“The Smell of the Greasepaint, the Roar of the Crowd”
Bridger threw his backpack into the backseat in disgust, climbed in after it, and slammed the minivan door.
“Everything OK?” Cassie asked.
She eyed him in the rearview mirror, but he just pulled out his phone, ducked his head, and started scrolling. His eyes, magnified through the thick lenses of his glasses, were red from crying.
“What’s wrong, kiddo?” she said.
He sniffed. “Nothing,” he said.
She checked the lane for other cars or students and pulled away from the curb of the school, deciding not to press the issue. She could guess the problem, anyway.
Regi. It was always Regi these days. Self-entitled little rich snot of a class bully who had apparently decided to make her son his special project this year. He and his goons never seemed to miss a chance to ram Bridger into a row of lockers, knock his lunch tray out of his hands, or mock him for his glasses, his lower income clothes, and prominent front teeth. It had gotten so severe that Cassie, against her son’s wishes, had actually requested a meeting with the school administrator, but the woman was worse than useless.
“Regi’s very special,” the gray haired principal had beamed. “Maxmillian Winter’s boy, you know.”
Cassie stared back at her blankly.
“The entertainer?” the principal offered hopefully.
Cassie shook her head.
“Mezmo the Clown?” the woman said brightly, her hands clasped adoringly under her chin.
Nothing.
“Well,” the principal waved her hand, undeterred, “Boys will be boys. I’m sure Regi’s just showing your son attention because he wants to be friends. Has your son tried connecting with him?”
“Connecting with him?” Cassie had said, incredulous. “No, I think my son’s a little too busy connecting with the floor every time the little creep knocks him down. I don’t care who is father is. Maybe what the kid needs isn’t pies to the face and fart gags. Sounds like what the kid really needs is probably just an old fashioned spanking.”
But the administrator had just clucked and dismissed it, to the point that Cassie wondered if the woman might be headed towards senility. Regardless, the radiant smile on her face whenever Regi’s name was mentioned made it clear she had no intention of intervening. Cassie had left the meeting absolutely livid.
What was worse, somehow the little brat had heard about the meeting, so now every verbal assault now also included crude remarks about her as well. Because there’s nothing more original than making sexual jokes about a kid’s mom. Sigh.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t dream of affording private school on her hourly secretary pay, so they were left with trying to make the best out of a bad situation. She told Bridger to just ignore him, but the punk was relentless.
As if adolescence weren’t already hard enough for someone like her son, who seemed to have been dealt all the worst cards in the puberty deck. He’d inherited her ex’s red hair, pale skin, and freckles—features which would probably be endearing and unique later in life, but now made him stand out. And of course the glasses and overbite didn’t help.
The worst Cassie had dealt with in adolescence was being an early bloomer. She was envied and ridiculed by the other girls for her long legs and hourglass proportions, so had taken to dressing ultra-conservatively, hiding her figure in bulky sweaters—a habit that lasted into adulthood—but she otherwise had fit in with her peers fairly well. It broke her heart to see her son faring so much harder.
When they reached the house, he sulked inside while she got the mail. On top of the bills and coupons was a large rainbow-colored envelope, decked with circus stickers, addressed to both her and Bridger.
She frowned, opening it, and pulled out a birthday party invitation, decked with stickers and an obscene amount of glitter. REGI’S HAVING A BIRTHDAY!!!! it announced in giant balloon letters. GAMES, FACEPAINTING, AND MORE!!!
Jesus, isn’t that kid a little old for facepainting parties?
Annnnd a special appearance by MEZMO THE CLOWN!!!!! Parents welcome!!!
Cassie shuddered. Pass, she thought as she dumped the whole stack of mail in the trash. Hard pass. Even if the kid wasn’t a total shit—nothing in the world would drag her out to a party with a goddamned clown. Death first.
Dinner was a quiet affair, with Bridger pouting and barely eating. He finally asked if he could be excused, and went to his room. Cassie sighed, poured a glass of her finest boxed wine, and picked up an abandoned paperback novel.
She sighed, finding her lost place. Victorian romance. Elegant, refined women treated with dignity—like royalty—and not just idealized sex objects. Far cry indeed from her daily grind of dodging leers from her male coworkers at the office and her sleazy boss, Mr. Stone. It was all so exhausting.
Her phone rang, snapping her out of the story. She didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?” she answered.
“Ms. Gooding?” a man’s deep voice intoned.
“Yes.”
“This is Maxmillian Winters. Regi’s father.”
Silence. He quickly piped back up.
“I hope you don’t mind me calling—Mrs. Markle at the school administrator’s office gave me your number. This is okay, yes?”
His voice was a rich, melodic baritone.
“Sure,” Cassie said cautiously.
“Yes!!” he laughed grandly, as if they’d made some joyous agreement, and Cassie thought she heard the faint but unmistakable honk of a bicycle horn from his end of the connection.
“Well, I’ll be quick as a whistle. I was wondering if you and Bridger had received the invitation to my Regi’s birthday party this weekend?”
“Uh…” Cassie said.
“Mrs. Markle mentioned you may have some…concerns…about our boys playing nicely, and I thought this might be a simply perfect time for us to meet and talk? Face to face?”
Cassie hesitated.
“Besides, we could really use your help. At the party, I mean. Boys that age, well—they can be such rascals, can’t they? Little wisenheimers?”
He giggled, and Cassie found something about it infectious. She caught herself smiling.
“So you’ll come?” Maxmillian asked.
“Well…” she said.
“Prettiest of please?”
His voice absolutely oozed charm. Like he savored every syllable.
Honk
Cassie felt a little tremor ripple over her. She sighed.
“Sure,” she said.
“Exquisite!!” he cried, and she thought she heard another faint blast of a bicycle horn before the connection went dead.
“Why would you do that without even asking me??” Bridger gaped the next morning.
Cassie was frankly a little confused by that herself. How much boxed wine had she had, exactly, that made this seem like a good idea? But her son’s outrage put her on the defensive, so she assumed her most “responsible mom” voice and rallied.
“The father sounds…nice. Like he wants to make peace. This Regi kid’s not going to do anything to embarrass you with me there, and if he does dare to get crude, trust me, I’ll give him an earful. Deal?”
She extended her hand.
Bridger just looked down, his expression dark. She ruffled his hair.
“It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”
When they pulled into the Winter’s driveway that Saturday afternoon, though, she found she was already regretting it.
The house was practically a castle. She felt ridiculous handing off the grimy keys to her battered Toyota to the valet, and one small glimpse of the other dozens of immaculately dressed parents and children milling about the front made her cringe at her humble choice of sweater and jeans.
Waste of time, getting a bachelor’s degree, she thought ruefully to herself. Should’ve gone to clown college.
Bridger must have sensed her unease, because he looked at her with a sort of pleading, can-we-go-now look, but she smiled in a way that she hoped was inspiring, and ushered him inside.
The main entry opened up into an enormous ballroom with ornate black and white marble tiles, like a massive chessboard. A crowd of well-dressed party guests milled happily about the room.
Lots of fathers here, for a kid’s birthday party she noticed, feeling yet another stab of single mom insecurity, as Cassie’s ex shared zero part of Bridger’s life.
Winter had apparently spared no expense for the party: multicolored balloons and streamers hung from vast chandeliers, ice sculptures and refreshments of every sort lined tables along the walls, and a raised stage with concert lighting was at one end of the room, its plush red velvet curtains drawn shut. Classical music wafted from unseen speakers.
Cassie stood holding Bridger’s arm, her tray of homemade cupcakes in hand, trying not to gape, when a deep, familiar voice boomed out from across the room.
“The Goodings have arrived!!!”
Cassie felt a weird, delighted little thrill run through her at the sound, and she turned.
She wasn’t prepared.
Maxmillian Winter, aka Mezmo the Clown, was an enormous man—broad shouldered and hugely fat at the stomach and hips—and dressed head to toe in full harlequin regalia, the same black and white checkered pattern as the ballroom floor.
He approached with his massive arms outstretched and for a ridiculous moment Cassie was afraid he was going to envelop and crush her, but he stopped short and bowed low, taking her hand gently and giving it a dainty kiss. He then squatted eye-level with Bridger and gave him a pat on the head with one huge, white-gloved hand.
“Welcome, my friends!” he turned, taking in the room, and settling on the far corner of it. “Regi!”
A tall dark haired adolescent came trotting over.
And of course, Cassie thought with an internal roll of her eyes, puberty had been generous to this one. He was tall and broad shouldered, like his father, but with none of his father’s excess bulk. Standing with her poor Bridger, the two of them could’ve been different species. Fortune favors the cruel, she thought with a cynical sigh. And the rich.
“Regi?” Maxmillian presented Cassie and Bridger as if they were visiting dignitaries. “Greet our guests, the Goodings.”
The boy gave a sneering smile at Bridger. “Sup, Bridger?”
Bridger looked at the floor, and Cassie nudged him.
“Happy Birthday, Regi,” he mumbled dutifully.
The silence was awkward; Cassie looked down at her tray. “I brought, uh, cupcakes,” she said.
Regi looked over, but his gleaming eyes didn’t seem to be on the cupcakes. His leering gaze crawled over the swell of Cassie’s sweater, the self-satisfied smirk never leaving his face. He wrapped his paws around two of the cupcakes, squeezing them, and meeting her eyes. “They look yummy,” he said.
Jesus, he really is a little lizard Cassie thought with revulsion. She cringed and raised a self conscious arm across her chest as if adjusting the neck of her sweater, concealing herself from his creepy gaze, but Maxmillian seemed to take no notice of the exchange.
“Regi, why don’t you show Bridger one of the face-painting booths, while I speak with Miss Gooding?” he said brightly.
“Sure, dad,” he smiled, holding Cassie’s eyes and licking the blue frosting from one of the cupcakes in his fist. “Right this way, Bridger.”
The boys moved off, Bridger casting one last helpless glance over his shoulder as he departed. Cassie mouthed “Try”.
Maxmillian, meanwhile, swept the tray from Cassie’s hand and replaced it with a cup of punch from a passing platter. “Let’s find a spot to talk, away from the madding crowds, eh?” he said.
He ushered her across the ballroom floor, greeting guests good-naturedly, and Cassie nervously sipped at her punch. He led her through a door that opened into a large plush studio—the walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling funhouse mirrors, giving the entire room a strange carnival feel, but Mezmo led her to a large red velvet couch and they sat.
“Now,” he said soberly. He placed his gloved hands gently atop her knees, looking deeply into her eyes. The serious look was almost comic with his facepaint. “I understand our boys are having a little problem.”
“It’s more than a little p—,” she stopped, and her hand flew to her mouth in surprise. Her voice had come out in a high comic falsetto, like someone from Munchkinland.
“What the hell?” she squeaked.
Maxmillian laughed, loud but good-natured, lightly slapping her knee. “It’s my helium punch! Isn’t it heliuyummy?” He gave a bicycle horn at his belt a couple of quick squeezes for emphasis.
Honk! Honk!
It was so unexpectedly ridiculous, she found herself laughing too, which also came out as a high-pitched helium titter. This set off another round, until she was laughing so hard she thought her stomach would burst.
Mezmo grinned broadly. “So good to see a smile on that face! Why so serious, right?” He reached over to a tray of makeup and cosmetic brushes and dabbed a sponge in white face paint. “May I?” he asked, eyebrows arched innocently.
“Um,” Cassie hesitated.
He gave the bicycle horn another squeeze. Honk!
“Sure,” she heard herself blurt, still in a comic falsetto chirp.
Mezmo worked the sponge into the makeup with a smooth practiced hand. “I know it must be so hard for a single mother on her own to find a smile sometimes...”
He pressed the sponge to her forehead and began to apply makeup. She faintly wanted to protest, but the room was feeling warm and mildly swimmy, and the cool nudging of the sponge was weirdly relaxing.
“…soooo harrd...” Mezmo intoned.
His voice was like rolling thunder in a distant storm.
She felt herself nodding dumbly.
“As a single parent myself,” he continued. “I can certainly appreciate the struggle. My work has me on the road so much, and it really is work, this business.”
His voice was so rich and deep, oozing into the deepest places of her like warm honey. The soft rhythmic sweep of the sponge across her face raised little goosebumps all over her. She realized her nipples were growing hopelessly hard under her sweater, and a drowsy part of her wondered if he could notice.
Clown’s probably getting a circus tent in his pants she thought, from gazing at my big top. She giggled, clamping a hand over her mouth.
His eyebrows arched, as if the laugh was refuting him.
“Oh it is, madame! I know to a lot of people, it’s all just a bunch of...well...how did you put it to Mrs. Markle? Pies to the face and fart gags?”
His tone with this was ominous. Cassie tried to focus.
“Wait, what?” she stammered, her voice still sounding like a reject from Alvin and the Chipmunks. “I didn’t mean—“
“Oh,” Mezmo said, waving a large hand, “don’t give it a second thought. There isn’t time. We have to get you ready for the show, after all.”
She blinked. “Show?”
“Yes,” he rumbled, his eyes dark with merriment. “So nice of you to agree to help with the party for Regi. Especially since you think he’s such a little…creep.”
He blew the horn twice, with a grin.
Honk! Honk!
And everything went black.
When she came to, there was still only muzzy darkness. She was standing, and could feel hard wooden floor beneath her, but had no sense of her surroundings. Her clothes also felt strange.
“Mom?” she heard a familiar voice ask, off to her right.
“Bridger?” she groped out blindly towards the sound, and felt her son in the darkness beside her.
“What happened?” he said.
She didn’t know how to answer, but the moment was interrupted by a blast of carnival music from speakers somewhere high overhead, followed by the deep amplified voice of Mezmo.
“LADIES and GENTLEMEN!!!!!” he boomed. “May I proudly present, for your viewing pleasure, our entertainment for the evening…” There was a drum roll, then:
“The Gooding clowns: KISSY and DOPEY!!!!”
A roar of applause.
The darkness in front of Cassie parted, replaced by a blast of blinding spotlight.
She realized slowly that she and Bridger were standing on the stage of Winter’s ballroom. The hundred or so party patrons were seated in rows below, with Regi seated on a raised dais front and center, grinning up at them.
The stage was decked with circus props. Mezmo bellowed into a microphone off to her left.
Her mind was racing, heart hammering in her chest. This had to be some kind of nightmare. Did she pass out from having too much of that stupid punch? She caught sight of her own reflection in a funhouse mirror mounted at the side of the stage, and gasped.
Her hair had been pulled into two high dog-ears atop her head, bound in large colorful ribbons. Her face was now clown white, with long fake lashes, heavily rouged cheeks, and lips painted in a glossy red heart shape, giving her mouth a fixed slutty pucker.
Her baggy sweater had been replaced by a tight carnival striped corset, so low that it barely concealed her nipples, and pressing her large breasts into a comically lustful display of bountiful overflowing cleavage.
Her mom jeans were gone—she wore a colorful pair of ruffled polka dot panties that didn’t even pretend to cover the curve of her ass cheeks, and thigh-high rainbow striped leggings beneath.
Oh my God. He must’ve drugged me with that fucking punch she thought, mind still racing.
She darted a look to Bridger in horror, and saw that he had also been transformed since they’d arrived. His face was painted as a sad hobo clown, a clown tear tracking down one cheek, and his clothes were a ragged patchwork suit, with huge clown shoes on his feet.
Even in the horrified confusion of the moment, Cassie realized that her son’s “costume” was designed specifically to humiliate him in all the ways Regi did at school. His poor clothes, his awkwardness, his emotional nature.
“And now,” Mezmo boomed, “the Goodings will be present Regi’s first birthday gift—something he’s always wanted…”
She felt her jaw and fists clench in rage. She whirled to face Mezmo, who continued to drone on like a ringmaster. She started across stage.
“A pair of playful PUPPIES!” Mezmo beamed.
The carnival music from the speakers rolled into a light, jaunty rendition of “How Much Is That Doggy In The Window”, and Mezmo gave the bicycle horn at his belt a light squeeze.
Honk! Honk!
Cassie felt as if a switch went off in her head. She dropped instantly to all fours. Bridger did the same beside her. She felt her tongue loll out of her mouth.
What the FUCK she tried to say.
But all that came out was a high pitched “Ruff!”
WHAT THE—
“RRRUFFFFF!!!”
Mezmo honked his horn again, the music swelled, and Cassie, aghast, found herself bounding around the stage on all fours alongside Bridger, yipping like a frisky terrier.
Cassie flushed deep red, horrified. Her body bounced along like it was on autopilot—a puppet on a string, to the delight of the crowd.
The terrified look in Bridger’s eyes as he pranced and barked probably matched her own, but she couldn’t stop yipping and frolicking any more than he could. She desperately tried to get close and say something to him—anything—but found herself leaning in and taking an exploratory doggy sniff at his hindquarters instead. He snarled and snapped at her with his teeth, then extended his nose and sniffed at her panty-clad ass, then they whirled in circles, growling and panting at each other.
The crowd laughed and cheered.
Mezmo ascended the stage with a large hoop, and held it upright, clicking his tongue and pointing through it. Cassie yipped and jumped through it obediently.
OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD
“Heel,” he instructed, and she found herself helplessly padding over to rest at his feet. Her nose explored his shoes, sniffing curiously. He patted her head with a large gloved hand, then scratched her affectionately behind one ear. She felt herself nuzzle against his hand, her pink tongue, unbidden, lapping at his palm.
“Roll over,” he ordered, and Cassie’s body instantly obeyed, her legs cocked and splayed toward the ceiling.
Mezmo leered down at the two round globes of her enormous confined breasts.
“Wouldn’t mind cuddling those two puppies myself!” he intoned to the audience in a theatrical aside. Honk! Honk!
The enthralled onlookers roared in laughter, and Mezmo rubbed at Cassie’s belly.
“Who’s a good girl??” he gushed, and Cassie felt her leg jitter comically like a delighted pet, her tongue lolling and panting. Inside she was seething with rage, but her puppy dog eyes could only gaze up at her Master in adoration while the audience clapped and cheered in approval at her performance. He rubbed on and on, and she realized with alarm that her body was growing excited at his attention.
“And now, my frolicking friends, back on your feet!” Mezmo clapped joyously, giving the horn another squeeze: Honk! Honk!
Cassie and Bridger bounded back upright. The music shifted to another lighthearted carnival tune.
“It’s time for REFRESHMENTS!!!” Mezmo bellowed.
He placed a companionable hand on Cassie’s rear and ushered her toward a waiting table full of pies and seltzer. She felt herself grinning broadly as she wheeled the table to center stage, long legs strutting and arms waving with a grand flourish like a giggly game show beauty.
“Dopey looks like he hasn’t had a good meal in a while,” Mezmo said to her with a thoughtful comic frown. “Would you like to serve him up something…SWEET?”
She felt her head bobbing enthusiastically as she lifted a banana cream pie from the table. She skipped over to Bridger, and wafted the pie theatrically beneath his nose.
His eyes pleading eyes looked back at her, scared, but his tongue made a huge sweep across his lips and his hand circled his stomach in a pantomime of hunger.
She felt her arm cock back, as if preparing for a pitch…
OH GOD NO
And she slammed the pie hard into his face. Bridger fell back, landing hard on his butt, sputtering through a layer of whipped cream.
The crowd roared in laughter and so did Mezmo. Cassie caught eyes with Regi in the audience, who cackled and applauded in triumph.
Worse, she felt her own face breaking into a huge grin.
Laughter bubbled out of her.
She dabbed a finger in the cream all over her humiliated son’s face, tasted it, then gave a clownish shrug to the audience. They roared their approval.
“Oh MY!” Mezmo tittered. “He looks like he could use a drink to wash that down!”
Honk! Honk!
Cassie wheeled in a dainty somersault back to the table, lifted the seltzer bottle, took aim, and shot Bridger full in the face with a long jet of water.
Bridger coughed and gasped in shock. The crowd absolutely howled in laughter, and Cassie found herself guffawing, too.
She felt herself inexplicably warming to their ridicule, a faint but insistent part of her mind taking deeper and deeper hold with every clap, every honk of Mezmo’s damned horn.
It’s no wonder kids laugh at him, a voice seemed to resonate from somewhere inside her head, as she doubled over in helpless peals of laughter. At both of us. We’re pathetic. Ridiculous.
Honk! Honk!
She courted a little jig with the seltzer, spraying play spurts at the audience.
You’re a fool for their entertainment, Kissy. That’s all you’re good for.
Honk! Honk!
Her arms and legs jittered and jived in an exaggerated Charleston, her face beaming in a huge airhead grin.
“KISSY the CLOWN, everyone!!!!” Mezmo boomed, and the audience thunderously applauded. Cassie blew kisses to the crowd and swept low in a grand bow, and Mezmo gave another honk of his horn.
The lights dropped, and she felt herself go limp, bowed at the waist, like a marionette waiting for the puppetmaster’s hand.
“And now, the moment we’ve alllllll been waiting for.” Mezmo intoned. “A very special performance for our birthday boy….”
The music from the speakers shifted to a sensual pop beat and a spotlight illuminated Cassie as she felt her body rise.
She locked eyes on Regi in the audience, and she felt her lips curl back in a hungry smile.
She ran a moist tongue over her lips.
GOD NO
Regi leered back at her, lifting his chin, beckoning her to him.
Her body responded. She found herself strutting down the stairs of the stage, her hips swaying like a proud mama cat.
She reached Regi, and struck a wide stance over his lap, hands working in her hair and body writhing invitingly. Catcalls and whistles of appreciation rose up from the audience.
She was dimly aware that the young adolescents around her—and a number of the fathers—had their phones out, capturing every horrible moment.
She whirled and bent at the waist, grabbing her ankles and swishing her ass back and forth in time with the music, rotating it inches from Regi’s grinning face. Atop the stage, she caught sight of Bridger. He looked absolutely mortified, and she felt the same, but her glossy lips were still stretched back in a huge bubbly grin and she felt herself flash him a lurid wink.
She whirled back around, straddling Regi and seating herself on his lap, hips still grinding in time to the music and wrists embracing his neck.
Her corset had slipped down dangerously low, exposing the pink flesh of her nipples. Regi grinned wolfishly. She clasped him by the back of the head and shoved his face into the valley of her cleavage—giggling and shaking her breasts as he motorboated between them.
“Like those cupcakes, birthday boy?” she murmured into his ear, and then followed the words with her tongue, wetly circling his ear canal and then sucking on his lobe.
“OHHHHHHH MYYYYYYYYYY,” Mezmo beamed into the mic. “What a naughty little minx. SHE might be the one who needs the birthday spankings…”
The crowd cheered its enthusiastic approval.
NO!!!
But Regi was already flipping her over his lap, her ass in the air.
She gave a high-pitched squeal of surprise as he jerked down her ruffled panties, exposing her bare bottom to the room.
OH MY FUCKING GOD
The crowd roared with laughter and applause.
Cassie gasped, eyes wide beneath the fake lashes, but she found herself utterly unable to get away.
Regi, grinning with delight, raised his palm high in the air, then brought it down, spanking her ass with a loud, stinging slap.
Cassie’s breath went out of her in a rush at the pain, but the crowd laughed and cheered. Encouraged, he spanked her again, this time harder.
Cassie looked out over the crowd in helpless horror. More phones were coming out, adolescent boys snapping away at her humiliation.
Another firm spank.
Another.
She moaned.
Her body warmed with arousal at the crowd’s leering attention, the delicious stinging pain. Regi’s sneering control.
Another spank.
“Ohhhhhhh...” she moaned, arching her back.
The voice in her head was a steady constant drone now. Her own thoughts smothered by them, as if her head was full of cotton candy.
Fortune favors the rich. And the cruel.
Another spank.
“Mmmmmmmm...”
This is what your kind should expect, Kissy. What you deserve.
She rolled her head languidly, meeting Regi’s eyes. She ran her tongue across her glossy red lips.
“You want more?” he sneered.
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes...p-please.”
He grinned darkly, and swatted her bare ass harder.
“OOHHHHHH!!!!”
Harder.
“OHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!”
Harder.
“GOD YESSSSSS, DADDY!!!!!!!”
The rest of the party passed in a sort of hazy blur.
She never left Mezmo’s side—whatever set of commands he’d placed in her while she was unconscious kept her hopelessly floating back to him, like a tiny moon caught in the orbit of some powerful planet. She hung on his arm as he moved through the sea of party guests—and he kept her giggling with cup after cup of his yummy punch.
Kissy the Clown was a real hit, it seemed; everybody wanted a photo with her. The adolescent boys, and of course the dads, all wanted a photo “kissing Kissy”. More than one slipped his tongue down her throat or squeezed a boob while the picture snapped, but she didn’t mind.
And of course she posed for photo after photo with Regi the birthday boy—he even added his cell number into her phone before giving it back, whispering that he expected “special selfies” from her later, and giving her a proprietary slap on the ass.
She grinned helplessly and nodded. Boys will be boys!
When the last guest was gone, Mezmo sent the boys upstairs—Regi dragging a sobbing and crestfallen Bridger—and led Cassie back to his private studio.
He brought her to the center of the room, surrounded on all sides by the funhouse mirrors, and she stood smiling and doll-still as he deftly unfastened the hooks of her corset. With the removal of the last hook, her large breasts bounced free, and she stood topless before him.
“WOW! Just look at those HONKERS!” he giggled appreciatively, squeezing each boob in turn while giving the horn at his belt a blast.
Honk! Honk!
She giggled and blushed, and he turned her in a delicate pirouette. “Now heel,” he instructed, and she dropped to her hands and knees, following him over to the couch.
He patted his lap and she climbed up and lay down across it, ass raised in the air. He slipped the bloomers from her, tossing them aside, and ran his gloved palm appreciatively down her bare flank.
A single cotton finger traced the crevice of her ass, briefly circled the pink rosette of her asshole, then gently stroked the lips beneath. Cassie positively purred beneath his hand’s attention.
“Now,” he intoned, his finger moving in complex rhythms as Cassie felt herself growing hopelessly wet, “We won’t be having any more of this nonsense about teacher conferences and bullying, will we?”
“Mmmmm…No,” she moaned.
“No,” he agreed, removing his finger and giving one ass cheek a squeeze. “Of course, once tonight’s photos hit social media, I imagine you’ll be much too busy anyway, trying to defend your actions and look for new employment.”
He clicked his tongue and reached over to his art pallet, taking up a paintbrush and dabbing it in paint.
“But these fat working-class titties would feel much more at home wrapped around a stripper’s pole, anyway. Maybe at some roadside dive, dancing for truckers, hmm? How does that sound?”
She nodded. That sounded yummy.
“And while you’re out at night shaking your tits for cash, Bridger can stay here with Regi and I. He could use some proper male influences, don’t you think?
She nodded again. Hadn’t she just been thinking the same thing??
Mezmo lowered the brush to her rump, painting a large cartoon googly eye above each of her ass cheeks, then rewet the brush and painted a huge smiley face grin beneath them.
He cocked his head, appraising his work, then dabbed the brush with red and painted a pucker of huge red kissy “lips” around her butthole. He giggled.
“In fact, let’s go ahead and...tinder that resignation.” He rummaged in her purse and withdrew her cell phone, thumbing through the address book. “What’s your employer’s name?”
“Murray...Stone,” she heard herself squeak.
He thumbed open the phone’s video camera app, framed her bare smiling ass in the viewfinder, and pressed “record”.
“And what do you have to say to him, Kissy?”
She giggled, looking back past her own raised rump, into the lens. “Kiss my ass, Murray!!!” she squeaked.
“Excellent!” Mezmo said. “Blow him a kiss goodbye?”
She cocked her hips and farted. Mezmo roared with laughter, ended the video, pressed “send”, and tossed the phone aside.
“Down, girl,” he commanded, and Cassie hopped to the floor, facing him on all fours, panting excitedly.
Mezmo dug one hand into the front of his baggy trousers. “Have you ever given a clown a blowjob before?”
Cassie shook her head no, her ribboned dog ears swishing to either side of her fluffy head.
He pulled his engorged cock from his pants and Cassie’s eyes went wide. It was as thick as one of her arms. Mezmo grinned, releasing the shaft and letting it sway and bounce. Cassie couldn’t look away from it, her head undulating with its movement.
“Well it’s just like a normal blowjob,” he said, placing one hand on the back of her head and reaching for his bicycle horn with the other.
“…but may leave a funny taste in your mouth.”
Honk! Honk!
He pressed her face to his cock. Her lips parted and she found herself planting an affectionate kiss on the huge throbbing head. From there, her mouth seemed to have a mind of its own. She found her tongue running greedily up and down the length of his shaft, lapping at his enormous balls, then following the wet trail back up. She opened her jaw wide, struggling to take his full length.
Mezmo shoved her face down with one hand, leaning his massive bulk back on the couch, eyes closed in pleasure, while she gagged and drooled, saliva running down her chin and the length of his huge cock, spattering in droplets on her bare breasts as she bobbed up and down.
He grew even more erect under her mouth’s hungry attention, and finally he raised up, hoisting her powerfully by the waist and depositing her on her hands and knees in the center of the floor.
He knelt behind her, spreading her ass cheeks and positioning the wet head of his cock at the painted red lips of her asshole.
“Pop goes the weasel,” he drawled.
Honk! Honk!
He shoved his full length deep into her ass.
“OHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!” Cassie squealed in exquisite agony as Mezmo’s shaft drove home. She bounced and squeaked helplessly with pleasure on the end of his enormous cock, his hips bucking against her in building rhythm. He honked his horn with every thrust.
Honk! Honk!
She locked eyes with Mezmo in the reflection of the funhouse mirror, the warped glass distorting his grin into something savage and cruel, and morphing her swinging tits and raised ass into cartoonishly large round proportions.
You’re just his slutty plaything now
Honk! Honk!
She moaned.
Barking and rolling over and farting on command like a bitch for his amusement
Honk! Honk! Honk!
She tried desperately to ignore the voice droning more and more insistently in her muzzy head. She caught sight of her own reflection in the mirror: a sweaty and grunting bimbo with fuck me lips and bedroom eyes who bore no resemblance to the responsible conservative mom who’d arrived here only a few short hours ago.
Bridger was likely somewhere sobbing.
Honk! Honk! Honk!
She’d promised him this party would help, and instead she’d humiliated herself in front of all his peers and destroyed her career—all because of the vindictive spite of this fat clown, who she was now joyfully letting fuck her up the ass.
Honk! Honk!
And you LOVE it, don’t you?
His pace quickened, the slap of his fat thighs and the honking of the horn building in intensity. She felt like she was going to burst.
You NEED it
HONK! HONK! HONK!
Mezmo reached forward between her swinging breasts with one enormous gloved hand and squeezed her face into a comic pucker.
DON’T YOU, KISSY?
HONK! HONK HONK! HONK!
She grunted, bobbing her head in hopeless surrender, and mouthed him a wet kiss.
The clown’s hips suddenly rocked in a powerful orgasm, thrusting again and again into the tight canal of her ass.
“YESSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!” she screamed.
Wave after wave of pleasure washed over her in a blinding climax. Her back arched as his impossibly large hot load of jizz blasted into her, more and more of the thick cum pulsing out with each throbbing thrust. She felt its warmth as it spurted comically out the painted “kiss” wrapped around Mezmo’s cock and ran down her slick thighs.
She clenched her ass cheeks over and over with every throb, milking every drop.
Mezmo slumped forward over her, his breath warm on her neck, his fat tongue lolling out to lick at her ear. She moaned, raising a palm to lovingly cradle his painted face in her hand.
Their lips met in a long sloppy kiss.
Already she couldn’t wait til he could grow hard again, so she could straddle his magnificent white bulk and ride him with abandon, her wet sex grinding into him, his hands groping and squeezing at her huge honkers.
Honk! Honk!
When he had used every part of her, she would pass out in sweaty exhaustion, sprawled naked and content across him, only to wake him with a tongue bath in the morning and beg him to fuck her senseless again.
This was her life now; any other hopes and ambitions were gone. Those dreams were all so silly and ridiculous anyway, really.
She couldn’t stop laughing.