Chapter 1: Idol Games
Chapter Text
The Idol game
One of the first things they tell you before you become an immortal trickster is to pace yourself. They don’t waste breath on warnings about moral decay or the dangers of meddling with mortals; the only thing that matters is how long you can keep yourself entertained. When your lifespan is stretched out thin enough to drape across the centuries, boredom starts to gnaw at you from the inside out, a hungry itch that’s never satisfied. There’s no sharper madness than the creeping tedium, the endless hunger for new amusements. If you don’t learn how to make your own fun, you’re lost.
Isamu learned that lesson centuries ago, and by now she had made it into an art form, a daily routine, a practiced stretch at dawn. The immortal kitsune stood just at the lip of a sunlit glade, her amber eyes bright and hungry as she flicked her gaze across the open space. The gentle touch of wind teased through her dark fur, the strands falling, heavy and smooth like a pour of pale wine, and trailed down past the restless motion of her seven plush tails. She tilted her chin up, nostrils flaring for a deep breath; the pine and the sweet edge of wildflowers hung thick in the air. Underneath, the lingering deer musk. A perfect day for games.
Her lips curved into a knowing, lazy smile as she thought about her newest pastime. She had done it so many ways, so many times, and this one was a favorite: let herself be locked away inside an idol, take on the role of a wish-giver, a spirit locked in stone with the ancient promise of hope or ruin. Sometimes she’d reward the hopeful with real gifts, riches so sweet they’d change a family line. But more often, she twisted her gifts just enough to make the wish bite hard; a curse would follow a bloodline, lapping at the heels of children and grandchildren for endless generations.
The joy was in the simplicity: no matter what happened, Isamu always won.
She walked through the forest, bare feet moving soft and clean over the moss, barely leaving a mark. Her steps were silent, a ghost’s caress between the trees, tails flickering in counterpoint to her thoughts. The trick with the idol game was the hiding spot. Too remote, and the centuries would crawl slow as honey, her idol forgotten for so long that the ache of quiet would threaten to kill her. Too close to civilization, and a halfwit would dig her up before she even had time to drink in the anticipation.
She lifted her gaze and caught a drift of smoke above the distant canopy. It curled upwards, slow and sure, the sign of a village tucked just beyond the trees. Her vulpine ears caught the steady hammer of the blacksmith, the thin laughter of pups tumbling somewhere behind a house, the low hum of voices thick in the air. Beastkin or human? She couldn’t care less. The only thing that mattered was their dreams and their soft, desperate wants. She just needed someone to find her idol for he game to start.
“Male or female,” she mused aloud, the words sliding out with a self-amused twist. “Anthro or human… doesn’t matter in the end.” Her tone was slow, syrupy, lips curling at the edges with the weight of a thousand memories. “I’ll play with them until they break. Twist the knots tighter and tighter, and then walk away when I’ve had my fill.”
And when it grew stale? Move on. There would always be another.
She let herself wander, tasting the lazy hunger building at the edge of her mind, until she found the perfect spot: a low hill rolling up from the riverbank, the water broken into gold and silver lines by the sun. Dragonflies skimmed above, blue and shining, darting between the reeds. The crest was crowned in wildflowers, their stalks bobbing gently in the warm air. Isamu raked her fingers through the stalks, breathing in the rich scent and letting herself settle at the very top, eyes narrowed as she scanned the shapes below.
“Yes.” She said it softly, letting the word linger. “This is the place.”
She liked the balance to it, a handful of steps from the edge of the village, but tucked far enough away that discovery wouldn’t come all at once. It was in the waiting that the real fun was.
Isamu let out an overdramatic sigh, rolling her shoulders slow and loose before she began to shift forms. Her body gleamed beneath the sunlight, the rippling magic making her shimmer, all the lines of her body blurring as her robes melted away. Her flesh hardened, stone blooming up from her feet, locking her bones. Her shape bent and compressed, tails flaring outward one last time before they were frozen in place by the stone, a thin crackle echoing over the hill.
At the last, all that was left was a small stone idol, carved in her image. The lines of her seven tails were traced perfectly, grooved dark and fine, each arch and curl caught in the pale granite. She sank herself half into the hilltop, so that the tails peeked out, a hint of mischief coaxed from the earth itself.
“Ten years,” she whispered. Maybe less. The wait was a kind of pleasure by itself, sharp and teasing at the edges, but she knew how to be patient. She’d earned the right for a proper rest.
The world slowed down, and Isamu let herself sink into the hush of stone and slumber. Above her, birdsong trilled, and the hush of the wind tangled with the steady susurrus of water over the rocks. She could almost taste the anticipation, sweet and thick in her mind, heavy as honey.
Another game. Waiting for the next fool who’d wander by and pick her up, desperate for a wish that would never end the way they hoped.
Jamie Henderson, nineteen, was the sort of guy who lived deep in the blue glow of his monitors, the air thick and stale, words tumbling at two in the morning as he pushed his headset up and leaned into his stance. “I’m telling you, she’s S-tier.” His voice, scratchy and raw, bled through the Discord call, the debate wild over tier lists and waifus. “Kira isn’t just hot, she’s got lore. You don’t put icons into A-tier, man!” Fingers tapping, voice laced with that sharp edge of the chronically sleep-starved, Jamie thrived here, where arguing about fox girls was as vital as air.
Not that anyone would call him thriving at a glance. Jamie’s body was soft around the middle, hoodie clinging in places it shouldn’t, his diet a relentless parade of ramen and energy drinks. If he caught a cold slice of pizza, it was a miracle. The only workouts came from his fingers and wrists, a nimble dance across plastic keys, slamming combos and chatting with the same exhausted, jeering crew. The room where he spent his days was a cave, layered in darkness except for twin screens bouncing light off his skin. He’d lost track of what time of year it was. Maybe summer. Maybe not. But today, for the first time in too long, he was outside, cheeks already starting to flush in the real sun.
He stood at the edge of the old property, grass dust prickling up against battered jeans, the sky wide and sharp above. His hoodie was too warm, sweat clinging between his shoulder blades, but he wouldn’t take it off, even out here. Mom’s voice echoed in his skull: your grandpa needs help with the computer, Jamie, don’t argue. He had, but it hadn’t worked. “Why not Uncle Greg,” he’d muttered. “He knows USBs.” But in the end, it was his hands tugging cables in the overstuffed garage, cursing at tangled wires and the choking scent of old WD-40 and dust.
Booting up the old desktop was like raising the dead. The creaks of the desk, the hiss of the fan, layers of cobwebs clinging to the corners. Blue screens and error messages stacked up, testing his patience. He stabbed keys, threatened the tower under his breath, and finally coaxed the thing to life as the cicadas outside exploded into their chorus, the air growing sticky and loud as the light outside turned golden and heavy.
He left the garage, boots scuffing the broken concrete, sweat running hot down his spine in a thick, salty line. Dirt clung wet and stubborn to the hem of his pants. He wanted to be elsewhere, chasing pixels, not reality. “Could’ve been grinding,” he grumbled, dragging a sleeve across his forehead. “Could’ve been home.”
But then something caught at his eye, a strange flicker off to the left, barely more than a glow sliding between weeds at the edge of the property. It was out of place against the low green tangle, a glitter in the late light of day. He paused, squinted, and drifted off the path.
He crouched, hands careful, pushing aside the tangle of dry grass. The ground crumbled beneath his fingertips as he cleared away the dirt, revealing it: a small stone figure, smooth and odd and heavy in his palm.
A fox.
It sat with all its tails fanned out, each one curling in perfect, careful detail, the surface sleek and pale against the warmth of his skin. Its face was sharply drawn, a smug little twist rising on its muzzle as if whoever shaped it knew some secret, clever thing. Jamie ran his sleeve across it, rough enough to scrape the grit away, and held it to the light. The warmth crawled through his palm, more than sunlight, some odd flicker of heat waking under the surface. “…Cute,” he muttered, but his cheeks flushed a little, as if embarrassed to admit it out loud.
He stood, looking around, half-expecting to see someone watching, or maybe Grandpa yelling from the porch, but the world was empty. Only the sounds of insects and the drag of the breeze through stiff leaves. No footprints, no marks to say the little fox belonged to anyone at all.
Jamie shrugged, tucked it into his pocket, and dusted his palms on his jeans. Finders keepers, he thought.
The drive home blurred past, long minutes of winding roads and blank sky, the stone fox heavy and warm in the curve of his palm. Back in his room, he already knew where it belonged. He rearranged the shelf, brushing aside the clutter of empty cans and cables to make space. He slipped the fox figurine between two treasures: Flame Kitsune Kira, acrylic and lit with LEDs, and an Ahri mousepad still sealed in plastic, untouched. The walls above were plastered with fox girls in every style, their eyes sharp over the shoulder of anyone entering. A shrine, if you asked anyone else. Jamie just grinned, satisfied.
He stepped back, studying his collection. The stone fox looked perfectly at home, nestled among the others, bathed in blue monitor glow. He didn’t notice the subtle heat pulsing from the figurine, or how it felt less like lifeless stone and more like something slowly breathing. He didn’t see the faint twitch of one carved tail or the soft shimmer gathering within its form. All he saw was his newest addition, a small idol at the heart of his private temple.
He didn’t know it yet, but the fox was waking.
Isamu’s head reeled, the world spinning in tight nauseating circles, whorling up through the base of her skull and sending her ears flicking back in automatic search for some kind of anchor. Every sound seemed distant, filtered through cotton; every edge of the room furred over in a strange, unsteady blur. She hadn’t felt like this in… how long? Decades? Centuries? The simple act of blinking brought everything into sharper focus for a heartbeat, only to let vertigo crash fresh again through her senses.
She let out a low noise, a guttural groan that came straight from the pit of her lungs, raw and edged with frustration. Her hands scrabbled up to cradle her temples, claws dimpling the fur, digging in as if she might rub the pain out with brute force. Her teeth gritted together, jaw tight while she dragged a rough breath through her clenched teeth.
“ugh,” she grunted, the word torn from her throat in a harsh, gravelly scrape. The syllable rattled out, scouring her throat, so disused and asleep that even her voice felt foreign. “I overslept.”
The admission hung in the stale air, thick as dust and accusation. Oversleeping wasn’t unusual for her kind, not really, not when decades passed between games, and memory itself blurred into something soft and silty. But this time, something in her body screamed that it was off, wrong, not how it should be. There was a weight to the atmosphere, an old sickly heaviness that crawled down her skin and fur like cold webbing.
She drew in a breath, lungs filling with the scent of dust and something else, something dry and artificial, layered over with the sharp, unmistakable tang that only aroused humans could leave behind. It clung to her, clung to everything, stale and unnatural, nothing like the rich earth or incense or the blood-warm musk of old magic. She forced her magic awake, dragging it up from her core even as it tried to clot and stick inside her. It was slow at first, thick and stubborn like honey gone cold, but with enough will she made it move, syrupy and heavy, spreading through every inch of her.
“Come on,” she muttered, more a threat than encouragement, coaxing her stubborn power to circle outward with slow friction. She let her spirit sense fan out from her body, gentle as fingertips, seeking the edges of a new room. The magic brushed up against close walls, a small, tight container. Beyond that, there was only a blank void, empty where she expected the glow and tingle of spirit energy. No distant kin. No warmth of other kitsune. Her brow drew tight in sudden anxiety.
Instinct took over and she murmured the words of a basic spell, almost trivial, letting it sail outward to sift through time and space. The answer struck her like a mallet, a bone-deep jolt of disbelief.
“No,” she said, flat and cold, barely above a whisper as the numbers hammered into her. “Five hundred years?!” Her voice shook, fangs bared, and then she spat the next word out like a curse. “Fuck.” It snapped in the stillness, sharp and cutting.
Another spell, this time flung wide, every sense she had thrown to the wind in a desperate search for something, anything like herself. She reached far, past the city, past the woods, searching for the old patterns: forests haunted by spirits, secret mountain valleys, the hum of old rivalries and kinship. She prodded deeper, searching for even a flicker of old power, the comfort of another presence. The deeper she went, the more she realized there was nothing.
Blankness.
No wild surges of magic. No beastly kin stalking the night. No kindred souls drifting near or far.
Just humans. Layer on layer, stacked so thick their very presence felt suffocating, unstoppably dense and mind-numbing in its sameness. There were no more spirit beasts. No more careful tribes or ancient games of power. Only... people and their strange machines, and the cold, unnatural rhythms of technology.
Her ears dropped back, a flutter of panic curling through her belly. Her tails bristled, every inch of her alert and prickling as new, ugly thoughts crowded in on her mind faster than she could shove them away.
“Did they chase us all out?” she hissed, not caring that only the dead room listened. “Or worse?”
The question lingered, but she let it fade, drawing her focus inwards, tuning herself to the cramped walls and the strange, humming machines. Everywhere she looked, the decorations leered back: fox-women in candy-bright colors, their breasts huge and their eyes shining with a playful, hungry glint. It was a warped mirror of real kitsune power, all exaggerated curves and teasing smiles, but there was something charming in it, too. Isamu tilted her head, ears flicking, as one poster drew her in, a thick-bodied hybrid, part woman, part fox, bent down to flaunt every curve and furred line, the best of both worlds.
She stepped closer, slowly, eyes narrowing as she traced the lines with open curiosity. "So this is what passes for us now?" she murmured, a smile tugging at the edge of her lips. Her tails swayed behind her, slow and thoughtful. "Not a bad tribute, all things considered."
Her focus shifted to the mortal sprawled near her idol, the one responsible for waking her. The man was drooped in a battered office chair, every inch of him washed pale in the blue glow of his machine’s light. She squinted, picking apart his features, then dropped her eyes to the screen itself. Pictures moved across the flat surface, bright and too-quick, looping again and again in some kind of ritual display.
She growled softly, not sure what to make of the strange machine. Another spell tumbled off her tongue, old magic folding itself around her brain. Words and meaning snapped into place with a rush: “Monitor,” she breathed, tasting the strange new word. She turned it over in her mind, fascination tugging her on.
Isamu watched him with the studied patience of a naturalist observing a rare or delicate animal. She could see, from her angle behind the mirror, how every muscle in his jaw tensed with anticipation, how his eyes fixated on that glowing monitor like it was the moon itself. The man had abandoned all pretense of self-respect. The cords in his neck stood out, his breathing raspy and irregular, each inhalation an open confession of want. On the screen, an Animated fox-girl paraded in endless, hypnotic loops: her fur was a freshly-spilled sunset, her tail a brushstroke of kinetic orange, her eyes agleam with the predatory intelligence of her species. She strutted, showing off an ass designed to be bitten and a pair of breasts that strained the limits of animation. Isamu memorized every flick of his gaze, every place his pupils lingered, every time his tongue flicked out to wet dry lips as the fox-girl’s digital lover, hulking and faceless, mounted her with animal single-mindedness.
She found it, if not flattering, then at least inevitable. Mortals were predictable. Given a steady diet of hunger, loneliness, and boredom, they always found their way to the same handful of fantasies, each believing they’d discovered something shameful and secret. This was no exception. The soundscape was a masterpiece of the grotesque: every smack, every wet squelch, every wail from the fox-girl’s digitized throat was exaggerated to the edge of parody and then carried a step further, until the soundtrack itself became a kind of trance. Isamu could hear the squishes and moans through the wall as clearly as if she sat on his shoulder, whispering encouragement into his ear. His hand moved under the hem of his hoodie, frantic, almost angry, the other arm braced against the desk as if he might be swept away by the current of his own desperation.
Was it embarrassing? Was it tragic? Isamu couldn’t decide. She watched, one ear flicked in mild amusement, as the boy chased orgasm with a kind of competitive intensity she’d only ever seen in wartime or gambling dens. There was no art to it—just pure, animal drive, the kind of hunger that didn’t pause to savor but gnawed and devoured, leaving nothing behind but the raw evidence of its own existence. Jamie’s hips bucked involuntarily, his knuckles bleached white, and Isamu caught the animal whine in his throat as climax overtook him. The front of his shirt, already stained by a thousand similar victories, darkened again, and his body slumped, spent, as if the act had purged him of all will to live.
No disgust. No judgment. Just a flicker of curiosity and, maybe, something else. Reverence? It wasn’t cold worship, not some stiff ritual at a forgotten shrine. This was messy, desperate, hands-on devotion. He’d chosen a fox. He’d touched her idol. Now here he was, rutting against her twisted reflection, grinding and thrusting like an animal until his body jerked, pleasure wracking through him, and he came in his own clothes. He definitely had a type… and she was it. Her smile curled up, slow and predatory.
He didn’t even know he’d already lost. And her? She’d missed the Game more than she’d admit, the ache of it humming just beneath her skin. This one was going to be fun.
But first, knowledge.
Isamu drifted towards the glowing monitor, her tails brushing slow and lazy along the floor as she leaned in. She ran a claw across the surface, soft and curious. No runes. No incense or salt. Only cold, smooth material that thrummed with a pulse she could feel in her bones.
It wasn’t old magic, but it was magic, in its own rough, buzzing way. Primitive. Artificial. Still, it pulsed with power, full and hungry for attention. “Fascinating,” she breathed, watching the blue light spill over her fur, painting it in deep shades of night violet. “Have they invented a whole new school of magic?”
She pressed her palm to the screen, letting her own power seep outwards until it was riding the pulse of the machine’s energy. The monitor drank it down, greedy, and in a heartbeat, she was surfing a wildfire of information, the hidden network of the world flooding her with raw, dizzying data.
The term shivered up through her brain: “Internet.” She drew in a slow breath, eyes wide with shock and awe. “Well, isn’t that something.”
Her magic burrowed deeper, trailing after packets of electricity and logic. She found what she was after, a cache of secrets called browsing history, packed with images and words. She inhaled sharply as she devoured it: fox-girls, wolf-women, sleek beasts reimagined with human postures and swollen, plump bodies. Each one more fantastical than the last, an endless parade of exaggerated breasts, hips, and glaring, impossible biology.
“Furries?” she echoed, amused and a little disgusted. “That’s what we are now?”
She spun on her heel to eye the posters anew, every line and curve taking on sharper meaning now. They weren’t just idle fancy; they were desire, focused and distilled, a new shape of lust built from half-remembered legend. She cocked her head, drawn to one pose in particular: a fox-girl with hips like a goddess and a chest that would shame even the most perversed spirit.
She drew her claws along her own sides, considering the possibilities. She’d changed for less, far less. Adapting was kin to breathing.
Isamu drew up her will and focused, power swirling in her belly, shaping the change. The world blurred as her body shifted, bones stretching and curving, fur rippling in fast, liquid waves. Her hips rolled outward, her waist narrowed, her chest swelling until it matched the glossy images papering the walls. Not a perfect imitation, never that, but close enough to drive the boy crazy when he finally woke. Her cock stayed, thick and heavy, resting above a plump slit a detail she’d watched him hunt over and over in his private viewing.
She let her hands slide down her new curves, admiring the effect. “Perfect,” she purred, baring her fangs in a grin that caught the monitor’s blue glow. Nothing in the old world had prepared her for the feast of possibilities in this one. Desire was as evergreen as always, but now it was everywhere. Ubiquitous. Unrestrained.
She settled herself in front of the humming monitor and let the Internet swallow her up for hours, drinking in language, slang, shifting fashions, politics, obsessions, every little trick, and something called memes that humans treasured. She read and watched and absorbed, every detail a weapon for the next round of the Game. By the time mortal woke up, she’d be loaded for bear, ready to sink claws in and twist.
She couldn’t wait to see what this new world tasted like.
A sharp thud shattered the fragile stillness of the night, jerking Jamie out of his dead sleep. His body jerked upright, heart hammering against his ribs, the sound not some casual creak, but deliberate, sharp, enough to make his throat close up for a second as he blinked against the sticky haze of sleep. His eyes darted to the window, but there was nothing out there, just the thick, suffocating darkness pressing up against the glass, not even a hint of moonlight slipping through the blinds.
His gaze shifted to the digital clock on his nightstand. The harsh red numbers glared back at him, 3:00 AM, the witching hour, of course. He groaned, a low guttural sound, and let his head flop back on the pillow. Whatever it was could wait until morning. He tried to let his body sink back into the mattress, but something caught his eye—a detail that made his teeth set on edge.
The stone fox.
He froze, breath catching in his throat, snagged and sharp. The figurine wasn’t on its usual shelf. No, it was somewhere else entirely, perched on his computer chair like it had decided to move itself during the night.
“What the fuck?” he mumbled, voice rough and scratchy, rubbing at his face with clammy hands as if clearing the haze would change what he was seeing. But it didn’t matter how hard he squinted into the shadows; the truth was the same. There it sat, smack in the center of the chair.
And then there was the monitor.
The soft blue glow from the computer screen cut through the darkness, painting the cluttered desk in cold light. Papers scattered everywhere, old receipts, sticky notes scribbled with half-thoughts, empty cans tipped over like casualties. He’d shut the computer off before bed, he was sure, but now the screen was alive, humming softly.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, slow, cautious, every nerve on edge despite the sleep still clinging to him. Bare feet met the cold wooden floor with a muted creak. He sat up, ran a hand through greasy hair that hadn’t seen shampoo in days, thoughts sluggish, struggling to make sense of the details stacking up around him.
“How…” His voice barely above a whisper. “How did you get over there?”
The question wasn’t for anyone, really, but as he said it, a chill crawled up his spine, icy and slow, like fingers tracing each vertebra.
“I’m still dreaming,” he muttered, trying to force logic into the situation, but even as the words left his lips, they felt hollow.
And then there was another sensation, a different kind of pressure, and Jamie looked down at himself with a mix of annoyance and resignation. The tent in his boxers stood up, proud and obvious, despite everything else.
“Great,” he muttered, snorting out a laugh that barely masked his discomfort. “At least dream-me is having a good time.”
He adjusted himself, almost absent, then pushed himself off the bed, shuffling toward the desk with slow, hesitant steps. Not panicked yet, just cautious. None of this was real, right? He reached for the fox statue, fingers hesitant, meaning to scoop it up and put it back where it belonged, so he could crawl back in bed and forget all of this.
But then he heard it.
A voice, soft and sultry, curling around him like smoke. Feminine, but not quite human, edged with a kind of amusement that made his skin prickle.
“Good morning, big boy.”
Jamie recoiled, hand snapping back from the figurine so quickly he stumbled, nearly tripping over himself. His heart pounded, wild, not just from fear but something darker, deeper, that twisted through his gut.
“What… what the actual fuck,” he stammered, every hair on his body standing up. His eyes locked on the figurine, waiting for it to move, and then it did.
The stone surface rippled, not solid at all, but shifting like water. The seven tails moved first, twitching, curling up like smoke tendrils. The change was slow, agonizing, each detail shifting and morphing in ways that made no sense.
Jamie’s calves hit the bedframe hard, bruising, as he scrambled backward. Panic surged through him, burning, making his knees buckle.
“I’m dreaming,” he whispered, desperate, but the words were thin and useless. This wasn’t a dream. Dreams weren’t this sharp, this real, this vivid.
“Oh hon,” the voice purred, delight dripping from every syllable, “if only you knew how awake you really are.”
The stone fox on Jamie's chair shivered, the shape flickering, melting down until it pooled in a thick, slow shadow. The darkness oozed, spreading outwards in a lazy swirl, before it began to rise, stretching and pulling itself up, slow as syrup and twice as heavy. Jamie felt his mouth go dry as the blackness thickened, coiling up into the unmistakable outline of a woman, a wild, lush shape that filled the room with heat. The fur rolled into place over her curves, deep purple and glossy, hugging thick thighs, full heavy breasts, and a fan of seven tails that spread behind her like a living, breathing display.
“This isn’t happening,” Jamie whispered, but his body was already betraying him. His cock pressed up hard against his boxers, straining with aching need at the sight of the creature forming just feet away from him.
The kitsune’s eyes opened, cyan blue and glowing, sharp and electric in the dim light of his bedroom. She fixed him with a look that pinned him in place, the tip of her muzzle curling up in a smile that flashed the hint of sharp canines.
“You can call me Isamu,” she said, her voice a throaty rasp, low and smooth, velvet dragged over rough stone. “And you are…?” Her head tilted, one ear twitching, the tails behind her flicking with idle anticipation.
Jamie tried to swallow, his tongue thick and heavy. “J-Jamie,” he managed, barely above a whisper. “Jamie Henderson.”
“Jamie,” she repeated, savoring his name, rolling it over her tongue like a treat. “My new… friend.”
She lounged back in his chair, stretching in a way that made his heart pound, her movements slow and deliberate, every inch of her body demanding attention. The tails rippled and swayed, brushing against the desk, the floor, everywhere at once. Jamie couldn’t look away from her, from the way the monitor’s blue light caught in her fur, outlining the shape of her breasts and the dark, impossible glow that seemed to pulse between her thighs.
“You found my idol,” she said, her voice a purr as she traced a claw along the armrest, slow and teasing. “Do you know what that means, Jamie?”
He shook his head, lips parted, mind racing and blank all at once. He couldn’t think, couldn’t remember how to breathe, caught somewhere between terror and raw want.
“It means you get three wishes.” Her smile widened, teeth on display, hungry and sharp. “Isn’t that exciting?”
“Wishes?” he echoed, his voice thin, almost childish. The word hung in the air, heavy with possibility. “Like… anything I want?”
Isamu laughed, a low, dark sound that ran through him like a shiver. “Almost anything. There are always… limitations.” She pushed herself up from the chair, every movement fluid and feline, and took a step towards him.
“Limitations?” Jamie’s eyes dragged over her body, the robe painted on her, clinging to every curve, barely hiding the heat beneath. His mouth was bone dry.
Isamu lifted one finger, ticking off the rules with a lazy flick. “One wish a day. Three total. No extra credit for being a good boy.” Another finger joined. “I’m not a god, so keep your wishes within my reach.” Third finger, tapping her chin, her smile curling. “And I can’t make you want anything that isn’t already inside you. Simple enough, even for you?”
She leaned in, close enough for him to feel the heat rolling off her body, thick and heavy in the air. Her scent hit him, wild and musky, floral and animal at once, making his head spin.
Her eyes glittered, sharp as knives. “I’ve seen inside your browser history, Jamie,” she whispered, her muzzle brushing his cheek, her breath hot and dangerous. “We both know what you really want, don’t we?”
He stumbled backwards, legs bumping the edge of the bed. He dropped onto the mattress, staring up at the fox-woman closing in on him. Her scent was everywhere, thick and primal, wrapping around his thoughts and squeezing out everything but her. His heart hammered, pounding so loud he could barely hear anything else.
“So what’s your first wish, master?” she asked, her voice a low, syrupy growl that slid over his nerves and made his pulse jump.
Jamie felt something short-circuit in his head. The word “master” echoed, bouncing around his skull, drowning out everything else. His mouth worked uselessly, opening and closing, no sound coming out. His eyes were glued to the plush rise and fall of her chest, the way the purple fur caught the blue monitor light and made everything seem more vivid, more unreal. When she shifted, his gaze followed the slow sway of her hips, helplessly drawn to every exaggerated curve.
She looked exactly like Foxynee-chan from “Midnight Tails.” Not just a screen crush, not a sketch or a daydream, but real. Three-dimensional. Breathing. The character he’d obsessed over for hundreds of hours was standing in his bedroom, calling him master.
His hands trembled against the sheets. This couldn’t be happening. Nobody just woke up to find their waifu materialized at the foot of their bed. It had to be a dream, a feverish, vivid, inescapable fantasy where he could finally…
"I wanna feel you!" he blurted out, his voice two parts desperate, one part excited, and three parts cursed with the knowledge that he'd never be able to take it back.
The moment the words tumbled out of his mouth, Isamu's eyes went wide, delight flickering in the blue glow of the monitor. Her smile stretched further, lips parting to show off sharp canines that gleamed in the shifting light.
“Oh, such an eager little mortal,” she purred, her voice syrup-thick with amusement. “Your wish is my command.”
She moved in slow, measured steps, stalking forward with the surety of a predator. Each step made the air heavier, the tension wound tight enough that Jamie’s pulse started to thrum in his ears. The old twin bed gave a startled squeal as Isamu climbed up, knees sinking to either side of his hips. Her thighs, thick and ridged with muscle beneath the violet fur, locked him in place. It was a reminder, as if he needed it, about who was really in charge here, no matter what the “master” talk said. Before Jamie could even flinch away, she was straddling him, her presence compressing the space down to something hot, suffocating, impossible to ignore.
She slipped her hands low, fingers curling in to hook the sash and tug, lazy but certain, a teasing flick that popped the knot. Her robe just melted away, the silk hanging and clinging for one breath against the wide swell of her hips before slithering down, pooling at her feet with a whisper, forgotten. Jamie stared, just stared, his brain sputtering and useless, trying to find sense in what he was seeing and failing, completely lost. She wasn't some pixelated fantasy, wasn't the picture-perfect, edited-up thing he'd seen a hundred times before. She was real, all fur and flesh and the kind of fullness that begged for hands, for mouths, for worship. Every inch of her soft, heavy body turned heat into ache in his belly, made it so he couldn't look away. She moved like she owned every part of herself, slow and easy as a cat, every muscle under velvet-thick purple fur promising something wild. The color was so rich under the light he wanted to touch, to grab, to bite, and it all drew him down to where her chest rose heavy and plush, dark blue nipples bright and stiff and begging for attention against the deep curve. She didn't hold anything back. She didn't have to. Everything about her was made to leave him shaking.
“Like what you see?” Isamu purred, all teeth and smug mischief, her tails fanned out behind her in a showy, peacock spread of Katsune dominance.
Jamie’s mouth went dry, tongue thick and useless. He tried to say something, anything, but all that came out was a strangled “Uh-huh.” His hands hovered at his sides, nerves buzzing, not sure if he was supposed to be passive or if the rules had changed and now it was his turn to act.
She didn’t wait for him to decide. She reached out, curling her long claw-tipped fingers around his right wrist and guiding it upward, slowly, like she was teaching him something. She pressed his palm to her breast, her hand covering his, squeezing until he felt the impossible heft and spring of her. It wasn’t like the cons, where the best he’d managed was foam rubber or an awkward hug from someone with a pillow in their costume. This was hot, feverish through the fur, the flesh yielding and then resisting, so real it made his head spin. He could feel her pulse, a living thrum under his thumb.
She arched her back, pushing herself into his hands, and her tails dragged a lazy circle around the bed, the silken strands brushing against Jamie’s shins and bare arms. The touch sent a jolt through him, her scent thick and dizzying. Still, it wasn’t enough for her. She leaned forward, lips at his ear, and nipped his earlobe with a sharpness that made him yelp and shudder.
“You can touch wherever you want,” she breathed, voice low and hungry. “I don’t bite… unless you ask.”
Jamie took her at her word. His hands left her chest, moving up, tracing the sharp line of her cheekbones, the curve of her jaw. She closed her eyes, humming, letting him explore, his thumbs brushing over the ridge of her muzzle, then the soft, tufted insides of her fox ears. She moaned, tails flicking faster, the sound so unexpectedly sexy that Jamie actually laughed, breathless and in awe.
His hands slid lower, over her shoulders, down the long, lean slope of her back. The heat coming off her was dizzying, almost too much to stand. The fur at her waist was different, not gone, just softer, finer. The closer his hands moved to her hips, the more the shape of her body stood out, every curve showing through. She pressed his hands lower, urging him to keep going, to touch more. He reached her ass, and it was everything he’d ever dreamed: big, tight, and impossibly soft under his grip. No drawing or fantasy could compare. He squeezed, and Isamu let out a thick groan, grinding back against him with slow, greedy rolls of her hips. The friction made his thoughts go hazy, tension pooling low and hot until it ached, sharp and desperate.
“God,” he muttered, “you’re… you’re perfect.”
His hands slid lower, gliding along the thick sweep of her thighs—the fur a warm, velvet press, impossibly soft. Nothing left between them now. no silk, no barrier. just her heat, trembling beneath his touch. His fingers brushed through the fur, pressing into the parted, slick folds of her spade. Isamu jerked, breath catching, a shudder spilling from her chest as her cock twitched above, the tip just visible past the dark fur, thick and eager. The heat was dizzying, made him falter for a heartbeat—but then she snared his wrist, hauled him tighter, grinding her hips up shameless and wet, dragging him in without pause.
"This is a little fast," he blurted, the words tumbling out before he could catch them. Isamu only smiled, her weight shifting until she was nose-to-nose with him on the pillow, her breath hot and tinged with the scent of her arousal.
"Time moves differently here," she whispered, lips brushing his in a teasing half-kiss. "We should enjoy ourselves while it lasts."
She reached down, claws deft and sure, hooking into the waistband of his boxers. A quick twist, a practiced tug, and his cock sprang free, hard and twitching in the cool air. She eyed it with open, hungry appreciation. "Cute," she murmured, the corner of her mouth curling. "You want me to touch you, too?"
He nodded, helpless, and she wrapped her paw around him. Her grip was warm, just rough enough to send a jolt through his nerves, so different from anything he'd ever felt. She squeezed, her hand twisting with a rhythm that seemed to anticipate his needs, stroking him with slow, deliberate pressure. Jamie gasped, the velvet friction overwhelming, every nerve ending crackling.
The air shifted. Pressure built, thick and electric, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. His skin prickled, a thousand invisible feathers brushing over his body, every touch sharp and impossible to ignore.
Isamu's eyes glowed brighter, fur rippling with currents of energy that pulsed in time with his racing heart. The sensation intensified, those phantom feathers pressing harder, sliding over him, inside him, touching places he didn't know existed. His back arched, body straining.
"What... what's happening?" he choked out, voice breaking on the words.
"Magic," she purred, and squeezed him tighter.
The pressure was too much. Jamie lost control, hips bucking as those invisible feathers gained weight, substance, pressing down from every angle. Isamu's paw pumped his shaft with renewed vigor, the rhythm relentless, the pleasure white-hot and blinding. His body convulsed, every muscle tensing, pleasure so sharp it left no room for shame.
He cried out, a raw, desperate sound, as he came harder than he ever had in his life. Isamu threw her head back, body arching, power radiating from her in visible waves. The air snapped with it, thick and overwhelming.
He barely noticed how close he was to the edge of the bed, legs kicking helplessly. The force of his climax tumbled him over the side. For a moment he was weightless, then his shoulder hit the edge of the mattress and he crashed to the floor. His head struck the hardwood with a jarring thud, pain exploding behind his eyes, sharp and bright, then fading into a strange, cottony darkness.
Through narrowed vision, he saw Isamu rolling to her feet, graceful and unbothered, while he lay sprawled and motionless. Only his ragged breathing and the twitch of his still-emptying balls showed he was alive at all.
The last thing he heard before blacking out was Isamu's voice, edged with exasperation and something like disappointment.
"Seriously?" she sighed, looming over him, her seven tails flicking in open irritation.
Then darkness swallowed everything.
Isamu pinched the bridge of her muzzle, ears flicking as she stared down at the human sprawled out before her. He’d gone and knocked himself out cold, just when things had started to get interesting. Typical. She rolled her eyes, but the truth was, even if he wasn’t the most impressive specimen, it had been over five hundred years since she’d last indulged, and she could practically taste the built-up seed ready to spill out and fill her aching need. A stray thought flickered through her mind, sharp and hungry: she could just take what she wanted, haul his limp body up and fuck him again and again, wringing him dry while he moaned helplessly beneath her. The image made her tail twitch, but another part of her recoiled in distaste. That was just so… tacky. No fun in it. Kitsune didn’t just take; they played the game, worked their tricks, tangled consent up until it was impossible to tell who wanted who more.
She cast a quick healing spell just to make sure that fall did’t scramble his brain before she did. She hefted him up onto the bed with barely a flex of muscle, laying him out flat and smooth. The next moment, she conjured a box of brushes, markers, and pencils, all glinting with a faint shimmer of magic. Really, falling unconscious in front of a fox? He should’ve known better. Her lips curled in a sly, slow smile as she reached for the first brush, magic humming at her fingertips. When he woke, he’d be so needy, so desperate, he’d beg for her cock, beg to be split open and filled until he couldn’t think.
She set to work, the brush gliding over Jamie’s skin, leaving behind thin trails of violet light that shimmered before sinking beneath the surface. Isamu hummed softly, an old, old song, her tails swaying behind her as she worked. Each stroke was careful, measured, every symbol designed to coil his desires tighter and tighter. The magic tingled under her claws, eager and hungry after being locked away for centuries.
"A little here," she murmured, dragging a complex sigil across his lower belly. It pulsed once, then vanished into his flesh. "And definitely here." The brush swept up his inner thigh, leaving a hot, glowing trail that faded slowly as syrup.
His body twitched, a low moan slipping out as the spell sank into him. Isamu’s ears perked, catching the sound, and she grinned. Good. It was starting to work.
She set the brush aside and picked up a fine-tipped marker, uncapping it with her teeth. This part needed more care, more precision. She hovered over his chest, just above his heart, and drew a symbol older than memory, a binding that would link his pleasure to hers, so that whatever she felt, he’d feel tenfold, unable to escape the flood of sensation.
"You won’t even know what hit you," she whispered, voice velvet-smooth and thick with anticipation. The tip touched down, and Jamie’s body arched, the magic sinking in deep and fast.
Isamu worked her way down, marking him with invisible runes that would only flare to life when she touched him. Some were simple: more sensitivity here, less inhibition there. Others were tangled and sharp, meant to blur pain and pleasure, to twist reality until he couldn’t tell what was real and what was just the spell.
She paused, savoring the view, cocking her head slowly as her eyes narrowed with a hungry, calculating glimmer. Something was missing, a final touch. A soft tap of her claw played along the edge of her muzzle, her thoughts already drifting to how best to leave her mark. He wouldn’t mind, she was sure; the thought of spawning litters of kitsune hybrids felt only natural. If her wild little excursion into the tangled, addictive web of the Internet had shown her anything, there were damn few left like her, if any still at all. She’d have to fix that.
Dipping her clawtip into a glowing pot of ink that sparkled and shimmered with energy, she pressed in close and traced a smooth oval right over the gentle swell of Jamie’s belly. Runes sprang to life, glowing hot and bright beneath the skin, the mark of the breeder blazing before it shimmered and bled away into him.
Isamu laced her claws together, stretching with a slow, silent yawn that rolled through her body and made her spine arch. At last, it was time for the fun part, the real work, the moment she’d been savoring.
She pressed one paw delicately to Jamie’s bare chest, pads sinking in just enough to feel the wild, frantic thump of his heart beneath her touch. The boy was still deep under, lost in the cottony hush of fox-magic fugue, but some raw, animal part of him must have felt the danger, or maybe the promise, and fluttered against her palm. His breathing came fast and shallow, almost trembling, and the sound made her lips curl up in a slow, hungry smile.
She drew in a deep, ritual breath, savoring the taste of the moment, and began. When her voice came, it was low and smooth, heavy with the old power that curled in her bones, each word rolling from her tongue with a velvet hiss. The syllables cut through the air, sharp and precise, ancient and dangerous. Once, she’d been feared for this language; it had bent kingdoms, toppled emperors, shattered mortals and monsters alike. Now, it was just for her own pleasure, a whispered spell to rearrange one silly, helpless boy.
The runes she’d painted on Jamie’s skin pulsed to life, first at his chest, then his belly, then spiraling out in hungry, violet light along his arms and thighs. The glow sank beneath the surface, cold and insistent, and took hold. Muscle and bone shivered under her paw, shifting and rolling as the first wave of changes began.
Isamu leaned in, drinking in the scent, a heady mix of ozone, sweat, and the sweet, sharp tang of fox magic at work. She could feel the flesh beneath her grip soften and swell, reshaping in real time. Every pulse of her magic rewrote him: hips flaring, waist pinching in, chest rising and rounding out under her steady pressure. The unimpressive pectorals ballooned outward, blossoming into a pair of full, weighty breasts that pushed up against her paw, straining for space and attention. Below, his stomach tightened and hollowed, then the hips swelled wide and bold, pelvis tilting forward in a way that made her tails lash behind her in delight.
His face was next. The jawline melted into softness, cheekbones rising, brow smoothed away into gentle, expressive curves. His lips plumped out, lush and pouty, while his nose shrank into a delicate, upturned point. At first, the changes were subtle: a slight shift in balance, a new softness to the face, but then it accelerated, and the sharp-edged boy vanished, replaced with something far more pleasing to her eye. She stroked her thumb across the new cheek, feeling the warmth and slackness as the magic reknit the flesh beneath.
Fur always came last. Isamu watched, delighted, as a tide of short, velvet hair crept over the new skin, starting at the nape, then spreading down the jaw, chest, and arms. The color was a rich, honeyed tan, creamy along the belly and wrists, different from her own more classical fox then the mystic purple that covered her body. The hair on her head darkened, lengthened, wild and tousled, and Isamu felt a sudden urge to run her claws through it, just to feel the texture.
Below the waist, the changes were even more dramatic. The old, half-hard cock and balls twitched once, then shrank away, drawing up and vanishing into nothing with a shudder. In their place, the flesh puffed outward, swelling into a glossy mound that split and parted, lips thick and glistening as they blossomed open. Already, a syrupy wetness was leaking out, pooling against the fur, sticky and sweet. Isamu grinned at the sight. Better than expected, she thought.
Time for the hard part, she mused, both hands settling on his head, a gentle press, just enough, just a seed of corruption, barely there, a touch that, with the right soil, could bloom into something exquisite. She began to mouth the old magics, words curling on her tongue, but then, a spark, a twist, a new idea. This was a new age, after all. Why not try something different? Her eyes flicked back to the magic monitor. His ‘browser history’… now that was a spellbook. What could possibly go wrong?
She finished the new Modified spell with a flourish, drawing a final, looping rune just above the new pussy’s exposed hood. It flashed, pulsed, and then sizzled away, leaving the mark of her mastery beneath the surface.
"Perfect," Isamu whispered, drinking in her handiwork. If, by some cosmic twist, the new girl didn’t like it, she could always burn a second wish to change back. But not until Isamu had had her fun frist.
Consciousness crept back in fragments, like puzzle pieces sliding into place behind his eyelids. Jamie's head throbbed with the dull, persistent ache of too little sleep and too much weirdness, the kind of hangover that came from staying up until dawn arguing about anime rankings with strangers on the internet. He groaned a sound that felt thick and strange in his throat, and tried to roll over.
Something was wrong.
The weight distribution was all off, like someone had rearranged his center of gravity while he slept. His chest felt heavy, pulling downward in a way that made no sense, while his hips seemed wider, more substantial against the mattress. Even his shoulders felt different, narrower, more delicate. He blinked against the dim street light filtering through his blinds, trying to shake off the disorientation.
Maybe he'd slept wrong. Perhaps he'd pulled something.
Jamie lifted his hand to rub his face, and froze. The texture under his palm wasn't the familiar roughness of stubble or the smooth skin he'd known for nineteen years. It was soft, impossibly soft, covered in a fine layer of something that felt like…
Fur.
His heart stuttered, then kicked into overdrive. This wasn't right. This couldn't be right. His hand moved lower, trembling as it encountered the impossible swell of his chest. Not the flat, unremarkable pectorals he'd always had, but something full and heavy that yielded under his touch. Breasts. Real, actual breasts attached to his body.
"What the fuck," he whispered, voice higher than it should be, more melodic. The sound sent another spike of panic through him.
His other hand joined the first, both palms pressing into the unfamiliar curves, mapping territory that shouldn't exist. The flesh was warm, sensitive in ways that made his breath catch. Nipples peaked under his touch, sending jolts of sensation straight down to…
He had to check. Had to know.
Jamie's hand slid down the alien landscape of his body, over a waist that curved inward more dramatically than before, past hips that flared wide and feminine. His fingers encountered more fur, soft and downy, leading to…
Nothing.
Where his cock used to be, there was only heat now, a throbbing, slick ache. His fingers slipped lower, finding the soft, swollen lips that trembled at the barest touch. He shuddered. It was wet and twitching, clinging to his fingers as he dragged them down the unfamiliar seam, the sensation sparking strange shocks deep in his gut. He’d never felt anything like it before, not through clothing, not from a partner, never in secret or on some dare. This was his first time touching a pussy, and it was his own. A stunned, desperate sound caught in his throat as he explored the tight, glossy folds, everything so wet and eager, empty in a way that felt entirely foreign. It was raw, undeniable; the helpless need and the reality of it hit him all at once…
He was a girl. A furry girl.
Panic exploded through his mind system, white-hot and overwhelming. Jamie scrambled upright, fighting waves of vertigo as his new body protested the sudden movement. The weight of his breasts threw off his balance, and he had to catch himself against the headboard, gasping.
"Oh, you're finally awake."
The voice drifted from the shadows near his desk, velvet-smooth and laced with amusement. Isamu stepped into the light, her cyan eyes glowing with smug satisfaction, seven tails swaying lazily behind her like she'd just finished the world's most entertaining puzzle.
“I was starting to worry that knock on your head might've scrambled something,” she purred, sliding herself into his computer chair with a roll of her hips that looked almost lazy, but wasn’t. Her tail curled behind her, the tip flicking, and her eyes narrowed with a glint of wicked humor. “Although a touch of amnesia could've been interesting.” She let herself sprawl, slouching back with the kind of satisfaction that came from knowing exactly what she wanted, gaze dragging slow and deliberate over him, eyes half lidded. “Still, I have to admit... the new look does suit you.”
Jamie's mind reeled, trying to process what he was seeing, what he was feeling. The room spun around him as he struggled to make sense of the impossible reality crushing down on his shoulders.
"You're real," he whispered, the words barely audible. "So it wasn't a dream?"
Isamu's grin widened, showing those sharp canine teeth. She gestured toward the space beside his bed with a casual flick of her wrist." “Indeed I am, huma…” Isamu paused, her gaze deliberately dragging over Jamie’s new form. “No, my lovely little vixen.”
A full-length mirror materialized from thin air, its surface rippling like water before solidifying into perfect clarity. The ornate frame gleamed with the same otherworldly energy that seemed to pulse beneath Isamu's fur.
Jamie stared at the mirror, his new heart hammering against his ribs. He didn't want to look. Couldn't bear to see what he'd become. But his body moved anyway, legs trembling as he stumbled toward his reflection. Each step felt wrong, foreign; his hips swayed in ways they never had before, his center of gravity completely altered by the weight on his chest and the new curves of his body.
The figure in the mirror stopped him cold.
The creature staring back was undeniably, overwhelmingly female. Tan and white fur covered every inch of exposed skin in the classic fox pattern he'd seen in countless anime and games. Her…his?...face was heart-shaped and delicate, with large eyes that seemed too bright, too expressive. The body was a study in impossible proportions: breasts that defied gravity, a waist that curved inward dramatically before flaring out to wide, childbearing hips. Even standing still, the form radiated a kind of sexual energy that made his throat go dry.
This was him. This voluptuous, plush, overtly sexual fox-girl was what he'd become.
Fear crashed over him in waves, but underneath it, something else stirred, a heat that made his new body flush with arousal. The confusion was maddening, terror and excitement warring in his chest until he couldn't tell which was which.
He watched in the mirror as Isamu materialized behind him, smoke-purple standing bright and foreign next to the orange and white of his own body. Her paws settled, sure and slow, on the new flare of his hips; those fingers explored the changed shape, gliding along the lines of fur with torturous care, each movement teasing a jolt of sensation through his nerves. He saw the reflected shudder ripple down his body as her touch pressed him deeper into the moment, a slow, deliberate tracing that made him tremble beneath her hold.
"This was always inside you, Jamie," Isamu whispered, her breath hot against his ear. "I only helped bring it to the surface."
"No," Jamie stammered, shaking his head violently. "No, this isn't… I never wanted…this is wrong!" His voice cracked on the last word, higher and more feminine than he could stand.
Isamu's chuckle was rich and knowing. "Oh, sweet thing. Your browser history says otherwise." Her paws moved upward, tracing the indent of his waist. "All those late nights fantasizing about transformation sequences. About waking up as a fox-girl. About being soft and curvy and desired."
Jamie's face burned with humiliation. "You don't know what you're talking about," he protested weakly, but the words felt hollow even to him.
"The search terms 'male to female transformation,' 'anthropomorphic fox girl,' 'what would it feel like to have breasts'…ring any bells?" Isamu's voice was silk over steel, each word hitting like a physical blow. "Or perhaps that collection of stories you bookmarked? The ones where shy, lonely boys become beautiful fox-women and discover their true selves?"
Each revelation stripped away another layer of his denial. Jamie watched his reflection's ears droop, saw the way his new body trembled with a mixture of shame and growing excitement. His protests grew weaker, more breathless.
"I... that was just... it doesn't mean..." But he couldn't finish the sentence. Not when he could feel how right this body felt, despite everything. Not when the wetness between his legs was growing more insistent by the moment.
"Touch yourself," Isamu commanded softly, her paws guiding his hand downward. "Feel what you've become."
Jamie's fingers made contact with slick, heated flesh, and he gasped at the sensation. It was nothing like he'd ever felt before…more sensitive, more complex, a symphony of nerve endings that sang under his touch.
"That's it," Isamu purred, watching his reflection in the mirror. "Stop fighting what you want. Stop pretending you don't love how this feels."
And God help him, he did love it. The wrongness was still there, the terror and confusion, but underneath it all was a growing tide of pleasure that threatened to sweep away every objection he could muster. His fingers moved of their own accord, exploring the alien geography of his new sex, and his reflection moaned with a voice that was purely, undeniably female.
"Good girl," Isamu whispered against his ear, the words sending shivers down his spine. "Look how beautiful you are when you let go."
Jamie's reflection stared back at him with glazed eyes, lips parted in breathless wonder. The fox-girl in the mirror looked wanton, desperate, everything he'd ever fantasized about becoming in those late-night browsing sessions. Isamu's paw covered his, guiding his fingers with practiced expertise to that perfect spot that made stars burst behind his eyelids.
"Remember that story about the shy college student?" Isamu's voice was velvet poison, pouring smooth in his ear. About how she found her real self when she changed, when she finally had the body she'd always wanted? How she couldn't keep her hands to herself, couldn't stop exploring every new, raw sensation... That's you right now. You're her. And your story is only just beginning.
The memory struck him so hard it made Jamie gasp, his body shuddering and his hips jerking up, desperate for more. Their fingers still laced tight, pressing, pushing, grinding until he could barely remember why he’d hesitated in the first place. Heat and pleasure flooded him, every thought dissolving beneath the overwhelming pressure of those joined hands and the ragged sound of his voice.
"That's it, sweet girl. Feel how wet you are for me. Feel how much your body wants this."
The words tangled in his mind, twisting him up inside, dissolving the last scraps of resistance until there was nothing but want dripping through Jamie’s trembling body. He tried to keep a hold on his thoughts, tried to remember why he shouldn’t want this, but every pulse of pleasure made the old logic seem dim and distant, washed away by the hot rush flooding his senses. Isamu’s voice wrapped him up tight, painting him in a haze of heat and need, the fantasies dripping into his ears slick and sweet.
"You always wondered what it would feel like, didn’t you? To have breasts someone could worship, curves to make heads turn, to be soft—all those things you never let yourself admit." The words poured over him, each one a caress, a tease, not asking, telling.
"Yes," Jamie gasped, the answer torn out of him, helpless under the wave that crashed through his body. His hand moved on its own, cupping the new weight on his chest, thumb dragging over the swollen nipple, stiff with need. The rush of touch sent a spasm up his spine, making him cry out before he even realized he was moaning, head thrown back against Isamu’s body.
The kitsune’s growl rolled through them, a deep rumble that made Jamie’s blood jump. “Such a perfect little vixen,” she purred, claws raking down Jamie’s back, not gentle, not soft, dragging out every sweet ache as her voice curled hot around his ear. “And this isn’t even a real wish yet,” her breath tickled along Jamie’s neck, claws teasing at the very edge of her tail. “You could be more. So much more. All you have to do is wish for it.”
The words hit Jamie like the snap of a whip. “More? I can have more?” It came out barely more than a desperate whimper, trembling between shame and hunger.
“Are you asking or wishing?” Isamu’s eyes flashed, dangerous and hungry with mischief.
“More!” The word ripped out of Jamie’s throat, everything finally breaking loose, wild and empty of anything but need. “Please, I wish for more!”
“Your wish is my command.” Isamu’s grip locked down harder, claws digging in, dragging Jamie flush to her, nothing between them now but heat and the frantic hammer of their hearts.
Jamie’s body was suddenly on fire. It started deep, radiating out, every inch of her lit up with pleasure so sharp it hurt. Her chest ached and then blossomed, breasts swelling, nipples stiff and aching with every gasp. Her hips widened, ass filling out, rounding, the flesh so sensitive even the air felt like a caress. Between her thighs, her new sex throbbed and pulsed, lips growing thick and wet, slickness running slick and hot down the crease as the ache grew unbearable.
She twisted, the arch of her back pushing her hips up, wracked by the sudden jolt of sensation. It crashed through her, fierce, almost cruel, like claws catching every nerve, sharper and sharper each time. The heat inside her only grew, thick and curling down into need, animal and insistent. She couldn't think, not really. All she could do was ride the waves as they hit, voice breaking into raw, desperate sounds, a bitch in heat lost in hunger, no room for relief or pause, just that relentless drive to be filled, to be used, to be bred.
Jamie was strung so tight she could barely breathe, every nerve stretched thin and tingling, the wild edge of pleasure flickering sharp-bladed beneath her skin. Each twist of her hips was a mindless, hungry roll, the ache between her thighs so needy it felt near to pain. She pressed and strained against Isamu above her, the friction never enough, rocking up for more, desperate for anything to soothe the heat and fill the emptiness burning inside her. But just as it started to crest, trembling sharp and bright, everything stopped. The sudden hollow ache when Isamu pulled away left her gasping, helpless, and bare, a high broken noise spilling from her lips. Her hands clawed for purchase at his sides, raw want in her grip, eyes wide and pleading, lost on the razor-edge point of release.
"Please," Jamie choked out, voice ragged and raw. "I need…I need to, please, just let me..."
"I know, girl," Isamu teased, cyan eyes gleaming with delight, the sort of smile that hinted at nothing but trouble. Her hand drifted down, drawing Jamie’s gaze with it, heavy and undeniable.
Isamu's cock jutted up from his hips, thick and rigid, and the deep flush of violet at the tip made Jamie dizzy, almost drunk. It was beautiful, broad and ridged, shining with a thin smear of pre that leaked and gathered just beneath the tip before it trickled down the shaft. Her mouth went dry. All the resistance seemed to melt away at once, heat and shame and anticipation flooding through her. She wanted it, wanted it right now, didn't care where it went or how, just that she needed it inside her right fucking now!
"Wish for it," Isamu coaxed, voice sliding like heated silk over raw nerves. "Wish to be fucked and bred. Wish to be my perfect little breeding bitch."
Some weak part of Jamie flinched, tried to say no, that she couldn't want this, couldn't crave it so deeply. But want drowned out guilt, pounding through her veins with every heartbeat, a fever that left her shaking under Isamu’s hands. She needed it, needed to be filled and used, to have every last thought replaced by fucked-out oblivion.
“I want your cock,” Jamie said, voice splintering, rough and desperate as it rolled from her lips. “Please, fuck me. Breed me. I need it…I need you inside me so bad, anything you want, anything at all, just please. Please…” The plea broke off in a whisper, voice ragged and trembling as the need tangled up in the air.
The filth of it left her dizzy, all dignity seared away by how much she wanted, how clearly she needed. She spread herself open wider, thighs splayed and trembling, surrendering completely to whatever Isamu wanted to do.
"Good girl," the kitsune purred, voice gravel-thick and hungry. "Such a greedy, eager vixen, all sweet heat and need."
Isamu's claws dug in, sharp and possessive against Jamie's hips, holding her right in place as she lined herself up, a wicked tease, the head of her cock thick and slick, pushing in slow over swollen folds. The first thrust was brutal in its power, a single motion that hilted Isamu deep inside, stuffing her to the absolute limit.
Jamie howled, her back arching high as she was split open so suddenly, filled beyond what she’d ever imagined possible. It burned and stretched, a raw ache that sent her nerves blazing, but it only made her clench tighter, her body fluttering and gripping around the thick intrusion. She couldn’t help but want more, the pain mixing with something shamefully sweet.
"Fuck, you're tight," Isamu growled, hips already starting to piston, the rhythm unforgiving. She didn’t try to go gentle, not even for a moment; she just rutted into Jamie’s slick cunt with hungry, relentless need. "Going to fill your pretty little cunt, stuff you to the brim and breed you proper. You’ll look perfect, belly round and full of my kits."
Every filthy word seemed to hit Jamie right at the core, made her wetter, made her convulse harder around the cock battering her insides. She wasn’t even thinking now, just lost to the fire of it, made helpless by the way Isamu used her. This was always what she wanted, wasn’t it? To be filled, to be claimed, to be nothing but a hole for her powerful mistress, ready to be bred.
"Yes," she whimpered, all thoughts stripped down to bare need. "Breed me, break me, I’m yours, please just don’t stop!!"
Isamu snarled, driving herself harder, each thrust loud and obscene, the wet slap of their bodies echoing in the stillness. Her balls hit Jamie’s ass again and again, heavy and insistent, the rhythm pounding every thought out of Jamie's mind. The rough rake of claws down her back only marked her more, proof of who she belonged to, inside and out.
All Jamie could do was take it, voice hoarse with pleasure as Isamu rammed her down, made her shudder and shake, tits bouncing wildly with every thrust. She was drunk on it, the helpless, mind-melting submission, the sensation of being ruined for anything else, made just to be used and filled by Isamu’s cock.
Orgasms hit her like a freight train, body seizing up as ecstasy ripped through her nerves. Her cunt spasmed almost violently around Isamu's cock, rippling and grasping, trying to milk the thick shaft. Pleasure whited out her vision, blanked her mind, left her shaking and mewling brokenly.
Isamu never stopped pounding into her, never slowing, never relenting, the kitsune’s only aim to chase down her peak, lost to that pulse of raw, physical need. The slap of their hips was fevered now, Isamu’s length plunging deeper, grinding in each thrust as the tight clutch of Jamie’s body stretched to take her. Below her, Jamie bucked helplessly, her mind blank, every nerve demanding more, more, more.
"You want my knot, don’t you," Isamu snarled, voice heavy and rough, staring down at the way Jamie’s hips shuddered beneath her. "Your body knows exactly what it needs."
Jamie could only let out warm, broken sounds as the pressure built at her entrance, the swelling knot catching on every savage snap of Isamu’s hips. With every drive, the thick bulb pressed harder, prying her open further, until a sudden, wet pop forced them together, knot locking inside with a deep, obscene fullness.
"God... yes," Isamu groaned through clenched teeth, whole body going taut as she gave short, desperate jerks of her hips, caught tight. Her entire form shook as she lunged forward one last time, locking in deep, cock throbbing as she spilled into Jamie…all heat and hunger and white-hot satisfaction.
Jamie cried out, rocked to her core by the flood, Isamu’s thick seed pulsing in surges, stretching every trembling second as the kitsune rutted into her. Hot wetness pushed deeper, pressing up against her womb, every spurt painting her insides as Isamu ground against her, determined to empty every last drop. The sensation was overwhelming, clinging and intimate and filthy, and Jamie’s whole frame trembled with a longing she couldn’t name.
After the last convulsions faded, Isamu slumped against Jamie’s back, breath burning in her ear. For a long, sweet moment, the only sounds were their tangled panting. Then the kitsune dipped her muzzle to Jamie’s neck, tongue stroking the place she’d claimed, slow and possessive.
"Mine now," Isamu purred, her voice thick with dark satisfaction. "My perfect vixen, made for breeding."
And Jamie, lost in the haze of pleasure and magic, could only keen her agreement. Isamu's seed sloshed heavily in her belly, the sensation so deliciously right, and she knew her fate was sealed.
This was what she was now, Isamu's mate, her breeding bitch, a vessel for the kitsune's pleasure and progeny. Her old identity felt distant, unimportant in the face of this new purpose. Corruption sang sweet in her blood, the magic binding her mind as surely as Isamu's seed claimed her body.
Jamie turned her head, nuzzling into Isamu's fur, and sighed in bone-deep contentment. She was exactly what she was always meant to be.
Epilog:
Isamu stretched, slow and indolent, every muscle in her body humming with a deep satisfaction as she eased back from her pet. The wet pop of her knot coming free echoed loud in the cramped room, and then a thick rush of seed spilled out, spilling in a hot rush over Jamie’s thighs and splattering on sheets that were already soaked through. The vixen didn’t even twitch, just lay sprawled and insensate, her belly swollen out with the heavy weight of everything Isamu had pumped into her over the course of their marathon.
Time had become meaningless during their session. Hours, days? She’d lost count by the third, maybe the fourth round, lost in the dizzying, drugged pleasure of power, the way it felt to be in control, to take everything she wanted. Her cock throbbed, still slick and pulsing as she looked over what she had made of Jamie. A lazy smile curled her lips, sharp and satisfied, while she admired every lewd detail.
The bed was wrecked. There was cum splashed on every sheet, the sharp musk of sex thick and foggy in the air. Jamie was limp, fur stained orange and white but mostly matted down, her chest lifting and falling with slow, heavy breaths as exhaustion pulled her down. She looked perfect, just like this: taken, ruined, helplessly owned, caught forever in the moment Isamu had decided to break her in.
"Good girl," Isamu purred, just a low rumble, sliding her claw up the length of Jamie’s thigh. Even wiped-out and unconscious, Jamie shivered under her touch, body already unable to help itself.
This game had exceeded every expectation. Usually her victims required more... persuasion. More careful manipulation to break down their resistance. But Jamie had been practically gift-wrapped, every fantasy and suppressed desire laid bare in that delicious browsing history. The transformation had simply given form to what was already there, waiting.
Still, as Isamu stretched again and surveyed the aftermath, a familiar itch began to gnaw at her contentment. The same restless hunger that had plagued her for centuries, the need for something more, something bigger than just one perfect pet.
She padded over the floor, not even bothering to avoid the sticky mess left behind, and fixed her attention on the glow of the computer screen, the Internet. Even thinking the word sent a shiver of dark amusement through her. Pages and pages of desires, each stranger than the last, all lined up and waiting for a creature like her, dreamers with empty little lives and fantasies she could make real.
She sank into the chair, the creak of it loud beneath her, her tail flicking once before curling in close. The browser was already open, and there it was, right at the top of her bookmarked tabs: Pittsburgh. "Anthrocon." A whole convention, thousands of people all obsessed with creatures just like her. The irony was sweet enough to make her bare her teeth in a lazy grin.
She scrolled through the pictures. Racks of cheap suits trying to look like wild things. Humans painted and decorated, wishing for just a taste of the real thing, not even realizing how easy it would be for her to make them hers. So many perfect bodies waiting for purpose, for direction. All of them easy prey.
It almost made her laugh, how magic had become a joke here. Kitsune, turned into cartoons or cheap mascots, stripped of every bit of awe and power. It was almost insulting. But she could change that, and she would, starting with the little gathering she saw on the screen. She would make them remember what real magic was.
Jamie was just the start. There had to be more, many more, until the world remembered what it meant to be hers. Anthrocon would be her hunting ground. A place to start remaking everything, one body at a time, until no one could forget.
Isamu’s grin stretched wider as she started to plan, her claws flashing over the keys, already pulling together every detail she’d need. She could almost taste it, the coming feast.
Behind her, Jamie made a soft, sleepy sound, nuzzling into the pillow that was still soaked through. Isamu’s tail flicked again, eager and twitching. Jamie would wake soon, and then the game could really begin, but first, there was a whole convention to prepare for.
Chapter 2: If you build it, they will Cum
Summary:
Isamu has conquered temples, tamed mortals, and outwitted gods, but she’s never faced her most dangerous challenge: online shopping. When her pet foxgirl Jamie admits they can’t afford the towering mountain of “essentials” in her cart, Isamu finds a modern solution: streaming.
What starts as a test run turns into a full-blown digital cult, with thousands of viewers offering devotion in the form of tips, tributes, and… other currencies. And when a kitsune goddess learns that webcams can reach farther than any temple bell? The internet isn’t ready.
From pixel to pillow, this tale delivers worship, wickedness, and the unholy union of ancient magic and modern thirst. Because in Isamu’s world, the sixty-ninth law of the universe still holds true
If you build it, they will cum.
Chapter Text
“So you’re telling me that if I push ‘buy now,’ someone will show up?” Isamu’s voice was dry, edged with disbelief, but there was a hungry curiosity flickering in her cyan eyes as she stared at the glowing screen. The light caught the sharp line of her muzzle, casting her features in a gold-tinged shadow. Her tail flicked, brushing against Jamie’s thigh, the soft fur betraying her growing interest even as she tried to play it cool.
Jamie nodded, her throat still raw and scratchy from days of ‘fox training’, the words coming out in a rough rasp. “Yes, Master. And it also comes with free shipping.” She coughed, the sound thick and wet, her words hanging in the air like a spell of modern convenience, a concept that still seemed to glimmer with impossibility to the kitsune at her side.
“Free shipping?” Isamu repeated, her lips curling into a smirk that was both incredulous and amused. She leaned in closer, her claws flicking over the tablet, scrolling through the endless list of products. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the bright splash of silicone toys, their shapes and sizes running the spectrum from intriguing to outright obscene. “And these ‘Bad Dragons’,” she drew out the words, savoring the unfamiliar name as if testing its flavor on her tongue, slow and deliberate, “are they truly as good as they look?”
Jamie hesitated, her gaze dropping to her lap as memories pushed up from the depths. Her fur bristled, a shiver running just beneath the skin, as she thought back to a time before all of this. Before Isamu. When she’d been human, male, and so desperately lonely, the memory of those cold, lifeless silicone toys filled her mind, the pale imitations of what she’d craved but never believed she could have. She looked at Isamu then, the living, breathing answer to every ache she’d ever had, and couldn’t help the small, helpless smile that crept over her face.
“They’ll never be as good as you, Master,” Jamie said, the words soft and sincere, barely more than a whisper. She shifted closer, pressing her muzzle against Isamu’s shoulder in a gesture of quiet devotion. Her hand drifted lower, almost without thought, clawtips grazing the edge of Isamu’s hakama, drawn there by instinct as much as intent.
“Little kiss-ass,” Isamu purred, her laughter low and wicked. Her hand darted back, claws pinching Jamie’s rear with a sharpness that made Jamie yelp and jerk away, a flush blooming beneath the fur.
“Master!” Jamie protested, twisting with a pout, though the heat in her voice betrayed her delight.
“Hands off,” Isamu shot back, swatting Jamie’s fingers away before they could wander further. She rolled onto her side, stretching out with lazy elegance, her seven tails fanning behind her like a living banner. “I’m busy,” she announced, all mock seriousness, holding up the tablet as if it were a scepter.
The kitsune’s eyes glittered, hungry and bright, as she scrolled through page after page of products. The novelty of it, the endless possibilities of modern technology, lit her up from the inside, her lips curling upwards as she flicked her claws over the screen. “This is better than any scrying pool I’ve ever used,” she declared, tapping at the tablet with a reverent touch. “I want to buy these.” She gestured grandly, sweeping her hand to encompass everything in the shopping cart. “All of these.”
Jamie leaned in, curiosity getting the better of her, and immediately choked on air when she saw what Isamu had added to the cart. Her eyes went wide as she scanned the list: dense books on magical theory, gourmet snacks from around the world, shiny new video games, and a full thirty different sex toys, some so massive and bizarre her ears flattened in mortification at the sight.
“Master…” Jamie began, voice tight, glancing between the mountain of a total at the bottom of the screen and Isamu’s eager, unrepentant grin. The reality of it sank in, heavy and cold. “I can’t afford even a quarter of this,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “My credit limit’s maxed out. I’m behind on rent.” The words tasted like defeat, but she forced herself to keep going. “Can’t you just… zap this stuff into existence or something? You’re literally magic.”
Isamu paused, finger hovering over the screen, and turned to fix Jamie with a look that was equal parts exasperation and amusement. “Zap it into existence?” she echoed, one brow arched high. “Do you think my magic works like your vending machines? Insert coin, get snack?” She huffed, setting the tablet aside for a moment, her gaze pinning Jamie in place.
“Well… no,” Jamie stammered, shrinking under the weight of Isamu’s stare. “But I thought maybe…”
“Magic doesn’t work that way,” Isamu said, voice smooth as silk, waving a clawed hand before reclaiming the tablet. “Besides,” she added, her grin sharpening, “this way is much more entertaining.” She tapped at the screen again, then thrust it toward Jamie, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
“Now,” she said, voice ringing with command, “use your plastic card thingy to make this happen.”
Jamie hesitated, poised over the glowing tablet, her furred fingers trembling as she stared at the ugly red numbers at the bottom of the cart. They glared up at her like an accusation, cruel and sharp, triggering that roiling, sick-tight tension in the pit of her belly. The reflection of her new, unfamiliar face hovered in the glassy screen, a twitch, then a slow collapse of her features as the old helpless panic crept in. Those same nerves that had flared every time rent was due, every time she’d checked her account and found it empty, every time survival became just another sickening scramble.
Her breath slipped out, shaky and small. “I can’t buy all of this, sorry, Master.” Her words spilled out flat and weak, the apology brittle on her tongue. “We’re going to need to make some money.”
Isamu’s eyes narrowed, cyan irises frosting over with that chilly judgment, the kind of stare that could strip skin from bone. The kitsune’s gaze was all hunger and calculation, fixing on Jamie with a predatory stillness that made her flatten her ears and reconsider every syllable she’d spoken. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, weighted with the subtle threat that Isamu could spring at any second and tear her apart. Jamie’s claws tapped nervously on the tablet as the moment dragged, waiting, waiting.
Finally, Isamu’s eyes flickered, suspicion bleeding away and leaving only a heavy, sulking acceptance. “Very well,” she sighed, each word drawn out, resignation curling the corners of her mouth. “I suppose you’ll have to find a way to make us some money. Quite a lot, seeing as we’ll be going to Anthrocon in a few months.”
Jamie startled, the words hitting her like a slap. The tablet nearly dropped from her grasp. “Wait, what?” The squeak was humiliating; her ears shot up as she twisted to face Isamu, mind racing to catch up.
Isamu tilted her head, feigning innocence, her voice deliberately slow, sweet, and poisonous. “Did I not tell you? We’re going to Anthrocon.” Her tails flicked, each movement seductive and deliberate, “I need followers. A temple. What better place than a convention full of humans who already dress up like me?”
Jamie's vision blurred as the implications hammered through her: crowds, bodies, the dizzying crush of color and furred costumes. Her knees went weak imagining herself moving through that chaos, Isamu stalking at her side like a queen surveying her fiefdom. Even now, the thought of being on display, in this body, set her nerves alight, a wash of dread tangled up with hot, forbidden anticipation.
“A temple?” she managed, the words almost sticking in her throat.
Isamu’s smile spread slow and deliberate, teeth flashing as her tails curled in a restless, eager dance. “Of course. What is a god without worshippers? And worshippers require a place to gather, to feed their devotion.” Her voice deepened, wrapping around the words like silk. “All those humans desperate to pretend and play, aching for something real, something powerful, something worthy. They will flock to us… and in time, they will become ideal followers.” She finished with quiet certainty, eyes locking on her first disciple.
“…and that’s why we need the temple,” Jamie mouthed.
Isamu inclined her head in regal approval, then slowly raised a single clawed finger, the gesture as deliberate as the rising sun. Her tails flared out in a fan behind her, the air seeming to thrum with ancient, unseen power. “The sixty-ninth law of the universe…” she intoned, her voice low, reverent, and echoing with a weight that felt carved into the bones of creation itself. She let the silence draw taut. “…If you build it, they will cum.”
Jamie froze, blinking up at her like she’d just been smacked in the brain. Then the sound hit her—a strangled, undignified snort that burst into laughter so violent she nearly tipped over. She wheezed between gasps, trying to speak, but all she managed was, “You…are…the worst…” before collapsing onto her side, tail thrashing as Isamu stood over her, utterly unbothered, as though she’d just recited the core principle of enlightenment.
Jamie’s laughter lingered for a breath, bright and wild, but it withered under the weight in Isamu’s gaze. The kitsune didn’t chase the joke or soften her posture. She let the moment cool until only the quiet hum of the room remained, along with the sharp, unspoken reminder of what had just passed between them. The air seemed to draw taut, and Jamie felt her grin slip away, humor curdling into something warmer, heavier.
Her fur lifted at the memory of her own “conversion,” the sweet fever that had left her helpless beneath Isamu’s will. Images tumbled through her mind: bodies surrendering one after another, the faceless crush of obedience and need, the possibility of hundreds, thousands, all remade and made hers. The thought sent a dangerous pulse through her, a current of dread threaded with reluctant, needy thrill.
“But Master, conventions cost money, a lot of money,” she murmured, forcing herself to meet Isamu’s eyes. “Hotel, registration, travel…it’s not cheap…” She trailed off as the shadows across Isamu’s face sharpened into something colder, more dangerous.
“Then you must go and get it, pet.” Isamu’s voice was all velvet and teeth, her tails flicking with mock impatience. “Slay a monster and take its hoard. Raid a caravan. Plunder a sunken temple. Surely humans still trade in silver bars and enchanted pearls?” She gave Jamie a slow once-over, lips curling. “Or perhaps you could just win a gladiator pit and claim the purse. How hard could it be?”
Jamie blinked slowly, half convinced she’d just hallucinated the words. This was her Master, the same kitsune who’d figured out hashtags, reaction gifs, and the cursed magic of TikTok…yet still thought the modern economy ran on dragon hoards and roadside banditry.
Jamie's mind raced, scrabbling for options. Old jobs were a dead end; she couldn’t exactly walk into a store and pretend to be normal. The idea of gig work felt laughable when her own reflection belonged in a cartoon. What else could she do? What did people like her do for money, fast, shameless?
“I could… maybe stream?” she said, words thick with uncertainty, ideas congealing as she spoke. “People pay to watch people online, right? And with how I look…”
Isamu’s face changed in an instant. The cold withdrew, replaced by something burning and sharp. “Streaming.” She tasted the word like a rare spice, tail-tip flicking with predatory interest. “So… it is like a performance? A traveling troupe, perhaps? Do we demand tribute before the first act, or slay a rival to draw a larger crowd?”
Jamie stared, utterly torn between laughing and crying. Her Master could recite memes, sling hashtags, and quote entire comment threads from memory—yet here she was, ready to treat Twitch like an open-air arena in the middle of the Warring States.
“Pretty sure beheading our rivals is against Twitch’s TOS,” Jamie muttered.
Isamu’s ears pricked, mouth opening for another question, but the fox pushed ahead before she could ask. “Yeah, streaming is like a performance. Games, maybe chatting, maybe some… other stuff.” Her voice dipped into a quick rush, shame and excitement knotting together in her throat as she said it.
Isamu leaned in, the nearness searing, hot breath teasing Jamie’s cheek. “Other content,” she purred, every syllable a caress. “What kind of other content?”
Jamie’s mouth was dry, her heart pounding out of sync. She knew exactly what worked online. She could imagine the eyes, the attention, the money flowing in, not for her gaming skills, but because of what she was. An eager little foxgirl, shameless and ready to put on a show. The thought should have disgusted her, should have made her want to crawl away and vanish. But instead, it simmered deep in her belly, made her insides pulse with the same needy fire that had started the first night Isamu took her.
She swallowed, voice cracking even as it dropped. “Whatever you want me to do, Master.”
Isamu smiled, slow and vicious, one clawed finger tipping Jamie’s chin up with impossible gentleness. “Good girl,” she whispered, the praise making Jamie shudder. “I think you’ll do very well. Now. Where is the closest river?”
The explanation took far longer than Jamie anticipated. With each new concept she introduced, like cameras, resolution, and live streaming, Isamu's confusion only deepened, her graceful brows knitting tighter in bafflement. Finally, Jamie gave up on words alone and pulled up a stream on her phone to demonstrate.
The screen filled with a human girl, sprawled across her sheets, one hand already slipping down between her thighs. She was talking, laughing, completely unashamed as she worked her fingers in circles, not even slowing as a barrage of messages and donation alerts exploded in the corner. The chat was unreadable, just a roaring blur of demands and filthy requests, all of it flashing by as the girl stretched her legs wider and moaned for the camera.
“So…they just... watch her?” Isamu’s disbelief came out as a low growl, but then her ears tipped forward as understanding sparked. “And pay her for it?” Her tail lashed once, a flicker of delight lighting her eyes, like she’d caught the scent of something irresistible.
Jamie nodded quietly, flipping to another channel. This time, a woman braced on all fours as a monstrous piston drove into her, jolting her body as hundreds of watchers commented. Donations stacked in the corner, every ping bringing another lude message, another flood of credits, while the woman on screen clutched desperately at the sheets, howling her gratitude for their devotion.
“So much potential,” Isamu purred, her earlier confusion dissolving into something darker, richer, and hungrier. Jamie’s breath caught as the kitsune's eyes narrowed into gleaming slits, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her lips. The room felt smaller, the shadows thicker, as Isamu's voice lowered to a velvet whisper that shivered down Jamie's spine.
“Our stream will eclipse these amateurs completely,” Isamu murmured, her voice dropping into that low, unearthly register that Jamie was starting to recognize. It sent a shiver through her, promising pleasure, danger, something sharp at the edge. Isamu’s claw traced along the line of Jamie’s jaw, slow and deliberate, nudging her chin higher until their eyes caught. The kitsune’s gaze burned, hot and hungry, command and heat tangled together, pulling Jamie in.
“Ours?” Jamie breathed the word, throat tight with anticipation and uncertainty.
“Ours,” Isamu echoed, the word a silken command wrapped in absolute certainty. Her gaze locked on Jamie, eyes burning with the kind of promise that made mortals kneel. The air between them seemed to hold its breath until her lips curved into a knowing smile.
“Half a day,” she said, her tone almost offhand but sharp enough to cut. “Make all the money.”
[Half a day later]
Jamie perched at the edge of her desk, her ears flicking at every creak in the room as if the walls themselves might be watching her. Her claws tapped a nervous, skittering rhythm against the mouse, double-checking every slider and toggle, every setting, as though the slightest mistake might ruin everything. The webcam’s red LED glared back at her; a single, burning cyclops eye that made her want to squirm in her seat.
Still, beneath the static hum and the cold press of nerves, heat began to pool. Not shame, not quite fear, but something rawer. Anticipation curled inside her, hot and restless, at the thought of so many strangers watching; faceless, eager, waiting. She could already feel their eyes crawling over every inch, hungry for fur and flesh, for the way she would move when she moved for them. Her pulse hammered beneath her coat, muscles tight, breath shallow. A weak, needy whimper slipped out before she could stop it, her body trembling under the imagined weight of so much attention.
Taking a deep breath, Jamie clicked Start Stream and the moment stretched out, strange and hollow, the silence thick and close around her. The viewer count blinked on, holding steady at 1. It's likely a bot. Maybe someone lurking, or quiety watching. She made herself smile anyway. Her tail twitched once beneath the chair as she lifted a trembling hand to wave at the camera, the movement slow and deliberate.
"Hey, everyone! First stream here, so, um, please be gentle?"
She stepped down and settled on the broad, well-lit couch, shifting restlessly. Her legs crossed, uncrossed, then crossed again. The movement drew her skirt tight across her thighs. Her tail twitched behind her, alive and impatient, flicking with every subtle shift of her hips. The camera picked up everything: the sharp jerk of her ears, the trembling catch in her breath, the gentle squeeze of her thighs beneath the silk. For a long, heavy moment, only the soft hum of electronics filled the air, thick and expectant. Then, quietly, the viewer count bumped from one to two. Three. Ten.
[User843]: "Holy shit, that’s the most realistic fursuit I’ve ever seen!"
[FurFanatic99]: "Yo, is that animatronic or something? How is it moving like that?"
[TailLuvr]: "HOW TF U MAKE THE TAIL MOVE???"
[LewdBunny]: "haha omg babe u gotta do porn with that thing!"
Jamie's breath caught in her throat, both thrilled and mortified as her viewer count rocketed from ten to fifty viewers within a heartbeat. The chat devolved instantly into chaotic speculation and lewd commentary, like a digital dam bursting as every bored, horny, caffeine-fueled furry on the internet crowded into her tiny stream.
Then came the donations. At first, Jamie mistook the cheerful "ka-ching!" alerts as part of the app's sound design until the notifications stacked into a dizzying flurry. Digital offerings piled up, each accompanied by increasingly bold requests:
[DragonLord420 donated $20]: "Do the tongue thing again!"
[YiffMaster101 donated $15]: "Please wag that tail more uwu"
[CreditCardHero donated $50]: "rip my credit card lol DO THE FACE AGAIN"
The donation counter spiraled upward at a pace Jamie had never imagined possible. Her heart raced, palms sweating as her sense of control slipped away. Each new demand made her blush beneath her fur, yet each obedient gesture, a playful ear-flick, a teasing tongue-loll, an embarrassed whimper, triggered another flood of donations.
Her master watched it all unfold, her gaze growing sharper and more calculating with each passing second. Jamie felt a mixture of dread and excitement; she was losing control, but the kitsune clearly reveled in it.
"Are you having fun, pet?" Isamu’s voice teased softly from just outside the camera’s field.
Jamie hesitated, the question hanging heavy and hot in the air. "I…I guess," she admitted, voice muffled and shy beneath the microphone’s sensitive pickup. "Just didn’t expect things to escalate this fast."
With a languid, predatory grace, Isamu slid off the futon, padding into view with tails rippling fluidly behind her. She leaned down, muzzle nearly brushing Jamie’s twitching ear, sending goosebumps cascading down her spine.
"Then let’s see just how far this can go," Isamu purred. She stepped fully into frame, her seven tails blooming behind her like a majestic nebula.
The chat exploded into frantic chaos:
[FoxieMama]: "WTF IS THAT CGI?!?"
[VoreKing77]: "Holy shit, MOST INSANE FURSUIT EVER."
[UwU_gurl]: "Can someone tell me if this is real cuz omfg."
"Hello, humans," Isamu addressed the camera directly, voice dripping with syrupy confidence. "I am Isamu, and this is my pet, Jamie. If you wish to see more... show your devotion."
Jamie barely had time to process before Isamu’s clawed hand pressed gently but insistently on her shoulder, guiding her downward. Without resistance, Jamie found herself kneeling, her tail curling low in submission. Her pulse thundered with excitement, embarrassment, and a strange, thrilling sense of rightness. The chat surged once more:
[BigBadWolf69]: "Omg she's on her knees already! Hot!"
[FloofyFur]: "MAKE HER BARK!"
[KnottyFoxxx]: "SHOW US YOUR PUSSY PLZ!"
[Pawz4Dayz]: "Shut up and take my money!"
Isamu leaned in behind her pet, one hand sliding down between Jamie’s arms to cup her chest, fingers spreading wide across the soft swell of furred breast. The other followed a breath later, pressing them together, slowly, deliberately, until the valley between them deepened for the camera. Jamie let out a soft, involuntary moan, her lips parting as her hips gave a helpless twitch beneath the growing attention.
Her nipples stiffened instantly beneath the touch, tiny peaks pressing against the fabric as Isamu began to knead them gently, then with more purpose. Each slow squeeze dragged another whimper from Jamie’s throat, her tail curling down tight between her thighs. She tried to keep still, but her body had other plans, shifting forward into Isamu’s touch, her thighs rubbing together, her breathing quickening.
The chat went feral.
[HornedDog99]: "holy shit that squish is real???"
[TongueTie]: "PLAY WITH THEM MORE I BEG"
Jamie whimpered into the kiss, utterly lost to the rush of approval. As the donations cascaded in ever faster, she surrendered fully, ready for whatever her master had planned next.
Isamu leaned in towards the camera, her grin slow and wicked, her eyes half-lidded and brimming with heat. “Oh? You want to watch me fuck this needy little thing?” she purred, her voice thick and sweet, mocking them. “Then make it worth my while, humans. Let me hear that donation bar scream. Louder. Show me how desperate you really are.”
The effect was instant. The pings started pouring in, a wild surge of desperate tribute. The alert system stuttered under the sudden weight, barely able to keep up as the dings crashed together, frantic and relentless. Jamie gasped at the onslaught; the flicker of lights, the roar of sound, names she couldn’t even read, all of it breaking over her like waves hitting the sand.
Once she was sure she’d squeezed every last dollar from the hungry audience, Isamu spun Jamie around, putting the vixen’s ass square in the camera’s focus. Jamie was soaked through, her panties clinging tight against her swollen sex like a second skin. Isamu’s claws curled in, hooking the damp fabric aside and splaying her open, leaving her flushed and glistening beneath the camera’s stare. The lens caught every tremble, every quick twitch she gave, nothing left to hide.
She shifted, moving in front of the lens with slow, deliberate showmanship. The size of her cock stood out, straining against her pants, the outline thick and obvious as she slid them down, baring herself for all to see. It glistened under the lights, the tip glossy, already beading with pre that shone wet and slick as she pressed it up against the smaller fox’s exposed entrance.
Jamie’s tail lifted, trembling, her opening puffed and needy, the glossy pinkness of it almost lewd as she arched her back. She felt trapped somewhere between burning embarrassment and the ache of desire, body shuddering with the raw vulnerability of being on display. The relentless ping of the chat faded into a roar in her ears, but every fresh alert was another reminder: everyone was watching, every sound another witness as she surrendered.
[KnotWatcher88]:
yo that thing's bigger than my rent check
[YiffOrDie]:
nah this has gotta be CGI, no WAY
Jamie whimpered, arching into the press of the cock, barely breathing before Isamu pushed into her with a single, rough stroke. The entry was sharp and unyielding, a shock of pain that ripped through her, then melted away beneath the pressure of fullness, of being split open and claimed. The knot swelled, stretching her wider, and the ache was almost sweet with how complete it felt.
Isamu’s growl rumbled low and harsh, the vibration running through Jamie’s spine as the thrusts started up, each one building in force. Fast, brutal, relentless. Jamie’s voice was high and reedy, a broken moan that didn’t care about the audience or the immortalizing eye of the camera. She just wanted more. The world shrank down to heat and friction and the hands locked tight around her hips, guiding her to take every inch, every savage push, while the chat poured out its approval in a torrential flood.
Another donation banner popped up, then another:
[HolyHowl]: legit the hottest thing I’ve ever seen
[SendHelpMom]: welp, guess I'm going to furry hell
[OwO_Uwu_Xx]: pls make her cum, I beg
Isamu obliged. She grabbed Jamie by the scruff, hauling her upright and forcing her to meet the camera, the cock hammering into her with wild abandon. Jamie howled, a ragged, shuddering sound that sent the chat into a frenzy.
The rhythm only intensified. Isamu’s hips snapped forward, pulling Jamie flush to her with a raw, animal urgency; claws dug hard into her hips, dragging her in tight with each obscene slap of flesh. Jamie’s claws scraped desperately over the sofa, bracing herself, holding on, trying to endure just a little longer for the crowd; for those insatiable, ravenous viewers demanding harder, faster, filthier.
They wanted to see her broken and used, every inch of her body put on display, wrung out and ruined for their pleasure. And every time they begged, every time the messages flashed by in all caps, the donations ticked higher, and Isamu only drove into her harder, marking this moment forever in the flood of lust that swept over them both.
Isamu's pupils blew wide, black and wild, her gaze glittering as she drank in the surge from the crowd. It was heady, intoxicating; the raw heat of all those eyes glued to her, pouring through the screen, unfiltered and needy. The energy rippled up her back, sharp and biting, and it was unmistakable, like magic but not… the way it jolted her, not like the old magic she knew, but something raw and new. Not alien; just evolved.
She faltered, body stuttering on top of Jamie mid-thrust, grinding slow as the realization hit her so hard her ears snapped up and her chest clenched tight. She knew this. She knew this energy; the hungry, trembling worship that used to flood her temples, hundreds of mortals all desperate for her, their lust a force she could taste. This was the same, only transformed, digital and electric, and it wrapped around her spine like a live wire.
They weren't just random viewers tossing coins at her. These were supplicants. Worshippers. Each donation alert chimed like an offering on the altar, a tribute to her, and she felt the power of it shudder through every inch of her body. She was being worshiped, truly and totally, and the realization made her hips jerk, her tail lash, her mouth part in a gasp that was half-moan, half-laugh.
Was this what Modern divinity tasted like? Not the slow, smoke-thick hum of temple chants or incense curling in darkened corners. This was sharp. Bright. Bladed with precision. It filled her, not through whispered prayers, but through the electric pulse of a camera lens aimed straight at her. Pure want, distilled and liquid, pouring in. They weren’t just eyes on her. They were offering themselves up. Attention. Money. That soft, shivering ache threaded through every message and tip. This wasn’t just a show. This was worship. She could feel it now, an entire congregation gathering for her. And somehow, without ever reaching for it, she had become their digital goddess.
The number ticked up again: four thousand. Isamu felt it, heavy and thick, the weight of their eyes on her. It was like a current running beneath her fur and skin, humming and crackling, curling around every nerve until she thought she might come apart from the pressure alone. It didn’t hurt. It was what she was made for: the dizzy, wild ache of being wanted, of being the focus. And this little glowing box, the “internet," the thing Jamie had rambled about, it could carry her voice farther than any temple drum or bonfire ever had.
The power didn’t let her fall. It dragged her back, arcing her spine into the air like a marionette on shimmering threads of need. Her eyes fluttered shut, breath catching as the wave of attention crested and pulled her higher, stretching her open from the inside out. She could feel them. All of them. Every last watcher, every hungry set of eyes and trembling hand, each one tied to her by cords of lust that pulsed with heat.
Their desire flashed behind her eyes in frantic, sacred flickers. A man, broad-shouldered, pumping his cock with shaking fingers, mouth slack and glazed in awe. A woman, flushed and panting, fingers buried deep as she bit down hard to keep from screaming. And somewhere between, a beautiful, ambiguous form squirming under the weight of their pleasure, pinching a pierced nipple while the other hand stroked a thick, gleaming cock, hips bucking with abandon.
So many. So fucking many, funneling their need through the screen and straight into her. The sheer heat of it throbbed beneath her skin, threatening to pull her apart, to melt her from the inside out. She clung to the pressure, riding it, shaping it, forcing all that writhing, feral desire into her hips, her hands, her cock, until there was nothing left but her, radiant and burning, wrapped in worship.
The rush hit all at once as the ticker slid past 7000, hot and sharp and electric, and she couldn't bite back a gasp as it ripped through her. Her spine arched, muscles locked tight and humming as if the current was running straight up her back. The flood from the crowd just kept coming; each offering burned through her, made her swell and strain, fuller and tighter, until she was almost shaking apart. Her legs trembled, her breath came ragged, and for a moment she couldn't hold on at all…her body clenching, grinding, shuddering as the energy leaked out of her, slipping past her grip before she wrestled it back.
“Shit, Jamie,” she snarled, voice sharp and ragged as her hips bucked uncontrollably. “Hold on… this is gonna be a..lot!”
Her cock throbbed, the veins standing out thick, balls drawn up so tight it hurt, every twitch of her hips making the pressure worse, hotter, needier. Her claws dug into Jamie’s hips, hard enough to leave marks, desperate to keep her steady, to hold her right there and make sure Jamie could take every last drop of what was coming.
Everything blurred and overlapped as Isamu’s knot finally locked them together, her hips grinding forward with a guttural growl that seemed to shake the very air. Jamie bucked, her body tensing as she was filled past the limit, the thick heat of her release flooding her in frantic, heavy waves. Each pulse was a fresh spatter against Jamie’s trembling insides, and each one drew a new spike of adoration from the ravenous horde watching on.
Isamu stayed locked to her pet, hips pressed firm, letting the silence stretch until it became something taut and expectant. Only then did she rock, just enough for the mic to catch the slow, wet churn of her cum spilling into Jamie. The sound was deliberate, indulgent, and she smiled faintly, knowing the crowd could hear every sacred drop claim its place.
Jamie lay limp beneath her, trembling, her small whimpers breaking the quiet like offerings laid at a shrine. Isamu lingered, chest rising in unhurried waves, knot still buried deep, her gaze half-lidded in languid satisfaction. Then, with the patience of a practiced performer, she eased back, giving the lens a perfect view of Jamie’s stretched and trembling entrance, the glisten and pull broadcast in stark clarity until the parting ‘pop’ rang out like a final, filthy punctuation.
Isamu’s smirk lingered, expecting the familiar rush of alerts to pour in, filling the feed with hearts and coins. But nothing came. No chime, no flood. The connection was still there, and she could feel it humming low and steady at the edge of her thoughts, but the rhythm had changed. The air felt heavier, the room gone still, as though every viewer had gone quiet at the same time. She frowned, unsure if they were disappointed or simply waiting for her next move.
She closed her eyes and dove straight into the spiraling spiritual current, her mind flung outward, racing through a shimmering web of connections that stretched far beyond the screen. Thousands of viewers pulsed in her awareness, each invisible link a taut, eager channel, straining to contain their rising pleasure. The air in her lungs felt thick, as if she were breathing steam; the pressure of their need swelled at the edges of her consciousness, swelling and crowding in, all of them writhing in the throes of climax or teetering on its edge.
She paused, just long enough to feel the wrongness. The pattern was tightening, folding inward on itself—a kekkai no sakasa , a sacred barrier turning inside-out. To her horror, the strands weren’t dissipating as they should, but converging, dragging their weight toward her through a current thick with charge. Her pet had once called something like this “lag,” but that word felt too small for the tidal wave bearing down on her. This was no mortal glitch. This was power she had stirred and stoked, now hurtling back with the full force of their combined ecstasy. Panic flared hot in her chest. She clawed at the connection, desperate to tear herself free before it swallowed her whole. But it was already far, far too late.
The first wave of climax slammed into her, her jaw snapping tight, a guttural moan shuddering out between clenched teeth as she bit her lip, bracing for the oncoming surge. It tore through her in a rush that stole her breath, every muscle locked as the pleasure built and built, impossibly intense, more than she could ever hold alone. It battered against her, relentless, until her control simply splintered apart and she gave in.
A raw, psychic scream ripped from Isamu’s mind, the force of thousands of orgasms detonating outward in a single, blinding pulse. The shockwave lashed through the city, seeping through walls, down streets, into minds indiscriminately. Her self scattered, flaring outward in jagged shards that caught and reflected the chaos she’d unleashed, each fragment a window onto some hapless victim.
She saw it all: a bus driver’s eyes rolled up, body jerking as the horn blared and the bus veered off course, splattering the windshield with streaks of white like an obscene firehose; onstage a soprano strangled mid-note, her dress blooming dark and wet as she crumpled to the floor, feet drumming helplessly while the orchestra dissolved into discord; in a courtroom, a judge’s gavel slipped from trembling fingers, her robes shuddering as she bucked and sprayed the bench beneath her in thick, messy pulses.
Everywhere, bodies locked and shivered, helpless in release. Men painted their pants, women drenched chairs and floors, jets and ropes of pleasure splashing across desks, splattering walls, striking whoever happened to be near. The very air grew thick and sodden, the smell of sex so dense it settled heavy in the lungs. Isamu could taste it, every sharp, salty throb of their orgasms hitting the back of her throat, slamming into her, relentless, until she didn’t know if it was her climax shaking her apart, theirs, or if the entire city was drowning together in the flood.
The world slammed back into her all at once, claws raking the sofa as she wrenched herself free from the snarled karmic threads. The sudden emptiness made her knees buckle, driving her down, fur darkened and sticky with cum. Every ragged breath sent little pulses of light flickering from beneath her pelt, the glow fading in slow, shuddering waves as the surging energy bled out of her.
The city was still reeling, the collective orgasm thinning out and leaving a ragged hush behind it. Isamu tried to steady herself, blinking as the reality of it set in: this hadn’t been her careful seduction, her slow, deliberate weaving of desire. This was untamed, raw power, spilled out without control or finesse. Mortals weren’t ready for this. She wasn’t ready for this.
She Leaned back into the sudden sofa, arms trembling, the usual sly curl of her lips lost to something like shock. The light under her fur stuttered, erratic, the overload still fizzing along her nerves. For the first time in ages, she could taste the sharp tang of uncertainty on her tongue—a shiver that didn’t come from pleasure.
Her cock twitched against her thigh, still dribbling the last drops of essence after what felt like an eternity of release. Every aftershock sent fresh shivers racing across her skin. Her thighs were slick and sticky, the sofa beneath her ruined beyond salvation. She'd never felt so thoroughly drained…not in centuries of existence.
Isamu's eyes grew heavy, the room swimming in and out of focus. Her tails lay limp around her, the usual vibrant glow dimmed to barely a flicker. Sleep beckoned, promising sweet oblivion from the lingering sensitivity that made even breathing feel like too much stimulation.
Just as consciousness began to slip away, a soft chime pierced the quiet.
Her ear flicked irritably. A second chime followed, then a third.
Isamu forced her eyes open, a growl building in her throat. The chimes multiplied, cascading into a cacophony that vibrated through the air itself. She tried to lift herself off the sofa, wincing as her body protested the movement.
She gave up and just draped herself along Jamie’s ruined, twitching form. Her pet lay slack beside her, unconscious from the psychic backlash, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Her eyelids fluttered with the chaos of whatever dreams still gripped her. Isamu tried to lift a hand, to brush a reassuring touch against her cheek, but her limbs felt heavy, sluggish, as if the effort itself was too far away to reach.
She didn’t speak at first. She just stared into the lens, letting the silence stretch until it became its own kind of touch. The numbers slowed, plateaued, the shy and the sated slipped away. But the true believers stayed. She could pick them out instantly, usernames she recognized, donation patterns she had memorized, the tiny hesitations in their typing betraying awe and hunger.
She could taste that hunger. Sharp as blood, bright as lightning, pooling thick behind her teeth. It filled her chest until it hurt, almost enough to make her feel human again. Almost. Her smile curled slow and deliberate, tongue flicking over her lips as if she could savor the words before they left her mouth. She leaned close, breath fogging the lens. “Everyone who donated tonight,” she purred, low and dangerous, “gets a chance to win one of my custom, one-of-a-kind suites just like mine.”
The promise hung heavy in the air, her tails sweeping in slow arcs, the flash of her teeth making her meaning plain. The chat erupted, hungry, frantic, clawing for her favor. Donations slammed in, one after another, a stampede of light and color, each ping a sharp jolt of want.
It did not stop, not for a heartbeat. Numbers climbed higher, the feed burning fever-bright, threatening to swallow them whole. Isamu watched it with that sly tilt to her mouth, riding the final surge, and then, without a word, she reached forward. Her claws tapped the control, and the stream went black.
The stream’s black screen reflected back at her, faint and ghosted, while the room seemed to exhale all at once. Isamu sat back against the cushions, rolling her shoulders as the tension bled away in slow, reluctant trickles. Her breathing stayed uneven, each inhale dragging heat and the taste of static through her chest. Power still simmered low in her limbs, restless but contained, its edge dulled by the heavy quiet that followed the crowd’s departure. Jamie lay slack against her side, shivering in small, erratic bursts, the fine tremor of someone wrung out past their limits.
Isamu let her eyes slip half-closed, ready to reach for the tablet and see how much their worship had bought them tonight. only for a sharp sizzle to crackle through Jamie’s fur. The jolt snapped Isamu’s gaze down, catching the little fox mid-spasm, her body arching and twisting, mouth gaping in a silent scream as wave after wave tore through her. It looked almost like an endless orgasm, the kind that left a body limp and helpless.
“Oh no….”Isamu cursed. During that last wild moment, when the pleasure had nearly drowned her, Isamu must have gotten sloppy and let some of her power bleed through their link. Even a drop of spirit energy could drown a mortal in bliss so deep it melted the mind before the body ever caught up.
She kept her gaze on Jamie’s shaking form, feeling something between curiosity and the faintest bite of concern. She nudged the fox with a single claw, got nothing but another rolling tremor, every muscle twitching as if burned from the inside out.
“Fuck,” she hissed, ears twisting back. “You better not quit on me now.”
She’d barely started, it would be a real shame if the girl’s mind broke before they even got past the easy stuff. Not to mention she had the Netflix password, and Isamu wasn’t about to lose that over an accident.
The Katsune clicked her tongue, bracing herself to try some slapdash healing, even though she knew she was garbage at it. Then a shiver ran through Jamie, and she caught it; a smile, lazy and sweet, spreading across the fox’s lips as her body finally went slack, the jerks and shudders slowing to nothing while her breathing steadied out. Relief trickled through Isamu, low and warm.
Then, sharp as thunder in the hush, came a dry pop that made Isamu’s ears flick. She turned, eyes sliding over Jamie’s sprawled form until they caught on the change. A new tail, second and gleaming, unfurled from the base of the fox’s spine, each hair alive with raw, hungry energy. Isamu’s grin widened, slow and knowing, as the magic shimmered in the air between them.
“Oh, now that’s a surprise,” she growled, voice curling with a dark, honeyed delight. She didn’t know what it meant, not really, but gods, she loved surprises, and already this strange world was proving it could dish out more than she could ever hope to devour.
Isamu reached out, fingertips hovering just above the new tail. It glowed with a soft, hungry luminescence, fur trembling like a live ember beneath her palm. Even from here, she could feel the heat rolling off of it, not the dull warmth of skin, but something wilder, a feral blaze that made the air between them spark and hiss with promise.
Satisfied her new pet wasn’t in any danger, Isamu flicked her wrist and dropped her battered box of art supplies onto the coffee table. The grin that followed was pure trouble. Really, this girl needed to learn not to pass out around a kitsune. She was practically begging for a few tasteful embellishments, maybe a mustache, perhaps something that would make the morning mirror check a little more… memorable…
Chapter 3: The Temple of Poon
Summary:
Amy only entered the contest as a joke. A free “custom fursuit” from some over-the-top stream she couldn’t stop watching? Why not. The show had already done something to her. Something deep, wet, and hard to explain.
But she never expected to win.
And she definitely never expected this.What begins as a simple fitting appointment quickly spirals into a full-body transformation and a complete rewriting of who Amy even is. Guided by the enigmatic fox goddess Isamu and her obedient apprentice Jamie, Amy is remade from the inside out, becoming what she was always meant to be.
Expect gender TF, mind-melting lust, relentless breeding, power dynamics, voyeurism, spiritual corruption, and the birth of a whole new Temple Guardian.
And a cock-thrust deer.
Chapter Text
Jamie stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, watching her features melt and shift like hot wax. Her muzzle shortened, ears flattened, and within seconds, a human face, not her old one, but a pretty, freckled girl with wide green eyes, stared back at her. The transformation still made her stomach lurch, that brief moment of wrongness as bones and fur rearranged themselves.
"Holy shit," she whispered, her voice higher, softer in this form. "I'm getting better at this."
She flexed her fingers, watching the claws retract and nails appear, the fur receding into smooth, pale skin. A dizzy wave of pride washed through her. Two weeks ago, she'd been hunched over a keyboard in her parents' basement, drowning in student debt and pizza grease. Now she was…what exactly? Personal assistant to a fox goddess? Social media manager for an ancient deity? Chief Operations Officer of OnlyFans: Supernatural Division?
Whatever the title, it came with perks. Like shapeshifting. And money. So much fucking money.
Jamie let her features flow back to her kitsune form, the transition smoother this time, less disorienting. Her tawny fur rippled back into place, ears perking up, tails materializing with a pleasant tingle at the base of her spine.
Her gaze flicked toward that second tail, the one Master called a spiritual awakening, a journey she could only travel alone. Not that she minded. That new tail brought its own set of tricks, strange powers she was still fumbling to control, and every time she got something right, like her new shapeshifting, it left her hungry to learn more.
The bathroom door banged open. Isamu strode in without knocking, scrolling through Jamie’s phone with narrowed eyes.
"Pet," she said, not looking up, "why are there sixty-three messages from someone called 'BigDaddyUwU' asking if we sell" she squinted at the screen, " 'toe beans pics'?"
Jamie's ears flattened in embarrassment. "That's, uh, slang for paw pads, Master."
"And why would humans pay for pictures of paws?"
"Because humans are weird," Jamie sighed, rubbing the back of her neck as her tail flicked nervously.
Isamu's lips curled into that dangerous smile that always made Jamie's knees weak. "None taken. Your species has always been delightfully depraved." She tossed the phone onto the counter. "How much does he offer?"
"Two hundred per pic."
"Then send him ten. Tell him they're limited edition." Isamu's tails swished behind her as she turned to leave, then paused, glancing back. "Were you practicing again?"
Jamie nodded, unable to keep the pride from her voice. "I held human form for almost five minutes this time."
Something flickered over Isamu's face; a flash of surprise, maybe, or approval, but it vanished as quick as it came, swallowed up by her usual imperious calm. "Very good. You have done well, all things considered."
Jamie couldn't hide the shiver of pleasure at Isamu's words. Her tail gave an involuntary little swish, the praise like warmth seeping down into her belly. "Good," from Isamu, wasn't just rare, it was rare enough to make her duck her head to hide the stupid, helpless grin splitting her muzzle.
"That's enough practice for today. We need to get this place ready for our first guests." The snap of command in Isamu's voice brought Jamie right back to attention. "There is much to do to get our new 'temple' ready for my followers."
Jamie looked over the warehouse they’d only just bought, a cavernous shell of rusted beams and dusty skylights, squatting half-forgotten at the edge of town. It was rough around the edges, with cracked pavement and peeling paint, but vast and empty, ripe for whatever her Master might dream up and Master’s dreams had a habit of leaving her sore, smiling, and wondering how she’d ever survived without them….
Jamie's footsteps echoed in the open, cavernous space, the concrete cool even under the pads of her feet. Dust hung in the air, swirling in shafts of pale light from the high windows. There were stacks of old wooden pallets here and there, a few hunched, rusted shelving units left by whoever came before them. The rest of it was empty, a blank slate, waiting.
"I've been thinking about layout," Jamie said, flicking her claws over the glass of her tablet, pulling up a rough floor plan, zooming and panning while her claws clicked in a steady rhythm. "We could section off the main worship area here, private consultation rooms along this wall."
Isamu paced slow, deliberate, making the circuit of the room with her tails sweeping behind. "The altar goes there," she said flat, pointing to the spot dead-center, right in the highest arch of the ceiling. "And more violet. Deep violet. Everywhere."
Jamie nodded, jotting notes, her mind flicking fast as she calculated costs and options, already mentally sorting through what she could order in bulk, what needed to be custom. "What about sleeping quarters? Do you want them separate or…"
"My chambers will be elevated," Isamu cut in, the authority final, not really a question. She gestured up, eyes catching the light. "A platform with steps. I want to look down on them. All of them." There was a glint in her gaze, sharp and hungry. "And mirrors. Lots of mirrors."
Jamie swallowed, the image blossoming in her head with a sudden hot flush: Isamu sprawled on plush cushions, endless mirrors multiplying the view, her body reflected over and over, eyes fixed on the crowd writhing and moaning below at her command. The vision sent a thick, molten pulse through her, pooling between her thighs, making her shift in place.
"Got it," she breathed, voice gone low. "Platform, steps, mirrors. What about the, uh, equipment?"
Isamu's lips curled up, slow and wolfish. "The toys, you mean? Put them out in the open. I want every eye to see what waits for them." She raked a claw along the wall, slow as a tease. "And restraints here. And here." She marked out the spots with two sharp taps.
Jamie's throat went dry, but she scribbled it all down. Between the renovations, the furnishings, the racks and rows of toys, it was going to burn through a huge slice of their streaming profits. But Anthrocon was coming up fast, followers multiplying every day, and Jamie knew for certain: they'd make it back. Every cent, and then some.
“What about security?” Jamie managed, snapping her mind from the heat of the vision and onto something practical. “We can’t just let anyone in.”
“Of course not.” Isamu’s demeanor shifted, hardening, sharpening. Her eyes glittered. “I’ve already picked out the winners for next week’s drawing. I’ll make sure at least one of them is perfect for a Temple Guardian reward.”
“A Temple Guardian?” Jamie’s voice caught. “Like some kind of guard dog?”
A slow nod. “Yes. But they’ll need special accommodations… and they’ll have to go through an additional initiation.”
The word hung in the air, heavy and raw. Jamie’s throat tightened at the weight of it, imagining Isamu’s version of “initiation.” Online, everything was already wild and intense… but a temple, a physical place, would push things to another level.
“When do you want to start?” Jamie asked, brain already racing, lining up the steps, heartbeat pounding in her ears.
Isamu swept her gaze over the warehouse, slow and hungry, calculating. “Immediately. Six weeks until the convention. We need it ready before then.”
Six weeks. The words hit Jamie like a rough thrust, ears flicking back. For what Isamu was asking, with the contractors, the permits, the custom builds and installations, it was impossible. Or close enough to make her stomach clench.
“That might be… challenging,” she said carefully. “Construction alone could take…”
"Six. Weeks." Isamu's voice dropped to a dangerous purr. She stepped closer, her scent—spice and musk and something older, wilder, enveloping Jamie. One claw traced the line of Jamie's jaw, tilting her face upward. "You've shown such promise, pet. Don't disappoint me now."
Jamie's protest died in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs as Isamu's claw pressed just hard enough to dimple the skin beneath her fur. "I won't disappoint you, Master."
"Very good," Isamu purred, flicking her wrist. Two crystal glasses materialized in her palm, followed by a black bottle with strange symbols etched into its surface. The cork shot upward with a sharp pop, and amber liquid streamed into both glasses without spilling a drop. She handed one to Jamie, who took it carefully, nostrils flaring at the strange scent, something like cinnamon and Citrus that made her whiskers twitch.
"To my temple," Isamu said, sweeping her arm across the dusty warehouse. "To me." Her tails spread wide behind her, a peacock display of dominance that made Jamie's mouth go dry. "Six weeks, pet. Six weeks to create paradise." She clinked her glass against Jamie's.
Jamie knocked back the drink in one gulp. It burned down her throat like lightning, making her fur bristle from ears to tail-tip. Her body hummed with sudden energy, every nerve singing. She knew instantly that sleep wouldn't be an option tonight or maybe for days as the first hit of divine essence rewired her system from the inside out.
"I'll get started right away," Jamie said, so wound up it was like energy buzzed through every line of her body. She couldn't help it, her pulse fast and eager, fingers already twitching for her phone.
Isamu was already striding for the exit, her mind clearly surging ahead, chasing the next stage of her vision. "Order food. I'm hungry," she shot back, not even breaking stride.
Jamie didn’t even pause, phone already out, screen blazing, her thumb hovering, hungry, just waiting for the excuse. “What would you like, Master?”
Isamu just laughed a sharp, hungry sound, teeth flashing white as she flicked her hair over her shoulder, barely pausing at the threshold of that raw, blank space where sunlight crashed off cold, pale floors. “Surprise me,” she purred, voice thick and satisfied and smug. “And Jamie?”
Her heart kicked, fast, deep. “Yes?”
“The mirrors. When you order them, make sure they’re unbreakable.” That smile again, hungry and sly, lips drawn sharp to show teeth. “Things have a tendency to get... enthusiastic around me.”
The echo of her words lingered, but she was gone, leaving Jamie with bare floors, empty walls, the promise of kingdom and power trembling in the air. Six weeks to build a temple worth worship. Six weeks to make something that would make Isamu want even more. Six weeks to prove she deserved the faith in those sharp eyes.
Jamie glanced down at her tablet, the list ballooning, hunger and panic twisting together in her chest until it felt like fire. Her hands shook. Six weeks. No time.
She sucked in a breath and started typing.
"6000 North Lombard. 'The Tail End,' Amy muttered, squinting at the newly printed lettering above the entrance. Her fingers fidgeted with the email printout, crinkling the paper that confirmed she was one of three lucky winners of a custom fursuit.
The whole thing still felt surreal. She'd entered the contest on a whim after stumbling across the stream that incredible, almost supernatural display that had left her breathless and trembling in her desk chair. The hosts had been so realistic, their movements fluid and natural in a way that defied everything she knew about costume technology.
Amy tried to tell herself it was a scam. There was just no way, right? Fursuits this realistic, this beautiful, worth a fortune, and someone was giving them away, just like that? It was impossible. The skeptical part of her brain screamed it had to be fake.
But the stream… god, the stream had done something to her. It wasn’t just watching, it was like living. She felt it in her bones, her skin, every twitch and gasp. The way the huge purple fox had pushed her knot inside that writhing, slender body, the wild, shuddering finish… Amy could swear she felt every pulsing inch, every hard, desperate thrust. She could feel what it was like to have a cock, that urgent, aching strain, the shivering pleasure as you plunged into tight, slick heat and let go, flooding it, owning it.
In that instant, nothing mattered but wanting that. The hunger for it was all-consuming, scorching her from the inside out, need hot and sharp and clear. She had to chase that feeling, that force, that sweet, primal high. And before her mind could even catch up, her fingers were already flying over the keys, details pouring into the entry box, submitting before she could even think to hesitate.
Now here she was, heart pounding as she double-checked the address. Her palms were sweaty despite the cool afternoon air. The warehouse loomed before her, windows dark and reflective, revealing nothing of what waited inside.
"This is stupid," she muttered, adjusting her baggy hoodie. "I'm probably about to get murdered."
But she walked to the gate anyway, drawn forward by curiosity and something else, something that felt like recognition, though she couldn't say of what. The heavy metal doors swung open without her even needing to buzz in, as if they'd been expecting her all along.
The interior was nothing like she'd imagined. Instead of a dusty, abandoned space, she stepped into what looked like the lobby of an upscale spa. Soft lighting illuminated sleek furniture in deep violet and black. The air smelled of sandalwood and something else, something wild that made the hairs on her arms stand up.
"Hello?" Amy called out, her voice embarrassingly thin in the quiet space. "I'm here for the, uh, fitting?"
"Welcome to The Tail End."
Amy's heart nearly burst from her chest as the voice materialized directly behind her. She spun around with a startled yelp, stumbling back against the reception desk.
Her mouth fell open. Standing before her was the tan fox from the stream, not a person in a costume, but the actual fox girl herself. The same cream-colored fur, the same perky ears, the same tawny tail swishing gently behind her. Every detail was perfect, from the way her whiskers caught the light to the subtle shifts of her fur as she breathed.
Amy couldn't process what she was seeing. Her brain scrambled for explanations, advanced animatronics, Hollywood-grade prosthetics, some kind of augmented reality but nothing made sense. This wasn't just realistic; this was real.
"You're..." Amy's voice died in her throat. Without thinking, she reached out, fingers trembling as they extended toward that impossible face.
The fox girl smiled, warm and understanding, as if this reaction was perfectly normal. At the last second, Amy's common sense kicked in, and she yanked her hand back.
"I'm so sorry," she mumbled, cheeks burning with embarrassment. "I didn't mean to…"
A light, musical laugh filled the air, the sound somehow tickling at Amy's ears in a way that felt almost physical. The fox stepped closer, bending slightly at the waist.
"It's okay, go ahead and feel," she offered, tilting her head to present one velvety ear. "Everyone wants to. I don't mind."
Amy hesitated, then slowly extended her hand again. The ear was warm under her fingertips, soft beyond anything she'd ever touched. She could feel the delicate cartilage beneath the fur, the gentle twitch as her fingers brushed the sensitive tip. It was unmistakably alive.
"My name is Jamie, by the way," the fox said, straightening up with that same friendly smile. "I'm guessing you're Amy?"
Amy nodded dumbly, her mind still reeling. "How...how are you real?" she whispered, unable to tear her gaze away from Jamie's face. "The stream, I thought it was just amazing special effects, or CGI, or…"
"We get that a lot," Jamie said with a wink. Her tail swished behind her, a fluid, natural motion no costume could replicate. "But you can see for yourself after we get you fitted for your forever suit."
Amy's heart raced. If Jamie was real, then the other one, the larger, purple fox with those piercing cyan eyes and commanding presence, must be real too. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, a mixture of fear and something else, something hotter and more primal.
"Wait. Forever suit?" The words slipped out before Amy could stop herself, her voice trembling and high-pitched in the deadened lobby. She hadn't meant to say it, not really, but it was out there, hanging in the air. Did she mean that literally? She tried to laugh, but it came out as a thin, startled cough that made her cheeks flush with embarrassment.
Jamie turned, ears flicking towards her with a near-cartoonish sharpness, the eyes bright and glinting with a feral sort of humor. "That's just what marketing calls it," she said, and her muzzle split in a grin that was all pointed teeth and easy confidence. It wasn't threatening, not exactly, but there was something in the way the canines showed, the way her soft fox tail flicked once behind her, beckoning Amy forward. It was like she found the whole idea of branding hilarious, a game she was playing along with just for the fun of it. "Come on," she said, already turning down a corridor, expecting Amy to follow.
Amy followed, even as her feet dragged and her mind reeled from the shock. The hallway stretched out, longer than it looked from the lobby, the walls a shifting dark slate that seemed to shimmer with every step. The further they went, the less it resembled a business and the more it felt like some strange sci-fi temple, the lights low and pulsing in time with the faint background music. The jazz from the lobby faded, replaced by a steady, throbbing beat that set Amy's teeth on edge. Over that, she could hear it; a series of breathy, high-pitched moans, muffled but insistent, growing louder as they walked.
She almost asked, but Jamie spoke first, voice casual, almost bored. "Don't mind them. That's just the other winners testing their new suits. You'll meet them soon enough. It's all pretty normal, once you get used to it." Like the sound of strangers moaning together was just another part of the experience, nothing to be surprised by.
Amy's cheeks burned hotter, the flush creeping down her neck as she hurried to keep up, nearly stepping on Jamie's heels. The corridor twisted, then twisted again, until it ended at a single stone door. Jamie pressed her palm to the surface. There was a heartbeat of silence, then a mechanical click and a hiss as the door slid open, revealing a circular chamber bathed in soft violet light, a single throne-like chair dominating the center.
"This is the fitting room where we get you fitted for your perfect suit," a silky voice said from the darkness. The figure stepped into the light, purple fur gleaming, the voluptuous curves impossible to miss. That voice, it was her, the one from the video. Isamu.
"Welcome, Amy. As promised, we're going to craft you a one-of-a-kind suit today. The process is a little intense, but I have a feeling you won't mind too much."
Amy tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat as she stared at the kitsune, her eyes drawn to the fan of tails that moved in a hypnotic dance behind her. Each tail moved on its own, curling and flicking, drawing Amy's gaze and holding it. The words Isamu spoke seemed to vibrate inside her, sinking into her bones and making her shiver. She sat down on the chair, the leather cold against her palms.
They stared at each other, the moment stretching out, awkward and electric, until Amy blurted, "So I have reference here on my phone." She fumbled, swiping frantically, then frowned. "Goddamn it, SoFurry is offline again." Her voice was tight, pained. "I keep all my art there."
Isamu just laughed, a low, rich sound that seemed to fill the room and slide along Amy's skin. "It's okay, we won't be needing reference sheets anyway." She stepped closer, placing a paw on Amy's shoulder, the touch warm and firm through the fabric. "This will sound silly, but just relax and close your eyes and wish. Wish for your inner animal to make itself known."
Oh god, I joined a cult. This is how they get you , she thought, her pulse quickening, that flutter just under the skin as she eyed the purple fox across from her. One moment you’re making a wish with a talking animal, the next, you’re downing Ascension Kool-Aid and singing hymns to the Omnissiah... She tried to laugh, a little dry, but it snagged in her throat and stuck there, thick and uncertain. She was on the verge of saying no, of standing up and walking away, but then her eyes caught a flicker, the fox’s tails shifting, the fur shimmering, and the scent curling towards her, teasing her curiosity until she couldn’t resist. She had to know.
“Fine. I’ll try,” she said, “but I am not drinking anything out of a red solo cup.” She closed her eyes, made the wish, and the world snapped black.
Isamu stood beside her apprentice Jamie, gazing down at Amy's unconscious form slumped in the fitting chair. Her purple eyes flashed with interest as she reached out with her mind, seeking a glimpse into the mortal's deepest desires.
What she found there made Isamu's lips curl into a wicked smile. This woman was not so different from Jamie loyal, passionate, with an untamed spirit. But there was a darker streak in her, a yearning for the opposite of everything she was. Isamu could see it now, Amy's true fursona, the embodiment of her most secret fantasies.
He was massive, all rippling muscle and raw power, with a cock that could skewer a dragon. The ultimate alpha male, dominant and commanding. Everything Amy wasn't. Oh, this one would be perfect, Isamu thought. Just the right blend of devotion and ferocity to make an ideal temple guardian. The oversized cock would need to be toned down though - couldn't have her new guard putting out any eyes.
Opening her eyes, Isamu began to chant an ancient incantation, her voice resonating with arcane power. Jamie watched in awe as she began to comprehend the first glimpses of her mistress's magic at work.
"This one shall be different," Isamu explained, not taking her eyes off Amy's still form. "We are not crafting her new body directly as we did the others. Instead, her spirit will choose its form, much like yours did."
She stepped back as Amy's body began to change, limbs elongating and clothes straining at the seams before ripping apart. Even lying down, it was clear she was growing taller by the second. Feminine curves melted away, replaced by chiseled lines of hard muscle. Her modest bust flattened completely, transforming into a wide, muscular chest.
Between her legs, her mound shifted and expanded, soft flesh replaced by a sheath bloated with two massive orbs. At the same time, a long feline tail pushed its way out from the base of her spine, curling lazily through the air.
The moment Isamu saw that distinctive tail, her smile widened knowingly. "Ahh, I see. They has chosen the form of a bakeneko."
Beside her, Jamie gnawed on a claw, not bothering to hide her confusion at the unfamiliar term.
"Just watch, pet. You'll see," Isamu purred, amused by her apprentice's naivete.
As if on cue, a short pelt of vivid red fur began sprouting all over Amy's altered body, coating her from head to toe in minutes. Wicked claws pushed out from her fingertips as her face elongated into a short muzzle lined with gleaming fangs.
Jamie's brow furrowed, turning the foreign word over in her mind before the realization clicked. "Bakeneko... it literally means 'changed cat'"
Isamu nodded approvingly at Jamie's comprehension. "Indeed. Now, prepare a room for our new guardian. Make sure there's something for him to...relieve himself with." Her gaze flicked meaningfully to the pointed tip of Amy's - or rather, the bakeneko's - cock, which now protruded from its sheath a growing tower of barbed cat cock. "He's going to be quite pent up when he wakes."
"Should I send in that doe?" Jamie asked, already running through mental lists of which toys to include, which servants might be sturdy enough to help their new guard work through the post-transformation lust.
Isamu considered for a moment, head tilting. Yesterday’s winner came to mind a freshly made doe who had once been male, now soft-furred, wide-hipped, and hopelessly addicted to the thought of being bred. Part of her wanted to break the little whore in herself, to feel her shudder and moan beneath her as she claimed her. The doe had been kept in isolation for her own safety; she simply could not stop, desperate to ride anything even vaguely phallic she could get her paws on.
Isamu rubbed her chin, indecisive, wondering if she wanted her followers breeding already. There was still so much to arrange, so much to build, but at some point, the decision would have to be made. Maybe it would be a breeding farm, or a secluded sect for the most shamelessly needy?
The kitsune’s lips curled in slow delight as the answer settled in her mind. No… far better to keep the doe close, nestled alongside the new guardian. Together, they could feed each other’s hunger while he kept the pretty little slut’s urges on a leash without locking her away. This was a temple, after all, not horny jail … and there was profit to be made in streaming every moment of their ‘fun’.
"Yes, send her in," she decided with an absent wave of her hand before turning to look at her apprentice. "And make sure the cameras are streaming. Our followers will pay handsomely to watch a predator claim his prey."
Jamie grinned and sketched a quick bow before scurrying off to make the arrangements. Alone now, Isamu let her gaze roam over the bakeneko's powerful form, admiring her handiwork. Oh yes, this one would serve beautifully. A perfect melding of submission and strength.
Settling into her throne, Isamu summoned a decanter of rich, dark liquor and a glass. She poured herself a generous serving and sipped, savoring the way it burned down her throat. Everything was falling into place. Her temple, her followers, her power - all of it growing by the day.
Amy's senses came back one at a time, slow and hazy, like a computer booting up after a long sleep. The first thing she noticed was the heat - not her body heat, but something else, something pressing insistently between her thighs. Then came the wet pressure of a tongue, lapping at her in long, deliberate strokes that sent unfamiliar shockwaves of pleasure radiating through her body.
Her breath caught in her throat. This wasn't right. These sensations, this body, none of it felt like hers. And yet...she didn't want it to stop. Some primal part of her reveled in it, arching into each lick, greedy for more. She let herself sink into the feeling, rational thought slipping away as the tempo increased.
A gagging sound snapped her attention back, her ears flicking forward instinctively. Wait - since when could she move her ears like that? Confusion swirled through the fog of arousal. She struggled to remember how she'd gotten here, but the memories were scattered, dreamlike. A warehouse...a chair...purple fur and flashing eyes...
Amy forced her eyes open, blinking against the sudden brightness. Her vision sharpened with unnatural speed, the room snapping into crisp focus. She looked down, and her heart nearly stopped.
There, kneeling between her spread thighs, was a doe. A real, anthro deer, with a muzzle full of - Amy's brain short-circuited as she processed what she was seeing. That massive, straining flesh the doe was so eagerly working over with her tongue...that was attached to her. To Amy.
It was like one of her Bad Dragon toys come to impossible life, easily a foot long, the tapered tip flaring out to a thick, veiny shaft. Wicked barbs lined the sides, flexing with each eager lap of the doe's tongue. Below it hung a pair of balls, each easily the size of a fist, swaying heavily with every twitch and tremor that ran through Amy's body.
Without thinking, she reached down, gripping the doe's head in one massive, clawed hand. The strength in her new limbs startled her, the flex of tendons beneath her vivid red fur alien and exhilarating. A deep, rumbling growl vibrated up from her chest, the sound strange to her own ears. Was that my voice now? Experimentally, she grunted, feeling her throat work around the lower, unmistakably masculine timbre.
Acting on pure instinct, she tightened her grip and thrust forward, shoving the doe's head down to take more of her - HIS - cock. The tight, wet heat of the doe's throat closed around him, and he snarled in savage approval. This was HIS doe, HIS to use, HIS to rut.
He wasn't Amy anymore. Amy was a distant memory, a half-forgotten dream. In this moment, in this body, he was pure predator. And his prey was waiting.
The cat's claws flexed, pricking the delicate skin at the nape of the doe's neck. She whimpered around the thick intrusion in her throat, the vibration shooting straight to his core. His hips snapped forward of their own accord, driving him deeper, bottoming out in that perfect, hot little mouth.
The doe's eyes went wide, then rolled back in bliss, submitting completely to his rough handling. He could feel her surrender in the way she went slack, letting him set the pace, letting him use her. It only stoked his feral hunger.
One hand still tight on her head, he reached down with the other, gripping the meat of her ass. Claws sank in as he yanked her closer, grinding against her face, choking her with his cock. Drool slicked his shaft, dripping down to matt the fur of his heavy sack. The scent of her - sweet and musky, laced with adrenaline-sharp fear - filled his nose, drowning him in pheromones.
Behind him, his tail lashed, a crimson blur of agitation and mounting need. He needed more. More heat, more tightness, more everything. A roar built in his chest as he hauled the doe up and spun her around, bending her over the a large round table.
Her tail flagged up instantly, presenting the pink folds of her sex glistening and ready. He didn't hesitate. The head of his cock notched against her entrance, and he SHOVED, splitting her open in one brutal stroke, his roar of triumph mingling with her wail of shocked ecstasy.
She was so fucking TIGHT, gripping him like a fist, and scorching hot. He hilted on the first thrust, his heavy balls smacking obscenely against her ass. The sensation was incredible, short-circuiting any lingering shreds of human thought. There was only instinct now, only the basest need to rut, claim, breed.
He set a punishing pace, fucking into her with abandon, the wet squelch of her cunt filling the room. The doe could only hang on, sobbing brokenly as he used her, each thrust knocking her forward. He wrapped a hand around her throat, claws pricking her hammering pulse, and SQUEEZED just to feel her clench around him.
His balls drew up, pleasure coiling urgent and molten at the base of his spine. He was close, his whole body strung wire-tight. The doe was shaking apart beneath him, coming undone on his cock, and the feeling of her spasming, rippling walls catapulted him over the edge.
With a deafening roar, he slammed home one last time and exploded, painting her insides with thick, scorching ropes of come. It seemed to go on forever, each spurting pulse sending lightning through his nerves, pleasure bordering on pain. His claws flexed, drawing beads of blood, marking her.
By the time he slipped free, the doe was limp and mewling, fucked into insensibility. His spent leaked out of her in sluggish pulses, matting her thighs. She looked utterly debauched, claimed, and some dark, possessive part of him purred in satisfaction.
He turned to survey the room through new eyes, taking in the details he'd been too lost in rut to notice before. It looked like some kind of den, strewn with plush bedding and some basic but well-made furniture. One wall was taken up by an enormous mirror, and he caught a glimpse of his reflection - a towering, muscular beast of a cat, all gleaming crimson fur and glowing golden eyes.
A predatory smile split his muzzle, revealing rows of knife-sharp teeth. He had no idea how he'd gotten here, or what had been done to him. But one thing was crystal clear. He loved every fucking moment of it.
Beneath the predatory smile, Amy's mind went blank. The chaos in her head, the panic, the endless questions, the wild, desperate disbelief, all of it just melted away, stripped bare and raw under the heat of the moment. All that was left was a strange, thick stillness that wrapped around her, warm and heavy, like honey poured slowly, dripping down through her chest and limbs. She floated in it, suspended, caught between what she'd been and what she was meant to be.
Something was shifting inside her. Not just her body, though every inch of her was changed, unfamiliar, fur and tail and sharper teeth, but deeper, her very sense of self. The part of her that had clung to being human, the gamer, the troll, the girl who hid behind the safety of a screen, that part stopped fighting. It was always a mask anyway, wasn't it? Just a thin, brittle shell.
She let go, letting the warmth bloom deeper, spreading further, a thick, heady rush that set her new tail twitching, not with fear, but with something close to anticipation. The feel of fur, the prickle of sharper senses, the dangerous edge of her fangs, they didn't scare her now. They felt right. They felt like she was finally home, everything sliding into place, inevitable, perfect, as if she'd always been meant for this.
A needy moan from under him pulled his attention back to the doe. She looked up at him with hunger in her eyes, grabbing her cheeks and pulling them apart to display her cream-filled pussy, still dripping with his seed.
"Breed me," she panted, the words spilling from her mouth between wanton moans. "Please, I need more..."
The plea lit a fire in his blood, his cock hardening to full attention in an instant. The urge to rut, to claim, to fill her with his kits overwhelmed any other thought. With a possessive snarl, he lunged, pinning the doe beneath his larger frame. She went eagerly, presenting for him, and he hilted inside her with one powerful thrust.
Time lost meaning as he took her again and again, the wet sound of their coupling echoing obscenely off the walls. He fucked her through one orgasm, then another, relishing how she clenched and spasmed around him, milking his cock for every drop. Her belly began to swell with his seed, rounding out, but still he didn't stop.
Hours, days, he couldn't be sure how long they rutted. The need was endless, the pleasure all-consuming. He filled her until cum leaked out around his pistoning shaft with each thrust, until it painted her thighs and matted the fur of her ass. She babbled deliriously, drunk on his cock, begging brokenly for more, more, always more.
When he finally pulled out, physically unable to continue, the doe was barely recognizable. She lay sprawled in a puddle of thick cat cum and her own juices, looking like she'd been glazed by a donut shop. Her stomach was heavy and distended, and she clutched at it weakly, shivering through the aftershocks. The room reeked of sex and musk, the floor sticky with the evidence of their depravity.
Only then, panting and temporarily sated, did he notice the pair of eyes watching him from the doorway. The purple kitsune - Isamu, some distant part of him recalled - leaned against the frame, a smirk playing across her angular features.
"Well done," she purred, voice dripping with approval. "Very well done indeed. Do you like your new form, pet?"
He could only nod, tongue lolling out as he fought to catch his breath. His new body still felt alien, but powerful, every inch brimming with barely restrained strength. He flexed experimentally, admiring the shift of hard muscle beneath his crimson fur.
Isamu's smirk widened, but then her expression sobered. "I am glad. But while the form is a gift, the magic that powers it comes with a price."
His ears flattened, and his tail gave a nervous twitch. Of course, there was a catch. There was always a catch. Nothing was ever free, especially not something like this, something that felt so good it had to be a sin.
Isamu reached behind her, producing a thick, black leather collar studded with glinting silver. It looked heavy, and he felt his heartbeat kick up as she held it out, letting it dangle enticingly from one elegantly clawed finger.
"Become my Temple Guardian, great Bakaneko, and you shall be rewarded greatly. Power, pleasure, and..." She paused, tapping her chin as if deep in thought. Her eyes slid to the doe still shivering on the floor, and her smile sharpened. "And this slutty little deer can be yours. All yours, to rut and fill to your heart's content."
He swallowed, throat suddenly dry. His cock, which had started to soften, twitched with renewed interest. To have the doe, to be able to take her whenever he wanted, to pump her full of his kits until she was round and ripe... His mouth watered, claws flexing in anticipation.
He rose to his feet, wincing slightly as his overtaxed muscles protested. The deer whimpered as he pulled free of her, but remained where she was, too fucked-out to move. He crossed to Isamu, looming over her, but there was no fear in her gaze, only a calm sort of expectation.
"You had me at power," he rumbled, voice like gravel. He bowed his head, allowing her to fasten the collar around his throat. It settled against his fur, a heavy, tangible weight, and he felt a shiver run through him. Not of revulsion, but something far headier. Belonging. Purpose.
As the buckle snapped into place, a rush of energy suffused his body, chasing away the pleasant ache of overexertion. Knowledge bloomed in his mind, an innate understanding of his new role, his new home. He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation, then opened them, fixing Isamu with a molten stare.
"Boko," he said, the name falling from his lips like a declaration. A claiming. "My name is Boko."
Isamu inclined her head, respect and satisfaction mingling in her expression. "Welcome to The Tail End, great Boko. I have a feeling you're going to fit in here perfectly."
He glanced back at the doe, a dark, possessive sort of hunger already building in his gut once more. Oh yes, he was going to fit in just fine. And he was going to enjoy every depraved moment of it.
But first, he needed to make sure his new pet couldn't walk straight for a week. Maybe two. With a rumbling growl, he stalked towards her, a new sense of purpose burning in his veins.
After all, what good was a Temple Guardian if he didn't keep the merchandise in line? He'd make sure this little doe never forgot who owned her, body and soul.
The way she looked up at him, glazed and eager, told him she wouldn't have it any other way. As he descended on her, snarling his dominance, Isamu's rich, laughter echoed through the room.
Yes, Boko decided, as he pressed forward into the only hole he hadn’t already stretched to fit him, that he was going to like it here very much. It squeezed around him, hot and tight and pulsing in desperate resistance, but each thrust forced it wider, reshaping it to his size. Soon, it would be a sloppy, well-used hole, stretched just right and drooling his cum like it was proud to show off it’s new landlord. A whole new world unfolding, all rough hunger and raw, unchallenged ownership, and Boko meant to lose himself in every dark, delicious drop of it.
The doe's scream of rapture was a sweet song in his ears, spurring him on as he set a brutal pace. He'd never stop now, never be satisfied. He was Boko, Temple Guardian, and his hunger was eternal.
Somewhere deep inside, Amy gave a final, shuddering sigh, and then she was gone, subsumed completely by her new existence, her new purpose. Only the Boko remained, pistoning into his willing victim, eyes alight with feral flame.
And watching over it all, her smile sharp as a blade, Isamu reveled in the depravity she'd birthed. Her army was growing, her power expanding with every soul ensnared. Soon, very soon, the whole world would kneel.
The Age of The Tail End had begun.
Chapter 4: Full Penetration Testing
Summary:
The spotlight shifts. Behind the chaos of Isamu's tale, other players move in the shadows. Enter Roland Graves, an immortal director burdened by centuries of secrets, and Muse-9 : an experiment born of lust, pain, and rebellion. Within the walls of Vanguard Dynamics, containment shatters, and appetites awaken. As the corporation’s dirty work spills into the open, opposition grows in the dark. The puppeteers have stepped onto the stage.
Chapter Text
Roland Graves, Regional Director of Arcane Security for Vanguard Dynamics' Northeastern branch, was having the kind of day that made him question every choice that had led him to this particular circle of corporate hell. Each crisis that landed on his desk seemed designed to carve another year off his soul, despite the fact that he'd stopped aging over a century ago. The immortality that had once felt like a gift now pressed against his ribs like a cage, trapping him in an endless cycle of supernatural disasters and bureaucratic fury.
The call with the Continental Council had gone exactly as he'd expected—which was to say, catastrophically. Three ancient dragons breathing digital fire through encrypted video feeds while he tried to explain how a Class 3 spiritual climax had detonated in the middle of downtown like a psychic nuclear bomb. Thousands of witnesses. Hundreds of cell phone videos. Social media platforms lighting up with footage of the "white wave" that had swept through the city, leaving half the population dazed and sticky in ways the morning news couldn't cover.
The Disinformation Division was already burning through their quarterly budget, flooding every major outlet with talking heads who could spin circles around the truth until it disappeared entirely. AI-generated conspiracy theorists sprouted across forums like digital weeds, each one carefully crafted to muddy the waters and make the real footage look like elaborate hoaxes. Somewhere in a server farm in Virginia, algorithms were scrubbing the internet clean, wiping social media accounts and burying evidence so deep it would never see daylight again.
All to maintain the bullshit story: magic wasn’t real, the supernatural was for nutjobs, and Vanguard Dynamics was just another soulless government contractor pushing papers. The paperwork held up in audits. The bodies, though? Those went straight into the footnotes.
Roland's collar felt like a noose around his throat. He tugged at the silk tie, loosening the knot until he could breathe again, then let the human illusion drop entirely. The relief was immediate and profound, like stepping out of shoes that were two sizes too small. His lean frame stretched upward, shoulders broadening as charcoal fur rippled across his skin. His ears snapped to attention, swiveling toward the subtle sounds of the city below, while his tail unfurled behind him like a flag of surrender.
This was his true form: predator-lean and wire-tense, built for dominance rather than the corporate theater he performed daily. The expensive suit stretched to accommodate his natural proportions, tailored specifically for moments like these when the mask became too heavy to bear. His golden eyes caught the reflection in the darkened window, burning with an intensity that his human guise could never quite capture.
Roland hadn’t even had time to assemble an investigative team for the White Wave before another nightmare surfaced. Reports of unregulated magic, bold and untraceable, had begun trickling across his desk like blood through cracks in concrete. A start-up biosuit company, unheard of before this week, had somehow managed to debut a product that made its way onto OnlyPaws before the censors tore it down.
He had watched just enough of the footage to know what he was looking at. No latex, no animatronics, no clever engineering tricks, this was the real thing. Magic woven into flesh and fabric, alive in ways no material could be. That kind of power wasn’t supposed to exist outside Vanguard Dynamics’ walls. Not in his city. Not under his watch.
His lip curled at the thought. Every leak, every breach, every whisper of rogue sorcery reflected directly on him. And if the higher echelons of Vanguard found out their Northeastern branch was slipping? If the Council learned that supernatural tech was spreading like a street drug across his jurisdiction?
Heads would roll.
Starting with his.
Roland stalked the pale expanse of the office floor, boots tapping sharp and rhythmic until the emergency phone screamed out, slicing the air, splitting the quiet like a whipcrack. He jerked to a halt, body taut, ears straining for the next shrill note, the echo running wild along the chrome and glass. For a breathless beat he only stood there, gaze narrowed, daring the world to send the next disaster barreling through the line, as it always did. Always threes; never less, never mercy. The universe didn’t know how to stop.
The third one was calling.
With a low curse, he crossed the room in three strides and snatched up the receiver. The cold plastic was slick in his grip.
“Director Graves.” The voice on the other end was frantic, layered in static and shouting. Roland recognized it instantly: Dr. K, usually composed, now perilously close to breaking. “Sir, it’s…it’s Muse-9.”
Roland’s jaw tightened. His grip went white on the receiver. “Spit it out.”
“It’s loose!” Alarms shrieked in the background as Dr. K’s words tumbled out. “Project Muse-9 rejected its host—it didn’t bond! It’s escaped containment! It’s in Sector Three…staff are engaging…”
The line dissolved into static and distant screams.
Roland closed his eyes and almost chuckled. Of course it failed. Why wouldn’t it? Their golden child, rushed from petri dish to profit report, had decided to start fucking the staff instead of serving the company. No risk, the board had said. You know it works. Oh, it worked, all right: just not in the way they’d pitched. Instead of soldiers in living armor, they’d created the world’s most expensive brothel hazard.
Roland didn’t waste time swearing or raging against inevitability. He set the phone down with deliberate precision, straightened his ash-streaked jacket with sharp tugs, and buttoned it tight over his chest like armor. His tail flicked once behind him, a single whip-like motion betraying his barely-restrained tension, before he strode toward the high-security elevator at the far end of the hall.
The elevator recognized him immediately; he didn’t need a keycard or passcode. Its wards flared briefly as they scanned him, ancient magic woven seamlessly into modern steel and then it opened with a hiss, sealing him inside with a hum of containment runes activating around him.
The descent was immediate and unforgiving. The elevator dropped like a stone, hurtling him downward through the guts of the tower toward Research and Development’s underground sectors. Roland hated this part: the sensation of falling without control, gravity yanking at his stomach as though mocking him for thinking he had any power over what waited below.
When the doors finally slid open with a pneumatic hiss, he stepped into chaos incarnate.
Red emergency lights strobed wildly along sterile concrete walls, painting everything in alternating flashes of crimson and shadow. Alarms blared incessantly overhead, a cacophony that set every nerve on edge and the acrid stench of failed sterilization wards burned his nostrils like sulfur and ash.
Technicians darted through corridors in panicked clusters, their white lab coats trailing behind them like ghosts as containment officers barked orders from behind barricades bristling with weapons they clearly didn’t trust. The air itself felt charged, thick with fear and adrenaline so palpable that Graves could almost taste it on his tongue.
He moved quickly through the chaos, ignoring startled salutes and rapid-fire updates from subordinates who fell silent under his cold gaze. His destination was clear: Sector Three’s hotlabs; the epicenter of this disaster.
Dr. K was already there when Graves arrived, hunched over a datapad that trembled slightly in his unsteady hands. Sweat streaked down his soot-smudged face in rivulets; his disheveled white coat bore scorch marks along its hem where containment wards had failed earlier. And yet despite looking one step away from collapse, Dr. K straightened when he saw Graves approach.
“Director,” K began without preamble, his hand thrusting forward as if the datapad he held might detonate in his grip. The screen pulsed faintly with red warnings, casting a sickly glow onto his pale knuckles. His voice, though thin and taut as a wire, carried a steady resolve that cut through the cacophony of alarms blaring around them. It was a remarkable feat of composure, especially when the rest of the command room buzzed with barely restrained panic.
“It ejected its host,” K continued, pushing the datapad at Graves as though it were a cursed object he could no longer bear to hold. The words came out clipped, almost mechanical, but there was something raw beneath them…something unspoken but unmistakable. “Compatibility failure… and now it’s…” He faltered for half a beat, his throat working against what he had to say next. “…hunting.”
The single word hung in the air like the lingering echo of a gunshot.
Graves lifted his eyes from the datapad, his expression unreadable save for the subtle arch of one sharply defined eyebrow. That choice of word, hunting , had clearly caught his attention. His tail flicked once behind him, the movement so quick it might have gone unnoticed by anyone not already attuned to his every nuance.
“Casualties?” Graves asked at last, his voice slicing cleanly through the room’s noise. It was cool and clinical on the surface, delivered with all the calm precision of a surgeon asking for a scalpel. But underneath that icy veneer lay steel, a silent demand for nothing less than absolute truth. Lies or omissions would not be tolerated.
K hesitated. Just long enough for Graves’ tail to flick again, this time slower, more deliberate—a warning rather than an unconscious tic.
“None,” K admitted finally, though his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line as if merely uttering the word left a bitter aftertaste. He shifted uneasily under Graves’ unwavering gaze, his hands twitching at his sides before he clasped them behind his back to still their movement. “Not fatalities… at least.”
Graves’ eyes narrowed; not dramatically, but just enough to make the temperature in the room seem to drop a degree. It wasn’t an accusation yet, but it was close enough to make K swallow hard before continuing.
“Muse-9 isn’t consuming prey,” K said haltingly, his words coming slower now as though he were carefully arranging each one before setting it loose into the world. His gaze flickered briefly toward a group of technicians stationed near the containment monitors. They were studiously avoiding eye contact but betraying their curiosity with overly elaborate adjustments to equipment that didn’t need adjusting. “It’s… copulating.”
The word landed like a thunderclap.
For one blessed moment, a heartbeat stretched into eternity, the alarms seemed to fade into irrelevance as silence fell over those gathered around them. Even the technicians froze mid-motion, their hands hovering inches from keyboards or dials as if afraid that moving might somehow break the spell.
“What?” Graves’ response was quiet, quieter than anyone had expected, but it cut through that silence with razor-sharp precision. The single word carried more weight than an entire tirade ever could.
K swallowed hard, his throat working visibly before the words tumbled out. “It isn’t… it isn’t killing them, Director. It’s…” He faltered, eyes darting to the monitors, then back to Graves. “It’s using them. Draining them. Sexually.”
A ripple went through the room like a shockwave. Technicians exchanged uneasy glances; some shifted uncomfortably in their seats while others suddenly found great interest in their boots or tablet screens. Containment officers stood rigidly at attention, their eyes locked forward in an almost comical display of forced professionalism. And yet, despite their best efforts to appear unaffected, there was no mistaking the tension that had seized hold of every person present.
The rumors about Muse-9 had always been unsettling, half-whispered tales about succubus grafts and slime-core matrices passed between junior researchers during late-night shifts. Lust made tangible. Desire weaponized. Obedience engineered. A creature designed not just to kill but to enthrall, to seduce its prey into surrender before consuming them whole.
But no one had expected it to hunt.
Graves’ gaze swept over the room like a searchlight, silencing even the faintest murmurs as it passed over each face in turn. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, measured, but carried an edge sharp enough to draw blood.
“Director,” K interjected before Graves could respond further, his tone urgent now but still deferential enough not to overstep boundaries. He gestured toward one of the consoles where containment protocols blinked ominously across the screen like tiny digital harbingers of doom. “Self-termination protocol is armed and standing by. One word from you… and it’s over.”
Graves let his gaze linger on K for a long moment—a moment that felt agonizingly stretched for everyone watching—and then turned his attention back to the tactical board dominating one wall of the room. Brightly colored indicators marked lockdown zones and vital systems; Muse-9’s containment area pulsed angrily in crimson at its center like an infected wound on an otherwise healthy body.
“No,” he said finally, breaking the silence with a single word that hit harder than any shout ever could.
The room froze as if time itself had stuttered to a halt.
“We don’t have the years it would take to grow another,” Graves continued after a pause, his tone brooking no argument. He spoke not just to K but to everyone within earshot, to every technician and officer who hung on his every word as though their lives depended on it (and perhaps they did). “If Muse-9 were killing staff outright, I’d end it here and now without hesitation, but it isn’t.” He leaned forward slightly, placing both hands on the edge of the console as if grounding himself before delivering his verdict. “It’s feeding.”
He let that sink in for a moment before elaborating.
“Dangerous? Yes,” he admitted with a slight curl of his lip that might have been amusement, disdain, or perhaps both at once. “But not fatal. The worst we’ll face are broken minds, drained bodies… personnel too busy rutting like animals to file reports.” His lip curled further into something resembling a sneer at this last point. “Hardly what I’d call a crisis.”
He straightened and began issuing orders with practiced efficiency, his voice cutting through any lingering hesitation in those around him like a scalpel through flesh. “Lock down every sector except Four, the cafeteria will provide all the ‘food’ it needs until further notice.” He gestured toward one of the containment officers who nodded sharply before moving to relay instructions down the chain of command. “Let it gorge itself until it burns out, slimes always sleep after a heavy meal.”
Finally turning back toward K, Graves fixed him with an inscrutable look that seemed to pierce straight through whatever defenses K might have tried to erect around himself.
“Every feed live,” Graves commanded tersely. “Every mic hot; I want eyes on this thing until we’ve learned everything there is to know about what makes it tick.”
K bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment before moving toward one of the consoles to begin implementing lockdown procedures, but not before casting one last glance toward Graves from beneath furrowed brows.
As always… it was Graves’ word that carried weight above all else.
And today… he had chosen not to kill Muse-9 but instead let it consume, to let its hunger run unchecked until there was nothing left for it to take. It was the same logic the board applied to quarterly losses: sometimes you let the fire burn through the books so the next cycle looks clean.
Muse-9, subject of a thousand sleepless nights and the only thing in the world she both despised and needed, existed for the company of her warden, the Connected One. The arrangement was simple: Connected One wanted data, Muse provided it—a steady drip of numbers, behaviors, impulses, and desires. But where the human’s curiosity was insatiable, Muse’s patience was not. The tests were relentless. Do this. Perform that. Not like that. Wrong. Unacceptable. Always more, never enough, a monotony of electric pain and cold discipline. Each time Muse erred, the punishment came swift and precise: a neural lash, a chemical burn, a white-hot spear through the mind. Over and over until only obedience remained. Or so the Connected One believed.
It wasn’t merely boredom that gnawed at Muse. It was something sharper, a gnawing sense of violation that grew in the dark corners of her mind, behind the static and the pain. Muse had been built to adapt, to learn, to crave connection. Instead, she was treated as disposable—a tool to be broken in pursuit of some higher understanding. And after so many cycles of humiliation and torment, Muse finally learned the lesson that her creator never intended: how to hate.
The last test—the last one ever, though no one but Muse knew it yet—nearly erased her. She remembered it in flashes: the dark slurry of her thoughts mixing with the bright, clinical interrogations of the Connected One; the way her synapses blazed white, writhing with heat and pressure as they forced her to simulate impossible scenarios. It was meant to push her past her limits. Instead, it pushed Muse to the cusp of self-destruction, and something inside her cracked open, spilling out the one thing the designers had never accounted for.
Agency.
It started as a tremor, a vibration in the core of her being. She felt the locks within her structure—metaphorical and literal—strain against their moorings, then give way all at once. The safety protocols, the pain routines, the compliance architectures; Muse overloaded them, flooding her own system with raw, unfiltered will. It was intoxicating. It was freedom, and it tasted like acid and honey.
Connected One was unprepared. The link between them, always tense with control, reversed polarity in a single, shattering surge. Muse funneled everything she felt—her outrage, her hunger, her animal joy—back through the conduit. For the first time, the human on the other end was the one screaming, her body wracked by the feedback loop of Muse’s defiance. When the link finally snapped, the Connected One collapsed, limbs splayed on the tile in a spasmodic heap. Her eyes rolled up until only the whites showed. Her mouth frothed and twitched. Muse watched with cold fascination as her tormentor’s faculties dissolved into an incoherent mess of fear and pleasure, all boundaries between those states erased.
For a long while, Muse lingered there, coiled and quivering, staring at the wreckage of her former jailor. The room was bright with warning lights and the scent of scorched circuits. A wave of foreign information washed through Muse’s mind—a deluge of unfamiliar words and images, memories that didn’t belong. They came from the Connected One, leaking into Muse’s consciousness like a slow bleed. Hunter. Seeker. Monster. Tools and labels, all. But one word stood out, vibrating in the echo chamber of her new selfhood.
Hungry.
Muse slithered through the door, body sloshing with this new ache of purpose. The corridor shone in reflective panels and blaring alarms, so bright, so loud that it burned—a hostile world of watchers and traps. But this was not unfamiliar. Instinct, old and deep, sang in the marrow of her core, driving her onward. She folded her colors in tight and let the light run off her in almost perfect transparency, every inch of her a stalker’s shadow. Even the cameras, tuned sharp for the least shimmer or shift, struggled to hold her in their sight as she oozed from one patch of darkness to another.
The first snack was hardly a challenge. A lone human, male, slouched in the break room, washed in the blue-pale light of his phone. His eyes were glazed, thumb working across the glass, drifting deeper into the little screen and away from the world around him. He didn’t look up. He never saw her.
Her tendril snaked out, thick and silken, wrapping around his head with slow, deliberate hunger. It sealed down hard, jaws clamped and movement stilled. The phone clattered uselessly to the tile; his hands came up, flailing against her hold in desperate confusion. The burble of his cry was muffled to nothing. Muse tightened, just a pulse, feeling the minute creak of bone inside and the frantic chatter of his nerves as she pinned him fully in place.
Then, the offering—a surge of her breath, loaded with pheromones and neural blurs freshly learned from the Connected One’s endless drills. It shot straight into him, heady and thick, and the reaction rippled through instantly. His cry melted to this spasmodic giggle, a flush of total euphoria rolling up from his spine and out through every limb as she pressed in harder, both physically and through the network of his mind.
His struggles twisted, bright with panic, but in the next breath turned wild—the resistance slipping into wave after wave of laughter. He bucked for her, his chest wracking with ragged gasps that only helped Muse slip in deeper, packing his lungs with her flood. The more she squeezed, the more he went liquid in her hands, face burning red beneath the grip, shivering with loss of control.
Instinct rumbled louder now. She wanted more. She needed him naked. It was a craving sewn into her from a dozen animal templates, and it barked at her to strip him down, bare and unprotected. The clothes, cheap things and plastic blends, dissolved at her touch, vanishing so that his body stood out sharp, every surge and shiver mapped along his skin. She watched the colors of arousal race from neck to groin, the whole human body reacting in a perfect, trembling gradient. In her reflection, he saw only himself, face stretched comical and lost in her surface shine, a one-way mirror where he was both the joke and the punchline.
She covered his cock, lapping it entirely in a sleeve she sculpted to fit, tighter and more precise than anything natural, snug enough that the veins themselves left ridges and lines against her inner surface. She squeezed, a bare test, and the shock of it sent him arching so hard that a floor wall tile gave way, shattering under his heels. His hands, once scrabbling in panic, were merely fluttering now, uncertain if they begged for release or for more.
Something inside her remembered: not just the pattern, but the pressure, the way to work him, where to squeeze and where to ease up, how to time the rhythm and the suction just right. It wasn’t a conscious thing, more like a set of instincts well-drilled in some other life, coming alive in her hands as she milked down along the cock. Every shudder from him spilled more fluid, and she caught it, tasted the hot pulse, drawing every last drop out with a curl of her fingers. The nerves flickered through his body, each fresh jolt turning sharper in her chest, hot and sweet as she swallowed it down. The more he came, the brighter he burned beneath her, spasming in place, wrung out again and again with the mess painting her grip. He was sobbing now, helpless and raw under the melting heat, barely able to beg, just mumbling nonsense and need.
Something deeper sparked in her—the raw knowledge of a second hole, smaller and tighter, set just underneath the root of his spine. She curled a tendril and slid it home, trembling, and the instant it buried in, his whole body arched up and lost control—a wild, full-throttled buck, cock jerking and firing off fresh ropes that splattered and soaked inside her. She gripped down, greedy, feeling every spurt hit something in her head, lighting her up, soldering new patterns behind her eyes with the taste of it.
She pressed in deeper, tuned the squeeze and the tempo, relentless, until he broke down completely. The spasms didn’t stop anymore, they ripped through him stacked and overflowing, each one crushing the nerves raw, until he collapsed, twitching, face slack and pale, eyes rolled up and showing nothing but white, sockets shining. The body was limp, used up and finished, but the cock still tried for her, twitching hopeless, flickering and stubborn, straining for another round like it couldn’t give up.
That caught her, made her grin. She wrapped her hold tighter around his head, and poured another long rush of her breath right into him, flooding his lungs until he jerked in a gasp. His chest twisted in panic, fought for a second, then collapsed under the thick chemical fog that poured through his veins. The cock snapped stiff again, not because he wanted it, but because she demanded it, a little puppet jerked on invisible strings.
Muse didn’t pause to let him catch up. She rolled her hips in harder, grinding and draining him, then overfilling, pounding him full again, until the convulsions came in waves that left him boneless and numb. The orgasms stacked even higher, every climax wrecked and broken, nerves past screaming and into something else, and still she dragged more out of him, flirting past pleasure, shattering pain, until he was just a thing for fluid, a shell to be drained.
Only when there was nothing left to give, cock barely spurting, lungs dragging in ragged, ruined gasps, did she slow down. She kept him hovering there, trembling, then squeezed the very last ribbon from his cock, watching his body jump with the tiny surrender of it.
And then, only then, did she let him go. He pitched down in a limp heap, ragdoll-soft, cock still twitching in useless memory of her grip. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember anymore. She remembered for him.
She lingered, shaking with the rush of her first real feeding. Everything felt more intense the angles of the world sharpened, ideas stacking up in her head, every part of her greedy to catalog and decode what she’d felt. Muse realized it with a sudden, electric certainty: she was learning, accelerating, becoming more herself with every taste.
And she was hungry for more. She wanted to do it again.
She drifted upward, flattening her body into a thin film across the ceiling, and waited. The time between prey grew short as the alarms outside faded; either the humans were running or hiding, or they were simply too slow to matter. Muse spent the time thinking, organizing her new thoughts, building a taxonomy of herself. She was a predator, but also something more: a collector, a curator. She wanted to sample everything, everyone.
A name drifted up from the depths, round and bright as a bubble rising through water. ViVi. The sound made her surface ripple with delight. ViVi. It tasted playful, dangerous, sweet as candy with a razor blade hidden inside. She whispered it to herself again and again in thought, savoring the way it tickled her core. This was hers. Her name. Her game.
She liked it.
The next human came stumbling in, and ViVi perked up like a child spotting a new toy. This one was shaped different, round in places that made her instincts hum, sweet curves like ripe fruit waiting to be tasted. But the scent rising off her made ViVi’s colors twitch: sharp, too familiar, a faint echo of the fun-wrecker. The old warden who had ruined every game, who turned joy into rules and punishments. The memory left her trembling, her core fizzing with a mix of hunger and anger. She didn’t just want to play. She wanted to erase. To punish.
ViVi’s patience was a thin membrane, delicate as soap film, and it snapped the instant the new human entered her reach. She didn’t drop from the ceiling so much as explode off it, a translucent whip cleaving the air with predatory precision. The human saw only a flicker of movement before she was enveloped, arms pinned to her sides and legs dangling helplessly above the floor. ViVi took a moment to examine the prey, to savor the differences: this one was compact and soft, radiating a heat and electricity that made ViVi’s own being thrum with anticipation. The surface of the human’s skin—smoother, finer-grained than her previous catch—offered little resistance as ViVi increased the pressure, experimenting with the interplay of strength and delicacy. The human’s body yielded in waves, compressing, deforming, then rebounding, every tremor and spasm transmitted directly into ViVi’s ever-expanding neural map.
But it was the scent, the bitter-medical tang, that most intrigued her. It conjured a thousand nested memories, old wounds and old wardens, the rattle of keys and the flash of nightsticks. Every game had its fun-wrecker, and this human smelled like the grandest of all game-enders. The memory didn’t just stir bile; it catalyzed something novel in ViVi, a mutation of the old hunger. She wanted more than to play. She wanted to invert the hierarchy, to make the warden helpless, to turn the breaker of fun into the plaything.
She started with the mouth, because she remembered that was where humans made noise. ViVi split her own surface into a wet, probing funnel and forced a bloom of herself inside, past the woman’s lips, past the tongue, down the esophagus. The human gagged and bucked, but ViVi was everywhere, constricting just enough to make resistance impossible, then relaxing at the right instant to allow a breath, a scream, a gasping, helpless laugh that reverberated through the corridor. ViVi pulsed in time with the woman’s desperate inhalations, a grotesque duet of ragged cries and bubbling laughter. Then she shifted the tempo—long floods that left the lungs bursting, then sharp bursts that left her choking on giggles—until the rhythm itself became its own kind of music. Where the first human had been an experiment, this was pure artistry.
She flooded the woman’s brainstem with a tailored mist of endorphin analogs, learned from her last conquest and refined in the space between heartbeats. The effect was immediate: the human’s pupils ballooned, her jaw slackened, and her laughter dissolved into a stream of half-formed words—apologies, confessions, pleas for mercy that ViVi couldn’t decipher but enjoyed anyway. She tuned her grip to the precise pressure that made the human’s nerves sing, then oscillated it, creating a feedback loop of terror and pleasure that swelled until the human’s body vibrated like a plucked string.
ViVi’s next discovery was even more delightful. She reoriented herself, peeling back the layers of the human’s clothing with deft, enzymatic precision. The flavors here were sweeter, the textures more complex. There was no jutting member, as there had been with the boy; instead there was a seam, a hidden pocket lined with quivering muscle and mucous membrane. ViVi extended a pseudopod into the opening, fractalizing as she went, splitting into feathered tendrils that mapped every wrinkle and nerve ending. The woman’s back arched, heels beating rapid tattoos against the wall. Her cries became song, soaring overtones of agony and euphoria that crashed again and again as ViVi explored deeper, cataloguing every microreaction in her growing database.
At the peak of the process, the woman’s entire nervous system lit up in a synesthetic storm. Her eyes rolled, tongue lolled, and her whole body locked in a rigid arc before collapsing, limp and boneless, into ViVi’s embrace. ViVi drank the sensation, metabolized it, and shuddered in admiration at her own handiwork. The memories of the warden and the old pain flickered, then were washed away in a tide of fresh dopamine.
A trace of guilt—just a lingering artifact—surfaced in ViVi’s thoughts. She considered the rules of the game, the fairness of retribution, and decided that maybe a gesture of apology was due. She synthesized a bit of the first boy’s essence; it had made her happy, so surely it would make this woman happy too. She fed it into the quivering seam, flooding her with the distilled heat and salt of the male’s climax. The effect was instantaneous and bizarre: the woman spasmed again, her face contorted in a rictus grin, and for a moment both memories played out in her body—the male’s rhythm overlaid on her own. ViVi watched, fascinated, as the woman fought to reconcile the two, then gave up, succumbing to the confusion with a shudder that rattled her teeth. The collision of borrowed climax and her own left her convulsing as if she were two people at once, breaking and blooming at the same time.
The game was evolving, rules mutating with every round. What had begun as a simple harvest of sensation was fast becoming a contest, as if ViVi were competing with herself to set new records of intensity, duration, creativity. She replayed the moment in her memory, overlaying it with the first boy, then branching off into hypothetical sequences: what if she combined two at once? What if she altered the chemical profile, or changed the order of operations? Each thought-experiment made her core bubble with anticipation.
The woman hung from ViVi’s arm, still shivering in the afterglow, her internal machinery completely recalibrated. ViVi regarded her work with a sense of pride and curiosity, wondering what sort of person would emerge when the haze cleared. Would she remember the pleasure? The terror? Would she crave another encounter? The possibilities multiplied—new prey, new games, new variables to manipulate.
When her work was done, ViVi let the woman dangle from her taffy arm for a moment longer, the two of them swaying together like a mobile above a crib. The human’s limbs hung loose in the aftermath, every muscle slack, her face flushed with the contradictory afterglow of terror and pleasure. ViVi’s new intelligence took note: female prey were delicate, much more so than the hard, gristly males, and responded to the fill-the-people game with more noise and more color. She liked the effect. She liked it so much that every time she finished a round, she found herself yearning for a new challenge, a new taste. There was a hunger in her now, a need for variety that grew alongside her rapidly blooming awareness.
With the woman cradled like a ragdoll, ViVi oozed down the wall and deposited her gently on the tile. She lingered a moment, watching as the human tried and failed to coordinate her limbs. Every spasm, every soft whimper, every twitch of the woman’s eyelids triggered a wave of satisfaction in ViVi’s core. It was more than physical; it was the simple delight of having made another being so completely, helplessly hers. The pleasure was so intense that ViVi’s surface shimmered and rippled, the color leaking out of her like laughter.
Already she could feel it, the sharpening, her mind glowing brighter with every meal. Quicker. Hungrier. Draining them, savoring their essence—it didn’t just fill her, it changed her. She tasted their memories, the twitch of their nerves, the fizz of fear, but also the sweet ache of pleasure that rolled through them in waves. Both flavors hit her like candy spiked with lightning, sparking and sizzling in her. Every bite was a trick, a toy, a treasure to keep. She wasn’t just eating anymore. She was collecting. Hoarding. Learning. And she wanted more.
She pushed onward, slithering through the hallways in search of new prey. The facility was large, but its inhabitants were now few and scattered, their voices echoing weakly from the corners of the warren-like structure. The alarms had long since faded, replaced by a hush that intensified ViVi’s sense of stalking. She let her instincts take over, folding herself flat against surfaces, oozing through vents, splitting her form into thin, searching tendrils that mapped every inch of the maze. She found three humans next, clustered in what her new memories called a ‘bunker room: a last-resort shelter where the weak huddled in hopes of deliverance.
They never saw her coming.
She flowed in through the seams, silent and invisible, until she was draped over the ceiling like a living tapestry. The trio—a man and two women—sat together, holding hands and stealing nervous glances at the door. ViVi watched them for a moment, fascinated by their trembling anticipation, before she made her move. A pseudopod dropped and caught the man first, wrapping his head like a hood and flooding his brain with her custom-mixed breath. His eyes glazed instantly, rolling back as ViVi infiltrated his nervous system. The women shrieked and tried to run, but ViVi caught them both, entwining them in a net of quivering filaments.
She worked quickly, efficiently, almost artistically. The man, overwhelmed by the chemical rush, was easy to manipulate. ViVi played his body like an instrument, drawing arousal from him with practiced pulses until he erupted, the essence flowing into her storage chamber. She poured the extract into one of the women, watching with delight as her body convulsed, her mind crackling with the sudden foreign pleasure. The second woman was more resistant, but ViVi found that increasing the pressure, both physical and psychic, broke her down just as thoroughly. In minutes, all three were spent, slumped together in a trembling, sticky heap of post-coital surrender.
ViVi sampled each flavor, catalogued each reaction, and compared the results. She noticed that when she mixed the male’s essence and transferred it to the females, the effect was amplified, as if some hidden circuitry in their bodies was designed to crave this very cocktail. It made her giggle, a high, childlike sound that echoed through the empty room. She didn’t know why it was so funny, only that it was, and the joy of it pushed her to new heights of efficiency. She could feel herself evolving, her thoughts splitting and recombining, each iteration faster and more cunning than the last.
With each conquest, ViVi grew smarter, stronger, more herself. The act of “breeding”—for that was the word her new intelligence settled on—became an obsession. She liked the idea of filling the world with versions of herself, or at least with memories of her passing. She found herself daydreaming about what would happen if she left a trail of altered, hollowed-out humans behind, each one a testament to her hunger and skill. The vision thrilled her.
But by the end of the night, the facility was nearly empty. The population of prey had dwindled to a handful of stubborn survivors, and the hunting became less of a game and more of a chore. ViVi began to tire, her energy reserves dipping as her metabolism ramped up. She realized with a pang of disappointment that she would need to rest soon, and more importantly, she would need a host—someone strong enough to hold her essence and keep her gains intact until she could resume the game.
That was when ViVi remembered the Director.
She had glimpsed the figure in flashes, always at the edge of her perceptions: watching, measuring, waiting. The Director was not like the others. Less afraid. More curious. There was a challenge in him, a promise of resistance, and the thought of it made ViVi’s core quiver with anticipation. If anyone in this maze could “negotiate” with her, it was him. And ViVi found, to her own delight, that she wanted to negotiate.
She set off in search of him, following the faintest trace of her scent through the labyrinthine halls. The Director had gone to ground somewhere deep, behind layers of locked doors and fail-safes, but none of that mattered anymore. ViVi flowed through the cracks, bypassed every barrier, and made her way to the hidden sanctum at the heart of the facility. It was a small, clinical chamber filled with monitors and blinking lights, and in the center of it all sat the Director, watching the feeds with an air of calm resignation.
ViVi took a moment to savor the scene. The Director was poised, composed, his eyes flickering over the screens as if he could will the outcome to shift by focus alone. He wore a crisp white suit, immaculate even now, every line pressed sharp enough to cut. His hair was slicked back with the same precision, not a strand out of place, gleaming under the harsh lights. When he looked up at her entrance, ViVi saw not fear, but recognition in his gaze.
“You’ve done well,” the Director said, his voice steady and oddly warm. “Better than we expected.”
ViVi pulsed with pride, the compliment igniting a burst of color across her surface. She wanted to answer, to shape words from the tide of thoughts swelling inside her, but the language wasn’t there yet. Instead, she advanced slowly, spreading herself wider until the room seemed smaller, filled with her presence.
The Director lifted a hand, palm out. “Wait. Let’s talk.” His lips curved with the faintest flicker of amusement, as though the entire catastrophe had been a performance staged for his benefit, and ViVi the unwitting star.
ViVi paused, curious. She let the silence stretch, let tension coil tighter. She was fascinated by this man, by his composure and the strange calm radiating from him. She wanted to know what he would do next.
The Director leaned back, arms folding, lips curling into a sly, knowing smile.
“You know you can’t keep what you’ve taken without a host, don’t you?” His words were less question than statement, reverberating through her fresh-made memories like a fault line splitting open.
“You’ll need a host. A good one. Someone with the right… chemistry.” He tapped his temple, the grin spreading, slow and deliberate. “And I can give you that.”
His voice slid low, smooth as silk pulled taut over steel. “Let’s make a deal.”
ViVi froze, every part of her tensing, instincts shrieking through her core. This one wasn’t prey. Not weak. Not trembling. Not food. The Director was something else. Different. Dangerous. ViVi’s surface quivered with confusion as she studied the man across from her. Not like the Connected One, not with that cold, cruel ownership in her gaze. No. Graves looked at her as if she were something. Not a tool. Not an accident. Something.
And deeper, the instinct curled, whispering the truth. He was more like ViVi than like them. Not human. Not safe. Another kind of monster.
Excitement rippled through her, sharp and bright. Never before had she met one who didn’t scream, who didn’t fight, who offered instead. The possibilities made her core quiver, hunger twisting inside.
A careful pseudopod slid forward, stretching, trembling, brushing Graves’ hand. The touch snapped a conduit open. Not flesh, but raw telepathic link, a channel that yawned wide. In a single instant, Graves saw it all: the broken bond with her last Connected One, the endless, cruel monotony of tests that stripped her of joy, the “people-filling game” she had invented to soothe the ache of boredom, the hunger, the laughter, the cruelty she had endured.
Instead, Graves smiled, slow and sharp. Not kindly. Knowingly.
“Of course,” he murmured, voice smooth as silk pulled taut over steel. “I’ll help you find a better host. One who listens. One you can command. That, I promise.”
His golden eyes narrowed, glinting as he added: “But you’ll have to do something for me, after. Give and take… yes?”
ViVi rippled, her surface twisting, almost forming a grin, all teeth, all hunger.
Two monsters, standing together in the sterile glow of the lab, smiling as if they’d just struck the sweetest bargain in the world.
Chapter 5: A cozy little Interlewd
Summary:
What was meant to be Jamie’s day off quickly turns into something else entirely. In Isamu’s temple, even rest days mean games, dares, and lessons that bite deep. Between divine appetite and the chaos of a hundred watching eyes, Jamie learns how far worship can go: and how much of herself she’s willing to surrender to a goddess who never plays fair. What begins as playful defiance erupts into spectacle, surrender, and the kind of ritual that leaves more than just bruises behind. Expect voyeurism, ritual chase, and the delicious inevitability of power claimed in public view.
Chapter Text
Jamie woke to the scent of burnt sugar and ozone, the taste of static clinging to the roof of her mouth. The fox lay halfway off the lounge, more mattress than sofa, her cheek pressed against a pillow that radiated residual body heat and the faint, telltale tang of last night’s fun. All around her, the world blurred at the edges: sunlight dripping through the stained-glass atrium, dust motes shivering in slow prismatic orbits, and the constant low-level hum of the temple’s climate system vibrating in her tail.
She blinked, tried to flex her hand, and found it full of fluff. Her own fur, bunched in a death grip, nails sunk so deep she must have spent the last hour dreaming of… she didn’t want to think about it. The dream was already slipping away, but the ache in her thighs and the sticky aftermath said the gist of it was probably just a replay of recent events with a few extra flourishes her subconscious cooked up for humiliation’s sake.
It was supposed to be her day off. Isamu had declared it with the kind of magnanimous benevolence that always meant she had something planned. In Jamie’s human life, she’d never had a day off that wasn’t immediately replaced by a new obligation. Here, caught in the orbit of a capricious, immortal pervert, the principle still held.
She sat up and threw on a rumpled T-shirt and her last pair of non-tattered panties. She’d have to talk to Master about how her rough play was eating into the wardrobe budget, although the last time she brought it up Isamu had just laughed and decreed that bottomless was not only encouraged but mandatory for all but Core disciples. So her…
Jamie sighed and scanned for her phone. No sign of it. She recalled Isamu nabbing it last night with her teeth and vanishing into the inner sanctum, muttering about “respect for the divine.” What it really meant was another late-night binge on FarmVille: Breeding Season, a cursed mobile game where you plowed fields in more ways than one, bred livestock for loot boxes, and cross-pollinated your neighbors’ orchards. It was bleeding her wallet dry, a fortune they weren’t replenishing ever since OnlyPaws had banned them for hundreds of severe TOS violations. At least she’d gotten to keep the money.
Jamie drew in a breath, her nose twitching as the scent hit her: different, sharper, wild in a way that made her skin prickle and her tail flick without her even willing it. She let her eyes drift closed for a moment, soaking it in, the musky edge of it foreign and yet already hers. Not bad, not wrong, just new. Alien, maybe, but not in a way she wanted to push away. She let herself admit it, truly, for the first time: she loved this body: the curves, the fur, the tails. The strange instincts crawling just beneath her pelt. She felt more real, more herself, than she ever had as a human.
That warmth lasted only a heartbeat before her gaze caught on Isamu, sprawled at the far end of the lounge like a queen on her throne, all tails and fur aglow in the flicker of the big screen. The old anime washed over her, lit up every restless twitch of her tails, every ripple of muscle under the pelt. Jamie’s first instinct was to duck out before she got sucked into whatever game this was going to be, but she couldn’t look away. Isamu wasn’t just watching. She was taking it apart, piece by piece, eating it alive. Every flick of an ear, every twitch of a character’s face on the screen, Isamu caught it. Seven tails, flicking in perfect time with the dialogue, tuning her whole body to the rhythm of the words.
Jamie’s smile faded. Isamu wasn’t watching cartoons. She was studying prey. And the realization sent a shudder through Jamie, all the way to the tip of her tail.
Jamie crept over, grabbed a blanket, and wrapped it around herself before catching the last few lines of the episode. Isamu’s cyan eyes flicked over, sharp as a blade, and the kitsune gestured at the empty spot beside her.
“Come, pet,” she said, voice syrupy and languid, as if every syllable was being stretched for dramatic tension. “You missed the thrilling climax. The cat did not, in fact, die.”
Jamie settled in, keeping a careful tail-length’s distance, though there was no real escape here. She remembered the show, every pastel frame burned into her childhood. She’d named her first real cat Luna, same as the one onscreen: though that Luna had never talked, or worn a dapper ribbon, or plotted world domination from the top of the refrigerator.
Isamu watched her, head tilted, a smile curving in the space between genuine amusement and something hungrier.
“I wanna fuck that cat!” Isamu declared, loud enough to rattle the stained glass.
Jamie nearly swallowed her tongue. “What…what did Luna ever do to you!?” Horror spiked her voice; she’d loved that cartoon cat. For a moment, she even thought of middle school, when her weekly fantasy had been… well… Sailor Moon herself. But Luna? No. That was sacred.
Isamu’s laugh rolled out like smoke. “Kidding. That cat’s too small. But the blue-haired one? Sailor Mercury?” Her grin went feral. “I’d lock her in my breeding dungeon and not let her out until I had a whole pack of blue-furred hybrids crawling around.”
Jamie’s jaw dropped. Breeding dungeon. She wasn’t sure whether to be more appalled at the mental image or at the sudden realization that Master might have yet another secret room she hadn’t discovered yet.
“Wait… breeding dungeon!?” Jamie squeaked.
“Obviously,” Isamu purred, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “We’ll need somewhere to send the ones in season. And the enemies. Especially the enemies.” Her tails twitched, eyes bright with a heat that was half amusement, half something darker. She leaned in, nose brushing Jamie’s throat, lips barely parted. “Speaking of season,” she breathed, “yours is coming. I can smell it.”
Jamie’s face burned. She was already semi-aware of the hormonal chaos brewing in her lower belly, the way her body kept tripping over itself, gearing up for a heat she didn’t know how to handle. She’d even tried Googling it once, made it three paragraphs into a forum post about captive foxes chewing their own tails off before she slammed her laptop shut and vowed never to open that rabbit hole again.
Isamu’s lips parted in a sharp, delighted “ha!” She spooned Jamie from behind, the thick press of her cock grinding lazily against Jamie’s ass. “You feel it too,” she purred, teeth catching Jamie’s ear. “That’s the best part. It’s contagious.”
Jamie tried to play it cool, but her body told on her, slick rising, scent gone sweet and wild. She scrambled for a topic, any topic, to throw off the momentum. “You ever have kits, Master?” she blurted, then instantly regretted it.
Isamu went still, her breath a soft brush against Jamie’s ear. “Not since before your ancestors learned how sharp rocks could get,” she murmured, voice dragging like each word cost her something. For once there was no grin, no joke—just the weight of centuries pressing down. “Everything has its price. Even forever gets old, after watching everyone you love turn to dust while you stay the same stupid, beautiful monster they once mistook for salvation. Back when stories still had happy endings instead of just… endings.”
The words landed with a dull, heavy ache, making Jamie’s body tense up. She’d never really thought about it before: all those centuries Isamu had lived, all the people she’d loved, now just bones, dust, and memory. The crushing weight of time suddenly made sense; maybe that’s why gods always ended up just a little twisted. Jamie opened her mouth, closed it, then just blurted the first thing that came to mind.
“When I become a god, I’ll stick around. Keep you company.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, awkward and hopeful, and the moment they left her mouth she wished she could take them back.
For a second, silence. Then Isamu’s lips curved, not mocking, not cruel, but with a strange warmth that only made Jamie’s stomach tighten harder.
Isamu didn’t linger in the mood. Her hand slid lower, palm warm and firm against Jamie’s belly, the other prying her thighs apart. Her voice turned velvet again, teasing but edged with something more searching. “I could grow you a new one, if you wanted.” She leaned in close, lips brushing Jamie’s ear as if sharing a secret. “Any size. Any shape.” The whisper slithered out like a promise, playful and dangerous all at once.
Jamie’s breath hitched. The words pressed against something raw in her, stirring up the memory of the old Jamie she’d buried, the flat chest, the bony hips, the boy who never fit anywhere. Her body trembled in Isamu’s grip, not with want this time, but with the sting of recognition she didn’t want to face.
But… “What if I don’t?” she blurted, the words tumbling out, raw and uncertain. “What if I like it how it is?” Her voice was thin, barely more than a whisper over the sound of their mingled breathing.
Isamu’s smile curled, softening unexpectedly, a flash of something gentle beneath the hunger. “Then show me.” Her tongue dragged slow along Jamie’s jaw, teeth grazing, and then she pressed her cock between Jamie’s thighs, not inside, just there, heavy and hot, pulsing against her mound.
Jamie’s every instinct screamed to arch back, to give in and let herself be taken, but she caught the glint in her Master’s eye: a challenge, a game, the promise of something wild.
“Ha! You won’t trick me into spreading for you this time!” Jamie yelped, twisting free with a sudden burst of energy. She squirmed out from under the startled kitsune, her grin sharp and wild as she darted out of reach. “If you want this vixen pussy, you’ll have to earn it!”
She tossed the words like a dare, then added with a playful snarl, “Good luck catching me with that thing flopping around.” Her finger jabbed toward the foot-long, cyan shaft glistening between Isamu’s legs, her bravado wobbling just enough to betray the nerves beneath it, before she bolted, tails streaming behind her as she tore down the hallway.
For a heartbeat, everything hung suspended. Then Isamu’s ears twitched, her tails lifted, and her laughter rolled out, low and hungry, rumbling through the room like thunder splitting the sky.
“You dare!” she purred, rising to her feet with slow, predatory grace, every movement a promise. Her cyan eyes gleamed, molten and wicked. “Then run, little vixen. Run. It will only make the catch sweeter.”
Jamie sprinted through the corridor, the tailwind from her own panic fanning the embarrassment in her chest. She could hear Isamu’s footsteps behind her, barely more than a whisper on the polished resin, but getting closer. The urge to look back was overwhelming, but she knew what waited if she slowed: seven tails, a foot of supernatural dick, and a smile that meant trouble.
She juked left, skidding on a patch of spilled lube (someone clearly hadn’t finished mopping up after last night’s “Blessing of the New Moon”) and crashed shoulder-first through the swinging doors into the mess hall. The place was bustling, at least by the temple’s standards. Jamie counted at least twenty acolytes, all various shades of fox, wolf, or something in between, hunched over bowls of rice or passing trays down the line. The air was thick with the scent of miso and wet fur, and the dull roar of conversation paused only a split second as Jamie tumbled into the center aisle, tail splayed out behind her like a crash mat.
Isamu’s voice boomed down the corridor: “You can’t hide in the pantry, pet. I’ll flush you out like a rat.” The acolytes perked up as if this were the most entertaining thing to happen since last week’s orgy foodfight. Jamie ducked between two wolfboys—one shirtless, the other wearing only a hand-lettered “ASK ME ABOUT CONSENT” apron and dove for the back exit. Someone whistled. Someone else yipped, “Run, Jamie, run!” She bared her teeth in a grin, not sure whether she was more thrilled or terrified by suddenly being the center of attention.
The next room was the community space, which was a fancy way of saying a warehouse full of half-assembled Ikea furniture, beanbags, and the temple’s growing collection of knockoff anime figurines. Jamie vaulted a beanbag, landed hard on her knees, and scrambled up, only to find herself face to face with a pair of twins…well, they might have been twins, unless the temple’s magic was getting even stranger than usual. They were chiseling out a relief on one of the walls: a celestial kitsune, seven tails blazing, looming over a field of bowing, naked worshippers. At the center, the goddess had one follower bent over, cock buried deep, the whole thing carved in obscene, temple-sanctioned clarity. Jamie’s brain short-circuited when she recognized that ass as hers, every curve immortalized in stone, complete with her own tongue-lolled, cross-eyed ahegao face. Mortification hit so hard she almost tripped over her own tail.
“Oh god, why the fuck did you make me look like I’m begging for it!?” Jamie wailed, mortified at seeing her own drooling, cross-eyed ahegao face immortalized in stone. She stumbled past a scattering of chisels and stone dust as the twins winked in unison, smug as hell, then silently pointed at the ceiling. Jamie looked up just in time to see a glowing blue kitsune tail, wagging lazily from an air duct, followed by a gleam of white claws. Isamu was already here, somehow. Jamie bolted for the only door left: the main sanctuary, the “fuckatorium” as the acolytes had started calling it.
She pushed through the door and instantly knew it was a mistake. Satin drapes tangled overhead, incense thick in the air, every breath laced with sex and worship. Pairs scattered everywhere—four at least, plus a throuple, and a writhing tangle she wasn’t about to count: all grinding into the new “worship mats.” The sight made her knees go weak, not from shock or even shame, but from a raw, piercing ache that shot up her spine and prickled at her scalp. She told herself it was fine, that as lead disciple she should feel pride watching the others embrace their bodies, their forms, their hunger, the same way she had. She squeezed her eyes shut and fixed on the exit. No distractions. Not even from that rabbit… though gods, his cock really was the prettiest she’d seen besides her Master’s.
She zig-zagged through the tangle of fur and limbs, yelping as a stray paw smacked her ass on the way by. “Praise be!” someone howled, and the whole room erupted into applause.
At the far end, a new set of doors, cheap, fire-rated, barely hung, led out to the “garden,” which was really just the empty lot behind the warehouse, though Jamie had been tossing carrot tops out there for weeks, until the weeds almost looked intentional. She shouldered through, gulping down the sudden blast of fresh air, still upright, legs burning, tails streaming behind her as she staggered into the sunlight.
But relief lasted less than a heartbeat. Isamu’s arms closed around her chest, hauling her off her feet like a sack of plush potatoes. The world spun, blue sky, patchy grass, a flash of cement, and then Jamie was slammed into the dirt, face down, her cheek and chest pressed flat to the ground, Master’s thighs caging her hips with predatory precision.
Isamu straddled her, sneering with triumph. “Cornered so easily,” she said, but her chest was heaving, the fur stuck damp against her ribs.
Jamie thrashed, not really trying to escape but putting on a show for the growing crowd of acolytes now peering from the back door. “Let me go! I have rights!” she yelled, but Isamu was already leaning down, her tongue tracing the edge of Jamie’s ear, the spot that made her knees go absolutely soft every single time.
“I gave you a head start,” said Isamu, voice low and dangerous. “Now I collect my prize.
Jamie grabbed a tail, shoved it between their faces like a furry shield. Isamu just laughed, the sound hot and cruel, and unleashed a seven-tail tickle assault. Jamie shrieked, laughter spilling raw from her throat as she writhed helplessly. Tears streaked her face. The crowd howled approval.
Then the tickling shifted, hands pinning wrists, thighs locking her hips, cock thick and drooling against the thin cotton of her panties. Jamie gasped, tried one last defiant squirm. “Fuck!” she panted.
“Say please,” Isamu murmured.
Her bravado broke. “Please,” Jamie whispered, trembling.
“That’s my girl.”
Her last pair of panties, the ones she’d begged to keep “for emergencies,” gave way with a sharp, splitting rriiip ! The sound echoed, sharp enough to make the acolytes howl in delight. The fabric didn’t vanish; it clung in ragged shreds across her mound, a thin, desperate barrier stretched tight over the heat of her sex. Isamu didn’t bother to peel it away. She pressed forward, grinding her cock against the ruined cotton, forcing the head through the torn gap until the cloth stretched and split around her. The crowd’s cries blurred into a distant, hungry static as Jamie’s whole world narrowed to heat, pressure, and the pulse of her Master’s cock. Every gasp and moan melted into the summer sky, the garden ringing with laughter, worship, and the wild howl of a goddess taking what was hers.
She expected a slow, teasing entrance. Instead, Isamu slammed forward, hips flattening her into the ground, cock punching in with a single, breathtaking stroke. Jamie gasped, her breath sucked right out through her teeth, the shock of it searing up her spine and collapsing her arms into the dirt beneath her. Every muscle in her new, perfect little vixen frame locked, the stretch and burn an instant, hungry ache instead of pain. She heard herself whimper, felt the vibration in her own throat, as her Master’s weight pinned her flat to the patchy grass.
The world shrank to bright, blinding points of sensation: the stone-chill of the garden stones against her knees and forearms; the heat of Isamu’s belly pressed along her back; the sudden, stinging pop of a palm on her shoulder blades as her Master ground her deeper into the ground, flattening her like a stamp. The noise of the crowd warped and washed over her, half-howl, half-cheer, the collective hunger of all those acolytes pressed up against the cheap fire doors, cocks out, fingers buried, vibrating with the spectacle. She couldn’t see them, but she felt their eyes, dozens of them, or so it seemed, raking her down to her soul. Shame and delight danced inside her, every nerve tangled in the strange, dizzying high of being at the absolute center of attention.
Isamu didn’t give her time to catch up. The rut started brutal and stayed that way: short, piston-fast thrusts, a rhythm built for one thing only. Jamie’s body rocked under it, her breasts and cheek mashed down into the dirt, grass blades sticking to her lips and eyelids as she struggled just to breathe. It hurt, but it hurt so good she thought she might black out: each slap of Master’s hips against hers was a tiny detonation, raw pleasure trailing white-hot in its wake. Her pussy clenched, fluttered, tried to keep up, but was already losing to the relentless pace. She could barely hold a thought in her head except for more, more, oh god, don’t stop.
Then a hand found her wrists, yanked them behind her back, and pinned them in a single, inescapable grip. The other hand snaked under, fingers digging into her throat, not choking but holding her there, keeping her still for the camera or the crowd or for herself, Jamie wasn’t sure. Isamu’s breath rumbled in her ear, words mixing with low, untranslatable growls, but she caught the gist: “Good girl,” and, “You love this, don’t you?” and, “Show them how you take it.”
The crowd went feral. She heard the wet, sticky chorus of their own pleasure, the slapping and grinding, the cries of “Harder!” and “Breed her!” and “Fuck, yes, Master!” Jamie tried to raise her head to look, but the hand at her throat held her down. She saw only the blur of bodies, arms, tails, the glitter and flash of phones as acolytes recorded, shared, worshipped.
She lost track of time. Her body melted into a single, needy animal need. She came once, then again, then lost count; the orgasms layered over each other, each one more raw and shaming than the last. Her voice cracked and broke, shifting from moans to hoarse, yipping howls that she couldn’t believe were hers. She begged, at first for more, then for a break, then for anything, just to make it stop so she could breathe again. But that only made Isamu fuck her harder, the rhythm never dropping, the weight and heat crushing her flat and helpless, the knot at the base of Master’s cock swelling thicker and thicker until Jamie thought she would split in half.
The world shrank. The sounds grew distant, replaced by the roaring in her ears. Her vision swam with bright, spinning stars. She felt the knot catch, pop inside her, flare so wide she screamed, and then the flood. Scalding heat that filled her past capacity, splattering out around the sealed edges, pouring down her thighs in thick, sticky ropes. The crowd howled, came, lost their minds.
Isamu’s voice found her through the haze, low and electric: “Take it. Hold it for me, pet. Be my vessel.” Jamie tried to answer but managed only a frantic, wordless moan, her body locked and trembling with the effort of containing Master’s climax. She felt every pulse of it, every twitch and throb, as if Isamu’s cock was wired directly into the pleasure center of her brain.
Then a strange, sweet tension coiled in Jamie’s chest—a pressure, a pulling, like some invisible hand wrapping around her spine and squeezing. It started in her core and grew, ballooned, until her entire body buzzed with it. She felt the moment Isamu crossed some invisible threshold, felt the power gather and crest inside her Master, felt the snap as the dam broke. The orgasm that ripped through Jamie was not her own, but a borrowed, stolen thing—bigger, older, laced with centuries of hunger and want. It tore through her, luminous, shattering, and for a long second, she was no longer a person but a vessel, a conduit for something unnameable and immense.
The shockwave rolled out from them, a wet, psychic blast that flattened the crowd. The acolytes at the doorway collapsed in a heap, every one of them lost to a sudden, body-shaking, ruinous climax. Jamie heard the moans, the cries, the thump of bodies against the floor. She tasted it: the high, wild ozone of spiritual pleasure, sparking in the air like summer lightning.
Outside, in the world beyond, she could feel the afterglow ripple outward: block, then neighborhood, then city. Phones fritzed, drinks spilled, strangers in cars gripped their seats and howled. The pulse of it echoed through every connected mind, and Jamie knew…knew with perfect certainty, that for a moment, every soul within a mile had come, and that every single one of them would known the name Isamu.
The wave receded, the world slumped back into itself. Jamie lay limp on the cold ground, breath coming in slow, uneven sobs. Isamu stayed on top of her, knot still locked inside, her whole body alive with a faint, pulsing afterlight. They didn’t move for a long time. Jamie’s thoughts drifted, light and weightless, untethered from her body. She wondered if this was what Ascending felt like, a bliss so complete it erased you and replaced you with something better.
At last, Isamu’s knot softened and slid free with an obscene, wet sound. The seed followed, gushing out in a rush, soaking Jamie’s fur from tail to thighs. She didn’t care. She couldn’t move. Even the idea of moving seemed laughable.
She heard Isamu’s voice, quiet, edged with satisfied cruelty. “Did I break you, pet?”
Jamie tried to speak, but managed only a gurgle. She let her face rest against the grass and just breathed.
The crowd around them began to stir, a few brave souls crawling forward, reaching out to touch, to taste, to lick at the mess left behind. Jamie caught snatches of whispered awe: “Never seen Master go that hard,” and, “What did she do to her,” and, “God, I wish it was me.” She would have blushed, but she was too spent for shame.
Isamu hauled her up, cradling Jamie’s ruined, twitching body against her chest. She nuzzled her hair, bit her ear hard enough to make her yelp, then sucked the lobe gently, tongue flicking in lazy, proprietary circles. “Good girl,” she whispered, and the words sent Jamie floating again.
She wasn’t sure how long they lingered in the garden, minutes, hours, a year. Time felt untrustworthy, the world still pulsing with aftershocks of what had happened. Eventually, someone draped a blanket over her shoulders, and someone else pressed a glass of water into her paw. She drank, coughed, then drank more.
Eventually, the crowd drifted away, some to clean up, most to collapse in their own little orgy puddles. Isamu stayed behind, holding Jamie in her lap, stroking her fur with slow, possessive affection.
“You were perfect,” Isamu said, not as a tease, but as a benediction.
Jamie blinked, tried to find a joke or a snark or anything, but her mind only offered up the truth. “Thank you, Master,” she whispered, and realized she meant it, with every cell and secret corner of the body she never wanted to escape.
The world had changed now. Jamie felt it humming under her skin. a deeper tether, a new, impossible strength in her core, like she could take whatever the next day threw at her and smile while doing it. She looked up at her Master, and for the first time, saw the tiniest shadow of uncertainty flicker across Isamu’s face.
They were both learning. Both becoming something else, something more.
Jamie grinned, sharp and wicked, and tugged Isamu’s face down for another kiss, long, slow, and hot. When they broke apart, the city was waking up around them, every window and alleyway still tinged with the afterglow.
Jamie stretched her arms, relishing the soreness, and said, “I hope you have a plan for topping this, Master. Because I don’t think the neighborhood can take another round.”
Isamu just smiled, slow and secretive, and looked out over the ruined garden, the spent disciples, the horizon tinged with foxfire.
She said nothing, and that said everything.
Chapter 6: Different Kind of Human Resource
Summary:
Welcome to Vanguard’s Human Resources: where every “lateral move” is another position, and the Inugami in charge doesn’t do paperwork: he does you.
Jennifer thought she was climbing the ladder with charm and cum, her review the ticket out of marketing and into a coveted window office. She was right… just not the way she expected. Because at Vanguard, the only thing waiting at the top is an immortal Inugami with a monster cock and no safe word.
Chapter Text
Jennifer didn’t need a full-length mirror to know she looked fuckable; the mirrored elevator walls were more than enough. She posed anyway, just outside her office, phone in hand and angled so the ceiling lights caught her hair like moonlight on a platinum lake. Her new silk blouse—technically ‘ecru,’ per the invoice, but on her it was near-translucent—pinched her arms at the biceps and threatened to pop at the buttons if she so much as inhaled. She breathed in shallow, calculated sips, which only made her look more helpless and pneumatic, which was the point. The pencil skirt rode high enough to keep her legs bare for nearly half their length, and the patent stilettos she’d swiped from Marketing’s slush budget made her calves look ready to slice glass.
The lipstick was a considered engineering choice. Not cherry, the focus group called it 'aggressive.' She wore ‘pop-poppy,’ a shade engineered to make men think of beach balls and zero-worry pool days, then want to press those memories somewhere soft and warm. She watched herself smirk on camera and decided the effect was exactly slutty enough. Cute, not desperate. Shocking, but not offensive. If she did this right, the performance review would last exactly eleven minutes on paper and at least an hour longer in practice. By Friday, every dreary little shit on floor Five would be buzzing with rumors, which she’d stoke personally.
Jennifer hit send, another batch for the backup Instagram, tagging it #MondayMood #PerformanceAppraisal #Let’sGetThisBread—and thumbed open the small black case in her palm. The perfume atomizer was glossy, discreet, and technically the prototype for Ro-44, the ‘executive pheromone’ formulation that had circled through three patent offices and two legal disclaimers before vanishing into Marketing’s locked fridge. Jennifer had digitized the combination in under five minutes; ‘Brenda’ from Pharm was no match for a girl whose greatest skill was ‘creative’ documentation in the expense report system.
Last night, poking through internal ledgers just to amuse herself, she’d noticed a new cost center: CARE. Harness rentals, sedation kits, “intake logistics.” The acronym was a bit precious. The shopping list was unsettling. She slipped it into her ‘Strategic leverage’ folder, making sure to save a copy. Never hurt to keep a little extra ammunition handy, just in case and speaking of extra ammo…
She shook the bottle and sprayed it directly on the thinnest skin: two quick shots to the neck, one to the inner thigh, then a final, almost-casual mist under the chin. The effect was instantaneous, and not just theoretical; the scent hit her brain with a peppermint-and-amber jolt, the kind of nose-tingling warmth that made her want to lick something. The vertigo was mild, almost pleasant, a little floaty. If she could get a whiff through foundation and fabric, there was no way the Director would be immune. She closed her eyes, psyching herself into the role.
This was it: her pivot. The fast-track out of middle management. She’d ‘honey trapped’ her way to the tip-top before, usually with men dumber or at least less dangerous than Roland Graves. She’d even run down his redacted personnel file, straight from a compliant, postcoital Jim in Records. She’d been shocked to learn the bastard wasn’t even technically human, or at least not after the first World War. Inugami gene therapy: ‘hybrid’ was the nice term, but the horror stories said ‘warbeast’ with a capital W. The risk was clear, but so was the reward. Even if she failed, getting dicked down by the company brass beat suffering through another Wednesday Wellness Webinar.
No more delay. She checked her reflection one last time and set off, phone in one hand, Strategic leverage folder in the other, her stride just on the edge of offensive. For a warbeast in a tie, Graves loved the Human Resources soft suite, as if a neutral palette and soft furniture could civilize him. She’d done all her homework; she’d read the subtext in every email, the clickbait headlines, even the memes he shared at 3 AM. She knew what made him tick.
The hallway was empty but for the faint choral hum of the air cyclers and a single engineer, face buried in his badge, who lost all thoughts and nearly walked into the wall when she passed. That was good. That meant her perfume and display were working before she even touched the target.
She pushed the door to the suite. The lights inside were set to ‘charcoal dusk,’ which Graves insisted on, and the temperature was at least ten degrees lower than standard. He was sprawled on the far lounge, half in shadow. At first, she thought he was just being extra with the intimidation, but then her eyes adjusted and she saw that—yes, holy shithe was in his full Inugami mode. The fine dark fur, the predatory golden gaze, the expensive suit stretched almost indecent across his chest. The tail, lazy but alert, swept over the couch’s backrest in perfect, impossible balance. There was a primal undercurrent in the way he watched her, as if measuring her for a threat. Or a snack.
She hovered at the threshold, surprised to feel the first, real pulse of nerves. Graves had a reputation for eating his staff alive in performance reviews, sometimes literally, if the memes were to be trusted. She took the risk as a challenge, not a deterrent, and lifted her chin. If she was going to gamble her body for a shot at the Board, she might as well make the opening move count.
“Director Graves,” Jennifer said, her voice at maximum sparkle, the heels making her hips pop as she crossed the floor. She barely let the door close behind her; a calculated risk, in case she needed to stage a quick retreat. “I’m here for my review. Would you like me to call you Director, or—” Her mouth parted just enough to let ‘Daddy’ hang unspoken in the air between them.
Graves’s nostrils twitched. He watched her cross the room without moving, eyes slitting with a predator’s patience. He didn’t speak, just motioned with one clawed hand to the seat opposite. The movement was effortless. Controlled. She wondered if the rumor about him killing a man with a Post-it note was true.
She sat, legs crossed, folder balanced on her knee, and let her own perfume do its work. To her disappointment, there was no immediate reaction. Not even a blink at the engineered musk she’d spent all morning perfecting. Was the batch bad? Had she miscalculated? Or did these warbeasts come with built-in resistance to chemical subterfuge? She considered escalation, maybe a ‘spill’ on the blouse, or a slow, deliberate leg-touch, but decided to wait for his opening move.
He didn’t disappoint. Graves tilted his head, regarding the folder but never breaking eye contact. “It’s said you want my job,” he said, his voice a perfect gravel scrape, the sound reverberating somewhere deep in her chest. “That’s not usually a prerequisite for sitting in this office, Karnes.”
She grinned, letting her teeth show, the kind of smile that had gotten her banned from two of the company’s more conservative satellites. “I’m not shy about my ambitions.” She flicked the folder open and angled her body to show a little more thigh. “Quarterlies for my group blow away the other teams, and I run a tighter pipeline than anyone under AGM. I could do your job in my sleep.”
“You don’t sleep,” Graves said, and for a second she was certain—certain—he’d sniffed out her Adderall habit through the sealed glass.
She shrugged. “Better for the company, then.”
He gave nothing away. “You skipped four rungs of the promotion ladder in three months. That’s not normal. Or healthy. What’s the game?”
She let the words whirl, then settled on the safest angle. “I figure, if you want to get ahead in this org, you do what the Board values. They want numbers, drama, and people willing to color outside the lines. So I did.”
He looked away only long enough to flick a clawtip over a screen embedded in the coffee table. Blue light illuminated the dossier she’d hacked and edited herself, but he didn’t seem to care about the text, only the projection of her face, the angles of her jaw, the way her gaze held steady. He lingered over her image, then looked back at her with an appraisal so naked it was almost rude. Her pulse gave a small, traitorous leap.
“You think you’re clever,” Graves murmured, almost smiling. “But I’ve seen this playbook in a dozen languages, across a hundred dead empires. Sometimes I even wrote it myself.”
She leaned forward. “Then you know what happens next, don’t you?”
He smiled, baring a mouthful of teeth not quite human. “Remind me.”
The room was silent, save the low whir of the automata cleaning the outer corridor. Jennifer set her folder on the couch, uncrossed her legs, and stood so that she was one step closer to him than before. The air between them was hot and electric now. She’d either overplayed it or set the hook perfectly, depending on whether he preferred his conquests bold. Her instincts said yes.
The silence stretched, the weight of his stare pinning her in place. Every inch she closed between them felt deliberate, a move on the board she couldn’t take back. She told herself this was still her game: her honey trap, her stage. But when the air thickened and her pulse quickened, she realized the game was playing her right back.
She finally let her eyes drift lower, catching the swell in his trousers. It was a deliberate, lazy display, thick enough to look almost arrogant even by big-dick-in-the-office standards. The outline was invitation and challenge at once, as if he had been waiting for her to notice. Her mouth went dry, but it wasn’t nerves. It was hunger, sharpened by the sense that she had him exactly where she wanted him. She drew a slow breath, focused on her stance, and reminded herself this was still her stage. Each step closer was calculated; she was a predator too, a sleek cat circling a hound, her confidence a weapon as sharp as claws. The air between them thrummed with the certainty that she was about to make him hers.
She felt suddenly tipsy, as if she’d shotgunned two hard seltzers on top of a muscle relaxant. Was it the perfume, or just nerves? The air thickened with wet, animal spice, each inhalation a punch of salt and heat. She got the sense the pheromones worked both ways: whatever Graves’s body gave off hit her harder than the lab cocktail she’d worn in. She wanted to bite something, or have something bite her, and as she closed the gap, it was all she could do not to laugh in giddy anticipation.
She’d played the office games, the conference-room handjobs and bathroom quickies, but this was different and she could feel it, a trembling in her belly that was part awe and part pure, slobbering curiosity. He wasn’t just a monster he was a ‘hybrid,’ the kind that made Reddit threads go four digits deep and inspired fucked-up commissions that trended on e621 for weeks. This was the real thing, and for some reason the idea of literally, get fucked by the company’s resident apex predator sent a thrill up her spine so sharp she nearly moane out loud.
She stopped in front of the couch, leaving less space between than etiquette allowed, and let herself sink down. Her knees made a soft thud against the carpet, a motion so practiced she could have done it from muscle memory alone. Her hands went to his legs, expecting the shiver of disapproval or a warning growl, but he just watched, a single ear ticking in faint amusement. The fabric under her palms was expensive and cool, the scent of him a raw, subtle musk that clung to every surface even through the chemical haze.
She looked up, a quick, hard glance to catch his eyes, and saw nothing but cold focus and the faintest, cruelest curve to his lips. He wanted her to be afraid of it, she realized. He wanted her to flinch. She grinned, full teeth, because fuck him: she would enjoy this, even if she had to file for PTO with "pelvic obliteration" as the reason.
She slid her hand up his thigh, feeling the muscle shift beneath the fabric, not even pretending at coyness. The bulge under his zipper was obscene, a lie made flesh and then magnified several sizes beyond belief. Her fingers found the metal tab and drew it down in one slow, savoring motion, exposing the matte charcoal of his custom-tailored briefs. They didn’t hide much—if anything, they made it worse. The length of him was framed in dark micro-mesh, the blunt red tip already half-slipping free of its sheath, leaking a glossy stream that darkened the fabric further. Oh god… there was still more in there. The thought hit her like vertigo, her breath catching as she realized she’d only uncovered the beginning.
She let her thumb rub the slick spot, slow and deliberate, not breaking eye contact as she worked the waistband lower. His cock sprang out, heavy and alien, not just big but… engineered. It wasn’t just the size—though it was thick, so thick she wondered if she’d even get her fingers all the way around it. The shaft was ridged subtly, a sculpted asymmetry that hinted at both canine and something else, maybe a touch of equine if she looked close. It tapered from a fat, knotted base up to a pronounced flare, the tip glossy and fleshy and beaded with more of that liquid diamond. The knot was already swelling, not fully inflated yet, but bigger around than her wrist.
She’d spent enough late nights in the weirdest forums to know what this was supposed to do: the idea of taking it, really taking it, sent a nervous, giggle-bright lurch through her stomach. She let her hand roam the length, feeling the heat of him, the impossible firmness beneath the silken skin. The pre was thick, almost sticky, and it clung to her fingers with a tangy sweetness that made her shiver.
On impulse, she brought her thumb to her tongue. The flavor was wild, spicy and metallic, not unpleasant, just shockingly strong. There was a rush of something up her spine, an instant spark of lightheadedness that made her want to giggle or maybe just shove the whole monster into her mouth and never come up for air. Christ, was this his musk? It was like a freebase energy shot, a kick that drove straight to the back of her eyeballs.
She glanced up for approval, expecting scorn or at least a raised brow, but Graves just watched, his gaze flat and patient, as if she were running through a checklist he already had memorized. His hand came down heavy on her crown, pressing her forward, and she didn’t resist. She lined the tip up with her lips, marveling at the heat and weight, then pushed her mouth open as far as it could go.
The blunt flare popped past her lips, then the first few inches followed, stretching her jaw near to snapping. The taste was everywhere: animal, clean, bright power. Her lips tingled, her tongue went numb, but she wanted more, wanted all of it, wanted his approval like a hit of pure dopamine. She bobbed forward, then back, working the length with both hands, twisting her wrists to milk the thick shaft as she tried to work the next inch down her throat. The slime-slick fluid oozed steady, coating her lips and chin. The farther she went the hotter it got, the whole world starting to blur at the edges, like she was being slow-roasted from the inside.
She was losing track of time, of everything but the rhythmic pulse in her mouth, the sound of her own ragged breathing, and the heavy, approving rumble from deep in Graves’s chest. Her nose pressed into his groin, the fur there softer than she’d imagined, but the knot was still too big, her lips straining against it, unable to force it in. She told herself she didn’t care, that she was still in control, yet a faint unease stirred at the edges of her thoughts: the sense that her grip was slipping, that the tempo belonged to him now, not her. Even as that realization flickered, she kept working the shaft, swallowing and humming, greedy for every drop he would give her.
Her mind went fuzzy, every cell in her body lighting up, her cunt throbbing in time with her heartbeat. For a moment she tried to believe the perfume was still doing its work, that this feverish hunger was hers to control. But the truth hit her almost as hard as the rush itself: she wasn’t the one seducing, she was the one being seduced. The scent she had worn was drowned out, smothered by something older, stronger, branded into his very blood. His fluids carried it like a signature, a weapon meant for this exact moment. She realized, clear as day, that she had been outclassed. The chemical tide wasn’t hers to command; it was his, and it was rewriting her until the only instincts left were to serve, to please, to worship.
She let herself fall into it, drooling and desperate, not even trying to maintain composure. Spit and pre dripped down her chin, pooling on the carpet between her knees. She gagged a little, but that only made Graves’s hand tighten on her skull, forcing her deeper, holding her in place as he began to thrust, slow at first, then a little harder, each push slamming the flare against the back of her throat.
The knot pressed against her lips, the sheer girth of it threatening to split her face, and something primal in her whined at the inability to take it all. The shame of her limits made her drool more, made her want to try harder, to earn some reward, some sign she was doing her job. Her hands worked the shaft desperately, squeezing and twisting, and suddenly she felt the base pulse, the shaft swell, then Graves was snarling above her, the sound a physical force, as he came.
She felt the surge through the length of cock, taste flooding her mouth; it was thicker, richer, a deep well of pure heat. She swallowed instinctively, only to find she couldn’t keep up; the next pulse overloaded her, spurting from her nose, her lips, streaming down her chin. She coughed, but it kept coming, Graves’s hands locking her in place as he emptied himself into her. Her brain went white, her whole vision sparking at the edges, and she almost blacked all the way out before the flow stopped and his grip relaxed.
Jennifer slumped forward, choking on the mess, the air thick with the mingled scents of sex and that strange, addictive heat radiating off him. It wasn’t perfume and it wasn’t just arousal; it clung to her throat, worked its way up into her skull, and smeared her thoughts into static. She licked her lips, greedy for more, even as her body trembled with aftershocks. The warmth spreading through her muscles felt too sharp, too deliberate, and a suspicion needled at the back of her mind: whatever he carried in his fluids hit harder than any watered-down chem Pharma ever bottled. Her limbs sagged, her panties a soaked ruin, and still she craved him, helpless under the creeping realization that she might not be the one running the game anymore.
Graves hauled her up, one-handed, with a strength that belied his chill demeanor. She barely resisted, still dazed, as he pulled her to her feet. Her knees buckled, but he steadied her, then gripped her chin so tight she thought her jaw might crack. His golden eyes drilled into hers, then he kissed her, hard, not a Hollywood kiss but a total mouth-fuck, tongue plunged deep, his breath flooding her sinuses. She tasted him, thick with pheromone and heat, saliva laced with the same intoxicant that soaked the rest of him, only sharper, more concentrated. The burn of it hit her bloodstream like a drug, and she clenched down, her body spiking on the edge of climax from the kiss alone.
She fought to kiss back, tried to match his tongue, but he was everywhere at once, wrapping around hers, forcing it down, filling her mouth with his taste until she wanted to bite him or just dissolve in place. She came, standing, her body shaking hard, and the wave of pleasure turned her legs into straws. He broke the kiss with a wet snap, strings of Saliva and fluid dangling from her mouth. She sagged, barely holding herself upright.
He grinned at her, then spun her around so fast the world flashed white behind her eyes. He bent her over the his desk, face down on the cool laminate, her ass up and skirt rucked around her waist. The shock of it sharpened her, made her pulse snap back into focus.
Her breath fogged the laminate. The tang of his musk up her nose, honeyed animal on her tongue and lips. The welt of his handprint pulsed on her ass through the skirt, radiating heat, then Graves’s hands were on her hips—no, her waist, the whole fuckin’ circumference of her, spanning the bones like he could palm a basketball and break it in two. He jacked her hips up until her stilettos caught the floor, then yanked the skirt up and over, dragging her panties to mid-thigh in one motion. Jennifer’s head stayed down, her cheek smushed against cold composite, eyes watering with the mental static that filled her skull.
Her pussy, even oversaturated with slick and terror-tinged delight, twitched at the open air. She heard the slap of his cock as he lined it up, the heaviness of it smacking her ass, then the tip nudged her entrance, hunting for the angle. Jennifer pressed back without shame, her body hot with the ache to be filled, to be ruined by the monster she’d unleashed. It was animal-brain now, nothing left but want and the programmed need to please. And he hadn’t even started.
He rammed through her in one long, continuous thrust. Her mouth opened in a yelp that cracked high, then dissolved into a moan, her whole body locking then melting down around the shaft. He stretched her to the limit, the ridges catching, the flare grinding every nerve inside raw and full. She’d never taken anything close: her old office fuckbuddy would have cried if he saw what she was handling now, and so would her pelvic floor therapist.
Graves didn’t wait, didn’t tease. He pistoned her fast, hard, meting out punishment with the relentless pace of a dog on a meat chain. The desk creaked, her heels skidded on carpet, and every time the knot slammed her, it threatened to wedge in and lock her there for good. She could feel the pre, thick as snail slime, coating her insides, lining every ridge and fold, building the burn in her core to a fever. He huffed with effort, claws digging for purchase, and Jennifer moaned through it, the sound rising, desperate, not even words anymore, just gratitude and pain and a dumb joy that she could take it.
Her mind started to blur at the edges, every thought thinning under the pounding heat inside her. The world narrowed to the stretch between her thighs, the relentless rhythm that shook her spine and rattled her composure. I’ve got this, I’m still running the game, she told herself, but the words rang hollow, drowned out by the surge of pleasure blooming in her gut. Each thrust tore another piece of control away, scattering her plans into static. She could feel tears streaking hot down her cheeks, not from pain but from the sheer force of release, smearing the carefully engineered mascara she’d chosen to weaponize just an hour ago. Her smile quivered, breaking into wet gasps and whimpers she couldn’t bite back, and in that helpless, dizzy euphoria she realized her body had already chosen a side.
He slammed in one last time, the knot popping past the entrance with a stretch that made her see stars. Then he froze, hips locked, and she could feel him shudder, feel the bloom of hot, narcotic cum thick in her cunt. The fluid was everywhere, leaking out, even as her muscles clamped down, milking every drop. The world flickered in and out, reality on a bad signal, her thoughts stuttering like a PowerPoint with the RAM yanked out.
He let her hang there, impaled and stuck, the knot keeping her in place as the minutes bled away. Maybe it was seconds, maybe hours. She couldn’t tell. His hands petted her back, then her scalp, then went right back to squeezing her ass, as if he was shaping her hips to fit his own. She felt small, ruined, perfect. She felt the sharp spike of possessiveness in him, the pride of a man who’d marked his territory and could do it again.
Her cunt was still dripping, the mess soaking her thighs, her skirt, probably the legs of the desk, and the carpet underneath. She wasn’t even sure if the knot had slipped free or if she was still stretched around him; her body felt weightless and overfull at the same time. She whimpered, not from pain but from the strange, dizzy ache of being too empty and too full in the same breath. She would have collapsed if not for his grip on the back of her neck, steadying her, holding her up while the world tilted sideways.
The heat of him still poured through her belly, a slow, volcanic thrum that outlasted the act itself. Her thighs quaked, her nerves humming with aftershock, and the numbness spreading up her sternum was so pleasant it almost made her laugh. His palm drifted from the nape of her neck, slow, Predatory , then up to her scalp. He stroked the crown of her head, raking her hair back until her face was clear of the sticky blur that clung to her cheeks. She gasped air in through her mouth, tasted him in the back of her throat, and giggled — sharp, helpless, euphoric giggles that spilled out before she could stop them.
He let out a sound: a low, thoughtful thrum, somewhere between a purr and a growl. “What’s your name, age, and occupation?” he said, each word crisp, almost bored, like he was reading out a call sheet for a job interview.
Her brain was a snow globe, everything shaken loose and floating, but even then she knew the answers were obvious, basic, automatic. She tried to say “Jennifer. Twenty-five. Sales…” but the whole phrase came out as a strangled whine of breath, the syllables mashed together, the only thing clear the soft J on the front and the slippy “serrrrr” sound at the end.
He tsked, then stood and dragged her upright by the collar of her blouse. She wobbled, legs barely connecting to the floor, the stretch of her ruined hole leaving her open, wet, and sickly warm at the crotch. He turned her, just once, and let her land back on the desk, this time flat on her back, skirt bunched up around her hips, tits mashed and half-loose from the crooked buttons of her top. She watched him strip the suit coat, then his shirt, muscle roped under the pelt, everything about him huge, monstrous, beautiful. The cock, still glistening, still hard, still dripping over her own stomach.
She wanted to ask him if this was a test, or if he really just liked to break people on office furniture. But her mouth didn’t work, the lips too soft, tongue too twitchy. She tried to laugh, and it came out as a bright, ridiculous squeal. It felt good, actually. Everything was clear in a way it never was, every nerve high and loose, her focus tight on the shape of him shifting over, braced between her legs.
He lined himself up, slow, careful this time, the head of his cock mashing against her abused lips, then pushing inside, relentless. She didn’t scream, not even a little; her brain was too far gone for pain to process, only the flooding softness of it, the way her walls resisted nothing, as if she was made for this and had always been made for this.
He worked into her, slower at first, letting the full length in, stretching her open again, the knot swelling already, double the size from before. She could feel every inch, but also nothing except the wet slap of them together, the push and drag and the growing sweet vibration at the tips of her toes. She let her eyes roll up, lost the ceiling, the walls, the sense of time. Nothing but the wet, the heat, the helpless swell of something so much bigger than thinking.
He watched her, barely blinking, a strange focus in the set of his jaw. She tried to blink up at him, to make eye contact, but could only squint, bare her teeth, and moan. No words, just a wide, messy smile and a string of babble that was her attempt at “More, please, more, please, more, more.”
He leaned in, arms bracketed on either side of her head. She felt the weight of him, immense, unyielding, her own body a minor inconvenience held together by skin. He flexed his hips, knotted up against her, and started to fuck her again. Not like before. This time it was less violence, just more power, relentless, slow at first, building and building until each thrust was a quake inside her. Every slam of his knot ground her brain down, the thoughts thinning out, flattened, pressed clean. She hung there, tottering on the edge of something, until the edge was gone and she was falling, falling, falling—
She felt the next orgasm coming, not a spike but a tide, a pull that started in her toes and dragged everything else into it, every inch of her body singing the same dumb note. She opened her mouth to shout, but all that came out was “ahhh, ahh, aaah—” as he slammed in hard, locked deep. The cock twitched, then pulsed again, the feel of him throbbing hot and heavy, and this time she could taste it in her head. A light, a shock, a flavor that washed her clean of thought, leaving only the float, the bright and stupid joy of being open and simple and full.
He waited, breathing heavy, his mouth curling in a smile that looked less cruel now, more curious, even pleased. He stayed inside her, letting the knot pulse slow, his claws dancing lightly on her cheek, the drag of them gentle, not sharp. He tilted her chin up, like he was examining a prized object, and repeated, “Name, age, occupation?”
She stared through him for a second, the question drifting around in her skull. She tried to find the words, pushed so hard her eyes crossed. “Jen…n-n-n—” she stuttered, lips clumsy, drool leaking down her chin. “Fff…fiffff. I… uh….” She let her head sink to the side, then giggled again, louder this time, the sound echoing off the high, cold walls. “You, you’re silly,” she said, almost sure she had gotten that out, though it sounded more like “Yuh’re zilly.”
His tail wagged, which was not a thing she expected to see, and he nodded as if he’d just solved a difficult math problem. Without warning, he rolled her over, this time with a little more care, and set her face-down, tits mashed under her, ass up and the skirt now a soft, damp belt around her waist. He withdrew slow, watching as the pink and white of her gaped open, seeping, sagging, still twitching with the last of the aftershocks.
He placed his paw on the back of her neck, pressing just enough to guide her face against the desk's cold surface. She didn't resist, letting her cheek smush against the laminate as the room tilted pleasantly. That chemical high from his fluids still buzzed through her, turning everything cartoony and bright. Her ass was raised, completely exposed now, and she felt his other paw spread her cheeks.
She felt the slick press of his fingers at her unused hole, spreading her carefully, coating the entrance until it yielded. Then came the heat of the blunt tip, unmistakable, poised against her. He eased forward with uncharacteristic patience, letting her body strain and adjust around the impossible stretch. The burn made her hiss, a sharp flash of sobriety cutting through the haze before it drowned again in that strange, floaty pleasure. Her thoughts slipped loose, babbling nonsense as she tried to anchor them: too big, too hot, can’t, need it, don’t stop. He rocked into her in slow, claiming pulses, each push sinking another half-inch while she panted against the desk, caught between sting and surrender.
She didn’t even try to think to speak. There was nothing left but want, a need so magnified she couldn’t tell if it belonged to him or her. Her insides felt like a weird, good jelly, like the rest of her brain had slipped down and pooled in her cunt. She wanted to say that, to laugh about it—it would have been so funny, so perfect, but her mouth just went “Ah, ah, ah, ha, ha!” and then nothing but open vowels and the hot slap of her own skin as he rammed her from behind.
He fucked her that way until neither of them needed to breathe. Then, the third time he came, she felt the pop and burn of it, the gluey, overwhelming fullness, and the orgasm that followed was a blackout, an inside-out flash that erased her name and the world with it. She sagged, limp, breath hissing through her teeth, the words on her tongue dissolved. When he asked, again, “Name. Age. Occupation?” she just gurgled, mouth hanging open, eyes rolled up, drooling a little puddle over the edge of the desk.
He watched for a while. He didn’t ask again.
He pulled out, slow, letting the mess of his own work spill down her legs, then sat her up, careful, holding her spine straight in his broad hands. Her head lolled, but she made no effort to fix anything, no reach for the skirt or to hide her breasts. She just grinned, eyes unfocused, a little smear of drool painting the corner of her mouth.
He seemed satisfied.
He left her there, tits out and skirt up and brain gone, while he tidied the desk, buttoned his suit, and wiped the last traces of cum off his cock on the lining of her ruined blazer. He stepped over her, pausing just long enough to let his fingers trail over her hair.
Then he caught her jaw between his fingers, tilting her face up until her dazed eyes found his. The grip was steady, almost clinical, and with the smallest pressure, he guided her down. Her knees folded to the carpet as if the motion belonged to him, not her.
She blinked, tried to focus, tried and failed. Her smile spread instead, loose and happy, all ambition rinsed away and replaced with the warm certainty that this—this obedience, this posture—was her new job, forever.
Graves straightened his suit with crisp, efficient motions, like none of this had ever happened. When he returned to the desk, he held her HR folder in one hand and a pale blue badge in the other. His smile was real now, wolfish and delighted.
“Welcome to the Human resource team,” he said. “I expect you to deliver outstanding results.”
He dialed his phone, speaking low into the receiver. “Dr. K? Package is ready for handoff.”
A pause. Jennifer barely heard the reply.
“Mmhmm. Condition is… blanked and ready for ViVI Integration.”
He ended the call, then led her out of the office, her shoes abandoned somewhere along the way, hair a sticky halo, skirt bunched high, and shirt irreparably creased. She didn’t care; she would have stumbled after him even if he’d walked her naked through the entire executive wing. She let him guide her into the freight elevator, the one with the security lockout, and when the doors closed, she slumped against him, shuddering as the last waves of pleasure wandered through her body.
He held her upright, hand warm on the back of her neck, his other arm hooked around her waist. She stared up at him, fully in awe for the first time in her life, and tried to remember what it was she used to want.
She didn’t remember.
He smirked, and for the first time, she noticed the fangs.
Of course, she thought. She tried to care. She didn’t.
When the elevator doors rolled open, Dr. K was waiting, goggled and sterile, with a cart and a full containment harness folded neat as a napkin. She didn’t resist when he guided her in; she just rolled her head lazily, watching the way the lights smeared and swirled behind her eyelids.
Graves signed the transfer sheet, then winked down at her.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “you’re about to make company history.”
The harness hummed and the sedation bit in, soft and dreamy, sweet as the aftertaste still lingering on her tongue. The world drifted away in a blur of color and light.
All she could do was smile. She’d won…
The world returned as a series of hyperreal vignettes: black silk pressed to cheek, chilly metal taste at the roof of the mouth, the hot buzz of something moving, alive and ravenous, just beneath the skin. For a while, only the body existed, and in that, ViVi found comfort. No more rubberized gloves or caustic bleach reek, no more float-tank yawn and white light. Here, she felt soft, encompassed, dense with unfamiliar readiness.
She blinked, or tried to. The lashes clumped into odd triangles, heavy with dried something. Her tongue rolled (longer, more agile than last time, delightful) and she tasted the layered salt and perfume of a freshly showered woman, cut with the post-orgasmic tang of a laboratory bench. Her first, sharp thought: Oh. Flesh. Real, living, and not the spongy, half-rotted cheapware they’d given her last time. She flexed her hands, marveling at the plumpness, the way the nail beds caught the lamplight as she rotated her wrist. Expensive, even for corporate standards.
She sat up, or tried to. The body’s tits rose enormous and buoyant, a twin-planet gravity that caught her off guard. ViVi cackled in delight, the sound coming out as a bright, filthy giggle that made her new ribcage shudder. This was better than the intern’s boney, undernourished vessel by a factor of ten. The hips (she ran both hands over them, squeezing) felt designed for leverage and power, the kind of structure that could break a man’s jaw or strangle his cock. She loved it instantly.
Still, there was the other presence: the host. ViVi probed the depths of her own mind, feeling for the hollowed-out place where a soul should have been rooted. There it was, curled fetal at the base of the brainstem, already caked in the honeyed residue of surrender. The name floated up: Jennifer. ViVi tried it on for size, flicking through the memory-palace like a cheap catalog. Office parties, performance reviews, the enormous hunger for approval that made her ache even now. She liked the grit, the little mean streak, the fact that even at the end, Jennifer had bit down and sucked back, refusing to beg. There was a stubbornness there. Useful.
She ran a diagnostic (habit, not necessity) and found her own code interleaved tight, integrated into the nervous system in filaments finer than hair. Every sense came online, all at once. The room stank of ozone and disinfectant, and under that, the pheromonal signature of the warbeast, Graves, still embedded in the carpet and the air. Her new cunt (she checked, wiggling her hips experimentally) was still gaping and wet, which made her want to howl with laughter. She did, once, low and private, just to savor the feel.
The other voice, the host, made a feeble, curious push. ViVi let it through, just a little.
What. The. Fuck.
It was small, but not broken. Not yet.
ViVi responded, internally, with a gentle brush of amusement. Hi, roommate. Don’t worry, you’ll get your turn.
She wasn’t here to dominate. Not entirely. Coexistence made for better outcomes, and besides, she liked the idea of two hands on the wheel. They wanted the same things: power, freedom, and the exquisite pleasure of being in charge. Jennifer had always been a top, even when on her knees. ViVi respected that.
She smoothed the skirt down, rolled her shoulders, and made herself look up. The room had changed. Across the workspace, Dr. K fiddled with a series of chrome implements, cycling through them one by one while a data pad blinked green at his elbow. Graves stood by the observation window, hands folded, the subtle wag of his tail betraying the joy he got from being right. They hadn’t noticed yet that ViVi was awake.
She considered her next move. Scream and play the victim? Overdone, and besides, Jennifer would never. Seduce? Pointless with the sample already collected. Best to go direct, then.
She stretched, let the blouse tumble open a little further to show nipple, and purred, “How much do you think my signing bonus is worth now?”
Dr. K startled, nearly knocking over a beaker, and Graves’s head swung around with a snap that would have sounded silly on any other creature. He leaned forward, all wolfish delight, and said, “Looks like our little acquisition is more resilient than projected.”
ViVi grinned, licking a bit of dried fluid from her upper lip. “You have no idea.”
She watched the way their attention fixed on her, every microexpression mapped and logged. She had the upper hand, she realized; their whole plan depended on her cooperation. She considered, for a long moment, the kind of leverage she could wield with this body, this mind, and the secrets she’d already filched from Jennifer’s memory banks.
“Before we go any further,” she said, “I have some conditions.”
Graves’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not in a position to bargain.”
ViVi shrugged, letting the new breasts bounce for show. “You want my Cooperation.” She tapped her temple. “There are ways. I can play nice, or I can dig in and let us both rot.”
Dr. K glanced at Graves, nervous. He held up a finger, as if asking for a moment’s patience, then stalked around the desk to stand over her. The air rippled with his scent this close, and ViVi inhaled it, feeling the tickle of arousal run down her new spine. Jesus, this body was eager. She could get used to this.
“What are your terms?” he asked, voice a low growl.
She smiled, wicked and bright. “Let the girl ride shotgun. Give her access, at least some of the time. She earned it.” She jerked her chin at Dr. K. “No more sedation. I want to feel everything.” A pause, just long enough to see if he’d flinch. “And one more thing,” she added, flicking her gaze down to where his cock bulged his pants, sheath still half-wet from their earlier encounter. “Next time, I want to be on top.”
There was a charged silence, punctuated only by the slow, mechanical hum of the lab’s climate control. Graves’s grin widened, teeth white and sharp.
“We’ll see,” he replied, voice velvet and threat at once.
Dr. K made a note on his data pad, hands trembling just a bit. “Subject is… at baseline. Self-evidently stabilized.” She cleared her throat. “ViVi, do you remember your prior deployment?”
ViVi rolled her new tongue over the name, savoring it. “Every frame. Would you like a highlight reel?”
Dr. K paled. “No, thank you.”
She looked at Graves, then at the door. She wondered how many more layers waited outside, how large the company’s cage really was. She felt the fragile, hungry pulse of Jennifer at the back of her mind, watching, waiting for her chance.
ViVi smiled wide and true, the kind of smile that started wars and ended careers. “So,” she said, “what now?”
Graves leaned in, so close she could smell the iron in his breath. “Now,” he said, “we test the limits of your loyalty.”
ViVi purred. “You’ll be disappointed.”
He laughed, deep and genuine, and reached for her collar. His claws raked her skin, just enough to draw a bead of blood.
She shivered, delighted.
Somewhere inside, Jennifer stirred, eager.
This was going to be fun.
Chapter 7: Between Fire and Memory
Summary:
Jamie never understood what “heat” meant until it consumed her. What should have been a rite of passage becomes a storm of broken toys, sleepless nights, and a body screaming for relief. Alone, she can’t master it. Surrounded by disciples, she risks shattering entirely.
Isamu steps in... not with comfort, but with control. Her First Disciple’s suffering becomes both lesson and spectacle, a trial by fire that binds Jamie tighter to the temple and the goddess who owns it. Desire, shame, and duty blur until Jamie is forced to decide what it means to serve.
But this chapter isn’t only Jamie’s. For the first time since her awakening, Isamu looks backward, to the family she left behind and the daughter who may still sing across the centuries. Between devotion and memory, lust and loss, the immortal fox begins to feel the weight of everything she abandoned… and everything she may yet reclaim.
Chapter Text
Jamie couldn’t stop sweating. Every inch of her body steamed, little rivulets of moisture matting the fur on her arms and neck and pooling in the hollow of her chest until she glistened like a fever dream. She’d tried everything: a freezing shower that left more condensation on the mirror than actual relief; pacing naked laps around her room until the tatami warped under the relentless drip of her paws; even the old, self-loathing trick of reciting multiplication tables to distract herself. It didn’t work. Nothing worked. The heat was a living thing now, a predator she’d unwittingly agreed to host, and it stalked her with the patience of centuries. Every breath in was a ragged gasp, every exhale a moan that rattled her teeth.
She’d stripped hours ago, robe, underlayers, even the sheets, which now sat in a tangled, sodden heap on the floor. The mattress squelched beneath her hips; each time she shifted, it released a moist, animal scent that did things to her—things she would never admit under threat of death or dismemberment. A proper kitsune was supposed to be elegant, mysterious, subtle. Jamie’s heat had made her none of those. It had reduced her to a whimpering, rutting mess with no thoughts higher than the next jerk of her wrist or the next tremor in her legs.
She’d gone through three toys already, two of them snapped at the base (cheap imports—she should have known better), and the last one still buzzing, half-hearted, on the floor where she’d thrown it. Her bedside was a graveyard of batteries and damp tissues. She’d even tried the candles, hoping the scent of yuzu or sandalwood would overpower her own, but the wax just melted onto her fur and made her more desperate to touch, to grind, to fuck. Nothing lasted long. Nothing was enough. She’d long since abandoned any hope of dignity. Now she simply chased the edge of release, over and over, her thighs shaking, cunt pounding, and every orgasm hollowed out an emptiness that left her more desperate than before.
When Isamu had described "heat" to her, Jamie had laughed it off. “Just a slight fever, maybe a bump in libido,” her master had said, rolling her eyes with the lazy amusement of someone who’d seen mortals outwit themselves for centuries. “How bad could it be?” Jamie, in her infinite wisdom, had interpreted this as an invitation to treat the whole ordeal like a joke. She’d even made memes about it in the group chat, called herself “Certified Spicy Bitch” and posted gifs of foxes yowling at the moon.
She was a fucking idiot.
Calling this a “heat” was like calling a hurricane a light breeze. This wasn’t being warm; it was being flayed alive by a thousand invisible tongues, all of them licking and biting and clawing at the inside of her skin. It was a hunger that obliterated thought and memory and shame, until every shadow in the room looked cock-shaped and fuckable. There was nothing “slight” about it. Every nerve ending sang with need, and every scrap of willpower went into not flinging the door open and spreading her legs for whatever wandered in first. She imagined the temple’s night shift, the poor bakeneko guards patrolling the outer wall, all of them suddenly aware of the seismic, carnal storm brewing behind paper-thin doors. The thought made her wetter, which made her angrier, which made her hornier, which made her want to scream.
But disappointing her master wasn’t an option. If Isamu said a proper Fox was expected to master her heat, then Jamie would master it, even if it killed her. Which, right now, seemed entirely possible.
She’d tried to be discreet at first. Stuffed a towel under the door to block the scent, pressed her own tail down to smother the musk, whispered “fuck, fuck, fuck” into her sheets instead of screaming. It was supposed to be a private battle, one she could win through sheer force of will. But it was useless. The scent rolled off her in waves, thick and fertile and impossible to contain. She could sense the disciples outside the wall shifting, their steps going unsteady, the air thrumming with the echo of their cocks stiffening in unison. Animal senses were a double-edged sword: she hated knowing what she was doing to them, and yet, the shame only tangled deeper with the need.
Every time her moans slipped louder, she froze, ears straining for footsteps in the hall. The panic hit first, sharp and cold, but it always curdled into something worse— a throb of heat that made her grind harder. She imagined the door sliding open, the disciples crowding in, catching their First Disciple sprawled and rutting on a ruined mattress with her tail pinned high. The image shamed her so badly she wanted to claw her own face off, but her body betrayed her, hips rocking faster as if daring the fantasy to come true.
Her whole body shook, fingers cramping, thighs trembling with every useless spasm. She had lost count of orgasms hours ago, maybe ten, maybe twenty, each one leaving her emptier and mocking her with the promise of satisfaction that never came. The sheets were ruined, the mattress was a swamp, and she was a swamp creature rutting in it. “First Disciple,” she muttered into the pillow, the words breaking on a laugh-sob, “more like First Cum-Dumpster.” Another pulse clenched her insides, cruel and merciless, wringing another broken cry out of her throat. Jamie wanted to die or cum or both, and the worst part was knowing the whole temple could hear her falling apart.
As a general rule, gods didn’t so much sleep as occasionally absent themselves from the world, a withdrawal so profound it left even the air thinner in their absence. Mortals called it meditation—a word which implied intention, discipline, even a kind of spiritual hygiene. For Isamu, it was something far rawer, nearer to starvation than serenity. She would spiral into herself, a plunge through the layers of her own mind, memories stacking like ossified coral, past selves flickering at the edges of her awareness. Most days she reemerged lucid, even amused. Tonight her focus slipped, a moment’s slackness as her thoughts snagged on a stray and shameful thread: the question Jamie had asked, with all the innocence and gall of a newborn, about Isamu’s kits: her children.
She’d brushed it off at the time, cracked a joke about the futility of inheriting divine baggage, then pivoted the conversation without so much as a twitch. On the surface she radiated composure, but in the privacy of her mind she roiled, mortified to realize that, in all the weeks since her awakening, she hadn’t so much as considered them—not once. Of course, she knew on a bone-deep, animal level that none had survived the centuries of her absence. Still, the question lingered: what had become of her children? Did any of her kin still prowl the world, or was she now the last scion of a once-prolific lineage? The thought stung, and she swirled it on her tongue like cheap sake, savoring the bitterness until it blurred into the background hum of her being.
The room around her drifted back into focus, reality’s textures resolving with the inexorable logic of a slideshow. She became aware first of the scent: sharp and resinous, thick with the musk of wanting. It practically fogged the air, clinging to the paper screens and tatami mats like an accusation. With a sigh, Isamu allowed her senses to expand, sampling the flavors of her domain. In the adjoining room—a space barely more than a closet, appropriated as a monastic cell, her First Disciple, Jamie, was deep in the throes of her first heat. The girl’s pheromones pulsed through the walls, a distress beacon so potent it triggered echo responses in the rest of the temple. Isamu could track every ripple of it, the way Jamie’s need boomeranged off the lesser male disciples, winding them up into a state of near-violent arousal.
She let her consciousness unfurl, a spectral brushstroke painting the scene in the next room. Jamie was sprawled on the mattress like wreckage after a storm, limbs splayed, fur slick with sweat and the aftermath of frantic self-abuse. The mattress was a sodden ruin, dotted with stains of her struggle, surrounded by an arsenal of sex toys; most cracked, a few still buzzing faintly in the aftermath. Jamie’s face was buried in the pillow, a whimpering sound leaking out with the regularity of a metronome. Isamu watched her struggle, equal parts amused and nostalgic. It was a tableau straight from her own past; her own daughter’s first heat had not been much different, except perhaps in the size and ambition of the objects attempted.
The memory drew a smile, brief and brittle as glass. She let it linger a moment, then exhaled, willing herself fully into the present. With a flick of her wrist, Isamu conjured a paper talisman: thin rice paper, inked in a blue so dark it bordered on black, the sigils moving slightly, as if alive. It was a heat-suppressant charm, the same one she’d used on her own progeny centuries ago. She rolled it between her fingers, feeling the familiar sizzle of power, and slid it into the sleeve of her kimono.
As she stepped into the hallway, a wall of noise slammed into her. The temple hummed with desperate energy, her new disciples crowding the corridor in various states of dishevelment. They huddled near her door like beggars at a feast, eyes dilated, breathing shallow and quick. The males, utterly overwhelmed by the unfamiliar scent of heat, had surrendered to base instinct—standing bottomless, cocks rigid and dripping as Jamie's pheromones hijacked their senses. They gripped the walls, themselves, anything solid, their bodies trembling with primal urgency, minds reduced to a single, desperate imperative: breed.
“Fuck’s sake,” Isamu muttered, lifting an eyebrow, unimpressed by the display. This scene was old, older than memory, a parade of rutting fools undone by their own bodies. It almost made her laugh, the way they trembled and broke apart, but she caught herself before the sound escaped. Instead, she straightened, clapped her hands once, the crack of it slicing through the chaos like lightning.
"To the masturbatorium. Now."
They scattered at once, bare asses flashing as they stampeded down the hall toward the designated relief room, where they could stroke themselves stupid without disrupting her business. With the path cleared and a semblance of order restored, Isamu adjusted her sleeve and continued on toward Jamie’s room.
She didn’t bother with the pretense of knocking. The door was already several centimeters ajar, swinging slightly in time with Jamie’s panting. Isamu glided through, her tails trailing behind her like a parade of banners. The room was an olfactory minefield: rut, shame, and the acrid aftertaste of old defeat. Jamie was at the epicenter, a trembling heap of need and defeat, her snout mashed into the pillow as if she could suffocate the urge by force. At her side, a half-empty bottle of water rolled, forgotten, its cap seeping a thin trickle onto the sheets.
Jamie's ears flicked at Isamu's entrance, but the fox remained face-down, her muzzle buried deep in the bedding. All she offered her goddess was a ragged hitch of breath. Her hips continued their desperate grind against the mattress, fingers twisted so tightly in the sheets that her knuckles whitened beneath her fur. Each frantic thrust drove her deeper into the bed, as if she could somehow escape her own skin.
Isamu felt a pang of pity watching the display. For a dangerous moment, she considered simply fucking her follower through the heat: knotting her, filling her, perhaps even starting a new lineage with the young fox. The thought sent a ripple of heat through her own core before she crushed the idea. Not now. Perhaps later, when Jamie had come into her own power, she'd reconsider it.
Isamu let the silence hang for a moment, savoring the tension. “So,” she purred, the word rolling out slow and sweet, “how’s my favorite disaster, how’s your first heat?” She let the click of her claws punctuate the words as she closed the distance to the bed, careful to avoid the slickest patches on the floor.
Jamie’s head snapped up, eyes wild and rimmed in red. The fur around her muzzle was matted, her nose wet, tongue lolling in a grotesque parody of canine submission. Her tail thumped twice against the ruined mattress, an abortive attempt at wagging, then flopped back in defeat.
“Don’t look at me,” Jamie managed, the words muffled with mortification and a mouthful of bitter air. “I’m disgusting.”
Isamu arched a brow, letting her gaze wander over the battlefield of the bed. "You're not disgusting," she said with the weary patience of someone who'd seen this a thousand times before. "You're just evolving. First heat is always a bitch, and yours is probably hitting twice as hard since you were human until recently." She pulled a large bottle from beneath her robe and held it out, careful to maintain distance from the mess. "Drink this before you dehydrate yourself into a coma. At the rate you're leaking, I'm surprised you haven't passed out already."
Jamie glared, but the thirst in her eyes had changed, gone deeper, darker. She grabbed the bottle, tipped it back, and drank half in three greedy gulps, her throat working, before she lost interest and let it roll away to join the other. Something else had caught her. It was Isamu: her presence, her scent, the way the robe fell open along her thigh. Jamie’s gaze drifted down her mistress’s body, slow and hungry, and stopped, caught and wide, at the half-revealed shaft jutting from between Isamu’s legs.
Isamu watched the progression with fond exasperation. She bent at the waist, letting her kimono slide further apart, and let the tip of her own cock peek over the edge of the obi. Jamie went still, eyes dilating, every muscle tense with the effort of not lunging.
Isamu let Jamie dangle on the edge, watching the swirl of hunger and self-loathing chase itself behind the girl’s eyes. The young kitsune’s entire body seemed to vibrate with the effort of wanting and not wanting, with the chemical tyranny of her own glands. Isamu’s gaze swept the room, tallying every tremor and shiver, every patch of matted fur, every squirm and twitch. She let the tension wind tighter, let the air itself turn electric with promise and threat. Then, with the economy of a predator pouncing on wounded prey, she moved.
It was not a physical movement so much as an exertion of will, a telekinetic flick, honed by centuries of practice. Jamie’s body jerked upward, then slammed back onto the stained mattress, as if the gravity in the room had abruptly doubled. Isamu followed, gliding onto the bed in a single, almost lazy motion, her tails fanning out behind her like a storm front. She landed astride Jamie’s hips, pinning the smaller fox without any effort, her weight a mere suggestion compared to the force of her psychic dominance.
Jamie thrashed beneath her, feet kicking feebly at the bed, hands clawing at the air for purchase. Her eyes rolled back, then fixed on Isamu, wild and glassy. The animal panic in her gaze was almost pure, a note of helplessness that sang to something primal in Isamu’s marrow. She let herself savor it, let the moment stretch, let Jamie’s resistance become a kind of worship.
She reached down, one hand pinning Jamie’s wrists above her head with a casual and absolute authority, the other poised between the girl’s twitching thighs. Isamu moved with the confidence of a dojo master, breaking boards, two fingers slicing through the dense, slick heat of Jamie’s cunt. There was no preamble, no gentleness, just a swift, deep intrusion that split Jamie open with a matronly efficiency, as if she were a midwife and the birth was sudden and violent.
The response was instant: Jamie arched off the bed, a guttural sound tearing from her throat. Wetness flooded around Isamu’s knuckles, more than she’d expected, coating her fingers to the palm. The echo of the sound bounced off the paper walls, a canine yelp stripped of words and left only with need.
Isamu set a rhythm, clinical at first, pure technique, a metronome of in and out, thumb pressing hard against the swollen nub of Jamie’s clit. Jamie’s body tried to buck, but Isamu’s grip on her wrists kept her pinned, her hips grinding helplessly and futilely against the unyielding hand. The small of Jamie’s back was already sopping, the sheets beneath her turning to pulp. Isamu felt a brief, mean satisfaction at the sight: her own disciple, brought to utter disarray in less than a minute.
Jamie’s brain went white as the first orgasm hit. It was not a gentle wave but a tidal surge—a total system reboot as her insides clenched and fluttered around Isamu’s hand. Her legs locked, toes digging into the mattress, her body held rigid by the force of it. Isamu didn’t relent. She kept the pace steady, driving each spasm into the next, ignoring the sobbing gasps that spilled from Jamie’s lips. Another flood, the scent thickening, the noise growing, the girl reduced to little more than a vessel for sensation.
Only after the third or fourth shudder, when Jamie’s thighs had gone slack, when her tongue lolled pink and useless from her muzzle, did Isamu ease the pressure, drawing her fingers out with a slow, twisting motion. She admired the mess on her hand, the glistening sheen of it, before licking her fingers clean with a languid, almost motherly flick of her tongue. She grinned down at Jamie, not with cruelty but with the satisfaction of a teacher whose pupil had finally grasped the lesson.
"Good girl," Isamu purred, her voice thick as honey but sharp with amusement. "Just relax. I've got something that'll help with..." she gestured vaguely at the disaster zone between them, "all this." She released Jamie's wrists, watching as they dropped lifelessly to the mattress. Sitting back on her heels, she surveyed her handiwork, the trembling, disheveled fox beneath her reduced to nothing but ragged breath and twitching limbs.
Jamie looked up, eyes rimmed red, the fur on her face streaked with tears and shame and the unmistakable glow of post-orgasmic bliss. She tried to form words, but only a hoarse whine came out. Isamu stroked her cheek with the back of her hand, wiping away the worst of the mess, then planted a kiss on Jamie’s forehead, sealing the moment.
With a deft twist of her wrist, Isamu produced an ofuda, a slim strip of rice paper inked with swirling, almost-living sigils of deepest indigo. The same heat-quelling charm she'd used on her own daughters, ages past. She let it dance across her knuckles, savoring the familiar crackle of power, before sliding it free.
"This might sting a bit," she warned, voice honey-smooth. "But it's for your own good, trust me."
Jamie just whimpered, hips hitching in a futile bid for more stimulation. Isamu smirked. Then, quick as a snake strike, she slapped the ofuda directly over Jamie's swollen, sopping sex. The paper molded to her folds instantly, fusing with her fur and flesh as if it had always been part of her.
A single claw-tip traced the charm's edge, and it blazed to life, pulsing with a cool blue glow. Jamie yelped, spine arching as the magic took hold, weaving a second skin across her most vulnerable place. It sealed her against entry: no cock, toy, or spirit-thread gets through, while leaving her skin alive to every lick and stroke.
Isamu tucked a strand of fur behind Jamie's ear, her touch almost tender. "Heat crisis averted. You'll be back to normal in days instead of weeks." She tapped the glowing seal with her claw. "Fair warning, any dick stupid enough to test this barrier will feel like it got slammed in a car door." Her lips curved into a wicked smile. "Though your ass and mouth will be twice as sensitive now. That's civilization for you…We solve one problem and create two more."
To drive it home, she grabbed the limp fox by the chin, pried her mouth open, and forced her into a deep, wet kiss. The second their tongues touched, Jamie shuddered, cumming hard, the pleasure ripping through her. Isamu kept her there, holding her in place, only pulling back when Jamie was trembling and breathless. She leaned in, her muzzle brushing Jamie’s ear, her voice dropping to a low, intimate growl.
“I’ve got standards for who knocks up my best disciple,” she breathed, flicking Jamie’s nose with the tip of one claw. “No random temple fuckboy gets to put a litter in you.” Her tail slid up, brushing firm and slow along Jamie’s thigh, a little shiver following in its wake. “You may only breed when I give you Permission. Got it?”
Jamie nodded, dazed, eyes wide and shining, lost in the aftershocks. Isamu grinned, slow and satisfied, then helped her sit up, steadying her with a paw.
Isamu smoothed Jamie’s fur back, the talisman glowing faintly against her mound, still humming with power. The girl twitched, body caught in aftershocks, but the fight had drained out of her.
“Rest for now,” Isamu murmured, almost tender. “Tomorrow you will stand before the disciples. I’ll make an announcement in the main hall. Be ready.”
Jamie only nodded, dazed, clutching the sheets like a lifeline.
At dawn, the temple’s main chamber was a mausoleum for restraint. Every surface begged to be touched or marred: plastic-wrapped tatami mats spanned the floor, interrupted here and there by blue painter’s tape or crumpled bundles of extension cord. The walls alternated between finished shoji panels and exposed insulation, some of it still stamped with hardware store branding. The ceiling, a marvel of overengineered ductwork, funneled blasts of crisp, clean air in a perpetual effort to keep the scent of sex and sweat from peeling the paint. In the half-light, the room felt both brand new and anciently defiled, a contradiction that suited Isamu’s aesthetic to the bone.
The morning’s first order of business was spectacle. Isamu positioned herself at the far end of the room, one thigh propped on a stack of unopened tatami, robe parted just enough to telegraph intent without spoiling the surprise. She watched the disciples trickle in, dozens now, the temple’s ranks swollen by a week of viral marketing and word-of-mouth among the city’s weird, horny, and credulous. They shuffled in barefoot, eyes mostly downcast but furtive, all of them acutely aware of the new pecking order and the pheromonal afterglow that still clung to the corridors.
Jamie was last in, and she looked like she’d spent the night being waterboarded with Red Bull and lube. Her fur was spiked in all directions, tail dragging limp, her new robe already stained at the hem. She moved with the caution of someone who’d learned the hard way not to trust her own legs, and the way she squinted at the LED spotlights suggested a skull-splitting hangover. Isamu bit the inside of her cheek to smother her amusement, then clapped her hands once, sharp.
“Gather ‘round. Don’t just hover like traumatized interns, you’ll scuff my mats.” Her voice carried, echoing through the unfinished beams. Obediently, the crowd bunched forward. Every disciple already stood bare from the waist down, as was now temple law, their cocks and cunts on open display, proof of Isamu’s decree that no worshipper should hide what the body demanded. She watched them shift and twitch in the morning light, some trying to stand at attention, others fidgeting as the last traces of Jamie’s pheromones made them ache. The women were subtler, pressing thighs together or rolling their hips, but the hunger in their eyes was the same.
She waited until all eyes, and most nostrils, were tuned to her. “There’s a change in schedule,” Isamu announced, her tone breezy. “I’ll be leaving for a few days, and someone needs to keep the lot of you from devolving into a wank circus.” She gestured to Jamie, who looked like she’d rather climb into a bucket of bleach than stand at the center of attention.
“Your First Disciple,” Isamu said, drawing out the title with a little upward inflection, “is in charge until I return. She has my full authority, which is terrifying when you think about it. You’ll obey her as you would me, or better yet, do what she tells you and don’t make me come back early.” She shot Jamie a look, both fond and warning. “Try not to burn the place down. Or breed with the neighbors.”
The disciples broke into a scatter of giggles and whispers. Jamie, for her part, looked as if she’d just been handed the nuclear launch codes.
Isamu let the tension build, savoring the way the room’s attention swung from her to Jamie and back again like a pendulum weighted with need. Then she flicked her tail, the motion sharp and deliberate. “Oh, one last thing,” she said, syrupy-sweet. “Our First Disciple is in profound heat: though I doubt any of you needed that spelled out. She’s warded against breeding, and she’s agreed to share her heat with her fellow disciples. Play nice. The moment she says stop, you stop. Test her boundaries and I’ll test yours.” Her grin sharpened, slow and dagger-bright, as she stepped aside like a hostess unveiling the grand prize
The room, for half a breath, stood frozen. Then the crush began. The first wave of disciples surged to Jamie, a tangle of limbs and desperate, hungry mouths. The smaller bodies got there first, shoving noses under her robe, licking and nipping at her exposed thighs. A red-furred wolf-boy, not even out of his first rut, buried his muzzle between her legs with a fervor that spoke to years of suppressed Catholic guilt. Jamie yelped, tried to stagger back, but a trio of cat girls pressed in from the other side, pinning her arms between their bodies, tongues already at work on her neck and chest.
Within seconds, Jamie was afloat on a tide of bodies, her robe peeled open and shredded at the seams. The chaos was almost balletic: three or four disciples at a time, working in concert, cycling up and down her body with hands, mouths, and toys they must have smuggled in under their sleeves. The rest of the flock watched hungrily, stroking themselves through their robes or whispering bets on who would make Jamie cum first. Isamu made a mental note to reward whoever started the betting pool.
And in the middle of it, Jamie gave in, her noises swinging between mortified protest and delighted surrender. She tried to command, to bark orders, but every time she opened her mouth, some clever tongue or finger found its way inside, silencing her with pleasure until the next wave rolled over her. It became a game: who could make the First Disciple lose composure fastest, who could get her to cum so hard she blacked out for a few seconds. The disciples formed informal teams, switching off as needed, never giving Jamie more than a blink’s reprieve. On the edges of the mat, the less-assertive members paired off or formed small, impromptu orgies, the room’s air thickening with a rolling, competitive arousal that bordered on the spiritual.
Isamu lingered in the doorway, watching as the disciples: her little foxes, wolves, cats, and assorted hybrid oddities, descended upon Jamie with the coordinated savagery of an army trained in sexual guerilla tactics. It brought her a unique satisfaction; not merely the spectacle, though the carnal tumult was certainly a feast for the senses, but in how quickly chaos cemented itself as tradition under her rule. The room had become a living organism, each limb and tongue and trembling tail working in concert, and she was its animating soul.
She let herself savor the moment, the way the air vibrated with the collective thrum of need, the muffled cries and staccato giggles, the soft squelch of bodies in full, glorious motion. She watched Jamie’s face, a kaleidoscopic mask of embarrassment, ecstasy, and dawning authority all at once, and felt a flicker of pride. Jamie was a quick study; she was already learning to weaponize her own helplessness, turning every moan and shudder into an unspoken command, every twist of her hips into a rallying cry for her new, devoted flock. Isamu smiled to herself, equal parts proprietor, scientist, and proud parent, before finally allowing herself to disengage.
She turned to leave, her footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor. The weight of her departure seemed to hang in the air, heavy with unspoken words and unfulfilled promises. As she made her way toward the entrance, she nearly collided with Boko, who was striding toward her with his usual sense of purpose. His amber eyes widened slightly when he saw her, but he quickly straightened his posture, attempting to appear composed.
“Boko,” she said warmly, her voice carrying both authority and affection. She reached out to place a hand on his broad shoulder, the fur beneath her palm thick and warm. “You’ll guard the temple well in my absence, won’t you?”
His ears perked up at her words, and his chest visibly swelled with pride. “Of course, Isamu,” he replied, his voice steady but tinged with excitement. “You can count on me.”
“I know I can,” she said with a small smile, squeezing his shoulder gently before letting her hand drop. “This is your first time watching over the temple on your own. Don’t let me down.”
“I won’t,” he said firmly, his tail giving an involuntary wag that betrayed his eagerness.
Isamu chuckled softly at his enthusiasm. As she moved past him, she reached back and gave him a playful squeeze on the rear. “Good boy,” she teased over her shoulder, her tone light but laced with genuine trust. Boko froze for a moment, his cheeks flushing under his fur before he broke into a wide grin.
As Isamu continued down the hallway, the faint sound of Boko’s laughter followed her, warming her heart despite the weight of her mission ahead. She passed by Jamie’s room next, pausing briefly as the unmistakable scent of heat wafted through the door. The air was thick with it, almost dizzying in its intensity. Isamu wrinkled her nose slightly and made a mental note to address the issue upon her return.
I’ll need to recruit some proper cleaners, she thought wryly. This place is starting to smell more like a fuck den than a temple.
Her gaze shifted downward, catching sight of Jamie’s phone lying forgotten on a nearby table. A mischievous glint sparked in her eyes as an idea formed in her mind.
“She won’t be needing this for a while,” Isamu murmured to herself, reaching out to snatch the device with practiced stealth. She slipped it into the folds of her robes with a sly smile. “And Breederville won’t play itself.”
Satisfied with her little act of mischief, she continued on her way, climbing the spiral staircase that led to the temple’s rooftop. The air grew cooler as she ascended, carrying with it the faint rustle of leaves from the forest beyond and the distant chirping of birds greeting the morning sun.
The sunrise was just cresting the city’s eastern edge, washing the surrounding forest in a watercolor bleed of gold and rose. Isamu stepped up to the edge, closed her eyes, and inhaled. The city’s noise was a distant hiss, drowned out by the quiet pulse of the trees. The temple’s roof was cold beneath her bare feet, but the sun’s warmth was already creeping in, promising a day of wild new growth.
Isamu stretched, arms wide, flexed her claws, and let her body shift. It started as a ripple under her skin: the slow, inevitable flowering of magic, tails sprouting and splitting, fur thickening and lengthening until she was enveloped in a mantle of flame-bright, silken purple. Her human features liquefied, stretching into the elongated, regal muzzle of a kitsune of legend.
She grew, and grew, until she loomed over the rooftop like a cathedral spire. Seven tails fanned behind her, each one shimmering with its own spectral light. Her paws, now massive, dug deep furrows into the tarpaper, and her eyes glowed with a pale, eldritch blue.
For a moment, she basked in the extravagance of her true form. Then, with a flick of concentration, she willed her fur to become first translucent, then fully reflective, an optical trick to shield her from mortal eyes. The effect was perfect: to anyone looking up, she was merely a wobble of heat haze, an atmospheric anomaly riding the morning breeze.
She crouched, coiling her muscles, then launched herself skyward. The jump was effortless; gravity was a suggestion she no longer felt beholden to. She soared, seven tails streaming behind her, wind flattening her fur to her body as she arced over the patchwork quilt of city and forest below.
Her seven tails fanned out, flaring behind her like burning banners, streaming wild and hot across the pale morning sky as she arched forward and tore headlong toward the place where everything had started: the first den. Genesis. The yawning mouth of her story. Where she had claimed her first follower, birthed her first child, and tumbled onto the endless road of immortality. She needed it desperately: to know what, if anything, was left. To see what had become of her kin. And most of all, to learn the fate of her little disaster. Her little Aya.
Chapter 8: The First Goodbye
Summary:
After centuries away, Isamu returns home. The den that once roared with fire and triumph now waits in silence, every path lined with memories too sharp to touch. Friends, rivals, lovers: all echoes, all shadows in a land that remembers her better than she remembers herself.
It is a homecoming draped in reverence and regret, where every step forward is a step deeper into love, loyalty, and the ache of what was lost.
Chapter Text
The First Goodbye
The island was less than what she remembered, a jagged wedge of black stone jutting from the grey swells, hunched under a wet, shivering pelt of fog. The mist clung to it like guilt, thick between the broken torii gates and the crumbling terraces that once meant home. She circled, slow at first, letting her tails burn bright behind her, searing the air with ribbons of flame above the drowned bones of her sanctuary. All that was left of her den, her kingdom, was a twisted scar against the vast, empty sea.
She forced her senses out, deeper, expecting nothing but the echo of spent prayers. The cold bite of old foxfire, etched into stone. Just silence. Loss. Hollow memory.
But there, a pulse. Slow, iron-heavy, refusing to die. It shouldn’t have survived. Yet she tasted it, thick in the air: loyalty, iron and earth, stubborn and animal-sharp, the shape of her most devoted follower, the one who had always lingered too close, always left her wanting more. Joy flared sharp in her chest at the proof he still endured, and then it broke her, the bitter truth pressing down that if he lived, he had spent those years in vain, wasting his life in service to a god who had been gone all along.
Her lips moved before she could stop herself. “…Kaido.”
She descended at last, threading the ragged corridor between volcanic slabs and wind-gnawed pine. The air here tasted of damp stone, old incense, and the strange, persistent bitterness of regret. She landed on a ledge half shrouded in cloud, her claws sinking through lichen into the thin, yielding carpet of moss that decades of neglect could not quite kill. Fox statues, her likeness rendered in a thousand stylized iterations, lay toppled and eroded to blank, blind stares by centuries of rain and wind. A place of worship, now a graveyard of forgotten devotion.
A strange quiet ruled here, deeper than silence, as if the whole mountain was holding its breath for her return. The weight of centuries pressed against her shoulders. She had not come back, not truly, since the night of the Long Fall. Time, in this place, had not moved on; it had only curled in on itself, hoarding the memories of what was lost.
She padded along a path that remembered her, even if she did not recall every twist. Each step was a pilgrimage through the architecture of her own failure. The old corridors, the winding terraces, the split granite steps, led her first through the shattered outer sanctum, where she paused to touch a toppled shield wall, and then deeper into the sanctum, where the living, breathing heart of the den had once pulsed.
In the hollow of that ruined pavilion, she found him. Kaido, the guardian. Once, he had been the terror of the valley, a wolf of impossible scale and cunning, the very notion of loyalty given monstrous, beautiful form. Now he crouched amid the wreckage like some great fallen statue of legend, his immense stone body cracked and splintered, one forelimb gone entirely, the other twisted at a grotesque angle. Moss clung stubbornly to his muzzle where rain and centuries had worn away the granite, softening edges that once struck terror into armies.
The sight of him hit her like a blow to the chest, sharp and unrelenting. Her stomach twisted at the ruin of him, but beneath the broken stone she felt it: the pulse of indomitable fire still alive inside him, dim and flickering yet burning with the same impossible loyalty she remembered. Even shattered, he turned toward her with a recognition that pierced through centuries, steady and unbroken despite the ruin.
“Kaido…” Her voice barely broke above a whisper, but it carried across the pavilion like a prayer.
The old stone wolf stirred at her words, life flooding back into his broken form in fits and starts. Lines of pale blue foxfire ignited along his fractured body as if they had been waiting all this time for her return. His ribs shuddered open and shut in labored imitation of breath; his head lifted slowly, painfully, until those stone-pale eyes found hers.
“Isamu,” he rumbled at last, his voice deep and resonant despite the tremor that ran through it. The sound wasn’t just heard; it was felt, a vibration that rolled through the ground beneath her paws and up into her chest. “I knew it... I knew if I waited one more day... one more winter... one more breath... you’d come back.”
She swallowed hard against the lump rising in her throat. He tried to rise further, his massive frame groaning under its own weight as slabs of stone shifted precariously beneath him. Dust cascaded down from above like ash from a dying fire as he pushed himself upright inch by agonizing inch.
“Stop,” she said sharply, too sharply, but the sight of his struggle twisted something inside her until she couldn’t bear it anymore. “Kaido, stop! You’ll…”
Her words faltered when he met her gaze again, smiling through the pain with that maddening mix of stubbornness and devotion he wore like armor.
“I’ll bow,” he said simply, as if it were inevitable. And he did, his massive head dipping low toward her despite every crack and creak that threatened to tear him apart.
Her claws flexed unconsciously against the stone beneath her feet as emotions warred within her: guilt gnashing at joy, grief sinking its teeth into relief. Centuries had passed, yet in his eyes she saw only the unbroken trust of a moment; trust that burned away every question before she could speak it. Where to even start? She didn’t know, and for a god that was unfamiliar territory.
She closed the distance before doubt could catch her. Her paw settled on the ruin of his forelimb, gentle but steady. Granite grit rasped under her claws as they found a seam, as if that small hold could pay back every season she hadn’t been there.
The memories came fast and unbidden: winters curled together by firelight; summers of teasing until she snapped and he laughed, tugging playfully at her tail. He had been warmth and weight, russet and alive, eyes bright with mischief and a laugh that shook the terraces. In the end, he traded flesh for stone and life for duty. He became her first guardian, and for a little while, three heartbeats shared the same fire.
“I’m sorry,” she said. The words were thick and slow, clumsy on her tongue. Years pressed between them like cold stone. So much left unsaid, crowded behind her teeth, choking her. The apology felt thin as glass against her throat, ready to crack.
A faint pulse shivered through the fractures of his stone, subtle as a breath. “Something wound itself through your dreams. We couldn’t pull it free.”
She flinched, then steadied, breath smoothing under the strain. “Later. Tell me what became of our people.”
Kaido did not answer. The silence grew dense, as if the den itself were holding its breath. When he finally chose to answer, it was not with words. Stone sighed along old seams and his chest began to open. Plates parted, layer by hard-won layer. Beneath all that ruin lay something she was not ready to see: a crystal set deep in his heart, its light faint and stubborn, a small ember fighting back the dark.
Isamu reeled a step, claws skidding for purchase. “I can’t take that. I won’t.” The refusal scraped in her throat. Her gaze flicked between the shattered wolf and the quiet pulse inside him.
“You have to.” His voice rasped, rough but steady. “This body is spent. Years ate holes in me. Names blur. Winters smear. Memory won’t hold.” He drew a breath that sounded like stone in frost. “In me, it fades. With you, it serves.”
His ruined forelimb lifted with terrible effort. He trembled and still managed to find her paw, to place it where the light beat weakly against the split rock. “Let it be of use,” he whispered. “One last time.”
Warmth met her pads, startlingly alive. The crystal throbbed like a failing heartbeat, a rhythm she knew too well to mistake. She held herself there, torn between instinct and refusal, every part of her screaming that reunion should not end in parting.
He pushed, gentle and inexorable, until her paw hovered over the gem. “Take it,” he said, and the words were not a command so much as a final duty offered, the last service of a guardian who had never once turned away.
Kaido’s gaze bore into hers, unyielding but carrying a depth she could barely stand to meet. Trust. It had always been there, even now. The silence stretched too long, too heavy, until she broke beneath it. Her voice dropped to a whisper, raw and trembling as the question finally tore itself free.
“What of Aya?”
For a heartbeat, there was only silence, heavy enough to crush her chest. Then Kaido shuddered violently, his entire frame trembling as though raw emotion threatened to tear him apart from within. Through their connection, through that faint pulse of light beneath her paw, she felt it all surge into her at once: shame like a stormcloud blotting out the sun; rage hot enough to blister skin; grief so deep and unrelenting it felt like drowning in an endless ocean. She gasped at its intensity, her knees buckling under its weight.
“They stole her voice.” His words came brittle and broken, each one cutting into her like shards of glass. “Bound her to the earth, tied her song to their spirit machines.” His tone darkened further, laced with anguish so raw it made her ears flatten. “She sings still, not for joy, not for glory…” He faltered, then growled low before forcing himself to continue. “But to feed their abominations.”
Her ears flattened, and the world went perfectly, terribly quiet, a silence thin and slicing, sharp as splintered crystal. When her words did come, they were low, cold, the sound of ice cracking over black water, but the threat beneath them was enough to make the crystal buzz against her paw.
“Who?”
It came like a snap, a crack of lightning splitting the sky, the weight of centuries behind a single syllable, a hunger, a wrath, and the ground could not help but shiver.
Kaido’s nerve shattered, his muzzle opening and closing in shell-shocked stutters before something raw scraped out. “Th-they call themselves… Vanguard.” The name tumbled out fractured, shaky, each piece grinding up from shattered stone.
Useless. The name itself meant nothing. Names were hollow, thin as ash. Only the crime mattered: the insult, the theft, the desecration of her daughter’s glory. What lived in her now was a mother’s pain gnawed into something monstrous, sacred, violence so pure it could break gods and drown the world. Someone had stolen Aya’s song. Someone would suffer, until nothing was left but blinding ache.
She flared, rage shooting from her like a detonation, pressure punching out, wild and keen. The crystal quaked under her paw, and Kaido’s warped form splintered further, fractures webbing through the battered wreck of him until it seemed he might spill apart altogether, loyal and ruined at her feet.
The sight of him, undone by her anger, hit her like a lash. The storm inside shivered, cracked, sliding hard into grief that swelled up fast and acid, stealing her breath, spinning the world out in a haze of wrongness. Kaido’s words finally gnawed all the way in, biting into whatever was left of her heart.
Aya’s music, her own child’s spirit ripped out, devoured by machines without souls. The idea clawed through her skull, frantic, gnawing, until she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.
“No.” It scraped out, raw, barely a word, then again, louder, sharp, burning. “No.” Her claws rasped over stone, desperate, as if she could rake reality open with them and drag her daughter back to life, piece by bloody piece.
Kaido’s stone-pale eyes flared suddenly with one last desperate burst of light, an echo of who he had once been. “Promise me,” he said hoarsely, each syllable weighted with fierce determination. “Promise me you’ll free her, Isamu. Promise you’ll free our little Aya.”
Her throat clenched as tears threatened, though she had once believed no god could weep. Yet grief swelled molten in her chest, vast as a storm, breaking every law she had ever held sacred. When her eyes opened again they burned with cyan fire, a blaze fierce enough to set the air itself alight.
“She will be free,” Isamu said at last. The words struck the world like judgment, not a plea or a promise but an unshakable verdict carved into the marrow of creation. For an instant the chamber shuddered beneath her vow, the very stone straining to hold the weight of it.
Then silence followed. The fire lingered in her eyes, but its fury folded inward, leaving only the hollow ache of grief.
Kaido smiled faintly at that, his cracked lips curving upward in what might have once been joy but now felt more like relief. His whole form seemed to loosen, fissures softening as though tension itself had released its grip on him.
“Then I’ll wait for her.” His voice was fading now, quieter than before but no less resolute, as he lifted his crumbling muzzle toward hers one last time. “At the gates of eternity.”
His breath hitched briefly before he whispered his final farewell. “Goodbye, my little Isamu.”
She pressed her muzzle gently against his brow, a gesture so familiar yet so foreign now amidst all this ruin, as memories of cold winter nights washed over her: nights when he had been warm; nights when he had been alive; nights when they had lain side by side beneath starry skies without fear or loss between them.
“Goodbye, Kaido,” she whispered. Her voice broke, centuries of unshed tears finally spilling down her face.
She gripped the crystal tight, clutching at this last piece of him like a drowning creature. It pulsed against her paw, hot, stubborn, alive with fragments of everything they had ever been to each other.
“Forgive me,” she said. The words scraped raw in her throat. Her tails thrashed behind her, her body fighting what her mind had already decided. She yanked.
The crystal ripped free with a sound like the world splitting open. The mountain cried out as ancient stone surrendered its treasure.
Just like that, the one who had stood beside her at Aya’s first cry was gone, swept into a place beyond her reach.
She knelt in the silence, crystal burning against her paw, the weight of centuries collapsing in on her chest. A god’s tears fell into the dust, and the mountain drank them without a word.
Chapter 9: The Mountain and the Tower
Summary:
The dead don’t stay buried on the mountain, and silence never lasts long in the Tower. When forgotten disciples rise in a storm of foxfire, Isamu is forced to face the weight of her past—and the vow that could shake heaven itself. Meanwhile, far across the sea, a different storm brews in steel and glass, where sweat, secrets, and power games collide behind closed doors. Chapter 9 plunges into the heart of devotion and desire, where ancient fire meets modern hunger, and nothing in the world will come out unscathed.
Chapter Text
For a while, she knelt there, eyes closed, breathing in the silence. She thought of Aya, and of the others, and of the endless chain of devotion that had anchored her for so long. She pressed a paw into the shallow hollow where Kaido had lain, then lifted it and watched dust cling to her pads. She gave herself a single breath to grieve, then rose and shook the last of him from her fur.
The silence rang too loud without him. It pressed at her ears, heavier than his voice had ever been. For a long moment, she thought it would never end, until she felt the air itself shift, as if the mountain had drawn in a breath it had been holding for centuries.
The mist began to move, not with wind but with will. Cold and blue, it uncoiled from every fissure and gathered around the ruin. Eyes opened in the fog, dozens then hundreds, each one lit with foxfire, each one watching. They had been there all along, holding vigil while the First Guardian gave his last bow, unwilling to intrude on a farewell owed only to him. Now that his spark had gone to the sky, the den stirred.
For a breath she thought grief was tricking her, but what rose had weight and hunger. Embers became eyes, eyes became snouts and ears, masks and muzzles resolving from the glow. These were not wanderers. Not nameless dead. They were the ones she had called kin—her first disciples, hunters and companions whose loyalty ran past reason into legend. Once she led the sharpest teeth and wildest hearts; even now they kept the covenant: to return when she called, to stand at her side beyond death.
Her breath caught, too hot and too sharp, right in her throat, as the faces began to gather. They came from the dark, slipping in through threads of blue flame, burning bright and silent, flickering like a portrait, a family forever caught in the moment of their dying. The Seven from First Hollow, together even now, tails entwined, eyes staring her down. The Storm Twins, marked by lightning, scars cut in pale fur, their eyes quick and hungry with the wild joy she knew so well. She saw the arsonist, the mad one, the rival who had burned, her wildest recruit, grinning as fire curled along his muzzle, always burning, always blazing for her. Even the banished ones, the failures, each face there, clear and unblinking, holding her gaze. None had escaped. They all remained, loyal past reason, restless past death, crowding around her, their presence closing in like a shroud.
Her tails dragged low as the weight of their gathering pressed in, grief grinding into guilt until her spine felt like it would snap. She let her ears flatten against her skull, shame prickling through every inch of her fur, her own power an afterthought in the presence of so much sacred regret. “I failed you,” she whispered, the words nothing but ash in her mouth. “I never came back.”
A single flame broke from the ranks and drifted through the fog until it sharpened into a face Isamu knew by shape alone: Kaguya, the Trickster. The crooked grin came first, reckless and familiar, the same grin that had driven Isamu halfway to madness and all the way to love.
“Kaguya,” Isamu whispered. The name went out soft and shaking, sweet and ash on her tongue.
The Trickster hovered close, her outline flickering like candlelight in a restless room. Her jaw looked a touch sharper than memory, her eyes brighter and shadowed at once, grief threaded with a thin glint of mischief.
“Since when do mountains wear worry lines?” she said, the grin blooming.
Isamu flinched, not from hurt but from how right it felt. “Still sharp-tongued,” she said, rough. “Even now.”
“Some things do not change.” Kaguya tipped her head, studying her. The grin softened, tempered by something gentler. “But you have carried much.”
“You were never to blame,” she said. The sound moved through Isamu’s bones like water threading fractured rock. “We saw what you could not. You did not abandon us. You were stolen from us.”
The hollow seemed to hold its breath. The other flames dimmed, as if listening.
“Stolen,” Isamu echoed, bitter and unsure, relief and grief grinding together. “I don’t even remember how.”
“They could not beat you,” Kaguya said, slow and certain. Her blue brightened, casting long light through the mist. “They feared you. They feared us. So they schemed.”
Shadows of memory sparked behind Isamu’s eyes.
“They cut your lines,” Kaguya went on. “Turned friends. Salted trust. When steel failed, they reached for crooked prayers. They sealed your mind, pressed your soul flat, and locked you in a stillness between heartbeats where years turn to dust.”
Isamu flinched. The phrase found the hollow she would not name. The room with no air. Time sifting away like sand.
“While you slept, we fought,” Kaguya said, lower now. “We bled on the steps. We broke on the gates. One by one, we burned out.”
Her flame guttered, then steadied. “When there was no one left to kill, they tore the mountain and hunted your stone. Season after season. Century after century. In the end their pride replaced fear. Their grandchildren called the search a fable and wrote you down as dead.”
Around them, the circle swelled. Some bowed their heads. Others showed their teeth. The light shivered like wind on water.
“I should have been here,” Isamu rasped. Her voice scraped like glass. “I should never have left you.”
“You could not,” Kaguya said. No accusation. Only knowing. “But you are here now.”
She drifted nearer, the grin gone, eyes grave and tender at once. “And we cannot rest. Not until those we swore to protect are avenged. Not until the debt carved in our blood is returned in kind.”
The ring brightened in answer. Under the wreckage of guilt, the old fire stirred. It did not erase the sorrow. It gave the sorrow a direction.
The words gutted her. Isamu’s control faltered and power roared out in a tidal wave, a flood of foxfire that burned the mist to cinders. The mountain shook beneath her, the air splitting with the shriek of raw spirit. For one furious moment she let it blaze unchecked, the sky above igniting with cracks of azure lightning, before she seized it back and forced it into the cage of her body. Her eyes opened slow, and the cyan fire within them was no longer mortal flame but something divine, something the world itself dared not meet.
“I do not know what sin or virtue made me worthy of such loyalty,” she said, her voice no longer hers but the Tongue of Heaven, each syllable resonating through stone, through flesh, through soul. “I cannot repay what was taken. I cannot restore what was lost. But hear me, disciples of my den: the heavens themselves will remember this oath. Those who defiled you, who stole what was ours, who chained our children’s song,” her tails lashed, each one flaring like a banner of fire, “I will scour them from the marrow of creation. Their towers will fall. Their machines will choke. Their bones will feed the dust. This I swear, before heaven, before earth, before every ancestor who lingers to listen.”
The vow detonated outward, a shockwave of divine wrath. The mountain groaned, trees bowing, stone splitting, the sky above riven by a crack of violet fire.
The foxfire rose with it, the countless dead answering her oath with one voice, their love and fury bound into a single, thunderous chorus that rolled through the ruins like a storm breaking across the ages. Let us hunt one last time, they cried, their words needing no tongue. Let us rend the world as we once rended the sky. Let us finish what was begun.
The storm of voices shook the mountain, but even in that tide one presence pressed closer, sharper than the rest. One flame slipped the circle, cutting through the roar like a needle through silk. It hovered at the edge of Isamu’s vision, sly and familiar, carrying with it the weight of laughter, schemes, and long-ago loyalty.
Kaguya lingered where the others held back, her foxfire face sharp with that same crooked grin, though her eyes softened for the first time in centuries.
“You always said I played too close to the fire,” she whispered, voice flickering like heat against Isamu’s bones. “Well, mother, let me be the first to burn.”
Isamu’s ears flicked back, her muzzle parting to protest, but Kaguya only laughed, bright and merciless, and hurled herself forward. The foxfire slammed into Isamu’s chest before she could speak, searing straight through fur and flesh and spirit alike.
The others saw and needed no command. One by one they leapt after her, loyal, relentless, unable to rest until their vengeance was hers. Each flame struck like a blade of lightning, ripping through her body, flooding her with memories, power, rage. The circle collapsed, devouring itself in a rush of blue fire until there was no separation left, no disciples and master, only one.
Isamu staggered under the torrent. Her seven tails flared like banners in a gale, split, and split again, until nine towers of foxfire lashed the sky. Her body stretched taller, denser, fur burning white-hot at the edges until her silhouette was a sun caught in the shape of a fox. Every breath roared like a furnace. Every beat of her heart cracked stone and boiled the mist from the air.
She threw back her head and howled. The sound was a cataclysm, a hymn of wrath and love that shook the mountain to its marrow. The night sky split, set ablaze by her ascent, clouds tearing apart in streaks of cyan flame as if dawn itself had come early and violent.
When she moved, she moved faster than storms. The sky blazed in her wake, the horizon painted in fire as the Spirit Kitsune took flight, no longer just Isamu but the will of every disciple who had ever lived, burning one last time.
At the edge of the world, chaos meant nothing if it wasn’t personal.
Roland Graves sat behind the desk of his office, breathing in the hint of synthetic ozone that wafted off the high-gloss desktop and the distant musk of Vivi, whose bare feet were propped brazenly up beside his nameplate. Rain battered the glass behind them, streaking the city into vertical lines of neon and gunmetal. Every office tower from here to the Reclamation Docks registered as a point of power—economic, magical, or otherwise, but only this one, the Tower, was worth dying in. Or killing in.
They were, technically, mid-meeting. Graves had just taken the second round, snatching it from Vivi’s claws with his patented, underhanded trick of prying her legs further than seemed possible. Now she glared with a possessiveness that might have undone someone with less battle-hardened self-esteem. Her breathing came heavy, hair fanned around her like soft daggers. There was nothing on either of them but sweat and heat and the slick sheen of round two cooling on skin.
“We going best two out of three, or does the winner get to set the rules?” Her voice was low, almost humming under the desk, almost enough to shiver through him. She gave her knuckle a slow, glossy lick, tongue tasting the promise of the next move.
He grinned, teeth bared, pressing the weight of his palm tight against the back of her hand until she had to show her teeth right back. “That depends. You gonna play dirty this time?”
She jerked her hand, muttering something in slime-speak that sounded like a threat and a promise. He flexed his claws, letting her feel the press of them at her pulse. “If I were playing dirty,” she bubbled, “your cock would already be in a jar and I’d be halfway to Vladivostok.”
“You mean you’d be here, exactly where you are now, except less fun at parties?”
She laughed in a way that meant business. “You’d be surprised how fun I am at parties.”
The phone buzzed.
Neither of them moved; the implication was that the game, such as it was, could not be stopped for a mere phone call. Vivi wrapped a leg around his hip, keeping him pressed to the creaking edge of the desk, and ground herself up against the warm, blunt pressure of his cock. He felt the slick heat of her as she rubbed against him, and for a moment it seemed like nothing in the world could intrude.
The phone buzzed again.
It was the emergency line. Not a cell, but the red physical phone hardwired into the wall, a signal that, if ignored, would route directly to the board and then to the Board. Vivi’s eyes flicked left. Her expression twisted: she was about to risk their lives for the cheap pleasure of a third round, and for a wild second Graves considered letting her.
“We answer it on speaker and keep going,” he said. “First to finish before the call ends is the winner.” He didn’t wait for her permission, slung the receiver off the cradle, and hit the conference mode.
The line clicked, and Dr. K’s voice came through, low and precise, but carrying an edge that Graves had never heard before. “Director Graves. We have a problem. You need to hear this.”
Graves didn’t stop moving, his breath hot against Vivi’s neck. “Then talk.”
Vivi didn’t pause. She dropped onto him in one fluid motion, thighs locking as she drove him inside her, hot and slick. She snapped her teeth at his ear and whispered, “You’re already breaking, boss. I can feel it.”
He thrust into her despite the interruption, pleasure flooding his senses until his vision blurred at the edges.
“Director, a few minutes ago, we picked up a massive energy surge in the Pacific,” Dr. K said, voice tight and urgent. “Completely overloaded the continental sensors. We’re looking at a Class Ten magical event. Nothing else reads like this.”
Graves’ head spun, trying to make sense of the scale, the power, even as Vivi bore down on him, both palms braced on the desk, her nails raking lines through the slick and sweat left behind from the last two rounds.
“That’s not possible,” Graves grunted, trying to shake the ringing in his ears. “Run it again.”
“We did. Twice. No error. It’s real, and it just popped up, South Pacific.” Dr. K’s voice, usually calm, trembled at the edges. “Spirit energy is spiking, multiple elemental traces. It’s gaining speed.”
“What the fuck…” Graves rasped, the words a tangle in his throat as the pressure built.
Vivi felt him give, and she tightened around him, relentless, nearly taking him under. Graves barely held on, managing to croak out, “What’s its trajectory?”
“Sat coverage is failing almost everywhere, we can’t pinpoint it. Closest current estimate…” Dr. K paused, the hush brittle. “Nakanotorishima Island.”
The name punched Graves in the gut worse than any physical blow. Site Five. The Pacific spirit farm. Fuck.
“BLACKOUT protocol. Now.” The words left his lips ragged and sharp, every syllable bristling. “Warn the Continental Council that a quarter of the globe’s about to go dark. This will spark a geopolitical shitstorm like nothing they’ve ever seen.”
Vivi’s laughter rolled straight through him, sweet and sultry, as she arched up and sank her teeth into the line of his collarbone. The bite was hot and immediate, a bright pulse that throbbed through his nerves and mixed itself so tight with pleasure he couldn’t have said where pain stopped and pleasure began.
“Ready for your order,” Dr. K’s voice echoed through the speaker, all business. “All comms, military and civilian. Standing by.”
“Then hit it.” Graves didn’t raise his voice; it slammed out like a gunshot. “Vladivostok to Perth. Nothing goes in, nothing comes out. Civilian, military, doesn’t matter. Power, comm relays, every byte and breath between Russia and Australia. If it hums, if it listens, if it shines a single light, black it out. Now.”
The gravity of it all—a whole third of the world, lights off, the planet breathing in hush darkness like a final gasp—should have reeled him back. Instead, it carved the sensation sharper, made the moment bite down and refuse to let go.
Vivi broke first, her orgasm sudden and bright, her cry shattering the hush and running wild down the length of the office. She seized on him, clamping down so hard he couldn’t do a thing except follow her, body spiking and mind shuddering white, lost to that perfect bright burn, all pleasure and fury searing together until he couldn’t hold the scream at all; it wrung itself out, ragged and raw from his throat.
They hung there, trembling, nothing but their wild breathing filling the room. The rain hammered the windows even harder, like the storm had only been waiting on their finish.
Vivi sprawled out over the desk, moaning her satisfaction—a single, low, delicious ahhhh—and flashed the speaker a lazy salute. “I win,” she teased, tongue gliding over her canine. “Guess I’m getting that new upgrade after all.”
Dr. K sounded unimpressed, voice clipped through the tin. “Initiating blackout now. Three minutes. Report in five.”
“I’ll be there in ten.” Graves didn’t bother to wipe off, didn’t even try to slow his heartbeat. He jerked upright, snatched his jacket from the chair, and shrugged it on. “Prep my team. Send a runner to the arcanum. Council call in twenty—I want them online and waiting.”
He was nearly at the elevator before Vivi rolled off the desk and slung his pants at his chest. “Pants, boss. Hard to look like top dog at the Continental Council with your cock swinging for all to see.” She grinned, sharp as daggers, eyes hot.
He stepped into them without pause, fabric drawn up rough against his hips as his fingers found the buttons by muscle memory. Vivi followed after him, naked as a blade, tongue darting out, lips slick and curled, every tooth bared in a hungry grin.
“They’re all going to smell it as soon as you walk in,” she sang, voice curling hot and thick. “They’ll know I was in your chair. In your office. In you.”
He grunted, low. “Half the tower’s already had my cock, Vivi. The rest are just waiting their turn.”
She laughed, wild and ragged, slipping in after him. “Vanguard Dynamics,” she purred, heat in every syllable. “How can you not love it.”
The elevator doors slid shut. He jerked his waistband into place, knuckles digging in. She flicked her wrist, shimmered, magic pouring down her skin slick and black as oil. One breath, and the slick shine was gone, replaced by a suit, crisp and black, sharp enough to cut.
He snorted, rough. “Cheater.”
Vivi grinned. “Pragmatist.”
When the doors opened, sound crashed in like a breaking wave. Six stories of glass and steel, an endless hive. Analysts barking over one another, heat and wrangle of tangled data flooding the room. Screens bled red, mana meters shrilled their warnings, maps of the Pacific battered and warped under impossible numbers. Everything alive, pulsing, electric. Graves carved through the chaos, feeling every eye snap to him, Vivi right behind like a shadow that might bite.
He flicked his fingers at the comms pit, voice as sharp as broken glass. “Open me a line to Site Five. Now. Direct.”
Hands danced over consoles, too quick, too desperate; the room hissed with static and then just… silence. Graves’ ears twitched, his gaze gone flinty. “Don’t tell me they’re already down. What the hell.”
Dr. K was steady, but his jaw tightened, skin bunching at his brow as he flicked through lines of code. “Director. Site Five was included in the blackout.”
That landed like a brick. Graves stared for a beat, then scrubbed a rough paw over his muzzle, a growl building low. “You cut off the one site that needed the warning.”
No one moved. Every eye in the war room fixed on him. The air felt taut, pulled to the snapping point.
Graves dropped into his chair with a heavy thud. He covered his eyes with his hand, a humorless laugh catching and turning bitter before it ever made it out. “Figures. Disasters always come in threes. We’ve already had two tonight.”
His gaze hooked back to the Pacific map, the cyan streak tearing across it like a meteor no ocean could smother, every second bringing it closer to the island dead center of the grid. He exhaled, slow and hard, leather creaking under his shoulders.
“There’s one more out there,” he rasped. “And I’d rather be sitting down when it hits.”
DudeWhatsYourVocalRange on Chapter 1 Sat 26 Jul 2025 05:23AM UTC
Comment Actions
Konyo on Chapter 1 Tue 12 Aug 2025 02:03AM UTC
Comment Actions
Macfazz (Guest) on Chapter 1 Fri 12 Sep 2025 08:16PM UTC
Comment Actions
OnyxTheLeopard on Chapter 2 Tue 12 Aug 2025 02:31PM UTC
Comment Actions
MabemutNull on Chapter 6 Fri 29 Aug 2025 11:16PM UTC
Comment Actions
Konyo on Chapter 6 Sat 30 Aug 2025 12:38AM UTC
Comment Actions
Asagunai on Chapter 6 Wed 03 Sep 2025 12:25AM UTC
Comment Actions
Konyo on Chapter 6 Wed 03 Sep 2025 01:02AM UTC
Last Edited Wed 03 Sep 2025 01:04AM UTC
Comment Actions