. . .If he stood in the center of the ring, he had the perfect view of her pussy: the tight tangerine fabric clinging to her crotch, the tiny bulge of labia, the occasional wet spot. He was alone, practicing his new act, when she walked in and climbed the ladder to the trapeze. She untied the trapeze, clasped the bar, swung out, and did a number of positions as she swung back and forth. He followed her motions, watching her closely. He held his breath a few times. He had never seen an aerialist practice without a partner. After she climbed down, she smiled at him as she passed by. He wanted to ask her questions. Where was she from? Why was she practicing alone? But all he could do was offer her the banana cream pie he had been spinning on his finger. She dipped her finger in the cream, smelled it, sucked it slowly. Then she disappeared behind the red velvet curtains.

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