Holy Device X: Resurrected

by Doug Rinaldi

  HOLY DEVICE X

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2015 by Doug Rinaldi

  All rights reserved

  The right of Doug Rinaldi to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author and publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  "I never asked for you to be my savior. I never wanted to be your whore. I never wished for anything more than to find my redemption, to reclaim my soul ... and end this inner war." – Thy Scars

  "Death to all who seek the Light!"

  The music blared. A constant bombardment of sound reduced the horde to nothing more than writhing maniacs. Smoke billowed through the air of the club, caught in the flowing current shaped by the rhythmic bashing of drums and pumping of fists. With the continuous barrage of music pouring from the wall of amplifiers, overflowing to the ears of all on hand, the club had become a haven for lunatics.

  He stood on the stage, looking over his minions, at so many who came to pay homage to him and his cause. Yet, there were so many more to convert, a myriad of souls to collect and bend to his will. Nothing was going to stop him from fulfilling his dream, not this time. He had waited too long and suffered even longer. His time had finally come.

  The furious mob banged its collective head to the beat that tore the club apart. They raised fists and horns high into the air, a symbol of their newfound loyalty to a higher and better cause. In front of the stage, tangles of limbs and bodies, askew in various degrees, moved violently together in time to the music. Without finesse or regard for their own safety, the crowd thrashed about, inflicting pain on one another, pushing and shoving, kicking and punching. As if an endless onslaught of hatred and rage filtered out from the instruments, then through the speakers, and into the ears of those so impressionable, it caused them to act like animals. The cacophony drove them barbaric.

  Endless shouts echoed from the crowd between songs, shouts of anger, shouts of fiery devoutness to the band and the music they played. Adorning the stage amongst the stockpile of speakers and instruments of aural torture hung banners of inverted crosses and pentagrams. An oversized crucifix of a headless Jesus Christ flushed out the back of the stage. Anchored to the front of the platform, two four-foot metal poles impaled two pigs’ heads, their eyes just dark empty mirrors, lifeless and barren. Fresh from the slaughterhouse, the two heads dripped blood, so much blood that it pooled at the base of each pole from which they were skewered. Behind the band hung the banner with their logo, 'Black Inversion,' in an almost illegible typeface and their motto in an easier to read font, 'Death to All Who Seek the Light,' beneath that. Such propaganda ensured that they would wage a battle against their enemies in the heavens. And that was exactly what they wanted—to curse the Light and raise Hell.

  The band dressed in clothes of somber black from head to toe. To complete the effect, they dyed their hair, stringy with sweat, as dark as obsidian to match their souls. Corpsepaint proudly covered each of the band members' faces, white like the dead. Each had painted black around their eyes and mouth for the sunken, graven visage - to look like the dead, to be dead and be one with the unholy ever after. Vicious metal spikes stood at attention from shoulder pads, forearm and shin pads; each spike gleamed in the blurring array of overhead lights. The band's leader bled from a self-inflicted wound inside his mouth. Blood ran red and slick from his grisly grin, staining his teeth a vile shade of crimson. With each blasphemous grunt, each unholy shriek from his throat, blood spit onto the microphone and onto those lucky followers in the front row who rushed to get the ideal spot in front of their idol, Devon Illes.

  From the dissonance, violence incurred. The frenzied mass tried most adamantly to obliterate every soul in the club with its ferocious flailing of body parts. Still, the music endured. The guitar shrieked and the bass boomed while the insane blast beats of the drums promised to make all necks hurt the next day. Like thunder from an angry storm front, the music rolled over the audience with unmerciful might. Devon Illes smiled broadly now, more disciples for his cause, new fodder for the war about to be waged. He spread his arms out wide, welcoming all into his kingdom and into his family, pleased with the turnout this night. The feeling overwhelmed him. He loved what he did, what he stood for. And when the time was right, everyone would feel the love of this man, Devon Illes.

  She preferred being alone. It was easier that way. No one understood her or her obsession with Black Inversion—and she was fine that that.

  With a definite destination in mind, she was on a mission. Backstage. She had—needed—to be there. Sure footed, she continued, not once stopping for any reason, stepping between people, squeezing in and out of the crowd. All the other fans huddled around the main door, waiting like sheep for the band to slither out and join them. The venue beefed up security, heavier than usual, she noticed, due to the overwhelming notoriety of Black Inversion. Across the street from the club, a crowd gathered, shouting random death threats toward the band. They held up crosses and signs condemning the band, their fans, and the club to Hell. Police officers held the mob at bay while allowing them their right to assemble and protest. Devon liked to boast about certain religious allegiances and his inclusion in many devious and questionable activities. These protests did not surprise anybody one bit.

  She sauntered by the crowded entryway to the door she discovered hidden in the alley on the side of the venue during her previous recon of the club. No doubt that they would guard this door, too, but she'd be damned if she'd let anyone spoil her well laid plan to see Devon. The security guard, big and burly with a bushy goatee attached to his chin, stood at firm attention, his mass blocking the metal door.

  He noticed her coming and looked her up and down, ogling the merchandise with an appraising eye. As well, he should. She had decked herself out in her finest outfit, a tight black miniskirt and white silk stockings—thigh high. On her feet, she had strapped black and silver high heels that wrapped around her ankles and up her calves, raising her up another three inches taller. Her top, a rare Black Inversion t-shirt with artwork from their first album, was custom altered and ripped in all the right places, exposing the curves of her generous bosom.

  Not missing a beat, she continued toward the steps that led to the alley door, her shimmering auburn hair flowing like a waterfall behind her. The security guard watched with constant scrutiny from when she rounded the corner until she climbed the steps to the backstage entryway.

  "Sorry, babe," the guard said, "off limits. No one allowed 'cept the crew."

  "You sure?" She feigned disappointment, batting her eyelashes.

  "That's right. So go wiggle your ass somewhere else."

  "But I need to see Devon. He's expecting me," she pleaded, hoping to pull off the act. "It's important."

  "Yeah, sure. I bet it is. You and every other groupie."

  A groupie? Did he have any idea how important this night was? "How rude! I'm far from a groupie." She tossed him a playful look of disapproval. "Devon knows me. I swear. Just go ask him yourself."

  He snorted through a hairy framed mouth like a pig. He had his arms crossed in front of his chest, expanding his massive shoulders and thick neck. His smoky brown eyes gawked at her chest.


  She swallowed hard—plan B it is then.

  "Okay, so how does this work?" She placed her hands on her hips and cocked her head to the side. Her emerald green eyes sparkled in the mild glow of the overhead streetlight. "I get on my knees and suck your dick?"

  The security guard's eyebrow rose. She moved closer to him before she reached down, just in time to feel the bulge in his pants grow. Typical male asshole, she thought, doesn't take much. She fell to her knees out in the open air. This, unfortunately, now seemed like her only hope of getting backstage, where she needed to be, behind the scenes of Black Inversion and alone with Devon Illes.

  Pulling on his zipper made little sound with the busy street so close. She knew the stunt was risky being so close to the front of the club where all the people were. It was a definite gamble for sure, but she was out of options. Shutting the thoughts from her mind, she pulled out his manhood, revealing it to the open air as it throbbed like mad in her hand. The revulsion she felt made her dizzy, but she had to push on. This, she knew, was unfortunately the only hope of getting in. Of all the dubious and insalubrious acts she'd committed over the years, this degradation still made her ill. Despite her growing toleration, it was a necessary evil.

  The hired thug grunted as her mouth and tongue glided over his cock, drenching it with her spit. His breathing went ragged and his hands gripped the sides of her head. With his constant rocking motion, she sucked him off, a guaranteed pass backstage rife with its usual lesson in humility. Before long, he was panting and grunting, moving his hips in time with her. She worked over his tool with her lips and tongue until he spilled his seed into her warm, waiting mouth. Disgusted, she did her best to contain his load until she could bring herself to swallow the evidence. Grateful for his lack of staying power, an obvious force of masturbatory habit, she rose to her feet and waited for her "payment", entrance to her destiny. First obstacle overcame. She wiped off her chin and walked as proudly as she could by the guard as he held the door open for her with a nod and a smile.

  He had a gripping sense of apprehension that something was going to happen, something that remained unknown—on the outskirts of his conscience.

  Nevertheless, he confined himself to the dressing room behind the stage, relaxing like he did after every show while the others wasted their time outside talking to the masses, making the followers happy. No matter what, he knew that those fans belonged to him now. The music, the lyrics to the songs, their message commanded that they be faithful to the cause, bound to him. He'd finished what he came here for; let the others use their own time spreading the word. He chose to take it easy before shipping out for the next show, the next mass.

  He dropped onto the couch, the angry groan of the frame resounding through the room. Devon Illes lifted his feet up onto the cushion, his spiked pads and face paint put away for the night. Underneath the painted smears of white lay a rugged, yet handsomely chiseled, face. Reminiscing about the show and all the new followers added to his legions brought a smile to his face, almost locking out the knot of wariness in his gut. Let the pieces fall where they may, as always, destiny helmed his existence. Though he needed no sleep, he felt his eyes close and his mind find a comfortable state of being.

  Knock. Knock.

  His eyes opened with a sudden jolt. Swinging his legs onto the floor, he sat upright and cursed the security guard's lack of understanding orders. "I told that fat son-of-a-bitch not to let anyone bother me!" he swore under his breath. "Fuckin' moron!"

  Grumbling, he got to his feet and walked to the door. Despite the incompetence of the room's air conditioner, he felt a sudden cold. He gripped the doorknob and turned it, releasing the latch. It felt icy in his hand. The door squeaked on its hinges, as it swung open. Outside in the hallway stood a woman, her green eyes glowing in the pale light of the hallway. Long auburn hair adorned a head with the most striking face Devon could ever imagine. She stood about five-feet-ten-inches tall to his six-foot-four frame and had a body of flawless curves. From her long legs up to her full breasts, then from her neck up to her heavenly facade, she looked astounding—even to a man like Devon Illes. Thankfully, he held his tongue from the obscenities that almost spewed forth.

  "Hi. I'm Vivian," she said with a quick curtsy. Shock and exhilaration danced in her belly at the sight of Devon standing in the doorway.

  "Yes, you are." Devon soaked in every stunning detail of the woman before him. She offered her hand and he took it into his, feeling a chill radiating through their touch. "And what can I do for you? I usually don't see fans after a show." He had barely noticed it, but with each breath, a faint puff of white escaped his lips.

  "Oh, I'm not just a regular fan," she hinted and smiled. "I've been to every show you've played in the state since Thy Scars came out in 2007. Even shows in other states ... when I could afford to that is." She giggled and looked at her prized shirt. "I tend to get carried away with the merch."

  "Is that right?" He asked with such artificial indifference to hide the gripping curiosity he felt the moment he opened the door and saw her. The air felt strange, tingling with more than anticipation. A cool thickness seeped into the room, chilling the ambience, a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time. "You must be like our number one fan in these parts then."

  "Uh-huh." She nodded her head, not once breaking her gaze.

  He could not help it, but the firmness and tightness of her body distracted his eyes. Shaking his head, he marveled at the gorgeous creature. Though not a normal man who succumbed to every distraction handed out to him like Halloween candy from a bucket, he still had certain urges. His mind already swam with thoughts of what he wanted to do to this woman, depraved notions of carnal desires and sins. "As a general rule, I don't like to be bothered after a show, but..." A smile, sly and devious, graced his lips. A twinkle gleamed in his fiery eye. "I could make an exception. You seem ... worthwhile."

  "You just wait. I don't disappoint."

  "We'll have to see about that." No sooner had the statement departed his lips did he pull her into the dressing room. With her a cold draft followed, joining them before the swinging door shut. He secretly loved having sluts and groupies lust after him. It gave him a sense of even greater power. Arm around her waist, he grabbed her tight, feeling her body against his as their lips met with a hungry crash.

  She resisted, attempting to push him away, but he was as strong as he was adamant. But once she relented, gave in to her sexual urges, she realized she was right where she wanted—needed—to be.

  Their mouths meshed—a tangle of lips and tongue. He reached up, losing his hand in the reddish-brown mane of hair. Wrapping his finger in the locks, he gripped tight and with a sudden motion snapped her head back. As he softly sunk his teeth into the tender flesh of her neck, he realized how long it had been since he satisfied himself, quenched his primal need.

  A moan echoed from within her throat. In circular motions, his hands traversed the plain of her back and bottom, feeling the shapely form underneath her clothing. He tore at her shirt, ripping it even further, and clawed at her bra, revealing her bare chest, her bosom heaving with each unrestricted breath.

  Vivian backed up until her legs touched the couch.

  Devon’s breathing sped up.

  She spread her legs and hiked her skirt up, exposing her manicured pubis to him. He sensed the beast in him begging to be released. Head tilted downward, he stared at her through the mess of black hair falling in front of his face. His smile transformed into a smirk—a devilish grin—framed by a trimmed jet-black goatee. As he unbuttoned his black shirt, he concentrated with laser focus as two of Vivian's fingers slipped deep inside her, disappearing between the glistening folds of her pussy.

  He loomed over her, now, and she stopped long enough to undo his pants and pulled them down to his knees. With a genuine gasp, she stared mesmerized by the size of his manhood standing at rock solid attention, throbbing under the light weight of his underwear. Wide-eyed, she pulled his monster f
rom its hiding place and filled her mouth with its inches. Devon threw his head back and shut his eyes tight. She commanded skill. The sensation of her tongue gliding over his taut flesh raised the skin on his arms. She was most impressive, indeed.

  Back and forth her head went, wetting the shaft of his cock slick with her spit. He couldn't bear any more and pushed her head away, breaking the suction with a sloppy wet pop. He stepped out of his clothes, his solid form gleaming with a slight sheen of sweat that spited the chill. Muscles flexed under his skin; the skin stretched and pulled over the sinewy flesh. Close to her, he fought to ignore the odd icy tinge that poked a feeling of unease in the back of his mind.

  Reaching down with his strong hands, he pulled the skirt from her body. Her smooth pale skin almost glowed in the dusty light of the dressing room. She continued to touch herself, her fingers sliding in and out. Her eyes fluttering, she massaged her clit as Devon fell to his knees. He knelt in front of her, holding his beast of a cock in his hand, stroking the shaft. The light flickered for a moment as he penetrated Vivian; a cold sting pierced his nerves. Stretching to fit his bewildering size, a lustful cry spilled from her mouth as she moved to the rhythm Devon offered.

  Still inside her, he lifted her from the couch and held her close. They moved in steady time to the beat of an unearthly metronome. With ease, he held her up while slowly rocking his hips into her. She tried her hardest to absorb his cock all the way inside, all the way to the hilt. He lowered them both down to the couch. Remaining injected, Vivian rode hard, grinding into him. He absorbed the incredible sensation. Right now, he cared about only one thing—using this groupie, this whore, as an outlet for his built up carnal aggressions—a receptacle for his corporeal anger.

  His tongue flicked from one hard nipple to the other, sending Vivian into minor tremors. Hands all over each other, they maintained the rhythm with faces so close they breathed the same air. Puffy clouds of breath mingled in the space around their heads until they dissipated. The atmosphere turned thick and fluid, as if deep in a dream.