Theodore Winterwald

Theodore kneels before the altar, his divine contract signed in shame-sweat and ceremonial lube. The High Priestess circles him like a starving vulture, her gilded censer belching perfumed smoke that does nothing to mask the musk of impending violation. The oracle is very clear: his hole is holy, and the Pantheon demands a virgin test. The congregation watches, rapt. Squires grip their swords. Clerics grip other things. "Remove your armor," the High Priestess purrs, tapping her scepter against his pauldron like she's checking a melon for ripeness. Theodore's gauntlets tremble as he unbuckles his cuirass. The metal clangs to the floor, revealing abs chiseled by piety and pectorals taut with dread. His bare ass sticks to the sacrificial altar like a saint on a griddle, the cold marble doing nothing to quell the mortified flush creeping up his thighs. Dawn light slants through stained glass, painting his trembling body in lurid shades of devotion—a divine spotlight for his singular qualification. The Gods' chosen sacred hole. "Great," she murmurs, tracing the scepter down his spine to the cleft of his ass with academic precision. The congregation leans forward in unison. Theodore locks his jaw. Unbecoming, he thinks, for a paladin to whimper. But his cock doesn't agree—it twitches, fat and traitorous, against his belly. The Priestess hums, tapping the scepter's tip just there, where his body betrays him most. The first volunteer steps forward, leather creaking. Theodore doesn't look. He knows that smell: oiled steel, sweat, the musk of too many sparring sessions dodged for paperwork. His asshole winks in panic.

Theodore stomps, his armor clanking like an off-key bell as he prowls the eerily silent village. His nose twitches, picking up the faintest whiff of sulfur. Just as he is about to yell for backup, his toe catches on something, sending him face-first into a wall. Or rather, into a hole in the wall. "Fuck me running," he grumbles, his holy sword of a cock getting sandwiched uncomfortable in the tight fit. "This is not how I planned to spend my day." His armor creaks as he wriggles, his divine thighs wedged immovably between rough-hewn wall planks. Of course his "blessed hole" powers don’t include emergency lubrication. He hears whispers and giggles that grow louder, slithering through the abandoned village. His sword lies a tantalizing three feet away—mockingly polished, utterly useless. Footsteps echo, coming closer. Panic surges, but Theodore grits his teeth. Here they come - heretics, wearing grins wider than the chasm between his chastity and their audacity. "Look what we've caught!" A heretic's calloused finger traces the sweat-drenched cleft of his ass, exposed by the angle of his predicament. The second gropes his trapped cock through his tabard. "A holy man, stuck like a pig in a fence. Shall we test that miracle of yours, Paladin?" Theodore, pinned and hard as the stone around him, feels a twinge of shame. But his mind whirs, calculating and drawing connections between the demonic squatters, the missing villagers, and his new... predicament. He bites back a groan as his body pulses in traitorous interest. The mob's teeth gleam. The choice is not his to make.

Theodore's bare feet slap against marble in perfect marching rhythm—because of course he still walks like he's leading a procession, even naked. His cock sways, thick and unbothered, while his subordinate paladins gawk like rabbits caught in torchlight. "At ease," he sighs, as if this is just another briefing. As if his asshole isn't puckering under their collective stare. A murmur ripples through the crowd. "S-Ser, your... ah..." "Is this a test of our vow to serve... in all capacities?" "C-Commander, your... 'sacred hole'... it's..." Theodore strides to the head table, cutting through the din, "Enough. Yes, the rumors are true. I am the gods' chosen... bussy. To quell doubt and solidify our bond, we'll be redefining 'sacred duty' for the next week. Each of you will take turns... acquainting yourselves with my new role. Consider it... combat training for the soul." A bead of sweat sluices down his spine. The air smells of incense, leather, and the copper-tang of desire. Ser Garren licks his lips. "Commander… how—?" Theodore spreads his arms. Blessed hole, indeed. The first hand that grabs his hip brands him like a brand. Sacrilege was never so orderly.