Private Lessons
With your home still orbiting the clown-focused land, it’s not a long trip to pay the Bigtop tent a visit. Clown Church (Clurch) isn’t in session with the Ringmatron right now, just a standard array of Subjugglator antics, so with a few simple questions and an exchange of honks and gropes, you mosey down a side path to find the door to the tall, powerful clown woman’s quarters, which you knock at with just a bit of nervous tension. Not because you fear the clown cleric beyond the respectable amount one fears a stronger, older member of your new cult - but rather, because of the prospect of a private session with her, and falling ever deeper into her intoxicating clutches.
The brightly-painted door creaks open slowly into a dimly-lit room, and the Ringmatron’s alluring voice beckons from within. It’s ostensibly quieter than when she’s preaching to the crowd, yet there’s something about her gravitas that makes it fill your ears exactly the same. “Come on in, sister. I’ve been hoping you’d up and drop by. Go on and shut the door behind you.” she calls, in a tone that makes you shiver. You hastily comply, slipping in and nudging the door shut with one pronounced hip, orange troll-eyes blinking to grow quickly accustomed to the dimmer light.
The Ringmatron’s chambers are rather lavishly appointed - colorful tapestries and bolts of fabric cover the walls and arc across the ceiling, all clashing but somehow proving rather harmonious to your altered Subjugglator sensibilities. A door leads off to a side room of some sort, and a large recuperacoon occupies one corner, placed not far from a lavish wardrobifier. The tall woman - her tophat off and her corset loosened - lounges amidst a pile of cushions, sprawled out rather sensuously despite the bottle of Faygo she’s sipping from, beckoning you a little closer. Just the faintest of flickers flashes in her eyes, and you shiver where you stand before drifting over.
“Well hello there, little sis. You’re lookin’ real good since your baptism threefold. Real motherfuckin’ good indeed. You feelin’ good, too?” she asks, and you nod slowly, shivering once more under her powerful gaze, replying that you’ve “Never motherfuckin’ felt better”. The high-ranking Priestess chuckles throatily, holding her half-drunk bottle of green soda for you to take, while she herself rises to her feet to tower over you. You swirl the bottle idly in your hand, then take a sniff, and your pupils dilate - that’s the now-recognizable smell of sopor, distilled into Faygo form. Your priestess grins and gestures for you to help yourself, and you do. The sweet and sour stuff burns as it slides down your throat with more viscosity than the normal cola flavors, but it’s the best motherfuckin’ burn in the world. A now-familar tingly bliss begins to radiate - slowly but surely - out from your belly. “Good girl. Feelin’ real good, right? Like it was all and motherfuckin’ meant to be all along.” she says, and you nod with another shiver at her words - you’re not sure if she’s talking about the soda, or your newfound status as an adherent, but your sopor-dosed gut tells you ‘Both’ is the right answer.
“So what brings my favorite new little motherfucker down to visit little ol’ me?” she asks, a powerful hand coming to rest on your shoulder and kneading gently, guiding you to step ever closer to her looming height; she’s something like two or three feet taller than you, putting you at perfect height to nuzzle absently into her midsection. You mumble a reply -
“I just up and wanted to come see my Ringmatron,” you say, “And... to ask for any ideas to come back home to the Carnival all easy-like when I leave the session.”
The Ringmatron chuckles again, carding her fingers through your black hair and rubbing a slow circle around your horns that makes a tiny coo escape you. “Leave? Now, why’d you ever wanna do a silly thing like that? You said it yourself, the Dark Carnival here can up and be as much a home as you could ever want. But I guess if you gotta go out an’ take care of some righteous fuckin’ business, it would only make pure sense to let you come back right here lickety-split. Don’t want you straying too far from our little family after all.”
You nod in agreement - it felt so good to join in with the Clown Church’s neverending festivities, in your current state you couldn’t dream of staying away for too long. Still, you do want to go explore for more knowledge and majyyks, and - as you explain to her - to possibly spread the Mirthful Motherfuckin’ Word while you’re at it. A rumble not unlike a purr of approval rattles through her frame, and she pulls you close against her half-dressed frame, burying your face against her lower belly. At this proximity, you can smell everything - the sweet tinge of a few flavors of faygo clinging to her, the musk of sweat, the cloying chemical fug of sopor, and of course the potent pheromonal buzz of her bulge only inches from your face. You emit a quiet half-moan, half-honk that nearly gets lost against her body. She hears it though - or feels it, and replies with a quiet honk of her own, a guttural little noise that speaks to your transformed senses on a base level.
“I think I’ve up and got a quick fix, but why don’t you and me go have a nice little steam in the sauna? You look like you’re needin’ a real good fix... plus what kinda fuckin’ Ringmatron would I be, not to give the newest motherfuckin member in the flock plenty of private tutoring?” she says, keeping your face pressed to her musky frame as she guides you blindly into the next room - a fairly standard bathroom for the most part, save for the fairly large, purple-stained wooden structure accessible from one side; a sauna. A familiar chemical scent wafts out to greet you as she opens the door and tendrils of greenish fog drifts out. Your bulge throbs in your sheath, the sense of anticipation growing stronger. The Ringmatron laughs, feeling your throb against her leg, and rumples your hair before beginning to disrobe you, pulling your arm and leg warmers off in quick motions, then unclasping your bra with an unexpected tenderness, followed by guiding your thong off with cool, strong hands. You’re like putty in her grasp, and you watch with earnest impatience as she herself disrobes, discarding her corset and pants to expose a body thick with muscle and fat and curvature, her breasts bigger than your head and capped with cork-thick nipples; her bulge and balls hanging low. Silvery-purple scars crisscross her here and there, signs of the rough-and-tumble lifestyle of the Purpleblood cult. A dark purple blush fills your cheeks as you’re granted such a private and full view of her. With a hand gliding down to rest on your hip and squeeze your ass, she leads you into the sopor-scented sauna, shutting the door behind you with a click.
The sauna is appointed as one might expect - sturdy wooden benches surrounding a bed of warm coals, a bucket of fluid with a ladle in it nearby. But the fluid in that bucket is a telltale green hue, and the box slid under one of the benches looks suspiciously full of lewd and well-used items, proofed against the heat. “Come get cozy, lil’ sister.” your Priestess beckons you, taking a seat in the corner and spreading out comfortable, patting her lap. Even before steaming up, the warmth feels intoxicating and fuzzy on your now coldblooded body, and you drift closer with a dreamy, dopey grin on your face, wiggling your bare rear in front of her before settling down in her lap, legs likewise splayed. While one hand comes to rest on your torso, lightly groping and teasing across you, the other extends to grab a ladleful of green fluid and splash it onto the hot coals, releasing a potent blast of pure, sugary-sweet sopor steam into the air. You breathe it in deep and a long, languid honk slips from your lips as the intoxicant hits you.
“Good girl, breathe it nice an’ deep. Ain’t nothin’ better-feeling than a hot motherfuckin’ sopor sauna... aside from maybe a righteous pailin’ with a mirthful companion at the same time~” she murmurs, likewise enjoying the intoxicating fog filling the room. Both your bulge and hers begin to stiffen up as the vaporized sopor coats your body in a tingly, increasingly-blissful dew, and you watch with a stoner’s fascination as her bulge throbs and pulses up to full mast, dwarfing even your own beast of a member. The two bulges rest atop each other, your heavy balls drooping down either side of the priestess’s shaft to rest near the top of her own pouch. You’re about to reach out and touch at least one of those bulges, before they’re both grasped at once by the woman whose lap you occupy. “You just sit back and relax, little sis’. Your Ringmatron’s got this aaaaalll under motherfuckin’ wraps~” she reassures you, and you hazily comply. Her cool, sopor-slick hand glides slowly up and down both of your shafts in smooth, steady strokes, pumping them both up to their full, ample heights. She pays extra-special attention to the head of yours, pulling the foreskin-like sheath all the way down to your base to tease it directly. Little dribbles and spurts of purple geneslime ooze from your glans and coat her bulge, and you murmur the tiniest of little moans and honks. “Cutest lil’ honks, lil’ sis... Gonna treat my new lil’ adherent right, earn some right proper motherfuckin’ honks outta you by the time we’re done.” you hear her murmur in a husky tone into your ear. You moan and honk a little more earnestly for her, her hand rewarding you with a firm squeeze all the way up your shaft, which milks out a thick, languid dollop of slime from your tip.
Her ministrations continue like this for several minutes, just a slow steady double-handjob and an occasional fresh splash of sopor-cola onto the rocks to refresh the hot, intoxicating steam. But finally the Ringmatron seems to want a little more, and with the hand not holding your bulge, she lifts you up like you’re a feather. Her own bulge rises up steadily, and she plants its tip - lubricated by your own geneslime - against your purple pucker. “Bear down, lil’ sis, let this bad girl fill you aaaalll the way up~” she encourages you, and you comply, pushing down with your pelvic muscles as the horse-sized shaft spreads its way into your waiting pucker. Your eyes cross, flutter, then roll back for a moment, teeth gritting at the immensity of it all. But then she grants you a little sip of sopor-Faygo and returns one hand to your blge, and all is right in the world. Her bulge slips in steadily, a noticeable lump visible through your gut as it fills you up. You’re not even sure how your body is managing to take it, but by the Mirthful Messiahs, it feels truly Miraculous. She slides you down, down, down towards the root of her bulge, cooing in approval of the long, drawn-out half-honk, half-groan along the way. Her skilled fingertips work your glans, your shaft, your balls, encouraging the latter to churn up a nice healthy load while you slip ever downward. Finally your cheeks come to rest on her thighs, fully sheathing her bulge inside you. She doesn’t pump, doesn’t thrust, just lets it pulse powerfully inside you with little flexes of her abdominal muscles while she works over your bulge.
“I knew my newest lil’ sister had some wicked talent in her even during your initiation, takin’ bulges like a champ, all while hangin’ on my every sacred word. Makes you feel good, doesn’t it, gettin’ pailed while hearing the good word? Makes you feel complete, feel right?” she coos into your ear, and you can only agree. With both hands now free to stroke and fondle and please, she keeps up the soft, tender, yet insistent ministrations, all while continuing to murmur to you. You can’t see her eyes flicker, but either you’re too stoned to think straight or her Chucklevoodoos are at work again - just like during your initiation, you can’t quite seem to make surface-level sense of her words, but at the same time they speak to your inmost core, bypassing the active mind entirely and filling your subconscious up to overflowing with mirthful words, wicked knowledge, and clowny thoughts. By the time her stroking is finally milking an orgasm out of you, you’ve got a broad, fucked-silly grin plastered across your face and each sticky pulse of your geneslime spurting from your bulge is accompanied by a long, hoarse-voiced, earnest HOOOOONK! A bucket or more worth of your rich, cold highblood geneslime oozes thickly across the floor, adding to the purple planks’ indelible stain.
When you finally come down from your sopor and preaching-induced high to relax in the afterglow, you notice your belly bulging noticeably; seems like just like during your initiation, your Ringmatron’s release has been slow, subtle, and steady - constantly flowing into you the whole time rather than coming out in a gush. She fishes around in the box under the bench for something before she begins to lift you free from her shaft, your body twitching and moaning and one smaller, weaker orgasm escaping you at the intense sensation of removal. But before a flood of her blessed seed can be spilled from your wide-stretched hole, she pops a large plug in, filling you back up and keeping you corked. "Best leave that in a few hours, sis. No sense wasting a drop of your Ringmatron's special fuckin' geneslime, right my sister?" she says, to a drunken nod in reply.
With tenderness she helps you redress, peppering your body in small kisses all the while, looking quite pleased for some reason you can’t quite parse. All you know is you feel invigorated in body and spirit, your mind abuzz with sopor remnants and your priestess’s blessed words. You glance in the bathroom mirror as you pass and giggle at your giddy, still-broad grin, noticing dimly how good your grey skin looks. Was your hair always so shaggy? You’re not sure, but it looks motherfuckin’ good. You pause to refresh your sacred face-paint, while the Ringmatron continues past you to do something in her room. When you emerge, a fresh coat of greasepaint on your features, there’s a new door in a previously unused wall of the room, its bright colors peeking out from between the tapestries. She hands you a Sylladex card for a MIRACULOUS PORTAL, the new door’s equal. “A quick way home for my favorite new wicked sister. It’ll always bring you back to the Dark Carnival wherever you are, and when the Miracles line up just right, it’ll bring you right here to me for a little... private tutoring.” You clutch the card to your chest like a treasure, nodding eagerly. She rumples your hair and teases your hornbases one more time, before lightly swatting your rear and sending you on your way. You wander back out into the Carnival to enjoy the rest of your night. Your spirits and faith have never been higher.
