Rite of Spring (illustrated, male/futa, rom, xform)

Story by flondrix

Rite of Spring

by Flondrix

rom, m/futa, futa/m, futa/futa, transformation

November 5, 2011

I wrote this for the story contest; I am now posting it with illustrations commissioned from Xxxloveless over on Hentai Foundry. I had to rush to press back in November without having someone read it over first. I would appreciate any comments about readability, confusing scenes, character believability, etc.

(This is a work of fiction, nothing and no one appearing in it is in any way based on reality.)

Mike looked around the club awkwardly. Money, beauty, keen fashion sense and connections within the fetish community were all prerequisites for membership. These people made him feel shabby even in his best formal party clothes. Finding the place had been hard enough even given the address; there was no trace of the establishment on the outside, nor any logos or labels visible once he was inside. If you belonged here, you were expected to already know all about it. It had been obvious that the doorman hadn't wanted to let Mike in, but in the end decided to honor the engraved invitation he had been given. The other clientele treated him as if he were invisible, which was probably just as well. He nervously sipped at his lime seltzer and waited for the show to begin. Finally, the lights dimmed and a spotlight fell on the curtain, which opened to reveal a mass of curly brown hair topping a figure curled up underneath a floral embroidered robe. As music began to play, the dancer stood up and shed the robe in a single fluid motion. Her ethnicity was impossible to place, with her hair, her light golden brown skin, and her bright green eyes each suggesting a different answer. Her nude body was petite yet feminine, with firm round little breasts, subtly muscled curves, and between her thighs an erect cock any man would be proud to call his own. Her name was Fiona; she was Mike's best client, and his obsession.

Mike had edited, and wanked over, hundreds of pictures and dozens of hours of video of Fiona in the nude, yet he had had no idea that she performed live until she had sent him a pass to this show. It had always been obvious from the videos that she had some experience as a dancer or gymnast, but as Fiona began to dance on stage, Mike realized that she must have had formal ballet training. He recognized the score as excerpts from Stravinsky's Rite of Spring. Far from being an impediment or a novelty, her penis was was part of the choreography as she acted out both the male and female roles in this explicit fertility dance. To the regular patrons of this exclusive club, this performance was merely the most recent diversion devised by the proprietors to hold the interest of an increasingly jaded clientele, but Mike was falling in love all over again.

The original ballet was supposed to end with a young girl dancing herself to death. Fiona had choreographed a happier ending; as the music built to a crescendo, she ejaculated straight up into the air, her cock held vertical while the rest of her body was flung backwards in stage ecstasy. The spotlight cut off and the curtain closed to a smattering of polite applause from the regulars. They quickly turned to their own concerns, discussing gossip, arranging assignations, or planning world domination for all Mike could tell, while he sat in stunned silence. A server brought him a small tray bearing two shocking documents. The first was the bill for the single lime seltzer that he had ordered and hadn't even finished; the second was a hand-written note on lavender stationary saying “Miss Fiona requests your presence in her dressing room after tonight's performance.”

Mike left a twenty to cover the overpriced drink and a tip and, clutching the note, looked around for a way backstage. He soon found himself facing down a bodybuilder in a tailored silk shirt and a diamond earring that would have made a respectable engagement ring―even the bouncers here had him completely outclassed. The guard studied the note, scanned Mike disapprovingly, and finally waved him through, saying “Don't make trouble.” Mike puzzled the meaning of the note as he worked his way through the narrow backstage corridor. He had always tried to keep his interactions with Fiona professional, polite, and―he hoped―just friendly enough. Nevertheless, she had to know how he felt, she wasn't stupid, after all. And poor saps like himself were the ones who paid the subscription fees to her site; surely she knew exactly what made them tick. He knocked on a door bearing a brass star and said, “It's me, Michael. You, uh, wanted to see me?” A muffled, friendly voice from inside said “come on in Mike!”

Inside the dressing room was a shower stall, which was running. Mike blushed as he realized that Fiona must still be showering after her physically demanding performance. “There's supposed to be a towel ou

... more on the forums ...