Hellraiser: The Will of One

Kirsty sat in her living room, a cup of tea in a shaky left hand was still not drunk, had in fact gone cold. It was three hours since the last visitation by her father and the Cenobite, and the appearances still baffled and dismayed her. How were they accomplishing this? There was no way she was aware of in all her studies of the demons that this could be happening, and yet it was, almost nightly now. It had been going on for nearly two months, and what little mask of sanity she still retained was gradually slipping. This last time nearly caused her mind to snap, if she hadn’t realized the Cenobite’s game in the first place she would have gone over completely. And on the end, they would have won, albeit for the wrong reasons.

She shifted slightly, the cup sloshed. Cursing to herself she got up from the sofa and went to the sink for a rag to wipe up the mess. Just at that moment, the phone rang. Startling her, she dropped the cup entirely and it crashed into the sink right as she reached it. She looked at the clock.

12:46 in the morning, who the fuck could it be at this hour? She moved towards the phone, snatching it up angrily. “Who is this?” she demanded.

A hushed voice answered her. “It’s Charles,” The voice was not only hushed, it betrayed a nervousness that was uncharacteristic. “I…I can’t stay on long, my wife’s sleeping…”

“You’re calling me from home?!” Kirsty was incredulous. “Are you fucking drunk or just plain stupid?”

“Ssshhh!” Charles responded. “I…can’t see you anymore.”

“And?”

“Someone found out, spoke with my wife. They only reason she’s sleeping is sedatives right now. She’s demanding I leave you…or she’ll tell everyone. I’ll…I’ll be ruined.” Charles sounded close to true tears.

“I see.” Kirsty’s voice sounded hollow to her, but self-preservation kicked in. “You still have to pay for the last session, Charles.” She reminded him. “Plus there’s a substantial penalty for early withdrawal.”

A deep sigh, then; “How much?”

“Ten thousand pounds.”

“Christ...how do I explain that?”

“Well, Charles, that’s not my fucking problem, now, is it?” She asked, her voice venomous. “Just make sure I have it, or your wife’s not the only one you’ll have to worry about!” And she slammed down the receiver. Standing there a moment, it seemed to her like the room was spinning, she wobbled a moment. Without Charles, there would be a major drain on her funds. The ten thou would help, but only for a while. She needed to think, to plan, what she would do next. She realized, Harold I’ve got to talk with Harold.

She picked up the phone, but realized the time again and put it back down. Tomorrow would have to do. She couldn’t afford to lose another one as profitable as Harold was, no matter what her final plans were. No, Harold was it, the one. She would give him a session he’d never forget…not in all the time in Hell. The thought put a smile to her face. All his wishes would be answered that night, to the letter. Then she would have hers. And in the end, her time on this earth would have been worth something, not just another kinky whore with his expenses. No, the only way through this not ending with her in chains was to strike the final deal, the ultimate.

Her soul for her father’s; it was that simple.

Somehow deep inside she knew this would work, that The Black Pope wanted her in return, wanted her far more badly than he knew himself, or she could truly imagine. What was the soul of an innocent compared to one that had cheated the Envoy of Leviathan? Surely this would work, else wise, why would the other one have begun her training? Using her own father was a test, she realized, how far could she go, to what depths of depravity would she sink to make herself one of them? It was a tantalizing thought; she knew in herself, that she could go that far. To take a bullwhip to her own father, who suffered in her place? Monstrous; that was the only word for it, hideous in that she could ever conceive of such a thing. And yet, it filled her with a delicious sense of justice. Men had played their games with her, had taken what they wanted and never given her another thought. Either through the Cenobites minions or just sheer bad luck, they had gotten their way. She was sick of it.

No more victim; she knew this would be the way. It had been her reason for going on, taking up the whip and the boot in an effort to avenge herself on the entire male half of the species, or as many as she could ensnare. And her tally had been great, over the years. By keeping her good looks, she assured herself of the finest clients, the most expensive toys. Over all that time she had engaged men in seven different countries, spilled their blood and seed in ways they couldn’t begin to fathom, but were insanely grateful for. In some circles she had become legend.

The voice from her past sounded in her head again.

“Your suffering will be legendary…even in Hell.”

Maybe this was what he had meant all along. Hadn’t she suffered, all this time? The loss of her child-rearing abilities, the fractured intimacy, strained to the edge of insanity and back again but demons who cared not whether she survived another day or not?
The beginning of her life as a dominatrix was not an easy one; she’d first had to endure submission, her Madame claiming that subs made the best doms was born out in her later training…but those first months were humiliating. After the inevitable conclusion was reached, that she cared not at all to be on the receiving end of the lash, the Madame turned her over to the chief Dom in the house, and the rest was history. Bitter, bloody history. She carved a swath of destruction through the client list and the house, Kirsty’s trainers eventually quitting in shock over the amount of punishment she would deliver onto their impressive client list, men leaving the house in bandages, but swearing to return again and again, and to the Madame’s complete and mystified surprise, they did. Each and every one of them begging for Kirsty.

‘The Dark One’ they came to call her. She developed a cult of personality within the house, and the Madame knew she had more than a rogue on her hands, she could smell her own doom. It didn’t please her one bit. Knowing someone special was one thing, seeing that one take over from within was something else entirely. But the Dark One had her own plans; she would not take over, she insisted, but she would call her own shots within the domain of the dungeon. Those who did not meet her own rigorous standards would not be invited back. The Madame had no true choice but to acquiesce, lest the other subs leave. The bulk of the work was their responsibility; if they left, her house would fall into ruins. She gave up to the Dark One, and thought with contempt that she would drive them all away, fall out of favor, and then she could some back in and clean house.

The Dark One surprised them all. The client list grew by bounds; eliciting memberships in other countries, and the Madame saw her fortunes climb to almost gargantuan proportions. Rather than force any other issues, under the weight of all that money, she gave even more power to the young but commanding beauty. And that was just the beginning.

Buoyed by a reputation for cruelty that knew no bounds and the skills to inflict it, others would come calling seeking the one that rumors had been spawned by. Rumors that bore out in fact one she got her hands on them; sending one Arab Prince to an insane asylum lest his father be shamed by his son’s proclivities. It went on, for years, until finally the Dark One grew tired of making other women wealthy, left, and set her own house in order.

Her house, as she would call it, had no grounds, not foundation, no gates. She travelled to her clients, under threat of exposure if she was trailed or detained. Through her years in the house she developed contacts on the outside, playing through some sense of fair play that only she knew existed that in order to keep her search going, she would have to know them all, in every way she could. That search now culminated in the one. Harold.

For he alone gave praise and truly meant it; gave cries for more and needed it, in order to feel fulfilled. She’d subjected him to such depredation that she felt sure he would quit, but instead he came back for more, until she finally banished him that night, for fear that the visions would overwhelm her and cause his death. It was his death in fact she desired, but not under the demons hands, and only under her heels. It was a bargaining chip that she needed to save, his desires now could not be allowed. She needed to control him utterly, and wait for the precise moment.

A moment that was rapidly approaching. She could feel it in her mind, almost taste it in the tension she felt just thinking his name. It had to be soon, or she would fail. Failure in this case would mean damnation without end.

No…it could not be now, she would not summon him until morning. But summon him she would.

Harold was sitting at his breakfast nook, toast and tea being his usual favorites. He did not eat, however, was despairing that she would ever call him again. It had been weeks now, and he knew, she would never call him again.

He’d stalked by her house one night, to try and win favor with the Goddess, only to be rewarded with the image of one of her clients, a member of parliament, running from the house, hurriedly buttoning his jacket. Then silence. She didn’t come out, and he slumped away into the night, his hopes going from it only being another form of her punishment to utter loss.

He sat there, the artful cheeriness of his nook feeling like a grave, and he knew nothing would bring her back to him. The light lemon walls that one time brought him happiness now only reminded him of his loss. Harold shuddered, felt as if the winds were drawing in on him alone, only to freeze his marrow. The spectre had told him to be humble, but to call her. He had left the message, but it had gone unanswered so far. He was beginning to feel out of control, forlorn. Not a man given to melodrama, he would not end his life over it, but the void she had left by not answering him had been almost a chasm.

Davies came into the nook, saw the untouched tray in front of his employer, and frowned. “You’re not hungry…again, Sir?” He moved to pick up the tray, coming in contact accidentally with Harold’s knife. He cursed slightly, withdrawing his hand as a thin line of blood welled up on his finger. “Damn.”

Harold stared at Davies bloodied finger like the main character in a vampire movie, transfixed. What was it the demon had said about blood…steeping it in blood? “Are you alright, Davies?” he asked innocently.

Wrapping the extended digit with a napkin, the Valet smiled. “It’s nothing, Sir. I’ll take care of it in a moment, soon as I clear your place.” Davies moved to lift the tray again, and Harold covered it with one hand.
“Never mind, Davies,” he said, going for nonchalant, hoping it would work.

Davies stood there a moment, unsure of his employer’s meaning. “You’re hungry now?”

“Actually, yes, famished.” And with that, he tucked in to his toast, smearing it with marmalade. It worked. Davies smiled a brief hint, turned and left.

The moment he cleared the doorway, Harold’s smile dropped. He picked up the knife and studied it intently. The sliver of blood running down it in an unbroken line, ’til it hit the grip and the drop began to splay out on Harold’s finger. He looked at the doorway thoughtfully…

The phone rang exactly thirty-five minutes later, while Harold was severing Davies’ arm from its socket in the bathtub. He’d been careful to not loose so much, even for a first timer. His father’s line of work came in handy sometimes. But butchering meat was distasteful to Harold normally; now however it was for a purpose other than feeding the masses. It was the mission of his life.

Phones ringing did not help matters, though, and he dropped the arm into the blood-drenched tub as it startled him. Grabbing a towel and wiping his hands, he went to the phone in his bedroom, grabbed the receiver. “Yes?” he hissed.

“Harold.” Good god, it was her. “I got your message.” The voice was cool, assured, but there was a touch of something he couldn’t identify…a tension of sorts. “You have a present for me?”

“Of…of course, Goddess.” He felt instantly brighter, just hearing her voice. “Something very, very special. The answer to your dreams.” He glanced at the bathroom, now he’d have to begin the steeping the minute he got off the phone. He only hoped there was enough blood to do the job.

“Really?” Kirsty responded, and he thought he heard a trace of…could it be, flirtation? “What do you know about my dreams, Slave?” A chuckle, then “I don’t even tell you my ideas about the news.”

“But, I really think you’ll like this, Goddess.” Harold pressed. Remember, humble, like a proper supplicant. “It’s old, but it feels brand new.”

“Come to my dungeon, Friday night then, after nine,” the voice of desire instructed him. “And we’ll see.”

The connection broke, and Harold knew only the droning tone of the dead line.
And the elated, furious beating of his own heart. Friday night could not come soon enough.