On days when the magical pressure over Ankh-Morpork dropped suddenly, the walls of The Velvet Wand tended to sweat enchantment. This particular Tuesday, the condensation had formed droplets that crawled across the ceiling spelling out dubious limericks, which should have been warning enough that chaos was brewing.
Lady Chanterelle von Stirling-Prude—four times married and currently seeking ways to keep husband number four interested beyond afternoon tea—stood with arms folded beneath a velvet mantle, regarding The Velvet Wand’s latest offering with the sort of look usually reserved for badly cooked lobster. The magical device in question was a long, elegant mechanical serpent with silver scales, soft velvet ridges, and an unsettling eagerness in its jeweled eyes.
“It dances, you say?” Lady Chanterelle sniffed, one eyebrow climbing into haughty orbit.
Mimble tapped the brass head of the coiled thing with her wand, and it gave an affectionate wiggle. “Not only that, dear,” she said. “It guides the wearer. Stimulates rhythm, posture, flexibility—”
“And?” Chanterelle asked, her tone dry as toast.
“—and,” Mimble continued, “it’s very committed to making sure its dance partner leaves the stage thoroughly… satisfied.” She gave a knowing smile and gestured to Tessa. “Tessa, darling? Demonstration time.”
Tessa, already suspicious of the coils warming on the pedestal, took a wary step back. “I—I suppose I could model it, but maybe just the upper half? The snake doesn’t have to do everything, right?”
Mimble ignored her. With a practiced flick of her wand, Tessa’s shape-hugging uniform folded itself in midair like a butler’s napkin and settled demurely on the countertop.
“Madam!” Tessa squeaked, flinging her arms over her most unmentionable bits. “I—this is highly irregular!”
“Not at The Velvet Wand,” Mimble said serenely. “Customers expect transparency in our demonstrations. Besides, you have nothing to be modest about.” She smirked. “Literally.”
From the shelf nearby, a pair of enchanted nipple clamps chuckled and offered a slow clap. “Workplace harassment,” they muttered. “Ten out of ten. She’s blushing everywhere.”
The parrot on its perch—relic of an unfortunate shipping accident with a cursed galleon—squawked, “That’s not regulation dance wear, girl!”
Lady Chanterelle tilted her head with guarded curiosity. “Let’s see what it can do.”
The serpent coiled up, its silver body elongating with a hiss of steam and a purr of magic. It slithered onto Tessa’s leg like a satin ribbon—then tightened, climbed, and cinched into place in all the strategic locations a dancer might blush to mention. And a few she might scream about.
The snake, as it turned out, was not merely enchanted.
It was possessed—not in the demonic sense (those had to be licensed), but in the far more alarming sense of having a strong personal opinion about dance. And stimulation. And just how much dignity a shop assistant ought to be allowed while twirling half-naked before a customer.
Tessa stood centre-stage beneath the soft golden glow of the Wand’s performance lights—installed not for mood, but to better highlight squirming. The snake coiled languidly around one leg, then the other, and then, with the subtle confidence of something that had done this before, slithered up between her thighs.
“Oh—!” Tessa gasped, knees buckling slightly as the twin prongs of its tail separated and pressed inward with a smooth, deliberate schlup that made even the nipple clamps murmur, “Bit forward, aren’t we?”
Her back arched instinctively.
The snake gave a satisfied rattle, then surged forward with a shiver that wrapped around her waist like a teasing corset. Tessa jerked in place, her hips snapping sideways with a crack of invisible rhythm. One arm flew up above her head; the other clutched the air for balance. The first moan escaped her lips—low, husky, and entirely inappropriate for retail.
It had begun.
Her body moved in ways that were not hers to control. Her pelvis began to circle in slow, grinding eights, hips twitching forward every time the serpent decided to remind her that it was still very much inside. The tail-end twitched and inflated subtly—just a little—enough for her eyes to fly wide and her mouth to form a round, silent “oh gods,” before she bit her lip and moaned again.
“Is she alright?” Lady Chanterelle asked, her fan fluttering frantically.
“Perfectly fine,” Mimble replied without looking. “This is the warm-up phase.”
Tessa’s knees wobbled as the snake’s midsection pulsed, a rhythmic squeeze that made her thighs press together, then fling apart in a helpless staccato. She twirled once, twice—fingers splayed, breath coming in gasps—then yelped as the serpent inflated its belly section and gave a little thrust upward from below.
Her hips responded on their own, bucking sharply as her body tried to follow the motion, grinding in place like a dancer possessed by the very concept of shame.
The parrot whistled. “If she spins any faster, she’ll file herself smooth!”
“Oh—Mimble—it’s… it’s inside—!” Tessa moaned, biting back the rest as the snake tightened under her breasts like a sensual bodice, pushing them up with scandalous precision. Her nipples stiffened instantly, catching the light like treacherous, blushing beacons of her undoing.
“I see that,” said Mimble, raising an eyebrow. “Very enthusiastic today.”
Tessa bent low, one leg extended, the other trembling as the snake pulsed again—this time with a delicate hum that vibrated from her nethers all the way to her molars. Her moan became a keening, high and sweet like an angel caught in a scandal.
The snake reared its head from her collarbone and hissed into her ear.
And then it began thrusting in a steady rhythm. In. And out. And in. Each time it pressed inwards, a soft click sounded from somewhere inside her—followed by a mechanical pump, like an alchemist’s bellows applying just the right amount of shameful pressure from the rear entrance.
Tessa’s whole body jerked. She arched back, arms flung behind her head, her mouth wide in a silent scream of pleasure.
“Can’t—can’t stop—dancing—!” she gasped, collapsing into a full-bodied grind that would’ve earned her a Guild medallion and a written warning.
Lady Chanterelle’s eyes glazed.
“I—oh my word—” she whispered, crossing and uncrossing her legs three times in six seconds. Her cheeks flushed an almost plebeian pink. “That’s… rather more expressive than I’d expected.”
“Genuine performance magic,” Mimble offered dryly. “And very durable. The snake runs on body heat and embarrassment.”
The snake twitched again.
Tessa moaned and pirouetted—badly—and ended in a slow, lewd squatting motion that left nothing to the imagination, especially once the snake gave a triumphant rattle, its internal glands flooding her with one last pulse of heat, pressure, and indignity. Her climax ripped through her with all the subtlety of a thunderstorm in a corset shop.
She crumpled to the floor in a tangled, twitching heap, steam rising faintly from between her thighs. The snake withdrew, humming to itself as it slithered back to its pedestal and coiled into a satisfied spiral, blinking innocently.
Tessa moaned into the floorboards.
Lady Chanterelle fanned herself with enough force to stir papers across the shop.
“I’ll take it,” she breathed. “And I want the snake. I want that snake.”
Mimble nodded. “Of course, Lady Chanterelle. Shall I gift-wrap it, or do you wish to ride it home?”
The Serpent’s Waltz (Aftermath in Heels)
The shop was silent for precisely three seconds.
Then a faint, scandalised clink came from the shelf of sentient nipple clamps. One of them muttered, “Well. I’ve never seen someone collapse from both ends before.”
Tessa lay sprawled on the flagstone floor, her limbs twitching in post-ecstatic aftershocks. Her hair fanned out like she’d been kissed by lightning and then offered a cigarette. The gleam of sweat on her skin caught the golden shop light in ways that made the more prudish display stands look away politely.
“Is… is that normal?” Lady Chanterelle asked, her voice breathy and fanned into higher octaves.
“Oh, yes,” Mimble said cheerfully. “She’s a professional.”
“Ngh-hff,” said Tessa, face-down. “S’nothing. Just… give me a moment to… remember how knees work…”
The snake let out a content little hiss and curled into a coil on its display pillow. From the way it occasionally wiggled at the base, it was clearly basking in the glow of a job well done. Or two jobs. Possibly three.
Tessa pushed herself up, slowly, like a steamy soufflé refusing to rise.
Her legs wobbled the moment they took weight, and she staggered sideways into a nearby shelf of “Adjustable Plug-and-Play Companions,” knocking over a box of giggling mermaid-themed toys.
“Careful,” Mimble said without looking up from the paperwork. “We’re not insured for a second orgasmic collapse within the hour.”
“I’m fine,” Tessa snapped, swaying like a scandalised willow tree in a light breeze. Her expression said dignity, though her posture said last call at the pub and someone stole the barstool.
Lady Chanterelle approached slowly, wide-eyed, cheeks pinker than a blushing rose on a honeymoon.
“You were—” she swallowed, fluttering her fan with a force that could knock over dwarves. “You were magnificent. Like an opera. Only, you know… wetter.”
Tessa blinked, then gave a small, dizzy curtsey. “We… do our best. Company policy.”