Taps - Friday, July 12, 2024, 1:47 PM<br>

The Melting Pot Nightclub(#75658RLJ)
The room is massive, yet lit only by stage lights of every conceivable hue, as well as the occasional flashing strobe.  The stage itself, at the far end from the bar, is flanked on either side by massive banks of speakers that stretch from floor to ceiling.  The whole room seems to shake with the trance beat, pounding and strangely primal.  The dance floor is busy, as are the booths along the sides of the room, with people of every color, shape, and species, decked out with glowsticks of every shade and hue from the vending machines near the bar, but it's hard to make out more specific detail due to all the smoke from the fog machines...
The first employee you meet is... the only word one could use to describe them is "harlequin": a creature made up of an almost innumberable number of "patches" of different species.  So many, in fact, that it's impossible to guess what species (or gender) it might have originally been.  Whenever someone arrives at the Melting Pot, upon paying the entry fee, this Harlequin momentarily clasps one of their hands across the back of whatever appendage said customer might use as a "hand".  When it lets go, a stylized silver lion's head has been painlessly emblazoned into their skin/fur/surface, and a patch of fur/skin/etc appears on the Harlequin matching the customer's original palette as it gestures you in with a rather toothy, but welcoming, smile.
On the stage, a band of four identical white rabbits is playing, each clad in matching black business suits, matching black ties, and matching rectangular shades concealing their eyes.  They're the standard quartet of three guitars and a drummer... at least at the start of the evening.  Arrive later in the evening, though, and one might see their numbers expanded, and one can see additional instruments available just to the side of the stage.  How curious...
The bar is tended by a female german shepherd cerberus, built like a linebacker and sporting a double set of both arms and breasts, answering to the name JGB.  If asked, she grins (in triplicate) and says it stands for "'Jugs, Guns, and Body', all of which we've got!"  She's topless, to the delight of many of the patrons, but there's a warning sign on the countertop.  It reads: "The milk bar's open, but if you empty it, you get to refill it. - JGB"  Chatty and friendly, she sometimes splits into two or even three g-sheps if there's enough going on at widely-spread points of the bar, but she always joins back together at the earliest opportunity.
The last of the regular staff crosses your sightline as a floppy-eared canine of indeterminate breed... who is apparently made entirely of fizzy orange soda.  The nametag that appears to be floating on his left pectoral reads "Bud", and as he squeezes/swishes/swirls/sloshes among the dancing patrons, enthusiastically timing every move to the beat of the band, he beams a bubbly grin before arriving at a just-emptied table and literally washing himself across it.  All of the table litter left behind gets swept up inside him and fizzles away in a plume of bubbles before the canine whisks himself away to his next job.  Normally, he leaves surfaces he touches or sweeps across somehow perfectly dry, but if you've got a sharp eye, you might catch the silly mutt planting an effervescent smooch on some cutie he's been eyeing for a while, leaving orange soda dripping from their face and whiskers.
Above all of the hubbub, an opulent VIP booth is positioned just above head height to be able to see all the goings-on of the club, and it's usually occupied by the owner, Dane Vidal, who lounges in decadent splendor upon its red velvet seating like a king most pleased with his domain and dominion, or leans against the railing along the platform's edge to survey the crowd for someone interesting to invite up for dinner.  The whole nightclub gives off a vibe of hedonistic freedom and an encouragement to revel in the pleasures of the moment.
Contents:
Ellymay
Ellymay shoves her big, blocky mug through the door, knocking over patrons in line and shoving them through before her, only to owlishly blink at the chaos beyond the entry. The doorframe creaks, groans and graaadually dents inwards until her otherwise too-wide frame can barrel through the 'renovated' opening. The gods must have a sense of humor, because her heavy *THUMP*-ing strides by merry accident match the beat of the music. Flashes of strobing light illuminating the dancer she casually snaps up. Bright pinks and eerie neon purples glinting off the glossy pitch black of the gums in her cavernous maw before the morsel is swallowed with a lazy ripple of dewlapped neck.
( A hand closes on the end of your tail, and with a startling jerk for something so relatively small compared to you, checks your progress.  Without looking up from the clipboard in one patchwork hand, the strange creature coolly intones, "Name?"  The hodgepodge creature is a bit taller than the average person, broader and more blocky, but he still shouldn't have been able to pull you up short without getting yanked over!  What the heck? )
Elly is a red dragon, or rather, what a dragon expert would call a red dwarf wyrm. She's a fearsome sight, but a tad shorter than most adult reds at only thirty feet (30') without counting tail, being a semi-rare subspecies. She makes up for this lack of length with a good deal of height and thickness that, with the help of the craggy and rocklike surface of her red scales, makes her look like some immense hill of blood red ore. The general shape of her body follows this theme as well, with short, thick legs and an equally stout neck that droops just slightly at the throat as is common with certain reptiles, looking like a pouch of sorts, though it may just serve to allow her neck to comfortably distend around large chunks of food, being as reds have a notorious habit of not chewing their prey so much as wolfing down the biggest parts of it they can manage.
The contours of her head are also somewhat blunted, making her snout short and wide with broad nostrils that give flickery hints of flame from time to time, the lips below it soft, and somewhat indented with the press of the large fangs it serves to hide, all of which vary in size from swordlike points that serve to rend and tear to the great tusk-like lengths whose points protrude ever from out her lips and gleam with her blood-red saliva, a trait shared with komodos and certain species of truewyrms, and one which makes her ordinarily yellowish, triangularly tipped tongue look a sort of unusual, sickly orange.
The dragoness' eyes are slitted, and quite suitably are but slits themselves in the craggy outline of her head, placed in such a fashion that she has a very broad range of vision, but a bit of blind-spot right in front of her nose. Her earfins, short and thick as is the way with her sort, are protected by backswept black horns that show hints of brown almost like rust, though more likely sand and dirt that got lodged in the pits and dents that mar the bony protrusions after centuries of petty fights with her own siblings. Beyond her head the only prominent details are a vast, faintly jewel-encrusted belly that nearly touches the ground and her tail, which is at least half again her own length and generally winds around her in a genuinely catlike fashion when she sits on her great haunches. Understandably, she's far too heavy for flight of any sort, and has not even the vestigial wings certain other landbound dragons are graced with.
Ellymay startles, when her tail pulls up short. Did debris fall on her as she forced her way in? She turns somewhat awkwardly 'round in the comparatively confined space, nosing her way through the crowd (and sending a couple more patrons down her greedy gullet, when the opportunity arises) until she's confronted with the odd patchwork hybrid. ..With a hand around her tail. In apparent disbelief, she gives another *tug*, but her tail's tip doesn't budge from the crushing grip. Bemused, she lowers her head (still licking her chops from the passing morsels) and squints a golden eye at the creature. "Ellymay." She answers.
( Strangely enough, nobody protests you snapping up patrons: not the bouncer, not the staff, not even the patrons themselves.  You'd swear you even hear one squeal a muffled "Wheeee!" as she slides down your throat.  The Harlequin, however, merely scans down the electronic list of the tablet in his hand (OOC: I realized too late that clipboards can't be updated on the fly.  Whoops!), then stands on tiptoe to see over your neck and shoots an inquiring look to someone inside.  Receiving his answer a moment later, he very visibly thumbs the list into "EDIT" mode and types in "Ellymay".  "Enjoy your time at the Melting Pot," says the Harlequin as a patch of red scales appears at the undercurve of his jaw and his hand releases to reveal a silver lion rampant embossed into your scales.  Then he returns the list to "read-only" and recommences his duties as if this were all perfectly normal. )
You whisper, "Thank you for rolling with it. It is appreciated. I know it was an imposition and a little bit rude to just declare that something happened to your character, but it was a great establishment of Harlequin's character. :)" to Ellymay.
Ellymay chews for a moment at the silvery symbol on her hide, but no amount of jawing and scratching seems to prise free this indelible mar on her glorious red scales. Finally she gives up (with a last irritable lash of her tail) and lumbers further into the club to get away from the weird hodgepodge thing before it can further disrupt her evening's tyranny. She decides to get back in the spirit of things with a good stomping, really throwing her weight into it! The sound is satisfying, and the way that little orange dog-thing splats beneath her toes doubly so! ..Wait, it's still there? She snuffles at Bud, as if trying to determine the source of the trick. *Splish* *Splat* .. "Are you..?"
( The orange dog offs when you splat him, taking a moment to reconstitute himself, but when he does, he greets you with a bubbly smile on an extended neck.  "Good evening!  Welcome to the Melting Pot!  You look like you've had a long day of rampaging and need to let off a little steam!"  A hand forms out of the puddle and points to a spot across the room filled with patrons of a less flesh-and-bone nature.  "That's the stomping section, if you're interested," he says, then swings that point around in a curving arc to point in the stage's direction, "or you might be interested in the mosh pit!  It gets pretty wild in there!" This strange creature seems to have two settings: Boisterous and Bombastic, as he lives up to his effervescent nature.  His head then snaps around with a big grin as the lion in the VIP booth steps to the rail and looks you over with interest and intrigue.  "Ooh!  It looks like the club owner has taken an interest in you!  How exciting!  Well, must be off!  Have fun!"  He swirls away, )
( away, leaving the scales that he splashed/was splashed across sparkling clean and buffed to a lustrous gleam! )
( All of that is said in what feels like a single breath, a literal flood of words... )
You whisper, "I have -fun- with Bud.  As many puns as I can possibly cram into everything he does. :)" to Ellymay.
( oofs, not offs. )
Ellymay's expression is usually hard to read, with the limited range of motion such a thickly scaled snout possesses, but right now? Both colossal golden eyes are wide, her earfins pinned flat against her skull as her head swivels to track everything pointed out (They have a section for stomping? An orange soda is talking to her? Hold on, club owner?) until she finally sits back on her thick hindquarters and just..*blinks*. "What did I eat?" She wonders aloud. Was there something in those snacks? They *did* seem unusually willing. Even now, that added weight subtly dipping the middle of her already generous scaly paunch seems to jostle quite vigorously, as though the patrons haven't stopped their 'celebrations' just because they're crammed together in a dragon's gut.
You whisper, "Perfect. :) That's just the reaction I was hoping for." to Ellymay.
Ellymay whispers, "Ellymay doesn't think she's in Kansas anymore, Toto!" to you.
Dane_Vidal's look of interest becomes a grin and then a laugh as he watches the slot machine reels spin in your head and come up '?'?'?'.  He glances over to the cerberess bartendress and nods his head in your direction, then points to himself and makes a quick sign with his fingers.  The cerberess nods in triplicate, then turns her/their attention to you and looks you over contemplatively for a moment before one of the three heads fissions off into a well-muscled but otherwise standard femme g-shep and heads your way with a tablet in hand while leaving a two-headed orthrus with only a single set of arms (but still a double rack of breasts) to continue tending the bar.  "Welcome.  Call me 'Guns' when I'm away from the other girls.  Anything I can get you to drink?" she asks, tapping a few times on the tablet and looking up expectantly with an unworried, hospitable smile.
Ellymay is so overwhelmed that at this point the splitting doesn't even seem to phase her. Why, that's just how things work here, right? "I'll have something strong." She rumbles, in a tone still deep enough to hum through the bones of those close enough. Yet..weary? More the tired mother of three hatchlings than the conquering tyrant on the loose. "And make it sweet, dear, if you would." She adds with an uncharacteristically polite bob of snout's tip. "..Is that lion staring at me?" The last more to herself than Guns, as one slit-pupiled eye swivels to track Dane amidst the colorful chaos.
Ellymay knows that stare. That's how *she* usually looks at morsels Dane's size.
( "Strong and sweet, got it," says Guns as she taps on the tablet and heads back to rejoin her... sisters? Herself?  What does someone call a subdividing cerberess? An enormous glass gets set on the bartop, then a big bottle of chocolate, vodka, Kahlua, Baileys, a canister of whipped cream the size of a small child- did she just drag out a cocktail shaker the size of a wine barrel???  Meanwhile, a fair amount of the intensity leaves the lion's stare as it appears you're starting to settle in, but he does still look you over with the appraising smile of a fisherman admiring a record-breaking marlin before giving you a kingly nod and returning to his velvet-lined lounging booth. )
You whisper, "Whoops! I didn't notice you were saying that "is that lion staring at me" potentially close enough to Guns to be heard by her, so I guess she missed the question." to Ellymay.
Ellymay laps indelicately at the creamy treat presented, sloshing more than a little whipped cream and vodka concoction over the side of the giant glass. If she notices, she doesn't seem to pay it any mind. Then again, she's also been leaving quite the trail of thick red drool across your venue from the moment she arrived, running in glisteny rivulets down her maw and swaying in ropey threads from her chin virtually at all times. One of those clingy tethers *spluts* to the floor as she stares back at the lion, tail lashing in long, patron-sweeping arcs behind her and speeding up with its owner's agitation at being sized up. She might be a little out of her element, here, but *she* is the top of the food chain. The easy, (usually) unflappable poise of a centuries old predator reasserts itself. A challenge, in that loose-but-ready set of her veritable hill of muscled mass.
Ellymay whispers, "All good. I know managing NPCs in a scene can take up a lot of one's attention. :)" to you.
Ellymay whispers, "If we play again, sometime, maybe I'll take a turn running NPCs to make it fair." to you.
Ellymay whispers, "The red's mate, perhaps, and/or some cute kobold minions." to you.
( The orange soda custodian has passed across your trail a few times, fizzing that drool trail away, but nobody seems bothered by you making a mess.  Apparently, it's accepted as completely normal.  JGB in her totality has to haul your glass over to you, flashing you a grin and a thumbs-up when they see you apparently relishing it.  "Enjoy your Mudslide!" they call as they head back to the bar.  Many of the patrons have cleared out of the way of your swinging tail, but a voluble few have made a raucous game of dodging it, and you occasionally feel somebody clinging on for the ride.  Dane, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be even noticing your irritation, his attention amazingly focused on the band's music instead of the increasingly angry dragon.  Is he insane?  Is everyone in this building?  Are you?  A glance into some of the more remote booths will spy clues that you're not the only one to be eating people here... )
( a triplicate grin and a double thumbs up )
You whisper, "That sounds fun. :)" to Ellymay.
Ellymay gives a Kahlua-thick belch, when she finishes her drink, an errant shoe tumbling (drool sodden) out of her jaws in the process and slooooowly~ dripping (glisteny and subtly sizzling as it meets the cooler air *outside* of a firebreather's maw) to land on the club floor. Bud's got his work cut out for him, today! "You!" Calls the red, as she gathers her bulk up to start lumbering over to velvet-lined booth. Forty five feet of thick tail weaving behind her seemingly unimpeded by hangers-on. "What do you want, little cat?" She's trying to sound intimidating, and she's *usually* pretty good at it, but she's not used to speaking over the roar of a busy club. Her voice climbs a little with each word, like she's trying to gauge the right volume mid-sentence, until it comes off more like a child's tantrum than an apex predator's thunder.
( Up on stage, a glance flickers between the four rabbits as they see you winding yourself up for a challenge, then a mirror-perfect little smile appears on each of their faces as you start your approach.  The song they've been playing loud enough to almost vibrate your scales slams to a finish in a stop as sudden as a car slamming into a wall, yet somehow flourished as if it had all been pre-planned to drop out just in time for you to call the club owner a "little cat" at full voice into a (relatively) deafening silence.  And then it really -does- go silent, as everybody turns to look at you in jaw-dropped amazement... all except for the smugly smiling rabbits and the lion, who slowly turns his head to look you in the eye.  And smile.  He rises smoothly to his feet and walks to the rail to meet your challenge.  "Did you have something to say, oh grand and mighty dragon?" he asks, in a tone with just the right amount of condescending amusement. )
You whisper, "He talks and moves like another dragon, and his eyes... his eyes are the green of the greatest of emeralds.  The color of envy.  The color of avarice and greed." to Ellymay.
Ellymay continues with her *THUMP* *THUMP* stocky-legged pace up to the railing, each footstep almost deafening in the sudden silence. Her cavernous jaws split in a smug smile that becomes markedly less so when she finally notices the music has stopped. That everyone is staring at her. All at once, a centuries old landbound terror seems..self conscious? Oh, sweet Tiamat, have her legs always been so short? So thick? Is this a waddle? She slows, picking her steps more carefully. Overanalyzing each stride. ..Glancing around her, at the multitude of faces all aimed her way. She coils her tail about her, like a scaly wall between dragoness and a club's worth of appraising stares. "You.." She licks her chops, in a way that seems almost habitual. "You keep looking at me." She presses on, earfins flattened. "I'm not food. *You* are food." Grumbles the beast, almost petulant in her brevity.
( The moment of shocked surprise in the room gives way to a rising tide of interest and excitement, a few beginning murmurs, swiftly crushed.  People lean subtly toward the building confrontation with the eagerness of a horse gambler at the starting gate, and you hear a quiet shuffling of money, drinks, notes, and other sundries as bets are placed and odds are calculated.  But Dane has no eyes for that.  His eyes are solely on you, tail swishing lazily behind him as you draw closer. Unblinking, he maintains his gaze straight into yours.  And when he finally speaks, it is with the absolute confidence of a creature twenty times your size.  "Are you sure about that?" he asks, as casually as if you were a child reaching for a prickly rose. )
Ellymay has never hesitated before. Never questioned if she *should* eat something smaller than her. That fact is writ large in her great golden eyes, a visceral self-assuredness that *she* is deserving. Of everything. If it's reflected in those momentous slit pupils, it's already hers. So too with this primping and posturing, pompous puss! She lurches across the railing, flattening it under the platescales of her stomach as her open jaws descend toward the cat like a void edged in misshapen fangs. Darkly glistening gums a smooth glossy black reminiscent of many a latex toy, paired with a broad flame-yellow tongue that curls out from the darkness in sharp contrast. Steamy dribbles of red-tinged slick spill over the tip, nearly reaching your nose even in that short window of time!
Dane_Vidal moves in the same moment, one hand rising as your mouth opens.  As his fingertips make contact with your upper [beak?], a pulse of something, some strange magic flashes through you... and every single muscle in your body instantly locks up.  Even your heart lurches to a slower cadence as if your blood had turned to gel, and your lungs have to pull at the air like syrup.  Your thoughts move at a crawl.  The lion clicks his tongue at you as he slowly pushes your jaw closed, once more going eye-to-eye as he stands nose to nose with you.  Then his eyes slide off yours as he steps to one side, then the other, to examine you not as a predator to prey... but, somehow more chillingly, like a butcher appraising meat.
Ellymay's nearer eye sluggishly swivels to follow you, backlit by a fire of indignation on the scale of an empress abruptly unseated in her own court. She doesn't so much fall as bonelessly slump to the floor under her own suddenly inert mass. Drool running freely between her fangs to pool on the floor. ..A pool she's now nosedown in. Scarcely nudging her own saliva with what weak breath she can muster in squeak-wheezy snorts through scaled nostrils.
You whisper, "I wasn't going for 'slump'... I was going for 'paralyzed'..." to Ellymay.
You whisper, "GREAT first sentence, though!" to Ellymay.
Ellymay whispers, "Ah! Nix the slump, then." to you.
Dane_Vidal finishes his assessment of you and returns to looking you square in the eyes.  Any warmth or playfulness that might have been in his eyes before has fled now.  You stand in the presence of a true sociopath.  Reaching down with one hand, he takes hold of your lower jaw.  "Allow me to introduce myself," he says as he lifts your lower jaw upward, ignoring the drool, until your mouth closes with a click. "I am Dane Vidal."  That hand slides along your lips, and wherever it touches, a deadening warmth sets in, followed by a strange absence of feeling from the area, the same kind of feeling you get from the inside of your cheek.  With a predator's purr, Dane leans closer and draws his hand up where you can see it... covered in your own scales that ooze groundward like cold pudding.  "Flesh mage.  Owner of the Melting Pot Nightclub.  And you?  You are MINE."
You whisper, "He just merged your upper and lower lips.  (I hope that's okay for a starter?)" to Ellymay.
Ellymay whispers, "(That's fine, though if the red remains both paralyzed and mute, that may limit my ability to respond. Not a complaint, just a note.)" to you.
You whisper, "Thinking the same thing. I think we can back off on that "paralysis" a bit.  Your eye slooowwwly swiveling around definitely hit the right note.  Let's go with you being able to move, but slowly, sluggishly, and definitely on a leash.  Is that okay?" to Ellymay.
Ellymay growls deep in her throat, but that's about as far as the sound gets in fullness, muffled by her sealed jaws. She makes as if to lunge at you again, but this time the motion is akin to a dragon-shaped mold of molasses flowing toward you. Even if her snout makes it all the way to the lion, by some good grace or humor on your part, she can but nuzzle her scaly mug against you. Pushing with the gentleness of a beast on the verge of sleep, fangs trapped behind her lips.
Dane_Vidal steps smoothly, elegantly to the side, allowing your head to slide across his bared chest and cobbled belly, his rust-red trenchcoat swirling as he slides his arms around your neck to seize you by the horns and guide your head into his opulent booth.  "Why, yes, Meat... I'd be delighted if you joined me in my den."  As his arms wrap around your neck, you feel that deadening warmth set in again... and then transition into a feeling like trickling water under your skin.  Flowing from your body, up your neck... and into the lion.  Somehow you absolutely know that it's going into the lion.  You can feel it spreading into him, diffusing, fading from the red of 'you' to the gold of 'him'...
Ellymay's slit pupils widen dramatically, like a cat startled. You can readily track the precise moment she *understands* what's happening, from the sluggish squirm of colossal limbs. So slow, yet panicky in their uncoordinated motions. Haphazard flailing that causes her scaly bulk to brush against you, sliiiiding~ harmlessly over your pelt and then melting by slow measures into it. Adhering, clinging in goopy, flowing threads even when she tries to pull away as everything that she is - everything she takes *pride* in - is stolen from her with a casual languor. Her size, her power, the hard-won mass of an old, successful predator leeched away into your own muscles. Your hide. Slithering beneath your fur and skin like ripples in a golden pond until they're corraled in the cobbles of your belly or drizzle down like some visceral treasure trail to fatten your dick with the meat of a dragoness.
Dane_Vidal saaaaavors that moment, rolling it around in his mouth like an exquisitely fine wine.  He stoops down as your chin is guided gracefully down to nestle in the oh-so-soft velvet, allowing you to see him savoring it, see that conquering grin, the delight in his sparkling eyes, the swelling of his growing musculature and frame.  "MMMMMMMmmmmmm.... so delicious... so rich....  so... much...  mmmmmmmhhhh," he moans as, with a thought, the rust-red coat and black, buckled leather pants clothing him melt into his skin with a tinkle of falling buckles to reveal an arm-thick ebon shaft sliding from a swelling sheath above a sack hung with orbs the size of cantelopes... and growing.  Cheers and catcalls rise from the spectating crowd behind both lion and dragon, the chatter and hubbub rising as money changes hands and a few rueful mutters curse themselves for betting against the King of the Melting Pot.
Ellymay's scaly nostrils scrunch at the *scent* of your suddenly unclothed and unvarnished approval. You can feel her snout trying to pull away from the source, desperately tugging with what strength she can still muster, until her once indignant growls give way to a flustered *whine* that keens in the back of her throat and hums through trapped teeth. Muscle, sinew and scale unspool from her once mighty frame, becoming soupy indistinct ropes of gelatinized draconic mass. ..And yet, when she glances back down her flanks, she appears whole? ..But something isn't right. She feels too light, and the lion isn't the only one getting bigger. Or.. Is she getting smaller?! Oh no, oh nonono! She can see them, faces in the crowd that might once have easily been meals, now leering at her meaty hindquarters. Exchanging glances and whispered suggestions, idly thumbing at the zip of their jeans or angling to admire when her steadily shrinking tail should happen to *flop* sluggishly over and expose the once unattainable gold
( -of a dragoness' slit. )
Dane_Vidal glances back over his shoulder, looking back at the audience as his hedonic smile smoothly slides into a wicked grin.  To the cheers of the crowd, Dane slings his leg up and over your neck, and you feel the brush of those leonine balls slide down onto -and then INTO!- your neck at the base of your skull.  The dewlap pouch of your throat sags with two new occupants as your head starts to merge with his groin!  The fires of his lust and libido blast direct and unfiltered into your brain, and you can feel your very personality, your very persona start to melt under the heat!  And still he grows larger!
Ellymay's struggles intensify as you sling up and over. For a moment you feel her as a deliciously *warm* weight squirming under the cantaloupe heft of fuzzy lion nuts, and then all at once that sensation begins to blend with something else. A supple hug around your orbs more thorough than any palm squeeze, hotter than any muzzle's lip-locked snare, a veritable *fire* coiling through the orbs that soon sag so tellingly low in the loose hide of redscaled dewlap. Reflexively, the dragoness tries to cough up or swallow the obstruction. But with no lips to open, the sleeve of her throat can only ripple smoothly 'round those momentous orbs. Squeezing and sliding across something she doesn't yet realize is now a *part* of her! The whole club can *see* the generous twin bulges rolling in dragonhide with every choke, drawn so tellingly taut across them with every muscular slither, while your arousal floods into every fiber of her head. A scent indelibly ingrained in the back of her sinuses, an excitement she *knows* i
( -isn't hers, yet can't help but feel. Until she groans against your groin, slit glisteningly wet and drizzling syrupy gold across the floor. )
Dane_Vidal's toes flex, digging claws into the ground as he moans with delight over the feedback of his arousal into your body then back into his and back into you...  building... building... building...  Suddenly his pelvic floor and gut clench upward, lifting your dewlap up off the velvet, and the trickle of your mass into his turns momentarily into a flood.  He surges with growth, a foot in height, a foot wider in stance, those orbs in your dewlap jumping to the size of watermelons... the heavy shaft pressing slowly, slowly into your skull, through your skull, dropping into your mouth, surging thick as your thigh and starting to press your teeth out of existence into your gums and lips.  A deep, hungry breath and a flex of his chest and arms, and you feel your scales sliding off what's left of your body, sliding onto his, leaving you scaleless as a lizard and him clad in the glory of the dragons!
Ellymay is by now so shrunk that those watermelons stand in relief against the suddenly bareskinned flesh of her dewlap, bobbling that stretchy hide against the booth's velvet and then lifting! Raised, for the whole club to see the lion's new pouch, scaleless snout hanging down with steadily increasing, promising weight above those twin swells until her sealed lips are pushed out by the surging shape within. The inky smoothness of her toothless gums flows flush with your dick, molding to it so *perfectly* snug for a moment before merging together. Muffled protests burbling frantically 'round every inch of your shaft until the sudden silence punctuates your claim. No sound but the soft, wet slither of wetted flesh meeting and mingling. Threads of muscle intertwining into a heavy whole, lips finally parting (with a soft *schluck* of trapped air's release from pre-slicked interior) not in the set of a muzzle or maw. ..But a sheath. 'Lips' encircling a rising spire of lionhood, still strewn with remnants of dragone
( -dragoness. The glossy black of her gums seems to dominate (for however long that lasts) with a glimmer of tongue's yellow riding the belly of your new length as if she were yet licking you. )
Dane_Vidal growls and snarls as your ruby dragonscales are claimed for his own, sliding over him, enwrapping him.  His majestic black mane gives way, sliding out of sight into an increasingly dragonlike body, each clench and lurch pulling more of your dragon identity onto him, but reshaped into a masculine, upright form.  Stolen dragon teeth upgrade his own as his muzzle stretches into a pointed snout, and fire builds in his throat!  Your dragon tail slides over his leonine one, swelling with a mighty lash that scatters the railing you'd previously flattened.  The only thing that doesn't transfer is your dripping cleft- Dane's overweening narcissism, rampaging egomania, and toxic obsession with masculinity refusing to allow something so feminine upon him.  One last droplet of golden nectar is licked up by a particularly brazen otter... who is pinned to the ground by Dane's new tail and promptly absorbed, too!
Ellymay is *aware* through more of this transition than she'd like, more even than she would have thought possible. You can still feel her panicky impulses somewhere in the back of your own instincts, a thread of shattered vanity and a *taste* of a tyrant's shame as the glossy obelisk of your prick hangs obscenely out from her jaws. Scarcely recognizeable as such, soon, when those golden eyes have closed for the last time and you finally stand in hybrid fullness. She mouths toothlessly at the root of you, as though some part of her still thinks she needs to *breathe*, your dewlap nuts drawing up a little more taut with her panicky urge to do this one *basic* feature of living things. Because she's still alive, right? ..Right? Arousal and anxiety swirl until her tension becomes an ache, a jutting firmness of glossy black prick, and those bulges in her dewlap sharply twitch! (Even as her consciousness fades from the blend, subsumed almost in synch with release's approach.)
( You feel something, -something- grasp your conscious mind, hear a malevolent, sadistic chuckle, and then your thoughts are consumed by rut-urge as Dane submerges what's left of your consciousness into his libido, co-opting this last shred of you as an enhancement to his sex drive and his capability for pleasure.  The last thing you feel before you're completely subsumed and overwritten is hands and lips closing on you before climax whites out the last of your existence as anything other than a part of Dane.  Many ruts, many orgasms follow, and "you" experience them all, but only as a fragment of the mind of Dane Vidal. )
( Time passes.  How long? How would you, the rut-urge of the King, know?  Why would you care?  You are where you were always meant to be, where you have always been, where you always will- )
( Your eyes snap open.  You wake in your own lair, having just had the most vivid and erotic of dreams... But it's fading... fading away in the mists of memory.  The faintest of glimpses.  Flashes of moments.  And a smug, smirking lion.  And a club that you -definitely- want to try again! )