The Devil’s Workshop: Body and Soul

Nicki’s done with dive-bar gigs. She screams that she’d sell her soul for a break, and the words barely leave her lips before he’s there—smirking in leather. She drops to her knees, big tits heaving, black hair falling over one eye, and takes his cock in her mouth while he spells out the deal in a low, filthy voice. Fame, money, and crowds screaming her name. Next morning her mirror is gold, her wardrobe silk, and the hallway outside is lined with hands clutching backstage passes. She sinks into a marble tub, bubbles up to her chin, and slides two fingers between her legs until she comes with a sharp cry. A blink later the bubbles are gone and she’s naked, wrists lashed to a rough wooden cross. The devil circles, whip cracking against her skin, the flogger snapping her tits raw, every strike pushing her breath into ragged sobs. Months roll on. Paparazzi dog her every step. She wants quiet, a locked door, sleep without the noise. Instead he finds her again, shirt open, eyes colder than before, and reminds her the price is still due.