So This Is What "Protecting" Me Meant?
The people the Pope had gathered, calling them "patients," spanned all ages and genders. Their clothing varied wildly too—some in rags or plain garb, others in fine, expensive attire. And their ailments were just as diverse. Some were missing limbs or eyes, while others had pale complexions from unknown illnesses, or were on the brink of death, wheezing their last breaths.
"Now, let's see Sister Ivy's abilities in action."
"Ahng, aaah..."
The Pope and Hamill's caresses didn't let up. Even as I writhed desperately, trying to bend my knees to ease the stimulation somehow, the iron chains holding me fast neither stretched nor loosened. Not wanting them to see my face melting into ecstasy, I shook my lowered head vigorously, letting my bangs fall over it like a curtain.
No sooner had I done so than the Pope swept my hair aside with a sneer. "This isn't the time to lose yourself, Sister. You must heal our suffering brothers and sisters."
"I-I'll do it... please stop... hngh!"
"Not 'please stop'—recite the prayer."
My thigh and lower abdominal muscles spasmed. I'd already climaxed before even starting the prayer, rattling the chains as I trembled violently, barely regaining my senses. The brief dulling of my erogenous zones from the orgasm was my chance. My mind was still foggy, my head throbbing, but if I just recited the prayer, the Heal skill would activate anyway. The prayer ingrained in my body would keep casting automatically as long as I didn't consciously stop it.
"...Have mercy on these wretched souls, aaah, here... grant comfort to the suffering, hng... aaah!"
The Pope burst into laughter at my bizarre chant, half-prayer, half-moan. The gathered crowd murmured uneasily, watching me. Shame burned through me; I turned my head and squeezed my eyes shut, but the Pope grabbed my cheeks, forcing me to face them.
"Don't you pity these patients? Why turn away? They came trusting in you, poor souls seeking healing. Will you betray their faith?"
"I-I can see!"
In that instant, a man with closed eyes snapped them open and touched his face. Others cheered as their pains vanished, erupting into joyful chaos. The Pope looked baffled as he finally pulled the vibrator away. Only then could I catch my ragged breath and sigh in relief.
Had he not expected me to cast an area-of-effect heal? He must have hoped the casting would fail. But my prayer was like a macro—it kept going. I'd worried when moans slipped in unbidden, but thankfully, my body faithfully completed it.
Still, I couldn't relax. Recovery spells only mended wounds, not regrow limbs or cure all diseases. They restored damaged vitality, but not maximum health lost to amputation. Diseases, though, I could handle. I cast Purify on those with fevers or sickly pallor, one by one, and they joined the rejoicing crowd, tears streaming down their faces.
"Cleanse these impurities... ah!"
Mid-Purify, the Pope slapped my cheek hard. I couldn't withstand the shock and stopped casting. He jabbed a trembling finger at me.
"You... you fake saint! Your true colors are showing at last! Brothers and sisters, this woman is deceiving you! She heals some but not others! It makes no sense! The blind see, the lame stand, yet the legless can't walk? This harlot is sowing discord among us!"
"Now that you mention it..."
The healed patients eyed the amputees uncomfortably. Those unhealed stared glumly at their mangled limbs, excluded from the joy.
"Isn't it because their faith is lacking?"
"That's why she's tricking you—don't be fooled by this harlot!"
"No, that's how recovery and purify spells work. They don't regrow lost limbs. If you recall your days as a priest, Your Holiness, you'd understand."
Thinking this might be my only chance, I defended myself hoarsely. The crowd grew confused, murmuring louder. The Pope gnashed his teeth and barked at Hamill.
"Brother, is this true?!"
"Yes. Severed limbs don't regenerate unless immediately reattached and healed on the front lines. That's why we hire recovery specialists for combat."
"Even so, there's no proof she's a saint yet! Laila, bring the oil!"
Only then did I realize the Pope planned a witch hunt. He'd expected me to break under pain or pleasure, then claim the heals for his image. But possessing the Pope's body without healing experience, he overlooked these flaws and pushed on.
I had no way to resist. Even if Judgment of Light critically hit again by sheer luck, bound as I was, escape was impossible.
Gasping in despair, I watched as a latex-clad nun—Laila—approached with a jar sloshing with liquid. The crowd quieted, staring. Oil. He meant to burn me alive. Terrified, I held my breath and shut my eyes as she poured it over my head. The slick liquid drenched me head to toe, sticky and viscous.
After five seconds, Laila began massaging it into my skin with soft hands. Then my body heated up. My breasts, still kneaded by Hamill, and my arms and legs under Laila's touch itched maddeningly.
"Haa, ha, aaah..."
Finally, I realized this wasn't for burning. It was that kind from lewd videos or comics—the stuff that hypersensitizes the body. Fun to watch, but experiencing it was insanity. Teasing stimulation everywhere except where I craved it most. Even my panties stayed silent, denying me.
"Ahhhn... aaah..."
"See? This is the true face of the self-proclaimed saint—a utter slut. Just pressing this rod to her would make her die happy, wouldn't it?"
"Noooaaah!"
The Pope jammed the vibrator against my pussy again, hard. Yes, this. The sensation my body craved. It set my nerves ablaze, fulfilling the torment. As I twisted in ecstasy, the crowd murmured. I couldn't make out words, but I knew: cursing my lewdness, disappointed. Strangers I'd healed, now calling me a whore—it hurt, and the shame swelled my chest fuller.
They were watching. I wasn't an exhibitionist, yet every gaze felt like a poke, a sticky cling, making me tremble.
"Fine. You say only wounds heal? Then, Brother Hamill—Laila will take your place. Do you still believe in this saint?"
"Yes."
Hamill stepped back. The loss of his large hands left an aching void; I sighed regretfully. But soon, small, skilled fingers gripped my breasts with expert technique, drawing satisfied moans.
"Ahng, haaa, please stop... it's driving me crazy..."
My mouth voiced my will, against what my body wanted. Honestly, I was confused—what did I want? To escape this sea of pleasure? Drown in shame? Or crave that vibrator on my clit?
Drool dripped from my slack mouth. With my head bowed, I couldn't tell if it was oil or saliva. Limp hair stuck to my face, neck, shoulders, back—itching. My tattered clothes and stockings clung oil-slick, gleaming in the torchlight. My foggy brain admired it even now. Wow, my tits are gorgeous. Black stockings are so my type. But that's me? Haha.
"Haha..."
Laughter slipped out. Had I finally snapped? The Pope agreed, detaching the vibrator from my spasming body with disbelief, then inciting the crowd.
"Behold, this harlot's finally lost her mind. Overcome by innate lewdness, submitting to instinct. She posed as a saint, deceived you with stolen healing to sow discord. Yet as your shepherd, I pity even heretics. I'll purify her before you all."
He finally unbound my hands and legs. After so long restrained and tormented, I collapsed into his arms, body still twitching from aftershocks. But he refastened me to new restraints: a collar linking neck and wrists, Laila binding ankles and thighs together. The audience watched silently. I stared blankly at them swallowing hard.
My mind barely worked. The Pope hoisted me up, suspended, then dropped his pants before me. The collar hid it from view, but I knew his intent and struggled futilely.
"Brother Hamill, take the rear. I'm curious if you still claim her a saint."
"Gladly. She is the Saint."
"If truly a saint, her backdoor must be pure too, right?"
Even muddled, two men flanking my bound form spelled it out. The collar blocking my view terrified me more; pleasure's remnants fled, replaced by dread.
"N-no, please."
"Heh, soaked like this and now you protest? Harlot who deceived the people—I'll mercifully purify you myself. To atone, receive every man's seed here. Understand?"
My panties tore with a rip—one side strap gone. The Holy Relic panties? Even a man couldn't rip them that easily, tail and all? He shoved the dangling fabric aside, rubbing something long against my stocking-clad thighs. Revulsion shook me.
"N-no..."
"Your mouth says no, but this hairless pussy's ready for cock. See, folks? Wet even while healing you. A saint?"
No answers, but he spread my legs for all to see. Shame overwhelmed; I turned away, eyes shut.
"Nothing more to say."
He mounted me, thrusting his meat between my thighs. But sensation vanished midway. Had my senses dulled? No—the collar's tightness, ropes straining under my weight, Laila's latex caresses, Hamill's body behind—all vivid. Puzzled, I peeked: the Pope was humping away, yet I felt nothing.
In this bizarre scene, his thrusts made my breasts bounce; Laila fondled my sensitive spots. Hamill just held my swaying form steady.
"Nngh, sucking and squeezing like a succubus! But I won't fall for devilry... grk!"
"...Premature."
Laila's mutter rang clear as the Pope grimaced in what looked like climax. His minion? Insertion brought no pleasure, just frustration; my head throbbed.
Post-climax, he smirked and withdrew slowly.
"Heh, no hymen felt—who calls this virgin a saint? Brother Hamill, surely not—graaah! My, my cock...!"
Victory turned to agony; he clutched his groin, rolling on the floor. Dazed, I blinked as the ropes lowered me gently. Hamill sat me down safely. Now I saw: where his rod should be, nothing but gushing blood.
Laila cackled; Hamill stared blankly. The crowd murmured in confusion. Reflexively, I cast a heal on the bleeding—healer duty. No miracle regrew it, though.
Still lost, a tail tip slithered near the collar, waving like a greeting. I laughed hollowly. So that's it—the panties hadn't torn; they'd faked it, protecting my virginity. Redirected it somewhere, pulverized it... unimaginable method. Grateful artifact, averting violation.
But anxiety hit; I turned to Hamill. "You didn't..."
He hadn't dropped trou or winced. Meeting my glare calmly:
"A real man never eyes another's rear in any situation."
Whoa, fuck. I was at a loss for words.