Not a Waifu

It was another typical night for Tim, and time to go onto Danbooru after a few odd, strenuous gigs! He closed into the screen as it loads. The first pic, another of those girls he didn’t recognize, with long black hair and altogether forgettable. She’s from, probably, SAO, and almost no one should remember her. The second one… Isn’t she from one of those harem animes? The art style looked like it. He had watched a few animes, but they were all the kind where the characters pick up a gig (like part-time animes) or a hobby (like K-On), like what he usually did. Deeper animes, occasionally, but not the kind that’s either apparently hollow or fanservicey. Those girls he preferred to look at them on Danbooru, out of context. Seriously, why would he still be browsing at that age, with his serious lifestyle and sight problems. He’d better find something else to do, like finding a girlfriend or getting better pay…

A message popped up on his Discord.

“Hi” “Hey”

“Whats up” “Still going on Danbooru”

“Getting any girl you like” “Not much, just finding and looking at my own waifus” Yeah, like any “weeb” or anime-watching folk, he’d gotten a few of the girls he liked so much, that he’d claim as his own. Not yet…

“Not just waifus but also random girls” “I’m looking at one right now she’s from a harem anime? She’s called… Irina Shidou?” Looking at that girl again, he was a bit impressed by the decent looks of hers: those waving, elongated twintails, matched with some flushing bangs and a pair of wine-red, watery eyes. She has the kind of slender yet ample figure he preferred.

“What make a waifu a waifu or a girl your favorite girl is just a small endearing trait” “So… yeah?” He was probably right: he might or might not have a big bunch of waifus, like those harem male protags, but at least, if you love a girl, you must find something in her that’d catch your heart. Looking at her again, something in her clicked with him, but only very mildly. He could have a lot more from all the waifus he already had, not to mention a girl from a harem anime whom he’d barely known!

“About your waifus…”

Tim never talked about him browsing Danbooru openly, even though that was no different from many people’s porn nights, or indeed if you can always use Safebooru for an almost family-friendly experience. But he’d open up to a few of his fellow co-workers who knew his anime binges, and chat about animes past and current. Like, their plots, their favorite moments, their weaknesses, their characters, and of course their waifus? But that was only sporadically, when they had no one to tend to, and often disturbed by sudden assignments.

He saw a new pull on Derek’s Azur Lane account: he’d gotten the wildly popular bikini Zara who he’d seen on Danbooru a lot. She looked like the kind of girl popular artists would plunge in and draw safe and lewd arts of her, with the vaguely gyaru looks, hot chili-colored hair and bikini on a succulent body. “Derek, you’ve got a nice girl!” “Nice enough for rushing yourself, maybe not enough for forming a decent fleet…” Derek thought about setting up the fleet before how he felt about her body. “But that’s not bad, considering her looks.” Anthropomorphic warships are still warships, apparently.

Tim was reminded of his time as an Admiral, but at that time, cute girls came a big second for him. He’d seen a lot of fleet girls he personally liked, but barely used in real gameplay, and he simply went on Danbooru for seeing them more often. “I was an Admiral too, once, and I’d looked for their art on Danbooru, like Kashima back then. She was big because she’d the looks, like this Zara. She’s no waifu though, just looking…” Tim told Derek about his past, and Derek somewhat knew what Tim was up to: thinking about girls you’d just see or seldom see and suddenly remembered. “This Zara, that Kashima, any girl you come across, if you like them, claim them as your own! Even though you know next to nothing about them. Know them and then you’ll appreciate them, and becoming like them! That’s how I treat my new waifus.”

Becoming like them, what did he mean? Tim guessed he’d better to think about that girl again and see if she could be an out-of-context waifu, like everyone does with a new popular character. Irina… She had no big breasts like Zara, and her hair color was rather natural (but out of place for real Asians) compared to the unnaturally red Zara. She was in a few titillating outfits, on a level with Zara’s bikini. She wasn’t even that eye-catching after the first glance!

But becoming like them?

He still had no idea of “becoming like” a girl other than making her a waifu, or indeed thinking about a girl. A girl is a girl, on her own, and Tim was Tim, that 27-year old brown-haired weeb who’d have problem seeing things without that pair of thick glasses.

The vision’s a bit blurry – did he forgot the pair of glasses? No, he could clearly see the black glass frames constraining the field of vision. The sight became foggier slowly as he tried to wipe the lens, to no effect. Until he realized the blur was spread all over the lens, and the little bit of sight outside the frame was going the other way, sharpening and regaining the focus! He removed the pair of spectacles, and surely, everything was more firmly real than whenever he had removed them before. His sight was healing miraculously.

His ears and nose felt lighter without the pair of glasses weighing on them after such a long time of wearing them. But no, even though the glasses were quite heavy, they felt too light as if they were taken away bit by bit, losing their own size then weight. Were they shrinking? Yeah and nope, as he touched his nose. He felt like it was his whole skull, not just those features on his face, was being pulled from within, so that even though everything on his face were kept more or less at a similar and human proportion while shrinking on the whole. Tim couldn’t think of what was really happening on his body, let alone really reacting to them. He could only wait until things became stable or normal again.

Almost without him noticing, the roof seemed more distant every second. Everything in the room grew, millimeter by millimeter, like the mushroom power-up reverting itself, or a previously normal-heighted human into a dwarf. The bag that was his skin squeezed his weak energy out, leaving something even weaker, but more fitting of the size his body was taking on. The T-shirt he was on, slightly loose when he put it open, was now oversized, so much that it was hanging on his emaciated frame. Or was it?

Feeling all the sweat and heat over his belly, he pulled the T-shirt on his torso, flapping it to fan some air inside. The hairs on his arm, once stood by the bit of static electricity, were quickly retreating inside the follicles. At once he pulled up the T-shirt, and it flew away like sliding away on a pole. Tim finally saw some more concrete changes on him: the once slightly muscular portion around his navel were completely skinny by then, like all the muscles under it weakening and dissolving. Instead of the width he should had of his abdomen, the torso was quickly angling towards his crotch, and the waist where his legs joined were now a new pair of bulk, more impressive than it would be for a complete male. He’d seen enough good fanart anatomy to know things were turning feminine for him – her? She had to be sure if she’d turn out to be a real chick or transgender, so ripping off the pair of boxers (figuratively), she found her old manhood retreating inside her crotch, like a turtle hiding inside its shell, waiting for a new organ and its gap to be in place. Meanwhile, on the chest, the nipples swelled from the originally broad ribs, going from paper-thin to cardboard-sized, to the size of tennis balls and now the oranges. Who would know how big they would be when they were fully grown? But she’d be another girl to be sexualized at the very least and being a slut at the very worst.

Becoming like a girl, indeed! Becoming like a girl? Who on earth would suddenly want to have their gender flipped other than a transgender! They need to learn all the troubles of their new sex and gender identities without growing up or experiencing them to some level of familiarity! Tim couldn’t start to imagine her facing the cycle or getting even a decently workable sense of fashion, not that she hadn’t seen them in others, but facing them herself was another matter. But first off, what was her face becoming? Going inside the bathroom, she found herself altogether quite young-looking for a woman her age, with much more child-like fat around her, closer to a teen. The chin was sharp, but the face had barely anything angular around it, without much of a nose, and sharp, round-eyed. The last bit of leafy green was drained away, leaving a bloodied iris. Behind her, new streaks of blonde appeared and mixed with the existing brown hair, reaching down almost to the floor. And the flushing bangs…

Not just any girl, but someone looking like that Irina, whether she liked her or not.

“Tim” was gone, and in his place Irina. At first, she thought all that mattered was adjusting to a new gendered lifestyle, which could had been quick and simple if she could find some accepting pals. But no, instead, someone with a cool and short blue hair found her, apparently knowing her for so long a time. The “memories” from this body said “Xenovia”. Bad time for someone trapped in a world she’d never known!

This is a commission for someone on DeviantArt

Sexual Education for the Non-binary

For the Sexual Education course’s final project, Kamio had little idea of the direction he was going to work on. It was either individual or pair, and (exciting all the boys in class), the pairs had almost always had both genders – as non-binary unfriendly as it was, everyone knew where they would go. And for that, even with the “conservative” content taught in the textbook, the project had the reputation of being a free-for-all and liberally graded, as much as he’d heard from old frats. The usual sexual stuff quickly got mediocre – he needed a fun way out that’ll guarantee him the good grade he deserved.
And the “he” is used a bit loosely here – Kamio got no cock nor balls, but a fine slit. That meant he was a cuntboy, the shorty kind who was still well-muscled enough to pass for a real dude in PE lessons and having his lack of the bulge barely noticed by anyone. Normally, doing the project himself and writing about his life with a pussy would be good enough for a decent grade, the glaring eyes notwithstanding. But that would be a bit boring, without other boys getting on him, as he’d built his circle without any way to have “boy”-boy skinship.
Who’d be better – getting a cock without the stigma of appearing to be “gay”? He’s been eyed on – and yeah, the eyes belonged to Nanase. A “girlfriend”, sorta. Almost everyone knew they were together for some time, and they were a perfect match – teasing with down-to-earth, tall with short, and hot with unassuming. The cleavage opened by the unbuttoned shirt facing him, and her smug grin, said a lot. She wanted to be a pair in the project with him.
That was more than perfect. She was in the same shoe with him. The first night she’d been to his place, getting some hot rubbing, they knew each other’s quirk. Once he unzipped his pants and revealed something delicate beneath the pubic hair, she had him pushed back and, grubbing from her plain underwear, something thick. A full member with the balls, and nothing else.
“Ya’ll like a pair with ma’, probs!”

After she’d leaned and spread her legs over the bedsheet, Kamio found the member tightly packed. Lightly removing the band of underwear holding it back, the little dick head flung up, with a lightly red and enjoying face by Nanase. Both of them are ready for the dick between them to be milked. The gush of Nanase was one of hell a thrust. After a quick groping, he had it all over his face, like the female part in a normal pull. Nanase panted, a bit ecstatic, and Kamio felt a little squirt on his exposed part. Time for the real deal – Kamio backed off, grabbed the same stick and dripped it right on the squirt on his body…
In the end, the fire burned all over Kamio and Nanase from beholding each other’s precious secret.
But what if he had had a dick, like a normal guy and Nanase as a futanari?
Even better - wouldn’t having each other’s body nice for them? He could play with Nanase’s boobs on the chest, and finally got to jerk off with the cock on the groin. Nanase, meanwhile, would feel how orgasms from a pussy could be… More pleasure than they had now. Even better - that could be a part of the project after which they’d recall about.

The next day, Kamio slowly unwinded her eyelids. It was Saturday – no extra lessons this week. A pair of soft, mushy, yet ample weight over her chest, and instead of the fitting boxers holding another pair of intimate lips, she had the sky-blue pantsu clutching the dormant member. The little trick Kamio found last night worked! This meant “Kamio” on the same bed was actually Nanase in the cuntboy’s body. He was still asleep like dead – but Kamio was ready to end whatever dream he was having! Little by little the boxers were pulled down, until she saw the same pubic hair, dark and barely shaved, and the moist flaps. She inserted a fine fingernail inside, stirring the juice inside, while the body stirred. Then, with the cock erected and dripping, it was time to wake him up by a few punches in the belly!

A week later, Kamio took on the same smug face as the body often had, the same shirt unbuttoned for the perfectly-sized cleavage to be revealed, like she’d always done. As “Nanase”, she had enough love-filled eyes on her and her flesh, sought after by most of the class. But she eyed only the short boy to her side whom she had been inextricably entwinned with. And having a glimpse of “Kamio”’s smooth groin, something in her underwear was itching…

All art used here are under fair use.

Half a Dozen TG Donuts

All art used here are under fair use.

Juxtaposition

There is a street on the edge of the urban sprawl, where some short storefronts, monotonous suburbia and a swamp leading into the wild converge. A few cars frequent the road, some of them commuting back and forth, some carrying loads for the shops, and one or two of them heading inside the corrugated gate on the perimeters of the swamp, treading this humble dirt path. Let us follow one of these cars inside.

The car’s owner has a glimpse of the setting sun, still radiating a fiery luster under the magically transmuted filament, a telling sign of the world to come. A few figments of what was possible, and what will be possible in this bleak unassuming mansion – a perfect place to hide this microcosm of pulsing sensations – float out of his cluttered mind. The mansion houses a club, not advertised by a sign except for the wooden “Juxtaposition” on the gate. Behind the wooden door, as he imagines, a lot of cuddling and embracing and take place, over a few pieces of green cash. So many lives cross with each others’ here, entangled and united in pleasure, and so many intimate memories are craved into flesh and psyche, juxtaposed over each other’s minds. Hence the indicative “Juxtaposition”. Now that he has a chance to approach to his dreamy passions, it is time to embrace…

The sun, with its worldly businesses, contacts and conferences, has finally set. The glass and concrete towers are firmly behind him, only to return when sun rises in their midst. In its place is the wild, silent night among shrubs and little ponds, where a mundanely grassy odor has permeated until the strong oils have overwhelmed it. From this mansion, glowing from its many dark blinds, a womb-colored magic is seeping into the cold amethyst of the horizons. The presence is almost delirious, as if it is transposed from the collective imaginations of the carnal-minded to this real-world location, or a deliberate trap for the saccharinely lustful…

Holding one of the gilded but worn-out handles on the tarred doors is an adolescent girl, tightly cladded in shining leather. He has a casual glance of her – the same leporine blonde hair, tied at the back with the same charcoal ribbon, the same muted ruby eyes, the same bunny suit without the ears, and the same smile probably strained by months of being at the door front. But yes, she is still the same “lady” that received her – a pretty but forgettable one. Because the ones inside are even better, and he has seen or even sensed them from within. “Is it Claude Weismann?” Her pair of rubies tail after his own’s. “Yes,” Claude leaves it here, since a lot are best told without words.

“Welcome back, our Mistress has willed to greet you in person after such a long absence – or this is what she said.” The girl mutters the exact wordings of this Mistress whom he has a lascivious impression of her in mind: a few buttons hang loose on her shirt, and under those are a pair of meat gourds. They are punctured by the crow-shaded lingerie slipping inside the same shirt under the nondescript grey jacket, tightly covering the areolae. Then her right leg – the most motherly and noble of all legs in this mansion – crosses over her other side, leaving the entrance to her bosom occulted between her thigh skin, pillars and gates from the sacred. She would remove her bright red pair of glasses and give a damning glare for the face he would be making, like a grade school teacher would do to a mischievous boy. But even the face belongs to a young, unwearied one more fitting of a supermodel than someone of experience as her.

That is the owner of this mansion and club, who has so much at her command. He will meet her again when they reach the usual reception where the most prized patrons, of which he is among their ranks, are personally serviced by the hands of the Mistress. But before that, he knows he is in for a better time seeing girls bustling around to serve. All the joyful screams have a special kind of alacrity not in any other club…

And soon, the girl opens the entrance he has seen twice or thrice, and as he has expected the Mistress is sitting. But he did not expect her to sit backwards – or sitting on the simple chair reserved for guests, still facing him. Not how he has imagined: 2 sheets of scarlet are sewn together on her side, wrapping her succulent figure. The same mounds are rightly covered by the dress, much less revealing than in his picture, but no less tantalizing. And where she has covered, she has revealed even more in other parts: Other than her shoulders suggesting more than the unclothed skin, with such a short flap over her private parts, he has a better view of the same thighs – and those pillars are opened to him, legs forced to the side by the back of the chair, draped only with a blind and the flat plate of the seat. Rather than the pretense of formality the image provides him, this dress has nearly freed her body of any imperfections that is “clothing”, totally. And already noting Claude’s face, her grin is one of approval – such a dress must be appreciated by as many males as possible.

Claude is not after her, luckily. Having her is only near the middle range of all choices possible. “Claude, I heartfeltly welcome your presence back in ‘Juxtaposition’,” the Mistress captures his attention from her own breathtaking sight. “The affairs of the other world have dealt a few small creases on your face…” While rather bluntly observing him, Claude has only realized how the past weeks – no, months – has been a hectic time for his business: while the profits have grown immensely, all the initiatives of his own and his secretary’s have already been second nature to them, until reaching this place. “Um, yeah? That’s how the outside world works us executives,” he follows for a bit the weird terminology he has only started to notice. Her beauty is otherworldly, her senses more so. “A few creases on your flesh can be exchanged – a few creases on your heart, smoothened.” As if a few cracks in Claude’s heart are widened by her words, and ready to be remedied. “You’re quite right. I’m here to leave the figures behind, for another kind of figure, you see. It’s both a body thing and a mind thing, like what you’ve said,” he remarks. Her silken left leaf extends to wave and caress her nightly thorns around the warped shirt, and slowly into strokes. The oily scent, all too unnoticeable in this mansion, is now seeping onto Claude’s self.

“Then, what of the method?”

“… The usual, please, the usual.” He cannot wait.

Her sight is mesmerizing. Claude is indeed being mesmerized into a chair besides her and facing her unpolished yet unrivalled femininity, her sapphire amulets of the mind’s light.

“This, for your long absence…” followed by a few of unintelligible incantations…

After a brief sleep, the eyes open again, only to see the Mistress’s back, fully opened to her view. But the woman in scarlet is closing the door to this room without looking behind her, and the one on the bed is left with a duo of servant girls. She, indeed, she can sense her own sexuality by the lack and gain of things. Her arms are crushing into her new pair of breasts, decently sized, and big enough to stand on their own instead of being closely stuck onto the chest. They are the first thing to be noticed when she inspects her new body. That’s intriguing enough for her to get up and take a better look of her new self in the girl-sized mirror. With the reflective face, the curves are clear to her, the skin tone of hers is darker and closer to a mix of olive and amber. The ass is puffy to sit on, and the legs are fine for a few positions of crossing each other. And finally, there is nothing extra standing in the way between her and the boner of every patron.

“How’s this girl called?” She asks one of the servants besides the wardrobe. “The body’s name is Fuyuka. What do you want to be dressed in?” Immediately she has an answer after recalling the reception. She will be another “bunny”, having a pair of bunny ears and a “tail”, but seeped in the magic of the night and with a cute, love-filled, sexy twist. Instead of the usual bunny suit, she will have something exposing, which means a pitch-black bikini, a pair of with garterbelt, and the white collar faintly calling back to the typical “bunny”. She won’t mind a pair of sunglasses to cover her eyes from the fire within. And finally, a head of fluttering dark hair, important if she is going to charm with mundane “exotic” beauty. That’s a stretch for any self-respecting girl, but they feel just right for this body. Those appear on the wishes of the newly swapped girl, and are immediately on her body with swift hands. Only by now does she realize the true extent of the Mistress’s taste in girls and by giving her the best in “the usual”. A show is coming, and like every time before entering the playing field, the servant girl produces a little rubber stamp, feline-edged, inked and pressed against the point on her chest she points to. That’s the sign of a masculine mind juxtaposed onto a show girl!

Like a lustful drop in the fiery ocean, Fuyuka passes through the back alley she’s treaded many times, to the “ball room”. It is called a “ball room”, but closer to the playground of the many, a ground for orgies. One girl, with slightly hopping steps, an almost ironic maid headdress on strip-bare bikini, and the feline sign on her right arm, pours out a tonic into cups for her eagerly waiting “master” in loungewear, one hand leveling the silver plate. A few nearly nude bodies, masculine, feminine or intersex alike, fling to wild flute and drum beats under those straying purple lights, as in the depths of a hellish paradise; as the music drifts off, so spreads the wiggling of bodies. A pool of liquor baths a pair of flesh “lovers”, drenching in intoxication and passionate touches, until the burn within their heart, the dizzy and blurry senses dissolves into the pool, emptied for another pair. Even more blurred between the real and the unreal is the bowing of this black cat, with all the human features and proportions below the neck (a mask?), awaiting to be given milk, even jolting to the “pump” of the nearest “cow” and feeding from it. Such a role-play! One spot of egregiously tasty acts flashes in as another fades out. An almost unknown world unlike any other, where reality follows the sexual impulses of those within, and playful bits abound. Happily hot bodies, many with the same sign, are sprinting from one place to another, to be touched and felt in the same oily scent as the patrons and add their own ones to this greater blend. Is that oil coming from orgies?

Where is Fuyuka going? Fuyuka is Fuyuka, not Claude. Claude is somewhere else, maybe lying with other the girls, or in a self. Fuyuka is here, an unfettered “bunny”, jumping, bouncing and wanting to make noise around. The 3 poles there? One of them is empty, waiting for a girl to be perfectly matched. A forerunner of herself, with a head of red hair and much more darkened for her gyaru past, is clung around the other pole, trying to entice, and gaining a big crowd for her baseness. The other pole… an underage? Or not? She can’t tell. And this pole, there’s a magnetic pull of her bones and her mind to it, until they are inextricably entwinned. That Claude’s far, far away. So far away, in fact, that she is Fuyuka in body, and Fuyuka in spirit; anyone, if they ever know her, know her as this pole-dancing bunny, and not as that half-famous and stern Mr. Weismann. This alone lavishes their attention to this body, and not to that half-gone man.

A lift, a slide, slithering and coiling around the pole… this body is naturally attuned to maneuvering with a pole, isn’t it? Without any practice, her sexuality is easily unraveling and unwinding around. A fire rising from the crotches of the “onlookers” burning up, to the heartbeats she can ear with the pair of bunny ears, and into their cloudy minds. The roof of this part of the “room”, while high up above, is already hanging low, with a few hints of cyan among magenta. Maybe Fuyuka has done a lot of pole dancing while under other “pilots”? Yet this is the first time the body is used by her (them?), and for this first time, she is doing great. Even better, and maybe adding to the excitement of being revealed, is being Fuyuka, dancing as Fuyuka, and exposing as Fuyuka until only a little bit of modesty remains. Maybe that “modesty” can be left out altogether. Not Mr. Weismann, not with an eye from his subordinates that will ruin his reputation.

Subordinates – she recognizes one from afar! There’s Wilsbury from the middle management, the collar hanging loose, but still the shrewd Tom Claude recognizes. His taste in sex is decent, and for that he should know almost nothing of this club. But pulling his arm is “Claude”, or whoever’s controlling the body. He mutters something into Wilsbury’s ears, maybe something about this sexy pole dancer and how “she’s cute and sexy”. This “Claude” could even be the real Fuyuka all along, judging from the fact that she was swapped with him, and she’s on the smug face of seeing this body being enjoyed from without and within. The lewder she gets, the merrier everyone is; the hotter Fuyuka poses, the prouder Claude gets. All too well. Better, the bigger the crowd is, the more attentions she gets, and more and more of the faces the real Claude recalls from outside the club pop up this crowd, all picked up by “Claude”: That Coolings from HR who has been to many clubs under the table, John something down on the junior level, and a few more he has definitely met before. And both of the swapping pair have almost gotten the most out of their new bodies, while the ground burns from the hearts of everyone witnessing…

“C’mon, is that all the club has? Better poses? Sexier dances?” One of them in the crowd shouts. Is it the end of their dreams? Far from it. Those men barely have the scent of the oils, only having some lighting projected on them. Being a snake on a pole has already attracted this crowd, and Fuyuka thinks it is time to up her game seeing Wilsbury’s wide eyes and Coolings calling out “yeah, hot, yeah!” unrestraining his working self. Many more in the crowd are woo-ing and ah-ing at every move Fuyuka makes to flex her soft skins and swing the 2 puffed parts of her torso. After the last swing, to the same rhythm, she removes her right hand from the pole, swaging her ass step by step down the platform of the 3 poles, and mingles into this crowd. Finding one of the males who twists himself to the same beats, she synchronizes her swags to his, and approaches him until only a slim and dangerous distance is left. Face-to-face, their bodies zig-zag and wiggle, still like the snakes, but more and more intimate, until the belly’s skin slides with the shirt’s fabric, touching gently and wiping the sweat on it. “Nice moves…” He is backing down, and Fuyuka turns back with a few swirls. Her butt is right in front of his legs, waving to the pants and belt, as if inviting something underneath it to react. “Go, go, go on!” “Yeah, he’s gotten the best butt!” All the eyes and mouths can’t stop noticing and clamoring! A few steps back, and the man finds himself sitting on a sofa. Fuyuka gets the upper hand in the dance by posing her spine over his, while withholding her own ass from sitting on his lap. The shaking body has a few hands slipping onto the straps of the bikini, a few small sheets sliding in, ten by ten, hundred by hundred, until several scores of green cash press are clamped onto the fat. When the panties are filled, they move onto the top, and finding the cleavage empty, quickly filled it with pleasure (not the viscous kind) and putting a smiling face on Fuyuka. Someone even showers a mixed bunch of bills adding to the shower of cheers, and have a good stash of cash from a wallet stacked on her chest – Fuyuka’s too excited to notice the wallet being “Claude’s”!

Will they realize her self that’s not yet known? Will they? Their minds are too deep into her flesh than to realize.

Cash is good, and seeing the subordinates is also good. The crowd fades out of her sight, the lowering moon in the midnight adding to the charm. Soon the sofa is empty, except herself and 3 men: Wilsbury, Coolings and “Claude Weismann”. All others have turned their backs to them, and the time for intimacy comes. Coolings starts with “we’ve caught this ‘bunny’ right, do everything we want!” And everything Fuyuka will accept. Fuyuka circles between the embrace of them, the plushy ass at once among those 3, letting their arms into her bottom. Inch by inch, those and the eyes advance over the “fluff” until the most sensitive part is near their reach. “We’re waiting for you to moan…” Without even fingering that, Fuyuka’s heart is racing and flaring up with passion, and they don’t have to wait. One of the arms pushes her whole waist onto their thighs, her own legs clicking with theirs. She is overlying on a bed of three teasing pair of legs, noiselessly making love with her own body. But no, not hugs, but a jerk and a flip, then a pair of arms clamp her torso to Cooling’s, the balloons popping up on his ribs. They’re squeezed, a little bit of wetness coming out on her areolae (“the body already had fertile sex!” Fuyuka knows). Fuyuka, meanwhile, wishes for something else, hand on hand, face to face, and lips to lips: “Y’all wanna some bonus after this? For a bit of extra cash!”

Fuyuka’s the special “bunny” of today, and she’s very willing to jump into any fantasies they will ask. She, alone, just begs for them to be brave and get the most out of her. A few Franklins spent and placed aside (for now), they’re beginning their greatest operation…  

The distance of her head from their pants feels just right, just an inch away waiting for the thrill their cocks will bring… There’s only a quite thin sheet of their pants and a narrow gap covering the cock, all three of them now removed. Two of the cocks are spared for her, for her fingers to entwin with. And grab, and pull, and shoot, until all their creamy “love” for her’s fully on her face, her mouth gaping. For that, the boners’ owners have a hard-on and gazing at Fuyuka with the meanest of eyes. “Keep going…” Their chilling “love” is also on their faces, mouths open for enjoyed chatter.

One arm crush into her shiny black hair, caressing and forcing her head to face his groin. Fuyuka glances up into his eyes… Claude’s. Her soul races from her own eyes to his, then back to her own, rushing the bolt of shock over her ducking body. Claude unzips the same pants he is in when he parked his automobile outside the club, and Fuyuka has the cock flagrantly aiming at her mouth. Full of hair and slinkiness. “I don’t try to say what I want to do exactly… Have this!” Claude proclaims. “More… More! Keep going!” Fuyuka tries saying those again, but she’s muffled by blowing something in her mouth and drinking from it…

She loves Claude, needless to say. Or that, Claude as Fuyuka loves Fuyuka as Claude, since the old body’s cum are given back to the new body’s mouth, for free, and she finally gets to taste the old body’s cum; it’s not like a manager with the least self-respect would give something like the two are having right now. Both of them have finally met again, after being swapped, and juxtaposed themselves over each other. In the unlikeliest and fantastic place, doing the most likely yet twisted thing!

After a short while, they are all exasperated, the males filled with fulfilled lust and gust, and Fuyuka, a shower of smelly cum and another pool in her mouth. “This girl’s got the best skills for a ‘bunny’,” compliments Coolings, “especially talking about a bunny girl like this. You suck, and you blow, like no other! I mean, you’re the best in getting yourself fucked up! Those’re good things for club girls!”

Wilsbury follows, “Great time with this girl and my dick – I’m in for coming again, Jay,” and Coolings lets out a proud smile of “knowledge”. Fuyuka just flaps with the flaccid dicks, no waiting for them to be aroused again though.

Finally, it’s Claude, almost revealing something about Fuyuka: “This girl gets some surprising skills for girls of their kind. You’ve seen her dancing on a pole, and neatly with some other guy. She’s so natural when she sees several dozens of cash, not like she’ve never been paid that much. And she’s doing everything for us just now. She knows what everyone wants, and that’s even more impressive when you know her.”

Fuyuka’s blushing less and less with all those praises after being reminded of what she has done so far. “Right, right,” the other two agree. “Do we have any more to do with her, Claude? I don’t have enough,” Wilsbury replies.

“She’s good enough. More than good enough for a ‘bunny’ girl of her kind. Do you want to know what kind of ‘bunny’ she is?”

Fuyuka’s world blurs around her as Claude goes horribly wrong. “look at her boobs, see that black feline stamp? That means this girl used to be another guy. A guy who wants to become one, has the skills and knowledge, paid and succeeds so well, that we’ll leave her here, as long as she wants.” Fuyuka’s heart crashes when they know. As if most of the magic on the sofa, and all over the club, fades away; the lights dim, and all those other girls appear sick of all those glitters. Some other patrons have also left other girls, with stamps or without, but all too dazed and drained of all life. The dreamy club has been replaced with all those flying cash and sexual humiliation, when Fuyuka realizes that she’s trapped in this body. And Claude’s getting away with, well, Claude’s body.

The two worlds have finally been juxtaposed over each other, one illusory, and one material. the macrocosm reclaims the microcosm: he night is at its deepest, when the first rays of dawn breaks out from the horizon and reclaim everything under it, including this humble mansion, and blinding (or rather opening the eyes of) those inside. Will the Mistress know?

But what? She’s Fuyuka, and Fuyuka’s supposed to stay, like a serving bunny girl. She has to keep the façade up to this end. “Like a private and intimate time? Come back next time!” She said, with the obviously fake face, as the three shakes off their bizarre oily scents and return to those tall towers…

This is a commission for someone on DeviantArt. But who'll care?