arising about them, but the vibes
rushing between them were like dark, swirling flood waters of death. The
aerialist bore watching. He definitely didn’t want him around Tigra. Hugh shook
his head at his possessiveness; he was acting as if he owned her.
He snickered at his arrogance; his internal self
knew the truth. Inside he’d always be the once horribly deformed hunchback with
no such rights to any woman. How dare he try to fool himself and others with
his phony facade of confidence? Yes, he resided in a handsome strong body, but
underneath he was still Hugo, the cripple.
No! I mustn’t think the old way. The angel promised I was equal to any man in
every way, and to honor her, I must honor her belief in me. To have any kind of life at all, I must
believe in myself, sidestep negative thoughts, and avoid suspecting everyone of
wrong doing.
****
Hugh spent the next few minutes between annoyance,
grim speculation, and building up his nerve to call on the entertainer called
Bubbles. Time was fleeting. He didn’t want to bother Tigra, so he forced
himself to tap on Bubbles’ caravan door. With her radio blaring, it would be
futile to hope she wasn’t home. She answered wearing feathers, rhinestones and
little else.
He swallowed, broke out in a sweat, and couldn’t
seem to avert his eyes. “Mr. Coleman sent me. He thought you might help me with
some clown makeup.”
Bubbles chewed hard on her gum and looked him up and
down like he was a piece of meat. “Sure, honey,” she said with a hillbilly
twang in her voice. “Coleman called and said he was sending you over. Just
plunk yerself down and I’ll turn yer handsome, serious face into a grinning white-faced jester. How’s
that?”
“Sounds good.”
In spite of her overt beauty, he saw the telltale
traces of a hard life—lines around eyes that had seen too much, a mouth that
had learned to curse like a truck driver and one that had kissed too many
frogs. Poor girl.
Her caravan was neat enough except for the counter
strewn with a jumble of varied sized make-up cases. When he eased into the
chair before the mirror, she bent over him, her breasts practically falling out
of her skimpy bra. He leaned back as far as possible. She grabbed his face and
pinched it between long fingers. Her dagger-like blood-red fingernails traced
his skin, and against his will, the stroking sent heat to his groin.
“Want a massage first? For you, honey, it’ll be
free.” She traced her hand to his shoulders and found his knots. “Sugar, you’re
so tense. I could firm you up and then send you on your way loose as a goose.”
He cleared
his throat. “Just the make-up job, please.”
“In a rush to train with Tigra? I’ll bet she’s a real tiger in the sack.”
Hugh frowned. “I wouldn’t know. She’s a professional
with me and I appreciate that about her.”
“You gay, honey?”
“Please, Miss Bubbles.”
“Okay. But for a guy who wants to play clown, you’re
not much on clowning around.”
She worked fast and rough, revealing her
displeasure. As she fit a white skull cap over his head, she said, “It’s a
shame to hide all that silky hair.” She yanked a hank through a hole in the top
and dangled it down his back like a pony tail. She fingered it slowly then
finally affixed false tufts of hair over his ears. She dropped her lipstick in
his lap and when she retrieved it, she managed to stroke a finger across his
cock.
Hugh tightened his jaw, and with effort,
concentrated on the make-up job.
“You do good work.” He groaned at his choice of
words after just being fondled.
“What I meant is , you’re
skilled with make-up.”
“I’m skilled in everything, honey. Remember, when
you need a massage I do a thorough job.” She tilted her head. “If it’s Tigra who scratches your itch, just
remember Rolo. They were hot for each other until his popularity grew to almost
match hers. Think about it. Isn’t it strange an expert trainer like The Queen
of
rushing between them were like dark, swirling flood waters of death. The
aerialist bore watching. He definitely didn’t want him around Tigra. Hugh shook
his head at his possessiveness; he was acting as if he owned her.
He snickered at his arrogance; his internal self
knew the truth. Inside he’d always be the once horribly deformed hunchback with
no such rights to any woman. How dare he try to fool himself and others with
his phony facade of confidence? Yes, he resided in a handsome strong body, but
underneath he was still Hugo, the cripple.
No! I mustn’t think the old way. The angel promised I was equal to any man in
every way, and to honor her, I must honor her belief in me. To have any kind of life at all, I must
believe in myself, sidestep negative thoughts, and avoid suspecting everyone of
wrong doing.
****
Hugh spent the next few minutes between annoyance,
grim speculation, and building up his nerve to call on the entertainer called
Bubbles. Time was fleeting. He didn’t want to bother Tigra, so he forced
himself to tap on Bubbles’ caravan door. With her radio blaring, it would be
futile to hope she wasn’t home. She answered wearing feathers, rhinestones and
little else.
He swallowed, broke out in a sweat, and couldn’t
seem to avert his eyes. “Mr. Coleman sent me. He thought you might help me with
some clown makeup.”
Bubbles chewed hard on her gum and looked him up and
down like he was a piece of meat. “Sure, honey,” she said with a hillbilly
twang in her voice. “Coleman called and said he was sending you over. Just
plunk yerself down and I’ll turn yer handsome, serious face into a grinning white-faced jester. How’s
that?”
“Sounds good.”
In spite of her overt beauty, he saw the telltale
traces of a hard life—lines around eyes that had seen too much, a mouth that
had learned to curse like a truck driver and one that had kissed too many
frogs. Poor girl.
Her caravan was neat enough except for the counter
strewn with a jumble of varied sized make-up cases. When he eased into the
chair before the mirror, she bent over him, her breasts practically falling out
of her skimpy bra. He leaned back as far as possible. She grabbed his face and
pinched it between long fingers. Her dagger-like blood-red fingernails traced
his skin, and against his will, the stroking sent heat to his groin.
“Want a massage first? For you, honey, it’ll be
free.” She traced her hand to his shoulders and found his knots. “Sugar, you’re
so tense. I could firm you up and then send you on your way loose as a goose.”
He cleared
his throat. “Just the make-up job, please.”
“In a rush to train with Tigra? I’ll bet she’s a real tiger in the sack.”
Hugh frowned. “I wouldn’t know. She’s a professional
with me and I appreciate that about her.”
“You gay, honey?”
“Please, Miss Bubbles.”
“Okay. But for a guy who wants to play clown, you’re
not much on clowning around.”
She worked fast and rough, revealing her
displeasure. As she fit a white skull cap over his head, she said, “It’s a
shame to hide all that silky hair.” She yanked a hank through a hole in the top
and dangled it down his back like a pony tail. She fingered it slowly then
finally affixed false tufts of hair over his ears. She dropped her lipstick in
his lap and when she retrieved it, she managed to stroke a finger across his
cock.
Hugh tightened his jaw, and with effort,
concentrated on the make-up job.
“You do good work.” He groaned at his choice of
words after just being fondled.
“What I meant is , you’re
skilled with make-up.”
“I’m skilled in everything, honey. Remember, when
you need a massage I do a thorough job.” She tilted her head. “If it’s Tigra who scratches your itch, just
remember Rolo. They were hot for each other until his popularity grew to almost
match hers. Think about it. Isn’t it strange an expert trainer like The Queen
of
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