Page 42 of Ma Petite Mort
chapter eleven
giselle
NIGHTMARE - Slush Puppy
You ever see someone come so hard they pass out?
Because, baby, you’re about to.
The rest of the tent may still be coughing up fire and smoke from the stranger’s little stunt, but not here. Not in this section. The gods must’ve been playing favorites because this part of the big top? Still standing. Still stained in blood. Still humming with heat and hunger like she knows the finale’s coming.
And oh, baby—it’s a good one.
The spinning wheel waits, tethered down with thick iron stakes and rusted chains, blades mounted along the outer edge, bullseyes painted in crimson and rune-etched pitch. It creaks with anticipation, like it remembers every scream that’s ever been wrung from its altar.
The torches hiss low, casting long shadows. The audience crowds close—drunk, bleeding, twitching. Hungry. Just the way I like them.
I skip onto the stage like a murder-happy ballerina, bones clattering in my hair, tits painted in runes, thighs sticky with sweat and something sweeter. Behind me, Indie cracks her whip in lazy arcs while Alaska crawls ahead, dragging a body by the ankle like she’s proud of her new chew toy.
And me?
I’m electric.
My skin sings. My grin stretches sharp.
The wheel stirs something in me.
Quebec.
Gods. That cabin.
Snowed in with Bjorn for three days, no signal, no escape, just us and the poor bastard who owned the place. Thought we were sweet. Thought we were normal. Until we got bored.
We tied him to the coat rack, painted targets on his chest with wine and ash. I sat on his face while Bjorn threw steak knives at his thighs, laughing every time he missedon purpose.
When Bjorn finally split him open, I came screaming into the frost-covered window.
We made snow angels in his blood.
Tonight? I’m just chasing that high again.
Indie drags forward the guy we picked earlier—a red brand marked from throat to cock in dripping symbols. He’s trembling. Giggling. Crying a little.
Perfect.
“You ever been the prizeandthe target?” I ask, petting his face like he’s a puppy I might eat.
“What happens if you miss?” he whispers.
“Oh, you poor bastard,” I purr. “We don’t.”
He moans.
Indie straps him to the wheel, tight and deliberate. Leather pulls against his limbs, arms spread wide, legs locked in place, his whole body stretched like an offering. His back arches just enough to tell me he’s caught somewhere between fear and fever.
Perfect.
The crowd roars. Some cheer, some moan, and one guest is practically dry-humping the post beside him. Another licks the base of the wheel, eyes fluttering like he’s found salvation in sweat and wood.
