Not everyone falls into a punky witch's clutches. Some people simply hear the sound of mind-numbing bass throbbing deep into their brain stem. There you are, innocently strolling outside Ravequeen Liz's warehouse, when the air twists and boils beneath her boosted bass.
Like a snake charmed by a flute, you're drawn through the door. A blast of hot, sweaty air blows your hair back. A fine pink mist follows close behind. Even one breath in, you can feel the music throbbing against your skin. It rattles your brain and strokes between your thighs.
You dance into the writhing crowd of latex-clad bodies. They peel your clothes off so they can rub themselves against you. Neon-colored tops and fishnet bottoms stroke against your exposed flesh. Each throb of the beat connects you more and more to perfect pleasure.
Thoughts pour into your head. The music scatters silly little thoughts like “where are my clothes” and “this hypnorave doesn't have a fire exit” to the wind. New ones pour in from the pulsing, throbbing, perfect hive mind. Much better ideas, like “I should put my mouth on this.”
Before long, a pink visor sits on your face, burning spirals into your eyes and images of the perfect raveslut into your brain. Tight, revealing clothing. Always bumping and grinding. And, of course, fanatical allegiance to the electric blue goddess pulling your