Her first time with a boy had scared her to death. Not because he didn't know what he was doing; neither one of them did. They were young—both of them barely eighteen—surrendering to curiosity, time alone, and hormones. She wasn't really sure what to expect, but knew it wasn't supposed to be what happened. He was on top of her, clumsily writhing away, his eyes closed as he built to his almost immediate orgasm. She didn't so much feel him cum—honestly, she wasn't feeling much of anything—as sense it from the change in his rhythm. He started to slow down, but as she looked at him she saw his face drain of color, his mouth drop open; he started panting, staring at her with wide eyes, then he collapsed on her. She screamed and pushed him off; he rolled off the bed and landed in a heap. Panicked, she called her father. When he arrived, she was sitting on the bed in tears, hugging her knees and shaking; the boy was on the floor, gasping weakly. Her father called an ambulance. She couldn't explain what had happened; as far as she could tell, she was just fine. But the boy took almost a week to recover. The doctors couldn't explain it either. Nobody said anything, exactly, but there were whispers, and suddenly she didn't have many friends.
Her next experience, at a frat party, was worse. She was on top, and she saw his face change the way the first boy's had, but at first she didn't stop. She didn't
want
to stop, she could feel herself getting stronger, and it was only after a few moments with her head back that she opened her eyes and saw he was convulsing. He was debilitated almost two weeks. In both cases the boys were left somehow
weaker
. Oddly, though, they and the other boys didn't shun her the way she might expect. It was as though they couldn't help themselves, and neither could she. She knew that something wasn't right when she lay with one, but the feeling of power it gave her when she did was intoxicating. And if she held back, like she tried to, it was as if something in her body rebelled at the denial. Her pussy would throb, and no amount of attention from fingers or toys would relieve it. A deep ache would develop in her belly—an emptiness, like being hungry, but not one that food would satisfy. When she was like that and a boy approached, her pussy would gush, sometimes making an embarrassing spot in her leggings. But the boys never hesitated. They seemed drawn to her, clearly forgetting the stories they had heard or even their own prior experiences. She could take one by the hand, or even just glance over her shoulder at them, and they would follow. She would have them, and feel relief for a time, along with guilt and fear at what she was doing to them, but they never seemed to mind.
Their girlfriends did, of course, and even the boys themselves ridiculed her when not under her spell, or whatever it was. But whenever she wanted—needed—they would come back helplessly. But socially, she was a pariah and in despair. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. She ran away.
She traveled to the next city, where no one knew her, hitchhiking mostly. Several men gave her rides, many of whom made their intentions clear with varying levels of crudity; she left them weak and trembling.
Her first few weeks on the streets were difficult, but she managed. Partly with odd jobs and partly by her "abilities," she got by.
But she needed more. From the time she arrived in the city she heard rumors of a place called Le Cirque. It was somewhere in the old town, owned by someone called Madame Clarie, dark with mystery and the hushed talk of respectable bourgeois who, of course, never allowed a suggestion that
they
might ever be caught
there
. It seemed a place of tempting ill-repute, and so maybe, she thought, a place for her.
Once across the river and in the old town, it was not hard to find. A relic from a century before, the building overlooked a plaza that had clearly once been the center of activity. Four stories tall and huge, it was gloomy, brooding, but as she approached she could hear muffled music and sensed vibrancy within. Lounging around the broad front porch was a variety of people, rich, poor, sophisticated, vulgar. Several looked at her, clearly a stranger, but only in passing curiosity. A few nodded at her with knowing smiles—just what they knew, she wasn't sure—but most ignored her. Nobody came to Le Cirque to be found.
Inside was a swirling phantasm of light, noise, and movement. Lurid colors, shadows, music, activity engulfed her. Everywhere she turned people were eating, drinking, lounging, necking, all in various states of wantonness. There was a dance floor and stage, dining tables, secluded booths. Two stories of balconies rose on three sides facing the stage with a vaulted ceiling high above. Working men wore their rough clothes; the gentlemen were in suits. The women wore satin low-neckline dresses in all colors with elegant silk underthings, extravagantly coiffed hair and perfect makeup. Patrons bumped into her; hurrying waiters nearly knocked her over. It was hedonistic, unruly, frightening, and exciting.
Hesitantly she found her way to the back of the main room where an enormous older woman sat on a velvet divan beneath a canopy, holding court to a gaggle of courtiers and attendants. She had Parisian beauty and Victorian majesty, and was wearing the finest fashions in clothes and jewelry with a poise that barely concealed the raw sexuality underneath. This was Madame Clarie, whom the populace adored, the society loved to disdain, and all held in terrified reverence.
"Now, what do we have here?" Madame Clarie asked in a baroque Cajun drawl, noticing the new face. She stepped up to the divan timidly, the courtiers all staring and scoffing to themselves behind their drinks and had fans.
"What is your name, child?" she asked.
"C—Celeste," she stammered. She could not ever remember feeling such awe. She sensed that Madame Celeste already knew everything about her, more than she knew herself, and probably about everyone else in the city as well.
"And what brings you to my home, Celeste?"
"I, I don't have anywhere else."
"I see. And you don't know who you are." It was not a question.
Celeste just stared at her. After a moment, the courtiers started chuckling.
"Well, Celeste, we have plenty of room here. Maybe you can find yourself."
Madame Clarie turned away, but one of the courtiers, a little older than Celeste, came up to her. She had a fresh, open face, dark brown hair in bouncy curls, and a light green dress with a double strand of pearls laying in the low neckline.
"I'm Anna," she said, taking both of Celeste's hands in hers. "Welcome to Le Cirque." Around them, the party continued.
It was soon apparent that Le Cirque was more than a tavern, a showhouse, a dance hall, an inn, a boardinghouse—though it was all those things, overseen with a kindly but uncompromising hand by Madame Clarie. In the dark underbelly of the city as it was, it was a sanctuary, a haven for outcasts, misfits, runaways, sometimes the merely rambunctious or defiant. Anyone searching for their place. After nearly two years of fear and isolation, Celeste had found a home.
Over the next few weeks, Celeste settled in. Anna showed her around, and she met other people who had found shelter—permanently, temporarily, or to-be-seen—in Le Cirque. They were like a large family, keeping the house clean, making repairs, serving the guests, entertaining. There were no formal schedules or chores; everyone pitched in where they could. If anyone was lazy or uncooperative, Madame Clarie dealt with them. She also decided any disputes that the ones involved couldn't settle for themselves. And if any of her charges had special needs, she saw that they were cared for; every circus, after all, has its freaks. Some members of the family lived in the lower levels or only came out at night, and some were only rarely spoken of. True to its name, Le Cirque had all the intrigue and insulated camaraderie of a traveling carnival, except that theirs didn't move.
For Celeste, it was a magical time. She began by waiting tables in the evenings. The bar was run by a slim, taciturn man with thinning hair and a trim mustache named Rene who, it was said, had been with Madame Clarie longer than anyone. The girls called him the Vulture, because of his way of standing at the end of the bar and staring silently at the room. But he missed nothing, from a bartender skimming the till to a drunk patron slapping a girl's bottom, and he responded to any transgressions mercilessly.
Waiting tables was fine, but Celeste found that other services could be offered to customers willing to pay, and accompanying men to their rooms let her satisfy her own needs. She was learning to be careful, to stop immediately after they came so as not to exhaust them, though it always left her not quite satisfied. Female customers were fun, but did not fill the emptiness she experienced.
Occasionally, she misjudged, taking too much and leaving the man debilitated. There were a few close calls, but once, the man had to go to the hospital. Celeste was terrified that Madame Clarie would send her away, but she merely gazed at Celeste with a narrow, penetrating look and told her to get some rest.
A few days later, Celeste was summoned to Madame Clarie's boudoir. She curtseyed as she arrived, as all the girls did for Madame Clarie. Madame Clarie was not alone. Sitting in a chair beside her was a man Celeste had never seen. Thin, with angular features, spiky white hair and intense dark eyes, he wore a black shirt, vest, and pants and a long, dark red coat, and sat very upright with legs crossed and hands folded on his knee. He looked to be about forty but had a gravity much older.
"The other night, with the customer," Madame Clarie began without preamble, "that has happened before?"
"Yes...yes, ma'am," Celeste stammered.
