Here There Be Monsters

Michael walked out of the back room. He'd just finished dressing Mary in a red corset and fishnet stockings. He knew this was all a part of the act, but he couldn't shake the feeling of unease as he looked down. Mary's modestly sized breasts were practically spilling out of the corset, the garment pushing her cleavage up and out in a way that made them look like they were being offered up on a silver platter. The poor girl had no idea she'd be dressed like this when she woke up this morning. But Michael needed to blend in and if his first encounter here told him anything it was that you stuck out like a sore thumb when out of "dress code."

He took a deep breath and walked out from behind the curtains. He scanned the room, taking in the den of iniquity in all its glory. The room was a stark contrast to the mundane laundromat upstairs. Here, the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and the faint hum of sultry music. The stage was filled with women, or at least the bodies of women, sporting men's faces. They were dressed in varying degrees of provocative attire, from corsets and stockings to latex and leather. He blended right in. There were also a fair amount of men in the lounge. All seemed to be distracted by one hopper or another. Michael wondered if they were also hoppers or if they were clients of the Body Masons. He'd have to figure that out.

But before he could, Michael heard a small moan to his left. Looking over he saw a bodyhopper, currently in a petite asian, sitting on the lap of a well-dressed gentleman. The man's hands were underneath the woman's skirt, his fingers most likely probing her most intimate area. The woman, or rather, the man in her body, squirmed, a look of both discomfort and amusement on her face. But the man in the suit chuckled, his eyes gleaming with lust and enjoyment. Michael swallowed hard, looking away from the scene. But he gained no pause as he looked to his right.

A bodyhopper in a very tall and athletically built lady with long blond hair stood about twenty feet away. She wore only a blue lacy bra with nothing on below. The lack of panties only pronounced the particularly unique situation she was in. Michael could only describe it as a strange form of bondage. Her legs, in high heel stilettos, were straddling what could only be described as a telescopic pole with a dildo on the end of it. Michael couldn't see the end of the dildo because it was currently buried deep within the blonde woman's vagina. The hopper was imobilized. Impaled on the pole. The telescopic function of the pole locked so that the dildo sat at the perfect height. Not so deep as to hurt, but not so shallow as to allow the hopper to simply lift off it. The high heel stilettos serving as an extra measure to ensure she couldn't easily lift herself off. Michael had never seen anything like this. Was this a punishment or some weird bondage kink? It looked like the hopper wasn't all that happy about his situation. His arms crossed over his borrowed breasts and eyes rolling whenever someone looked over at him.

"Hey, you alright?" Michael found himself asking the bodyhopped blond before he even realized it. He was standing next to the pole now, only a few feet away from her. The hopper looked over at him, his expression one of pure boredom. His young caucasian male features framed by strands of blond hair.

"Buddy, does it look like I'm alright?" the hopper in the blonde woman retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm stuck here with a fucking dildo up my rammed up my pussy." His arms uncrossed and he ran a hand through his borrowed hair, his expression one of pure irritation.

Michael swallowed hard. "Yeah I see that. What'd you do to get yourself in this situation?" Michael asked, his voice low. He wasn't sure if the question would be a dead give away about how much of a novice he was but he had to know.

The hopper in the blonde woman sighed, his expression growing more irritated. "You must be new here. This is what happens when you break one of the den rules," the hopper said. "Rule number 7, check if the mount has any food allergies," the bodyhopped blond said. "Well, I forgot to check. Sorry I'm not perfect. Turns out she couldn't handle her gluten. Not exactly an allergy but it didn't stop her body from having massive stomach cramps and diarrhea. The client was pissed that he didn't get to have his fun due to the less than appealing state of her body. So, he complained to the boss. Next thing I know, Vince calls down for his almighty office," he says rolling his eyes. "And I get to spend the next 6 hours on this thing."

Vince, Who was that? Michael would definitely need to remember that name.

"Can't leave the pole until the time is up. At least they let me pick a mount with a deep enough pussy. And between you and me, Caitlin here can easily handle a full can of soda, and she's got the abs to prove it. But this damn pole... " the hopper in Caitlin's body grumbled. He shifted uncomfortably on the pole, his eyes darting around the room. "It just sits in there, no moving. No stimulation," he complained, his voice as bitter as ever. "And you literally can't get off the thing until someones kind enough to drop the damn pole down."

Michael couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy. Not for the hopper but for Caitlin, unaware of the strange ordeal her body was currently undergoing. But she'd be the one who really had to deal with the aftermath of this punishment. Her lower abdomin would feel sore for days, her body exhausted from the constant intrusion. Michael shook his head, turning away. This place was sick. He couldn't keep looking at the site. "Hey wait, what's your name, buddy?" the hopper called out, but Michael was already walking away.

It didn't take long for Michael to stumble upon yet another bizarre scene. A group of three bodyhoppers, all currently in the bodies of young women, were engaged in some sort of strange roll play session. It took him second to see but one of the women was definitely pregnant. She looked to be in her first trimester, just barely showing the beginnings of a baby bump. Michael's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Was there any line these hoppers wouldn't cross? He stood there for a moment, watching the scene unfold before him. The hopper had the the poor woman was completely naked laying on her back, legs spread open. The two other hoppers were on either side of her, one caressing her stomach, the other gently pushing a dildo in and out of her exposed pussy. The scene was surreal, a twisted parody of a birthing class.

Michael clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists at his sides as he watched the grotesque display. He could see the woman's real face barely visible beneath the male hopper's shimmered face over top. Her body being used like some kind of twisted prop.

One of the assisting hoppers, currently in a redhead's form, leaned down to murmur against the pregnant mount's ear. "Relax, sweetheart. We're just helping get your body get ready for when the time comes."

The hopper on the other side of the poor woman, currently in the body of a very curvy latina, was busy kneading her left breast. Michael could see the hunger on the hopper's face as he moved downward and latched onto the pregnant hopper's nipple in one smooth motion. The curvy latina sucked and sucked. It became increasingly clear that he was attempting to get the poor woman's tit to lactate.

The hopper in the pregnant woman’s body groaned, arching her back slightly as the Latina’s mouth worked at her nipple. “Christ, man, take it easy,” he muttered, his voice strained. “She’s barely into her first trimester—ain’t no milk coming out of these puppies yet.”

The Latina pulled back with a wet pop, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just figured I'd give it a try," she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Michael **** his expression into one of mild amusement, leaning against the nearby chaise lounge with Mary's arms crossed under her corset-pushed cleavage. "So, what's the deal here? You guys just passing time?" he asked, keeping his tone casual.

The hopper in the pregnant woman grinned up at him, rubbing her swollen belly with a possessive pride. "Hell yeah, man. Found this little gem at a prenatal yoga class. Can you believe it? First time I ever hopped a knocked-up mount." He chuckled, patting her baby bump. "Figured we'd have some fun before she gets too big and pops. Gotta enjoy the ride while it lasts, right?"

The Latina hopper smirked, running a hand down the pregnant woman’s thigh. "And hey, bonus her husband’s out of town for work."

Michael’s gut churned, but he kept his borrowed face neutral. "Nice. Must be weird, though, feeling the kid move around in there."

The hopper’s expression instantly brightened, his fingers pressing into the swollen curve of the woman’s belly with something almost like reverence. "Oh, man," he breathed, "it’s wild. Like, this tiny little alien’s in there just knowing something’s off. Kicked like crazy whene I first hopped in. Like it can tell mom’s not home right now." He let out a laugh, shaking his head. "Felt it thrash a little earlier when I was eating tacos. Guess it didn’t like my spice tolerance."

Michael **** a chuckle, but bile crept up his throat. The casual cruelty of it—how easily they could laugh about hijacking a woman’s body, her pregnancy, calling her child an "it". The whole situation made his borrowed skin prickle with disgust. Michael nodded to the three hoppers and turned away. He had intended to probe a bit more but he couldn't handle it. This place was far more twisted than he'd expected.

As michael walked away, three men in sharp suits strode past him, their polished shoes clicking against the hardwood floor as they made their way to the plush leather seating near the stage. Their presence carried an air of importance—clean-cut, well-groomed, exuding power under their tailored jackets. Clients, he realized. High-profile clients.

The music faded abruptly, replaced by the crackle of an overhead speaker.

"Ladies and gentlemen—or should I say....gentlemen," a smooth voice announced, dripping with amusement, "please direct your attention to the stage for tonight's special guests."

A hush fell over the room as the curtains parted. A woman stepped forward—not too tall but voluptuous for her size, dressed in a sheer black bodysuit that left nothing to the imagination. But it wasn't her appearance that threw Michael off. It was the face on her body. Marcus. Michael's borrowed pulse spiked. The hopper grinned, running a hand through the woman's long, dark hair as he strutted to center stage.

"Evening, boys," Marcus purred at the three men in front, his voice a sultry contradiction to the masculine smirk plastered on the woman’s face.

Marcus smirked, his borrowed hips swaying as he approached the edge of the stage. The announcer’s voice boomed, dripping with perverse enthusiasm.

"Tonight’s first mount is Chloe, 24, 36C-24-36, with a tight little pussy that can take eight inches of hard as a rock dick before bottoming out—perfect for deep, deep strokes. She's a college senior trying to figure out her next big move in life. But tonight she could just be yours."

Michael’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t a strip show—it was a sales pitch.

Marcus pivoted, arching Chloe’s back obscenely as he slid two fingers inside her pussy, moaning exaggeratedly for the clients. "And let me tell you, boys," he rasped, pulling his glistening fingers free with a lewd pop, "she’s dripping wet. Who wants first ride?"

The men leaned forward, eyes gleaming. But just as quickly as he'd come out, Marcus strutted Chloe's body backward with a teasing wink as another woman walked out. The announcer’s voice boomed again, but Michael was already slipping past the velvet ropes toward the backstage area. He slipped behind the heavy stage curtains, where the air smelled of hairspray and sweat. Five more bodyhopped women stood in various states of undress, adjusting lingerie, and stretching. His borrowed pulse hammered as he zeroed in on one: a brunette in a lace teddy, her face a shimmer of male sharpness beneath wire-framed glasses.

"Hey," Michael said in Mary’s voice, striding over. "Where’d Marcus go?"

The librarian-esque hopper blinked. "Who?"

"Marcus. Just left the stage in the brunette....Chloe."

Recognition flickered. "Oh, yeah." The hopper looked up adjusting the glasses on his face as he jerked a thumb the back of the room where a hallway turned the corner. "Boss wanted him in the V.I.P. room."

Michael’s skin prickled. The boss? The person behind this maddness? The idea of seeing that person made his skin crawl. But he nodded to the mounted woman and slipped past the backstage chaos, moving swiftly down the dimly lit hallway. The muffled thump of bass from the main lounge faded behind him, replaced by an oppressive silence. At the end of the hall, a sleek black door bore polished silver letters: V.I.P.

For some reason, his borrowed instincts screamed at him not to knock. Instead, he pressed Mary’s ear to the door, holding his breath.

"—her name's Naomi Cross and she's not just some gossip blogger, Marcus. She’s legit. Investigative journalist for the Tribune." a deep raspy voice laced with the weight of cigar smoke and old money spoke.

Marcus' voice cut in. "Christ, how the hell did she even get a whiff?"

"Dunno. Maybe some client flapped his gums. Doesn’t matter. Point is, she’s digging. Found payroll discrepancies at that shell corp we funnel through." A pause. "But the good news? She’s hot. Like, really hot."

A low chuckle. "And let me guess you want me to go extract her cooperation?"

"I thought you wouldn't mind dropping by her apartment tonight. Have a little chat—convince her this lead isn’t worth her time." The voice continued with a grin that was almost audible. "But bring backup. If she’s this deep in, she might not scare easy."

"Well you don't have to tempt me with good time. Consider it done."

Michael jerked back from the door as footsteps approached. He barely had time to duck into a shadowed alcove before the V.I.P. door swung open. Marcus strode out, still wearing Chloe’s body, adjusting the straps of her bodysuit with casual arrogance. But his steps faltered as he spotted Michael in the alcove. For a split second, Michael tensed—ready to bolt, ready to fight—but then Marcus’ borrowed face split into a grin.

"Michael! Fuck, man, you actually showed up!" Chloe’s body bounced on the balls of her feet with an enthusiasm that looked ridiculous coming from a young woman with a man's face. "Hey hang on I just gotta check if the suits wanna bang this mount. If not we can totally catch up."

Marcus jogged toward the stage, tossing a "Two seconds!" over Chloe’s shoulder. Michael exhaled, relief and revulsion tangled in his gut. The hopper's friendliness wasn’t just unexpected—it felt wrong, like laughing at a funeral.

Moments later, Marcus reappeared, rolling Chloe’s eyes with a dismissive wave. "Pfft. They went for twins instead. Guess I oversold the deep-stroke thing." He grabbed Mary’s wrist, tugging her and Michael down the hall with shocking familiarity. "C’mon, let’s talk in my office."

The "office" was a glorified broom closet with a futon shoved against one wall, its crushed velvet cover stained with suspicious splotches. Clothes, mostly lingerie, hung from a makeshift rack, and a laptop balanced atop a mini-fridge humming loudly in the corner. Marcus flopped onto the futon, Chloe’s legs sprawling wide.

"So," he smirked, propping the woman’s feet up on a stack of magazines, "You here to take me up on the job offer, or just really into our dress code?" His gaze dragged pointedly over Mary’s corset.

Michael **** Mary’s lips into a smirk. "Maybe both," he lied, still hating himself for even venturing down here.