Cissy BeBe The Clown
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Wet Sissy Clown free porn video
WET SISSY CLOWN by Throne
"B... but..." I said, my voice shaky. "Darla. When you volunteered me
to work at the fair I thought... I mean, I assumed that I would be...
taking tickets... or something."
"Well," my tall busty wife said with an impish smile, "this is SOMETHING.
It's being the guy in the dunking tank. Don't tell me you're afraid to
get wet."
"N... no, but that costume. And the m... make-up."
"Well, you ARE supposed to be a clown. And the costume they sent is for
a girl clown. But I'm not going to ask any of my girlfriends to do this.
I need a man. One who's short and fat, like the outfit."
Close to tears at the thought of being put on display, laughed at, and
dropped repeatedly into a tank of water, I tried to pull myself together.
After all, this WAS for charity. I took a deep breath and said, "All
right. I'll do it."
She was only half listening to me, already fussing with the ridiculous
costume I was going to wear. Darla said, "Let's get you into your
working clothes, Wayne. Hmmm, that's not a very good name for a clown.
Maybe Wayney? Nah. I know -- Winky. Winky the Clown." She laughed as
she held the top of the outfit against my front and said, "Let's get you
into this, Winky."
"You mean I'll have to go... go to the fair wearing it?"
"There's nowhere to change once we get there. So strip down, Bozo."
I reluctantly began to undress. I'm uncomfortable with my plump body,
even in front of my wife. She always notices guys who are in better
shape than me. And taller than me. And more confident. I got out of my
clothes and stood there but she didn't hand me anything to put on. She
told me to wait a minute, to not do anything until she got back, and then
left the bedroom. I stood there feeling awkward and unhappy. A moment
later I heard her talking to someone. She must have made a phone call.
Darla chuckled and talked some more. I couldn't make out exactly what
she was saying. After a few more minutes I heard her say goodbye.
She returned and said that she had let a friend know to meet her at the
event, to give her some help with the booth. I stood there squirming,
chubby and pink. It doesn't help my low self-esteem that I have almost
no body hair. Worst of all, my genitals are underdeveloped. My wife is
amused by my lack of manly assets and jokes about it frequently. Our sex
life is limited to me using my mouth on her and her using her hand on me.
The latter never takes long, as I always get overexcited and, as she puts
it, am 'done before I get started'.
The first part of the costume was a pair of stockings. I worked them up
my legs slowly, delaying the inevitable, but not for long. They were
bright yellow with a wide red stripe around each thigh. Darla made me
walk around in just those. I could feel my cheeks get warm with shame.
She said that if I was going to be a girl clown, I had to walk like one,
and insisted that I swish my hips with each step. She giggled at the
ridiculous sight I made. I tried to argue that I would be sitting on the
little seat, over the water, and not doing any walking, but she didn't
back down.
Next I had to get into bright pink panties with ruffles across their
seat. My big bottom filled them almost to their limit. Between the
legs, my small parts barely made a bump. Then came the top, a yellow and
orange dress with short puffed sleeves. At my plump waist it flared out
into a brief skirt that did nothing to conceal the stocking tops or much
of the panties. There were garters, which my wife had me fasten to the
stockings. Finally, there were gloves that went up my arms and vanished
under the ends of the sleeves.
Darla made me walk to the bathroom, wiggling my hips all the way. She
had me stand in front of the full length mirror and strike several girly
poses. The costume showed off every ounce of excess weight I was
carrying. But there was more. A bag was sitting on top of the hamper.
From it she took two rounded forms and stuffed them down the back of my
panties, making my backside bulge much further. I couldn't believe how
much the material stretched. Then came other forms, down the bodice of
the dress, to give me absurdly large breasts.
Following that, she produced a wig. It was a puffed out mass of tight
hair, in rainbow stripes. As she fitted it snugly onto my head I started
to feel as if my own identity was being swallowed up by the foolish role
I was being dressed for. Then, to my dismay, she announced that it was
time to apply my make-up. I would have to travel to the fair in not only
that unwanted costume, but wearing a clown face as well. I tried to
console myself with the fact that my identity would be concealed by the
white base and colorful highlights I was sure she would use, but somehow
it didn't help. She sat me down at her vanity table, removed my wig,
tied a kitchen apron around my neck, and began to work.
As expected, a white covering came first, except that she mixed some pink
into it, so that I was left with a kind of permanent blush. Then she
made that worse by making red circles on my cheeks, like you might find
on a baby doll. The eye liner and eyebrow pencil she used, along with
the eyeshade and long false lashes, managed to make me look clownish and
slutty at the same time. Darla assured me that the special adhesive on
the lashes would guarantee that they didn't come off when I was dropped
into the water. Then it was time for what I dreaded the most --
lipstick. She selected a shiny fire-engine red and used it liberally.
Next she outlined my lips, making them appear even larger, and filled in
the edges of the outline. A few final touches completed my outrageous
clown/slut look, the apron-bib came off, and the wig went back on.
She ordered me to stand and show off my girly walk again, forcing me to
exaggerate it even more, as well as putting one hand on my hip, raising
the other arm, and letting that hand dangle from a limp wrist. Then came
shoes, old fashioned, high-buttoned style, with two-inch heels. My wife
laughed and laughed and laughed, which was what I anticipated everyone
else would be doing. She led me to the front door and out onto the
sidewalk. Just my bad luck, one of our neighbors was strolling by. It
was old Mrs. Grundish, a gossipy biddy if ever there was one. The senior
citizen stopped and gaped at me.
My bride greeted her cheerily and explained that it was me in that
humiliating costume, and that we were on our way to the fair. Darla
answered a few questions and somehow, without coming right out and saying
it, strongly suggested that I was getting some kind of sick thrill out of
being a weird exhibitionist. The old woman clucked at me and went on her
way. I just wanted to get into the car and have at least a bit of
privacy from curious stares. People driving by gawked at me. Once I was
in the car and my wife was seated behind the wheel, my relief was short-
lived.
Darla pulled out her cell phone and declared that she needed to document
this happening. "You know," she explained. "In case they need pictures
for the charity's website. I'll have to get some of you afterwards, out
of your get-up, to put alongside the ones of you as Winky. Just to make
sure everyone knows who generously volunteered to be the buffoon. Right,
Clarabelle?" She took several pictures.
I cringed. She drove. Halfway there, she insisted on getting herself a
cup of coffee. At a busy fast food place. Not by using the drive-in,
but by going inside. And I had to go with her. Feeling utterly
disgraced, I tagged along behind, having to mince on those heels. The
counter girls snickered at me and the guys who were cooking rolled their
eyes. The manager tried to appear unaffected, but had to turn away when
he could no longer keep himself from chortling. At last my wife had her
coffee and whisked out the door, leaving me to struggle to keep up.
People entering the restaurant were startled by my silly appearance.
She drove us the rest of the way and then I had to get out and face the
public on a much larger scale. The fair was almost ready to open and she
hurried me through a side entrance to the local ball field, where it was
taking place. Just my luck, our spot was right in the center of
everything. Anyone visiting the event was sure to see me. She consulted
with a woman who carried a clipboard, who in turn talked with a guy who
was putting finishing touches on the booths. He listened to her and then
went off to one side, where he had a big piece of cardboard and a
collection of magic markers. He worked quickly while I looked with
trepidation at the dunking booth. All too soon the man with the markers
was done, and he proudly held up a large sign that said DROP THE CLOWN
INTO THE WATER. WINKY THE CLOWN. And below that, in parenthesis, (AKA
Wayne Willis). Oh no, everyone would know it was me in that cage,
wearing that awful costume and mortifying face.
I reluctantly got into the booth, perching on the none-too-comfortable,
narrow board that was my seat. I looked to either side of the cage,
where bulls-eyes protruded, waiting to be hit by baseballs, which would
make the seat drop and dump me into the water directly below. I could
see down the center aisle, as the gates were opened and fair-goers
streamed onto the grounds. Near the head of the crowd was someone I
recognized and was not happy to see. It was Hank Thompson, a guy who my
wife had dated before we got married, and who she still spoke about
admiringly. He was tall and fit and full of attitude. When he got there
she opened her arms to him and he gave her a long hug. I shuddered.
They were close to me and I heard her say, "I'm so glad you weren't busy
when I called. I really wanted you to be here. I need at least one real
man with me today."
He laughed and gave her upper arm a friendly squeeze. They exchanged
intimate glances. I was just absorbing that shock when the first
customers reached the booth. It was a young couple and the guy handed
over his money for two baseballs. He threw one and was visibly
disappointed when it missed. The second attempt grazed the edge of a
bulls-eye but didn't trigger it. I was relieved, but knew my luck
couldn't hold. Then Hank came up alongside the booth and fussed with
something I couldn't see. He swung a microphone, on a long flexible arm,
out and just above my head.
Hank told me, "Go ahead... Winky. Say something to the people. Get them
worked up. This booth isn't going to make any money if you don't get
their attention. Get them riled up."
I looked at him blankly. He shook his head in disgust and reached out
one long arm to swing the microphone back toward himself. Then he
unfastened it from its mounting and held it in his hand. As more
strollers neared, he began his spiel.
"Let's go, folks. Hit the target and dump the funny clown into the
drink. Look at him. Or her. Yeah, look at Winky the Clown. Isn't she
cute? But she thinks YOU look funny. Are you going to let her think
that about you?"
A couple of guys who looked like they thought they were tough heard his
patter. They stepped up to the booth and pulled out money. Hank said,
"Come on, gents. Knock Winky girl into the water. Otherwise, everybody
might think you're going easy on her. They might think you like her. Is
that it, fellows? Are you getting turned on by Winky's curves? Hmmm?"
They ignored Hank, even though he was the one saying those things.
Instead, they glowered at me, obviously displeased with my sissy manner.
Darla gestured to me to use more girlish body language. I put up one
hand and waved it loose-wrist style at the guys. She pantomimed throwing
a kiss, puckering her lips, putting her hand near them, and flinging out
her arm. Not wanting to, I nevertheless duplicated the action, straight
at those increasingly angry young men. They snarled at me as they
weighed the baseballs in their hands. The first of them drew back his
arm, looking like he had thrown a lot of pitches in the past. The ball
flashed at the target and barely missed. On his next attempt he hit it
dead center and down I went, into the tepid water, with a big splash. I
came up spluttering and blinking.
"Okay," Hank hooted. "We have one real man in the bunch. Do you other
guys want to dunk Winky? Or do you like her too much?"
They took the challenge. He had gotten them upset and they threw wild,
missing over and over. Then they put down more money. Hank harassed
them but their ire was all directed at me. One of them hit and down I
went again. The other had to pay one more time before he scored. A
crowd had gathered. Hank worked them and they lined up to soak the sissy
clown. Darla stood much too close to her former boyfriend, often
reaching out to stroke his muscular arm or squeeze his firm shoulder. I
didn't know what was worse: the way I looked, getting plunked into the
water, seeing my wife flirt openly with a past lover. It was all bad.
There were familiar faces in the crowd and having my name on the sign
assured that would all know it was me in that dress, stockings, gloves,
heels, and wig, with the made-up face. People shouted taunting comments
at me as the day seemed to last forever. Dusk arrived and lights were
turned on.
For the next several hours my ordeal continued. At last it was over. A
final thrower blazed two balls at the targets and dropped me twice. Hank
opened the side door of the enclosure and I got out unsteadily, water
running from my outfit. I staggered around on those heels while Darla
thanked him for making the booth a success. She said he deserved a
reward and gave it to him in the form of a long kiss on the mouth. He
said he could use a cup of hot coffee to sooth his throat after all that
ballyhooing, and she invited him to our house. She gave him directions
and he offered to pick up a bottle on the way, which she was happy to
agree to. I stood there, soaking wet, while they exchanged another kiss.
My wife walked away and I followed. She turned to me and said, "Where do
you think you're going, sissy girl? I'm not having you in the car while
you're all wet like that. Walk home. It's only a few miles. And don't
take those shoes off or you'll ruin the stockings. That's an order."
Stunned, I watched her move away. Then I started the long walk. Over an
hour later I arrived. Our car and what I could only assume was Hank's,
were parked out front. I went to the door but it was locked. I knocked
timidly and then stood there for several long minutes. At last my bride
appeared, wearing a short belted robe. She had a drink in hand, her hair
was tousled, and she was a bit tipsy. With a snorting laugh she let him
come inside. I was damp and uncomfortable. I followed her wordlessly
and was shocked, when we got to the recreation room, to find Hank on the
couch in only his boxer shorts.
"Hey, Winky, old girl," he said merrily. "Have a nice walk? I know WE
had a great time while we were waiting for you. And we're going to have
another great time later, after we've rested up from the first one. But
on my way here I got you a gift. Some closer so I can give it to you."
He stood up. "Come on, Winky girl."
Feeling defeated, I went to him. He reached under the side table that
was against the couch and pulled out a white box, square and not too
deep. He opened it and took out a pie, balancing it on his broad hand.
Then he put the fingers of his other hand against the back of my head.
Too late, I understood what he intended to do. With Darla watching, he
shoved the pie into my face and ground it against my features.
Afterwards, I still had one eye still clear and could see my wife
laughing raucously, her big bust rising and falling, the top of the robe
opening slightly to show lots of cleavage. I was totally demeaned. Hank
put a hand on the top of my head and pushed down hard, telling me to
kneel.
I got down on my knees and he ordered me to stay there. Then he and
Darla relaxed, acting as if I wasn't even present. They kissed and
fondled each other. Less than a half hour later they were ready to head
to the bedroom -- again. His sexual stamina obviously outclassed mine.
My wife looked back at me and said, "Don't move, Winky. I'll leave the
bedroom door opened so you can hear how I sound when a real man is with
me. It's going to get loud. Oh, and those hand jobs I was generously
giving you... they're going to stop. I wouldn't want to feel like I was
cheating on Hank. But don't worry. With a dick and balls as tiny as
yours, I'm sure it won't be too difficult to go for a week without
cumming. Or a month. Or half a year. And I'll still let you use your
mouth on me."
They both laughed at my distraught reaction and then vanished. As she
had said, I could hear them the entire time. She made sure to compliment
Hank on his size and skills. And to disparage my shortcomings in the
same areas. I was beaten. Even after my clownish outward appearance was
removed, I would still feel like a clown inside. That was not going to
change. I knelt there with a mess of custard on my face and waited to
learn what other indignities would be visited on me.
*********
Elissa
- 13.09.2020
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