"You may stop this whenever you wish, you need only say the word." It was an assurance, but he spoke in such a cold and calculated tone that Kirsty had trouble recognizing it for one. She'd heard of safe-words, of course; she'd even used them with a partner and a brief experiment with handcuffs and warm wax. But she'd done her reading before that, and she knew the manta for this kind of thing: safe, sane and consensual.
There was nothing safe or sane about this.
"You would be surprised," his voice answered her unspoken thought, and Kirsty frowned a bit. "I would promise you your safety, but I doubt you would trust me."
"We don't exactly have the same definitions of safe," Kirsty responded, and the Hell Priest almost smiled slightly, chest rumbling with what might have been a chuckle.
"I understand. This will adhere to your standards, not mine." The Cenobite turned his head forward, and Kirsty nodded, skeptical though she still felt.
She was the one who agreed to this, though, and she had to believe she knew what she was doing. She was even a little excited, even if she'd never admit it.
He had led her down a long hall, her arm on his despite her hesitance, and into a solitary and surprisingly sparse room. Wall-mounted chandeliers of wrought metal cradled light that was impossibly soft – she could look into it without discomfort. Somehow the soft light filled the room enough for her to see all of it; and what she saw surprised her.
"I assume this is closer to what you're accustomed to," the Cenobite Prince spoke as he let her arm go and walked to the center of the room, "but if you desire any adjustments, then I can see to it they're made." She looked at the walls, the ground, a desk off to the side with bottles on it, the bed he'd approached, inspecting everything; she couldn't believe what she was seeing.
Or wasn't seeing.
"…No hooks." Kirsty's eyes trailed over to the Cenobite inspecting the bed. It was lined with rich red sheets and a cushiony pillow, welcoming, sexy. She tried to be surprised at herself for the last thought, at how it lingered when her eyes followed the sheets' creases to the strong hand and leather-bound arm that were making them.
"No hooks," he agreed, stepping back and beckoning her forward. "You agreed to experience one extreme of sensation. I could show you the exquisite depths of agony," Kirsty's eyes narrowed, brow furrowing and a small shudder crawling up her back, "but there is more to our realm than the reshaping of flesh." He gestured to the bed again as Kirsty approached, feeling her pulse quicken. "There are no surprises here." Her fingers brushed the blanket – soft, plush. It seemed comfortable.
No surprises. Kirsty tugged at the edge of her nightgown – which, she noticed, near-perfectly matched the sheets – before nodding.
The bed was softer than she expected as she lowered herself onto it. No spikes, no cold springs, nothing her anxieties had promised in the moments before this. No surprises. She relaxed after a moment's hesitation, almost annoyed at how nice it was. She didn't remember anything about this place being pleasant, and the only beds she'd seen were Frank's, and they were as good as deathbeds. This was a hell dimension.
Not the only hell. She pushed the thought from her head to focus on the moment. He was standing over her now, a shadow crossing her chest with his arm.
The Cenobite pushed a stray hair from her face. She half-wanted to lean into it, but didn't. It was pride, she knew; he couldn't know that his hand was strangely comforting, his voice as inviting as it was intimidating. Even here, in his realm and under his touch, she couldn't let herself surrender completely. She still wanted to keep something for herself, some bit of… control? Innocence? Independence, she decided, though even that didn't feel right.
This was to sate her curiosity, so she could stop wondering in the middle of the night. She repeated that to herself as he leaned over her, pins brushing her nose.
"Do you wonder so often, Kirsty?" She looked away, turning her head slightly, but still sensed his smile. "I did promise you that this would be an extreme. You will be brought to the precipice of sensation and held there. I will keep you at that edge until you ask to be released, or I see fit to release you. Whichever comes first." She could almost see a smirk, almost make out affection, almost eke out some sort of sentiment behind his mask of calm. "There is no time in this place, Kirsty. You may experience hours or years. Do you want this?"
"Why do you have to ask?" She looked back at him, letting confusion color her features. "We've already gotten to this point, aren't you going to do that anyway."
"Only if you agree to it. You are not here by opening the box, Kirsty, and have not given yourself to pleasure. As long as that is true, you are the one who holds power here."
"…I see." He wasn't being direct, but she understood it anyway. As long as she didn't open the box – an unspoken contract – he couldn't proceed on principle. He needed consent, in one form or another. It seemed like he wanted it anyway – he wanted to know that she was willing, not just compliant.
"You have to tell me, Kirsty. Do you want this?" His expression was guarded, but sincere; Kirsty nodded, but he made no move to act.
"…Yes," she finally said, "I want this."
The lead Cenobite nodded and straightened up over her, and his hands took her wrists. He pinned them over her head. For a second there was nothing but her pulse in her ears, but she felt cloth around them, binding them. She wriggled a bit on instinct; it didn't constrict her and left some room for her wrists to breathe, but she couldn't get out. That didn't surprise her. The fabric was soft, she noted.
He stayed by the bed, and she felt his eyes trail over her. I must look so vulnerable right now, Kirsty thought, pulling one leg closer out of habit, the need to feel less exposed. He watched, if only for a moment, before stepping away. She turned her head – he approached the desk, and a hand trailed over the bottles before selecting a tall, violet-tinted flagon. A chalice stood in front of him; he poured into it, only for a moment, less than a shot's worth of liquid, before corking the bottle and setting it back in place. The chalice he lifted with both hands. Slowly he turned, and Kirsty was about to roll out of bed in curiosity – what was that?
"A taste," he said as he reached the bedside, "of the Labyrinth's pleasures." He brought the chalice to his lips, and it had never occurred to her that he had to do things like eat or drink. When he finished he lowered it to her level – there was, by her guess, less than a teaspoon of liquid. "Drink it slowly, and we can begin."
"What does it do?" Kirsty looked up at him, and his expression betrayed no impatience or disappointment.
"It is a primer," he said, "so you are not overwhelmed beyond recovery. It is also the starting point; this will affect you, Kirsty, but it will not hurt you." She looked at him for a long moment before looking at the liquid; it was the color of syrup, or whiskey, and smelled vaguely of warm vanilla. She nodded, and he tilted the cup forward so she could drink. It was warm and sweet, but not overbearingly so; it tasted like something she'd drink near a fireplace on a winter night. He pulled away and returned to the desk; when he came back without the chalice, the Lead Cenobite did nothing.
Kirsty looked at him, perplexed, and let him find the question in her mind.
"Wait," he spoke, and now she could detect the slightest warmth in his voice, "it will come. Do you remember the word?" Red, she thought to herself, and he nodded, content it was in her mind. All she had to do was say red, and it was over.
For another moment, there was nothing. She wasn't sure what she was even waiting for, since sensation could mean anything and everything, couldn't it? But then she started to notice. It started somewhere in her abdomen, in the pit of her body, and spread in all directions like ink crawling across wet paper.
Kirsty squirmed slightly, trying to place it, trying to figure out just what "it" was. Warmth, certainly, but faint; almost like a tingling sensation, one that she knew somehow. It was only as the sensation travelled further out, filling her stomach and crawling towards her legs, that she realized why it was so familiar.
It was arousal.
Kirsty shuddered, closing her eyes as she felt a dull throb between her legs. The Cenobite never moved, and she could feel his eyes on her face, watching intently. Beads of sweat formed on her skin and her nightgown grew clingy; she had to focus on breathing slowly, trying not to get worked up too soon. The fire under her skin crawled gradually up her neck, and she couldn't quite fight a tremble of her lip, suddenly aching to be kissed.
The Cenobite did not kiss her. Instead he brushed a hair from her forehead. Kirsty took a breath, trying not to lean towards him. She was sweating harder now, her skin hot and slick and crying out for so much as the lightest caress. She had never been this aroused taking care of herself, hell, even sex didn't compare to this. It felt good, even as every inch of her yearned to be touched, the ache worst in her now-slick folds. Kirsty took another breath.
Hadn't he drunk from it, too? How was this not affecting him? But when she looked up, his face betrayed nothing; only his eyes gave away a certain hunger that had not been there before, the rest of him statue-still. Was he used to this? Her eyes closed as the heat reached her throat.
"Kirsty, can you still speak?" His voice was like a cold knife slicing through the warm haze, but only temporarily; she was shocked for a mere moment before she was nearly lost to the pleasure and need again.
"Y-yes…" she answered, not opening her eyes, and heard a heavy rumble again. If she had opened them, she would see him smiling for just a moment with satisfaction.
"Good," he said simply, "I have no intention of silencing you." She couldn't stop herself from wriggling a bit now, looking for friction. She barely even registered that he was speaking. She gasped, then let out a heady moan as another shudder of pleasure coursed through her.
He still wasn't touching her, and it was driving her mad. This felt so right but so wrong, not out of guilt, but because nothing was touching her. It was like hunger, like starvation of her own skin. If her hands weren't bound she'd have tried to finish herself off; her thighs rubbed together, seeking the friction she needed.
"Please," she whispered, then louder, "please…"
"Yes, Kirsty? What is it you want?" She couldn't think about being embarrassed by the answer. Even if she wasn't desperate she wouldn't have been ashamed, not really, no matter how much she wanted to pretend that she did not want to give in. She did. She wanted it more than anything she'd ever known.
"T-touch…" her hips bucked, and she gasped out the words. "Touch me…"
"Ah." If she had been paying attention, she would have heard affection in his voice, just for those few words. "As you command."
Kirsty almost sobbed with relief when he pushed her gown up. He rubbed her through her underwear for a moment; he idly thumbed her clit, watched her face as she strained to raise her hips even more. His touch remained light and teasing for what felt like the longest time, but couldn't have been more than a few minutes. He drew out his movements for small eternities, exquisite and torturous. It was only when Kirsty whimpered, inhibition forgotten, that he slipped his hand under the thin piece of fabric, two cool fingers sliding into her with ease.
Kirsty gripped at air in her binds. She could feel the calluses on his fingertips against her, and the cool leather covering his thumb rested over her clit. He was still again, and she bucked her hips up towards him, trying to get him to move.
"Remember, Kirsty," through the haze of lust she did not question the near-lilt in his tone, only ached for it, "Once you reach the edge, I will not let you over for hours." He started thrusting his fingers slowly, rubbing her with his thumb as he did. "Possibly longer. We can stop here, if you have had enough."
"N-no…"
"I do not know what that means, Kirsty."
"Keep…" it was hard to focus on words, on anything but his slow pace and how she wanted him to go faster. "Keep going… please…"
"Very well."
He did not speed up; how Kirsty didn't collapse from exhaustion, she didn't know, but she kept rocking against his hand and trying to focus on getting herself to the tipping point. Even as slow as he was, she could feel it building up. Kirsty steadied her breathing, losing herself now in the motion; she was so close, it'd just take another second…
The coiling in her body was tightened as far as it could, but nothing happened. There was no breaking point; she could not get herself to climax, no matter how hard she rocked, as if her energy had been spent ascending to the highest point only to find no precipice. Kirsty opened her eyes, knowing her expression was one of pleading as the Lead Cenobite gazed down at her in what could have been adoration.
"Now," he said, "we begin."
Ta-daaaa! It's not a wholesale rewrite so much as a strong edit and expansion, but Hallowed is back! I wanted it to re-characterize Kirsty in this, but I'm feeling much better about this version. Part two should be up soon!
