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.
