Servitaur

Jester could smell the aroma long before he saw its source.

Like burnt vanilla and fermented pineapple; like the drool from a dog staring at the steak on its master’s plate. It slipped underneath the tent coverings, where the artificial fabric didn’t quite meet the dirt. To say Jester didn’t recognize the scent would be both the truth and a lie; the scent was most certainly of a monster steeped in instinctual lust, he just didn’t know from whom.

He’d certainly be able to recognize Ticket Taker’s, a frequent bedfellow for him, and Harlequin’s, whose lust seemed endless; a leaky faucet that never gets fixed. Doctor’s, however, Jester has rarely gotten the scent of his, but the Doctor’s was far more like the burnt ashes of a flower bouquet, far from the sweetness of the surrounding scent. It had been some time since Jester had gotten to scent Pierrot’s; his own instinctual desire to breed having died with his old paramour. Then again, while Jester had only the faintest memories of Pierrot’s pheromones, he remembered it being sickeningly sweet.

What gave Jester a bit of hesitation before deeming the culprit to be Pierrot was how feminine the pheromones are. A subtle indication, a whisper spoken by instinct. To quantify the difference between a masculine rut and a feminine heat is to ask a blind man to describe the difference between closing one’s eyes and complete blindness. Near impossible to describe in words, it is merely that one’s brain just knows it. With no member of the Circus having the proper equipment for a heat, Jester couldn’t believe it was any of his longtime cohorts.

So, unless Pierrot underwent some drastic physical changes without Jester finding out about it, it was unlikely to be Pierrot. It’s not unheard of for their kind to make such physical changes; their biologies were far more varied and undefinable. But Jester knew that if any such changes did happen, he could trust that Pierrot would have told him immediately. It left only one real possibility. A certain more recent companion.

“Jack,” Jester called out correctly to the source of all the dizzying pheromones just as Jack stumbled into Jester’s tent.

“I, I, Jester,” the miserable boy whimpered out his words, fumbling over the lust underneath. It was a bit concerning when Jack’s eyes met Jester’s, seeing how he was barely walking the line between conscious and feral. A look that reminded Jester of a certain incident where Jack’s feral hunger clawed its way to overtaking his mind.

What was lust, if not hunger wearing a different face? Could Jack recognize either right now?

A thousand plans were quickly drafted in case escape was deemed necessary. It was late at night; no doubt the others were fast asleep, far enough away that shouting might not work fast enough to get help. While Jester might be dwarfed both in strength and height by Jack, that left Jester far more lithe and quick. Depending on how hindered Jack’s mind was, Jester was more than cunning enough to strategize around the potential threat.

Potential threat. Ah, no, no, Jester scolds himself; he must not refer to his own family like that.

“Are you alright, Jack?” Jester asks, using the question as a risk assessment. Stepping forward as if Jester’s question was an order, even just a single step almost sent Jack to the floor. Jester watched as Jack took another, his mind scrambling, trying to choose between safe but insulting or compassionate but dangerous.

All of Jester’s plans of escape are torn apart as Jack rushes forward, landing on his knees before Jester, arms wrapping around the calf of Jester’s left leg. With his chin halfway up Jester’s leg, Jack looked up at his savior, eyes pleading for Jester to save him again. “Jester, I, I need,” Jack’s breath was hot; even with clothes between them, Jester could feel the warmth. “I, help me.”

Releasing the breath he had been holding in case of danger, Jester brought a hand up and brushed some of the soft, deep blue locks out of Jack’s face. His cap hung low and crooked, worn and forgotten, the hair on his head left messy like he’d just gotten out of bed after a horrid night terror. His round face was so flushed that Jester could see it underneath the smeared face paint. The bright red ruff he wore around his neck, left forgotten elsewhere, too tight and too hot for him to wear.

“Help? What do you need help with? Are you okay?” Jester decided to play dumb to not embarrass the puppy at his feet. The answer was, of course, obvious, considering how it filled his nose with temptation.

A needy moan emanated from Jack’s closed mouth, lips pulled wide and flat. The grip around Jester’s leg tightened, not enough to hurt but hard to ignore, Jack’s cheek rubbing against his thigh. His shame and his need locked in combat, the heat of internal struggle burning Jack from the inside.

“I,” his voice came out quietly, hardly even a whisper; each word impossible to say, yet somehow slipped out. He knew what he wanted, and he was too afraid to see the look on Jester’s face if he said it, so Jack kept his face turned into the other’s thigh. “I need you to, to breed me, please.”

Even if Jester didn’t show it, that request caught him off guard. Out of anyone Jack could have asked, he had asked Jester of all his options, either consciously or unconsciously, within his haze. Though after giving it a bit more thought, it made sense, because the only other person who Jack could ask that’d agree would be Harlequin. However, there was no doubt that Harlequin would make for a bad, absent parent, and while Jester wouldn’t say he’d be a good one either, he’d at least take part in raising a baby.

Right, a baby, the downside of sexual intercourse. The Circus was no place for an infant, nor any child of any age. Not just with all the less savory things the Circus had to do to survive, but the danger of the child being seen, or even heard, by humans. If the child could pass off as human enough, then it’d be of minor concern, but their kind’s youth struggle to hide their inhuman nature no matter how passing they could be.

Then just thinking about all the resources that’d have to be set aside for an infant. Even forgetting the gestation period, the child would need someone to monitor them; taking away manpower they certainly couldn’t spare. Jester could hardly trust any of the others to properly do that at all; no one in the Circus had any experience with child-rearing. He didn’t even entertain having any of their Fools doing that job, not with how… absentminded they were.

But acquiring the physical resources needed as well would be a struggle in itself. A crib, bedding to go with the crib, diapers, clothing, and feeding supplies. That’s right, Jester himself didn’t know what their kind’s infants even ate, not with him never seeing one for more than in passing. Did they need to consume human flesh as well, or could they subsist off their mother’s milk? Could Jack even-

The feeling of pressure grinding onto his boot pulls Jester out of his thoughts‌ he’d fallen into debating for far too long. That pressure, Jester realizes quickly, is Jack rubbing his pelvis in a desperate search for relief. Jester couldn’t even tell if Jack was doing it on purpose, or if he even knew he was doing it at all.

Jester is not one to leave any of his ensemble suffering by themselves, even despite his hesitation to help in this way. “Very well,” he couldn’t help but sigh. “Follow me.”

It took more of an effort to tear himself away from Jack’s grip than he expected, and not due to his lack of trying. If they were going to do this, Jester would rather it be further from the entrance to his tent, where the two of them could have some semblance of privacy.

Jester watched as Jack fumbled to his feet, as if he could hardly urge his body to move. It doesn’t seem to work, as Jack is hardly halfway to standing before his legs buckle underneath him and he falls to the ground. Sure, Jester has seen his kind either rutting ‌or in heat, but never to this level that an individual can barely function; how long had Jack been ignoring his corrupting instincts?

“I’m not carrying you, crawl if you must,” not that Jester is going to pamper Jack even in this state. He’s never been the kindest of bedmates, now would be no different.

There's enough of an obedient Jack left in control for him to nod, his body managing at least to crawl along the floor like a mutt. With patience and a dash of amusement, Jester watched Jack follow him deeper into his tent; his hands and knees scraping against the rugs that Jester had collected over the years.

Jack followed the purple blur in his vision until he caught up to it, standing just before the rather spartan bed that Jester tried to make more comfortable with cushions and plush blankets. Though to Jack, he could only see the colors in the fog, dark and consuming; Jester’s purple a beacon of hope for him to crawl to. Like it was a need, Jack’s hands once again grasped at Jester’s clothes like a starved beast.

This time, Jester reached down, resting Jack’s cheek in his hand and tilting his head up. “Good boy,” he praised his obedient little puppy, relishing in how Jack melted at just two sweet words. Adorable, even Jester couldn’t deny such an obvious fact. His hand slid lower, scratching gently just below Jack’s jaw, and that only made Jack melt more into Jester. He’s done so mockingly, but any intended jest was lost with Jack’s pleased hum.

“Now what should I do with you?” Jester pondered, taking his time just so he could watch Jack fall more into his lust. His thumb presses against the other’s mouth, a silent order to open it that Jack obeys. The digit is forced deep into his mouth, pressing down on Jack’s tongue enough to make him gag a little before Jester slides it over onto his teeth. The pad of his thumb slowly drags across each carnivorous tooth as he stares into Jack’s eyes, the look in the latter’s a feral mess of lust, admiration, need, and something much more hungry.

There’s a sharp slice of pain that has Jester withdrawing his hand from Jack’s mouth. Blood pearling around a small incision made by two teeth on his thumb, bright red blood serving as a reminder. The wound is trivial, not even worth wasting a bandage on, not with Jester’s blood already clotting, starving the air of blood.

Despite his teeth having made such a slight injury, hardly even enough of one to be called one, the scent of Jester’s blood was enough to end Jack’s world. “I! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I, I just-” his words spilled out, frantic, fearful that he’d lose Jester to his own stupid, uncontrollable instincts. His hands reach up, fumbling to find Jester’s arm, like holding onto Jester would be enough to stop him from leaving. “Please, I didn’t mean to, I just, just need this. Please. Please.”

Every word Jack says is progressively quieter than the last, yet just the same, more yearning. Truly, Jester couldn’t help but wonder how this poor example of his own kind had survived in such a cruel world before he’d joined their patchwork family? Luck and pity, he answers himself.

“Jack,” Jester’s voice silenced the desperate mumbling for forgiveness coming from Jack. “I know you didn’t mean to; it’s okay.”

Jack’s eyes, black and shiny, turned towards Jester for a second before he wrapped his arms around Jester’s legs. The sudden pull on his legs almost gets Jester to lose his balance. Almost sighing once more tonight, Jester lets Jack use his legs to ground himself again. The quiet stinging from the bite wound, however, serves as a reminder to Jack’s own dangerous capabilities. More than that, it's also a warning not to put anything important in Jack’s mouth.

“Let go,” Jester orders when he believes Jack has calmed himself enough. Like the words burned him, Jack removed his hold on Jester, letting Jester‌ step back. “Stay there. Let me prepare some things before we start.”

Listening to Jester move away from him makes Jack fidget in anxiety, as if Jester will just leave him there. But putting his trust and submission in Jester, he listens as Jester pulls and opens items around him, trying his best the burning hunger between his legs. He’s failing at that, every second near torture and worsening by the moment, his instincts screaming to just stand up and get what he wants. By force, if necessary.

Jack perks right up when the comforting purple blur returns, leaning forward, desperate for Jester’s hands on his skin again. Instead, Jester’s hands reach behind Jack’s neck, leading back to the front as a sturdy, well-crafted leather closes around his neck. It’s only when he saw the leash that it clicked in his head that what was wrapped around his neck was a collar. Sliding his fingers along the collar, Jack could feel lace; floral black lace on deep, dyed purple leather.

“Open your mouth,” Jester ordered.

Jack blinks twice, mind still focused on the collar. It felt weird for him to wear; it felt right for him to wear. Like ‌a clock's missing hand, returned to its duty. “A collar?” he mumbled, unsure if the red hot blush on his face was from his heat or the collar.

The leash tugs Jack forward, not enough to hurt him, nowhere near enough to make him choke, just enough to pull him into reality. “Open,” this time, Jester’s tone deepens as he commands Jack to submit. “Your mouth.”

Swallowing the drool that had collected in his mouth, Jack tentatively opened his mouth hoping expecting that he’s welcoming in Jester’s cock. Just the idea of choking around Jester’s cock made Jack’s own sex throb in excitement. Instead, however, a sizable silicone ball is pressed inside, locking ‌between Jack’s teeth, a leather strap rubbing against the sides of his mouth to keep the ball from being what Jack choked on instead. “Good boy,” his obedience means more praise from Jester.

A disappointed whine comes from Jack’s throat, muffled by the ball gag in his mouth. He looks up, searching for Jester’s face among the fog in his vision and finding it too far away for him to really make out if his expression was gentle or cold. “While I forgive you for that little nick you gave me,” his hand, the one not holding the leash, brushed against Jack’s face, and Jack nearly melted into the touch like candle wax. “We can’t have you nipping.”

As much as he wanted his mouth free to lick, suck, and bite, Jack knew Jester was right. Jester was always right. So he nodded, earning another scratch under his chin that was a good enough substitute for his disappointment.

The leash gained a bit of slack, Jester taking a step back, ignoring how Jack scrambled to keep his hands on his savior. “Good boy,” he cooed, before his voice flattened to demand more from Jack. “Now take off your clothes.”

Jack’s heart thundered against his ribcage, mind alight with excitement that something he dreamed of was actually happening. His hands fumbled for his clothes, hands faltering like he’s never put on or ever removed his own costume. “Slower,” Jester gave additional instructions that Jack quickly followed.

Piece by piece, Jack’s costume was dropped to the side as he kneeled before Jester until he was as nude as the day he was born. He was trembling, and Jack was sure that Jester could hear his heart screaming in his chest. His bones ached with need and desperation, his skin craving ‌Jester’s touch, even just a gentle brush would do. If he waited any longer, the control Jack had over himself would snap, and Jack so desperately didn’t want to disappoint Jester.

“Lean back and spread your legs. I want to see what I’m working with,” Jester’s voice was enough to stop Jack’s mind from going mad with lust for now, at least.

Parting his legs and leaning back, using his arms to keep himself upright, Jack did as he was told, baring his drenched slit to Jester. The air inside the tent is so cold on Jack’s skin, but near scalding on his sex. Jester noted Jack’s body, that while still rather masculine presenting with only hints of femininity, still possessed a vagina; Jester could assume that it also came with a womb that Jack so desperately wanted filled. His cunt, so wet and needy, almost shimmered in the low light. Even if Jester wouldn’t admit something so vulgar out loud, it was pretty, if a bit understated; a more simplified idea of a vagina, one lacking‌ labia minora. Thankfully, nothing too far outside of typical anatomy, nothing that Jester would struggle with. Jack earns another bit of praise, Jester reinforcing Jack’s obedience.

Jack was whimpering under Jester’s gaze, his pleading kept silent with the gag in his mouth, until the bottom of Jester’s boot pressed into his stomach, the heel grinding against Jack’s clit. “Stay still,” Jester instructed once more when Jack faltered out of his pose. Without a word, Jack nodded, limbs trembling as he struggled to obey. He almost failed again when Jester’s heel pressed down on his clit, mercilessly grinding down on the overly sensitive ball of nerves; the bell on the boot quietly jingling with every movement.

Fuck, it felt so good. It shouldn’t, but Jack’s body is so desperate for relief that it’d take any abuse and turn it into pleasure. Jack tried to stop himself and found himself on the losing side, his hips rising to push back on the boot for just a little more stimulation. The sight of Jack’s sheer need made Jester click his tongue at such a pathetic display.

“So eager, aren’t you Jack?” Jester couldn’t help but smile at such a well-behaved mate, one so ready to obey. It felt like Jack was spoiling him, offering himself up like this. “So sensitive, too. I bet I could make you cum just like this.”

Jester was probably right too, he always was, after all. But he would not bother proving himself right, removing his boot from Jack’s stomach and lifting it higher. With a single nudge of his foot, Jester kicks Jack’s shoulder back. A kick was far from hard enough to hurt, but the unexpectedness of it made Jack fall onto his back, the wind being knocked out of him, his legs flying up into the air. Sprawled out on the floor, Jack watched as a dark shadow stood over him, one leg over his shoulder and the other one under his opposing armpit.

“I’m disappointed Jack, why didn’t you come to me earlier instead of hiding your heat until it got this bad? I thought you trusted me,” Jester knew his words were telling a false narrative, but that didn’t stop him from digging the guilty knife into Jack’s chest. It was a good thing that Jester had already gagged Jack; no doubt Jack would plead for forgiveness if he wasn’t. “But it’s okay; I understand you were feeling shy. You’re still so new to our circus, our home, you didn’t want to ruin it so soon.” Jack nodded, desperately agreeing. “However, everyone here helps one another out, even in intimate matters like this. We would have helped you; you didn’t have to let yourself get to this point. In the future, come to us when you have these urges.”

“Right now, however, I am willing to be the one to help you through these urges. But,” the leash went taut, just enough to remind Jack of his circumstances, like he could even forget. “I should warn you, I am not gentle. I will not go easy on you. Do not expect me to be like a lover to you. I’m giving you the chance now to back out, and I will fetch someone else who will be a bit more to your tastes. So, shake your head if you desire a more gentle touch from someone else.”

Jack didn’t want anyone else; he wanted, he needed it to be Jester. So instead he nodded frantically, his begging for Jester to just shove him into the ground and fuck him until he’s crying coming out as moaning and saliva from around the ball in his mouth.

It felt like it was his birthday with the way Jester felt so spoiled with such an enthusiastic present ready to unwrap below him. Rolling his wrist, Jester wraps the leash twice around his hand before pulling hard up; the shortened length of the leash picking Jack off the floor by the neck. The vertebrae in Jack’s neck strain against the leash, Jack’s hands grappling up to pull himself closer to Jester by his clothes; to relieve some pressure, but truly he only desires to hold Jester against him.

He’s pulled up, whimpering the entire way, until he pulls himself up far enough that his face presses into Jester’s crotch. If not for the gag in his mouth, Jack would have done anything to taste Jester, but just being close enough to breathe in Jester’s scent was enough for now. The emptiness in his throat remained, however.

“Oh, just look at you, Jack. It’s like you're drunk with lust,” Jester’s free hand ran through Jack’s hair, coming to a stop behind his head. “I almost have to wonder, have you been dreaming of this?”

Maybe it was a good thing that the gag was stopping Jack from replying; he didn’t think he could lie to Jester right now. Not that it’d even matter, Jester always saw right through him. Instead, Jack could only whine, eyes screaming out his needs even if they couldn’t really focus on anything at all.

“You’re mine, my obedient little mutt,” all at once, he let go of Jack, letting him fall back to the floor with a firm thump. “I’ll give you exactly what you need.”

The purple blur moved away from Jack, pulling the leash with him, forcing Jack onto his hands and knees to follow. Only once does Jester need to give an encouraging tug when Jack stumbles over his hands, just having to keep the leash a little taut to direct him forward.

Jester sits on his bed as if it were a throne for him, silently urging Jack closer, then up. Even through the blur, Jack can see Jester pat his lap, an order left unspoken but clear. With no hesitation, instead filled with excitement, Jack pulled himself up and onto Jester; sitting with his legs lying on the bed, entwining with the sheets, and his arms wrapped around Jester’s neck. His hot breath being pushed around the ball onto Jester’s neck, where he buries his face between the crook of Jester’s neck and shoulder. He almost falls apart when he feels Jester’s arm curl around his back and grip his thigh, pulling Jack closer so he doesn’t fall off.

With another silent order, Jester’s knuckles tap against the inside of Jack’s thighs. Peeking over the other’s shoulders, Jack opened up his legs and watched, panting and drooling, as Jester’s hand slid closer to his aching cunt.

Jack almost cried, feeling just a single finger drag down his slit, his hold on Jester tightening before he could stop himself. He’s quick to fix his hold, not daring to even risk making Jester change his mind. Not that Jester hadn’t noticed the slick soaking into his pants nor the drool dripping on his collarbone; it had slipped Jack’s attention. If Jack was so inpatient, then Jester had no reason to be patient either; after all, Jack was more than ready.

Two of Jester’s fingers thrust deep into Jack, the slickness allowing the sudden intrusion possible despite how tight Jack was. A sharp mewl leaves Jack, teeth digging into firm silicone and hips thrusting into Jester’s hand. His claws twitch, flex once, Jack thinks twice about where his claws shouldn’t dig, and instead presses his face into Jester’s neck.

Breathing in Jester’s scent like it's a drug, Jack whimpered and cried as Jester’s fingers dragged along his soft walls. The way Jester’s fingers dive deep into Jack’s sex feels near transcendent, pure ecstasy. Perhaps it was just how deep Jack was in his own heat, or maybe it was because it was Jester’s fingers that a touch as little as this could bring this much pleasure. Jack couldn’t tell, not that there was much reason to care.

“Just relax, Jack,” Jester reassured the trembling mess in his arms.

Using a loud, high-pitched moan as an agreement, Jester tilted his hand into Jack’s pelvis, palm grinding into Jack’s clit with every thrust of his fingers. This is hardly anything new to Jester, and with how Jack was, it made his work all the ‌easier. In, out, press up with his fingers, abuse the parts that made Jack sob out the most, in, out. The lewd sound of his fingers being fucked into Jack filled the room, mixing with his muffled whimpering to create a truly desirable song just for Jester.

While Jack’s mind can focus only on pleasure, hardly even that really, Jester’s mind was just focused on understanding Jack’s body. He felt drenched in Jack’s pheromones, tempting his own instincts to surrender into a rut of his own, to plant his seed deep into Jack over and over. But he was better than that; Jester couldn’t allow himself to fall to such a primitive instinct. Focus on Jack, Jester reminds himself; this is just so he can get back to work when morning comes.

His fingers slowly felt out Jack’s tight cunt, mapping the slick walls as his hand was drenched in Jack’s arousal. In time, his fingers find where Jack seems most sensitive, far in the back, so close to the cervix, trailing down halfway to the opening. The walls separate something that sits between the vaginal walls and the pelvis. Jester, finding a small, almost impossible to find opening where the pouch seems to open into the vagina. So Jack has a penis as well, Jester realizes with great fascination; he’s never laid with someone with both masculine and feminine genitalia.

Jester’s thirst for information is cut short as Jack’s finger digs into his back, claws pushing into his skin and threatening to slice into him. Any control Jack has over himself loosens as his orgasm gets closer, not even noticing Jester flinching as his claws draw blood from Jester.

A sharp scoff leaves Jester’s lips, pulling his arm wrapped around Jack away, grabbing the back of Jack’s collar. In a single pull, Jester tears Jack off his lap and throws him onto Jester’s bedsheets. Jack whines at how empty his cunt feels when Jester’s fingers were dragged out of him as he was thrown back. Jester wastes no time in pressing three fingers into him to make up for the sudden loss. Planting himself between Jack’s legs and kneeling on Jack’s left thigh to pin him down, Jester’s hand that grips the leash curls around Jack’s neck.

There is no fear in Jack’s eyes as Jester’s grip tightens around his throat, cutting off oxygen as his cunt can barely handle how brutally Jester’s fingers slam into him. His eyes are on Jester, gazing at him like Jester is his lover, his god, trusting Jester implicitly even as he’s slowly choked out. His head swam from the lack of oxygen, the feeling only heightening the sensation of his slit being abused.

Jack’s fingers wrap around Jester’s wrist that pushes his neck down as Jack reaches orgasm. His spine curls up, sobbing through the gag with complete hedonistic ecstasy. To him, right now, nothing could compare to his climax.

Yet despite how clearly Jack orgasmed around Jester’s fingers, Jester's fingers only slammed into him harder. Not out of a lack of noticing it, but because of him feeling Jack orgasm. Overstimulation floods and drowns Jack, writhing beneath Jester’s grip as his oxygen is completely cut off. His hold on Jester’s wrist tightens enough to bruise before he lets go, reaching above him and clawing at the bedsheets in a pathetic attempt to get away from the painful pleasure that’s overwhelming him.

Jester forces a second orgasm out of Jack, deciding to give the other a break as tears stream down Jack’s face. He released his grip from Jack’s neck, moving it up to wipe away some tears. There’s quiet as Jack slowly falls down from the heights of a second orgasm, chest heaving in air.

Once Jester deems Jack conscious enough, he leans over and gets his face close enough that Jack can make out his features. “Do you wish to stop now, my mutt?”

With eyelashes wetted with tears, Jack gazed up at Jester and shook his head. No, no, Jack still needed more; this wasn’t enough.

“Very well,” Jester sits up, eyes shifting to his torn blankets with a grimace. “However, it seems like I need to take more precautions to prevent you from destroying my belongings.” Jack’s grip loosens on the torn blankets, eyes fluttering from Jester to the blankets, then back to Jester. What sounds like an apology is mumbled, a poor attempt at a guilty pout. Jester just sighs, “Roll over onto your stomach.”

The mattress shifts as Jester gets up, moving across the space to Jack’s sorrow, even if for a moment he doesn’t want to be left alone. Not that his loneliness would stop him from obeying Jester, pushing himself over to lie face down, burying his face into the soft sheets. He listens intently as Jester fetches more items; the slight slipping of leather, wood being released of slight weights, metal clinking against metal. Like an old dog chewing on their bone, Jack’s teeth dug into the silicone ball, digging, gnashing with each passing second.

When Jester returns, his hands pull Jack’s arms behind his back, bent so that both forearms layer over each other. More leather slides across Jack’s skin, cuffing halfway up his biceps and binding his forearms; rendering his arms immobile. Another wordless order is given when Jester pulls on Jack’s hips, his ass sticking up while his face remains buried in the blankets.

“Relax your body,” Jester trails his fingers up Jack’s spine, pushing Jack’s spine to a less strained position with it bending towards the bed beneath. His hand reaches Jack’s neck, and despite how much Jack needed Jester’s touch, Jester only retrieves the leash before it’s gone. “Keep that pose, yes, just like that. Good boy.”

The position Jester had pulled him into left Jack trembling; all of him was exposed to Jester, he could see everything. His starved cunt, how it trembled, his own fluids dripping down his legs and onto the bedsheets below. Jester must be annoyed at how much Jack is dirtying his bed. The first thing he’s gonna do once he gets out of this sorry state is to clean everything he made filthy. Maybe Jester won’t be-

Jack jolts in surprise when one of Jester’s fingers dips back into him, pushing something all the way back against his cervix. Jester only responds by his hand going to the small of Jack’s spine, pushing down until Jack finds the proper position again. The finger pulls itself out of Jack, leaving the foreign object behind; only for it to return with a second small, smooth object, placing it right against where Jack was most sensitive. Then a third, placed just a little past the opening, and finally a fourth, taped to press against Jack’s clit.

Each of the round objects sits inside Jack, save for one of them; their size makes them hardly pleasurable to Jack at all. He can feel them, yes, as well as the thin strings attached to them that lead back to Jester, but that is all they do for him. He whines, shifting his weight from knee to knee, trying his best to beg Jester to do more.

Like a shock of lightning, the smooth, little object that’s placed against his cervix begins to vibrate. Jester’s hand returns to Jack’s spine, once more reminding him to keep his pose. He’s almost immediately thrown out of it when the second vibrator turns on, this one being the one that was placed against his most sensitive spot. This time, without Jester’s urging, Jack returns to his pose.

The third and fourth vibrators turn on, not a single spot of Jack’s cunt left neglected. Like the vibrators were planted everywhere in his body, Jack twitched and whined, thighs rubbing together. Jack is falling apart before Jester, enjoying every second of sexual gratification with hedonistic glee. The complete opposite to Jester, who sits behind him, perched on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, like he’s a king on a throne. The remotes to each of the vibrators sit on the bed between them, as Jester stares with little interest in watching Jack fall apart before him.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Jester says after a full minute; his voice barely even reaching past the fog in Jack’s head. His free hand tracing a single finger up Jack’s thigh, smearing Jack’s slick, just to tease him. “Perhaps a bit too much, really. I have them all set to their lowest setting. If they’re doing that much for you, I expect their highest setting would kill you.” There’s an unnecessary pause, as Jester has already decided. “Let’s find out.”

One by one, Jester increases each vibrator by one level, grinning to himself as Jack’s high-pitched cries of pleasure only get louder with each change. Pushing the vibrators to their third speed, Jester puts his hand on Jack’s back again, keeping it there to force him to stay in position. Jester can’t even tell if Jack has cummed again since the vibrators were turned on, but he was sure that Jack had at least once. Hard to tell when Jack’s entire body was spasming.

“They’re almost at their highest setting, Jack, just hold on a little more. You can do this for me, my good puppy,” he reassured Jack, even if Jack probably didn’t even register his voice as Jack drowned in overwhelming pleasure.

Just to torture Jack, Jester pushes each vibrator to its highest setting one by one, taking plenty of time between each one. He’s actually impressed that Jack is taking it so well, considering how sensitive he is; the vibrators must be agonizing inside ‌him. Though if anyone were to pass by and hear Jack in this state, they’d likely believe that Jester really was torturing him. The gag was a good idea, since Jack would likely have woken the entire circus up without it.

With an especially loud cry, Jack’s legs went limp like a melting glacier, his entire body hitting the bedsheets. A smile, self-congratulatory and all teeth, spreads across Jester’s face, giving Jack only a couple more seconds of ‌torture before turning each vibrator off one by one; removing them all when all are turned off. Jack lay there, chest heaving as he remembered how to breathe again, limp and face down.

“Good boy, you did so well,” Jester held one of Jack’s thighs, massaging it. “That should be enough for you.”

A low groan is whimpered into the bedsheets, the meaning behind it nebulous. Jester raises an eyebrow, pulling himself off the bed to get closer to Jack, flipping ‌the almost corpse-like Jack onto his back.

Jack gazes up at Jester, eyes bleary and tears staining his cheeks, which have turned a deep red. In his mouth is the silicone gag, deep gashes torn through it from Jack’s chewing to the point it hardly could even fulfill its purpose. The sight of another one of Jester’s belongings damaged just elicits a defeated sigh, reaching down and removing the gag from Jack’s mouth; dripping with saliva and completely turned to trash.

“‘M sorry,” Jack's voice comes out a bit slurred from fatigue. “I wasn’t meaning to, please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad, Jack, I should have known this would happen,” with a quick toss over his shoulder, Jester rid himself of having to deal with the wrecked gag for now. “As I said earlier, I’m not carrying you, but as you seem satisfied now, it is best you return to your own tent. As such, I will go retrieve the Doctor; he can return you to your tent since you likely can’t walk on-”

“No,” Jack interrupted, wriggling his body closer to Jester. “I’m, I’m not, it’s not enough. I need you.”

“Elaborate,” Jester bites his tongue to not scoff at Jack’s refusal.

“I need more, I need you to, to,” the words are hard for Jack to say, but desperation makes them possible. “Please, breed me, fill me with your cum. I don’t want your toys or whatever, I want your, your dick, inside me. Please, Jester, please, please breed me.”

Jester’s teeth clacked together, trying to swallow his growing frustration. Jack probably can’t even stand anymore, and yet he’s still asking for more? How much time is he asking Jester to waste? “Jack, I can’t just breed you. I understand that right now your mind is filled with instincts calling for you to breed, but just think of the consequences that would come if I got you pregnant. We have no place to raise an infant, nor the time, nor the manpower, nor the equipment needed. How would we raise a child here? Do you think any of us would be good parents? Just think of what the others would think, with you having my child; how would they react to such a blatant abuse of power? Even if they’d never say it, they might believe that I took advantage of you while you were in heat, an altered state mind you, to bear me a child simply for pride or ego. Children come with a lot of responsibilities, and while I know you love them, I doubt you alone can raise a child to adulthood.” Perhaps Jester would make for a good parent, if only his ability to scold mattered.

“Having children is something the parents must think through beforehand, Jack,” Jester lowered his voice from a more disciplinary tone, to a softer, comforting one. “It cannot be done just because your instincts call for it. It’d be better for me to use a dildo than my own phallus until we can trick your body into believing you’ve been bred. If that doesn’t work, then it would be best for you to be restrained until the heat passes by itself.

Jester watches as his words register into Jack’s mind, his face looking more disappointed every passing moment. “I don’t,” Jack mumbles, and for a moment Jester believes he’s seen reason. “I don’t care. I want, no, I need you to fuck me till I’m bred. It feels like I’m dying; I just need you so much. I’ll, I’ll figure everything out myself. I’ll leave the circus with my baby if I have to. I’ll make sure you don’t have to worry about me or my baby at all. I just, I just need you so much.”

Tears, not tears from overstimulation but actual tears born from dejection, spill from Jack’s eyes as he strains his eyes just to see Jester’s face through the fog. It’s impossible, of course, but not being able to see Jester’s expression only deepens his misery. Jester must think Jack pathetic, disgusting, whorish even, begging for this, surely.

Instead, Jester only rubs his temples, considering several potential resolutions. He’d much rather just say no and be done with this. However, if he does, then he’d be risking Jack’s heat continuing; and Jester would rather not have Jack be roaming the circus looking for someone else who is more willing to take on a breeding role.

It’d be one thing if Jack went to any of the others, at least the issue would be more contained; but it’d be a whole other issue if it was a customer. Even if the chance of him being bred would be significantly lower, if not entirely impossible, said hypothetical human would almost certainly see Jack’s inhuman nature. If the others didn’t find out about it in time, that human could tell other humans about Jack’s true form, and the consequences have been lived far too many times for Jester to care to repeat. Worse-case scenario, Jack imprints on that human as a mate; but Jester doesn’t even want to think about that option.

The ramifications of Jack being bred by someone in the circus are at least less severe, but should still not be forgotten. None of parenthood strikes Jester as a good nor tempting idea in the slightest; if anything, it just gives him a headache. But… what Jack doesn’t know can’t hurt him. It would take only a brief conversation with the Doctor to solve this baby issue long before it is an issue, then a second one with Pierrot to make sure it’s slipped into Jack’s breakfast. Jester could have all of that arranged before Jack even wakes up, especially considering how long Jack often sleeps. If the Doctor's solution doesn’t work the first time, then they have an entire gestation period to try again. A miscarriage, that’s all Jack will have to know.

“Very well,” there has been no other time that Jester has appreciated how near blind Jack is than right now; the expression on Jester’s face is one Jack is better off not seeing.

The expression on Jack’s face, however, is one of absolute jubilation; like a long-held dream came true. “Really? You’ll, you’ll do it?” Jack twisted his body to get closer to Jester, though only managed to grind his torso into the bedsheets, tangling himself within them. A little too close to the edge, too, Jester notes; he’d rather not see Jack injure himself. Just a quick glimpse at how sluggish Jack was: he was too exhausted to stand, and with his arms bound, he was rather useless physically speaking.

“If it’s what it’ll take to help you, then yes. Just give me one moment,” with a step back, Jester keeps a wary eye on Jack. He was right not to trust Jack, as the moment Jester had moved just two steps back, Jack slid his body closer, trying to chase after Jester. The second Jack’s shoulders pass the edge of the bed, his body quickly follows suit and slips over the side. Jester barely catches him before Jack’s head would have struck the floor, only struggling more to get the larger man back onto the bed. “Stay,” he chides Jack, who mumbles a shameful apology for the accident he almost caused.

Jack can only listen as Jester peels off his layers of his costume, the blur he knows to be Jester losing more and more of the alluring purple that Jack craved. It was hardly a disappointment, however, knowing that it was only a step that Jester deemed necessary to take before the two of them could finally lay together. If only Jester had allowed him to see his body up close, to carve the body of his idol into the marble in his mind. But Jack knew better; such a fantasy was far beneath Jester to even consider.

When the soft footsteps, now lacking their signature jingle, crept closer, it took every ounce of willpower for Jack to not end up falling over the edge again. Even without most of the familiar purple, Jack could still see the wine-colored hair that draped down over his naked form. It was Jester; Jack knew it even if he couldn’t discern the man from the fog. The way the bed dipped underneath Jester as he sat so close to Jack, the graceful hands, so slender yet demanding of power, as they lay on Jack’s hips, the faint aroma that brought thoughts of a winter’s night; all of it was so discerningly Jester.

“Up,” the command is given as Jester pulls on Jack’s hips and legs, ordering Jack back onto his knees. His body hardly obeys him anymore; his mind drowning in the afterglow of overstimulating orgasms and still unfulfilled instincts. Jester ends up having to do most of the work, manipulating Jack’s body like a ceramic doll.

Jack’s breath burns against the bedsheets; the small space between his beet-red face and the black sheets feels unbearably hot against his face. His heart leaps, then falls, when Jester’s hand passes by him to retrieve the leash, wrapping it around his hand to make sure it stays taut; to remind Jack of the collar around his neck. Not that he could, not that he wanted to.

He almost jumps out of his skin when he feels Jester’s free hand grip the meat of his thigh, the warmth of his slender fingers almost a balm on Jack’s trembling thigh. “Calm,” Jester scolds, with little teeth in his tone, “This will be over soon.” Fuck, Jack really, really hoped that wasn’t the case, that out of all the times Jester has been right, this would be the first time he would be wrong.

“Jest-” Jack’s voice comes out intermingled with a moan. His pleading is cut short when Jester’s hand seizes a handful of his hair, pushing it sharply against the bedsheets.

“Be quiet for just a moment, Jack.”

Jack nodded slightly; at this point, he would tear out his own tongue if Jester told him to.

“Good boy,” the bed shifted under Jester’s weight, every tiny movement like a slow torture to Jack’s patience. Rise, drop, as Jester pulled closer. Something warm pushed against Jack’s slit, and before Jack could even realize that it was Jester’s cock, it was pushed into him till it slammed against his cervix. The sound that came out of Jack barely even sounded like they could have come from him. Too high-pitched, too whorish, though the neediness was about right.

Jester gave Jack no time to adjust to his size, looming over him as his hips slammed against Jack’s. What was the point in giving Jack a moment to breathe? Jester was kind enough already to take so long preparing him. The sound of skin on skin was inaudible underneath Jack’s indulgent whimpering, muffled only slightly as his face was pressed into the sheets. Every thrust makes his toes curl and stretch; his body trying to decide if it wants to pull away from the overstimulating force, or to push back into it.

Drool soaked into dark bedsheets, smearing across Jack’s face with every sharp push into his dripping cunt. His arousal makes Jester’s brutal pace more bearable, his fluids leaking down his legs. It felt amazing. Jack had fantasized about this very thing over and over almost the day after he became a part of the circus’ family, even though he scolded himself repeatedly every time. So many nights spent lying awake, fucking himself against his own hands, thinking about Jester. Dreaming about Jester. None of his fantasies could amount to this reality; they never could.

It was gratifying to see Jack come undone beneath Jester. Watching his back muscles tense up and tremble as if they were about to snap apart, yet still Jack’s hips pushed back to meet Jester with every thrust. The combination of Jester’s hips meeting Jack’s, the quiet slick sound of Jack’s cunt welcoming his cock, the bed’s creaking complaints, and Jack’s near-euphoric sobs all made for a beautiful melody that Jester wouldn’t mind hearing again. With how loud Jack was, though, Jester knew he was possibly waking the others from their own sleep. He’ll have to apologize in the morning.

A possessive, near-feral, self-satisfied sneer spread wide across Jester’s face, his strained breathing as hot as smoldering coal as it pushed past his clenched teeth. His domineering hunger, wanting nothing more than to make this night impossible for Jack to forget. That even if Jack lost all of his other memories, let only this one stay. How badly he wanted to push Jack to his limits, make him plead for mercy, just so Jester could ignore him, break him. Oh, how beautiful Jack would look, covered in bruises, cum, blood, and sweat; a distant, exhausted gaze in his eyes. Maybe Jester should take out some of his favorite toys: his crop, his spreader bars, his sensory deprivation hood, his ropes, his silicone cocks, his whip-

But no, Jester had to hold himself back, at least for now. Maybe when Jack is a bit more level-headed, the two of them can see how far he’s willing to go; but right now, Jack would agree to anything if it meant release from his heat. Jester had an image to uphold, at least for his family.

That doesn’t mean he will not indulge himself at least a little, however. Jester's free hand slides up Jack’s sweat-slicked spine, his other hand making sure the leash stays taut, feeling Jack’s muscles twitch against his fingertips. And with a sadistic smile, he dragged his claws down Jack’s back, just hard enough to draw a few pearls of blood along the angry lines he left; taking great care to avoid where a nick too deep could cause serious harm, of course. It was worth it, hearing Jack’s carnal, tortured whine fill the tent.

“Jester~” Jack sobbed Jester’s name like a prayer, his head lifting to turn and look at his savior.

Only for Jester to shove his face right back into the sheets. “Shhh,” Jester shushed, his thumb rubbing circles into Jack’s scalp. “I know, I know.”

That gentle reassurance is almost made a mockery of when Jester pulls back the leash. Hard. Lifting Jack’s torso off the bed, all of his body weight being held up only where his hips met Jester’s and the leash. His oxygen restricted until he could only get tiny gasps past the pressure, his moaning a lot quieter but far more hedonistic. His hands clench and unclench over and over, the delicate muscles in them threatening to snap as they strain.

Jester’s eyes track over Jack’s back, scanning for any sign of agony or distress, just to make sure this position isn’t agonizing for Jack. His concern is quickly quelled as Jack’s hips grind back, his body begging for Jester to keep fucking into him. With how indulgent this is for Jester, he could almost mistake that all this is for him, instead of just a means to an end; to satisfy Jack’s heat.

The new position makes every thrust hit harder and deeper, likely bruising the poor muscle. A squeak falls from Jack’s lips with every thrust, his body jerking like he’s being shocked with a low-strength taser repeatedly. Jester could feel his cock grinding against where Jack’s own hidden cock was placed snugly between his cunt and pelvic bone.

Just the sight of Jack’s body struggling with the limited oxygen and brutal pounding was a sight to behold. It was so tempting to Jester to consider fucking Jack even when he wasn’t needing it during a heat, seeing how well Jack’s body responded to Jester. His sadistic urges rearing up again, telling him that maybe he should just forget morals for right now; see how cruel he can be before Jack begs him to stop. The idea is a siren song in his skull, tempting him toward destruction.

But this position can’t be held for too long, and Jester knows when he needs to give Jack oxygen again when his squeaking starts to go quiet, body beginning to slump. Shame, Jester enjoyed seeing Jack’s body overexert itself into exhaustion while still stupidly seeking‌ more pleasure. He pulled harder on the leash, pulling Jack’s torso back until Jack was sitting on Jester’s lap. The pressure on Jack’s neck fading away, his gasping for air turning back into whining for more, Jester’s name whispered with every exhale. Jack’s head presses against Jester’s shoulder, his spine having to curl outwards a lot to make it possible with his taller stature compared to Jester’s. His slick walls clenching tightly around Jester’s cock as he resumes slamming his hips up into Jack. There’s not a doubt in Jester’s mind that Jack is about to orgasm again, with how much his cunt was twitching and squeezing, especially how much he was grinding his cock against Jack’s retracted, internal cock.

“Cum for me, Jack,” Jester’s voice stays steady, like he can’t feel his own climax getting close. “Be a good boy and cum on my cock.”

A low whine leaves Jack, his eyes shutting tight while his mouth hangs open. “I’ll be, I’ll be your good, good boy,” the words sounding more like sobbing than speaking. But true to his word, it only takes a few more thrusts before his climax courses through his body, muscles tightening, stiff yet shaking. A loud,high-pitched mewl comes out of him, only dying out as his orgasm does; with Jester’s head right next to Jack’s, he almost wishes he was wearing earplugs.

Jester’s breath strains as it comes out, his own end getting close. It just takes a few more thrusts for him before he lets himself go, loosening the grip he held on his own mental leash. Something deep, carnal, feral, inside of Jester aches, his mouth feeling empty, craving flesh between his teeth. Despite his disciplined control over himself, instincts won over and-

-His teeth sink into Jack’s nape, marking him. Claiming him.

It’s like Jack climaxes a second time as Jester’s cum pours into him, his walls determined to milk Jester’s cock for the very last drop of his cum. Maybe he actually did orgasm again, at least just a little. Whether it was because of the hot cum inside him or the ravenous teeth dug into his flesh, Jack couldn’t even tell which caused it.

Riding out the last of his orgasm and taking a second to inhale deeply, Jester released Jack from his grip, firmly pushing him forward and off of Jester’s lap. With little strength left in his body, he falls like a corpse onto Jester’s bed. The stretch of Jack’s cunt around Jester being lost in a moment, leaving Jack feeling like he just lost a puzzle piece he’d only just found. Feeling Jester’s cum dripping out of his slit only made his saddened state worse.

Behind him, Jester took deep breaths, stabilizing himself. His tongue swiping across his beastly teeth, tasting Jack’s blood in his mouth. Jester was already scolding himself for actually allowing himself to leave a mark on Jack, well aware that for their kind, a bite like that given like this wasn’t just a bite. It was claiming territory. It meant a lot more than Jester wanted Jack to interpret; he didn’t want to claim Jack like a mate; he didn’t want Jack to think he was Jester’s mate.

It must have been the situation and how permeated the air was with Jack’s pheromones that drove Jester to do something so stupidly animalistic, so beneath him. At least that’s what he tells himself. Right now, Jester doesn’t want to clarify their relationship; he’d rather leave that for the morning. When they were both rested and of a clearer mind.

“As I said earlier, I am not carrying you back to your tent. Just stay here, I’ll go fetch the Doctor,” Jester repeated his words from earlier, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. He was not in the mood for coddling Jack right now; the amount of hours he’s been awake beginning to weigh down his shoulders. All the aftercare can be left to Doctor; it would hardly be a surprise to him at this point considering how many times Jester has asked that of him with his past trysts.

“Jester…” Jack’s voice, almost reduced to hoarse whispers, halted Jester from cleaning himself up and getting dressed again.

In response, Jester turned his head, his gaze landing on Jack’s face. The perpetual unfocused look in Jack’s eyes somehow feels even more distant. “Jack,” he tries to hide the subtle exasperation in his tone, thankfully Jack seems to be too out of it to notice it anyway.

“I, I, please,” there’s a struggle to get the words out for Jack, like his lungs themselves are tired. “Again, please.”

“Again?” Jester repeated the word back to Jack, his exasperation now not even trying to hide anymore. “Jack, I don’t think your body could handle another round. Surely you’re too exhausted for your heat to still-”

“Just!” Jack’s voice peaked in desperation, begging, pleading. “Just one more. Then I’ll, then that’ll be enough for me. One more, just one more.”

There was no exaggerating when Jester pointed out how fatigued Jack’s body looked; even with his tall frame, he looked small and fragile. Jester had done this plenty of times before, that even though he’d gone easy on Jack, he could recognize that Jack couldn’t take much more. “Jack, it is late. We both need to rest.”

“Not yet! Just a little longer, please,” Jack pleaded. As if he was fueled by his need, Jack’s body shifted and writhed towards Jester, arms pulling at their restraints. “Fill me with your cum again! I want to, I need to be bred. Please, Jester, breed me.”

There was no way that Jack was unaware of Jester’s permanently packed daily schedule. His mornings started far earlier than Jack’s, who spent most of his time sleeping ‌out of necessity. It was a daily ritual for Jester to wake before the others did, forcing himself out of his own self-made trap of comfort that was his bed. It was important that he checked on the Fools first, making sure none of them, well, got any ideas. Literally. Only when he could assure himself that his puppets still hung from the strings he had left them on could he allow himself to go about his day.

But then again, he already knew that tomorrow’s duties were more lax than usual. All the proper paperwork Ticket Taker and he had already completed, weekly ledgers checked thrice, and everyone’s personal funds were still not due for another nine days. It was Pierrot’s turn to deal with some of the pink tent’s mess tomorrow as well, while Harlequin was to lure in more customers. Meaning that as long as they could get through breakfast without trying to maim one another, they’d spend most of the day separated. Doctor… Well, Jester usually left him to his own devices. Doctor knew when it was time to work and when they could afford to let Doctor return to his unending studies. Beyond the daily tasks of ensuring everything in the circus was running smoothly, Jester had planned to spend up till lunch babysitting assisting Harlequin with the customers. After lunch, he intended to spend the rest of his day until the circus opened practicing his own act. He couldn’t let any of his Fools mess up on stage after all.

Perhaps just this once Jester could sleep in for an extra hour or two. Ticket Taker always woke quickly after Jester would, and he was more than capable of checking up on the Fools, so the most important morning chore would be taken care of. He doubted that any of the others would really mind much if he took just a single morning to just be a bit more lazy when life allowed him too. Jester was never much of a morning person anyway; many of his kind were nocturnal, and if he could get away with it, he would be too. Just a little longer awake at night, and just sleep in a little more in the morning.

“One more round,” only half committing to his word, Jester rubbed his temples in defeat. He knew he shouldn’t be indulging Jack this much; he wasn’t even sure why he was besides just to end his heat.

Hearing Jester relent to his request, Jack’s face lit up brighter than the sun. “Thank you! I swear, this’ll be the last one!” he promised, both of them hoping that he was right, that Jack will only need one more round to be satisfied. “But um,” Jack's shoulders shifted left and right, wriggling and pulling in his arm restraints, “could you let me out? If, if that isn’t too much of an issue, of course!”

There’s a beat of quiet, the bed underneath Jester shifting as Jack lay still. Enough time for Jack to spiral into anxiety; he’d promised Jester he could take whatever Jester gave him, and now Jack was asking for more comfort and ease. What if he just disappointed Jester, made himself look like a fool who doesn’t know their own limits?

The spiral comes to a halt as the restraints are tugged loose, leather sliding across leather and metal clicking. It takes a moment before Jack’s arms are freed, the restraints being dropped to the side, forgotten. Jester’s knees straddled Jack’s hips, keeping his weight off‌ Jack, looming over him. The warm, familiar hands that Jack knew and craved caressed down his arms, massaging blood flow back into his arms where the restraints were ‌tightest. It took everything within Jack not to moan.

That sensation only lasted for a far too short amount of time before Jester’s hands left Jack’s skin. Though any amount of time would have been too brief for Jack. The bed shifts again, Jester moving back away from Jack and, worse yet, getting off the bed. Jack practically wilted, his freed arms pushing his torso off the bed, trying to see where Jester could have gone despite the blur. Just a hint of Jester’s amethyst hair, a tiny splash of color in the indeterminable dark; anything so he could reassure himself Jester hadn’t left.

A gentle caress down Jack’s jawline, from ear to chin, turning Jack’s attention to the mass right in front of him. “But Jack,” Jester’s voice is low, a seductive purr that makes Jack’s heart flutter. His thumb brushed against Jack’s bottom lip, the sharp claw scraping along the thin skin like a warning. His touch falls lower, the claws trailing down Jack’s neck, softer than new snow.

In a greedy heartbeat, the leash to Jack’s collar is grabbed and pulls a gasp out of Jack, eyes wide. Jester leans down over him, placing his mouth so tantalizingly close to Jack’s ear. “You will have to earn it.”

Jester sits right in front of Jack, so close that Jack can smell the Jester’s cock, the pheromones that smelled like blueberries crushed beneath a leather boot. Like the mutt he was, a Pavlov dog salivating to the ringing of a bell, Jack’s mouth filled with saliva and a near overwhelming hunger for Jester’s cum drank down his throat. The leash was pulled, leading Jack’s head down until his face could feel the heat from Jester’s cock.

He doesn’t need an order to open his mouth for Jester’s cock, but he’s stopped by another sharp, quick tug on the leash. Jack almost whines at the unspoken no, just so overbearingly needy for his mouth to be stuffed full. “You will use your tongue only,” Jester instructed. “Do not put my cock in your mouth nor use your hands. Entertain me with only your tongue.”

As much as Jack wanted Jester to just shove his cock down Jack’s throat, use him like a gagging toy, Jack nodded obediently. “Okay,” he barely even stuttered out the word, just enough time for him to find Jester’s cock before his tongue was curling around Jester’s cock.

If it were possible to climax from just taste alone, Jack actually might have. The mixed fluids of both Jester’s and Jack’s cum are an enticing union of fluids, evidence of their mating. Filthy and luscious, salt and musk, the most defiled ambrosia. Jack wants nothing more than to fill his mouth with the flavor, actually considering disobeying Jester just so he could, but he could never disappoint his idol.

Jack dragged his tongue up and down Jester’s cock, no skill or tactic, just desperation to drink up and taste all of Jester. He didn’t even know if he was doing it right at all; he was at least doing good enough that he could feel Jester’s cock grow stiffer under his tongue. Knowing that he was the reason was a source of pride for Jack, that at least he could please Jester.

“Look at you,” amused, Jester watches Jack with vain delight. “So needy for my cock. I wonder, do you enjoy it because it’s mine or because you crave the taste?” The pink that covered Jack’s face where the smeared face paint was the faintest, only grew deeper. Both, Jester decides, and rightfully so. “I thought you to be a bit too pure for me, but perhaps you are filthier than I thought. What a good boy I have.”

There is no order, no warning given before Jester grabs Jack by the scruff, tossing him back onto the bed. A small yelp pounces out of Jack as he hits the bed, already missing the taste of Jester on his tongue. Then a second one, as Jester pulls him closer by the ankles.

“Ah! Wait, wait!” Jack sputters out, and Jester’s hands remove themselves the moment the first ‘wait’ leaves Jack. His bound arms strained against the leather, drawing Jester’s attention to them. “Can I, could you let me out of these?”

As indulgent to Jack as ever, Jester reaches up, undoing the buckles one by one. The arm restraints hit the ground with a quiet, fleshy noise and metal clinking against metal, forgotten for the night. With more freedom of movement, Jack shifts onto his back; eyes pleading for Jester to continue, though he aims them too high. In the time it took for him to do so, however, the blur that Jack recognized as Jester was gone.

The heat that radiated from Jester’s body returns before Jack can even grow anxious, the dark shadow sliding between his legs. His legs wrapped around Jester’s waist, an action that made him grimace, finding it far too intimate. Like a butterfly made of bone, Jester’s claws scrape against Jack’s skin, from his ribs and over the flat plane of his stomach, coming to rest on Jack’s hipbones. Thumbs pressing down against where the bone was closest to the skin, just enough to keep Jack grounded.

Saliva collected in Jack’s mouth, nearly drooling like the mutt that he was, salivating to Jester’s bells. His skin hungered for Jester’s touch, every part of Jack craving every part of Jester. How his muscles desired only to be torn in twain, organs to be pulled out and inspected, bones aching to be snapped and the marrow drunk; whatever Jester wanted, he could take. The very scent of Jester, his pheromones that he always controlled, practiced, like his own gait, tempting Jack himself to take a bite. His teeth ached something feral.

It takes a single whine coming deep from Jack’s throat for Jester to continue. His body pulls closer, one hand curling around Jack’s mouth, a more temporary gag, albeit risky if Jack bites.

Then, in one motion, Jester’s cock fills Jack up, slamming into his cervix. Even with Jester’s hand over his mouth, the sound that came out of Jack was loud and high-pitched. Hearts filled his vision, blurring what was already indecipherable, his cunt trembling as if he’d climaxed from the sensation alone.

If there was any mercy in Jester earlier, all of it was lost. Every thrust is brutal, fast, and just about knocks the very air out of Jack’s lungs. Jester’s grip leaves bruises on Jack’s hips, claws digging into Jack’s flesh and drawing blood. The skin on Jack’s back rubbed raw as Jester pulled his body back to meet every thrust. Yet the sounds that came from Jack were only ones of outright elation, whatever pain he should be feeling mistaken as pleasure.

Jester’s name became a mantra in Jack’s mouth, tasting like the finest wine, the sounds he was making filling the whole tent. Jester could only hope that the others wouldn’t be woken by Jack’s shameless cries, if they hadn’t been already, that is. A muzzle, Jester considered the thought, to keep his jaw shut; perhaps with black leather and orchid accents to match Jack’s hair- No, this was not becoming a regular thing, he scolded himself.

The leash was snatched up into Jester’s grip, wrapping it around his hand till the rope was reduced to only a foot in length. “Can’t you be quiet?” the leash jerked, tightening the collar around Jack’s neck.

Jack tried to apologize, or at least bite his tongue, but he couldn’t even remember what language he spoke in the first place right now. His thoughts were only consumed by Jester: his warmth, his touch, his cock, his control, his voice, his everything. His legs tightened around Jester’s waist, pulling him in, making Jester’s grimace only deepen.

The leash fell slack for only a second before it was wrapped around the back of Jack’s right knee, then pulled tightly. The leather chafed against his skin and the collar only tightened further, as Jester pulled the leash back until Jack’s knee was near his head. It only gave Jack a moment of relief as Jester’s hips slowed to force Jack’s body into the new pose before Jester resumed fucking Jack like he was trying to break his hipbones. With the leg being out of the way, Jester’s thrusts only hit deeper into Jack, his bruised cervix no doubt was going to ache something cruel in the morning.

Jester leaned in closer, one hand keeping the leash tight to force Jack to keep the pose while the other dug its nails into the bedsheet by Jack’s head. Locks of silken wine fell down like a curtain around Jack’s head; the small world beyond the two of them he’s already forgotten disappearing completely. His breath was hot on Jack’s neck; the pace he’d set was difficult for him to maintain for long periods of time, but he just wanted this to be quick so he could sleep.

The proximity of their bodies gave Jack the opportunity to reach up and wrap his arms around Jester’s neck, pulling him down. Their bodies pressed against one another, hot and sticky from sweat, Jack having to curl over to bury his face in Jester’s neck, muffling his moans into Jester’s collarbone. His mind swam with Jester’s scent, every minute note of it being memorized and carved into the marble of his memory.

The things feral inside Jack bite at the bars of their cages; his teeth ache with their need. Jack isn’t even aware he’s doing it as his jaw opens wide, tongue wanting to taste more of Jester, to savor him. His teeth ache, and it feels right.

Jester’s hand slaps down on Jack’s mouth so hard that the bed bounces with Jack’s head, dazed eyes snapping open wide. The grip was so tight that it could crack the thick bone if Jester truly wanted to. He doesn’t, however, and the grip quickly loosens, though remains covering the offending mouth. Just as Jester didn’t mean to, Jack almost bit into Jester’s flesh, marking him with his teeth. For Jester, his mark bitten into Jack was a mistake, but to Jack, that same mark was one he’d wear with pride. The rejection of Jack’s own mark made Jester’s message loud and clear.

You are mine, but I am not yours.

The disappointment was clear on Jack’s face, though it was quickly forgotten as Jester’s stilled hips returned to their brutal pace. This time, neither of them made the mistake of getting too close to one another, silently agreeing not to speak of Jack’s absent-minded slip.

“This really is-” pleasure strains in Jester’s voice. “The end of me helping you-” a low grunt and teeth grit. “With your heat. Got it?”

“Can I,” greed instead hides behind the notes of Jack’s voice, hungry for just a little more. “Can you kiss me? Just once? Please?”

Out of all of Jack’s demands tonight, that is the one that Jester hates the most. Jester is made of stone and metal and leather and chains. Yet he is being asked to soften his very nature, just a little, just for a moment, into something he’s not. The very idea of it is laughable.

Despite that, Jester draws close once again, making another stupid mistake as he presses his lips to Jack’s. If flesh could melt from the bone, Jack would have made ‌an awful mess for Jester to clean. No moment in Jack’s life felt as good as Jester’s indulgence; he doubted that he’d ever feel as good as this again. Even if he could still taste their fluids mixed on his tongue, the kiss was sweet as sugar.

It ends too soon for Jack. Jester pulls away and with a last few rolls of his hips, he reaches his own orgasm once more. Cum dribbles out around Jester’s cock, only worsening the mess on his bedsheets. One more thrust to milk out his orgasm is enough to bring Jack to the brink as well. He lets out one last wanton cry before the night air finally returns to silence without the sounds of sin.

Never being one for pillow talk, Jester is on his feet before Jack brings himself back to reality, pulling the spoiled blankets off the bed and leaving only the one that Jack lay on. “And I repeat, as I said earlier,” Jester’s hands take only two seconds to remove the collar from Jack’s neck, and without it, Jack feels suddenly a lot more naked. “I will ask that Doctor does your aftercare and return you to-”

Jack’s arms lurch for Jester with a sudden, hidden burst of energy, pulling Jester close. His torso is half off the bed, his weight and grip impeding Jester from backing away. A low, rather childish whine comes out of Jack, his forehead rubbing against Jester’s hip as he shakes his head. “Jack, you must not expect to stay here tonight. It is already quite late, and my mornings start much earlier than yours, and surely your own bed would be more comfortable.” That second part was a lie. Jack’s bed was comfort within chaos, colorful bedding arranged like a nest, while Jester’s bed found comfort between thick, fluffy bedsheets and more pillows than Jester would ever need, excess to hide under.

Despite Jack knowing better, he only shakes his head again, more insistent this time. A battle that Jester wouldn’t win without force. And he was far too tired to bother with that right now.

A long, drawn - out sigh signaled Jester’s resignation, shoulders slumping as he massaged his temples. “Fine, but only for tonight. Never again, got it?” This time Jack nodded. “But I will not sleep in a bed full of cum and sweat. Let go, so I can at least clean us both.”

There’s a bit of a pause as Jack hesitates, not wanting to let go, but he relents. It only takes a moment for Jester to retrieve a few towels, one meant for the very purpose of cleaning filth like theirs. His own body is easier to clean, with less of their body fluids getting on him, cleaning himself before walking back to Jack with more clean towels. It’s awkward for them both as Jester wipes Jack clean, shame seeming to finally hit Jack as he fidgets under Jester’s hands. Wincing when Jester tries to clean away as much of the cum from Jack’s slit, the smooth towel felt rough to Jack’s sensitive sex.

Jack was still blushing, but the drunken daze and full-body flushing with his heat had mostly subsided. At least it seemed like his condition had finally passed. The dirty towels are dumped into Jester’s laundry, along with the rest of the soiled blankets, replacing some of the ones lost with new ones. To cover the stench of sex and Jack’s still lingering pheromones, Jester lights a single stick of lavender incense before finally returning to his own bed.

Jester’s bed welcomes his spent body, Jack welcoming him under the blankets far more. His arms and legs wrapped around Jester, curling into his back, face pressing against Jester’s spine. Jester could feel Jack smiling, knowing that he’s just beaming with satisfaction. It feels too awkward for Jester to tell Jack good night, so he stills his tongue instead.

“Thank you, Jester,” Jack’s voice was hardly a whisper. “I really… thank you.”

Jester hesitates, his mind more focused on how he’d word his request to the Doctor and to Pierrot in the morning.

Pierrot - Gift Giving

There is no single form of love that Pierrot will not show you. You so much as smile just a little wider for one type of display to show his burning devotion than the rest, he’ll lock onto that immediately. If you blush a little deeper than usual as he lists off all the things he loves about you, he’ll write an entire sermon of his love for you. Should your hugs linger a little longer, or just let him hold you for as long as he wishes, there will never not be a time when Pierrot is touching you while you two simply speak. If a person could drown in love, then you are the bloated, water-laden corpse floating among the reeds and cattails.

But out of all those, he finds the most joy in giving you gifts, all of them made by his hands, all of his love poured into every iota of his present. From his favorite brigadeiros, the bouquets of flowers that he’s sure scream his painful yearning for you, to the star embroidered ribbon he uses to tie your hair back on a windy day. Never forgetting to plant a kiss on the gift before it’s in your hands, like that enchants every gift like a love potion. However, if you were to give him a gift, to him, that would be like you confessing your love, truly, passionately, and loudly. Pierrot would accept the gift happily, then he’d hide it somewhere only he knows, somewhere only he can see it. The more gifts you hand him, the larger his shrine dedicated to you shall grow. But don’t let him see you give a gift to anyone else; he’d go mad with jealousy and confusion, and any human would certainly end up dead by the next morning.

When he finally steals you away, he works so hard to ensure you are as comfortable as you can be. He even does his best to prevent you from being harmed when he does, but he doesn’t realize how fragile humans are until he breaks one of your bones when you fight too hard; it was an accident; he swears. Pierrot will do anything, anything, if it makes you happy. Are you too uncomfortable sleeping in a bed with him? Then he’ll get you all the pillows and blankets you want, and he’ll sleep on the floor. Miss your home from before? Well, thankfully, Pierrot remembers everything inside and will buy you duplicates. Are you scared of the others in the circus? Then, he’ll ensure you can’t leave his little corner of the circus and make it clear that no one is to interact with you without him there too, that way you feel safe because surely you trust Pierrot will protect you. Even if you ask for nothing, he will make his hideaway become yours, trying to copy your bedroom from home even if it means erasing what’s his. Just please, please don’t say something so cruel like how you hate him or how you don’t want to be in the circus, he doesn’t know if he can hold himself back from doing something he’ll regret later.

Harlequin - Receiving Words of Affirmation/Giving Acts of Service

With how much he does so, you’d think Harlequin’s way of showing love is physical contact, especially of a more carnal nature. But every lingering touch, strokes of your locks, and grips that got too dangerously close sometimes, were nothing to him, merely tools for him to use, no different from a hammer or pair of scissors. Humans are so malleable, so easy; he’s learned how to trick some fool to come alone with him somewhere isolated under the promise of the sweet fruit Harlequin had. If Harlequin thought they were cute enough, he’d wait till after letting them get a taste of what he offered before he devoured them. He found seduction easy, calculated, like a script, and was almost offended when you didn’t react how he expected.

No, Harlequin’s love is much more subtle than that. You’ll find him waiting for you after work, no ulterior motive there when he walks you home; perhaps he’ll even tease, prod to see if you’d let him in, but he doesn’t mean it. On the coldest days, he’d always just so happen to have some soft gloves or a scarf for you; on rainy days, an umbrella. If you ever let it slip that you’re having a problem, Harlequin would do anything to fix that problem, including getting rid of a bothersome human, especially getting rid of a human. Small things he’d tell you about, tease you for having struggles over something so stupid, but bigger things, the things that’d make you feel guilty if you knew, he’d keep to himself. If you wish to return the favor, make him food he can eat back at the circus, let him sit inside the cafe to relax, or give him a warm drink on winter nights; well then he might just really fall in love with you.

To really make him clay in your hands, you just need to tell him you care about him, that you hope he’s okay when other people harass him, that you trust him, that he’s special to you, and you have to mean it; he’s too good at saying empty words, he knows how to spot them. Harlequin is bound to reject your words, tricking himself into believing that he’s manipulated you to say those words and that if you were in your right mind, you’d never say things like that. All you have to do is keep your arms open, and one day, he’ll walk into your warm embrace without a fight.

Jester - Quality Time/Gift Giving

The Jester’s love is cold, but is far from cruel; ice without the burn. For many, it would not even be considered love, but more so possession, like ownership over a decorative item. That is his only way to show affection; it is to show that you are his; his to control, his to protect. At first, he’d deny how he felt towards you to any who dared ask, including himself, not wanting to believe that something so weak and fragile could slip between the cracks of his glacial ribs. Not someone like you, not you, never. It will start out simple, subtle. The Jester will just slip into your life in the smallest ways, able to find you no matter where you are and yet make it seem so happenstance, harmless. The easiest way is to just get a small drink at your place of work, though he always throws away the drink that was made for him, a waste yes, but the drink is abhorrent to his tastes. Maybe you’ll see him when he’s shopping for essentials, or he’ll take a break in a park that is a part of your routine; small glimpses of you just enough to keep the gnawing feelings away.

But Jester is a covetous man; he’ll always want more of you before too long. His cage will trap you before you even realize what’s happening until it’s too late. Not until you are trapped by his side, collared and unable to leave, sat by his side as he doesn’t pay you any mind; like a pet. He hates useless people, those that don’t carry their weight around the circus, and when he trusts you enough that you won’t run off, he will have you do your part. Until then, however, he’s content just forcing you to kneel beside him, on the floor of course; you’re not his equal. He won’t pull the collar too hard, but every once in a while he’ll tug it to command you to come closer, to lay your head on his lap so he can stroke your hair. Your use to him is just your presence, something about hearing you breathe, the fearful beat in your chest, having to urge you back awake when you start to fall asleep from boredom; it calms him, lets his worries slip away for just a little while. As long as you behave and stay in his hand, he’ll treat you well; he may be a monster, but that doesn’t mean he has to act like one, if you behave. He’ll even let you keep things that aren’t the circus’s or his, little things that are yours, granted, only if he gets them for you. Just be his cute little songbird in his golden cage and don’t even think about flying away; the Jester will not hesitate to clip your wings.

Doctor - Physical Touch

The Doctor knows what love is, at least hypothetically. It starts with initial sexual attraction; the brain releases testosterone or estrogen depending on the subject’s physical sex. With prolonged contact with their target, the subject’s brain will, at their own natural psychological predisposition and circumstance, produce dopamine and norepinephrine. This is the stage where lust is now considered love, when the subject now sees their target as not a potential mate but someone more to build a nest with, or home as humans call it. Love can be fleeting, quick ‘crushes’ when someone’s brain releases dopamine and norepinephrine quickly but doesn’t move onto the last stage. When the subject finds a suitable mate and they mutually agree to a long-term commitment, the brain produces oxytocin and vasopressin; all to ensure that a subject sticks to a singular partner so that both partners can properly raise their offspring.

The effects of those specific brain chemicals create several symptoms too long to list. When the Doctor thought of you much more than he did any potential subject, he believed it was only because you were so fascinating; a red ticket holder who watched him with knowing eyes. That was only the first symptom, and like rabies, once the first symptom is seen, there is no way back, no saving the victim. Before he even realized it , the foreign body that was loved had aspirated in his lungs. He began to crave you, all of you, your flesh and blood, your captivating mind, both the meat of the brain and the electric signals that made you you. Oh, how just your mere heartbeat made the Doctor’s head spin, like an adverse reaction to a drug, but no matter how horrible his reaction to your drug was, he was addicted to it.

He needed to study you, up close, and he preferred keeping his work in a more controlled environment. You fought of course, textbook survival instincts, and when neither flight or fight worked, you moved to freezing. Whenever he drew close to you, pulled you into his arms to feel the life inside you breathe, you learned quickly not to fight it. He couldn’t have you assist in his experiments; that would be unprofessional and unsanitary to allow someone with no medical expertise in; but he forced let you watch so you could learn. But every second he wasn’t doing an experiment, you were expected to help in his ‘exposure treatment’, because it hurt so much when he couldn’t feel your warm body on his. There was something wrong with him, surely, because why would not feeling your touch cause him so much pain? Maybe he overindulged in his needs enough, he could become desensitized to the lack of you against him. Until his treatment works, he expects you to be in his lap while he works beyond his experiments, to hold his hand when he walks around, and to stay in his arms from the moment he goes to sleep to the moment he wakes. Oh, how he wishes for you to move to his favorite survival instinct displayed in humans, fawning.

Ticket Taker - Acts of Service

At first, he saw you at best, just another human wretch, or at worst, a potential threat to the safety of the circus. The Ticket Taker had no clue why those two walking, talking liabilities found you of all humans so enthralling. You were better than most humans, that he’d grant the other two, you carried yourself well, ensured you were presentable, and most important of all, you were polite. Most circus goers don’t even think to say please or thank you, and when they did, it was always so hollow, more of an obligation than actual desire. But you, you looked him in the eyes, enunciated every word, and said please and thank you like you meant it. That turned his gaze towards you, lied to himself that he wasn’t enthralled like the other two dullards as he watched you move throughout the circus. It certainly pleased him that when you went through his own attraction, you listened to his orders well.

The Ticket Taker starts out subtly in his attempts to court you, so subtly that he doesn’t even realize that he is; he finds it arduous to admit his affections towards you. At first, when his rare chance to relieve himself of his duties for a few hours came along, only for it to be rained out that he thought himself unlucky. But it was luck that he just so happened to spot you, huddled under an awning to save yourself from the rain. He walked you home that day, umbrella in his left hand as walked on the right, closer to the curb and any potential reckless drivers. You burned your address into his memory. His courtship grew more obvious with time until he could no longer deny it to himself. You told him you loved tea; he brought you his favorite tea blend despite how rare and expensive it is. Then you told him your favorite flower, and he bought you a bouquet of those flowers despite them being out of season; ‘No reason, I simply desired to do so,’ he claimed. He escalated quickly, slipping into your home when he knew you were out, and he had been sure to pass out as many pink tickets as needed that day. While you yourself were presentable, your home was not, likely because you rarely invited people. At least you weren’t no,harlot, picking up partners; no, you kept yourself pure, pure for the Ticket Taker, that he was plenty happy of. Even if you aren’t as pure as he thinks, as long as he doesn’t see proof ‌ otherwise, he’ll convince himself that you are. Still, he was a busybody, and did some small, less noticeable chores around your home before you got back.

Finally, when the Ticket Taker couldn’t stand it anymore, he wrote you a letter of his admiration for you and slipped it in your mailbox. He didn’t get to see your face when you read it, he was behind you after all, and you didn’t see him sneak up behind you until it was too late. It isn’t polite to manhandle the one you love, but you gave him no other choice when you struggled. He made sure you were… distracted though, enough you wouldn’t fight him. Now that you were by his side, he expected you to remain polite, pristine, and submissive to him. The Ticket Taker is a busy man, he tires himself out every day ensuring that the Jester does not. Now that he gave you a better life, surely it wouldn’t be hard to relieve him of some of the smaller chores; bring him his breakfast, brew him his coffee and tea when asked and often before he asks, fold his laundry and the like. He won’t tolerate disobedience, and he whips any of that out until you behave, which he hates to do; lashes always spoil your image, even if you earned them. Once you have properly learned how to be his partner, then the two of you can officially get married, as is right. Though, the Ticket Taker doesn’t know if he can wait too long before he fulfills your conjugal duties. He doesn’t want to taint your purity, but he has needs too.

Columbina - Physical Touch/Quality Time

There’s a little mental quirk that exists in some people called cuteness aggression, where they see something so cute that the explosion of emotions makes them angry. Columbina is one of those people, because when she sees someone as cute as you, she almost loses herself and tears an innocent bystander apart. Columbina doesn’t of course, that’d be cruel, and she’d hate to spoil your cute face with fear. It doesn’t take long, likely not even an hour, before she makes herself known to you, cuddling up to you like you two are lifelong friends. It catches you by surprise, but Columbina’s bubbly, friendly nature melts away any uncertainty that she’s a danger. Humans really are so stupid that they are fooled by a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but that’s just another cute trait of yours; adorably simple-minded.

Columbina visits you at the cafe you work at as often as she can without being scolded by the Jester. Greeting you every time with a smile so warm that it’d melt all the snow in the world and steal as much of your time as she can. Just one more pastry, just one more drink, she swears she just forgot that the other circus members wanted it; hell, she’ll even make up other circus members just to get you to keep serving her. You likely don’t even get spooked by her; she’s just so airheaded that it makes sense that she’d forget something. Not to mention, when you think of a stalker, you picture an older gross man far too ugly even to dare to even stand beside you and taint your prettiness. You’d never consider that a beautiful woman who spoke to you like you were her closest friend could be your stalker. You’d never expect her to follow you home and take pictures of you as you sleep; you’re just too cute for her to resist taking at least a couple photos. Even if her touch lingers too long, slips into being a little too intimate, you don’t suspect her of having ulterior motives at all.

“Put it on.”

You blink, staring at the sex toy sitting on the table between the two of you, a lewd accessory of metal, leather, and silicone. A strap-on, one with a large dildo already chosen out and attached, stared back at you, tauntingly. “What?” “Have you gone deaf?” Jester sneered, baring teeth. “I said put it on. Now. Don’t make me tell you again.”

You’ve learned never to question the Jester, at least not any more than you already have, a painful lesson that has left physical scars. Not wanting to anger him anymore, you follow his order and rush to tug the strap onto yourself. The Jester had already ordered you to strip, and the strap only covered your shame. Yet despite that, the strap on was more lewd than when you were still nude.

With a single finger extended and not a word spoken, he beckoned you closer to him. You follow his silent order, coming to a stop in front of him, awkwardly pushing your hips back away from him to avoid the dildo from brushing against him lest it offend him. His hands move to your neck, pulling away after a moment and leaving a collar with a chain leash attached. A familiar feeling, he always liked you being on a leash.

Jester pulls hard on the leash, tugging you behind him as he leads you to his bed. Your cunt pulses with your fearful heartbeat the closer you get to the bed where he’s made you suffer and climax countless times before. A second sharp tug forces you to your knees before Jester, so close to him as he sits down on the bed.

“Strip me,” he orders, and you obey.

You start with his boots, unzipping one before the same foot slams into your shoulder. “Is that the best you can do? Entertain me.” His teeth flash white again. Taking that new order into consideration, you work slower, trailing your hands up his calves until they meet the end of his boots. Your breath is hot against his knee, trembling as you struggle to appease his indirect command.

One boot is removed, followed by another, without you earning another punishing blow. His jester cap follows next. You take great care to let down his hair without tugging on a single strand. When you move to his gloves, he swaps the hand holding the leash to allow you to remove them. As your hands trace worship lines up his arms, you can feel the lean muscle underneath and remember how they looked with a whip in hand.

His jacket is next, and you barely even see the instinctive flinch when your hands get too close to his neck. You ignored it because Jester knows you saw it, and if you dared to bring attention to it, you’d surely be castigated for your folly. A smart choice, as Jester allows you to continue in your work unharmed.

Finally reaching his pants, it’s a bit more of a struggle to get them off with him still sitting. After a bit of a struggle, Jester clicks his tongue; his free hand grabs a fistful of your hair and shoves you aside. He removes his pants and underwear without your help and only throws them at you to fold them nicely with the rest of his clothes.

With the two of you now naked, save for the strap-on still hanging heavy between your legs, the leash tugged you back to the Jester’s reach. “I’m going to make this very clear and you’re going to listen. None of what is about to happen is for you; it is to fulfill a need I have. You are just my toy to do so,” he stressed, staring into your eyes, making sure you understood every word.

Then Jester crawled back onto his bed, dragging you along with him until he was laid back on the bedsheets and you were between his legs. Your brain was short circuiting, you weren’t so dumb that you didn’t know what was coming next, not with the leather around your waist chafing against your skin. But you couldn’t comprehend the idea that Jester wanted you to, wanted you to fuck him with a strap-on.

The leash hanging from your neck snapped as Jester dragged you back to reality, a finger extended to point at the familiar bottle of often-neglected lube. It’d be getting used this time, when the one getting fucked wasn’t you, when more mercy was being granted.

You are once again quick to obey, taking the lube and applying a generous amount to your hand. You reach forward, reaching for Jester’s anus to prepare it because surely such a large dildo needs preparation beforehand, only to earn a second hard kick to your thigh this time. “Just the dildo.”

“But it’s, it’s kinda big, shouldn’t I help you relax so I don’t hurt you?” you try to reason. A yelp almost escapes as your thigh is kicked once more in the same space.

“I don’t need such useless pampering. I won’t break like you would,” Jester snarls. So you obey, spreading the lube across the shaft of the dildo, Jester’s gaze observing as you prepare the length. It’s not a small dildo by any means. You can’t fully close your fingers around it and it’s longer than your hand, palm to fingertip. It’s hard for you to believe that he really wants to take it all, only lubed up and with no preparation.

A sharp tug on the leash tells you when you’ve added enough lube, leading you to press closer to him. With a guiding hand, you bring the tip of the dildo down against Jester’s entrance, glancing up for approval. Jester doesn’t even flinch at the size of the dildo pressing against him; his legs only shift to lock his ankles behind you.

Despite your nervous energy, you push your hips forward, nudging the tip against Jester’s anus. The muscle doesn’t give way before the dildo slips and you have to readjust it to try again. You try pushing it again a second time, then a third, each failed attempt frustrating Jester even more.

“Can’t you even do this one-”

Your fourth attempt succeeds; the tip of the cock slides in abruptly. Jester’s words are cut short, ending with a loud whimper that tapers off quickly. His hand flies up to his mouth, clenched and trembling as he tries to stabilize himself. You’re expecting him to berate you, but after a couple of moments, he wordlessly tugs on your leash, bidding you to continue.

So you do, inching your hips further, watching the silicone cock disappear inside of Jester until you’re completely bottomed out inside him. You study his face as you do, attuned to every little micro-expression that flashes by, terrified of making him lash out again. Glancing a little further down, you can even see his stomach where the dildo presses into his organs, creating a small but notable bump.

Without Jester stopping you, you push your hips back and forth, keeping the pace slow and gentle. Your hands land on his hips, using his waist as a point to balance on as you fuck the dildo in and out of him. Despite the size of the cock inside him, Jester’s head tilts back, neck bared and relaxed with his eyes closed. He’s enjoying this, even if it’s you between his legs. You wonder if he’s picturing anyone else or if he is happy that it is you there.

“Faster.” The order is abrupt and simple. “Quit treating me like I’ll break.”

“Yes, Master,” you nod.

You pick the pace up, fucking into him as you watch pleasure consume his face. You’ve seen what he looks like when he fucks you; all expressions of sadistic delight as he watches you tremble in fear. Now with the roles reversed, the expression‌ is completely different, one that is barely concealing pleasure. Even as you pick up more speed, thrusting into him hard enough your hips slapping against his is audible, the mask he wears to hide his pleasure slowly breaks away.

There is a blurred line between sadism and masochism, two concepts that cannot exist without the other. Jester is a sadist; that much is clear when you think back to how he’s tortured you so, but to say he is completely devoid of masochistic tendencies would be a lie; not with how much he’s enjoying being split open this time. He holds onto the leash to your collar like it’ll negate the dynamic shift between the two of you, so he can pretend you’re just a mindless toy for him to use without shame. Like you won’t remember what happened after this. You know that if that’s truly what he wanted, he’d have used a Fool instead of you to get what he wants.

You’re a good, obedient pet, so you lean forward, laying closer to him as you put all you have into filling him up over and over. Every thrust has him wincing, his stomach reddening where it’s repeatedly jabbed from the inside, but he never tells you to stop. No, he wants you to continue; that much is clear as his legs wrap around your waist and pull you closer.

Jester’s grip on the leash slips, his arms reaching up and wrapping around your neck as he pulls you down. His claws dig into your back, his arms trembling around you, making him almost appear fragile to you; but you know better than to think something so ridiculous. Every thrust has him panting and whining; the harder you thrust, the louder he is until he’s almost crying out. Small words you don’t understand, ones that sound like pleas, slip from his lips, filling the air with his need. You are so close to him that with every thrust, you can feel his cock grind between your stomachs, twitching.

His fingers press bruises into your shoulders, your stomach being splattered with his hot seed soon after. You slow your hips to a crawl, then a stop, letting him breathe. Jester’s afterglow doesn’t last long, his grip snapping to grab you by the hair before throwing you off him, the dildo leaving him with a wet pop. You hit the ground with a heavy thud, wincing at the growing number of bruises on you.

“Stand up,” he orders, and you obey. His eyes tear into you as he sits up, body still shaking from his orgasm, wet smeared between his thighs. “Take it off.”

Your hands fumble with the belt straps, quickly removing the strap that’s still dripping with lube and letting it drop to the ground. Fearfully, you watch as Jester reaches out with two fingers, scraping his fingers up your stomach and collecting some of his own cum that splattered on you. Then his fingers dip lower, slipping between your legs where your cunt is dripping with arousal. The two fingers slip in easily, your cunt welcoming them in like an old lover despite the lack thereof, pushing ‌his cum into you and swirling it around.

“Did you really enjoy this that much? Disgusting. This wasn’t for you, you selfish pest,” Jester sneered. All of his prior softness disappeared like cotton lit on fire. He pulls his fingers out, bringing them closer to you, so you can see how wet his fingers are with the mix of both of your fluids. “Suck.”

You bend over and close your lips around his fingers, tasting the lewd concoction of sexual fluids on his razor-tipped fingers. You’re sure to clean his fingers well, a thoroughly whipped pet, obedient as ever.

In a flash, his claws snap around your tongue, pulling the muscle from your mouth until it almost feels like he’ll tear it off. “You will forget this, all of this, and tell no one. Disobey that order and I will not hesitate to cut you down, pet.”

Even with your tongue caught in a sharp vice grip, you nod to show your understanding. That’s enough for Jester, because he releases your tongue before his claws give you a tongue piercing. “Good, now get out. You have work to do.”

Who doesn’t love a gentleman in a nice suit? Not you, that’s for sure.

No matter how much you flirted with the Ticket Taker, no matter how raunchy your innuendos were, he’d never even so much as flinch at them. It was like he didn’t even register what you were saying, just treated you with complete professionalism and called you a ‘Dear Guest’ all the while. Sure, maybe you were probably sexually harassing someone who was just trying to do their job, but if minded at all, he never made it clear. He never banned you from the circus, never asked you to stop, never avoided you, just always welcomed you in like a proper gentleman.

You were actually beginning to feel guilty about potentially sexually harassing him, just about to stop, when he finally changed up his behavior. You’d never seen him outside the circus before, until now, seeing him standing in front of you as he ordered a single black coffee in the early morning. Seeing him here, in a more casual place, flustered you, even if casual meant your workplace instead of his. He was still the utmost gentleman even here still.

“And your order, sir,” you give him a bright smile as you hand the coffee off to him, playing up your friendliness past what was your typical customer service attitude.

“Thank you, dear,” Ticket Taker replies so sweetly you can almost hear the smile behind his mask as he takes his order from you. A single finger brushes against yours, the brief touch enough to make your heart skip a beat like you were back in your high school years again.

Even with his drink in his hand, paid for and everything, he didn’t move from his spot. Instead, he just continued to look at you, as if he was expecting you to say something. If he were, he didn’t wait too long before he spoke up first. “You come to the circus often, so you must enjoy your time there.”

“Oh! Yeah,” you nod. “It’s really fun seeing the shows there, and I know you won’t be around forever, so I’m just trying to enjoy it as much as I can while I can.”

Ticket Taker nods right back, accepting your words. "I should also say that very few guests receive red tickets, so you must have gotten quite close to the Pierrot. Though I find it quite humorous how often the Harlequin comes to ask me if you’ve made use of his green ticket.”

He pauses, and you’re unsure of what he’s getting at. With his free hand, he taps his gloved thumb and middle finger together, almost fidgeting as he thinks about something. Then his hand slips up, reaching under the lapel of his suit and pulling out a ticket, deep blue. He places it on the counter in front of you, sliding it forward with his pointer and middle fingers.

“As I’m sure you’re aware by now, the different tickets bring with them different perks,” he explains. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy the perks that come with my ticket, if you wish to use it.”

By the time you came back to your senses after that euphoric moment, he was gone, the blue ticket still sitting on the counter in front of you. You were grinning from ear to ear like a spoiled brat on Christmas Eve as you picked it up. The rest of your shift was spent riding that high.

The day couldn’t pass fast enough, and by the time you knew the Freak Circus of Horrors was opening up, you were practically falling apart with excitement and anxiety. But the time came, and you got there before when you knew the crowds would get bad. When you arrive, Ticket Taker is in his usual position at the entrance to the circus. He isn’t helping any customers as you walk up, and gives you a polite nod as you do. “Welcome back, Dear Guest.” He doesn’t betray even an ounce of excitement as you approach.

“Couldn’t stay away, especially not after your invitation.” You can barely hide your excitement as you try to play it off with some casual flirting. You produce the very ticket he had left for you hours earlier, and you swear that at the sight of it ‌the Ticket Taker’s head tilted ever so slightly up, almost smugly so. Behind his mask and unseen by you, a smug smile pulled itself across his lips. “So what is that special perk you promised me?”

“I’m so very glad to see that you used my ticket, my Dear Guest,” he replied, not betraying an ounce of his pleasure in seeing you holding his ticket. He took it from you, punching it like he did all the rest of the tickets you’ve used prior, before handing it back. “When you are ready, you will find me at my tent.”

So he will not tell you what the perk is yet? No matter, you can be patient for a little while. “When should I stop by?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

“But don’t you have to handle customers’ tickets?”

“I will have someone else cover for me later,” Ticket Taker replies. His head shifts to the side, looking past you. “But speaking of work, I must assist the customers behind you now.”

You glance back, seeing a young couple quickly walking up behind you, yellow tickets in hand. “Oh, right yes, then I’ll see you later,” you quickly sidestep, letting the young couple by.

“That I shall, my Dear Guest,” the Ticket Taker agrees, giving a polite nod as you pass by him.

The Freak Circus of Horrors is just the same as any other night you’ve been here before. A light spattering of fellow customers drifted tent to tent between one of the many identically costumed carnies, their own roles not special enough to be allowed more unique costumes like Pierrot or Harlequin. You had no genuine interest in seeing any of the shows tonight, besides Ticket Taker’s of course. You were so excited for what he had promised you that you didn’t think you could sit down long enough to watch the others perform. Even if you didn't know precisely what Ticket Taker promised you.

You find yourself among the carnival games ‌and end up playing some games just to release some of your nervous energy. It works to get your mind off of him for a little while, even if you ultimately win nothing. The games are all rigged of course, to minimize the chance of someone actually winning anything from the games to maximize profits. Typical, but you can’t exactly blame the Freak Circus for doing that. Money makes the world go around after all.

After about half an hour of wandering, you finally can’t take your impatient energy anymore and you head straight for the Ticket Taker’s tent. You’d been through his tent before, seen the maze of mirrors all while the Ticket Taker dances between the mirrors, toying with you like a cat does a mouse. You’ve probably lost a good deal of dignity in his eyes considering how many times he’s seen you walk face first into a mirror. It was entertaining at least, even despite the claustrophobic feeling that you always felt inside.

To your disappointment, the Ticket Taker is nowhere to be found when you walk up. It’s no surprise though, you’ve hardly been here that long, and perhaps he wasn’t able to find someone to cover for him in a short amount of time. With a sigh, you stand near the entrance, finding it better to wait there than wander around doing nothing.

Not that you wait any longer than 20 seconds before you hear the Ticket Taker’s voice drift into your ears like a siren’s song. “You got here faster than I expected; eager, aren’t you?”

You turn your head to look at him, grinning at just the sight of him. “You got me. I’m very, very eager. I’m just dying to know what that little perk your ticket promised me is,” you pause, lowering your voice to prod at him. “Well, I hope the perk is actually a big one, if you know what I mean?”

“You’ll enjoy it, ‌I promise,” the Ticket Taker nods his head towards you. “My blue ticket gives you the opportunity to play a special game inside the hall of mirrors. Nothing too hard, you just have to find the exit without my help, like you have needed it before.”

You wince, ashamed that he really has had to help you out every time you’ve gone into the maze. “I’ve already set up the mirrors so that they differ from before, so you won’t be able to rely on your memory of my past labyrinths.”

“This doesn’t seem very special, if I’m being honest,” you can’t help but pout a little.

“Then how about this? I’m going to be within the labyrinth with you, trying to sabotage your attempts to escape. If you escape despite my best attempts to hinder you, then you will be given a reward.”

“And if I fail?”

"Then, of course, I will punish you," he leaned in, looking down at you. He gets close enough you can almost see his eyes behind his mask, smiling down at you. “Don’t worry though, you’ll live.” How comforting.

His hand reaches forward, grabbing your wrist with his silken gloves and pulling your hand closer. You feel him press a cold, circular item into your hand, and when he pulls his hand away you see that he’s placed a pocket watch in your hand. You look up at him, raising an eyebrow.

“An additional challenge, you have 30 minutes to find the exit,” chuckling, he takes a step back. “Are you ready, my Dear Guest?”

You would be lying if it didn't intrigue you. Sure, it was obvious he was stacking the chips against you, trying to ensure you fail, but the idea of what that prize could be if you win draws you in. If you’re lucky, it might actually be something like a date between the two of you, or maybe even something more carnal. As if he’d punish you too harshly if you fail anyway, he likely won’t risk you not coming back.

“I’m in,” you nod.

Your confident demeanor makes him snicker behind his mask, barely biting back the predatory joy of a caught prey. Ticket Taker takes another step back, raising his arm and pulling back the tent flap into his mirror maze. “Then, ladies first. Enjoy, my Dear Guest.”

“Oh, I certainly will.” You walk right past. You showed you pressed the start button on the watch’s timer, getting an appreciative nod from him. “See you inside.”

With a short, dark chuckle from behind you, the tent flap flutters shut and you’re drenched in the dim lighting of the maze. The maze has never been brightly lit before, and now is no different. But tonight, there is something off about the air inside the tent, something more hungry and possessive than before. Like you’re a fly caught in a spider's web.

You shake your head, shedding off all of your bubbling anxieties, and walk. Keeping your right hand out in front of you, you trail along the right mirrors. Your strategy is simple: just follow along the right wall of mirrors and take every right you come across. That way you’re not just blindly guessing which direction to take, though you know that your strategy can easily be thwarted by just a single loop. That means you’ll have to be careful, stay aware of your surroundings.

The maze is eerily silent, especially compared to the circus outside. The Freak Circus always had a constant lull of sourceless carnival music and merry circus patrons, a welcoming buzz that made everything feel alive. But inside the maze, even though you were only blocked off by a tent and layers of mirrors, you heard none of that sound. Instead, you were isolated away in the choking silence of the maze. All you could hear were the sounds you made. The shuffle of your feet on the dirt floor as you tread cautiously along, your strangled breath that hitched every time you almost walked right into a mirror, the ticking whisper from the watch reminding you that your time is running out. The tight placement of the mirrors combined with the only thing you could see within was you only heightened the strangling feeling of being alone, unsafe.

“I would suggest not taking that path, my Dear Guest,” the Ticket Taker’s voice slices through the quiet, almost startling you. Your eyes dance around, trying to see him, but you don’t see even a reflection of him. You can’t see him, but he can certainly see you and how you were just about to take the right at a fork in the path. “It’s a dead end, I’m afraid. You’ll just waste your time.”

You let out a defiant huff, as if you’re going to fall for his tricks. Pressing forward, you take the right turn he told you not to, grinning like you just learned a naughty little secret. The path forward takes several turns with no paths off it, and it leads you forward.

It leads you straight to a dead end.

“I did warn you,” Ticket Taker muses, almost mockingly.

“You said you’d be trying to sabotage me,” you bite back at his words.

“You’ll just have to learn to discern when I’m lying and when I’m being honest.”

So that’s how he’s playing it? Is this revenge for all the times you teased him? He’s teasing you now? Well, you certainly don’t mind; you’re already having fun. You turn on your heel, and resume your path through the maze, keeping your arm out to stop yourself from bumping into any mirrors. A quick glance at the watch the Ticket Taker gave you tells you that you still have 26:40 left to find the exit, plenty of time.

The pocket watch slowly ticks by as you make your way through the maze, all while you only see glimpses of the Ticket Taker. He gives multiple different directions, most of them being lies. Each time you fall for his words leaves you with your time slowly dwindling away.

14:18 left, you wince. Have you really been in here for over fifteen minutes now? You don’t feel close to the exit either; you’re sure you’ve walked past that mirror with a unique scratch on it four times by now.

You take a sharp corner and almost run straight into Ticket Taker. The sudden appearance of someone else in the maze makes you jump in surprise, reeling back and slamming against a mirror behind you. It doesn’t shatter, thank God, but you landed on your ass and made yourself look stupid.

“Oh no, my Dear Guest,” Ticket Taker leans forward, a hand placed on his chest. “Are you alright? Do you need medical assistance?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” your cheeks burn with shame. “You just scared the hell out of me.”

“My apologies.” He reached out his hand for you to take. “Let me help you up.”

“Tha-” instead of his gloved hand, your hand only bumps against the chilled surface of a mirror. A reflection, a reflection scared you.

“I just couldn’t help myself,” his reflection stands up, chuckling to himself. “Do forgive me.”

You pout, and stand back up; by yourself. You shoot a glare at his reflection, only to see him take a step back and his reflection is gone. With your teeth digging into your bottom lip, you huff and resume your exploration of the maze.

Right, right, center, right, left, center, right. The flat mirrors that only reflect you are all that accompany you through the maze, only occasionally joined by the Ticket Taker’s voice. “Go forward, my Dear Guest,” he tells you, and you go right instead. Dead end; forward was the right path to take. That same damn mirror with the unique crack, it’s haunting you now. “Go left this time,” he orders, and you obey this time. Dead end; you swear you hear him laugh.

“2 minutes left, my Dear Guest,” Ticket Taker warns. “Do you believe you can make it out before then?”

“Am I at least close?”

“Who's to say?”

This bastard, if he weren’t so hot, you’d be furious with him. You’re practically stomping your way through the maze now, pouting like a child. By now you’ve just about accepted that you’re not winning this game, not with so little time on the clock. What even was the prize? What even was the punishment?

“Go forward, you’re almost there,” his voice called out to you, almost unnervingly close to you now; like he was whispering in your ear. Your mind flies as you debate believing him this time, but now, now he sounds honest.

You walk forward, following the path he told you to take, a single path with no branches until it leads you to take a left, then a second left. A dead end. A damn dead end, again. Why did you believe him at all? It’s a fresh sight at least, a circular opening in the mirrors like a small room, all the mirrors displaying your frustrated expression. Something crinkles beneath your feet, and you look down to see a tarp covering the dirt floor below with a carpet on top just a little further into the open space.

Beep beep. The pocket watch signals that your time is up, and you let out a defeated groan.

You don’t even register what’s happening as a blur behind you rushes up, only coming to your senses as you’re slammed against a nearby mirror, face nearly hitting the glass surface as you’re pinned against it. A startled yelp leaves your mouth, finding your assailant in the reflection just behind your own.

“The hell, Ticket Taker?” you snap, writhing in his grip. He’s caught both of your wrists, pinning them to your back, while his other arm is snaked around your neck; it takes a lot of you not to enjoy the feeling of his biceps curling against your sensitive flesh. “What are you doing?”

“You ran out of time, my Dear Guest,” his arm that was around your throat pulled back, you watched in the reflection as his hand dropped to your waist. “Now it’s time for you to be punished for your failure.”

In a quick pull, he tugs down your skirt to reveal your ass cheeks to the air. Another surprised yelp leaves your mouth, your hips moving away from his grip on instinct. “Wait, wait! What are-”

His open palm is brought against your ass cheeks, a sharp smack drowning out your pained yip. “Did you think I didn’t see what you were doing, my Dear Guest? All of your little teasing comments, flirting with me, batting your eyes, shaking your hips, and slipping in such filthy innuendos, when I’m just doing my job? You shouldn’t be surprised that it’s come to this; don’t even act like this isn’t what you’ve been hinting at me for weeks now.”

Oh, oh, this was really happening. He knew exactly what you were doing all along, and this is your punishment for stringing him along. What an awful punishment.

“I thought you were a gentleman,” you grind your hips back into his hand, smirking like a cat with a freshly stolen fish. “But this isn’t very gentleman-ly of you at all, Mr. Ticket Taker.”

“Ha!” Ticket Taker scoffs at your goading, his grip on your wrists tightening. He leans in closer, till his mouth is hardly an inch away from your ear. “You don’t know me at all.”

His fingers wrap around your panties, tugging them to the side and exposing your cunt to the warm air inside the tent. You tremble, feeling his gloved hand trace circles on your hips before it’s removed, brought closer to his other hand that keeps you pinned there. With a small push, he wordlessly orders you to stay there before he releases his grip on you. It takes only a moment before he takes off his gloves, tucking them in the breast pocket of his jacket.

One of his hands finds its place in your hair, gripping your locks and keeping you there while his other hand drifts between your legs. It feels like heaven when his fingers trail up your cunt; you have to bite your tongue not to whimper at just a touch. You’ve been wanting this for far too long.

With one merciless push, two of Ticket Taker’s fingers are shoved inside your cunt, dry and thick. You wince at the abrupt stretch, hips jerking away only for his fingers to follow, not letting you pull away. “Fuck! Can’t you go a little slower?”

“What filthy language,” Ticket Taker sneers, punctuating his words with a firm thrust with his fingers, earning a pathetic whimper from your lips. “This is your punishment. I get to do whatever I want with you. So be a good slut and take it.”

You sneer at his words, but you don’t bother actually fighting back, not now that you’re getting what you wanted. Ticket Taker sets an immediately brutal pace with his fingers, slamming them into you repeatedly fast enough you could barely breathe between each thrust. But he knew what he was doing; with every push, he jammed his fingers into your sweet spot, forcing every thrust to be a jolt of pleasure up your spine. It isn’t long before the sounds coming from your cunt are wet and lewd, only matched by your poorly muffled whorish moans. All of this you can see so clearly in the reflection that you are pressed against.

“Don’t hide your voice from me, my Dear Guest,” Ticket Taker hissed out an order, following it up with a sharp thrust that left you seeing stars.

“I, ah! I don’t want people to hear,” you whimper, trying to reason with him.

“No one will hear you here, not even if you scream,” he replied, his words almost appearing more of a threat.

He sounds confident in that notion, and you decide to believe him on this. You doubt he’d lie to you on this and let your moans be heard by other circus patrons; that just feels like a step too far for him. So when you whimper, you let him hear it, even if it makes your cheeks burn in shame.

When he has his fill of fucking you with his fingers, he pulls them out, leaving you shaking. With a commanding pull on your hair, he forces you back and down to kneel in front of him, trapping you between him and the mirror. You watch as his hands unbuckle his pants, mouth watering as he pulls his cock, eyes eating up the sight before you. His cock is just perfect, with a soft pink head and a thick, long length that sits above average with a finely manicured bush at its base.

You don’t need to hear an order from him to open your mouth. “You're really just a filthy slut, aren’t you?” Ticket Taker sneers, dragging his cock over your cheek and smearing it with his salty pre-cum. “Then I don’t need to tell you what to do, do I?”

Obediently, you pull his cock into your mouth, wrapping your lips around the head. A soft moan is muffled behind the Ticket Taker’s mask as you suck on his cock, trailing circles around the tip. He tastes clean, immaculately clean, like he’s never missed a single day to scrub his entire body. It tastes as if you licked your arm, just clean skin with only a slight hint of salt from his pre-cum.

You drag your mouth up and down his length, savoring every part of his cock. You’ve waited too long for this to just go too fast, but you definitely didn’t want this to be a one time thing either. No, you wanted this to happen over and over for as long as his circus was in town, just maybe at least not in such a public place. Even if the two of you were alone, you still felt like someone might walk in on the two of you at any point.

“Faster,” Ticket Taker orders. You shoot him a snide smile, slowly down your bobbing just to tease him, goad him on. It works, because his hands grip your head and push it back against the mirror, leaving no space for your head to run. “Then open your mouth and keep it open.”

With little time to adjust, he thrusts his cock deep into your mouth until your nose brushes up against his pelvis. You gag on his length as it fills your throat, your hands flying up to his waist for some stability. Every thrust of his cock makes you gag, and it takes a lot of mental willpower to keep your throat relaxed as he uses your head as a sex toy.

There’s no mercy given as Ticket Taker drives his cock into your drooling mouth, every thrust, he pushes your head forward to meet his pelvis. The sounds coming from your throat as it's pushed to its limits are vulgar and pornographic, underlined by your whimpering moans. He’s being so rough with you, yet your cunt burns with a need for him, loving every second of this. If this is your punishment, the prize you lost was a worthy sacrifice.

His cock leaves your mouth, leaving you coughing up a mix of spit and pre-cum. You’re not given long to recover before Ticket Taker grabs your arm and pulls you back onto your trembling legs. He works quickly, stripping you down to just your socks, only slowing down to fold your clothes before setting them to the side. That gets a laugh out of you, but you’re quickly shut down by a sharp snap of his head; even behind his mask you know he’s shooting you a silencing glare.

Even with you stripped down, Ticket Taker remains clothed with only his gloves taken off leaving you feeling more exposed than you would be if both of you were unclothed. It certainly doesn’t help that you can see every angle of your nude body in the circular array of mirrors surrounding you two. Every inch of your skin is exposed to a man you haven’t even seen the face of.

You don’t get to cover your shame before you’re spun around and bent over, your hands bracing against a mirror. Ticket Taker’s bare hands, his skin unusually cold and nails perhaps a bit too sharp, trace down your back and end at your waist. Your body shakes, watching the reflection as Ticket Taker lines his cock up with your entrance.

Ticket Taker slams his cock forward, filling you in one fell swoop that leaves you crying out from pleasure, surprise, and pain. You can see how your face twists, cheeks burning a bright pink and expression looking near drunk; your face stained with tears and drool. The sound of his hips slamming into your round ass, your pathetic wanton moans and the wet squelching of your drenched cunt fill the air.

Your head drops for only a moment before his hand is back in your hair, tugging your head up and making you look at yourself as you come undone on his cock. “Look at yourself, nothing but a slut,” he emphasizes every other word with a thrust hard enough to make you sob. “This is exactly where you belong, beneath me, like an inferior human should be.”

The words he’s saying are lost to you in your lust-drunk fog; the only thing you can make out is his cock as it fills you over and over. His cock grinds against all of your most sensitive places, overwhelming your senses and making you burn for more. Half-remembered words fall from your mouth, pleading for him to ruin you, to fuck you and make you his own. Not that you’re understood, your pleas are covered up by your needy whines.

“Filthy, filthy slut,” Ticket Taker utters under his breath. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? This is why you kept teasing me? Acting like ‌you were? Now you’re getting it; now you’re going to get a lot more than you bargained for.” He leans forward, his hips stopping with his cock buried deep within you as he hisses into your ear. “You better not regret this, my Dear Guest.”

Ticket Taker pulls out of you just so he can throw you onto the floor, letting you hit the ground hard. You cry out in pain, pushing your torso off the ground to look back at him. You’re about to curse him out before he’s on you again, his body pinning you down as his cock reenters your cunt. His hands pin down your shoulders, legs hooked around your own, keeping you from moving as he resumes his vicious pounding into your cunt.

Tears spill from your cheeks, toes curling against the carpet on the floor as you take his cock. He adjusts his hold on you, pressing a forearm against the back of your neck as his other arm snakes around your waist. You almost came from his fingers just brushing against your neglected clit, barely holding yourself back. You don’t want to cum, not yet, too afraid this will end too soon, but you can feel the tight knot in your stomach ache; you’re getting close.

Ticket Taker’s breath is hot and heavy inside his mask, almost animalistic in his growls as he fucks you. Any sign of a gentleman is lost as he uses you as his sex toy. The dichotomy between his prior behavior and his new behavior only draws you in even more. God, please don’t let this be a one time thing; you need this; you need this over and over again. You’d never get sick of this, no matter how many times you did it.

“Cum for me, cum like the slut you are,” Ticket Taker orders, his fingers grinding against your clit. He doesn’t leave much room for you to disobey him, forcing you to cum around his cock and dragging out your pleasure until you’re left begging for mercy. You let out a sob when you feel him cum inside you, filling your cunt with his hot, sticky semen; any potential fertilization worries are the least of your concern right now.

With a last few thrusts to push his cum deep inside you, Ticket Taker pulls out of you. He’s off of you quickly, and you can hear him tidy up his clothes as you lay there just trying to catch your breath.

“That,” you pant. “That was amazing but a really shitty punishment.”

“It’s not quite over yet, my Dear Guest,” Ticket Taker scoffs a little. He walks over to your neat pile of clothes that he so kindly folded up for you, plucking your panties from the stack before tucking them into his breast pocket once his gloves are back on. “I’m keeping these; you can walk home feeling my cum slip down your legs.”

“What? You can’t just-!”

“You agreed to face my punishment, didn’t you?” he turns to look at you. Even through his mask, you know he’s staring you down, daring you to disobey. Your silence shows your obedience enough. You don’t live far enough away for his punishment would actually be too hard for you to do, ‌inconvenient and incredibly embarrassing. “Good, I don’t like guests who misbehave, you know.”

“Just help me up, at least.”

“But of course, my Dear Guest,” like a gentleman, the Ticket Taker helps you to your feet and even brings you your clothes. He watches as you dress, even helping you keep your balance as you get your shoes on, all without feeling licentious in his viewing. Once you were fully dressed, the signs of what you two had done almost completely covered up, he offered his arm for you to take. “Shall I lead you out of the maze now?”

“Please,” you take his offer.

Ticket Taker leads you through the maze of mirrors, navigating them with ease and not even a hint of hesitation. You quickly realize that you two were far from the exit, more likely being almost exactly in the middle of the maze than closer to either end. You really had no chance of finding the exit.

As you two of you walk past the hundreds of mirrors, you finally ask your burning question. “So like, what was the prize if I found the exit?”

“There wasn’t one.”

“What?” You almost stop in your tracks if the Ticket Taker isn’t guiding you forward.

“Because there wasn’t a chance you’d find the exit on your own,” Ticket Taker states so matter-of-factly that you can’t even feel insulted.

The two of you exit the maze and are reunited with the sights and sounds of the other circus patrons outside, not a hint of anyone being aware of what you two did in sight. Ticket Taker was right; none of your obscene moans were heard by anyone but him. “It is best you head home now, my Dear Guest,” Ticket Taker withdraws his arm from you, stepping back. With a tip of his hat, he continues. “Do get home safely.”

“Uh yeah, thanks,” you nod, then pause, a slight blush on your cheeks. “And um, we should, we should do this again. I really enjoyed it.”

Ticket Taker chuckles, you can feel his gentlemanly facade rebuilding its walls around him already. “I shall think about it. I bid you a good night, my Dear Guest.”

It started with a tingle in the back of his throat, like cotton fibers clinging to sensitive flesh. It had been so long since the last time Pierrot had felt it, just an instinctual urge that had long since put out like a fire that was never fed wood. Perhaps it was because of you, your presence, that the fire was relit, now more of a forest fire than a small campfire that it once was.

Pierrot was in a rut.

He hadn’t been feeling good after breakfast, like he was neck deep in water and forgot how to swim. To try to get some energy back, he took a nap. That nap went from what should have been no longer than an hour lasted instead five whole hours. The rut set in while he slept, and he awoke to his lust wrapping around his chest and a desperate need for you.

Pierrot stumbled through the circus in a haze, panting greedily as his mind tried to remember where your tent was. It wasn’t too far from where Pierrot’s own tent was, but after Pierrot spent more time at your tent than his own, Jester made him move his tent away from yours. Why couldn’t the two of you share a tent instead? Why did you insist on having your own tent?

As Pierrot turns a corner, a smaller body runs full force into his own. He doesn’t even flinch, bleary eyes turning down to look at Harlequin as he rubs his face in annoyance.

His sharp teeth flash as Harlequin snarls at Pierrot, glare sharper than the knife thrower’s well-kept daggers. “Have you gone blind or just gotten dumber?”

Pierrot’s eyes squint, trying hard to focus on the other members of the circus. On any other day, Pierrot would grit his teeth just seeing Harlequin, but today his mind is too drenched in desire to feel much else. The look plastered on Pierrot’s face isn’t lost on Harlequin, whose face shifts to suspicion. “What’s wrong with you? You look drunk.” Harlequin sneers. Then he stops, sniffing at the air and then at his own cloak, where he’d collided against Pierrot. The sickly-sweet scent of pheromones disgusted him. “Oh? Is the innocent little Pierrot rutting? Maybe if you weren’t such a prude, you wouldn’t be reduced to this gross display.”

Pierrot blinks, slow and hazily, any words dying on his tongue. Met with quiet, Harlequin only rolls his eyes and points behind him. “Your dear human is in their tent right now. Go fuck them and leave me alone. I don’t want your rut to spread to me. Eugh.”

That is all the goading Pierrot needed to shove himself past Harlequin, his feet moving quickly towards your tent. Everything is a blur as he almost runs towards your tent. The only thing in focus is the dark tan tent; all else means nothing to him now. He tears past the opening, falling to his hands and knees onto the rug beneath, eyes scanning for you.

His eyes stop when he finds you sitting at your desk, your eyes meeting his with concern. “Pierrot? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” you ask, your voice so divine to him he almost falls apart from it just gracing his ears. You're about to get up from your chair before Pierrot crawls forward quickly, wrapping his arms around your waist as he buries his face into the soft flesh of your stomach.

Breathing in your scent, he pants as he looks up at you, pleading with his eyes alone. “Please, my Dear, I, I need you.” His hand closes around your thighs, dangerously close to your sex, making his intention clear. “Just a couple of hours, then I’ll be better, I promise. I just, I need you so much that it burns.”

He continues to plead with you, whining, begging for just a simple yes from you. It’s so adorable that you just want to say yes, but- “I’m sorry, Pierrot,” you reach down and pat his head. The sensation alone nearly makes him jump on you like the predator that he is at his core, but your words are ice cold to his burning desire. “But, um, it’s November 6th.”

Pierrot blinks slowly, head tilting to the side. He struggled to find a connection, no doubt made worse with how lust-drunk his mind was, between the date and your availability for sex. His clear look of confusion spurs you to explain.

“So there’s this thing called No Nut November where some people don’t have sex for the entire month of November.”

Pierrot blinks again, then once more for good measure. “Why?”

“I,” you pause, looking away. “I don’t actually know. It’s just a challenge that I’m just doing for fun this year.”

You had to be joking, were you really only saying no because of a silly challenge you didn’t even know the purpose for? His grip on you tightened, growing more and more desperate. Maybe if he just conveyed how much he needed you, you’d relent. “Please, my Dear, I, I’m in a rut, I just, it just, I just need you. Please, please, please, just grant me relief from this torture.”

“Rut?” you query, head tilting to the side. It takes a second for you to understand. “Like how animals go into heat and get super horny to breed?”

Pierrot nodded, smiling wide to know that you understood. “Yes! Yes! My Dear! We, I, I haven’t been in a rut for so long, it’s torture. I can hardly bear it. Please, I’m begging you, help me.”

Hesitation flashes in your eyes, looking away from Pierrot with a light blush on your cheeks. It’s not like this would be the first time the two of you would have sex; that wasn’t where the pause came from. But you wanted to prove to yourself that you were above needing sex for an entire month. You reach down, cupping his face gingerly, your resolution cracking as you see him press his entire face against your touch.

“I can’t help you with this. I want to help, I do, but this challenge means a lot to me.” You watch as despair fills his expression. “Can you try just jerking off? That has to account for something, right?”

“But, my Dear,” the words die on Pierrot’s lips. He wouldn’t force you; he’d never hurt you in such a way, even as much as it hurt himself to submit to your own wants. “Can I, can I stay here at least?” he asks, begging for at least that much. Maybe if he showed you how desperate he was, he could sway you from your silly challenge.

You nod, granting him at least that mercy. With a thumb, you gesture over to your bed, a place that Pierrot knows well. “Go right ahead; do what you need to do. You know where all the sex toys and lube are, go help yourself. I’m just going to get some paperwork done. Ticket Taker is overrun with it right now.”

Pierrot quickly scampers to your bed, his clothes being discarded along his path, what little was left of his rational mind kept him from tearing his clothes off. He’s barely even nude for a second before he sprawls out on your bed, smelling your sheets for your scent with his hard cock in his hands. He was already hard and ready by the time he was in your bed, dripping out arousal all over your sheets. The blankets end up around him, cocooning around his upper torso while his waist and below remain open to the air. He wants you to watch, to look at him, to see what he’s been reduced to.

But you don’t watch; you turn back to your stacks of paperwork, doing your job. It’s disappointing, but Pierrot knows you can hear him as he whimpers and moans, your name being slipped in often. You can hear him as he writhes in your sheets, fitfully trying to find some relief with his own hand. Even if you’re not watching, you know exactly what he’s doing.

No matter how much he yearned for a little release, it seemed to elude him. He jerked himself off every which way he could, slow or fast, hard or soft; nothing got him to the end. He gave up using his hands, grinding his cock against one of your pillows instead. That only led him to staining the fabric and a minor friction burn.

As time passed, the ache only burned hotter. His hunger led him to diving into your sex toys that you’d offered, grabbing out a lube before applying it to his fingers. Making sure you’d get a good view of him if you looked over, he bent over, pressing two wet fingers into his anus as he sought any release no matter how embarrassing. His face was buried in your sheets, nearly suffocating in your scent, as he quickly worked himself open while still keeping a tight grip on his cock.

His fingers are soon replaced by a dildo, shoving it in long before he was ready, too horny not to be reckless. Pierrot frantically fucks himself with the dildo, matching the speed that he jerked himself off. Your sexual explorations of Pierrot’s body helped him learn where exactly he needed to angle the dildo, and he abused the spot till he saw stars.

All of Pierrot’s attempts were met with failure; he couldn’t climax on his own, no matter how hard he tried. He couldn’t even tell how much time had passed since he had started; the shadows cast had moved across the floor since he had started. It certainly wasn’t just a couple of minutes, that’s for sure. At least an hour, more likely hours. Yet not once did he cum, and only twice did you glance over at him; you remained glued to your work.

“My Dear,” Pierrot panted, his voice weak and breathless. All of his tools were forgotten on the side as he reached for you. Maybe if he could just touch you, just a little, then he could actually cum for once.

You look over just as he slips off your bed, hitting the ground hard; he’d be bruised if it weren’t for the rugs on your floors. “Are you okay?” you ask, even though he’s clearly not okay.

“My Dear,” he repeats, getting to his hands and knees. “I, please, just one time, help me cum just one time,” he crawls to you, head low and pleading pitifully for you.

He reaches you quickly, wrapping his arms around one of your legs as straddles it. Your own consent to this is forgotten just enough for Pierrot to grind his cock against your leg, humping like a damn dog. His eyes wrench tightly shut, tears slipping down his cheeks, lip trembling as his hips buck up against your limb.

For only the sake of the challenge, you want to get him to get off. But you can’t, not when he’s this pathetic and needy. You couldn’t do that to him. Just letting him hump against your leg surely doesn’t break the rules of the challenge, right? You’re not an active participant; you’re barely even a passive participant.

There’s no beauty in his race for relief, only an animalistic desire driving him further. Even if you’re not the one touching him, but he’s the one touching you, he is already finding some more relief in this act than any prior act. If only you’d just forget your silly challenge, then Pierrot wouldn’t have to suffer like this.

Pierrot’s first orgasm hits him soon enough, outright crying as his seed splatters beneath your chair. It’s hardly a single drop of water to the still-burning inferno of his need, however, his cock still hard and ready for more. He’s hoping you’ll let him continue for as long as he needs, his hips only stilling for a moment before he’s rutting against your leg again. “Just a couple more times, my Dear, that’s all I need, please, please.”

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, trying and failing to turn your attention back to your work. You have things to do; you can’t just let the Jester down, and Pierrot’s actions are distracting, to say the least.

You’re about to tell him to stop before a voice tears through the tent flaps, angry and frustrated. “Where is he?!” The voice is followed by Harlequin, face twisted in anger. He finds Pierrot quickly, sees the lewd display before him, and he laughs. “Ha! Poor Pierrot, does your dear human find you disgusting now?”

“No,” you’re quick to defend him. “I’m just trying to go a whole month without sex, and he caught me on day 6. No Nut November, you know?”

Harlequin regards you with confusion, eyebrows lifting high. “That’s… why?”

“Because I want to,” you snap back. “What do you want? Don’t you have a job to do?”

“What do I want?” Harlequin steps forward, shoving a finger at Pierrot. “I want to beat that miserable mutt for what he did to me. That pathetic, sniveling, disgusting, poor excuse of a-”

“You’re in heat too?”

Any further insults die on Harlequin’s lips, his eyes snapping up to you, his pinked cheeks deepening to a fiery red. “It’s, it’s a rut!” he sputters out. “Heat is for females! Don’t you know this kind of basic knowledge?”

“Okay,” you shrug. “So why are you mad at Pierrot then?”

“Why I’m mad is because that mutt spread his rut to me,” Harlequin stomped closer to the two of you. Pierrot didn’t even flinch; if not for his stilled hips, you’d think he hadn’t even noticed that you both aren’t alone anymore. “If it weren’t for that mutt running into me, getting his pheromones all over me, then I wouldn’t be in rut myself! It’s his fault!”

You think for a second, then point at Pierrot. “Well, since I can’t help either of you here, why don’t the two of you help each other out instead?”

Both men react poorly to your offer. Harlequin scoffs loudly, while Pierrot’s grip on your leg turns bruising, his eyes snapping onto yours. “My Dear! I’d, I’d never do such a despicable thing with him! Never! My body is for you and you alone, I swear!”

“Oh, don’t act so revolted by that!” Harlequin snapped.

“Pierrot, darling, look at me.” You reach down, brushing some of his sweat-dampened hair out of his face. “I will not make you, but I do think it’ll help you. I hate seeing you like this, especially since I can’t help you right now; and…” you pause, looking away as you try to suppress a coy smile. “It’d be kind of hot to watch you two go at it.”

His resolve crumbles in a second at your admittance. The idea of having sex with Harlequin had never passed his mind, but with you voicing your desire to watch, the idea seemed so incredibly tempting. His body was yours, completely and entirely, even if he had sex with someone else; that fact wouldn’t change. Especially for you, anything for you.

Behind him, Harlequin laughs, jabbing his toe into the meat of Pierrot’s back. “Hear that, Pierrot? Your darling little human has some interesting fantasies, don’t they? Are you really going to disappoint them?” he verbally prods at Pierrot.

Pierrot is on his feet in a snap, clutching around Harlequin’s waist and neck as he forces the other against his body. His lips meet Harlequin’s, a soft yelp leaving Harlequin’s mouth as Pierrot’s tongue is shoved down his throat. The kiss is starved and demanding, with no romance to be seen, a kiss that makes Pierrot want to throw up if it wasn’t exactly what he needed. His hands feverishly tore at Harlequin’s clothes until the latter slapped his hands away and took to disrobing himself.

“Unless you’re going to pay for replacements,” Harlequin growls between breaths. “Don’t tear off my clothes like some feral beast.”

The two of them end up on your bed quickly, Harlequin’s costume discarded onto the floor with Pierrot’s. Harlequin lands below Pierrot, who slots himself between Harlequin’s legs. The rut has left Harlequin just as desperate as Pierrot, his own two tentacle cocks already out and writhing in the air.

Pierrot’s cock, still hard and dripping with need, slides over Harlequin’s cock, grinding down for some friction. A sharp whimper leaves Harlequin’s lips at the feeling, instinct driving his cocks to curl around Pierrot’s length. With the sensation almost feeling like a hand wrapped around his cock, Pierrot’s hips snap forward, thrusting into Harlequin’s pelvis with reckless abandon.

Soft, needy moans leave both men, their hips meeting over and over as Harlequin’s dicks milk Pierrot’s own length. Pierrot’s eyes are wrenched shut, trying so hard to fool himself that the one he’s fucking is you and not Harlequin. But with a loud cry from Harlequin tugs Pierrot away from that fantasy. Pierrot’s hand snaps up from where he’s leaving bruises on Harlequin’s hipbone and moves to his neck. He applies enough force to shut Harlequin up, drool and frustrated tears dripping down the side of Harlequin’s face.

This is all so wrong, having had sex with Harlequin of all people. Pierrot would rather beat the constant annoyance into the ground than do the very thing he’s doing now. If it weren’t for this stupid rut, Pierrot wouldn’t have to lower himself to this level, to fuck this whore. No, it’s not just because of this rut; it’s for you too.

Pierrot’s eyes opened, his golden gaze lifting and seeing you across the tent. You’re just sitting at your desk, body turned to the scene in front of you, with your legs crossed and biting at one of your fingers. Your face, it’s one that Pierrot recognizes and craves, you’re enjoying this. You’re watching Pierrot fuck himself against Harlequin, using the smaller man as a sex toy, and you look like you’re watching your favorite porno. Ah, you just look so happy, all because Pierrot would debase himself this way.

Pierrot cums again with a loud cry, his seed splattering up Harlequin’s torso. His grip around Harlequin’s neck tightens until Harlequin slaps at his wrist; only then does he release the other from his hold. Sputtering and coughing, Harlequin glares up at Pierrot. “That's it? You’re a one-pump chump?” Harlequin goads further. “Going to leave your partner unsatisfied?”

Any further insults are silenced as Pierrot shoves Harlequin over, pushing his face into your pillows. One hand grips Harlequin’s fluffy hair, pinning him there, as Pierrot’s other hand grabs the briefly forgotten lube. With a single flick of his claw, Pierrot pops open the lid before squirting a generous amount of lube over Harlequin’s taint. The cold lube makes Harlequin twitch as it touches his hot, sensitive skin.

Little preparation is given before Pierrot pushes two of his lubed fingers down into Harlequin’s anus, pushing down to the knuckle. A pained squeak leaves Harlequin’s chest, but his hips still push back into Pierrot’s hand. Pierrot sets a brutal pace as he shoves his fingers in and out of Harlequin, every movement from Harlequin earning a tighter grip on his hair.

Harlequin writhes beneath Pierrot, legs kicking against the bed and hips bucking against Pierrot’s hand with every thrust. You almost want to tell Pierrot to be a bit more gentle if it weren’t for how wanton and lewd the muffled whimpers coming from Harlequin were. Despite, or because of, the rough treatment, Harlequin was loving this.

It’s Harlequin’s turn to cum, his cum spurting from his two cocks and landing on your bedsheets. Pierrot almost wanted to beat him for daring to get his disgusting fluids on your property, though he only snarled in distaste instead. His grip on Harlequin’s hair releases instead of landing on his hips before he pulls his fingers out of Harlequin’s ass.

He doesn’t give the other much time to cool down after his orgasm before Pierrot presses his cock against the Harlequin’s entrance. Before Harlequin can even voice a complaint, Pierrot slams his hips forward, shoving his cock into Harlequin, down until right before the knot. The other lets out a sob, back arching and toes curling.

“Damn it, Pierrot,” Harlequin grumbles. “You really are just an animal, aren’t you?”

“Just be happy I even bothered to prepare you before,” Pierrot grumbles right back. He pulls back, almost until his cock is about to slip out, before he thrusts back in with the same amount of cruelty as before. If Harlequin had any more quips to say, they are lost in the moaning on his lips.

Pierrot quickly falls into the same brutal pace that he had when he was using his fingers, every thrust with his hips feral, brutal, and fast. With every thrust made, Harlequin sobbed and whimpered, tears of pain and pleasure rolling down his face. If it weren’t for the wanton smile and lolling tongue hanging from Harlequin’s mouth, you’d have demanded Pierrot be more gentle. But Harlequin was showing his true colors now, nothing more than a masochistic whore, finding great pleasure as he’s treated as nothing more than a hole for Pierrot to use as he pleases. He looked so happy that you almost could believe that this was what Harlequin wanted all along.

Pierrot looks up at you again, searching for your approval as he fucks another. Some small part of him almost wants to see you upset, jealous, as you watch your lover’s cock be thrust into someone else. That part of him is silenced when he sees you watching, hearts in your eyes and thighs rubbing together to find your own relief. This is a beautiful display for you, a perfect form of entertainment.

And Pierrot always strives to make sure you’re happy.

Pierrot’s arms go under Harlequin’s armpits, his hands going up to Harlequin’s hair once again. With a sharp pull, Pierrot pulls Harlequin’s torso up off his elbows until he’s kneeling on your bed. You’re given a good view of Harlequin front, his two cocks writhing against one another in the air as his face twists into delirious pleasure. Every thrust of Pierrot’s massive cock makes a slight bump appear in Harlequin’s stomach, giving a good visual on how Pierrot’s cock was ruining him from the inside.

With his grip on Harlequin’s hair, Pierrot forces Harlequin to lift his head towards you, that way you can see how much of a slut he is. His eyes are half-lidded and fluttering, tears stain his cheeks, and drool drips from his chin. He barely even looks conscious, so drunk with pleasure and masochistic pain that there’s no shame as his eyes meet yours. He almost wants to tease you for enjoying this so much, for loving being cucked like this, but he can barely even find ‌a single word in his skull to use.

Harlequin climaxes with a whimper, his cum shooting into the air and landing in your direction. Even though there’s a couple of feet between you and where his cum landed, Pierrot still takes insult to it. Somehow, his thrusts become even harsher, using his grip on Harlequin’s hair to slam the other down onto his cock. Overstimulated sobbing leaves Harlequin as his hole is abused further, almost pleading for Pierrot to stop.

It doesn’t take too long before Pierrot orgasms himself, his cum filling Harlequin. With a groan, he drags himself out of Harlequin, his cock flopping out with a wet pop. He releases Harlequin, letting him fall forward onto the bed and gasping for air.

“Feeling better?” You ask, smiling.

“Not yet,” Pierrot’s voice softens when he regards you, eyes so full of love as he looks at you. “Are you enjoying this, my dear?”

“So much,” smiling, you nod and answer. “You both look like you’re enjoying yourselves, that’s for sure.”

You shouldn’t even have to bother with what Harlequin is feeling. If Pierrot had his way, Harlequin wouldn’t be enjoying this at all; instead, he would beg for mercy. But you’re such a kind person, Pierrot knows you wouldn’t want that, and Pierrot can at least allow Harlequin a bit of pleasure.

Treating Harlequin like a doll, Pierrot shoves him onto his back. He climbs on top, straddling Harlequin’s lap as his hand grabs at Harlequin’s cocks, trying to ignore how disgusting it feels to touch. Harlequin barely has enough time to steady his cocks before Pierrot sinks down onto Harlequin’s lap.

“Fuck!” Harlequin gasps, his claws grasping at Pierrot’s hips. His grip is quickly snatched away as Pierrot uses a single hand to pin Harlequin’s arms above his head. “Damn Pierrot, you’re tight. Don’t tell me you’re letting me fuck your virgin ass?”

“Shut up,” Pierrot snarls, not bothering to even tell Harlequin if he’s right or not. As if Harlequin deserves to know anything about your and Pierrot’s sex life.

The pace Pierrot sets as he rides Harlequin is not nearly as cruel as how he fucked Harlequin. Though there is still a lustful desperation as he grinds his hips down against the other’s lap. Inside ‌him, Harlequin’s cocks twist around, exploring the tight, wet walls of Pierrot’s anus. It’s abhorrent, but a single look up at you to see how much you’re enjoying this fresh sight makes it all worth it.

With every drop of Pierrot’s hips, Harlequin thrusts up to meet his flesh. His tentacles slip against Pierrot’s prostate by accident, the sensation making Pierrot’s body jerk in surprise. A smug smile drags across Harlequin’s lips, adjusting beneath Pierrot so that every thrust aims for that little spot. “Found it~” he hummed, pleased with himself.

Your name spills from Pierrot’s lips every time his prostate is stimulated, his hands moving up to cover his face. This just feels too good. How desperately Pierrot wished it was you beneath him instead of the bastard Harlequin. He almost wants to look at you, but his shame at what he’s doing makes him wither under your pleasant gaze. But he knows you’re watching closely, you can see how Pierrot trembles as he fucks himself onto Harlequin’s cock. He’s so gross to enjoy this, but it’s so pristine how you do the same.

Pierrot is too lost in the pleasure to stop Harlequin before his back is now against the bed, lying on his side as Harlequin grips his leg. The new angle makes every thrust even deeper inside Pierrot, his hands moving to cover his mouth as such pitiful moans leave his lips. His eyes crack open, meeting yours once more, your elation clear.

Sobbing, Pierrot cums for a fourth time, his eyes locked on yours as he wants you to watch. He’s trembling now, his large, lithe body now almost appearing weak as it shakes. Harlequin doesn’t let up, almost like he’s acting out of revenge, as he continues to fuck Pierrot into overstimulation. All the cries that leave Pierrot only seem to fuel Harlequin, taking a great deal of effort to ensure that every thrust is abusing Pierrot’s prostate.

Pierrot’s legs kick and flail around; what little of his conscious mind is left between the overstimulating thrusts is put to keeping himself from digging his claws into your bed. He’d never forgive himself if he ruined your items. “Please, please, just cum,” Pierrot whimpers, begs Harlequin. “It’s, it’s too much! Please!”

“Pfft,” Harlequin scoffs. “Not so mean now that you’re the one getting fucked, huh? Well, since you asked so nicely.” With that, Harlequin lets himself cum inside of Pierrot, claws digging into the flesh of Pierrot’s thighs. He thrusts a few more times, pushing the sperm deeper into Pierrot, before finally slipping his cocks out of Pierrot. “Bet your darling human thinks you look cute, getting fucked like that.”

“Fuck, fuck off,” with a lazy shove of his foot, Pierrot pushes Harlequin away from him. Harlequin lands on his back, and he stays there, body too exhausted to get up now. Both of their rut’s needs have been met by now, but Pierrot just needs a little more.

Pierrot, with a body already close to exhaustion, pushes up and crawls back on top of Harlequin. “Really? Still?” Harlequin says with a scoff. Despite that, he still opens ‌his legs, welcoming Pierrot closer.

“One more,” Pierrot gasps out. “Just once more and I’ll be good.”

“Just make it quick, I’m tired.”

“I don’t care.”

There’s a lot more delicacy present as Pierrot presses his cock against Harlequin’s hole once more. Any anger he held towards Harlequin was forgotten in the fatigue in his muscles. He leans forward, trapping Harlequin between his arms, as he slowly pushes his cock back into Harlequin’s ass. It’s easy for Pierrot to slide his cock back in, Harlequin’s entrance almost welcoming as it sucks him in.

The thrusts are slower this time, lazy and with little rhythm anymore. Both men are far too weary for the sex to be as desperate as before, now only needing just one more orgasm to fulfill their goal. Every roll of Pierrot’s hips makes them both moan in harmony, an unusual display of mutuality between the two of them.

Like this, it’s a lot easier for Pierrot to pretend that it’s you beneath him. He’d never fuck you as cruelly as he fucked Harlequin. You were special, fragile. He’d hate himself forever if he hurt you, broke you. Yet still, as he gazed down at Harlequin, who for once was without some insult lashing from his tongue, he almost didn’t mind that it was Harlequin beneath him.

Pierrot’s knot aches, neglected during this entire ordeal. Something instinctual inside him complains about it, whispering to him that he needs to knot his partner, breed them. It’s a stupid notion, because Harlequin can’t be bred without a womb to be had. Not to mention, Pierrot would hate to have a child with Harlequin even if it were possible.

It takes multiple grinding thrusts before Pierrot’s knot slips inside of Harlequin, the massive girth making Harlequin fall apart. His arms reach up and wrap around Pierrot’s torso, pulling him closer so that they almost look like lovers. Over and over, Pierrot pulls out his knot from Harlequin only to push it back in, picking up speed with a newfound caution. Even with the restrained pace that Pierrot thrust with, every push in with the knot made Harlequin’s nails dig into Pierrot’s back. Yet still, he wrapped his legs around Pierrot’s waist, pulling him in tighter.

Footsteps distract Pierrot from Harlequin, both men’s attentions being turned towards you. You walk up to the two of them on your bed, beaming at them both like they’ve given you everything you ever wanted. “You both did so great,” you say with a voice full of adoration. “Just a little more now.”

Your praise makes Pierrot’s chest flutter with elation, and while he’d never admit it, Harlequin’s did too. You reach out, taking Pierrot’s hand into your own, urging him to keep going. Whether it’s out of jealousy or just a genuine desire for affection, one of Harlequin’s hands falls away from Pierrot’s back and reaches out for you. With a smile, you take his hand too. For some odd reason, seeing you hold Harlequin’s hand, Pierrot finds himself not minding for the moment.

There’s one last burst of energy as both men grind their hips together, seeking one last orgasm to share. It doesn’t take long, both of them shaking as they reach climax together in an almost enlightening orgasm. That perfect lasts for a good few seconds, before the fatigue finally hits Pierrot and he slumps forward, passing out with all of his weight pressing down on Harlequin.

“Ugh, fucking really Pierrot?” Harlequin grumbles, trying to wriggle out from beneath Pierrot. It’s hard, considering how Pierrot’s cock is still buried deep within his ass.

“Let me help,” you offer. It takes you both to readjust Pierrot, and you are much more gentle than Harlequin is, but you get his cock out of Harlequin and lay him on his side. “You can stay,” you offer as you adjust the sheets over Pierrot’s unconscious body.

Harlequin takes a moment to debate it, then figures there’s no point to, since he doubts he’d be able to walk over five feet in this condition. “Sure, as long as that mutt doesn’t tear my throat out while I sleep.”

“He won’t,” you promise. For good measure, you slide between the two of them, knowing Pierrot won’t do anything violent with you in the way. You take to being the one to adjust the pillows and blankets for Harlequin, letting him relax as you get him comfortable. Once he is, you finally let yourself relax between the two. Even when unconscious, Pierrot’s arms seek you out. wrapping around your waist and pulling you in.

“You did good, Harlequin,” you whisper.

“Shut up.”

“Come on! You can do it!”

Dona Lucretia called out to her son, smiling brightly as her son clung tightly onto the couch beside him. His little hands curled around the soft fabric as he stared at his mother, blinking slowly with his icy blue eyes. He babbled out something to her, likely bidding her to come back to him, not understanding why she wasn’t by him now. When she didn’t come back to him, his mind slowly put together that he had to go to her instead.

With one clumsy, fat foot reaching out, Uriel moved towards his mother.

He falls backwards before he can even take the first step, Dona Lucretia quickly rushing forward to cradle his head before it hits the carpeted floor. Sighing, she looks down at her son, who only babbles a little more, unstartled by his fall, as his head limply leans back into her touch. “Oh, Uriel,” she hums, stroking his wispy hair. “Maybe next time.”

“I take it he still isn’t walking?”

Dona Lucretia flinches at the Doctor’s sudden voice, turning and looking back at the man she didn’t see coming. How she didn’t was a mystery, considering how he always stunk of antiseptic. “How long have you been there?” She asks, trying to sound friendly.

He doesn’t reply, silently demanding that she answer his question first. “No, he isn’t. He’s almost 18 months old now, and it doesn’t seem like he’s getting close to beginning to walk. I’m getting worried. Does it take this long for other kids?”

“It can,” the Doctor replies. “Infants walk between the ages of 9 and 18 months. The little one here has been a pretty consistent late bloomer.”

“I know,” she mumbles, pulling her son closer to her chest. He was right; every milestone that Uriel hit came delayed. He didn’t smile until 4 months, didn’t laugh until 7 months, couldn’t roll over until 11 months, could hardly crawl at 13 months, and said his first word at 15 months. Of course, his first word was ‘mama’, ‌which his father seemed utterly destroyed by. Maybe Dona Lucretia should have tried to urge Uriel to say papa first instead, but then again, she was the one who was by his side every moment, so it was only right.

The Doctor stares at the mother and her son, his mind working on something he isn’t verbalizing. Then he lets out an inquisitive hum, turning away to leave. A sharp bolt of frustration strikes Dona Lucretia, snapping her head to glower at the man. “What are you thinking?” she growls out. “Why do you always go and tell Pierrot and Jester about what you’re thinking about my son and me? Just tell me for once. Quit leaving it up to Pierrot to tell me instead. It pisses me off.”

The flash of anger is brief, but bright. Doctor stares at Dona Lucretia, emotions clouded behind his mask, unreadable, as shame settles into Dona Lucretia. No, perhaps not shame, but fear; fear of his reaction to her outburst. She turns her attention back to her son, hiding her fear as she pulls him closer to hug him against her chest.

If her outburst offended the Doctor, he doesn’t show it. “I have a theory that the little one has cerebral palsy,” he explains. “Stiff or shaky movements, coordination problems, trouble eating and sleeping, slow to reach milestones. I’ve also observed that he seems to have some vision problems, perhaps some myopia, though I can’t be sure if that is from cerebral palsy or his albinism.”

Dona Lucretia’s teeth dig into her tongue as she listens to him, unknowingly clenching Uriel tighter to her until he lets out a fuss. She mumbles out a soft apology to her son before looking at the Doctor. “What can we do?”

“Well, it doesn’t seem to be severe, at least,” the Doctor says with a shrug. “His muscular issues aren’t creating large issues for his bones, but he likely won’t ever be able to walk without help,” he thinks for a moment. “For now, the best we can do is keep him alive and well. But I will look into what treatments I can give him that will make his life easier. We might not safely do surgeries, but physical therapy, supportive equipment, and medication should help. Like always, however, I can’t promise anything.”

A shaking breath left Dona Lucretia’s lips as she nodded. “Okay,” she whispered. “Should I, should I stop trying to get him to walk then?”

“No, keep trying,” he shakes his head. “It’s still good for him to build those muscles.”

“Okay,” she whispered again. Uriel’s little hands reached up, grasping at his mother’s hair and missing by an inch. “Thank you, Doctor.”

There was a brief hush in the air before the Doctor finally nodded. “Pierrot is practicing his routine right now, why don’t you go talk to him about it?”

If the Doctor wanted confirmation, he didn’t stick around long enough to hear it. He’s gone before Dona Lucretia can respond, leaving the two of them alone in the tent. The mother looks down at her son, giving him a warm smile meant to comfort herself more than him.

“Let’s go talk to your papa, okay?” she asks.

Uriel babbles out, calling to his mama, curling into her as she picks him up. Despite how gradually he’s reached his milestones, Uriel is a larger than average baby, looking closer to two and a half years old as opposed to his actual age. However, he’s unusually light for how he appears, making carrying him an easier task for his human mother.

With a calming pat to his back, Dona Lucretia grabs a thin blanket, covering her son in it before carrying him out into the warm midsummer air. Perhaps it was his albinism, his genetic abnormality, or even something else entirely, but the sun was a cruel source of pain to Uriel. It was like nails on his skin, stinging his skin until it turned red under its gaze. If Uriel had to be carried anywhere out beneath the sun, precautions had to be made. At the very least, Uriel grew used to having to be covered when they went out into the day, stopping his fussing early on.

The circus isn’t open as Dona Lucretia walks through the tents; it’s still far too early for that. No one around with enough of a mind who wasn’t already aware of Uriel’s inhuman nature. Who wouldn’t see his gaping maw and razor-sharp teeth, nor his long limbs that ended in sharp claws, and wonder what he was. It was like the older he got, the less human he became.

Pierrot’s red tent was easy to find, mostly due in part to how Jester always demanded that the tents be arranged in a certain way. Even if Dona Lucretia was blinded in a new location, the placements were always so consistent that she’d still be able to find his tent.

As she drew near, she could hear the soft thumps of Pierrot’s knives stabbing into his targets, wooden ones this time at least. She knew better than to interrupt him during that, having nearly been struck by a thrown knife one too many times long before Uriel ever even entered the picture. With her child now in her arms, she wouldn’t even risk being struck by just peeking in to tell him they’re there.

So she found a spot near the entrance that is underneath the shade, setting Uriel down and watching him closely as he crawled on the dirt. Knowing Pierrot, it wouldn’t be long before he’d smell them anyway, and come out. Despite all of his issues, as Uriel played in the dirt, he seemed happy, and that was enough for Dona Lucretia.

“Out for a walk?” Jester’s voice came from behind Dona Lucretia. She turned her head, politely bowing her head to her superior, silently wishing that the damn monsters would stop showing up behind her.

“We’re waiting for Pierrot. I wish to talk to him,” Dona Lucretia explains, stepping between her son and Jester. Even if he’s never harmed the infant, the disgusted look in his eyes always told her how much he wanted her son gone. She already knew that the Jester wanted her gone as well, and that her life continued to rely solely on Pierrot’s love for her. If his love were to wane, she’d quickly find herself served up as a feast for the other carnies. At least Pierrot’s love, as much as it’s softened to something more bearable in the years since their first meeting, still seemed to consume his soul entirely.

There must have been some worry on Dona Lucretia’s face as she spoke, because Jester sunk his teeth into it fast. “Hm?” he stepped forward, far too close to Dona Lucretia. “Is something worrying you, Dona Lucretia? I ought to know, since it concerns my people.”

He says those words so sweetly, masking his vitriol towards her with great care. But Dona Lucretia has seen the cracks far too many times not to know exactly what he is really thinking. She’s smart enough to pretend along with him, though. “It’s nothing, I’m just missing him,” she pulls a tight smile across her face.

“Then why not just go in?”

“I would hate to startle him when he’s practicing his aim.”

“Oh? But I’m sure he’d never hit you,” Jester flashes his sharp, predator smile at him. “On purpose, that is.” There’s a pause as he studies Dona Lucretia’s face. “But that’s not why you’re here, truthfully, is it?”

“I-”

“Tell me. Dona Lucretia,” Jester demands, his voice twisting into something more honest, controlling. “What is worrying you so?”

Dona Lucretia flinches away from Jester, eyes falling away to hide from Jester. Protectively, she turns and picks up Uriel from the ground, shielding him with her body. “I was speaking with the Doctor earlier. He just brought up some concerns regarding Uriel and his growth.”

“Oh dear,” he places a hand on his chest, feigning concern, even as his eagerness shines through. “Don’t tell me he’s bound to die soon.”

“No!” Dona Lucretia snaps far too fast, then winces at her own tone. How stupid of her; it’s like she’s asking to be punished for her insubordination again. “No, I, I mean. The Doctor thinks that he might have cerebral palsy, but he doesn’t think it’s severe.”

A grimace crosses the Jester’s face, and it’s not one made of concern. “So, that thing is going to require help for its entire life?” he scoffs, sharp and cold at the news. “Shame, perhaps he should have been ‌stillborn rather than burden us all.”

Anger flares up like a raging inferno inside Dona Lucretia’s chest. Before she can stop herself, she’s baring her teeth at Jester. “Shut up,” she hisses.

Jester steps back at her show of anger, though he knows she will not hit him, not with Uriel in her arms. But he’s not backing down. “I mean, after all, if the Doctor is right, then all that poor child will do is live just to suffer. We hardly have the means to care for a growing child with such a condition, especially with us constantly moving place to place. You will have to return to your duties eventually; you’ve wasted enough time with it, anyway.”

He takes a step forward again, looming over the mother as she tries to hide her child from his sour gaze. “You only brought this child into this world to suffer, surely you must feel bad about that? If he hadn’t been born, he wouldn’t have to live such a punishing life when he’s still so innocent. Why should your sins harm him? Be his burden to bear? Instead, you should have realized that his existence is a crime against nature itself, and gotten rid of him before he even took his first breath.”

“Ah, but perhaps,” Jester raises a hand, reaching for Uriel as the toddler worriedly looks at his mother, seeing the distress on her face. Trembling, Dona Lucretia turns her body away from Jester, preferring that the Jester hurt her rather than her son. “Perhaps we should end its suffering before it can fully comprehend its doomed existence.”

“My Lady!” Pierrot cried out, voice exploding out with excitement as he burst from his tent, his face twisting around his wide smile. Unaware of what he had just interrupted, he wraps his arms around his wife and son, planting a kiss on both of their foreheads. “What brings you here?”

“Dona Lucretia seems to have something she wants to talk to you about.” Jester takes a step back, his mask quickly returning to his face. He knows better than to start a fight with Pierrot, especially one relating to his wife and child; not even Jester’s higher position would protect him from Pierrot if he was angry enough. “So I shall leave you two to speak.”

Not wanting to witness such a sickening sight, Jester turns and leaves the couple. Pierrot only smiles, not seeing the distress on his wife’s face as he pulls her into her tent, away from the sun that was slowly shrinking the shade that she hid Uriel under. Inside, he quickly brings her to a bench meant for the crowds that would come by later tonight.

With her eye still on Uriel, she sets him down on the floor again, letting him return to playing now that Jester was gone. This time, sensing his mother’s fear even more than Pierrot was, Uriel only stuck by her, clinging to her dress. She smiled, patting his head gently, before finally turning her gaze towards Pierrot.

“Doctor, he said that,” Dona Lucretia took Pierrot’s hands into her own, watching as the large man kneeled to the floor. “He said Uriel might have cerebral palsy.”

Pierrot blinked once, then turned his head to the side. “Cerebral palsy?” he asked.

“It’s a — um, it’s a condition where the brain has certain issues that will affect his development. He might never walk on his own, might have trouble communicating, maybe even just eating. The Doctor says it doesn’t seem to be severe, but even then he’ll need constant help just to live,” she explains, watching as Pierrot doesn’t even flinch at this information. “Pierrot, my Love, this means that life for Uriel will be hard. I don’t want him to suffer.”

Concern finally shows on Pierrot’s face, looking down at his son as he babbles to himself. Then Pierrot smiles softly, reaching out and patting his son’s head before meeting his wife’s gaze. “We’ll fix him.”

“We can’t fix him, Pierrot,” Dona Lucretia urges her husband, hands trembling. “Cerebral palsy is not something we can fix.”

“But he’s one of us. Maybe if he eats human flesh-”

“Don’t you remember when he got sick, and we tried that? He got so much worse! He almost died!”

“We can try again,” Pierrot tried to quell her worries, but his words fell on deaf ears. “Maybe when he’s a little older, a little stronger, we can try again. It’ll help him, I’m sure of it. Just please, please don’t worry about this, My Lady, I hate to see you like this.”

“Pierrot, listen to me. He’s not like you.” Her fingers clenched around Pierrot’s, urging him to just listen to her. “He’s half human, half me, so we can’t be certain that his body works like either of ours. Even if he eats… human, that might not fix him. Cerebral palsy isn’t something you can just fix.”

“It will, my Lady,” he urges back. “I’m sure of it.”

A shaking breath left Dona Lucretia’s lips as she tried not to cry. Despite her efforts, a tear falls down her cheek that gets quickly wiped away by Pierrot. “I…” she whispers, her voice barely even audible in the silence, Jester’s words reverberating loudly in her head. “I shouldn’t have given birth to him, just to give him such a terrible body. I’m a horrible mother.”

Those words made the dam that held back months, even years, of her fear and distraught finally crack. She’s been stuck here, forced to pretend that she’s happy with the life she was forced into, only to bear a child that she felt like failed. No one, not even her husband, would even listen to her here.

There is a near-infinite list of things that are simply impossible. Some notable examples include collecting clouds in a jar, dancing on the surface of the sun, or singing a wordless symphony in the void of space. All things that the laws of biology strictly forbid.

One thing on that list is one that is rarely broken in the real world, that is that two animals of different species cannot interbreed and create hybrid offspring. In nature, rarely, when two species both evolved from the same point that they are close enough to each other in evolution; hybrids can be born. Coyotes and wolves can give birth to coywolves, as well as coydogs and wolf-dogs. Ligers can be born from male lions and female tigresses; male dromedary camels and female llamas make camas. Most common of all hybrids, because of their heritage making them more genetically rounded in physical capabilities without the weaknesses of their parents, are mules born from male donkeys and female horses.

Whatever the five beings that ran the Freak Circus of Horrors were, they were certainly not human. Monsters, that’s what they called themselves, because what else could they call themselves? There was no taxonomy for them, not even a domain for them to fall under. As far as they knew, there was no evolutionary line for them.

So, the possibility of one of them actually impregnating a human should have been impossible. Humans and monsters shouldn’t have sat close enough on the branches of evolution for it to be possible. Just one more impossible possibility.

As such, no one took notice when the Dona Lucretia seemed more fatigued than usual. No, her ever doting and painfully attentive lover Pierrot noticed and took great concern with, but no one else did. “She’s just exhausted,” the Doctor waves off Pierrot’s concern in those early weeks after an examination that missed the actual cause because there was no reason to look. “She’s human; she can’t work as much as we do nor for as long.”

The Jester, in all his generosity and concern for a human under his care, gave Dona Lucretia only three days off to relax before doubling her workload. At least only after harshly scolding her for the perceived weakness, reminding her she could only live as long as she was useful. If her existence worsened the circus, then not even Pierrot’s love could protect her from the fate she deserved. Pierrot, for his part, was told to quit coddling his common-law wife, that way she’d toughen up for the work she had to do.

It was only when Dona Lucretia woke up one morning throwing up that the others took notice, though still with varying levels of little to no concern still. It was more ‌fascination that led the Doctor to do a more in-depth examination of Dona Lucretia’s body, finally finding the real reason.

“She’s pregnant,” Doctor announced to the room, speaking more like he was speaking about a new breakthrough in science and not about someone else’s pregnancy. In a way, he wasn’t wrong. This was a breakthrough in what they believed about what they were. “She’s still early in the first trimester; I’d say only a month and a half.”

Pierrot was the only one who smiled at those words, dropping to his knees before his shellshocked, terrified lover; not noticing her own expression in his elation. “That’s wonderful, My Lady!” his delirium spreading brightly across his face. “This is a sign of our love!”

The Jester, who stood by, disgust twisting his expression that bore into Dona Lucretia, did not match the enthusiasm or intrigue. He had only wanted to sit in on the results of the examination so he might use the results to his benefit, to show Pierrot how pathetic his human lover was. But this, this unholy gestation of human and inhuman, it would only solidify Pierrot’s love for her. All the harder for the Jester to rid himself of the parasite.

“Now, as your doctor, I should stress that this is unprecedented. I can’t say for certain how this pregnancy will go, both for the mother and the fetus. The chance of miscarriage or even stillbirth is likely very high, and that’s not even mentioning what the infant will be like as half human. It might be in the mother’s, and the fetus's, too, best interest to abort it before it is brought to term,” the Doctor explains, his excitement only briefly being pushed aside. “That being said, if you decide to keep the fetus, I will ensure that Dona Lucretia is tended to as an expectant mother; this chance to study a hybrid such as this is just too much for me to miss.”

“Pierrot,” the Jester speaks up only when he can swallow his disgust long enough so that it isn’t heard in his tone. “Perhaps it is best that we abort the fetus. A human is just too fragile to carry one of your offspring, just think of how it could harm—,” how badly he wanted to call Dona Lucretia a it, a thing, Pierrot’s burden “—your lover. It might even kill her.”

Those words make Pierrot pause, a crack in his exhilaration. He wanted this child; he wanted this child so deeply that it hurt, because he was given something so beautiful from the woman he loved so painfully that he thought impossible. But the thought of his love being hurt, or worse, dying from the gift, it almost made the gift not worth it. He stared wistfully at Dona Lucretia’s stomach, where underneath the flesh and guts his own child was growing, even if it wasn’t even showing yet.

“Darling,” Dona Lucretia spoke up, placing her hands over Pierrot’s as he felt for any sign of his kin inside her. “Maybe they’re right. With our child, we don’t know what life for them would be like. Even if I give birth to them, their life might be painful and confusing.” Her eyes turn downcast, away from Pierrot as she lets her more genuine thoughts slip through. “And this circus is no place to raise a child.”

But a delusion is not easily dismissed. “No, my Lady, our child, that they even came into creation, is a testament to our love! Please, I’m sure our child will come out strong and healthy; they’ll love you just as much as I love you too, they won’t hurt you!” Pierrot pleaded to his lover, his hands trembling as he struggled to not hold her too tightly. She was too soft, too breakable, especially now. “Please give our love a chance!”

The other’s words swayed neither lover. Dona Lucretia’s lips pressed together till they were almost white. Perhaps in a different life, under ‌different circumstances, she too would have wanted this child. But not here, not sitting in the Doctor’s dimly lit tent where the air was always stale and rusty, where dried viscera could never be completely cleaned up. Not when the only one who cared for her couldn’t even be bothered to truly listen to her.

It wouldn’t be hard to twist this to Jester’s favor, to get rid of the putrid thing that’s growing inside the equally vile woman. Sure, he could just simply order the Doctor to get rid of that thing right this second, but that’d only create spite in Pierrot. Or worse, Pierrot might actually refuse the order outright, and defend his pregnant wife with violence. That outcome needs to be avoided for more than one reason. It would be better, safer, if Jester convinced Pierrot to agree to the abortion. It is already easier with the mother also leaning towards that too.

Or maybe he doesn’t even need to. After all, the Jester doubted that a baby born of human and monster origin could ever survive; they are just two very different lifeforms in the end. Even if a human woman could be impregnated, did that mean that the fetus inside Dona Lucretia would survive. In the best-case scenario, the fetus had a miscarriage and killed the mother with it. In the worst-case scenario, however, both survive and become hindrances to the circus.

“Why don’t the two of you discuss it for a couple of days?” The Doctor offers after neither lover persuades the other to their side. “Or even a couple of months, really. You’re still very early; abortions are typically done before twenty weeks.”

Word spread to the last two circus members within an hour after the couple found out. Harlequin himself took great pleasure in teasing the couple for their intimate activities, earning a firm punch from Pierrot. While the Ticket Taker seemed truly apathetic towards the news, perhaps a bit surprised at first but it melted away quickly. Any opinion‌ defaulted to whatever the Jester thought, only out of loyalty.

Two weeks passed like cold tar in one’s hand, every passing day, the pregnancy became more and more obvious. Every morning, the Dona Lucretia vomited what little was in her stomach; cramping and soreness became a daily hindrance; she slept more hours than she was awake, and when she was awake; she was in a constant state of fatigue. As the pregnancy reached two months‌, the pregnancy showed a small but noticeable bump.

“Hm, a fundal height of 18cm,” the Doctor mentioned during the now weekly checkup. “A larger than expected height.”

“What does that mean?” Dona Lucretia asked, Pierrot nodding in agreement by her side as his grip tightened on her hand.

“Well, it can mean several things. Some options are good, some are bad, some are just mundane,” he explains, sitting back in his chair. “Your fundal height should only be about 8cm right now, give or take 2cm. It’s too early for polyhydramnios or a breech birth, and while it is possible that you have uterine fibroids, you don’t have any other symptoms of that. So it is likely either fetal macrosomia or you are actually having twins. I am leaning more towards the latter, however, as fetal macrosomia is typically only seen with obese mothers.”

The word twins only makes Pierrot beam even brighter than he has before, though it was the opposite for Dona Lucretia. Even one child was tough for her to accept, but two? Bringing two innocent children into this awful world was a scary thought for her. Though maybe if they were having twins, the two of them together would lessen any stings the world brought.

As her stomach grew with every passing day, Dona Lucretia’s life altered piece by piece. Her corsets went from functional to decorative to none; many of her dresses were altered to allow for her growing stomach. She was no longer a participant in the circus’s more active shows, leaving her often sidelined. Her diet narrowed as well, most foods making her nauseous, yet she never felt fed enough. But Pierrot was by her side for most of it. Every moment he wasn’t ordered to tend to something away from her side he was there, smiling as he tended to her every need.

As the day when they needed to decide on whether they had decided on an abortion drew near, Dona Lucretia’s stomach was much larger than the Doctor expected. “Perhaps you’re even having triplets,” he said with a laugh, not taking notice as Dona Lucretia seemed to slump over in her seat. “Have you decided on any names you’d like to give the children?”

It was obvious at that point that an abortion was off the table, Pierrot’s pleading over the weeks having whittled down his lover’s resolve. But while Pierrot seemed to get more excited with every passing day, Dona Lucretia only seemed to fall deeper into despair. Every time she closed her eyes, she imagined her child or children suffering under the cruel gaze of the Jester. How they’d see many horrors that no child should ever see, and how, worse, they might not even realize the issues of those sights. Would she be able to steer them well in this awful place, teach them right from wrong, or would they turn out as twisted as their father? She cried about it often when Pierrot slept.

By the sixth month of the pregnancy, Dona Lucretia looked like she was already at full term. Jester, as much as he hated it, allowed her to fully step back from her primary duties until after the birth. What little work she could do was usually assisting the Ticket Taker with paperwork, but even that left her lethargic after only a few hours.

As the pregnancy continued, both the Jester and Pierrot watched her with cautious eyes. Pierrot could see his lover’s condition, how much the pregnancy weighed on her in every way. Literally of course, as large as her stomach was, but emotionally too. Perhaps he knew deep down that she never wanted this, not here, not now, but his own selfishness had gagged him from putting a stop to it while that was still a possibility.

The Jester‌ watched with hope, hoping that he’d wake up one morning to hear that there had been a miscarriage or even a stillbirth. He could see how sluggish the vile woman became, how pale she got and saw how little ‌food she could successfully keep down. Humans were so fragile, and he was right that this pregnancy would be harsh on her body. It was like any day her body could finally give out and he’d finally be rid of the parasite. As much as he wouldn’t admit it out-loud, he found a sick sense of entertainment in watching her slowly wither away, even despite the trepidation it brought Pierrot.

As the eighth month neared, Dona Lucretia’s stomach reached a size that made it hard for her to even move without help from Pierrot. “Fascinating, a fundal height of 57cm,” the Doctor mused one day. “21cm more than what is typical at this point.” The night after that measurement, late on the 24th of February, Dona Lucretia woke screaming in pain. Pierrot plucked her from their shared bed, taking notice of the large amount of blood that stained their bedsheets. He woke half the circus as he rushed his wife to the Doctor, tears turning to ice in the cold winter night air.

Dona Lucretia’s screams filled the air for hours until early the next day. Her blood congealed on the cold floor, pouring out of her in chunks as her body was torn asunder. If not for the circus’s darker aspects granting easy access to blood, she would have bled out long before the delivery was over. Claw marks covered Pierrot’s arms from where Dona Lucretia scratched and tore at him, mind so inundated in pain that she didn’t even realize she was doing so.

At the fifteen-hour mark, the Doctor finally called it. Ticket Taker and Doctor scrambled to set up for surgery, and an hour later, the baby was finally pulled from the mother’s womb. The Doctor hadn’t wanted to risk a cesarean section, knowing his own inexperience as a midwife and obstetrician, but he knew there was no other chance the baby would leave without it.

Early that blisteringly cold February morning, a single child was born into the world. “A boy,” the Doctor announced to Pierrot as he handed the bloodied child off to his father. With no time to waste, Dona Lucretia was sewn up as Pierrot watched, eyes torn between watching his wife’s fragile body be stitched together again and cleaning off the infant in his arms.

Only when Dona Lucretia’s life wasn’t in immediate danger did the Doctor return his attention to the newborn. “68cm and 9.34kg,” he measured the infant, who whimpered in his grasp. “A considerably large newborn. For a human at least.”

Even with the newborn’s mother being a human, its paternal heritage showed through. Like Pierrot, the mouth was wide and revealed a tongue with a sharp point, their nose barely protruded from their face, and fingers ended in small dull claws, the source of a lot of Lucretia’s pain during pregnancy. The Doctor would later also point out that their white hair and unnaturally pale skin was a product of albinism, not from Pierrot’s own genetics, with the primary point of evidence being their light, pale blue eyes.

For hours after, Pierrot stayed by his wife’s side, listening to her faint breathing between the infant’s own shaky, struggling breaths. He’d never seen or felt anything so fragile in his life before. His wife lingered at the edge between life and death; his own child wasn’t doing much better. It was as he was sitting there that regret bloomed in his chest for the first time. How horrible he was to his wife, making her bear this child. He was no better to his own child for bringing them into this world with a body that struggled to breathe.

The Doctor worked for four days without rest to ensure both the mother and child survived, receiving most help from only Pierrot, who rested little either. Their work paid off when on the fifth day Dona Lucretia opened her eyes again, weary and trembling.

“Pierrot?” she spoke, her voice as present as the melting snowflakes outside.

Pierrot’s head jerked up at the sound of her voice, relief replacing worry as he saw her conscious again. “My Lady!” he nearly sobbed. “Our child, he’s beautiful. Thank you, thank you so much, you did an amazing job.”

He stood up, pulling back the blanket to show her the child she brought into this world. Dona Lucretia looked down at the infant, expression only showing exhaustion as she stared at the unmoving body. With a shaking hand, she reached out to touch her child, feeling its cold skin. For a moment, she feared the baby wasn’t even alive, still and gelid in Pierrot’s arms.

Then the baby let out a small coo, eyes fluttering open at the warm hand touching its cheek. He turned his glacial eyes to his mother, before smiling and babbling, like he recognized her already.

Tears dripped down her cheeks, emotions flooding her chest as she gazed at her child, before she finally smiled. “You’re right; he’s beautiful.” Pierrot nodded, body trembling, but his arms kept safely around his son. “Was there… Is he the only one?”

“Yes,” Pierrot chuckled. “We were wrong about twins; he was just a large child.”

“Yeah, he’s a big boy all right,” Dona Lucretia let out a giggle that quickly turned into a cough.

“What should we name him, My Lady?” The two of them had long talks about the baby’s name before, but having expected twins or even triplets, they now had multiple names to pick. “You should be the one to name him.”

Dona Lucretia pondered over the list of names they’d considered. She watched as the infant tilted its head up to take his mother’s finger into his mouth, gumming down on her digit. Finally, she settled on one.

“Uriel.”

“Could you give me a hand with an experiment?” That’s what the Doctor asked. “Just a simple experiment. Won’t hurt you at all.”

You agreed, but you probably should have backed out when he asked you to strip. You definitely should have backed out when he strapped you down to his reclining patient chair. At least he made sure it was sanitized before asking you to get on nude. 

“So is this some kind of examination?” You ask, cautious as the Doctor tightens the strap around your left ankle. “Or some kind of weird foreplay?”

The Doctor looks up at you, locking eyes somewhere behind his mask. Lifting his hand, he gives you a so-so hand gesture. “A bit of both, I’ll say,” not exactly the most reassuring response. “More of an experiment in human sexuality. Our bodies are so different from humans, and even among ourselves our bodies vary drastically, so I know very little about the limits of your body. Most humans wouldn’t let me do these sorts of tests on them, and I’d rather have willing subjects. Annoying, the others who have slept with humans don’t let me observe.” 

You have to bite your tongue not to call him either a pervert or a cuckold. “Couldn’t you have at least told me that before strapping me down?” 

“Ah, should I have?” His head tilts to the side. “Would you like me to stop?” 

“No, just would prefer it if I’m told what I’m getting myself into,” you watch as he drifts up closer to your head, leather-clad claws trailing up your arm. “So what am getting myself into?” 

“A simple experiment to test the limits on female sex organs, or more specifically, the orgasms,” he explains, his massive hand coming to rest on your shoulder, splaying out over your skin. The leather is just thin enough that you can feel hints of his own body heat on your cold skin. “We should first establish a safe word, though. What word would you prefer to use?” 

It takes only a second for you to decide. “Red,” you answer. “Why?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Doctor promptly waves off your concern, even though that only makes your concern worse. He steps away from you for a second, dragging back a stool and an over-bed table. You are too low to see what is on the table, though you can see the chain of his watch hanging over the side. Sitting down on the stool, he adjusts it so it still gives him good access to your body. “For now, just relax your body and let me do the work.” 

“Can’t exactly do much like this anyway,” you tug gently on your restraints to make your point. 

“That’s the point,” he says, matter-of-factly. 

His hand slides against your hipbone, slow and tempting, dipping down between your legs. You flinch as the cold leather drags against your sex; the leather being odd but not a bad feeling. The Doctor stares at your face, studying it as his hand explores blindly between the labia. “Hm, I see you aren’t aroused yet,” he remarks. 

Your knees jerk a little when one of his fingers almost dips into your vagina, dry, large and deeply uncomfortable. “Ah, there it is,” he whispers. “I’ll have to keep that in mind for later.” 

“You suck at this,” grumbling, you look at him with a displeased expression. 

“Yes, yes, I am new to this; my apologies. But I’m just trying to get a feel for where everything is, like,” his thumb brushes against your clit, the sensation making you flinch. “Where your clitoris is.” 

Slowly, he leans in closer. “So tell me, Sweetie, how do the others talk to you when you lay with them? Do they tell you what a dirty little slut you are? Tell you how you’re just a weak, pathetic human that any of us could kill without even breaking a sweat?” His ring and middle fingers slide down your length, feeling for any reaction. “Or do you prefer it when they tell you how beautiful you are? How well you’re taking them as they fuck you into the bed? When they look down at you like you are their favorite human?” 

“Hm?” His head tilts just a tad to the side; you can almost hear the smile in his voice. “Ah, that’s it. You want to be praised, don’t you?” 

Your toes curl as he gently presses his thumb to your clit, stroking. “You want to be treated tenderly, like the soft little human you are to us, is that it? I’ve heard fetishes are instilled to fulfill some need from earlier in life, so did you not receive enough before? Or is it just simply how you are? An age-old question: nature versus nurture.”

You bite your tongue to stifle a hum. “Ugh, shut up with that-,” his thumb presses firmly against your clit, almost a warning. A sharp whine leaves your lips before your teeth sink in. 

“Fine, I’ll keep my curiosities to myself then,” the Doctor laughs. “Mostly.” 

Up and down his fingers slide across your cunt, the smooth leather getting slicked by your own fluids. All the while, the Doctor just watches your face, keeping track of every little micro-expression you make. It’s embarrassing that he’s watching you so closely like this, and it’s hard not to think about it too. 

You close your eyes, trying to just focus on his hand between your legs. Letting yourself relax, your body falls into pleasure. Even with his nonexistent experience and only strictly anatomical knowledge, his dexterous fingers are doing a good job of getting you aroused. It’s no wonder, really, his hands are trained to rival even the most skilled surgeons in all of history. They must have had ‌very content wives. 

“You look like you’re enjoying it,” the Doctor muses. “I was worried the texture of my gloves might lessen the pleasure you feel, but it seems that worry was unnecessary. Do understand, it is because of my claws. I would hate to scratch you, especially on your vaginal canal’s mucosa lining. So the gloves are for your own genital’s protection.” 

“As long as-,” another rub against your clit makes you jerk. “As long as they’re clean.” 

“But of course, I do not neglect sanitation for my subjects that I'd rather keep alive. I would hate for you to get an infection, whether that be a UTI or STI.” His free hand slides up your arm, dragging until it reaches your hair. “With a body as soft and pristine as yours, I would want nothing to blemish your perfection.” 

He soon replaces his thumb with his middle and forefinger against your clit, those fingers more suited for pleasure at his position. It isn’t long before the Doctor speeds up his fingers, his gaze not breaking from your face. “I can see what the others see in you, how pretty you look when you descend into pleasure. It truly is addicting to watch. Your heart is beating quickly now, about 122 bpm and rising. Does that mean you are enjoying this?” 

You gasp and whimper, toes curling and uncurling as you feel your own climax getting closer; unaware that the Doctor actually wants you to answer him. His thumb rubs against your cheekbone before he gently makes you look at him. “Tell me, Sweetie, how are you doing right now?” 

“Good,” you stutter out, whimpering pathetically. 

“Good, I cannot ensure positive results if I don’t get your input,” he chuckles. “And by positive results, I mean your orgasm.” 

“I got it;” you don’t have the willpower not to roll your eyes this time. 

“Then tell me, Sweetie, are you getting close?” 

Another jolt of pleasure goes up your spine, causing you to whimper and stutter out your answer. “Yes.”

He’s pleased with that answer, speeding up his fingers even more. His fingers play with your clit, pushing, nudging, circling; all of it is so mind-numbing and sweet. Every second drives you closer and closer to the edge. 

You finally cum, a wanton moan leaving your lips as your legs strain against the straps that bind them. His fingers slow to a crawl, letting you ride out your orgasm and only stopping when your climax does too. It takes a second for you to regain your bearings. 

Looking over at the Doctor, he must have at some point let go of your face, his free hand now holding his watch. “9.4 seconds,” he remarks, setting down the watch to pick up a pencil. You hear him clearly write the result on a paper before he picks up the watch again. All the while, his moistened hand that’s between your legs never leaves its spot. “Well done, shall we continue?” 

“What?” you mumble, only to almost yelp when his fingers start up again. “Wait! I’m still-” 

“Yes, the refractory period, don’t worry, I have given your body 10 seconds to relax so it shouldn’t be too overwhelming.”

“What even is this stupid test?” You hiss out, wincing at the sharp sparks of pleasure. 

“Simple, I want to test how many times you can orgasm, the duration of the orgasm, and how long it takes between each subsequent one,” he explains. “Please allow me to continue this experiment, but if you do feel genuinely too overwhelmed at any point, then use your safe word. But if you think you can hold out, even if just a little, please do so. You can do that for me, can’t you, Sweetie?” 

Another question he actually wants you to answer this time. “Fuck, fine, sure,” your voice comes out lewder than you’d like. 

“Good girl.” 

His hand drifts down a bit, pressing his middle finger against your entrance until it slips it with ease. Even with how wet and aroused you are, his single finger makes your walls have to stretch around him, a stupid reminder of how much bigger he is than you. The stretch makes you whimper, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, feeling as he takes the time to explore inside you. 

“I’ve heard that the vaginal canal often has a so-called sweet spot but that it’s hard to find,” he muses, his words so dry and doing little to help. “Similar to the prostate gland in those born male, though harder to find.” 

“Fucking hell,” you grumble at him. “You need to work on your dirty talk.” 

The Doctor scoffs at your words, but nods. “Very well, then I take it you’d rather I talk about you? About how hot and wet and tight you are around my finger? About how even just one of my fingers causes you to make such delicious sounds? Or how good of a test subject you are for me and how proud I am of you?” 

Your cheeks burn at his words, only more displeased at his words but for a different reason this time. You’re about to tell him just to shut up instead, until his finger massages in just the right place, your knees twitching together but held firmly in place. “Found it,” Doctor sounds just so damn proud of himself. 

With your cunt thoroughly explored by his finger, Doctor begins to fingerfuck you painfully slowly, taking great care to hit your sweet spot every time as he grinds his palm against your clit. He watches your reactions closely, whispering out affirmations of how good you are, how thankful he is that you agreed to this. All the while, he takes great care to make sure you aren’t hurt, never pushing your cunt too much as he gradually speeds up. Every time you strain too hard against the straps holding you down, he places his free hand on the strap, gently chiding you to relax. 

It isn’t long before you cum again, back arching into the air as far as your body can let it before falling back down limply. “4:36.9 seconds since last orgasm, orgasm lasted ‌9.1 seconds this time,” Doctor informs you, though he is more speaking to himself as he writes the information on the paper than he is to you. 

“How are you doing, Sweetie?” he cups your cheek with his free hand, even with his finger still knuckle deep inside you. 

“Mhmm,” you whimper. “Good.” 

“Can you remind me what the safe word is again?” 

You take a second to remember it, as simple as it was. “Red.” 

“Good girl,” he applauds your memory. As if to reward you, his ring finger pushes itself into you, earning a lewd whine from you. “Onto the next one.” 

The cycle starts up again as the 10 seconds you’re granted passes, though now two of his fingers are stretching you now. The stretch is almost overwhelming, your cunt not fully relaxed since the last orgasm leaving you sensitive and whiny. But Doctor remains strict in his examination, fingers spreading out from the inside as you writhe on the reclined chair. 

This time around, he goes faster, picking up speed and stretching your walls. His fingers slide in and out of you with ease, your fluids dripping down his fingers and staining the reclining chair beneath you. The sounds that are coming out of your mouth are so pathetic and animalistic; the sounds from your cunt only bested their erotic nature. 

Your next orgasm hits you like a brick of ice to the back of your head, tearing through your body. Tears slip from your eyes as the Doctor reads out his findings. “3:34.2 seconds since the last orgasm. The orgasm lasted ‌13.0 seconds this time. I think that was a good one.” 

“Fuck off,” your words come out slurred, drunk on nothing but hedonistic pleasure. 

“Oh, don’t be like that, Sweetie, you’re doing amazing,” Doctor insists, rubbing his thumb on your pelvis. “Just think of the data that I’m getting from this.” 

Your fourth and fifth orgasms don’t take long after that; by then any words you’re trying to say come out broken and messy. It was smart to pick such a simple word as your safe word, even if you were forgetting it in your haze. 

“Hm,” Doctor hums before the sixth cycle begins. “Every orgasm is making you more sensitive than the last, though duration seems to remain within the 9 to 13 second range. Would you agree with my findings?” 

You let out a sound that somewhat resembles a yes, your head moving up and down. Though your movement was so slight, it might have just been a rogue breeze shifting your hair instead. That’s even just assuming you heard what you were agreeing to, anyway. 

It isn’t long before you lose track of how many orgasms you’ve had; you can barely even feel yourself. All your mind clings onto is the Doctor’s voice cooing into your ears and his fingers making your cunt mold around them. 

“3:53.9 seconds since the last orgasm, orgasm lasted ‌11.6 seconds.”

The closest respite you get is when he takes out his fingers so he can change position. Sometimes he switches which side of you he’s on; sometimes he’s sitting or standing, even occasionally switching hands to not strain his own body. Your body isn’t getting the same treatment. 

“3:20.1 seconds since the last orgasm, orgasm lasted ‌13.2 seconds.” 

How did you even get here again? The Doctor asked you to help him with an experiment, right? 

“3:01:9 seconds since the last orgasm, orgasm lasted ‌15.9 seconds. That’s a record, good job!” 

God, are you drooling? You are, you really are. 

“You look so pretty like this, so lost in your lust and delirium. It’s like I’ve drugged you, yet I haven’t. I could just eat you up, and you wouldn’t even fight back, would you?” 

“2:58.9 seconds since the last orgasm, orgasm lasted ‌13.2 seconds.” 

“I’ll admit, I am a bit jealous of the others. You spend so much more time with them compared to me. Sometimes I really do just want to eat you, eat you all up and not leave a single drop of blood for them to lick off the dirt. That way, you’d be all mine, forever and always. I won’t; I couldn’t do that to my family. And you, of course.” 

What was the safe word again? God, you don’t even care; this feels too good, too mind-numbingly perfect. 

“2:42.5 seconds since the last orgasm, orgasm lasted ‌14.4 seconds.” 

His cleaner hand is placed over your eyes, his other hand leaving your needy cunt empty. It’s only gone long enough for him to adjust something on him you can’t see, before his fingers are back to fucking you. Then you feel him lean in closer, his mask lifted just enough to reveal his mouth just before he pressed his cold, almost scaly lips to yours. It is only by instinct you kiss back. 

You orgasm with his tongue in your mouth, icy breath chilling your overheating body. He doesn’t even get data from that one, a waste of an orgasm. He doesn’t intend to waste any more of them just to fulfill his need to get his mouth on you, his mask going right back on. 

“2:01.6 seconds since the last orgasm, orgasm lasted ‌12.5 seconds.” 

The last words you hear him say, or at least the last words your brain can still process, are hazy as if said through a thick fog in a deep dream. “Maybe I really should just steal you away, let the others mourn you, my favorite test subject.”

Your nostrils are filled with a sharp, pungent smell like a mix of bleach and rotten eggs, hitting your brain like a punch to the forehead. You recoil at the smell, your arms jerking to block it from odor only to be stopped by the leather straps. Blinking your bleary eyes, you look up to see the Doctor standing above your now sitting upright body. 

“Good, you didn’t die,” his head tilts back in relief. Below your nose, he pulls back a paper-wrapped stick of smelling salts, the source of the foul smell. “I did not want to explain to the others that I made you climax so hard you had an aneurysm or stroke and died. As proud of my own skills as I would be, it would still be rather embarrassing for us both.” 

“Piss off,” you groan. 

“I see you’ve kept your sharp tongue, so at least your brain is still functioning,” with the smelling salts tossed into the trash - or at least the surrounding floor, The Doctor didn’t care - his hands were free. The Doctor kneels down in front of you, hands reaching for the straps around your ankles. He does the left ankle first, releasing it and gently massaging the skin underneath that has been rubbed raw to bring blood flow back to the limb. Once both legs are free, he rises to free your arms next. 

“How many?” 

“Oh, you want to know the results?” The Doctor looks up at you, almost beaming somewhere behind the mask. “You did a great job; you had ‌22 orgasms before you blacked out. Though I must scold you for not using your safe word before that, that was the entire point of a safe word.” 

Your cheeks flush, pouting as you try to defend yourself. “Forgot… what it was.” 

A laugh pulls itself from behind the Doctor’s mask, chin tilting back. “Well, I’m pleased to hear you enjoyed it that much.” With your body now freed from the straps, the Doctor stands up, placing a hand on your shoulder to stop you from falling out of the chair. Which is good, you don’t even think you have bones anymore. 

“I think I have enough data to call this experiment a result, though truthfully, in science, you can never have enough data,” he continues, ignoring your sharp look. “There is another test I’d like to do next though, before we do this experiment again.” 

“What else do you need to test?” 

Doctor looks down at you, you can almost hear the mischief in his tone, something very unusual and more so dangerous with him. “An experiment to determine the maximum size of a phallus that your genitals without injury,” he leans down. “After all, I’ve heard you can barely handle Pierrot’s cock, and my cock is bigger than his. I want to make sure you can take mine before I fuck you.” 

Oh, oh fuck. If he really is bigger than Pierrot, then you doubt you’d be able to be the Doctor at all. But then again, just the thought of it does interest you, to say the least. 

“But before we do that experiment,” the Doctor stands up again. “I will have to collect certain materials before then, so it will take some time. Not to mention your body likely won’t be able to handle it right now anyway, can’t risk breaking you.” 

“My bed,” you grumble out. “I’m tired, take me.” You can’t feel your legs right now, and considering how you helped the Doctor out, he should at least grant you that. He seems to understand, even with your limited, slurred speech; reaching down to pick you up. “Nnn, not over shoulder,” you add. “Clothes.” 

The Doctor pauses, then laughs. He steps back, grabbing a clean blanket and taking a second to wrap it around your nude body before pulling you into his arms, letting you curl against his broad chest. “I must thank you again for assisting me in this experiment.” His arms are cold, even through the thin blanket around you. “I should reward you properly later.”