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C atalina sits cross-legged on the threadbare carpet of the living room. At one point, a rug covered it, but after a mishap with one of our first piggies, it had to be burned. I thought the stained rug gave the old carpet character, but Cat firmly disagreed. Livestock is no longer allowed in the house.

A round palette with several colors of face paint sits in front of her. She takes a round brush and coats her face in a thick layer of white paint, taking care to blend it down her neck. It’s a ritual we have before every rodeo: we sit and turn ourselves into the characters hiding inside our darkest crevices, only appearing when we use them to put on a good show.

I love the eccentricity of old school rodeo clowns. Cat says it’s the nostalgia from rodeos Pop used to take me to, but there’s nothing about that man I care to remember fondly. I think it’s simpler than all that. There’s just something about a painted smile that fits nicely with a face full of spattered blood.

She pats the spot next to her, and I sit. Our thighs stick together from the day’s heat still lingering in the room—our old window unit can only do so much against the brutal summers. I choose a brush and start on my face. The oily scent of paint fills my nostrils with each stroke.

Cat uses the same method each time—blue triangles framing her eyes, a black nose, and bright red lips that smear across her cheeks in an unending grimace. I prefer to paint what I feel in the moment. Tonight, I give myself vivid pink cheeks, lines of neon green slashing through each eye, a red nose, and a black outline around my mouth that makes a slit from ear to ear. “How do I look?” I ask. My voice is sing-song, and I bat my eyelashes, heavy with mascara.

“Like a clown,” she jokes, holding up the mirror and pointing at my reflection. I press my lips into a firm line, suppressing a laugh before cackling and leaping into her lap. She rolls back, letting my body press hers into the carpet. My mouth stops just a hair away from hers.

“I prefer insane,” I trill with the high-pitched voice of the character I’m playing tonight. “Do I look…insane?” I widen my eyes to the point of bulging and pull my lips back until my teeth take up half my face. I use both thumbs to press the corners of my mouth even further, dragging them out to my ears. The greasy paint smears under my fingers as they slide against it.

“Beautifully insane,” she whispers, her eyes roaming my body as I sit on top of her. Our breathing picks up, and I lean down again, letting our breasts brush together on each inhale. The friction sends lightning bolts straight to my pussy, gradually intensifying as Cat bucks her hips under me. My balance wavers, sending my face crashing into hers. She uses the opportunity to suck my bottom lip into her waiting mouth, biting it once it’s between her teeth. My tongue forces past her lips, searching for hers. When it finds its match, they intertwine, and we both fight to take the lead. My hands roam the curves of her muscular body, and she moans as our hips continue to roll into each other.

We’re all tongues and teeth for a few blissful minutes until my blood lust becomes louder than the throbbing between my legs. “The red paint looks good mixed with the black,” I say, smiling down at her. “It’ll look even better with piggy paint.”

Cat sighs and tries to tempt me with another wiggle, but I press my hands to my knees and stand. “Alright, Sadie,” she groans, yielding to my stubbornness. “Let’s take the little piggy to market.”