She laughs, when he presses her into the splintery wood of one booth or another, her hands wrapping around and around the Twin's hair, tightening her grip on it, pulling his head back, his ridiculous hat falling off, making a little "puff" of dust when it hits the ground.
His hair lengthens under her fingers, tangles around them, and she laughs harder, pulling herself down for a kiss, tasting the mix of herself and his magic-that-isn't, tingling down her lips, across her makeup. The hairspray is sticky on her fingertips (are they even her fingertips? She doesn't remember the pair she started out with), or maybe it's the memory of her skin. It didn't matter - she doesn't remember much of anything anymore, only that if only the boss would listen to her, if ionly/i, this place would run so much smoother….
He's laughing as well now, her own raucous hyena cackle mixed with his own voice, and she catches the flash of green on his skin.
"Again!" She squeals, and she leans in, biting his neck, tasting the strange not-blood bubbling under her teeth. His skin feels a bit like a snake's, and even if it looks different, it still has the whispers of his creases and wrinkles, the green taste of it.
She's laughing harder, her hips jerking up against his, and he's laughing back, a perfect copy of her own voice, apart from the whisperstir of his own echofull tones.
"Do it again! Do it again!" She yanks on the hair that looks so much like her own, leaning in to bite the Twin's neck, leaving purple-pink-green marks all along his skin, her tongue catching bits of illusion, which tasted a bit like rotting meat and a bit like cotton candy. It tingles.
The Twin's hands find her tits, pulling them free of their glittery confines, his fingers pinch her nipples, squeezing them and twisting them, the fingers lengthening, and then it's the Hobo Clown looking at her with sardonic eyes. When they kiss, his red foam nose rubs against hers, smearing her makeup. His makeup doesn't smear, though, not really. It's not real enough. Less real than hers, and that's saying something, because everything down here has an air of "not entirely real".
"More!" Wick leans in, biting his neck savagely, even as she pulls at his pants, yanking them down, and her laughter vibrates against his chest as the Hobo Clown's stubble rubs against her cheek. She pushes her hands into the Twin's pants, wrapping them around the Hobo Clown's cock, and it's exactly as she remembers it. She presses her palm against the head, and even as she does so, it changes, and she's looking up at Painted Doll, the palm of her hand pressed against the Painted Doll's clit as those creepy eyes stared down at her.
"Again!" Wick abandons the Twin's cunt, fingers moving under the shirts he's wearing, twisting the nipple, weighing the breast in her hand, even as Painted Doll's terrifying fingers jam into her cunt, circumventing the skeletal contraption attached to Wick's hips.
"You make an awful lot of demands," says the Twin, and he's laughing as his face changes again, breasts shrinking back into his chest, horns sprouting from his head.
Wick squeals in delight, though his nails are painful inside of her. She grabs his wrist, yanking his fingers out of her, and grabs his horns as she kisses his painted visage, standing on tiptoe to do so, more paint smearing. "Now fuck me!"
The Twin hefts her up easily - she's a good deal smaller than him even when he's being himself, let alone when he's being the boss. His cock is wet and hot against her thigh, her heels digging into his lower back as her skirt is bunched up awkwardly around her hips. When he pushes into her, she's moaning in earnest, sounding more like one of her Woe Maidens, all parody and mocking.
Wick's fingers wrap around his horns, even as she arches her back, forcing his cock in deeper, practically bouncing on it, making the whole booth creak ominously. She keeps her hands on his horns even as they shrink back into his skull, and it's the Twin's familiar crocodile rough skin, while one of his bony parts grinds against her clit, and she's laughing so hard as she feels him get hotter inside of her, and it burns, as he pulses, the acidity of it drooling out around his cock, down her thigh, while her own fingers press down on her clit, and she's shaking all over as the almost-pain of her own orgasm washes through her.
She's still laughing when he sets her down and stoops down to retrieve his hat, giving her a mocking bow with his cock hanging out. She stands on tiptoe to kiss him, and when she pulls back, he's wearing her face again. She laughs, and he laughs back, all discordant echoes and hyena cackle.