Despite her occupation as a nightclub owner (among other real estate assets), Fiona White had always been an upstanding and responsible person. Not obscenely wealthy, but wealthy enough, she had never seen herself above others. She made regular contributions to reputable charities that performed honest and needed work, and was always careful to research where her donations went and how they were spent before signing off.
Though of course, a woman of fifty, Fiona wasn’t a stainless beacon of purity. She had made plenty of mistakes in her life, had her rebellious phase as a teenager, and she had been poor at maintaining romantic relationships. A divorcee, she hadn’t bothered to remarry, and she notably had no children to call her heirs.
But she was satisfied with her life, and how productive it had been. And even events like her divorce were most remarkable for their mundane nature. There was nothing salacious for local gossip columnists or trash publications to cling to, and she preferred living her life that way.
Though...something seemed off that night. Her routine call with Maxine had ended with her saying something about needing to throw some troublesome patrons out, but she received no updates since. Concerned, she decided to make the short drive to the club earlier than planned and see how things were for herself.
Fiona pulled her BMW into her personal parking space and climbed out, into the cool evening air. She was dressed in a muted gray pantsuit she found tasteful, and her graying brunette hair, given a fresh trim earlier that day, was a short, professional length. She looked every bit the successful, stately businesswoman, with minimal makeup and zero flash. Retrieving her phone, she checked for messages from Maxine.
Still no word? Fiona frowned. If something truly serious had happened, she felt she’d have surely been made aware of it by then, but...again, something felt off. Fiona couldn’t put her finger on what, precisely, but she just had a strange feeling. Almost like deja vu, or some other sense that left her concerned. She sighed and put her phone away.
The wrongness remained. Maybe I’m just overthinking?
It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time. Both a blessing and a curse, Fiona had a tendency to overanalyze minute details. The same rigor with which she examined charities extended toward her personal business dealings, and even her pastimes. And though she was no grand master, she was an excellent chess player, with competitive experience dating back to her high school years. (Yes, she was in the Chess Club, but the stereotype of the Chess Club Nerd was just that, a stereotype.) So perhaps she was just worrying where there was no need to worry.
But still…
Fiona strode out from the employee parking lot and strode along the sidewalk, around to the front of the building. Though she of course had access to the employee entrance, she preferred to enter the same way her patrons did. Through the welcoming entrance of…
Of…
Fiona stared, aghast. The smooth exterior facade of the building had crumbled in places, exposing the rough red-brick surface underneath, and more brick became exposed by the second. But more shocking than the state of the exterior walls was the state of the marquee. In both, sultry pink lettering, it proclaimed “CLUB VDF”. And above it, in neon lights, were a fair of feminine lips parted in an “O” and with the tongue extended in a lewd display. Almost as if they belonged to a woman performing oral se--
Furious, Fiona tried to force the horrifying thought from her mind. “What...what sort of twisted, grotesque prank is this?!” She scowled at the sign. “Everyone knows that this club is called…”
She paused. Blinked. “...is called…”
Fiona bit her thin lips and closed her eyes. She could swear the club was named something different. And as she realized what ‘VDF’ actually referred to (How could I know THAT?!), her confusion and anger turned to disorientation. She pictured the interior, no longer a clean, popular club known for professional service and charitable causes as much as it was a part of the city’s nightlife, but as something...else. Not filthy. But almost...seedy.
Slutty.
Perverse.
Whorish.
Fiona moaned. Not a moan of despair or disgust, but, to her own surprise, one of lust. A deep, low, hungry moan, it sounded entirely alien coming from the throat of professional, altruistic, clean-cut Fiona White.
Clean-cut, but not spotless, that is.
In her years of being single, Fiona had, wittingly or not, repressed her own urges. Urges that she kept to herself in quiet frustration. Urges that were natural, that no one would blame her for sating, but that she chose to ignore. Beneath Fiona’s charity, behind her mask of professionalism, these old urges bubbled up, stronger and fierce than ever. Her panties dampened. Her nipples grew stiff.
And Fiona White began feeling very black indeed....
*****
Inside the club, largely ignorant of the changes around them, there was a crowd of young men and women on the dance floor. The music pulsed and pumped, and the crowd had fun, unaware of the brainless, near-identical bimbo bunnies that strutted about and served with the same motions and mannerisms. They didn’t notice that the club manager was dressed in such a provocative manner, nor that four of the most recent customers to enter were dressed in a manner that would have broken the dress code in spectacular fashion, had the dress code still been in effect.
The crowd also failed to notice as the floor underneath their feet began to shift. Where once had been a solid, elegant design of fine wood, there was now an extravagant grid of marble tiles arranged in alternating squares of black and white. Each square was large enough for a single person to stand in. The grid was eight tiles by eight tiles in width and height; a perfect square.
The dancing continued, and slowly, the crowd began to thin just a bit. Men and women alike began to feel new urges and needs, their interests turning from dancing to debauchery, and they soon left to find a table, a booth, or perhaps a quiet corner near the restrooms. But the floor didn’t clear entirely. No, there were still thirty-two people left, and without thinking, they each stood on a square within the latter two rows at both ends of the grid.
And then they began to change.
The dancers that occupied the two inner rows were the first to transform. All women, they, like the bunny bimbo beauties, changed to match each other in every aspect of their physicality, save for the tones of their skin, hair, and eyes. They all shrank, some more than others, until all were no more than three feet in height, and their curves grew dramatic. Incredibly short and dramatically stacked, the row of woman on one side became dressed in pearl white leotards and a skimpy, decorative set of chainmail bikini armor that did nothing to hide their curves or offer true protection. The women in the front row opposite became dressed in identical fashion, but in the color of onyx black.
The four women that stood in the corner squares were the next to change, their features each growing identical as they all grew in height. Before they had begun changing, the tallest among them was about 6’1, and the shortest just barely five feet without her heels. But they grew, and grew, and grew, until they each stood at eight feet in height. Their frames, which varied from thin and willowy to somewhat overweight now rippled with sleek, beautiful, amazonian muscle. They stood proud, clad in little more than chainmail bikinis of their own, their towering heights made all the more imposing by the pearl and onyx stiletto thigh-highs that each side respectively wore, and saying all that need be said about their position as their heads of long, beautiful hair draped to their asses.
In the spaces directly next to the towering beauties were four more women, their heights and figures also shifting in identical fashion. They were tall, though not as tall as their neighbors at six feet even, and they were strong as well, particularly with powerful thighs and calves. But though they two donned chainmail bikinis, their feet became clad in pony boots that lifted their heels, and their heads adorned shiny, metallic equine masks of the finest craftsmanship. Their masks obscured their eyes and noses, leaving only their mouths and jawlines visible enough for bits to be fit secure between their teeth Their hands hands bound at their hps by leather harnesses, they snorted and nickered, shaking their asses as plugs ending in long, silken ponytails that matched their individual hair colors appeared wedged between the cheeks of their toned, round asses.
In the spaces next to the bound ponygirls were women not of muscle, but of soft, supple flesh. The women of this quartet were of average, but again equal height, with round, motherly hips and round, peach-like asses, and breasts that were larger than their heads by a considerable degree. They each wore thin, filmy attire that seemed like a mockery of a cloistered nun, one side in all white, and the other in all black, and only seemed to enhance their mature curves to a sinful degree. They stood with arms crossed beneath their busts, each of them wearing a necklace of beads more apt for anal than for prayer.
And in the center back spaces were the final four figures; one man, and one woman on each side.
The men, the only men that remained on the floor, shrank and slimmed as once handsome, masculine features grew soft and feminine. Stubble vanished as their skin smoothed and their short hair grew long and flowing. Their eyes were as soft as a doe’s, their lips full and pouting. Dressed in tight, royal robes, they showcased figures that were enticing in a feminine manner, with round, beautiful backsides on each of their four-foot-tall frames. And each grew matching, beautiful breasts, large and round, which their tight robes gave almost a pillow-like texture.
And their cocks? Their cocks remained, and they grew. Larger and larger, they pressed against their abdomens in such a way that, were they to grow erect, would push upward, guided by their tight clothes, until they bumped up against and between their own cleavage. Scepters for true royalty, further signified by the small, elegant crowns that they each wore.
The women beside these men, however, were not so small, no. While they did not grow to the heights of the towers at each corner, these two women became amazonian in their own right. Seven feet in height, with toned, beautiful muscle and large breasts, they wore silken gowns of their respective pearl and onyx that flaunted their washboard abs as much as they did the cleavage of their busts. They were beautiful, haughty, and severe; the two most powerful figures on this floor, and whom each sneered in delight at their small, dainty, femboi counterparts. With the spike-heeled boots on their feet and the large, opulent crowns atop their heads, there was no questioning their position, or their authority. They saw each other as equals, and rivals, each of them capable of taking down the other with equal ease the sweetest pleasures.
But they did not act.
No, they couldn’t act. They were queens, but here, on this board, they had no autonomy. They had no will to act of their own accord. All of the figures on the board, from the pawns and rooks, to the knights and bishops, to the kings and queens, were at the whims of their respective players. And there were only two people with the authority to order their movements.
And here they came.
*****
Fiona White was a new woman. Rejuvenated to the age of twenty-five, she was a model of beauty as haughty and arrogant as the queens on the board. And true to her name, ‘white’ was now her color. From her long platinum locks, to the dominatrix-like bodice and boots, to the shade of her eyeshadow and nail polish, everything she wore was white.
And beside Fiona was her twin, Leona Black. Leona was like a mirror image of Fiona. Same physique. Same face. Same long, beautiful mane of hair. But where Fiona was white, she was of course, black. Black hair, black clothing, black makeup. Twin dommes, they saw in each other a natural kinship, and shared interests. Lurid, sexual interests and perverted desires that could only be quenched by each other.
The twins entered as they always had. Each wore a collar, and attached to their collars were short leashes. Fiona held Leona’s, and Leona held Fiona’s. And upon crossing the threshold, they gazed at each other, shared a deep, tongue-heavy kiss, and then unleashed each other.
“What do you say, Sister?” Fiona asked. “Care to play chess from the office tonight?”
Leona gazed at the pieces all standing in place, ready to be played with. Other than Fiona, they were her favorite toys; a game to play, and enjoy, regardless of whether she won or lost. “I don’t know, Sister.” She spoke with a needful hunger in her voice. “I feel like being a bit more...hands on tonight.”
Fiona shared Leona’s leer, and the hunger in her own response. “Mmm...you read my mind.”
The White and Back sisters strutted into the club, their personal domain of sin, and prepared to engage in their own personal floorshow.
Mon Oct 25 03:59:46 2021
2 comments Last updated: Mon Oct 25 17:13:01 2021