Ms. Bonkers

Content Notice -- skip past if you don't care about content notices

This is a short and lighthearted porno involving light femdom, pegging, premature ejaculation, mild humiliation, surrealism, magic, and, most notably, clowns and clownish themes.

Greg stood aghast in the open doorway. She had found him.

Had she followed him? He had seen her walk past the Café, where he worked, and assumed it was a coincidence. On her way to or from a gig, he'd thought.

But Greg had been aware of Ms. Bonkers for some time. Last year, he'd seen the diminutive Clown perform at an event where he'd worked as a Caterer. As he remembered it, she wore a long, pink bob, and a garish blue-and-green skintight harlequin jumpsuit with a colossal ruff at the neck. They hadn't spoken; her acrobatics and vivacious presence had stirred Greg, and he'd found his own laughter genuine. Mirthful. Her body was for the Circus, lithe but powerful, yet her every movement was perfectly buffoonish.

Greg was drawn into that playfulness. It felt freeing, and otherworldly, with a youthful familiarity that he couldn't quite ascribe to innocence, or safety. It felt exploratory. At just 20, this was a big deal for him -- he had missed the boat on higher education and gone straight into work, living with his parents and saving his meagre income in order to move out at some point. Unable to outlive his childhood or afford experiences outside of home, he had mounted in frustration and loneliness.

He'd searched her up. More than once. Okay, often. He thought about dialling. He could book a private performance, he thought, and see her. He didn't follow through. He wondered about Circus Theatre training, and looked that up, feeling defeated by the fees and commitment alone. He wouldn't have called it an obsession, but absent friends, hobbies, or money, he had little else to do than dwell on the vision he'd seen, and think about ways to see her again.

He'd started to see her around, lately. In the window of a passing bus, on a distant bench. Different wigs, different costumes, but he'd pored over her videos enough to know it was her. He didn't have the nerve to speak to her. What would he say? He didn't even really know who she was, and he was nobody.

But now, standing on his doorstep -- thank god his parents were at the theatre -- she was smiling, a knowing smile, as though his obsession with her had been one side of a blossoming friendship.

She didn't speak. He was speechless.

She was dressed the same as when he'd seen her earlier in the day. Not a pink bob, but deep blue, with a white pork pie hat on top. A red felt apron dress, and a mint-coloured silk shirt with billowing sleeves underneath with large, matching red polkadots. Knee-high white socks and blue buckle-up brogues. Down the front of her dress, big, white pom poms like buttons. Around her neck, another enormous ruff.

Her face was minimally made up -- for a Clown -- but enough so that he couldn't discern the features underneath. Lipstick as red as her dress, and overstated, and a spherical nose of the same colour. Black triangles tapered vertically from both eyelids, and all of it on top of sheer white face paint. He could tell she was pretty. Or, he thought he could. He couldn't guess at her age. Her smile was beautiful. Her eyes big, blue. No -- one blue, one green.

And she didn't move. He was stock still, albeit quaking slightly, but not truly unmoving -- she was as still as a statue. Literally. Were it not for the eye contact -- he moved left and right, and sure enough, her stare followed -- she could have convinced him she was inanimate, dumped on her doorstep by some delivery driver. The effect was dampened by the fact that he knew who she was. But how did she know him?

"H... hello?"

The Clown responded with a fast fluttering of her eyelashes. Greg could have sworn that he heard swooshing. Aside from that, she stayed stock still.

"Who..." he tried his best to keep up the pretence that he hadn't been following her career as closely as he could. "Can I help you? Um." He cleared his throat. "Are you in the right place?"

She bounced up on tiptoes, and back down again, a full-body nod. In an elaborate movement, she plucked open a single button of her shirt, pulling it open.

Greg blushed. Nestled in her cleavage was a rolled-up piece of paper. A tiny scroll.

She leaned forward a little, jostling her shoulders.

"You want me to...?"

Smile. Nod.

He reached forward. Even high on her tiptoes with her upper body almost horizontal, she was adept: she didn't shake, or waver. Very careful not to touch her skin -- which was almost as pale as her painted face -- he plucked out the scroll with thumb and forefinger. She returned to an upright pose, still wearing her tireless smile, as he unrolled it.

MS. BONKERS

"Ah, yeah... I actually... I know."

She reached out, tapped the piece of paper, and rotated her index finger. He turned it over.

MS. BONKERS IS NOT LOST. PLEASE BE A GRACIOUS AND CONVIVIAL HOST TO YOUR NEW FRIEND.

He glanced up at her frozen visage, and then back down again. Her hand approached the paper once more, repeating the gesture. He flipped it over.

INVITE MS. BONKERS IN AND OFFER HER A DRINK.

Puzzled, Greg flipped the note again. The same message on the other side. Again. The instruction remained.

With shocking swiftness, Ms. Bonkers plucked the note out of his hand, and ate it.

"I..." Unease would be an understatement. He had fantasized about her, of course, but the past few minutes had been jarringly surreal, to the extent that he was questioning his sanity.

"Would you like... to come in... for a drink?"

Dramatic nodding, and a laborious, full-bodied strut past him and into the house.

He turned, following her as she pranced through the hallway, and up the stairs. He arrived at the landing just in time to see her turn a full cartwheel into his bedroom. She hadn't even needed to be told where it was.

Remembering the drink, Greg turned back, rushing downstairs to the kitchen and pausing to shut the front door on the way. There was still a litre of lemonade in the fridge, which he poured generously into a tall pint glass -- the first thing he grabbed -- and sped back up to his bedroom.

Ms. Bonkers was lying sideways on his bed, head propped up on one hand. He proffered the glass - "here you go" - and she took it with the other, bringing it to her lips and drinking.

And drinking. An emphatic glug... glug... glug sound filled the room as the glass emptied into her throat, finishing with the same illuminating smile.

Greg stared as she sat up, reached into her purse, and produced a Seltzer bottle. The purse was tiny; that jumbo-sized bottle couldn't possible have fitted in there. But there it was. She beckoned him close, and he leaned in, nervously opening his mouth as the nozzle was brought to his lips.

She squeezed the puffer, and a squirt of tingly liquid shot into his mouth.

Lemonade. Unmistakeably the same store-bought Lemonade he'd just poured for her, with the disappointing syrup of preservatives lingering on his tongue.

He stared, puzzled, astonished. She brought her hand to her lips, and giggled. Inaudibly -- she was still as mute as when she'd arrived, but it was a physical giggle, a cartoonish tee-hee movement.

He lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed. As much to steady himself as anything. He'd been captivated by her sleight of hand at first sight, but lacked the presence of mind at this moment to reason with what he was witnessing.

He looked up, mournful puzzlement across his features. He was just a little scared. She returned his look with one of dramatic sympathy, eyebrows steepled, her painted smile soft and reassuring. Excitement welled, just a little. If he steadied himself, past the initial shock of her barging into his house, he could remember that he was exactly where he'd dreamed of being.

She crawled forward, until her face was close to his. He didn't move a muscle. He could see how porcelain smooth her face paint was, how unblemished the skin underneath must be. She was still smiling, eyes wide, eager. His mouth trembled into a smile of its own, and she very quickly pecked a kiss onto his upper lip.

As fast as it had happened, her face was as before, smiling, and close. His heart pounded so hard he could hear a whooshing in his ears. The sudden flash of affection rocked him. He felt tension between his legs, his penis stirring to life.

Her nose wrinkled in amusement. As if she knew he was getting hard.

She leaned closer.

Closer.

He felt her breath on his lips, and his mounting arousal became an erection, his cock throbbing and needy. He was so fucking hard, he could barely think. Her lips brushed his, and his pelvic muscles clamped, straining his cock against his trousers.

And then she drew back, and with the motion, his erection faded to nothing. In an instant.

He stared down, and then up, and her face was one that mirrored his feelings: quizzical shock, her mouth and eyes opening into mocking "O" shapes.

She leaned in again, mouth once more in a seductive grin, lips ever so gently pursed to make contact with his. His cock sprung to life once more, his erection building and building as she got closer.

And then, she withdrew. And it faded again.

This time, she stared down at his lap, her hands on her cheeks in astonishment, before looking back up at him with seemingly convincing concern. Hurriedly, as if addressing a grievous error, she leaned back in, once more at the cusp of kissing him.

Not only did his erection swell achingly hard once more, he could swear there was a sound. Distant, or possibly just very quiet. But he heard it all the same: a high pitched, breathy, ascending note.

She drew back again, apparently equally startled by the sound, and his cock softened, accompanied by an inversion: the note descended. Louder, this time. She leaned in, and now it was as if the whistle was very close by. A slide whistle, rising with the onset of his erection. And as she pulled back, descending as it disappeared.

A manic grin crossed her face as she leaned in, then out, repeating the motion with speed, the whistling sound travelling up and down in time with the rise and fall of his aching prick. He was terrified to move, and couldn't bear the fact that she hadn't yet made contact, the torment of the repeated denial of a kiss as unbearable as the arousal and allaying of his cock, made worse by the mockery of the unseen whistle. Each time she came close, he felt ready to burst, desperate for release.

And the suddenly, release came. Her lips met his in a single dazzling kiss that lit his spirit afire and tipped his arousal past his peak. No more whistle; instead, the distant pop of a bursting balloon. He groaned clumsily into her mouth and his cock pumped a humiliating dose of semen into his boxers.

The embarrassment was dizzying. He wheeled around, the load oozing and pooling uncomfortably between his legs, and put his head in his hands to shut the moment out. He sensed her climb off the bed, unable to bring himself to look. Too many strange and arresting things had happened in the space of just a few minutes; he was unable to reconcile himself with the situation, let alone the beautiful, bizarre woman he'd dreamed about seeing for so long, bringing him to premature climax without touching. Everything was inexplicable, and wrong.

He would have to clean himself up. He shot out of the room in an instant, fast enough that he wouldn't risk eye contact, and straight to the bathroom sink. He removed his boxers, rinsing them through, and hurriedly washing himself off before grabbing a fresh pair from the drying rack. He didn't bother putting his trousers back on. In clean boxers and t-shirt, he made his way back to his room to face the music, and invite her to leave.

The bed was bare when he got back, and he sat down in other to gather his thoughts, only to startle himself at the sight of Ms. Bonkers stood bolt upright against the wall, brandishing a slender, uninflated pink balloon in both hands.

"Hey, I think... I'm sorry about just now..." he trailed off. Ms. Bonkers held the balloon to her left, and to her right, as if showing it clearly to a much larger, unseen audience. Then she brought it to her lips, and blew.

Her breath filled the balloon, giving it its slightly curved, oblong shape. She took another deep breath, and blew again, and the balloon grew. And grew. The sound of rubber stretching at each inflation was excruciating. It was clearly designed to hold a great deal of air; it inflated until it was almost twice the thickness of his arm, and then... popped.

Somehow he knew it was the same pop he had heard. The same timbre. As if he had heard an echo of this moment.

Ribbons of wrinkled rubber fell slowly around them like snow, and amid them, the Clown placed her head in her hands, as he had done, and shook with apparent weeping. A retelling of his own embarrassment.

After a suitable amount of time, she glanced up, with the same sunshine smile as before, and raised her arms in the air, a "ta-da" finishing pose.

Very cautiously, very suspiciously, he put his hands together in solo applause. And she bowed with a performer's grace.

There was a long silence. Ms. Bonkers wearing that painted-on smile, and Greg confused beyond words.

After a minute or so, "I'm Greg, by the way." She gave a swift nod to indicate that she was already aware.

"I'm sorry about earlier" he tried again. "I wasn't... I don't really know what's happening here."

She raised her hands in the air, hurling herself forward and inverting her stance on her palms; the handstand crossed half the distance from the wall to the bed, and with equal ease, she flipped forwards once more to land on his lap, straddling him and wrapping her arms around his neck. The move took him by surprise, of course, but this time, being so close to her lips wasn't quite as intimidating. Under her dress, through his underwear and hers, he could feel the softness of her vulva and buttocks sinking warmly into his lap.

She kissed him again. Loaded with theatrics, an overstated, noisy smmmmooch. She pulled back again to give an open-mouthed smile of pure joy, before throwing another sloppy, wet kiss against his lips. Another. Comically noisy, squeaky kisses that were far too forceful and sudden for him to figure out how to begin kissing back.

And then another, more like the one that had pushed him to orgasm before. Tender, deep, genuine. Divine, even -- the silliness of her antics morphed into sensuality with exquisite ease, those glossy red lips perfectly soft and loving against his. It was the same adeptness of performance that allowed her to move from pratfalls to acrobatics in an instant, the mastery over her own movements that could inspire ridiculousness and beauty in the same instant. He kissed back, and they melted into each other. Tingles ran through him. The faintest sound of her breath as she sighed was like the most private revelation, the resolutely mute performer giving him the most intimate, barest glimpse yet of her voice, of the person underneath.

Her hips writhed, grinding against his lap, her chest and belly pushed up against his. Eyes closed, he could almost forget that there were several layers of plush, felty getup, pom poms and all, between his body and hers. It was far too soon for him to regain his erection, but arousal rose like smoke through every other part of him. He looped his arms around her waist, and held her tighter, in reconciliatory gratitude at somehow, suddenly, having what he'd dreamed of -- no matter how bizarre the circumstances.

His hands slid under the excessive fabric of her dress, searching until they made contact with what had to be an excessively frilly pair of silk pumpkin bloomers, found the form underneath, and squeezed. In turn, she peeled at his t-shirt, pulling it up and over his head, and grazing her hands down his bare chest, further down to the waistband of his boxers, and crawling backwards off his body to pull them down to the floor.

He sat naked on the bed, waiting for her to return to him. But she stood up, standing a short distance from the bed, gesturing to a tab sticking out of one of the seams of her dress. Now grinning with anticipation, he reached out, and pulled it.

The dress, and blouse beneath, spiralled off her body in several different pieces at high velocity, landing in the far corners of the room and baring the Clown's body to him. All except for the silk bloomers. He had seen her in skintight clothes before and was well aware that her physical condition was exceptional; wiry muscles suitable for all forms of acrobatics, perfectly smooth pale-pink skin, a taut and chiselled abdomen and a bust that made him think of Ballet.

She shuffled the bloomers down to the floor with an exaggerated wiggle of her hips and knees, and they shared a knowing, joyful smile, naked together in this eerie, comical magic.

She reached behind her, and appeared to produce from the small of her back another pink balloon, proceeding to blow into it as before. Greg watched, grinning, genuinely excited to see what would come next. The balloon became absurdly long -- several feet long -- and Ms. Bonkers sealed it with a knot before beginning to laboriously, noisily fold it, manipulating it into a shape he couldn't yet decipher.

The balloon-folding appeared to become more and more frustrating, with the naked Clown turning in different directions to hide the more fiddly knots from view. Somewhere in all this movement, it became looped around her waist and thighs, and when she turned to face him again, he could see that the balloon's tip had been fashioned into a modest codpiece that stuck eagerly out from the middle of her groin. His chest fluttered with cautious excitement. He guessed that somehow, as she'd known so much already, she was aware of his other curiosities, too.

She put her hands on her hips, and stared thoughtfully down at the balloon erection she'd fashioned herself, as if something was amiss.

She brought a ponderous hand to her chin, and then gripped the thing. Her grip travelled up and down its length at speed, with an excruciating squeaking sound, and within seconds, it had tripled in length. She flashed him another wide smile and another "ta-da" pose, and, rapt, he responded with a playful round of applause.

Somehow, he knew it wasn't just for show. He could feel that there was an intent behind the craft, and furthermore, he could feel that, just as with her very presence, the balloon cock had been sculpted in response to his unspoken craving.

He let the instinct guide him, and lay back, bringing his feet up on the bed to spread himself. She knelt up on the mattress to meet him, guiding the inflatable between his buttocks.

He thought to ask for lube, or some preparation, but urged himself to trust in the defiance of normality that had brought them to this point. He tried to steady his deep, excited breathing, and stared up at her with a nervous smile, met with a look of warm reassurance from her.

Sure enough, the balloon spread his anus easily, and he felt it slide inside with unaccountable moistness and equally improbable ease. It was thick -- much thicker than his cock -- and yet his ass spread open eagerly and welcomed it.

Inside, it felt nothing like a balloon. It felt hard. Solid, tense. He moaned joyously with her first deep thrust and felt the perfect satisfaction as it stretched and filled his ass. The disparity between the ludicrous pink balloon and the sensation that he was impaled by a strong, virile instrument of sex was unreal. She drew her hips back, and then forward, and let him have another deep, ravishing thrust. And again. And again. A steady, forceful push-and-pull that pumped the filthiest pleasure deeper than he'd have imagined his previously unfucked ass would allow.