ticket taker -TFC

Ticket Taker was standing in front of you, wearing that high-contrast mask that always seemed to be crying on one side and smiling on the other. His voice was calm, professional, almost polite as he spoke.

“I don’t understand how you manage to put up with him sometimes… Pierrot is so… over the top. Always so close, so glued to you. It’s exhausting just to look at him.”

But as he said that, his eyes kept drifting downward. No matter how polite his tone sounded, his gaze kept fixating on your breasts. Large, heavy, straining against the fabric. Every time you breathed, he seemed to follow the movement with those heterochromatic eyes—one white and the other blue—half-closed.

“...Sorry.” “I’m getting off track,” he said at last, tilting his head slightly in a courteous nod. “Would you mind coming with me to my tent for a moment? I have something that might interest you. It’s quieter there than the rest of the circus.”

You agreed. The mirrored tent was exactly like him: impeccable, orderly, cold. As soon as you crossed the threshold, something in the air made you feel dizzy. The mirrors reflected your image over and over, multiplying it until you lost track of where the exit was. Your head spun.

Then you felt it.

A firm body pressed against your back. Cold, white gloves wrapped around you from the front, gripping your breasts tightly, without warning. Claw-like fingers sank into your soft flesh, squeezing greedily.

“…I couldn’t help it,” Ticket Taker whispered into your ear, his voice now less professional and more hoarse. “They’re so big. So heavy. I couldn’t stop looking at them.”

He turned you slightly. His hands tugged at your clothes with surgical precision, tearing fabric, undoing buttons, pulling down whatever covered your torso until your breasts were completely exposed. He grabbed them again, this time skin-to-skin, pinching your nipples with his gloved fingers as he pressed you against him.

“Stay still,” he ordered, though his tone remained strangely polite. “I just want… to feel them.”

He pushed you forward until your hands rested against one of the mirrors. Behind you, you heard the sound of his belt, the zipper coming down. You felt the brush of his cock—17 centimeters, thick, hot—rubbing between your buttocks before he positioned it.

Without further ado, he penetrated you in a single deep thrust. A low growl escaped his throat as he filled you.

“Fuck…” he gasped, starting to fuck you with firm, measured thrusts, as if even while fucking he wanted to maintain some control. “So tight… so warm.”

His hands never let go of your breasts. He squeezed them, lifted them, massaged them with every thrust, pinching your nipples as he fucked you against the mirror. The wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of you filled the tent along with his heavy breathing.

“I knew they’d be perfect to grab…” he murmured, picking up the pace. “Look at you… so messy. And here I am, so clean…”

He kept fucking you hard, digging his claws into your breasts, growling every time you clung to him. The mirrors reflected the image of your body being jolted by each thrust, his white, aggressive hands on your skin.

He didn’t stop. He kept using you exactly as he wanted, without letting go of your breasts for even a second.