Like many nightclubs of its ilk, Club Jupiter employed a full staff of servers that were constantly on the move. When they weren’t at tables taking orders, or walking through standing parties with trays of drinks or hors d'oeuvres free for the taking, they were fielding requests from patrons and generally ensuring that their stay at the club was both enjoyable and high-earning.
The all-woman waitstaff were a professional assortment. Either college age or slightly older, they represented an otherwise diverse set of personalities and skills. Among these employees was Taylor Callahan, a twenty-one year-old, heavily freckled, redheaded Law major that had just started at the club a few weeks prior. In the short time she had worked at the Jupiter, Taylor lost count of the number of obvious couples she had seen on dates. She even recognized a few faces that arrived at the club every week with a different date in tow. And while she didn’t like to make a show of it, she felt she could relate to that. Outside of work, she was a self-admitted serial dater, unable to maintain a relationship for more than two dates before things were destined to break off for one reason or another.
Another member of the staff was Shantelle Doyle, a black Bio Science grad school student several years older, and who stayed active in an effort to shed some of her college-diet weight. Though she was devoted to her academics and the pursuit of a masters degree, she had been in a serious relationship for close to two years. With her grades on track and her lovelife steady, Shantelle sensed that, while the future was unpredictable, she had done well in navigating the raging rapids of college life. And she imagined, if things held as they had until she was through with school, that she and her boyfriend would one day tie the knot.
Between Taylor and Shantelle in age was Erin Thunder, a Native American woman that had just recently graduated with her bachelor’s degree, and who continued to work at the club as she sought an answer to the question of where to pursue her professional life, as Literature majors found a difficult road to gainful employment in the real world. And with more than enough on her plate in that sense, she had chosen to eschew the dating scene for the time-being. Relationships weren’t something she felt a desire to force, and she also felt that, given enough time, she’d cross paths with someone that felt like a Mr. Right. The idea of a destined love was something for dreamers, but Erin had studied countless stories of love in her years of school, and patience had always been one of her virtues.
The three members of the waitstaff crossed paths on the floor, each dressed in their uniform black slacks, sensible flats, and blouses with bow ties. Shantelle was a bit taller than the others, and Erin slightly shorter, as well as the most slender of the trio. And while Shantelle’s afro was of a sensible length, her hair was also the longest of the three. Taylor wore hers boyishly short, while Erin held her longer hair in a clip to maintain professionalism.
Though the three were each of equal standing and status at the club, their personal lives and appearances couldn’t have been more different. Though that wasn’t to say that they didn’t get along as coworkers. They each had stories to tell about a colorful customer that one time, or the emergency plumbing incident that required the club be closed on what should have been a busy weekend. At the moment though, they had little to say to each other.
And then they felt a tremor in the ground beneath them.
“Hmm?” Erin spoke first as the three stopped, each equally confused. “What was that…?”
“An earthquake?” Shantelle concluded their shared thought. “That was pretty quick for one, but--”
The ground shook again. Noticeable, and yet not in large enough or long enough a capacity to raise alarm. “OK, I definitely felt that one,” Taylor said. “Have either of you seen Maxin--”
There was a ripple in the air, and a surge of energy that tripped up Taylor’s tongue.
“Have either of you seen Maxxxi?”
“You think she’d care?” Shantelle asked, her incredulity visible in her expression. “I still don’t get how a woman that keeps her modesty with electrical tape is the manager here.”
“Seriously.” Erin sighed. “I’d love to know what the heck Ms. White was thinking. It just seems so unlike her to hire someone like--”
There was another tremor. A powerful one, yet one that seemed no wider spread than the floor directly under the trio’s feet. Shaken to their cores, each of the three remained standing, their feet seemingly fixed to the tile flooring as their flats sprouted into identical pairs of tall, black platform heels. The localized quake grew in power, rippling up their legs and tearing away at their trousers, and the three gasped in unison as the quake swept between their legs, bringing each to a sudden and powerful orgasm.
In that moment, as Taylor, Shantelle, and Erin were lost in the sudden, irresistible bliss, time seemed to freeze. They stood like statues, eyes closed, mouths slack, heads tilted up ever so slightly. Space around them continued to ripple, pushing and pulling, shaping each of them like a sculptor adjusting already worked clay.
Each of the three were different, and the way that the force reshaped them was different. Erin became just a little taller, and Shantelle just a little shorter. Shantelle lost weight, and Erin and Taylor each gained some. Bit by bit, their differences in figure reduced by the moment until each of them was the same height and the same shapely measurements, their busts now perfectly equal G-cups.
And like their figures, their hair changed as well. Erin’s smooth, dark hair fell from her clip and grew long and lustrous, pouring down her back until it draped beyond her growing, rounding peach of an ass, as did Taylor’s. Shantelle’s hair fell from her afro, the texture of her locks smoothing as they too exploded in length, a midnight black mane that flowed down her back and over her ass like a silken waterfall.
And then their faces, frozen in orgasm, began to twitch and shift. Taylor and Shantelle’s cheekbones cracked and rose, shifting to match Erin’s. Erin’s and Shantelle’s noses shrank into cute buttons that matched Taylor’s. Taylor and Erin’s lips swelled, becoming full and beautiful to match Shantelle’s. Every last wrinkle and every acne scar, no matter how major or minor, vanished as their features smoothed into identically shaped, identically textured masks of different color, like the mould of a Barbie doll used for both Barbie herself and her girlfriends. Even the shapes of their eyes and ears had changed, their individuality lost as bone and cartilage became identical in shape and structure.
Time seemed to speed up again, and the three members of the waitstaff stood in orgasmic bliss as their clothes continued to shred and transform around their now perfectly equal figures. What had once been uniforms of respectable formality had turned lewd, each now little more than the shoulderless leotard of a bunny suit, paired with leggings that showed off the identical tone of their legs down to each individual contour of thigh and calf. The only appreciable difference in their attire was that Taylor’s suit and ears were a jade green, Shantelle’s were pearl white, and Erin’s were turquoise blue. The changes continued as their long, flowing hair was pulled into high ponytails, allowing a better view of their bare backs, and the large, fluffy balls that were their bunny tails on their respective, identically curvy backsides.
The three came down from their shared orgasm, blinking the lids of their now empty, vapid eyes as their short, trimmed nails grew long, manicured, and polished to match their new uniforms. Their beautiful lips fixed into a shared pout that became their neutral expression, coated in lipstick that also matched their new color schemes. And through those pouty lips, and those empty eyes, they each spoke in identical fashion.
“Ooh!”
None of them were sure what had just happened, or if anything had happened. There was nary a brain cell to share between the three of them. But that was just one more way in which they had become three of a kind. Identical dolls of humans that were a fetishistic idea taken to an extreme, their physical and mental individuality had been wiped away to create a class of Club VDF staff that didn’t speak unless told to, that served any order without question, and that lived to be little more than club eye candy.
And still on shift, they turned on their high heels and strutted off, ready to serve. It was the only thought--only command--that echoed in the pretty, empty, identical heads of the three, or any of the other waitstaff elsewhere in the club that had, of course, changed to match them. Ideas of love, of dating, and of lasting relationships no longer mattered. All that did were the customers they served, and the pleasure they provided for them.
Thu Aug 12 02:24:36 2021
2 comments Last updated: Thu Aug 12 22:43:01 2021