Clown Car

The clown car pulls away from Enchantments Salon & Spa with a backfire loud enough to rattle the windows. I am wedged into the center of the vehicle, surrounded on all sides by clowns. There is no other word for them. Every available inch of space is occupied. The car lurches forward, and my head knocks against the metal roof, sending a dull ache through my bare scalp.

A juggler is somehow sitting beneath my left arm. An accordion player is squeezed against my right shoulder. A mime occupies the floorboards near my feet. Someone behind me keeps honking a tiny bicycle horn at random intervals for no apparent reason.

The car should not be moving. It should not even be capable of containing this many people. Yet somehow it barrels down the road toward the distant lights of the circus. I am pressed so tight I can't draw a full breath. A painted face leers near mine, smelling of old candy and cigarettes. The clowns find my discomfort hilarious.

"How's the seating arrangement?" one asks.

"Spacious," another answers before I can speak.

The painted faces twist into ugly grins. "Look at the new egg," one hisses, a rough hand sliding over my hip.

Their laughter is a high, tinny sound that scrapes at the inside of my skull. Fingers probE the cheap fabric of my costume. I try to twist away, but the press of bodies is a solid, mocking wall. Another clown pinches my bare arm, hard. The city slides past in a blur of streetlights and storefronts.

A hand slithers under my top, cold fingers tracing the line of my breast. I try to recoil, but the bodies are a solid wall. My own breath comes in shallow, useless gasps, lost in their cruel chuckling. The car bounces, jamming me harder against them.

"Easy, pretty egg," one chuckles, thick fingers catching my suspenders, pulling them, and letting them go. A sharp, biting snap against my nipple steals my breath. I flinch, a choked sound escaping. The pain is bright, a hot echo of my helplessness.

"Saggy little tits," a jester cackles, pinching my nipples and yanking on them through my top. "Like two empty feedbags." My world shrinks to the sharp sting through my sportsbra. Each snap of my suspenders is a small, precise humiliation, a punctuation to their taunts.

One clown's eyes, a pale, intelligent grey behind the painted leer, hold mine for a fraction too long. Instead of laughter, I see a flicker of something like clinical assessment. The grey-eyed clown finally speaks, his voice a low rasp against the din. "Look at those udders," he says, his tone detached, almost academic. "Saggy little shitbags. Empty, like her head."

Their hands are a storm of ownership, squeezing, twisting, pinching until my nipples are tight, aching points of fire. I am drowning in a churning sea of groping and pinching fingers that leave no inch of my chest untouched. It's a brutal, impersonal inventory of my flesh, each smack and twist a lesson in helplessness.

Unfortunately, it quickly becomes apparent that people can see inside the clown car. The realization hits at the first stoplight when we pull alongside a sedan waiting for the signal to change. "Let's flash them your headlights," jokes one of the clowns."

The clown yanks at my white sportsbra, pulling it up and allowing my tits to flop out, one by one. The cold evening air hits my bare skin a second before I see the shocked faces in the sedan beside us. The driver glances in our direction, does a double take, and immediately nudges his wife.

Within seconds everyone in the vehicle is looking through the windows. Their attention drifts across the overcrowded clown car before settling squarely on the bald clown sitting in the middle of the vehicle with painted tears beneath her eyes and her tits hanging out. A clown beside me waves enthusiastically through the glass.

The couple wave back. Then the light changes, and the entire car erupts with laughter as we lurch away, leaving my shame hanging in the intersection. The clowns applaud and jabber around Bells. "Oh, she made their evening. She's practically public service." The laughter continues.

The accordion player immediately begins playing a sad melody. The entire car starts singing. By the time they finish, several of them are wiping tears from their eyes. I'd like to punch every single one of them. The ride continues.

The clown holding my arms wrenches my skirt up, the tattered hem catching on the metal seat. Another grabs my ankles, pulling my legs apart. "Look at the fresh little peach," one jeers, his breath hot on my bare thigh. My shaved skin is exposed, a stark, vulnerable landscape under the flickering neon light from outside.

The grey-eyed clown's hand slides over my thigh, his touch clinical, a performer checking a prop. "See how she's ready for the show," he announces, his voice flat, as his fingers probe. My own body's grim, involuntary wetness is a silent betrayal, a slickness that makes me burn with shame.

He holds his glistening fingers up to the light for the others to see, a displaying evidence of my arousal. A dozen hands claim every part of me, their rough fingers pinching, probing, violating. One plunges deep inside my cunt, while another finds a tighter, more shocking entry into the pucker of my anus.

The assault continues. A jester pinches my clitoris, a sharp, bright pain that makes me arch and cry out. "She's practically singing for us," he chuckles, his voice lost in the cacophony. I close my eyes, focusing on the cold metal of the car roof against my bare head.

The clown's calloused fingers pump inside me, a harsh, rhythmic distortion of what should be private. My own slickness betrays me, easing their brutal exploration. Each thrust is a public declaration of my shame, stretching me open where anyone could see.

The ache is a deep, sickening pulse that eclipses even my fear. Their invasion is a series of blunt, stretching intrusions, my own slickness a shocking lubricant for their cruelty. A dozen fingers enter my poor holes. The stretching ache in my core is a deep, hollow burn, a testament to my utter helplessness.

The car lurches forward again, and the motion grinds me against the relentless hands, a final, mechanical humiliation. A ragged sob escapes me as I'm stretched obscenely wide. The clowns' collective laughter feels distant, a buzzing in my ears.

"Look at her take it," a voice murmurs, not with cruelty, but with a detached, fascinated awe.

Every intersection becomes a fresh humiliation. People notice the car. Then they notice the crowd of clowns. Then they notice me, my tits and crotch garishly exposed. Some laugh, others point, and many take pictures.

One elderly man presses his face against the window of a bus stop shelter just to get a better look. The clown nearest the glass proudly gestures toward me as though introducing a celebrity. The old man gives me a thumbs up. The entire vehicle explodes with laughter.

"See?" one clown says. "You've already got fans."

I briefly consider whether jumping from the moving vehicle is an option. A few minutes later the car passes through a crowded downtown district. The sidewalks are packed. Music spills from restaurants and bars. Pedestrians fill the streets.

The clowns immediately become excited. "Oh, this is a good crowd."

"We should lower the windows." Several windows slide open.

I close my eyes. The fresh night air rushes into the vehicle. So do the voices. People laugh and wave. Several point directly at me. The clowns wave back enthusiastically. One of them stands halfway through a window and announces my presence like a carnival barker.

"Ladies and gentlemen! The world's funniest whore!" The crowd laughs.

Another clown corrects him. "No, no. She's the world's sluttiest clown." That one earns another round of laughter.

A young man on the sidewalk cups his hands around his mouth. "You look great!" I am not entirely certain whether he is being sincere.

The car continues onward. Gradually the buildings begin to thin, giving way to open stretches of road. The circus comes into view long before we reach it. Brightly colored tents rise above the surrounding trees, and a Ferris wheel slowly turns in the distance. Even from several blocks away, I can hear the faint strains of calliope music drifting through the warm afternoon air.

The clown car begins to slow as we approach the entrance. Around me, the mood inside the vehicle changes. The laughter dies down, replaced by the quiet routine of performers preparing for another show. One clown straightens his oversized bow tie while another adjusts her painted smile in a compact mirror.

The accordion player closes his instrument with a satisfied pat, and the juggler gathers his clubs into a neat bundle. For the first time since I had been shoved into the car, everyone seems focused on something other than humiliating me. That realization sends an uncomfortable chill through my helpless body.

The car rounds the final bend and rolls toward the main entrance. A pair of weathered wooden gates stands open beneath a faded sign announcing Voss Circus, while families and groups of adults stream through the ticket booths carrying popcorn, balloons, and stuffed prizes. Beyond the entrance, striped tents, animal wagons, game booths, and food stands fill the fairgrounds with color and activity.

The clown car rattles past the front gate and into the employee area behind the midway, and I realize that everything that happened at the salon had merely been my preparation. The real performance is about to begin. Up until now, I have been the butt of a private joke shared between the clowns. In a few moments, that joke is going to have an audience.