That other part of me - the weird side of my brain begins to unfurl. The little whispers of sensation around me blossom and acquire something like tangibility. The crumbling ruin is no more. The dank smells of mildew and damp are replaced by a warm, summery breeze wafting in from a nearby window. The imprint seems like it must thirty years old at least... I try to look around, but I can't see. There's something over my eyes - a blindfold, or the memory of one, anyway. Then, at the same time, my awareness of my clothes drifts away, bit by bit. My biking leathers, boots, even my underwear, until I'm standing stark naked, nervously curling my toes into the floor. I'm not myself by this point of course. I'm someone younger, my breasts a little smaller, perkier. My skin is soft and sensitive... I bet I'm ginger, probably even have freckles. Thin, cute, late teens - probably quite hot. Of course, that none of that makes what is to come any less twisted and sick. There's a lump in my throat. “Hello there,” she started, “I haven’t seen you here before, is this first visit?” The man turned to look at her, and almost as quickly turned away again. Clare was amazed. She had never been turned down, especially not after only one question that hadn’t even been answered. She leaned closer and tried again. “How are you enjoying the ambiance?” The man stood up from the stool, turned and looked her up and down. Clare almost came in her pants just from looking at the sheer size of him as he stood in front of her. He had to be at least 6’6” and 250 pounds of solid muscle. His chest tapered down into a V at his waist and he looked like a man who had never shied away from manual labour. She felt her pussy throbbing at the thought of wrapping herself around him and having her way with him. Her nipples hardened and poked out through the tank top and she had to consciously stop herself from reaching up and playing with her breasts. Her whole body ached with the need to have him. He.
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