There is a
street on the edge of the urban sprawl, where some short storefronts,
monotonous suburbia and a swamp leading into the wild converge. A few cars
frequent the road, some of them commuting back and forth, some carrying loads
for the shops, and one or two of them heading inside the corrugated gate on the
perimeters of the swamp, treading this humble dirt path. Let us follow one of
these cars inside.
The car’s
owner has a glimpse of the setting sun, still radiating a fiery luster under the
magically transmuted filament, a telling sign of the world to come. A few
figments of what was possible, and what will be possible in this bleak
unassuming mansion – a perfect place to hide this microcosm of pulsing
sensations – float out of his cluttered mind. The mansion houses a club, not
advertised by a sign except for the wooden “Juxtaposition” on the gate. Behind
the wooden door, as he imagines, a lot of cuddling and embracing and take place,
over a few pieces of green cash. So many lives cross with each others’ here,
entangled and united in pleasure, and so many intimate memories are craved into
flesh and psyche, juxtaposed over each other’s minds. Hence the indicative
“Juxtaposition”. Now that he has a chance to approach to his dreamy passions,
it is time to embrace…
The sun,
with its worldly businesses, contacts and conferences, has finally set. The
glass and concrete towers are firmly behind him, only to return when sun rises
in their midst. In its place is the wild, silent night among shrubs and little
ponds, where a mundanely grassy odor has permeated until the strong oils have
overwhelmed it. From this mansion, glowing from its many dark blinds, a
womb-colored magic is seeping into the cold amethyst of the horizons. The
presence is almost delirious, as if it is transposed from the collective
imaginations of the carnal-minded to this real-world location, or a deliberate
trap for the saccharinely lustful…
Holding one
of the gilded but worn-out handles on the tarred doors is an adolescent girl,
tightly cladded in shining leather. He has a casual glance of her – the same leporine
blonde hair, tied at the back with the same charcoal ribbon, the same muted
ruby eyes, the same bunny suit without the ears, and the same smile probably
strained by months of being at the door front. But yes, she is still the same “lady”
that received her – a pretty but forgettable one. Because the ones inside are
even better, and he has seen or even sensed them from within. “Is it Claude Weismann?”
Her pair of rubies tail after his own’s. “Yes,” Claude leaves it here, since a
lot are best told without words.
“Welcome
back, our Mistress has willed to greet you in person after such a long absence
– or this is what she said.” The girl mutters the exact wordings of this Mistress
whom he has a lascivious impression of her in mind: a few buttons hang loose on
her shirt, and under those are a pair of meat gourds. They are punctured by the
crow-shaded lingerie slipping inside the same shirt under the nondescript grey jacket,
tightly covering the areolae. Then her right leg – the most motherly and noble
of all legs in this mansion – crosses over her other side, leaving the entrance
to her bosom occulted between her thigh skin, pillars and gates from the sacred.
She would remove her bright red pair of glasses and give a damning glare for
the face he would be making, like a grade school teacher would do to a
mischievous boy. But even the face belongs to a young, unwearied one more
fitting of a supermodel than someone of experience as her.
That is the
owner of this mansion and club, who has so much at her command. He will meet
her again when they reach the usual reception where the most prized patrons, of
which he is among their ranks, are personally serviced by the hands of the Mistress.
But before that, he knows he is in for a better time seeing girls bustling
around to serve. All the joyful screams have a special kind of alacrity not in
any other club…
And soon,
the girl opens the entrance he has seen twice or thrice, and as he has expected
the Mistress is sitting. But he did not expect her to sit backwards – or
sitting on the simple chair reserved for guests, still facing him. Not how he
has imagined: 2 sheets of scarlet are sewn together on her side, wrapping her
succulent figure. The same mounds are rightly covered by the dress, much less
revealing than in his picture, but no less tantalizing. And where she has
covered, she has revealed even more in other parts: Other than her shoulders
suggesting more than the unclothed skin, with such a short flap over her
private parts, he has a better view of the same thighs – and those pillars are
opened to him, legs forced to the side by the back of the chair, draped only
with a blind and the flat plate of the seat. Rather than the pretense of
formality the image provides him, this dress has nearly freed her body of any
imperfections that is “clothing”, totally. And already noting Claude’s face,
her grin is one of approval – such a dress must be appreciated by as many males
as possible.
Claude is
not after her, luckily. Having her is only near the middle range of all choices
possible. “Claude, I heartfeltly welcome your presence back in
‘Juxtaposition’,” the Mistress captures his attention from her own breathtaking
sight. “The affairs of the other world have dealt a few small creases on your
face…” While rather bluntly observing him, Claude has only realized how the
past weeks – no, months – has been a hectic time for his business: while the
profits have grown immensely, all the initiatives of his own and his
secretary’s have already been second nature to them, until reaching this place.
“Um, yeah? That’s how the outside world works us executives,” he follows for a
bit the weird terminology he has only started to notice. Her beauty is
otherworldly, her senses more so. “A few creases on your flesh can be exchanged
– a few creases on your heart, smoothened.” As if a few cracks in Claude’s
heart are widened by her words, and ready to be remedied. “You’re quite right.
I’m here to leave the figures behind, for another kind of figure, you see. It’s
both a body thing and a mind thing, like what you’ve said,” he remarks. Her silken
left leaf extends to wave and caress her nightly thorns around the warped
shirt, and slowly into strokes. The oily scent, all too unnoticeable in this
mansion, is now seeping onto Claude’s self.
“Then, what
of the method?”
“… The
usual, please, the usual.” He cannot wait.
Her sight
is mesmerizing. Claude is indeed being mesmerized into a chair besides her and
facing her unpolished yet unrivalled femininity, her sapphire amulets of the
mind’s light.
“This, for
your long absence…” followed by a few of unintelligible incantations…
After a
brief sleep, the eyes open again, only to see the Mistress’s back, fully opened
to her view. But the woman in scarlet is closing the door to this room without
looking behind her, and the one on the bed is left with a duo of servant girls.
She, indeed, she can sense her own sexuality by the lack and gain of things.
Her arms are crushing into her new pair of breasts, decently sized, and big
enough to stand on their own instead of being closely stuck onto the chest.
They are the first thing to be noticed when she inspects her new body. That’s
intriguing enough for her to get up and take a better look of her new self in
the girl-sized mirror. With the reflective face, the curves are clear to her,
the skin tone of hers is darker and closer to a mix of olive and amber. The ass
is puffy to sit on, and the legs are fine for a few positions of crossing each
other. And finally, there is nothing extra standing in the way between her and
the boner of every patron.
“How’s this
girl called?” She asks one of the servants besides the wardrobe. “The body’s
name is Fuyuka. What do you want to be dressed in?” Immediately she has an
answer after recalling the reception. She will be another “bunny”, having a
pair of bunny ears and a “tail”, but seeped in the magic of the night and with
a cute, love-filled, sexy twist. Instead of the usual bunny suit, she will have
something exposing, which means a pitch-black bikini, a pair of with
garterbelt, and the white collar faintly calling back to the typical “bunny”.
She won’t mind a pair of sunglasses to cover her eyes from the fire within. And
finally, a head of fluttering dark hair, important if she is going to charm
with mundane “exotic” beauty. That’s a stretch for any self-respecting girl,
but they feel just right for this body. Those appear on the wishes of the newly
swapped girl, and are immediately on her body with swift hands. Only by now
does she realize the true extent of the Mistress’s taste in girls and by giving
her the best in “the usual”. A show is coming, and like every time before
entering the playing field, the servant girl produces a little rubber stamp, feline-edged,
inked and pressed against the point on her chest she points to. That’s the sign
of a masculine mind juxtaposed onto a show girl!
Like a
lustful drop in the fiery ocean, Fuyuka passes through the back alley she’s
treaded many times, to the “ball room”. It is called a “ball room”, but closer
to the playground of the many, a ground for orgies. One girl, with slightly
hopping steps, an almost ironic maid headdress on strip-bare bikini, and the
feline sign on her right arm, pours out a tonic into cups for her eagerly
waiting “master” in loungewear, one hand leveling the silver plate. A few
nearly nude bodies, masculine, feminine or intersex alike, fling to wild flute
and drum beats under those straying purple lights, as in the depths of a hellish
paradise; as the music drifts off, so spreads the wiggling of bodies. A pool of
liquor baths a pair of flesh “lovers”, drenching in intoxication and passionate
touches, until the burn within their heart, the dizzy and blurry senses
dissolves into the pool, emptied for another pair. Even more blurred between
the real and the unreal is the bowing of this black cat, with all the human
features and proportions below the neck (a mask?), awaiting to be given milk,
even jolting to the “pump” of the nearest “cow” and feeding from it. Such a
role-play! One spot of egregiously tasty acts flashes in as another fades out.
An almost unknown world unlike any other, where reality follows the sexual
impulses of those within, and playful bits abound. Happily hot bodies, many
with the same sign, are sprinting from one place to another, to be touched and
felt in the same oily scent as the patrons and add their own ones to this greater
blend. Is that oil coming from orgies?
Where is
Fuyuka going? Fuyuka is Fuyuka, not Claude. Claude is somewhere else, maybe
lying with other the girls, or in a self. Fuyuka is here, an unfettered
“bunny”, jumping, bouncing and wanting to make noise around. The 3 poles there?
One of them is empty, waiting for a girl to be perfectly matched. A forerunner of
herself, with a head of red hair and much more darkened for her gyaru past, is
clung around the other pole, trying to entice, and gaining a big crowd for her
baseness. The other pole… an underage? Or not? She can’t tell. And this pole,
there’s a magnetic pull of her bones and her mind to it, until they are
inextricably entwinned. That Claude’s far, far away. So far away, in fact, that
she is Fuyuka in body, and Fuyuka in spirit; anyone, if they ever know her,
know her as this pole-dancing bunny, and not as that half-famous and stern Mr.
Weismann. This alone lavishes their attention to this body, and not to that
half-gone man.
A lift, a
slide, slithering and coiling around the pole… this body is naturally attuned
to maneuvering with a pole, isn’t it? Without any practice, her sexuality is
easily unraveling and unwinding around. A fire rising from the crotches of the
“onlookers” burning up, to the heartbeats she can ear with the pair of bunny
ears, and into their cloudy minds. The roof of this part of the “room”, while
high up above, is already hanging low, with a few hints of cyan among magenta. Maybe
Fuyuka has done a lot of pole dancing while under other “pilots”? Yet this is
the first time the body is used by her (them?), and for this first time, she is
doing great. Even better, and maybe adding to the excitement of being revealed,
is being Fuyuka, dancing as Fuyuka, and exposing as Fuyuka until only a little
bit of modesty remains. Maybe that “modesty” can be left out altogether. Not
Mr. Weismann, not with an eye from his subordinates that will ruin his
reputation.
Subordinates
– she recognizes one from afar! There’s Wilsbury from the middle management,
the collar hanging loose, but still the shrewd Tom Claude recognizes. His taste
in sex is decent, and for that he should know almost nothing of this club. But
pulling his arm is “Claude”, or whoever’s controlling the body. He mutters
something into Wilsbury’s ears, maybe something about this sexy pole dancer and
how “she’s cute and sexy”. This “Claude” could even be the real Fuyuka all
along, judging from the fact that she was swapped with him, and she’s on the
smug face of seeing this body being enjoyed from without and within. The lewder
she gets, the merrier everyone is; the hotter Fuyuka poses, the prouder Claude
gets. All too well. Better, the bigger the crowd is, the more attentions she
gets, and more and more of the faces the real Claude recalls from outside the
club pop up this crowd, all picked up by “Claude”: That Coolings from HR who
has been to many clubs under the table, John something down on the junior level,
and a few more he has definitely met before. And both of the swapping pair have
almost gotten the most out of their new bodies, while the ground burns from the
hearts of everyone witnessing…
“C’mon, is
that all the club has? Better poses? Sexier dances?” One of them in the crowd
shouts. Is it the end of their dreams? Far from it. Those men barely have the
scent of the oils, only having some lighting projected on them. Being a snake
on a pole has already attracted this crowd, and Fuyuka thinks it is time to up
her game seeing Wilsbury’s wide eyes and Coolings calling out “yeah, hot,
yeah!” unrestraining his working self. Many more in the crowd are woo-ing and
ah-ing at every move Fuyuka makes to flex her soft skins and swing the 2 puffed
parts of her torso. After the last swing, to the same rhythm, she removes her
right hand from the pole, swaging her ass step by step down the platform of the
3 poles, and mingles into this crowd. Finding one of the males who twists
himself to the same beats, she synchronizes her swags to his, and approaches
him until only a slim and dangerous distance is left. Face-to-face, their
bodies zig-zag and wiggle, still like the snakes, but more and more intimate,
until the belly’s skin slides with the shirt’s fabric, touching gently and
wiping the sweat on it. “Nice moves…” He is backing down, and Fuyuka turns back
with a few swirls. Her butt is right in front of his legs, waving to the pants and
belt, as if inviting something underneath it to react. “Go, go, go on!” “Yeah,
he’s gotten the best butt!” All the eyes and mouths can’t stop noticing and
clamoring! A few steps back, and the man finds himself sitting on a sofa.
Fuyuka gets the upper hand in the dance by posing her spine over his, while
withholding her own ass from sitting on his lap. The shaking body has a few
hands slipping onto the straps of the bikini, a few small sheets sliding in,
ten by ten, hundred by hundred, until several scores of green cash press are
clamped onto the fat. When the panties are filled, they move onto the top, and
finding the cleavage empty, quickly filled it with pleasure (not the viscous
kind) and putting a smiling face on Fuyuka. Someone even showers a mixed bunch
of bills adding to the shower of cheers, and have a good stash of cash from a wallet
stacked on her chest – Fuyuka’s too excited to notice the wallet being
“Claude’s”!
Will they
realize her self that’s not yet known? Will they? Their minds are too deep into
her flesh than to realize.
Cash is
good, and seeing the subordinates is also good. The crowd fades out of her
sight, the lowering moon in the midnight adding to the charm. Soon the sofa is
empty, except herself and 3 men: Wilsbury, Coolings and “Claude Weismann”. All
others have turned their backs to them, and the time for intimacy comes. Coolings
starts with “we’ve caught this ‘bunny’ right, do everything we want!” And
everything Fuyuka will accept. Fuyuka circles between the embrace of them, the
plushy ass at once among those 3, letting their arms into her bottom. Inch by
inch, those and the eyes advance over the “fluff” until the most sensitive part
is near their reach. “We’re waiting for you to moan…” Without even fingering
that, Fuyuka’s heart is racing and flaring up with passion, and they don’t have
to wait. One of the arms pushes her whole waist onto their thighs, her own legs
clicking with theirs. She is overlying on a bed of three teasing pair of legs,
noiselessly making love with her own body. But no, not hugs, but a jerk and a
flip, then a pair of arms clamp her torso to Cooling’s, the balloons popping up
on his ribs. They’re squeezed, a little bit of wetness coming out on her
areolae (“the body already had fertile sex!” Fuyuka knows). Fuyuka, meanwhile,
wishes for something else, hand on hand, face to face, and lips to lips: “Y’all
wanna some bonus after this? For a bit of extra cash!”
Fuyuka’s
the special “bunny” of today, and she’s very willing to jump into any fantasies
they will ask. She, alone, just begs for them to be brave and get the most out
of her. A few Franklins spent and placed aside (for now), they’re beginning
their greatest operation…
The
distance of her head from their pants feels just right, just an inch away
waiting for the thrill their cocks will bring… There’s only a quite thin sheet
of their pants and a narrow gap covering the cock, all three of them now
removed. Two of the cocks are spared for her, for her fingers to entwin with.
And grab, and pull, and shoot, until all their creamy “love” for her’s fully on
her face, her mouth gaping. For that, the boners’ owners have a hard-on and
gazing at Fuyuka with the meanest of eyes. “Keep going…” Their chilling “love”
is also on their faces, mouths open for enjoyed chatter.
One arm
crush into her shiny black hair, caressing and forcing her head to face his
groin. Fuyuka glances up into his eyes… Claude’s. Her soul races from her own
eyes to his, then back to her own, rushing the bolt of shock over her ducking
body. Claude unzips the same pants he is in when he parked his automobile outside
the club, and Fuyuka has the cock flagrantly aiming at her mouth. Full of hair
and slinkiness. “I don’t try to say what I want to do exactly… Have this!” Claude
proclaims. “More… More! Keep going!” Fuyuka tries saying those again, but she’s
muffled by blowing something in her mouth and drinking from it…
She loves
Claude, needless to say. Or that, Claude as Fuyuka loves Fuyuka as Claude,
since the old body’s cum are given back to the new body’s mouth, for free, and
she finally gets to taste the old body’s cum; it’s not like a manager with the
least self-respect would give something like the two are having right now. Both
of them have finally met again, after being swapped, and juxtaposed themselves
over each other. In the unlikeliest and fantastic place, doing the most likely
yet twisted thing!
After a
short while, they are all exasperated, the males filled with fulfilled lust and
gust, and Fuyuka, a shower of smelly cum and another pool in her mouth. “This
girl’s got the best skills for a ‘bunny’,” compliments Coolings, “especially
talking about a bunny girl like this. You suck, and you blow, like no other! I
mean, you’re the best in getting yourself fucked up! Those’re good things for
club girls!”
Wilsbury
follows, “Great time with this girl and my dick – I’m in for coming again,
Jay,” and Coolings lets out a proud smile of “knowledge”. Fuyuka just flaps
with the flaccid dicks, no waiting for them to be aroused again though.
Finally,
it’s Claude, almost revealing something about Fuyuka: “This girl gets some
surprising skills for girls of their kind. You’ve seen her dancing on a pole,
and neatly with some other guy. She’s so natural when she sees several dozens
of cash, not like she’ve never been paid that much. And she’s doing everything
for us just now. She knows what everyone wants, and that’s even more impressive
when you know her.”
Fuyuka’s
blushing less and less with all those praises after being reminded of what she
has done so far. “Right, right,” the other two agree. “Do we have any more to
do with her, Claude? I don’t have enough,” Wilsbury replies.
“She’s good
enough. More than good enough for a ‘bunny’ girl of her kind. Do you want to
know what kind of ‘bunny’ she is?”
Fuyuka’s
world blurs around her as Claude goes horribly wrong. “look at her boobs, see
that black feline stamp? That means this girl used to be another guy. A guy who
wants to become one, has the skills and knowledge, paid and succeeds so well,
that we’ll leave her here, as long as she wants.” Fuyuka’s heart crashes when
they know. As if most of the magic on the sofa, and all over the club, fades
away; the lights dim, and all those other girls appear sick of all those
glitters. Some other patrons have also left other girls, with stamps or
without, but all too dazed and drained of all life. The dreamy club has been
replaced with all those flying cash and sexual humiliation, when Fuyuka
realizes that she’s trapped in this body. And Claude’s getting away with, well,
Claude’s body.
The two
worlds have finally been juxtaposed over each other, one illusory, and one
material. the macrocosm reclaims the microcosm: he night is at its deepest,
when the first rays of dawn breaks out from the horizon and reclaim everything
under it, including this humble mansion, and blinding (or rather opening the eyes
of) those inside. Will the Mistress know?
But what?
She’s Fuyuka, and Fuyuka’s supposed to stay, like a serving bunny girl. She has
to keep the façade up to this end. “Like a private and intimate time? Come back
next time!” She said, with the obviously fake face, as the three shakes off
their bizarre oily scents and return to those tall towers…
This is a commission for someone on DeviantArt. But who'll care?
This is a commission for someone on DeviantArt. But who'll care?
