Hellraiser: The Will of One

HELLRAISER: The Will of One
Disclaimer: Don’t own any of it…All characters (except OC’s) are the creation of Clive Barker. And no, not making one thin farthing from this.

Chapter 2: The Order Calls…

Kirsty lay in her bed, the last few hours of sobbing finally ended. She had bid the slave goodnight, instructing him to come back next week if he wanted more training. His demeanor gave every clue that he would be back, and that he would return more than once. After the door closed, she disrobed, letting the leather slide off her body, sighing with relief. Then grabbing her bathrobe, she made her way to the shower, and split seconds later, as the hot water washed over her, the tears began.

She cried for so many real reasons. Her lost innocence, the knowledge of her father’s certain damnation, and torment, her own, sure to come, and the life she now led. When she had defeated the Black Pope, and his creation, the Doctor who had almost murdered her and Tiffany, she had thought herself free of Leviathan’s torments, and by extension, any of its agents. That theory proved to be more ridiculous with each passing month. Slowly, in inexorably, she was pulled towards darker subject matter in studies at college, going beyond her chosen major, and into realms she would never have dreamed of before her involvement with Uncle Frank and his box. Finally, when school officials caught her with a list of reference books that were not to be removed from the library’s premises, and several of them already in her possession, it was only a matter of time before they asked, no, ordered, her to leave the school entirely.
And order they did, in as quiet a manner as possible to be certain, but she was forced out. Her education in ruins, she sought refuge in the books she’d been able to keep, and augmented then with additions from the local library. But it was simply another problem with no solution. She studied the origins of the Cenobites, in both rumor and what amounted to fact, though it was heavily tainted by the dogma of the Roman Catholics, but came no closer to the real truth that what the books would allow. She knew that most of it had to be wrong, her own experience told her that, but then if that was true, then some of it had to be right. It was only logic.

She became so involved in this period of research that she shied away from what few friends she had been able to make, and avoided Tiffany entirely, even when the younger girl called repeatedly to find out why Kirsty was no longer in school. Every call went unanswered, until Tiffany finally came by one day, and was told to leave her alone. The younger girl’s expression went from worry to shock, then anger...And then Tiffany was gone, leaving Kirsty on her stoop, watching her only real friend go away, for good, she was certain.
She cried for that as well, for all her losses, leading to her life as it stood now. A whore, a vengeance- seeking, lonely, certainly damned whore. Her father, god save his soul some day, would just be shocked if he knew what she did to earn a living. She had cried so often for all of this that she was sure one day there would be permanent tear-tracks lining her face. And the soothing warmth of the shower would not totally wash away her fears; all the holy water in the Vatican couldn’t wash away her tainted soul to cleanliness. She cried hardest for her father, she liked to tell herself, though she knew in her soul this was her greatest lie of all. She cried hardest for herself, and her own soul. Kirsty knew he would come for her, one day. She wanted it on her terms, with that bleeding, eager victim to show off as proof of her talents, but despite all her assurances to herself, she knew he would come for her on his own terms, box or not. She left the shower, crying still, and dried herself off, but then a look in the mirror brought the tears afresh, and that was how she ended up on her bed, the discarded towel left on the floor, the bathrobe a wet heap.

Again, there it was, the tolling… that deep, heavy tolling of the bell. It sounded again, and for more than one time again she wasn’t sure if it was in her head of the air itself. Then following it, not the sound of laughter, but a droning, fugue-inducing tone, breaking the rhythm of the bell’s peal, and again it was a sound she recognized, one she dreaded more than the laughter.

Leviathan, Lord of the Labyrinth, was calling out to her. Summoning, insistently, calling to her to return. It knew she could hear knew it wanted her almost as much as its Pope did. Kirsty clamped her hands to her ears, curling up into a fetal position in her bed, silently pleading for the bell and the summoning tone to stop, anything to make it stop, but knowing that it never would fully. It would drive here to madness, that bell, and Leviathan’s call. Knew it would call until he came for her, claimed her as was his right. Finally, she screamed for it to stop, damn it all, stop or else-

And stop it did, but not without that final insult to her senses, the dark laughter, the Black Pope’s mating call. The only thing she’d known of him. It churned her stomach, and strangely, it did other things to her as well. Silently, almost by instinct, she reached the hollow of her clavicle and sighed. It seemed so insane to her, to find that mocking laughter somehow, unbelievably, arousing. She did, however, could not help it. He wouldn’t allow her to help it, and it was pointless trying to fight it off. Her dread of her damnation, fear of torment mixed with her own cruelties, her love of dominating men and brewed her desires afresh. She saw herself in front of him, the pins, the tortured flesh, and saw herself standing there, the box in one hand, her victim’s heart in the other daring him to make her one of them. If she was damned, she would not be leveled among the sufferers, she would instead cause it, she insisted. He would stand there, without speaking for once, and then nod his assent to this trade. She knew it would work, he wanted her as progeny; anyone who would bargain family for their own soul might be trained in the Order, but she was special, she knew it. He would see that, must see that.

Kirsty began to toy with herself, her dreams of conquest of Hell’s rules building her up, waking desires far darker than she would normally admit to, but then, she knew, she was no longer normal, her own knowledge was far beyond anything normal could hope to be. Sitting up slightly, she opened the drawer to her nightstand, groped in the darkness for her toy, she needed something other than fingers for this, wanted to be filled in more than one way. Fingers were good, tongues better, but sometimes there was just that need, even with memories of her rape still firmly entrenched, that begged to be fulfilled. She would give in to it now, thrust and continue until she cried aloud for her own release, the one she would only allow herself to give her. No real man would ever be permitted there ever again, but what a man possessed was still necessary to her, for her own pleasure.

A little more reach, and she had what she wanted, smiled as she lay back down, rolled onto her stomach and lay there, let herself be the submissive one. Going with that thought, she saw him before her on the bed, the blood-drenched leather robes removed, saw the whiteness of his flesh, the tortures on his chest, and smiled, then slid her mouth down the toy, giving vent to the thought of pleasing him in this fashion. Swallowing him whole, her tongue running up and down the length of his cock, feeling the studded sides, the rings adorning the tip of his head, she knew by some minute lapse of decency that this should never happen; she could not possibly want this monster for a lover. But it didn’t matter, is seemed, now there was nothing to do but go with it all; slicking her fingers again with her heat and moisture, she fingered herself and was drenched; toyed over and over again with the hard little knob as only she knew how, stopping only when she would come to close to climax.

And then, finally after three times, let herself go, enjoyed the thought of the monster she had fought so hard against spreading her legs, and then with the knowing look she was sure he’d give her, his first thrust. She imagined his pierced and studded cock sliding into her glistening moistness so hard, so knowing of her desire. The monster held her firmly by her wrists, smiled as the hooks in his chest reached out to pierce her breasts at their points and she moaned like nothing had ever touched her before. The Black Pope took his time and his pleasure from her, laughed as she spat and cursed and enjoyed every single second of the lust he fuelled in her. It was monstrous, but she no longer cared, the fantasy overwhelmed Kirsty, only her desire to be satisfied mattered, she imagined his come, hot and thick, covering her, drowning her in the evil of his existence, his laughter the only thing resounding in her ears, and then as the fluid seeped away from her, she was changed, transmogrified into one of them…and the power..Leviathan be praised, the power she felt within her now…

She arched her back on the bed, her breath coming in gasps, knew she was so very close, thought of his robes and the suffering they could devise together…And then her engorged, heated sex could take no more of its own torment, and there was nothing left but release. She came screaming, calling out for the demon lover to claim her, all thoughts of good, meek Kirsty thrown to a thousand winds, to be replaced by a demoness who would shock Leviathan itself with the damnations she could imagine… She kept on thrusting until finally, compelled by exhaustion and utterly sated, she collapsed to sheets wet from perspiration and her masochistically-induced juices. Kirsty lay for while longer, regaining herself, trying by will alone to stop her sighs and moans, then got up and went back to the shower.

A cold one this time, as cold as the corridors of the Hell she knew from personal visits. Lest the warmth begin again, and she would be subjected to another sleepless night of endless toying until she was too sore to walk the next day. Sometimes during those nights, she didn’t know what was better...the teasing, or the delay of the same.

Deep in Hell, a Pope shifted, intrigued by what he had witnessed. The progeny dreams of him? It was a fantasy he’d run across before, she was not the only one with the ego to imagine herself worthy of the baser pleasures with him…but most of them wound up on the floor, writhing in agonies as their feeble brains tried to cope with their torment. None of them were worthy, not a one. But…Kirsty-

A second theologian made its way down the corridor, its pace as unhurried as the timeless winds that surged through the corridors of Hell. Pinhead knew the visitor well, The Inquisitor.

The flowing robes were similar to his Lords’, but split down the center to expose leather-clad legs. Curved, wickedly-sharp spikes jutted from his shoulders, elbows, hands, and knees in diamond patterns, clinking softly when they came in contact with each other. His cheat panels a hail of agonies he took great pains to refresh whenever not working; they were matched by the glistening meat of his stomach musculature exposed for all in Hell to see. He was a lighter blue than most newly-made Cenobites, had been there longer; Pinhead and Chatterer themselves had recruited him from the Auto-da-Fe’ of Toledo when the Church’s power had been all-encompassing. Pinhead saw a kindred soul, one tired of all the usual torment the world had offered them, and seeking something further. The top of his head, its flesh cut away to reveal a perfect circle of bone, held three inch long barbed hooks that held out his skin; the top of his skull contained his greatest ornament, the hooking facet of the box seared by irons directly into it, never to be forgotten.

What Pinhead found most interesting about this one was the constantly-amused expression it wore; even in moments of boredom, that expression never left its face. The Inquisitor approached him, bowed his head in supplication, as was expected.

“Your Unholiness.” He intoned solemnly, though there was still lightness in his voice, a joke unshared. “You sent for me?”

“Indeed, Inquisitor, we have need of your...charms.” Pinhead replied, glancing upwards. “There is one I wish you to visit in her dream state. She will be confused by your presence. Mine she would welcome all too quickly.” He leveled his gaze at the Inquisitor. “Feature her in your torments, but make sure she is physically unharmed. Her position on the earth is such wounds would not suffice.”

“My Lord,” The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow. “You, our great leader, worry about the scarring of a petty female?” Inquisitor didn’t understand, this was just one petty female, why would it matter if she suffered or not? “Sooner or later, My Lord, they will all fall to us. Isn’t she just one more to line up for the Gash?”

Pinhead knew subtlety was well within Inquisitor’s abilities. “This one has escaped us. We want her suffering to begin in her reality, and then end in ours. She will be included among our number, not left for the torment.” Pinhead smiled at the memory of her fantasies, touched by a sense of déjà-vu. “Some things, Inquisitor, are worth doing well.” The Black Pope inclined his head. “You will sear her dreams with the way to our path, that she may find us without use of the box. There are other ways, other gates. She will be led to them by you. But,” he added,meeting eyes with his vassal, “not without a moment of misery left unchecked.” The Black Pope walked away, leaving the Inquisitor to bow its head again, and ponder the full meaning of his Lord’s plans.