Page 13 of Maison De Fous

“Fu-fuck, yes,” he groans.

The woman riding the bone lets out a final, delighted cry as her body convulses, her orgasm ripping through her like a violent storm. The man beneath her howls, his body jerking from the waves of pain and pleasure coursing through him. The blood flows freely from the jagged wound in his leg, but he barely notices. His world is nothing but her weight on his broken limb, her nails digging into his flesh as she pumps him, and the wet heat of her grinding against his exposed bone.

Lucky fucking bastard.

As she slows, the crowd’s noise dies down to a low, pulsing hum. The woman climbs off him, breathless, and her thighs slick with blood. She smiles, dark and elated as she adjusts her mask and looks down at the broken man still tied up on the rack. He’s gasping, his chest heaving, but there’s a twisted smile on his face, the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

Giselle leans in closer, her eyes sparkling with madness. “That was beautiful,” she whispers, her voice dripping with admiration. “Nowthat... that’s a fucking show.”

Fucking right it was, but the night is still young.

Bjorn, one of the original cirkies who’s been with me since day one stands tall and muscular, his bald head gleaming under the dim lights of the tent. His face is smeared with thick, crude face paint—a twisted, grim grin in black and white that stretches across his features, making him look more like a demented jester than a cirkie. No mask hides his grotesque appearance; like Johnny, he thrives in the horror his presence evokes. His eyes,wide and unblinking, survey the scene, taking in the chaos with a satisfied smirk as he leads his next customer to the Iron Maiden.

The woman beside him is small, and scrawny in comparison to his hulking frame. She has petite, pointed features and a shaved head on one side, the other half left with a jagged curtain of black hair that falls to her chin. Her small tits are barely noticeable beneath a tight, sheer black bodysuit that show off the small steel barbells through her peaked nipples. The fabric clings to her, revealing the outline of her ribs and the sharp angles of her collarbone. Her black mask, identical to those worn by the other customers, conceals her expression, but her trembling hands and the subtle quiver in her breath betray her excitement.

Despite her tiny and frail figure, there’s no denying the darkness in her eyes as they find their way to the Iron Maiden.

“You know what happens inside, right?” Bjorn asks, his voice a low, guttural rasp, leaning in so close she can feel the heat of his breath. His painted grin only widens as his fingers trace the plexiglass surface of the Iron Maiden, savoring the moment.

Normally this thing would be made of solid steel, but where’s the fun in that? We want to see our customers find their release. We want to bear witness to them in that moment when their twisted and morbid desires become a reality.

This guy is a fucking lunatic. Probably worse than Johnny, with a past so fucking dark, even mine doesn’t compare. But that’s why he’s perfect for this shit.

The woman nods, her breaths coming faster, audible even through the mask. She licks her plump lips nervously, her small hands twitching at her sides, as if barely containing her anticipation. “I want to feel it,” she whispers, her voice soft but filled with unmistakable need.

Bjorn chuckles darkly. “Oh, you’ll feel it, alright.” He throws open the steel door, revealing the rows of thin, razor-sharpspikes inside. “This little beauty’s been around for centuries. Medieval monks would use it for sinners just like you. It’s spikes are sharp enough to pierce your pretty skin, but thin enough not to kill. Just enough to drag it out. We all know how lame a two minute man can be.” He grins wider, the makeup on his face cracking slightly. “You’ll feel every damn spike, doll face.”

Her breath catches, a soft whimper escaping her lips, but she steps forward without hesitation, pressing her tiny, supple body into the waiting spike. Her bare arms and legs brush against the cold metal. She inhales sharply, her whole body shaking as the first pricks of pain hit her, the spikes pressing lightly into her delicate skin.

“You sure this is what you want? You sure a little thing like you can handle the pain?” Bjorn teases, leaning over her, his voice dripping with mock concern as he positions her body just right inside the device. “Once I close this door, there’s no going back. Every move you make is going to hurt,” he explains, flicking his tongue. “But you want that, don’t you? You want to feel that sweet goddamn sting.”

“Yes,” she breathes, her voice high and desperate. “Please… I want it.”

Bjorn gives her one last dark grin before slamming the door shut with a loud clang, locking her inside. Through the plexiglass, we can see as the spikes press deeper into her soft flesh, the cold metal sliding between her ribs, scraping against her bones. Her soft whimpers turn into moans as the spikes bite harder into her skin, sending waves of sharp, excruciating pain through her body.

“Oh God, yes,” she gasps, her small frame shuddering as she grinds against the spikes, her body caught between agony and the pure ecstasy it craves. The thin trickles of blood running down her sides only heighten the intensity of her pleasure, her head lolling back against the plexiglass as she pants.

Bjorn stands back, admiring his handiwork. “Look at her go,” he mutters, shaking his head in amusement. “Can’t get enough of it. They always want more, don’t they, Lux.”

“They sure do. But that’s why we’re here, Bjorn. Thats whatwelive for. To bring out that side of them they bury down.”

From the other side of the stage, Giselle’s laughter cuts through the air, shrill and manic. “More!” she cries, her eyes wild with delight as she spins in place, arms raised to the heavens. “They want it all! They beg for it, don’t they, Bjorn baby? Theyloveit!” She lets out a hysterical giggle, her bloodstained corset glinting in the low light.

Bjorn nods, watching the woman writhe in the Iron Maiden, her body twitching with each fresh wave of pain. Her moans grow louder as the spikes press further into her, her hips bucking involuntarily against the steel spikes, searching for release through the torment.

“How’s it feel, doll face?” Bjorn asks, leaning in close to the narrow slit in the door, his voice soft, taunting. “Every spike inside you… every breath hurting more than the last. You like that, don’t you?”

“Yes...” she moans, her voice breaking. “It’s… oh God… it’s so fucking perfect.”

“Good girl,” Bjorn growls, stepping back to watch her squirm. “Let it in. Let the pain fill up that sexy little body of yours.”

Giselle, still spinning in her delirium, cackles with glee, her fingers twitching at her sides. “Oh, she’s a beauty, isn’t she? Look at herbleed!” She turns to Bjorn, her eyes wide with manic delight. “Isn’t it justdelicious? The way theyscreamand beg for it?”

“Fuck yeah,” Bjorn mutters, his eyes fixed on the woman’s trembling, bloodied form inside the Iron Maiden. Even from here I can see how hard he is. His tight black jeans do little to mask the sheer size of his erection. “She’s gonna stay in there fora while. She’s not done with this dance yet, not until she comes for me like the pure little slut she is.”

The woman’s breath quickens, her small frame shuddering violently as the spikes press deeper into her skin. Her moans grow louder, more frantic, as she arches her back, pushing herself harder against the cruel metal. Blood runs freely now, thin rivulets streaming down her sides, staining the clear plexiglass of the Iron Maiden. Her gasps turn to whimpers, the pain and pleasure tangling together in an intoxicating storm inside her.

Suddenly, her body tenses, and she lets out a strangled cry, her hips jerking forward as she grinds into the spikes with a ferocity that makes Bjorn grip himself through his jeans and grin.

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