“Hello, big guy,” she says sidling up to me on the platform, “Shall we make him a bit jealous then?” Oh sweetheart, he’s not the jealous one. I hook a rope over my shoulder and free the swing.
“Come sit on my lap, you feisty little disco ball you.” She gets a smitten look in her eyes and moves in front of me so that as I swing off the platform she’s forced into me, sitting between my spread legs. Her soft womanly ass rubbing against my cock that is hard for the man below us. His green eyes staring up at me through dark lashes. I lock my legs, freeing my arms so that I can work some circus magic with the rope. Slowly twisting and tying it around her, she’s watching Scottie and doesn’t even take notice of the thick heavy scratch rope around her delicate little neck. When I’m confident in my rope work, I run my hands down her sides and back up, gripping her breasts hard enough that she squeals and giggles. Wiggling further back against me as we swing back and forth through the hot air in the top of the tent.
One.
Swift.
Push.
It’s over too quickly, but his face is priceless, even when it costs me a part of my soul every single time I do this for him.
Dangling.
Swinging.
HUNG.
And my love below us, glowing with warmth and desire. I swing higher so I can dismount onto the platform; grabbing a black silk, I slip down slowly so that I can join him. Getting closer and closer to my prize. Dangling upside down I hover just above him, his green eyes shining with pure devilish delight. I can see the light of her sequined clothing shining in them and I can’t help but smile; she shouldn’t have touched what was mine. Gripping the black fabric in his hands, Scott yanks me forward, smashing his mouth onto mine where I hang upside down at his mercy. As our kiss deepens I slowly unravel myself further and further down, twisting myself so that I am upright and can land on my feet in front of him.
“I told you if anyone ever came between us I’d kill them,” I hiss in his ear through gritted teeth. I can feel the heat of his anger radiating off his body. He knows I like this — he knows I did it to taunt him. I need this, it’s been too fucking long.
The sound of the fireworks outside in the distance are like a melancholy serenade to this love story we tell each time. “You play with fire, Scott, and other people get hurt. I don’t like doing this.” I like it when he does this. It does things to me I can’t explain. He’s close to me now, so close I can smell the stage paint and sweat. So close. I don’t say a word, I just stare into his green eyes, defiant. I know what I want. I want him and this is how I get him. Every single time.
Scott doesn’t want me, but he doesn’t want anyone else to have me either. So this is the way to get him. Bringing his bare chest against mine, his thundering heartbeat banging against me. I hold my breath still looking into those angry eyes, hoping that I have pushed him far enough over the edge.
There is noise outside, beyond the thin walls of the tent, but in here we are alone in the glow of the dimmed lights. Shadows dancing around us, as we stand frozen in lust and rage. The soft melody of music drifts through speakers, drowning out the sound of his heavy breathing. Scottie kisses me, the taste of bitter stage makeup mixes with my desperation.
“Is this what you wanted?” he says, stopping to breathe for a moment. I can’t breathe, even if I wanted to, he stole it from me again. Nodding my head I look up above us, I look at what he made me do, and my dick hardens. He kisses me again; this time, it’s the loose cannon of lust going off. Hands in my hair and all over my body. Rough, hard, possessive touches. Gnashing teeth, nails breaking skin, and the taste of blood coating my tongue where he just bit it — this — this primal need that dances silently between us — this is what I needed.
He slows down, and I know I have won, looking up at him now through my lashes I can see the anger melt and the love he hides from the world dances like a ballerina in his eyes. “Here?” he asks me, lifting my chin so I can’t avoid his stare.
“Yes, here.” This time he looks up, and I watch his body tense up. Without hesitation he pushes me down to my knees and frees his erection. The one I could feel growing hot and hard while he kissed me. I am hungry, ravenous to feed on any scrap of love I can get from him. Closing my eyes I lick his cock like a hungry kitten lapping up a saucer of milk. His calloused hand on my cheek, gently slowing me down, forcing me to go at his pace. He tastes like everything I’ve ever wanted.
“Open your eyes, Wes, look at me. I want to see your pretty eyes water as you choke on my dick.” I listen to him, I look into his eyes, the light catching the shine of the sequins dangling up high above us making a halo around his head. Scottie is an angel in that moment, my goddamned angel. Maybe that’s why he flies with such grace — he’s an angel.
“Ahh,” he groans throwing his head back, breaking the eye contact and giving me the most gorgeous view of his body and the roof of the tent. “God, Wesley,” he yells forcing himself all the way down my wanton throat. His grip on my head is like iron as he pumps harder and faster; I don’t fight it, I simply surrender to being used. I see stars and they’re not from the lights or sequins, the lack of air making me trip. I am dancing on a euphoric high as I lick, suck, and worship his cock.
Lost in the haze, I’m high on the taste and smell of him, ravenously devouring these small crumbs of affection. I taste the first drop of the bitter, salty precum as it leaks onto my tongue, and my mouth waters for more. More of him, more of this — more of whatever he will give me.
April spins above us like a disco ball, scattering diamonds of light all over the dark floor. Spinning, taking us further out of control.
Eight
Scott
Wesley is on his knees and I know I have to give him what he deserves, because this kills him a little inside every single time. She’s spinning around on the end of the rope, a dead weight. And in all of this I know he loves me, he has proven it again. Only someone who truly loves you could sacrifice their own soul to feed the monsters living within yours.
Pulling him up so that we are standing eye to eye, there is an unspoken language that passes between us. A power shift, a moment where I surrender myself to him. Stripping myself of the few clothes I am wearing, I silently turn away from him, move to my knees, and bare myself to him. My hands gripping the muscled globes of my ass, pulling the cheeks apart, giving him complete control. Unfettered access to my waiting hole — something he never gets unless it’s like this. A rumbling groan escapes from me as I push back against his warm tongue that laps, kisses, and sucks at the puckered sensitive skin. Sending my mind and heart racing, his mouth playing the violin on my nerve endings.
Wes embraces me from behind, the bulb of his cock at my entrance, but it moves past my hole. The underside of his throbbing cock rubs up and down across my hole.
“I hate it when you let other people touch you.” He hisses in a low voice as one of fingers enters me, spreading me. I shift, moving my leg to give him a better angle, seeking more pleasure. Wes buries his face in the back of my neck, gently biting me, attaching his teeth to the scruff of my neck and subduing me the way a dog would hold a pup in place. I groan loudly as his cock enters me, obtains purchase, and begins to languidly press in, withdraw, and press in again. I turn my face to the bicep of the arm that embraces me, kissing and licking it, showing him my appreciation and affection in this rare moment of weakness. Panting slowly, willing Wes to dig deeper, to fuck me harder. He’s holding back, making it last, taking his time — loving me.
My cock is hard, and it’s a strain not to come as his strokes become harder. He runs a hand between my spread thighs and begins milking my cock in time with his thrusts. I move my hips back now, meeting his movements, wanting even more from him.
“Yes, yes. Yes.” The words come out as gasps. “Fuck me. Hard — like that.” I come before he does, spilling all over the star that marks the center of the ring. The shiny lights from April’s costume still spinning around us in patterns on the
floor as Wesley grunts and moans through his orgasm, emptying himself deep inside me. For a few seconds, we are as we should be, connected, joined as one — in synch. As I collapse forward onto all fours and his cock slips from me, there is an applause, from just one single person. Wes collapses over me and looks up to see Sivan sitting in the front row, watching us, clapping his hands.
“Bravo, wonderful performance — now fucking clean your mess; if I step in your cum you’re both fucking fired.”
Just like that the world is back the way it should be.
* * *
THE END
Thank you for reading HUNG, a CIRQUE Novella. If you would like to read more from the CIRQUE world be sure to start with Sivan and Imogene’s stories in Cirque Act 1 and Cirque Act 2
About Ashleigh Giannoccaro
Bestselling Author Ashleigh Giannoccaro writes edgy dark romance and erotic horror, self published by choice she writes the stories others don’t dare. Currently residing in Johannesburg South Africa with her husband and two daughters. Ashleigh enjoys writing stories that make you fall in love with the unlovable and leave you asking questions. When not writing she can be found with her kindle in a sunny spot reading, or traveling with her family.
You can stalk her here -
mrsgiannoccaro.wix.com/ashleigh-giannoccaro [email protected]
Also By Ashleigh Giannoccaro
Cut & Blow Series
Cut & Blow Book 1
Cut & Blow Book 2
Cut & Blow Book 3
Cirque Series
Act 1
Act 2
Encore (Coming Soon )
Stand Alones
28 Boys
Written In Flames with Eva Logan
Sucker Punch with Eva Logan
Cult Series
A Lump Of Coal For Christmas
Thou Shalt Not Coming 2019
The Colour Series
Box Set
The Island Series
Last Resort
Island Roots
Awake Series
Awake
Are You Awake
Don’t Wake Up
Just A Dream
Dead Asleep
Chew Toy
Jason Hes
Sir
17 Years Ago
Carol of the Bells crackles over the busted radio behind the counter as I sink the knife into Santa Claus’ gut. I try to twist the blade as best I can, but the old bastard is as solid as he looks. He swipes at me with a meaty right hand – his knuckles burst and bloody – and clamps his fingers around my throat. With a grunt, he bares his nicotine-yellow teeth and throws me to the side like a ragdoll. I collide with a rack, sending porno mags and packets of potato chips to the cracked tiled floor.
Unable to move, I stare up at the buzzing fluorescent light above my head. It sways slightly, and flickers once. That’s when the nausea hits.
It takes every ounce of my being to roll over, and as soon as I do, I retch. In reality, it’s more of a dry-heave. I haven’t had much of an appetite since I found Lorelei in our bedroom closet. I wipe my swollen mouth against the arm of my hoodie and attempt to stand, but my right foot slips on a Hustler and I kiss the ground once more.
Behind me, I hear Santa Claus roar. Whether it’s in agony or pure rage, I’m not sure; I’m sort of hoping it’s both. The two of us have been at it for over half an hour – trading blow after gory blow – but all we’ve really done is trash this gas station and turn the teenage cashier’s brains into strawberry slurpee. To be honest, the dead teen was Santa’s fault – he’d been holding up the place when I’d walked in purely by chance. Coincidentally, I’d been on my way to pay the bull man a visit. He was a nightmare to track down. Running into him was like an early Christmas present, wrapped to perfection and tied together with a golden bow, too tempting not to be opened. Naturally, I did what anyone in my position would do. When my eyes fell on the old man, I tore off the wrapping paper without a second thought. Knowing he was going to die in a tacky Chinatown Santa outfit only made it that much sweeter. Sometimes, the universe has a sense of humor, and when it does, you’d best tilt your head back and laugh at its jokes.
I stand up, this time paying careful attention to where I place my feet. Something about slipping a second time on top of glossy nude women fingering themselves goes beyond the realm of comedy. It would just be downright embarrassing.
I steel myself and turn around, but not too quickly. The nausea may have subsided, but I’m still wobbly and my insides feel like jelly. It’s like I’ve walked in front of a freight train. He may be an old-timer, but Grant Miller – the tubby fuck dressed as Father Christmas, who’s propped himself up and is sitting against a Doritos stand – still packs an iron punch.
The fabric stretched over his paunch is an even darker shade of crimson, especially around the handle of the knife. His glassy rat eyes hone in on me as I step closer. They’re losing the venom they held an hour ago. Excitement blooms in my chest – the end is in sight. He doesn’t have much longer, and if I’m going to get what I need from him, I have to act now.
“You rob a gas station on Christmas Day dressed as Santa?” I cock my head to the side, and a smile curls on my bruised lips. “You’re such a goddamned cliché.”
Grant hacks loudly, coughing blood into his fake beard. “Go to hell.”
I ball my hands into tight fists, then flex my inflamed fingers when it hurts too much to squeeze. Simply looking at him boils my blood, but my smile lingers. “I’m pretty sure you know what comes next. All I’m going to do is ask you two questions, and then it’s all over.”
“Over?” Grant spits. More blood soaks into his beard. He wheezes, then takes a labored breath. “I’m just getting –”
“What? Started?” I’m losing my patience. I don’t hold back. “Face it, Grant. You’re old and tired. I’m young, and I basically enjoyed the beating you gave me. You may be bigger, but at least I don’t look like a bloated John Hurt in Alien right now. Only, instead of an extraterrestrial bursting from your stomach, it looks like a deranged Teletubbie wants to escape.” For emphasis, I nudge the knife handle with the toe of my shoe.
Grant moans and slaps my foot away. He attempts to clamber to his feet, but farts loudly instead. Sour cream and hotdogs fill the air. “I hate you,” he sneers, his pallor slowly turning from an angry red to a dying gray. “We … we should’ve killed you, not that bitch.”
My smile stiffens, then dies. All I want to do, more than anything, is kill this man. I take a deep breath, holding back the desire to rip the knife from his stomach and slash Grant’s throat. It’s been real fun getting rough and raw, but his time has come. Grant Miller’s life belongs to me now.
I crouch down in front of him, and we lock eyes. Neither of us dares blink. “I don’t blame you for hating me. I’m the last face you’re ever going to see, Grant.” I dig into the right pocket of my jeans and remove my silver Zippo lighter engraved with the King of Spades, and a squashed box of Marlboro Red. I pull a cigarette out and place it between my teeth as I flick the Zippo to life and light it. Inhaling deeply, I feel the welcome burn at the back of my throat before I blow smoke into the dying man’s face. “Two questions,” I repeat, maintaining my composure. “And then we’re done for good. First, what are the names of everyone involved on the night of Lorelei’s murder?” I let my request sink into his thick-sloped skull. I take another drag. “And where the hell are you hiding my sister’s face?”
Grant’s eyes glaze over and the old man swallows. His breathing deepens, and the left side of his face begins to sag.
He is on his way out, so I do the only thing I can to bring him back.
I plunge what’s left of my cigarette into his eye.
Sir
I don’t understand why there’s a shower in the Johns of the gas station, but it’s there, and I’m all the more glad for it. Perhaps it has something to do with the establishment being situated along Highway Nowhere in the middle
of Bumfuck County. Whatever the reason, it’ll make getting fresh after my kill that much easier.
I don’t know which knob represents hot or cold, but when I turn them both, the pipes merely rattle and groan. Eventually, after what feels like forever, icy water finally sprays out of the rusted showerhead. I wait for the temperature to heat up, but it doesn’t. I roll my eyes. I don’t have time for this shit. I can’t be anywhere near the gas station when someone rocks up (if they even do). Still, I cannot take the chance, so I pull off my crusty hoodie, T-shirt and vest. I unzip my jeans, remove my boxers and then my shoes. I throw my clothes into a dirty heap and trap the air in my lungs, preparing myself for the arctic rush.
Without another second of hesitation, I step under the showerhead and yelp. In my head, I picture the ghosts of Grant Miller and the brainless cashier laughing at me, but the water is too cold to think about anything more than scrubbing the blood off my body, so I do exactly that.
I wince as the water trickles over my deep gashes and purpling bruises. Grant Miller truly did a number on me, I’ll give him that. Back in the day, he was a mentor that I consistently worshipped. However, instead of becoming a Christ-like savior, he turned out to be a dumpy and ferocious Dionysus with a penchant for peeling off the faces of innocent girls. The world’s a better place now that he’s not breathing the oxygen within it. All I have to do is see to snuffing out the other eleven. To think, I once called them my brothers.
By the time I’m finished, the tiles at my feet are the same color as the showerhead. I realize the only thing I have at my disposal to towel myself off is a filthy rag lying in the basin. If I use it, not only will the freezing shower have been in vain, but I’d also be likely to contract a life-threatening truck-stop disease. In the end, I opt out and stay wet. I slip my clothes back on. While pulling my hoodie over my head, I get a whiff of the metallic tang of blood and the heavy stench of sweat. In hindsight, I really should have brought fresh clothes from my car after I finished Grant off.
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