Scavenging is always a risky business. It's always best to go in groups, but the Entity doesn't always allow for that. Entire halves of them go missing at a time, enveloped by the fog or called to a trial. Kate's certain that's what has happened to her; just moments ago, she'd been with David, Jake, and Meg, navigating their way out of the forest, and then suddenly, she wasn't. It's not Kate that's been displaced. She's still in the same spot in the trees, where they'd all been waiting for the mist to clear so that they could determine whether or not they wanted to proceed into the next realm. That's how she knows that her fellow survivors have all been taken for one of the Entity's trials.
Has it left her alone deliberately? Does it know that the three of them were with her? Sometimes, Kate wonders if it does things to purposely sabotage them, just as it draws designs to hurt and sacrifice them.
Kate stands near the tree line, uneasy, wondering what she should do. But it sounds quiet out there where she can see the moon leaking through the tree tops, so she thinks to herself, I'll just take a quick look around. After that, she'll go back into the forest to find the campfire.
She takes a few cautious steps into the territory of Father Campbell's Chapel. In the distance, she spots the lights of the travelling circus, and she feels a little wary, even though she sees nothing of concern at first glance. The Clown is never easy to deal with, and Kate's admittedly never liked clowns at all, but he doesn't seem to be around, and she knows that around the circus equipment she can find a few chests, so she carefully makes her way over.
The cheerful carnival music is as inappropriate as ever, blasting into the night without an audience to listen to it. Kate walks past the creepy exhibits and the worn-down tents, and soon she hears the snuffling of the horse that always seems to be lingering out here— strangely, the only animal present in the nightmare she's personally observed outside of the crows.
Knowing that the stagecoach often has supplies inside, Kate steels herself and walks in. It's dark in there, and mostly empty. She sees the chest right away and kneels to dig through it.
She's still sorting through the contents when she hears the sound of a latch closing, and suddenly the caravan lurches to one side. Her head jerks up.
He's there right in front of her as he steps inside, bowing his head to come through. Kate screams and jumps to her feet, knowing that she needs to get the hell out, now.
"Come to see the circus?" he greets her, grinning. There's a little bottle clutched in his hand. The colorful lights strung up around the carnival — so warm and friendly, reminding her of the county fairs she'd play sometimes, back in the life she missed so much — shine in through the entryway and cast watercolors over the white paint of his face, making it look hazy, indistinct. Deepening the shadows in the hollows of his sunken eyes.
Kate takes another step back. Her legs are shaking. It feels like they're going to give out on her at any moment. The Clown doesn't seem at all perturbed by her inching away from him; he just makes a sound, like a scoff, and twirls the bottle between his surprisingly nimble fingers. She's glimpsed him working his knife the same way during trials, usually right before swinging it at her or one of the others.
There's an unconscious survival instinct inside of Kate that explodes into a thousand red alarms, intuiting his intentions. The slowly dawning horror of the potential for him to harm her — no sacrificial hooks involved — rolls over her like a heat wave.
"No," she says. Her voice comes out as a little squeak. She tries to move back again, but her rear hits the wall, and she realizes that she's got nowhere left to go. He'd locked the latch on the back of the stagecoach, and his massive bulk blocks her path to the opening behind him.
He reads her expression and bursts out laughing. It's that same familiar wet, ragged hacking that she's grown used to hearing in trials. He laughs so hard that it starts to sound like he's gagging; there's saliva running down his chin, streaking into the white greasepaint. He lifts an arm and wipes at it with his sleeve, and brings it away damp. "Pretty little thing when you're scared, aren't ya," he says, but he sounds disgusted somehow. Like he finds this whole thing as grotesque as it is humorous.
The Clown turns and sets the bottle down on the work table. The wooden slats on the floor groan with each movement he makes. Kate just stands there, tears blurring her vision, trying to formulate some kind of exit plan. When he picks up the ornately carved butterfly knife — the one he uses to fillet her and all of the other survivors with ease — and a rag to begin wiping the blade off with, she begins stammering and begging, as much as she hates herself for it.
"Please, no," she chokes, and her knees wobble. She's forced to lower herself, grabbing onto the counter to try to hold herself up. "Don't, p-please, just. If you're going to kill me, can y'just— just do it?" Her pleading is a girlish, pathetic warble, and it only makes the Clown's red-smeared lips pull up in an indulgent smile.
"Oh, sweetheart, I'm not gonna kill ya," he explains languidly, setting the rag down. He folds the knife with a flick of his wrist, then unlatches it just as fast, and he repeats the motion, as if it's important that she pays attention. Kate's eyes are drawn to the fluid open and close of the knife, the slithery metal sound it makes, like it's a metronome. The knife is beautiful in its own way. There's a ripple to the serrated edge that brings leaves to mind, or maybe feathers.
"You're not?" she whispers. Her heart doesn't allow her to believe it.
"Not right away," he amends. He leans forward a little, from the hips, and then he's all she can see, filling her entire field of view. She shrinks back, her eyes wide with terror as he raises the knife below his chin, as though to show her the way the moonlight glints on the blade. "I'm gonna fuck you first."
Those words cause nothing but panic in Kate, sending her down a spiral of fear. No, no, no, no, nononononono is all she can think, dropping to the floor on her ass, staring up at him in disbelief. That's not what the killers do, right? The Entity has never made them do anything like that before. They're just supposed to kill them. Aren't they? Not this. This kind of thing isn't supposed to happen.
The denial of what's about to occur shoots through Kate's veins as fast as the adrenaline does. Suddenly, it's hard to breathe, and her chest hurts, her heart racing so fast that she feels like she's about to pass out. She chokes again, trying to scramble back, but it's useless. She brings her knees up in front of herself, thinking that maybe she can kick him and try to disarm him if he gets too close.
The Clown watches her the whole time, his expression somehow fascinated and aroused and loathing all at once. Like he wants her, but he hates that he wants her, and now he's going to take it out on her. "Don't cry, baby," he says; the faux-sympathy in his voice is cloying. "You wouldn't be in this situation if ya didn't walk around like that all the time."
Kate's mind is blurred by fear, and she doesn't understand. Her lips part; she can taste the salt of her own tears on her tongue. "What?" she stammers, feeling sick to her stomach.
The stagecoach shudders as the Clown drops to a crouch before her. He makes it look natural, despite his size. He's still toying with the knife, rolling it in and out between his fingers, but he brings the tip of it to his doughy chin, as if in thought. "Running around with your tits hangin' out. Those lil’ shorts of yours." He extends his arm, points the knife between her knees. Kate flinches, weepy and red-eyed. "S'how I can tell you're a fuckin' slut."
"No," says Kate desperately. She can taste mucus; it's running down into her mouth, leaking along with the tears. "I'm not, I, I'm not—"
"Shhhh," says the Clown, and she's so frightened that she does as he says and shuts up. He lets the tip of the knife trail up a little higher, drawing a line in the air, before it begins to float towards her cleavage. Kate yelps and flinches again, and his smirk broadens as he withdraws the knife. She realizes that he's enjoying playing with her fear and anticipation, building both concurrently. He closes the knife, and for a moment, she wonders if he's changed his plans, but it's only so that he can slip the bottle out of his pocket.
Kate knows what the tonic does. Just breathing the gas for a moment sickens the survivors almost instantly, and it's nearly impossible to avoid. She tries to turn away, but there's nowhere to go. "No," she whimpers again. By now, she knows the word doesn't mean anything here, but there's nothing else to say.
"Yes," says the Clown in calm, certain response. His thumb flips the cork off, releasing the aroma into the air. It's immediately sharp, making the insides of her nostrils burn and her eyes water anew. As he leans in towards her, she becomes aware of just how bad he smells— a combination of musky sweat and sour breath and something like soil. It's not just that, though. There's this intense sort of aura coming off of him that fills the room.
The Clown extends his gloved hand to her chin. Before she can try to avoid it, he's got her jaw gripped in his fingers, bruisingly hard. He presses his thumb and forefinger to her face, forcing her mouth open. Kate tries to snap it shut again and bites a bloody gash on the inside of her cheek in the process. She starts protesting wildly as he lifts the bottle up and she realizes what he's about to make her do.
"Be a good girl and swallow," the Clown says, practically purring, humming like a well-oiled motor. He upends the bottle into her mouth and past her teeth, forcing her to try to accommodate it hitting the back of her throat. The tonic tastes worse than it smells— it's incredibly bitter, instantly making her want to vomit as it floods into her mouth, and it burns all the way down to her stomach. Kate's always been fond of hard liquors, but this is something else entirely; it feels like she could actually die from this. She thinks she just might.
Coughs wrack her body, and she gags hard enough that some of it comes back up through her nose, all pinkish and runny, adding to the mess of saliva and mucus sliding down her chin. The tonic starts to work almost right away. In place of the pain comes an incredible sense of disorientation— vertigo upon vertigo. Kate can feel every single one of her muscles slackening as the tension in her body begins releasing. Her knees droop, splaying apart; her head tips towards one shoulder, as heavy as a bowling ball.
This seems to be exactly what the Clown wants, because she can hear him give a little groan of approval, or maybe desire. She's completely limp as he reaches out for her, sweeping her up easily in his arms, and she hears him humming some tune that she isn't familiar with, low in the back of his throat. He drops her onto the work table, using one massive arm to first sweep the contents off of it. Bottles go crashing to the floor, releasing vapors in hallucinogenic colors into the air. She watches them, empty-eyed, as the effects of the tonic thicken in her mind.
Although the drug has nearly wiped away all reasoning and functioning for the time being, part of Kate still knows that something bad is happening, is about to happen, and when he presses up against the table, making it thunk loudly against the wall, her head lolls from one side to the other, struggling to communicate no, stop.
It's not a message that the Clown is interested in receiving. He's got the knife out again, unlatched and deadly, and he brings it back to her chest, but this time he follows through. The tip of it snags on the front of her tank top, and once the edge bites into the fabric, he's able to tear it all the way through, slicing down the front as easily as if it were paper. Kate thinks she sees him rolling his eyes as he sees the black bralette she's got on underneath. The knife shreds that easily, too, and her breasts spill free.
"Mmmm," says the Clown. He's practically fucking her with his eyes, and he doesn't care if she knows it. He lightly traces the edge of the blade down the planes of her stomach and the slope of her hips with such precision that it doesn't even cut her, before it stops at the button fly on her shorts. Kate stirs, keening and making a very weak effort to get away, but the heavy drug haze in her head has sapped all of her energy. She hears the ripping sound as the knife catches on the denim, and as he works it down towards her crotch, she feels a sudden flash of pain on her inner thigh, and she knows that he's cut her. "Whoops," says the Clown, giving another harsh, throaty laugh, leaving her clueless as to whether he'd done it on purpose or not.
He uses his hands to tear her shorts off the rest of the way, streaking blood from the new laceration all down her thigh. The ruined denim slips easily to the floor. Kate's struggling fiercely, in a small pocket of her mind, to try to regain full consciousness, but it's a Sisyphean task.
The Clown plants a heavy hand on one of her knees, grips it, and yanks her legs apart, his eyes flicking over her black thong underwear. "What'd I say?" he says. It sounds cold, arrogant. Hateful. "Knew you were a slut."
Kate's mouth won't work. Won't let her protest or call for help or even just tell him, go fuck yourself. She just stares up at him with blurry eyes, wishing that looks could kill.
The Clown examines her face, as if admiring the subtle ways her distress comes through, as he presses the cold flat of the blade against her crotch through the cotton fabric. He strokes it up and down gently— not enough to clip anything with the blade, but enough to taunt her, making her feel as uncomfortable as she does afraid. Eventually, he seems to decide that he'd like to see the rest of her, because he cuts off her underwear with a quick snag and twist, leaving her fully nude on the table before him.
Kate hears the click of the knife locking, but she doesn't see where his hand moves to put it away. The Clown's now got his hands planted on the table on both sides of her, looking down at her body, his massive gut pushed up against her legs. She watches him run his tongue over his teeth before he breathes, "Beautiful. You're just my type. Young, blonde. Fuckin' gorgeous." He says it like he really means it— like he somehow has an appreciation for a concept as human as beauty, despite being so inhuman in every other way. "Damn shame ‘bout the tattoos, though," he adds contemptuously. He brings a hand up and presses a finger against the little moon tattooed right over one of her breasts. "They make you look like a whore."
The Clown traces his fingers downwards. At some point, Kate realizes, he must have taken off his gloves, because his hand is fleshy and hot as it closes over her breast and squeezes hard enough to make her squeak and gasp through the haze. He runs a thumb over her pink nipple, scraping the little nub with his nail.
"Knew I was gonna get my hands on ya eventually," the Clown says, half-groan, half-sigh, as his grip clenches again. "Didn't know it would be 'cause you went and came asking for it." His other hand snakes up her body, follows the curve of her waist and the lines of her ribs before finally closing around her jaw again. "Right?" he prompts, his tone shifting suddenly and forcefully before he draws his hand back and slaps her clear across the face, knocking her head to the side.
Kate is so heavily intoxicated that she can't even roll her head back or wince or do anything but shallowly gasp and whimper, trembling, her head reeling. The Clown begins laughing at the pathetic way she's struggling to do anything effective to help herself. His shoulders shake, and he nods appreciatively, drawing back to reach into the wall-mounted shelf for something.
"You still think you're gonna get out of this, huh, you dumb fucking bitch?" Despite his words, his tone has flipped cheerful again, a thick and brassy showman's voice.
She still can't respond, of course. There's a clinking sound, and then she feels something cold against her cunt again. But it's not the knife. It doesn't feel like it. When Kate feels something wet and liquidy, something sharp that burns against her labia, she realizes that it's the bottle. The Clown is running the neck and lip of it against her pussy, up and down, slowly. Kate can hear that something's still sloshing around inside; he hadn't fed it all to her, and now she knows why.
The drug won't allow her to brace herself, or try to push him away. She simply lays there like a sex doll, and when he spreads her legs apart, there is no denying him access to her cunt. She feels the pressure of the mouth of the bottle pressing up against her opening, and then a blunt sort of pain as he shoves it into her. The slim neck gives way quickly to the bulky shoulder and body of the bottle, a sudden doubling in diameter that her body isn't ready for at all. Kate can't even scream, can't even draw forth the concept of a scream— all she can feel is fear and pain and helplessness.
"Thought you'd be looser," muses the Clown. "Well, you will be after I'm done with ya, anyway." He's started to fuck her shallowly with it, watching her cunt close and expand around the shifting shape of the bottle. Kate can feel the burning and tingling of the tonic splashing up inside of her; it's as if she's wet or full of cum, suddenly, because the bottle is starting to slide in and out much easier, and she can hear the wet squelching of her hole from the vacuum effect it's having inside of her. It's all so disgusting and degrading and humiliating, and he hadn't even given her enough of the drug to make her unaware of it all happening.
Why? a part of her wonders. Why her? When she'd first come to the Entity's realm, she'd done her best not to dwell on that question. Kate had tried to live a good life. She'd never been perfect — no one is — but she'd always tried to be loyal to friends and family. Someone people could count on. Someone generous of heart and spirit. She doesn't think she's ever done anything to really hurt someone, not really, and maybe she's not one to judge God, but she's never been able to understand why she deserved to be brought to this living hell. And, now, the question is devouring her soul entire. Why? Why is this happening to her?
The Clown is breathing through his mouth as he fucks her with the bottle, pumping it in and out of her pussy, seemingly enjoying the act just fine without having to physically stimulate himself at all. The burning of the tonic has started to give way to a sort of prickly-needle feeling of numbness inside of her, and the awareness that her cunt is starting to feel swollen. Kate doesn't know if it's because of the tonic, or the rough way he's fucking her with the bottle, or if it's because of the slowly growing truth that this is actually starting to feel good. Not in her head, no, but she can feel the needy pulsing in her pussy, abetted entirely by the noxious mystery drug.
Apparently, the Clown notices it, too, because he says, almost dreamily, "You get wet pretty easy. Wonder how much cock this nasty cunt has taken?" His lips are pulled back in a deeply unsettling smile, revealing the gleaming teeth of an apex predator who is nothing other than human. "Doesn't seem to take much to get you going." He punctuates the sentence by slamming the bottle up into her wholly, jamming it so far in that he has to flatten his palm against the bottom of it to press the full length up into her dripping cunt. A shudder of pain runs down Kate's entire body, renewing her muscle strength, and she squirms— only a little bit, but it's something. The Clown just laughs at her again. "You don't like that, do ya, bitch? Go ahead and push it out, then. I'm not gonna stop you."
He has to know that she can't, that he's drugged her so thoroughly that she can't even raise a finger. Kate tries to focus her gaze on his, and she catches it. She hopes, with all of her heart, that the Clown can see in her eyes just how much she hates him right now. Hates him.
Kate has learned a few things during her time in the nightmare. Some of the killers are monsters. Real monsters, the kind called cryptids, the sort of urban legends. The bog witch. The twisted wraith. The ghostly nurse. But some of them are just... just. They're just human. Like her. A new fear grips her at the realization. It hardly matters where they are— whatever dimension it might be. This person — this man — is someone who would be doing all of the exact same things, regardless. Everything he does speaks of someone who has lived a lifetime of this— of power and control and disgusting, excessive indulgence, of the rot of death and reek of decay.
A hand settles by her face again, and the Clown's fingers toy up into her hair. Kate blinks slowly, wishing she could pull away from his touch, feeling like she needs to vomit. His other hand has grasped onto the end of the bottle by forcing his fingers into her pussy and around it, and he slides it out slowly before he lets it clatter, empty, to the floor. She can feel her own wetness and the tonic leaking out of her already sore hole, and she's completely aware that he hasn't even really started, yet.
The Clown reaches down to unclasp his suspenders. With the tension released, they dangle over his shoulders, allowing him to easily unzip his striped performer's pants and pull his cock out. Kate doesn't get a very good look at it in the darkness of the caravan, but then he steps closer, gripping onto her thighs with both hands and hauling her bodily towards the edge of the work table so that he can access her easily. The moonlight catches him, and she sees, with an unpleasant cramp in her stomach, that his cock is just as huge and girthy as the rest of him. Much wider than the bottle. Bigger than anything Kate's ever had inside of her before— and he's right; she's slept with a lot of men. It had all been just for fun back in the real world; a life on the road performing was both lonely and filled with new faces. Besides, it had never gotten her into trouble before.
It seems as if some of the fog in her brain is clearing, because the dread becomes more and more concrete as she watches him take his dick into his hand, peeling the thick foreskin back and exposing the smooth, shiny head of it. It's dripping a little — she can't believe that abusing her like this has turned him on so much — and he slicks it down the length of it. He lets his cock bob up against her, dragging a little trail over her inner thighs. When he rests it on her pubic mound, she's shocked at how heavy it is. It's the size of her forearm, and it might be thicker. Kate realizes that he's only doing it to show her his point: he's going to rape her, and it's going to hurt.
She wishes that he'd just killed her. Cut her throat open or stabbed her in the stomach or even sawed her head off. This is so much worse. The long, dragged-out agony of it all. It feels like the torture will never stop; the drug has given her a strange, bizarre sense of elongated time.
"D..." Kate bites out; the immense effort of speaking through the effects of the tonic causes her head to start ringing in pain like a fire alarm. "D-do...n't..."
The Clown's painted face is chiaroscuro in the darkness, but she can see his frightening smile appear again. And then he leans over her, his massive gut pressing into her chest and stomach, squeezing the breath right out of her. "I'm about to show ya a magic trick," he says tauntingly, hissing it in her ear. "I'm gonna make my cock disappear inside you." He's dragging the fat head of it down the cleft of her lips, nosing it up against her clit. Kate's breathing goes erratic, her tearful eyes squeezing shut. It doesn't matter what she says, does it? There isn't an iota of empathy in this man's entire body.
He's picked up his humming again as he teases her with his dick, pretending he's about to push it inside of her and then pulling away, as if they're enacting some kind of playful game. Kate tries to pull her hips away with a weak effort, but he only yanks her closer, and then he finally makes good on his promise and shoves his cock inside of her. It doesn't happen all at once; she's wet, but her muscles are tensed, and he really has to force himself into her. It is no challenge; the Clown groans with satisfaction as he seats himself in the core of her body.
Something like a scream burbles out of her throat. It's garbled and sounds like a death rattle. It may as well be one. It hurts, it fucking hurts. It feels like someone's shoved a baseball bat into her cunt. He's so thick that it barely even matters how wet she's gotten, because there's just no room for him inside of her. She feels something sour surge up her throat, and she chokes on it as he draws out a little and then slides back in, testing out how she feels wrapped around him.
"Fuck," the Clown growls, exhaling long and hard and raspy. His stomach's still putting a lot of weight on her abdomen, only adding to the pressure in her groin as he thrusts into her slowly. It feels like he's ripped her open somewhere inside; her cunt feels bruised already. Every time he pulls back is a relief, and every time he pushes back in is like being stabbed in the gut.
Once the Clown worked up a pace he seems to like, he starts to ride into her like he really means it. She can see sweat pouring down his bald head, making the makeup turn all runny and distorted, turning him more demon than clown. Kate's still stretched around him painfully wide, but now she can feel herself clenching back, her body learning to adjust to, even appreciate the size of his dick as the drug fully absorbs into her system.
The clouds curl back, and they begin to part. Her breathing becomes clearer, and her vision becomes sharper, and the sensations are developing an incredible intensity of both pain and overwhelming, twisted pleasure. She realizes that there's a puddle under her ass and coating her thighs; she doesn't know why she's so wet. It has to be the tonic he'd poured inside of her. She can hear the slick sound of his cock pounding her cunt, and she feels the dampness on her inner thighs, too. She starts to cry again, and begins to squirm, weakly, as some limited control over her body returns to her.
The Clown seems to have noticed her increasing lucidity. But instead of reaching for another bottle, he just laughs. "You can scream," he says, and somehow it sounds generous. And Kate does scream, choking on her sobs, unable to get a word or coherent thought in beyond the terror and the helplessness and the disgust she feels with her body right now. It seems like he knows it, too. Like this is what he wants. Her screaming only seems to make him more excited; his cock throbs inside of her. "Go ahead. Sing," he hisses.
"Stop," sobs Kate, coughing and trying to buck away from him, arching her back and hitting her elbows painfully against the table. "Stop, please stop—"
He shuts her up by pinning her down with his huge bulk, grabbing her by the throat, and forcing her into a kiss that tastes like alcohol and ashes and blood and something far more sinister. Something dead. The Clown's tongue squirms into her mouth like a slug, and she can taste the greasepaint that's coming off of his lips and being spread onto hers. Somehow, it's this that's making her feel the most violated yet by far. The intimacy of it, of him kissing her, like they're lovers. Kate is still trying to scream, but the sound is muffled against his mouth, and she's forced to swallow the saliva she's pretty sure he's deliberately letting drip into her mouth.
Eventually, the Clown pulls back, but he keeps his hand on her throat, holding her head down but allowing her, just barely, to breathe, if she holds very still and flares her nostrils. He begins fucking her in earnest, and she can feel his heavy balls slapping against her ass every time he thrusts in. He hauls her hips up with his free hand so that she's angled upwards, and this position brings on a whole new pain, because he manages to get somehow — impossibly — even deeper. It's like he's punching her with his cock, beating it into her, the tip pounding into her cervix. Kate's still weeping, just wishing for it to be over, wishing that he'd choked her out.
"God, you have such a wet fucking pussy," he moans. He's right. She's always been pretty leaky, and he feels good, the way the hard, hot mass of him rubs with incredible pressure on the way in and out. It feels just as pleasurable as it is painful, and she hates that, hates herself, because it only seems to encourage him. The Clown's dripping with sweat — he's really putting a lot of force into his thrusting — as he tells her, between breaths, "Y'know, I'd rape you every fuckin' chance I got here if I could."
If that's supposed to be a compliment, it's definitely not one she's grateful to receive. Kate just turns her face to the side and tries to cover it with one arm; she can't bear to keep looking at him. At the monster doing this to her. But her arousal has become impossible to deny; she can feel how red her face is, and the urge to start rubbing her clit as he fucks her is more difficult to abstain from than she'd hoped it would be.
She doesn't need to, though. The Clown shudders above her, and suddenly the stimulation's far too much, and Kate cries out — in distress, in shame, in arousal — as her cunt clamps down on him and an orgasm hits her hard with an involuntary rippling of muscle. She can feel herself gushing around his cock as she comes, which makes him laugh with delight and malice. She whimpers, her hips quaking, animal instinct making her hungrily rock back against him, wanting to draw out the good sensations while she still can.
"You love getting fucked, don'tcha?" The Clown's fingers seek out one of her nipples and pinch it hard. "You didn't have to lie to me. I know your type."
Kate shakes her head desperately, no, and tries to writhe away once more. Her whole body's covered in sweat — hers and his, from the way it's dripping off of him — and she can feel herself slipping against the wood surface of the table. It's all so revolting and filthy that the urge to vomit returns, but at the same time, her overstimulated pussy wants more of him, and each hard, painful jab as he bottoms out inside of her is enough to make her want to cum again.
But then the Clown pulls out, leaving her gaping and struggling to catch her breath now that his weight's off of her. It's not over, though; there's no time to feel relief before he reaches to flip Kate over onto her front, pulling her hips towards the edge of the table, her legs dangling off. There might be a window of opportunity here for her to escape, but it closes as soon as his meaty hand locks over the back of her skull and slams her forehead into the table.
She sees stars, and a splitting headache cuts through her entire skull. His fingers hook up into her long blonde hair and tug so hard that she can feel some of the hairs ripping. She starts to cry out again, trying to pull away from his painful grip. It's only a distraction, though; she can feel him running his cock down the crack of her ass before it bumps up against her soaking hole and then sinks in. He slides in easily this time— none of the struggle to fit that had come up when he'd first started fucking her. She's now fully aroused and fucked open to fit him perfectly.
There are still frantic little no no no no nos spilling out of Kate's mouth, but they're hardly more than breaths of whispers. The Clown has begun fucking her again with a leisurely groan, holding her by the hair for leverage, like she's a horse that's been harnessed. He's immediately resumed the brutal pace of before, rocking into her so hard that her hips bounce off the table every time he thrusts into her.
Kate senses that he's going to be done with her soon, but he's still one step ahead of her. She hears a familiar clicking, sliding sound. The knife.
Just as soon as she realizes that, he's brought it up to her throat, reaching around front of her, yanking her head fully back by the hank of hair he's got an iron grip on. Her throat is completely, vulnerably exposed, and she can feel the sting of the blade just barely breaking the skin. She can't even let herself scream, because any movement could kill her. It's always like this in the nightmare for her: when in pain, Kate can't wait to die, but when the moment actually comes, she's absolutely fucking terrified, and it never gets any easier to cope with.
She comes again despite the knife, or maybe because of it; she doesn't know any more, doesn't recognize herself or the situation or the horror of what is happening. The second orgasm is almost painful, so intense that she starts shaking. She can hear her fluids splattering on the floor at their feet.
Behind her, the Clown's voice has picked up into a full, breathless murmur of pleasure, and Kate hears him growl sharply as he approaches orgasm. When he comes, it's explosive; his massive stomach almost crushes her as he leans his weight into her back, his cock throbbing as he floods her cunt with cum. He's still thrusting into her greedily, milking it all out, cruel even in this finishing act. His semen feels hotter than the tonic did, and she wants it inside of her even less.
Instead of pulling out right away, the Clown takes a moment, half-collapsed on top of her, panting and dripping sweat all over her naked body. Kate has started to go numb all over, her mind taking her somewhere far away from the stagecoach, far away from the nightmare and the Entity's realm. She simply lays there, pliant and still. When he pulls his cock out of her, his cum immediately begins oozing out, streaking down her thighs. She hears him murmur something to himself — he sounds self-satisfied — and then some shuffling and the sound of glass clinking.
When the Clown turns back to her, he plants a hand on her shoulder and rolls her over again, roughly, forcing her onto her back. She blinks and sees that he's holding another bottle above her. She's known from the beginning that he can't possibly intend to only rape her, and he's fully hammered in by now the fact that she's not going to get away from him until she's dead, so Kate just lays there, detached from her own body, waiting for it to finally, blissfully, happen.
He feeds the bottle to her, and she swallows, although a lot goes spilling out of her mouth. The renewed drug in her bloodstream brings back the blurry, misty vision, the swirling colors, but it doesn't take away from how dead she feels inside, how empty she's become.
"There you go," the Clown says, almost affectionately. Once she's swallowed it all, he does something that reaches her enough to startle her: he picks up her right hand and presses a kiss to the top of it. "I haven't been entirely honest," he confesses; it's clear he's enjoying playing it all up. "The real reason I'm so glad you came to visit. Mmmm... your hands."
Kate stares at him, not understanding, as he lifts up her small hand in his massive one and brings it to his face. There's something sensual in the way he's treating her hands, studying her neatly manicured nails, her calloused fingers, before his tongue slithers out, slides up between the gap of her index and middle finger. It feels unnatural. The act is sinister, and she doesn't know why, but she thinks she's about to.
"You're a musician, aren't ya?" he wonders aloud. Kate has no idea how he knows that, and so she says nothing, but he seems to know that he's right. The Clown's tongue dips towards her palm, then flicks up towards her ring finger. He slides three of them into his mouth, and she expects him to try to bite her, but he just sucks them — more gently than he's treated her all night — before he draws her fingers out of her mouth, leaving them wet and shiny. "I admire hands that can create art. They're all so beautiful. So unique."
Kate still doesn't understand why he's telling her any of this. And then he shows her.
The knife is snapped open again in a movement so quick that she doesn't even see it happen. He yanks her arm up, and, without hesitating or even much effort, uses it to hack through her index finger, bone and all. Kate, who has been laying there numbly, begins to scream again, pain ripping through her body. She thrashes, shrieking, pulling her hand to her chest. It's spraying blood all over her exposed breasts, her collarbone, her face.
The Clown ignores her for the antique cigar box he'd pulled out at some point. He uses a clean cloth to lovingly wipe the finger clean, and then he lays it carefully in the box.
Kate's still crying in pain when he turns back to her, her skin painted red with her own blood. He leans in over the table, getting close enough to her that she can feel and smell his hot breath on her face as he says, "Show's over, sweetheart."
His arm raises up high, high, high into the air— and then he brings it down, hard, thrusting the blade right through her sternum, splitting pain straight through her body. He lifts his hand again and stabs it down between her ribs, her shoulder, her collarbone, her stomach. He's got a terrifying, vicious, enraged expression, one that she's never seen before, and he hacks away at her like he's trying to carve meat for dinner. Over and over and over, puncturing organs, slicing muscle, nicking bone.
The pain is so intense that it wipes her mind blank. As Kate bleeds out, she gets the sense that the Entity not only approves of what has just happened to her, but is pleased with it. Might have even had a hand in it.
But, still. As she dies, the Entity reaches for her, and, for once, she reaches back.