Hellraiser: The Will of One

HELLRAISER: The Will of One

Chapter 11: Blood Rites

Harold waited all of twelve minutes for Davies’ blood to drain completely, before he began scooping it into, well, anything he could find to hold it. Several wine carafes, a lemonade pitcher, even the ice bucket from his study were put into service to contain his now former Valet’s life essence; he figured he had enough to steep the Flagellum for the proscribed time. He knew nothing of the mechanics of blood rites, but hoped for some tutelage by the demon who’d tormented him over the last few weeks. When none was forthcoming, he sought out his own research. It amazed him what you could find out on the Internet.

Keeping the blood at exactly the right temperature was the key…it had to be body temperature, or it would clot and cook over, thereby spoiling the Flagellum’s internal magic. Experimentation with some of Davies’ life yielded some interesting results, but once he had the heat down, he knew it would work. It only required a vessel large enough to submerge the Lash in the manner that the demon had proscribed…

A salmon poacher did the trick, long and shallow enough to hold the Flagellum in length and be easily retrieved once the steeping process was completed. Harold sat by the stove the entire time, submerging it carefully with tongs… watching as the blood was absorbed into the lash and its subtle transformation began. Though subtle was hardly the word for it.

It didn’t just absorb the blood, it drank it. All along the handle, the mouths on the entwined figures opened and began to greedily drink in the bodily fluid. Harold bent over the poacher and looked on with utter fascination as the miniature ebony figures did exactly that, and then more. They began to writhe, stroking each other and themselves along the shaft of the lash, then, instead of simply writhing in place, they began to exchange positions, turning on each other in animalistic frenzy, Harold could see it all in a strange, silent pantomime…save for a droning bell that he thought he could only hear faintly…as if miles away, but it didn’t matter to him, he was enraptured by the figures carved into the handle, watching as they pulled, grasped, settled on each other and began to stimulate themselves or rape their partners, faces again growing fierce with anger as they completed their copulations, then moved on to other partners on the shaft and continue all over again. It seemed endless to Harold, that it could go on for so long was a source of mystery to him, but he could not stop watching.

How long it continued Harold was never sure, but the timer set for six hours went off, signaling an end to the soaking. Harold himself was damp with perspiration, and completely aroused beyond all reason. He longed to grasp himself and add his spunk to the mixture of blood and lethality, but the demon’s words of warning flooded in his ears, and he fought his urges with what could only have been supreme self-control. Still, it was not easy for him to stave off himself, he was not a man used to governing his lust, could only do so under the crack of a whip.

Gathering his oven mitts, he picked up the poacher and transported it to the counter, allowing the mixture to cool slightly before her removed his Goddess’ treasure from its bloodbath, preparing to wipe it down with a cloth, only to find to his confounded eyes that the blood covering it had completely been absorbed, leaving it as dry as the night he’d purchased it.

At last it was done; finally, the Flagellum was ready to be used. He tried to remember the words of the shopkeeper, but could not recall if the device had ever been used or not; a part of his vanity hoped he would be the first recipient of its scourges. He longed to take it to her this instant, but he still had a night and a half to wait. Only Wednesday, he began to despair that she would call back and forbid him to come to her, in some twisted form of chastisement she would never let him near her again, and his hopes began to dash themselves off the rocks like a pack of lemmings.
He stroked the Flagellum’s handle lovingly. It was the source of all he ever wanted, he was sure of it, absolutely certain that his final wish for his boring sordid life on this earth would be fulfilled. It filled him with joy, and he felt strange; how he could go from utter despair to boundless happiness in the face of this thing he could not fathom, but he decided not to ask such paltry questions in the face of such powerful magic. It was his salvation, and that was the only thing that mattered.

Next on his list was the purification of his body and mind. His soul was stained far too deeply for any cleaning to be done, he knew that for certain…and he preferred it that way. He got up, carrying the Flagellum like a beloved child, and went into his study, to further pontificate on its meanings. Passing the door to his rooms, he stopped momentarily; what should he do about the body? Surely the Police would come, complaints would be made, and Davies would be missed somehow. Some bum boy might not get his weekly check, or some such. He was convinced the man was not straight, not that he cared, sexual orientation meant nothing to him. But the nagging thought would not leave his mind that the body must be disposed of. He would take care of it, just as soon as he returned the Flagellum to its case.

Kirsty woke from yet another dream; the demon had paid his nightly visit, this time to instruct her in the finer art of flaying. Peeling the skin in sections was apparently no easy task, it required skill and a deftness of hand that was maddening, but in the end she came away with a one foot long section that was nearly perfect;

Only again, the sufferer had been her father.

She woke without screaming this time, and she wondered whether that was a good sign or not. It had been a dream this time, thankfully she was sure of that, there were no trophies, no rewards for coming back from her sojourns into Hell. She had not been marked either, as far as she could tell, but in her, loneliness, confusion and horror, she sensed one other thing. She was swollen with desire, moist and ready for her acts. God help her, it was distracting and yet powerfully wonderful. Since allowing herself the pleasure of almost suffocating the MP underneath her, and the resultant release, she’d been hiding from herself in a way, afraid to touch herself even in the shower for fear of constant arousal overwhelming her mind. She let a rough lufa sponge do the job for her, its coarseness taking care of any fears of arousal, washing away her baseness with almost painful precision. But this time was different.

Now, even in the face of her torment of Daddy, she wanted him all over again. The gridded one; Hell’s Favored Son, the Black Pope. Source of her fears and fantasies, and she wanted him with a fervor that would know no bounds. Rising from her prone position, she ripped the sleep shirt from her body, running her hands over her flesh, kneeling on the bed in offering, whispering his name to him as if calling a revered lover. Cupping her breasts, she thumbed, taxingly pinched her hardening nipples until they stood out far from her flesh, moaning aloud, not caring of who or what heard. This was no normal masturbatory exercise; this time would need deeper rituals. She knelt there, punishing her breasts, pulling and pinching with continued fury, twisting until she gasped from pain, and it would still not do. She got up, went quickly to the dungeon, her arousal quickening her movements. Going into her hardware drawer, she got out what she wanted.

Her piercing kit.

She pulled a needle from it, checked its gauge and found it proper, selected a ring as well. Closing the box she hurried back upstairs to her room. The momentary lapse of stimulation needed only a few strokes to fan the fire afresh, and she lay there, tugging on her left breast, she knew what to do, went about it. Holding her nipple in one hand, she placed the piercing needle against it, licking her lips in anticipation of the sensation to come.

“For you,” She whispered, hoping her dark god would hear her oath; she drove it home. The needle went through the sensitive flesh with little to fight it, Kirsty’s rising yelp of pain the only indication of anything wrong, and she followed it with a moan of undeniable ecstasy. Looping the ring at the end if the needle, she pulled it through, and the jewelry followed its path thru the hole she’d just prepared, dropped the needle and linked the ring closed. It hurt, but it also excited her as well. A drop of blood fell from the tormented flesh and struck her thigh, she wiped it up with a finger, sucking on it, the proof of her fervor and desire made fact. She flicked her freshly-pierced nipple repeatedly, wincing as the pain mingled with the pleasure and she moaned aloud again, not caring who heard, save for one.

Indeed, she hoped he was listening, and that his studded cock was hard beyond belief. She wanted that cock in her a hundred ways now, forcing new orifices into her in ever more bizarre and complicated acts of penetration, balming her with his jism endlessly as she screamed so loud it would be heard throughout all of Hell itself. Yes, only that monstrous organ would suffice, and only the Prince of Hell would take her. She fumbled into her drawer again, hands running over the usual toys until she found her special one, and put it to any and all uses she could find.

It started out usual, teasing herself, running the studs up and down her, holding herself open with one hand while she guided it into her, then out again, gliding its slickened head over her swollen bud until she almost cried from frustration, then plunging it into her over and over again until she could stand it no longer and would come, screaming out her orgasm and desire until she fell to the sheets in a crumpled mass of limbs, sweaty and sleepy. This was different, she wanted teasing that would never end, the final cries of her coming would be heard all the way below, would reach his ears and bring him forth with the power of his own desire, the wanton lust that only a stupendous fuck could bring about. She kept going, over and again, teasing herself any way she could think of, the studded dildo bringing about waves of heat within her that only she could quench herself.
She grabbed another toy, this one free from ritualized piercing, and a small bottle of lube, and deftly anointed herself at the puckered opening behind her. Gently, slowly, she glided it up into herself, moaning slightly, she was used to this though it was not a preference, but this time there were no regrets, she returned old studly to its usual hiding place and began working them both in tandem, the feeling of the double penetration incredible to her as they slid along in her, connecting in between the walls of her body, the friction alone was near overwhelming. Going slowly at first, she built up a rhythm until she was soaking in sweat and juices, writhing on her knees in the sheets. More, more she could not stop yet, keep going…harder…faster…

The bell sounded, and she took it as a sign of his approval; he was watching, and she now knew he was, began to time her strokes with the toiling, the slower pace building up her frenzy, she imagined him, standing before her, watching in undisguised pleasure…Waiting his turn to bind and toy with her, thrusting his own member into her every pore until she could take no more…

Her orgasm woke her neighbors, and three cats in the street. The neighbors responded in usual ways, yelling for her to shut up, or slamming windows with indignant yelps of frustration or jealousy; the cats by mewling, one going so far as to match her own pitch.

She lay there, heedless of their complaints, only wanting this to be real, wanting more and more each day to be at his side. Only the black Pope would do; only one thing would satisfy her needs. Panting from her exertion, she lay there for a few moments, and began inexplicably…to cry. Her frustration was never ending, she knew she had to free her father; these performances of her could only go on for so long. But how much of it was performance, and how much the real desire of her soul?