throat brought several in the room to assist him. But after he’d coughed up what ailed him, he waved them off, then turned to me. Naked, the flesh of his chest hanging like empty breasts of an old woman, he pressed a kiss to my cheek.
“You are worthy of my love.”
Chapter Seven
No chances would be taken, assuring the blessed event.
Nightly I was dragged, no longer fortified with poisoned wine, to be mauled and manipulated over the hideous body of God’s highest servant. It didn’t matter if I fought back or screamed.
No higher power came to save me.
By the seventh day, I would no longer look at or speak with my mother. If she tried to approach, I tore at my hair.
Cardinal Beluni took note of this, blaming the duchess for not caring properly for me. In breadth of an hour, she was packed off back to my father, and I was given the peace of solitude in my rooms.
I’m ashamed to say I was grateful.