Circus V
FM
The Flying Delacroix Sisters lead me from their tent into the pale morning, my corset still loosely laced and my drawers damp with the residue of their teaching.
The air carries the scent of coal smoke from the nearby railway station and the sharp resin of tent poles.
Yvonne walks ahead, her narrow back straight as a tightrope, her cropped dark hair catching filtered light. She wears only her trousers now, her small breasts free to the morning air, her nipples hardened perhaps from memory of what we have done. Marguerite takes my hand in her warm, soft one, her copper hair still wild under her discarded scarf, her heavy breasts swaying beneath her open camisole with each step. Celeste brings up the rear, her polished mahogany limbs fluid as water, her silk wrapper abandoned so that only her corset and drawers remain, the dark skin of her shoulders and collarbones gleaming like oiled wood.
"Where do we go?" I ask, my voice hoarse from the sounds they pulled from me.
"To meet the living hulk," Yvonne answers without turning. "If you're joining our circus, you must survive the living colossus."
I do not understand her meaning, but my body responds with a flutter in my lower belly, a pulse of wet heat that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the appetite they have awakened in me.
We pass between two striped wagons where men in undershirts roll barrels of nails and coiled rope, their eyes following our half-dressed procession with open hunger.
One whistles low and long, but Yvonne's sharp glance silences him. We are not for them. We are bound for something else, something that makes my breath come quicker, and my fingers tighten in Marguerite's soft palm.
The Big Top looms ahead, but we do not enter there. Yvonne leads us around the perimeter, past cages where lions pace and snarl at the disruption of their world, past the wagon where Madame Zora's peacock feather shawl hangs visible through a cracked window.
Behind the animal cages, in a cleared space where the earth has been packed hard by countless footsteps, stands a structure I have not seen before.
It is a small platform of rough planks, elevated only slightly above the ground, with ropes and iron rings fixed to posts at each corner. And upon this platform, bending to lift a great wooden barrel filled with stones, is the largest man I have ever beheld.
He rises slowly, the muscles of his back rippling like serpents beneath skin the colour of old brass, glistening with oil that smells sharply of eucalyptus. His head is shaved smooth, his jaw broad and strong, his nose slightly flattened as if from some ancient break. When he turns to face us, I see that his chest is vast as a barrel itself, covered in dark hair that trails down to where a leopard skin is knotted carelessly around his hips.
But it is what the leopard skin fails to conceal that makes my mouth go dry, and my knees weaken. Even in its resting state, his manhood hangs heavy and thick, the length of my forearm at least, darker than the rest of his skin, with a broad head that peeks from its hood of flesh like something seeking air.
"Ah," he says, and his voice is deep as distant thunder, resonating in my chest though he speaks softly.
"A sparrow has come to learn how real women fly as eagles."
"This is Matilda," Yvonne says, pushing me forward with a hand between my shoulder blades. "She wishes to join our circus. We have taught her the flight of women. Now she must learn the flight of flesh upon flesh, the taking and the being taken, the surrender to something greater than herself."
The Strong Man—Goliath, I realise his name must be, though no one has spoken it—descends from his platform with steps that make the packed earth shiver beneath my bare feet.
He stands before me, and I must crane my neck to see his face, the smooth dome of his skull catching the morning light, his dark eyes examining me with something between hunger and appraisal.
"You are small," he says, and his massive hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb tracing my cheekbone with surprising gentleness.
"Small and soft. The sisters have marked you well."
His thumb finds my lower lip, presses until I open for him, and then he slides the thick digit into my mouth, past my teeth, to rest heavy on my tongue.
"Can you take more than this, little bird? Can you stretch your throat around what I have to give?"
I cannot answer with his thumb filling my mouth, but I suck instinctively, my tongue curling around the intrusion, and I feel his massive body shudder, feel the leopard skin stir at his hips.
He withdraws his thumb with a wet sound and trails the glistening digit down my chin, my throat, to hook in the top of my corset.
"Nine inches when I am kind," he murmurs, bending so his breath warms my ear, scented with cinnamon and something darker.
"Twelve when I am not. And I am never kind with women who wish to fly."
The sisters have arranged themselves around his platform like attendants at some pagan rite. Yvonne retrieves a cushion and places it upon the rough planks. Marguerite produces a vial of oil that smells of almonds and something muskier. Celeste approaches me with hands that have taught me so much already, and together we work the laces of my corset until my ribs expand with grateful breath, until the garment falls away and I stand in only my drawers, my breasts bare and aching in the cool morning air.
"First," Goliath says, seating himself upon the cushion so that his leopard skin gapes open, revealing the thick root of him, the heavy sac beneath, "you will learn to take what you cannot breathe around. Open your throat to me, little sparrow. Let me teach you how not to suffocate on a man's need."
Celeste guides me forward, her hands warm on my shoulders, and I kneel between his spread thighs, the rough planks biting my knees. From this angle, he is enormous, the head of him dark and slick already with his own arousal, the shaft veined and thick as my wrist.
The scent of him fills my lungs—eucalyptus oil and male musk, something primal that makes my mouth water and my cunt clench around nothing. Though it seeks what can fill. Or maybe overfill.
"Look at me," he commands, and I drag my gaze up the landscape of his body—the vast chest, the corded neck, the strong jaw, until I find his dark eyes watching me with terrible patience.
"You will gag. You will choke. Your eyes will water, and your nose will run, and you will feel as if you are dying. This is the first lesson: that dying and flying are the same moment, separated only by the will to breathe."
Celeste's hand presses between my shoulder blades, urging me forward, and I open my mouth wide, wider than I thought possible, and take the head of him past my lips. He fills my mouth completely, stretching my jaw until I feel the hinge protest, until my teeth graze the sensitive flesh and he hisses through his teeth.
The taste is salt and something darker, the texture smooth as satin over iron, and I try to swirl my tongue as the sisters taught me, but there is no room, no space for anything but accepting his girth.
Gug, gug, gagging. I try.
"More," he growls, and his massive hand comes to cradle the back of my skull, not forcing but guiding, inexorable as gravity.
"Breathe through your nose, little bird. Relax your throat. Let me in."
I try to swallow, and the motion opens my throat, and he slides deeper, past the point where I thought I could take him, until I feel him press against the tight ring of muscle at the back of my mouth, until my gag reflex convulses and I retch around him, my throat spasming, tears flooding my eyes and spilling down my cheeks.
From somewhere, spit circles his burgeoning meat.
I'm skull fucked. My mouth is overloaded, overcrowded with his massive dong.
Gug, dribble, gug; spittle flecks fly; gug, gug.
"There," he murmurs, and his voice has gone soft, almost tender, though his grip on my skull remains firm.
"That is the threshold. Cross it, and you will fly."
Celeste's hands move to my throat, her fingers finding the place where he stretches me, and she presses gently, massaging the muscle, helping me relax into the intrusion.
I gag again, my stomach heaving, but I fight the instinct to pull away, and slowly, agonisingly, my throat yields, and he slides deeper, until my nose presses against the coarse hair at his base, until I can feel his heartbeat throbbing against my tongue, my palate, the walls of my constricted throat.
Fuck! I might be the circus sword swallower at this rate.
"Ah," he breathes, and his massive body shudders, his hips twitching with the effort of remaining still.
"Now you are flying, little bird. Now you are truly in my hands."
I cannot breathe, cannot swallow, can only exist as a sheath for his flesh, my world narrowed to the pulse of him, the stretch of my jaw, the tears streaming down my face and mixing with the saliva that leaks from the corners of my mouth, that drips onto my bare breasts in thick strands.
My lungs burn, my vision swims at the edges, and just as panic begins to rise, he withdraws, pulling out slowly, and I gasp, sucking in air with desperate hunger, my throat raw and aching, my mouth empty and suddenly cold.
"Again," he says, and guides me back down before I have fully recovered my breath.
Gug, gug, copious spit and dribble.
Drool along his length.
Saliva in rope bridges from my mouth to the tip of his knobby head.
We repeat the lesson until my throat grows accustomed to the invasion, until I can take him deep without gagging, until I learn to time my breathing around his rhythm, to swallow deliberately and feel him shudder in response.
The sisters watch in silence, their own bodies bearing signs of arousal—Yvonne's nipples hard against the morning air, Marguerite's hand pressed between her own thighs, Celeste's lips parted and glistening.
"Now," Goliath announces, lifting me from my knees with hands that span my waist entirely, "we take this lesson into the world. The train waits; we pack and leave tomorrow; but first you will learn what it means to be watched, to be claimed in the sight of others."
He carries me from his platform, past the cages where the lions watch with amber eyes, past the wagons being loaded with ropes and canvas, to a place where the circus wagons stand in partial shadow. A flatbed wagon waits there, its wooden sides carved with painted vines and gilt letters proclaiming GOLIATH THE UNBREAKABLE.
He sets me upon it, my drawers still my only covering, and turns me to face the wagons and tents where the circus folk move in their morning routines.
"Face them," he commands, positioning me on my hands and knees upon the rough planks. "Let them see what you have learned. Let them see what I will take."
He tears my drawers at the seam with a sound like canvas ripping, and cool morning air washes over my exposed cunt, wet and swollen from the lessons of his throat and the watching sisters.
I feel his huge snake between my legs, open and aching, and I know that anyone who looks will see everything—my pink folds glistening, the tight bud of my arse winking with each nervous clench.
"Eyes forward," Goliath growls, and I feel the wagon shift with his weight as he kneels behind me, feel the heat of his massive body radiating against my exposed flesh.
His hands grip my hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there, and I look out across the circus grounds and see that we are indeed watched—a cluster of roustabouts paused in their labour, a woman in a peacock feather shawl standing at the door of her wagon, the three sisters arranged like attendants at the edge of the flatbed.
Goliath presses the head of his cock against my entrance, and I gasp at the size of him, at the impossible stretch even as he holds still, letting me feel the heat and weight of him without yet forcing entry.
He is slick with oil and his own arousal, and I am wet enough from the morning's lessons that he begins to slide forward, the massive head breaching my tight ring of muscle with a burn that makes me cry out, makes my back arch and my fingers claw at the rough planks.
"Take it," he commands, and his hips press forward, relentless, feeding inch after inch of his impossible length into my clutching channel.
I feel every vein, every ridge, feel the way my body struggles to accommodate him, the burn becoming something else, something that rides the edge of pain and transforms into a deep, pulsating fullness that makes my toes dig into the dirt, and my breath come in ragged gasps.
"Half," he announces, and I feel his hips meet my arse, feel the coarse hair at his base against my swollen lips, and realise with dizzying shock that he is not yet fully seated, that there is more of him, more stretch and burn and impossible fullness to come.
"You will take it all, little sparrow. You will fly on my cock as you flew on my throat."
He begins to move, slow withdrawals that make me whimper at the emptiness, followed by driving thrusts that force the air from my lungs and make my breasts swing beneath me, my nipples brushing the rough planks with each impact.
The wagon creaks beneath us, the sound rhythmic and obscene, and I am aware of every eye upon us—the roustabouts who have abandoned pretence of work to watch openly, Madame Zora's knowing smile, the sisters with their hands moving between their own thighs in sympathy with my taking.
"Look at them," Goliath growls, his hand fisting in my hair to pull my head up, to force my gaze to meet the watching eyes.
"Let them see how you take a man. Let them see what kind of woman you are becoming."
I cry out as he angles his thrusts to strike some deep place inside me, a spot that makes my vision blur and my cunt spasm around his driving length.
"OrRGH! Arragghh!"
I am stretched beyond anything I thought possible, filled so completely that I can feel my own pulse beating around him, feel the slick friction of each withdrawal and return.
"More," I gasp, the word torn from me without thought, and I hear Madame Zora's laugh, bright and knowing.
"She begs for it now," the older woman calls out. "Our sparrow learns to fly indeed."
Goliath's rhythm changes, becomes harder, deeper, each thrust lifting my knees from the planks so that I am suspended on his cock, impaled and helpless.
His free hand reaches around to find my clit, swollen and exposed, and he pinches it roughly between thick fingers, making me scream, making my cunt clench in violent spasms that milk at his driving length.
"Oohh! Ooff! Oohh! Aah! Aah!"
"You will come," he commands, "with every eye upon you. You will show them what a woman looks like when she is truly fucked."
His fingers work my clit in rough circles as his cock pounds into my deepest place, and I feel it building, the pressure that started with the sisters and has been wound tighter by every lesson of the morning. I am panting, drooling onto the planks beneath me, my hair wild in Goliath's grip, my body nothing but sensation and surrender.
"Now," he growls, and his thrusts become jerky, uncontrolled, his own peak approaching.
"Come now, little bird. Fly for me. Soar with an albatross."
The orgasm crashes through me like repeated somersaults, starting where we are joined and radiating outward until my fingers press hard against the wood and my scream tears itself from my throat, raw and animal.
"Oorggh!"
My cunt milks at him in rhythmic pulses, and I feel him swell even larger, feel the hot flood of his spend jetting deep into my clutching channel, filling me until it leaks around his still-pulsing length and drips onto the planks beneath us.
A pool of gravy in the dirt. God, how much more inside of me.
He holds himself deep, his hips pressed flush to my arse, his breath coming in great heaves that I feel against my back. Slowly, his hand releases my hair, and I collapse forward, my cheek pressed to the rough wood, my body still twitching with aftershocks, his seed now leaking from me in thick rivulets that splatter behind my spread knees and coat my ankles and feet.
"She survives," Yvonne says, and there is approval in her voice.
"She survives the living hulk."
"She more than survives," Marguerite adds, her tone warm with satisfaction. "She flies."
Goliath withdraws slowly, and I feel the emptiness like an unwanted hollow, feel more of his seed spill from me, wetting my thighs. He rises, and I hear the creak of the wagon as he steps down, hear the murmur of the watching crowd dispersing, returning to their tasks now that the show has ended.
A shadow falls over me, and I turn my head to find Madame Zora standing at the wagon's edge, her peacock feather shawl wrapped tight against the morning, her white hair wild as a storm cloud. She extends one hand, the fingers heavy with rings that catch the light.
"Time to recover with the tattooed lady, follow me."
The sisters have gathered at the wagon's edge, Yvonne with her arms crossed over her small breasts, Marguerite with her hand resting on her own rounded belly, Celeste with her long limbs arranged in that patient grace I have come to associate with her. As a collective, they urge me to go with Madame Zora.
Surely, there is nothing a tattooed lady can do to a girl, once she has learnt to fly with Goliath.