“You want a gyro, brisket, or a corndog? Hell, you can have all of them if you want. My treat.” I’m being too eager. I can hear it in my voice, for fuck’s sake.I need to get my shit together.
She surprises me when she laughs. It’s a sweet sound that travels down to my cock, and I fight for control, hoping I don’t pop a fucking boner right now.
“Brisket and cotton candy.”
“As you wish.” It’s an old reference to one of her favorite movies,The Princess Bride.
“Wow, you remembered.”
I don’t know why she’s surprised. “Yeah.” Of course, I remember. It’s all in that file in my head.
“I didn’t think you would.”
“There’s not a single thing about you that I don’t remember, Blissy Girl.” It’s bold of me to admit it, but I’m using every opportunity I can to remind her.
Her eyes widen. “Rex.”
“Let’s move, darlin’.” I reach for her elbow and guide her gently forward. “My stomach is gonna gnaw its way through my belly.”
By the time I lead her back to the street, it’s full of people. The sun has set, stretching the warm colors across the sky inhues of purple, red, and orange. Above, the moon begins to rise into position, already a soft amber in the lower sky. It’s a bit cool out tonight, but perfect fall weather.
We stop at The Smokestack first, which is a local favorite. Best brisket and pulled pork I’ve ever had, other than when I’ve traveled to the southern states. Scythe has a contract with the restaurant to remain a vendor with us for the next five years. The lines never stop forming, so I’m sure they’ll be with us for a long time.
I place my order and add Camille’s, paying for both of us as we wait for the food. She gathers utensils, napkins, and extra sauce, and it almost feels domestic the way we each gather everything we need without saying a word.
Once I’ve got our order, I walk to the pavilion, and we grab seats at an empty bench. I’m starving, so I dig into the food, dunking my pulled pork sandwich in extra sauce between bites. I’m onto my brisket sandwich before she’s halfway through hers, watching me with what appears to be equal parts fascination and humor.
“What?” I ask after I’ve chewed and swallowed.
“Nothing. It’s just that I forgot how much you like to eat.”
“I do.” I wait a few seconds and then grin. “I’ve got a ravenous appetite.”
I know the innuendo isn’t lost on her when I see her cheeks darken in the low light. They’re dusted with pink, and I hope she’s thinking about my tongue and how well I can use it.
It won’t be long before I’m showing her.
We finish our food, and then I buy her the cotton candy she wants, walking through the entrance into the Fear Farm. Paid actors, including club members and other townspeople we trust, dress in costumes and adopt personas to enhance the creepy vibe and haunted atmosphere.
It’s not uncommon to hear screams or see people running in terror. That’s part of the allure of the carnival and why we designed it that way. There are signs posted at the entrance, and that’s as far as we go with a warning. Step into the Fear Farm, and you enter at your own risk.
Cami walks beside me, and occasionally her hand brushes against mine. I throw caution to the wind and reach for her soft fingers, threading our hands as we pass by carnival rides and the ticket booth. Vendors have set up in a long row facing one another with dozens of games. Fair foods, popcorn, and a photo booth are available, many of them with long lines. They move fast because we schedule plenty of staff and encourage our vendors to do the same.
The point is that people are having a good time, spending money, and making memories that will last long after they leave. With any luck, they’ll return. Every year, we try to add something new, so it doesn’t grow boring or stagnant for visitors. We’re upping the scares, and the hayride has a reputation for being one of the scariest experiences in the Midwest.
I don’t take Cami to the hayride, though. She doesn’t need that adrenaline rush. I opt for the Chills’ N’ Thrills Corn Maze since it’s early, and there’s plenty of time to go through the local businesses to ask about the fire.
When she sees where I’m heading, she squeezes my fingers. “It’s been forever since I’ve walked the maze.”
“Think you can make your way through without help?” I ask, teasing her. Last time, she got lost, and I had to push through the hay bales to find her. Just weeks before the fall dance that ruined everything.
I won’t fuck it up this time.
This year’s theme centers on clowns. There are props and actors spread throughout the maze, strategically placed for themost scares. I know Cami isn’t afraid of clowns, so this is the safer, more enjoyable option.
I guide her beyond the ticket booth and up to the front of the line. Since I’m a King, it’s a perk I take advantage of. Nobody in line argues when they see my cut. People know the Fear Farm is organized and run by our club. If they don’t, there are plenty of signs around the carnival to inform them.
One of our employees is taking tickets, allowing only small groups to enter with 10-minute gaps to prevent the maze from backing up inside. The experience is far more enjoyable when it’s dark, less populated, and the jump scares have a chance to work.
