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.

If you enjoy these fictional pieces, I'm glad -- please give them a good rating and some feedback. And if not, there's no need to spoil the fun of those who do with insulting comments.

Thank you!

*****

When it was time for our first break from the Throat Thrash stand, Jay halted the line of men and unstrapped our wrists from the floorboards. Marcy's poofy, orange hair was matted down from the multiple hose rinses between customers. And Kassie seemed ready to cry, sniffling and red-faced after an hour of rough oral assaults and facials. I was, surprisingly, doing pretty fine. I'd lucked into a streak of small dicks and quick orgasms, and was only feeling mildly queasy from the 8 or 9 cum loads I'd swallowed so far.

"20 minutes, don't be late," Jay harumphed, dropping into his foldable chair and pulling out his phone to check game scores. An hour on your knees really takes a toll on the joints, even for young girls like us, and we helped each other to our feet before hobbling down the steps past the line of ogling patrons.

"I've gotta pee..." Kassie said, swiping at her auburn bangs as we reached the nearby row of food stands -- she likely just needed some alone time to wash up and mentally prepare for another two hours of face-rape.

"Okay, we're gonna stretch our legs," Marcy turned, "meet you back there." Kassie plodded off toward the Staff Shack and we continued pacing around the sandy grounds. Even without branded uniforms it was clear who was an employee at the carnival -- the two cum-strewn, naked girls that smelled like spit and dick-musk probably hadn't just wandered in to buy a corn dog. We tried to avoid any big groups of guys so that we didn't get pulled between the tents for an against-the-rules gangbang quickie that Rodovan would do nothing about.

"So how's it feel to be the star of your own little show?" I asked Marcy playfully as she squeezed hose water from her hair in soggy fistfuls.

"Ha! I'm not a star, I'm a fuckable centerpiece on a party table."

"At least you're just on the one table now though, right? You probably don't miss... Well, those days," I said, pointing to the Knock Her Up booth as we passed by it. A thick-bodied black girl was standing with her upper half lodged forward through a colorfully painted wall, which was lined with blinking lights and arrows pointing to her clearly presented cunt. We couldn't see her face, but we could hear her groans and yowling behind the wall as guests took turns stepping up and blasting her guts full of cum with hard, slappy thrusts against her bubbly ass cheeks.

Thick globules of overflowing spunk ran down her inner thighs in creamy veins, pooling around her dark feet in the sand. All of the female employees were on the pill, or completely "fixed" -- so no one was actually knocking anyone up, but the attraction was more about the fantasy. It used to be called the Impregnation Station, but Rod changed it at the suggestion of some male staff who spoke better English and had a better idea what American guys liked.

"Yeah, I don't miss that," Marcy laughed, "but I'm spending a fortune on tea and lozenges." Even with 3 days off each week, getting her throat ravaged every shift had made her voice noticably more "froggy" over time. But it was developing that kind of sexy vocal fry that lots of singers and bartenders seemed to have. It was sultry, in a way, especially if you knew the pornographically lewd cause of it.

We passed a cumshot contest in progress, where four guests were crouched over a row of girls in missionary, on a large mat divided into sections and marked with distance measurements beneath the girls and above their heads. A chubby white guy with badly cut hair shouted that he was close, then yanked himself out and sprayed hard.

"We have our first shot! Let's see how far he gets!" As the barker shouted through his bullhorn he moved to the side of the mat to eyeball the distance. A fat strand of jizz flopped across the 4-feet line marker, and the rest of the load arced up the used girl's body, streaking her face and chest until the guy hunching over her slumped back, panting. The other three competitors humped for all their worth, trying to build up a winning, pressurized nut while we continued on past them.

The "prizes" for the handful of contest games in the carnival ranged from commemorative photos of the used employee, to free admission or show tickets, once we had an official show with the Vogels joining our perverted little paradise. They performed 3 nights a week, in the beginning -- partly to manufacture scarcity for increased ticket prices, and partly to gauge interest and fill seats early on. Rod had raised an entirely new tent just for them, and it stood proudly near the center of the grounds, lit by spotlights even on nights when they weren't performing. On those nights, Rod teased their performances with recorded highlights outside the tent on weatherproofed screens. I'd spent a few breaks just watching those and eating junk food -- when I wasn't working a station with potential to force all my food back up out of me, like Throat Thrash.

"Hey, Jaz!" I heard a young male voice call from behind me, and I turned to see Reese waving from the entrance to the Bondage Barn. He was one of those intolerable surfer bros, with loosely-spooled white-guy dreads, and a never-ending stash of joints -- and I had a humiliating crush on him.

"Oop... It's your surfer-sweetie," Marcy jabbed my rib with her finger and I jumped.

"Shutup," I snapped, thankful that my cheeks didn't flush as easily as Kassie's. I waved back at Reese, hoping to avoid a conversation with an audience present, but he flagged me down like he wanted something. "Can I... meet you back at the stand?" I looked at Marcy. She said nothing, but backed away slowly giving me finger guns, and I made a mental note to hate her forever.

"Hey, Reese, what's up?" I tried to sound nonchalant as I breezed over to his post, fully-nude and striped from chin to pussy with drying, shiny ribbons of my own drool. At least my hair looked okay, pulled up and back out of harm's way. I leaned on his little ticket podium and peered through the entrance of the barn. All I could see from that angle was a curvy blonde coed with glasses. She was standing with her wrists tied above her head, and a couple of Hispanic guys were meticulously clipping a string of clothespins around her milky, wobbling tits.

"I didn't know you were working tonight -- no one wants to smoke with me," Reese looked up at me from his seat with light blue eyes as wistful as his coastal-accented voice sounded.

"Don't you ever smoke alone?" I asked.

"Well yeah, but, it's more fun to share though. Right?"

"Uh, yeah, that's true." I didn't really believe that -- I loved getting high by myself in my apartment and creating awful art with my amateur collection of canvases and paint. But it was fun to smoke with Reese, so I figured I wasn't entirely lying. "I can't right now though, my break's almost over."

"Oh, what's Rod got you working tonight?"

"Throat Thrash, with Marcy," I thumbed over my shoulder.

"Ha, Messy Marcy!" Reese had a classic stoner laugh. He was straight out of a movie, and I wondered if that's why I liked him. He was easy to understand, predictable, uncomplicated. Even sort of... kind? Not that all of the barkers and money handlers were craven assholes -- just most of them.

"Yeah, she's already gotten pretty messy tonight," I looked down, realizing some of her earlier eruption had gotten onto my thigh, and I swiped it off absently.

"Man, I hate working that stand -- all the guests there are such pervs," Reese shook his head and his thick, dirty-blonde locks rustled against his 'Rod's Pleasure Carnival' T-shirt. Right after he said it, the Hispanic guys ripped the clothespins off the blonde girl's tits and she let out a shrill cry over their laughter. "Well... I guess kind of all the guests are pervs," Reese looked over his shoulder, and we both laughed. "Anyway, wanna swing by on your next break, or after your shift? Bud soothes the nerves, y'know? Relaxes the throat!"

"S-sure," I hesitated. I'd be even worse for wear after the next couple hours, but Reese didn't seem to mind. He hadn't even glanced at my slime-spattered tits more than a couple times while I was leaning over him. "I'll come by when I'm done... Or maybe after a shower."

"Okay, rad! If you're hungry we could get something to eat. Like, something not fried," he said, jutting his chin toward the row of arterial war crimes handing out butter and grease like Jehovah's Witness pamphlets.

"Cool, cool -- I'll see you later then," I smiled, stomach fluttering a bit. 'God, what a fucking teenage move,' I thought. I waved and turned to leave, as the Hispanic guys began to strap a pink rubber thing to the blonde girl's inner thigh and look for a power switch.

When I got back to the stand Marcy and Kassie were already in place and Jay tapped his wrist while he watched me ascend the steps. I rolled my eyes and knelt on my cushion so that he could strap me back in for another hour of "fun." That was when my lucky streak came to an end. The first guest that climbed the steps was unassuming enough, despite his balding ring of too-long, thin brown hair. But when he walked up to me and undid his swim trunks, a girthy behemoth of a cock fumbled out against his thighs.

"Oh, f--" I started to swear, before he dug two fingers into my mouth and starting working them toward the back of my throat.

"Let's git yew warmed up," his lips cracked into a smile as I gagged on his probing fingertips. They tasted like sausage sweat, which made me gag harder, and I looked to Jay who was supposed to prevent that sort of thing. The stand may have been called Throat Thrash, but after a girl got hurt by a guest who brought his own dildo, Rod added a sign at the base of the steps that read "Dicks Only Please."

Jay just watched with a grin from his perch at the front railing as I choked on the rough fingers of the big-dicked guy, and Marcy's and Kassie's next guests approached the two of them.

"Ohh, nice 'n' wet down there -- ready for somethin' a li'l bigger?" His fingers pulled a few thick strands of slime with them as he slipped them from my throat, and he stroked all of it onto his hardening slab of cock meat while pointing the imposing thing at my face. I was coughing too hard to cuss at Jay, for all the good it would've done, and then my lips were stretched wide around a warm, double-wide shaft.

I heard a loud smack and muffled scream as Kassie's guest swatted her tits and admired the bright red handprints left behind. And Marcy's guest was a tall, lanky white boy who had straddled her shoulders and was fucking directly down into her upturned face, dropping his hips almost to the rhythm of Jay's next awful soundtrack. Frothy trails of spit pushed out around Marcy's lips, dribbling over her cheeks and down her neck.

"Eyes up here!" The harshness of the voice above me was startling, and right as I widened my eyes up at him, he spat right between them onto the bridge of my nose.

"Ghmnf--ghllaakk," I tried to complain to Jay as the hard flesh pillar tested my throat, but I couldn't even move my arms to signal him. Guests weren't technically supposed to spit on employees, or pour drinks on us, or stick foreign objects up our cunts -- but as I said, the rules were usually enforced loosely, if at all. As long as no one was getting physically injured or harassed to the point that they'd consider legal action, Rodovan was content to let the customers have their fun.

"Don't close them pritty peepers, honey," the balding guy said, thumbing my lids open as his tobacco-flavored spittle started to burn slightly, "I wanna watch 'em roll back in yer head." As he said it he jabbed his hips forward and stabbed past my tonsils, forcing me to cough wetly onto his crotch. Then he pressed forward, shimmying his hips until my throat bowed out with the descending bulge of his surprising girth. It felt like swallowing a whole kielbasa, and I could tell it was going to be a cold-popsicle kind of night to soothe the inevitable soreness.

Another loud smack made Kassie whimper, and Marcy's guy yanked his cock free like a thick, white plunger -- flooding her chin with yellow juices before decorating her pale face with cum. He smeared it around a bit with the mushroom head of his tip, then tucked his junk away and was quickly replaced by a dad-bod wearing a plain, gold wedding band. The dad-bod didn't bother with foreplay or rinses, he just plugged Marcy's mouth and got to fucking. That would happen sometimes in the late evenings: Hubbies would get bored, or ballsy, and decide to make a short pass through the carnival before heading home to wifey. Rod even took to selling "clean-up kits" by the exit, so the more discrete guests could wipe away any evidence more easily.

"Awh... God, yes," the stray hubby bit his lip and leaned his head back, jerking Marcy's head noisily along his shaft like a ginger fleshlight. He obviously wasn't getting any of that at home, the way his knees were trembling and his ass was flexing into the sensation. I'd never been married, obviously, but I'd heard how boring the sex could get. Husbands who hadn't had a blowjob in years. Wives who hadn't orgasmed since the honeymoon. In a way, the carnival was providing a much-needed service -- to half the injured parties, anyway.

I was wondering about the logistics of a "female-focused" pleasure carnival when the fat log in my throat abruptly wrenched out like a ripcord, and the sloppy balls underneath starting smothering my face. The guy thumped his hard shaft against my forehead while he smeared his nuts over my nose and eyes, panting with perverse pleasure. I took the opportunity to catch my breath through throbbing lips, before he crammed back between them again.

"3 minutes left at girl number 1," Jay said to the creep turning me into a spit painting. I'd never loved how we were referred to by number for those updates, but it hardly mattered. We were more or less warm, wet objects while on the clock, anyway -- and there was nowhere to put name tags on us that they wouldn't get fucked or smeared right back off. As if the guests cared about our names for any reason other than to find out where or when our next shift was.

The 3-minute warning set my guest on a mission. He tugged my cheeks open wide with his salty thumbs and started power-fucking my face, unconcerned with the way his meaty battering ram collided against or through the tight opening of my throat. I groaned and gagged raggedly, spilling a wash of white film over his dick that trickled milkily down my tits, until he nailed my head to the railing behind me and climaxed. It was a real buzzer-beater, his nuts jumping against my neck as his cum flooded my mouth and spilled over my lips.

"Mmf -- that's a purty look," he wiped sweat into his gross, thin hair as his eyes ran me over. When he pulled out I collected as much of his load as I could to spit onto my lap between sputtering breaths, and made a point of not looking him in the eyes. His bare feet were soon replaced by a pair of scuffy-looking cowboy boots, and a deep voice that asked for a rinse.

The hour that followed was a rollercoaster of degradation and near-blackouts from lack of oxygen. I wondered at times how much brain damage was actually possible from engaging in that sort of thing too often. But if our IQs were steadily dropping each week, we hardly noticed. And as best I could tell, guys liked their sluts dumb anyway -- so blacking out on cock until our brains turned to mush was just good business.

After our second break of the night, Kassie was the last one to return, and I almost thought she'd just quit and gone home. She'd gotten a lot of cum in her eyes, and I can tell you from experience how much that sucks. But she eventually returned, puffy-faced and sniffling, for the last leg of our shift. She only hurled once all night, which was pretty impressive for a new girl, and I made sure to congratulate her as we all dragged ourselves to the Staff Shack around 11:30.

"Yeah, the first time Jaz worked the Thrash stand she was like a fountain," Marcy teased, holding the door open for us as we filed in.

"I was not! You didn't tell me not to eat dinner beforehand, I didn't know what to expect," I tossed my hands tiredly, heading for the showers. The shack was large enough to fit probably 20 employees at a time, and there were a handful of other guys and girls changing to go home as we stepped into the shower area. There were no stalls or dividers in the tiled side room, just a row of 5 shower heads and corresponding handles poking out from one wall.

The ivory tiles felt cold under my feet as I claimed the furthest showerhead, and Marcy and Kassie left a space between each of us as we turned the hot water knobs. Wet and dried splashes of cum caked our skin in random places from head to toe, but our chins and chests were the most egregious. Thick mixtures of drool and spunk hung from our faces in gluey tendrils, waggling with every movement until the force of the water washed them down our bodies into the drains below. This was really just a more luxurious hose rinse -- the expensive body wash and shampoo-conditioner combos would have to wait until we got to our respective homes.

When we'd cleared a satisfactory amount of grossness from ourselves, we dripped our way through the locker room to towel off and pull some clothes on. A couple of barkers had one of the truly freaky girls propped up on a bench, swapping positions between her ass and mouth for a little night cap before punching out. I grimaced at the thought of how their cocks must have tasted after rotating between holes.

"So what are you and Point Break doing for your date tonight?" Marcy asked casually as she pulled a soft white tank over her perky nipples.

"It's not a date, it's free weed," I tried to make it at least sound like I was taking advantage of the guy, rather than swooning over a walking stereotype.

"Oh, where's he taking you to smoke free weed, then?"

"I dunno, probably the Jack in the Box parking lot," we both laughed.

"I'll see you guys tomorrow," Kassie shut her locker with a sigh, shouldering her drawstring clothing bag and heading for the door.

"Okay, get some rest! Decaf green tea for soreness!" Marcy called after her, speaking from experience. The freaky girl beside us moaned around the cock in her mouth as the other one finished in her ass.

"I dunno if that girl is gonna last," I watched Kassie shuffle out of the way of another girl returning from a bukkake booth, looking like a melty version of the Stay Puft marshmallow man. Marcy just shrugged, and slipped her glasses back onto her cute, upturned nose.