Tom fidgets at the edge of the crowd, the humid air clinging to his polo shirt. He wasn’t sure what had made him take a break from Bali’s beaches and instead come to see a dance performance at a temple near his hotel. So far it’s just a bunch of chanting and jangling bells, the swaying bodies of the dancers almost hidden by the clouds of incense. Not really his scene. Still, he can’t tear his eyes away from their hypnotic movements, their supple brown bodies gleaming with sweat as they move to the drumbeat. The way their sarongs ride up their thighs with each twist and turn, revealing tantalizing glimpses of shapely calves, elegant ankles, and bare feet that beg to be…
What the fuck? Tom shakes his head, trying to dispel the intrusive thoughts. Since when does he have a thing for feet? He shifts uncomfortably, shocked to find his khaki shorts tightening. Clearly the jungle heat is getting to him. Or maybe someone spiked his drink, because he swears the dancers are beckoning to him now, their eyes burning into his as they move their fingers. Before he can stop himself, he’s moving forward in a daze, sneakers scuffing the ancient and holy grounds.
The moment he enters the circle, it feels like all the air leaves his lungs in a rush. A wave of dizziness crashes over him as the drums pound louder, faster, the tempo seeming to sync with his pulse. He stumbles, gasping as warm wetness engulfs his feet – but when he looks down, he sees his shoes and socks melting away like cheap wax. Revealing slim brown toes, delicate ankles, the skin silky and unblemished. He can feel the tingle of the earth through his naked soles. Fresh panic swells in his throat, but it’s smothered by a rising tide of liquid heat as the transformation races up his legs. Manly hair shrivels and falls away as the flesh softens and shapes, thighs thickening and hips flaring to lush new proportions.
By the time it reaches his groin, Tom is panting, eyes rolling back his head as his cock and balls collapse inward, resculpting themselves into a swollen, throbbing pussy. He wants to scream but it comes out a breathy moan, his voice shifting to a higher, smoother register. Not the voice of Tom the tourist, but of Melati the dancer, newest initiate into the sisterhood.
Tom gasps as his flesh ripples and reforms, neurons rewiring themselves to the drum’s beat. Melati forming across these newly formed pathways. Of course she’s meant to dance, she thinks dizzily, staggering in the confines of her foreign male garb. These flat, practical clothes are all wrong for her lush new curves, her sensitive skin. She NEEDS to be draped in clinging lace and sheer silks, adornments to frame the sacred altar of her yoni for the gods’ pleasure. No sooner does the thought solidify then it becomes reality, khaki and cotton dissolving in a rain of shimmering threads.
In their place, white lace winds around her budding breasts, a new sarong riding low on her newly wide hips. Gold bangles materialize on her wrists and ankles, a filigree belt kissing her wasp waist as her hair darkens to a glossy onyx sheet. She can feel the cool kiss of golden ornaments against her ears and throat as age melts away, features rearranging into the fresh-faced beauty of a Balinese maiden.
Gone is Tom, replaced by a living embodiment of the island. Melati arches her back, delicate brown feet moving on to the ancient rhythm. This is what she was born for – to sway and seduce, to rouse her people to frenzied heights with the tease and promise of her body. What else could this flesh be for, if not an offering to be savored, penetrated, filled to overflowing with the gods’ seed?
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