Circus III
FM Virgin Sex
A different tent flap falls shut behind Viktor, and I am with him, alone with the smell of sawdust and my own musky scent.
My fingers fumble at the remaining undone buttons of my dress, trembling so badly I can barely thread the mother-of-pearl through its hole. The fabric catches, snags, my nails scratching at the cloth as if I could tear through to something cleaner underneath.
I cannot make my hands stop shaking.
The reversed Lovers card presses against my thigh through my pocket, a hard rectangle of promise and warning. I think of Madame Zora's tent, the incense, the way she looked at me like she could see the hunger I have hidden even from myself. That hunger is awake now, gnawing at my belly, making my drawers damp and my breath shallow.
"Mismatched buttons," Viktor rubs his chin, "Better remove the dress."
Those knives excite me. They so excite me.
Am I the girl now peeling my dress?
"I don't know why I'm here," I say, and it is true, and it is a lie.
He's as you want a man to be a man; full black from throat to boot, silver studs catching the flame, his dark hair swept back to expose that face—sharp bones, grey eyes that drink the colour from the room.
He holds a knife in his right hand, spinning it idle against his palm, the blade flashing like a fish in deep water.
"Your name, lassie."
"Matilda," as I drop my dress, my dishevelled undergarments left.
His tent does smell different—something clean and dangerous, like steel after rain.
He leads me to the centre, where the spinning wheel stands.
I have seen it from the audience once, painted in red and gold, the target circles radiating from the hub like a sun. Up close it is larger than I imagined, taller than a man, the wood scarred from a thousand thrown blades.
"Remove your bra and tap pants," he says.
Mesmerised by his words, I'm a naked lass. Bush fully on display.
A smile touches his mouth as his hand spins the wheel.
"The danger you felt when I held my blade to your throat—that was only the beginning, Matilda. I can show you how fear becomes pleasure. How the body learns to want what it might fear."
My hands should cover my V and my boobs. They don't.
"Blindfolded," he continues, his voice dropping to a murmur.
"Naked. Tied to the wheel while it turns. My knives will kiss the air beside your ear, your breast, the soft hollow of your thigh. You will feel them pass. You will know how close they come."
He pauses, and his grey eyes fix on mine, colourless as winter morning.
"And as they excite you, you will want them closer."
My breasts lift in the cool air, my nipples tightening to hard points.
I see him notice. I see his jaw tighten, the smallest movement, and it makes me braver.
"Beautiful," he says, and the word sounds like a diagnosis, a finding of fact.
"Come."
The wheel waits. He helps me onto the narrow platform, his hands cool and steady against my waist, and I feel the grain of the wood against my bare soles, the roughness of paint against my shoulder blades as he presses me back.
Leather straps hang from the rim. He lifts my right arm, loops the strap around my wrist, pulls it tight. Then my left.
My ankles follow, spread wide, and I am open to him, to the air, to anything he chooses to do.
The blindfold is silk, black, soft as my wettest slick.
He ties it behind my head, and the world goes dark.
I hear him move around me. I hear the creak of the wheel's mechanism, the click of a latch. Then the platform beneath me begins to turn, slowly, so slowly, and I am rising, falling, my stomach lurching with the motion. The air moves over my naked skin, cool where I am wet, warm where I flush.
I feel my girly space slowly seep into a leak.
"Can you feel it?"
His voice comes from somewhere to my left, then my right, moving with the wheel's turn.
"The moment before the blade leaves my hand. The certainty that it will find you. That this time, it will not miss."
Something whistles past my ear. I flinch, gasp, and the wheel carries me onward. Another knife, this one passing beside my breast, so close I feel the displacement of air against my nipple. I am hard as stone there, aching, and the wheel turns me away from where he stands, then back again.
"You are wet," he observes, as if noting the weather. "I can smell you. The excitement does this, Matilda. The body does not know the difference between terror and desire. Both make the heart race. Both make a fanny slick."
The word shocks me, crude and perfect. I want to answer, but another knife flies, this one between my spread thighs, and I feel the blade's passage like a touch, like a tongue, and I moan before I can stop myself.
"Oooh! Aahh! My God! So close!"
"Yes," he says. "Those sounds. Make them again."
I cannot help it. The wheel spins faster, or my perception does, and the knives come in rhythm now—one beside my hip, one above my shoulder, one so close to my mound that I feel the vibration of its passing in my deepest places.
"Ooohh!"
My fem-slick dripping from my aroused slash.
My wrists pull against the straps, not to escape but to anchor myself to something solid as the world tilts and turns.
"You want to come," he says.
Not a question.
"You want to climax on my wheel, with my blades singing around your naked body. Say it."
"I—" The word breaks as another knife passes, this one grazing the air above my breastbone, the hollow there that he named.
"I want—"
"Say it."
"I want to come."
The confession tears out of me, raw as a wound.
"Please. Please, Viktor."
The wheel slows. I feel him step onto the platform, feel his weight shift the wood beneath me. His hand finds my breast, thumb brushing my nipple, and I arch into the touch like a farm beast.
"Not yet," he murmurs.
"First I need to know something."
His fingers trail down my stomach, through the profuse curly tangle between my legs, and I am so wet they slide without resistance.
"Has any man been here?"
I shake my head, blind and spread and trembling.
"No. Never."
His fingers still. The wheel stops turning. I hang suspended in darkness, waiting, and when he speaks again his voice has changed, something new beneath the control.
"Virgin," he says, tasting the word.
"Nineteen years old, and no one has taught you what this body can do."
His fingers move again, circling, not entering, and I whimper at the gentleness after the knives' threat. "I will teach you. But not like this. Not tied and blind, though you would spend beautifully, Matilda. I have seen women climax from less than what you have already felt."
He unties the blindfold. The lamplight blinds me for a moment, and when my eyes adjust, I see him above me, his grey eyes dark now, his jaw set with something that might be restraint.
"I want to take you on this wheel," he says. "Tied as you are. I want to enter you while you spin, while my knives wait sheathed and you know they could fly again at any moment."
His hand presses against my mound, firm, possessive.
"But your first time needs more than danger. It needs—"
He pauses, searching for words, and I see the calculation falter, something human breaking through.
"It needs to be remembered as pleasure. Not only fear."
He releases the straps. My arms fall, numb from tension, and he lifts me down from the wheel as if I weigh nothing, carrying me to a pile of canvas drop cloths spread in the sawdust. He lays me there and begins to undress, and I watch because I wonder what his private sword might be.
His body is lean as I expected, pale where the sun has not touched, dark hair trailing from his chest to his navel and below. His cock stands hard against his belly, and I stare because I did not know they looked like this—veined, flushed, heavy with purpose. So, unlike the two clowns. This is stiffer. Longer. Already asking more.
He sees me looking and does not smile, does not rush, lets me see what I am agreeing to take inside me.
"I will hurt you," he says. "There is no way around it. But I will make the hurt part of the pleasure, and the pleasure will outweigh it."
He kneels between my spread thighs, and I feel him there, hot and blunt against my entrance.
"Tell me you want this. Not the danger—me. Tell me you want me inside you, Matilda."
"I want you," I whisper, and it is the truest thing I have ever said.
He enters slowly. I feel the stretch, the burn, the moment of resistance that gives way to pain sharp enough to make me cry out.
"Aahh!"
He stops, buried halfway, his jaw clenched with the effort of holding still.
"Breathe," he commands, and I do, and the pain shifts, becomes something I can ride like the wheel's turning.
He moves again, deeper, and I feel the tear, the giving way, and then he is fully inside me, and we are joined in a way I did not know bodies could join.
My girly centre becomes a sheath. A flesh casing for pecker.
It all moves. Everything down there moves.
Moves in a snug, cozy, heightened awareness way. His cock embraced in my fluidly floating fluctuation. A delectable compression of continual addictive movement.
"Look at me," he says, and I do, his grey eyes inches from mine, and I see the cost of his control there, the sweat on his temples, the strain in his shoulders.
"You are mine now. This moment. This first. I am the one who taught you."
He begins to move.
The pain fades, replaced by a fullness that aches differently, a hunger that his thrusts answer.
Thrusting. My pussy possessing.
Thrusting. My pussy taking.
Thrusting.My pussy embracing.
Pussy meets thrusting.
Beautiful, beautiful thrusting.
He is gentler than I expected, his rhythm slow and deliberate, each withdrawal a loss, each return a claiming.
I wrap my legs around his waist because I need him closer, deeper, and he groans at the pressure, his control cracking.
"Touch yourself," he orders. "Show me where you need pressure. I want to feel you spend around me."
My hand finds my mound, the place Madame Zora taught me, and I rub in the circles I know, and the pleasure builds from two places now, his cock filling me, my fingers circling, and I am climbing toward something vast and expected, yet not entirely known.
"Faster," I gasp, and he obeys, his thrusts deepening, the slap of our bodies joining the rustle of canvas and our breath.
"Viktor—"
"Let go," he growls. "Let me feel you."
I break.
"Hngg! Hngggh!"
The orgasm rolls through me like the wheel's turning, endless, my body clamping around him as I cry out sounds that make no sense.
He keeps moving through it, prolonging the waves, and then he stiffens, buries himself deep, and I feel the pulse of his spending, hot and intimate inside me.
We collapse in tandem.
The canvas smells of paint and old sweat. My body throbs where he entered, where he finished, and I touch the place and come away wet with both of our emissions.
He lifts his head. His grey eyes are soft now, almost colourless in the lamplight, and he looks at me as if I am something new, something he did not expect to find.
"You will remember this," he says, and it is not a question.
I will.
The wheel above us, silent now.
The knives in their sheaths.
The way fear became desire, became pleasure, became something I cannot name but will spend my life seeking again.
He withdraws, and I feel the loss, the emptiness, the soreness that is his mark on me.
He dresses without speaking, and I watch him cover himself in black again, become the knife thrower once more, remote and dangerous.
"Come," he says, extending his hand. " Dress, then I will walk you to the edge of the paddock."
I stand, naked and marked and changed, and I let him help me into my clothes.
The dress hangs as it should, though my hair tangles down my back, and when I touch my pocket the reversed Lovers card is still there, still waiting to tell me something I am only beginning to understand.
At the flaps of his tent he offers, "Or stay the night. Maybe it's time to never return home."
I loop my arm through his.