WARNING! Graphic content follows! Do NOT read if bad language and gore offends you!
You’ve been warned…
The club became completely quiet as I lay in my coffin, tightly wrapped like a mummy from my crown to my toenails. I knew it was packed though because I heard pitter-pattering of at least seventy-five racing hearts. Some sat at tables, some stood along walls, and VIPs watched anxiously from the balcony.
Once I heard the smoke machine fogging the stage and felt the spotlight center on my coffin, I slowly raised the lid and held it there to give their human eyes a moment to adjust to the fog. To focus on me in the darkness.
Couldn’t see Remi through the white wraps across my eyes, but I smelled him. Sensed his essence, his soul. He was alone at his usual table on the far left near the stage, wearing his usual intoxicating cologne. I smelled his cigarette in the ashtray and liquor in his glass. Knew I’d taste a hint of both in his blood later, but it would still be hot, thick and delicious.
I waited until the deejay started the music then slowly lifted my upper torso to Marilyn Manson’s “You and Me and the Devil Makes 3”. Planting my palm on the coffin’s edge, I brought one stiffly wrapped leg up and then the other, draping them across the side facing the audience.
Spilling out of the coffin like running water, I left a trail of cloth behind and landed on the floor gracefully. Then I rolled and rolled in time to the music, gradually unraveling layers of cloth until various parts of my nudeness peeked through. The white cloth looked like puddles with overflowing water glowing against the black coffin and black floor.
My almond-shaped hazel eyes remained closed while I danced to the music and writhed on the floor, allowing my hands to explore first my plump breasts, then flat tummy, and lastly, my trimmed bush. I rolled again, allowing more cloth to fall away revealing more caramel brown skin.
After slowly spreading my knees apart, I teasingly undulated in front of patrons closest to the stage while lust oozed from their pores. They were entranced by the gyration of my hips, the rhythm of the music, the fantasy of sex and death.
My necrophilia clientele comprised of those aroused by corpses, death, near-death experiences, mutilation and…sometimes murder. Sometimes in self-inflicted circumstances. Knowing mummy wraps titillated them more than Victoria’s Secret lingerie, I rolled around in the cloth, letting some drape around me loosely. It fed their frenzy, their passion. Gave them the illusion of death coming to life. Of living deadness.
Ironically, what they perceived as illusory was in fact, reality. The hallmark of my existence.
As the song ended, I lay across the coffin lid intimately, as if it were my lover, and licked long strokes across the surface. Then I moved seductively until I straddled the coffin.
In one swift motion, I pulled the wrap from around my head that released long black tresses unto my lower back and across my breasts. Leaning forward, I stretched until I got the dagger from my coffin bed and raised it skyward with both hands. I ground my hips across the lid as if I were fucking it and moaned loudly. When the music stopped, my moans took over, becoming the music, setting the tempo.
Remi’s heart almost leaped through his chest with palpitations so loud, it must have been strapped to a microphone and amplifier. Since my finales were his biggest turn-ons, he’d make his way to a private room in back, if one was available, and jack off afterwards. He had enough social grace to do it in private, but at Pit of Hades Fetish Club, he really didn’t have to. Here, there was no shame, no taboos.
Considering how often I’d performed sex and death scenes with guns, nooses, and swords, you’d think the audience would be ready for anything. But they gasped and screamed, and in some cases vomited, when I plunged the dagger’s stainless steel blade into my chest. They’d known it was coming, yet they were still horrified and awed. And ready to fuck.
But it wasn’t an act.
I grunted on impact. It hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but I’d heal. Realism was most important in pulling off a death scene, after all.
Once I withdrew the dagger, I plunged it again, and then again, grunting from pain each time the blade went into my chest. The sound of the hilt slamming into my skin repeatedly seemed to echo throughout the club.
Slumping forward, I let my blood run down the sides of the coffin onto the floor, taking comfort in knowing Remi would replenish it later. I kept falling until I slid to the floor in a heap.
Bright flashes went off left and right as people snapped pictures. Security was everywhere frantically grabbing cameras, admonishing patrons. This was a no-photo-taking establishment unless you paid the club’s photographer to take authorized still shots of or with entertainers in the designated booth. Performances were never recorded or photographed due to graphic content and patrons were never filmed unless they consented. The owner’s respect for privacy gave patrons freedom to let their hair down and enjoy whatever deviant sex they were in to. Everyone knew the rules. You didn’t get in without an invitation, signed contract and approved membership…and definitely no cameras. Violators had their memberships revoked immediately.
I liked the rule. It prevented patrons from having incriminating evidence of my supernatural powers. So far, everyone assumed I used fake blood and props. Didn’t want anyone to start thinking otherwise and having proof to boot. They’d wonder how I recovered from fatal wounds night after night. I could be practicing witchcraft or be some other legal supernatural being. But if anyone happened to suspect I was a vampire, I would be clawing myself from a pile of shit as deep as the Grand Canyon with nothing but a fingernail file as my tool.
Suddenly, I felt strange. My fingertips numbed, my tongue dried. I began trembling and feeling light-headed, but I wasn’t alarmed. It wasn’t a reaction to me stabbing myself. It was my illness, my body’s inability to regulate its sleep cycle. My narcolepsy with a side of cataplexy was about to carry me away to a deep, short sleep.
Considering I was at the end of my set, it was good timing.
Hades was silent again as the audience held its breath.
I inhaled deeply. Exhaled completely. Exaggerated several more deep breaths then spasmed wildly for the sake of dramatizing my finale, my death.
Then, as if on cue, darkness engulfed me and my narcolepsy put me to sleep.
When I awoke a short time later, the first thing I noticed was standing applause, cheering, whistling. Next, I noticed a commotion at the corner of the stage. Punch, Hades’s head of security, was dragging Remi back to his table, threatening to put him out. Remi’s jeans were undone and blood was smeared all over his arms and face. My blood.
Remi had been a regular Saturday night patron for over a year and knew it was against the rules to touch performers while we were onstage. I just hoped he didn’t make Punch put him out of the club. Or make Punch beat him so badly I wouldn’t be able to take blood from him later.
Punch was a huge Godzilla-size dude, nearly seven feet tall with biceps as wide as fucking watermelons. His smooth dark chocolate skin emanated a wild animal don’t-fuck-with-me warning scent. And though I didn’t know what he was exactly, I knew what that meant. It meant Punch was not someone Remi wanted to fuck with.
I felt famished and Remi was supposed to be my dinner tonight.