In ancient Sicily there was a story of a man named Damocles who one day pandered to his king Dionysius, proclaiming with adulation the fortune, power, and magnificence that surrounded him. In response, Dionysius offered to switch places with Damocles under one sole condition. Wishing to experience the king's power and fortunes first hand, Damocles eagerly agreed to the king's offer and soon found himself sitting upon the royal throne and surrounded by the very luxuries that he had so greatly admired. Above the throne and above the head of Damocles was raised a sword, perched and suspended by only a single hair from a horse. Constantly in fear of the sword above him and aware of the tenuous whims that suspended it, Damocles was unable to truly enjoy the fortune he had sought or been granted, and begged his King to relieve him and allow his departure.
The parable of the Sword of Damocles. Simply meant to illustrate the entwined natures of fortune and danger, how true luxuries of wealth, power, and desire were so often burdened with the price of fear, paranoia, and ever-threatening dangers. Rarely throughout history was this a naive lesson, and only the truly naive would ever think otherwise. To indulge in one's fortunes, or to be bestowed such fortunes by the fates or one's own works, these things always came with a price associated with them.
In the bedroom of her beloved brother's loyal servant girl, Kanako Urashima could not help but reflect on that very parable at that moment. Because much as the fabled Damocles, she was trapped. Constrained by a prison forged of all her greatest temptations. And with a danger every bit as paranoia-inducing as that which Damocles himself had been subjected to. Unfortunately, unlike Damocles, begging would do nothing to avert her plight, the only thing that could save her now was action!
Which was why it was unfortunate that she wasn't even entirely certain if she still had legs. Between everything around her, everything within her, everything that demanded her attention and refused to allow her to focus on what was genuinely important. The Computer! The computer that would allow her to take back the brother that was rightfully hers, to have the loving and adoring that she so deeply deserved...
But there was a fire burning within her. A raging, searing, all-consuming fire that had been born within her and carried neither warning nor consent. An arousal that had struck her instantly, spreading throughout her belly, her chest and her face, raising all of her hairs on edge and leaving her skin tingling with heat and desire and left a certain very special part of her reserved soley for her Keitaro sopping and screaming and demanding attention. There was no introduction to this tale, it simply struck her without warning and left her reeling.
Doubly so, given the nature of her company in the room. Two doppelgangers, both so diabolically identical to those whose faces they had stolen that their true identities as otherwise were traits wholly informed rather than self-evident. But the fact that they were copies was less of a problem than it was who they were copies of. And the one that she was on top of, the one who's enormous, rock-hard erection she could very, very clearly feel beneath her and which the insidious parts of her own arousal were trying to convince was 'every bit as good' as the real version, was a copy of her brother Keitaro, fittingly named 'Trapbot'. His... her... It's hands loosely perched on her waist, and face so exactingly like the one that she loved. Eyes so familiar, wearing the same longing, loving, nature that she had dreamed so many times yet infinitely more real... yet still not as she kept having to forcibly remind herself.
The other was more actively sinister, and perhaps fittingly reflective in some strange agonizing psychological fashion. A doppelganger of herself, a bitchbot witchbot who was taking great pains to ensure that every literal and metaphorical step that she took was as infuriatingly sexual as possible. Moving in what was half a dance and half a sashay as she strode between the computer and the center of the room, enjoying every step as though it were the final slow pirouette in a performance. Slowly, and deliberately, and teasingly stripping off layer upon layer of dress and each time making her ensemble ever so slightly more daring and revealing, and taking the same playful pleasure each time she returned to the computer, bending at the hips and presenting a facsimile of Kanako's own rump to her as she slowly and carefully stroked but a single key.
“Ess...”, the stripperbot purred and hissed all at the same time, typing out the first of three. A single finger carefully and deliberately lowered upon the key, depressing it before returning, and allowing her entire body to once more straighten and turn back around. Dark, playful, and immensely self-satisfied eyes teased over the sight of her original in the corner. For a brief moment, the two's eyes met, as they had done many times beforehand, it was enough to convince part of Kanako that the bitch was doing it on purpose.
But then, Kanako was already one hundred percent certain that the doppelganger was attempting to build a sense of conditioned narcissistic arousal within her. What was the point of her participation otherwise, they shared exactly the same face and exactly the same body, and she knew that she knew that. This overly elaborate charade of prancing back and forth, her every movement as needlessly sexual as possible as she stood between her and her salvation or doom, everything was meant to force her eyes onto Witchbot. Even Trapbot beneath her, a painfully obvious reminder of her own legitimate desires, likely intended to keep fostering the fire within her as Witchbot worked her own insidious black magic. It was all meant to make her, Kanako, develop some sort of narcissistic attraction to her own body!
Kanako's eyes were unable to focus on anything, darting madly around the room, in-part because she feared looking at everything and anything within it out of fear that she may be sucked further into the murky black morass, the spell that this witch was casting. Nevertheless, she was perfectly aware that her clone was in the center of the room once more, her dark eyes glinting playful and dangerous at her as she slowly fingered the hem of her dress. At first playful, but then more confident, slowly fingering the space between the folds, caressing them and exploring the soft inviting feeling. Deeper and deeper she went, before sliding her hands across one another and taking a firm grip, slowly and elegantly peeling off the topmost layer of the ensemble. Slowly it slipped from her, past her head and discarded by one hand to the side.
“One more layer down Kanako...” Witchbot purred, “You'd better hurry...”, she said, the stripperbot outstretching a hand at her face and blowing a little kiss.
Kanako, shivering and shuddering, breathed in several more ragged breathes as the small part of her that she still controlled tried to desperately remember how to walk.
Sat Oct 29 22:00:25 2016
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