It looked official, an elegant cream-colored envelope, postmarked with a return address which caught my eye: O. Bieri, Guardia Swizzera Pontificia, 1-00120 Citia del Vaticano. The bottom left-hand corner read Personal & Confidential. It was my custom to slit open any and all commercial mail--bills, notices, subscription renewals--as a courtesy to Mr. Stoddard. But this particular item from O. Bieri would remain sealed. I deposited all the day's mail on his desk in the library, placing the cream-colored envelope, however, on the very top. I was curious as to its contents. My curiosity would soon be satisfied.
I was hired initially to work for Paul Stoddard on a temporary basis. Fresh out of the SDA Bocconi School of Management in Milan, I needed work for the summer to help finance my return trip to the USA, good old Chicago, IL. As luck would have it, I received a note from my Aunt Marguerite, a stenographer for the Palmer House in Chicago, that Paul Stoddard, a friend of hers from the University of Chicago, was looking for clerical help and various other related tasks. Transplanted from Illinois to Italy during the mid 1990s, Paul had made his fortune in international investments and banking. Never married, he was now living comfortably in his secluded private home, Villa Chiostro. Located in the Lazio region of Italy, about 45 miles southeast of Rome, it nestled comfortably in the hill country city of Rieti. The villa itself, built in the late 1940s, seemed to be, in my view, everything that a villa should be: sedate, regal, hidden, luxurious, and, with its iron gates and lush gardens, more than a bit mysterious.
During my job interview with Mr. Stoddard, I had asked about the name of his home, Villa Chiostro. He explained that "chiostro" was the Italian name for "cloister."
"You mean, cloister as in a monastic enclosure for monks or nuns, a religious cloister?"
"Yes, in a sense," he answered. "The extensive grounds, combined with the actual architecture of the building, with its peaks and high windows and passageways, reminded me of the many religious convents and monasteries common throughout Italy. All that's missing is the Gregorian chant," he smiled. "Hence the name 'chiostro.' Do you like it?"
"Yes. Very much. It is a beautiful place with a beautiful name. And very quiet, I imagine. The kind of villa one might see in a movie."
He responded with a smile at my naive remark, not in a condescending way, but rather completely understanding that, to an American, not familiar with villas, I was stating something completely obvious and honest. Mr. Stoddard was easy to talk to. I felt completely at ease in his presence. He was impressed with my CV and my transcripts from the university, and, the very next week, offered me the job as his assistant. And his knowing Aunt Marguerite hadn't hurt, either. The temporary summer job, originally designed as a three-month gig, gradually morphed into a permanent position. I was currently now in year six at the villa, living comfortably in the carriage house over the three-car garage. I thanked my Aunt Marguerite nightly in my evening prayers before retiring for bed. Since starting at the villa, I had been back to Chicao only a handful of times for brief family visits. Italy had become my home.
Month by month, year by year, Mr. Stoddard had entrusted more and more responsibilities to my areas of expertise. Overseeing the smooth running of the household, everything from hiring workers for repairs or monitoring the lawn and garden crews, all fell under my jurisdiction. My command of Italian was not exemplary but acceptable, enough for me to communicate clearly with the staff. And, as time went by, my employer was happy to learn that I could perform other useful services as well, such as preparing meals on weekends or holidays when the regular cook was absent. I was also good at technology, especially computers. Mr. Stoddard was not. He appreciated again and again my knowledge of laptops, tablets, databases, printers, passwords, spreadsheets, all the things that made 21st century existence possible. Combined with my knowledge of finance and investment, he considered my presence at the villa important. I was, indeed, an essential worker.
My days at the villa were fulfilling and busy. It was just after breakfast, a day after the cream-colored envelope had arrived from the mysterious O. Bieri, that Stoddard asked to see me in the library.
He was seated at his desk by the large leaded-glass windows, sipping casually on the remnants of his morning coffee as I entered
the room. The cream-colored envelope lay open on the desk, the enclosed letter held in his right hand.
"Please take a seat," he said to me. "This might take awhile," his voice now containing a note of concern.
He explained that Oskar Bieri, a former business associate from years ago, had sent him a rather strange request. Oskar had been a young intern in Rome at the bank where Paul Stoddard had been assistant VP. Paul and Oskar had become good friends, Paul being disappointed when he learned Oskar had decided to leave the bank for entrance, of all things, into the papal Swiss Guards. Originally from Switzerland, Oskar had served two years in the Swiss Army before starting his career in finance and business administration. Now in his mid thirties, Oskar had a successful career with the guards. He currently was in charge of overseeing the construction of new barracks for the guards, expanding the living space of the previous structure into 135 private rooms, ending the dormitory-style living which had served the guards for five centuries. In the letter, Oskar explained, in rather broad terms, that in addition to overseeing the construction of the new barracks, he had been asked to assist with a certain matter of great delicacy.
Without giving too many specifics, he explained he had been requested--strongly requested--to oversee a matter involving twelve of the guards.
"They are all in the younger range as guards go," he said. "All in their early 20s. All fit former members of the Swiss Army, as all papal guards are required to be. But they are also twelve young men in trouble. All in need of receiving disciplinary action. I've received strict instructions not to divulge the specifics of their infractions, only that I need the assistance of someone outside the guards themselves, someone like you, to dispense of the discipline in a way and manner that is entirely discreet. I need the help of someone I can trust, and that someone is you, Paul."
I tried to absorb all that I was being told as the minutes ticked away on the fireplace mantel clock. Swiss Guards. Discipline. Secrecy. Discretion. Infractions. What am I getting into here, I thought. I felt much more comfortable dealing with cooks and lawn crews rather than with twelve Swiss guards.
After revealing a few more details, Paul folded the letter and placed it back into its envelope. Then, taking a blank sheet of paper, he wrote the names of five Italian businessmen, asking me to set up a Zoom conference session with them in five days.
"I need to speak with them ASAP," Paul explained. "Will five days be long enough for you to set things up, send them the links, passwords, and so forth?"
"Yes, Sir," I responded. "Do I need to provide any additional information when contacting them?"
"No, just say Paul will explain everything they need to know during the meeting."
And with that, he took another sip of his cooling coffee, indicating that our meeting in the library was over. I got to work immediately in setting up the conference call, sensing the urgency in his voice. Within the next two hours or so, all five of the participants had been contacted. All five had responded "Yes" to the online invitation. I waited for further instructions.
I had another meeting with Paul in the library five days later. The Zoom conference had ended only minutes ago. Paul handed me a list of instructions. Among them was the startling announcement that a special bus transporting Oskar Bieri and twelve Swiss Guards would be arriving in two weeks. I was to meet them personally at the front gate at precisely 12 midnight. The guards and Bieri would be here at the villa for approximately five hours. They would depart shortly before sunset as mysteriously as they had arrived, in a small chartered bus, a bus directly from the Vatican. No one at Villa Chiostro except myself was to know of the upcoming visit of the twelve young papal Swiss Guards.
The night was balmy and eerily windy. I waited at the gates with feelings of expectation, not sure exactly what those expectations were. The winds rose and fell, the trees casting shadows as their branches swayed in the night breeze. I was prepared as far as I had been instructed. The computer cameras had been set up in the cavernous space of the underground wine cellar beneath the main floor of the villa. Why they were needed had remained a mystery.
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the glare of headlights at the front gates. My cell phone immediately rang.
"Bieri here. We have arrived."
"I will unlock the gates," I replied. "Welcome to Villa Chiostro."
And with that, the dark-tinted windowed bus proceeded onto the property. I quickly followed on foot, arriving at the front door to the villa just as the bus came to a complete stop I produced my keys and opened the large double doors to the front entrance hall. I turned from the entrance doors and faced the parked bus. The doors slowly opened. Within seconds, twelve exquisitely dressed Swiss guards exited the bus in single file. They remained standing on the brick walkway until Oskar Bieri exited. He then asked me to lead the way. I nodded, motioning for him and the guards to enter. Silently, I led them to the wine cellar.
The vaulted ceilings of the wine cellar gave the impression that we had assembled in a secluded place of sacred ritual, rituals shrouded in secrecy and mystery. Seated at the far end of the long stone corridor were Paul Stoddard along with five other middleaged men, all dressed in suits with long, floor-length cloaks. The faces of all the men were clearly visible. None wore masks of any kind. All were expressionless as the evening's activities were about to begin.
The twelve Swiss guards, forming two lines of six, were led by Oskar. Curiously, Oskar was not wearing papal garb. He was dressed quite simply in a black suit and gray tie. He was cloakless, unlike the men seated with Paul.
The leather soles of the guards' special footwear echoed as they walked in perfect formation. Then, at a special command given by Bieri, they suddenly halted, again, all in precise unison.
Turning toward Paul, Bieri solemnly announced the following words.
"Standing before you and your counsel, Signore Stoddard, are select members of the pontifical Swiss Guard. They await your further instructions, Signore."
Paul nodded from his seated position. He magically produced from under the folds of his cloak several sheets of what looked like ancient parchment, rolled together in tubular fashion, sealed with a wax insignia. Bieri moved forward to receive the scroll; then, breaking the seal, he began to read its contents, written, for the benefit of the young guards, in German. Translations of the contents had been provided to Paul and his associates, as well as to me.
"This solemn evening brings forth both feelings of sadness and redemption. Sadness, because you as select members of the Swiss Guard have been found lacking in certain aspects of your character, all in direct opposition to your sacred calling. We, on the other hand, also have feelings of hope and redemption, all because we believe that sincere atonement cancels all the sadness, the disappointment, the stain, so to speak, of your guilt. We condemn the sin, not the sinner. Are you sincere on this important night in your repentance, in the presence of all assembled?"
"Yes, we are sincere. We are repentant," the twelve young men responded. It was obvious that they had practiced their responses, perhaps on the bus during the 75-minute, 51-mile bus ride from Rome to Rieti.
Bieri's speech continued as I looked upon the handsome youths dressed in what I had been told were the guards' gala uniforms. Striking colors of red, blue, and yellow captured my gaze, the helmets with red plumes, the white and red-cuffed gloves, the long halberds held in their right hands, motionless. I also noticed their flat leather shoes with straps, augmented with the brightly-colored stockings of blue and gold, the distinctive belt buckles with the initials of GSP, "Guardia Swizzera Pontificia." And the strong, muscular necks of each guard were encircled by strips of specially starched linen, enhancing their already regal appearance. How could such wonderfully-dressed religious soldiers possibly be in trouble? Would I ever find out? Somehow, I thought to myself, no, I will never find out.
Oskar's next words in particular caught my attention as I followed along on my copy of the speech.
"Your Vatican superiors, of whom I am one, feel that you twelve individuals are in dire need of humility. As in the story of the young Greek god Icarus, we have deemed that all of you have flown too high, that your wings of wax have melted, resulting in your current condition, a descent into shame and embarrassment. On this solemn night, however, you will reverse course, with the ambitious hope of being restored to the ranks of the other 123 men who have rightly chosen different paths as members of the Swiss Guard, correct paths."
Silence. Bieri's words echoed throughout the cellar's walls. And then, these words.
"It is now time to begin the process of regeneration. You will all follow me to the small room at the end of this corridor, by the staircase where we originally entered. In this room, certain modifications to the uniforms you are now wearing will be made. After this has been done, we will return to this very spot, standing in formation exactly as you are at this moment."
After being given a few additional verbal commands, the twelve guards did an about face, slowly marching to the room that had been designated for the uniform modifications.
I had seen no additional uniforms brought into the villa from the parked bus, my curiosity increasing with each passing moment as I tried to imagine what lay ahead. In about fifteen minutes, all was made clear.
I looked aghast as Bieri led his charges back into the main corridor of the wine cellar. Other than the red-plumed helmets, stiff starched collars, and the ceremonial white gloves, all twelve men were completely nude. Their bare feet quietly padded soundlessly on the stone floor tiles. Twelve sets of swaying penises moved erotically from side to side with each and every step the guards took. Now, only feet from Paul and the other seated men, they abruptly stopped, placing their hands behind their backs in a military "parade rest" position. Their uncovered genitals were on complete display for all to see. It was an amazing sight of young, exposed, male flesh.
The guards' faces were stonelike and stoic. They were not enjoying this insidious form of humiliation. They were Swiss guards, not objects of lust. They were not accustomed to receiving leerish looks from other fully-dressed persons, especially at such close proximity. Bieri once again addressed Paul Stoddard directly.
"The guards are now ready for their inspections. I invite your esteemed associates, Signore Stoddard, to approach the guards and begin the inspection process."
And so the inspections began. Each cloaked figure, except Paul, approached the almost completely nude guards. Each guard received the exact same procedure from all five of Paul's special counsel of Italian businessmen. Each guard was told to remove his red-plumed helmet. Left wearing only the starched collars and special gloves, they stood motionless waiting for the cloaked businessmen to begin their work. I became mesmerized by what I witnessed.
Every inch of every guard received slow and precise attention. The guards' closely cropped hair was stroked and gently tugged. Ear lobes and necks and cheeks were examined. Mouths were opened so teeth could be looked at. Nipples, most of them erect from the coolness of the wine cellar, were tweaked and pinched and, in some cases, licked. The rock-hard butt cheeks of the embarrassed men were patted and kneaded, the fingers of the cloaked men pressing downward into the exposed cracks of each bare butt. More than several of the guards flinched as their asses were treated in such an inappropriate manner. Most all were completely mortified when their butt cheeks were unexpectedly smacked, as if they were receiving spankings for being the disobedient little boys they suddenly had turned into. They were bad little Swiss Guards. Smack, smack, smack on their bare delicious bottoms!
The penis exams were saved to the very last. Each thick shaft of each silent guard was firmly grasped and fondled. All five Italian businessmen had been told it should be their express goal to attempt to produce full erections in each guard they touched. Squeezing, stroking, pulling, tugging on each penis was the gold standard in playing with the guards' genitals. Pubic bushes were also explored and fingered, five sets of hands gently tugging on the dark tufts of stiff pubes.
At the conclusion of the genital exams, all twelve guards sported throbbing hardons. Twelve penises stood at complete attention. These were military penises, used to being aroused at the least erotic thought or touch. Red-blooded young men sporting rigid erections for all to see.
Pleased with their work following the extended and thorough physical examinations, the cloaked businessmen returned to their seats next to Paul.
Final instructions were now given to the guards as Bieri returned to address them once again. Even he had to pause a moment as he looked at his guards in such a state. He would long remember this night. With the words he was about to say, the guards' utter humiliation was about to rise to a whole new level.
The wine cellar’s air grew thick with tension, the vaulted stone walls amplifying every sound—shallow breaths, the faint rustle of cloaks, and the soft clink of metal tools being readied. The twelve Swiss Guards stood in their stripped-down state, clad only in starched white collars, ceremonial gloves, and red-plumed helmets, their bare bodies glistening under the dim flicker of torchlight. Their muscular frames, honed by military training, trembled faintly from the invasive fondling they’d just endured. Pubic bushes had been tugged and fingered, five sets of hands exploring the coarse, dark tufts with deliberate cruelty. The guards’ faces remained stoic, but their eyes betrayed a flicker of shame, their jaws clenched tight. Oskar Bieri, standing cloaked in his austere black suit, surveyed them with a cold, unyielding gaze, his voice cutting through the silence. “You will now learn to endure, to humble yourselves before your sacred duty. No release will be granted. Should even one of you falter, all will suffer an additional forty-eight hours of this penance.” Oskar looked at Paul, who returned a look of approval.
The cloaked businessmen, their faces shadowed but eyes glinting with sadistic glee, approached again, this time carrying small silver trays. Each tray held gleaming nipple piercings—barbells with sharp, pointed ends that caught the torchlight. The guards were ordered to clasp their hands behind their heads, elbows flared, exposing their chiseled chests. One by one, the businessmen pinched the guards’ erect nipples, already sensitive from the cellar’s chill and prior tweaking. A young guard, his blond hair peeking from under his helmet, gasped as a piercing was forced through his flesh, the needle piercing with a wet pop, as a cross dangled from it. Blood trickled down his pecs, mixing with sweat, his face contorting in pain but his hands remaining locked behind his head. Another guard, broader and darker-haired, bit his lip until it bled, his green eyes watering as the piercing was secured, the metal cold against his fevered skin. The process continued, each guard’s chest now adorned with twin barbells, the pain a constant reminder of their submission.
Paul looked at Oskar, nodding, announced: "Continue".
Next came the urethral sounding, a punishment designed to push them to the brink. The businessmen produced long, polished steel sounders, their tips slick with a clear, musky lubricant that filled the air with a sharp, chemical tang. The guards were forced to spread their legs wider, their thick cocks already half-hard from the earlier fondling, veins pulsing under taut skin. The Swiss-American guard; the captain of this 12-person squadron, a towering 6'2" figure with a square jaw, blue eyes, and cropped chestnut hair, formative years in New York but left for Switzerland upon reaching legal age, was singled out for special attention because of his tattooed frame. His sounder was thicker, its tip curved to graze his prostate with precision. A businessman knelt before him, guiding the rod into his urethra with slow, deliberate pressure. The guard’s eyes widened, delirium creeping in as the metal stretched his sensitive passage, the sensation both agonizing and maddeningly intense. The rod was pulled back slightly, then pressed deeper, its tip rubbing his prostate repeatedly. His knees buckled, but he kept his hands behind his head, sniveling as drool spilled from his parted lips, his eyes rolling back in a haze of torment and unwanted pleasure.
The other guards fared no better. Some businessmen twisted the sounders like cotton buds, rotating them to scrape the guards’ prostates, eliciting choked moans and teary-eyed whimpers. A guard with a lean, toned frame shuddered violently, his pale skin flushed crimson as a businessman’s tongue flicked against his anus, the wet, slurping sounds echoing in the cellar. The man’s tongue probed deeper, circling the tight ring of muscle, while the sounder in the guard’s cock was thrust in and out, grazing his prostate with each motion. Tears streamed down the guard’s face, his delirium deepening as he fought the urge to cum, knowing the collective punishment that awaited. Another guard, his olive skin slick with sweat, drooled uncontrollably, his brown eyes glassy as two businessmen worked in tandem—one rimming his anus with slow, deliberate licks, the other manipulating the sounder to keep him teetering on the edge. The guards were edged relentlessly, their cocks throbbing, leaking precum that dripped onto the stone floor in viscous strings, but they were forbidden to release.
The Swiss guards' ordeal stretched on, their edging lasting a grueling twenty-four hours. Their bodies were a wreck—muscles trembling, face streaked with tears, and voice reduced to hoarse whimpers. The businessmen took shifts, ensuring each guard's sounder never ceased its cruel dance against their prostate, while their tongues and fingers teased their anus, keeping them in a state of agonizing arousal. Edged through the night, the guards watched in horror and fascination as their own bodies are pushed to the limit. The cellar reeked of sweat, musk, and desperation, the guards’ delirium a palpable force as they fought to endure. Bieri’s voice broke the haze, sharp and commanding. “You will hold fast, or you will all suffer longer. Prove your repentance.” The ritual continued, the guards’ fate hanging in the balance, their bodies and minds stretched to the edge of collapse.
Paul continued to watch intently.
The wine cellar pulsed with a suffocating heat, the air heavy with the musk of sweat, precum, and the sharp tang of lubricant. The twelve Swiss Guards, now stripped to nothing, stood with hands locked behind their heads, their muscular bodies slick and trembling. Their cocks, swollen and veined, throbbed under the relentless edging, steel sounders sliding in and out of their urethras with cruel precision. The businessmen, cloaks swaying, worked with depraved focus—some rotating the sounders to graze prostates, others lapping at the guards’ puckered anuses with wet, slurping tongues. The guards’ eyes were glassy with delirium, tears streaking their flushed faces as they sniveled and drooled, their moans echoing off the stone walls. The American captain, his chiseled frame shuddering, endured the worst—his thicker sounder pressed deep, scraping his prostate until his legs quaked, his drool pooling on the floor. Nipple piercings glinted on their chests dancing with the round tattoo on his chest over his heart, the fresh wounds oozing blood that mingled with sweat, a testament to their ongoing humiliation.
Paul Stoddard reached Oskar Bieri the second letter,. He then stepped forward, his black suit pristine amidst the debauchery, his voice slicing through the guards’ groans. “The Camerlengo is furious,” he declared, his gray eyes cold. “Your actions have disgraced the Guard, and he demands heavier punishment unless one of you volunteers to face him directly.” Silence fell, broken only by the wet sounds of tongues and the faint clink of sounders. The guards’ faces twisted in fear and desperation, their cocks twitching as the edging intensified. No one spoke. The businessmen redoubled their efforts, tongues probing deeper into anuses, sounders thrusting faster, grazing prostates with sadistic intent. A toned guard, barely legal age, with olive skin whimpered; his brown eyes rolling back as a businessman’s tongue swirled inside him, the sounder twisting like a drill. Another, blond and built like a parkour artist, bit his lip until it bled, his body arching as he fought the urge to cum, knowing one release would doom them all to a cycle of endless torment as sex slaves to these priests and businessmen.
Paul checked his wristwatch. An hour bled into two, the guards’ moans growing hoarse, their bodies wracked with pleasure they were forbidden to consummate. Their cocks leaked viscous precum, dripping in thick strings onto the stone floor, their anuses slick with spit. The American captain's face was a mask of agony, his chestnut hair matted with sweat, his square jaw slack as he drooled uncontrollably, the sounder in his urethra continue rotating in slow, torturous circles. The businessmen taunted them, one whispering, “You’re nothing but disgraced whores now,” as he licked a guard’s anus, his tongue flicking the tight ring with obscene relish. The guards’ dignity, once embodied in their papal uniforms, was shredded, their honor replaced by the degrading reality of their naked, violated bodies. Still, none volunteered to face the Camerlengo, their fear of his wrath outweighing the torment they endured.
Bieri’s patience snapped. “You all will learn to break,” he hissed, signaling the businessmen to intensify the punishment. The Camerlengo strongly demands someone from this squadron of guards to face him, Paul noted. The sounders were plunged deeper, some curved tips hammering prostates with rapid, brutal thrusts. A guard with broad shoulders and dark hair sobbed openly, his green eyes wild as a businessman’s tongue burrowed into his anus, the sounder in his cock spinning mercilessly. Another, pale and trembling, let out a guttural moan, his body convulsing as the edging pushed him to the brink, his precum now a steady stream. The businessmen laughed, their cloaks rustling as they savored the guards’ degradation, treating them like male prostitutes stripped of all pride. The guards knew the stakes: one orgasm would trap them in a death spiral of punishment, their virile muscular bodies forever at the mercy of these leering men. Yet the pleasure was overwhelming, their moans blending into a desperate chorus, their eyes rolling back as they teetered on the edge of collapse.
The oppressive atmosphere thickened, the guards’ bodies pushed beyond endurance, their minds fraying under the relentless assault. Oskar Bieri and Paul Stoddard watched, unyielding, Paul's gaze flicking to the American captain, whose whimpers had turned to broken gasps, his body a slick, trembling wreck. The other guards, their faces streaked with tears and drool, groaned in unison, their cocks pulsing with forbidden need. The businessmen showed no mercy, their tongues and sounders working in tandem to drive the guards mad with unfulfilled desire. The threat of eternal enslavement loomed, a fate worse than death for these once-proud soldiers. Bieri raised his hand, poised to ask again if any would face the Camerlengo, his silence a blade hanging over their trembling forms.
The businessmen, cloaked and leering, intensified their assault: tongues plunging into anuses, fingers twisting nipple piercings, the guards’ faces contorted in a haze of agony and forbidden pleasure. The stocky guard with pale skin and blond hair shuddered violently, his green eyes rolling back as his cock twitched, a telltale pulse signaling he was seconds from cumming. Just as his body convulsed, the American captain saw this, his chiseled frame drenched in sweat, his square jaw clenched, roared, “I’ll face the Camerlengo!” His voice cracked with desperation, drool spilling from his lips, his chestnut hair matted against his forehead.
Oskar Bieri’s gray eyes gleamed with cold approval, his black suit a stark contrast to the guards’ naked vulnerability. He looked at Paul Stoddard, who nodded in approval as well, apparently consummating the request. “A noble sacrifice,” he intoned, his voice dripping with mock reverence. “Your honor spares your brothers—for now.” The businessmen stepped back, sounders and tongues withdrawing, leaving the guards panting, their cocks throbbing, untouched but forbidden to cum. Their nipple piercings, bloodied and glinting, tugged at their reddened flesh as they gasped for air. Bieri gestured sharply, and the eleven remaining guards were unshackled, their bodies weak from hours of edging. They were forbidden to don their uniforms, left in their collars, gloves, and helmets, their muscular bodies exposed, cocks still hard and leaking. The American captain was led away, his broad shoulders slumped, his eyes haunted as he faced an unknown fate with the Camerlengo and his associates.
The eleven guards were herded out of the cellar, following Paul: their bare feet slapping against the cold stone as they were marched to a waiting bus outside. The vehicle was no ordinary transport—a modified Vatican bus with seats rigged for specifically tormenting erring Vatican guards. Each guard was forced into a seat, their wrists cuffed to the headrests above, arms stretched high, exposing their chiseled abs and sweat-soaked armpits. Their legs were spread wide, thighs straining, backs pressed low against the seats in a half-reclining position, cocks fully exposed and still rigid. A businessman, his cloak discarded to reveal a tailored gray suit, approached each guard with a wicked grin, inserting a long, thin sounder into their urethras. The rods were slender, designed to slide deep, their tips curved to nudge the prostate with every movement. Golden chains, delicate but unyielding, were clipped to the sounders’ exposed ends and looped tightly to the guards’ nipple piercings, ensuring even the slightest shift would tug both their cocks and chests. Then came the final indignity: ten-bead vibrators, each bead gleaming like a dark prayer, were slicked with musky lubricant and pushed deep into their anuses, the devices humming faintly as they settled against their prostates. Paul and his associates sat in front of the bus, facing the virile and muscular bodies of the Vatican guards. Oskar Bieri then climbed onto the bus, leaving the squadron's captain in Villa Chiostro.
As the bus lurched forward, moving at a torturously slow pace, the vibrators roared to life, their relentless buzzing filling the air. The guards’ bodies jolted, their abs clenching, their faces twisting in a mix of shock and unwanted ecstasy. The beads pulsed in sync, each one grinding against their prostates, sending waves of pleasure through their trembling muscular frames; the guards barely able to contain the pleasure as they shoot their penises to the air. The thin sounders shifted with the bus’s motion, grazing their prostates in sync with the nipple chains’ sharp tugs. Within minutes, the first guard—the muscular 17-year old, barely legal Vatican guard—groaned, his cock erupting. Thick, white cum shot across his sculpted abs, splattering his puffy pecs and even streaking his pretty face, the ropes glistening under the bus’s dim lights. Another guard, broader with dark hair, followed, his cum spraying in arcs, coating his thighs and dripping onto the seat, the viscous fluid pooling beneath him. The guards who escaped the Camerlengo’s wrath were now bathing in their own cum, their bodies betraying them as the vibrators and sounders worked in cruel harmony.
The bus crawled along the extended route, winding through the extremely bumpy road, the slow pace prolonging their torment. The guards squirmed, their cuffed hands useless, their spread legs trembling as the vibrators buzzed mercilessly. Each movement yanked the golden chains, pulling the sounders deeper, scraping their prostates and forcing fresh spurts of cum. A blond guard, his face flushed crimson, moaned hoarsely, his cum streaking his armpits and matting his pubic hair, the musky scent mixing with the stale air. Another, his toned frame shuddering, let out a broken sob as his cock spewed again, the semen dripping down his balls and pooling on the seat, his body slick with his own fluids. Their groans and whimpers blended into a desperate chorus, their once-proud physiques reduced to a spectacle of degradation, their collars and helmets mocking their lost dignity. The vibrators showed no mercy, each bead pulsing like a commandment they couldn’t obey, their prostates assaulted with every bump of the bus.
The journey stretched on as Paul and Oskar watched; the guards trapped in a cycle of forced orgasms, their bodies drenched in cum that coated their abs, chests, and faces. The blond guard’s green eyes were glassy, his lips parted as he panted, cum dripping from his chin onto his heaving pecs. The muscular 17-year old guard’s brown eyes fluttered, his cock still spewing in weak, shuddering spurts, the golden chain tugging his nipple piercings with every twitch. The air reeked of musk and semen, the seats slick with their fluids, yet the vibrators buzzed on, relentless. The guards, spared the Camerlengo’s direct wrath, were now prisoners of their own bodies, their cum-soaked forms a testament to their fall from honor and repentance. The bus inched toward the Vatican, Paul instructing the driver to take the bumpy, long paths; its slow crawl ensuring their torment would continue, their cocks still hard, still leaking, as the chains and beads drove them deeper into delirium.
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The chamber of the Camerlengo in Villa Chiostro reeked of decay, its damp stone walls slick with mildew, the air thick with a musky, sour stench that clung to the skin. Dim torchlight flickered, casting grotesque shadows across the American Swiss Guard’s tattooed, muscular frame. His wrists, bound in rusted iron cuffs, were chained to a tight leather choker around his nape, the choker itself tethered to a ceiling hook, forcing his head high. His left foot was shackled to the floor, the chain biting into his ankle, while his right thigh was cuffed and hoisted by a chain from the ceiling, leaving him balanced precariously on one leg. His thick, veined cock jutted out, rock-hard and leaking, every inch of his body—armpits, abs, balls, anus—obscenely exposed. Tribal tattoos snaked across his upper back, looping around his bulging biceps, and looping as well on both his meaty thighs, their dark ink glistening with sweat. The tattoo on his chest: a black sigil of Baphomet adorned his left pec, stark against his tanned skin, while cross-shaped piercings dangled from his left ear and both nipples, mocking his Vatican role.
The Camerlengo, a gaunt 67-year-old with sallow, wrinkled skin and rheumy eyes, entered, his black robes dragging through the grime. Behind him shuffled five elderly bishops, their black hoods concealing faces that reeked of stale tobacco and rot, their hunched forms resembling Gollum-like specters. Their stench—rancid sweat and unwashed flesh—mingled with the chamber’s mildew, making the air suffocating. The Camerlengo spoke to Oskar Bieri in rapid Latin, his voice a guttural rasp. “Spero hunc Americanum scire quomodo tolerare,” he said, gesturing to the guard. “Nullum semen emittat, nullum sonum faciat, nullam faciem moveat praeter dignitatem Helvetici militis. Tres dies, sicut resurrectio, debet vincere. Si semen emittit aut reagit, dies reinicientur.” Bieri nodded, replying in Latin, “Ita fiat.” Turning to the guard, he said in Italian, "Addio per sempre, capitano — sei stato più divino senza l’armatura," his gray eyes cold as he exited for the bus, leaving the American to his fate.
The bishops descended like vultures, their gnarled hands roaming the guard’s chiseled body. One, with yellowed teeth and liver-spotted skin, fondled his abs, muttering, “Hae stigmata... nota diaboli.” Another licked his armpit, his slimy tongue dragging through the coarse hair, savoring the salty sweat. The guard’s cock twitched, precum oozing down its shaft, the thick urethral sounder—a thick, long steel rod with a cross studded with jewels at its tip—glinting in the torchlight. The rod filled his urethra but didn’t stop the flow, its curved and bent tip grazing his prostate with every twist. A bishop, his breath reeking of garlic, jerked the sounder, rotating it slowly, the cross scraping the guard’s sensitive passage. The guard’s eyes threatened to roll back, drool pooling at his lips, but his face remained stoic, jaw clenched, embodying the proud Swiss Guard he was ordered to be. His sniveling was silent, his chest heaving as he fought the overwhelming pleasure.
The bishops noticed the Baphomet sigil, their eyes narrowing with disgust. “Hoc signum daemonis in eum corruptionem infert” one hissed, his voice like gravel. They slathered musky lubricant across his body, their bony fingers massaging it into his pecs, thighs, and balls, the slick fluid dripping onto the floor. A bishop with a hooked nose grabbed the cross-pierced nipples, twisting them until the guard’s pecs flexed, the pain sharp but his face unmoving. Another inserted a thicker steel rod into his anus, its cold tip probing deep, twisting to grind against his prostate in sync with the urethral sounder. The guard’s balls tightened, his cock throbbing, precum now a steady stream, splattering his raised thigh. The irony burned—his demonic tattoos, the Baphomet sigil, the cross piercings—marked him as a Catholic fuckboy; a muscular, devil-possessed soldier masquerading in the Vatican’s ranks. The bishops saw him as a vessel of sin, his body a battlefield to purge through sexual torment.
One bishop, enraged by the Baphomet tattoo, repeatedly jabbed and flicked his filthy nail into the guard’s piss slit, the sounder still in place. The nail scraped the sensitive flesh, intensifying the precum flow, the clear fluid mixing with the dirt on the bishop's nail. The guard’s body shuddered, his left leg trembling under his weight, but his face held firm, eyes fixed forward, lips sealed. The Camerlengo, seated in a shadowed corner, watched with a leer, his skeletal fingers steepled. “No reaction,” he rasped in Latin. “Prove your pride, or the days reset.” Another bishop, his hood slipping to reveal a wart-covered face, squeezed the guard’s balls each with two fingers, as if trying to squeeze out the captain's seed. The anal rod was thrust deeper by another bishop, its tip hammering the guard’s prostate, the dual assault pushing him to the brink. His drool dripped onto his chest, mixing with sweat and lubricant, his body a slick, manly canvas of defiance and degradation.
The bishops taunted him, their voices a chorus of contempt. “How did you, a devil-worshiper join the Guard?” one sneered, tugging the cross-piercing on his left ear until it bled. Another slapped his cock, the sounder jolting inside, sending a shock of pleasure-pain through his body. The guard felt like a fucktoy, his muscular, tattooed frame reduced to a plaything for these Gollum-like priests. His tribal tattoos, once a badge of rebellion, now branded him as their target, his body a vessel to be punished until the “demonic energy” was exorcised. His precum pooled on the floor, the musky scent mingling with the bishops’ stench. His right leg, chained high, ached, his thigh muscles bulging, every nerve screaming as the rods worked his prostate relentlessly. Yet he stood proud, his stoic face a mask of Vatican honor, even as his body betrayed him with every twitch.
The bishops grew bolder, one sucking the guard’s nipple piercing, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, while another twisted the anal rod like a corkscrew, the metal scraping his insides. The guard’s cock leaked profusely, the sounder’s cross glinting with precum, the bishop’s nail still poking his piss slit, as if polishing the frenulum, now red and raw. His sniveling intensified, his chest heaving, but his eyes remained forward, unblinking, his jaw locked. The Camerlengo’s gaze bore into him, a silent warning that any crack in his facade would reset the three-day ordeal. The guard felt dirty, his manly physique defiled by these decrepit priests, their touch a violation of his strength. Yet his hardness, his leaking cock, his slick body radiated a raw, sexy defiance, the irony of his demonic tattoos fueling their sadistic zeal. He was their fucktoy, but his pride held, a Swiss Guard trapped in a hell of pleasure and shame.
The chamber’s darkness seemed to pulse, the torchlight flickering as the bishops continued their assault. One smeared lubricant into the guard’s tribal tattoos, his fingers tracing the inked loops around his biceps, muttering prayers to “cleanse the devil” as the dank chamber of the camerlengo in Villa Chiostro pulsed with a sinister rhythm, its mildewed walls glistening under the flickering torchlight. The bishops, their hooded faces twisted with zeal, began their ritual, scraping a jagged piece of chalk across the stone floor to draw a jagged circle around the guard. Inside it, they etched a sprawling pentagram, its points aligning with the chamber’s corners, ensuring the guard’s chiseled form stood dead center, a sacrificial offering to purge his demonic taint. They placed flickering candles at each point, their wax dripping like blood, the air growing thicker with the scent of rancid tallow and the guard’s own musk.
The “exorcism” began with a ferocity that made the guard’s body quake, though his face—stoic, proud, a Swiss Guard’s mask—held firm, save for the drool trickling from his lips and tears welling in his rolling eyes. The bishops, their hooded robes brushing the floor, descended on him like starved beasts. One, with a face like crumpled parchment, shoved the thick anal rod deeper, yanking it out and slamming it back in, its tip mashing the guard’s prostate with violent precision, each thrust sending shocks through his trembling frame. Another bishop, his breath reeking of decay, licked the guard’s chiseled abs, his slimy tongue tracing the ridges, dipping into his navel, savoring the salty sweat. A third sucked the guard’s pierced nipple, teeth grazing the cross-shaped stud, while a fourth jammed his tongue into the guard’s ear, slurping wetly at the pierced lobe. The thick urethral sounder, adorned with a cross, was twisted and pulled by a fifth bishop, its steel grazing every inch of the guard’s prostate, precum gushing from his piss slit in viscous streams while his wart-covered face leering, began to suck his precum like a drink, while his rough tongue scraped the sounder-blocked slit and frenulum, intensifying the torment. The proud Swiss Guard captain felt like a lowly male prostitute, his manly physique defiled by these grotesque priests, his demonic tattoos—proof of his apparently devilish soul—fueling their sadistic mission to sexually punish the evil within him.
The Camerlengo, seated in the shadows, his skeletal frame draped in black, watched with an amused huff, his rheumy eyes glinting as the guard’s eyes rolled back, overwhelmed by the simultaneous assault. The guard’s body screamed with pleasure, his cock throbbing, balls tight, every nerve alight, yet his face remained a mask of Vatican pride, jaw clenched, gaze fixed, even as snivel dripped from his nose and tears streaked his cheeks. The bishops chanted in guttural Latin, their voices a discordant hymn, condemning the Baphomet sigil and tribal ink as marks of Satan. “This devil-fucker must be cleansed,” one rasped, yanking the anal rod harder, its tip pulverizing the guard’s prostate, while another bit his nipple, drawing blood that mixed with sweat and lubricant. The guard’s precum splattered the pentagram, his body a slick, sexy monument to defiance and degradation, the irony of his Vatican role searing— a demon-possessed soldier, his tattoos a beacon for this sexual exorcism to purge his soul. The candles flickered, casting grotesque shadows as the bishops continued, their tongues and rods relentless, determined to break the guard’s pride or trap him in this hell for another three days.
The American Swiss Guard’s chiseled body convulsed in the pentagram’s center, his tattooed frame slick with sweat, lubricant, and precum, the Baphomet sigil on his pecs glistening under the candlelight. The bishops’ relentless assault—tongues slathering his abs, armpits, and ears, teeth gnawing his nipple piercings, rods pulverizing his prostate—pushed him past endurance. His cock, stuffed with the thick urethral sounder, throbbed violently, cum surging but only dribbling out in weak, milky spurts, blocked by the steel cross-tipped rod. His stoic facade cracked; a deep, feeble groan escaped his throat, his face contorting weakly, eyes rolling back, drool and tears streaking his rugged features. The Camerlengo, his gaunt face twisted with sadistic glee, rose from his shadowed seat, his black robes brushing the grimy floor. “You’ve failed,” he rasped, stepping close, his sour breath grazing the guard’s face. “You must persevere, endure, or you’re no Swiss Guard—just an American boy toy, a demonic fucktoy cloaked in false honor.” The guard’s chest heaved, his tribal tattoos seeming to pulse with demonic defiance, his body a sexy, manly wreck, defiled by these Gollum-like priests who saw his ink as proof of Satanic possession.
The Camerlengo’s rheumy eyes gleamed as he turned to the bishops, their hooded, wart-scarred faces leering in the flickering light. “This captain’s sins demand deeper cleansing,” he commanded, his voice a guttural snarl. “Tollatur cruciatus in eum donec energia diaboli purgeatur.” The bishops nodded, their gnarled hands resuming their work, one twisting the anal rod to mash the guard’s prostate, another flicking his piss slit with a filthy nail. The guard’s groan faded, his face struggling to regain its proud mask, but his body betrayed him, trembling, slick, and utterly debased. The chamber’s musky, mildewed air grew heavier, the candles’ flames dancing as the bishops chanted, their tongues and rods relentless. The captain, once a Vatican sentinel, was now their plaything, his demonic tattoos a cruel irony sealing his fate as a sexual sacrifice, trapped in a three-day cycle of torment to exorcise his soul.
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The air in the opulent drawing room of the Vatican hung heavy with the scent of cigar smoke, aged leather, and raw musk, the velvet curtains drawn tight to shroud the depravity within. Oskar Bieri lounged in a high-backed armchair, his black suit immaculate, a faint smirk curling his thin lips as he read the Camerlengo’s message scrawled in elegant Latin: “Capitanus Helvetiorum non ad Vaticanum remittatur.” The American Swiss Guard captain, now a broken fucktoy in the Camerlengo’s mildewed chamber back in Villa Chiostro, would not return. Bieri’s gray eyes glinted with amusement, his fingers tracing the rim of a crystal tumbler filled with amber whiskey.
Before him, a stark-naked Swiss Guard—blond, tall, with a lean, sculpted frame—writhed under the attentions of a masked bishop, the scene unfolding like a twisted tableau of power and shame. The guard, who just finished his guard duties; starched white collar and red-plumed helmet, the only remnants of his uniform, mocked his fallen honor, his sweat-slicked skin catching the firelight as the businessman’s hands roamed with greedy entitlement.
Bieri’s gaze flicked to the other side of the room, where another Swiss Guard, whose duties have not started yet—light-skinned and broad-shouldered—stood naked, his hands cuffed to ornate wall sconces, his cock still chained to their nipple piercings, vibrators humming in his anus. His face, streaked with dried cum from the bus ride, bore the same haunted look, their bodies glistening with sweat as another masked bishop, a gaunt man in a silk robe, kneaded and twisted his balls with two fingers, laughing softly while forcing the muscular guard to shudder and twist. Bieri leaned back, his smirk unshaken, the Camerlengo’s message tucked into his pocket. The captain’s fate was sealed, but these guards, spared the chamber’s horrors, were no better off, their bodies commodities for the leering elite when not in duty.
“Look at you, Vatican’s finest,” he sneered in Italian, his voice dripping with condescension, “nothing but a whore now.”
An alert on his mobile phone made him look; he saw a message from Signore Stoddard:
"Questo gruppo di tirocinanti ha avuto esito positivo. Abbiamo inoltre presentato con successo un'offerta al Camerlengo. Quando è previsto l'invio del prossimo gruppo?"
Bieri replied, in English: "Oh but of course, my dear Sir Stoddard."
Bieri’s lips curled into a sly smile as he glanced across the room, where a stark-naked Swiss Guard, his muscular frame glistening with sweat, was being ravaged by a masked bishop. The guard’s blond hair was matted, his blue eyes half-lidded as the businessman’s hands roamed his chiseled pecs, fingers tugging at fresh nipple piercings, drawing sharp gasps. Nearby, another guard, fresh off duty, was stripped bare by a masked bishop. The guard, stocky and olive-skinned, was forced to bend forward, his hands braced on the edge of a mahogany table, his back arched as the bishop’s slimy tongue worked his cock, sucking greedily, the guard’s thighs trembling as precum dripped onto the floor.
In fluid Italian, Bieri said, “I prossimi dodici Guardie Svizzere, accusate di falsi capi, sono già pronte per essere mandate a Villa Chiostro per il cosiddetto ‘risveglio’ e ‘addestramento’. Tra loro c’è quello che probabilmente si ‘offrirà volontario’ per il Camerlengo.” Stoddard’s dark eyes narrowed, a smirk playing on his lips as he replied in Italian, “Chi sarebbe questo ‘volontario’?” Bieri’s smile widened, his voice dripping with malice. “Le Guardie Svizzere sono riuscite a reclutare il campione nazionale di CrossFit 2024 della Svizzera, Colin Bosshard.” Stoddard chuckled, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Il Camerlengo, per quanto nuovo nella sua posizione, apprezzerà di certo il corpo di Bosshard. Spero che il suo appetito sessuale vorace sia soddisfatto.” Bieri pulled up a photo from the recruit files on his phone, showing Bosshard naked, his sculpted physique a masterpiece of muscle—broad shoulders, rippling abs, and thick thighs. A tiny, almost hidden tattoo of Azazel’s sigil marked his left iliac region, visible only up close, a subtle blasphemy on his godlike form.
Stoddard’s eyes lingered on the Azazel tattoo, his smirk growing wicked. In Italian, he said, “Se il Camerlengo e i suoi disgustosi, puzzolenti assistenti vedono questo tatuaggio, si divertiranno un mondo a violentare sessualmente questo atleta bollente.” Bieri laughed, a cold, guttural sound, as they both imagined Bosshard’s fate. The CrossFit champion, turned Swiss Guard, was destined to become the Camerlengo’s male sex object, his trained muscles useless against the old priest’s depraved wrath. Bieri messaged, still in Italian, “Devono completare le sette Guardie Svizzere richieste, una per ogni giorno, che il Camerlengo userà, fresche di reclutamento o veterane, tutte addestrate.”
Oskar Bieri’s mind churned with dark delight as he envisioned Colin Bosshard’s ordeal in the Camerlengo’s fetid chamber at Villa Chiostro, the CrossFit athlete’s Herculean physique pitted against an occult ritual steeped in depravity. Bosshard, the 2024 Swiss CrossFit champion, would stand chained, his 5’8” frame a tapestry of sweat-slicked muscle—bulging quads, carved abs, and veined forearms—defiled by the bishops’ rancid touch. The tiny Azazel sigil tattooed on his left iliac region, a mark of arcane rebellion, would draw their wrath, branding him a vessel of demonic filth. Bieri imagined the chamber’s mildewed walls, dripping with condensation, the air choking with the stench of tallow candles and the bishops’ unwashed bodies. A pentagram would encircle Bosshard, its chalk lines smeared with his precum, as the bishops, their Gollum-like faces leering, thrust a jewel-studded sounder into his urethra, its cross-shaped tip grinding his prostate, while a thick anal rod ravaged his P-spot. Their tongues would slather his armpits and navel, teeth gnawing his unpierced nipples, as they chanted in guttural Latin to purge the “occult energy” from his athletic form. Bieri wondered if Bosshard’s iron will, forged in grueling workouts, could withstand the relentless prostate assault, or if he’d crumble within hours, his proud face contorting, cum dribbling past the sounder, his body a dirty, sexy sacrifice to their sadistic rite.
The scene in Bieri’s mind grew filthier, the occult atmosphere intensifying the athlete’s degradation. Bosshard’s chiseled body, trained for peak performance, would be rendered useless, his strength mocked by the chains binding his wrists to a ceiling-hung choker, one leg hoisted to expose his tight anus and throbbing cock. The bishops would smear musky lubricant over his Azazel tattoo, their jagged nails scraping the inked skin, enraged by its demonic presence on a Swiss Guard. One would suck his cockhead, his wart-covered tongue flicking the leaking slit around the sounder, while another twisted the anal rod, its tip mashing Bosshard’s prostate until his thighs quaked. The chamber’s darkness would pulse with their chants, the candles’ flames casting grotesque shadows as Bosshard’s sweat and precum mingled with the floor’s grime, his body a profane altar. Bieri smirked, picturing the athlete’s blue eyes rolling back, his buzzcut matted, drool dripping from his lips, yet his face straining to maintain a Guard’s pride. The irony of Bosshard’s occult tattoo, hidden yet damning, would fuel the bishops’ zeal to sexually break him, their ritual a perverse exorcism to cleanse the CrossFit god turned Vatican soldier. Bieri mused that Bosshard might last a day, maybe two, before his trained muscles betrayed him, succumbing to the filthy, occult torment that would reduce him to the Camerlengo’s ultimate plaything.
Though distant, their laughs timed; picturing Bosshard’s chiseled body chained in the Camerlengo’s chamber, a thick sounder with a jewel-studded cross violating his urethra, its tip grinding his prostate, his powerful frame reduced to a trembling fucktoy.
In Stoddard's mind, Bosshard stood in the mildewed chamber, his 5’8” frame bound as the tall American captain had been. His wrists were cuffed to a leather choker, chained to the ceiling, his left ankle shackled to the floor, his right thigh hoisted high, exposing his rock-hard cock and tight anus. His body, honed by years of CrossFit, was a sculpture of power—veined biceps, a V-shaped torso, and quads that bulged with every strain. The Azazel tattoo, a tiny mark of rebellion, glowed faintly against his tanned skin, a beacon for the bishops’ fury. The Camerlengo, his skeletal face leering, would watch as his Gollum-like bishops swarmed, their rancid breath and gnarled hands defiling Bosshard’s perfection. A thick steel sounder, its cross studded with glinting jewels, would be forced into his urethra, its tip scraping his prostate with every twist, precum oozing in thick, milky streams. A larger rod would invade his anus, its relentless thrusting mashing his P-spot, his abs clenching, sweat dripping down his sculpted pecs, mingling with the traces of blood from his pierced nipples, tugged by golden chains.
The bishops would chant in Latin, condemning the Azazel sigil as proof of demonic possession, their tongues lapping at Bosshard's armpits, navel, and balls, savoring his musky sweat. One would suck his cockhead, his filthy tongue flicking the leaking slit around the sounder, while another bit his nipple piercings, drawing blood that stained his inked skin. Bosshard’s dark brown eyes would roll back, his blond buzzcut matted with sweat, his face struggling to maintain the proud Swiss Guard facade as drool and snivel dripped from his lips. The Camerlengo would taunt him, declaring his body a vessel of sin, his CrossFit-honed muscles useless against the sexual torment meant to purge his demonic energy. The bishops’ hands would slather lubricant over his body, their nails scraping his iliac region, enraged by the Azazel mark, their rods and tongues working in unison to break him. Colin Bosshard, once a champion, hailed as Switzerland's fittest man, would be nothing but a sexy, manly plaything, his body defiled, his pride shattered, trapped in the Camerlengo’s chamber as the bishops laughed, their sadistic ritual ensuring his transformation into the ultimate object of their depraved desires. Amusement, fueled by the thought of Bosshard's demonic tattoo igniting the Camerlengo’s sadistic zeal, ensuring another Swiss Guard would be reduced to a fucktoy in the name of purging sin.
Oskar Bieri’s phone buzzed, snapping Signore Stoddard out of his lascivious reverie, the image of Colin Bosshard's chiseled, tattooed body still burning in his mind. Bieri’s message, terse and in Italian, read: “I prossimi dodici Guardie Svizzere, incluso Bosshard, sono in viaggio verso l’ufficio papale delle Guardie Svizzere. Le accuse fasulle sono pronte per il loro ‘addestramento’ a Villa Chiostro.” Bieri’s lips curled into a predatory smirk as he sent the text, his gray eyes flicking to the parlor’s depraved scene. The naked Swiss Guard, his stocky frame bent over the mahogany table, groaned softly as the masked bishop’s tongue worked his cock, the guard’s olive skin slick with sweat, his hands gripping the table’s edge. The air reeked of musk and cigar smoke, the room’s faded grandeur a fitting backdrop for the guard’s degradation, his body trembling as the bishop’s gnarled hands squeezed his balls, precum dripping onto the polished wood.
Oskar Bieri’s twisted imagination ran rampant, conjuring a filthy, occult spectacle in Villa Chiostro’s rancid chamber, where Colin Bosshard, once Switzerland’s CrossFit titan turned Swiss Guard, was reduced to a quivering male sex slave, his godlike physique a plaything for the Camerlengo’s depraved lust. Bosshard’s 5’8” frame, a masterpiece of bulging biceps, shredded abs, and tree-trunk thighs, was chained in a pentagram of crusted blood and wax, his wrists shackled to a spiked choker, right leg hoisted to bare his pulsing cock and clenching anus. The Azazel tattoo on his iliac crest, a faint but damning sigil, seemed to pulse under the bishops’ leering gazes, their stench of sour sweat and rotting teeth choking the air. The Camerlengo, his gaunt face contorted with manic gigil, orchestrated the “exorcism,” his skeletal hands trembling as a jewel-studded sounder was rammed into Bosshard’s urethra, its cross tip scraping his prostate, milking thick, creamy cum that dribbled pathetically around the steel. A brutal anal rod hammered his P-spot, each thrust forcing his veins to bulge—not from CrossFit heroics but from the relentless edging, his body slick with sweat, blood, and musky lube, his once-holy warrior status now a cruel mockery as the bishops drained him, their tongues slithering over his armpits, nipples, and balls, determined to purge the demonic taint of his tattoo through endless sexual torment.
No amount of Bosshard’s grueling muscle training could shield him from the Camerlengo’s wrath; his chiseled physique, once celebrated on Swiss podiums, was now a dirty fucktoy, forever bound to the bishops’ sadistic “exorcisms.” His veins popped, not from deadlifts or burpees, but from the excruciating milking, the sounder twisting to coax every drop of cum, his abs spasming, thighs trembling as a bishop’s rancid tongue probed his piss slit, sucking the leaking fluid with grotesque zeal. Another clawed at his Azazel tattoo, enraged by its blasphemy, their nails drawing blood that mixed with the cum pooling on the mildewed floor. The Camerlengo, his eyes wild with hunger, rasped in Latin, “This whore’s seed fuels Satan!” as he ordered deeper torment, a third rod probing Bosshard’s anus, stretching him obscenely. His fame as an athlete, amplified by his Swiss Guard enlistment, made his fall into a male prostitute all the filthier—his manly, sweat-drenched body, once a symbol of strength, now a sexy, defiled canvas, his stoic face cracking with groans, tears, and snivel, the bishops’ gigil insatiable as they vowed to break him daily, the Azazel sigil ensuring his eternal punishment as the Vatican’s dirtiest secret.
Stoddard pocketed his phone, his sharp face alight with cruel anticipation. “Bene,” he muttered in Italian, his voice low and gleeful. “Bosshard e gli altri saranno spezzati dal Camerlengo. Quel tatuaggio di Azazel sul suo corpo da atleta… lo renderà il loro giocattolo perfetto.” He imagined the CrossFit champion, his sculpted muscles useless, chained in the Camerlengo’s mildewed chamber, a jewel-studded sounder violating his urethra, bishops swarming his body like vultures. The parlor’s depravity continued, the bishop’s slurping growing louder, the guard’s thighs quaking as he fought to stay upright. Bieri made a knowing glance, his laughter cold, reveling in the thought of the twelve guards, especially Bosshard, facing their trumped-up charges and the Camerlengo’s sadistic “training,” their fates sealed in Villa Chiostro’s dark embrace.
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