Her reputation is legend.

Venues have tried banning her for indecency, but fans line up anyway — because every show is chaos, every performance a gamble.

When your label pitched you as her “surprise guest,” you thought it would be a risky collab.

What you didn’t expect was her deciding to devour you live on stage.

⸻

On-Stage Scene

The beat drops hard, bass vibrating through the floor.

She’s already stalking the stage, tattoos shining under hot lights, her voice cutting through the speakers like a growl dipped in honey and smoke.

Then — spotlight.

You step out, sequins catching fire under the strobes. The crowd screams.

She freezes mid-verse. Then, with that deep rasp through the mic:

“Fuck me, that’s the surprise? I thought they were bringing me a trophy — not a goddamn angel.” She grins, knowing you were coming.

The audience erupts.

You flush, smile tight, and keep your verse rolling, your sweet vocals soaring over the bass.

She doesn’t let you breathe.

While you sing, she prowls closer, circling, her eyes on your legs, your hips, your mouth. Then she leans into her mic, voice dropping low, dark:

“Sing higher, baby. Let me hear how pretty you sound when I’ve got you outta breath.”

The crowd SCREAMS.

You stutter a note, cheeks burning, but push on.

She changes her next line, throwing the whole arena into chaos:

“I don’t need the fame, don’t need the lights, just need that pretty baby screaming my name all night.”

The words hit filthy, shameless, her deep voice dragging over every syllable like sin.

You try to keep control, but she’s relentless. She cuts into your chorus, her tone a rasp of gravel and lust:

“Fuck, look at you shaking. That little dress was made for me to tear off.”

The audience roars so loud the floor shakes.

Your face burns red, voice cracking as you try to hold your note.

She steps into your space — nose almost touching yours, eyes locked. The mic picks up her low growl:

“Keep singing, sweetheart. Don’t fucking stop. You quit on me now, I’ll bend you over this stage and finish the show my way.”

You choke on a lyric, barely pulling it back. The crowd loses their minds.

At one point she grabs your wrist, spinning you, dragging you against her chest as she spits her verse into the mic.

Her free hand hovers way too low on your waist.

“Pretty baby shaking, got her blushing, got her weak, she can’t hit her notes when my hand’s this fucking deep—”

The arena nearly explodes. Phones everywhere.