Jango's Fuck Carnival [pt. II]

“One, two… Jango!”

The words blasted out of the speaker towers and hit Mirror Ball Island like a cannon shot made of glitter.

For one single second, nothing happened.

Jango stood high on the golden pillar, one hand wrapped around the stolen microphone, the other swinging his ring on its string. He was grinning too wide, breathing too hard, drunk on panic and rhythm and the sudden stupid beauty of the setup. Above him, the giant mirror ball kept swaying from Luffy’s impact, side to side, side to side, a colossal silver pendulum hanging from the top of the dome.

Its reflected light swept over the plaza in enormous bands.

Left.

Right.

Left.

Right.

Every sweep caught Jango’s little ring and threw its shimmer outward again, multiplying it across the city’s eyes.

The whole plaza froze.

Tens of thousands of locals, travelers, pirates, Marines, dancers, waiters, lovers, vendors, voyeurs, and random idiots too unlucky to have rented a room that night all paused in place. The fucking stopped. The dancing stopped. The sucking stopped. The bargaining, laughing, grunting, cheering, drinking, and complaining all cut off as if the entire island had inhaled at once.

Nami lay sprawled in the tangled heap of Straw Hats on the plaza floor, still half on top of Luffy’s deflated rubber belly, one knee planted on Zoro’s thigh and one hand pressed against Sanji’s shoulder. Her first thought was that her ribs hurt.

Her second thought was that she was going to **** Luffy.

Her third thought never properly finished.

The swinging light crossed her eyes.

Something warm and soft and absolute slid into her head.

Her muscles loosened.

Her breath stopped catching in her throat.

All the irritation, fear, urgency, and calculation that had been screaming at her since the Marine with his wanted poster spotted Luffy suddenly fell quiet. Not gone. Just muffled under velvet. The plaza still existed. The Marines still existed. Jango still stood on that ridiculous pillar. She knew all of that.

But it no longer mattered more than the rhythm.

Around her, Marines who had been mid-charge stopped with boots planted and mouths open. The spiky-haired blond sergeant at the top of the pillar behind Jango froze with one huge hand halfway toward the ladder, his shirtless body gleaming with sweat, hard muscles locked under the first stroke of the trance. Zoro’s hand paused halfway to his sword. Sanji stopped trying to push himself upright. Usopp went silent in the middle of a terrified whimper.

Luffy blinked slowly.

Then smiled.

“Ooooh,” he said, as if he had just understood a game.

Jango laughed into the microphone.

His voice came down over them again, smooth now, almost musical.

“Hands up, babies! Everybody up! Arms to the sky and show me you’re mine!”

The command passed through the city.

Hands rose.

Not randomly. Not in panic. In order.

The first row of people beneath the pillar lifted their arms. Then the next. Then the next. The motion rippled outward through the plaza like wind through tall grass. Men who had been buried between women’s thighs raised wet mouths and lifted their hands. Women who had been riding cock straightened and stretched their arms overhead without dismounting. Marines dropped sabers and rifles and raised their hands too, faces soft, eyes glazed. Spectators on balconies lifted both arms to the swinging light.

At the center of the plaza, the Straw Hats obeyed with the rest.

Nami’s hands floated above her head before she could form a proper objection. Her fingers spread. Her shoulders pulled back. Her breasts lifted under her clothes, and the awareness of her own body became suddenly bright, too bright, like the mirror ball had moved inside her skin.

“No,” she muttered, but it had no teeth.

Beside her, Zoro’s arms rose. His jaw clenched, but his body obeyed.

Sanji raised his hands with a dreamy expression, eyes already wet with reverent horror and joy.

Usopp’s hands shot up like he was being robbed by heaven.

Luffy thrust both arms high and laughed. “I’m doing it!”

Jango’s own hips rolled on the platform. He was meant to be giving commands, but the sound of his voice, the pull of the swinging ring, and the great mirrored ball overhead were already feeding back into him. His shoulders loosened. His long legs shifted. His body wanted to obey the very spell he was casting.

He did not notice.

Or maybe, deep down, he did and liked it.

The music swelled beneath him, the original band trying to keep up because the singer had been kicked aside and the whole island still needed a beat. The drummer found Jango’s cadence first. Then the bass. Then the horns. Within seconds, the entire plaza had a new rhythm.

Jango leaned into the mic.

“Now strip in rhythm, nice and slow,
Let those little costumes go!
Buttons, belts, and panties fall,
Naked bodies, one and all!
One, two, Jango!”

The city began to undress.

Fabric fell in waves.

Shirts peeled over heads. Jackets slid from shoulders. Skirts dropped to ankles. Bras snapped open. Trousers hit the cobblestones. Silk wraps, mesh tops, Marine coats, pirate sashes, festival ribbons, stockings, aprons, uniforms, and glittering carnival pieces were all stripped away with synchronized, humiliating elegance.

It was like a citywide costume change.

The spiky-haired Marine sergeant on the pillar shoved his white trousers down with both hands, his thick thighs flexing as he kicked them away. His massive chest heaved under the swinging light. He stood there naked, muscular, and blank-eyed, his cock beginning to stir beneath the gaze of the whole plaza, his earlier fury drained into simple obedience.

High above, Jango swayed as the command worked back on him. His fingers moved to his own jacket. He shrugged out of it with a flourish, tossed it aside, and laughed breathlessly.

“Yeah, baby,” he murmured into the mic without meaning to. “Everybody.”

On the terrace of the open-air restaurant, Alvida rose from her chair as if invited by royalty. Her mostly naked outfit fell away in pieces. She did not blush. She did not hurry. She turned stripping into a threat and a performance, sliding fabric down her smooth body while Tsujo stared from across the table with his mouth open.

Tsujo stood too.

His hands went to his shirt. Then his belt.

For one ridiculous second, he looked as if some rational part of him wanted to ask whether his Normality earrings should protect him from this. Then the giant disco ball swung its light across his face again, and the question dissolved.

He stripped.

His cock and balls came free with obscene weight, wildly out of proportion with the rest of his lean body. His monster shaft swung heavy between his thighs, already thickening. His swollen sac pulled low, huge and full, shifting as he stepped away from the table.

Alvida saw it and licked her lips.

Down in the amphitheater, Buggy stood in the private box, still sniffling from the tragedy of the play. The wave hit him late, after bouncing through three streets, two mirror panels, and a half-open opera door.

His sob stopped.

His hands rose.

His cape slid off.

His costume followed, piece by piece, until Buggy stood naked in front of the stage, his red nose bright, his face paint smeared, and his fat ten-inch cock rising with proud, theatrical insistence from his wiry frame.

The actors stopped mid-orgy to stare at him.

Buggy grinned.

“Now this is a better finale,” he said.

In a nearby plaza, Cabaji dismounted his unicycle with mechanical grace and stripped as if it were part of a stage act. Mohji blinked, dropped his meat skewer, and shoved down his pants while Richie looked up at him with the mild confusion of a lion who had learned long ago that pirates did strange things.

At the center of the main plaza, Nami’s clothes came off under her own hands.

Her top first.

Then her skirt.

Then the rest.

She was naked before she could properly tell herself to stop, and the plaza noticed.

Of course it noticed.

Nami was built like any man’s fantasy: big, bouncy tits that sat high and full on her chest, a tiny waist that made the flare of her hips look even more obscene, a round, full ass that begged for hands, and long legs that seemed designed to wrap around trouble. The swinging mirror-light stroked over every inch of her, catching the curve of her breasts, the dip of her stomach, the tight little line of her waist, the heavy swell of her butt, the smooth length of her thighs.

Her nipples tightened in the open air, pink and hard atop her tits. Her face burned, but her body kept moving with the crowd, displaying itself with every **** breath. She felt eyes on her from every direction: locals, Marines, tourists, pirates, men and women alike drinking in the sudden sight of Cat Burglar Nami stripped bare in the middle of the Sex Carnival.

She was beautiful. She knew she was beautiful. She knew the exact kind of damage a body like hers could do when she chose to use it. The hypnosis didn’t erase that confidence. It polished it until it gleamed.

Now there was no caution left to restrain the knowledge.

Sanji made a strangled sound somewhere to her right, stripping with a weird, elegant flourish even as his nose bled.

“Nami-san,” he whispered, reverent and doomed.

“Don’t!” Nami said automatically.

Then Jango’s next command cut through her irritation.

“Silly poses, hips out wide,
Show the crowd what you hide!
Hands up high and bodies low,
Let that carnival feeling show!
One, two, Jango!”

The plaza posed.

It was ridiculous.

It was obscene.

It was impossible to resist.

Nami’s hands clasped behind her head, elbows flared wide, forcing her chest up and out until her big bare tits thrust forward under the mirror-light. Her knees bent and spread as she sank into a lewd, open squat, ass pushed back and level with her knees, hips tilted so her pussy was exposed between her thighs. The pose was not elegant so much as blatantly presenting: tiny waist tight, tits out, ass back, legs open, every part of her arranged for the crowd to see. She knew exactly how obscene it looked. The knowledge should have made her furious.

It made her hotter.

Around her, naked bodies struck shapes under the swaying silver light. Women arched and presented their curves. Men thrust their hips forward. Marines posed beside pirates. Local dancers posed beside shocked tourists. The giant blond sergeant spread his legs and flexed his arms overhead, cock swinging, while Jango before him rolled his hips and began unconsciously mirroring the very display he had demanded.

Luffy copied the pose with complete joy.

Zoro’s body settled into it like a strength exercise, feet planted, hips out, arms high, muscles flexing despite his annoyed expression.

Usopp looked like he wanted to vanish and also like his body had decided vanishing could wait.

Sanji posed while wildly taking in all the naked women doing the same around him.

Nami’s eyes betrayed her.

They slipped sideways.

First to Luffy.

He was naked, arms up, grinning like an idiot, hips out because Jango had told him so. His soft cock swung between his thighs, strange and chunky, mostly head even relaxed. Nami’s brain measured it before she could stop herself. Four inches soft, maybe one inch of shaft and a fat three-inch cockhead, with big round balls hanging beneath. It looked absurd. It looked like Luffy. Dense, blunt, weirdly substantial, and completely unembarrassed.

Her face burned hotter.

She looked the other way.

Zoro.

His soft cock was more conventionally built, hanging longer, heavier, five inches at rest with a normal tapered head and an ordinary sac beneath. It swayed lazily as he shifted in the pose. Nothing strange about it. Just impressive in that irritating, straightforward way Zoro managed to be impressive without seeming to try.

Nami snapped her eyes forward.

She could not see Usopp or Sanji from this angle. Bodies blocked them. It was a relief.

Jango’s voice rose again.

“Grab your nipples! Bend and shake!
Give those asses room to quake!
Pull and pinch and make it sting,
Move your bodies while I swing!
One, two, Jango!”

Nami’s hands dropped to her breasts.

Her fingers found her nipples and pinched.

A hot little spark shot through her.

She tugged, stretching them out from the soft weight of her breasts as she bent forward with the rest of the plaza. Her tits hung and swung beneath her. Her ass lifted behind her, bare and exposed. Then the rhythm took her hips and made them shake.

She could feel her ass bouncing.

Feel her breasts swaying.

Feel her nipples pulled tight between her fingers.

All around her, the city did the same. Women bent and shook. Men bent and thrust their hips. Cocks swung. Tits bounced. Flesh jiggled under the swinging mirror-light, and every sweep of the disco ball pushed the hypnosis deeper.

Nami clenched her teeth.

This is humiliating, she thought.

Then Jango’s command echoed inside her again, and another thought slid underneath it.

This is the dance.
Her body accepted that.

The music shifted.

Jango’s next words came like they had been waiting for exactly that moment.

“Now get ready, stroke and tease,
Milk yourselves just how I please!
Fingers working, cocks in hand,
Rub and pump by my command!
Faster now, don’t break the line,
Pant and twitch in perfect time!
One, two, Jango!”

The plaza touched itself.

Nami’s right hand went between her thighs.

Her left stayed on one breast.

Two fingers slid through her folds and found slickness waiting there. She gasped, hating the sound, hating the wet slide, hating how ready she was, and hating most of all that Jango’s words no longer sounded like something outside her.

Stroke and tease.

Rub and pump.

Get ready.

Her thumb found her clit. Her fingers slipped lower. She rubbed herself in tight little circles and felt her hips twitch in the deep squat.

Around her, cocks rose in hands.

Luffy wrapped his fist around himself and began stroking with cheerful obedience. His cock changed quickly, rubber body or not, growing from that chunky soft shape into something fully hard and much more formidable. Eight inches, Nami’s treacherous eye measured. Thick, thicker than Zoro, with that fat swollen head dominating the shape. The shaft was dense and blunt, the whole thing heavy in his fist, while his big balls bounced beneath with each pump.

Zoro’s hand closed around his own cock to the other side.

He hardened into a long, smooth, straight nine inches, the head tapered and nearly in line with the shaft rather than flaring out. Not as thick as Luffy’s, but longer, cleaner, more severe. His fist slid along it in steady strokes, muscular forearm flexing, balls tightening beneath.

Nami’s fingers sped up.

She could not stop looking.

The humiliation of that should have cooled her down. Instead it made her slicker. She was naked, squatting, fingering herself, watching her crewmates jerk off under a hypnotic disco ball, and her body accepted every piece of that sentence with filthy practicality.

She needs to get ready.

That thought was in her now.

She needs to be wet.

She needs a cock.

The plaza was full of them.

Sanji was somewhere behind bodies, moaning praise to every woman in range while stroking himself. Usopp was out of sight, whimpering something about heroic endurance and first times. Marines pumped themselves. Locals rubbed their pussies. Travelers panted in place. Tsujo’s monster cock rose on the restaurant terrace like a public hazard while he stroked himself with both hands and laughed.

Jango himself was losing the fight against his own command.

Up on the pillar, he had stripped down to nothing but his glasses and his grin, and what swung between his skinny legs made the nearest Marines stare even through the trance.

The dude had hypnosis, sure.

But with a cock that big, he hardly needed it.

Twelve inches of huge pirate meat jutted from his narrow body, absurdly proud on that tall, skinny beanpole frame. It looked almost unfair, like the world had taken one look at Jango’s long limbs, weird posture, heart-shaped eyes, and ridiculous facial hair, then decided to compensate by hanging a prizefighter between his thighs. His shaft bounced thick and heavy as he thrust his hips to the beat, veins standing under the skin, fat head gleaming under the disco ball’s reflected light. His balls swung below it with every movement, full and blatant, slapping lightly against his thighs while he performed for an audience that had started out chasing him and now could not stop looking.

He had one hand on the microphone, the other wrapped around himself, pumping in perfect time with the chant he had created. Each stroke made his skinny torso bow, made his grin twitch, made the whole image more ridiculous and more convincing: Jango the hypnotist, Jango the fugitive, Jango the half-naked carnival prophet, standing high above Mirror Ball Island with twelve inches in his fist and the entire city dancing dirty below him.

Behind him, the shirtless blond sergeant had his own cock in hand. It was normal by comparison, stiff and eager and dwarfed by the massive body around it. On any other man it would have passed without comment. On that mountain of a Marine, near Jango’s absurd display, it looked almost cute. He stared at Jango with glassy eyes, pumping because the command told him to pump, his huge chest rising and falling while his gaze kept snagging on the pirate’s much larger swing.

Jango saw him.

His grin softened into something mindless and hungry for half a second.

Then he remembered the microphone.

The giant disco ball swung.

The whole island panted.

Jango threw his head back and shouted the final stanza.

“Locals, travelers, every soul,
Lose yourselves to rhythm’s pull!
Street and tavern, dock and hall,
Tonight becomes one fuck-carnival!
Dance and pant till morning blue,
None stop moving till I’m through!
One, two, Jango!”