Writing is Seduction: THE RED TENT

THE RED TENT
mf, voyeurism, masterbation

This was not my usual Saturday evening entertainment. Staring at a half naked woman, but the noise muffled by the red tent’s canvas walls had been too intriguing for me to ignore.

It was not spoken of in my company, but I was old enough to know what went on in the red tent. Everyone knew. My father, should he find out I had taken this one little peek, would have beat me until I had little chance of performing. What was worse, he would have locked me in the trailer and the freedom I enjoyed as a trusted daughter of Roberto Fontinini, master trapeze artist for Spineli’s Famous Big Top Circus, would have ended. I was a grown woman of nineteen, certainly old enough to know about what went on behind the privacy of walls.

Our show that night had been brilliant. Every cut away a graceful turn, every catch appearing effortless. I was all at once exhausted and ecstatic from souring high above the crowd. I had wings. In fact, I was known as the angel of the big top. My costume was the color of innocence, cream with opal sequins raining over my bosom and down my arms like water. My cape was rich ivory velvet. The costume mistress had done an amazing job fashioning feathers and beads in the shape of dainty wings over my shoulders and back. My father had gone so far as to begin dyeing my hair a heavenly blonde at the age of six, when the golden luster had begun to fade to brown.

Exhilaration coursed through my veins as I passed the empty bleachers. The familiar path led me past the scent of wet straw and animal. The shouts of brutish men ordering obedience. The only reason I passed the red tent at all, was that it was set away from the others. Meant to be private, and my father insisted that as the prize act of the big top we must have our trailer away from the others as well. We were not beside the red tent; we were around a copse of trees past it. One hardly had to go more than a few minutes out of their way to walk close enough to hear the beguiling throaty laughter of Madam and the shake of Tiny’s tambourine.

On other occasions I had been tempted to linger on my passing by. When low moans and slapping skin had made my step falter. Once, only once mind you, I had pressed my ear to that canvas and heard…well, I had heard sex. The panting and groaning had made my body tingle. Then, I had run home. Under my sheets, in the semi-privacy of a curtain hung between my parents sleeping area and my thin mattress I had touched myself there. Between my legs.

Now, it just so happened, my step put me in line with the seam of canvas that had a tear. The opening was about four inches long and stretched two inches wide by the tension of the poles holding up the tent. Bits of frayed fabric shot to and fro. It was not my fault that the sewing mistress had fallen behind on her mending.

In that moment, that exact moment, Madam, was bent over backward at the waist, her long red hair dusting the ground. She stood at the center of the tent, on a round platform and she was not still, no. Her hips danced in a rhythm that had her voluptuous breasts roll back toward her neck. The large mounds swayed in such a way that my breath caught. There was no music but the beat of our hearts and I could hear the thump clearly.

What was I to do? Leave?

There was more than one man in the tent with her. A tall man in a hat, with a cigarette dangling from his lips was tapping his loafered foot in time with the shake of Tiny’s tambourine.

Tiny was Madam’s husband and not tiny at all. He was a towering black man, his thick body roped with muscle. Rumor had it; he got his nickname, from breaking those that disrespected his woman, into tiny little pieces. I’d believe it. With his head shaved clean of hair and the large golden ring through his nose he looked as though he could tear someone limb from limb. He looked strange manning the shaking bells.

There were two other men. One was short with a portly build and wore red suspenders. His hands were in his pockets when he rocked back on his heels. Touching himself. The other, his pal. I say this because of the way he would alternately clap and then slap Suspenders on the back, was hooting for more skin.

From the state of Madam’s dress I could tell she was near the end of her performance. Not because I had seen it before! No, because there wasn’t much more in the way of garments to remove.

Madam’s nails were long and painted gypsy red. She tickled them up from below her navel and in-between the valley of her breasts. Her eyes opened, green as a cat’s, and met mine through the crack in the canvas. One finger bent and seemed to beckon me. Curling in a gesture of invitation.

Heat sufficed my entire body and centered in that region that only, Joey, the lion tamer’s son, had been petting. Not that I had let him tame me yet. No more than a gentle nuzzle of his strong fingers had been allowed to tap my nethers. Father would have been most displeased if he found out about our kisses, even though everyone thought of Joey as my sweetheart.

The dancer rose slowly, uncurling her body, her abdomen flexing in the light of the lanterns. The scent of heated oil and sweat hovered in the air as her hips began to undulate. Like the curl of her finger, her hips encouraged me to remove my leotard. To join her in exhibition.

Madam wore a skirt made of colorful scarves and the circle of fabric hung well below her waist. So low in truth, I could see the curly reddish hair of her bush poking above the waistline. One of her slender arms was above her head, and the other held aloft, her fingers on the tail of one of the scarves. She began to pull them randomly, the gauzy bits of color fluttering around her and falling to the ground like a rainbow revealing a pot of gold. My breath gasped with each gesture until all that was left was the leather belt the fabric had been stuffed beneath. Her golden curly hairs were damp and glistening.

The men’s faces were flushed with desire as I knew mine must be.

It is not my fault that Madam began the slow caress of her breasts. With each tug of her nipples by her painted nails my feet grew more firmly into the ground. My breath was rushed. I found my hand mirrored hers, slipping beneath the fabric of my leotard to find my own small areoles.

Madam’s tongue wet her lips and then she leaned forward.

I’m telling you it was not my fault!

She cupped one of her large breasts and lifted the succulent flesh so she could place her tongue to her own hard nipple. Her bewitching eyes seemed to look straight at me as she flicked the turgid flesh with her tongue. Each wet swipe felt as though she were licking my own hard nubbins!

So focused was I on her tongue’s amusements and my response to them, that I did not notice that the two shorter men had left the tent, or that Tiny was now stuffing a bill into the leather purse slung on the belt around his waist. With a nod of his head to Madam, he left the red tent.

Tiny would remain in shouting distance. I must remain silent.

Madam and the man in the hat were alone.

The man removed his jacket and tossed it onto the faded Oriental carpet that padded the ground. Pillows were piled high in one corner. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled back his sleeves revealing muscled forearms while Madam took a provocative stance in front of the pillows.

“What do you like?” Madam asked the man and he told her to get on her knees.

I had not seen that before. I mean, I had never looked through the hole in the tent!

Madam took a pillow covered in orange fabric and trimmed with beads and placed it on the ground. From where I stood I could see the swing of her breasts as she took a position on the floor on her knees, her round rear high in the air.

The man had taken off his slacks and briefs. Now he stood in his trouser socks held up with sock suspenders, the white shirt and the hat. I would have giggled, but his manhood was hard and long, taking my breath away. How would that veined flesh feel? He was big. So much bigger than the lion tamer’s son.

Madam supported herself with one hand and reached beneath herself. She ran her fingers through her thatch of hair, in-between her moist thighs. I knew she must be wet in her center.

I was.

Just one finger, I told myself. I pulled my arms free of my costume’s delicate sleeves and pushed my shoulders out of the neck of my leotard before moving the sequined fabric to my waist. I slid a hand along my quivering belly and under my costume.

Madam’s fingers tugged her nether curls and I did the same. My lower body was wet and slippery. I wiggled my finger inside me.

The man held his hardness up to the back entrance of Madam’s hole. He pressed forward and I watched Madam’s fingers curl into the oriental carpet padding the floor. Her teeth sunk into her full lower lip. The man pulled his long hardness from her. The sound was as wet and slick as my fingers.

Just two fingers, I told myself as the man began to ram his manhood into Madam repeatedly. His fingers dug into her hips and she moaned. She pled with him to “fuck her harder!”

I circled that hard bit of flesh between my thighs and began to pant. Small little squeals were popping from between my lips, I couldn’t help it! Madam kept saying that word.

Fuck.

That naughty, beautiful word.

I said it. My insides tightened.

Again. And Again.

“What did you say?” Came Joey’s shocked voice from behind me.

Slowly, I turned. I should have been embarrassed. I should have tried to cover my naked breasts or stopped my hand from moving inside me. I did blush. I did, but more from excitement than embarrassment.

“Fuck?” I said.

I didn’t mean for the word to be an invitation, but the lion tamer’s son stood with the moonlight behind him and pulled out his manhood. He began to run his fingers along the turgid length, and I dipped inside my tight hole at his rhythm. I turned back to the tent to see the man’s hat tumble from his head. His black hair fell across his brow as he pumped his piston into Madam.

Now, Madam’s fingers were working at the entrance between them.

Her breasts swung in my direction, calling for me to taste them.

My thumb circled faster.

Joey stepped closer. I could feel the heat of his body and hear the slick sound of his hand on his hardness.

My fingers jabbed faster.

Madam moaned. Wet suction echoed in the tent.

My eyes nearly crossed. It was as if I were staring at them through the sight of a canon.

There was a groan near my ear. Then bang. Hot wet jism sprayed my face for the first time.

And skid across Madam’s back. Stuck in her hair.

I licked my lips. They tasted salty sweet.

My body convulsed as I let go of my trapeze and flew. Souring high above the crowd. Above the big top. And amongst the stars.

Madam could see my satisfied face through the hole in the red tent. Our eyes locked.

This wasn’t my fault! I quickly pulled up my leotard. Why was there this hole in the tent? And now, now the lion tamer’s son knew!

It was my secret.

Joey said my name and reached a hand toward me, but I brushed it away and told him not to tell my father.

I rounded the corner of the tent and Madam stood in the flap of the doorway. She was alone. A cigarette was in her hand and her long red hair hung wild around her naked breasts. She still wore her belt and the scent of the man.

“Miss Fontinini,” she said tilting her head to me. “Would you like to come inside?”

Madam held back the curtain of the red tent. I could see the tossed pillows and the round platform at the center where she had performed. The orange pillow where she had knelt as the man fucked her was bunched on the floor, golden in the lamplight.

Inviting.

“Father is expecting me,” I said.

She reached a long arm toward me, a square of bright red fabric in her hand. With a gentle nudge she wiped my brow and cheek, removing Joey’s spendings from my face. I didn’t mean to lean into her hand, but she smelled of cheap perfume and the man’s sweat.

“Miss Fontinini,” Madam whispered, her lips close enough for me to taste her breath.

I opened my eyes, not knowing I had closed them.

“Your father is expecting you,” she said. Madam took my hand and opened it palm up. She curled my fingers around the red fabric, her eyes on mine.

I didn’t want to move. I wanted to stay suspended in her gaze. I wanted to watch her dance more. Fuck more.

Yes, I said, and turned away. My father was expecting me. I am the angel of the big top. I always come straight home after every performance.

Straight home.