The Circus

Hi there!

This is my first story of here so please be kind and enjoy. I have decided to put the whole thing up in one go so grab yourself a cup of tea and settle in!

It is a long story (a novella if you will), with plenty of characterisation so be patient please. There will likely be a few sequels/spinoffs all things going well.

I did work hard on this so please don't steal it :(

Hope you enjoy!

D xx

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Chapter one

A tiny bead of sweat trickled down Thomas Mason's temple as he pulled on the world's most unforgiving pair of trousers. A heinous blend of spandex and faux leather, Tom had to pinch at his thighs to squeeze an extra few milimetres out of the constricting costume. Finally, he let the waistband snap against his toned belly and pulled on his black boots, ringmaster's jacket and top hat. Dusting off the hat, he placed it carefully on his head before arranging his shiny dark locks for maximum effect. He glanced at the clock, only twenty minutes now, a new show was always nerve wracking but three successful years in the business was testament to the success of his ventures and this show had choreographed itself with ease. Tiffany had even been surprised when he'd presented her with the structure, acts, songs and choreography for a full seventy five minute performance. They'd never risked going over the hour mark but she'd been swept up in his excitement and agreed readily.

It wasn't the first time he and Tiffany had brainstormed together, heck, The Circus itself had been dreamt up over a drunken night whilst they were at university. Thomas glanced around at what had become a somewhat glamorous dressing room, indeed, without The Circus his life would have been very different.

It started as a joke, Tom and Tiffany were sitting bathing in the kind of warm summer's evening that only ever seems to exist in memories. They were in Australia, a country which neither of them were from but both had chosen to attend performing arts college in and were clinking glasses to the second year anniversary of their meeting. "To a future of unemployment!" Tom tapped his glass against Tiffany's and she giggled, already a little tipsy from their evening's exploits. "And the years of audition failing ahead of us!" her Californian accent had been much stronger back then, it was now an odd mix of Los Angeles and London. The two downed another glass of pinot grigio then, adding to what was likely a hefty tab, not that either of them mentioned it, it was an odd unspoken thing that they were both flush with money. Whilst many of their peers followed the generic 'uni life' of cup noodles and cheap vodka, both Tiffany and Tom kept quiet about their well-stocked fridges and studio apartments. "I wonder if anyone will ever hire me," Tiffany's giggles had made way to a more morose drunk self which was not uncommon, and one of the main reasons they didn't drink together more frequently. Tom sighed, patting her muscular dancer's thigh, "Of course someone will, a few failed auditions doesn't mean everything," he lied, his own growing list of rejection emails very present in his mind, "and if nobody does hire you we'll just make our own show!" He gulped down the beer he'd ordered on a whim and slammed the empty glass on the table.

"Damn straight!" Tiffany roared, finishing off whatever mixer she'd bought and shaking her head as she swallowed the spirits. "We can be our own little freak show, the ballet dancer who's too short to get any lead roles," she jabbed a finger at her own chest, "and the pretty boy who too girly to even play the girls," she tapped her finger on Tom's nose. He laughed, deciding Tiffany was too drunk to care that he was so obviously offended. She wasn't right of course, not really, Tom was of average height, toned from hours of dancing and had as much stubble and body odour as the next man. His face was more feminine than most, big blue eyes, eyelashes that were almost oddly long, a slim nose and a small but rather pink mouth. His mother's Italian heritage had given him shiny black hair and he sported two moles under his right eye, one below the other in a line. Beauty spots people called them, they were unique indeed, so unique they were stopping Tom getting work. Tiffany was now clutching his hand on her thigh, sinking deeper into her alcohol-induced self indulgence. Tom ruffled her long crayon red hair, funny to think it had once been that colour, he was so used to the natural blonde locks she now sported, "That's right, we can be our own little band of oddballs," Tiffany hadn't been lying about herself either, she was tiny in every way and close to a foot too short to succeed as a ballet dancer, "and we can run away to the circus," he finished softly, squeezing her hand. There was nothing romantic about it, Tom was openly gay and Tiffany had never even hinted that she was attracted to him. Her face lit up a little, "We'll make our own circus, I'll be your assistant Mister Ringmaster!" she stood from their table and did a little bow, slightly wobbly on her feet.

"You shall indeed," he took her hand and kissed it, "We shall sing and dance and perform and use all the skills we've spent bloody thousands of dollars on to learn and maybe finally get some damn appreciation!" he was being loud and drunk but he didn't care. There was no denying Tiffany was an exceptional dancer and although he would never admit it, Tom was a great singer and a pretty good dancer, he often topped classes in his musical theatre course. But neither of them seemed to hold an appeal which would get them work, a few on the lecturers had basically said it outright. "Exactly!" Tiffany placed her hands on her hips, "And if that doesn't work we'll just have to sell our bodies!" she shimmied her chest and cheers came from somewhere in the bar.

Making his way out of his dressing room towards the green room Thomas couldn't help but grin, after that opening gambit the two of them had actually planned out The Circus for the first time. Every part of it had come to life,

every

part of it. It was a bizarre place, a show like no other walking the line between burlesque and downright seedy. The whole place was so overtly sexual but somehow managed to escape the label of 'brothel' or 'dogey' for that matter. They had managed to secure a secluded premises in Knightsbridge for a small fortune that luckily both he and Tiffany could afford. What appeared as a tiny terraced house lead down to a huge basement with a spacious theatre for thirty very carefully selected guests every Saturday night. Admission was for members only each allowed to bring one newcomer every month or so. The fees were rather exorbitant but the rich and famous of London were strangely willing to pay it, Tiffany had gone on and on about creating the illusion of demand and it had worked. The theatre itself could probably hold an audience of a hundred or so but they had spaced out the variety of loveseats, armchairs and tables so it felt intimate and personal, it also mean they were sold out months in advance. There was also the small matter of the 'Meet the Performers' part of their business. Tiffany hadn't lied when she had spoken about selling their bodies, audience members were allowed to book what was innocently referred to as a 'meet and greet' with certain cast members after the show. The prices for such things were sometimes in the thousands but made up the bulk of their income. Tom liked to think he was a bit ashamed of that but deep down he enjoyed the depraved lifestyle he led, years in the closet with the door practically painted shut had left him lonely and in dire need of some self esteem. However, when Tom became the Ringmaster his body thrummed with power and adrenaline. Honestly speaking, he was rather more of a pimp these days, a year into the business he and Tiffany had realised they could increase their 'meet and greet' prices tenfold, giving them more time to work on the business and meaning only very dedicated clients received their attentions as owners and star performers.

"Zip me up Tom," Tiffany whined, pulling the young man from his reverie, she wiggled her sparkly corset-clad body at him. He grinned and pulled the zip up, Bertie had outdone himself this time, the costumes were fantastic, Tiffany's almost a complete replica of Nicole Kidman's Moulin rouge number. "My lady," Tom did up with fiddly clasp at the top of the zip and pecked the top of Tiffany's exposed shoulder, she swatted him away and stuffed her feet into some killer heels. "All good?" he steadied her and she fiddled with the second shoe and gestured towards the wings of the stage. Tiffany nodded, straightening up and cupping her breasts and few times, happy when they were sitting perfectly in her corset. They headed towards the wings of the stage, the buzz of the audience's chatter reaching them, Tom swallowed, his leg bouncing. "I love opening night," he grinned at Tiffany, this was their fifth new show, the fifth time they had stood, Tom in his top hat, Tiffany in her heels. She grinned quickly but then looked serious "Um before you go on hun I just thought I'd let you know you got a last minute meet and greet," her whisper was a little shaky.

"A meet and greet? Really?" Tom licked his lips, he didn't get many bookings, he put up his rates enough that nobody really bothered, there were one or two regulars but frankly Tom just wasn't the best in bed, he had neither the confidence nor the experience. Tiffany was playing with a curl in her hair, not making eye contact, "Um yeah he's um... paying the full price Tom..." she drifted off. Thomas' breath caught, full price meant bottoming, something he'd only ever done twice in his life, it also meant whoever was buying his had plenty of cash to throw around. "Well shit," he muttered, licking his lips.

"Yeah...shit," Tiffany stared at the ground, waiting for his anger. Anger which Tom rightly felt, Tiffany was the only person who could approve a booking like that apart from him and he would have definitely rejected it. Also, the fact that she had launched on him minutes before they went on meant he couldn't even raise his voice above a whisper to tell her exactly what he thought of her approving bookings which involved his arse. "Next time you book me in without telling me I might accidently let slip to Caleb how you feel about him," he said nonchalantly. Tiffany looked mortified, Caleb Jones was one of their most successful performers and sex incarnate, the girl had been holding a torch for him since they had met a couple of years ago. "You wouldn't dare," she hissed, her gorgeous face screwing up, of course he wouldn't, they both knew he wouldn't. The lights dimmed signaling they only had a minute or so left and Tom jabbed her in the ribs, "It's okay," he whispered, sensing Tiffany was still barely containing her guilt, "It's just sex right?" They both ignored the nervousness of his voice but just then the recording of Tom himself announcing the show and the rules (no heavy petting) played and he grinned at his partner in crime. The booming track for Franz Ferdinand's

Do You Want To

, started to play through the speakers.

Showtime.

Chapter two

The opening number to any show was always stressful, Thomas liked to use it as a time to make his way through the audience and gauge which clients needed what kinds of attention throughout the show. He sung along to the song which reminded him of his teenage years, the lyrics embedded in his brain. Simultaneously he sashayed through the audience eyeing up the metallic wristbands on the left side of each audience member. The Circus prided itself on tailored entertainment, the heavy petting rule only went one way and as such he needed to know a thing or two before he decided to straddle an audience member. It was easy to remember, even whilst he belted the sassy lyrics and flaunted what he knew was a good pair of legs, blue for bi, green for gay, red for straight. It was a system Tiffany had worked out after she'd spent half her main performance practically giving a lapdance to a guy who definitely wasn't into what she had to offer. Thomas danced through the audience almost half way through the song, he dragged his Ringmaster's whip across a couple of crotches, winking when necessary. He straddled the lap of a regular, easing into a side split before wrapping his whip around the man's neck to sing before sliding off just as gracefully. He spotted a few red wristbands around the room but knew the female dancers which had just appeared on stage would be enough for them. The song was modern but they had stuck with the Moulin Rouge theme a got their dancers to learn the can-can. A few men's eyes bulged as the women started to dance, Tom almost laughed, remembering the hours he and Tiffany had spent online finding the tiniest little ruffled underwear for their dancers. He joined them on stage for a few kicks, showing off his own dancing ability and then headed back into the collection of sofas and chairs to find one last client for the finale of the song. He slinked around, still singing, knowing the girls behind him were doing some amazing moves, his eyes searched for a green wristband. There were plenty of blues, which was the usual, definitely a few reds (definitely a couple of reds that looked like they'd wear blue next time) but only a smattering of green that night.

In the low lighting Tom made out a green band towards the back of the audiences, next to it sat a second, gold band.

Newcomer, perfect.

Thomas loved teased the newcomers, welcoming them to his mad, sexy and sordid lifestyle. He strutted over to the young man, eyeing him like the lion eyes the zebra, he could barely make out his face in the candlelight but could see a hand nervously tapping the table he sat behind. Reaching him just in time for the last few lyrics, Thomas traced his fingers along the man's broad shoulders, leaning in to sing the last words into his hears, "lucky, lucky, you're so lucky," he repeated, using his training to project just loud enough the his mic would pick up. He nuzzled the man's neck from behind, oddly enjoying his scent before lifting his head up to sing the last couple of notes. In the milliseconds before the music died he tilted the man's head all the way back, giving him a quick, upside down peck on the lips. Tom took a nanosecond to note the man was fantastically attractive before tipping his hat and darting back to the stage just in time to take his bow with the dancers.

Tom announced the agenda for the evening, adopting his usual Ringmaster persona and introducing the new show. He made his usual overly sexual jokes and teased a few of the regulars who he knew loved it, he wanted to tease the newcomer but for some reason didn't want to risk the man being offended. When he finally was able to leave the stage for the next act he had almost forgotten about the information Tiffany had given him earlier. It came back to him the moment he saw her sequined bodice in the wings but now he'd seen the audience he was less concerned, "It's Leicester right?" he clapped her on the shoulder, "the booking," he finished, noting her confusion. Leicester was a regular of his he didn't know his real name or what he did but he was young, posh and exceptionally plain, he seemed to have oodles of money and there was a medium to high chance that he was in love with Tom. In the year Tom had known him, Leicester had booked him seven times, he had always wanted Tom to top him but it made sense he might want to switch things up now and then. It wasn't a great outcome but Leicester was harmless and the money would go a long way. Tiffany pressed her lips together, "Sorry hun, the name on the booking was Lee," she squeezed his shoulder gesturing to the sheen of sweat covering him and then to the green room. He gave her a small smile, fake though it was,

"Damn," he said taking off his top hat, "Well no use worrying about what hasn't happened yet," he took Tiffany's offer, heading out into the cool air of the green room and downing half a litre from one of the huge water bottles in the fridge. He slouched on the velvet green sofa, letting his head fall back, he knew he had around eight minutes before he had to go back on. Tiffany could see through his act, they both knew that. The way Tom's life had ended up, sex and, god forbid, romance had ended up ranging from functional to non existent. When your entire career was based on the selling of kinky, nameless sex, casual relationships didn't really seem to get in the picture. Every time Tom tried to flirt with a man or on the very rare occasion he actually found someone he wanted to

seduce,

he felt like he was back at work, trying to pimp Caleb, Tiffany, heck even himself, off for another few thousand pounds. Just as his thoughts threatened to overwhelm him, Thomas felt a pair of dainty fingers trailing over his crotch. "That's very sweet of you Bertie," he inhaled sharply as those fingers found his cock, "but we should both get back to work." He lifted his head from its slumped position to eye his costume designer and resident nymphomaniac, Bertie Price.

Bertie looked like a tiny sprite that should have been inhabiting a forest somewhere in a fantasy novel. A goodly portion of his face was covered by his almost white blonde hair, leaving just enough space to show one of his round brown eyes. A jagged, unsightly red scar peeked out under his hair, running from the corner of his left eye back beyond his temple, disappearing into the silky tresses. His was short, not much taller than Tiffany and riding the line between too thin and 'fuckable submissive' kind of thin. So uniquely appealing as Bertie was, Tom was not one for crossing the invisible line of business so while the little twink's face fell at a missed opportunity, Tom simply laughed and stroked his soft, ghostly hair. Bertie sighed and nuzzled into Tom's lap, making Tom wish he could be the type of person to openly accept what Bertie was offering, though he knew deep down he would just be one of a very, very long list of men.

After letting his eyes close for what felt like moments, Tom could hear Tiffany's heels clacking on the floor, she was flushed and sweaty, a large hickey blooming on her neck. "Good audience today," she said excitedly, openly stripping in front of Tom and Bertie, two gay men who never had understood the female form, and slipped on a fitted red dress in crushed velvet. Bertie finally left Tom's lap to go over and adjust the costume, it fit like a glove, "Pretty Tiffy," Bertie was mumbling repeatedly as he helped with zip.

"Aw thanks sweetie," Tiffany lifted his head and gave him a huge smooch right on the lips.

"Argh!" Bertie jumped back like he had been burned, wiping his mouth but smiling at the woman he now considered family. Tiffany continued lunge for him until Bertie dissolved into giggles, Tom watched on with the mixed feels he always had around Bertie. The two had met only days after Tom had returned to London. The scar on Bertie's head was from an accident, a fall, only six months before their meeting. He had suffered a small amount of brain damage and didn't have the best control over his inhibitions, he was better at his work than ever but was not what most people would consider employable. Life with Bertie was like having a very drunk, childlike friend who was perpetually horny, he barely talked, when he did it was usually to tell someone to fuck him harder but he was easily able to take care of himself and make decisions. No one talked about it but it was plain as day that Bertie's 'fall' had been a suicide attempt and one of many from what Tom could gather. As such, he was never one hundred percent sure how much of Bertie's persona was genuine and how much was him just enjoying his new found freedoms. Tom had approached him about quitting the 'meet and greets' several times, especially as he wasn't even a performer, but Bertie would assuredly turn him down each time, acting every bit the thirty two year old man he was. It was a slight relief, as Bertie was one of his best sellers, it was also a relief he had made no more attempts at self harm since joining The Circus.