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Slave of the Circus
CONTENT WARNING: SLAVE, CLOWN
Isat in a small dog cage in the back of a dark tent, naked and shivering. Around me, other slaves laid in the cages, some small, others large with multiple women in them. Most of us had been trapped here for weeks, waiting to be bought. To be owned.
Buyers never came into the tent without a disguise, without a mask or make-up to cover their faces. It wasn’t because there was shame behind owning a personal slave, but the owners made it a sick game.
He was no different.
Black smudged eyeshadow covered his eyes. Harsh black lipstick stretched from one of his cheeks to the other in the shape of a wicked, menacing grin. White face paint covering all the skin he had bared, even his hands.
With a black cane that looked to be more part of his costume than for actual use, he walked around the cages of tired and naked slaves, who pressed themselves to the cold metal bars just to be noticed. Usually, I inched forward too.
But I didn’t have the energy tonight.
Instead, I sat in the back of the cage, my stomach growling from lack of food and my limbs too weak to move a couple inches. I closed my eyes and bit back a whimper–the master of this slave ring didn’t like any kinds of moans or whimpers from his pets.
Especially with potential buyers walking around.
Like owners usually did, the man in the clown makeup passed me without a glance.
Three cages down, he stopped in front of a petite woman. I covered my tummy with my arms, loathing the fact that men chose all the other slaves first, and closed my eyes. I had been so hopeful for so long.
Now, it seemed so useless.
Something clattered in front of me, and I snapped my eyes open.
He stood at my cage, running his cane along the bars. “This one.”
“Are you sure that you want her?” Master Ruicher said. “You haven’t even checked the entire selection yet, sir. We picked out–”
“This. One.”
Ruicher rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a key ring. After shuffling to a key labeled eighty-seven, he stuffed it into the keyhole and opened my cage for the first time since he had thrown me in here.
“Come out,” Ruicher ordered.
I scooted to the edge of the cage and stared up into the darkest, most heartless eyes I had ever seen. Of a clown who had lost all sense of comedy. Of a monster in need of a slave. Of a man looking to become a master.
“Come to me,” he ordered.
After using the cage to hoist myself to my feet, I walked on shaky legs toward him. Besides the pieces of bread that Ruicher tossed into our cages every other day, I hadn’t eaten anything for nearly a month.
Ruicher pulled out a metal collar from his large coat pocket that zapped a slave whenever they disobeyed their masters and handed it to the man. The clown tossed it aside and took the chains that bound my wrists together. “She won’t be needing that,” he said, scanning my face. “She won’t disobey me.”
Chains bound around my wrists,I sat in the red and white stands inside the circus tent and pressed my thighs together as the performance finished. It had been seventeen days since Crimson bought me. Seventeen days of circus stunts and being scared for my life that he’d die and I’d be sent back to being a slave.
Every morning, he brought me to the circus so I could watch the daredevil stunts he pulled, driving a motorcycle in a large sphere cage with a handful of other guys. Yet every night, he walked home with me and unbound my hands so I could wander free inside his small apartment down in the city.
While he never had given me a chance to see his actual face yet, I had seen the scars that decorated his back muscles and the burns from the fire stunts. I had grown closer to him–almost too close, too comfortable for my own good.
The ringmaster opened the metal globe and released the bikers, dismissing them for the night. As Crimson had requested, I sat off to the side and didn’t stand to greet him like the other slaves did their masters after the show.
Instead, I peered at him from across the tent. He stared back at me, leaning against his bike as he chatted tensely with the ringmaster. I nervously glanced between the ringmaster–who reminded me of Ruicher–and Crimson, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
A couple moments later, the ringmaster stormed out of the tent.
Crimson cocked his brow at me. “Come,” he said, voice echoing.
