Annals of the Cenobium @lizzieaddamstookanax
A Gift

It was a grey Christmas, bleak and damp.

Not a bitter cold Christmas, mind you, with howling gales and lethally cold temperatures and snow up to your waist. Still, it was indoor weather, a true California winter. Overcast and damp, wet and miserable. No roaring fire like back in Massachusetts, or even a space heater, but the rundown old apartment had a bed with warm blankets, and the local convenience store sold dubious generic cocoa in big tin (cheap too) and she had discovered a small stash of well-worn romance novels in a nearby thrift store, so there was at least something pleasant to ring in the birth of Jesus in the absence of roaring fires or decorated trees heaped ‘round with presents.

Not that Kirsty felt terribly faithful about the whole Christmas thing. Even discounting the fact that her religious education had produced an attitude towards religion best described as benevolent neglect, her own personal experiences did not lend themselves towards faith in a benevolent higher power incarnating itself into a refugee couple’s newborn. What gods there were, in her experience, were darker, bloodier. The kinds of gods for whom the Crucifixion would have been blessed sacrament, not grueling sacrifice.

But enough of that. The blankets were heavy, the cocoa was warm, the trashy romance novel promised less than five steamy sex scenes between it’s bodiced heroine and her kilted Scottish lover. Mind you, she didn’t really hold out hope for the book. Romance novel smut had begun to pall, lately. Men in general, really. Since the dream, her thoughts had been turning more towards other women; their heaving breasts, their lips, their fingers…

Unfortunately, lesbians erotic novels were hard to find, and almost impossible to purchase safely, so straight smut would have to do. Besides, mustn’t think about the dream.

She forcefully pushed aside memories of Hell and the torments (and pleasures- no, stop that) that it offered, and opened her well-worn romance novel (oh, call it what it was- porn) to the crumpled receipt that served her as impromptu bookmark, and dived in to a world that had no hell priests (or priestesses, her traitorous inner voice whispered) or labyrinths of pain, only plucky Plain Jane heroines and the Scottish beefcake werewolf warrior-wizards who were hopelessly addicted to them.

“Och, lass,” she read the beefcake in question say in an absolutely horrendous depiction of a Scottish brogue. “Sure ‘n Oim thirstin’ fer ye. But I cannae do this.’tis forbid, and forbid dire.”“Oh,” replied the heaving-bosomed and ahistorically-uncorseted heroine, “do not torment me so!”

“Guh,” groaned Kirsty. “Porn now. Please God, porn now.” A quick flick through the pages while scanning for promising words led her first to a violent battle scene (‘gushing,’ ‘swollen,’ ‘thrusting,’ ‘panting,’ ‘moaning’) and then to an attempted rape violently averted by the arrival of half a ton of highland werewolf (‘torn bodice,’ ‘pale breasts,’ ‘between her legs,’ ‘rough hands’) and finally to the much-anticipated smut. A hand resting between her thighs, Kirsty drove away the cold with the heat of a ridiculously-accented werewolf’s cock.

~o0o~

Christmas is not celebrated in Hell.

This was, one felt, a rather obvious statement. For all that Hell and its demons could be argued to play their part in the divinely ordained Plan- and indeed by the reckoning of most in the Realms Above were little more than the lowest of the Lord of Lord’s servants- they were not terribly well disposed to the Heavenly forces in general, and the sanctimonious Son in particular.

Hell’s memory was long indeed, and the feelings left in the wake of the Harrowing had been steeped and aged to a fine bitter brew of humiliation and fury. Many of the finest fleshpits and slave pens of Hell had been left nigh-barren in the wake of the Son’s violation; even the Man From Dust himself had been led by the hand by the One Most Accursed (may all the Lords of Hell shit light upon his head at the End of Days!) into the higher realms. 

No, Hell would not soon celebrate his birth.

Hell does, however, have its own High Holy Days. On this day, the 16th of the month of  Sundering in the year 32,655 YFT, on a typically gloomy Day of Pride*, the Cenobitic Order celebrated the Feast of Painted Manhides.

The Feast was an ancient holy day, first instituted aeons ago by a High Priestess whose name was long lost, unrecorded save perhaps in some moldy diary or tattered enchiridion lost in the endless stacks of the Order’s library. While the name of the first cenobite to celebrate the Feast was lost, the story behind its institution had been preserved- albeit in almost certainly distorted form- through well-worn oral tradition. 

The story goes that the unnamed Cenobite, deep in prayer to the Lord of the Labyrinth, was struck with a blessed vision. When recovered from the sacred agonies, scarcely taking enough time to remove the barbed prayer hooks from her flesh much less allowing the blood to dry as cenobitic tradition dictated, she ran up and down the halls in a fit of holy madness screaming that Leviathan had declared the flesh of the living to be the canvass of the damned. 

Sadly, the details of Leviathan’s message to His order were lost when the Priestess, blinded by fervor and apparently more enthusiastic in her announcements than attentive to the floorplan of the ancient monastery, ran head-first into a wall, impling her skull on a spike of iron and smearing the contents thereof along its length, thus rendering a proper recitation of her vision somewhat… problematic. After her recovery, she claimed no knowledge of the vision she had been granted.

Sadly, the details of Leviathan’s message to His order were lost when the Priestess, blinded by fervor and apparently more enthusiastic in her announcements than attentive to the floorplan of the ancient monastery, ran head-first into a wall, impling her skull on a spike of iron and smearing the contents thereof along its length, thus rendering a proper recitation of her vision somewhat… problematic. 

The Order, with typical pragmatism, made a good faith attempt to fulfill what vague details of the divine mandate were known, and flayed the skins from a full six-and-sixty damnedsouls, scribing certain sacred passages upon the parchments made from them in the blood of the priestess herself.

So it was that, some five thousand years later, the priestess know to certain mortals as Sister Cilice dipped her pen in a small silver inkwell, filling the nib (made from a razor blade used in a successful suicide- a must for any professional calligrapher) with an ink made of her own blood (dried, powdered, and dissolved in pure alcohol along with gum arabic- blood drawn fresh from the vein making for a terrible, flaky, quickly-fading ink) before slicing a trail of brilliant sanguine across a pale parchment Down and up again went the pen, arterial red gliding from the tip to form the spidery script of hell. Loop and slash as her fingers gripped the worn bone shaft. Stab for the diacritical and rest. The Chinese were more correct than they knew: the pen and the blade were one. Calligraphy and torture were both arts; the skilled hand could transfer skills between them. Shūfǎ and língchí, the front and back sides of the same skin.And Sister Cilice considered mastery of both a holy dutyScratch and scrape went the pen, as it ran dry. A dip back into the inkwell brought no further blood, and she sighed. Having no reserves of ink prepared, and no time for the laborious process of drying the blood on a hot steel plate much less powdering it and mixing the ink before the festival had run its course, she would have to declare this work complete. As frustrating as it was to her perfectionist sensibilities, this work would have to be considered complete as-is. An aborted attempt… hmmm, yes. Yes, an aborted, miscarried work! Oh, how delightfully tragic! Such sweet melancholy the phrase carried!And, indeed, the work brought several compliments from the other monks of the Order, who were hanging their own works on the Wailing Wall. The heads of the damnedsouls wept and wailed their cries of sorrow from their alcoves as the cenobites hung the works from spikes drive into their eye sockets.‘Elegant,’ they said upon viewing it illuminated by gentle candlelight and the dim sulphurous glow of hell, and ‘passionate.’ “Almost whimsical in it’s misery,” another cenobite opined, adjusting the flayed face stapled over his bleeding skull almost prissily. “It takes what was quite nearly anticlimax and makes it… hmmm, how to say it? Lingering.”Even her Lord’s chattering enforcer seemed to approve, although he said not a word.But the compliment that truly pleased was that of the High Priest himself. Sparse, as all his praise was, and all the more valuable for it. A slight inclination of his nail-crowned head, and a quiet ‘Exquisitely… bleak.’And what greater gift could one ask for on a High Holy Day than the compliments of those one loved?-o0o-The accents were terrible, the plot basic at best, but the smut was decent-ish. Kirsty had one hand up under her nightshirt, rubbing and pinching and twisting her nipple to a deliciously sore peak as she turned the pages clumsily with the other. She salivated as the furry Scot took the blushing redhead’s nipple in his mouth, and pinched harder, wishing she had a hot mouth suckling her breath.Her hand drifted away from her nipple and down her belly as she fantasised. On the pages, the heroine was treated to the experience of a very good doggy licking her ‘secret flower’ to pieces. She could almost picture it, almost see it, almost feel the flesh on flesh. Her fingers drifted below the waistband of her panties, sliding between damp labia.The mouth, skilled and wet between her thighs, comfortingly warm (shockingly cold). She slid a finger between her damp lower lips, deeper this time, penetrating her depths.Her hands tangling in tousled hair (gliding along smooth scalp). Her palm rested just above her clitoris, pressing down but not touching directly.The beard scraping her tender lips with delicious pain (such delicious pain from the sharp teeth, but a smooth face, so smooth).She rocked the palm back-and-forth, rubbing her clit to blissful heights as her fingers twisted and writhed inside her, pumping deep, in and out, in and out...Hauling the face up from between her wet thighs, seeing the familiar dead-yet-warm eyes gleam with triumph, her juices wetting smooth feminine lips the twitched slightly in an understated smile, her hands supporting the shaved head...A gasp of shock and pleasure both, as her body clamped down on her fingers hard enough to hurt, spasming in ecstasy, cumming harder than she had ever made herself cum before at the thought of being lovingly eaten out by none other than the Cenobite priestess.She trembled her way through the aftershocks, book thoughtlessly left on the floor where she dropped it in that moment of blinding pleasure, left hand grasping the sheets in a death grip, right hand buried between her legs, fingers deep inside and palm very carefully not rubbing against anything, tender to the point of such blissful pain.Well. That… happened. Felt good, too.She tenderly prodded herself down there, vaginal walls giving one last languorous twitch, and amended mentally, ‘Felt really good.’She had tried her best to forget the Cenobite with the mutilated throat, to drive Her out of her mind entirely, but… After that dream, that damned vivid, lifelike dream, it had been all but impossible. It had been a dream, hadn’t it?But it had felt so real, so unimaginably real. Even now, Kirsty could almost feel the chains binding her down, almost hear Her cold and cruel voice teasing her, almost taste Her flesh under her tongue, almost remember that brutally harsh orgasms that has racked her body with bliss.Since that night, she’d not been able to keep the priestess out of her head. Memories, just flashes, would interrupt her day. A glimpse of a white car or house would call to mind the corpse-pale flesh, the sound of metal scraping would become the sound of sharpening blades, and now she couldn’t even orgasm without the priestess being part of her fantasies.Honestly, realizing that she was sexually attracted to women as well as men was the easy part. It was the woman in question that was the problem. How many girls could claim that a torture-demoness was the cause of the bisexual awakening, she wondered...Well. Now, she supposed, that the cat was out of the bag, and she admitted (finally, part of her grumped at the rest) that she wanted the priestess, she might as well enjoy fantasising about Her. She grabbed the romance novel off the floor, gave it one last look, and chucked it at the wastebin in the corner. Swish-chunk. Good riddance, she supposed. It wasn’t like a man could live up to what she had experienced at Her hands, so why bother with the fantasy of one?Hmmm, but what to think about? She remembered licking Her, remembered the taste of Her like steel and blood, the vanilla and blood scent of Her filling her nostrils… Hmmm, yes. Yes. Kirsty’s fingers rubbed and stroked at her lips, pressing in. Yes. Ah, yes.Remembered the pinching fingers, so vicious and so caring, driving her beyond pain into indescribable pleasure. Remember the sharp nails like razors.Yes. Yeah, yes. Ahhhhh. Her fingers went deeper. One slipped down, entering lower, slipping into her ass. The unstretched orifice burned slightly, and she loved it, She arched her back for a better angle. Ah! Yes.Remembered lapping, not just at Her cunt, but Her throat, spreading the folds of sliced and spread flesh like labia, licking deep into Her esophagus. The blood taste strong, now, the membranous tissue feeling like just Her cunt under Kirsty’s tongue.Oh, God, yes. So wrong, and so right. Not God, no. Hell yes.-o0o-The personal quarters of a monk of the Cenobitic Order are not what anyone would call luxurious. They were, after all, not the Wealthy Fellows, to debase themselves with base trifles and elegant fripperies. Sister Cilice’s rooms, however, were quite spacious by the Orders standards, being able to fit a bed, a writing desk, a wardrobe, and a St. Andrews Cross of rusted iron quite comfortably within.Right now, Sister Cilice desperately desired someone to manacle to the latter and torment to within an inch of their life, and well past.Not that she was angry, oh no. Such blessed arts were best not performed in anger, as anger made the torturer sloppy, interfering with the empathy that- contrary to common wisdom- was a requirement for a true artist of pain. Tormenting someone while angered at them was the mark of common brutes and abusers, not holy women.No, the emotion that drove her mad was lust. Driving, pounding, frustrated lust.She ached to be penetrated. She ached to penetrate. She ached to be violated, and to violate in turn. Her nipples ached and throbbed, the piercings feeling strangely heavy. The wound between her thighs was likewise aching, wet and clenching at nothing; desperate for pleasure, pain, anything. Everything.The desire had been in her for some time, building and building. The first stirrings had been felt when working on her calligraphy early in the ‘morning,’ but the highs of artistic inspiration had driven them from her mind. They had remained dormant when presenting her work to the rest of the Order, but the letdown afterwards had given them room to breed.Breeding. Flesh invaded by flesh. Gushing fluids, penetration, violation. Ohhhhhh.Her fists clenched tight, nails scoring crescent gouges into hands. Not enough, not enough, NOT ENOUGH. She was a priestess of Leviathan, a member of the Cenobitic Order, a holy woman of Hell. Panting like a she-hound in heat was beneath her. But why? WHY did these lusts consume her? Why now? She had not even allowed thoughts of such things to pass her mind since…Of course. Of course it had been the girl Kirsty. Who else? Who else could trouble her thoughts like this?How long had it been since that night when Sister Cilice had visited the girl in her dreams? Months, years, oh it was so hard to keep track! She still lived, surely, else the Hellpriest would surely have received her with open arms and public display, and Sister Cilice had seen no sign of her.What, then, had reminded her of the girl so strongly? Why did she almost smell the scent of her desire in the air, almost feel the girl’s wetness on her fingers! almost hear the girl’s agonized-yet-blissful cries? Surely, she should have passed from her thoughts long ago, and yet Sister Cilice felt a pull towards her, near as strong as the pull of the Lament Configuration’s summons...Did the girl’s thoughts linger on her? Could her desire be so strong it could call out across the void, into the depths of Hell?And, more importantly, could Sister Cilice justify answering?

So it was that, some five thousand years later, the priestess know to certain mortals as Sister Cilice dipped her pen in a small silver inkwell, filling the nib (made from a razor blade used in a successful suicide- a must for any professional calligrapher) with an ink made of her own blood (dried, powdered, and dissolved in pure alcohol along with gum arabic- blood drawn fresh from the vein making for a terrible, flaky, quickly-fading ink) before slicing a trail of brilliant sanguine across a pale parchment.

 Down and up again went the pen, arterial red gliding from the tip to form the spidery script of hell. Loop and slash as her fingers gripped the worn bone shaft. Stab for the diacritical and rest.

The Chinese were more correct than they knew: the pen and the blade were one. Calligraphy and torture were both arts; the skilled hand could transfer skills between them. Shūfǎ and língchí, the front and back sides of the same skin.

And Sister Cilice considered mastery of both a holy duty.

Scratch and scrape went the pen, as it ran dry. A dip back into the inkwell brought no further blood, and she sighed. Having no reserves of ink prepared, and no time for the laborious process of drying the blood on a hot steel plate much less powdering it and mixing the ink before the festival had run its course, she would have to declare this work complete.

As frustrating as it was to her perfectionist sensibilities, this work would have to be considered complete as-is. An aborted attempt… hmmm, yes. Yes, an aborted, miscarried work! Oh, how delightfully tragic! Such sweet melancholy the phrase carried!

And, indeed, the work brought several compliments from the other monks of the Order, who were hanging their own works on the Wailing Wall. The heads of the damnedsouls wept and wailed their cries of sorrow from their alcoves as the cenobites hung the works from spikes drive into their eye sockets.

‘Elegant,’ they said upon viewing it illuminated by gentle candlelight and the dim sulphurous glow of hell, and ‘passionate.’ 

“Almost whimsical in it’s misery,” another cenobite opined, adjusting the flayed face stapled over his bleeding skull almost prissily. “It takes what was quite nearly anticlimax and makes it… hmmm, how to say it? Lingering.”

Even her Lord’s chattering enforcer seemed to approve, although he said not a word.But the compliment that truly pleased was that of the High Priest himself. Sparse, as all his praise was, and all the more valuable for it. A slight inclination of his nail-crowned head, and a quiet ‘Exquisitely… bleak.’

And what greater gift could one ask for on a High Holy Day than the compliments of those one loved?

-o0o-

The accents were terrible, the plot basic at best, but the smut was decent-ish. Kirsty had one hand up under her nightshirt, rubbing and pinching and twisting her nipple to a deliciously sore peak as she turned the pages clumsily with the other. She salivated as the furry Scot took the blushing redhead’s nipple in his mouth, and pinched harder, wishing she had a hot mouth suckling her breath.

Her hand drifted away from her nipple and down her belly as she fantasised. On the pages, the heroine was treated to the experience of a very good doggy licking her ‘secret flower’ to pieces. She could almost picture it, almost see it, almost feel the flesh on flesh. Her fingers drifted below the waistband of her panties, sliding between damp labia.

The mouth, skilled and wet between her thighs, comfortingly warm (shockingly cold). She slid a finger between her damp lower lips, deeper this time, penetrating her depths.

The beard scraping her tender lips with delicious pain (such delicious pain from the sharp teeth, but a smooth face, so smooth).

She rocked the palm back-and-forth, rubbing her clit to blissful heights as her fingers twisted and writhed inside her, pumping deep, in and out, in and out...Hauling the face up from between her wet thighs, seeing the familiar dead-yet-warm eyes gleam with triumph, her juices wetting smooth feminine lips the twitched slightly in an understated smile, her hands supporting the shaved head...A gasp of shock and pleasure both, as her body clamped down on her fingers hard enough to hurt, spasming in ecstasy, cumming harder than she had ever made herself cum before at the thought of being lovingly eaten out by none other than the Cenobite priestess.She trembled her way through the aftershocks, book thoughtlessly left on the floor where she dropped it in that moment of blinding pleasure, left hand grasping the sheets in a death grip, right hand buried between her legs, fingers deep inside and palm very carefully not rubbing against anything, tender to the point of such blissful pain.Well. That… happened. Felt good, too.She tenderly prodded herself down there, vaginal walls giving one last languorous twitch, and amended mentally, ‘Felt really good.’She had tried her best to forget the Cenobite with the mutilated throat, to drive Her out of her mind entirely, but… After that dream, that damned vivid, lifelike dream, it had been all but impossible. It had been a dream, hadn’t it?But it had felt so real, so unimaginably real. Even now, Kirsty could almost feel the chains binding her down, almost hear Her cold and cruel voice teasing her, almost taste Her flesh under her tongue, almost remember that brutally harsh orgasms that has racked her body with bliss.Since that night, she’d not been able to keep the priestess out of her head. Memories, just flashes, would interrupt her day. A glimpse of a white car or house would call to mind the corpse-pale flesh, the sound of metal scraping would become the sound of sharpening blades, and now she couldn’t even orgasm without the priestess being part of her fantasies.Honestly, realizing that she was sexually attracted to women as well as men was the easy part. It was the woman in question that was the problem. How many girls could claim that a torture-demoness was the cause of the bisexual awakening, she wondered...Well. Now, she supposed, that the cat was out of the bag, and she admitted (finally, part of her grumped at the rest) that she wanted the priestess, she might as well enjoy fantasising about Her. She grabbed the romance novel off the floor, gave it one last look, and chucked it at the wastebin in the corner. Swish-chunk. Good riddance, she supposed. It wasn’t like a man could live up to what she had experienced at Her hands, so why bother with the fantasy of one?Hmmm, but what to think about? She remembered licking Her, remembered the taste of Her like steel and blood, the vanilla and blood scent of Her filling her nostrils… Hmmm, yes. Yes. Kirsty’s fingers rubbed and stroked at her lips, pressing in. Yes. Ah, yes.Remembered the pinching fingers, so vicious and so caring, driving her beyond pain into indescribable pleasure. Remember the sharp nails like razors.Yes. Yeah, yes. Ahhhhh. Her fingers went deeper. One slipped down, entering lower, slipping into her ass. The unstretched orifice burned slightly, and she loved it, She arched her back for a better angle. Ah! Yes.Remembered lapping, not just at Her cunt, but Her throat, spreading the folds of sliced and spread flesh like labia, licking deep into Her esophagus. The blood taste strong, now, the membranous tissue feeling like just Her cunt under Kirsty’s tongue.Oh, God, yes. So wrong, and so right. Not God, no. Hell yes.-o0o-The personal quarters of a monk of the Cenobitic Order are not what anyone would call luxurious. They were, after all, not the Wealthy Fellows, to debase themselves with base trifles and elegant fripperies. Sister Cilice’s rooms, however, were quite spacious by the Orders standards, being able to fit a bed, a writing desk, a wardrobe, and a St. Andrews Cross of rusted iron quite comfortably within.Right now, Sister Cilice desperately desired someone to manacle to the latter and torment to within an inch of their life, and well past.Not that she was angry, oh no. Such blessed arts were best not performed in anger, as anger made the torturer sloppy, interfering with the empathy that- contrary to common wisdom- was a requirement for a true artist of pain. Tormenting someone while angered at them was the mark of common brutes and abusers, not holy women.No, the emotion that drove her mad was lust. Driving, pounding, frustrated lust.She ached to be penetrated. She ached to penetrate. She ached to be violated, and to violate in turn. Her nipples ached and throbbed, the piercings feeling strangely heavy. The wound between her thighs was likewise aching, wet and clenching at nothing; desperate for pleasure, pain, anything. Everything.The desire had been in her for some time, building and building. The first stirrings had been felt when working on her calligraphy early in the ‘morning,’ but the highs of artistic inspiration had driven them from her mind. They had remained dormant when presenting her work to the rest of the Order, but the letdown afterwards had given them room to breed.Breeding. Flesh invaded by flesh. Gushing fluids, penetration, violation. Ohhhhhh.Her fists clenched tight, nails scoring crescent gouges into hands. Not enough, not enough, NOT ENOUGH. She was a priestess of Leviathan, a member of the Cenobitic Order, a holy woman of Hell. Panting like a she-hound in heat was beneath her. But why? WHY did these lusts consume her? Why now? She had not even allowed thoughts of such things to pass her mind since…Of course. Of course it had been the girl Kirsty. Who else? Who else could trouble her thoughts like this?How long had it been since that night when Sister Cilice had visited the girl in her dreams? Months, years, oh it was so hard to keep track! She still lived, surely, else the Hellpriest would surely have received her with open arms and public display, and Sister Cilice had seen no sign of her.What, then, had reminded her of the girl so strongly? Why did she almost smell the scent of her desire in the air, almost feel the girl’s wetness on her fingers! almost hear the girl’s agonized-yet-blissful cries? Surely, she should have passed from her thoughts long ago, and yet Sister Cilice felt a pull towards her, near as strong as the pull of the Lament Configuration’s summons...Did the girl’s thoughts linger on her? Could her desire be so strong it could call out across the void, into the depths of Hell?And, more importantly, could Sister Cilice justify answering?

She rocked the palm back-and-forth, rubbing her clit to blissful heights as her fingers twisted and writhed inside her, pumping deep, in and out, in and out...

Hauling the face up from between her wet thighs, seeing the familiar dead-yet-warm eyes gleam with triumph, her juices wetting smooth feminine lips the twitched slightly in an understated smile, her hands supporting the shaved head...A gasp of shock and pleasure both, as her body clamped down on her fingers hard enough to hurt, spasming in ecstasy, cumming harder than she had ever made herself cum before at the thought of being lovingly eaten out by none other than the Cenobite priestess.

She trembled her way through the aftershocks, book thoughtlessly left on the floor where she dropped it in that moment of blinding pleasure, left hand grasping the sheets in a death grip, right hand buried between her legs, fingers deep inside and palm very carefully not rubbing against anything, tender to the point of such blissful pain.

Well. That… happened. Felt good, too.She tenderly prodded herself down there, vaginal walls giving one last languorous twitch, and amended mentally, ‘Felt really good.’

She had tried her best to forget the Cenobite with the mutilated throat, to drive Her out of her mind entirely, but… After that dream, that damned vivid, lifelike dream, it had been all but impossible. It had been a dream, hadn’t it?But it had felt so real, so unimaginably real. Even now, Kirsty could almost feel the chains binding her down, almost hear Her cold and cruel voice teasing her, almost taste Her flesh under her tongue, almost remember that brutally harsh orgasms that has racked her body with bliss.

Since that night, she’d not been able to keep the priestess out of her head. Memories, just flashes, would interrupt her day. A glimpse of a white car or house would call to mind the corpse-pale flesh, the sound of metal scraping would become the sound of sharpening blades, and now she couldn’t even orgasm without the priestess being part of her fantasies.

Honestly, realizing that she was sexually attracted to women as well as men was the easy part. It was the woman in question that was the problem. How many girls could claim that a torture-demoness was the cause of the bisexual awakening, she wondered...

Well. Now, she supposed, that the cat was out of the bag, and she admitted (finally, part of her grumped at the rest) that she wanted the priestess, she might as well enjoy fantasising about Her. She grabbed the romance novel off the floor, gave it one last look, and chucked it at the wastebin in the corner. Swish-chunk. Good riddance, she supposed. It wasn’t like a man could live up to what she had experienced at Her hands, so why bother with the fantasy of one?

Hmmm, but what to think about? She remembered licking Her, remembered the taste of Her like steel and blood, the vanilla and blood scent of Her filling her nostrils… Hmmm, yes. Yes. Kirsty’s fingers rubbed and stroked at her lips, pressing in. Yes. Ah, yes.

Remembered the pinching fingers, so vicious and so caring, driving her beyond pain into indescribable pleasure. Remember the sharp nails like razors.

Yes. Yeah, yes. Ahhhhh. Her fingers went deeper. One slipped down, entering lower, slipping into her ass. The unstretched orifice burned slightly, and she loved it, She arched her back for a better angle. Ah! Yes.

Remembered lapping, not just at Her cunt, but Her throat, spreading the folds of sliced and spread flesh like labia, licking deep into Her esophagus. The blood taste strong, now, the membranous tissue feeling like just Her cunt under Kirsty’s tongue.Oh, God, yes. So wrong, and so right. Not God, no. Hell yes.

-o0o-The personal quarters of a monk of the Cenobitic Order are not what anyone would call luxurious. They were, after all, not the Wealthy Fellows, to debase themselves with base trifles and elegant fripperies. Sister Cilice’s rooms, however, were quite spacious by the Orders standards, being able to fit a bed, a writing desk, a wardrobe, and a St. Andrews Cross of rusted iron quite comfortably within.

Right now, Sister Cilice desperately desired someone to manacle to the latter and torment to within an inch of their life, and well past.

Not that she was angry, oh no. Such blessed arts were best not performed in anger, as anger made the torturer sloppy, interfering with the empathy that- contrary to common wisdom- was a requirement for a true artist of pain. Tormenting someone while angered at them was the mark of common brutes and abusers, not holy women.

No, the emotion that drove her mad was lust. Driving, pounding, frustrated lust.

She ached to be penetrated. She ached to penetrate. She ached to be violated, and to violate in turn. Her nipples ached and throbbed, the piercings feeling strangely heavy. The wound between her thighs was likewise aching, wet and clenching at nothing; desperate for pleasure, pain, anything. Everything.

The desire had been in her for some time, building and building. The first stirrings had been felt when working on her calligraphy early in the ‘morning,’ but the highs of artistic inspiration had driven them from her mind. They had remained dormant when presenting her work to the rest of the Order, but the letdown afterwards had given them room to breed.

Her fists clenched tight, nails scoring crescent gouges into hands. Not enough, not enough, NOT ENOUGH. She was a priestess of Leviathan, a member of the Cenobitic Order, a holy woman of Hell. Panting like a she-hound in heat was beneath her. But why? WHY did these lusts consume her? Why now? She had not even allowed thoughts of such things to pass her mind since…

Of course.

Of course it had been the girl Kirsty. Who else? Who else could trouble her thoughts like this?How long had it been since that night when Sister Cilice had visited the girl in her dreams? Months, years, oh it was so hard to keep track! She still lived, surely, else the Hellpriest would surely have received her with open arms and public display, and Sister Cilice had seen no sign of her.

What, then, had reminded her of the girl so strongly? Why did she almost smell the scent of her desire in the air, almost feel the girl’s wetness on her fingers! almost hear the girl’s agonized-yet-blissful cries? Surely, she should have passed from her thoughts long ago, and yet Sister Cilice felt a pull towards her, near as strong as the pull of the Lament Configuration’s summons...

Did the girl’s thoughts linger on her? Could her desire be so strong it could call out across the void, into the depths of Hell?

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