Only in Vegas

Quinn was never much of a gambler, but he'd never miss an opportunity to see a free spectacle, and between the lights, fountains, architecture, and shows, Las Vegas was a city of spectacles. Las Vegas is also host to countless conventions every year wherein people from around the world will flock together to engage in specific business lectures, product demonstrations, and deviant activities. Quinn found a special joy in crashing such conventions and pretending to belong in order to score free swag and/or entertainment. He was currently staying at one of the cheaper hotels off of the strip when he noticed a very colorful head of hair duck into a door wearing nothing but underwear. Between the erotic garments and the brightly colored wig, he immediately assumed he'd stumbled upon an orgy of some type. Visions of scantily clad beauties in vibrant neon wigs danced into his head, and compelled his feet to give chase. When he opened the same door, however, he encountered not an orgy, but a registration table with a professional looking lady sitting behind it.
"May I help you?" inquired the secretarial woman.
"Uh. Well.. I'm here for the.. uh.. did you just see another woman come through here?"
"Oh, of course. You must be our male volunteer for the ICP!"
Rule #1 for crashing conventions: If they assume you belong there, for whatever reason, agree with their assumptions.
"Yes!" stated Quinn proudly, "That's me."
He had no idea what the ICP might be, but if he was the only male in it, the male to female ratio was probably in his favor.
"Great," said the helpful receptionist, "just step behind this curtain to disrobe, and we'll begin."
Quinn could only think of one reason why they'd want him to undress, and he was more than ready to begin. He ducked behind the curtain and stripped to his boxers.
"All set?"
Quinn debated keeping or losing his boxers as well, but opted to keep them on before saying he was ready.
"Excellent, just take a seat, and the girls will come in and get started."
Quinn sat in the waiting chair, and two gorgeous girls stepped in through the curtain carrying a pair of bags.
"Emily is going to get started on your face, while I work on the other end," said one of the girls, "just close your eyes and relax."
Hearing what he wanted to hear, Quinn prepared himself for an erotic massage, and closed his eyes. Fingertips began tracing their ways over his face. He could feel some sort of massage gel on them as they rubbed over every pore and lobe. At his feet, he could feel fabric being slid up and over his knees. She wasn't doing much for his muscles down there, but he wasn't about to complain about unpaid for time with the attention of two beautiful women. When one of the girls moved up to his scalp, the other slid his arms into some sort of smock, then leaned him forward to fasten it behind him. His hands felt like they were in a pair of pillow mitts, which he figured must play into some sort of fetish the girls had. He felt a quick bit of pressure on his nose, and then the girls were pulling him onto his feet. As he stood, he noticed that they'd slipped a pair of shoes on him that felt ridiculously large. He opened his eyes to look down at them as the girls snapped a pair of elastic suspenders up onto his shoulders.
Clown shoes. He was wearing bright red clown shoes that had to be at least 20 inches long. He could see they'd been laced tight, so he bent down to untie them. Plush filled fingers bumped uselessly against the laces, as Quinn realizes he was still wearing what he'd assumed wear erotic mitts. Cartoonishly large clown gloves covered his hands. He tried to pull them off, but they were stitched to the striped clown shirt that they'd fasten to him from behind. As he struggled in vain to reach the lacing at his back, he cuaght a glimpse of a bulbous red object attached to the end of his nose. He spun around to confront the girls who'd done this to him, and was mesmerized by the clownish reflection in the mirror they held up for him.
"You've turned me into a clown!" Quinn's genuine shock and dismay was met with delight from girls.
"Oh, he's very good! I'd swear he really meant it," said the girl who may have been Emily.
"Well, that's the point," stated the other girl, "The Involuntary Clown Project is supposed to suspend disbelief that the subject doesn't want to be humiliated, which makes it so much more entertaining for the rest of us."
"Change me back!" Quinn demanded, "Get this stuff off of me. I don't want to be a clown!" To make his point, Quinn attempted to rip off his clown nose, but found he was unable to grip it through the stuffed gloves. Pressing both gloves on either side of it, managed to capture the red nose between them, but when he tried to push it off, the glue held the nose on fast, while his gloves slipped of and threw him off balance. He pitched backwards, and ended up rolling out from under the curtain onto the convention floor. His entrance earned him a few laughs from the attendees, but most of their focus remained on the poor half-naked lady in the neon wig. Now that Quinn could get a good look at her, he could see that her face had also been painted in a clownish style, and she was desperately asking guests if they'd see her clothes anywhere. Quinn could tell it was an act by the tongue in cheek way she posed and pouted. He had to admit that even he found it pretty distracting, but her painted face reminded him of his own predicament. As he unsteadily made his way back onto his cumbersome shoes, he heard a voice behind him.
"Looks like we have another clown here. At least he's managed to keep his clothes on." The owner of the voice gave Quinn and sudden shove, and caught his suspenders for a moment before letting them snap back to hit him in the backside. As Quinn clutched at his posterior, the suspenders feel from his shoulders and his pants fell to his ankles.
"Oops," said the same voice, "spoke too soon."
The convention erupted in laughter at Quinn's expense as he stood there clutching the back of his exposed boxer shorts with striped clown socks running up to his thighs. His first instinct was to run, but between the clown shoes and the pants around his ankles, he could only shuffle awkwardly. When he bent down to retrieve his pants, an unseen foot kicked him slowly but forcefully in the butt, and sent him tumbling head over heels again to the amusement of the gathered guests.
"Stop laughing at me!" cried Quinn as he sat up, "I am not a clown!"
This only earned him more laughter and polite applause. At last, the girl who was pretending to have been accidentally clowned came over to help him back to his feet. He stood still, trying to get his bearings, as she helped pull his pants back up and snapped his suspenders back over his shoulders. He felt her press up against his back, as she whispered in his ear.
"Great stuff. Now let's try to get out of here."
Thinking he had found an ally, he nodded in agreement and took a step forward. He nearly lost his balance again as he felt her weight coming with him, her legs pressed up tight against his own.
"What the-," exclaimed Quinn, "You're in my pants!"
She had indeed stepped into his pants while they were down, and now stood with her front held close to his back by a now snug waistband and suspenders.
"Well," she replied, "when you say it like that, it sounds filthy."
Quinn tried to swipe the suspenders off of his shoulders to get her out, but she caught them before they could fall, and snapped them back in place.
"Hey!" she cried, "stop that! You're trying to get me out of my pants! I'd be exposed in front of all these people." She did her best to sound scandalized, and earned a fair bit of applause and snorts.
"They're my pants! Well, sort of-" added Quinn, "and you've already been exposed."
"Look who's talking," she retorted, giving his boxered bum a playful pinch.
This banter played well with most of the witnesses, but a couple complained it seemed too scripted, which boggled poor Quinn's overwhelmed mind. Determined to escape, Quinn adopted a swing and pivot movement with his legs to get himself and his pants-mate across the room. He had almost made it to the door when he felt the girl on his back over-swing a leg to leave them facing a table laden with desserts instead of an exit.
"Ooh, snacks!" she said.
Clearly having abandoned her pretense of modesty and humiliation to focus instead on messing with Quinn. She quickly shuffled them forward into the table and leaned heavily on Quinn. He nearly face planted into a cake before he struck his gloves down in a dip bowl and a wriggling jello monstrosity to prop himself up.
"Oh boy!" chimed the clown girl in his pants, "pies!"
He saw her hands dart under his arms to grab a pair of cream pastries, and attempt to move a dip coated gloved hand to stop her. The other glove slipped on the jello and his face came crashing down into the waiting cake. From the horrendous amount of frosting that now engulfed him, Quinn could tell that this had been the cake's purpose all along. The clown girl was laughing at him now, as well as the conference room full of attendees. When he could straighten up, he wiped his face with his gloves. At first, this just added jello and dip to the mess on his face, but as he kept at it, he regained his ability to see and breathe normally. What he saw was a room full of lightly laughing people watching him expectantly, and a pair of cream pies hanging in his peripheral vision. For a moment, he stood stock still, trying to figure out how to stop this from happening. She took that as her cue, and delivered an explosive pie sandwich to Quinn's face to the great approval of their audience.
Wrapping her arms up over his shoulders, the clown girl pulled her legs out of Quinn's clown pants and stepped out beside him to take a bow. Quinn turned and blindly groped for the door he had been so close to escaping through before. He found it, pushed it open, and started running. The laughter fading behind him, and a few yelps of surprise coming from ahead of him. He dodged the yelps to avoid running into people, but he didn't slow down as he increased the distance between himself and his clown crazed captors. Wiping his eyes clean again, he saw the fountain a moment before he ran into it and splashed down inside. He came up sputtering, a stone cherub appearing to urinate in his face. As a new audience gathered around to laugh at him, Quinn wondered how he'd ever gotten into this mess.