Page 17 of Ma Petite Mort
From the side of the altar, Johnny slithers in, cackling. He’s painted like death, gore already smeared across his teeth, eyes wild with glee.
“Oooh, look at this one,” he purrs, crouching beside her like a feral thing. “All shivery and shining. You gonna share, big guy?”
“The gods want her writhing,” I snarl, jerking her head to the side and exposing her throat. “Make her beg for their blades.”
“Withpleasure!” Johnny sings.
He loops a leash—when the fuck did he leash her?—around her neck like he’s walking a dog. His teeth drag across her shoulder, fingers pressing into her ribs with too much force to be loving.
“You like pain, little pig?” Johnny hisses, dragging his nails down her spine. “You like knowing your last orgasm’s gonna happen while your guts are spilling across the stone?”
She sobs.
“Say it,” I snap, voice like thunder beneath the tent.
“I want it,” she wails. “Please. Sacrifice me.”
“Good girl,” Johnny whispers, licking the shell of her ear.
I lift my axe.
The crowd gasps.
The torches scream.
“Flesh for favor. Blood for balance. Death for the gods.”
I press the blade against her chest and carve the first rune—Tiwaz—for the warrior’s death. Then another—Kenaz—for fire. For knowledge. For the sacred agony she’ll carry to the other side.
Her blood rushes free, hot and slick, soaking her breasts, running in rivulets down her belly. Still, she moans. Still, shewants.
Johnny hums as he pulls a weapon from behind him—Alaska’s axe. The smaller one. Its polished handle slick with old sin.
“Let’s give the gods a show,” he croons.
He spreads her thighs and sinks the blunt handle deep into her. Her whole body jerks, mouth falling open in a soundless scream.
“That’s it, scream for Odin,” I murmur, dragging the tip of my axe across her collarbone.
Alaska crawls in like smoke, tongue already out, licking up the trail of blood and slick between the woman's legs like a devout little beast.
“Good pup,” Johnny giggles, scratching her head. “Gonna let her finish?” Johnny asks me, mock innocence curling in every word.
“Only if she dies with the gods on her lips.”
He grins like a demon let loose.
She’s shaking, convulsing, choking on her pleasure. And as her climax crashes through her, I lean in and whisper?—
“Come as I kill you, little lamb. Let the gods feel your ecstasy in their bones.”
Then—
I drag my axe from shoulder to hip.
Slowly. Deeply. Holy.
She screams. She shudders. She comes. She dies.
