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husheduphistory · 2 years ago

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No Laughing Matter: The Clowns and the Turmoil that Changed Toronto

In the summer of 1855 the city of Toronto was a far cry from the bustling capital city that it is today. Much closer to resembling the Wild West, the city was filled to the brim with bars, liquor shops, and brothels catering to the rotating population of approximately 40,000 people. Mary Ann Armstrong ran one of Toronto’s many “clubs” on the corner of King and Jarvis Streets and the combination bar and brothel was always busy, especially when new faces were passing through town. The sights, sounds, and stories that originated there are incalculable, but on one July night Armstrong’s establishment was the setup for an incident that sounds like a joke but was unfortunately very real with a horrible punchline. “A clown and a fireman walk into a bar…”

On the morning of July 12th 1855 a large group of travelers made their way into Toronto, but these visitors were a little more unusual than the normal passers-by, this was the S.B. Howes' Star Troupe Menagerie & Circus. S.B. Howe was one of the first circus companies to bring their act on tour traveling to one city and taking up residency for a few days before packing up their tents and disappearing from the scene. The circus was only supposed to be in town for two days and after their first performance a group of clowns decided to take in the town, eventually ending up at Mary Ann Armstrong’s building.

Illustration of King Street in Toronto circa 1855. Image via Wikimedia Commons.

The image might sound funny, a group of clowns walking into a rowdy, tough, and intimidating brothel and bar, but these clowns were not to be messed with. Their jobs went far beyond entertaining and included the physical labor of building, breaking down, packing up, and moving their entire community to each city on the tour. They were strong, bold, and did not back down from a fight, which was a recipe for disaster considering the other people visiting Armstrong’s that night.

Advertisement for the circus. Image via torontodreamsproject.blogspot.com/com/.

At this point in time fire departments were not formally established and individual companies formed privately and functioned for profit, racing to fires and charging a price before putting them out. It was not uncommon for rival fire companies to clash in the streets, sometimes requiring local law enforcement to intervene. Only two weeks before the circus came to town one local company, the Hook and Ladder Firefighting Company, was involved in a violent street brawl with another fire company that became known as the Fireman’s Riot. They were an aggressive group, and tonight they were visiting Armstrong’s establishment at the same time as the clowns.

There has never been a singular cause identified for what happened next. One account says that the clowns cut the line to get into the building. Another says one of the firemen named Fraser knocked a hat off the head of a clown named Meyers and refused to pick it up when asked. Others simply say it was a case of someone getting loud with someone else who did not take kindly to their tone. The result was an all-out brawl and by the time the police arrived the firemen were all beaten to a bloody pulp with two of them requiring medical attention at a hospital. The band of clowns simply went back out into the night to continue partying.

The situation was bad enough as is, but the political climate of the area made the conflict cut deeper. Much of Toronto’s population was made up of Irish Catholics but the city government was deeply Irish Protestant and Tory elite, supported by the Orange Order, who were also firmly in the corner of the bloodied Hook and Ladder Firefighting Company. As far as the fire department was concerned the clowns had just declared war.

When the S.B. Howes' Star Troupe Menagerie & Circus came into town they pitched their tents along the waterfront at the site of Fair Green, near the St. Lawrence Market. On the day after the brothel brawl, Friday the 13th, the merchants in the market were few and far between, there was word that something bad was brewing. Slowly they began to arrive to the circus grounds, a large mob of Orangemen of the Orange Order, and before long the rocks began to fly. The circus performers were able to hold back the assault for a short amount of time but when the fire department arrived it was not to help the entertainers, it was to destroy them. The members of the Hook and Ladder Firefighting Company arrived carrying pikes, pipes, and axes. They tore apart the circus tents, beat anyone in their paths, set fires, and knocked over wagons with a bloodthirsty ferocity. Police Chief Samuel Sherwood, a former tavern owner with no formal training, arrived and brought in a handful of constables throughout the day but never put a focused effort into quelling the violence. How could he? He was a part of the Orange Order himself and when later questioned about the level of power he had in his position as Chief his answer was “A very small one indeed…I give orders and instructions to the force, but cannot get them obeyed. As soon as I am out of sight, the men do as they please.” When the Mayor arrived at the scene he took matters into his own hands, wrestling an ax from a fireman who was about to murder one of the clowns and calling in a militia to finally put a stop to the violence. The clowns and other performers took what was left of their belongings and fled the city as quickly as possible.

Painting of Toronto showing the site of Fair Green. Image via http://torontodreamsproject.blogspot.com/

The aftermath of the riot was unfortunately familiar. When the Fireman’s Riot happened only weeks beforehand the memories of the police department and the firemen involved were suddenly and inexplicably fuzzy and they could not recall a single member of the Orange Order that was on the scene. One constable said it was too dark out to see any faces and another even said that the entire ordeal was carefully planned so that only people unfamiliar to the police would be involved. The exact same scenario played out again after the attack on the circus clowns and suddenly no one who advanced on the tents could recall anything that happened. Out of the entire mob only seventeen people were ever arrested and when they went to court every single person who attacked the circus that day was acquitted.

Article about the investigation of the Toronto Circus Riot. Image via torontoist.com.

The official word on what happened may have been hazy but the public saw the corruption very clearly and while they could not create change overnight, the Toronto Clown Riot proved to be a fatal blow to the too-long accepted state of things. After the riot it became much more common to question the conveniently selective memories of the police force that was given absolute power with no form of training. The formerly iron-clad coverups for the actions of the fire departments corroded and began to lose strength. The voices against the Orange Order got louder and louder.

One of the biggest indicators that the public had had enough came with the next election when for the first time in twenty years a mayor was elected that was backed by the Irish Catholics despite the hardest efforts of the Orange Order to prevent it. Reform and organization was needed and in 1858 the first provincially approved board put a restructuring of the new city government and police force into motion. In February of 1859 the entire police force was fired (roughly half that were not part of the Toronto Clown Riot were reinstated), a new chief was brought on board, and finally Toronto had a police force that was out of private hands, nonpolitical, and under close watch by the newly established city government.

The fates of many of the S.B. Howes' Star Troupe Menagerie & Circus clowns are greatly unknown and the clown named Meyers has faded into time. Little could he or any of the clowns imagined on that July night that getting into a fist fight with a gang of firemen in a brothel would lay the foundation for the establishment of Toronto’s first formal police department.

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Sources:

“Hidden History: The Toronto Circus Riot” by Lenny Flank. August 20th 2019

https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2019/8/20/1870769/-Hidden-History-The-Toronto-Circus-Riot

“The Toronto Circus Riot of 1855 — the day the clowns picked the wrong Toronto brothel” by Adam Bunch. October 2nd 2012.

http://spacing.ca/toronto/2012/10/02/the-toronto-circus-riot-of-1855-the-day-the-clowns-picked-the-wrong-toronto-brothel/

“How a Fight With Clowns Led to the Birth of Modern Policing in Toronto “ by Patrick Metzger. September 12th 2013.

https://torontoist.com/2013/09/how-a-fight-with-clowns-led-to-the-birth-of-modern-policing-in-toronto/

“Infamous Clown Brawl in Brothel Gets Entire Toronto Police Force Fired “ by Sean Kernan. November 29th 2021.

https://medium.com/lessons-from-history/infamous-clown-fight-in-brothel-gets-entire-toronto-police-force-fired-ceca014addc6

“Clowns fighting firemen in Canada in 1855.” opposite-lock.com/topic/22965/clowns-fighting-firemen-in-canada-in-1855

“The Toronto Circus Riot of 1855 “ http://torontodreamsproject.blogspot.com/2012/08/the-circus-riot.html

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cadavercowboy · 24 days ago

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You'll Ache To Know My Name

Pairing: Art The Clown x Reader

Summary: Your Halloween night is about to take the spookiest turn of all: having an interaction with a man. Lucky for you, along comes a mysterious clown who won't stand for some loser preying on an innocent, unsuspecting woman. Because that's his job.

Word Count: 11.1k+

Warnings: Explicit content (18+ only). Attempted sexual assault. Violence. Blood. Needles. Drugging. Kidnapping. Torture & dismemberment. Murder. Dubious consent. Oral sex. Overstimulation. Blood kink. Spit kink. Forced orgasm. Fingering. Unprotected sex. Creampie.

A/N: Bad news for everyone...I'm not afraid to admit how badly I wanna fuck the circus boy. Haven't been able to see the third film yet, so I am lashing out in anger by writing this. :) Happy day after Halloweenie!

(Worth noting that this deviates pretty significantly from my personal perception of Art's character (David himself said that he sees him as an asexual creature and unfortunately, I agree :-( but a girl can dream) so this was really just an exercise in self-indulgence with a heaping side of very sick delusion! Hope you enjoy and if not...don't care, didn't ask xoxo)

The steel door slams shut behind you and the cool night air engulfs your overheated skin, prompting you to throw your head back and breathe a sigh of relief. Your shoulders finally fall from where they had spent all night practically tucked up next to your ears so that you can stretch the tight muscles of your neck. Even the glass and a half of straight liquor hadn’t been enough to ease the stress of being packed like a sardine into a hot room full of drunken, rowdy people.

Your costume — a torn and tattered white slip, hardly reminiscent of the gown worn by Elsa Lanchester in the original Bride Of Frankenstein film — had been chosen last-minute, without comfort in mind. It itches now and clings annoyingly to your damp skin. The hem falls at your knee and the bust is held up with only two thick straps. A cheap, two-toned wig drapes over your scalp and though the long, wavy strands aren’t technically accurate, they’ve gotten the job done. With some decent makeup and a few neat sutures drawn across your throat in eyeliner, you’ve managed enough hallmarks of the iconic character for your costume to be recognizable.

The moon is high and full above you, casting an appropriately spooky glow on the shiny synthetic fabric of your dress. You yank the wig from your head — sick of the way the tight elastic band is beginning to give you a headache — and chuckle to yourself, hoping the hazy beams of moonlight won’t bring a beastly werewolf across your path. Your shoes thud with tired steps down the vacant sidewalk and you’re feeling exactly like the doctor’s stitched-up and reanimated sweetheart. The Halloween party was admittedly fun, but you’re ready to get home and climb into your cozy bed.

A breeze blows, gusting past your bare limbs and sending a slight chill through your body. All the sweat drying on your skin makes the wind feel colder than it actually is. You wrap your arms around your middle and check both ways before crossing an empty intersection. The city street is uneven beneath your feet and you’ve only just stepped onto the adjacent curb when the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. At first, you pay it no mind, but when the muffled sound of steady footfalls emerges from behind, you instinctively turn your head.

Over your shoulder and a short distance away, you spot a man strolling down the sidewalk. His hands are tucked casually into the pockets of a brown leather jacket, however his eyes are pinpointed directly on you. Goosebumps raise across your flesh, having little to do with the night’s dropping temperature. Hoping to avoid an unwanted interaction, you duck your head and pick up the pace, your calves burning as you stride with purpose.

“Hey, Frankie!” the man calls.

You’re unsure how he’s able to discern your spooky get-up in the dark, wondering if perhaps he recognizes you from the party. He certainly isn’t the hypothetical werewolf you were afraid of, but undoubtedly a predator just the same. You steadfastly ignore him and keep your steps swift in the hopes that he takes the hint. Much to your disappointment, he does not. Dread settles low in your belly; not borne of fear, but rather disgust. His voice is much closer when he yells again which — paired with what he believes to be a clever come-on — raises your hackles and puts you on the defensive.

“Wanna come tighten my nuts and bolts, baby?”

Rolling your eyes, you begrudgingly halt and set your teeth on edge, prepared to use your bitchiest voice to correct the idiot and let him know it was actually Frankenstein's monster who sported steel bolts on the sides of his neck, not his bride. But when you wheel around and come face to face with the man, the words die in your throat. More specifically, they’re caught behind your bared teeth when the pig has the audacity to grab hold of your backside to admire your pretty dress and ponder what material it’s made from.

“Get the fuck off me!” you snarl in a voice that sounds foreign to your own ears.

Utilizing the only mechanism of defense you currently possess, you whip your wig in his direction. The acrylic strands snap harshly across his face and while the accompanying utterance of pain is satisfying, you’ve clearly angered him. He grabs ahold of your other arm and twists it painfully behind your back. You writhe in his grasp and try to reach around to claw at him, but the damned wig is tangled in the stupid Victorian-style ring you’re wearing and your fingers are buried uselessly within the plasticky tresses as he shoves you further down the sidewalk.

“Stupid bitch,” he barks, spittle flying from his lips as you struggle against one another. “Learn to take a compliment.”

Even with your feet planted, you fail to impede his progress as the man wrangles your body towards the mouth of a dark alley. Though the streets are woefully empty this time of night, there’s at least a chance that someone may see or hear you; if he maneuvers you into the shadows, you’re screwed.

The pair of you stumble between two buildings, the massive structures blocking the glow of the moon and blanketing you in disorienting darkness. He continues dragging you along until the alley splits into an open area which contains a rancid-smelling dumpster and several piles of discarded rubbish. You’re slammed painfully into a wall moments before a grimy hand crawls its way up your dress and between your thighs.

“Come on. With an outfit like this, you’re pretty much asking for it.”

Just like that, you’re seething. Your rage and fear meld into one powerful amalgamation of force and you manage to twist hard enough to knock you both off balance. You come down hard into a mountain of garbage and your combined weight slams into a half-rotted wooden pallet; its slats are splintered and it boasts several exposed nails. One nail in particular — bent at a rather unfortunate angle — catches your arm as you fall and you can feel the sharp point split your skin from your wrist all the way to your elbow. Blood spills from the wound almost immediately, though the searing pain is of little consequence when your assailant promptly locks both of his hands around your throat, effectively cutting off your airway.

Choking and spluttering as you fight for breath, you kick uselessly at the heaviness of the violent man on top of you. He has you pinned to the ground in such a way that your legs can gain no purchase to get him off. Your eyes feel ready to burst out of your skull and your hands scramble across the buttery leather encasing arms which vibrate with exertion as he ventures to squeeze the life out of you.

When your vision begins to tunnel, you fling your arms out to the sides in search of something you can grab. Your nails scrape painfully along the concrete until you’re sure your fingertips are rubbed raw and bleeding. And finally you feel it: a short but heavy chunk of the broken pallet. The shards of wood digging into your palm — rendered slippery from the spillage of your own blood — go unnoticed as you use your waning strength to whack your attacker across the head with it. He instantly flops to the side and cradles his wounded head as you suck in a gloriously deep breath.

You roll over with a gasp and a cough, saliva dripping freely from your parted lips. There is only a brief moment of reprieve before you force yourself up onto your knees and ignore your own spinning head as you repeatedly bring the piece of wood down on the man curled up beside you. The ruthless blows have the intended effect and his movement ceases. Two crooked nails protrude from the end of your makeshift weapon and you aim them at the center of his body until blood seeps from under the material of his jacket and begins to pool beneath his immobile form. With a sort of strangled battle cry, you climb to your feet and hit him one last time for good measure.

Beads of sweat roll from your hairline down your temples and your shaking hands release their hold on what remains of the now-bloodied piece of wood. It falls to the ground with a clatter. Sparing a glance at yourself, you overlook the red and black stains that have ruined your disheveled dress to inspect the extent of the injury to your arm. You grimace as blood continues to seep from the rather serious wound. It’s definitely going to need stitches.

You begin to look around for your phone. You dropped it during the tussle and you nearly cry when you eventually spot it…shattered, just a few feet away. A hospital is definitely your first priority, but without the aid of your phone, you aren’t quite sure how to navigate there from here.

The night is silent save for the rush of stuttered wheezes that still rip from your burning lungs. You pause, holding your breath for a second to swallow deeply when you think you hear something. A shuffling…a rustling of plastic, perhaps. In your heightened state, you shift with the speed of hunted prey; eyes peeled, knees bent and ready to fight or flee. Glancing towards the source of the noise, you squint at the alley you were forced down earlier.

“Oh, what the fuck?”

You blurt the words without thinking, but the unexpected sight rids you of any ability to hold your tongue. There — tucked safely beneath the cover of shadow — stands a very tall man. Or rather, a clown. At least you think that’s what it is. Your fists clench uneasily at your sides and the tensing of the muscles makes your wounded arm sing with pain.

In the darkness, you can only make out the parts of his costume which are white: a long leg opposite an equally lengthy arm, a frilly collar, silky hood, and a heavily painted face. He takes a single step closer, as if testing to see whether you’ll run from him.

The moonlight paints a slightly clearer picture of his appearance here. Both his eyes and mouth are encircled with thick blobs of black face paint and a pair of thin eyebrows arch unnaturally high over an exceedingly piercing stare. His ebony lips form a distinct ring of shock and you realize that he’s probably just seen your whole ordeal. Or at least the parts that made you look bad.

A tiny, jauntily-tilted top hat adds an oddly comical touch to his ensemble. In his left hand he holds a crinkling black trash bag that looks to be filled to the brim with several hefty objects. He raises his right hand and wiggles his fingers with a delicate and playful wave, the long digits encased in a pair of fingerless gloves that may have been white once-upon-a-time.

You naively assume the mysterious clown poses no threat, simply regarding him as an innocent Halloween reveler who happened to stumble upon a terrible situation. Right now, your only fear is that he’s witnessed you beating a man — possibly to death — and has no context as to why. Gesturing to the motionless pile of flesh behind you, you deem it necessary to explain yourself.

“This guy attacked me,” you breathe, pausing to lick your chapped lips. “I was defending myself.”

The clown remains unmoving and silent, giving no indication that he’s even heard what you said. He merely stares, visage still awash with surprise. Uneasy, you shift your weight and raise your eyebrows expectantly in the hopes of prompting a response.

Nothing.

You aren’t lying about what happened, but you have to admit…you kind of sound like you are. You try again.

“I…I don’t know if he’s dead,” you admit warily. “He really would’ve hurt me if I didn’t stop him, so he was kind of asking for it.”

A dry chuckle follows the comment and you cringe outwardly at your poorly-timed humor. While you’re busy kicking yourself, the clown continues to do nothing but glare at you. He’s so static, you might be convinced he were a statue had you not seen him move moments ago. Unsure what else to do, you make one last attempt to earn a response from the costumed man. You point uselessly to the ground where your destroyed cell phone sits even though you already know the clown isn’t going to look.

“Could you maybe call the police for me?” you implore, hoping your willingness to contact the authorities will sway his opinion on whether or not you’re a cold-blooded murderer.

Still, he does not move. Or speak. He doesn’t so much as acknowledge you. Your patience has all but vanished at this point and your shoulders sag, a disgruntled scoff escaping your throat. Just your luck that you run into two total freaks in the same night.

“Gotta be kidding me,” you murmur under your breath.

Having had enough of this strange game, you square your shoulders and bravely cross the short distance between you and the creepy clown. You plan to slip past him, leaving both him and your would-be killer to figure things out for themselves, but the silent specter has other ideas.

When you’re only a few feet away, he releases his trash bag and it crashes to the ground with a deafening, metallic resonance. You stop at once and your eyes drop to the discarded bag before glancing back at the previously stupefied face where you’re now met with a gleaming smile that you can only describe as… wrong.

The clown’s grin shines with moisture and his teeth seem too large for his mouth. Something about the almost inhuman way his muscles contort to display every inch of his smile unnerves you, nearly as much as the length of time he manages to maintain the severe gesture. You swallow thickly and your nostrils flare with the stirrings of distress. The clown waggles his thin eyebrows tauntingly in response. It’s clear to you that this weirdo is looking to garner some sort of reaction of fear and you refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you adopt a bored expression and cross your arms over your chest, being careful not to aggravate your wounded arm.

Your choices are limited and admittedly risky. Either you push past the clown or take the chance of turning your back on him in search of another way out of the alley. Neither option appeals to you very much. Before you can decide, he finally moves.

Stomping one over-sized shoe on the ground, the clown bends at the waist and flings both arms up and out to feign a lunge in your direction. It doesn’t even make you flinch which prompts his limbs to drop ever so slowly back down to his sides. You swear you can see his expression pinch slightly in frustration. He studies you for a moment, then his smile deepens as he tucks his chin to his chest so he can peer at you from beneath his brow.

The gesture is eerie, but your apprehension worsens when he suddenly and inexplicably returns to his full height and the corners of his mouth fall slack. His grin rapidly vanishes, though his long teeth are still partially visible. This is followed shortly by the drooping of his black-painted eyelids. For some reason, his lifeless expression is what finally awakens a real sense of fear in you and a chill begins to seep into your body.

Uneasiness runs rampant through you, dissipating only a little once you realize that the clown’s deadened green eyes aren’t fixated on you. His gaze trails lazily towards something over your shoulder. Something that leaves him unquestionably displeased. Daring to turn your back on the clown, you peer behind you to find your attacker miraculously stumbling to his feet. Although his face is bloodied and beginning to swell, you can tell that his eyes are focused on you. He staggers and groans; struggling, but clearly determined to reach you.

You look frantically along the ground, yet again in a desperate search for something to defend yourself with. The piece of wood you dropped earlier is too far away to grab before you’re back in his clutches, but it's your only hope now that you're sandwiched between a wannabe rapist and some sort of mute psycho.

To your relief, your attacker stumbles and braces himself against the brick exterior of one of the buildings, stopping to catch his breath before he’s able to resume his pathetic journey to exact revenge. That feeling of relief is short lived as a loud, cartoonish honk bursts through the air and you nearly leap out of your skin. You whirl around to find the clown standing so close to you that your bare arm brushes the silky fabric of his monochromatic costume. A smear of your crimson blood now stains the lighter half of his jumpsuit.

His nearness prompts your eyes to widen in surprise and you inhale sharply. The clown has finally elicited a reaction and by all appearances, this thrills him. He jumps up and down where he stands, his blackened eyes crinkling with unbridled glee. His toothy grin is back, showcasing a sheen of saliva as his lips split open at an unnatural width to accommodate another terrifying smile.

With fists raised and shaking victoriously, he honks his bicycle horn several more times, then stuffs the prop into a hidden pocket. Anxiety rattles your bones when the clown throws his head back and practically unhinges his jaw to unleash a completely noiseless laugh. The entirety of his massive frame quakes, quivering with such believable intensity that you cannot fathom how he isn’t actually making a sound.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you squawk with annoyance, putting an abrupt end to the clown’s celebration.

His head tips forward slowly, angled to stare you down as his smile falters a bit. But he recovers quickly, raising his eyebrows close to where his hairline should be while he holds up a single finger, beseeching from you a moment of patience. Unbelievably, he proceeds to delve into a classic magic trick, the kind you’d see performed by an amateur entertainer at a child’s birthday party.

The clown’s gloved hands wave and twirl dramatically in front of your face as a sort of distraction. You do your best not to flinch when he reaches next to your head without warning. As expected, he reveals a shiny quarter, wanting you to believe he’s pulled the coin from behind your ear. He pinches the bit of silver between two fingers and offers it to you with a fluid sweep of his other hand and an encouraging smile as if presenting something of great value. Playing along, you laugh mirthlessly and hope the bemused set of your mouth resembles a smile.

“Yeah, that’s great buddy,” you say through gritted teeth, accepting the proffered quarter. “Thanks.”

Taking the coin in hand, you move to step around the clown, but he denies you. He repositions himself with alarming speed and blocks your path with his lanky frame, suddenly fashioning his own mouth into a frown. The odd shape of the grease paint surrounding his lips pulls down into a sort of melting effect. Contrarily, the bright rings of green circling his dark pupils are pure ice. Something in his harsh expression serves as a warning, one which requires no words. Still not permitting your exit, the clown holds his hand up with his palm facing you and continues to keep you an unwilling, captive audience.

Just like before, he repeats his same trick. Only now he reveals what appears to be a thin plastic tube. By the time you notice that there’s a sharp needle affixed to the end of the syringe, the steel tip is already piercing through your skin. He aims for the space just above your collarbone, where your neck and shoulder meet. You cry out and he grins wickedly. The force he uses to jab the needle in would have been painful enough on its own, but the sensitive spot he chose as a target makes it all the more agonizing and your knees threaten to give out.

In your peripheral, you watch him depress the plunger with slow and dramatic flare. His mouth is molded into another perfect circle of facetious shock as the liquid invades your system. Your ears ring while fear pumps white-hot adrenaline through your veins alongside whatever concoction had been forced from the syringe. You stumble backwards, wanting to put some distance between yourself and this maniac. There’s no longer a worry about the dangerous offender still lurking behind you because you’d been afraid of the wrong man all along.

The clown watches, alight with unadulterated joy. He offers a happy and child-like wave goodbye when your balance starts to waver. His fingers flap clumsily with the level of excitement he displays. Your neck burns and you’re feeling nauseous; sweating yet shivering as your limbs grow heavy.

Little black dots fill your vision and your eyes water, then begin to cross…or slip shut, you really can’t tell. There’s a loud whooshing and suddenly you can’t differentiate up from down, only that your body is swaying, tipping, tumbling. The last thing you register is the tiny ping of the quarter falling from your clammy palm and ricocheting off the ground. A slur of panicked nonsense drags over your sluggish tongue seconds before your world goes black.

If eyelids could be made of lead, you’re certain yours must be. As your body graciously allows you to ease back into consciousness, you struggle for several long minutes before you’re actually able to see. What you’re met with is a blinding halo from the single bulb situated directly above you. Blinking rapidly to adjust to the brightness, you try to pinpoint any indication as to where you are. You even wrack your fuzzy brain trying to remember anything from tonight, to no avail.

There’s a horribly uncomfortable surface supporting your body, rock hard and covered in some sort of sandy grit. A pervasive odor of rust and wood assaults your senses, mingling with the scent of something old and earthen. The aroma reminds you of an antique toolbox your father kept in the musty basement of your childhood home. Somehow the notion of being there momentarily frightens you more than any other possible reality.

You’re still feeling a little too weak to sit up just yet, but you do manage to lift an arm in order to press a palm to your aching forehead. The movement prompts an unexpected pressure, a sort of tight pulling along your flesh. It turns your stomach and you begin to feel hot and queasy. Your vision blurs for a moment and once that passes, you hold your arm up and turn it over to determine the cause of the sensation.

A long line of stitches run the length of your wound. The sutures are done in black thread that hardly seems up to medical standards and their pattern is rudimentary at best. Like something straight out of a horror movie, the edges of your wound are still caked in dried, coagulated blood. Obviously left unsterilized, the flesh is jagged, puffy, and sore. You shudder to think what kind of an infection you’re going to end up with.

The sound of metal clanging makes you jump, drawing you from the observation of your injury. Not being able to see your surroundings is making you nervous so you force your lethargic body to cooperate. First you plant your elbows, then carefully use your forearms and palms to ease yourself into an upright position, doing your best to keep your weight off of your ailing limb.

You experience the worst headrush of your life, but your equilibrium adjusts quickly. Looking down, you find yourself still clothed in your bridal gown, although your shoes are mysteriously missing. You’re sprawled across what looks to be a large wood-topped workbench. With the glaring light overhead, it feels more like a surgical table. The irony is not lost on you.

Directly to your right, there’s another workbench. This one is made of steel. Your vision hones in on a large mass and suddenly the night’s events come rushing back all at once.

Over the workbench hunches the sleek back of the taciturn clown, twiddling with the rusted teeth of an old hacksaw. Moving as gently as you can, you quietly adjust your position and throw your legs over the edge of the table, letting them dangle limply as you observe him.

As far as you can tell, there’s only one door out of the dimly-lit dungeon, but your captor is sure to spot you in his peripheral if you try. You watch and wait, hoping he’ll turn away and allow you a chance at escape.

The clown must sense your gaze because he freezes, stands up straight, then — with a remarkable lack of speed — spins his towering body to face in your direction. Although you had been expecting it, the presence of his startling grin still makes your throat tighten with anxiety.

“Where am I? What do you want from me?”

It’s stupid to ask. You know he isn’t going to answer. At least this time he bothers to acknowledge you. He slowly creeps his way over with the tool in hand, walking on tiptoes as if sneaking around and hiding from someone or something when it is he who is the monster. He smells of something familiar and sugary, a scent so offensively sweet it actually makes you gag. The silk of his costume brushes against the front of your legs and your body goes stiff with trepidation.

Your breath catches as a single finger traces the drawn-on stitches that transect your throat. He holds the saw up, pushing it close to your neck and sliding it back and forth, by all accounts interested in making the wounds very real. Concern furrows your brow and the display of fear must please him because he actually takes pity on you. He shakes his head with a mischievous smile and dismissively waves you away to let you know he’s only kidding.

The clown twists his body to put the hacksaw on the workbench, peeking back to make sure you’re watching. He lays it down with purposeful movements, then indicates that’s where it will stay. For now, anyway.

A frightened whimper nearly slips free when the clown quickly lifts a gloved hand to push two fingertips against your wrinkled forehead before jokingly smoothing out the deep lines forged by your distress. He points at you and mimes another one of his hearty laughs, but that only makes you frown more; doing very little to actually assuage your growing fear.

Seeming displeased with your lack of amusement, the clown lifts his other hand to join the first. Astoundingly, he uses a finger from each hand and shoves them quite impolitely into the corners of your mouth. You pull back in surprise, but he simply follows, forcing the long digits deeper until he’s touching your teeth. He doesn’t relent until you stop fighting the invasion. When you do, he wrenches his fingers upwards, forcing your mouth into the shape of a painfully exaggerated smile.

The clown pins you in place with an unflinching stare, his head tilting sharply to the side with intrigue. His face lacks any notable signs of emotion and you look on in astonishment, unable to do anything except endure his assault. He senses your resignation — insignificant as it may be — and the corners of his own mouth lift, gradually revealing more and more of his teeth until even his gums are on full display.

When he finally slips his fingers out of your mouth, you assist in their exit by pushing the offending digits away with your tongue and spluttering loudly. This catches his attention and the clown’s green eyes widen with interest. Appearing to ape your previous action, he relaxes his jaw and sticks his tongue out at you. The fleshy pinkness of the muscle is a stark contrast to the ink-like abyss of his painted mouth. He allows the muscle to roll over his teeth where its moistened tip nearly meets the point of his chin before it’s snatched back into the recesses of his maw. Then he points at you.

You can only shake your head in confusion, not quite understanding what it is he’s attempting to communicate. Executing a comical roll of his frigid eyes, the clown lifts and drops his angular shoulders with a soundless sigh of frustration then repeats the motion. Tongue flopping from his mouth and painted brows lifting with encouragement, his hands splay in a gesture of presentation that says ‘See? Like this.’

Now he’s pointing to himself with both hands before displaying two open palms in your direction while nodding in invitation. He’s asking you to mimic him. You don’t want to, but you have a feeling refusal is not an option so you do as he asks, albeit with some hesitation. Lips quiver as they peel apart to make way for your tongue which slips out with jerky, jittery slowness. It leaves you feeling quite foolish, sitting there with your mouth agape and tongue twitching while a six foot clown grins and applauds gleefully in celebration.

When you try to close your mouth, he stops you. A falling smile and a single loud clap directly in front of your face works just as effectively as any shouted words would have. Your eyes meet his and he holds up a finger, indicating you should wait; remaining exactly as you are while he decides what bizarre performance to put on next. You’re glad your mouth has gone dry so you don’t drool all over yourself and further add to your indignity.

He presses his thumbs to his temples and opens his hands up like a pair of moose antlers, wiggling his fingers playfully and sticking his tongue out once more. Just like you thought he would, the clown points to you and widens his eyes like an excited child waiting for you to play his game. You try to hide your huff of annoyance, but do as you’ve been directed.

This time, there’s no warning. You don’t even see it coming. Taking advantage of your open mouth and your distracted state, the clown shoves the two middle fingers of his left hand past your teeth. Although you weren’t prepared, he is. His other hand snaps forward to cradle the base of your skull when your head predictably rears back, ensuring you cannot escape his delving fingers. You try to move your face from side to side and relieve yourself of the pressure from the invasive digits, but he holds fast and renders you immobile.

Saliva floods your mouth as the tips of his fingers reach deep enough to brush the back of your throat. You gag and cough until your eyes begin to water, but he does not let up. Instead, he adds the rest of his fingers so they can twist this way and that; pinching, massaging, and pressing against the textured surface of your tongue. It reminds you of the way someone reaches in to remove the innards when gutting a fish.

His skin is salty, juxtaposed by the bitter, metallic flavor of oxidized blood you can taste as the edges of his fingerless gloves glide over your tongue and soak up your spit. Tears spill down your cheeks and you fight to breathe, feeling like you’re choking on his hand. No matter how hard you cling to and pull at his skinny wrist, you’re unable to extract him from your mouth. You whimper and start to heave more forcefully until mucus ejects from your nose.

All at once, he stops. Your throat emits an awful, strangled sound when he removes his fingers and abruptly turns away from you, shaking his hand and flinging a glob of saliva towards the floor as he does. It takes a moment for you to catch your breath and compose yourself while you wipe the moisture from your face, blinking rapidly until the tears stop falling from your lashes. When you look up, you see the reason for the interruption.

At the far corner of the room is a folding chair, its steel legs bent and misshapen. In it sits a face that you wouldn’t exactly call familiar, but you recognize it nonetheless. The man who attacked you earlier shifts and groans, his head lolling from side to side as he tries to get his bearings. You have no idea how the clown heard the man’s movements over your choking and whimpering, but you’re grateful for the distraction. His attention is now centered wholly on the man in the chair, clad only in a pair of checkered boxer shorts and with his arms bound behind him. His torso is riddled with little oozing puncture wounds and you can’t help feeling a twinge of pride.

You watch apprehensively as the clown picks up a bundle of material from the workbench and shakes it out to reveal a frilly, floral-patterned apron which he promptly drops over his head and fastens behind his back. The man watches this too, slowly piecing together what he’s seeing. Dread colors his features when he takes note of his state of undress and his imprisoned limbs. His eyes volley from the figure towering over him to you, then back again to the clown who bends to dig through a wooden crate full of more tools.

“So what, you two freaks know each other or something?” he questions, panic evident in his shaky tone though he tries poorly to disguise it.

He receives no answer, but the tall clown — having evidently found whatever he was searching for — straightens and peeks over his shoulder at you. Only the upper half of his face is visible when he waggles his brows in response to the man’s inquiry, leaving you clueless as to what it’s supposed to mean.

Now wielding some sort of object, the clown approaches the trapped man with slow and sure steps. He crouches before him and presents the object to the man. You can only imagine the smile he wears.

In his hand, he holds a terribly rusted pizza cutter. The clown flicks the wheel as if hoping it will glide smoothly, but it doesn’t budge. Deflating only slightly, he tries again using more force, but the pizza cutter only stutters with a grinding sound. He mimes a disappointed sigh and shakes his head, then shrugs his shoulders with acceptance, apparently deeming the utensil useful enough.

Your fingers wrap with crushing force around the edge of the table you sit upon as you brace yourself for whatever is about to occur. Though the unsuspecting man seems equally as dubious, nothing could prepare either of you for what happens next. The clown moves with viper-like speed and precision, snatching the man’s underwear and yanking them down just far enough to reveal his crotch.

“Wh-what the fuck?” he yells, rattling the chair as he squirms wildly. “Hey man, what the hell are you doing?!”

The rising pitch in his voice indicates he already knows the answer. While the sizable build of the clown shields most of your view, your imagination fills in the blanks vividly enough. Your ears ring with the volume of the man’s ragged screams.

A squish of flesh and the unmistakable splatter of dripping blood intersperse his cries and you slam your eyes shut as though that will block the awful sounds out. It’s the worst limb for a man to lose and there’s no doubt the dull condition of the clown’s chosen tool is making this experience all the more harrowing. Its lack of sharpness certainly lends to the amount of time the clown spends sawing through the man’s appendage.

From your vantage point, you cannot see the detached body part when the clown places it on the workbench, though that may be due to the fact that you’re preoccupied watching him lift the long cylinder of a propane blowtorch. He fiddles with the nozzle for a moment before rearing back and snapping his fingers like he’s just had an epiphany. Virtually from thin air, he procures a pair of flower-shaped sunglasses and perches them delicately upon his hooked nose. The torch ignites with a whoosh and the hiss of blazing fire does little to disguise the man’s blood-curdling scream as the clown touches flame to flesh in order to cauterize the leaking wound.

When he’s finished, the clown extinguishes the torch and tosses the tank aside with a resounding bang. His impromptu eye protection follows. Turning to you, he swipes the back of his hand across his forehead and flicks away some imaginary sweat before doing a comical imitation of an exhausted exhalation.

By now, the man’s distressed sounds have died down to nothing more than pained whimpers and quivering breaths with the occasional sniffle here and there as he processes the trauma of being dismembered and broiled like a human steak. The clown whips his apron over his head and hangs the blood-spattered garment on a hook with uncharacteristic gentleness, then retrieves the detached appendage from the workbench with equal care. He keeps one hand curled tightly into a fist, hiding the prize he holds within as he fumbles around in search of something. Meanwhile, you’re busy trying to keep the roiling bile in your stomach down.

The clown spins and moves towards you, one hand dripping blood and the other tucked out of sight behind his back. Instinct tells you not to look, but morbid curiosity says otherwise. Your lashes flutter as you prepare yourself and you find the clown’s face stretched familiarly into that same lecherous grin. His delighted eyes burn as bright as the scorching hot flame and you know that can’t possibly be good. When it seems his smile might split his face right in half, he finally makes the big reveal.

From behind his back, he dramatically presents a large magnifying glass. The lens is scratched and tinged brown beyond function yet it still serves the clown’s purposes just fine. He swings his arm wide in a theatrical fashion to hold the magnifying glass near his face as he opens the palm of his other hand to unveil the man’s severed member. His drawn-on eyebrows slam down and his lips mash into a flat line as he tries to peer into the lens and proceeds to move it back and forth between his face and hand as if struggling to see the disembodied penis even through the magnification. Without warning, the magnifying glass drops from his hand and shatters on the floor, making you jump.

The clown’s eyebrows launch upwards and his mouth gapes wide. He bends backwards and mimes a seriously maniacal laugh, holding a hand to his stomach and even pretending to wipe tears from his eyes as an added touch. You almost find yourself laughing at how absurdly fucked up it all is.

A devious expression overcomes his painted face and that smile — the one which lets you know something awful is about to happen — returns. The clown approaches you where you still sit and places a hand on your bare knee, using it as leverage to wrench your thighs open. You instinctively try to slam them shut, but you’re no match for the clown’s strength. What began as panic soon melds into shocked horror when he directs the bloody, limp penis towards your parted legs and moves it in and out in a taunting manner, seeming to threaten to penetrate you with it.

Your offended exclamation has his probing gaze snapping to your face. He ceases flopping the appendage around only long enough to wag his finger in admonishment. When he shakes his head with disapproval, it doesn’t seem quite as silly as all of his other gags. There’s an unspoken and indecipherable warning in the controlled, reprimanding oscillation of his head. Having sufficiently weirded you out to his satisfaction, the clown blindly tosses the penis over his shoulder with careless whimsy where it lands with a wet slap at the man’s feet.

The sound appears to make the clown take pause, something new churning in his iniquitous brain. His body tilts slowly away from you and he spends a long moment observing the half-conscious man in the corner. There’s an unsettling chill in his eyes when he turns back. In quick succession, he points to the slumped man, the discarded appendage, and then to you; all the while, an impression of inquiry in his expression.

You understand what he’s asking, you’re just not sure whether to be wary of or flattered by the crazy clown’s apparent indignation. Surely, he recognizes the hypocrisy in being insulted on your behalf after what he’s done. Your head shakes almost imperceptibly when you finally respond.

“No, not with that,” you manage to choke out, suddenly feeling inexplicably embarrassed.

The clown’s face is vacant and motionless for a painful length of time. It feels like he’s staring straight through you. He lifts his right hand and points to it with his left, eyebrows raised quizzically. You can only nod your confirmation. His gaze drops to your lap, lingering between your still-parted thighs for longer than you’re comfortable with.

You’re not certain how many times you’ve watched his eyes go blank and his mouth slack, only that the empty expression always serves as a hair-raising harbinger of something heinous. This occasion is no different. You hardly have time for your skin to crawl or your heart to skip a beat the way it has previously when the clown suddenly whips around in a blur of black and white to snatch up the hacksaw he’d been holding earlier.

The man in the chair hasn’t a chance to react either before the clown kicks him with all his might, sending the man toppling to the floor. His head bounces off the concrete and it seems to jostle him from a stupor, launching him into a fit of frantic mumbling which the clown puts an end to when he crouches down and promptly shoves the man’s own severed penis straight into his open mouth.

Without preamble, the clown leans over and begins to saw through one of the man’s bound arms. Not cutting at the elbow where the joint would allow for an easier amputation, but grinding the teeth of the tool halfway down the man’s forearm. The grating of metal against bone churns your stomach. Screams of pain echo off the brick walls and pierce through your skull in a way you know will haunt you.

Though muffled, his agonized sobbing is disturbing to listen to. Luckily for you, it doesn’t last much longer. The clown emerges from his stooped position with half an arm and a whole lot of teeth. His demonic mouth unfurls with a silent cackle as he flaps the severed limb about, even using it to wave at you. Blood pours from the end of the arm where jagged bone pokes out, the thick liquid spilling down the clown's own limbs and soaking into the shiny fabric of his costume. It's a macabre image like something straight out of your nightmares.

“What are you?” you wonder aloud, horrified.

Not wanting to monopolize all the fun for himself, the clown crosses the room, toting his freshly harvested arm. With two hands, he holds it parallel to the ground and extends his long arms to offer it to you. Fat drops of blood leak from the limb and plop wet and warm into your lap. Persistently, the clown stretches even further to pass the disgusting arm to you and you have nowhere to go except backwards.

Pulling your legs up, you plant your bare heels under yourself and scoot away from him, using your hands in tandem to shuffle faster. The clown instantaneously releases the arm and it falls to the ground with a sickening sound, freeing up his hands to snatch your ankles before you can get away. You screech instinctively, but he doesn’t heed the terror in your high-pitched utterance. He yanks hard and your much weaker arms offer little resistance as you topple over. You’re pulled in rather violently and he situates you lengthwise along the table, your legs hanging over the edge and bracketing either side of his thighs.

Panic still floods your mind and you immediately sit up, ready to continue your fight to escape, however the clown plants his hands on your blood-smeared thighs and presses his weight down until the crushing pain of it makes you cry out. If you want him to stop, you’ll have to stay still. Your hands curl around the edge of the table and you tamp down every instinct you have in order to do what he wants.

The clown doesn’t let go of you until he’s certain you won’t try to get away. You’d have vehemently promised him your cooperation if the ache in your bones wasn’t stealing your breath. The clown relents and you practically moan with relief, panting and frightened. When you look up at the figure standing between your knees, you’re surprised to find him with his arms crossed petulantly across his stained chest. He regards you with disdain and frustration, displeased with your refusal of his gracious, gory gift.

He takes a single step back — his attention having shifted to the blood-soaked garment that hangs off his lanky frame — and he throws his hands up in mock exasperation. One long arm reaches behind his back and you hear the sound of a small zipper. You half expect him to reveal that his body is actually composed of a million little bugs and spiders beneath the suit, or at least something equally disturbing. To your relief, the revelation is much less sensational.

The loosened material falls away to expose his shoulders first, his skin so pallid it’s nearly the same shade as his painted face. His long arms and slender torso are so plainly unremarkable that it makes him almost too human. With nothing but the white hood stained red still around his head, the clown looks more silly than scary, but you’re too transfixed by the sheer normalcy of what was hidden beneath to even notice. The costume slips free of his bony wrists, stopping just short of falling away completely when it settles on the protrusions of his hips. That cloying, sickly sweet scent wafts from him more strongly now, starkly contradicting both his gruesome appearance and grotesque behavior.

Humiliation warms your cheeks when he catches you staring, but he’s more interested in something else. He falls easily back into his role as a joker, suddenly gesturing almost apologetically to the sanguine splatters covering your legs. The tip of one finger swipes through a large droplet of blood, leaving a clean streak in its wake. The clown flattens a palm against each of your thighs and drags his hands towards himself, trying to use his filthy gloves to sop up some of the blood, but they’re already so sodden that he only makes more of a mess.

His mouth forms an inspired circle and you can practically see the light bulb flicker above his hat-topped head. Time slows and you watch him pitch forward, hinging at the waist when he bends to lick at the blood staining the skin just above your knee. The wet heat of his lapping tongue is shocking in the worst way. Your body moves reflexively, leaning away from him until you’re forced to catch yourself with your palms braced behind you.

A startled gasp escapes more loudly than you would have liked and the clown pulls his head back at once, a high-browed, jesting look of surprise contorting his painted face. The taut, rounded shape of his mouth soon morphs into a broad grin that makes your stomach flip for a plethora of reasons. His eyelids lower in the closest thing he can manage to sultry and he delves back in with fervor, latching his lips to your thigh even higher than before. Though slender, his fingers grip your legs with incredible strength and keep you in place. His teeth occasionally catch your flesh as he licks and sucks the blood away.

When your brain finally manages to function somewhat normally, your hands can only float uselessly above the clown, too afraid to push him away for fear of the consequences. His mouth journeys higher and higher until his angular nose reaches the hem of your tattered dress and pushes it far enough to reveal the plain pair of panties beneath. The rush of his breath fanning over your underwear is enough to finally make your paralyzed hands move, but it’s too late.

Sitting up straight, your hands have barely made contact with the warm skin of the clown’s upper arms when the tip of his moist tongue sweeps with pointed precision directly over your covered center. Though you had intended to shove him away, the sensation instead causes your fingers to dig harshly into his soft biceps and you cry out. The clown peers up at you and carefully nods his head with approving enthusiasm before returning to the apex of your thighs to do it again, almost experimentally. The whimper he earns this time is twice as sweet and he pulls away, clapping happily in awe of his discovery.

Still stained with the fruits of his labor, a red-tipped finger sneaks between your thighs and he swirls it with damning pressure directly on your bundle of nerves. You don’t want to react, but a hiss escapes you, unbidden. The clown’s face twists with elation and he does it again and again until your teeth clench with restraint. You know your lack of sounds does nothing to preserve your dignity when you can feel the wet spot you’re sure must be visible through your underwear by now.

He seems to be testing the limits, seeing how far he can push before you’ll break. Adding a second finger, he rubs more firmly and his touch drifts from your clit to your entrance where most of the moisture collects. You keep your eyes fixed securely on the ceiling where you only have to see the termite-ravaged rafters and not what this murderous clown is doing to you. Still, you can feel the clown’s unwavering stare burning holes into your upturned face. It isn’t long before your panties are soaked through and you can actually hear the stickiness as he massages the damp material into your folds.

You know it’s twisted and you should stop him, but some incredibly sick part of you wants to indulge his curiosity. And another small part of you just wants to avoid pissing him off, lest you end up asphyxiated on some body part of your own or missing one of your limbs.

You’re finding it increasingly difficult to think clearly enough to make a decision because the clown’s relentless ministrations have the muscles in your thighs beginning to quiver. His touch is dizzying and when his pinkie finger trails along the seam of your underwear where it meets the sensitive crease of your thigh, your legs part ever so slightly. This is apparently all the evidence he needs of your capitulation because what little control he’d been showing suddenly snaps.

In an instant, the clown has tucked all four fingers beneath the gusset of your panties. He yanks so hard that your bare ass skids across the workbench and nearly off the edge. You barely manage to catch yourself on your elbows before your skull slams into the hard surface behind you. Your underwear is wrenched a second time and the material digs into your flesh for a moment before splitting. He divests you of the shredded fabric, making sure to undermine the moment by wrapping the ruined garment around his head like a babushka.

The clown cups behind your knees and shoves both you and your legs upwards, forcing you to plant your feet on the surface of the table and leaving you laid openly bare before him. He wastes no time ravishing your exposed center, his mouth latching onto you without hesitation. His tongue moves with little finesse, sloppily soaking your already wet cunt with saliva. Your hips lift with a shriek and he wraps an arm around either leg to pin you down while he feasts on you, his sharp nose bumping your clit and sending zings of pleasure through your body.

You’re too far gone to think about the blood still coating his fingers when two of them force their way into your slippery pussy. A whine catches in your throat as the clown curls his fingers deliciously, massaging your walls in a way that has your head tossing from side to side. Using the widest part of his tongue, he pushes the muscle with unforgiving speed against your clit until your vision blanks.

Juices flow abundantly as the clown fucks you with his fingers and mouth. Stopping once or twice to allow a string of saliva to drip from his pointed tongue only adds to the slickness. His tongue occasionally delves into your entrance to taste every bit of nectar you have to offer. When your back begins to arch, he redoubles his efforts, shoving your knees to your chest as he plucks a fierce orgasm from your willing body. His lips latch onto the turgid bundle of nerves and with very little effort, you wail and fall apart like putty in his bloodied hands.

He doesn’t stop when you cum. The rough tip of his tongue slips with agonizing slowness from your cunt to your clit, then back down with the softer, smoother underside of the muscle. The continual onslaught of the clown’s mouth becomes too much once your orgasm dissipates and the stimulation is overwhelming, forcing you to clench your thighs around his head. You finally find your voice and beg for mercy, tears collecting in the corners of your eyes as you endure the torturous slithering of his long tongue.

Eventually, the clown grants the mercy for which you’ve begged and rises from between your shaking thighs. His vast grin glistens more than usual in the low light and a combination of your essence and his saliva coats his chin, tinged pink from the blood he’d cleansed from your thighs. The sight should terrify you, but has the opposite effect, instead tying your stomach in reprehensible knots.

With your body still propped on your elbows, you have a perfect vantage point to study the looming clown. His shoulders are pulled high and taut, his entire frame expands and deflates with deep, steady breaths. Those long teeth grind, his jaw shifting contemplatively from side to side as he wars with his wavering control. Something decidedly evil brews in his light green irises.

Your gaze drifts lower along his seemingly never-ending body to where the clown’s partially-shed costume still clings to his trim pelvis. The thin material does very little to disguise the distinct ridge of a growing erection, its outline pronounced and slightly curved. He watches your pupils dilate and your mouth drop open with a humorously audible pop. He holds one palm bashfully in front of his mouth and coquettishly flutters his dark lashes, shyly shooing you away with his opposite hand and shimmying his shoulders in a facade of self-consciousness.

His hand promptly falls to his waist where he nudges the silken fabric of his jumpsuit lower until it slips down his long legs. Bared to you now, you’re graced with the sight of his half-hard cock. The shaft is notably thick and measures up nicely; pale and smooth like marble with the weeping tip the same fleshy pink as his wicked tongue. You’re not as disgusted as you should be by the sight and that thought is sobering. When you use your hands and feet to scurry backwards across the table again, the clown’s dick jerks as it hardens further.

A punishing grip crushes your windpipe as he takes you by the throat and halts your momentum, his entire body practically thrown over yours atop the table just to prevent you from getting away. You claw at his imprisoning hand, your fingernails leaving several raised scratches across his otherwise perfect skin while you gasp for air and he drags you back where he’s decided you belong. He releases your neck only to slam you flat on your back with a palm splayed across your chest. This time, your head does bounce off the workbench.

Hiking one thigh over his hip and pushing the other at an angle you aren’t quite flexible enough for, the clown spreads you wide open. His height makes it so that he’s almost too tall for his pelvis to align with yours but he does his best, bending his knees just enough for his impressively hard cock to nestle heavily across your pubic bone. Several tumescent pearls seep from the swollen tip, leaving a trail of sticky precum when he pulls his hips back.

Your muscles quake with the effort it takes to keep your bent leg in place when the clown releases his grip on the limb. Using his free hand, he drags the blood-soaked glove covering his palm along the length of his throbbing shaft, eyes igniting with sinful heat as he watches his fist pumping. His knuckles lightly brush your clit and the contact has you ready to launch straight off the table.

The clown releases his length, letting it fall back against your pussy with a wet plop. With his thumb wedged just beneath the tip, he angles his cock towards your slick hole and uses its girth to stretch you open. Just as your lips part in awe, his hips thrust forward to bury several inches inside of you and a startled yelp rips from your mouth. He pauses momentarily to laugh noiselessly at you, the jostling of his body allowing his cock to slip deeper.

The pressure is mind-numbing, though you fear you might actually pass out when the clown drags your body close to his, impaling you until your walls are stretched around the thickest part of his cock and the thatch of hair at the base is saturated in your flood of juices. A full-body convulsion causes your internal muscles to clench and even the malevolent clown is not immune to the stimulation. His blackened mouth hangs open on a soundless moan, eyes hazed with salacious lust as he watches his cock retract from your dripping cunt. The slick pull of his length makes you cry out.

“Oh…my god,” you breathe.

The clown plunges deep once more, bottoming out — once, twice, three times — until your breath catches as you watch him sink every fat inch into your pussy. Your eyes pinch shut against the undeniable pleasure. He repeats the motion over and over until his thrusting hips settle into a steady, unabating rhythm that has you racing towards another orgasm. The wetness spilling from your core would prevent any decent friction if the clown’s cock wasn’t so thick, but each precise grind of his hips is wracking your body with ecstasy. As the rapturous sensations build, so too does the volume of your moaned chanting.

“Fuck, oh my god. Oh my god. Oh…my…god.”

Fire licks at the back of your neck and your toes curl, every fiber of your being trying to fend off the intensity of the tumultuous orgasm which approaches. You wrench your eyes open only to find the clown's eyebrows angled sadly and his frowning lips moving in sync with your simpering words, silently mocking every pathetically moaned syllable perfectly in time with your hoarse voice.

Feeling humiliated by his taunting, your cheeks heat and you reach between your legs to press a flattened hand to his lower stomach in an attempt to put an end to the havoc he wreaks on you. You’ve made the mistake of reaching down with your injured arm and he takes advantage, circling your forearm in his spindly fingers and squeezing — digging deep in the tender wound — until the raw flesh begins to bleed and you yell like a snared animal. You recoil in pain, your body tensing as you do and clamping harshly around the cock still rutting between your thighs.

Pain mingles with hellish pleasure and your cunt ripples uncontrollably, threatening to bring you both to your end. You slam your eyes shut and hold your breath against the rising tide. Sensing the battle you wage, the clown opts to prolong his torment. Bracing his large hands on the workbench, he uses the leverage to fuck you even harder and deeper, his hips slamming so roughly that it knocks the wind out of you. You’re on the verge of sobbing, each sorrowful sound distorted by the force of the clown’s cock pummeling your body.

A warm palm lands none-too-gently across your face, the clown’s pinkie and thumb tucked between your cheekbone and jaw on either side of your face; his other three fingers gouge indentations into your forehead as he easily clutches the entirety of your skull in his hand. The filthy fabric of his glove crushes against your nose and mouth, soiled with your blood and saliva as it impedes your ability to breathe properly.

As the clown approaches his own release, his thrusts become brutal, fucking you mercilessly without a care for your pleasure or comfort. He shows no consideration for your life either, judging by the way he continues to smother you. Still, your own orgasm is quickly becoming inevitable and he can tell by the desperate way you swirl your hips, trying hopelessly to meet every stroke of his swelling cock.

He shifts his grasp on your face, allowing you to take a much needed breath. He pinches your cheeks with all of his strength, ensuring that it hurts. When you refuse to open your eyes, he taps his fingers against your damp cheek, hitting you harder and harder until you meet his dominating glare. His fingers proceed to dig painfully into your face like a claw and you’re glad his blunt nails aren’t sharp enough to break the skin.

The clown curls his body ominously over top of yours. He crowds your space, your vision, your mind. You can see and feel nothing but him. You’re surrounded, every one of your senses blotted out by his presence. In a fleeting moment of clarity, you finally recognize that syrupy scent which clings to his skin like an entity all its own: sugary, saccharine cotton candy. A total antithesis to the malicious beast it oozes from.

His grinning mouth splits wide so a stream of pink-tinged saliva can drool from his open lips and splatter along your abdomen. He holds fast to your cheeks, forcing you to maintain eye contact until his cold eyes roll briefly to the back of his head.

“Shit. Fuck,” you cry, fearing what’s about to happen and knowing you’ll never be able to stop it.

He smiles evilly and his head nods fervently when he sees the abject horror and realization in your face. Eyes flashing fully white, the clown’s body begins to vibrate with furious, unbridled carnality. In an attempt to get out from under him, you twist your hips in a way that only allows the clown to slip deeper than ever, his cock bumping painfully against your cervix and his tight, cum-laden balls crushed against your ass.

Your palms slam flat at your sides and his crash down right beside them. Against your better judgment, one of your legs hooks firmly against the taut muscles of the clown’s bare back, locking him in place as your pussy constricts with a release that shatters your sanity. His torso quakes powerfully as he crumbles along with you, his head nearly coming to rest against your chest as he cums deep inside you.

He makes no noise, but a sharp exhale unleashes a long, hot puff of air across your skin. Every pulse of his cock as he spurts more of his seed extends your orgasm until your whole body shakes with exhaustion. Your cunt squeezes his throbbing length so hard you fear he may never leave your body.

Contrarily, the clown is already moving between your thighs, thrusting his cock decidedly deep with a final cruel stroke before pulling out with aching slowness. His barely softened length rubs every one of your sensitive nerve endings and your body launches into another, less debilitating orgasm. The tip of his dick slips free along with a flood of cum that drips down to collect beneath you.

Hardly conscious, you hear the shuffling of fabric as the clown redresses in his bloody costume. He tucks his cock — still partially stiff and slick with your abundant juices — into the suit before casually sliding his long arms down the sleeves. You’re left exposed, your panties missing and your dress hiked just under your breasts. He studies his cum- and blood-stained gloves for a moment, rolls his eyes, then plucks them comically from his hands and flings them over his shoulder with a shrug and a dopey frown.

Pools of saliva shine on your belly and the clown slides between your open thighs to lick it up. You flinch at the contact, your body still on edge and hyper-aware of his teasing touch. His tongue trails slowly from your belly button to your sternum and back down to the apex of your thighs where he delves gently between your folds to taste your mingeld cum.

The salty sweetness makes him breathe hotly against your center. It's a soothing sensation, swiftly interrupted by the intrusion of his fingers slipping into your used cunt with shallow strokes. The clown coats his fingers in your juices, dipping in and out until you whimper before using the sticky white fluid to draw three sloppy letters across the space between your hips; writing his name to mark you as his property, a plaything to keep around only as long as it suits his sinister whims.

Writing Masterpost

#TUMBLR STOP EATING MY POST CHALLENGE #i really took the scenic route on this one #i need to honk his horn and slonk his dong soooo badly u don't get it #art the clown x reader #art the clown fanfiction #art the clown fanfic #art the clown x you #terrifier fanfic #art the clown x you smut #terrifier fanfiction #horror fanfic #horror fanfiction #slasher x reader #slasher fanfiction #slasher fanfic

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