chapter eleven
giselle
NIGHTMARE - Slush Puppy
Y ou 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 missed on 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 prize and the 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.
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 fucking thrive on 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.
THUNK.
It buries deep into his right thigh. The wheel jerks, his cock twitching with pleasure. Blood sprays the guests in the front row, and he groans—a sharp, choked, utterly delicious sound.
“Oooh, ten points for me!” I purr. “Nice distance, excellent splash. Someone give me a fucking medal!”
Indie throws next. Her axe slices into his shoulder with a satisfying crack, and the wheel spins half a turn, twisting his torso so his cock bounces. Still hard. Still desperate.
“Look at that stamina.” She grins. “Do you think he’s saving his cum for the gods or is he just that into pain?”
“Why not both?” I giggle.
Alaska’s crawling again, licking the blood pooling beneath him. She hums like she’s drinking nectar.
“Tastes like blasphemy.”
The next axe lands inches from his ribs. He bucks, moans, and his cock pulses.
“He’s getting close.” Indie smirks. “You should tease him a little.”
I don’t need encouragement.
I strut up onto the platform, lean in close, and drag my tongue up his stomach, collecting sweat and blood in one long, slow lick. He whimpers.
“You like that?” I whisper, kissing just beneath his ear. “You wanna come, don’t you?”
His whole body shakes.
“Oopsie, sugarplum,” I coo, tilting my head with a wicked little smirk. “If you blow before I say so, I’m takin’ your fuckin’ head and usin’ it as a fruit bowl.”
I trail the blade of my axe along his shaft like I’m frosting a goddamn cake—slow, precise, just enough pressure to kiss the skin open. A thin ribbon of red rolls down over his balls.
His eyes roll back like he’s seeing Valhalla.
I hum, dip two fingers into the blood, then slide them between my thighs—moaning like a sinner in church, just loud enough for the front row to lose their minds.
The crowd? Explodes.
One guest drops to their knees sobbing. Another starts screaming to be next.
And me?
I just giggle.
Like the goddess of gore I am.
Indie’s stroking his jaw, whispering sweet things. “You’re gonna die so beautifully, baby. You’re gonna decorate this tent with glory.”
I climb onto his lap, grinding my blood-slick pussy against his belly as I whisper prayers in his ear.
“You wanna spill for me? You wanna be my offering?”
He nods, a wild, desperate nod.
I take the final axe—lightweight, silver-bladed, etched with runes, and hold it to his throat.
“Then give me everything, baby. Come for me. Come for us.”
And he does.
He comes. Hard.
Moaning. Gagged. Writhing.
And I swing.
CHUNK.
The blade hits his neck. Not clean. Not pretty. Just final.
Blood spurts across my chest like holy water. His head dangles half-off, his body still twitching. The wheel creaks as it slows, cum still dripping down his thigh.
Alaska howls, wild and unhinged, crawling in circles around the body like she’s guarding a fresh kill.
Indie rises slowly, blood-slick and grinning, then turns to the crowd with a predator’s gleam in her eyes.
“Don’t just stand there,” she purrs, voice like smoke and venom. “Worship him. Worship this. ”
She kicks the corpse’s leg out wider and gestures toward the blood pooling beneath him.
“Touch yourselves. Praise the gods.”
I stand tall, dripping, panting, laughing like I’ve never been happier in my life.
“And that, darklings,” I scream, arms wide, eyes wild, “is how you end a fucking show!”
The crowd erupts . Cheering. Crying. Coming.
Some drop to their knees. Others run forward, begging to be next.
The gods are fed.
The blood runs warm.
And me?
I giggle as I toss the axe into the fire and blow the crowd a kiss with fingers still soaked in death.
“Final moan, baby,” I whisper. “Final fucking moan.”