Chapter Text
Brazilian Miku TG. - Taste Of Brazil
art by krokobyaka
Mark shuffled through the crowded halls of Anime Expo, his oversized comic book T-shirt clinging to his sweaty rolls of fat. At twenty-eight, he was the epitome of the basement-dwelling nerd: pale skin dotted with old acne scars, greasy hair plastered to his forehead, and a belly that hung over his belt like a deflated balloon. Every reflective surface he passed felt like an accusation, taunting him for letting his life turn out this way. He kept his head down, clutching a nondescript duffel bag to his chest as he pushed toward the far end of the convention center, where staff-only corridors and forgotten storage rooms offered a little privacy. His heart pounded with a volatile mix of excitement and dread.
Inside the bag was the ghostskin he had ordered—an artificial skin-suit whispered about in locked forums and invite-only message boards. Officially, it didn’t exist. Unofficially, it was considered the bleeding edge of cosplay tech: a full-body adaptive shell engineered to mold its wearer into a living approximation of a fictional character. Not a costume. A replacement.
This model, one he was lucky enough to win the bidding for in an underground auction, was promised to transform anyone into the perfect Hatsune Miku replica, but this one was customized: a voluptuous Brazilian twist, with caramel skin, exaggerated curves, and that iconic turquoise twin-tailed hair. It was based off the (then-current) art trend on social media, which took off and became a character in it’s own right.
He'd splurged his last savings on it, dreaming of finally getting attention at the con instead of pitying glances. “It's just for the day,” he muttered to himself, ducking into a portable restroom trailer behind the convention center. Mark's heart raced as he hurried into the cramped, dimly lit restroom, the stench of stale piss and sweat assaulting his nostrils. He locked the door behind him, hands trembling as he tore open the bag, revealing the glistening artificial skinsuit.
The air inside was stale and humid, but privacy was key. He placed the bag down and stripped off his clothes, his flabby body jiggling as he peeled away layers of shame. Beads of sweat trickled down his skin as he shimmied out of his jeans, the denim straining against his flabby thighs and the doughy, pasty flesh of his belly. Mark's gut hung low and heavy, a deflated, fleshy balloon that he gingerly stepped out of, leaving him naked and exposed.
With frantic huffs, he examined the skinsuit laid out on the sink: sleek, latex-like material that felt like smooth skin under his touch. He glanced at the picture shown off in the packaging. Full, heavy breasts strained against fabric, wide hips flared out dramatically, and a plump ass that promised to turn heads. The face was eerily lifelike, with plump lips, high cheekbones, and eyes that sparkled with an enticing allure.
That could be him. That was gonna be him.
Mark swallowed. He remembered the posts that never stayed up long: warnings about nerve compression, about people who stayed in too long and came out wrong, or didn’t come out at all. About how the first few minutes always felt like drowning, because the brain hated realizing the body was changing faster than it could understand. He also remembered the grainy, breathless videos of people standing taller, slimmer, sharper, finally matching the image they had carried in their heads for years. The thought sent a shiver through him, equal parts terror and longing. For the first time since he’d arrived at the con, Mark didn’t feel the urge to look away from what he saw.
Ah, fuck it. The pathetic excuse of a “man” thought to himself. Can’t back down now.
Mark stepped into the suit's legs first, the material cool and slick against his hairy thighs. It stretched impossibly, hugging his calves and thighs like a second skin, compressing his fat into smooth, toned contours. He pulled it up over his gut, feeling the suit's internal mechanisms whir softly – nanotechnology or some shit, he didn't care. His paunch vanished, sucked inward and redistributed into the suit's voluptuous form. The bulk that had once always announced him since he was a kid… wasn’t there anymore. In its place was a warm, unfamiliar fullness that felt intentional, balanced, right. The crotch sealed seamlessly, forming a realistic pussy mound that made his real cock twitch in confusion beneath the layers. Arms next, then torso, the breasts inflating slightly as they settled over his man-boobs, heavy and bouncy with a nice sag and perky pink nipples.
Finally, he tugged the hood over his head, the mask aligning perfectly. A zipper ran down the back, vanishing as it sealed.
The world blurred. Pressure enveloped his face, firm but precise, aligning his features with mechanical patience. A faint click behind his ears. His jaw softened, lips plumping into a pouty fullness that he licked instinctively, tasting the faint salt of his own sweat mixed with artificial sweetness. Cheekbones rose, eyes reshaping with a tingle, lashes lengthening and lastly, a warm flush across his scalp as synthetic hair cascaded down his back in those iconic twin tails. His vision cleared, sharper somehow, colors slightly more vivid. A zipper traced down his spine, then vanished as the suit sealed itself completely.
He – she now? – stared into the smudged mirror. A voluptuous Brazilian Miku stared back: sun-kissed tanned skin glowing, turquoise hair cascading in twin tails that went all the way down to his legs. A tiny waist that exploded into child-bearing hips and an ass that jiggled with every breath. The suit's seams were invisible; it felt alive, sensitive, transmitting every brush of air as if it were real flesh. Mark's voice came out in a sultry, accented lilt when he tested it: “Olá, mundo.” Saki Fujita’s iconic voice escaping his lips. Of course, naturally lacking that “electronic” tone which came from being a vocal synth.
After all, this was real.
Damn, even got a Portuguese accent and everything. It’s like I’m fluent. He thought, turning to get a better look on his body. Only now did he notice the tan lines, and what looked to be a… sticker? On his ass?
Guess it’s like a “Made In China” tag, I suppose.
Thinking not much of it, he then put on and adjusted the skimpy cosplay outfit that came with the ghostskin – booty shorts that barely covered his ass cheeks, a cropped top of the Brazilian flag that left his underboob exposed, and a blue string bikini. He turned sideways, admiring the dramatic flare of his new hips, the way his ass protruded invitingly, and the hypnotic bounce of his breasts. A hand trailed down this new female body, tracing the dip of her waist, cupping a breast and thumbing the nipple until it pebbled harder, a moan escaping her plush lips.
With a deep breath that made her breasts heave, she unlocked the door and stepped out, hips swaying naturally now, into the pulsing heart of the convention.
Time to hit the con.
The transformation was instant magic. Heads turned as Miku sashayed into the main hall, hips swaying involuntarily from the suit's balanced weight distribution. “Woah, check out that Miku cosplay!” a guy yelled. Cameras flashed. For the first time, eyes lingered with hunger, not mockery. Mark's heart raced; under the suit, his cock hardened against the restrictive material, a strange pressure building in the fabricated pussy. She posed for photos, arching her back to thrust out her massive tits, feeling the weight pull deliciously.
But the attention drew the wrong crowd. In the dealer room, surrounded by booths of merch and fellow cosplayers, a group of guys zeroed in. They were the underbelly of the con: sweaty, unkempt nerds in stained hoodies, with neckbeards and BO that cut through the air like a knife. Leading them was Dave, a 30-something with yellowed teeth and a fedora perched on his greasy mop. His buddies – Tim, with pizza stains on his shirt; Greg, whose glasses magnified his beady eyes; and Steve, a wheezing blob even fatter than Mark had been – leered openly. They were the type Mark might have hung out with back in his old life: Dave with his unkempt beard and convention badge dangling from a lanyard, Steve nursing a soda and adjusting his glasses, Tim fidgeting with a phone, and Greg, the boldest, leading the pack with a smirk that screamed entitlement. They'd been lurking, trading crude jokes about cosplay sluts, when Mark’s new form caught their eyes like a beacon.
“Uh, hey there. I-is it okay if we get a group pic?” Dave called, his voice oily. Mark-Miku gulped nervously as the sweaty guys surrounded her, their gazes roaming hungrily over her gooner-bait bod. But the euphoric high hadn’t yet settled for her to realize the red flag and so she struck a pose, hands on hips, breasts thrusting forward, as they crowded around her. The suit's skin tingled, hypersensitive to every brush of their clothing against the latex surface. He could feel the heat radiating off their bodies, the stench of unwashed flesh and stale beer overwhelming his senses.
They came in close, intruding on her personal space as their bodies began pressing against her curves. Dave's hand 'accidentally' brushed Miku’s ass as he positioned himself, fingers digging into the firm flesh. A jolt shot through the suit – it was wired for sensation, amplifying touch. Miku gasped, the sound coming out as a breathy moan.
“Sounds like she likes it,” Tim mumbled underneath his breath, Miku hadn’t heard him but saw as his palm began sliding up her thigh. Miku tried to pull away, but Greg blocked her, his gut mashing against the side.
“Come on, don't be a tease. With that outfit? You were hoping for it.” The groping escalated fast. Steve grabbed a tit through the top, squeezing hard enough to make the suit's nipples harden into peaks.
“Holy fuck, these are real,” he gasped as he continued pinching. Pain and unwanted pleasure mixed; Mar-Miku’s dick throbbed, leaking pre-cum into the suit's lining, while the pussy simulation clenched.
Miku wanted to scream, to shove them away and flee back to the safety of the restroom. But she was paralyzed, unsure what to do or act. Should she scream? Yell? Hit them? Someone like her- who only a few minutes ago was the same kind of fat loser everyone wanted to get away from, had no idea what to do when given such attention. His cock strained painfully against the confines of the pussy mound, a perverse reaction to the violation.
Oh my god, they’re molesting me. She realized with dawning horror. They think they can do whatever they want to me because I'm just a sexy cosplayer, an object for their twisted fantasies. Her stomach churned with a mix of revulsion and fear.
They herded her toward a side exit, away from the crowds, into a dimly lit storage area behind the exhibit halls. Cardboard boxes and forgotten props littered the space, muffling the con's roar. “Please, no,” Miku whimpered, but the voice was seductive, inviting. Dave shoved her against a stack of boxes, stripping her bottoms down and revealing her smooth, inviting lips.
“Look at that Brazilian pussy. Time to christen this cosplay.”
Dave unzipped his fly, his cock springing out: short, thick, veined like a root vegetable, already drooling pre-cum. Rubbing the head of his cock along her folds before slamming in balls-deep. The intrusion stretched her tight walls, the suit amplifying every ridge and pulse until it bordered on pain-pleasure overload. The suit's pussy parted easily, lubricated by internal gels, engulfing Dave's shaft in tight, wet heat. Miku screamed, but it echoed as a porn-star cry. Dave thrust brutally, hips slapping against her thighs, each pound sending shockwaves through the suit to Mark’s trapped body. “Take it, you slutty Miku! Fuck, so tight!”
Tim and Greg weren't idle. Tim forced Miku’s mouth open, shoving his skinny cock past her plump lips. The suit's mouth molded around it, tongue flicking involuntarily. Oral sensors registered his taste—salt, musk, and the faint metallic tang of his cheap multivitamin and her throat constricted around him, milking him with an almost practiced precision. Tim’s knees nearly buckled. “Holy shit—!” Tim groaned, face-fucking with sloppy urgency, balls smacking the chin. Greg mauled the tits, sucking one nipple through the fabric while jerking his own average dick, pre-cum slicking his palm. Inside, hidden underneath the ghostskin’s fabric – Miku’s own dick spasmed, spurting cum uselessly against the internal lining of the suit, the trapped warmth adding to the humiliation.
Steve wheezed behind, waiting his turn. Dave came first, grunting like an animal as he flooded the pussy with hot spurts of cum. It leaked out, sticky and warm, the suit absorbing some for realism. He pulled out with a wet pop, smearing the mess over the ass cheeks. “Your turn, Tim.” They rotated like a well-practiced pack.
Tim yanked out of the mouth, strings of spit connecting, and plunged into the cum-slick pussy. His thrusts were frantic, rabbit-like, pounding the g-spot simulation that made Miku’s vision blur with forced ecstasy. “Gonna fill this Brazilian cunt!” Tim lasted seconds, erupting in thick ropes that mixed with Dave's load, overflowing down the thighs.
Greg went next, flipping Miku onto her back atop a box. He spread the legs wide, stockings ripping slightly, and slammed into her pussy. His glasses fogged as he rutted, hands clawing the hips, leaving red marks on the caramel skin. “You love this, don't you? God you’re a wet dream come true.” Miku sobbed, body betraying with clenches around the invading cock. Milking him as Greg hammered deeper, balls tightening, then unloaded, cum gushing out as he withdrew. A wet loud splotch echoing the walls as this degeneracy continued.
Steve lumbered forward, his massive cock – the only impressive thing about him – flopping heavily. It was girthy, uncut, with a musky stench. He didn't bother with the pussy; instead, he hoisted the legs over his shoulders and aimed for the ass. The suit's rear entrance yielded, tight ring stretching around his head. Miku howled as Steve buried himself balls-deep, the intrusion burning through the sensors. “Ass like this was made for fat cock,” Steve panted, thrusting with elephantine force, the box creaking under them. “Holy shit, look at it jiggling!”
The others watched, stroking themselves back to hardness. Dave shoved his semi-soft dick back into the mouth, fucking the throat while Steve reamed the ass. Tim and Greg took turns on the pussy, double-teaming the holes in a frenzy. Cum splattered everywhere: on the tits, in the hair, pooling under the ass. Miku’s mind fractured – horror at the violation, but the suit amplified every sensation, her own cock spurting uselessly inside, trapped and milking against the fabric.
They didn't stop. Dave pulled out and spurted several drops of cum, while Tim forced another blowjob, cum and saliva mixing in the mouth. Greg bent Mark over, taking the ass now, his cock sliding through Steve's leftover lube. Steve switched to pussy, the two of them spit-roasting in tandem, cocks rubbing through the thin membrane. “Fuck, cons are the best!”' they chanted, laughing.
Hours blurred. They took turns in every hole, multiple at once: one in mouth, one in pussy, one in ass, hands jerking the extras. Cum filled Miku to bursting – the suit's orifices overflowing, body glazed like a donut. Bruises formed under the skin, tits swollen from slaps and bites, her ass took the worst: relentless pounding left it sore, cheeks welted from spanks, cum pooling beneath her on the floor… The nerds degraded her further: making her beg in the sultry voice, “Fuck me harder, papais,” posing with cocks in hand for pics.
Finally, spent and panting, they zipped up, tossing Miku’s shirt back haphazardly. “Best con ever. See you around, slut.” They slunk away, leaving him sprawled in the filth, skin-suit torn and cum-drenched. Mark slowly sauntered off back to the restroom, the con continued to buzz outside, oblivious.
He tried to tear it off, tear off this skin that gave him nothing but trouble. This was a mistake, yet no matter how hard she tried. It couldn’t come off, her grunts were melodic. Her angered howls emerging in that sultry, accented lilt even now, turning her grunts of effort into something angelic and seductive. No matter how hard she yanked and pulled, the material wouldn't budge—fusing tighter, almost defiantly, as if alive and unwilling to release its prisoner. Her voluptuous form jiggled with every frantic motion: tits bouncing wildly, hips swaying involuntarily, ass cheeks clapping softly against the stall door.
A haunting realization struck her like a thunderbolt, freezing her in place. The suit wasn't coming off. Not now, not ever. She was trapped in this body. Permanently curvaceous, eternally fuckable, a voluptuous cage of her own making. Panic twisted in her gut, mingling with a traitorous spark of arousal as the suit's nerves fired unbidden, her trapped cock twitching beneath the layers while the simulated pussy wept fresh slick. Outside, the con pulsed on, unaware that Miku's new life had only just begun, stretching out in endless, inescapable temptation.
What am I going to do?
On that day in Anime Expo, Mark Gibbons was gone, and nobody missed him.
Especially not Miku.
The skinsuit's grip never loosened, its nanotech continuing to weave deeper into her nerves with every passing moment, her former existence as a man was nothing more than a sack of flesh pumping neurons and proteins and fat to power the ghostskin. She could feel it, if she concentrated: the faint, rhythmic pulse of his heart, slower now, its beats synchronized with the suit’s own synthetic rhythms. His cock, trapped inside the pussy’s sleek cavity, twitched weakly, a ghost limb of his former self. It ached, not with the sharp sting of violation, but with the dull, persistent throb of a muscle atrophying from disuse.
She had wasted all her funds on this new body, and she spent days hiding from the outside world while her trapped cock ached beneath the simulated pussy. The night she had stumbled back home after the incident, she ended up plunging her fingers into her folds, rubbing the swollen clit until she screamed, cum from her hidden shaft soaking the inside while the outer lips quivered in orgasm.
It was the first of many solo sessions that night, each one blurring shame into addiction. However it was during one of these sessions that she realized something. She was forever a young, hot Brazilian Miku. The kind of woman—no, the kind of fantasy—that men would pay to see. That they would beg to touch.
And if she was going to be trapped in this body forever…?
Well.
She might as well profit from it. By week two, rent was looming, and desperation drove her into making a decision.
“MikuMelons” Is Live On Twitch!
The setup was modest: a ring light, a secondhand webcam, and the same skimpy outfit from the Expo, now laundered but still clinging to her curves like a second skin.
She started off tame.
A little twirl for the camera, her twin tails bouncing, her hips swaying to the rhythm of a Vocaloid track playing in the background. “Olá, meus amores~” she cooed, her voice already slipping into that sultry Brazilian lilt, the suit’s vocal modifiers smoothing out any trace of Mark’s old nasally whine. Chat exploded.
For a while, she was just another streamer who skirted the line of Twitch’s guidelines carefully. She did ASMR, taking advantage of her replicated voice. Even streamed Project DiVA games, but naturally things would escalate. Soon she did bathtub streams, then had “accidental” nip-slips. 'Show more,' they begged. When she reached a thousand subs, she did, spreading her legs wide, fingers parting the pussy lips to reveal the glistening pink inside, dipping in to fuck herself slow and deep while narrating in that sultry Brazilian lilt: “Like watching Miku get wet for you, chat? Imagine your cock stretching me open.”
Viewers quickly multiplied by the thousands. The suit amplified every touch, turning a simple vibrator buzz into waves that made her arch and squirt arcs of fake girlcum across the desk. Her trapped cock throbbed in sympathy, leaking steadily, but the focus stayed on the outer show—the way her hips bucked, ass clenching as she rode a dildo, tits jiggling with each thrust. Subscribers poured in, sponsorships from sex toy brands followed. Mark's old life as a paunchy nobody faded; Miku rose, curvaceous queen of the cam. The world was hers, how fitting.
Before she knew it, five years had passed. She would be in her early-thirties by now. Yet she still looked the same, not aging a single day. Now, in her sleek penthouse overlooking the city lights in South America, Miku lounged on a velvet chaise for her milestone stream, wearing the iconic outfit that made Brazilian Miku so iconic. That made her so iconic. Her streaming room pulsed with RGB strips, her set up a shrine to excess: walls lined with dildos in every size, lubes scented like tropical fruits, and a full-length mirror capturing her every angle.
“Boa noite, meus amores,” she purred into the mic, voice husky with anticipation. Chat scrolled wild:
“Queen Miku! Queen Miku!!!”
“Need her so badddd!”
She smiled, plush lips curving as she trailed those naturally manicured nails down her thin waist, over the flare of wide hips that had drawn billions of views. Legs parted, she hooked one foot on the chaise arm, exposing the mound of her pussy—lips puffy, already dewing with the suit's perpetual arousal.
Tonight, sweet revenge would finally come.
“Milestone stream chat! Five years since I became your beloved Miku! We’ve reached two million subs. You know what that means. I'm pulling out all the stops.”
It was so easy tracking them down and getting them to come all the way here.
The door slowly inched open, and several middle-aged men would walk into frame. Dave led, his greasy hair slicked back, khakis tenting already. “Holy shit, it's really you,” he grunted, licking his lips. Tim hovered behind, phone out like before, but this time for her stream. Greg adjusted his glasses, smirking that entitled smirk, while Steve wheezed, sweat beading on his forehead.
“Hee hee! That’s riiiiight~ it’s a gangbang stream! I’m gonna reverse rape these perverted old men who molested me years ago!” Grabbing a nearby remote, she pressed a button and the heavy penthouse door clicked shut behind them, the lock engaging with a decisive thunk that echoed through the opulent space. The nerds exchanged fearful glances, realization dawning upon them with their pants tightening as Miku only licked her lips in anticipation.
“Welcome to my world, cariños. Get ready to experience a taste of Brazil.”