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New Release: Seduced and Filled

The adventure ends in an explosive release…

Cora has escaped the far-reaching futa organization, but her deep desire to be filled keeps the captors who turned him into a her at the forefront of her mind. That’s not to mention that if the organization’s plans come to fruition, the whole world’s men might share Cora’s fate.

A hot reunion is in the works because Cora, her army of transformed men, and her friend Barry are planning to slip inside the organization’s headquarters. The plan includes half of them opening up and offering themselves as a sexy and willing distraction while the others sneak in.

But there are futas everywhere, ready to whip it out and give intruders a warm welcome. Is Barry willing to risk himself for the cause? And will Cora be able to save herself and the world?

This 6200 word, futa-on-female, futa-on-male, gender swap, transformation, oral, masturbation, group, voyeur, interracial, pregnancy erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another sexy tale!

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The spray of the shower sprays me gently in the face and fills the bathroom with a fine, sensual mist.

It’s funny. I close my eyes and my thoughts are still undeniably me. I have a secret love for ’90s gangster rap and fantasy novels. I firmly believe that pineapples have no place on a pizza. And I wish I had more time in my day to play video games.

Then I run my fingers down my body, and my hands brush over my slender shoulders, across my nipples (which are suddenly a hundred times more sensitive than they were before), down my flat belly, and finally to the tender folds of my womanhood. As I touch myself, I feel like I could get lost inside of my own sexuality.

I used to be Cole Porter, but then I was somehow changed into a woman by the strange powers of a golden idol. All because I had to stick my nose into the business of an even stranger organization made up entirely of women. I chased them to South America and back to find answers, but all I have is more questions.

Isabella, the leader of that organization, is the person who gave me my new name. Cora. I suppose I should be ashamed of it, right? But I can’t help but feel that Cora is who I really am now.

I don’t even call my body my “new body” anymore. This is me.

I give a cursory effort to drying my body as I step out of the shower. Barry’s modestly-sized apartment is abuzz with noise and activity. It’s never been that way in here. Barry prefers not having roommates, and he can have that preference because he managed to snag an internship that pays a king’s ransom. But now he has thirteen new roomies. Me and the other transformed women, a group of a dozen I freed from Casulo, have been trying to track down the organization, keeping an eye on missing news reports, scoping out the museum, and getting into the occasional argument about what to do next.

We settled on surviving. Until today.

I open the bathroom door and almost knock Barry down. He mumbles an apology, which disappears in his throat. I roll my eyes when I realize why. I might be comfortable in my body now, but I still forget that wrapping a towel around my waist has new ramifications.

“Barry, Jesus dude,” I say, crossing my arms. “It’s a fresh coat of paint, but it’s still me. You really have to get that through your head.”

“Sorry!” He looks away, then second-guesses himself and maintains eye contact with me. “I mean it’s one hell of a paint job. And now that you want me to call you Cora, too…”

He shakes his head and looks to the floor. “You just had everyone worried. Me included. It’s been a crazy couple of weeks so I don’t think I’ve told you that it’s good to have you back. Circumstances notwithstanding.”

I have to smile. Same old me, same old Barry.

“It’s good to be back. You know, a better friend probably would have called the police.”

“I panicked.”

“For an entire week?”

He shrugs, a sheepish and guilty smile on his face. “For all I know, those ladies could have whisked you off to some sex paradise. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

I jokingly punch him on the shoulder. “Well, you wouldn’t be half wrong there.”

I pull a dry shirt over my shoulders and jump into some sweatpants. I let out a deep breath, hesitating before walking out. Barry returns the punch and practically pushes me forward.

“Come on,” he says. “I’m going out there with you. You don’t need to go all Rambo anymore, you’re back in mother-fucking America.”

“Technically Rambo was still alone–”

“Not now, Siskel.”

The both of us stride into the living room, where the rest of the women have amassed for my announcement. Some of them are like me, settling into their new lot in life and actually feeling right for the first time. The rest had lives before this. Girlfriends, wives, families. While there might be a faint hope in some of them that there’s a way to reverse what had happened to us, we all agree on one thing: it might not have been our choice to become who we are now, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make our own choices going forward.

I pull down a projection screen I installed the busy night before and kicked my laptop out of its slumber. A rough floor plan of Isabella’s mansion filled the screen, concocted from my own hazy memory and the original architect of the property. Life hack: posing as a student for any number of things can really go a long way. I point a laser pointer at the front door.

“This is where our first team–”

One of the girls, Sandy (who used to be a trucker named Nathan), raises her hand and says, “We’ve talked it out and we want to be called the strike team.”

I sigh. “This is where the strike team is going to enter. I’m going to need you guys to make it look good and convincing. You keep as many of them as you can occupied, and the rest of us will come in through the side door over here. When you get the signal, that means it’s time for us to get the hell out of Dodge.”

A round of nods circles the room, ending with Barry.

“You know,” he says, “I’m not getting my deposit back after they see what you did to the wall.”

I pick up the closest thing–a pillow–and chuck it at his face, and we all laugh, but I keep one wary eye on the map. There are parts of me that ache at seeing Isabella again.

 

“I have never been so thankful for rich people’s need to have really tall fences between each other’s property.”

Barry looks over his shoulder again, as if this time there will be a neighborhood watch dog looking at him disapprovingly.

“Isn’t your family rich people?” I ask, paying only half attention to him as I peer into the window. Isabella’s mansion is bigger than it was in my memory, and there are a lot more guards than my first night here. “Anyway, stop moving around so much. I can’t hear her.”

A crescent moon shines over our heads. It offers little light for anyone who happened to be looking down the side pathway of Isabella’s gated property, but as an added measure of security, the entire second team is dressed in black. As for the strike team…

Sandy’s voice crackles into my ear.

“…and we’re so, so sorry. We didn’t want to run away at all but she threatened us to go with her. We’ve been waiting for the perfect opportunity to return to you, but we got fed up and got that bitch blackout drunk ourselves.”

“Way to sell it, Sandy,” I mutter.

Two more voices, the women standing guard at the front doors, are picked up by the microphones hidden in Sandy’s clothes.

“It’s good to know that some of you are loyal to the cause.”

“Not so fast. Why didn’t you try to contact us? We could have extracted you ourselves.”

“She didn’t allow us communication with the outside world,” Sandy said, quick on her toes.

I held down a snicker. Sandy was the first one of us to make new social media accounts for herself. The one where she just posts pictures of herself so far has the biggest following.

“If you want,” Sandy continued, “we could prove our loyalty to you in other ways.”

A pause. I imagine the two guards exchanging glances in my head.

“Shit,” Barry whispers, “they’re inside.”

I see the two guards, a two fit women with curves you could taxi an airplane on, lead the strike team in. Sandy is smiling in the direction of the window we’re all hiding behind, though not exactly at us so the black is working. I smile at how modestly they’re dressed. One could almost mistake them for being innocent.

I hear Sandy sigh as she throws her arms around the guard in front of her. An amused smile forms on the guard’s face.

“Don’t tell me you’re tired already,” the guard says. I can see a small tent start to form beneath her skirt. “You all have a long night ahead of you.”

“We’re just so glad to be back here,” Sandy replies. She kisses the other woman on the back of the neck.

“Get this woman a fucking Oscar,” I say.

Sandy’s hands slide down the guard’s blazer, the pads of her fingers disrupting the organization’s wrinkle-free facade, and pinch at the end of the skirt.

She continues, “And we’re even gladder to be back to these.”

The other guard uncrosses her arms as two members of the strike team start to unbutton her blazer.

The strike team works slowly, leaving dark hickeys on the two guards’ necks, planting wet kisses on their bare chests, and sucking on their fingers. They don’t take out the unsuspecting women’s cocks, not just yet. They move the night forward by inches, delaying the pleasure but still making as many sexy noises as possible. The audio porn is torture in my ears. It’s arousing watching strike team pleasure these women who have no idea they’re being watched.

“Are you sure we have to go on with the mission tonight?” Barry whispers, awe in his voice.

By now, several more women who have heard of the sheep who have wandered back to the flock gather in the room.

Sandy takes a look around the room and licks her lips.

“I don’t think we’re going to say no to more cocks.” She takes her coat off, being careful not to reveal the microphone set up within its folds, and throws it on the floor. Her dress follows not long after. “Take them out, girls, it’s been a long time since we’ve been properly fucked.”

The organization members surround them like a hungry kettle of vultures. Some of them merely raise their skirts, while the others take the time to take off everything below their waist, skirt and stockings and all. And Sandy and the rest of strike team is loving every minute of it.

The six of them are on their knees now, and even if the microphone has been buried under a pile of stripped clothes, I can still hear the divine sucking sounds of their mouths taking in the impressive cocks of these women.

More and more organization members wander in. But we can’t wait here for too long.

I turn, as difficult as it is to look away from the orgy happening just on the other side of the wall, and face the rest of the team. I notice some of the hungry looks on their faces, and I know that some of them wish they had volunteered for Sandy’s team now.

“Okay, strike team is really earning their name. It’s our turn.”

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New Release: Tempted and Taken

Too many questions and only one way to get the answers…

Cole, now Cora, has traveled to the steamy jungles of South America to search for a way out of his new, sexy body. But is that really what he wants? Men want him, women want him, and Cora doesn’t know about Cole, but she loves being wanted. It turns out the price for getting everything Cole wants is just a little skin, and he’s more than willing to give a sample to anyone who wants a taste.

That includes the mysterious all-futa organization hot on his tail that pulled him into this mess. Cole will have to face them in the secretive village of Casulo, but can he face two of them at a time? And what do they plan to do with the golden idol that caused his transformation in the first place?

This 6800 word, futa-on-female, futa-on-futa, gender swap, transformation, oral, masturbation, interracial, magic, menage, exhibitionism, voyeur, DP erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another sexy tale!

afm-tempted-and-taken-cover


The road is muddy and uneven under us. The wheels of this thing are about half as tall as I am, but I can still feel every little rock we run over. The heat in this country is two notches away from unbearable, and I’ve been covered in sweat ever since we made landfall.

Not that the natives seem to mind.

I’m hitching a ride with the owner of this rickety ride, a re-purposed military pickup truck. He’s a fairly handsome young man, and he has pretty good English but not good enough to understand when I tell him I used to be a man. His face isn’t wide enough that I can’t see him staring at me out of the corner of his eyes. As a woman, I’m flattered. As a man… Do I still remember how to react to things as a man?

I am amazed that it’s only been three weeks since the fateful evening that my hormone-addled mind led me to a secret auction in the basement of the city museum. A golden idol, a little lady I only know as the Novodama, transformed me from mild-mannered Cole to mild-mannered but extremely attractive Cora.

Cora, the name given to me by Isabella, the woman who bought me at the auction. Also the woman who gave me the best sex of my life. I’ve thought about her cock the whole way over on the cruise from America to Brazil. That idol came from this country, specifically a village named Casulo, and I’m here because I’m crazy enough to think that I’ll be able to find answers as to why I’ve been changed into a woman and exactly what this ‘Project Erotes’ is.

My phone is off, so if my best friend Barry or, God forbid, my family has been trying to contact me, then they’re going to have to keep worrying. That’s turning into somewhat of a habit, now that I’ve disappeared from the cruise, too.

It’s been an interesting adjustment period getting used to this new body. I catch guys check me out all the time, whether they think they’re being stealthy or not. Some of them were even mid-sentence with women who were probably their wives or girlfriends. I am a liar if I say that I don’t like the attention, and I’ve certainly been using it to my advantage.

I don’t know what they tell the young men of Macapá about hitchhikers, but all I’ve had to do to ensure a ride north was to stand there on the side of the road with my top lifted. My breasts are quickly turning into my best friend and my worst enemy. I’ve already lost track of how many times I’ve tried closing the door on my own boobs. It’s ridiculous. But when I’m trying to make men do my bidding? It’s like my chest is a giant magnet and their eyes are filled with iron. I don’t even have to let them touch me. The idea, the possibility of getting to touch me is often enough.

I wonder how susceptible I was to this boob magic when I was a man.

The truck slows down, and it seems like we’re on the outskirts of somewhere called Amapá, a town with the same name of the greater state I’ve been traveling north through.

I look at my temporary driver, and return his wide smile. I confirm to myself for the umpteenth time this month that I’m not attracted to men.

“Okay, I stay here,” he says, his words slow and deliberate. Really milking the time I have left remaining in his truck. “So very sexy and pretty!”

“Aw, thank you!” I say as I grab my bag and exit his ride. I’ve mastered the ability to turn everything said to me into an innocent compliment. I give him a wave. “Bye!”

I watch him watching me as he turns into town, and I’m back to square one. I start walking north, looking up every time I hear a wheels rolling on the road. The majority of traffic is on their way south, but finally, I get a hit.

I’m in the middle of lifting my top when I realize it’s a woman sitting in the driver’s seat of a black SUV. Fancy for this side of the country. Probably has A/C. I decide it’s never too late for the old-fashioned way, and I stick my thumb out.

She stops, and the dazzling smile on her face lures me in.

 

My bag is heavy on my lap. There isn’t much inside, but this is a case of quality over quantity. I have two other changes of clothing, every dollar of cash I had in my bank account, and the little shock collar that Isabella locked onto my wrist before I was able to escape from her. I’ve been wearing its key around my neck ever since, explaining that it’s a promise key or some nonsense from some imaginary boyfriend.

Since everything I own under my own name (Cole or Cora?) is in the bag, the thing hasn’t left my side. I wear it on my front when I’m going through heavily-populated areas, I keep it inches away from the bathtub whenever I shower, and I wrap the straps around my arms whenever I sleep. It’s a level of paranoia that I’ve never had to deal with before.

I admit that I’m looking at my new driver a lot more than my previous drivers have looked at me, which is saying a lot. She speaks perfect English, although there is a trace of an accent there as well. It vaguely reminds me of Isabella. But I don’t think about her. Instead, I watch the jungle go by to the west and the hint of the ocean to the east as my driver and I talk.

“So,” she says, turning a thought over in her head before she speaks it out loud, “how often did your grandmother come to America?”

“Not often enough.”

I’ve been lying as often as I’ve been changing underwear ever since I turned into a woman. Cora is a blank slate. While Cole was awkward and kind of a doormat if I’m being completely honest, Cora just does not give a fuck. I don’t know if it’s because part of me thinks it’s all going to disappear when I get a chance to change back, but it’s been so freeing, and not only sexually.

I continue, “What I liked the most about Grandma–well, I liked calling her ‘Abuela’–was how stubborn she was. Once she got it into her head to do something, she would do it. I really admired that about her. Go to college? Sure thing, abuela. Marry this white man? Done. I guess that’s why I’m here, traveling to Casulo. I wanted to see her hometown and here I am.”

She laughs. “Here you are.”

She turns to me and catches me staring at her. She holds eye contact for what seems like ages, although it can’t be any more than a few seconds since we’re on the road.

“It seems very brave for a little white girl like you to be so far from the tourist areas.”

“Thank you,” I start, but she has more to say.

“But we are a proud and generous people, if anything. So proud, in fact, that I’m surprised your grandmother didn’t correct you for calling her ‘abuela.’ We speak Portuguese here. The correct term is ‘avó.'”

I feel a rock sink to the bottom of my stomach.

“Well, she… Uh…”

“And if your avó was as old as, how did you say it, old as the mountains, then she couldn’t have been from Casulo. It’s an entirely new settlement that me and my associates established only in the last decade. Most of the information on the internet referring to it is largely fabricated.”

She gives me the smile of a predator that’s cornered its prey. I try the door, but it seems like she activated some kind of child lock. I’m trapped. I feel like such an idiot.

“I don’t know why you bothered coming out this far, Cole Porter. You seem to be settling into your new body just fine.” She turns the SUV into a small gas station on the side of the road. “I know because I’ve been following you. So quick to show drivers a little taste of your body. Men make the sluttiest women, I find it amazing.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

I debate whether or not to try bribing her away from me, but something tells me Isabella and her goons aren’t in this for the money. Whatever ‘this’ is.

“Well, we’re going to have to send you back to America, of course. You gave Isabella quite the scare. You understand that we won’t be able to let you out of your cage for a while, because of this? Such a shame, but we can’t have you jeopardizing the project.”

“Project Erotes, right? What is it? What do you people want? Why am I a woman now?”

“You’ll get your answers very soon. For now…”

Her legs shift and I see the bulge rising between her legs. Her predator stare has turned into that of a ravenous beast.

“…I want to see how good your new mouth is.”

 

The gas station is out of the way, so it isn’t anything special. No frills. Not even a sign proclaiming the name of the place. If there was, it would say, “You don’t really have a choice.” There are a few gas pumps out in front. A small convenience store with out-of-date cigarette packs and microwavable snacks of questionable quality. It almost makes me nostalgic for home.

My driver, who hasn’t told me her name but I guess it doesn’t matter, pushes me past the main building and towards the back. None of the attendants are looking in our direction nor are they making any indication that they’ve seen us arrive. They know this woman. I shudder at the thought of how many people here are in on the organization.

The bathroom building itself looks pristine, to my surprise. There are some junk scattered on the floor next to it. Steel pipes, discarded mops, flat tires and the like. The inside is just big enough for two people. I guess if there aren’t many people using your bathroom, there aren’t very many opportunities to turn it into a mess. My driver unlocks it with a key from her own keychain. I spot the fob that locks and unlocks the SUV, and a plan starts formulating in my mind.

Not a very good plan, but it’s something.

I go inside first, and she flips on the light. If it was hot outside, it’s sweltering in the bathroom. I’m sweating like rain on the plains in fucking Spain, but my captor doesn’t look like she minds the heat at all.

“No need to be scared, Cole,” she says, stroking my cheek. “I’m going to treat you nice. I’m getting tired of calling you by your old name, though. What is it that Isabella named you? Collette?”

I am trying my damnedest not to give her the satisfaction of an answer, but all I can do otherwise is stare at the bulge rising from her jeans.

“She said that ‘Collette’ would be too easy,” I mutter. “Cora. She said my name was going to be Cora.”

“Such a pretty name for a pretty girl.” She unbuttons her jeans. I see the hint of pink, lacy panties underneath. “Look at you. I’ve seen pictures of you from before, you know. So… generic? I think that is the phrase. But now, Cora, you are a sexy little slut.”

She drops her jeans and steps out of them, keeping her sandals on. The rational part of my mind take notes of the jingle of keys when it hits the floor. Her panties can barely contain her, and my mouth is watering at the prospect of what she wants me to do for her.

“You’ve only been a woman for a few weeks, and you’re already an addict for cock, aren’t you?”

I don’t know if I am supposed to feel shame, but I don’t. I reach out and stroke her from outside her panties. She’s throbbing. Just for me.

“Yeah,” I admit. “I never even had fantasies of taking cock before, but now that I am who I am, I get so… aroused offering my body like this. People who would have never given me the time of day before are begging at my feet. I see people crane their necks to get a better look at me.”

I realize in that moment that I’ve never been able to really talk to anyone about what I am going through. I look at her, and there is a moment where compassion comes through on her face. Did she see what I was thinking?

I don’t care. I kiss her, and she grabs the back of my head and pulls me closer. Her tongue passionately writhes against mine, and her fingers find their way to where I am most wet. There is no foreplay, no taking it slow. Just desire.

“You’re so wet,” she whispers. “I’m going to enjoy fucking you.”

I plant greedy kisses down her neck and chest, savoring the cinnamon skin of a woman as sexy as she is. I pull down her panties and nearly poke my eye out with her rigid horniness. I could attach a flag to this thing and world governments would have to declare her a new nation.

My tongue runs up and down her size, the taste and the smell overwhelming me to the brink of dizziness. My fingers are furiously circling the center of my velvet folds of skin. I swear I am dripping onto the bathroom floor. I take her into my mouth, much to her satisfaction. She needs no further encouragement. She takes the sides of my head and bucks her hips into my face. She fills my mouth over and over, my moans muffled by her efforts.

I sense her trying to pull out, but I grab her ass and stop her.

“Wait–”

I bob my head back and forth, swirling around my tongue like it was the hottest, tastiest ice cream cone, and as she starts to swell in my mouth she stops trying to hold me back.

She falls back against the wall as the first hot spurts of seed blast into my mouth. She’s cursing in Portuguese (and I learn a few new words) as she clenches her ass over and over. She fills my mouth and it only causes the fire inside of me to blaze with new vigor knowing how good I make her feel.

Before she has time to exhale, I push her away. I run to her jeans, scoop them off the ground, out the door, and lock the door in place with one of the steel rods on the floor. The last thing I see of her is the look of disbelief on her mug.

And that’s when I swallow.

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New Release: Transformed and Auctioned

Changed for the better and no going back…

Cole, an unsuspecting college student, is about to dive head-first into the adventure of a lifetime. An seemingly ordinary trip to the museum takes a sudden turn when he learns about a mysterious auction and a powerful organization made up entirely of sexy futa women. His curiosity is going to do more than land him in hot water when he finds a strange, ancient artifact that changes him into a her!

Now he’s playing a much bigger role in the auction, and there’s a sultry MILF futa determined to take Cole for her own. What’s really going on at the museum? Can Cole change back to normal? Or by the time the futa’s had her way with him, will he even want to?

This 6900 word, futa-on-female, gender swap, transformation, oral, masturbation, interracial, older/younger, magic, first time erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another sexy tale!

afm-transformed-and-auctioned-cover


“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking at for this one.”

Barry chuckles. It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it. I was being completely serious, though. The painting in question is a Dalí painting that’s apparently depicting Narcissus, an early example of the type of personality that takes way too many selfies. According to the Greek myth, the gods punish him by turning him into a flower. Which is kind of extreme, if you ask me. If it were me, I would have given the guy a chance to get his shit together but being sensible is not on the job requirements of being a Greek god.

Barry, the only other non-artist in Art History 3B, nudges me in the side as if I wasn’t already paying more attention to him than the tour.

“That’s him on the left.”  His voice is hovering above a whisper, but it’s fine because our tour guide’s voice is like a droning airplane engine. “He’s sitting butt-ass naked in the water.”

I squint. “So where’s his face?”

“It’s… that rock-looking thing. With the hair.”

“Why is his face a rock?”

“Symbolism, dude.”

“Symbolism of what?”

I hear our guide clear his throat. I clamp my mouth shut when I see that he’s looking right at me, but it’s too late.

“Would you like to take over from here, sir?”

Several of my classmates turn in my direction and I feel my cheeks turn a deep red. I hate being called out in public.

“Nope,” I say, a little too loud. “Sorry, sir. Just discussing the painting. We uh… think it’s pretty cool.”

I see and feel the rolling of a dozen eyes and my old hate for general education requirements comes back like a friend who’s overstayed their welcome on your couch.

The tour guide, an old guy who’s probably one of the few people I can take in a fight, settles back into his regularly-scheduled lecture. Barry leans in and says in a perfect impression, “Geez, Cole, seriously, do you want to take over from here?”

I bite back a laugh, which probably looks like I’m trying really hard to not go to the bathroom in my pants. Thankfully, we leave Dalí and Narcissus behind, and

That’s when I hear the clacking of several pairs of heels on the tiled museum floor. I’m surprised to see a large group of women–make that attractive women, all in skirt suits like they were here for a MILFs of Business convention–walking down the hallway, coming where we’re leaving.

I elbow Barry, and nod my head in their attention. His eyes widen.

“Too bad we’re not in their group, huh?”

“Wanna go check out where they’re going?”

He scoffs. “And miss out on the wealth of knowledge we’re receiving?”

The group of women pass by our group of bright-eyed college students. Now that they’re closer, I can see I wasn’t wrong about their physical beauty. Gorgeous women of all colors, enough to make me forget even the hot girls in class. Although something else they all share is this stone-faced, tight-lipped look. I get the image of a shark tank busted open in my mind.

It doesn’t deter me. I lag behind the rest of my group as the women pass us by.

Barry is incredulous. “You’re serious?”

The only answer I give him is a smile as I walk slower and slower.

Barry shakes his head and gives me a little salute that says ‘you’re in this one alone, buddy.’ Which is fine by me. I can give him the play-by-play later.

I turn and quicken my pace, and since I don’t hear anyone asking me where I think I’m going I can only guess mission accomplished. I try not to follow the MILF convention too closely, but something tells me they’re not going to care much about an unassuming college boy at an art museum. Skirt suits become my new favorite item of clothing as I follow them. There’s nothing else on Earth that accentuates a nice ass quite as well.

Their route takes them past the surrealists, the abstract-expressionists, and the pop artists, near the back of the museum. They make a beeline for a door, and I pretend to stop and admire some photos of sculptures done by a guy named Oldenburg. In my peripheral vision, I see them file one-by-one through the door. I’m sweating bullets, but I don’t think they’ve even looked in my direction.

Eventually, they’re all gone and temptation presents me with another choice. To go through the door or to not go through the door?

It’s gotten me this far.

I probably do the world’s worst job of sneaking as I make my way to the door. Sometimes it helps being so plain and normal. I’m surprised to find the door isn’t locked, and when I open it, I’m met with a stairwell descending into the dark. I think about how the smart decision would be to text Barry, find out where the group went, and hustle my ass over there so I can sponge up more info that’ll “surely be on the exam.”

And then I go down the stairs.

 

I wonder if every museum has a secret basement.

It’s like a whole other building underground, and as I walk down the dimly-lit hallway I pass by several branching ones. The path takes several turns. Thankfully, it’s straightforward route for all of its twists.

I don’t know where the ladies went, and I’ve lost even the click-clack of their heels. But since I’m down here, I might as well follow the yellow brick road to its end. Besides, if I get caught, what’s the worst that could happen? I’m white, I’ll probably just receive a slap on the wrist.

I hold my ear up against every door I encounter, but I don’t hear any indications of life down here. I shudder at my poor word choice. What am I expecting? Zombies?

The further I go down the hall, the more I hear this faint, rhythmic murmur. I think it’s a woman. The way the voice is talking, the more familiar it sounds. Not like I know who’s speaking, but just the way they’re talking. It’s this long, drawn-out jumble of words. A disembodied voice should really be giving me the creeps down here, but it’s almost reassuring.

Are they rapping? I swear, if I’ve followed a secret cabal of MILF rappers, then I’ll know I’m dreaming.

I spot a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. They’re partly open, and I can see light streaming out from the crack. That’s where the voice is coming from, I’m sure of it. I don’t see any shadows moving behind the door, so I walk right up to it and peek inside. My jaw drops.

There’s an entire auditorium down here. There are probably fifty or so rows of seats, but only the first few rows are filled up. I see a good number of balding heads, men in dark suits, and yes, the women from earlier. Up on the stage is a woman, and I realize I should slap myself for being so dumb. The rhythmic speaking she was doing was that of an auctioneer. There’s a statue of a nude woman next to her, and I see some of the ladies bidding on it.

I wonder if the museum sanctions these private auctions all the time. The rich have to buy them from somewhere, right?

Just then, three figures get up from their seats and start walking towards me.

I back away from the door, and without thinking, disappear behind the closest door. I can only hope it’s not a bathroom they were planning on using.

Closing the door behind me, I’m in shock again. The room is filled with large cubes, all of them covered in something that looks like a giant velvet tablecloth.

What really has my attention is the art piece at the far end of the room. It’s a sculpted woman the size of my arm, and she’s made entirely of gold. I feel myself drawn to it. I find myself unable to think of anything else but getting a better look at this thing. It’s on a podium, but there’s no glass case on it or anything. It’s so exposed. As I get closer–I don’t remember walking towards her–I see that she’s nude. Her eyes, nipples, and belly-button are embedded with some kind of tiny red jewel.

Is she singing? I don’t hear the auctioneer anymore, and the longer I stare, the more it seems like the sculpture is growing and becoming more life-like. I can’t tear my gaze away from her, and to my amazement, she holds out her hand to me. She has a golden smile on her face, and I don’t feel lust towards her. Instead, I feel like I’m coming home. I reach for her, and take her shining palm in mine.

The next moments are like a thousand different movie clips playing in succession.

I am in a small room, surrounded on all sides by that giant velvet tablecloth.

The walls dissolve, and I’m on the stage, grasping at metallic bars. The audience is looking at me, and they’re hungry. Their smiles are lecherous, but none more so than the group of ladies. One of them, an exotic-looking woman with brown skin and jet-black hair raises a numbered paddle. She’s bidding on me. She has the gaze of a shark.

The walls return, plunging me into darkness. I am wheeled away to the sound of polite applause.

I blink awake on a hard floor.  I’m in a different room now. It looks like someone’s office. There’s a lounge chair, several bookcases lining the walls, and an expensive-looking desk. I also realize I’m in a giant cage. I jump up to the door, and I try to force it open, but it’s locked down tight. My breathing quickens to the pace of a marathon runner, as it sets in just how much trouble I’m in. They’re a cult. They have to be. They’re looking for human sacrifices and I walked right into their trap. What the hell did I expect to happen, following those women? What is this, a porno?

There might be more people like me. More captured idiots.

“Hello?” I call out. And I gasp.

My voice.

I sound like a woman.

I back away from the cage door and look down.

It turns out I have a new set of breasts.

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