In the shadowed halls of St. Augustine's Seminary, where the air hung heavy with incense and whispered prayers, Father Elias and Brother Thorne navigated their vows with a fragile piety. Elias, at twenty-five, was the elder of the two, his lean frame etched with the discipline of endless rosaries, his dark eyes burning with a zeal that bordered on obsession. Thorne, younger by three years, possessed a boyish innocence, his fair skin flushed easily under the collar, his lithe body still carrying the softness of untested youth. They were drawn together during late-night study sessions in the dim library, their voices low as they debated scripture, their shoulders brushing in the cramped alcove.

What began as shared confessions over lukewarm tea evolved into stolen glances, hands lingering too long on holy texts. Elias felt the stirrings first—a forbidden heat pooling in his gut whenever Thorne's fingers grazed his during prayer. One rain-lashed evening, as thunder rattled the stained-glass windows, Elias cornered Thorne in the empty cloister. 'Brother,' he murmured, voice thick, 'the flesh tempts us both. Confess it.' Thorne's breath hitched, his cheeks blooming red, but he didn't pull away when Elias pressed close, their robes whispering against stone walls.

Elias's mouth crashed onto Thorne's, rough and demanding, tasting of salt and suppressed sin. Thorne gasped into the kiss, his body yielding as Elias shoved him against the cold pillar, hands fumbling under the coarse fabric to palm the hardening bulge straining Thorne's undergarments. 'God forgives,' Elias growled, yanking Thorne's robe open, exposing pale chest dusted with faint curls. His fingers pinched a nipple, twisting until Thorne whimpered, arching into the pain-laced pleasure. Elias dropped to his knees, the flagstones biting into his skin, and freed Thorne's cock—thick, veined, already leaking at the tip. He swallowed it whole, throat working greedily, tongue swirling over the salty slit as Thorne's hips bucked, fingers tangling in Elias's hair.

But Elias craved more dominance. He rose, spinning Thorne to face the wall, hiking up the robe to reveal firm ass cheeks. Spitting into his palm, Elias slicked his own throbbing length, then pressed the blunt head against Thorne's tight entrance. 'Take it,' he commanded, thrusting in with one brutal shove. Thorne cried out, the burn tearing through him, but his body clenched around the invasion, pulling Elias deeper. Elias pounded relentlessly, skin slapping skin, each drive grinding against that hidden spot that made Thorne's vision blur with ecstasy. Sweat slicked their bodies, the scent of musk overpowering the chapel's sanctity. Elias reached around, fisting Thorne's cock in time with his thrusts, milking pre-cum until Thorne shattered, spilling hot ropes onto the stone. Elias followed, burying deep and flooding Thorne's guts with his release, a guttural moan echoing like a profane hymn.

Their secret trysts multiplied—quick, frantic fucks in the sacristy, slow, teasing rides in the deserted dorms. Thorne surrendered fully, his innocence fracturing under Elias's relentless hunger, their bond twisting into something darker, more carnal. Yet Elias harbored shadows of his own, whispers from a figure lurking in the seminary's underbelly: Old Man Grimshaw, the grizzled broom-closer who swept the corridors at dusk, his eyes gleaming with unholy knowing.

Grimshaw had watched them from the start, his broom an extension of his insidious reach. Posing as a harmless fixture, he cultivated Elias's doubts during solitary encounters—offering sly words in the boiler room, a flask of contraband whiskey that loosened tongues and inhibitions. 'The Church chains you, boy,' he'd rasp, his callused hand clapping Elias's shoulder. 'Satan frees the flesh.' Elias, already teetering from his lust for Thorne, lapped up the heresy like communion wine, unaware Grimshaw's 'friendship' was a meticulously woven snare.

One fog-shrouded night, as Elias pinned Thorne to the altar in the abandoned side chapel, Grimshaw emerged from the gloom. Thorne lay sprawled, robes splayed, Elias's cock buried to the hilt in his stretched hole, slick with their mingled fluids. Grimshaw's laugh was a low rumble, revealing yellowed teeth. 'Beautiful corruption,' he sneered, locking the doors. Elias froze mid-thrust, but Thorne's moan pulled him back, the younger man's legs wrapping tighter, urging him on.

Grimshaw circled them, shedding his janitor's rags to expose a body scarred with inverted pentagrams, his erection jutting like a devil's horn. 'I've groomed you, Elias, for this. Your 'faith' was my invention—every doubt I planted, every sin I encouraged. Now, claim him fully in Satan's name.' He grabbed Thorne's chin, forcing eye contact. 'Feel the power, whelp. No guilt, only bliss.' Elias's resistance crumbled; the words ignited something feral. He slammed into Thorne harder, the altar creaking, while Grimshaw stroked himself, chanting guttural invocations.

Thorne's eyes widened in terror then glazed with unwilling arousal as Elias's pace turned savage, hips snapping with demonic fervor. Grimshaw joined, forcing his thick shaft past Thorne's lips, muffling cries into gags and slurps. They spit-roasted him between them—Elias reaming his ass, stretching it wide with punishing strokes that hit prostate and beyond, Grimshaw face-fucking until drool cascaded down Thorne's chin. Sensations overwhelmed: the velvet clench around Elias, the salty flood in Thorne's mouth, the air thick with grunts and the wet sounds of flesh yielding.

Climax built like a ritual's peak. Thorne came first, untouched, his cock pulsing jets across his belly as his body convulsed. Elias roared, pumping seed deep inside, marking Thorne as his corrupted vessel. Grimshaw withdrew, spraying across Thorne's face in hot, sticky arcs, branding him with infernal essence. Panting, they collapsed, Grimshaw's voice weaving the final thread: 'Welcome to the true faith, brothers. Satan awaits your service.'

From that night, the seminary's shadows deepened. Elias and Thorne, once pure aspirants, became Grimshaw's disciples—fucking in hidden rites, spreading whispers of dark ecstasy among the unwary. The broom-closer's plan bore fruit: souls ensnared, bodies entwined in eternal, unholy union.