The Lady and the Tiger

Sawdust, sweat, hot lights. Even with all these scents, she hates to sit too near real audience members, afraid they'll smell the butter and popcorn on her hands or recognize her from the concession stand. She doesn't want to ruin the spell for the audience.

The tiger flows into the cage in the ring; as always, her eyes are trapped by the river of muscle flowing under the colorful coat, the constant, fluid motion, watchful eyes. The crowd oohs; they recognize the power, she thinks. Bengal tiger, female, six years old, the woman thinks, mentally reciting what He recited once, as fast as her heart is beating. Nearly nine feet from nose to tail, three hundred pounds, the largest living member of the Felidae family....

He follows the tiger, wearing his usual red uniform, carrying the whip, entering the cage with a flourish and locking it behind him. The tiger continues her ceaseless circling until he raises the whip, and then she sits before him. He bows, first to the tiger and then to the audience. They applaud; the tiger only yawns, showing curved fangs. He gestures with the whip - it's for show, he'd never touch the her with it beyond a light tap on the flank - and she moves gracefully to the nearest spangled stand.

The tiger looks at him, her golden eyes bored. Another gesture with the whip and she's in motion again, one stand to the next, touching ground fleetly between each. The woman imagines she can feel the heavy tread of the tiger's paws shaking the ground. The second lap around the cage, she goes direct from stand to stand, not pausing between leaps. When she returns to where she started, she jumps again, and pads to the centre of the ring, sitting in front of him.

He raises the whip again - throws it away. The tiger regards him, unmoving. He points at the whip. Like all cats, tigers can muster a look that says they don't care if you want them to get the stick; you threw it away, you can go get it. The tiger shows him that now. He mugs frustration for the crowd; they laugh. He points again. This time she goes, picks the whip up in her mouth and brings it back to him, to applause from the crowd. The tiger regally ignores the applause and lies down in the sawdust.

He walks back to the door of the cage. A clown runs out from the big top's entrance and hands him a large teddy bear. The tiger looks more alert now, shifting to a crouch. He holds the teddy bear up, teasing the tiger with it. She sits up, swipes a paw at the bear, claws barely unsheathed; he jerks it back, just out of range. As he retreats, she stalks forward, eyes on the bear. The crowd is laughing at the careful choreography; bear one way, body the other, until he turns, throws the bear in a high arc over the cage top. The tiger tries to follow, standing up on her hind legs, then dropping back down and growling when she realizes the bear is beyond her reach.

More laughter, and no shortage of volunteers when he emerges from the cage to seek a volunteer, promising no bear, and no danger.

It's a lie, of course; it is dangerous and that's why it's her he picks, not a real audience member. She acts nervous on her way into the ring, wringing her butter-scented hands. Not all of the nerves are faked.

He encourages her to take a bow and she does, with nowhere near a professional's polish. Then they go into the cage; he leads her when she hangs back a little.

He encourages her towards the sitting tiger. Outside the cage, the audience is a blur; within it everything is hyper-clear, crystal. The lights' heat magnifies the tiger's scent, a dusty, heavy odor.

The tiger smells her too, and stalks forward and sniffs. The woman can hear the crowd's collective gasp as the tiger's head dips towards the familiar scent of butter and salt on her hands. She stays as still as she can; to the audience, it must look as though she's frozen in terror.

She feels hot breath on her hand, and then the roughness of the tiger's tongue over her palm. It tickles at first, then grows rougher as the tiger licks harder, enjoying the salt and butter. The woman goes more still, not even breathing, when she feels the smoothness of the tiger's fang brush the edge of her hand.

The crowd applauds her bravery as the tiger backs away, turned off by a light tap of his whip on her flank. The woman bows and the crowd applauds again as she turns and walks towards the cage exit with him.

It happens when they're halfway to the exit; the woman's senses are so alert, this time she knows she can feel the ground shake as the tiger turns and runs at her. A single scream from the audience.

In perfect motion: snap, his hand releases her arm; snap, she exhales perfectly as the tiger's front paws strike her shoulder blades, more screams from the audience; snap, arms forward, down into the roll, a double somersault, sped on her way by the tiger's sheathed-claw mock assault. The perfect roll - child of a circus family, she could walk on a slackwire or the ground with equal facility by the age of four - clues the audience to her role.

They're never angry at being tricked. For a moment, they're relieved that it's not for real, and then they're amazed by the choreography of the move. A perfect double somersault, ending in a kneeling position, and she bows to the audience from there.

The applause is thunderous.

Cued by a tap of the whip, the tiger steps down, comes around to face the woman. The woman raises her face, and the tiger lowers hers. Hot breath, rough tongue - the crowd laughs as the tiger licks her face.

It's all a show.

He helps her up and this time her bow is professional. She feels like a fraud; it's the tiger that performs, not her. She's a doll, that's all. But she smiles at the crowd, at him, at the tiger. Then exit.

She never wanted to perform. She mastered the skills, but the spotlight didn't appeal. Except for this, which isn't performing, not really. It's just something she does. Of her own volition, she wouldn't, but he wants her to. She endures the applause, for Him....

Moonlight, cold.

The tiger flicks an ear in her sleep, then wakes. Two people are approaching her trailer-cage, the smell of leather and metal blended over the familiar scents of the two humans she knows.

Their breath steams in the cold night. They leave footprints in the frosted grass, but he's the only one wearing shoes. They are silent.

Their scents are mixed; hers on him, his on her, both of them carrying the scent of sex. The heavy smell of leather comes from the wrist cuffs and collar she wears, and the metal is the leash; they're the only things she wears. Although she walks in front, he's clearly charge, for he holds the other end of the leash and directs her with light taps of the whip he uses in the ring. If the tiger paid attention to such things, she might note that the man is dressed, even if only in a pair of jeans and shoes. The woman's eyes are downcast, her hands held behind her. The tiger can hear her quickened breathing, catch the scent of fresh arousal.

"Up," he says, and removes her leash.

The tiger stands, shaking off sleep. The woman sits on the tailgate, back to the bars, feet dangling just above the frosted grass. She keeps her eyes downcast, even when he climbs up on the tailgate, one foot planted either side of her - although she does think about his cock, hidden from her by his jeans. She wants, oh, she wants...she feels the trailer's tremor as the tiger paces, separated from her only by a few bars, more than wide enough for a paw swipe.

"Hands up," he says.

She raises them over her head, feels him push her hands back into the cage. The leather cuffs are joined by a padlock. If the tiger attacks, she cannot withdraw her hands. That doesn't matter. What is important is the scent of him, his touch; when he leans forward to push her hands back, she turns her head up, her face against his leg. If he knelt, she could suck him, taste him, were he not wearing jeans. This time, the tremor is not from the tiger, it's hers alone. So is the soft moan, the one that he can feel more than hear.

"Shh," he says. He lowers his hands to her head, stroking her hair slowly. She lowers her head again, leans into him.

"Please let me," she whispers.

"Not yet," he says. He kneels on the tailgate, straddling her and bends his head to kiss her hard, pressing her head back against the bars. Not for long enough and she gasps when he breaks away, jumping lightly down from the tailgate to the ground.

He faces her, hands on her knees, and gives a gentle push. She spreads her legs, tips her head back against the bars. The air's cold against her body, the metal bars and tailgate make her shiver. The tiger's breath is warm on her hands, the animal attracted by the scent of butter and salt. Then she feels the warm rasp of the tiger's tongue against her hand, seeking the taste she's been trained to.

The woman's mouth opens in a silent plea as she feels his hands travel slowly up her legs, his breath warm on her breast - then his tongue flicking lightly, teeth nipping. His hands lift away from her legs, and he pulls a pair of clamps out of his jeans pockets. "Ready?" he asks, and she nods. He attaches the clamps to her nipples, hardened by cold and his attentions - her indrawn breath is silent, then she exhales just as silently, a cloud of steam marking the breath out. He tugs the chain between the clamp, and she closes her eyes, feeling the core of heat between her legs, in the pit of her stomach.

He hears the softest of groans from her as his hands return to her legs, moving upwards to her pussy. His fingers start stroking her; he knows her, how to make her respond and he uses that knowledge ruthlessly. That soft sigh is as much noise as she can make - too much noise or movement this late at night will upset the tiger, so she must stay quiet, even when he works two fingers inside her, strokes her clit with his thumb. Her legs tense as she tries to raise herself onto his hand, she mouths words of begging to be permitted to come.

"Not yet," he says. "You know you have to earn that."

She gulps air, nods, and he continues working her, teasing her hard - she thinks she can hold on for a few more minutes, no more than that, and then she'll come regardless of his denial. Her hands are limp in the tiger's mouth, the rough tongue curling around her fingers, fangs brushing skin. Through tongue and teeth, the woman can feel as well as hear the soft growl-purr. He fucks her with his fingers, stroking her clit with his thumb; slowly, her back arches, she tries to drive herself onto his hand. "Please...." It's a long, drawn-out whisper of a word, turning to a near-silent groan as his hand withdraws, leaving her wanting.

He steps away; she feels the loss of his warmth and sags back against the bars. Her hands are clean and the tiger lies down, back to the bars, the fur rough against the woman's back.

"What do you want more, to suck me or to come?" he asks.

Both, she wants to say, but she knows that won't be an acceptable answer. "You," she says. The touch of his hand on her face is a reward, his fingertips trailing from her cheek to her lips; she kisses, nips, finding her way to the palm of his hand.

He kneels on the tailgate, one knee either side of her. For a moment, she leans her head forward, face in his crotch - she can feel the outline of his cock through the fabric.

"Go ahead," he says. "You know what to do."

It took her some time to learn this trick. With her hands still bound, she uses her teeth to unbuckle his belt; the awkwardness and the effort she'll go through to get to his cock arouses him further, she can feel it. The button is more difficult, but she can do it. Then the zip - the whole thing takes minutes instead of seconds and, all the while, she knows he can feel her breath on his cock. He has to help her, though, in getting his pants out of the way, then she can take his cock in her mouth, tongue swirling around the head. His hands rest on her head and he gathers fistfuls of her hair to hold her steady, then thrusts slowly into the warmth of her mouth. She opens wider, sucking - the taste of pre-come on her tongue. He withdraws a little then pushes in again. She welcomes it, tongue pressed against his shaft, lips tight, letting him control her movement, use her to please himself. Each time he pushes into her mouth, he draws her head forward, pushes in a little more, giving her a little more of his cock until she can feel it at the back of her throat. More, and she can feel his cock in her throat, all of it in her mouth.

He rests there for a bare moment, then withdraws, thrusts in again, fucking her mouth as she groans in pleasure. She feels his hands clench in her hair, controlling her movements, pulling her mouth onto his cock in a gradually increasing tempo. She breathes when she can, gasping between thrusts, sucking between gasps, knowing that soon...

His hands lock her head in place and he thrusts in hard, his cock stifling her moan - short, hard thrusts into her throat, and then the taste of his come filling her mouth. She swallows, sucks as he thrusts into her mouth again, more come - his hands hold her on his cock until he's done, then relax. She stays there, licking, sucking again, hearing his low, shuddering exhale. He withdraws, releasing her hair.

"Well done," he says softly, and her face lights up.

He leans forward, unlocking her wrists, steps down and then helps her down from the tailgate. He turns her so she's facing the cage, pressed against the tailgate, and lifts her breasts to rest on it. He unclips one nipple clamp, passes the chain through the bars and puts it back in place. Each action causes her to shiver and moan until he tells her to hush. He rearranges her slightly, a tiny step back to get the tension on the chain just right, taut enough that the clamps are pulling on her nipples, on the edge of pain.

"Hands behind your back," he says. When she obeys, he uses the padlock on her cuffs to lock them in position.

Then he walks away, taking the leash with him, with no word on where he's going or how long he'll be.

The tiger is half-asleep; the woman can hear the animal's rumbling purr. She can feel the frost on the grass melting beneath her feet. She can feel the bite of the nipple clamps growing greater, the same for the ache in her shoulders as she waits for him. He may leave her here for a while longer; he may return and fuck her until she comes. He might come back with a flogger in his hands, or just her leash to take her back to their caravan, leave her unsatisfied.

Whatever he wants....

Lost in reverie, the pain and pleasure of waiting, she doesn't hear his return. The first she knows is a hand on her ass; she knows his touch and doesn't flinch.

"Spread your legs," he says, and she obeys. The sensation of something being pressed against, into her asshole, the pungency of ginger in the air. He works a carved spike of ginger into her slowly, taking his time, fucking her with it, enjoying the way she pushes herself back onto it, eager for it despite the added tension that the motion puts on her clamped nipples. At last it's in - she shivers, feeling the heat begin. Low warmth now, but soon.... He learned the trick somewhere, that ginger in the ass not only stings and burns, but sends desire vaulting higher, making her body twist and arch, making her need cock, need to be fucked, enough that she'll beg, plead, crawl.

He steps back. The next sensation is the brush of air on her ass, something moving millimeters from her skin. It's the small flogger; he's windmilling it, bringing it closer - the delicate, fast brush of it on the skin of her ass, repeated, repeated, repeated, the force gradually growing. It's not harsh at all. Rather than stinging, it raises only a good warmth, making her skin feel more alive, sensitized--

Until, without warning, he brings it down on her ass in a solid thwack, the multiple tails of soft leather raising their own individual sting. She stiffens, jerking backwards, biting down on her lip to stop her cry at the double bite from the flogger and the nipple clamps.

Again - another sudden jerk, stifled moan. It continues, now that the ginger is beginning to work. He'll keep her here, she knows, flogging her, until the ginger has reached its full effect, until she's tormented in three different ways.

He stops the flogger's swing, unclamps one nipple long enough for her to stand, then reattaches the clamp, turns her to face him, attaches the leash to her collar. "Do you want to come?" he asks, flicking the flogger idly, softly around her calves.

"Yes, Master." Her voice is a whispered gasp, between pants; the ginger's effects are running rampant in her, and she's weak at the knees, shuddering.

"You've behaved well tonight," he says in a considering tone. "Maybe you do deserve a reward...if you can walk back to the caravan, without stumbling or making a noise, I'll let you come - maybe even two or three times. If you can't, I'll tie you down and tease you until the ginger's worn off, without letting you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master," she says. When he raises his hand to touch her face, she turns her head and kisses his hand, tasting ginger on his fingers.

As she walks, she has to work to restrain the groans and tremors - she knows he meant it, that he'll tease her hard and leave her aching if she can't manage to walk without showing the way the ginger's taking her. The distance from the tiger's cage to their caravan is miles, takes hours. Her hands shake as she opens the caravan door, and she barely suppresses a groan as she kneels by the bed - the motion makes her ass tighten on the ginger, heightening the effect - waiting for him to undress settle himself in bed.

At last, he tugs the leash, tells her to get into bed beside him. He unlocks the cuffs, removes the clamps from her nipples, lowers his mouth to one, sucks and nips hard enough to make her moan.

"I'll let you come," he says. "Soon. Very soon."

She feels his hand between her legs and she spreads for him, willing and eager. She's soaking wet, and she moans, thrusting herself up, impaling herself on his fingers. Two fingers inside her, his thumb on her clit; she's on the edge of delirium, fucking herself on his fingers, panting, frantic, trying to pleasure herself and withhold climax until he gives permission

One word, 'Now', and she comes, back arched towards him, rigid until her climax passes and she collapses back on the bed.

"Come again whenever you're ready," he says, and starts to kiss and bite his way down her body - fast, reaching her pussy, wanting to taste her as much as she wants him. His tongue explores her folds - she can feel the faintest movement, hypersensitive, groaning, her hands moving aimlessly, beyond her control. The fabric of bedsheets, blankets, his skin, hair - her fingertips drink up the sensations as he licks her, tongue finding her clit, freeing a second climax, sustained until she suspects she might pass out - oh, that's right, she has to breathe, she forgot for a moment there, taken over wholly by the sensations he's given her, the ginger, his tongue....

She feels him rearranging her body, raising her calves to his shoulders - her body is distant except for the heat in it; she's made of heat, not flesh, she thinks. She cries out, brought to the brink of another climax by him penetrating her hard, deep, all inside her at one thrust. He leans forward, catches her wrists and brings her hands to her pussy, moving her fingers on her clit until instinct takes over and she plays with herself. His hands go to her nipples, twisting and pulling, raising more cries from her. He withdraws, drives in again - her cry is torn from her, feeling him so deep in her that it's almost pain, the way he's taking her, thrusting into her brutally hard - the world is only him, his cock, her need, that's all she has room for. Another hard climax, enough that it's painful, tearing through her savagely, then the feeling of his climax, him not just pressed against/into her, but nearly driving her back on the bed, dividing, splitting her - she screams, hears his cry as he comes, and a roar from the tiger in the distance, the beast disturbed by her sounds....