Hellraiser: The Will of One

HELLRAISER: The Will of One
Chapter 4: Paths

He did come back, her new one, her new toy. He came back three times over the same number of weeks, and Kirsty was thankful for it, he also paid more and asked for more ‘strenuous’ sessions . She was happy to oblige him. She’d been visited by the Cenobite another four times over that period, each one more horrific and confusing than the last. Kirsty was used to being scared by them, that was what their duty was, but the confusion was what distracted her. It would weave its way into her mind at the most inopportune moments. She could be shopping for dinner, and she would catch a brief glimpse of it, or was it there, really, standing in the middle of a grocery store and smiling at her, sharpening its knives. She’d blink, and then it would leave, waving a finger at her in mocking admonishment.

She left without buying anything, her unease growing with every step until she was near panic-stricken upon arriving home, slamming the door closed and breathing in gasps for fear of not getting enough air. Each visit, each dream bringing fresh tortures, stoking both her mind and body with horrors that she hoped she’d never truly experience, or at least be on the working end of.

He knelt there before her now, the slave, bound and gagged and looking at her with utter adoration, the stinging blows feeling like the gentlest caress as his Goddess worked her frustrations out on him, and he was happy, insanely happy, to have been there for her. He hoped it would never end. He would never leave until she forbade him to come, and then he would slit his wrists in his tub,let his life bleed out of him. After happiness such as this, what else could there be? He’d finally found the one he’d been looking for all this time.

Years spent searching for the right one, one with utter contempt and hatred of men. All but one man, he was sure. And all the torment was worth it; travelling through dingy, forgettable towns, looking in the seediest bars and porn shops, gleaning clues through want ads in the backs of newspapers. Going from one dominant to another in search of the perfect one, the one who would make it, every moment of humiliation, every lash, worthwhile.

His search for perfection, now come to fruition. Glorious, ball-aching, complete satisfaction. Perfection in the woman now standing before him, choosing where to strike him next. And strike she did, over and over again, as if something was driving her to keep going, continue until he whimpered in complete pain and fell to the floor, unable to beg or thank or pray for more. Even his release no longer mattered; all he wanted was the abject suffering he was now enduring to go on, every nerve of his body in that heavenly fire he knew as submission.

And he would submit to her, that was the one certain thing in his mind. Give up everything to her to make whatever desires she had come to light. As long as they included him. And his pain.

She’d stopped a moment, while his flowering, worshipful gratitude flowed from his mouth like royal jelly. Tears rolled down his face from under the blindfold, tears of joy, he assured her. She’d never met a man who could take this kind of punishment and come back begging not only for more, but for stronger. It was gratifying; she had a chance to work out her fears on him. But also knew it was pointless, that she could not escape. Kirsty was sure of that, the Cenobite who visited her first in dreams and now seemingly anywhere it wished had assured her of her future in Hell, suffering alongside her father. So to have this worm under her control and pleading for more was indeed a temporary salve to her fractured mind, and she’d increasingly come to depend on it. Her thoughts were broken by her slave’s voice.

“Mistress, you’re not finished, are you?” A question and request in one, Kirsty knew what it was, he wanted more. He was never satisfied, it seemed. That was fine with her, she‘d give him more, more than he ever expected.

“Oh no, you pitiful, worthless shit, I’m far from done with you.” Kirsty replied, a dark edge to her voice actually bringing a smile to his face, she pulled him up by the collar, and over to the cross again. He stood there, murmuring platitudes to her while she re-cuffed him to it, and went to her chest for another implement. She found just the thing, a nail-studded paddle, ran her fingertips appreciatively over the points. Just dull enough not to sink in a quarter inch into his skin, but enough to do damage.

Walking back, she smiled with a gleam in her eyes. “My slave isn’t married, is he?”

The confused answer came back, “No mistress, I’ve never been.”

“And you don’t fuck anyone on the side, like I ordered you not to?” Kirsty asked, the question of his fidelity coming out like a private joke. She already knew the answer was no. If she thought for one instant he was, she’d cut him off completely.

“No, Mistress!” The slave replied, fearful. “I’d never cheat on you. You are everything to me!”

“Good,” She purred, as she grew closer, holding the paddle with her right hand, she grabbed his hair with his left. “Then no one will ever see this!” And she raised the paddle back and swung. It connected with his ass and he let out a shout of pain she’d not heard from him before. “You like that, you shit? You want more?” she demanded, and gave him three more blows, the nails leaving tracks in his skin. He cried out in both terror and worship, after the fifth blow she could see the beginning of blood seep out onto his ass cheeks, she grunted with satisfaction. If he wanted degradation, she’d give it to him in spades. And she could hear his pleas in between his shouts, thanking her, begging for her not to stop-

Suddenly, she was sure it was colder in the room, bone cold. And that rot, the smell, it was there too, even now-

It was there with them. The Cenobite, Inquisitor. It stood in the east corner of the room; hands folded together in prayer in front of it, but pointed downwards, smiling at her expectantly. Just standing there, but she was awake, not in a dreamland. But then she remembered the store, and the paddle fell from her hands in fright. Kirsty let go of the slave and stepped away.

“Oh, please, don’t stop on my account.” It smiled at her; arched its head back at the slave on the cross.”Do go on with your amusements. It’s very edifying, really.” Inquisitors smile grew wider, “Or should I? It’s been so long….” It looked over the chest and rack of equipment, the buckles, clamps, whips and weights, all of it, shook its head. “Such child’s toys, Kirsty. You disappoint me. I’d expected better from one such as you.”

Kirsty stumbled farther away from the hapless man on the cross, her mind reeling in terror. It couldn’t come whenever it wanted, there was no way, and it wasn’t possible-

The Inquisitor turned its head, noted the tool still hanging on the door, the one he’d left after his first visit. “Not touched it yet? But, dear Kirsty, it’s for you, for times just like these.” He shook his head reproachfully. “It’s not nice to ignore a gift such as this. The manners nowadays, tsk.” Kirsty noted the knife as well, but it had been left on her bedroom door, this was the basement, how did it?-

Inquisitor walked to the door and removed the curved knife from the coat hook, walked over to the bound man, it’s black eyes glinting with malice. He dropped his hand to the man’s waistline, the blade slicing across the region of her slave’s kidneys, and struck. Her slave’s lower back erupted in a shower of blood, flooding the floor and he screamed in utter agony. Kirsty gaped in horror as The Inquisitor laughed a hollow, mocking laugh, and sliced downwards along his spine, raking the spikes on the back of his hand along his spinal column. Screams became shrieks of disbelief, but the Cenobite was undaunted. It carved three more times, and the man’s back was a ruin of sliced flesh, he hung by his cuffs limply on the cross, as the Inquisitor raised the knife, studied it a moment, then ran his tongue along its edge, savoring the taste of her slaves’ blood. He nodded once in appreciation.

“It’s a trifle dull, but it hones easily, the more you use it. And you should use it, Kirsty. This is your path, isn’t it? Your salvation from our paths, were you rightfully belong?” He looked at her expectantly, waiting for what the Black Pope had assured him was her usual vulgar defiance, but none came, this time. She simply stood there, did nothing, while her paramour’s life ebbed away. Raising its head to look down on her, it spoke again. “You cannot hope to win favor without knowing blood.”

And just then, as quickly as it had come, it was all gone. She stood stock still, not knowing if this was a feint or not. She stared at his back, and there was nothing but sweat, crop-marks, and the tracks from her paddle. She ran to him, unstrapping him from the cross, and unbuckled the blindfold, a look of pure horror on her features.

“Get out!” she told him, grabbing his clothes and shoving him up the two stairs. “Just get the fuck out now!”

“Mistress, please!” He pleaded, not understanding, everything had been going so well, and no- “What did I do wrong? It was wonderful-“

“I said fuck off!” And she slammed the basement door behind him. She threw her back at the door, and to let out the primal fear that was brimming over in her mind, began screaming.

He stood there a moment, completely flabbergasted at what had just taken place. She was giving him what he wanted one minute, and then shoving him out the door. And now she was screaming like a banshee. It didn’t make sense. He dressed quickly and, lest she find some unforgivable fault with him, threw an extra thousand on the table near her sofa, then bid a hasty retreat. His ass hurt incredibly, but he smiled to himself. It had been wonderful, he was only frustrated that she’d not finished. But then, he could always go home and sniff the panties he’d filched from her hamper, work off his own frustration. He mind cheered at that thought, and he walked home to his flat with a bounce in his step.

Kirsty sank to the floor, crying. It had invaded everything in her life now, all of it. She felt her plans lay in ruins. And if that plan failed, there would be no escape for her, or her father. She cradled herself, brought her knees to her breasts, wrapping her arms around herself, trying to ward off her fears. It was an uphill battle, one that would take all night. Could she truly do this, truly flay a man alive and then offer herself as a bargaining point for her father’s soul? And even still, would they accept the trade, or merely laugh and begin their torments?

She couldn’t take it all right now, she needed some respite from the fear driving her to distraction, and she got up and opened the door slowly, checking to see that her customer had left. When she was certain he had indeed vacated, she wrapped a black velvet robe around herself, over her leather garb, and went to her bathroom’s medicine cabinet.

One night, was all she needed, she told herself. One night without dreams or fears or that monster invading her peace. Just one night. Flipping on the light, she opened the cabinet and reached for the slim bottle.
Her psychiatrist had given them to her, when dreams of those horrifying days and nights kept her from sleeping altogether, and through contacts she’d made at the hospital, managed to keep the prescription open. She’d rarely used them now, didn’t feel it necessary any more, but that was before he’d come to visit her, first in dreams and now every waking moment. Now she wanted the pills the way an addict wanted a new fix. She’d have debased herself with sailors if she’d not had any, just for the black market money for them. She looked through the brown plastic, there were just four left. She opened it, dropped two into her hand, and got a glass of water, bolting it down with the pills as if it were a shot glass of whiskey. She went back to the basement and changed, forgoing the shower, and curled up on the sofa again, flipping on the telly. It didn’t matter what was on this time, she would have watched wrestling matches, just to stave away her terrors and wait for that blissful moment of dreamy ease as she’d slip into blessed slumber. A slumber more and more she began to hope she’d never wake from.