Hellraiser: The Will of One

HELLRAISER: The Will of One

Chapter 9: Pasts Resurrected

The slave slammed into the floor, his back a rain of welts. And the Goddess was not pleased.

“Get the fuck up, you pathetic shit!” Kirsty demanded, she stood over him, the MP, as he crawled feebly to his knees and attempted to stand. The ankle irons he’d thoughtfully provided was making this a tad more than difficult. Though in truth it wasn’t so much the bands of iron around his legs that were the trouble; it was the three-foot long reinforced two-by-two between them. “I said get up, goddamm you!!” and with that unheeded command, she lashed out again at the now prostrated fool before her. As he futilely tried to cover himself from the hail of blows her cat was delivering to him.
“Please… I’m trying Mistress…but I can’t.” he pleaded, his face turned to hers, a mask of abject pity. She hated this one more than Harold; he was everything she couldn’t stand about the ruling class. Doughy-faced, privileged, a perfect example of the British Upper Class Twit. On top of that, he was conservative, espoused a return to old morality. She often wondered what his fellows would think if they saw him this way, paying to be whipped like a stray dog that bit the only hand that fed it. It amused her to sometimes take photos of him, wave them in his face while he was tied and helpless, and threaten him with exposure to those same-said members. If only he knew how many of them she’d entertained. It would probably startle the shit right out of him.

Startle the shit out of him…she mused…that sounds like a new one to try…. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, you wanker, get up or I’ll beat you to death.” Said more in exasperation than actuality, she strapped him a few more times, and sure enough, properly motivated, he finally grappled onto the stair railing and hauled himself to his feet, albeit a bit wobbly. He stood there before her, a small grin of triumph on his face. “I did it, Mistress!”

Standing in front of him, she raised her right hand and bitchslapped him in the face. “Yes, you did, you flaccid bastard.” He fell to the floor and lay there, a red welt forming on his cheek. “Now do it again.”

She’d kept him going like this for forty-five minutes now, his session would be up soon. Kirsty found that most of them could only take an hour of this, Harold being the notable exception, he seemed to have no end of energy when it came to his sessions, paid more than double the rate even, he would keep going as long as she dished it out. She secretly marveled at that fact, thought briefly he might be the one to use in her bid to reclaim her father from the pits of Leviathan’s tortures. Her resolve hardened to allow him back, she was getting tired of this life. It was time for another. That life after this one, the only one she knew was possible. Looking down on the feeble idiot in front of her trying again to stand on his feet, she knew for certain. Harold would be the one. He had everything, devotion, no ties that she knew of, and an inexhaustible love of cruelty.
His love would be paid off in spades, his devotion, rewarded with a glimpse into true cruelty, and the horrors that were sure to follow for him until the end of time itself.

The MP kept on trying, but it was no use, he would not repeat his past victory, he kept falling every third step. It was more than tiresome, it was simply disgusting. How much humiliation could the fool stand?

“Oh, Christ, just lay there and jerk off, you goddamm pitiful excuse for a human being.” Kirsty ordered, and the MP lay there and did just that, not caring who saw, he went about his own pleasure unaided. He just lay there, his breathing coming in heated gasps as he grabbed his cock and began to stroke himself into orgasm. He looked up, and licked his lips at her, a gesture of pure wanton lust. She was suddenly reminded of her Uncle Frank, just before he was pulled limb from limb by the Cenobites.

It stirred an emotion in Kirsty, one she thought she’d never possess again.

Complete amazement. And in that moment, as the MP lay there and took care of business, stroking and stopping only to keep his enjoyment from overwhelming him, to drag out the pleasure until he could stand no more and spewed his come, a second emotion occurred.

Anger. Pure animal hatred.

Kirsty moved in front of the prone man, a snarl of rage on her face as he lay there and continued on with his masturbation, then drew her foot back and with unerring accuracy, slammed it straight into his balls.

“Thinking only of yourself again?!” she raged before him, as he grabbed his balls in agony, his once-rigid cock shrinking in seconds under her onslaught. “What about me, you fucking piece of shit..What about me?!!!” she drove her foot into his cupped hands , which offered no protection at all, and he wobbled on the floor, tears streaming down his face. Not content with his agony, Kirsty stepped over the now crippled man, and slowly, with an air of malice so thick it could be felt in the room, knelt over his face.

“I want mine this time, you weakling, and I’m gonna have it!” She grabbed the MP by his hair, and jammed his face into her moistened sex. “Now give it to me!” She rammed him into her over and over, and simply in order to prevent further punishment, he began to lick at her, first with small lapping movements, then as she drove him on, he began to taste her with gusto. Kirsty kept it up, not letting go of him, for a moment, concerned only that she avenge herself on him…make him feel just as humiliated as she did. She gripped the sides of his head with her leather-clad thighs, groaning with relish as he tried to grasp at her for purchase, finally doing so.He kept going, despite the lack of oxygen building in his lungs, she didn't care, all she wanted was this, if he died-so what?...He was pathetic, a weakling, but god was a marvelous tongue-

It began to build, that delightful tension in the pit of her, and she moaned as she ground herself on him further, while he sucked on that most sensitive spot…it was building..Yes…just a little more…She felt his tongue and teeth graze her clit-

Then suddenly nothing else mattered and she threw her head back and screamed her orgasm into the air, grinding her sex into his face as she rode her captive toy. A few moments later, as her own pleasure subsided, she released the MP and clambered off him, laying on the floor and stroking her sides with apparent satisfaction. He gasped for air, taking it in great lungfulls. “Christ!” he exclaimed, wiping his face, “you almost killed me!”

Kirsty sat up, regarded him with disdain. “You’d have loved to go that way, you weak fuck.”

“Not here,” he rejoined, shaking his head. “And why’d you fucking kick me in the balls, you stupid whore?!”

Kirsty got up, her anger fueling the quickness she felt in her, raised her boot again. “Want some more? Call me that once more..Just once. And News of the World gets a first page exclusive.”

He stopped his protests instantly. She lowered her boot-clad foot, and smiled. “Now, we can be friends again. You want that, right? You want to be on my friendly, unrevealing side, Charles. Else wise,” she tsked, “What would your neighbors say…let alone your wife and children?”

Charles knew there was no way he wanted that, it would destroy everything he was working for. “No, Mistress,” he said shamefully, his posh accent cracking. “I…I wouldn’t want that…I’ll behave.”

Kirsty smiled down at him…the Goddess in charge once again. “That’s better, Slave.” She walked over to the table , retrieved the keys for the locks on his ankles. Moving to him, she bent down and unlocked his ankles, she could see they were red from chafing. “That looks bad, Charles, I’d wear thin socks for a while, if I were you.” She laughed. “And for god’s sake, don’t let your wife see.”

Charles sat there a moment, rubbing his ankles, they were burning, it hurt so good. “Jesus, it doesn’t look good, does it?” Charles expected some stinging retort, but received none.

The room darkened somehow, but Kirsty didn’t respond. Nothing came from her. She stood there gaping in absolute terror.

Her father, or what remained of him that the Cenobites hadn’t torn away, lay there on the floor, in the corner of the room, raising a bloody hand to her in pleading. Even in the darkest part of the basement his pain was discernable, the tortures on his flesh fresh and evident. So much of him was gone she at first wasn’t sure of the identity of the thing laying in absolute abasement on the floor before her, a vaporous cloud surrounding it, but one look at the eyes and she was certain. This was her father, Larry Cotton. Then the proffered hand moved to the wall, and began to write again. She knew what he would say even before he finished the blood-red scrawl.

STILL IN HELL… were the words written by her tormented father. WHY WON’T YOU HELP ME?

And he raised both hands, begging her for release from his suffering. Kirsty finally let loose a blood-freezing scream, unable to believe her eyes. It had been years since she’d even dreamed of this vision, and here it was before her again…only this time she knew it wasn’t Frank. This time she was certain the ghastly blood-drenched man before her was her own father. Still suffering, alone and helpless.

Charles drew himself up to his feet. “What’s wrong? What the bloody hell are you screaming for?”

He couldn’t see anything, but the whore he paid to beat him senseless was standing there, screaming at the empty wall . She turned and pushed him away. “Get out!! Get out right now!” Charles found himself in an untenable situation, so he did the only thing he could do. He fled. The upstairs door slammed behind him just a few moments later.

Kirsty covered her face with her hands. “Oh daddy, daddy I’m so, so sorry…I tried.” She said to the figure, which in response opened its mouth, a long ghost of a moan sounding from the hollows of its chest. She covered her ears, anything but seeing and hearing he father like this. “No, I tried, I did, daddy… but I…I just couldn’t find you.”

The figure laid there and then pointed at her in a gesture of accusation. It knew she was lying, the finger seemed to say. Something akin to a low growl issued from it. Suddenly, impossibly, it got to its feet and began to walk toward her, its shuffling gait leaving bloody footprints on the floorboards, the finger still raised at her. It opened its mouth a third time, and the sound that followed was not moans or growls, but the voice of utter damnation.

“You…won’t help me, Kirsty.” It rasped, thought the lips were far from dry, the tongue covered in blood. “Then…you belong…here with me.”

Kirsty backed away from her father’s advancing stare, from that outstretched hand seeming to signal her doom, tears ran like rain down her face. She couldn’t take this, her mind would snap, and she was beginning to feel it go. She held her own hand up to ward off the coming ruin of a man, the only one she could not stand up to. “Daddy…” she sobbed, terror and regret and desperation scaling to new heights in her mind, she pleaded with him, but it was useless.

Unaware to her, a second figure was watching all of this. He stood there, smiling, watching the scene play out before him like a two-penny opera. Inquisitor emerged from the shadows. “Ah now, what have we here…such a tender scene.” It chuckled at its own joke, but was the only one doing so. “Don’t be ashamed, Kirsty. It’s your father, your own father…the one you left in torment for ten years.”

Kirsty whirled around at the sound of its voice, screaming in surprise and shock. She stood there, for a moment a leather-clad human version of her tormentor. It made absolute sense now, she realized quickly. This wasn’t damnation…it was training. She looked down at herself, the drape of her skirts, the corset, the straps for implements, it all made beautiful, perfect sense to her. She was one of them, in some ways always had been, since she’d first encountered the Black Pope. It was destiny. Kirsty realized she would not lose her mind, not this way, in any case, she had faced these apparitions before, and the demons who controlled them as well, and in a brief flash of insight knew them for what they were. Tools, ones for her to command, to be shown the way. The way of their Order.

She went to her equipment post, pulled a bullwhip from it. It uncoiled lovingly in her hands. Spanish made to her exacting standards, she oiled it daily, was in fact a prize possession of hers. Her arm sang out, the lash following it, and its tips struck her father unerringly, leaving new gashes in his wounded torso. The thing that was once her father, now her subject crumpled to the floor, and raised its hand again, not in accusation, but supplication. She paid it no heed.

“Good, Kirsty,” Inquisitor applauded her verbally. Now she was showing promise. “The first lesson of pain is…never be the one receiving it.”

The Cenobite stood there as Kirsty’s rage and despair overwhelmed her and she let go, the whips cracks and her father’s screams a testament to her proficiency with her chosen tool. Inquisitor stepped up next to her, holding the implement out that he had left the first time. He placed it in her other hand. “Try this; you’ll like its effects. I assure you.” A savage smile twisted the corners of her mouth as Kirsty hefted the barbed, hooked knife, testing its weight in her hand.

Her father’s twisted form suddenly jerked upright as he cried in agony, hooks and chains flying everywhere to lift him from the floor, holding him aloft, placing him at her height advantage. Kirsty smiled as she ran her fingers over his bleeding flesh and exposed musculature, searching for the right spot. She found it almost instantly, driving the hook deep into her father’s entrails, she cut upwards in a perfectly symmetrical arc, and at once his bowels spilled out, onto the floor. Larry howled in anguish.

“Excellent, Kirsty…but subtlety, remember subtlety.” Inquisitor instructed, the master teaching a prize pupil. “One needn’t spill everything in the first stroke. There so much time.”

As if nothing had happened, her father’s form vanished, the knife still bloody in her hands, her digits covered in her father’s grue. She blinked a few times. The blood did not vanish, but in fact soaked into her skin, not a trace of it left on her hands.

She jumped as Inquisitor appeared again at her side; he had not left yet. “So much time to explore, Kirsty. But don’t wait much longer. Your true supplicant awaits you, with the gift of ages.”

She stood there alone, and the room brightened, leaving her in utter confusion. She could hear the demon’s laughter, and a final word. “Delays are not acceptable.”

And her tears started again. She had tortured her own father. The one she wanted to free from all that.
Her damnation was certain…and complete.