The loud sounds of the crowded nightclub were nearly enough to drown out Stacy’s thoughts as she sat alone in a booth, close to the back and about as far out of sight from the dancefloor as she could manage. Nearly, but not quite, especially as she watched the slow, ominous approach of one of the bartenders, walking towards her with a single, particularly vibrant-looking cocktail perched on a serving tray. Setting it down in front of her with something of a grimace, he picked up the empty glass next to it with a light touch. 

“Drink for you, from…” he turned and pointed out a person sitting at the bar, looking approximately identical to the last three people who had bought her drinks that same night – jeans a size too tight, a white t-shirt several sizes too tight, skinfade haircut, and a grin that might charitably have been called “eager” by someone not familiar with the way clubgoers looked at what they would call “fresh meat.” In short, the last person Stacy wanted a drink from. Nevertheless, seeing said clubgoer looking her way and not wanting to risk a more annoying encounter than she had to, she plastered a plastic-feeling smile on her accursedly-pretty face, batted her eyelids, and flashed a dainty wave across the room. As soon as the bartender receded and the crowd closed over the gap, it all fell away, replaced with the look of despondence that had been her companion for the last hour. 

Stacy had a problem, and it was bad. It was also the kind of thing that is nigh-impossible to talk about with people, because they would simply judge her for complaining about “first-world problems” or “having too much of a good thing.” In short: Stacy was too pretty. 

She was the archetype of a “pretty woman”, not so overtly sexualised as to be called a slut or a bimbo, not alternative or edgy enough to be branded as a punk or a goth, and she would never be mistaken for anything other than that – and she’d tried. Dressing down and being lazy with her outfits was a daring fashion choice that brought everyone over to flirt with her, dressing up in the most outrageous looks she could think of was dramatic and cool and brought everyone over to flirt with her, and even that one time where she had thought to pass herself off as a boy had brought everyone over to flirt with her, including at least a handful of gay men. 

All she wanted was to find her way onto the dance floor and lose herself in the music for a while, forget all of the woes of her admittedly fairly good life, but as soon as she left the relative safety of her booth, where she could tactfully and firmly deny anyone the chance to sit down and make conversation, she would immediately start accumulating hanger-ons and admirers, like a ship kicking up a wake as it tries to reach its destination. Even her booth wasn’t truly safe, hence the neverending cascade of free drinks from a ceaseless stream of generic fuckboys. She sighed, heavily, and started to sip the latest offering. At least it tasted nice. 

Still, at least being here, in the club, immersed in the music at a distance and able to watch the crowd pulsate and shift like some giant, formless organism in response to the thumping beats and pounding rhythms, gave her a taste of the satisfaction she imagined she would get if she were able to stride out into the middle of that crowd and lose herself to dancing, and movement. Someday, maybe, if she was lucky. Another sigh, another sip. 

Suddenly, she was pulled from her unending languishing by an unexpected presence, rushing through all of her planned social defenses, plopping itself down next to her in the booth. Stacy was shocked, almost spluttering (but too pretty and demure to make that look anything less than cute) as she tried to take in the intruder, who was already reaching over to look at her drink, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the shifting colours of the mix.

“Well well, what is this? Mind if I try?” 

Stacy, speechless, simply nodded, watching the newcomer – on the feminine side of androgynous, wide smile, hooded eyes with an impressively well-drawn starburst of makeup and glitter down one cheek, wearing a long dress that looked more like an oil slick made solid than actual fabric – sip from her glass. Struggling to regain control of the situation, Stacy tried to speak up, “Sorry, but um, my friend is–”

“Mm! Tasty!” the stranger said, passing the glass back and extending a hand alongside it to shake. “Olive, I use they/them, and your booth looked to be the only spot I could get away from mouthbreathers for a while. Mind if I hang for a few?” 

Something twigged for a moment in Stacy’s head, as she reached out to take the surprisingly firm hand of this strange creature. There was no sense of attraction, none of that hunger that she so often felt from any and everyone who wanted to spend time with her; this person really meant it, they just wanted to hang for a few. The revelation was so refreshing that a smile, a genuine, actual smile broke out on Stacy’s face, her muscles practically creaking as they settled in the unfamiliar position. “Stacy, and you absolutely can, why do you think I’m here in the first place?”

They settled quickly into a flowing conversation; Olive was so incredibly easy to talk to, Stacy finding she could quickly let down all of the guards she usually kept up around others. They roamed around from the music playing (a little too hardcore, but very danceable) to the strange specimens at the bar (ugh, at least try to have some unique style), from love life (she really tried to pass it off as “just joking”, can you believe it?) to sex life (and then he just asked to be pegged!). It was so… freeing. 

Olive leaned forward, closing in on Stacy, into her space. “So, girl, why do you really come here? It seems you really wanna be out there,” she waved a hand at the packed dancefloor, “so what’s the problem?”

And like that, Stacy crashed back down to earth, slumping against the back of the booth. “I just… attract the wrong kinds of attention when I’m out there. I wish I could blend in, you know? Be a regular person instead of…” Stacy waved a vague gesture at herself, before groaning in exasperation. “Sorry, I know it must come across as silly, ‘poor, beautiful me’, right?” 

A hand landing over her own shook Stacy out of her stupor, dragging her eyes up to meet Olive’s – finding them far more tender than the girl felt she deserved. “Not at all. Everyone has their troubles, yours are just as valid as mine.” The hand drew back, an unexpectedly intense loss, and disappeared into a purse at Olive’s side. “But, if you’d like, I have something that might help with that. I’ve been taking some… supplements, you might say, that just make everything better. Trust me.” 

They pulled out a thick pill, placing it into Stacy’s hand as if it were some sort of prized jewel to be kept safe at all costs, and wrapping her fingers around it. A faint, unnatural tingle started to spread from the girl’s palm as Olive abruptly stood up, that slick material clinging to their body in bizarre, enticing ways, and looked her dead in the eye. “You won’t regret taking it. I promise.” With that, they turned and walked away, disappearing almost instantly into the crowd and leaving Stacy completely stunned, mouth working around a protest that she never got the chance to make. 

She sat for a long few moments, completely shocked at the sudden exit of her conversation partner, before opening her fist to look at the parting gift Olive had left, the one that was somehow causing a strangely pleasurable tingle to fill her entire arm. Lying there, resting innocently in the crease of her palm, was a midnight-black pill, faintly glistening in the mercurial light of the club. Stacy frowned – hadn’t it been grey, when Olive handed it over? – but shook it off as she sat back, pondering the encounter. Taking mysterious substances from strangers was hardly a sensible idea in any world, but Olive had been so… genuine, and Stacy had felt the closest thing to a genuine friendship with them than she’d had in years. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? 

Before she let herself overthink her way into knots, Stacy popped the pill in her mouth, finishing off the last of the latest fuckboy drink in order to wash it down. She sat for a few moments, waiting for some sort of effect, but nothing seemed forthcoming, at least immediately. She shrugged to herself, standing up and intending to make an excursion to the bathroom for a few moments, but as she stepped out of her booth and started walking, she felt a strange tug from somewhere deep inside, a gravitational pull dragging her off-course, and straight towards the dancefloor. Her legs seemed to move on their own, and despite a frown coming across her face and a dim voice in the back of her mind protesting the doomed endeavour, she found her heart beating in time with the pounding rhythm rising from the crowd ahead of her. 

Before, she probably would have already picked up a few stragglers, would already be feeling lecherous eyes dragging their way up and down her body, leering faces appearing in the corner of her vision – but right now, there was none of that. It was as if she was truly unremarkable, just a simple person walking towards a dancefloor, soon to be just a single speck in that roiling mass. Anticipation swelled within her body, and that tingling that had started from her palm soon spread all the way throughout her body, like a pleasurable sort of pins and needles. Was this really happening?

Too fast for her to think about it more, she slipped past the outer edge of raving people and was suddenly immersed in the sound. Bodies bumped and nudged her from all sides, but as if by instinct she moved with them, every nerve pulsing along to the rhythmic beats, swaying in a perfect groove. A fading part of her mind continued to sound alarm bells, not about her current, slightly dazed headspace, but about the risk of some creep coming up and grinding on her, or searching hands reaching out to touch her – yet with every moment that the warnings failed to ring true, that voice become more and more hazy and weak. This was everything she’d ever wanted; let her have it, damnit!

Stacy slowly began to ease up, letting her arms raise over her head, bouncing up and down as the beat switched to a high-tempo, bass-heavy track. The tingling in her core became a pulse, energy surging out from her core, carrying her along in its wake, letting the troubles of her life fade away. For the first time, she felt absolutely no attention falling on her, the eyes of the crowd just sliding off her as if she wasn’t there at all. It was perfect. 

Something shifted, slightly, as that thought continued to echo in the chambers of her mind. As if she wasn’t there at all. It was so appealing, all of a sudden. Her appearance, and the attraction it inevitably inspired, had served her well, for certain, but sometimes she wished she could just shed it and be nothing. For a while, at least. 

She didn’t really stop to think about whether that thought had really come from inside her own head, instead letting her mind tumble into that idea of nothingness. She imagined herself opening up, letting the sound of the club fill her instead of her own thoughts and feelings, a blank slate to reflect energy instead of a pretty face to be projected onto. So lost in her feelings, she didn’t notice that her clothes, a generic little-black-dress that her old self had effortlessly pulled off, were suddenly starting to feel tighter. Much, much tighter. 

Slowly, that black fabric took on the same oil-slick sheen Stacy had seen on Olive, a tight embrace on her body, glistening in the roving spotlights of the club. Her movements played into it, and she let out a gasp as her newly-latex dress brushed up against one of the other bodies in the mass of dancers, a spark of pleasure erupting from wherever she was touched. A less hazy Stacy might have stopped for more than an instant to consider what had just happened to her dress, but the current incarnation was totally lost to the party, and simply tried her best to grind up against others as much as she could, an impulse many were more than happy to reciprocate. 

Her mind seemed to dissolve across the dancefloor as she continued, as if she was looking down on herself from above, a barely-discernible head of hair writhing around amidst the crowd, completely immersed, exactly where she wanted to be. The pulsing in her body continued to grow more and more intense as the beat approached a climax, the entire club holding its breath as they prepared for the big moment. A moan ripped from her throat, completely lost to the music as the rubber started to spread across her body, her skin becoming a reflective, inky-black surface, her curves and features outlined in the glimmering disco-lights. 

As the drop hit, and her first orgasm of the night slammed into her body, the latex surged up and over her face, smothering her features in a smoothed-out, mannequin-like facsimile of how she used to look. Her mind was just as blank and smooth as her skin, barely a single thought stirring in that slick, rubbery space. All that mattered was dancing, embracing the atmosphere of the club, a conduit for the energy surrounding her. Perfectly blank. 

The night stretched out into a blur of pleasure, songs mixing in into the next, smooth transitions keeping her on the edge until eventually another orgasm crashed through her, dancing all the while, an anonymous, shiny-black creature writhing, grinding, bumping, and jumping through the dancefloor, seemingly unnoticed by anyone and yet gifted with touches and responsive motions in every moment. She dimly felt fortunate for the smooth rubber replacing her face, if only because it meant her moans emitted from her throat instead of out her mouth – she wouldn’t want to disturb the music with every screaming orgasm.

Every movement was an exultation, every thrust of her hips, every time her own rubber hands dragged over her latex skin, every flash of another’s skin touching hers sending sparks of bliss into a blank mind. There was nothing but pleasure, and dancing, and the music, and the crowd, all condensed to one enormous, orgasmic sensation, moving as one, acting and reacting together, a symphony of bliss. Stacy felt her self drifting out, spreading out, fraying and fading and sinking into the mass, her body just another aspect of the atmosphere, a source of pleasure instead of a cage. She was the crowd. She was the music. She was everything, and it felt so, so good. 

She never wanted to stop. 

Eventually, late into the morning, after a night that everyone else would remember as simply the most exciting and enticing time at a club they’d ever experienced, Stacy drifted back to herself, the rubber receding to reveal an exhausted, but satisfied, girl. She staggered off the dancefloor, muscles aching, to retreat to her booth for a few moments before heading home, but stopped short as she caught sight of a slip of paper lying on the table. A note, and a number she knew she’d be dialling soon.

“Olive - Call me if you want more! xxx”