Page 43 of Ma Petite Mort
Indie grins and gives the wheel a good spin.
Our sweet victim twirls like a blood-soaked prize on the world’s kinkiest carnival ride.
He’s trembling, naked, fully hard, and dripping with anticipation. It’s not fake. You can’t fake that look—the wide eyes, the parted mouth, the sound that’s half sob, half laugh. Blood’s already seeping from where the leather bites into his wrists. The wheel creaks, groans, turns.
I stretch slowly, like a cat after a kill, rolling my neck and flipping my axe from hand to hand.
Around us, the crowd turns feral.
Two masked lovers sob while rutting on the floor. A guest with a black brand is bent over a butcher’s table, letting some hooded psycho brand “USE ME” into his back with a hot iron. The scent of burnt flesh curls up like incense, and the idiot is moaning like it’s a lullaby.
"Hello, sinners!" I call out, spinning into the spotlight with my arms open and my grin wide. "It’s axe-foreplay o’clock!"
The crowd loses it.
A dildo flies through the air and lands with a glorious slap at my feet.
Cute.
And in the center of it all, strapped tight and spinning like the grand finale of depravity, is our prize. He’s shaking. Chest heaving. Eyes wild and wet with whatever cocktail of panic and pleasure Indie stirred into his bloodstream.
He's the kind of mess you can build an altar around.
“Let’s give him a round of applause!” I squeal, twirling the axe in my palm. “For volunteering to be tonight’s finale. You’re just the cutest little meat balloon!”
He moans through the gag. Not scared.
Excited.
There’s a red silk ribbon tied at the base of his cock. Indie added it herself, with the flourish of a priestess preparing a ritual.
“Target locked,” she hums beside me, licking blood from her fingers.
Alaska slinks up beside the wheel, her leash dragging in the dirt, her collar streaked in runes and drool. She sniffs his thighs and grins.
“He smells like candy and fear.”
“Delicious combo,” I wink. “Nox, let’s play.”
Indie takes the chalkboard and scribbles in jagged, sloppy letters:
DICK = BONUS ROUND
HEAD = JACKPOT
CUM = SACRED OFFERING
I nearly choke on my own laugh.
“You hear that, folks? We’re not just throwing axes—we’re making history!”
The crowd chants something. My name. Our names. The gods’ names. I don’t know. I don’t care. It’s chaos, and I fuckingthriveon it.
“Rules are simple,” I shout. “We throw sharp things at this sexy little sin muffin. If he cums, we decapitate him.”
Someone screams, “Do it!” and starts jerking off with a bloody hand.
I kiss the crowd with a bow, then toss my first axe.
