Cleaner’s Handbook - Section 1a – The Dancer

The Dancer is capable of tempting any living being by manipulating their senses. Redemption Inc protective clothing and respirators are to be worn at all times by the assigned cleaners. Physical and eye contact with The Dancer is unavoidable but should be kept to a minimum, physical contact with its product should be avoided where possible. If The Dancer wakes during a cleaning period, the assigned cleaners will use any methods available to them to avoid listening to them, will not consider anything it tells them, will avoid looking directly at The Dancer if they are performing, and will evacuate the room urgently once cleaning is completed. In the circumstance where the assigned cleaner’s Redemption Inc protective clothing and/or respirator is compromised, cleaners must block their nose, and under no circumstances will touch or taste The Dancer or their produce. The assigned cleaner will also have repairs docked from their pay. Failure to follow these instructions may result in consumption and subsequent immediate dismissal from Temptationâ„¢.

Neon lights forming the word ‘Temptation’ hang over a pair of ornate and lascivious double doors, polished bronze handles and decorations with soft red fabric around the borders. Two windows peek into the dark depths within, strobing lights occasionally spinning into view, beckoning me to enter. I lick my lips in trepidation, swallowing in anxiousness, why is my mouth so damn dry? I take my first steps forward and push open the doors. The hidden nature of this building reveals itself to me, as lights pulse and thrum to light, beating to a soft, pumping rhythm as the room begins to spring to life.

Shelves and shelves of bottles and containers, perfumes and cosmetics as the building’s pulsing heartbeat of light illuminates them every second before they drift into dark for a moment. A faint scent lingers in the air, I can’t quite place it but it smells luxurious, like burnt caramel with too much cream, heavy and smooth, indulgent and sweet. I don’t fully understand the marketing of it, but I’m no businessman, and Mr. Angel, who owns the place, is an incredible yet mysterious mega-mogul. They’re pretty heavy handed on the virtue and sin stuff though.

“Ah, you’re here kid, great! He’s dancing right now, I’d say we got an hour before we gotta get started to give you a run-down,” a voice calls from the back, briefly illuminated by the lascivious lightshow. A short man approaches me, mature, grey hair, kinda chubby.

“Follow me downstairs, don’t wanna stick around in here too long,” he says with a knowing chuckle as he beckons to follow with one hand.

“Names Taz, what about you?” he asks as I jog to move up to his side as he walks into an employee-only elevator at the back of the room.

“Miles, um, nice to meet you,” I replied. He nods his head in response as he flashes his lanyard over a scanner in the elevator, waiting for a number of buttons to light up before pressing in the lowest of them.

“Alright Miles, well I’ll have done my month in two days, so you’re here to replace me! Once we get down we’ll go straight to the synthesiser to get your protective suit sorted,” he explains, likely some Redemption Inc tech, also owned my Mr. Angel, if the name didn’t make that obvious. ‘Practical pleasure is my purview’ I remember him saying in an interview, I did a bit of research before coming here.

“So, first things first, your top priority should be survivin’ the month, don’t worry about the pay deductions and shit, just make sure He doesn’t getcha, alright kid?” he says as I nod sheepishly. The truth of the matter is, this perfumery is just some sort of cover, almost an entire red-light district hides beneath it, and I’m here to work as the cleaner for one of the most notorious lounges.

Within is something known collectively as The Dancer, the prime performer for the most illustrious strip clubs. People go in, pay a fortune, and never leave. Nobody knows why anyone would ever go, but they do, they have several private guests every single day, and apparently it’s messy enough in there that it needs its own cleaner. That’s where I and Taz come in. The hazard pay for this place is so good, people say you only gotta work here for a month and you’ll never need to work another day in your life, one way or another. Leaks from previous cleaners are usually either low-detail, or deleted almost immediately, so that’s all I’ve been able to find out.

A ding sounds and the doors open to an entire underground street, a long corridor running through a series of rooms, more like buildings really.

“Right, all the paperwork is already sorted so your life has already been signed away to the devil,” Tav says with a chuckle, shaking his head and placing his hand on my shoulder.

“If I’ve managed to survive though, it can’t be all too hard now can it?” he reassures as I force on a false smile. He gestures to one of the rooms with a brightly lit sign saying ‘Redemption Inc’ and leads me over, stepping through the doors as he saunters up to the front desk.

“Gotta get the new meat a ‘Redemption Inc suit and tie’” he says, taking a stiff stance and putting on a mocking tone of feigned formality as the man behind the desk rolls his eyes. Tall and well built with beautiful marbled albino skin, he looks amazing in his otherwise fairly bland black and white business suit and shirt. The monochrome really works for him.

“Miles Owen McCarthy, I assume? We’ll get you fitted for a state of the art Redemption Inc protective suit and respirator, if you could just step into the automatic tailor over there we’ll get it synthesised in no time for you,” he speaks with a voice that matches his colour, deep and one-note, but I’ve never heard monotone work for anyone as good as it does on him. He makes bureaucracy look good.

“Sure thing, thank-you,” I say before following his directions and stepping into what looks like a clothes store changing room, passing through the velvet curtain to an empty cubicle.

“Welcome, please remove your clothing, place it in the fabric bin provided and press the button once ready,” a robotic, ‘customer service’ voice speaks as a plate in the wall rotates and reveals a button, whilst another slides out. I hesitantly strip down and place all my clothes in the bin before hitting the button and it rapidly flips back around and slips back up, locking back into a smooth chrome wall.

“Thank-you for your cooperation, please face the curtain and rotate ninety degrees clockwise when you hear the beep,” it explains as I turn to the curtain, watching as lines of red light appear from above and crawl over my form.

“Five feet, four point two seven one inches in height,” it speaks before letting out a sharp beep, I turn and the process repeats, now circling around me.

“Chest, thirty nine point six one one inches, waist, thirty one point nine eight nine inches, hips, thirty seven point eight two seven inches,” it continues, listing incredibly specific measurements for my body before letting out a second beep, and I turn, the red lights focusing around my face and ass.

“Demi-human, splicing of marine mustelid, adjusting for: tail, twenty six point eight two three inches, animal ear placement calibrated, hair colours, #340A00 and #F8F6F0, skin colour #52352F” it specifies, correct as far as I know, I never did colour theory or whatever. Kinda reddy brown for my tail and ear fur, brown skin, and whitish hair. Dunno why they need to know that though, are they colour-coordinating my hazmat suit? I almost miss the beep thinking about it, and quickly turn just before the lights descend on me one last time, floating around my crotch.

“Assigned male, please confirm,” it states.

“Um, yep, I’m a dude,” I responded.

“Dude, confirmed,” it replies. I'm not sure how a robot tailor's voice can sound condescending, but somehow it managed it, a machine scanned my junk and degraded me. What a good start to this experience.

A brown coloured hazmat suit drops from the ceiling on a hanger with a sort of pearly coloured mask and respirator hanging around the neck, it matches me completely, this place is ridiculous.

“Please follow the provided instructions when adorning the Redemption Inc protective clothing and respirator. Once you are dressed, please leave the dressing room. Your deposited clothing shall be returned to you upon your completion of your duties, or incinerated upon your dismissal,” it speaks, a haunting consideration, but I slip myself into the suit regardless, following the instructions printed on the inside to the letter and step through the curtain.

“My how dapper!” Taz says, voice muffling as it passes through the respirator’s filter, now adorned in a grey protective suit of his own.

“Right, follow me, we’ll grab your rulebook and I’ll tell you which ones to follow,” he says, winking behind the see-through protective mask.

A few doors and, I suppose, associates later, and we’re leaning against the back door of one of the buildings, flipping through a book as I can feel heavy pounding bass vibrating the door and my back as we can just about hear the salacious music from within.

“So it says start by sucking up the cum right, so that it doesn’t dry out, but I’ll tell you right now that stuff is fertile and hot as fuck, he’ll wake up before even a drip of that stuff dries out, so don’t worry about that. I get my hands on him asap, really don’t wanna be near him nearer the end in case that sleepy son of a bitch gets up,” he says, as if everything he just said was completely and utterly normal. I suppose this is a strip club, I’d be expected to clean up a couple cum stains, but I’m not sure why drying matters so much, or why I’d need to touch them?

“Ah, right, yeah that must sound insane. I’d explain it to you out here but, well, that’d ruin the surprise, and I only get to see someone react to this once so, just wait until we get in there. How about this, for today, you follow the book and watch how I do it instead, then tomorrow, you can try it my way?” he says, closing his book shut and pressing his ear to the door as the music inside dies down.

“Aaalllright, that’s our queue, give him fiiiive, fouuur, threeeee, twoooo aaaaand, one,” he says, turning a key in the lock and pushing the door open, stepping inside and looking at me with a expectant smirk. A plume of purple fog flows from the door, filling into the alleyway as the scene before me begins to clear. Hot pink and red lights move from their evocative pulsing to flat luminescence as I look upwards to see thick splatters of creamy white liquid that slowly droops down to the floor, or stands upright in long thin strands. I step inside, looking around to see various plush red lounge chairs and couches completely spattered with thick off-white liquid, bubbling and steaming this purple gas. My eyes move to the middle of the room where a thin, chrome pole stretches from the ceiling to a slightly elevated stage, upon which lays a crumpled figure. I step closer to see it moving, squirming and writhing, but not by their own movements. Large domes of flesh hang from its midsection and loins, as long rolling gurgles and groans join the occasional bubbling and dripping filling the room.

My loins betray me, stretching the confines of the finely tailored and form fitting protective suit as it bulges out my crotch, pushing into the only available space as it surges up and throbs against the skin of my belly.

“Heh, s’pose that’s one reaction. You can do anything with him while he’s asleep, he won’t wake up until he’s all done digesting. Trust me, anything,” he says with a smirk that suggests some experience in that area, and with a surety that sounds as though he’s tested the extremes of this form’s sloth. I approach the stage to see past the low-hanging fog, a lithe reddish-brown skinned man with long deep red hair that drapes across the ground as he lies there. A demi-human like me, dark red fur covering digitigrade legs finished with hooves and a pair of burnt red horns protruding from his head. I can’t draw my eyes off him and I subconsciously lick my lips in anticipation. His swollen abdomen stretches over what I think to be two forms tightly tucked inside him, their hands seem to push against their prison but, not in forceful motions as I notice the clear position they’re in, seemingly unable to contain themselves whilst contained within him.

My eyes drift, but only to the rest of his engorged form. A soft, plump appendage rests atop two shifting orbs, figures also within them, maybe three, four at most, squirming and sloshing the liquid contents. I can see most of their upper halves, either stroking the walls in smooth motions or fondling one another. The lower parts are filled with liquid, dulling the bulges, only revealing them occasionally as they tense around their contents, each time the squirms slow and soften, their forms slowly diminishing as the sack sags a little more as a constant stream of viscous liquid seeps from the tip of that soft and squeezable length of supple meat. Despite the fact that maybe six people are currently encased within him, living out their last moments in a lust-driven craze, he lays there so sweetly. His eyes closed, hands limply clasping his stomach, chest gently raising and lowering as soft breaths and little belches pass his supple lips. Despite the fact he is likely a foot and a half taller than me, I just want to climb up there and wrap him up as a little spoon and take care of him, massage his belly and release the building pressure below. Maybe this is how he works, maybe even just looking at him really puts us into a false sense of security. How did I let myself look past the fact that he is right now murdering those people? How, if he was awake, he’d likely do the same to me.

“See this? He can’t leave his stage, so that’s why I get all the stuff done with him first, before he has the chance to wake up y’see?” he says, running his fingers along grooves lined with polished bronze in the stage. They look like the sort of thing you’d see in a fantasy film, all sorts of symbols within a circle.

“It’s like there’s an invisible barrier, that we can pass, his victims can pass, hell even his cum can pass, but he physically can’t. If he wakes up and you still need to touch him for whatever reason, make him press up against the barrier, go through when he’s awake under any circumstances, no matter what he says or does,” he explains in a much more serious tone than I’ve heard from him so far.

“Right, your book says you gotta clean all the cum first, so you get started on that. Go up to one of those drains, grab the grate and turn it to the right then lift, it’ll come up with a tube. Just press the button on the underside of the grate and it’ll start suckin’,” he explains, I simply nod and head over to a drain as a trickle of thick, viscous liquid slowly seeps into it and drains away. Grab, twist, press, and voila, it hums to life, there’s even some hand holds to move it around. I begin my work, walking up to bubbling blobs of melted customer and suck it away with a suggestive wet slurping noise.

“Last guy I replaced took off the drain and stuck his dick in there, got pulled in and was never seen again apparently, so uh, don’t do that! Don’t stick your arm or leg or whatever in either, or in any of his holes either, though you can get away with uh, smaller things,” he says with a chuckle as he clambers up onto the stage.

“First things first, I get to work breaking down whatever’s in his belly. Your booklet will tell you to rub from the bottom, and yeah that’ll work coz it gets acid all over the contents. Unfortunately, he eats all the shiny shit too, and if you wanna make any money doing this, you need those in good condition. Instead, work from the top, focus on pushing all the meat down into the goop, it’ll also build up trapped gas too so you can get him to burp up all the goodies,” he says as he begins to roughly push on the top of The Dancer’s bloated belly, squeezing the two lovebirds within down into the pit of his stomach. Even over the loud sucking from my vacuum I can still hear the guttural orchestra of noises emanating from the squirming stomach in the centre of the room.

Loud groans begin to form as trapped air rumbles around his belly, soft burps turn to strained hiccups, sleepy breaths into whines and whimpers as sickly gurgles surge from his squirming stomach.

“It’s like kneading dough, you gotta be rough with it or you’ll just be left with a sticky mess. Wait for it to firm up, then work it in your hands. Soon enough the liquid will drain, and if you’ve done it right you’ll be left with a sack of hot air and shiny indigestibles. The book’s way means it all goes into his sack and you gotta milk it out into a drain, unless you wanna search through it all and risk getting your suit soaked. They say they filter it and give you half like anything else you turn in, but I’m one hundred percent sure they hold out on us,” he says, slapping the taut tummy as a groan of pain growls around their gluttonous guts.

I watch as he processes the two within down into mush, struggles disappearing beneath rough strokes and kneads. He expertly separates meat from material as he gathers them near the top, bundling them in a lump of supple skin and forming a small pocket of belly whilst forcing the goop and gas down.

“If you fuck it up, do the milking process but keep the drain on, it’s a bit clumsy but if you spill some cum just suck it up again, no big deal. Means the clothes and crap won’t go down and you can search their pockets for the good stuff,” he suggests, clearly having a good handle on this job, like the office worker who’s been here way too long and cuts every corner they can.

“Right, time to get really stuck in,” he says, moving to sit on the dancer’s checks, his ass squeezing their fluffy pecs as they squish under him, watching as he slowly rises and lowers as The Dancer strains to breathe.

He pushes his hands deep into the mush within the glutton’s guts, squeezing it deeper as it drains with loud, choking glugs and glurks as I watch their loins surge and swell, loud sloshes as liquid pours into the sack, bloating it even further as the squirming forms within tumble and fall into it, before eventually, they form into two perfect sloshing spheres.

“Whatever this thing is, it turns everything that goes into it into cum, for whatever reason. Think it’s some enslaved lust demon or something fucked up like that, if you believe in that kinda thing,” he explained, and the aesthetic certainly matched. Burnt red fur and skin, horns, hooves, goat-spliced demis don’t exactly get a good wrap amongst christians, along with snakes, but this one takes the cake a little. Can’t say I’ve seen a red skin before, but it could just be a deep, maroon-y brown. Granted, hadn’t seen an albino person before today either. The weird summoning circle style markings around his stage only adds to the superstition though.

“Demon, hah, that’s kinda dumb. Isn’t the owner called Mr. Angel? Bit on the nose, don’t you think?” I respond, just as he scoops up the now incredibly taut, rumbling bottom of their belly and opens up the slightly folded-in upper section. He quickly hops off their chest as a deep rumble quakes up The Dancer’s form and eruption of gut-gas belches out of his maw, clothing spewing from his mouth and across the stage as bits of jewellery jingle and clink across the ground.

“He sounds pretty hellish to me!” he responds with a chuckle as he begins to scoop up sopping wet, yet fashionable, clothing and slipping shiny trinkets onto his wrists and fingers. The supposed demon’s balls bubbles and groans, pressure pulsing through the bloated loins as that monster of a member begins to wake, twitching and throbbing as its softness begins to stretch and grow.

“Here you go big boy, alright, get that sucker over here, sucker!” he taunts, a teasing smirk on his face as he gestures for me to come closer, dragging the tube over.

“Now, like I said, usually I’d do it with the drain on, but I gotta teach you by the book first. So turn it off with the button, twist it back to the left and lift off the grate, then you just gotta slip it over his junk. It’ll do all the rest,” he explained, and I followed his instruction, pushing it over his growing girth as it stretched the rubber tubing and continued to grow within.

“Now, just twist that hand hold to change mode and press the button down again, it’ll start sucking him dry in no time!” he continued, and I continued to dutifully do as he said, twisting and pushing as his length pumped itself deep into the tubing. Soft, the thing was already massive, bigger than any stallion I’ve seen at full mast. Now though, it was easily as tall as me, and almost as wide. I’d slip inside there no problem, good thing it was contained for the moment.

“Grand, now, just go and fix the drain back onto the little clip on the opening over there, then, once he softens up and the tube slips back off, it’ll whip back inside its little hole and close automatically. If there’s ever any stains, just grab a brush and some cleaning liquid from the closet over there and scrub until it’s gone, but like I said, I’ve never seen this stuff dry. Other than that, we’re pretty much wrapped up, you just head on out and I’ll uh, finish up a couple bits,” Taz says in a dismissive tone as I watch the tube begin to suck and squeeze at his stiffened shaft, long bulges passing from the tip all the way down the tube before gurgling into the drain. Five or six living people, melted down and just pumped down the drains, how this place gets away with this I have no idea, but whoever this ‘Mr. Angel’ is, I don’t think he deserves the title.

I make my way over to the door, open it up and step through, and just as I go to close it, I swear I hear the sound of a zipper unfurl for just a split second, and pick at the one going up my suit, from crotch to collar. I don’t even begin to think of what he intends to do in there, pushing it from my mind as I look to find my locker and my new room within this corrupt compound.