Clown Hell Finale - Clowning Around
The time has come - you’re finally standing in front of this big-top cathedral of a circus tent which has been your guiding beacon while wandering this strange land, this Dark Carnival. All timelines in your Sight seem to lead into this towering structure, then become too hazy to track as they proceed for some time. A bit troubling perhaps, but goodness if it isn't so curiosity inducing. From within you hear the honks and cavorting of clowns, a thunderous congregation of them, being spoken to by a powerful, charismatic voice that booms over the others.
Still a bit hazy and giddy from your carousel ride, you giggle anxiously to yourself as you stand just outside the tent entrance, building up your courage to head inside. It's not until the congregation leader's voice declares that "Now, I've all up and heard there's a new motherfuckin face around our lovely Carnival, brothers and sisters! One who's been having one hell of a righteous time out there! And unless I'm pure wrong, I think it's likely our new sister is standin... RIGHT THE MOTHERFUCK OUTSIDE THIS GLORIOUS TENT. Why don't we give her a warm fuckin welcome?!" and a beam of light from a spotlight settles through the entryway that you step forward into the tent and into a round of applause.
Past the brilliant beam of the spotlight, you make out the biggest carnival tent you've ever seen, tiered layers of surprisingly lavish seating surrounding the main rings, with connected hallway tents leading away to other smaller rooms off the main concourse. Dozens and dozens of clowny individuals fill the seats, both consort species and trolls alike, all cheering for you and stomping and honking. There in the center stage stands a toweringly tall highblood woman, dressed up like a ringmaster with a top hat and corset and tailed jacket. She looks... curvaceous yet powerful, heavy breasts and wide hips accentuating a plump frame with muscle underneath. A confident grin beams out past a meticulously painted face, and well-polished horns shaped like an elk's emerge from beneath a shaggy but tamed mane of hair. Under the beckoning gestures of the woman and the applause all around you, you walk up the center aisle and into the center ring with her, having to lean back on your heels just to look up at her fully.
"Well hello there, little sis! Let me get a good look at you! I been hearin all kinds of good motherfuckin news about the cute lil alien girl who's been wandering her way through our fine congregation. You've been playin up and nice with every brother and sister you met, I heard." she says in that booming, somehow amplified voice of hers, and you flush slightly as you nod. She lightly tousles your hair with a broad gloved hand and then tilts your head back so she can inspect you more thoroughly. "Little sis looks like she's up and embracing our look already - you got the clothes, your paint could use some work but you're all up in the right place, you even got a sylladex full a' wicked elixir, ain't that right?"
You nod almost sheepishly, a little flustered from your place in the spotlight, the hair tousling, and the direction the discussion is going. You're not sure how she knows your inventory is mostly full of their soda, it just makes sense she can somehow see it. The woman's grin broadens further, her eyes narrowing as she chuckles under her breath. "Well then, since you're already up and on the good and righteous motherfuckin track, I think it’s good and time for a proper initiation, don’t all of you, my brothers and sisters?” she calls out to the congregation, met with uproarious applause. Wait, initiation? You're not sure if your heart just dropped into your stomach in concern or jumped up into your throat in anticipation... after a moment's introspection you think it's both.
A few attendants gather around you as the Ringmatron leers down at you, a look of Mirthful mischief in her eyes. You sink slowly to a kneeling posture under their guidance, gulping anxiously with your heart racing. It'll be fine, you assure yourself, probably just more pranks, cheap soda, and boning, the biggest gangbang of them all, while the Ringmatron talks. Nothing more untoward than that, clearly; nothing from your lewd imaginings that's making you start to tent your thong already as some trolls gather round you and others run off further into the cathedral tent for 'supplies'. Hands begin palming at you from all directions, groping your curves, pulling your clothes away, even somehow wiping clean your streaked and smudged facepaint from your apple-bobbing venture, and any lingering remnants of your painted-on clothes. For a moment before the true festivities begin, you’re fully bare before the congregation. Then the cartloads of supplies arrive - one laden with dozens of bottles of colorful soda, another with tin after tin of lime-green pie. A cheer goes up and the Ringmatron begins to speak over you, her eyes beginning to flicker a telltale glow. You feel that flicker start to resonate inside your head, and everything becomes a little foggier, a bit funnier, just overall tingly and happy around the edges. You lean into the clowns surrounding you, eager to partake in their festivities while the Ringmatron talks about a “Righteous motherfuckin threefold baptism” and the “Glorious Rites” afforded to new converts. Certain words stick in your head, even as the rest is lost to the din of the revelry.
At the Ringmatron’s guidance, the gathering takes up bottles of their ‘wicked elixir’ and begins to shake them with vigor.With a cheer, they all flick the caps off to free a multicolored fountain of frothy bubbles and sticky soda arching into the air. It sprays all over the place as one might expect, the bottles shaken up as they erupt to send it flying across the whole congregation, but much of it is focused right on your kneeling form. It tingles as it soaks you, and you open your mouth almost reflexively to allow the soda to anoint your tastebuds. Goosebumps rise up across your frame as you taste the cloying yet intoxicating flavors mingling, and your hands wander across your nude body, groping yourself and rubbing the cola in. You find yourself shakily laughing, your heart pounding as the Ringmatron’s words pound in your ears. With her blessing you take some initiative and reach out towards the nearest clown above you, pulling them closer by the waistband and fishing out their bulge with one hand while the other reaches for their half-emptied bottle. You take a deep swig of the deep purple grape Faygo, then pop the tip of the troll’s bulge into your mouth to begin suckling eagerly. Perhaps it was something in the leader’s words but it just feels like the right thing to be doing here. It’s not long before many of the others join in, offering their drinks and their bulges in equal measure wherever they can fit them.
The Ringmatron seems quite pleased so far - “Our righteous little sis here is all up and taking right kindly to the first of her baptisms, the sweetest taste of that wicked elixir rainin’ down around her.” you’re dimly aware of her calling out, “Now it’s time for that pure fuckin miraculous second wave - bring on the slime, my brothers and sisters!” Your nerves jump and a breath stutters in your bulge-occupied mouth in anticipation. Tins of pungent green ooze are passed around next for all to enjoy, some trolls opting for just a fingerful while others scoop out a whole handful. The Ringmatron herself steps in, lightly brushing away the clown you’d been fellating to take their place, those glowing eyes still filling your head with pure, giddy bliss. A pie in one hand, she gathers up a fingertip of the thick green paste and proffers it out to your lips. Obediently you lean forward and close your mouth around her digit, tasting that sharp, numbing szechuan-peppercorn rush in full for the first time. Your eyes flutter and roll back for a moment as a quiet moan escapes you, and she chuckles in satisfaction. There’s a zip from in front of you; the Ringmatron unclasps her pinstriped pants, fishing out... Oh god, it’s the biggest and most... enthralling bulge you’ve ever seen, the size of your arm almost and a deep, rich purple hue. Eyes locked to flickering eyes, she collects another dollop of sopor and swirls it slowly around the glans of her shaft, then glides all the way down to the fat grey balls that match her shaft’s enormity. She leers at you, expectant.
With a reverence, you lean forward to take that heavy bulge between your lips, tongue running a lazy circle around and around her glans to sop up every bit of the addling, blissful green ooze. Every morsel of it that falls on your tongue seems to take you higher, and you giggle and laugh along with the others around you with your mouth full of cock. As you work your way down her miraculously delightfully massive bulge, the bulge-owners around you join in in a similar vein - little streaks of the green paste are smeared across your nipples, your perineum, even the rim of your pucker just to get fucked in deeper by the bulge re-invading you. A dollop even finds its way into the rim of your foreskin, worked up and down by a dutiful, soda-slicked hand. Everywhere it touches burns with bliss, and your cock and pucker both pulse with ecstasy... but you don’t quite get off. Something inside you feels like it has to wait and just ride out this wicked righteous high until the right time. You just ride the tides of horny, giggly, increasingly-stoned trolls all around you and coast on the waves of the Ringmatron’s words, letting them fill you up. All this talk of miracles and mirth, elixirs and messiahs and dark carnivals, it’s... starting to grow on you.
You’re teetering on the brink of orgasm but held back by the powerful woman above you’s presence for what feels like an eternity as she proselytizes to your kneeling, suckling form, your eyes reflecting the flickering Chucklevoodoo glow in her own as your gazes remain locked. Then finally she declares it’s time - “Time for the third of your Baptism Threefold, my sister! You drank the wicked elixir, felt the sweet rush of sopor, now - O brothers and sisters - join me in bringing our newest sister into the fold with the sweetest of anointments - a good healthy dose of our congregation’s geneslurry, fillin’ her up inside and out!” she cries above the din of celebration, and the cheers begin anew. You were already getting lazily fucked before, but now they pick back up with renewed vigor, bulges of every shape and size pistoning everywhere they can fit - two in your ass, one between your breasts, one in each hand and another under each arm, and of course that blessed massive bulge occupying your throat, all rutting away with renewed vigor. Your heart races - a surge of... worry and excitement and pride and dismay and a thousand other clashing feelings all mingling, yet slowly distilling down with more and more positive ones overwhelming the negative. You cry out - voice muffled - as bulges all around and within you begin to erupt in thick, cold spurts of viscous purple geneslime, flooding your rear from within and spattering all over your skin. You dare not break eye contact with the Ringmatron, but you can tell that all around you, clowns who can’t quite make it into the gathering are still stroking away with abandon, adding their geneslime to the mess. Last but not least, the Ringmatron seems to crest into orgasm with nary a change in her body language, just a constant, sweet-and-salty-and-musky flood covering your tongue and running down your throat, never seeming to pause for a volley or run out. She trails her fingertips through your hair as you nurse so reverently at her bulge, drinking deep of the blessed motherfuckin’ source. The more geneslime you drink - the more cascades across your bare body or floods into your bowels from the next troll in line, the more overwhelming bliss you feel - both in body and mind. It’s so easy to fall in with their line of thinking, to rejoice and be mirthful and capricious, to want to laugh and honk and fuck and honk some more.
As you drink, your skin tingles with the mixed coating of various fluids, while a strange but pleasant chill seems to radiate into your core. Around the Ringmatron’s bulge, a rather rough noise escapes you - a muffled HNKK!, and your heart flutters again, this time with unadulterated excitement. You only just notice it, but at the very edges of your vision not occupied with your shepherd’s glowing eyes, the pale blonde locks of hair - matted with musk and soda - seem to be darkening one strand at a time. The bulges around and within you start to feel warmer and warmer as your final anointment continues - or perhaps it’s that you’re getting a little cooler with each fresh load. Your cock continues to throb fruitlessly, but the throbbing feels more and more powerful with each denied orgasm - you’d swear you can feel it bouncing up against your belly, then your chest with each twitch. The Ringmatron’s hands in your hair continue to stroke and grasp you to steady you, but the motions begin to feel just a little nicer when they pass and circle around certain spots. She cups your cheeks and deposits one more extra-thick dollop of seed right onto your tongue while she addresses you in a voice that is simultaneously barely above a whisper, and the only thing in the room you hear in that moment - “Go on, Sister. Go ahead and pail, join our little family.”
With this new permission - this command - the grandest motherfuckin’ orgasm you ever did feel begins to flood through you. She releases you, letting you fall back as the bliss wracks your frame, and your eyes finally leave hers to look down at yourself while your release hits. You watch with rapturous interest as your cock twitches and erupts, the first pearly-white gush jetting forth right up into the air. Your amazement only grows more justified as each successive throbbing spurt jets out a bigger, thicker load; a bigger load from a bigger dick, each twitch of your racing pulse seeing your shaft growing bigger, longer, more outlandishly textured while a deep purple hue floods down from the tip. You wrap your hands around your own cock - bulge feels increasingly appropriate in your mind - and frantically jerk yourself off to milk out every drop you can. As you do, you’re dimly aware of your tanned skin draining of its hue and taking on a grey cast; of those sensitive points on your head erupting forth into what can only be a pair of high-arching horns; of your body growing a little thicker, a little plumper in all the right places. You let out a loud, triumphant sound that’s lost somewhere between a moan and a vast, guttural HONK that earns an uproarious round of applause and honks from all the clowns around you. You slump back in the ring beneath the Ringmatron, who looks down in earnest pride at you - her newest convert. She kneels down with a palette of grease paint, gingerly daubing a fresh clowny grin onto your features, and you beam with pride.
Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you’ve just wholeheartedly joined the ranks of the highblooded clown cult. What will you do now?
