But I don’t play favorites.
I drop into a split, legs open wide above a circle of writhing guests and let the wand dance between my thighs—crackling against my skin, lighting me up from the inside out.
The crowd howls. Some cheer. Some moan. One guy drops to his knees and starts jacking off before I even start my act.
I flip up onto one hand and kick my legs out wide, holding the pose just long enough to watch a woman gasp so hard she spills her drink.
“Keep the booze in your mouth, sweetheart,” I coo. “You’ll need the hydration.”
A whip cracks from somewhere in the back—probably Indie warming up. The whole tent stinks of sex and steel and wrongness.
Gods, I love this place.
I twist into a full scorpion bend, arching so far back my head brushes my ass, then roll forward into a split so fast it makes the front row flinch.
I blow them a kiss.
Then I zap a man’s thigh with the wand.
BZZZZT!
He screams. Then moans. Then screams again.
“You like that?” I giggle. “Good. I haven’t even started hurting you yet.”
I climb up onto a table, stepping right on a woman’s lap. She squeals and grabs my ankle. I bend over backward above her, upside-down, nose to nose.
“You beg real pretty,” I whisper, then jolt the wand against her collarbone. “But this is aperformance, babe—not a cuddle puddle.”
I move on. Sparking and bending and grinding my way across the crowd. Electricity dances across flesh. People beg. Cry. Touch themselves. Some touch each other.
There’s a man with a spiked gag drooling into a bowl of milk while a Viking-masked clown pisses on his back.
A pair of women ride a mechanical goat while another guest beats a drum with a severed leg.
At the edge of the stage, a group of handlers pour drinks from carved horns into open mouths—probably laced with something. Maybe LSD. Maybe truth serum. Hell, maybe both. It’s an old Lux trick. Not that these sickos need any help letting loose.
“You’re all such good little sinners,” I sing, standing tall in the center of the ring. “Wanna see how a goddess saysthank you?”
They scream. Chant. Beg.
So I give it to them.
I strip slowly, leather straps dropping one by one as I twist and contort. Back bends. Chest pops. I climb the scaffolding like a demon in heat and dangle upside-down, wand between my thighs.
Below me, five guests form a writhing pile of limbs and moans. I land right in the middle of them and zap the whole pile.
Screams. Shudders. Come.
“Blessed by the Valkyrie!” I cackle.
My body drips with blood and sweat and something Ihopeis not motor oil. I’m glowing. Euphoric. High on violence.
And that’s when he catches my eye.
Again.
Fur-draped. Shadow-drenched. Staring like I’m his favorite bedtime story—right at the part where someone gets their throat cut.
