Ms. Bonkers

He threw his hands behind his head, arched his back, and moaned sluttish thanks to the beaming Clown as she fucked him with her balloon cock. With every stroke in and out of his anus, it produced a deafening rubber squeaking sound, and he laughed euphorically at the risible fucking he was receiving. The pressure and friction inside his ass were wonderful. She grabbed his legs, and with astonishing strength, pinning them up against his body, spreading him wider and fucking harder, more roughly. He gritted his teeth, screwed his eyes shut, and let his vocal cords produce the breathy, girlish moans he'd been holding back. He begged unabashedly for more, for harder, for deeper. When he looked at her face, he saw only the same simplistic, genuine, bright-eyed smile within a circus mask, unchanged and unmoving while her powerful abdomen and lower body majestically rolled thrust after powerful thrust into his ass.

He was definitely hard again, now. Above his ravaged ass, his cock strained, plump and hard, as tense and inflated as the balloon itself. It bounced as she railed him, and the ridiculousness of it seemed to feed into his pleasure.

She was doing something more with her face, now -- he'd come to recognise that Ms. Bonkers only changes her expression very deliberately. Eyes rolling back, cheeks puffing out, gasping and contorting. She was, in the most Clownish terms, simulating the build to orgasm.

She jerked her head upwards several times, and then there was another very loud "pop". His ass felt devastatingly empty. She drew back, and made an emphatic frown, the corners of her mouth drooping wildly as she presented the flaccid strip of broken rubber with an apologetic tilt of her head.

"Oh... that's... that's okay!" He was still ragingly hard. He had instinctively grabbed his cock and begun to stroke it, staring up at the Clown's perfect body and glowing with the pleasure of having been fucked so aggressively by something so peculiarly beautiful.

He let his feet sink down to the floor. She discarded the balloon, now fully deflated, and turned to face away from him, climbing on top of him, those shiny buckle brogues resting on the bed either side of his waist, grasping his swollen cock and easing herself down onto it. Her vulva, shiny, pink, and wet, swallowed his engorged member and he grinned with satisfaction at the sight of her buttocks sinking down onto him, closing the distance between their bodies as her velvet-like warmth enveloped him.

Her posterior collided with his hips, the luxurious Clown cunt taking every inch of his cock inside, and producing the atrociously loud honk of a bicycle horn.

He stared in faintly amused pleasure. Of course. She lifted up off him, almost to the tip, and then sank back down, making contact with the same identical honking sound. She looked over her shoulder, her grin utterly maniacal, her eyes as wide as could be and fixed on his as she began to ride him, bouncing vigorously on his erection with the incessant honking sound only becoming more pronounced as she gathered momentum. Honk, honk, honk. The exquisite, soaking grip of the Clown's pussy pleasured his cock with such hilarious velocity that he burst out in half-giggle, half-moans, the repetitive tone of the bicycle horn seeming strangely perfect in underscoring the absurd euphoria of the act.

As she rode him, the wet slapping sound and the ludicrous honking became underscored by another distant sound. It was imperceptibly quiet at first, but certainly musical. As the tension behind his balls built, it grew louder and more recognisable -- a high-pitched melody, the sound of air being blown through pipes. The whimsical, mechanical tootling of a Calliope Organ.

She reached a hand back, and beckoned to the space between her buttocks, the manic grin intensifying as she invited him in. There was no hesitation -- Greg slid his middle finger into the opening and began drawing it back and forth. His fingertip found the bulge of his cock inside her, and he pleasured both of them by gliding it back and forth over that hard mass. But he fast began brushing up against something else, too -- a foreign object, something flimsy inside. Sensing that he was supposed to discover this, he applied pressure and did his best to work it back to the entrance.

His finger slid out of her ass, and with it, a bright green strip of fabric. He gripped with thumb and forefinger and pulled, drawing out the first handkerchief in... yes, a long string of them. Primary colours streamed out of her hole as he pulled with alternating hands, the rather thick knots binding the handkerchiefs together seeming to elicit pleasure as each one slid free. Adjoined squares of silk piled up on his chest, dozens and dozens that seemed to only come more easily the more frantically he pulled. And then, finally, there was the last, met with almighty resistance until the large base of a bright blue plug emerged with it, sealing her ass closed, the final handkerchief in the string detaching from the instrument and falling onto him with the rest.

He brushed them aside onto the bed. Her cunt slapped forcefully to the base of his cock, the organ music growing and growing as his orgasm swelled. The tune was haphazard, a disorganised and chaotic meter that was inconsistent from one bar to the next. The Clown squeezed him tight inside her, fucking herself onto him until he felt the tension throbbing from his perineum all the way to the tip, up inside her, the sound of the Calliope now dominating the honking of the horn, louder than his moans. As the orgasm began to pulse towards release, the sounds, and the very ambience, of the Circus itself seemed to be incontrovertibly present around him.

He threw his head back and let his orgasm bear fruit. Somewhere, in the shuddering euphoria, his eyes closed, muscle spasms rippling through his body, he felt her lurch off him, seconds before his twitching cock pumped out another load of cum in an ecstatic fountain.

The music was gone. Silence.

He knew she was kneeling between his legs. Eyelids barely open, he raised his head to look down his body.

Ms. Bonkers wore an expression of complete and sincere shock, her cheek right next to the tip of his cock. He'd ejaculated point-blank in front of her face.

The Clown's beautiful features, stunned and appalled, were covered with chunks of shortcrust pastry and whipping cream.

Greg laughed weakly to himself, and let his head fall back onto the mattress, asleep.

When he woke up, she was gone. There was nothing in his bedroom to indicate that she'd ever been there. He checked the time: he'd been asleep for an hour.

He got upright, slid his boxers and t-shirt back on, and shambled to the bathroom, inwardly debating whether any of it had even happened.

He neglected to look at the mirror until he'd finished washing his hands, and noted with some amusement that a red circle and two sets of black triangles had been painted on the glass, such that the observer could position their face just so to give the illusion that they were made up like a Clown.

So it had been real; Ms. Bonkers must have left this for him.

He levelled his face with the artwork until his features aligned, giving himself a round, red nose and comical eye decorations. He gave a wide smirk, and made for the door.

He stopped almost instantly, as the paint seemed to move with him. Returning to the mirror, he could see that it had somehow transferred to his face, those black triangles now firmly painted on his forehead and cheeks, the red nose now shiny and spherical. He tried to remove it -- it felt as painful as yanking on his real nose would. He ran the water again, attempting to scrub it off, but it was as persistent and permanent as a tattoo.

He looked down at himself. No black supermarket boxer shorts; he wore a set of bright pink, oversized pumpkin bloomers. He tried to tug them off, but knew already that they wouldn't move.

He could guess what the clothes in his wardrobe would look like. He dared not look in the mirror again, lest he had acquired a brightly coloured wig -- and instantly regretted bringing his hand to his head and feeling a large mass of synthetic curls.

He could hear the Calliope again. Like tinnitus. Downstairs, the sound of the door, and his parents returning home.