Hellraiser: The Will of One

HELLRAISER: The Will of One

Ten years later, Kirsty is not what she was; torn, scarred, wounded from her encounters with Pinhead and the Lament Configuration, she knows it is a matter of time before their final encounter claims her.
An AU fic, Pinhead/Kirsty with OC Cenobites added. Not for the squeamish or easily offended.
You have been warned. Open at your will.
Disclaimer: Don’t own any of it, but…Time to Play

Chapter 1: Appetites and the Bell

She put down the whip. It was, after all too cruel to use. But then, that was what he’d paid for. And they always wanted what they paid for, no matter how unsettling it may have been to her in the past. Her past seemed so innocent, youthful days of white cotton skirts and innocent kisses leading to a playful romp. But since those fateful days, she’d come to understand a darker reality of mankind. It saddened her sometimes, but it was there, all the same.

Kirsty laid the whip down on the bench, stared with practiced disdain at the writhing fool on the cross before her. The idiot had paid a thousand pounds to be strung up and flayed alive, while he thanked her for it. She rested her hands on hips that once held hope of a child, that hope dashed away by a rapist’s attack that left her now sterile. The beast had a contagion, it was not life-threatening, but it ensured her reproductive organs were left useless, and with that, any hope of truly having a normal life left her mind completely. She privately knew that the Cenobites were responsible for it, for while they could not invade the earthly plane without being summoned, there were servants of the box all too willing to do anything for their masters, and it was only a woman, after all. Their depravities were legendary in the lower depths, in Leviathan’s world. Kirsty knew they would torment her in any way they could, until the Black Pope, as she later learned he was referred to, would meet her one final time.

So she decided to vent her despair, give reign to anguish that would be felt now on this earth in preparedness for the torments she was sure to suffer in her afterlife. A foretaste, as it was, of her own damnation. She’d learned to hate men and what they stood for since her rape, their drives and weaknesses, and trained herself to exploit those same faults for as much as she could. She would avenge herself on this world before she was taken. Men would be as scarred on their backs and thighs as she was inside, in her mind and body.
The feeble worm twisting on the cross moaned aloud. Kirsty didn’t care, the room she used for this type of entertainment was too things; basement-level and soundproofed. The wailing of all the dammed would not break those walls. Her current victim arched his back in supplication, he was only held by suspension-grade cuffs at his ankles and wrists, a short chain led from the front of the cross to the collar around his sweat-soaked neck. Almost all of him was wet in one way of another. The whipping she’d given him was worth his money. But he wanted more, something to finish him off and give vent to his rising orgasm. She knew he wanted to beg her for more, but didn’t care. A thousand pounds laying on a try next to the whip reminded her that the customer was always right, no matter what. He wanted his pleasure to continue, and it would, until she was satisfied.

But no more with the whip. He was welted; it made no sense to bleed him completely, even though she wanted to, desperately. Wanted his white flesh, perfectly proportioned, no flab, to bear witness to this night permanently. But she also knew that they didn’t come back if their wives discovered evidence of their needs. And she had rent to pay, plus her own expenses. Equipment was costly, replacing it sometimes more so. It made sense to let them walk away with only egos damaged, bruised but not bled, though she would not be satisfied herself, her own mind told her often, until she found one who had no limits, no one to answer to.

And then give vent to all her anger, in all its many glories. That one would be the find of her life, she would spend months devising tortures for him, and then when finished, when he was flayed open, bleeding into the drain she’d had installed to make cleaning off the spunk easier, She would open the box, the hated, family-devastating box, and show him, the Black Pope, what she was capable of since they’d last met. She had no love of the idea of spending her eternity in torment; but an eternity causing torment, of reveling in the suffering of men at her hands in any way she could imagine...well, that was something she could endure.

She walked closer to him, grabbing a fistful of hair in a leather-gloved hand, and jerked his head back sharply, she’d left the gag off by his request, and to give him credit, his complaints barely rose above the type of cry you’d hear from a mockingbird. Again, it didn’t matter, no one could hear them, and he could have screamed hosannas in Latin all the while and her cozy middle-class neighbors would never have known. Somehow, deep inside her mind she hoped someone was watching this, and listening, in appreciation. She returned her attention to her guest.

“Thank me, you piece of shit.” She instructed to the gasping male under her order. “Thank me for your soul.”
The man needed no further coaxing. “Thank you, Mistress,” he jerked out of his mouth. “Your piece of shit slave thanks you from his soul. Please, I need more.”
She knew he’d say this; it was inevitable, with some men it was never enough to be degraded, beaten within an inch of sanity. They always wanted more. Their precious release, the quenching of the fire that she stoked in the most hideous ways she could fathom. One man paid three times as much as this one just to suck her shoes and masturbate. But, he was an MP; after all, he could afford such extravagance.

“You want your candy, you’ll have to thank me better than that, slave.” She growled into his ear. She knew what he wanted, it had been discussed before cash had been laid into her hand. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t drag it out some; in fact, if she played it right there might be a bonus.

“Please, my most beautiful Goddess of Misery, please let me be released.” He begged like an eager schoolboy for his finals to be all A’s . She noted the title he’d bestowed upon her, made a mental post-it to make sure he address her the same way next time. For while he’d told her it was a one-time deal, Kirsty was sure, as sure as her boots were black, he would be back, repeatedly.

Kirsty smiled into his ear, purred softly. “And how do you want your precious release, slave?” she mocked. “I have so many,” another tug to his head, harder this time. “Many, ways.” She grabbed a riding crop from a stand next to the cross, flailed his ass with a hail of blows. “Tell me, or I’ll strap you ‘til you bleed.” She instructed as she whipped, keeping up the torment. It was precisely what he wanted, and after a few moments he came, spunking all over the cross and neatly-polished floorboards as he cried aloud in both agony and pleasure.

The perfect ending, Kirsty thought with a glimmer of self-satisfaction. But she had her own needs as well. She was still human, and wanted pleasure of her own. She uncuffed him from the cross, took the chain on his collar in her hands as he dropped to the floor in a mixture of exhaustion and compliance.
She pulled the chain, causing him to jerk upwards from his prostration, he bounded to his knees almost by wrote. Keeping hold of him, Kirsty led him to an ornate, high-backed leather chair, and sitting down on it, draped her left leg over the corresponding arm. She fixed the point of her left boot on his chest.

“You dirty piece of shit,” She intoned, her anger a further testament to her craft. “You got some of your filthy self on my shoe. You’re going to pay for that.” She sat up abruptly, dropping her leg down, and in three furious blows, slapped him across the face. He hadn’t even put up a hand in defense, but just kneeled there, and accepted the discipline. After a moment, she regarded him, as if thinking of what suitable punishment would suffice.
Then it interrupted her thoughts, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure if she had heard it, or it had occurred only in her mind.

The tolling of a great bell, sonorous, perfect, and merciless. It sounded in her ears like a calling; a summoning to her soul.

The call of the muezzins in Mecca could not have called the faithful with this much power. She was sure she heard it, looked down to her slave for confirmation, but he only gazed up at her in adoration, waiting for her next words. And then, just after the bell stopped its toll, briefly, insanely taunting, came a second familiar sound. It’s memory old, but forever etched in her mind. A low, mocking, taunting laughter. A laughter older than her time on this earth, perhaps even older than the earth, for who truly knew the age of the Black Pope. And she was sure she hearing his laughter, knew it to her core. It twisted in her, reminding her of all she had suffered, all she had fought for, only to be denied. Her father’s place in Hell was endless, she knew he would never be freed. She sighed, trying to fight off the rising dread and anguish that was sure to break loose the moment she closed the door on the back of her client, and the sobbing that would follow. Cries for the father she could not save, for all the trapped ones, one who did not deserve to be there. To endure that ceaseless torment, and the laughter that followed every single cry for mercy, every plea for release. Her slaves torments were nothing compared to what she really knew. And Daddy, alone, suffering-

“Mistress?” the pitiful slave asked, and she snapped herself out of her reverie. She looked down at him with annoyed cruelty. How dare he interrupt my-
“You’ll lick my boots,” she started, regaining composure as she spoke. “Starting with my right one. Then you’ll pleasure me with your tongue, you pitiful excuse for manhood, and then clean my left, the one you soiled.” She raised the riding crop she still held since his release, a few resounding cracks across his back followed. “Now!”
Insensate to the blows , knowing he had found, finally, the one he could devote himself to fully, the slave smiled. “Yes, my Goddess,” he offered up his praise to her like a devoted dog, still wanting his master’s love, even when he’d been bad. “Anything for you, Goddess.” And he bent his head to the tasks.

Below, thousands, millions of feet below, it did not matter, the Black Pope knew and saw it all. His progeny, his traitor, one who fought back and lived a tainted life, tormented the man for the most sinful thing of all, money. She’d become a whore, knowing nothing else would matter in her world or his, and he was wiser for it. He saw it, and sent the tolling, laughed as she had recognized, even after ten years, the knowledge of her doom. And of her father’s.

He would remain here, no matter how many times she tried, in his torment of cuckoldry and scorn, as he stood chained in a room, while Julia and Franks flaunted their infidelity on his bed, on top of her wedding gown. He could not shut his eyes, they had been sewn open, and it was only moments away now that those eyes would be flayed away while the two fornicators stood and laughed. Then she would come, the High-Priestess, and strike them all down in suffering. It played out countless times since Larry’s incarceration. His mind would be seared away with the witnessing of this moment , in fact he would lose his sanity after all Julia had done for Frank was made clear to him in the next few seconds, and then after being flayed alive, eviscerated and stripped of all humanity, he would be sent back to the beginning, his memory erased, until the light rose in his room, and the appalling scene was played out before him again. And again.

Pinhead, the Black Pope of Hell, Leviathan’s Favored Son, stood by his room, waiting for Larry’s nightmare to start afresh. He didn’t have to wait long, as his rising shouts of disbelief led to tears of anguish and screams. A knowing, slight smile passed at the corners of his grid-covered face, the jeweled pins clinking together ever so slightly at the corners of his mouth.

He would visit Kirsty tonight, in her dreams, and play this scene before her unguarded subconscious. In dreams, he knew from vast experience, they could visit the minds of ones they’d encountered, but lost to either divine intervention or sheer bad luck. Those who had escaped them were not many in number, but they could be reached, only through their dreamscapes. And he would turn hers into living nightmares soon, he was sure, yes very soon.
For the Will of One outweighed all the suffering in Hell.