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Description
She's half trying to hide the glass of red wine that she has in her hand, a clear indication that she's been spending some time drinking and plucking up the courage to present herself in what she's wearing.

The alcohol can't mask all of her embarrassment, but that same sense of self-consciousness is in turn overwhelmed by the way in which it has stoked the desires she's been hiding.

Your instinct is not to bend to kiss her, but instead to pick her up, lifting her petite frame into your arms where she curl herself into your embrace, gigging at the effects of the alcohol and the realisation that you're already making for the stairs.

Forgetting that she's still holding it, she lets some of the wine spill onto her belly, soaking through the material of her negligee as though it were not there at all.

The transformation takes only as long as the climb up the stairs, but serves as a prelude to her climax as she arches her back and shudders with unsuppressed pleasure in your arms.

First her ludicrously high heels and then her stockings and knickers fall away and are forgotten down the stairs as her legs merge, seamlessly and smoothly into the sinuous form of a tail, scaled and ending in an unfolding caudal fin, from which drops the last of the underwear that she wore on her lower half.

Gone are the days when you mistook this seemingly taxing process of physical metamorphosis as something that would leave her exhausted, and to the contrary, you know that her subsequent stillness is merely the prelude to the coming of the storm itself.

Laid upon the bed, she roll straight onto her stomach, serpentine and aware of the lines which her body makes, then raises herself on her arms so that her back descends and her belly bends, causing the negligee to slide away from her scaled, and yet still so enticing buttocks.

She reminds you of nothing so much as the figurehead of a sailing ship, come to life and desperate for physical release after countless years trapped in the form of inanimate wood.

You understand now what inspired the tales of the siren, as you disrobe and lower yourself onto the bed, there is no rational choice in the matter and you feel that you are become the ship to which she was once fettered, tossed on the storm-wracked seas which have poured themselves into her soul and now seek to be exorcised through your coupling.

But if you are the ship, then she pulls you through the waters, not simply borne upon your forecastle, but rather demanding that you go wherever she wills.

Your cries are become the groaning of a ship's timbers, tossed upon the sea, while hers are the crashing of the waves themselves.

Description
She's half trying to hide the glass of red wine that she has in her hand, a clear indication that she's been spending some time drinking and plucking up the courage to present herself in what she's wearing.

The alcohol can't mask all of her embarrassment, but that same sense of self-consciousness is in turn overwhelmed by the way in which it has stoked the desires she's been hiding.

Your instinct is not to bend to kiss her, but instead to pick her up, lifting her petite frame into your arms where she curl herself into your embrace, gigging at the effects of the alcohol and the realisation that you're already making for the stairs.

Forgetting that she's still holding it, she lets some of the wine spill onto her belly, soaking through the material of her negligee as though it were not there at all.

The transformation takes only as long as the climb up the stairs, but serves as a prelude to her climax as she arches her back and shudders with unsuppressed pleasure in your arms.

First her ludicrously high heels and then her stockings and knickers fall away and are forgotten down the stairs as her legs merge, seamlessly and smoothly into the sinuous form of a tail, scaled and ending in an unfolding caudal fin, from which drops the last of the underwear that she wore on her lower half.

Gone are the days when you mistook this seemingly taxing process of physical metamorphosis as something that would leave her exhausted, and to the contrary, you know that her subsequent stillness is merely the prelude to the coming of the storm itself.

Laid upon the bed, she roll straight onto her stomach, serpentine and aware of the lines which her body makes, then raises herself on her arms so that her back descends and her belly bends, causing the negligee to slide away from her scaled, and yet still so enticing buttocks.

She reminds you of nothing so much as the figurehead of a sailing ship, come to life and desperate for physical release after countless years trapped in the form of inanimate wood.

You understand now what inspired the tales of the siren, as you disrobe and lower yourself onto the bed, there is no rational choice in the matter and you feel that you are become the ship to which she was once fettered, tossed on the storm-wracked seas which have poured themselves into her soul and now seek to be exorcised through your coupling.

But if you are the ship, then she pulls you through the waters, not simply borne upon your forecastle, but rather demanding that you go wherever she wills.

Your cries are become the groaning of a ship's timbers, tossed upon the sea, while hers are the crashing of the waves themselves.