Rod's Pleasure Carnival

Jasmine Reviello is a 22-year-old college dropout living in Southern California, just outside of Los Angeles. This series follows her through the erotic, degrading misadventures of her life as an employee of a popular new sex carnival opened on Venice Beach.

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Thank you!

*****

I guess you could say I've never had a "real" job. I dropped out of college after one semester, but wasn't about to go back home to live with my parents -- they'd had enough of my "slacker" tendencies and I'd had enough of their constant hovering. So I found myself on the opposite side of the country from them, making bad decisions with the other California dreamers who roamed the boardwalks and city streets carrying a creaky longboard in one hand and a smoldering joint in the other.

My friend Marcy, who I frequently skipped Sociology with while I was still pretending I would complete my Arts degree, was the one who told me about the carnival for the first time. We were 19 then, and neither of us was about to squeeze into a restaurant apron or gas station visor just to buy dinner. But she'd been approached on campus by a recruiter for a new attraction coming to the area, promising big money for the right employees.

"How is that even legal?" I'd asked as we sat sipping seltzers on the warm sands of Venice Beach, watching the ferris wheel go around on the pier.

"It's some kind of cultural... entertainment business... loophole, thing," she fumbled for the technical terminology. "The guy said the owner is from Serbia or something, and these carnivals are a regular thing over there. I guess the city can't like, discriminate, against his culture -- and he's paying like a trillion dollars to build it here. They're not gonna turn their noses up at that kind of money." My friend's green eyes sparkled behind her clear-framed glasses, face half-consumed by the shocks of frizzy, orange hair that formed a willowy, ginger-fro around her head.

My own hair was nearly as curly and voluminous, thanks to my mother's Caribbean heritage, but the Italian blood of my father caused it to fall in looser ringlets, which I often swept back into a poofy ponytail on hotter days. The dark brown color was a nice contrast to my hazel eyes, and drew out the little mask of freckles that crested the ridge of my nose.

"But like... Just people fucking? Paying and fucking, right there in the open," I wrinkled my brow, still not grasping the possibility of something like that being allowed, even in a progressive haven of open minds like California. Marcy just raised her eyebrows and nodded, slugging back another fizzy mouthful of seltzer.

Fast forward 2 years and we were both regular employees of Rod's Pleasure Carnival, just a few minutes down the beach, on the southernmost end. Rod's full name was Rodovan, which he told us meant "Happy Soul" where he came from -- but Americans prefer American names, and he was much more interested in making money than giving pronunciation lessons.

My initial assessment of the carnival as being "just people fucking" turned out to be laughably unimaginative. The place had everything a paying pervert could dream of: bukkake booths, blowjob bars, motorboat stations, cumshot contests, anal bead races, gangbang samplers, orgy tents, and more. And as long as the activities took place on carnival property, and within the loosely-enforced parameters that kept anyone from getting injured or infected, it was all state-sanctioned.

The "employees" were mostly female -- at least, the ones getting fondled, fucked, and fisted -- and most of the booth barkers and money handlers were guys. Guys who certainly took advantage of the job's perks while they were on break, or just bored between customers. The customers themselves ranged from college dudes to curious husbands, to creepy loners, and even the occasional bi-girl or adventurous wife.

The atmosphere was professional enough that it really felt like any other carnival, with huge blinking marquees, ornately decorated attractions, and festive music ranging from classic Americana to vaguely foreign dance mixes. Rod's motto was "something for everyone" -- and that was mostly true.

I spent the first couple months cleaning booths between shift changes, like most new employees -- and my god, the messes at some stations could be unholy. I would try to recall those days whenever I started getting annoyed by a patron turning my asshole inside out with an oversized cock or XXL string of beads. But none of the assignments were really glamorous. They were just easy money for attractive girls who could tolerate being dehumanized for a few hours at a time. And I could tolerate that much better than being yelled at by some Karen in a grocery store I didn't even shop at.

Rod mostly hired girls in their 20s with a low sense of self-worth or high credit card bills, as well as plenty of naturally kinky freaks. I was one of the few girls on staff working there because she was essentially too lazy to do anything else. Being a hole was easy, mostly, and it paid a hell of a lot better than grant-writing, or whatever other B.S. my college advisor said I could do with a B.A.

Assignments rotated weekly, too, so it's not like we were trapped in one attraction for our whole "career" -- and Rod didn't mind special requests. Hell, the patrons certainly had favorites, and if the girl liked what she did, and was good at it, she could become a staple there, no problem. That's actually how Marcy ended up getting her name added to the Throat Thrash marquee. The little minx may have only weighed 97 pounds, but her lily-white throat was bottomless, and so was her tolerance for abuse, as we learned.

The week where our story really begins, I was assigned to Throat Thrash (featuring Messy Marcy) too, and looking forward to spending some "quality" time with my rising star of a friend. It was Monday night, and I knew I'd probably lose my voice by Thursday, but Rod gave out bonuses for good performance. So if I had to pretend to be mute during my weekend spa day, that wouldn't be the end of the world.

"No she said the cop was here last Saturday and remembered her, so he didn't even give her a ticket," Marcy grinned as we slipped out of our street clothes and stuffed them into our lockers. The employee changing and shower shack was at the edge of the grounds, near the old soccer club area. And our uniforms, with a few exceptions, were just -- nude. Not counting scrunchies.

"Man, how come I never get cops at my booths?" I crinkled my lips.

"You probably do, just not in uniform. Gotta maintain the illusion of professionalism." Marcy's pale, slender body wasn't what you might expect at a carnival devoted to objectifying the female form -- but as Rod said, there was something for everyone. And as it turned out, lots of guys loved throatfucking a tiny ginger who looked like she might break if you sneezed at her too hard.

By contrast, my caramel curves were quite a bit more feminine. I didn't have my mom's bodacious, black booty, but the gentle slope of my hips traced up to a flat-ish tummy, overshadowed by a pair of respectable, tan, fleshy globes that wobbled nicely when you smacked them. Rod really got himself a deal, since someone with my exotic look and full, natural lips could probably find decent modeling work -- but that would require a level of motivation that I just never had.

I was tugging my dark curls back and double-twisting an elastic tie around my high ponytail when a new girl, Cynthia, trundled in with her arms full of buckets and rags. She was a meaty brunette, a few years older than Marcy and I, and her sour face was dripping with sweat.

"Hey, Cyn... You ok?" Marcy looked over one shoulder as she finished lotioning her legs on a wooden bench.

"ANOTHER fucking bachelor party pissed in one of the bukkake booths, and I had to walk all the way across the grounds to get more rags from the supply closet before I could go and clean up Throat Thrash," the woman fumed, letting the buckets fall from her arms and clatter loudly onto the concrete floor.

"Ugh, who marries these animals, anyway?" Marcy scoffed, recalling the previous year's wedding season, when 4 girls quit in a span of 3 weeks.

"I have no idea. But now I smell like piss, and I have to scrub the orgy tent before the 8 o'clock event."

"Well, it's just past 7, why don't you rinse off and then head over there. Hot showers are soup for the soul," Marcy smiled. She was always saying dumb shit like that, and I could never tell if she was joking, but it seemed to calm Cynthia to receive a little compassion. We watched her ample ass cheeks ripple as she padded into the showers and spun some of the squeaky faucet handles.

"Guess that means our booth is good to go," the skinny ginger had removed her glasses for the night. She could see well enough to get around without them, and the cocks pummeling her face for the next few hours probably wouldn't have any important text scrawled on them that she'd need to read.

We departed the locker room into the bright sights and sounds of the carnival, and were bathed in the hot and heady aromas of fried food and fuck-musk. Rowdy groups of guys plodded around the sandy walkways with their cocks out, some having ditched their pants or entire outfits at the rentable cubbies by the ticket office. Squeals, shrieks, and groans wafted up through the thick din of chatter and carnival music, and we rubbed our arms for warmth in the chilly evening beach breeze.

Things were busy for a Monday, but Rod had just opened a new attraction the weekend prior, and it had the intended effect of drawing in lots of new faces. It was our first dedicated "performance" -- not interactive like the usual attractions, but erotic and enticing nonetheless. This European couple, the Vogels, contacted Rod with a proposal, and a couple months later promos went out all over town.

The husband, Kurt, could easily have been one of those old-timey muscle men from the sepia-tone circus days -- with slick, parted hair and a thin whisper of a mustache. And the wife, Ilse, was a beautiful, tiny thing, as flexible as she was stunningly, blindingly blonde. They'd started their sexual double-act in German porn films, but had always wanted to "go live" with it, and Rod's carnival provided the perfect opportunity.

I hadn't seen the show in person yet, but I watched some of their old clips online, and it was like a filthy, fascinating Cirque du Soleil. Mr. Vogel folded and railed that woman in positions that would have left me paraplegic, and Mrs. Vogel took it all with a smile, before dismounting gracefully or climbing him like a treehouse to ride his face.

"There you are, Kassie's been here 15 minutes, what took you?" The booth barker for the night was a miserable old cuss named Jay. He was my least favorite barker, but the cruder guests liked him, and that meant Rod liked him too.

"Cynthia said she just finished cleaning, relax," Marcy flicked her emerald eyes at him as we climbed the steps of the big wooden stand. There was already a decent line of guys waiting in the zig-zag of yellow ropes at the bottom, ticket in one hand, cock in the other. And Kassie was kneeling on the third padded mat near the right edge of the platform.

"Don't get a big head just 'cuz your name's on the sign now, girl," Jay grumbled, shamelessly eye-raping us as we got into position. Once we knelt down on the pads, he fastened our wrists into the thick straps attached to the boards behind us. The platform was painted picket-fence white and strewn with warm-glowing string lights, and a flashy neon sign rose from behind it with the words THROAT THRASH blinking in obnoxious, extra large lettering. Hanging from the bottom of the sign, with comparably less enthusiasm and financial investment, was a pink vinyl banner that added "featuring Messy Marcy" -- bookended by pairs of red and white cartoon lips.

"Alrighty then, not-so-gentle-men!" Jay bellowed through his carnival-issued bullhorn, moving to the top of the steps so he could collect tickets. "Who's ready to THRASH??"

A beer-sodden chorus of hoots and jeers rippled through the line of waiting patrons, and Jay sniggered to himself as he leaned over to twist a knob on the portable sound board. Loud, painfully generic rock music filled the speakers mounted to the metal pole supporting the neon sign, and I psychically cringed at the volume. I looked past Marcy to Kassie, a cute college girl with truly enviable tits that hung from her chest like a pair of pink-tipped watermelons. It was a wonder she didn't fall over from the uneven weight on her slim frame.

The three of us were lined up in a row, kneeling and available for whatever oral abuses the carnival guests craved until our shift-break after the first hour. Then another hour, another break, another hour, and then homeward bound for some hot tea or cold popsicles before passing out.

Naturally, the first guest stepped right up to Marcy after handing his ticket to Jay and taking a mental snapshot of the trio of us waiting there obediently before him. He was an overweight trucker-type with a mesh ballcap and no pants below his Harley Davidson t-shirt.

"Hey there, sweetness," he crooned in a gravelly tone, holding his swelling, beefy cock by the base and smacking it against Marcy's upturned face. Without her glasses she couldn't see the flecks of food at the corner of his stubbled mouth, or the hairs curling out from his nostrils, and maybe that was a mercy.

"Evening stud," she fed him one of her practiced lines and plastered on a wry smile, while he caressed her chin with his dangling balls. Then he palmed her forehead like a basketball, tilting it back as she opened her mouth, and he started feeding her his musty hog, finding her throat hole before he was halfway in.

A second ticket holder grabbed my ponytail and gruffly commanded me to open before I could see any more of Marcy's "predicament" -- but the high-pitched *ghhrrkk* sound told me that Trucker Guy wasn't going to let a little throat barrier get in the way of his fun. My own patron wasn't quite so well-endowed, and his hard little soldier nestled along the back of my tongue while he pressed my face into his pubes.

From the smell and taste of his package I could tell he'd been to one of the Pussy Pendulums recently. Everything was sour and pungent, like he'd already cum once or twice that evening. Not great news for me -- a third load wouldn't come quick, but at least I wasn't getting impaled. The guy let out a hops-tinged sigh while he warmed his cock a moment more, then leaned forward so that my head was pressed to the rear railing of the platform, and began steadily humping. I closed my eyes and tried to relax as drool built up in my mouth and slipped over my lips. But between the blaring guitar riffs and wet, noisy choking to my left, it was tough to get any kind of settled.

"Holy shit, this one new?" A spiky-haired punk was squishing one of Kassie's tits in his hand as he yelled over the music to Jay.

"Just brought her off clean-up last week," Jay hollered back, grinning like he had any involvement in the whole process.

"These gotta be G-cups at least!" The punk dropped her heavy, white melon, and she winced as it slapped against her ribs. Then he wiped his ring-pierced cock around her mouth before pushing it through her lips.

"She's on Motorboat next week, don't miss it!" Jay hollered, and the punk gave him a rock-horns sign as he started to gag the girl. Motorboat was a bit of a misleading name for the tit-focused attraction on the East side of the lot. The girls were sat in height-adjustable chairs, which guests could jack up to bring the tits to face height, or jack down to bring them to dick height. Either way, the girls got wiped down between uses by one of the new hires. It was actually one of the more traditionally "clean" stations on the grounds -- I think because it was the only one guys were rubbing their faces into.

With the Pussy Pendulums, Throat Thrash, and others I think it was kind of understood that there were going to be some sloppy seconds, or third, or eighths. And most guests were too high or horny to care much.

"Oh, fuck yeah," Trucker Guy panted beside me as his fat rod jutted awkwardly against the side of Marcy's tiny throat, and she washed his balls with a coat of hot bile as a result. The acidic runoff slipped over her bare thighs and through the wide, wooden slats of the platform, disappearing into the unseen sand below. The fat brute had her loose, fiery 'fro gripped in two fistfuls as he tried to stuff himself down into her stomach.

Not all guys liked the aftermath of the rough stuff, though, and those who didn't usually hung around the BJ Bar instead. That scene was more "sip and slurp" than "ram and retch" -- and the guys got to sit down while they ordered drinks, too. Maybe I was weird, but I preferred the open air of the Thrash platform to being stuffed under a counter on my hands and knees. And drinking fills the bladder which... Well Cynthia already told us about the bukkake booth that night.

"That's 5 minutes boys," Jay called to the three rutting men, indicating they were halfway through their maximum allotted time. My guest was still being leisurely, watching the waves crash over the shore as he rested his elbows on the railing and humped my face. But Trucker Guy was getting what he wanted, and the punk at the end was reaching the finish line.

"God, these fucking TITS," he cursed, pulling his metal-decorated dick out of Kassie's mouth and stroking it furiously. His thick cum splattered against her shaking chest-meat as she coughed and drooled, eyes already starting to look watery and red. He shook the last few drops from his slit at her before turning and descending the steps.

"NEXT!" Jay bullhorned, and an older black guy in floral board shorts stepped up with a ticket. He took his place in front of Kassie and filled her mouth with a dark python stirring from slumber. Between us, Trucker Guy smothered Marcy's face under his gut and banged her head against the railing.

"Fuck! Yes! Spill it!" He growled rhythmically, hips jutting like a pile driver, and the little pale thing under him obliged. Marcy's lips were stretched against the guy's wet ballsack, and she gurgle-belched a thick stew around his base that pushed him completely over the edge. "Oh... GOD," his whole body convulsed as he bucked his gooey load right through the clog in her throat, and he stayed like that until her face started to turn purple.

When he finally yanked his cock free with a wet squelch, she ejected a stream of cum-bile and lurched forward, coughing and gasping. Trucker Guy stroked his last dangling ribbons of spunk into her hair, looking supremely pleased, then made his exit. Marcy's pert A-cups were dripping with the combined mess, as she hacked her throat clear and snot leaked from her nose.

"Eugh, can I get a rinse here," the next guy groaned over the music as he reached the top of the steps and handed over his ticket.

"Yeah, one sec," Jay bent and scooped up a slim hose. He stepped in front of Marcy and squeezed the sprayer handle, soaking her body and face with lukewarm water. She spluttered and gasped, and Jay made sure to rinse off the messy boards in front of her too, before gesturing for the guy to have at it.