Hellraiser: The Will of One

HELLRAISER: The Will of One

Chapter 6: The Black Pope

He stood there, on the parapet overlooking it all. The glorious darkness of Leviathan’s light blaring down on it all, revealing sections of the labyrinth to him at once. He kept tabs on everything in Hell this way, all under his God’s tutelage. The order of their work was foremost in his mind; order was paramount to everything else. No other considerations would be allowed, just the fresh entry of souls into his domain, and the continuance of the melody of suffering.

It was a fine symphony to him, its notes as distinctive as any composer’s on Earth, and he listened attentively, nodded in appreciation at times when a conductor strike the purest note. A scream followed, then laughter, and begging. It repeated itself, that melody, many, many times, but he never tired of it. It was true he could not be surprised by the nature of suffering, but occasionally, when he paid attention, he could be made content by it. His soldiers, Leviathan’s Order of the Gash, were myriad in shape and deformity, but like he, their Pope, they were dedicated to order, and to the cause. Their war against chaos was in full swing, Hell’s chambers were flowing over with the dammed. He smiled. The parapet was attached to his personal dwellings, just above the Hall of the Watch, his place for oratory, to whip the soldiers into line when they became lax, to stoke their dedication to order and suffering afresh.

He had sent for the Inquisitor, wanted another progress report on Kirsty. She was his pet subject, the one he waited for, and his patience was infinite. He could afford to be patient when it came to her, her damnation was assured, the second she’d opened the box. She had escaped them, this was true, but it never lasted long, that escape. Years meant nothing to the Cenobites, they were timeless, could wait decades, just as he had, for the right moment. And then they would come for her, when her mind was jangled, fractured ever more than it was these last ten years and sink their barbs into her.

Pinhead smiled again, thinking of the moment to come, when her suffering would truly begin. Her taint would be noticed throughout all of Hell. And he would conduct a symphony of his own. He would invite his personal legion to witness the event, perhaps even participate, after he’d had his own enjoyment.

The four or fifth hundredth time, that was. He would show her such ecstasies she would be driven to madness time and time again, only to awake, and have her nerves torn asunder afresh.
Inquisitor was there, he could feel its presence, waiting patiently for the audience to start. Among Hell’s chosen, he was a prize. A dedication second only to Chatterer’s, and technique that was near flawless.
It was true, the Black Pope mused, the Church did have its uses. It produced that one, after all. “Enter, soldier.” Pinhead instructed blithely. “What news do you have for me, what tale will you regale me with?”

Inquisitor walked forward onto the parapet, glancing down with admiration. “Such a wondrous view, Your Unholiness. I will cherish this moment. It’s my first time.” The ever-present smile grew broader. “My news is twofold, and should please even your jaded sensibilities. First, the slave she is keeping has purchased the lost Flagellum Iniquitatus.”

This drew, even for the Black Pope, a look of surprise. “It had been found?”

The smiling Cenobite nodded his head once, though the wires prevented it from doing so too deeply. “A guardian of the box informed me that it had been bought in a local shop in their City. He set fire to the place in penance of the fool’s misappropriation. One Talbot, an old man, but a strong soul, steeped in our lore. He now resides with us, in the great library.”

Pinhead nodded an affirmation. “The loss of the Flagellum had troubled our God for many years. Once this task is over, you will see to its return to us.” Inquisitor nodded again, there was no need to confirm this. It was an order, it had been given, it would be accomplished. “What else?” Pinhead inquired.

“She is near a breaking point, the final loss of her sanity will be soon. You have seen her last weeks, what has been done? I know you follow this one closely, My Lord.” The smile grew slightly wider, almost leering.

“What of it?” Pinhead rebuked, irritated at the insinuation; sometimes, the smiling Cenobite could be too pointed.

“Only that she dreams of joining us, a place at your side. There is more to her than penetration fantasies with you. “ The Inquisitor glanced sideways as a fresh cry from Larry Cotton could be heard. Since his taking on of this task, he could sense and expect Cotton’s torments, sometimes while not busy also attended his tortures to visit or give instruction. His soul had become infamous, was now a training ground for raw recruits. “She fancies herself worthy of the Order, and there is some other motive that I have a feeling on, but am not entirely sure.” This much was both an admission of failure, and a preemptive request. “I need more authority to act on her. Not just visions and the dreamscape, but in other ways.”

The Black Pope paused a moment, turned to face its charge. “What further do you need?” He asked, expectantly. “I want her flesh, Inquisitor; it is not for you to toy with, until I command it.”

“Of course.” The Cenobite replied, bowing from the waist in appeasement. “Only that I be given contact with the slave. I have seen their meetings; he is abjectly worshipful of her, so much so he paid kingly for the Flagellum. This could be used against both of them.”

“Yes, We see.” Pinhead agreed. “Use him at your own discretion, then. He is of no consequence to me, his soul will be a plaything for the neonates.”

“Most gracious, My Lord.” And with that the Inquisitor bowed again and left.

The Black Pope stood there, out among the black light of truth, of hunger, of desire. Truly, his god smiled down upon him. Leviathan itself had been bested by this girl, and it hungered for her screams just as dearly as Pinhead did himself.

It was time for a visit; he realized, to Larry Cotton, for a brief change of scenery. Let him witness what his daughter had done with her life, then form one of his soldiers to resemble dear, sweet Kirsty, and introduce a new rain of anguish upon him, with his beloved daughter as the star.
Pinhead laughed, briefly. The experiences he could come up with sometimes made him wonder about himself.

Harold opened his treasure in the privacy of his study, a glass of brandy on the desk next to him. He had gotten back late from the decayed city, and he’d not been able to inspect the implement of torture since then. All day it preyed on his mind, distracting him while he tried to go about his business and make fortunes for himself. But the words of the shopkeeper kept popping back into his mind, repeating itself like a litany. Finally, in frustration, he told his secretary he wasn’t feeling well, and was leaving early. The drive home was almost agonizing, but finally he arrived. And now, all alone in the house, Harold finally had the time.

He trailed his hand lovingly over his acquisition, as lovingly as he would have his Goddess’ skin, going over every detail of the handles carvings, the multitude of positions, the wanton smiles, and the fierce snarls on the women’s and men’s faces, respectively. It was an enigma to him in one sense. His understandings of copulation had been gleaned early in life; he’d outgrown the simple want of grinding before he was twenty. No, now it required more diverse exploits, his love of a woman’s cruelty giving way to some truly inspired experiences. He’d groveled before women in so many cities that it was beginning to become a blur. Until he’d found her, his Goddess, the obsession made flesh and reality.

Looking down on the whip, he became intensely aroused. He couldn’t stand it, to be in the same room with this thing and not enjoy it, to wait, miserable, until she called for him and he could finally feel its strike upon his back, his ass, thighs and calves. To be scourged, truly, as they did in the Roman era. Waiting was too much for his, and his cock ached to be freed from its cotton prison and be fondled.

And ache it did. It was almost unimaginable how badly he wanted to jerk off and spill his seed in front of this new toy. He thought he should wait, lest his Goddess be made aware of his failings and he be punished even further.

-But wasn’t that the point? To be punished further, to keep her going until he bled? This was the one, he was sure of it, the final culmination of years of searching; now he could lay his plan out and have done with his life. To give everything for her, that was the greatest pleasure he could think of.

But he could stand it no longer, he dropped his hand down to his zipper, tugging it down in impatience, and pulling his engorged cock free of his trousers. Still fondling the whip, he began tugging on himself, his eyes closed in enjoyment as he imagined the whip abrading his flesh, tearing it open, blood flowing freely down his back, striking again and again as she wielded it in blissful abandon. And it was abandon he sought now as he kept stroking, building himself up as he imagined her laughter as she demonstrated her power over him, and kept on going, heedless of the gasps as he died, until he lay there and could no longer move. His last whispered word would be thanks to her, and he would expire, having known all that he could. It began to well up in him now, after that thought, the tightness in his balls giving him the signal that he would come, he opened his eyes and gazed down at the whip again, stroking it and himself one final time, yes, yes..

And he released, spilling his hot come all over his trousers and himself, he threw his head back and growled through it, his mind filling with images of all the ones who had held his leash, had lashed him and shouted what a piece of filth he was, until spent, he could carry on with it no longer and sank back into his chair, sated, for the time being.

After a while, when the hammering in his heart returned to normal, he absently pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and began to wipe his hand off, pausing for a moment; he regarded his hand and then licked it clean. It was a shame to waste such spunk. And he would not, this time.
He closed the case with his clean hand, and preyed his Goddess would summon him soon. He didn’t know how much longer he could take to be ignored.