Dominance over a nun in the Vatican

The evening Vatican is steeped in the scent of wax and incense, where every breath reminds one of centuries-old sanctity, but today it is mixed with a slight taste of dust from ancient corridors. Sister Eleonora, a slender woman with an elegant figure—a narrow waist, full hips, and 34C breasts modestly hidden under a strict habit—walked down the corridor of the Palazzo Apostolico, tightly clutching a note: "Codex Tenebris. Basement 3B. Immediately. Marco & Luca." Two days ago, she, the only one in the convent, had refused to sign their circular on "relaxing the vow of celibacy," responding briefly: "My body belongs to Christ"—a memory of her past, when she left worldly life

and a possible marriage for monasticism. Now she was being summoned for a "personal interview," and a vague unease stirred in her chest, a hint that this might be a trap. She stopped at a spiral staircase, its steps narrow and worn by generations of monks. Below reigned semi-darkness, the air was damp, with a taste of mold and earth. Father Marco waited by the railing: tall as a column, with muscular shoulders under a scarlet robe, a neatly trimmed gray beard, and eyes smoldering like embers in a fireplace. Father Luca stood beside him: stocky, with golden crosses gleaming on his chest, and a smile that seemed gentle but held a shadow at the corners of his lips. "Sister," began Marco, his voice low like an organ in a basilica, "the manuscript will shed light on your doubts." Luca unlocked a heavy door adorned with carvings of intertwined snakes. Behind it stretched a narrow corridor, walls covered in mold and Latin inscriptions, perhaps hiding ancient secrets. Another door—a click of a lock. The hall was small, gloomy: a vaulted ceiling, a stone table in the center. On it lay black lace stockings, leather handcuffs, a silk blindfold, a whip, and a small vibrator—their secret inventory for blackmail and domination, and in the corner, a camera blinked discreetly with a red light. Eleonora froze on the threshold, sweat beading on her forehead. "This is not an archive," she said firmly, but her breath became visible in the cold air, and tears welled in her eyes from sudden horror. Marco stepped forward, his palm resting on her shoulder—not roughly, but with a firmness that made her bones echo. "This is where holiness meets truth. You refused to sign the document. Now you will sign with your body." Luca locked the door, the key disappearing into his pocket. "The door is locked. The phone has no signal. Scream—no one will hear." He took the whip, ran it across his palm—a soft, threatening sound. Eleonora stepped back, her back hitting the wall. "I serve God, not you," her voice broke into a whisper, inwardly she prayed: "Lord, why does the flesh respond with heat to this heresy? Is it the body's betrayal, a memory of worldly desires I suppressed?" Marco approached, his fingers undoing the top button of her habit, revealing the white skin of her neck. "Let's start with the first lesson." He delivered a light slap to her thigh through the fabric—her skin flared with heat, sweat trickled down her back. "Don't you dare!" she turned, striking his arm with her palm, tears rolling down her cheeks. Marco caught her wrist, squeezing until it hurt. "Resisting? That makes the game more interesting." Luca wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, pressing her against him—his breath hot on her neck. "Take off your shoes. Put on the stockings. Slowly. In front of us." Eleonora struggled, elbowing Luca in the stomach—he grunted, but his grip didn't loosen. "You wouldn't dare!" she shouted, the echo spreading through the hall, tears mixing with sweat on her face. Marco grabbed her hair, tilting her head back. "We dare. And you will submit." Another slap—harder, on her buttock, leaving a burning sensation. She jerked, trying to kick, but Luca caught her ankle, she lost her balance and fell to her knees, her habit riding up, revealing pale legs with bruises. "Lord, give me strength!" she whispered, her voice trembling, her body covered in sweat from the struggle. Marco crouched, took the stockings, ran the lace across her cheek—the texture like silk on heated skin. "Put them on. Or we'll do it for you." Eleonora clenched her teeth, her eyes burning with rage through the tears. "Never." But her hands trembled, and inside raged a conflict: faith against awakening lust, a hint of the past when she had rejected the vanity of the world.

Marco and Luca towered over Eleonora, their shadows from candles trembling on the stone walls, emphasizing Marco's stern features and Luca's sly smirk. Eleonora, her slender figure with the curves of her hips and 34C breasts still hidden under her hitched-up habit, pressed against the wall, her pale, bruised legs trembling from the struggle. On the stone table lay the black lace stockings—their delicate lace seeming to mock her vow, promising forbidden pleasure. The air was thick with the smell of damp stone, incense, and a slight metallic taste of blood—she bit her lip, holding back a scream. "Put them on," ordered Marco, his voice low and firm, his eyes boring into her like nails. "Never, heretics!" spat Eleonora, her eyes blazing with fury, but an inner voice trembled: "Why does my body respond with heat to their touch? It's a sin, but memories of worldly nights I rejected for God whisper of desire." She lunged forward, punching Marco in the chest—a dull thud echoed. He staggered back, but Luca grabbed her hair, wrenching her head back sharply—pain shot through her neck. She screamed, her nails digging into his wrist, leaving bloody streaks. "Hold her!" barked Marco. He wrapped his arms around her waist, threw her to the floor—the cold stone struck her back, knocking the air out, her scream mixed with a hoarse groan. She fought: kicked Luca in the stomach—he doubled over, his breath smelling of sweat and wine. Kneed Marco in the thigh—hit him, he gritted his teeth, a grimace of pain flashing across his face. "Hands!" Luca twisted her wrists behind her back, snapping leather handcuffs with a click—metal bit into her skin, leaving red marks. She arched, trying to headbutt, tears and sweat streaming down her face, the taste of salt in her mouth heightening the humiliation. "Legs!" Marco grabbed straps from the same table where the vibrator lay, part of their prepared inventory. She kicked again—hit his side, eliciting a growl. He pressed her ankles to the floor with such force her muscles ached, the straps tightened above her ankles, preventing her from closing her knees—she was spread open, vulnerable. Marco took the stockings, ran the lace along her calf—the silky texture on heated skin caused goosebumps, like a forbidden temptation. "Put them on yourself. Or we'll do it, and the camera will record every second for the Vatican archives," he nodded toward the blinking red light in the corner. He turned on his phone, the flash blinding: "Smile, sister. This is your fall." She spat, the taste of blood mixing with the salt of tears. Luca slapped her buttock with the whip—a light strike, the sound sharp, then a second, harder, leaving a burning sensation, a third—on the inner thigh, heat spread lower, awakening wetness. "Last chance," he hissed. Marco placed the stockings on her knees. "Yourself. Slowly." Eleonora remained silent, her breathing ragged, face in tears, an inner monologue screaming: "Lord, I prayed in the chapel, but this heat... it's stronger than prayers." She nodded. Marco unclasped the handcuffs with a click, freeing her hands. She took a stocking with trembling fingers, under their gaze and the camera's flashes, pulled it on—from toes to mid-thigh, the elastic digging into her skin, emphasizing her curves. The second stocking—symmetrically, every inch under their control. "Good," said Marco, putting away his phone. "Now you're ours."

Eleonora knelt in black lace stockings that hugged her slender legs, emphasizing the curves of her hips and contrasting with her pale skin—a forbidden accent, turning her former purity into an object of lust, the lace slightly digging in, reminding her of a fetish she had never known in her monastic life. Her figure, feminine and alluring—narrow waist, full hips, and 34C breasts—now heaved under her habit from ragged breathing, her body covered in sweat from the struggle, droplets trickling down her back. Inwardly, she was torn: "Lord, is this a test of faith? Why does my body betray me, responding with warmth to their touch, when my soul remembers quiet nights in the cell where I prayed for purity, rejecting worldly temptations?" The air in the hall thickened with the smell of incense, mixed with salty sweat and a slight metallic taste from the handcuffs—a reminder of the recent resistance. Marco, his muscular silhouette under his robe casting a long shadow, brought a silk blindfold to her eyes. "Now close your eyes to the world. You see only us and the truth of our circular—relaxing the vow through the body, and the camera will record this for eternal reminder," he said, tying the fabric tightly; the rustle of silk against skin, pressed close, cut off the light, leaving only sounds: their heavy breathing, her own moans of protest, and the distant crackling of candles. Luca, stocky with a round face and a sly smile, approached, his fingers first gently stroking her shoulders—the rough texture of his palms on tender skin caused goosebumps, a shiver ran through her body. Then he unbuttoned her habit: the click of buttons one by one, the fabric slowly sliding down with a rustling sound, revealing simple white underwear soaked with sweat. "Your vow was a pretext, sister. Now you'll sign it with your flesh," whispered Luca, continuing the plan, his breath hot on her neck, with a taste of wine from a recent dinner. He began with light strokes over her chest through the fabric, circling around her nipples, causing them to harden—a treacherous response of her body, beads of sweat appearing on her skin. Eleonora jerked: "Stop! This is a sin before God!" her voice echoed, but grew weaker, interrupted by a moan as he moved to pinches: first light, like a gentle bite, then harder, sharp pain mixed with rising heat spreading through her veins like poison. Marco's slap on her thigh—now on bare skin in the stocking—a sharp sound echoed, leaving a burning sensation, the echo in the hall amplifying the humiliation, a red mark appearing. Luca tore her bra with a rip of fabric, exposing her breasts: nipples erect, pink from arousal, the cold air of the cell chilling them, eliciting a new moan. He stroked them with his palms—roughly but rhythmically—then pinched harder, drawing a muffled cry of pain and unexpected pleasure. "Your body already knows the truth of the circular," he said, the smell of his breath intensifying from closeness. Marco pulled down her panties with a rustling sound, exposing the smooth skin of her pubis and moist folds—treacherous wetness glistened in the candlelight, the scent of her own arousal, musky and sweet, joining the mix. She tried to clench her thighs, but the straps on her ankles prevented it, leaving her spread open, trembling in her knees intensifying. An inner monologue raged: "No, this isn't me... faith melting in this heat, lust whispering like the devil, promising ecstasy instead of salvation, reminding me of that night when I almost succumbed to temptation before taking vows." They continued stroking: Marco—on her back, his fingers leaving trails on damp skin, Luca—on her stomach, building tension with textures—rough hands on tender flesh, the sounds of their breathing merging with her moans, the scents of arousal hanging in the air, preparing for the next stage

Eleonora, blinded by the silk blindfold, knelt in stockings, her body—a mix of trembling and treacherous heat—still resisting, but the moisture between her thighs betrayed an inner conflict, droplets of sweat trickling down her inner thighs. The smell of incense mixed with salty sweat, the metallic taste from the straps, and a light sweetish aroma of her own arousal hung in the air. Marco unbuttoned his robe with a rustle of fabric, revealing a muscular torso covered in graying hair, and a hard cock—20 centimeters long, thick, with pulsing veins, the head glistening with pre-ejaculate, a hint of the power she would feel later. He grabbed her hair, pulling her closer, the grip burning her scalp like a reminder of her fall. "Kiss. Lick. Like the altar of your new god," he ordered in a low growl, his voice interrupted by moans of anticipation. She shook her head, tears soaking the blindfold: "Never! This is desecration of a shrine!" but an inner voice whispered: "Why is lust winning? I remember how in my cell I struggled with night visions, praying for forgiveness, and now my body craves this sin." Luca slapped her buttock with the whip—a burning stripe flared, the sound sharp, echoing, leaving a red mark, pain mixed with heat. She opened her mouth in a scream, and Marco thrust his cock inside—the salty taste of pre-ejaculate filled her mouth, the texture smooth and warm on her tongue, veins felt under her lips like the relief of sin. Eleonora tried to pull away, but he pushed harder, forcing her to move rhythmically. Pause—he gave her a moment to think, his cock pulsing at her lips, letting her taste the salt and musk, inner conflict flaring: "This is hell... but my body betrays me, like in those nights when I woke up sweating from forbidden dreams." "Lick my balls, bitch," commanded Marco. A new slap of the whip—a warning—forced obedience: her tongue touched the rough, heavy balls, licking slowly, smacking sounds mixed with her muffled moans, the taste salty with a hint of sweat. Meanwhile, Luca knelt behind her, spread her thighs with rough hands—the texture of his palms rough on tender skin. His tongue touched her clitoris first gently—a wet, warm trail, eliciting an involuntary moan, a shiver ran through her body. Then he nibbled gently, teeth lightly scratching, alternating with finger taps—rhythmic, escalating, the sound of wet slaps echoing. The scent of her arousal intensified, sweet and musky. He inserted a finger into her anus—slowly, stretching, lubricated with her wetness, eliciting a moan of pain turning into pleasure, her body arched. Pause—Luca stopped, letting her become aware of the sensations, the vibration from his breath on her skin intensifying the heat. Eleonora writhed: "No... but an orgasm is brewing, like sin in the soul, reminding me of suppressed desires before taking vows." Luca took the vibrator from the table—a buzzing sound activated, pushing it deeper, the pulsation inside amplifying the waves. Her resistance weakened, the first orgasm washed over her—her body convulsed, a cry of pleasure escaped, mixed with tears, heat spread, cementing the transformation.

Eleonora, still blinded by the blindfold, lay on the cold stone table, her body in sweat and trembling from the previous orgasm, stockings stained with traces of struggle and moisture—the lace sticking to her skin, emphasizing her fall, like a fetish she had rejected in monastic visions. The smell of incense mixed with salty sweat, the metallic taste from the straps, and the thick, sweetish aroma of their mixed fluids hung in the air. Luca unbuttoned his robe with a rustling sound, revealing a stocky torso, shiny with sweat, and a cock—18 centimeters long, thick and sturdy like himself, with swollen veins, the head glistening, hinting at the fullness to come. They flipped her into a doggy-style position—rough hands on her hips leaving bruises, the texture of the stone scraping her knees, a shiver ran through her body. Marco entered her vagina first slowly, stretching the moist folds inch by inch—the sensation of fullness elicited a moan of pain and pleasure, his 20-centimeter cock pulsating inside, the texture of veins felt like the relief of domination. Pause—he gave a moment for reflection, thrusts halted, letting her feel the heat and emptiness, inner monologue flaring: "From saint to whore... faith broken, I remember how in the convent I repented for accidental thoughts of the flesh, and now my body craves this." Then the thrusts became harder: rhythmic, the slapping of bodies echoing, each impact drawing a scream. She screamed: "Stop! Please, no!" but her body betrayed her, a second orgasm gradually washed over her, muscles clenched, heat spread, tears mixed with sweat. Pause—Marco withdrew slowly, letting her become aware of the aftertaste, her body trembling, droplets of sweat trickling down her back. Luca took his turn: they flipped her into missionary position, her back on the table, legs in stockings spread, the lace digging in harder. He entered sharply, pounding rhythmically, teeth biting her nipples—sharp pain from the bites mixed with pleasure, leaving red marks on her breasts. The sounds of wet thrusts and moans filled the hall, the scent of fluids intensified, sweet and musky. Inner voice: "How did I come to this? From prayers in the silence of my cell to moans... but ecstasy is stronger than salvation, like those dreams where I saw myself in the embrace of a shadow." A third orgasm hit after a pause, her body arched, a scream echoed, tears rolled.

Eleonora lay on the stone table, her body exhausted, trembling from orgasms, the black lace stockings, crumpled and sticky with semen and sweat, dug into her skin like shackles of her new role, emphasizing the fetish she had rejected in her prayers. The air was saturated with the thick smell of sex—the sweetish musk of semen mixed with incense, salty sweat, and a slight metallic taste from her bitten lip, blood dripping on her tongue, heightening the humiliation. The sounds of her ragged breathing and the crackling of