Of Grease Paint And Clown Girls

The grease paint on your face was streaked by the marks of someone's fingers where they'd grabbed your jaw, leaving exposed skin just to the left of your cum-smeared, grease painted lips.

One of the purple stars that you had drawn so painstakingly over your eyes was also smeared into dark nothingness.

The other star was marked by somebody else's cum.

Three white grease paint fingers clawed at one of your tits, smeared across the nipple, and its piercing. Dollops of cum covered your other tit, your chest, your throat.

Both cum and grease paint were in your dark, disarrayed, still-pigtailed hair. There were drops of cum on the tops of your thighs. No doubt, there was cum dripping onto the carpet beneath where you knelt naked before me, hands clasped behind your back, shoulders drawn to expose your tits.

You looked up at me with those big brown eyes, soul-dark, pleading. "Am I done, Mistress?"

I laughed. "Of course not, my little clown girl."

I should probably thank whoever had grabbed your face and smeared your tit because, beneath that wiped-away grease paint, I could see you blush. You didn't look away, which makes me very proud. In a quiet voice, you declared, "I'm not a girl, Mistress. I'm a slut."

"Don't quibble."

"Yes, ma'am." Now you looked away, down. But you corrected yourself and met my gaze once again, so I allowed it.

"Your friends have all left. Now it's my turn."

Your eyes lit up with a smile that touched your smeared lips. "Yes, please, Mistress!"

The room was in shambles and smelled like what you'd imagine the proverbial clown gangbang would smell like. Although that was probably mostly the lube.

"Stand up." You did so, naked, legs shaking--eight cocks were a lot, after all--but you kept your hands behind our back and your tits out. I couldn't help but smile. "Such a good clown girl."

"Thank you, Mistress."

"Go to the cross." Across the room, your hands were allowed to leave your back to take position above your head. Wrists secured first, then ankles. I kissed the stylized *23* you had tattooed just in the middle of your calf and eyed the trail of cum crawling down your inner thigh.

You looked back at me when I stood. I said, "Canes first, I think." Your whimper was divine. As were your breathless gasps, kept only from becoming wrenching screams by the deliberate cadence of the strikes.

Your ass went from slightly used pink to welted stripes of red, purple, purple-black. Tiny crimson drops graced the line of one of the stripes. I smeared them when I smacked you, barehanded, rubbing the pain, smiling at the echo of your gasp.

Knives grace your skin next, kissing without cutting. Flashing in the light. Tracing lines, curves, patterns across your welted ass, across your back with its inked dragon wings, along your upraised arms, along the backs of your thighs.

You were breathing in gasps once again. Hand around your throat, pulling your head back slightly. Whisper in your ear. "Good?"

"Very good, Mistress."

For which, of course, I smacked your ass once again. Your breath sucked in. I smiled. "Perfect."

The flogging began. Light, slow, rapid, heavy staccato. Moans, gasps, screams. Pause. Touch, light, to reassure you that I'm right behind you.

In control.

The flogging continued until you were breathless, gasping, longing. Until you glanced back at me. Your painted eyes, through tears, held satiated exhaustion.

Unbound, you turned, reaching for me. Finger raised, I said, "Ah! You are still cum- and clown-covered."

You stopped, the smeared grease paint smile exaggerating your frown. "Yes, Mistress."

So sweet.

I crooked a finger, motioning. You bent forward, your head bowed. I gently raised your chin, inspected you for the cleanest spot, kissed you on your bright red, miraculously in place, silicon nose.

You whispered, almost forlornly, "Honk."

I smiled. "Don't worry, my little clown girl." I pinched your nipple, fingers behind the piercing, pulling, twisting. When you finished your long gasp, I added, "It's bedtime."

Your soul-dark eyes reignited with that not-so-subtle hint of coquettish desire. I know my little clown girl all too well.

"Thank you, Mistress."

I turned towards the door, glancing down at the fingers that had just pinched you. I sighed. It was my own fault, really. "First, however, it's time for clown girls to get cleaned up."

"Yes, Mistress."

I left the room in search of a fresh towel to wipe the grease paint from my fingers.