Easter Bunny Hunt

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Magical Bunny

All art used here are under fair use.

A Try at being a Bunny

A veiled moon lays low, outside the mansion...

The terse leggings on her poorly plushed legs are sliding again, like they are going to be left behind on the oily floor, even though they are fast strapped on her and pulled by the suit she’s wearing. But then, the suit is just as stuffy as she never expected when she first entered the gate of this dreamy place. Under the ebony leather, many dots of her own sweats are rubbed over her unprotected skin, lubricating the suit for stark but soft touches. Hot for the tensely-backed stretches hugged by the leather, and hotter for the two’s gazes. Strange sensations - she has never embraced the skin and flesh in this body before, let alone really doing anything titillating with it. But the diffusing excitement besides, this isn’t the best time to enjoy. They’ve got two particularly prized patrons to serve. And it starts among the orgies...

The dirty blonde beauty juggles a dish-sized plate among the clamoring mist of desire, towards the three faces she has seen so many times. Hesitating for a bit if the two bulges in front of her can support a roundel, the flashes of broken shards in her mind keep the glasses off her narrow cleavages and on the lightly spread hair of one of the laps. At least, the sound of shattering is replaced by chirps of two streams of a malt-yellow alcohol - like what we will always drink, hand on lap or not. Proficiency with her body. She has to learn the handling of this fresh body from her now blonde pal, who’s been through so many times of being the chick she is now. And look at their old bodies, who are just as fuming as they should have been. Is she, “Gina”, the only one out of place here? Like, any of those guests who’ll never guess so, complete with the blush?

“Ya know, he gotta get some unsober fun going~” being in that body, especially for months on end, makes her the real “Mel”: even the way she talks is the Mel “Gina” knows. Sweet, light lips. As Emil he’d never suspect Mel was not Mel and Chris not Chris. They never showed any sign of being “out of their character”, like someone you’ll see in fiction. Definitely being in a girl’s body gives you all the ways of coping with your body, ways to please the other sex and even the whole mindset! But not Emil, not yet. Having to talk like Gina, after all the intimate time with the real deal, gives her a stammer. “No worries, Gina. Ever seen the Mistress? Sure she had no for your sweating and huh-ings!” The first glass filled, the second half-full. “And she won’t mind for us to be who we secretly wanted to be, and even more for Cutie, yeah?” Hearing her or not, Tim’s eyebrows jolt with the remark, then signalling for another glass without words. 

“Get prepared, ‘Gina’,” “Emil” quickly nibs one of the leaves on her chest, "you never know how great they're doing like us now..." slowly penetrating under the shining leaf, down onto the modestly milked, and fondles the still-unsucked nipple. "This every night, months on end..." "Emil" reminds both of the pair, half intoxicated and slurring, still with half a mouthful of simmering beer on his tongue. "The beer, my finger, everything..." "Mel" goes on with cuddling and forcing her hand-moulded body onto her "boyfriend", his face crushing under the pair of h-cups. When the leather comes out, some ambiguously white foam are dripped over the polish. "Tim" would rather bury his head under the embrace of this pair, over her hourglass belly. The music in the background, between a whirlwind of piano and saxophone, clatters wildly.

"And so the eyes roll aside," "Emil" aptly quips. By now, even with the hands crossing over "Mel"'s waist, "Tim" would take a few looks on the girl at the pole, now and then. "Right at home here." All the bodies twisting so shapely, contorting and revealing all the feminine curves. Even "Mel" has joined and slithers her spine to the silent rhythm that is moving the pole dancer, fluttering. "Tim" needs more than the twists and grabs "Mel"'s ass, cushier than the pair of breasts he just smelled, and then thrusts her in place. “Gina” realizes, like her own “boyfriend”, they’re best served by her instead of the one already being the prize of “Tim’s”. Two more tall glasses later, the bottle is empty, and dutifully “Gina” ships the plate off the scene. Now, even “Mel” turns her head over to that dancer, barely pubescent, tying herself around the axis, the axis gaining almost all the attention in the pool for her to flex her joints. Her limbs are like the heads of snakes entangled and weaving together, meeting all the bewildered faces, and returned with even more gymnastics on a leather bikini. The couple, even “Emil”, would rather turn towards the marvel over a few glurps, than really be content just to be served.

Better served? Better served by her. A moment later, that little girl is dislodged by the side. From now on the metallic axis is Gina's. And everyone's eyes, some recognizing this chick, some not, is even more fervent in seeing every swing this new "hottie" might bring about. 

Emil was never the most athletic kid in the lot of college kids, and not even so, a few years after graduation. Gina has a hard time of thinking the right way to start moving. It's easier to be standing at the pole, watching all the greedily waiting eyes, than really taking her place for being an actual gymnast. But so naturally she starts raising one of her legs, and the leg, even though as sharp as a pen, is light enough for good movements. So quickly she lifts her petit torso off the ground, all her weight flinging around easily, and pretty soon she's waving her legs, making a T-pose with the lower limbs like a ballet in the air, all the private but covered part being on the top of the cheering crowd. A surprisingly easy start. Rolling her center of gravity back, a swirl later, she is making a perfect stretch of her legs right on the ground. 

Even Mel and her boyfriend is running to the stage, getting a better sight of Gina's newly gained proficiency. Great, the first steps of belonging here, Gina tells herself silently. Emil is already at the front of the crowd, so whenever Gina ends one of the throws or spins, clearer and clearer she thinks of what to do with the three of them, and more and more she realizes how many of the ways to please are in her muscle memory. She's gonna show who's the boss in sex. She'll drag the three of them one by one onto the platform, then act like what Emil did to her, until the stage is all wet…

Then her boyfriend, Emil, might just wishes the swap to be permanent for being so perfect. Great, who'll know? 

Maybe their dreams are in fruition, in this night of silhouettes... 

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

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?

Bunny Girl Victimization

All art used here are under fair use.

Bunny Girls' Patron Disillusionment

5/17
Just got a new job offer from a firm in this town, a few hours from my new place. It’s not just the job (10% pay rise and even more month on month) that matters - the social circle will be far wider than what I’ll ever get back on the spot of my old job.
7/2
The first paycheck from the job. Hours of overtime, team work and devotion later, we have, for now, genuine results and cold, hard earnings. If our team hadn’t the kind of mutual coordination and collaboration, most of our accomplishments already gained by a newly-formed team would be nigh impossible.
It’s probably time for some of the cash to go into a (premature) celebration. Or later when I know of more places to reward myself then – more delaying of gratification for me.

7/6
A lot are to be had here – a few drinks for the usual (late) Friday night, some small talks on the girls (some would rather avoid though for sufficiently serious reasons) and exchanging all the work and leisure tips.
From what I’ve heard, if a male hasn’t dined in Beautiful Neverland, he can’t call himself a native. This is what I’ve heard from all my colleagues who’ve at least some experience with flirting and being flirted – so a premises with both dining and flirting. And good bunny girls, most emphasized.
Without any girlfriend looking on to with jealous eyes, I’m free to take a meal inside and see for myself, whether the floppy-eared waitresses being heart-throbbing or not. But for this time, the first time at the place, I’m keeping my chill there.
7/7
An early enough leave from the workplace, and half an hour later, I was facing the stump building housing Beautiful Neverland, in the best part of the town. Other than the café on the ground floor, the building doesn’t seem to have any other establishments occupying the floors above – meaning that 2 of the floors are used by the café for some unadvertised purposes, probably staff lodging or… extra services? Yeah, the windows were mostly shuttered by dark blinds, which might partly validate my suspicions
I could confirm a lot of the common reasons why it’s popular with most of the male workers around me from the reviews I noted online – quality food (best beefsteak and pasta around) is one, but the bunny girls are the main attraction. They’re compliant, flirty and offer a tongue-in-cheek experience not provided elsewhere. The girls are valuable enough assets to the café that, once inside the dimly lit interior, a boorish suited “butler” kept an eye on each and every entrant, both keeping the girls from too much unwarranted contact or from… deep intrusion? His gaze was a bit disconcerting to those already having bad intentions towards those salacious figures. A lot of other diners here was apparently engaged with the bunny girls, though, despite this.
I would now see the charisma of this café for myself, then. As soon as I signaled, one of the many leather-clad girls hurried to my table – not an average girl, but the second most famed. If “almond eyes”, well-sized breasts and slightly caramel-colored skin were good, racist identifiers (no offense to her anyway), she stood out quite a bit from the other, paler “bombshells” (why aren’t there more Asian bunny waitresses or girls of other varieties?). She had the kind of mild, natural mist of charismatic beauty some other girls (as I saw) lacked.
“My name is Heather, how may I serve you today?” As much as some of the more waitress-focused reviews briefed me beforehand, I was serendipitous to recognize that one of the most valuable bunny girls in the café was serving me. But since this should have been a bunny café more than a place for carnal pleasures, it was better to have the menu than asking for anything else. Then, of course, I preferred beef flesh before human flesh, so I ordered a medium steak in their signature style. As she jogged away, the bottom twisting and leg swinging were just thinly-covered additions to my forthcoming meal – Surprisingly, she was slightly less active in alluring the seated, sexually prepared men, since being frequently requested for “special services” directly had done a number on her motivation to seek out new “special customers”.
A while later, the same Heather returned with the sizzling plate in her pair of gloved hands, the unblemished face reclining a bit to avoid the popping beef fat from sticking onto her olive skin. My focus was on the plate, not on her face or the figure though. Time for some commenting – the texture of beef was well-preserved without unwarranted toughening or softening, with most of the juice locked inside; garnishes were mildly but appropriately grilled, and the potato was delightful for a lover like me. Definitely worth the 9.1 rating, if not for the bunny girls.
And the bunny girls, like Heather? Some critical people might say the whole “sexualizing the figure in a costume” thing is degrading, but then, they are just trying to earn a basic income as a waitress, some extra cash with their figures and the bunny costume, and a hefty premium with a few select customers’ “special” favor…
7/8
The night at Beautiful Neverland is forgettable but mesmerizing. I didn’t ask for anything more than a meal. While some stayed behind and entered the stairs with some of their associated bunny waitresses, I left for my own business, yet the mental imprint was far more than whatever sexual gratification I could have extracted from Heather. The immense atmosphere of implicit and explicit copulation in the middle of affluence, thinly veiled with the menu of a café. Many will be returning, but not me – having their meals once is enough for my taste buds and pouch, and I am still proudly single, taking advantage of the bunny girls’ bodies or not.

9/15
Rumors are around that, the senior of in our hierarchy visited Beautiful Neverland privately, the same bunny café I went to in July.
As far as I could make out, It was nothing out of the ordinary – closely matching, moment by moment, my own time at the café. Until he decided on being which bunny girl would be serving him – both as the waitress and as the most wanted mistress upstairs.
The bunny girl came, in a rather nondescript way – the same pitch-black bunny suit, the cups only slightly clutching her full, bouncing mammaries and the natural curves being neatly fit. The lighter pantyhose and needle fingers were just as enticing. Her ribbons matched her hair color, instead of the usual red of the lesser ones.
Even before the “special services” he ordered, she was already being impatient in seeking ways to please him – speaking words laden with sexual innuendo, inviting him to have a gratuitous night of pleasures with her, and position herself even with her plates with her sleek figure, said the ones spreading his news.
After the brief meal, they left upstairs, behind a closed room and tight shutters… Thus went the whole night, him being seen wearily entering the workplace the next morning.
Those known by the rumor mill (I’m not talking those there, not in my interest to criticize my senior too deeply) are just the least of the innumerable sexual acts that got out of his mostly secret time in the rooms upstairs – no one knows all the expletions he had done with Violet any better than the senior himself. There’s no more good fussing over this except for the fun of themselves…
9/20
The rumors have gotten even more heated - Beautiful Neverland’s hiring procedures are a bit shady, sure, but this particular rumor online is even more absurd.
There are male patrons, female patrons and naturally an all-female bunny girl staff in the café, plus the bearish guard, Mr. Wilson. Now, there are nothing off with the patrons and seeming not the bunny girls. But when I said shady hiring procedures, it’s not just coercion – a lot of girls and men voluntarily sign up by themselves and try gaining a place in the café. For the female newcomers, their social traces are being lighter as some are getting lodgings upstairs or integrating closely with the circle of the bunny girls – but for males, they either got the reply to the effect of the café not hiring, say they failed the interview in the interview, or – this is the crack where the rumor can seep in – disappear. Any trace of their activities, right after presumably being hired.
There are only bunny girls working for the café, and the stout man watching over them. He must know something the patrons don’t know.
Something about the males fading from their old self, and new bunny girls coming out from nowhere – without any records at the government or social history.
This is getting to tinfoil hat level of crazy. What are those making up this cruel, denigrating joke up to?
9/22
Following the thread, those naysayers are getting into the race to identify the “gender transformed” among bunny girls of the café.
Their common victim? Violet, the champion of the café’s safe and explicit businesses. Linking her to a disappeared male model named Zacharias Begnone. This second-rate name was rather active on the masculine modelling scene almost a decade back, but lately (before the alleged disappearance) had been rather disengaged from the industry. It was after the date of his last sighting when Violet started to be seen in the café, as a bunny girl.
A few others have been implicated, but none attract the attention as the most “whorish” girl of Beautiful Neverland. What could have been worse than having your entire existence discredited?
But then, that night of my senior would gain an extra layer of perversion – it might be better for me to turn my head against Beautiful Neverland, with all the fuzz and legends surrounding it.
9/24
The senior who went to the café left the position of our project. The reason? “Pursuing better opportunities”, or because he’s in jeopardy with Violet. He has to go with his reputation ruined.
9/25
It’s not just him resigning – in fact, contacting him seems to be impossible. The number is dead, the email’s gone, and he doesn’t even bother to clean up his old office. From one of my co-workers, he was last seen going to Beautiful Neverland, in a suit, with what might have been his resume as far as the coworker gleamed…
10/12
Yes, the senior is now a bunny girl. The investigating coworker had a meal in the café, and the new bunny girl, a tall blonde, immediately recognized him. She pulled him aside after the meal, kissed him, and murmured her biggest secret to him. No prize for guessing what the confession was.
So the online rumors were true, after all. They have a way to turn all the male job applicants into bunnies of the opposite gender, and I won’t ever approach near the damned 3-story building.

This is my part of a trade with someone on DeviantArt 

Well Done for a Bunny Girl

“Bang!” The talks had broken down. The “bodyguard” of the opposite side shot this boss.

Taken altogether, this was closer to a serious negotiation than the gangster confrontations in the streets, but they were no more legal than those inferior minions. They were on a higher level of being a crime syndicate: Cadillacs instead of those worn-downs, sips instead of pops, and schemes instead of dealings. Yet they bore the same risk of bloodshed.

The underling of the dead boss rushed outside, blood gushing out from his motionless body on the ground. Surely, on the table, Richard Macotelli was gone. Another entered to claim and drag the body off the scene before anyone else could.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Richard awoke in a room vastly different from where he had been last: instead of the dark interior, it was all blank. Some figures in a kind of uniform were handling something… Scarcely anything could be made out before Richard fell into darkness again…

Then a bed-ridden girl shook up from her place. She was Asian from her slightly tanned skin and pitch-black hair, and a well-endowed one at that: Under the white coat 2 heaps bounced loosely, some hair dangling above them. The coat barely covered her thighs as fatty as the breasts, and the blanket slid off one of her slimmer, hairless legs to the side.

“Where am I?”

A man clad in black suit hurried to the bedside. “This is your new body, Il Capo or whatever you used to be.”

As much as Richard had expected of the paid service to “resurrect” himself – now herself, she had not thought of being this body. The paid service was of course for the cases when he had to die or was killed, and for a hefty (but affordable with his hidden wealth and influence) price, his mind or brain would be transplanted into another body with novel and poorly-known surgical procedures – so a new life. Richard Macotelli was gone, dead as f*ck, no matter which body his consciousness had ended up. As she would later hear, a new Capo has taken over Richard’s place, and nothing else was left except his private money and his mind here. Influence, gone, hubris, gone, old enjoyments, gone. She wouldn’t be the old Mafia boss she used to be, and back then it’s much expected.

But becoming a buxom woman? “They’re short of male bodies, you see.” She’d be stuck like this for the rest of her life now the procedure was irreversibly complete. What then?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Here’s what she has to wear every day – a dark bunny suit “uniform”. She’s got to be familiar with its leather and lace since she’s here to stay, at least for now. With the muscle memory of this body, she easily dresses up, bends the bunny ears a bit to stand out, and handles a tray of shots, before entering the main playground…

She can’t help herself but blush when she sees the guests’ eyes, all fixed on her perfect figure and her delicate face. Oddly it’s satisfying for her to be looked down onto after all these years of looking down on other. She hands each guest his favorites (so as other bunny girls tell her), and while some are good with just drinking and looking, some go touchy on her body, at least a nip on her suit or skin, and as much as grabbing her chest or butt mounds. Those are extra goodies for the guest and extra money for her, after gesturing them to tip after all that intimacy, and they’re all compliant.

Even more “shameful” is seeing her new master. He’s the same boss Richard used to negotiate before he was shot dead, who has already taken over some of the rackets Richard used to preside over (as far as she can tell) and no less gain a lot of the ground lost by Richard. He’s sitting here sipping martinis; she’s standing beside him, trying to please his guests. The blush grows into a fret before him, since she’s still a bit hesitant to “serve” this imbecile.

But she isn’t Richard physically, she’s just a bunny girl. So, with this thought, she decides to put some of the old feuds behind…
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It’s a special event for the master: a bunch of Yakuza bosses are coming for some boozing with him, and some fireworks are arranged for this. She can actually recognize some of them as the ones she had dealt with as Richard, and in them there’s a few well-connected ones who know of her real identity.

Another pair of hands clutch her pair of titties and then slipped bills into her cleavage. At the back, she takes the bills out to find a vial. Immediately she knows what it does, and what she has to do to avenge for her last body’s death.

But if she poisons her master, her time here will end, and she can’t get back into the underground as this caricature of sexiness. No more giggly looks on her. So…

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The Great Body-Hopping: Landing onto Wrong Territory

All art used here are under fair use.