She is not afraid.
She should be, of course. She has been, for years. Afraid They would return.
Them. The Cenobites.
But now that They had, she could feel nothing. No fear, no sorrow, no anticipation. Exquisitely empty.
She is not hung from the ceiling with hooks, not like Uncle Frank, not like so many others. Not like her nightmares. She is chained, face-down, to a table, the granite rough and cold on the sensitive skin of her breasts, chafing her nipples with every twitch.
She knows it will be the least of her suffering tonight.
She can't seen anything in front of her, with her neck chained down and her head protruding over the edge of the table, just an empty room if she rolls her eyes as far up as she can. She can hear Them, hear Them walking, arranging metal tools on a nearby table, hear the brush of their leather robes against the stone floor and the clink of knife on knife. The denial of sight would be a great torment, if she could feel anything at all. Somewhere to the left of her, outside of her field of vision, a whetstone rasps along a blade's edge. The sound sends a chill down her spine.
Bizarrely, impossibly, her nipples stiffen.
No.
She doesn't desire Him, does she? Does she?
The imperious stare. The pierced skull. The mutilated flesh. The slender, leather-clad fingers. Surely they do not fill her with lust, surely the tormented form of the Favored Son holds no appeal? Surely the agonies of the Labyrinth do not entice her?
A gathering dampness between her thighs betrays her.
The scent of Them fills her nostrils. They smell of old blood, and vanilla, and sex.
A hand touches her, astonishingly gentle, tracing a path down her spine, lifting just before it would caress her exposed buttocks. She can't help but arch her back at the touch, leaning into the warm touch as best she can. A quiet sigh of pleasure escapes her lips.
She had expected His hands to be ice-cold, but instead they are warm.
A knife follows the hand's path, and it is cold, and bitterly so. It does not penetrate deeply at all, merely scratching the surface, a cautious first stroke of the artist's pen, a dash of red on a pale canvas. This, too, gives pleasure.
She doesn't know why she speaks up. What good could it do? The Cenobites are creatures of flesh and desire, not words.
But she speaks nonetheless.
"You can't be here. I didn't call you. I didn't summon you."
" 'Didn't summon me'? And the last time it was 'didn't open the box,' and before that, 'didn't know what the box was.' And yet, here we are, once again, Kirsty. Called here, not by hands, but by desire. And yours is a clarion call."
It was not His voice.
She twisted, straining her head against the thick leather strap that bound her neck to the tabletop, striving to see Her, for it was Her voice that had answered her desperate protest, Her hand that had felt so warm and gentle.
Kirsty can picture Her in her mind. The bald head, the cold expression, the trachea held open by metal struts in an obscenely vaginal manner providing the only splash of color in an otherwise desaturated drowned-corpse face.
Kirsty blushes, remembering Her sliding Her fingers into the raw gash, remembers the flash of discomforting almost-arousal she had felt at the time, and tries not to imagine those fingers sliding deep between her legs.
She fails, and whimpers at the failure.
"Oh, Kirsty," She says, dark amusement lacing Her voice. "So eager to play. So hesitant to admit it. Why so shy?"
The hand resumed its stroking of her back, up and down, barely more than a promise of sensations to come.
"What do you want with me?"
It's a foolish question, she knows it as soon as the words escape her trembling lips, and She wastes no time responding. "What we have always wanted, Kirsty. I want to know your flesh. And I will. And I will have all of eternity to make you enjoy it."
It's not sex that they have, not really.
You can no more have sex with one of Them than you can have sex with a knife blade. Human definitions of lovemaking are insufficient to describe the pleasures of the Theologians of the Order of the Gash.
Nevertheless, it was distinctly sexual.
Kirsty was not, by any stretch of the imagination, possessed of vanilla (and what an ironic term that was, with the scent of vanilla flowers thick in her nostrils) sexual habits. She had been, once, when she was an innocent girl still dreaming about handsome men with kind eyes and gentle smiles. She'd long ago left such dreams behind, along with her tattered and bleeding innocence.
She is certain that any last vestiges of innocence are being swftly drained away by the fingers working with exquisite precision between her legs, stroking and caressing.
They are, of course, not gentle, not at all. They pinch and twist as much as they rub and caress, they thrust brutally into her depths as much as they tease her sensitive spots, and Kirsty hovers on the knife-edge between pleasure and pain before falling over the edge into a shuddering, agonizing orgasm that leaves her bruised, satisfied, and yet hungry for more. The fingers thrust deep once more, penetrating her depths seemingly farther than fingers could reach, and then withdraw.
She doesn't want to beg. Who knows what She will do in reply? The Cenobites have… extreme ideas of what constitutes pleasure. Inhuman ideas. The pleasure She would reward Kirsty with would no doubt resemble unimaginable torment. Kirsty has been lucky thus far. It would be madness to beg for more.
Nevertheless, she does.
"...please."
Her voice is quiet. Broken, almost. A pleading whisper.
It receives an indrawn breath as a reply. The Cenobite sounds almost… surprised, perhaps? Shocked, even. Her reply, however, is as confident and commanding as ever.
"And now we see what lays beneath the ingenue's coy veil. So swift to crumble, to surrender." Her hand strokes Kirsty's neck gently, robbing the comment of any sting. "Good girl. But there's a price that must be paid."
"What price?" Oh God. Did she have no sense? The Cenobite would tear her flesh apart. But the smell, like vanilla blossoms and sex, was thick in her nostrils, and her aching cunt was calling the shots. "Please, anything."
Kirsty hears Her walking, coming to stand in front of her. The legs in front of her are bare, Her leather cassock left behind. A hand on her chin forces her gaze higher, and Her swollen sex fills Kirsty's gaze.
Steel rings dangle from the labia five to a side, a larger one thrust directly through Her engorged clitoris, which gave a slow and languid twitch as Kirsty's hot breath fell upon it. She is as hairless below as she is above, and her raw inner flesh is corpse-pale, even as it appears to be swollen with arousal. Her hand grasps Kirsty's hair, pulling her in. "Lick."
God.
Yes. Please, yes.
She sticks her tongue out, desperately striving to taste, but She pulls away, wet cunt teasingly out of reach, clitoris gleaming temptingly.
"Eager to play. No. You've teased us for so long, Kirsty. My turn. Beg."
Beg? She'd crawl if she wasn't chained down. "Please."
"No." God, She was beautiful when She was cruel. This had to be tormenting Her, too. The Cenobite is visibly wet, Her clitoris throbbing and pulsing in time with her heartbeat, bizarre and yet so arousing. Kirsty feels hot, feverish, maddened by the wet heat between her legs, the aching empty warmth…
"Please, please," she begs, almost shrieking. She grinds her hips against the stone beneath her, the cold granite agonizing relief for her heated cunt. God, if her hands were free they would be buried between her legs, and she would climax at the first touch of her fingers against sensitive flesh. She would do anything for it.
And She would make her do everything.
Kirsty tells Her as much. "Anything. Anything!"
"Anything?" The Cenobite's fingers stroked Kirsty's hair idly. "Pleasure, pain?"
"Anything."
"Good girl."
The hand stroking her hair grasps it firmly, and draws Kirsty's head down. The Cenobite's hips push forward, and Kirsty is smothered by her glistening labia.
Her vulva is corpse-cold, like a dead thing, but Her swollen clitoris jumps and twitches when she pulls her head back and licks it. Kirsty's mouth is roughly ground against the Cenobite's groin, as She rubs her crotch back and forth across Kirsty's mouth in a gesture of blatant, erotic domination.
Her fluids taste almost like copper, and with a shock Kirsty realizes the taste is that of old blood.
It tastes good.
Desperately, she laps at the proffered cunt, tongue lashing everything from scarred perineum to pierced clitoris, the dangling labial piercings chiming brightly against each other as she does. She suckles on the Cenobite's clitoris with a ferocity the surprises her, almost violent, and then bites down. A human woman would scream in agony, but She only lets out a contented sigh and says, "Good girl."
Kirsty isn't sure exactly what happens next; the whole thing has been hazy, like a dream. One moment, she is chained face-down to a stone slab buried face-first in the throatless Cenobite's crotch, the next moment she is standing, Her hands holding Kirsty close as she licks the gaping vaginal throat wound just as she had been licking the sopping cunt.
The Cenobite is not so calm as before, moaning throatily as Kirsty devours her. She releases Kirsty's head with one hand, clasping the curve of her backside tightly before snaking a single finger, then two, deep into Kirsty's ass. She wraps Her thighs around Kirsty's leg, grinding Her weeping gash against her thigh, smearing Her cold fluids into Kirsty's flesh.
Kirsty is on fire, a burning contrast to the icy cold she quenches her throbbing gash against. Her empty cunt throbs and clenches itself around nothing at all, as her ass spasms against the Cenobite's rough fingers, screaming her orgasm into the Cenobite's gaping orifice.
"Please," she moans. "Please."
"Please what, Kirsty?" The damnable Cenobites has the gall to sound amused, as if She hadn't been moaning Herself a few moments ago.
"My cunt, fuck my-" the words die in Kirsty's throat as Her other hand thrust deep inside, a skilled thumb working her aching clit to a throbbing, trembling climax.
"Scream for me," She suggests, tone disinterested, fingers working roughly on bruised and raw flesh, stabbing, penetrating, violating.
Kirsty screams.
And screams.
And screams.