The square buzzed with life as dusk settled over the city, casting long shadows against the cobblestone streets. A small crowd had begun to gather near the makeshift stage, their murmurs growing louder with anticipation. In the center stood Martin Kase, a street circus performer who thrived in the dance between danger and wonder.
Martin was not a handsome man by conventional standards. His hoarse voice, permanently marred by years of fire-breathing, grated against the air like sandpaper. His body bore the evidence of his craft—scars on his arms and neck, patches of skin that had been seared one too many times. And then there was the smell. That ever-present tang of gasoline clung to him like a second skin, sharp and unignorable.
Girls rarely lingered near Martin for his looks. But they stayed—oh, they stayed—for the fire.
He began the night with a flourish, igniting a massive fireball that roared into the evening sky. Gasps rippled through the crowd as Martin leaped back, pretending to be a dragon, his cheeks puffed with the illusion of flames ready to burst forth again. The orange glow danced across his face, illuminating the intensity in his coal-black eyes.
His movements were deliberate, almost hypnotic, as he transitioned to his next act. Arching his body into impossible shapes, he became what he called the “Eternal Flame.” He spun and contorted, the flames licking dangerously close to his skin, giving the illusion that the fire had become a part of him. The crowd cheered as the flames dimmed and Martin stepped into the light of a solitary lantern, the shadows casting strange figures on a white screen behind him.
The shadows danced. A boy, his heart heavy with loneliness, journeyed through a world of flames to find the warmth of love and belonging. Martin’s shadow play was not just an interlude; it was a story that resonated deeply with his audience, particularly with the girls who watched with wide eyes and quiet sighs.
And then came his signature move. He scanned the audience, his gaze settling on a girl near the front—a young woman in a denim jacket, her curiosity betrayed by the way she leaned forward. Without hesitation, Martin stepped down from the stage and offered her his hand.
She hesitated for a moment but then accepted, her cheeks tinged pink as he led her to the center. “Don’t move,” he whispered, his voice gravelly but strangely gentle.
He inhaled deeply, the crowd holding its collective breath. A moment later, a fiery cloud burst into life just above her head, painting the air with a glowing orange-red halo. She gasped, half in fear, half in awe, as Martin expertly controlled the flames, keeping her safe while mesmerizing her.
To finish, he lit a series of firecrackers that exploded high above, raining sparks like tiny stars. As they descended, Martin exhaled a jet of gasoline into the air, crafting a fiery picture against the darkening sky—a blazing phoenix rising, triumphant and eternal. The audience erupted into applause, their faces aglow with the reflected firelight.
The girl returned to her place, breathless, her eyes never leaving Martin as he took his final bow.
After the performance, Martin packed away his props with practiced efficiency before setting up his table. The CDs displayed there featured highlights of his acts, along with a few sketches of fire art he had created over the years. A line formed, mostly young women, eager to exchange a word or two with the man who had so captivated them.
Martin greeted each person with a nod, taking the time to look them deeply in the eyes. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and disarming, as if he were searching for something hidden in their souls.
“Thank you,” he would say quietly, his voice low but sincere. “I appreciate your coming. Come again. The pleasure is mine.”
When it was their turn, many of the girls stumbled over their words, unsure how to respond to the intensity of his stare. Some giggled nervously; others blushed under his gaze. To them, it felt like Martin saw straight through their surface, into their most guarded thoughts and feelings.
One girl, emboldened, leaned forward as he signed her CD. “You’re amazing,” she whispered.
Martin paused, meeting her eyes again. “Thank you,” he said simply, his lips curving into a faint smile.
It wasn’t flirtation, not exactly. It was something deeper, an acknowledgment of the connection forged between a performer and his audience. For that fleeting moment, each girl felt like she was the only one in the world who mattered to him.
The crowd had long dispersed, leaving only faint trails of laughter and the lingering scent of smoke. The girl in the denim jacket lingered near the edge of the square, clutching her signed CD like something fragile. When Martin finally closed the latch on his case, she stepped closer.
“Could I—” she hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper, “see you to the station?”
He glanced up, eyes unreadable for a beat, then gave a small nod. “If you like.”
They fell into step, their shadows stretching long and thin under the dim streetlights. The hum of the city quieted as they walked, replaced by the soft clack of her boots on the cobblestones. She stole glances at him, studying the sharp lines of his face, the way his hair still smelled faintly of smoke and metal.
When they turned onto a narrow street, she dared to slip her hand under his arm. The gesture was instinctive, almost tender. He flinched back at once.
“Ouch, burns,” he muttered with a strained chuckle, rubbing his forearm through the fabric of his jacket.
She dropped her gaze, embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s alright,” he said quickly, voice low but kind. “Just still healing.”
They walked on without speaking. A tram rattled in the distance, its light cutting through the mist like a blade. When they reached the stop, Martin set his case down and turned to her.
“Where do you go next?” he asked.
She told him the name of her district, and he nodded, as though fixing it somewhere in his mind.
“Well,” he said after a pause, “take care of yourself.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, he leaned in, brushed his lips against her cheek—a fleeting, dry warmth—and stepped back. Before she could answer, he had already turned away, walking in the opposite direction, his silhouette swallowed by the orange glow of the streetlamps.
***
The apartment where he lived was small and spare, a one-bedroom above an old bakery where the smell of bread never quite left the walls. Martin slipped in quietly, hoping the sound of the door wouldn’t carry. It was late—later than usual—and the city’s noise had thinned to the occasional car on wet asphalt.
He went straight to the bathroom. The shower hissed to life, filling the narrow room with steam. He stood beneath it for what must have been half an hour, scrubbing until his skin tingled, the night’s smoke running in gray ribbons down the drain. Then came the mouthwash, cold and stinging, ten long minutes of mint and guilt.
He had lied earlier. There were no fresh burns tonight. He’d said it without thinking—an easy cover, the kind of lie that keeps small tendernesses of random girls at bay.
By the time he turned off the water, the mirror had gone opaque, and the air smelled of his spring rain shampoo. It didn’t matter. Under it all, he still caught that trace of gasoline—the scent that never left him, even on his cleanest days.
… He stepped out naked into the hallway, and tiptoed, toweling himself off with a huge fluffy towel he grabbed from the dresser, as he went. Inside the bedroom it was dark, but there was a little body curled in bed, and he carefully slid under the covers next to it.
“Ugh, you stink.”
“I want you.”
“Not now.”
The small shape didn’t move away, though—there was just a sleepy shift as the sheet pulled up tight across a narrow back.
“I want you,” he breathed again, tasting the last bite of kerosene on his own tongue.
A quiet huff answered, half protest, half invitation, and he eased closer until the faint heat of the performance still clinging to his chest met warm skin under the quilt.
His hand slid beneath the quilt, his palm cupping the slight curve of his lover’s ass like it was molded for him; fingertips traced the warm divide, slow, deliberate, learning every soft ridge and hidden dimple while the room stayed hushed except for their quickening breath.
“I love you.”
“Mggh.”
He shifted, his chest pressing the smaller frame into the mattress for a few seconds while his left arm reached for the drawer—full weight over his lover’s body feeling like a warm, heavy blanket. With his fingers slick after a single pump he slid back down, hips fitting behind the small figure, and eased that wet thumb between the tight crease he’d just mapped, slow circles matching the quiet huff of breath against the back of his lover's neck.
“Aaagh.”
“I love you.”
Kisses streamed down the small neck, the tiny face still turned away.
“Let me.”
The soft sigh was answer enough—knees parted just an inch, hips tilting to meet him. He guided himself in one hushed glide, arm curling round the slight torso, palm splayed over chest and belly, fingers barely spanning the width. He moaned slightly in a tiny ear, feeling the warm clench around him. The small hand reached back to hook his thigh, and a quiet exhale trembled through them both as he started a slow, careful roll.
“Ah, baby.”
Each push came steady under the quilt—hips snapped in a hush, pubic bone kissed the soft skin, coarse pubic hair rasping with every entry. The low swing of his sac tapped a wet rhythm against the cleft, faint smacks muffled by sheets and skin. Heat pooled between them, breaths clearly audible in the small space, yet the small figure only pressed back, thighs trembling, welcoming that calibrated drive as pressure mounted like mercury in a sealed tube—slow, relentless, perfect…
Thin, high moans soaked into the pillowcase as the rhythm snapped harder—seven steady inches of his cock punching deep, cut crown flaring then dragging back, a blunt heartbeat hammering inside through both. The small figure felt every ridge of that wide rim catching, stretching, shoving through on the next thrust; balls swung faster, wet slaps echoing under the blanket. His hot breath ghosted the nape, tainted with leftover kerosene and sleep-sweat, the sour edge the lover craved—proof of the nightly grind they shared, silent struggle that ended only when the piston finally faltered and flooded them both.
“Ah, I’m gonna come.”
His hand shot down, fingers closing around a short, rigid shaft—fat for the small frame, foreskin hooding the tip, already slick. One stroke and the little guy bucked, whimpering into the pillow as the first jet spilled over the fire-breather’s palm, warm pulses milked in time with the final thrusts from behind.
“I. Love. You.”
He locked his fingers in the coarse curly hair, yanked the smaller guy's head back, and drilled, slapping skin loudly under the blanket. The little man snarled through gritting teeth, his post-orgasm shaking him, until the firebreather’s crown swelled, stretching the ring impossibly wide. One last ram, a guttural roar, and he pulsed deep—then kept shoving, riding the aftershocks that juddered his thighs, hand still milking the spent dick beneath, pushing, pushing, until both of them collapsed in a sweaty, trembling heap, breath fogging the dark.
“Fuck.”
“I love you.”
“I hate your job. Ten years of fucking waiting for a hospital call.”
More kisses came down in a tender stream.
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