Zirkus

Posted by Kewpid on July 31, 2008 at 11:50:30:

The Oxford String Quartet were consummate professionals. Four smart, well-bred young ladies who could hold an audience spellbound with their skill. But behind the poised façade they were four snooty, spoilt bitches. Or so Melinda reckoned as she listened to them bicker in the back.

The battered minibus had really been the final straw. The girls had been expecting a luxurious people-carrier of some kind. But this was eastern Europe, and facilities were basic, from draughty concert halls to cheap hotels. Becca had assured them the privations would be worth it. The Quartet had to raise their profile, and that meant getting off their well-shaped butts. But for Oxford graduates it felt demeaning. Melinda was amazed they hadn’t gone home in a huff.

The driver’s name was Vladek and he didn’t speak much English. He kept his dour gaze on the road as the landscape slowly faded into dusk. Melinda was sitting next to him, but he might have been a stranger. She felt fidgety and awkward, like a girl trapped on a date with the wrong guy.

Becca was on her other side and speaking on her cellphone with the brisk assurance of an Essex girl. She was the Quartet’s manager, petite and power-dressed, and though she didn’t have their class, her business acumen made up for that. Her hair was short, her cheekbones high, her eyes as brown as toffee. She smiled smugly as she talked. Her charm would oil the wheels. It always did.

Melinda was supposed to be her personal assistant, but on this tour she’d become the dogsbody. Always at the beck and call of one girl or another. She was earnest and hard-working, but her patience was beginning to wear thin. The seatbelt rubbed against her breasts, compounding her discomfort. She hoped the next hotel would have a decent bath, at least.

Her friends had rolled their eyes and said to “watch out for the hostels”. She wasn’t quite sure what they meant, but guessed it was some horrid urban myth.

Becca flipped her Nokia closed and switched her smile off too. Melinda felt her spirits sink. She knew how petulant the boss could be. Her role included keeping Becca satisfied in bed. It was hard to play the prim PA while knowing what her pussy tasted like.

“Are we there yet?” Anna’s grumpy voice came from behind them. Melinda glanced over her shoulder, not letting her irritation show. Anna was a buxom blonde. Her rounded face was pleasant, but her peeved expression didn’t flatter it. Her golden hair was tied in a thick plait, like a school prefect’s. She was the quartet’s cellist and a condescending cow.

The four musicians all wore short black dresses. A classy English elegance was part of their appeal. They had nice boobs and legs like ballerinas. A shame they were such prima donnas, though.

“I couldn’t believe that last hotel,” said Carla moodily. “My mattress was like concrete, and the shower didn’t work!” She pouted at Melinda as if she had been to blame, but the PA didn’t rise to that. The stuck-up bitch was always finding fault.

“This tour had better bloody well be worth it,” said Katy, joining in with the complaints. She and Carla were the violinists, a pair of sleek brunettes from Middlesex. Carla had a chiselled face and polished-sapphire stare, while Katy was dark-eyed and simpering. Both looked down their noses at Melinda and said she licked the boss’s arse – not knowing that she really did, of course.

Charlotte crossed her legs in their silk stockings, and listened to her friends approvingly. She was as classy as the rest, her brown hair short and stylish. She had the self-assurance of a girl from army stock.

Melinda turned away and watched the headlamps splash the highway. The girls made her feel dowdy, although Becca kept insisting she was cute. Her mousy hair was shot through with blonde highlights, and she wore the highest heels she could, as if to make up for her pint-sized frame.

“Not long now, girls,” Becca said. Melinda checked her watch; they would be late. The bus slowed down and turned onto a potholed minor road. “For God’s sake,” muttered Charlotte, “this is so not promising.”

Melinda frowned and turned to Vladek. “Which way are we going?”

“Is short-cut,” he said curtly with his eyes still on the road. Melinda blinked, then looked at Becca. Becca merely shrugged. The others were still grousing in the background. The van drove down the darkening road. Melinda felt a niggle of unease. Then she saw the glow of rear-reflectors up ahead, and the dark bulk of a vehicle in their path. It was a truck of some kind, and it blocked the road completely. The headlights lit its garish paintwork: something from a carnival or fair. The stencilled words were meaningless, but one of them said ZIRKUS. The bus came to a stop behind it. “What are these peasants doing?” Carla seethed.

Suddenly a white face seemed to float out of the darkness as a hulking figure came around the truck. Melinda gasped against her hand and felt her heartbeat surging. She realised it was just a clown, but clowns had always given her the creeps. This one’s eyes were dark as holes, his painted mouth a grimace. He shambled over to the bus. The startled Quartet had gone very quiet.

“Welcome to the circus, pretty ladies,” Vladek said.

His passengers sat frozen for a moment. Then, before they could react, the side door of the bus was wrenched aside. Something like a drinks can hit the floor and started hissing. Abruptly they were blinded, choking. Panicking, they tried to scramble clear. Shadows wearing gas masks seized each girl as she emerged and dragged her over to the waiting truck. The CS gas had left them sick and giddy, too nauseous to struggle as their coats and cocktail dresses were pulled off. Melinda’s jacket ripped and then her blouse was torn wide open, the buttons flying everywhere.

The clown stood watching with a death-mask grin.

* * *

By the time Melinda’s head cleared, she’d been stripped down to her panties and her arms were twisted round behind her back.

The truck had stopped. She was queasy and half-blinded. The man who had her pinioned forced the pace across a field. She felt the night air fan her breasts. The nipples bulged and hardened, a reaction that belied her breathless dread.

There were beat-up trucks parked everywhere, she realised, as if this was some kind of travellers’ camp. Beyond them, she glimpsed fairground booths and low-powered coloured lights. There was music in the distance, like the hurdy-gurdy of a carousel. A dog barked fiercely as they passed, and her fine hairs prickled upright. She imagined it pursuing her and trying to sink its teeth into her arse.

A giant tent loomed up ahead. She saw light streaming from it like the gateway into some infernal realm. There was raucous laughter from inside, and then a burst of cheering. But her captor steered her to one side and up some steps into a caravan.

A pair of girls were slouching round in sequinned pink bikinis. They gave her an appraising look, devoid of sympathy. They looked about nineteen, but both had hard, experienced faces. Dark sloe-eyes and too much kohl. One girl drew coolly on her cigarette.

They were wearing feather headdresses to match their skimpy swimwear. Melinda gawped in bafflement. A nervous spasm went rippling through her boobs. The girl stubbed out her cigarette and sauntered forward, smiling. It was a brittle, joyless smile. She clasped the PA’s breasts and squeezed them hard. Melinda whimpered plaintively. The girl seemed satisfied. She gestured to her friend, who put some lipstick in her hand. The man behind Melinda squeezed her biceps, but his charge was too shocked to resist as the sneering girl began to make her up.

It only took a minute to put red spots on her cheeks and paint her trembling lips into a glossy pout. Finished, she stepped back and muttered something in her language. Melinda felt her arms released. “Now under-panties off,” the dark girl snapped.

Melinda stared back, horrified. The two girls waited, scowling. The man breathed hotly in her ear. She bit her lip and eased her knickers down. One of the girls tossed her a spangly G-string, and the PA pulled it on with fumbling haste. The thong was very tight and felt indecent. There was no offer of a matching bra.

The girl in charge smirked nastily and led the way outside. The man hauled Melinda down the steps. Her mind raced, wondering where the others were. There were caravans and trucks all round, but nobody to see her. She was hustled towards the open flap and through into the bright light of the tent.

She hesitated, blinking as they came into the ring. A wooden wall surrounded it, with spotlights blazing down from every side. She couldn’t see beyond the glare, but sensed the crowded audience, and they howled delightedly as she appeared. The bikini girls went swanning off, enticing them still further, but a large round structure blocked Melinda’s way. It looked like a table on its edge. Her captor pushed her past it, then shoved her back against its wooden face. She grimaced at his fetid breath and wriggled helplessly, but the showgirls came and seized hold of her wrists. Panting, she felt her arms pulled wide while the man compressed her ribcage. Her hands were pushed through leather loops which tightened painfully. Then the two girls grabbed her legs and parted them as well. Melinda’s struggles were in vain. A strap around each ankle kept them splayed.

The big man leered into her face and tweaked her swollen nipples, then moved away. Melinda gasped and sobbed. The harsh light blazed into her eyes, but she sensed a shape beyond it. A patient figure watching her. Her belly cramped with fear.

The bikini girls were standing on each side of the round panel. Some kind of signal prompted them and they grasped the edge. The board began to turn. Melinda bleated, startled, as her body tilted sideways. And then she heard a whooshing sound and the thunk of metal biting into wood.

Her head turned and her eyes grew wide. A knife had hit the board and was embedded just three inches from her cheek. She gave a tearful little cry, but the wheel continued turning, the tent’s roof changing places with its floor. Another knife came flashing in from nowhere, so close she felt its chill against her skin. Melinda squealed and tugged the straps that held her. She felt her bosom shifting with the pull of gravity.

The smirking girls kept turning her. She heard the audience crowing. Up and round she came again, her mind a giddy whirl. The wheel rotated faster as more knife blades pierced the woodwork. Each impact won a fresh cheer from the crowd.

Head down, she heard a louder crunch above her, and craned her neck to see – then squealed again. A tomahawk had struck the board an inch above her crotch, its haft protruding from between her parted thighs. She clenched her pussy in her spangly G-string. This had to be a nightmare, and she willed herself to wake.

The showgirls brought her round again and stopped when she was upright. Melinda hung against her bonds and panted miserably. The blood was pounding in her head: it blended with the cheering. She sensed a climax coming, but was too forlorn to care.

The crowd was chanting something like a mantra. She couldn’t speak the language, but she recognised the lust. It made her think of one of her own orgasms and the way she urged a lover: Yes! Yes! Yes …!

Something plunged into her upper body, and a sudden vice of numbness gripped her heart. Melinda reared back, gaping like a shocked Victorian lady with a hunting knife protruding from her chest.

She tried in vain to writhe, and then a searing pain went through her and she bucked convulsively against her bonds. Her tits poked tautly at the crowd, who cheered delightedly to see this cutesy foreign cow meet her demise. Melinda’s struggles weakened as they gloated, till she gave a final spasm and then went limp.

The cheers became a roaring in her ears as she slumped forward. She tasted Becca in her mouth, and then the tang of fresh blood on her tongue. The PA bowed her head in mute submission, but her bound wrists held her upright like an angel crucified.

The bikini girls struck poses as they gestured to her body, inviting fresh approval from the crowd. The knife-thrower stayed motionless beside a folding table with a range of knives and tomahawks on it. He wore scuffed jeans, but his chest was bare and muscled, the skin like copper underneath the lights. His long, dark hair was drawn back with a headband. Half his face was painted black, the other half bone-white.

Ignoring the acclaim, he stood as patient as a statue and watched his young assistants preen themselves. Then, as if on impulse, he picked up a tomahawk and sent it scything through the air in a flat spin. It sliced the first girl’s throat and lodged itself between her neck-bones. Her mouth gaped in a startled O, her dark eyes open wide with disbelief. She reeled beneath the choking blow and tried to clutch the hatchet as a gout of scarlet spilled onto her breasts. The crowd cheered louder as she started squirming, unmoved by the despair on her clenched face.

Her friend stood rooted to the spot, her showgirl smile congealing as the Indian chose another of his blades. This one was a medieval dagger. He snatched and threw it one movement, striking her before she could take flight. The slender blade punched deep into her bosom. The girl gawped at him woefully, then grimaced in a paroxysm of pain.

The pair of them collapsed into the sawdust on each side of Melinda’s drooping corpse. They kicked out with their high-heeled shoes and wriggled in their death throes, then slumped to lie inert as dolls. The crowd erupted with renewed applause.

The Indian bowed, while several roustabouts emerged to clear the ring. They tugged the blades out of the bodies, sprinkling the dust with vivid red. One untied Melinda and the small girl lolled against him as if seeking comfort from beyond the grave. He hoisted her limp form onto his shoulder, while the other two were dragged out on their backs.

The unfortunate assistants were both shop girls who had joined the show to earn some extra cash. The murder-circus had become addictive – but neither girl had guessed they’d be consumed by it as well.

* * *

Anna and Charlotte were even less aware of their own plight, although the pair of them were paralysed with fear. They’d been stripped to their posh panties like Melinda and taken to another caravan. An old witch there had sized them up. Both girls were well-endowed, but Charlotte’s boobs were an impressive double-D. She squeaked in horror as the woman groped them. Her snooty face looked scandalised, but terror shimmered in her wide blue eyes.

The man behind her gripped her naked shoulders, and she was forced into the dressing table’s chair. The wizened woman got to work with face paints. Anna looked on numbly, arms still pinned behind her back. In minutes, Charlotte’s features had been made up like a clown’s: a fright-white mask with a despondent crimson mouth. As if she wasn’t close to tears already. Her big tits heaved as she began to sob.

Someone else came into the cramped trailer. Anna turned her head and flinched. It was the clown who’d stopped their minibus. He was carrying two pairs of spangled panties. “For circus girlies to put on,” he said.

“Oh my God,” said Charlotte, her voice breaking. This whole thing was too horrid to believe. The man holding her shoulders stepped away and gestured curtly. She watched him in the mirror, but stayed cringing in the chair. Then the old hag grasped her by the hair and pulled her upright, untroubled by the posh girl’s squeal of pain. The clown threw down the panties like a gauntlet. “Put on,” he told them in a grating voice.

Anna bit her lip and hooked her thumbs into her waistband, then froze as Charlotte sniffed and shook her head. The clown gave her a look and shambled forward. Charlotte cowered back and clasped her breasts defensively. She realised with dismay that she was cornered. The clown’s flat stare belied his painted grin.

“Put on pants,” he said, “or silly girlie will be sorry.” His accent made him sound like a machine. He should have looked ridiculous in his shabby, mismatched clothes, with an outsized flower in his buttonhole. But instead he seemed grotesque and deeply scary. Charlotte’s full lip quivered. “No, I won’t!” she whimpered back.

She knew Anna was looking on in horror, willing her to bite her tongue, too frightened to protest. But Charlotte couldn’t bear the thought of joining the charade, and being ogled by these foreigners. How dare they!

“You’d better let me go,” she sniffed, “or it’s you who’ll be sorry. My daddy’s an important man. He’ll make you pay for this …”

He shrugged dismissively while she was speaking – and then his flower squirted in her face. Charlotte reared back, blinking from the stupid, childish trick. A bitter odour filled her nose, and suddenly she found she couldn’t breathe.

The cyanide he’d sprayed at her worked swiftly. Its presence in her blood denied her body oxygen. Charlotte gasped in vain for air, her clownish face contorting as a crushing pressure settled on her chest.

She made a throttled sound and threw her head back. Anna wailed in horror as her friend began to squirm. Charlotte clutched her throat but kept on choking. Her breasts swelled as she gawped for breath, the nipples growing dark and bullet-hard. Her face turned blue, but the white makeup concealed it - until her tongue poked stiffly out, as purple as a plum.

“Silly girlie,” was the clown’s reaction as the brunette slumped and slithered to the floor. A squirt of urine soaked her satin panties. She gurgled hoarsely, then her body sagged.

Anna’s wails increased in pitch till the woman slapped her cheek. Stunned, the blonde fell silent, and the killer turned his garish grin on her. Anna’s blue eyes brimmed with tears as he ogled her sleek body. She dropped her knickers hastily and squeezed her arse into one of the thongs. Whatever lay in store for her, protesting would be fatal. Her gaze flicked back to Charlotte’s corpse. She snivelled as the big clown grasped her hair.

He forced the cellist through the door and out into the night. The other two men followed him, and left the crone to toy with Charlotte’s tits.

* * *

Anna was dragged towards the tent like a naughty little girl. Her breasts heaved as she panted, and the night breeze raised the hairs on her bare skin. They reached the big top’s entrance and the clown pushed her inside. They came into a shadowed space, outside the bright arena of the ring. She could hear the braying of the crowd as something entertained them. A grinning roustabout came up and thrust a metal shield into her hands.

The weight surprised her and she almost dropped it. The man’s expression mocked her silently. The shield was round, the size of an umbrella. It had a strap and handle, and she got a grip on them. The ring showed through a pair of parted curtains. She heard another raucous cheer, and several clowns came scampering back out. Anna shrank away from their white faces. The fingers in her hair relaxed. She shuddered as his gloved hand stroked her neck.

Then the clown behind her slapped her bottom and sent her stumbling forward through the gap.

She lurched into the light, her damp eyes blinking. The crowd’s din was redoubled, like a concert’s curtain-call. Anna was used to basking in an audience’s approval, but the clamour here was full of horrid glee. She clasped the shield against her chest and peered around in panic, aware of what her arse must look like in the skimpy thong.

The wheel on which Melinda met her fate had been dismantled. The bloodstains had been scuffed into the sawdust underfoot. Anna cowered behind the shield, not knowing where to turn. Then she heard the thud of hooves, familiar from her pony-riding days.

She swung around and felt her stomach tighten. A man astride a snow-white horse had come into the ring. He was naked to the waist, his lank hair tied back with a headband, his face half-skull, half-shadow; eyes agleam. A sheaf of arrows hung against his ribcage, and as she watched in disbelief, he plucked one out and nocked it to his bow.

The crowd bayed as he took slow aim and loosed the shaft towards her. She raised the shield instinctively, and the arrowhead bounced off it with a clang. The jolt ran through her arms and sent her lurching. The mob groaned like a thwarted football crowd. Unfazed, the Indian heeled his horse, which started walking round her as he fitted a fresh arrow to the bow.

Anna whimpered desperately and cringed behind the shield. Another arrow glanced off it. The audience clutched their heads. The horse kept going, following the barrier. The Indian drew another shaft, as smooth as a machine. “Oh, please stop!” Anna snivelled, but he shot implacably. She almost lost her footing as the arrow ricocheted. The horse began to trot a little faster. The crowd were chanting something and it made her flesh turn cold.

Round the Indian came again, still loosing steadily. Each shot was meant for Anna’s breasts, and she batted them aside with little sobs. She’d been complaining since the tour started, but nothing had prepared her for the way that it would end.

It wasn’t fair! She was a gifted cellist. She should be back in Oxford, not among these animals …

An arrow clipped the bottom of the shield and Anna grunted. It felt as if a boot had struck her just above the groin. She folded at the waist and stumbled backwards. The heavy shield slid from her grasp, and she saw the arrow in her abdomen.

It had gone in just above the hip and jutted from her belly. She made a plaintive mewling sound, then grimaced wretchedly. A griping pain was growing from her bowels. And all the time, the Indian rode and readied his next shot.

Pitiless, he loosed it at her unprotected torso. The arrow struck her plump right breast and pierced it with a thud. Anna pirouetted with a look of stupefaction, her wide eyes staring dumbly at the crowd. Their jeers came raining down on her as she convulsed and whimpered, her fingers clawing vainly at the tits. The Indian loosed again and caught her just above the cleavage. Anna reared and tossed her head, then clutched herself anew.

“DIE, BITCH, DIE!” the crowd sang out. She couldn’t understand them, but the hapless cellist didn’t have a choice. She writhed despairingly and crumpled backwards, drawing up one thigh as if to guard her modesty. The Indian went around once more, his painted face impassive, then rode back through the curtains, leaving Anna lying tits-up in the dust.

Carla and Katy heard the cheers, but couldn’t guess the reason. They too had been stripped bare apart from spangled circus thongs. Each girl was also wearing a plumed headdress, bequeathed by the deceased bikini girls. Now they waited, trembling, in the gloom outside the tent. The air smelled damp and thundery, as if a storm was brewing in the night.

Carla’s icy confidence had splintered. She pouted, trying to fight back sobs, while Katy panted like a frightened deer. Their pampered arrogance had turned to terror. Both girls were held by roustabouts, their arms pulled back, their taut breasts sticking out.

Suddenly a figure mounted on a horse emerged. His ghoulish face glanced down at them, and Carla steeled herself, while Katy cringed. The man rode on across the field; his hoofbeats merged with others as an open carriage rolled towards the tent.

It was a small four-seater with two ponies harnessed to it. The clown who’d stopped their minibus was in the driving seat. He tugged the reins as he came up to the entrance, then nodded to the roustabouts, who forced the hapless girls into the back. They hugged each other fearfully, like schoolgirls on a ghost train. The clown looked round, his grin like a death’s head. Then he urged the ponies into motion. The girls were carried through into the blazing circus ring.

The harsh lights left them blinded for a moment. Engulfed in noise, they huddled on the seat. Then, as the carriage started round the circle, they saw the body crumpled in the dust. Katy gave a little shriek and cowered against Carla. Her friend embraced her tightly, though her haughty face looked just as horrified. The crowd kept up a stream of jeers and cat-calls as the two girls were paraded round the ring.

Then, amidst the din, they heard a swooshing sound above them. Carla felt her headdress ruffled by a sudden wind. She tipped her head back and her mouth fell open. A man on a trapeze had started swinging back and forth.

He wore the gaudy costume of a pirate, with high boots, leather waistcoat and frilled shirt. His hair was bound up with a black bandanna. The face that leered down at them was painted like a skull.

He had a pair of silver rapiers, one across each hip. Carla watched him, petrified. The carriage veered; she had to crane her neck. The figure gripped the ropes, gaining momentum. He rose above the lights, then swooped again. Carla ducked as he swung towards the carriage. One of the rapiers caught the light, and she heard it part the air above her head.

The crowd whooped, and her belly plunged with panic. She tried to squirm from Katy’s arms, intent on jumping clear. But then another noise cut through the clamour – the snarling of ferocious dogs. Her fine hairs stood up straight. Looking round, she glimpsed their maddened eyes behind the carriage as they chased it furiously around the ring. Carla sobbed and clung on to the handrail. The clown was driving faster now. Her tits bounced with each jolt.

Again the pirate came down like a falcon and stretched to slash at them as their paths crossed. The rapier cut the top from Katy’s headdress, and the dark-eyed violinist wailed with fright. The carriage kicked up sawdust as it cornered, and both girls whinnied, almost falling out. The audience whooped with pitiless excitement as the severed feathers fluttered in the air.

Carla caught a glimpse of Anna’s arrow-punctured body, and felt a crazy envy of her calm. Then she peered around for their tormentor. The man was braced on his trapeze, and both his swords were drawn. Her stomach knotted as he swung towards them – and suddenly he leaped clear of the bar.

He somersaulted in the air above them. The girls stared upward, open-mouthed, and Carla tried to rise instinctively. Katy squeezed her arm and they froze rigid. Next moment he had landed at their feet.

The carriage creaked beneath the jolting impact. His knees bent to absorb the shock, and the two girls gasped and flinched away from him. The skull face almost grazed their jouncing bosoms, but then he straightened up to meet their stares.

Raising the pair of rapiers with a flourish, he struck before the girls could even squeal. The left hand blade dug sharply into Carla’s firm left tit – he glimpsed the sudden terror in her sapphire stare – while the right hand point went sinking into Katy’s large right breast. The brown-eyed girl gaped at him like a stricken faun. The double thrust sent both girls rearing backwards. Carla grunted in her throat and Katy gave a sob. Then the pain of penetration hit them and made them sing out in a shrill duet.

The crowd roared as the carriage kept on rolling. The girls convulsed in agony, their plumed heads flipping back. Carla screamed until she choked, while Katy bucked and gurgled. Their feet flailed at the swordsman, but the blades stayed rooted deep.

Then he jerked them clear and spattered blood across the carriage. Carla spread her legs and slumped, head back orgasmically. Katy sagged against her with a whimper. Her head drooped onto Carla’s shoulder, seeking comfort even as she died. Her punctured breast nudged Carla’s, spilling blood across their bellies, while the carriage did a lap of honour and the audience jeered the lifeless pair.

The pirate spread his bloodstained blades in triumph, while the clown grinned hideously towards the crowd. Then the carriage turned and bore the girls from the arena, to the roustabouts who waited in the night.

* * *

Becca checked her blackberry, confirming the transaction, then gave the Ringmistress an impish smile. “It isn’t just the money,” she said wryly. “It’s knowing that I’ll never hear those bitches moan again!”

The Ringmistress smiled coolly back. She wore a black top hat and a red coat over a spangly leotard. “The crowd paid well to see your girls performing. If you bring us more, we’ll make it worth your while.”

Becca smirked. “I’d best not be too hasty. Not till I’ve recovered from the tragic accident.” The Quartet’s bodies would be found in their crashed minibus. A local doctor would confirm their accidental deaths.

The crowd had left, well-satisfied. The circus field was quiet, although a dog still barked amid the caravans. But the clowns and roustabouts were not yet finished with their victims, though they’d had sex with all seven murdered girls.

The carousel stood nearby, its horses dim as phantoms. As Becca watched, the lights came on and lit the field up like a UFO. The multicoloured bulbs revealed a septet of slumped bodies, astride the painted saddles with their wrists tied to the poles.

The girls had lost their sequinned thongs, and their pussies oozed with semen. The blood that dripped from Katy’s breast was mingled with the red glow on her skin. Her head was bowed, but Carla’s still hung backward, as if her dying orgasm was never going to end. Anna was bathed in garish green, and her sullen face looked witchy. Charlotte’s skin was lit with blue, as if to mock her death by cyanide.

The roundabout began to move, rotating very slowly as the batteries of bulbs flashed on and off. The horses rose and fell in time to barrel-organ music, a smooth, slow-motion canter that bobbed seven pairs of breasts. The head of one bikini girl lolled onto her bare shoulder. The other, slumped and sulky, kept her cheek pressed to the pole.

As the revolutions gained momentum, the horses bucked beneath their riders’ groins. Melinda reared and jiggled like the others, but the rhythmic rubbing couldn’t turn her on. At least, if she’d still been alive, one thought would have consoled her. The stuck-up bitches whom she rode with weren’t complaining now.