Carl and Natasha

The tent flap closed behind her, and the noise of the midway went muffled, as if someone had thrown a blanket over the world.

Delilah stood in the dark for a moment, letting her eyes adjust. The smell was the first thing that hit her—not sawdust and oil nor sex like the rest of the carnival, but baking. Yeast and cinnamon and something simmering. Home. Then the lights came up, warm and low, and she saw the ring.

She took a seat in the stands, and that was when the second thing hit her: the crowd. Everyone in the bleachers sat loose and slumped, shoulders down, jaws slack. Torn clothing, cuddling, mindlessly groping each other. The dazed, satisfied look of people in the afterglow. They looked like they'd each just had a very good, very private evening and were still recovering.

Delilah made a note. She was making a lot of notes lately.

The stage wasn't really a stage. It was a ring on the floor, and inside it someone had arranged a mid-century living room—an avocado green couch, a well-worn armchair, a rabbit-eared television, a rug with the fringe gone soft from feet. The props mixed with the equipment: barbells, kettlebells, a bent steel bar resting against the coffee table like a forgotten newspaper. It was cozy and absurd at once, as if after the show the couple would drop onto that couch, flip on the TV to the bionic sound effects of *The Six Million Dollar Man*, and wait for popcorn to warm on the stove.

Given the bed in the background—real sheets, real pillows, unmade—Delilah got the distinct impression that they did exactly that and more.

**"Now presenting,"** boomed a voice from nowhere and everywhere, **"Carl, the Siberian Bear-Man, and Natasha, the World's Strongest Farm Girl!"**

"That explains the corn," Delilah muttered, remembering the pattern on the tent flaps.

The spotlight swung—and landed on Carl.

He was huge. Not gym-huge, not protein-powder huge, Siberian huge, the kind of body built for hauling and digging and standing in weather that made breathing painful. His beard was the size of a small animal. And he was eating a lightbulb.

Delilah felt her skin crawl, but there was no blood, no wince. Either he was strong on the inside too, or it was that sugar glass the theater kids kept talking about. The spotlight spun again, this time to a girl whose hair was as strong and as yellow as sunflowers, with arms that could rip truck tires in half like they were made from paper. But her smile was even brighter than the spotlights. She peered over at her glass-chewing husband, then out to the audience.

Natasha caught Delilah's expression and grinned. "Now, y'all, I love my husband—but sometimes he ain't the bright bulb in the shed." It elicited a wave of chuckles from the crowd, especially the couples.

Carl looked up, half-finished bulb in hand, genuinely surprised by the joke. "Snack, my darling ?" He offered her the lightbulb.

"Ain't he a peach," Natasha said to the audience, and the crowd murmured back like a congregation. She kissed him on his hairy, hairy head with a sweetness that would make dentists pass out.

Then they got to work.

And for a while—a blessed, ordinary while—it was just a strongman act.

That lulled Delilah more than anything else had. She was of an intellectual stock, and she'd always viewed athletic pursuits with a bit of navel-gazing condescension—it didn't help that the college weight-room manager was a former drill sergeant who'd once told her "poetry's just reps for the lazy." Strongman theater, she'd assumed, was just brute force dressed up for the big city. But watching Carl and Natasha, she started to see the machinery underneath. The wrist and hand and tendon strength, the prodigious obliques, the tiny adjustments of grip and counterweight that kept a two-hundred-pound load from folding a man in half. It wasn't brute force. It was precision wearing a Bear-Man costume.

They pressed iron overhead at arm's length and held it there long enough to make a point. They bent steel bars across their shoulders. Carl broke a chain with his bare hands while Natasha broke one across her thigh, and they smiled at each other through the whole thing like it was a duet.

Delilah relaxed. She let herself relax.

That was the mistake.

Natasha called for an audience member to be part of their act. Many hands flew up at once. Which was fine, as she could hide in the forest of reaching palms, then Natasha pointed to "that cute little one," which offended Delilah, as in her mind five foot five was completely normal height.

She didn't remember leaving her seat, as she was dead set on doing so, but given Natasha's size and strength, declining wasn't an option. She remembered being in the ring, which was somehow fine, nothing out of the ordinary yet. Then she remembered Carl's hips, which was less fine, in the best possible way. Carl undid her top while leaving only the collar on. He tugged gently at the D-ring like the ringmaster and said something in Russian. Natasha called it an adorable little thing as she examined the emo girl. "Carl, look at how pale she is," Natasha said incredulously. Carl nodded along. "Need sunlight and exercise." Distracted and insulted, Delilah shot out, "What are you, my parents?"—which turned into a critical error as she felt Carl's arms begin to lift her up. "Nyet"—which was Russian for no—but Delilah couldn't process that as she was thrust into the air and juggled between the Siberian Bear-Man and his wife. Tossing around a small woman like Delilah was the equivalent of throwing a foam kickball around, but it delighted the audience with the sheer spectacle of it all. The coup de grâce was Carl sending Delilah skyward, harder and longer this time, freeing his massive erect dick from his leather pants as the pale girl started to fall.

Carl's cock collided with Delilah's pussy, and she shouldn't have been surprised—he was a huge man, and huge men had huge cocks—but she was surprised anyway, that bright shock of being filled when she hadn't quite registered being empty. And at the front, she was being motorboated by the most muscular pair of tits she had ever seen. Not that she could see anything; the massive mammaries blocked out her entire field of vision, warm and solid and moving with every breath Natasha took.

What made it worse—better—was the talk.

They kept talking to each other. Soft, lovey-dovey nonsense, right over Delilah's head, while she was pinned between them like a bookend. Natasha in front, and the free side of her double-ended strap-on slid into Delilah's mouth like it had been waiting for her. The sheer size made Delilah drool all over herself, while her other occupied hole also leaked, while her other occupied hole leaked around Carl, who worked her like a jackhammer plugged into a nuclear reactor. Even while multitasking, Carl never stopped pumping, the in-and-out motion that made her tits bounce forward and backward. And Natasha's "I love you" and Carl's "But I love you more" back and forth was making any attempt to mentally remove herself from the moment impossible.

If Delilah hadn't been actively playing cock sleeve, she would have found it adorable—a triumph of love overcoming all obstacles. The only ones Delilah was sure were cumming were Carl and Natasha.

"You know, sweetie-pie," Natasha whispered, her farm-girl twang a seamless blend of South and Midwest, a combination that made pinpointing where exactly she was from almost impossible, "relationships ain't easy." Carl's cock filled her pussy without leaving any extra room, as did Natasha's strap. Her limbs flailed, as they were so big that even while she was at waist height with them, her legs couldn't touch the floor.

Delilah made a sound around the strap-on that she hoped conveyed agreement. By taking part in this rather unusual conversation, she hoped it would distract her from how much she was starting to enjoy this fucking she was getting. What Carl was giving was similar to her ex, just jackhammering her slit, but unlike her ex, Carl was committed and consistent. He was as interested in Natasha's pleasure, and hers, as in his own

Natasha reached down and brushed the hair off Delilah's forehead, tender as anything. "See, most folks think it's about the *strength*. Getting through the hard parts. But it ain't." She rocked her hips, easy and patient, and behind her Carl matched the rhythm without a word. "It's about knowing what to pick up, and knowing what to put down." Delilah could feel her pussy loosening to handle such a high amount of lean meat. Her body went soft, and her orgasm was building. Carl laughed, low, and pressed a kiss to the back of Delilah's neck. "And knowing when to hold on."

Delilah, pinned and filled and thoroughly handled, decided that was either the wisest thing she'd ever heard or the horniest, and that the two might be the same thing here. Carl went rigid from the top of his head to the tip of his cock. Natasha went stiff as well, given they did almost everything together, so cumming together shouldn't have been a surprise. Delilah shivered as she felt her insides get painted white with Carl's Siberian seed.

The crowd in the bleachers watched. The crowd cheered and clapped as the couple raised Delilah over their heads before taking a bow and bringing her down. Nobody stayed much longer after that. The timer dinged on an oven somewhere, and Natasha said something about muffins being ready. Carl set up a tray table in front of the couch with two glasses and a pitcher of lemonade. They were going to take a break before the next show. Now working with a pussy that was much looser than before—or at least that's what she believed anyway—Natasha helped a wobbling Delilah dress into her clothes with a motherly tenderness. "Someone gon' be real lucky to leash you, sweetpea," she said, like that was supposed to be a compliment.

Delilah decided it was time to start making her way back out, albeit a bit slower this time, as she walked, feeling the extra seed drip down her leg.