1.1 No Ordinary Syssy

"Kalin Adriksehn? What kind of name is that?" I'm looking at the gate-guard, who appears to be an average human woman in a shiny, official looking moss-colored uniform. 'Appears' is the key word there. I smell nothing but the most perfect perfume, which is kind of a giveaway for a construct—but who the hell knows? My InteCast isn't on, so I can't read her for ethera or mechanics. I'm saving all the stored juice in my caster for whatever's waiting for me on the other side of that gate.

"Common Systemian kind, I guess." I actually don't know much about my personal family heritage in pre-breach Systemia—only that my great-great grandparents were from Eastern Europe and the Americas. I flash her my pearly whites, and she looks back down, half-hiding a reciprocated smile while she's looking through my paperwork.

"Wow," she remarks, looking at the gatelog history on my passport. "A well-traveled Systemian."

On Systemia—when it was still just "Earth" a few generations ago—we didn't really expect to trip over a transdimensional barrier. After space travel, we thought we'd worked out most of the rules.

Having spent years coming up with ways to identify ourselves to the aliens that might land on our space marble's surface: 'Terran', 'Earthling', 'Solarite', 'Hoosier'—we ended up cracking trans-dimensional space first and meeting very familiar-looking "aliens". It wasn't long before we realized that they identified as humans too. They didn't just look human—they were human. Which, of course, caused something of an issue in terms of identification.

We're all "earthlings," but which earth?

So, you would think that a discovery as incredible and amazing as this would have an amazingly positive effect on human society. And it did, scientifically.

But while Systemia's a very studied and industrious human civilization, our best explorations were always on paper. A great majority of Systemians weren't particularly interested in exploring the outer realms of sense-experience. Most of us were path-shy when it came to exploring the newly opened Ontoverse, preferring to leave the discovery work to a small group of diplomats and plenty of unmanned research probes.

Most who took a few bounces through the trip returned with a case of culture shock that convinced them never to skip again—and this attitude earned us a nickname from our dimensional neighbors: Syssies. Among all the dimensions that had breached their causality walls and traversed the tear, our citizens were some of the most notably cautious.

The rarest of us bought one-way tickets and settled in other dimensions as Xenoskippers--which, of course, includes me.

"A Systemian living in Ischarisla?" I nod.

"Mostly for employment sake," I say. "But don't let me bore you with details. I'm not here on business."

"For my own curiousity—what is your business?" I produce a card from a slim silver container I have in my inside blazer pocket. She reads it over. "A Candymaker?"

"All kinds of sweets." Followed by a confident smile. "Best in the Ontoverse. Any interest in a sample?" She waves me off, holding out my Passport in her other hand.

"Appreciated," she replied, "But I'm not much for sweets." I can't decide if I'm really being told to move along—there's a smile and a raised eyebrow in her reply that I can't ignore. "Gate set, Mister Adriksehn?"

"IDOX ten-fifty. Vestinia, Nyxepolis. North gate if it's not a wait." Her eyebrows go up.

"You are—aware that the IDOX charter of rights doesn't extend to you in this destination?Particularly to a human male?" She's obviously concerned.

"I've got insurance," I respond, thinking about the top of my neck of the back of my head where my neuropause implant is located. "But you saw that on my identification." She takes a close look at my IDOX passport, registering me as a modified human.

"A neuropause. I didn't even recognize the licensure ID. Must be an old model?"

"Old prototype."

"A tripbound Systemian who's also a test modder." She hands me my pass and card back. "I should play the lottery." The gate glows Vestinian purple now. "You're clear, Mister Adriksehn."

I take my pass, leaving her the card. "Keep it," I say. "If you ever develop a taste for sweets..."

I step through the resonance gate, and its effect hit me instantaneously.

Dim-death is what they call it, and I think it might be one of the major things that freak us Syssies out. When you step through a resonance gate, there's just a sort of humming for a few seconds, then nothingness. No sights, no sounds, no scents—nothing.

This void—paired with full awareness—eventually incites hallucination. I couldn't go through all the weird dim-death experiences I've had if I wanted to, but suffice it to say it's what dreams might be if you were 100% lucid in them. And just like real sleep, it can feel like three minutes, or it can feel like days.

Mine was relatively short this time. I was on a pier, looking out toward the sea. When I turned around, I saw a huge carnival. I watched a ferris wheel and a few other rides spinning. I glanced over my shoulder. The sun set behind me in a moment, diving more like a flaming explosion than a graceful celestial body. The horizon went ink black, leaving the lights of the carnival. I felt dizzy as the lights started spinning, faster and faster toward insanity until...

Hum and crackle between my ears as I'm pulled into the next world. Graceful landing through the gate. My senses zero themselves, and I'm standing on the other side.



A purple ambiance swallows up the otherwise plaster-white room, and I find myself in front of a black latex catsuit, standing on its own.

Yup, you read that right. Black latex catsuit—standing on it's own. Welcome to Vestinia.

"Well, well...hello there, man meat," The catsuit says, stepping up to me. I smile, not backing down from her aggressive salutation. The suit is holding a very feminine shape. I don't have a problem following every admirable curve along its surface—even if it's empty inside.

"Hey there, licorice tits. What's the haps?"

Needless to say, diplomatic language this advanced is best left to the experts. That's not really a recommended greeting to a Vestian gate-guard.

The black catsuit raises a hand toward me and makes a motion. I feel my clothes tighten around me a bit. Vestians aren't really ones for equal rights when it comes to tracking down their fuel—and on this wacked out path, that's what we are. Fuel. Our stimulation recharges however it is they work.

"Stand still, smart ass," The catsuit says, calm but firm. My body whirls around on its own, and I feel my arms pulled back behind me. My jacket slides off of my shoulders, but it doesn't fall to the floor. It fills and hovers next to me, looking like an invisible me standing inside it.

Right. Vestians. Meaning—clothing. Here, the world is run clothing.

Only a few people know exactly how it happened, but the general story is that some unsuspecting human was messing with ethera anomalies she didn't understand. And, ethera--that' quanta with strange effects on matter and energy as they apply to the will or intentions of a sentient caster. Or something like that. Whatever. Call it magic, if it helps. It does for me.

The empty sleeve of my possessed blazer digs into its front inside pocket and pulls out the business card holder, which hovers just past the end of the cuff. It produces a card.

"A trader?" The catsuit asks. "Candy salesman? I don't think you'll find a very strong market for your services here." The black catsuit takes the card, and my blazer puts the holder back into its inside pocket.

My shirt begins unbuttoning itself, and I don't bother fighting the now-living fabric. My belt is next, the end pulling out of the loops and unlatching. I'm savoring every second of this, because I can't wait to see this Vestian's reaction as soon as she checks her reports and realizes who I was called here to meet.

"Not much for resistance, are you?" The suit asks as the button on my pants pop open. The black laces of my shoes are untying now, and I just shake my head at the suit, smiling.

Shortly after unleashing this...infective intelligence into normally inert objects like clothes—things changed for the humans here fast.

Magic replaced labor. Having realized how much more physically exploitable and easily manipulated men were, poof—their solution for total control was to share their command of the ethera with specifically aggressive, creative, or mischevous women—promising them administrative power and all the earthly delights they could handle in exchange.

Which...apparently worked out. The dangerous combination of human imagination and a recursive etheral source enabled a efficient, non-confrontational takeover of all of humanity. Weeks. It took a couple of weeks from the onset of the anomaly.

But these things understood. They had the most to gain by allowing the women to pay their due on predominately their own terms, and forcing the men to pay their dues on the terms of...everyone else.

Which meant that under any normal circumstance, someone like me would be subject to the whims of this gate-guard. But this wasn't a normal circumstance—something she didn't realize yet.

"Are you listening, man meat?" My laces were loose, and I could feel the remainer of my clothing anxious to escape my body. "I said you're not much for resistance."

"Like you're not much for procedure," I finally reply, stupid grin on my face. As my shirt pulls itself off the rest of the way, my pants drop to my ankles. The catsuit steps closer and places a latex covered-hand on my face, gently at first. Smooth, phantom fingers across my stubble.

"This is procedure. Get used to it." A sexiness in the catsuit's voice now--the seductive tone rolls into my ears.

The catsuit places a couple of fingers gently under my chin, and I feel myself lifted off the ground—not uncomfortably, but from a newfound lack of gravity. My shoes and socks pull themselves off, and my pants follow right along with them.

Vestians get plenty of their power from raw sexuality, and in this part of town, tripping over a perfectly dumbfounded man can be a treat—especially one that's partial to the whole latex look. And again, it's a nicely shaped catsuit—and the gauge of the latex is so translucent thin at the roundest, shiniest parts of the...

Forget it. I can't do this by myself anymore. I'm already running late, and I think its about now that I should stop this happy little Vestian in her tracks. As I feel my boxers tug down a little, I know my will power only goes so far.

I mentally process a command to my Neuropause before I speak.

"I know I must look like a fun toy," I say, "but you ought to run my identification before we continue further."

"That's some mouth you have." And here comes the raised ante. "I'm going to make you use it, and you're really going to see why little boys shouldn't skip too far from their homes."

And that's hot—I can't deny it. A little bit kitschy action flick, but still hot. The sound of the voice, the slick latex finger against my lips—it's all hot.

But right now, it's only empty revs. The Neuropause has me out of gear...which only makes her bolder.

She likes a challenge. Rookies always like a challenge.

She snaps, and a drawer to the side of the room opens up and releases a pair of red latex gloves—wrist length. My boxers break free of my legs and dance around for a second before slipping inside my pants, which are filled out to my shape like my escaped shirt and blazer.

I feel the supple petite red hands wrap around me, and for a second I think about letting this continue—without the Neuropause. But I've pushed this far enough. I really can't be late.

"Hey. Seriously. ID first, then abuse me all you want."

"We don't gave a damn what your identification says, pretty boy," The red gloves respond. "We answer to one authority, and--"

"The governess generals," I say, cutting her off. "I know the speech. Well." She stands back for a second. Is a man really so stupid to speak with that kind of attitude to a gate guard—here? "Believe it or not, ladies—I've been here before. Do yourselves a favor and check the paperwork."

I'm still grinning like a fool, and she doesn't like it at all. The red gloves are already trying all sorts of naughty tricks on my little soldier, but it won't stand at attention for them. Stroking, cradling, teasing...nothing. The neuropause has neutralized any sexual impulse for the time being.

The command I issued earlier?

Carnal block.

"I think I see..." the catsuit said, stepping away from me and folding its arms. "You looked a little too clean cut anyway." Now I hear footsteps from the other side of the room. I glance and see military boots marching in, a muscular latex shirt hovering over them. Matching masculine gloves at the sides of the shirt. "Is this more your style?" I roll my eyes.

"I really don't want to disappoint you both—but someone needs to look at my paperwork." I'm doing my best to look at the collar of the catsuit with a stern face. Sometimes it's really hard for me to take these things seriously, but honestly—this kind of balanced confidence is only possible through the Neuropause.

Vestians are masters of touch, and they have an art for kink, no matter how vanilla or fringe your pleasure. They never tire, and it's never long before they find the key to a human's sexual meltdown. Like I said--we're walking, talking fuel. They're going to take it whether or not you want to give in.

Unless the well appears to be dry.

"No reaction at all..." The catsuit says, walking up to the muscular shirt and wrapping its arms around it. I watch as one of the gloves goes behind the catsuit, grabbing its ass. The latex outfits spin a half turn, and I see the other at the supple latex breasts, squeezing and caressing them. "Maybe he likes to watch instead." The short red gloves are trying again, despite my immunity.

"Hey—gang? I have an appointment with someone very important." I keep my voice even, but I make it clear I'm starting to lose my cool. "You're making me late, and I'd rather not keep my client waiting. If you don't want to examine my identification, at least examine the invitation I brought." The catsuit turns around, but I can't tell if its taking me seriously yet. But I know the magic words that will guarantee it: "Governess Order."

And now the floor is mine. They're silent. Gold with a capital G. It can't be possible. I must be bluffing, right? A human male with a Letter of Governess Order? An invitation? As anything but a servant, prisoner, or pet?

"You're not a human, are you?" The catsuit asks. I'm still suspended in the air.

"Male. Human. Systemian. And here by invitation of Her Eminance, the Governess General." Systemian. But obviously no ordinary Syssy. "Now quit fucking around, follow procedure, and send me on my way." The catsuit approaches me—with a lot less confidence than before.

"You—you have the invitation?" I switch my InteCast on with a command routed through the Neuropause. When it happens, both the outfits and the red gloves back away. Where there was once just another man, now they read an etheral signature running all over my nerves. I slowly drift to the ground, using only as much power as I need to overcome my suspension.

"Of course I have the invitation," I hiss. "This man meat isn't new to this slice of the trip, licorice tits."

Male and human—and Systemian—and a magic user? I've never had a Vestian so well in shock. I'm having too much fun with this. Probably gonna pay for it. I turn to my suit.

"Slim, back left pocket." My suit doesn't hesitate, and the blazer sleeve produces an apparently hovering folio. From it comes a telltale violet document. Intricate lettering and the scent of lilac in warm mid-spring rain. An invitation. My invitation, not just from a Governess—but from The High Governess General.

The catsuit takes the invitation from my empty suit, apparently reading it—not that I understand how. A latex hand comes up above the collar, almost as if it's covering a horrified face.

Like I said—expert.

"I—I'm—Ohmigod ohmigod—I'm soooo sorry. I, I—"

"You're new," I say, calming as I can be. "And how can I tell? Papers first, gorgeous. Them's the rules. Now let's cooperate, shall we?" The catsuit's collar seems to nod in agreement. It takes my IDOX passport from my suit and examines it with emulated eyes that I can't see.

But I'll say that if it had a flesh and blood face, I'd put money down that it would be blushing.

"Mr. Adriksehn," The catsuit pointed to my suit, standing beside it. "You've introduced new citizens to our environment, and they're due their—"

"Rights under the etheric compact, blah, blah, blah...let's do the short form." I turn to my suit. "You wanna fly solo, slim?" My blazer sleeves go into the pants pockets. The sleeves shrug, and the hips of my pants swing a little bit. Nature of the beast, I guess. If I didn't want the suit taken from me by way of...gaining it's own sentience, I shouldn't have worn it here. "Empty the pockets for me."

The sleeves of the blazer do so, placing my belongings on a table.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't." It points a sleeve at me, and I can't help but laugh. This place is fucked, but it's a really strange, harmless kind of fucked—so long as you're capable of a little etheral resistance. "Meet me back here when I'm done with my meeting—or don't." I turn back to the catsuit. "Suit me up." The catsuit turns to a cabinet door, which opens on its own. Out tumbles a charcoal bodysuit with a plain cylindrical form.

Full body—the only thing missing is a hood. It unzips in the front all the way down to its crotch as it steps toward me. Standard issue uniform. The escort suit.

I place one leg inside, then the other. The zipper moves carefully up the track as the material is pulled away from me. I watch as the catsuit skips over to the latex shirt, rubbing up against it. "I'm going to escort him to the High Palace. Watch the gate." The masculine gloves reach behind the catsuit and pat her gorgeous ass. "I owe you." My bodysuit walks me toward the table. A zipper beside my waist opens up as my belongings start shoving themselves into the pocket.

Thing is, It not like I can see outlines of them in the catsuit. It's like the things are going in the space my hip is occupying, but I know for a fact they aren't. I don't feel anything but the rustle of the fabric.

"Whoa, uh--what's this?" I ask. "Null-space pockets?"

"Something like that," The catsuit replies as the pocket zips again. "Now, I hope you don't mind flying. It's the quickest way up, and probably the only way you'll make it on time." I shrug.

"The suit does all the work anyway, right? It just sails up to the palace?"

"Not exactly. It's an inert; it doesn't generate enough power to do all that."

" am I getting to my appointment?" I'm lifted up to my toes, but not quite clear off the ground.

"You see?" The catsuit says. "Not enough power. But if we do this..." It turns around and bends its legs a bit, floating up into the air. The zipper starting at its ass begins to open. Is it serious? I look down at my own suit just as the double zip curls up, exposing my member—which still isn't interested. It's running as cool as the metallic casing of my Neuropause.

"This isn't going to work," I say.

"It's a matter of necessity if you want to get to your appointment on time," the catsuit responds. "There's no way you can get the the central palace on time through the ground paths—even if your escort suit sprints the entire way. You need a ride—I need a charge." I can't believe this. Vestians always get their way, even when you think you've got them where you want them. "Turn off the cheatbox."

So she's a rookie who does a little studying.

"Give me a second."

The command terminal for my Neuropause is simple. There's a couple of visualizations that serve as a mental password, which is followed by command syntax. Simple as that. One of my master passcodes is the dust on top of the quarry rock I used to jump from. The dust clumping in the dripping water, brought up by return visits to the jump point after the first plunge. The fine particles resting on the surface of the water droplets. Smoky ghosts, kicked up in the dirt, red as rust.

Quarry diving. Closest I came to flying back home on Systemia--before I started skipping the tear.

People always ask me if I'm scared my Neuropause might just fail and stop working. The truth is: I don't. Thing's not powered by batteries—just a little extra electric charge that the mind and spine are always producing. I could bog it down with more different neural redirects, suppresors, and behavior commands than I can remember and never spend more than a cheeseburger a day in terms of energy. It's durable. If someone wanted to smash it, I'd be a little more worried about my neck and the base of my skull than I would the device. It's comfortable enough, too. I've just gotten used to it.

It allows me to experience things that would cause a normal human to psychologically meltdown. Though I'm under the belief that some trained masters of the experience would be nearly as good as without my little techie mindhack. I once knew a lo-tek skipper that swore by psychedelics--said they were the only suitable preparation.

For as much as it's saved my ass, though, the Neuropause has its limitations and weaknesses. Even though it's a permanent fixture at the base of my neck, I switch it to bypass for a while every now and then to make sure I can remember how to handle life without it.

I make a mental command that goes something like--


--and already I feel my dick swelling. Hell. No shame in Vestinia. The shape of this catsuit contains all the eye-catching curves that tie into my ancient primal drives, and the etheral being fused to it has quite the attitude.

Just a catsuit, right? My cock obviously isn't caught up in such questions. I look down at it, slowly pulsing and pumping itself up to full attention. I help it out, grabbing it a few times and squeezing. Apparently the catsuit takes this as a cue to move closer, because it lines up its unzipped crotch with my rigidity.

"Holy fuck, it's like raw electric coming off of you," The catsuit says. I feel warmth right at my tip as my head hits something moist, but when I look down—I see only a gorgeous latex-covered ass, apparent empty space beneath the unzipped wedge.

"I'm going to be late," I say, bending over and whispering near the back of the collar. "I think you want to get us both in trouble." She's about to sling another witty reply when I grab the hips of the suit and pull them back.

I swear I can feel every sensation being converted to her magic fuel as it electrifies my nerves and evaporates from the end of me. I feel a perfectly emulated woman surround my girth as my hips meet hers, and that tremendous shining ass is at my stomach now, bending and slamming against me as I slide into pleasure unseen.

The catsuit's legs curl back, and the Vestian squeals as I push myself all the way inside the catsuit.

The programming of these ethera-based entities gave them the ability to convert the impulses of our neurological systems into raw ethera, which basically means our nerve endings drip pure honey.

As it happens, there's nothing sweeter than blind sexual impulse.

I don't notice at first when we take off—my focus on the part of me penetrating this lucious shape. When I try to reposition, I feel nothing under my feet, which makes my blood run even faster. She giggles when she feels her effect on me.

And suddenly power is no longer a problem. Both of us are free of gravity now, and we sail into the air a couple of meters or so, putting my head close to the ceiling of the arrival hall.

"Digging the zero-grav," I groan, "But watch the ceiling." I tighten my grip on her latex shoulders, and she puts her arms out to her sides as we hover downward. We stabilize at about half the height.

"Normally you wouldn't be in any position to make demands, but—" I embrace her from behind, grabbing the latex tits as I mercilessly push myself inside.

Tight and frictionless—and so warm. I can feel her emulated body beginning to hum.

I start purging my InteCast through my cells while I open its absorbers to the field of ethera around me, catching the metabolized excesses from the Vestian. It's serving as an amplifier for her—turbocharging my nervous system and soaking all my sensations with magic.

The suit is letting sweet little moans escape while I rock back and forth against her shining body. The latex has the perfect amount of give—and as I fuck it I can imagine a gorgeous invisible woman inside. I get close, looking down into the suit. Near its base, I can see my most sensitive skin inside, pulsing and manipulated inside empty space.

She gets louder, her ass pumping us me higher into the air again. And now the catsuit waves a hand at the double doors, which fling themselves open.

"What are you doing?" I ask. She laughs as we sail toward the doors, still attached to each other and swinging in rhythm.

"Flying seems to be as stimulating for you as it is for me—" the catsuit huffs, "and since you don't want to be late..."

Vestians. No matter how important a guest I was, she was going to get what she wanted out of me. All she had to do is make it in my best interest. I suppose her shape didn't hurt in convincing me.

The end of the expansive hall was open—leading into the city below. A ruling-class based in magic meant major shifts in architectural trends; that doors were no longer limited to first floors was just one of the consequences.

"But maybe we could finish before we—?" I'm stopped midquestion by an involuntary groan when she leans back, pulling us both upright.

"Don't you dare talk about finishing. It's a long way up." She wiggles her backside against me, rocking back and forth—riding me now. I feel her bouncing up and down as my suit keeps me suspended. I know I'm in no danger of falling, but that doesn't stop me from gripping her soft latex tits as if my life depended on it.

Vestinia might be the land of the fetishist's dreams and nightmares, but I can't say that I've ever screwed mid-flight—certainly never over the thriving metropolis. But as she flies toward the large departure aperture at the end of the hall, I'm not about to stop.

She's the government official, after all.

We shoot out of the building and take to the sky, heading south toward what looks like the center of the city. My body is laid out flat by my suit as the catsuit slides up and down on my cock. The catsuit lifts her legs and spins around to face me, making me shudder as the emulated form spins around the axis of my manhood.

I trust in the magic and throw my head back, closing my eyes as the catsuit's legs lock against my own. I feel the slick rubber tits squeak against my own suit, which unzips just enough to expose my chest.

When I open my eyes again, the sexy phantom pressed against me is evident only from the empty collar. I can see humans and Vestians dotting the streets of Nyxepolis. There are other forms sailing above the streets like skybound pedestrians, but none of them are twisted around each other and speeding along at the same velocity that we are.

"You like my body, don't you?" The whisper is close to my ear. The catsuit tightens her grip on me now. I grab on to her hips again, sliding my palms down around her ass. I feel my own legs tighten around the catsuit's leglock, and I'm not sure if it's me or my suit doing it.

"You're fantastic," I growl. My heart pounds in my chest as hard as I'm being ridden. I swear the suit is making its endowments inflate and tighten little by little under my grip, its tits getting softer and pressing harder into my chest. I pull my hand away from the suit and bring my flattened palm down against the shining latex ass as hard as I can.

The suit cries out. I'm hard as a rock, focusing to keep my body from surrenduring too early despite this invisible woman's perfect technique.

Everything about this fuck feels so good. We're close now; the moans and whinnies of the squaking latex catsuit get louder still.

"Make it tighter for me," I say. "I think I—" Everything about the catsuit seems to get a little bigger and a little more snug, and I moan. Loud. And then, hot breath in my face...

"I think you need another pair of lips to shut you up." I feel air blown into my ear just before unseen teeth and tender lips pass playfully over my lobe. Magic lips.

I moan and switch grips again, sliding my hands up her back and up to her shoulders. My hips dig under and lift her as I grind against her slowly. I feel something soft against my lips, and I open them to accept an eager magic tongue.

My hands slide over her slippery latex shoulders and down onto the swell of the suit's breasts. My legs are locked against the suit's even tighter now, and my cock is jumping and twitching with every motion. My fingers squeeze and prod shiny black orbs, and I can feel phantom nipples hardening beneath the rubber sheath.

The catsuit arches its back, its magic tongue spiraling around mine as I massage its latex body. Every one of my nerves echoes pleasure. The contractions of a magic pussy produce an intense rippling all over the end of me. My InteCast is fully charged, notching over capacity as the ethera around us intensifies, bringing me to the threshold of what my nerves can handle.

"You're gonna make me come," I say, breaking from invisible emulated lips. I pump against her harder. The more I move, the more she inflates her voluptuous curves—and the tighter the pulse around my cock becomes.

"Come with me..." This phantom woman whispers into my ear, getting louder with each mutter. "Comewithme—imgonnacome imgonnacome imgonnacome imgonna..." I can feel her latex ass begin vibrating and boiling over, and my manhood senses the moment and begins throwing my hips against the catsuit like a jackhammer. I feel our speed increase, and now we rocket into the air.

The sudden spike of adrenaline sets me off. It's bliss. We both scream out in harmony.

I'm no stranger to Vestian sex, but the way they play with energy—the release of power really is an awesome thing. I've gone zero-g before, but I've never shamelessly displayed myself like a Vestian toy, fucking in the open city. When in Rome, though...

I bellow a little, recovering from the moment. I can see the High Governess' Palace hovering over the central district, growing larger as we start to descend toward it. Our destination is the receiving hangar, which looks something like a giant porch wrapped around the upper levels of the tower.

I wrap my arms around the midsection of the catsuit, embracing it as I allow my breathing to slow. I can feel her chest expanding and contracting too, as if there were a hard-working pair of lungs inside. Details, details. She's good. Rookie gateguard, maybe—but an expert in emulation.

"Got the charge you needed, I hope." I say between panting breaths. Like I said, not just a catsuit. "I had quite a ride."

"Come through the north gate again when you have more time to spare," The catsuit responded. "I can show you what a real ride is like. An all-day long kinda ride." I feel my blood run faster for a second, and she giggles. "You know, you really glow," she says as we touch down near the edge of the hangar.

I feel myself slide out of her, shuddering after I'm exposed again. Luckily, my suit responds quicker than I do, momentaily pulling itself away from my body to resheath me and carefully zip-up.

"Got a name, Gate-guard?" I casually look over the edge of the hangar, where I see a couple hundred empty feet to the surface of the palace complex. Where the magically-suspended island ends, it's a straight half-mile drop into the central district. I've never been up here before.

"Want a badge number, gypsy?" She laughs as she coils up near the ledge again, ready to take off. "Call me Licorice...if you're so inclined. Find me at the north gate." Before I can respond, the suit dives back toward the city at lightning speed.

Wham, bam. I kinda feel like a slut. Then, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't one of my favorite things about being here.

The doors to the tower open at the other end of the platform. Out of them steps a pair of gorgeously-shaped leather pants. I think my eyes are fooling me at first, because they seem too big compared to the scale of the door. I walk to meet them in the middle, and as I get closer, I realize they are bigger.

Much bigger.

I stop to pull out my paperwork, but as I reach for my pocket, my hand stops. They're right in front of me now, their waist a bit higher than my eye level. I'm looking at leather pants mimicking the callipygian proportions of a South American dancer—except that this pair has a two-meter inseam.

"That won't be necessary," the leather pants say with a sexy accent that strikes me as...old Southern Europe, maybe? Her hips are wider than my shoulders. Her smooth, black leather legs—as long as my whole body. I'm staring really bad. "We've been expecting you. Follow me."

The pants turn and walk the other way, and I almost melt when they do. With their massive hips at my eye level, I get a full view of one of the best asses I've ever seen in leather.

Suddenly it strikes me that they're twice the height of normal pants, that means—proportionally—they're eight times the woman. As the massive, tightly-filled form waggles away, I follow behind in a sort of gallop by comparison, having to keep a quicker pace.

I feel like a pet, mesmerized by the two swishing orbs at the top of the leather legs. Their unbelievable size only makes me more intrigued about their perfect shape and the tight, graceful flow of their motion. Control be damned.

"You move beautifully," I say. The pants stop, but they don't turn around. Nothing happens for a few seconds, and just as I'm about to explain myself further--

"What was that?" Wow. Liquid nitrogen cold. (But what an accent!) I decide I'm going to push my luck.

"I was just admiring your shape," I continue. The knees of the pants bend a bit, and the waistband pulls forward, making the material tighten deeper around her invisible curves. Just as I get a full view of the biggest, roundest—

I'm knocked backward before I can finish the thought.

Pressed against something solid now. Soft pressure on my chest. I blink my eyes and see that I've been pinned to the wall by a giant leather ass. Kicking my legs a little, I find there's nothing under my feet. I try to pull my arms up, but they're pinned between these awesomely wide leather hips and the wall.

And the experience isn't at all disappointing.

"You're smiling," the pants say, matter-of-fact. "Macrophile? Facesitting fanboy?" A half-stifled laugh comes out of me.

"Neither, really," I say, "But you don't make a bad case for either of those particular pursuits." The pants back away from the wall, dropping me flat on the ground. No graceful landing this time.

As I stand up and dust myself off, the pants turn around, facing me. They pounce again, pushing me against the wall with a tight leather crotch, pinning my wrists with their knees.

"You reek of sex," The pants whisper, their waistband diving under my chin and lifting it. I feel warmth building around my waist and chest where I'm being held. "Do you know how absolutely hard you make my job when you enter this court post-coital?" The smooth leather slides out from under my chin, pushing the front of the pants against my face.

"Hey," I respond, half-muffled. "One of your friends out there pretty much gave me two options: a fuck in exchange for a ride—or be late to my meeting."

"You are late," The pants say, releasing me again. "So I hope you're on good terms with the most powerful being in the world." The pants stand up straight, planting an oversized crotch just over the bridge of my nose. I can smell the leather, and for a second I can't think about anything but what must be behind the zipper of these shiny tight-fitting pants.

They gently stroke themselves against me, and I don't dare duck aside.

"So—shouldn't we get me to my meeting?" Another thing I say without considering. I'm in over my head without the Neuropause. The leather thighs wrap around me and squeeze me--a little too tightly.

"Exactly what we're doing," The pants say, still gripping me. "Now hold still." I struggle against the sentry a bit as she picks me up between her massive legs and floats down the corridor with me. "I said hold still." They reinforce the imperative by squeezing even tighter, carrying me through hallways and floating me up to the uppermost level of the palace.

We go through an elborately decorated door into what feels like a large room, but there's only darkness inside. Before I can get a feel for my surroundings, I'm dropped onto a soft bed. When I situate myself, I realize it's not a bed--but simply satin, floating over nothingness. There's nothing else in this stark room but the leather pants and I.

"She'll call for me when she's done with you," the pants say. "Don't wander the palace without me. You're bound to be snatched up by the rest of the staff—and I wouldn't want that to happen without having some fun with you myself." The pants turn around and walk toward the exit, and my eyes are fixed on the fine, giantess ass once more.

My curiousity has the best of me. What exactly does her fun consist of? A close encounter with a palace sentry is a new one on me.

It gets really quiet once the pants leave. I think I hear something, but when I look around—everything is still.

"Best sweets in the Ontoverse," A voice echoes. "I've heard only good things about your services, Mister Adriksehn." As a purple steam or smoke starts to fill the room, the only door I see slams and latches shut. "Word is that you take payment in trade," the voice says, "and that you're very keen with distribution."

Distribution? Smuggling.

"Well, Your Majesty—" I start, but my jaw snaps closed all by itself.

"Governess is appropriate," the voice answers. When it stops speaking, my jaw is released. Now I'm out of my league. Time to tread carefully.

"Governess," I start again, "I'm a traveling artisan. I've got a lot of important roles."

"In my Vestinia, you're virtually for one of my lieutenants and her staff." I hear the voice in front of me, where a plume of purple smoke is building. "Yet among them, you're something of a celebrity..." I watch as a woman starts to take shape where the smoke is. "Which in itself is impressive, because my lieutenant isn't so easily taken. She claims you have dangerous charm, as we understand the term."

I watch the flowing purple hair get darker and darker, descending into pitch. And standing before me now is the demigoddess—the one that made Vestinia what it is.

Whatever job she has for me, I doubt it's going to be as simple as selling ribbon candy.