Carnival Creatures

Content warning: snake, food.

Alis levels the gun. She looks along the barrel with a glint in her eye that makes me nervous. Good nervous. She glares at the target with a pirate smile that says she knows how dangerous she is. Her square shoulders under her boxy, denim jacket shift and smooth.

She fires.

Five shots in a row.

"Aaaaaand that's a full house! Or, full pond, I suppose. Well done, lass!"

The carnival stall keeper claps beefy, calloused hands and beams at the row of metal ducks all felled by Alis' sharp-shooter skills. His voice booms into the racket of pings and clacks and whirs, laughter and shouting and disjointed, jangling music.

"Gi' us the embarrassingly big one." Alis grins, pointing at a huge, purple rabbit with floppy ears lolling over its crossed, neon pink eyes. The stall keeper chuckles and hefts it down. She bundles it under her chin, turns to me, and keeps grinning through the parting of the huge, fluffy ears. "Here you go, Butterscotch," she says, her buccaneer laughter eddying on her tongue. "That's how much I love you." She stuffs the rabbit into my arms, nearly knocking me backwards. I'm hit by the scent of strawberry laces and machine oil.

"Wow!" I bat my eyes up at her and pout like a mock Hollywood starlet. "Swoon-city."

"You betcha." She shoots me a finger gun, slings her arm around me, and steers me back into the fray.

I tuck my hand under her jacket and stroke her side with my fingertips, strumming the tight muscle and the dip under her ribs. Alis is a beanpole, more than a head taller than me, all limbs and angles. Her hair is shaved short at the back and black curls bubble over like a boiling witch's brew on top, dusting her deep blue eyes. I love those eyes. They swirl and spark in the riotous lights of the carnival, reflecting rainbow beams back into the night. She smells of some cheap body spritz she picked up at the airport last month, and Turkish delight. Her heavy, leather boots leave deep prints in the soft, churned-up grass. I sneak my fingertips down and brush her warm, bare skin. She takes a breath, thrumming against my touch. Basically every top is a crop top on Alis. I take advantage of that pathway of exposed sensitivity as often as I can, tracing the line of her hip and tickling over her kidney. The waistline of her jeans hangs low, my fingers skim the cotton top of her girl-boxers. I pluck it.

She squirms against me, her burgundy lips wriggling in a barely contained smile. "Butterscotch, stop!"

"What?" I nuzzle into the rabbit's ear and look up at her innocently.

"You know bloody well what, you bad girl." She hooks me closer with her arm around her shoulder and kisses my hair. "Your hair smells nice." She sighs into it.

I know she loves my hair, thick and flowing and auburn, it's where she got my nickname. I'm suddenly lost in the memory of last night, of how she bunched my hair into her hands, like treasure, and bucked her hips beneath me, holding my face in the heat of her pussy. I think about her taste, sweet as burnt sugar and fresh fruit. I suck on my tongue.

"What are you thinking about?" she whispers.

"I want a toffee apple," I reply.

She snort-laughs and bows to kiss my cheek, leaving the gummy imprint of her lipstick.

She buys me a toffee apple and watches my mouth while I eat it. We sit opposite each other on one of the wooden bench-tables. A pair of clowns lumber past, huge shoes slapping in the dry mud, eating pasties and chatting in gruff voices. A boy cries at the remains of his ice cream dropped in the dirt. A man carries a toddler on his shoulders while the little one points around excitedly. Zoetropes flutter, tombolas rattle, cards shuffle, dogs bark, all dashed to pieces by the periodic, aggressive clang of the bell of a high striker. It sets a donkey off braying every time. It's a clear night, glistening with stars, but they're drowned out by the ocean of coloured, flashing, hurtling, electric light, humming and flickering on chipped paint and gleaming metal, tumbling into the rippling shadows of billowing fabric. Tents in swooping stripes ruffle with the breeze kicked up by the bustling crowds. Garish teddy bears hang macabre and eerie from their necks above glowing stalls. I look down at the rabbit by my side. He feels oddly like a rescue animal now.

"What are you going to call him?" Alis breaks into my consciousness.

"Poppers," I say with a smirk. "Given the look in his eyes."

She sticks her tongue out at me, wrinkling her nose. Its zircon stud glitters under a bolt of bright light from a Ferris wheel behind her. The wheel revolves hypnotically, I forget which way is up.

"Earth to Dani!" Alis snaps her fingers in front of my eyes. I blink. She leans her cheek on her hand, her inky eyes glimmer glassy. "Do you eat like that on purpose?"

I swallow a bite of toffee apple, my lips sticking together from the sugar coating. "Like what?"

"Fucking suggestive."

I warm, a flutter between my legs. "What?" I raise the toffee apple to my mouth and use it to pull down my lower lip, holding her dreamy, accusatory gaze. "Like this?" I press my lips to the toffee apple, as if kissing it, and move them against it as I take a deep, luscious bite. My mouth floods with burnt sweetness and fresh tartness, apple juice gushing over my tongue and hard caramel gluing on my teeth. I chew slowly, snaking my tongue, my lips pursing and flourishing around the bite. I roll my eyes back in pleasure, then roll them back to her. She's sucking her lip.

"Yeah. Exactly like that." Her voice husks.

I giggle and tug the treat from my mouth, a thread of apple saliva conjoining it to my tongue. I smack my lips to break it. The apple shines amber. I twizzle it between my fingers. Golden light spins on it like Rumpelstiltskin's spindle.

Alis' teeth emerge on her lip and one thick, dark eyebrow raises. Then she glances past me. Her eyes flash. "Come with me." She leaps up and grabs my hand. I snatch the rabbit's paw and drag him behind us. The toffee apple flies from my grip and lands in the grass like buried bronze in a furrow of shadow.

Alis pulls me into a potion-green tent with a red flag flying from the top. A strange, teal, undersea light steals from the doorway. I trip past the wooden sign outside, painted in looping, elaborate letters.

MISTRESS MEDUSA, EXTRAORDINARY SNAKE DANCER OF WORLD REKNOWN

It's standing room only, and there's barely room for that. The tent is steaming hot with the crush of bodies, thickening the air with salt and musk and beer. Several rows of rickety, wooden chairs face a wooden platform with a painted backdrop of a fantastical, ruined temple, draped with vines and scattered with broken statues. A spotlight illuminates the stage yellow and casts the tent into a warm, ale-brown dimness. People are mumbling and chattering and shifting their weight, craning their necks to see. We weasel through the tacky, soft squash of the crowd and find a spot at the back behind a group of lads crunching on tubs of popcorn. The rich, butter aroma invades the heavy, human smell.

"Can you see?" Alis asks.

Of course, she can see over any crowd, the bloody giraffe. But there's a gap between two of the men's shoulders, so I'm fine. I nod. She takes my hand and squeezes it. We exchange a glance. Her face is all mischief and play. I feel like Tinker Bell following Peter Pan around the eternal isle between sleeping and waking. If I can make her fly, she'll take me on countless adventures. I squeeze her hand back.

The high, rapid hammering of a kettledrum. Our attention snaps to the stage.

"Ladies and gentleman and folks of all kinds!" A scrawny lad in thick eyeliner that drowns the colour of his irises bursts onto the stage. He tips a flat cap at the audience and lets loose a grin far too big for his narrow face. "May we present to you, descended from the gods and gorgons themselves, cursed to live an immortal life while able only to speak with the beasts, here to exhibit to you her marvellous talents and ask you to open to the animal within, the one and only, Mistresssss Medusaaaa!"

The drum roll ends on a final bang. The lad hops down and squats to the side of the stage, beside the drummer. He fishes a packet of tobacco out of the pocket of his dungarees.

The spotlight adjusts slightly with a squeak.

A figure sashays into the lagoon of yellow.

Mistress Medusa must be as tall as Alis. Her long, bronze, thick legs move rhythmically one in front of the other with the fluidity of satin. Bangles clink around her ankles. Her feet are bare, and her toenails are painted black. A black tattoo of a snake winds up one leg. Her face is sharp, her eyes huge and sultry and glittering green. Her hair is hidden under a headdress of gold-green snake hair, short serpents frozen mid-writhe, snapping their long, needle fangs. The rest of her strong, ample body is hidden under the coils of a living python. It slithers slowly around her, clinging to her torso, its tail looped around one of her round thighs, its arrow-point head nestled on her shoulder. By turns it looks like ethereal shadow and hard gemstone, the imposing woman simultaneously a flame wrapped in smoke and a queen corseted in obsidian and emerald. Its eyes glint. The sheen over the stage glistens on her.

"Shit..." Alis and I breathe together. Our fingers interlace.

Mistress Medusa starts her movements slow. She points a toe, she rotates a wrist. She rolls her shoulder and dislodges the python's head. It raises lazily and drifts down her dusky arm. The mottled pattern of its earth-coloured skin flows under the mesmerising light.

A crisp sound as the man in front of me bites down on a handful of popcorn. A clarinet strikes up from somewhere and a lulling, wending tune hushes the murmurs of the crowd. I look around for the music's source. The drummer is playing the new instrument, still holding the timpani between his knees. The lad is smoking a weedy, hand-rolled cigarette. Smoke crawls towards the stage and blurs the light. Medusa winds through it, moving like ink.

I glance sideways and see Alis' pupils like twin shining buttercups as the stage light pools in her eyes. She is transfixed. Her wine-red lips hang parted and slack. I smile and stroke my thumb over her hand.

Mistress Medusa scoops her broad hips and turns, showing a round ass hung with fine, gold chains. She shimmies and her flesh quivers, the chains prancing and twinkling. I lick my teeth. The python slinks along her, revealing glimpses of her bronze skin shining with oil. I imagine the smooth burn of velvet friction against her. Against me. I swallow. She turns to the side and arches her spine and leans deeply backwards. The python unwraps a little and its head rises like the lad's cigarette smoke into the air, peering down at her with its beady eyes, forming a large hook shape over her body. She spreads her arms and they and her body undulate, sending shadows from the hovering python down her, like she is bathing in a dark whirlpool. She stands.

The tent is silent but for the music. No one can speak. No one wants to make a sudden move. There is nothing between us and the jungle snake.

Mistress Medusa strokes affectionately under the python's chin. Its tongue flicks out. It slowly creeps around the back of her neck. She drops her head back, cushioned on its thick body. It drapes her shoulders and its top coil falls down her breasts, showing just the crest of the nipple. The light pours over her collar and the swell of her breasts, bunched by the tight grip of the snake. She never falls still, she slicks and scoops and swerves in molasses motions. She moves her body with slow purpose, as if she's pushing her way through mud, as if the air is clay and she's sculpting even empty space to fit her pleasure. She seems so relaxed, relinquishing herself to the embrace of the serpent, the pressure through to her core. But I'm so fixated I can see into her details, the tiny tick of hard tension in her legs and back. She's winding herself tight to release, bound in more than just her dance partner, in the grip of her own passion.

Alis' hand slips from mine. My knees go weak. I'm fidgeting a little, twisting the toy rabbit's paw in my grip. I feel a touch on the inside of my thigh, just under the loose hem of my short skirt. I hold in a gasp and look at Alis. Her face is still turned towards the stage, her soft nose upturned as she watches over the heads of the people in front. But her eyes have roved to me. The corner of her mouth lifts, sly and sumptuous. Her hand wanders behind me into the dark. She strokes up and down, just below my gusset, teasing the ticklish flesh of my inner thigh in light circles. My abdomen ignites.

Mistress Medusa sends waves through her body, her curves and the coils of the snake like pouring wine.

Alis' fingers creep up. They brush my panties. My breath catches. I consider pushing her hand away. Then she presses, just a little. Sensation flocks instantly in the alert high of being in a crowd. I slide my foot along the dirt floor, spreading my legs, just a little.

Mistress Medusa slides her feet apart, scuffing the floorboards. Her spread legs frame a crumbled statue of a naked woman on the painted backdrop.

Alis sneaks her fingertip in a long crescent from back to front, ending at the peak of my clit. She presses again. My core tightens and uncoils.

The snake mimics it, embracing and releasing Mistress Medusa's flesh.

Alis circles gently on my clit through the cotton of my panties. A tremor goes through my legs, my ass bumps her wrist. She leans down to my ear. "Keep your eyes on the stage."

I obey. I press my lips together and stare at the spectacle of danger and sensuality in the sepia mist of the tent. Mistress Medusa lures the snake up her body, trickling along her gracefully spread arms, drawing the veil from her torso. She's naked but for a bejewelled thong. She glimmers. She begins to drag the python around her, like a silk scarf, teasing her skin. She smiles. She rolls her emerald eyes back in a display of ecstasy as a smooth stroke runs around her thigh and grazes the edge of the thong.

Alis grazes along my pussy. She takes up a slow, soft, rocking motion, lining the length of her fingers to my shape and stimulating all of me at once. I shiver. I bite my tongue to stay quiet. Her breath comes hot on my ear. "Do you think she's sexy? Watch her, Butterscotch, watch how she moves. It's just like how you move when I fuck you. God, if you knew how often I think about fucking you."

Mistress Medusa sinks to her knees, spreading them wide. The snake slinks over her torso, brushing the hang of her belly as it makes its way down her thigh. It loops back up in a loop of music and rests its head in her palm. Its coils shadow her pussy, but her breasts and shoulders are bare and soaking up the rich light.

Alis keeps up her rocking, but now each time she strokes into my clit, she presses it deeply, sending shocks of pleasure and want into my bloodstream. My heart pounds in my throat, my palms prickle, my spine feels like it's made of semolina pudding. I twist my hips needily and hear a soft, devilish snicker. "You like this? You want this?"

It's so hard not to look at her, not to grab her hand and push her harder. I grasp the hem of my skirt and nod at the stage. Someone clears their throat. I glance around, panicked we can be seen, my stomach flips. But all eyes are fixed on the stage. Alis cups me with her whole hand and works me harder. My knees almost buckle. Pleasure fizzes out over my belly and thighs. My senses spike. I can feel my clothes against my skin. The scent in the close tent is overpowering. The heat under her hand almost burns.

Mistress Medusa rocks back, catches herself on her hands, and bucks her hips, bouncing the python. Her muscles protrude through her fat. Her breasts shudder. Her knees redden against the rough wood. The clarinet whines higher and faster.

Alis drags her fingertips along my labia, my cotton gusset smouldering against my flesh. She curls two fingers in the furrow between them and makes quick, beckoning movements. I cough to conceal a moan. I feel like I'm unravelling. Blood pounds in my ears, the roots of my hair itch, sweat blooms on my back, sticking my hair to my neck. I twist again, grinding my clit into her fingertips. A pulse of pleasure thuds through me. I do it again. My breath is shaking.

Mistress Medusa grinds against the air. The snake slithers between her legs, making a thick phallus from her centre. It flicks its tongue. A titter goes through the audience. I use it to gasp as Alis picks up rapid, tight circles. "Move your hips again for me."

I move on her desperately, pretending to be adjusting my skirt.

"Yeah, that's so hot."

Mistress Medusa thrusts hard to the sky and lands in a bridge shape, held up on her palms and flat feet, her spine arched, her torso bending upwards. The snake slithers faster around her, wrapping her waist.

Alis rubs hard back and forth on the nut of nerve endings that's screaming for attention. I bite my lip fiercely. I'm trembling. The heat of the room is punishing. The smell of popcorn is making me starving.

Mistress Medusa flips into a handstand, the snake clinging to her waist. She holds it a long moment, her and the snake's powerful muscle holding all in perfect alignment. Then she spins back onto her feet with her arms spread, the snake still hugging her like a corset. The clarinet cuts off with a squeak. She beams out to us, dazzling and deadly.

An eruption of applause. I moan in my throat. I snatch Alis' wrist. "We need to get out of this crowd."

Her dark eyes flash electric blue. She lets me pull her from the tent. We burst from the fabric doorway and cool air washes over me. The relief is not enough. I'm swollen and soaking, my pulse almost painful in my clit, my core aching so much I can hardly walk. We stumble through the raucous carnival, swinging around hooting drunks, skidding over dropped sweet packets. We race through the whirl of blinding colour and deafening noise. A toy gun fires and it echoes in my body. A woman squeals piercingly as her boyfriend hoists her over his shoulder and spins her. A couple wreathe in the pink sparkle of candyfloss. The air is laden with sugar and paint and petrol. A juggler throws clubs in great arcs, the smooth plastic beams under the blaze from the bumper cars. Screams and crashes slice the din. The rabbit bumps my hurrying legs. A camera flashes and a group cheers. Another flash and it bleaches my vision. The scene streaks and reels around me. It all drowns in a wave of need as Alis' hand squeezes mine.

I search single-mindedly for shadow, like a heat-seeking missile.

There.

We vanish out of the madness into a well of darkness. I pull her behind a large, wooden sign in the shape of a horse-drawn coach. It's held up by sturdy wooden beams. I leap over them into its shelter. I slam my back to the sign, wrench Alis against me, and cram her hand under my skirt.

"Shit, Butterscotch," she pants. Her eyes fall into the flint-black shade of her wild hair. "You are riled."

The purple rabbit falls in a heap by our feet. I grasp her face in both hands and kiss her hungrily. God, her kiss is heaven. She seals her mouth to mine and her tongue whips up and tangles with mine, ferocious. Alis is competitively hungry, warring with my demand. She crushes her body to mine, her wonderful warmth drenches me. She scrapes one hand into my hair and clenches it in a tight fist. I moan at the sting. Her other hand searches between my legs and hooks the hem of my panties at the small of my back. She pants into my mouth as she yanks and they tear harshly. She rips the fabric from my body and tosses it into the grass. Cool air rushes my exposed flesh, I stifle a squeal. Then heat. All-consuming heat. Alis flattens her fingers against my aching, engorged flesh and rubs hard, slipping in my slick. Pleasure flares across my body. I moan roughly and throw my head back, breaking our kiss and struggling for breath.