037: Pope?
I barely managed to move my trembling legs, matching my pace to the two priests supporting me. My mind was choked with terror, while my body buzzed with lingering aftershocks of ecstasy and anticipation, throwing everything into chaos. I couldn't even properly hear their constant attempts at conversation. Should I scream for help? But they were dressed in pristine priestly robes—far more respectable than my own slutty outfit. They might just see me as some fraud masquerading as a priest, caught in the act. Pretending to be drunk and going along with it might save face better.
Their hands on me weren't rough or forceful; they were gentle, more like careful support. After dozens of ragged breaths, my breathing finally steadied, and Francis's voice reached my ears.
"Are you feeling a bit better now? I wanted to let you calm down properly before escorting you, but His Holiness the Pope's orders left us no choice but to hurry. I'm sorry. I can't even imagine the pain those other two brothers inflicted on you. I had no idea you'd be suffering like this, Sister Ivy."
My mind wasn't sharp enough yet to think straight, but his tone—pure concern, not the contemptuous stare that had withered me moments ago—made me lift my head in confusion. Don't they know? Really? Did I really get away with it? My pupils, still dilated from climax, couldn't focus sharply on their faces, but the two priests kept walking with my arms linked in theirs, murmuring worried words nonstop. Were they mistaking my state for some illness? I hadn't caught their earlier words, but the nuance and atmosphere let me piece together the situation. The anxiety of being dragged off somewhere was overshadowed by relief that no one had noticed my public orgasm. The tension drained away, and my shaking stopped.
Was I clinging to this small relief because I was backed into such a corner? Either way, as my trembling ceased, they gave me sympathetic looks.
"Can you hear us properly now?"
"...Yes. I'm sorry. I must have made a scene."
"Not at all. We prepared tests for you to pass, assuming you're a devout believer, Sister Ivy—but we would never do anything as cruel as those other two brothers. We'll be as humane as possible..."
How far had we walked? We arrived at an isolated building. No exterior lights, windows shrouded in curtains—no way to see inside. Suspicious as hell. Napoli traced some invisible pattern on the door with his free hand. Once it was complete—invisible to my eyes—the door clicked open on its own. Inside sat a young man in ornate priestly robes, waiting in a chair.
"You've had a hard time of it. Brother Francis, Brother Napoli."
"Your Holiness, what brings you here...?"
"I need to see for myself if she's truly the Saintess—or just a harlot bewitching and corrupting the lambs. If she fooled even Sister Iris and Brother Hamill, she could fool you two easily. That's why I came personally."
I'd imagined the Pope as some kindly old sage, but he was surprisingly young. Early thirties at most? In most fantasy novels, that'd be a bit old for the protagonist—probably a supporting character. But this wasn't a game or book; it was a real world. I gave him an awkward bow.
"I-it's an honor to meet you, Your Holiness."
"Pleased to meet you, Sister Ivy. I am the 14th Pope of the FSM Church, Ramen-with-Scallions-and-Egg-on-Top. No need to be so tense. If you're not a heretic, I'll release you unharmed."
His name hit me like a brick. I stared blankly at his face. How does someone get named that? Is he a possessor too? I nearly blurted out my own status to clear the misunderstanding, but circumstances held me back. Like Francis Bacon or Napoli Spaghetti, it might just be a food-themed name. And even if he was a possessor, wasn't it this Pope—or one like him—who'd prophesied about otherworlders? If I revealed myself now, things could spiral. My head might roll right here. Better play the innocent priest and wait for interrogation while plotting an escape.
"Night is deepening. Brothers, rest for tomorrow. I'll speak with Sister Ivy alone."
"But Your Holiness—"
"No need for concern. Brother Hamill will witness everything."
"...Understood."
They bowed and left me behind. Stunned by the familiar name, I looked up. Hamill? Hadn't he left to tuck Hanbyeol into bed at that inn? Why was he emerging from behind the Pope now?
"Hamill...? You deceived me...?"
"I never deceived the Saintess. I merely reported your actions to His Holiness."
I'd suspected he was watching me, but hearing it confirmed straight to my face soured my mood.
"Brother Hamill, you've seen what I've done. How am I a harlot? I've never seduced anyone or lain with anyone. I'm not claiming to be the Saintess, of course. I'm just a humble priest. That title is too grand for me..."
I defended myself desperately, trying to dodge the Pope's scrutiny, but Hamill sent me a gaze of unwavering faith.
"It's fine. Just as before, prove your innocence to us this time too, Saintess. I believe you'll show His Holiness as well."
"Exactly. We hope you're not some common fraud, Sister Ivy—that you're truly the Saintess. I'm quite looking forward to it. Now, Brother Hamill."
At the Pope's gesture, Hamill untied the ropes binding me. Instinct screamed this was my last chance to run, but I knew my physical stats couldn't shake off two men. I submitted quietly as he secured my limbs to an X-shaped rack.
That instant, torches on the walls ignited, flooding the dim room with light. Furniture shapes sharpened into view, and blood drained from my face. It wasn't just my rack— the place was a medieval torture chamber set, straight out of a dungeon.
"Ah, ah..."
I couldn't even scream; the sight froze me, chains rattling at my wrists and ankles. The Pope approached, groping my breasts.
"Whether you're a faithful believer, a lost lamb abusing God's gifts, or using demonic power seduced by the devil—we'll find out in time."
His whisper sounded like "I'm about to torture you," and terror gripped me.
"P-please, spare me..."
"I won't harm you, Sister. Rest easy. I only judge otherworlders who disrupt this world's order and the devil's minions."
Begging for my life, he kneaded my breasts with both hands. The soft, sticky motions screamed experience—not his first time with a woman's chest.
"A priestess as beautiful as you must have tempted countless men. Have you never used your allure for personal gain?"
"N-no!"
"Liar. What man could resist you dressed like that?"
"Eek!"
His gentle kneading turned brutal in an instant, twisting and yanking upward. It hurt. I toed up on heels to ease it, but bound legs wouldn't budge.
"Ah, it hurts..."
"The Saintess speaks truth. She's never seduced other men."
Thankfully, Hamill vouched for me. The Pope eyed him oddly.
"Nothing's confirmed yet, but you call her Saintess, Brother Hamill."
"She is, from what I've seen."
"If not, you'll answer for those words."
"Of course."
What made Hamill back me? I wasn't a saintess—just a max-level healer. Around other players, I'd be a regular old-timer. "Saintess" was a nickname that'd become a black mark later. What meaning did they attach to it?
"Hik!"
Lost in fear, the Pope stopped fondling and tore my robe clean in half. I gasped instead of screaming, body jerking. His fingers trailed slowly from collarbone to navel.
"Sister Ivy, did Sister Iris and Brother Hamill tell you? Recovery spells demand utmost focus to activate. Did you know?"
I knew damn well. Raids broke casts on slight movement or CC. Even big health drops could reset the bar. I nodded uneasily; he grinned and punched my stomach.
"Kuhk!"
"I'll create harsh conditions now. We'll test if you can still heal. If you borrow demonic power, we'll notice. If you can't cast, you're a fraud priestess impersonating the Saintess—punishable. I hope you're the Saintess as Brother Hamill says, but as Pope, I can't overlook any possibility."
He'd said "heal." Natives called it recovery spells or healing magic—not "heal." Game term. So the Pope was a possessor. But no time to grill him. I didn't know why he'd reject otherworlders—players. Blurting it out might get my neck slit: "Perfect, another one!"
He stepped back after the gut punch, whip in hand. Snapping it open and closed, he smirked viciously.
"Heal yourself anytime."
"Kyaaak! Aak! Ahak!"
The whip lashed my body. Pain reduction passive dulled the sting—not BDSM-reddening, but flesh-tearing, blood-flowing agony. Horror over pain made me scream; he feigned disappointment.
"Screaming won't prove anything. If you're a fraud, Brother Hamill pays too. That okay?"
The possessor in the Pope's body loved torture. But I had to play along. Hamill watched expressionless. What had he seen to call me saintess?
Endless lashes brought grunts per hit—dull impacts versus pain, body shuddering. The Pope spoke again.
"You might bleed out soon. Time to self-heal, or die."
My body was a bloody mess—no unmarred skin on chest, stomach, arms, legs, back. He'd circled me whipping. Hanbyeol's new robe hung in tatters. Fearing death like any normal person, I chanted recovery before anemia hit. He kept whipping through my prayers. HoT first, then big heals—wounds closed as they opened.
"Hm. Strong pain tolerance, as expected. Not enough, huh."
He tossed the whip, grabbing something familiar—a vibrator, different color, no cord, but unmistakable. Most used it for... pleasure.
"Aahhhuuuuaaaang!"
No foreplay—he pressed the buzzing head to my panties, chattering away.
"Physical torture is too barbaric. Especially if ineffective—just a waste. Don't you agree, brothers and sisters?"
"Agreed."
Why nod at that?! I wanted to snap, but writhed to escape the intense vibrations. Bound taut, twisting my waist was futile.
"Too hard alone. Brother Hamill, help prove her innocence."
"Gladly. What must I do?"
"Things that'd pleasure a woman. Even if she passes out, continue."
"Yes."
Hamill stood behind, kneading my breasts softly—tender, almost affectionate, unlike the Pope's roughness. Goosebumps rose; panties slickened, clit hypersensitive to the nub's prodding.
"Aaaaaahhuuuu... haaaaaang..."
My moans sounded coquettish even to me; the Pope grinned satisfied.
"Feeling it already? No different from the prophecy's lewd harlot."
"N-no..."
"What do you mean no? Honey's already leaking through your panties."
Vibrator buzz and nub teamed up, shivers racing up my spine to my skull. Legs clenched instinctively but shook against bonds; head lolled back into Hamill's broad, firm chest. His embrace-like hold nauseated me, but I swallowed curses, remembering he was helping prove my innocence.
"Holding back orgasm too? Impressive will. Wonder how long. Now, introducing patients for you to heal, Sister Ivy. Sister Laila? Bring them in."
Someone else inside? At his words, a sliding wall opened silently; people filed in.
"Hic, hng..."
Still catching breath from near-climax, exposed like this—shame and illicit thrill reignited my heat. Twisting hips fled the vibrator fruitlessly; his hand followed.
A woman in latex nun habit guided them into line before us. Shame kept my head bowed. Torn robe barely hid nipples, black panties veiled my mound—but slender white belly, cleavage, thighs fully bared. Face burned.
"Heal these patients now. Don't let your cast break."
Would this prove my innocence? Following orders, I began examining them.