Schemes of the Unknown Unknown Ch. 11

Chapter Eleven
Holy Contemplation - 3755 A.D.

There were two pleasures that Archdeacon James XXVI enjoyed more than any other. One was to have his anus penetrated by a monstrous cock, preferably one belonging to a black man. The other was to penetrate the anus of another man: preferably a youth who'd never been so violated before. These refined pleasures, like many others the Archdeacon enjoyed, he'd discovered through the example of his father, Archdeacon James XXV. He still loved his father, but he'd loved him most when he squeezed his hands around his throat and throttled him while his father was still fucking the beautiful Asian child that had been presented to him on his last ever birthday.

The Archdeacon was now enjoying both of his principal pleasures. Behind him, a huge black man had slid his huge cock inch by inch into an arse well used to such extreme treatment while in front was a sobbing young boy who'd never suspected that the climax of his youthful years of prayer and silent meditation would be to give the Archdeacon quite this kind of indulgence.

The colony of Holy Contemplation was known to most people in the Solar System as a place of retreat. Spiritual and Inspirational Leaders from all over the Solar System gathered here ostensibly for inward reflection and quiet study. Most of these came from religious rogue states such as Holy Trinity, but it also attracted atheist dictators of fascist, neo-bolshevist and oligarchical states. Beyond the fact that no one was permitted to enter the colony without either invitation or recommendation, what these leaders had in common with each other was that they presided over oppressive regimes where no licence for divergent opinion was ever tolerated.

A substantial proportion of Holy Contemplation was set apart for prayer, contemplation and chastisement, but there were few leaders who came so far to use those facilities. Their dark, forbidding corridors and dismal cells were more akin to a prison than a retreat. The food was poor, the few permitted activities were tedious and unending, the living quarters were basic and uncomfortable, and punishments were freely given for the infringement of any one of the many restrictions that the pilgrims chose to submit themselves to. The lessons gained by meditation and study in these grim monasteries were reinforced by brutal chastisement and privation. The only people who stayed in such quarters were the leaders' retainers or junior ministers, convinced that their seniors were intent on an even more austere isolation from worldly sin and lustful thoughts.

In that naive but wholly understandable conviction, these pilgrims were entirely mistaken.

Instead, Holy Contemplation's more senior guests resided in luxurious retreats that were brightly lit and lushly landscaped. Archdeacon James XXVI, for instance, was resident in one of several well-appointed mansions reserved for senior churchmen. It was modelled on an Eighteenth Century country house surrounded by delightful fountains, ornate gardens and pleasantly situated gazebos. The many servants scattered about the house and gardens catered for his every whim. These were mostly young men: habitually naked and contractually obliged to submit to the perverse whims of the senior clerics. This was their ultimate reward for many blameless years of patient study and quiet deliberation. They might have imagined that the reward for their dedication would be in a similarly glorious garden, perhaps like the Garden of Eden, but that this would come only after their resurrection in the Second Coming. They didn't expect to be living somewhere so paradisial in their corporeal life. They most certainly didn't expect that the penalty for living in paradise would be to be always prepared to satisfy every contradictory whim of the senior clerics who routinely took full advantage of their wide-open anuses and occasionally expected to be returned the same compliment.

Archdeacon James XXVI rapidly tired of his sport after he'd released his semen inside the youth's anus. The lad was sobbing and weeping not only from shame and humiliation but also from physical pain. A trail of blood dripped down between his thighs together with the Archdeacon's semen, but this was such a familiar sight to the churchman that it no longer gave him reason to pause. It was nothing but proof of the indignity and distress he'd caused which was one of his chief pleasures. There were, however, other regular guests of Holy Contemplation whose tastes and demands were more sophisticated than even the Archdeacon's. These men needed a constant flow of new flesh to replenish those they'd disposed of, sometimes in the most cruel and shocking ways. Naturally, the shareholders of Holy Contemplation expected such guests to be correspondingly more generous with their voluntary donations. The New Chalcedonian Pope Leo XXVII was especially famous for his decadent habits, but fortunately for him there were no shortages of volunteers from his colony of the Hypostatic Union. They might have originally believed that they were honoured to be chosen to accompany the great man, but they would never have a later opportunity to celebrate or even regret their decision.

The youth slumped prostrate on the lawn. He was choking back his tears and his face was ugly with sorrow. The black man gripped his still erect penis.

"No, Emmanuel," said the Archdeacon. "The boy isn't yet ready for your prick."

He smiled at the youth who gazed up at him and thanked the Archdeacon profusely for his mercy. A trail of snot dripped from his nostril over his chin and onto the grass where he lay. He was too petrified to move from the position in which he'd fallen with his elbows and knees digging into the lawn and his arse raised high.

"Did I give you permission to speak?" said the Archdeacon, who kicked the youth in the face. A trail of blood was now commingled with the snot dripping onto his fair skin.

The youth shook his head and suppressed his whimpering.

"Stand up," the Archdeacon ordered.

The youth did so and automatically covered his crotch with his hands. The Archdeacon slapped him rudely on the face.

"Cover your prick only when I say," he commanded. "Follow me."

The Archdeacon then strode off with the youth scampering behind him. Although he was well over a century and a half old, the Archdeacon's libido was still active. Thanks to modern science, he'd suffered very few of the ravages associated with old age. He was a tall man with a medically enhanced penis that slapped against his thighs as he strode over the lawn. All he was wearing were a crucifix around his neck and shoes that cushioned his toes from the impact of kicking the boy in the face.

"Here we are," said the Archdeacon when he arrived at a grove where three Chief Pastors were indulging in an orgy with several other boys and two women: all naked and none of them enjoying it with nearly the same uninhibited pleasure as the senior clerics. "More fresh meat, gentlemen," he said to the Chief Pastors and pushed the abused youth towards them.

"Thank you, Your Holiness," said Chief Pastor William. He cuffed the boy around the ears. "Say thank you to His Holiness for so honouring you, scum."

"Thank you, Your Holiness," echoed the boy with rather less genuine enthusiasm.

The Archdeacon smiled at his Chief Pastor, but he couldn't be bothered to watch as the poor boy was successively fucked by the senior clerics. He'd seen the same thing so many times before that he was totally jaded. He'd had his fun with the youth. It was always his privilege to have first taste. After all it was only what he'd paid for. Or, more to the point, it was what was paid for by the tithes squeezed out of his suffering congregation. And did he give a fuck? No more than his father or his father's father or any one of the succession of Archdeacons in the centuries since Holy Trinity's foundation.

What to do now? Well, he'd rest first. An hour or so of buggering was enough to tire anyone out, especially when the boy had struggled so vigorously to escape. He would see what to do later. Perhaps for a change he'd fuck a girl. They were always worth a go, especially when they were virgins. It was so delicious to have all that virginal blood dripping from his prick. And he'd still have his favourite orifice available immediately afterwards.

The Archdeacon was greeted by a hooded monk as he approached the front door of his mansion.

"Your Holiness," the monk said respectfully.

This man wasn't a cleric from Holy Trinity and he wasn't one of the sex slaves at his constant disposal. In fact, in a sense it wasn't a man at all, but an avatar projected by Holy Contemplation's central system.

"Yes, what is it?" asked the Archdeacon irritably. Was there an invoice still outstanding? Was there a difficulty in resourcing the necessary supply of fuck fodder? Was there a problem with the disposal of sex slaves who were no longer serviceable?

"The Chief Apostle Wynton Jones Mason wishes to speak to you, Your Holiness," said the avatar. "He's awaiting you in the Holy Tabernacle."

"Did His Holiness say what he wants?" asked the Archdeacon.

"No, Your Holiness," said the avatar. "He has sent a shuttle to escort you."

"Tell him that I'm on my way," said the Archdeacon.

Shit. There could only be one reason why the bugger would want to see him. And did he really give a shit? Only in the sense that he needed to say the right things at the right time. The whole Apostasy thing was nothing more than an irritation, although the Archdeacon appreciated the financial benefits he'd accrued from agreeing to be involved in the expedition. It had helped to pay for the upgrading of the mansion he and his fellow senior clerics were now enjoying at Holy Contemplation.

"Ah, James," said the Chief Apostle when the Archdeacon arrived at the Holy Tabernacle dressed in his sober black robes. "Good to see you again. I trust it's going well?"

The Archdeacon truly and deeply detested Chief Apostle Wynton Jones Mason. Of all the other bastard church leaders throughout the Solar System, if there was one Pentecostal cunt he'd gladly fuck up the backside while he slit his throat it would be this man. The fact that he was black like the men he preferred to have buggering him would only make the pleasure that much greater.

"I'm well, Wynton," said the Archdeacon. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"What else?" the Chief Apostle said. "The Apostasy, of course. Or were you having so much fun fucking all those cheeky-assed boys that you've forgotten the Holy Crusade?"

The Archdeacon restrained himself from the temptation of reminding the Chief Apostle of his own preference for anal entertainment. The man didn't even look like a cleric. He wasn't wearing his black robes and crucifix. Instead he was adorned in a checked shirt and a pair of blue jeans like someone from Twentieth Century North America. But the Archdeacon knew who of the two of them held the real power. The Third Coming Pentecostals were the most dominant Christian community in the Holy Coalition and had much more wealth and power than Holy Trinity. The Chief Apostle was a skilled political leader who'd risen to where he was through the ruthless elimination of many hereditary bishops. He was also almost as vicious as Pope Leo XXVII as the Archdeacon discovered when he had the dubious honour of being a guest at one of his bloodbath orgies, although the victims weren't so much innocent boys and girls, as would be the New Chalcedonian Pope's preference, but political rivals who never expected that their demise would involve being fucked by what they naively thought their General Overseer might also judge to be heretics. The Archdeacon took especial delight in fucking the men's virgin black arses. Once the men had been thoroughly humiliated and splattered by semen, they were dispatched slowly and in wholly unnecessary agony while the Chief Apostle made a point of appearing rather bored by the suffering they endured on his command. This, as the Archdeacon was fully aware at the time, was less for the benefit of the unfortunate clerics and rather more as a warning to the surviving senior clerics and just as much for those beyond the Chief Apostle's direct jurisdiction.

"What's been happening then, Wynton?"

"It's been a total fuck-up, James," said the Chief Apostle. "One big fuck-up. The Space Ship Intrepid outclassed the Space Ship Paradise in every possible way. I don't think you'll be seeing many of your Soldiers of Christ ever again."

The Archdeacon couldn't help noticing that the Chief Apostle didn't seem particularly aggrieved by this news.

"Did the mission achieve even one of its objectives?" he asked.

"Well, unless you wanted to lose the poor fuckers you sent up there to die in the carnage, I don't believe it did," said the Chief Apostle.

"When did you hear the news?"

"A few days ago. My spies at Mission Control on the Moon got the news and transmitted it straight away. The other major denominations, faiths, creeds or whatever got it about the same time. You Presbyterian boy-buggerers clearly weren't really in the loop, were you?"

The Archdeacon squirmed at the insult, but there wasn't much he could say to counter it. "What happens next, Wynton?"

"You tell me, James," said the Chief Apostle. "From my perspective it's just an excuse for me to clear out some dead wood. There are a few Third Coming Pentecostal bishops I've always wanted to see out of the way. I think we can make quite a party of it if you like, white boy. I know how much you like black ass so you'll be welcome to dip your dick in a good quantity of it. I'll make sure the chocolate comes real shit-flavoured. Those bishops will be evacuating their bowels so vigorously it'll spurt further than the blood from their main arteries."

"You don't believe much in emulating God's Mercy, do you Wynton?"

"Fuck that," said the Chief Apostle. "Christ and his Heavenly Host can give them as much mercy as they like if the bishops squeeze through the Golden Gates. In the meantime, I'll take pleasure in fucking Bishop Peter's ass so hard his shit'll spout through his mouth. That'll be something he should probably already be used to. Spouting shit through his mouth, that is. Not so much being fucked in the ass."

"I take it your bishops aren't regular visitors to Holy Contemplation, Wynton."

"They are, James. But what they enjoy is a rather stricter discipline than we do. Twenty-four hours a day of prayer, tambourine-bashing and speaking in tongues will probably be some kind of preparation for their final few hours. I'd hate to go through that kinda tedious shit."

"It's not something you've ever done then, Wynton?

"Not willingly," said the Chief Apostle. "Have you got plans for any of your clerics, James? Any white boy ass for me to fuck, you honky quean?"

"It's not something I've ever considered, Wynton," the Archdeacon lied.

"Sure you've never fancied the High Pastor Charles? Doesn't his white ass make you cream your pants, James? You could hold him down with your dick in his mouth while I ream him well and good. Then we could give him the coup de grâce with a crucifixion or some other kind of symbolic shit. I could help you hammer in the nails."

The Archdeacon had authorised and witnessed such punishment on many occasions, but he drew the line at administering it. Furthermore, he believed there was a better and less gratuitous way to dispose of the bishop who he'd never trusted to enjoy anything other than Holy Contemplation's ascetic levels. Not all senior clerics shared the Archdeacon's real opinion of the ultimate meaning and purpose of his stated religious faith. Some of them actually believed all that nonsense.

It would be better to dispose of the bishop on Holy Trinity. The charge of failing to achieve God's mission was sufficient for the man to suffer a painful enough death on the pyre. He would soon regret his foolishness in associating himself so closely with the Holy Crusade against the Apostasy.

"Is the revenue stream still secure, Wynton?" the Archdeacon asked.

"Don't worry, James," said the Chief Apostle. "You'll get all the compensation you want. Then you can splash it out on hiring a few good black-ass Pentecostals or Baptists and give them white boy dick till their asses go white from being pumped with so much honky semen. Just make sure you don't fuck a Third Coming Pentecostal. Or if you do, don't do it without first inviting me along to the party."

The Archdeacon was feeling very uncomfortable from the Chief Apostle's taunting, but now wasn't the time to complain. Indeed, he couldn't help thinking that if ever he picked a fight with the man there would only be one winner and it wouldn't be him. He wouldn't be surprised if the Chief Apostle were to stoop as low as to finance an assassination if he felt the Archdeacon needed disposing of. It could even happen in Holy Contemplation, however much his Frequent Visitor Insurance was meant to provide cover against such things. Paying guests were guaranteed protection from other paying guests. The commercial consequences of not doing so could very easily be war which, if it brought down Holy Contemplation itself, wasn't a thought worth considering. Where else in the Solar System could the heads of so many hostile congregations in the rogue states receive what they believed to be their just desert?

"What about the Apostasy, Wynton?" asked the Archdeacon. "Is it still a threat?"

"Do you seriously believe it was a threat to begin with, James? What possible threat was an unknown phenomenon three trillion kilometres away? And if it is a threat, what do you think a haphazard coalition of crazed and crazy fanatics could do that the Interplanetary Union couldn't? The Apostasy has served us well. It's given a rallying cry to our isolated communities and generated a welcome new revenue stream. It's also given us all a fresh excuse for some much needed internal housekeeping. I'm planning a fresh purge in a few weeks' time. That'll put the fear of God into my congregation."

"A fresh purge, Wynton? Didn't the last one reduce the population of the Christian Holiness colony by about a tenth?"

"Not enough, James. People soon forget. Anyway, population growth is exceeding resources. We're not building new colonies fast enough to accommodate all the new True Believers. A somewhat stricter interpretation of the true spiritual interpretation of the Apostasy will be all we need. I just leave the rest to local quotas and natural zeal. You have a rather less radical policy towards keeping your congregation in check I suppose, James."

"Purges are risky and expensive to organise, Wynton," said the Archdeacon.

"You're just weak, James. A little bit of terror keeps everyone on their toes. Granted there are the orphans and widows to take care of, but Holy Contemplation isn't the only place that's willing to purchase surplus population. Have you ever considered Interplanetary Human Trade, James? Slaves are a precious commodity and women and children are in especial demand."

"There's a risk in being associated with that, Wynton. My church relies heavily on donations from individuals within the Interplanetary Union and that could be adversely impacted if we are closely associated with such traffic."

"Haven't you heard of amnesia, James? It's a simple procedure to selectively wipe clean the memory of the slaves and then they're unable to tell anyone where they came from. I can give you a few contacts if you like. Discreetly, of course. And any case what's deep space for if not to be a useful dumping ground for unwanted surplus?"

The Archdeacon always felt inadequate after discussions like this with other church leaders. Sometimes, as with Chief Apostle Wynton Jones Mason or Pope Leo XXVII, this was because he was made conscious that there were more robust ways in which he could express his power and that of his church over its congregation. The accusations of weakness and lack of resolution particularly stung. On the other hand, the Archdeacon was also conscious of being a hypocrite. It wasn't that the sin of hypocrisy particularly bothered him. No sane person could really believe the twaddle that was passed as religious truth within the confines of Holy Trinity, but for all his life the Archdeacon had been so immersed in Christian hyperbole and rhetoric that somehow he still felt a chill when he considered the matter of eternal damnation. He often envied the Catholics who could so easily gain absolution by confessing their sins, but he knew that by the terms of his stated faith he was already damned. He'd sinned so much, so often and so spectacularly that there really was no point in changing course now. He might as well just prolong his life for as long as he could and enjoy it to the full.