chapter seven

lux

Pretty Girls Haunt Me - Savage Ga$p, Ugovhb

F uck, tonight is already going better than I ever expected.

As I stand in the center of the stage, surveying the gleaming instruments of destruction, I can't help but take a moment to savor their twisted beauty. These are not mere devices of torture; they are relics, ancient tools crafted for cruelty, designed to break both body and mind. And tonight, they will serve their true purpose. They're the real stars of the little act I've put together. Fulfilling the dark and depraved fantasies of those who crave more than the average night of pain and pleasure.

It's what all these thirsty fucks came for.

The Rack —a simple but effective device. Its origins date back to the medieval period, a time when pain was an art and the human body a canvas. Used primarily for extracting confessions, it stretches the victim's limbs, slowly pulling joints from sockets, snapping ligaments, and tearing muscles. Most would pass out long before the breaking point. Others—like the eager volunteer strapped to it now—beg for the agony to continue.

It clicks louder, tightening, as the gears pull his limbs taut.

"More," he groans, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I need more." His body glistens with sweat under the red lighting. Wearing no more than his boxers, the crowd is given a clear view of the rack at work.

Giselle, the cirkie working the controls, smirks. Her blond pigtails swaying as she leans in close. "You sure, big guy? Old Agatha here might just tear you apart."

His nod is frantic behind his mask. "Please."

"Well alright then, your fucked up wish, is my command," she adds with a devious smile.

With a brutal twist, the gears scream as they grind together, metal on metal, pulling the man's body to its breaking point. His breath hitches, a guttural groan rising from his throat as the tension mounts. And then, with a sickening crack , his left leg snaps—bone ripping through muscle, skin tearing apart like wet paper. The sharp white of his femur juts out, gleaming under flickering lights, slick with blood. His eyes roll back, body convulsing, but not with fear or pain—no, it's pleasure that has this sick fuck moaning.

That twisted primal need to be broken.

The crowd erupts in cheers, their faces contorted in sick delight. The scent of sweat and lust thickens the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood. A woman, her eyes wide and wild with adrenaline behind her mask, pushes through the crowd. Her short, dark hair slicked back and tangled in the chaos of sweat and blood, as she steps forward with confidence that cuts through the sea of writhing bodies.

She's dressed as a slutty witch wearing a black tattered dress barely clinging to her curvy frame, with thigh-high fishnets and a plunging neckline that leaves little to the imagination. Her huge saggy tits practically spill out as she leans over the man strapped to the rack.

She runs her fingers down his bare, blood splattered chest, licking her lips, her voice low and sultry. "You like that, don't you?" she whispers, her breath hot against his skin. Her free hand grips the jagged bone sticking from his leg. He winces, but the groan that escapes his lips is anything but pained—it's desperate, needy.

"Yes… God, yes… do it…" the man gasps, his voice raw, his body trembling as she touches him. His head lolls to the side, his eyes hazy with lust and agony.

She grins wickedly as her grip tightens around the bone and she slowly starts to stroke it. "Such a good boy. You want me to ride this rock hard bone of yours, don't you?" She gives a wicked laugh. "You sick little fuck."

He nods frantically, unable to form words, his eyes rolling back as he groans. "Please… please…"

She doesn't waste any more time. Hiking her short dress up, she positions herself over him, pressing the jagged bone against her pussy as she teases herself with it. The crowd around us watches as she savors every inch of the sharp, ragged protrusion as she slowly sinks herself down on it. Her head tilts back, and a carnal moan escapes her lips as she takes him in.

"Fucking hell!" Blood dips down her inner thighs, mixing with the slickness as she grinds against him, her movements are primal, deliberate.

Behind her, Giselle watches from the side of the stage, her eyes wide with delirious excitement. She's dressed in a shimmering red corset, her lips painted black to match the dark glitter that coats her eyelids. Every inch of her screams madness, her lips parted in a smile too wide to be sane.

"Ohhh, fuck yeah! I love this shit!" Giselle purrs, her voice a high-pitched squeal of excitement as she claps her hands. "Look at her go! She's fucking that bone like she was born for it!" She laughs, a maniacal, breathy sound that turns the heads of the cirkies nearby. "She's like some twisted little slutty witch riding a broomstick made of blood and pain! That's it, baby, ride that broken bastard into the ground! This is what he paid for! It's what he wants! " Her hand rests on her chest as if she's overwhelmed by the performance. "Ohhhh, yes, this is the contentment we all crave. This is the sick shit you fuckers paid to bear witness to. The fulfillment of your depraved desires that only Cirque Du Desir can give you! It's… perfect."

The woman on the rack throws her head back, her nails digging into the man's shoulders now, drawing blood as she grinds harder against the jagged bone. Her moans mix with his groans, and their bodies move together in a sick, twisted rhythm of pleasure and pain.

"Harder…" she growls, her voice breathless and wild. "Break for me… just fucking break…"

The man on the rack chokes out a gasp, his leg twitching under the pressure of her weight. His eyes are glazed over, his mind trapped in that sick delirium of agony and ecstasy. "I'm… I'm already broken…"

"Not enough," she whispers, licking some of the blood from her fingers as she rides him harder. Her free hand reaches into his boxers and pulls out his hard cock. With blood coating her palm she stokes him aggressively, mimicking her movements on his bone as she pumps him. "Yeah, you like that don't you. Look how fucking hard you are, fucking pig." Her body tenses, her movements becoming more frantic, more needy. "Now fucking break for me. I want you to shatter for me you piece of shit."

The crowd around them roars in approval, some touching themselves, others egging her on, their voices merging into one heaving, depraved mass of sound. Giselle's eyes flick between the woman and the man, her body vibrating with excitement.

"Yes, let him shatter!" Giselle screams, throwing her arms wide, her voice shrill with delight. "This is the fucked up shit I live for! The insanity, the blood, the pain! Rip him apart, sweet girl! Fucking use him like the trash he is!"

She continues pumping him, until jets of white come shoot from the head of his cock, coating her saggy cleavage and his chest. The man lets out a pleasure filled groan as she works him for every drop.

"Fu-fuck, yes," he groans.

The woman riding the bone lets out a final, delighted cry as her body convulses, her orgasm ripping through her like a violent storm. The man beneath her howls, his body jerking from the waves of pain and pleasure coursing through him. The blood flows freely from the jagged wound in his leg, but he barely notices. His world is nothing but her weight on his broken limb, her nails digging into his flesh as she pumps him, and the wet heat of her grinding against his exposed bone.

Lucky fucking bastard.

As she slows, the crowd's noise dies down to a low, pulsing hum. The woman climbs off him, breathless, and her thighs slick with blood. She smiles, dark and elated as she adjusts her mask and looks down at the broken man still tied up on the rack. He's gasping, his chest heaving, but there's a twisted smile on his face, the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

Giselle leans in closer, her eyes sparkling with madness. "That was beautiful," she whispers, her voice dripping with admiration. "Now that ... that's a fucking show."

Fucking right it was, but the night is still young.

Bjorn, one of the original cirkies who's been with me since day one stands tall and muscular, his bald head gleaming under the dim lights of the tent. His face is smeared with thick, crude face paint—a twisted, grim grin in black and white that stretches across his features, making him look more like a demented jester than a cirkie. No mask hides his grotesque appearance; like Johnny, he thrives in the horror his presence evokes. His eyes, wide and unblinking, survey the scene, taking in the chaos with a satisfied smirk as he leads his next customer to the Iron Maiden.

The woman beside him is small, and scrawny in comparison to his hulking frame. She has petite, pointed features and a shaved head on one side, the other half left with a jagged curtain of black hair that falls to her chin. Her small tits are barely noticeable beneath a tight, sheer black bodysuit that show off the small steel barbells through her peaked nipples. The fabric clings to her, revealing the outline of her ribs and the sharp angles of her collarbone. Her black mask, identical to those worn by the other customers, conceals her expression, but her trembling hands and the subtle quiver in her breath betray her excitement.

Despite her tiny and frail figure, there's no denying the darkness in her eyes as they find their way to the Iron Maiden.

"You know what happens inside, right?" Bjorn asks, his voice a low, guttural rasp, leaning in so close she can feel the heat of his breath. His painted grin only widens as his fingers trace the plexiglass surface of the Iron Maiden, savoring the moment.

Normally this thing would be made of solid steel, but where's the fun in that? We want to see our customers find their release. We want to bear witness to them in that moment when their twisted and morbid desires become a reality.

This guy is a fucking lunatic. Probably worse than Johnny, with a past so fucking dark, even mine doesn't compare. But that's why he's perfect for this shit.

The woman nods, her breaths coming faster, audible even through the mask. She licks her plump lips nervously, her small hands twitching at her sides, as if barely containing her anticipation. "I want to feel it," she whispers, her voice soft but filled with unmistakable need.

Bjorn chuckles darkly. "Oh, you'll feel it, alright." He throws open the steel door, revealing the rows of thin, razor-sharp spikes inside. "This little beauty's been around for centuries. Medieval monks would use it for sinners just like you. It's spikes are sharp enough to pierce your pretty skin, but thin enough not to kill. Just enough to drag it out. We all know how lame a two minute man can be." He grins wider, the makeup on his face cracking slightly. "You'll feel every damn spike, doll face."

Her breath catches, a soft whimper escaping her lips, but she steps forward without hesitation, pressing her tiny, supple body into the waiting spike. Her bare arms and legs brush against the cold metal. She inhales sharply, her whole body shaking as the first pricks of pain hit her, the spikes pressing lightly into her delicate skin.

"You sure this is what you want? You sure a little thing like you can handle the pain?" Bjorn teases, leaning over her, his voice dripping with mock concern as he positions her body just right inside the device. "Once I close this door, there's no going back. Every move you make is going to hurt," he explains, flicking his tongue. "But you want that, don't you? You want to feel that sweet goddamn sting."

"Yes," she breathes, her voice high and desperate. "Please… I want it."

Bjorn gives her one last dark grin before slamming the door shut with a loud clang, locking her inside. Through the plexiglass, we can see as the spikes press deeper into her soft flesh, the cold metal sliding between her ribs, scraping against her bones. Her soft whimpers turn into moans as the spikes bite harder into her skin, sending waves of sharp, excruciating pain through her body.

"Oh God, yes," she gasps, her small frame shuddering as she grinds against the spikes, her body caught between agony and the pure ecstasy it craves. The thin trickles of blood running down her sides only heighten the intensity of her pleasure, her head lolling back against the plexiglass as she pants.

Bjorn stands back, admiring his handiwork. "Look at her go," he mutters, shaking his head in amusement. "Can't get enough of it. They always want more, don't they, Lux."

"They sure do. But that's why we're here, Bjorn. Thats what we live for. To bring out that side of them they bury down."

From the other side of the stage, Giselle's laughter cuts through the air, shrill and manic. " More! " she cries, her eyes wild with delight as she spins in place, arms raised to the heavens. "They want it all! They beg for it, don't they, Bjorn baby? They love it!" She lets out a hysterical giggle, her bloodstained corset glinting in the low light.

Bjorn nods, watching the woman writhe in the Iron Maiden, her body twitching with each fresh wave of pain. Her moans grow louder as the spikes press further into her, her hips bucking involuntarily against the steel spikes, searching for release through the torment.

"How's it feel, doll face?" Bjorn asks, leaning in close to the narrow slit in the door, his voice soft, taunting. "Every spike inside you… every breath hurting more than the last. You like that, don't you?"

"Yes..." she moans, her voice breaking. "It's… oh God… it's so fucking perfect."

"Good girl," Bjorn growls, stepping back to watch her squirm. "Let it in. Let the pain fill up that sexy little body of yours."

Giselle, still spinning in her delirium, cackles with glee, her fingers twitching at her sides. "Oh, she's a beauty, isn't she? Look at her bleed !" She turns to Bjorn, her eyes wide with manic delight. "Isn't it just delicious ? The way they scream and beg for it?"

"Fuck yeah," Bjorn mutters, his eyes fixed on the woman's trembling, bloodied form inside the Iron Maiden. Even from here I can see how hard he is. His tight black jeans do little to mask the sheer size of his erection. "She's gonna stay in there for a while. She's not done with this dance yet, not until she comes for me like the pure little slut she is."

The woman's breath quickens, her small frame shuddering violently as the spikes press deeper into her skin. Her moans grow louder, more frantic, as she arches her back, pushing herself harder against the cruel metal. Blood runs freely now, thin rivulets streaming down her sides, staining the clear plexiglass of the Iron Maiden. Her gasps turn to whimpers, the pain and pleasure tangling together in an intoxicating storm inside her.

Suddenly, her body tenses, and she lets out a strangled cry, her hips jerking forward as she grinds into the spikes with a ferocity that makes Bjorn grip himself through his jeans and grin.

"Thats a good little slut, bleed for me," he groans with a husky, lust filled ton.

The crowd around her watches, enraptured by the sight, their own hands roaming their bodies as they revel in the show.

"Oh… oh God!" she screams, her voice breaking as she hits her climax, twitching and convulsing in a flood of brutal release. The spikes dig in deeper, drawing more blood, but it only seems to heighten her pleasure. Her masked face tilts toward the ceiling, her mouth open in a soundless scream, her fingers clawing at the inside of the Iron Maiden as she rides out the waves of sensation.

The crowd closes in, their eyes gleaming with hunger as they feed off the scene. Several people start to pant, their own arousal building as they watch her wiggle in the clear tomb, blood dripping from her pale skin. Some reach out to touch the plexiglass, needing to feel the slickness of her warm blood on their fingers.

"She's fucking loving it," someone in the crowd mutters, their voice thick with arousal.

Another man, watching with rapt attention, grins and mutters, "Shit, I have a spike that horny bitch can ride, send her my way."

Bjorn steps back, his painted face twisted into a satisfied grin as he surveys the madness around him. The woman's climax, her cries, the blood—it's all part of the spectacle, and the crowd is eating it the fuck up.

From the side, Giselle lets out a wild cackle, clapping her hands in manic glee. "Look at them!" she screeches, her eyes wide with insanity. "They're all hungry for it! Every last one of them!" She twirls again, hair whipping about as she spins through the carnage, arms wide as though embracing the mayhem.

The woman inside the Iron Maiden trembles one last time, her body spent, slumping against the spikes as her ragged breathing echoes through the chamber.

The chaos unfolds before me like a symphony; every scream, every moan, every twisted expression of pain and pleasure composing a melody only I can hear. The sight of blood glistening under the stage lights, the smell of sweat and fear mixing with raw desire— this is what I live for.

It's a carnival of cruelty, and the audience is lost in it, reveling in every sick, depraved moment.

And with my own arousal growing, I can't stop thinking about Indie.

I close my eyes for a second, letting the image of her tonight flood my mind—the way she looked in that corset, her eyes dark and hungry, knowing exactly how much power she had over the crowd tonight. The way her body felt against mine when I had her earlier. It was good—no, it was fucking perfect.

But now? Now, with everything happening, with the anarchy building and the crowd lost in their ecstasy? Fuck , I need her again.

I can already feel the tension coiling in my gut, a dangerous edge growing sharper with every scream and drop of blood my cirkies and I earn tonight.

Fuck, by the way the night is going, the way this crowd is feeding off it all... Christ , I might just be wound up enough to try something a little different.

Johnny's been watching her, too. I saw it in his eyes tonight when he watched us on the bus. And maybe, just maybe, tonight's the night I let him have a little taste of his own. After all, it wouldn't be the first time we've shared. And Indie? Hell, she's not the same girl she was the first night she entered my big top. She's stronger now. Darker . She'll take it.

She'll fucking love it.

That is, if the night carries on like this…

A wicked smile pulls at my lips. Goddamn, I can't fucking wait.