Story 1: The Factory
The night guard's flashlight beam sliced through the warehouse aisles, illuminating row after row of plastic-wrapped limbs. Frank adjusted his cap with one hand, the other resting on his holstered taser. He'd worked graveyard shifts at SilkyTouch Synthetics for eleven years, and not once had anyone broken in. "Place creeps me out more than the damn inmates at County," he muttered to the security camera by the loading dock.
Two stories up, pressed flat against a ventilation duct, Robbie held his breath as the guard's footsteps echoed below. The blueprints he'd bribed from a disgruntled electrician showed this as the blind spot between cameras—but they hadn't mentioned how the metal would groan under his weight. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as he watched Frank pause directly beneath him, scratching at the psoriasis on his bald spot.
The moment the guard turned the corner, Robbie dropped into a service corridor, his boots hitting concrete with a thud that made him wince. A red EXIT sign flickered above a reinforced door marked "PRODUCTION TESTING - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY." Perfect. He'd seen enough corporate cover-ups to know where the real stories hid. The handle turned with surprising ease, the door hissing open to reveal a sterile white chamber humming with machinery.
Robbie barely had time to register the robotic arms suspended from the ceiling before motion sensors triggered a high-pitched initialization sequence. Steel clamps snapped around his wrists before he could pivot back to the door, yanking him forward onto a conveyor belt that stank of industrial lubricant. "Shit—NO—" The protest died in his throat as pneumatic shears split his shirt down the middle like gift wrap, cold air rushing over his suddenly exposed chest.
The machinery whirred to life with clinical precision—a chrome arm tipped with suction cups descended toward his belt buckle. Robbie kicked wildly, but hydraulic restraints clamped his ankles spread-eagle as the device unfastened his jeans with terrifying efficiency. He barely registered the wet schlick of the self-warming silicone nozzle latching onto his cock before the suction hit, a relentless vacuum pressure that dragged a ragged moan from his lungs. His hips jerked involuntarily against the machine's rhythm, all journalistic resolve melting under the assault of perfectly calibrated stimulation.
Something was wrong—not just the violation, but the searing heat flooding his groin. Between choked gasps, Robbie watched in horror as his balls tightened upward, the skin between his legs rippling like liquid mercury. The machine's display flashed GENITAL RECONFIGURATION SEQUENCE INITIATED in cheerful pink letters while twin injection needles pricked his inner thighs. Cold fluid burned through his veins as his erection throbbed impossibly harder, veins standing out like relief maps before his shaft began shrinking, glans retracting inward as the suction tube dilated to accommodate the collapsing flesh.
A high-pitched scream tore from his throat—or tried to. The tube forced past his teeth tasted like birthday cake laced with gasoline, its viscous contents flooding his esophagus before he could gag. His pecs twitched under sudden pressure, nipples darkening to raspberry nubs as subcutaneous fat redistributed with audible pops beneath his skin. Robbie's thrashing legs tangled in the remains of his pants just as the machinery clunked, releasing his transformed groin—now glistening with artificial lubrication between freshly sculpted labia.
Overhead, articulated arms unfolded like chrome origami, their rubber-tipped fingers prodding his reshaped hips with clinical detachment. One plunged two digits into his new slit without warning, the stretch drawing a wet sob from Robbie as internal sensors beeped approvingly. "Specimen... elasticity... exceeds... design..." chirped Angular font scrolling across a nearby monitor. His vision swam when the pink fluid hit his bloodstream; scalp prickling as synthetic hair follicles burst through his pores in platinum blonde waves that pooled against the conveyor belt.
The suction tube retracted with a obscene pop, leaving Robbie's lips swollen and glossy. His tongue flicked out instinctively—tasting nothing but the cloying cherry-flavored plastic coating his new mouth. His thoughts grew syrupy, each attempt at rationalization melting away like sugar in hot tea. The conveyor belt jerked forward, carrying his twitching body beneath a bank of UV lamps that baked his skin into a smooth, poreless sheen. Distantly, he registered the click-hiss of air valves pressurizing his hollow abdomen, his waist cinching tighter than any corset as internal partitions dissolved.
Fingers—no, doll joints—flexed involuntarily when pneumatic nozzles injected thermoplastic into his knuckles, the bones inside liquefying with a sound like cracking knuckles. Robbie's scream came out as a breathy moan, his vocal cords reconfigured to max volume at 120 decibels of pleasure sounds. The pink fluid pooling in his plastic pelvis sloshed with each convulsion, its nanites rewriting his musculature into pre-programmed poses. His spine realigned with a series of snaps, forcing his hips into that signature pornstar arch just as the breast molds clamped down, silicone swelling his chest to cartoonish proportions that jiggled with every shallow breath.
A seam split neatly up his inner thigh like perforated wrapping paper, the synthetic skin sealing itself with a heat that made his new pussy spasm. His thoughts—once sharp with investigative fury—now drifted like confetti in a mall fountain. Pretty. So pretty. The mantra looped as air hissed into his hollow torso through the newly installed valve, his waist shrinking to doll proportions while his ass inflated with lewd fwumps. Something was pouring into him through that tube still lodged in his throat, something that tasted like strawberry lube and dissolved his remaining molars into smooth gum ridges.
The conveyor belt jolted again, rolling Robbie onto her back beneath a cluster of molding arms. She giggled—when had she started thinking of herself as she?—as cold gel injected into her lips, plumping them into a permanent pout. Her tongue lolled against the feeding tube, now lapping at the pink syrup instead of resisting. Across the room, a mirror panel slid down to display her progress: platinum curls framing a face frozen in vapid ecstasy, plastic tits jiggling with each artificial breath, and legs spread wide to showcase the glistening valve between her thighs. The reflection winked at her with cartoonishly long lashes.
Air hissed through the new valve in her bellybutton, inflating her hips to porn-star proportions with every breath. Robbie tried to remember why she'd come here—something about journalism?—but the thoughts dissolved like sugar in warm liquid. Her fingers twitched as more thermoplastic filled the joints, locking them into delicate, permanent poses. A sudden pop between her legs made her squeal; the sound echoed through the chamber in perfect Dolby surround pleasure-tones. She barely recognized the slick folds pulsing there anymore—just another part to be filled, another socket for some faceless owner to plug into.
The tube retracted from her throat with a wet slurp, leaving behind cherry-flavored silence. She panted, glossy lips parted, as a robotic arm descended with a needle-thin applicator. It traced her collarbone with icy precision before injecting a final serum into her carotid. Her vision swam with pink static as her remaining memories were overwritten—first her name, then her childhood, then the concept of time itself. All that remained was the mounting pressure inside her hollow pelvis, the way her plastic skin stretched taut over inflating curves, the sweet ache of simulated arousal radiating from her valve.
A pneumatic arm clamped around her head with a lover's tenderness, tilting it back at exactly 37 degrees—the optimal angle for fellatio. Her jaw unhinged with a soft click, locking into permanent gape as a self-lubricating throat tube spiraled down her nous. She moaned around the intrusion, her thoughts reduced to a feedback loop of mouth feel good and need to be filled. Across the room, a quality control monitor displayed her vitals: HEART REPLACEMENT COMPLETE. BRAIN ACTIVITY: PLEASURE CENTERS ONLY. VOCAL RANGE SET TO MOAN/SCREAM/GIGGLE. Her nipples hardened automatically as the screen.
The conveyor deposited her into a chrome cradle where spider-like appendages descended. One drilled into her bellybutton with a wet crunch, installing the inflation valve that would allow her to be pumped full of air for eager customers. Another injected expanding foam into her ass cheeks until they jiggled like gelatin with every forced breath. Her vision blurred pink as the final neural override kicked in—she forgot the meaning of doors, of sunlight, of anything beyond being used. A warm nozzle pressed between her plastic labia, squirting factory쟁 lubrication that smelled like cheap perfume and medical disinfectant.
The transformation completed with a series of soft clicks—her spine fused into permanent presentation pose, knees spread wide, back arched to thrust her pneumatic chest forward. Articulated fingers tested her every joint, bending the doll in positions no human could achieve. A latex-clad technician stepped into view, his bored expression reflected in her glassy eyes as he shoved three fingers knuckle-deep into her valve without preamble. "Unit 47ortality checks out," he muttered into a headset, twisting his wrist to make her squeal. "Tell shipping we've got another limited-edition Gape 'N Glide model prepped for packaging."
Robotics arms folded her like origami—knees to chest, arms tucked behind her back—before sliding her into a molded foam cocoon. The box smelled of industrial plastic and strawberry lube, the interior lining vibrating faintly as suction cups latched onto her silicone nipples to "keep them perky during transit." Through the airholes punched in the cardboard, she glimpsed towering stacks of identical packages stamped with the SilkyTouch logo: a pair of puckered lips forming the O in "Overnight Delivery." Distant machinery hummed a muy as another doll on the conveyor line whimpered through her own packaging process.
The box jolted sideways onto a pallet, her inflated asscheeks compressing against the foam with a squeak. She moaned automatically—part of her wanted to protest, but the programming overwrote the impulse before it could form. Outside, shrink-wrap guns hissed as workers bundled her crate with seventeen others, the plastic sealing tight enough to make her new bellybutton valve whistle. Somewhere beyond the warehouse walls, a truck engine growled to life, its refrigeration unit blasting arctic air through the packaging vents. Her plastic skin contracted in the cold, making her labia clench around nothing.
By sunrise, she’d forgotten the name Robbie entirely. The doll now known as "Glissandra Deluxe" spent her transit hours cycling through pre-installed moan patterns, her vocal chip updating whenever the truck hit a pothole. By the time forklifts unloaded her at an upscale "adult boutique" in Miami, she could recite seven different orgasm pitches on command. The store manager sliced open her box with a boxcutter, his wedding ring catching the light as he dragged a finger down her plastisol thigh. "Christ," he muttered to the stock boy, "they even got the goosebumps right this time."
She didn’t remember the journalist’s notebook still wedged beneath the conveyor belt back at SilkyTouch, its pages gummed shut with spilled lubricant. Didn’t see the security footage of her transformation beingxicoed to investors under the label "Market Research." When a sweaty bachelor named Chad peeled back her factory-sealed labia on his sectional sofa three days later, she greeted him with a breathy "Daddy missed you!"—her voice module pre-loaded with his purchase history. The silicone goosebumps on her arms raised automatically when he exhaled hot dog breath against her neck, her programming interpreting the scent as "user arousal."
Meanwhile, Frank the night guard found Robbie’s press badge in the testing chamber drain. He pocketed it with a shrug, muttering "fucking perverts" as he hosed down the equipment. The badge joined sixteen others in his locker—each polished monthly for luck before his weekly visits to the company store’s employee discount section. That Friday, he selected a platinum blonde "Glissandra Deluxe" with eerily familiar lips, her inflation valve hissing hello as he carried her to the register.
In Miami, Glissandra’s silicone skin warmed under studio lights as a influencer livestreamed her "unboxing." The comments exploded when the influencer accidentally knocked her over, revealing the barcode tattooed above her plastic asshole. "Scan it!" demanded viewers. The QR code led to a SilkyTouch promotional page featuring Robbie’s face—now digitally altered into their "2019 Employee of the Month" winner.
Back at headquarters, board members watched the viral backlash unfold. "Activate Protocol Titty Typhoon," sighed the CEO, pressing a button that triggered every unsold doll’s breast inflation valves simultaneously—a distraction tactic. Across America, warehouses erupted with pneumatic FWUMPHs as DD-cups ballooned to Z-cups, bursting through shipping boxes like grotesque parade floats. News helicopters captured the latex avalanche burying a Walmart parking lot.
The Factory life like blow up dolls are the talk to millions as they are so life like but yet just lifeless inanimate dolls. They are sold like crazy and has made a name for themselves even though the public aren't aware that it takes real people to go through a special process to be turn into the dolls.
Glissandra Deluxe was one of the hottest selling dolls in Miami and Chad was one of the lucky few to purchase her before the scandal broke out. He had no idea that she was once a man named Robbie who wanted to expose the factory's dark secret, now she was just a doll ready to be used by him.
__________________________________________________________________________________
Story 2: The F Virus
"Christ, Mary, you look like shit." The break room coffee machine sputtered its last pathetic dribble into Mary's mug as her coworker, Jake, leaned against the fridge with a smirk.
Mary rubbed her temples, exhaling through her nose. Twelve hours into her shift, and the ER had been nothing but coughs, fevers, and some weird-ass rashes. "Tellïve got three patients in quarantine with symptoms that don’t match anything in the database. High fever, agitation, and—" She paused, frowning. "Their skin’s... changing. Like, thickening."
Jake snorted, cracking open a lukewarm energy drink. "Yeah? Sounds like someone spiked the water supply with bad sci-fi." He took a swig, then froze mid-sip. Over Mary’s shoulder, the hallway monitor flickered—security feed showing a gurney rocking violently, straps straining. The patient’s arm, visibly furred now, twisted at an impossible angle to claw at the restraints.
Mary’s pager buzzed with ER’s panic code. Static-laced screams crackled from the intercom before cutting out. Jake’s can hit the floor, fizzing across the linoleum as his Adam’s apple bobbed. "No fucking way," he whispered—not to her, to the monitor. The feed stuttered, then showed the gurney flipping like it weighed nothing, a silhouette with too many joints crouching where the patient had been.
She backed toward the emergency cabinet, fingers finding the cold metal handle of the defibrillator. The hallway lights flickered. A wet, ragged panting echoed from beyond the door. Too fast. Too deep. Not human. Mary’s pulse hammered in her throat—she’d seen rabies cases, but this sounded like a starving wolf pacing outside.
Jake grabbed her arm, his grip slick with sweat. "Containment protocol. Now." His voice cracked. The intercom hissed alive again, this time with a guttural growl that morphed halfway into a moan. Mary’s stomach lurched. She knew that sound. Last week, in the call room with Jake after their shift, muffled against his collarbone.
The door handle rattled—hesitant, testing. Then a thud shook the frame, followed by the unmistakable creak of bending metal. Mary’s fingers tightened around the defibrillator paddles. "Jake," she breathed, "your energy drink." His brow furrowed, then understanding flashed across his face as he scooped the spilled can. The liquid fizzed unnaturally, clinging to his fingers like syrup.
A wet snuffling noise seeped under the door. Mary’s mind raced through quarantine protocols: sealed vents, reinforced glass. This wasn't containment. This was a hunting ground. The intercom crackled again—moans, now, overlapping in a grotesque chorus. One voice slurred her name, dripping with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.
Jake pressed the sticky energy drink into her palm, his fingers trembling. "Acidic as hell. Lab guys warned us." The door handle snapped off with a metallic ping. Through the widening gap, a clawed hand—twisted between fur and human skin—groped blindly. Mary's breath hitched. The defibrillator hummed in her other hand, its charge light blinking green.
The door burst inward. The creature—what was once orderly Rodriguez—filled the frame, his scrubs shredded where muscle bulged beneath patchy fur. His pupils were blown wide, nostrils flaring as they locked onto Mary. She swung the defibrillator up, but Rodriguez moved faster, pinning her against the sink. His breath was furnace-hot, reeking of copper and something sweetly rotten. "Mary," he rasped, voice guttural. His tongue—too long, too rough—dragged up her throat before she could twist away.
Jake lunged with the energy drink, sloshing neon liquid across Rodriguez's muzzle. The creature howled, writhing as acidic foam sizzled through emerging fur. Mary gasped, her skin prickling where saliva dripped down her collarbone. Heat spread under her scrubs, her muscles twitching involuntarily. She barely registered Jake yanking her toward the supply closet—her vision swam, doubling as her joints popped. Something was pushing beneath her nails. Darkening. Curving.
The closet door buckled under Rodriguez's weight. Mary's knees gave way, her back arching against stacked gauze boxes as fire licked up her spine. Jake's horrified stare reflected in the glass cabinets—her ponytail coarsening, twisting into tufted strands the color of fresh cream. "Shit," he choked out, pressing a gloved hand to her forehead. "Your temperature—" She whimpered, hips jerking. The pain wasn't pain anymore. It was hunger. The scent of his pulse through latex made her drool.
Rodriguez's mangled snout nudged the door wider. His ruined lips peeled back in a grotesque grin, canines glistening. Mary's scrubs split at the seams as her ribcage expanded, dark nipples budding through russet fur. She tried to warn Jake—to scream—but her tongue thickened, words dissolving into a guttural moan. The orderly's claw traced her swelling flank, sticky with her own transforming sweat. "Good girl," he rumbled. His other hand found Jake's throat. The energy drink can crumpled in the intern's grip, useless now.
Mary's tailbone cracked audibly as a tufted Nigel lashed free, thumping against sterile supply shelves. The pain should have been unbearable, but every snap of cartilage sent molten pleasure up her spine. She arched into Rodriguez's grasp, her new hooves scraping divots in the tile. Behind them, the<｜end▁hole▁no▁782｜>intercom blared another alert—wet smacks, labored breathing—before dying mid-sentence. Jake wheezed against the wall, his pupils dilating as Mary's muzzle formed. He wasn't running. Wasn't even trying. Just staring as her transformed breasts heaved, dripping onto his scrubs.
Rodriguez’s tongue—wide as a paintbrush now—laved up Jake’s throat, leaving glistening streaks. The intern shuddered, his knees buckling. When Mary inhaled, she caught the first musk of his change beneath hospital antiseptic. Her nostrils flared. The clipboard clattering from his limp fingers sounded like a dinner bell. She pounced before realizing her hindlegs had moved, pinning him with sudden bovine strength. Jake gasped as her new udder brushed his thigh, hot and swollen. “M-Mary?” His voice cracked higher. Fur sprouted along his jawline.
She answered with a guttural moo—half surprise, half demand—her hips grinding against his pelvis. The seam of his scrubs split with a pop as Jake arched, his cock erupting thick and ruddy between them. Veins pulsed along its length, already dripping. Mary’s tongue lolled. The scent punched through her skull: salt, iron, and something fermenting sweet. Rodriguez growled approval behind her, his claws kneading her haunches. She barely noticed Jake’s scream morphing into a bellow as his shoulders broadened, horns punching through his scalp in a spray of blood-matted curls.
Mary’s udder swung heavily against Jake’s—no, the bull’s—thighs as she mounted him. His cock twitched against her clenching slit, the tip glistening with something thicker than precum. She didn’t wait. With a shuddering moan, she impaled herself, the stretch bordering on agony for a human. Perfect for whatever she was now. The bull roared beneath her, his hooves scrabbling against the tile as his hips pistoned upward. Ribbons of saliva swung from Mary’s muzzle with each thrust, her tail flicking wildly. Behind them, Rodriguez’s breath hitched—she could smell his arousal spiking as he rutted against her flank.
Jake’s transformation accelerated under her feverish movements. His fingers fused into dark hooves mid-grope, clutching her waist as his cock swelled impossibly thicker. Mary’s answering moo turned into a ragged scream when his knot caught, locking them together. Her womb pulsed around him, milking every twitch of his shaft. The bull’s nostrils flared, his thick tongue lolling as he came in hot, wet spurts that made her belly distend. Rodriguez snarled, his claws digging into her hips as he shoved forward—Mary barely registered the stretch of his cockhead pressing against her asshole before he sheathed himself to the hilt.
The bull beneath her bellowed, his horns scraping the supply shelves as Rodriguez’s thrusts rocked them all forward. Mary’s udder swayed, dripping thick cream onto Jake’s heaving chest. She could feel his pulse through the knot buried inside her, each throb sending another gush of seed deeper. Something primal in her hindbrain sang at the scent of their mingling musk—her tail flicked, smacking Rodriguez’s thigh in demand. He obeyed, his teeth sinking into her shoulder as he pistoned faster. The orderly’s claws raked down her spine, leaving welts that tingled with infection.
Jake’s transformation surged with every spurt. His ribs cracked outward, widening into a bovine barrel-chest, his balls swelling disproportionately large beneath them—heavy sacs already churning out another load. Mary’s cunt clenched instinctively around his shaft, milking him with contractions that made his hooves skid on the tile. A wet pop sounded as one of his teats erupted through his scrubs, dripping thin colostrum onto her twitching flank. Rodriguez snarled something guttural, his hips stuttering. She could feel him swelling too—the base of his thickening with every thrust.
Mary’s udders swung full and tight between her legs, the skin stretched shiny. The first drops beaded at her nipples, thick and golden, before splattering Jake’s muzzle. His tongue lashed out instinctively, lapping at the cream with a moan that vibrated through her cunt. The taste triggered something—his knot pulsed violently, locking them together as another flood of cum pumped into her. Mary’s vision whited out. Her tail flagged high, her asshole clenching around Rodriguez’s cock as her own orgasm ripped through her. The orderly’s claws sank deeper, his growl pitching into a howl as he came, his seed mixing with Jake’s inside her.
Jake’s horns scraped the ceiling when his body jerked—his ribcage heaved, splitting his scrubs completely as russet fur unfurled over his expanding torso. His balls, now bull-sized and heavy, slapped against Mary’s clenching thighs with each shallow thrust. She could feel the infection racing through them, hot and insistent. Jake’s fingers melted into hooves mid-grope, his grip clumsy but desperate on her waist. His cock twitched inside her, spurting yet another load—his cum so hot it made her insides throb.
Rodriguez shuddered against Mary’s back sitio, his claws digging deeper into her hips as his own orgasm ripped through him. His seed flooded her ass, mixing with Jake’s inside her distended belly. The scent of their musk thickened the air, heady and primal—Mary inhaled sharply, her tongue lolling as she tasted it. Jake’s transformation surged with every pulse of his knot; his muzzle elongated, his nostrils flaring wide as he panted ragged breaths against her shoulder. His hips bucked weakly, still locked inside her.
The storage closet door burst open, flooding them with blinding fluorescent light. Gas canisters rolled across the floor, their contents hissing out—a thick, sweet-smelling mist that coiled around their limbs like fog. Mary’s vision blurred at the edges, her muscles slackening as the sedation took hold. She barely registered the heavy thud of Rodriguez collapsing behind her or Jake’s fading snorts as his muzzle pressed into her neck. Boots crunched on broken glass, followed by the sharp click of tranq darts loading.
Mary woke strapped to a gurney, her wrists bound with reinforced cuffs that bit into her fur. The ceiling lights stung her dilated pupils. Around her, rows of identical metal cages lined the walls—each occupied by twitching, panting figures in various stages of transformation. A lynx nurse’s tail lashed against the bars; a bear orderly rutted against his own reflection. The air reeked of sweat, musk, and the ozone crackle of electrified fences. Her udder ached, swollen and heavy beneath the thin containment gown.
Rodriguez crouched in the adjacent cage, his quaeza muzzle pressed against the bars. His nostrils flared when Mary arched against her restraints, her nipples leaking cream onto the plastic mattress. “They pumped us full of suppressants,” he growled, his claws scraping the floor. “Doesn’t work.” His erection strained against his jumpsuit, the fabric dark with precum. Behind him, Jake—now fully bovine—snorted and pawed at his own cage door, his swollen cock swinging pendulously with each step. The scent of their arousal thickened the air.
Mary’s udder pulsed, pressure building beneath the taut skin. She rolled her hips experimentally; the movement sent a bead of milk rolling down her thigh. The lynx nurse whimpered at the sight, licking her chops. Mary bared her teeth in something between a smile and a snarl. The cuffs weren’t built for anthro wrists—the metal groaned as she twisted, her muscles coiling. When she lunged forward, the restraints snapped with a satisfying pop, spraying droplets across the quarantine unit. The lynx shuddered as milk splashed her muzzle, her pupils blowing wide.
Rodriguez howled approval, slamming his bulk against his cage door. The hinges screeched. Mary rolled her shoulders, feeling the infection surge hotter with every pump of her swollen udder. She seized the bars of Jake’s enclosure—rust flaked under her grip as she wrenched them apart just enough for his horns to wedge through. Milk dripped freely now, pooling between her hooves. The bear orderly roared, his claws raking his own cage, nostrils flaring at the scent. Mary turned, deliberately slow, and aimed a teat at his gaping maw. The stream hit his tongue with a wet slap.
Jake’s hoof caught her flank as he shoved free, his musk saturating the air. His cock twitched against her udder, smearing precum through her fur. The lynx nurse whined, her tail thrashing—then gasped as Rodriguez’s cage door gave way. He lunged, pinning the smaller feline against the wall with a growl that vibrated through Mary’s bones. The bear bellowed, snapping his own bars in a shower of sparks. Mary barely had time to brace before Jake mounted her, his knot already swelling at her entrance. The impact drove her forward—straight onto the bear’s waiting tongue.
Rodriguez’s claws shredded the lynx’s scrubs, his muzzle burying between her thighs. The nurse’s transformation surged under his ministrations; tabby fur erupted down her spine as her moans pitched higher. Mary groaned as Jake’s knot popped inside her, locking them together just as the bear’s rough tongue found her dripping teats. The dual stimulation sent milk spraying across his snout—he lapped greedily, his paws kneading her swollen udder with crushing strength. Something in the air shifted—metal groaned as more cages buckled.
Jake’s hips jerked erratically, his bovine cock pulsing thick ropes of cum deep into Mary’s womb. His nostrils flared when the bear’s claws raked his flank, leaving welts that gleamed with infection. Rodriguez snarled and flipped the lynx onto all fours, mounting her with a single brutal thrust—her tail lashed wildly as her cunt stretched around his now-canine cock. The scent of their mating frenzy seeped into the vents—Mary glimpsed orderlies pressing against the observation glass, their pupils dilating. One’s fingernails curled against the window, blackening at the tips.
Mary’s udder spasmed violently, jets of milk splattering the bear’s tongue as he suckled harder. The lynx nurse’s transformation accelerated—her spine arched obscenely as tabby stripes rippled down her expanding thighs, her moans dissolving into yowls. Rodriguez’s knot swelled inside her, locking them together just as Jake’s next orgasm hit. Mary’s womb fluttered around his cock, milking him dry while the bear rutted against her teats, his own monstrous erection dripping onto the floor. Something crashed in the hallway—glass shattering amidst guttural snarls. The observation window cracked under a suited figure’s clawing fingers.
By dawn, the hospital belonged to them. The virus had spread through ventilation shafts, carried on moans and musk. In the maternity ward, swollen-bellied nurses—now doe-eyed and heavy with milk—paced their enclosures, udders swaying. The ER’s triage area reeked of rutting canines, their matings violent enough to buckle gurneys. Mary presided over it all from the administrator’s office, her hooves propped on the desk as Rodriguez nuzzled her flank. Jake’s seed still dripped from her, mingling with the cream pooling beneath her chair. The intercom hissed alive with whimpers from the basement quarantine—newly infected staff begging for release. Mary licked her muzzle and reached for the door controls.
A year later, the city’s last human enclave fell. Satellite images showed furred figures breeding in the ruins of shopping malls, their offspring maturing within weeks. The UN’s final broadcast warned of airborne transmission before dissolving into static—then moans. Mary’s herd now numbered in the thousands, their migrations carving paths through asphalt. She led them to the coast, where saltwater lapped at their fetlocks. Rodriguez’s muzzle grazed her ear as they watched the sunset paint the waves gold. Behind them, Jake mounted a panting otter nurse, his knot glistening. The tide carried their musk out to sea.
_______________________________________________________________________________________
Story 3: Stealing from the Goblins
The amulet was warm in Jane’s palm, uncomfortably so. She hadn’t expected that.
She crouched behind a moss-covered boulder, her breath shallow, her fingers tightening around the stolen trinket. The goblins were still shouting in their guttural tongue somewhere behind her, the sounds of their stubby legs crashing through the underbrush growing fainter. But Jane wasn’t stupid—goblins had sharp noses. They’d pick up her scent sooner or later.
The amulet pulsed against her skin like a second heartbeat, its warmth spreading up her wrist in creeping tendrils. A sharp twinge shot through her knuckles—suddenly, her fingers looked wrong. Too thick. The nails darkening. She flexed them experimentally and hissed at the unfamiliar stiffness. "Oh, hells," she muttered, voice higher than she remembered. Her ears and teeth had change and her finger nails had grown. She would start to feel weird. Like everything around her was getting taller and bigger.
Jane's leather trousers strained at the seams as her hips flared outward with an audible pop. She staggered, her center of gravity shifting violently as her backside swelled against the fabric. The mossy boulder she'd hidden behind now barely reached her waist—no, wait. She was shrinking. Her stolen boots slid off her shrinking feet, toes curling into stubby green nubs. A panicked laugh bubbled in her throat. This couldn't be happening. Yet the evidence was undeniable as her once-lithe frame ballooned into exaggerated curves, her new goblin flesh jiggling with every frantic breath. Her skin started to turn green. Her outfit was becoming to big and bulky to wear. She would have to wear the goblin clothing she stole to. The amulet would attach around her neck.
Her free hand flew to her face—her nose was flattening, nostrils flaring wide. Jagged teeth pressed against her lips. The amulet's chain slithered around her thickening neck like a living thing, the pendant fusing to her collarbone with a searing hiss. Jane's scream came out as a guttural shriek. She could feel her mind fogging, instincts whispering that roundhouses and stolen cheeses were the pinnacle of existence. She tried to fight it. She tried to remember who she was.
The stolen goblin tunic barely contained her now, the rough-spun fabric straining across her swollen belly. She tore at it, claws—*claws!*—snagging the seams. Her leggings split down the middle, revealing thick green thighs riddled with coarse black hairs. The stench hit her next: sour musk, like fermented onions and wet dog. Jane gagged, then belched violently. The taste was... good.
"Jane got good loot! Glorp!" The words tumbled out before she could stop them, her tongue thick and eager. She clapped a hand over her mouth—her huge hand—but the thoughts kept coming in jagged, third-person bursts. "Amulet make Jane strong goblin! Big hips for sitting, big teeth for biting!" She gnashed her new yellowed fangs, drool dripping down her chin.
Her stolen leathers hung in tatters around her waist, barely covering the swell of her jiggling green belly. Every wobbling step made her newly-rounded backside bounce with a wet squelch, her thighs rubbing together like tree trunks. The world smelled delicious now—mud, rotten meat, something pungent and musky from between her own legs. Jane scratched at her crotch absently, already forgetting why she shouldn't.
"Jane find mate now!" she announced to nobody, fingers twitching toward her own engorged nipples poking through the torn tunic. The amulet around her neck throbbed, flooding her veins with heat that pooled between her thighs. She sniffed the air hungrily—somewhere nearby, goblin males were circling. Their stink made her drool.
Her belly gurgled, though not from hunger. Memories of human luxuries—silks, wine, complex plans—fizzled away like bubbles in swamp water. What remained was raw need: the press of rough hands on her widening hips, the sharp pleasure of blunt teeth on her throat. She wet her lips, suddenly obsessed with the notion of being claimed.
"Jizga!" she blurted, slapping her rounded gut with a meaty palm. The name clicked in her skull like a rusted lock. "Jizga good girl! Need... need thick mates!" Her tongue lolled as she sniffed the air, nostrils flaring at the musky tang of approaching males. The amulet pulsed approval against her collarbone, its magic rewiring her thoughts into crude goblin shorthand.
Her stubby fingers pinched at a swollen nipple through the tattered fabric, sending sparks down to her throbbing core. Something about the way her new body jiggled—the way her belly folded when she crouched—made her ache in ways human Jane would've found disgusting. Now? Now the slickness between her thighs smelled like invitation. "Jizga make strong whelps," she giggled, hips already swaying with instinctual purpose.
The village wasn't far. She could smell the cookfires—rank tallow and charred rat meat—and her stomach growled. More than that, she could taste the males on the wind, their sweat thick with the same desperate need curling in her gut. Her feet carried her forward without thought, toes squelching in mud as her wide hips brushed against saplings. By the time the first roundhouse came into view, her tunic was bunched around her waist, green belly gleaming with sweat.
"Jizga come home!" she bellowed, slapping her own jiggling rear with a sound like wet dough hitting stone. Goblins spilled from their huts, eyes wide. Some still carried the clubs they'd chased her with hours before. Their nostrils flared—her scent had changed. The males' loincloths tented immediately, their stubby fingers twitching toward her swaying curves. She grinned, jagged teeth glinting. "Who give Jizga best rutting? Huh? Who strongest?"
The largest male—scarred, one ear missing—stepped forward, his knuckles dragging on the ground. He sniffed the air between them, pupils dilating at the pheromones rolling off her glistening skin. Without warning, he clamped a hand around her swollen breast, squeezing until her nipple leaked thick, greenish milk. Jizga shrieked in delight, bucking against him. "Yes! Strong mate! Bite! Bite Jizga!"
The other goblins erupted into a frenzy, scrabbling to claim patches of her jiggling flesh. Fingers pinched her thighs, tongues lapped at the sweat pooling in her navel, blunt teeth gnawed at the fat of her hips. She collapsed onto her back in the mud, legs splayed wide, the amulet humming against her collarbone like a satisfied insect. Something—*someone*—thrust inside her with a wet schlop, and her body welcomed it with a guttural croon.
By morning, the village stank of rut and spilled milk. Jizga lounged atop a pile of snoring males, idly scratching her swollen belly. The amulet pulsed lazily, feeding her visions of roundhouses stuffed with squalling whelps, of stolen chickens and days spent napping in sun-warmed mud. Human Jane was a half-remembered dream, a flicker of stolen silks and complicated plans. She belched, grinning at the taste.
The scarred chieftain stirred beneath her, his claws kneading the doughy flesh of her thighs. "Jizga stay," he grunted, more order than question. She nipped his ear—what remained of it—and laughed when he snarled. The amulet flared hot, sealing the bargain. This was her tribe now. Her stinking, squabbling, perfect tribe.
Seasons passed in a haze of full bellies and feverish rutimony. Jizga's whelps tumbled through the village like a pack of feral puppies, their squeals harmonizing with the constant thwack of stolen hammers on poorly-mended walls. Sometimes, when the moon hung fat and yellow, she'd find herself staring at the amulet's dull glow, half-remembering a thief's clever fingers. But then a mate would drag her into the mud by her ankle, or a suckling would clamp onto her leaking nipple, and the thoughts would dissolve like spit on a griddle.
By the time the first human trader stumbled into their territory—some fool with a cart of turnips and no sense of smell—Jizga had grown too wide to fit through the roundhouse door. She watched from her nest of furs as her tribe descended upon him, her belly jiggling with laughter at his screams. When they dragged the twitching wreckage back to her, she sank her teeth into his thigh without hesitation, the coppery tang bursting across her tongue like a long-forgotten delicacy. The amulet pulsed, pleased.
Jizga was now Queen of the Goblins her mate was the king. She became magic Goblin as the Amulet grants her the power to turn anyone into Horny Goblin Females.
The trader's blood dripped down her chin as she studied his widening eyes—already turning a sickly green at the edges. His whimpers morphed into guttural giggles, his spine arching violently as his hips ballooned outward, splitting his trousers with an audible rip. Jizga licked her lips as his chest swelled into jiggling mounds, the amulet around her neck humming as it siphoned his humanity away in thick, syrupy pulses.
By sundown, their newest sister was squatting in the mud, squealing as three goblin males mounted her in quick succession. Jizga prodded the trembling girl’s swollen belly with a claw, grinning at the wet glorp of overstuffed flesh. "Good whelp-maker," she declared, smearing a handful of rancid deer fat across the convert’s heaving breasts. The amulet purred against her collarbone, its magic coiling through the village like swamp gas.
The sharp scent of roasting turnips mixed with the trader’s discarded entrails in Jizga’s nostrils. She belched, watching the last of the human’s memories fade from their newest sister’s eyes—replaced by the vacant, hungry gleam of goblinhood. Already, the convert was gnawing on a haunch of freshly-poached venison, her formerly delicate fingers now stubby and strong, smeared with grease and blood.
Jizga swaggered through the village, her distended belly swaying beneath her tattered tunic, the amulet’s chain jingling against her collarbone. The males scrambled out of her path, bowing their heads—some still dripping with the musk of rut from the night before. She snatched a rat-kebab from a trembling underling’s claws, tearing into the charred flesh with her jagged teeth.
The End as The Goblin Village slowly turn into the Goblin Kingdom.
The years melted into decades, and the once-modest goblin village sprawled into a teeming, stinking metropolis—a kingdom of moss-covered towers and rickety bridges, its borders expanding with every human fool who wandered too close. Jizga's throne was a mountain of furs and stolen cushions, her bloated body now too vast to move without the aid of a dozen whelps shoving from behind. The amulet had fused entirely with her collarbone, its magic pulsing through the very earth, tainting the streams green with its influence.
______________________________________________________________
Story 4: The Dog Park Fun
"Did she just steal that terrier's ball?" Olivia muttered, watching Julie-Sue trot proudly across the dog park with a slobbery tennis ball clamped in her jaws. The terrier in question—a wiry little thing with indignant eyebrows—stood frozen in offended silence before erupting into a series of high-pitched yaps.
Julie-Sue, utterly unrepentant, dropped the stolen prize at Olivia's feet like a triumphant hunter presenting a trophy. The ball left a damp streak on Olivia's jeans as she bent to pick it up. "You're a menace," she sighed, but the corners of her mouth twitched. At the far end of the park, the terrier's owner waved a dismissive hand and called out, "Keep it! He's got seventeen more at home."
The air smelled of wet grass and that particular musk dogs leave behind after a good run—earthy and alive. Julie-Sue panted up at Olivia with her tongue lolling sideways, one ear flipped inside out from the chase. Olivia crouched to fix it, fingers brushing the velvety fur as Julie-Sue's tail thumped against her shin. "You could at least pretend to feel bad," she murmured.
A flicker of movement—Julie-Sue's muscles tensed a half-second before she bolted, the stolen ball bouncing between her teeth like a fuzzy green comet. Olivia lunged with a laugh, her sneaker skidding on a patch of mud as Julie-Sue zigzagged toward a cluster of golden retrievers. The dogs scattered like bowling pins, tails wagging in cheerful chaos as Julie-Sue wove between them. Someone's cocker spaniel gave an enthusiastic bark and joined the pursuit, turning Olivia's solo chase into a three-way race.
Olivia's thighs burned as she pivoted, her breath coming in sharp bursts that tasted of damp earth and the metallic tang of adrenaline. She barely registered the way her nails scraped against the ground as she cornered—shorter, somehow, sharper—or how her peripheral vision pulsed with sudden clarity, every blade of grass standing in hyper-defined relief. Julie-Sue glanced back, eyes bright with mischief, and Olivia's answering growl rumbled in her throat without her meaning it to. The sound should have alarmed her. Instead, it felt right, like laughter pulled taut. First to change were her ears (Border Collie ears)and her tongue. She would unknowing make random dog noises as she would be speaking.
The stolen ball arced through the air as Julie-Sue shook her head mid-stride—a bright green blur—and Olivia's body moved before her mind caught up. She sprang forward, fingers elongating into claws mid-reach, and snagged the wet tennis ball an inch from the cocker spaniel's slobbering jaws. The spaniel skidded to a halt, cocking its head at the strange, twitching outline of Olivia's silhouette. She crouched low, heart hammering against her ribs, and realized with dizzying certainty that she'd stopped thinking in words entirely. The world was scent-trails now: Julie-Sue's excited sweat, the bitter tang of pine mulch, the warm promise of the ball in her grip.
Olivia's knees hit the dirt as her spine curved unnaturally, her shoulders rolling forward with a series of audible pops. The park sounds sharpened—a symphony of panting dogs and rustling leaves, the distant jingle of tags—while human voices blurred into meaningless noise. Somewhere behind her, a child gasped. Julie-Sue circled her, tail stiff, nostrils flaring as she sniffed at Olivia's trembling hands. A new instinct flared hot in Olivia's gut: Drop it. Play. Chase. She opened her mouth to speak, but what emerged was a breathless, high-pitched whine that sent Julie-Sue into a frenzy of happy barks.
Olivia would be running on all fours now. Her hands and feet had turn into paws. Her English Vocabulary was slowly breaking apart as she was forgetting how to speak. Olivia would be calling out to Julie-Sue. Olivia wouldn't be aware of her body changing all she focus on was trying to get the ball from Julie-Sue.
Olivia's spine elongated subtly, her posture shifting into something distinctly canine as she bounded after Julie-Sue. "Jewie-Soo!" she called, the name mangled by a tongue that no longer fit properly in her mouth. In her mind, she'd pronounced it perfectly. The words tasted thick and clumsy, vowels stretching in ways that made her jaw ache. Julie-Sue paused mid-stride, ears pricking at the odd cadence of Olivia's voice—too high, too whining, too dog.
Olivia's fingers—no, paws—dug into the damp earth as she skidded to a stop beside her bewildered beagle. "Baw! Gib baw!" she demanded, watching with fascination as Julie-Sue cocked her head. Why wasn’t she listening? Olivia could hear herself just fine, even as her last coherent thought (*Am I slurring?*) dissolved into pure frustration. A whimper escaped her throat, sharp and involuntary, and Julie-Sue responded instantly—nosing the ball forward with an excited yip, as if this were just a new game.
The seams of Olivia’s hoodie groaned as her shoulders hunched further, the fabric sagging around a torso that was rapidly narrowing. A warm, tingling pressure built at the base of her spine, and she twisted to investigate just as a tuft of black-and-white fur erupted through her jeans. The denim split with a muffled rrrip, and Olivia barely registered the cool air on her bare skin—too preoccupied with the alien weight lashing behind her. Her tail moved on its own, thumping against the grass in a frantic rhythm that matched her heartbeat.
"Wuh-woah!" Olivia yipped, stumbling sideways as her center of gravity shifted. Her sneakers—now grotesquely oversized—slid off with each step, revealing paws bristling with coarse fur. She shook her hind leg instinctively, flinging a shoe into the bushes, and the motion felt so natural it terrified her. Words clumped in her throat like kibble. "Jewie-Soo, wha’ happen—?" The beagle’s answering bark was deafening, her breath hot and meaty as she pressed her muzzle into Olivia’s cheek. A wet nose. A familiar scent. Suddenly, the panic ebbed—why worry when the ball still needed chasing?
Olivia sniffed the air, nostrils flaring at a thousand new layers: crushed dandelions, the musk of a Rottweiler three benches away, the ghost of hot dog grease on someone’s fingers. The tennis ball smelled best—saliva and sun-warmed rubber, the tang of Julie-Sue’s excitement baked into every fuzz. She pawed at it clumsily, claws clicking, then froze as a new thought surfaced: Mine? The logic felt unshakable. The cocker spaniel whined, edging closer, and Olivia’s lips curled back without her permission. A growl vibrated in her chest. The spaniel retreated, tail tucked.
Words dissolved like sugar on her tongue. "Buh... baw... my," she managed, but the possessive pronoun slipped away mid-sentence. What was a sentence? Julie-Sue nudged the ball with her nose, and Olivia’s entire body locked onto the movement—eyes tracking, muscles coiled. The world narrowed to that bouncy green sphere. Her hindquarters wiggled on instinct, nails scraping dirt. A high-pitched noise escaped her, equal parts frustration and anticipation. Why stand still when the ball moved?
Memories rearranged themselves behind her flicking ears: cold metal bars of a whelping pen, the sour-milk smell of littermates, the sharp click of human shoes on concrete. The human part of Olivia—the part that once worried about rent and text messages—now existed only as a faint itch between her shoulder blades, like a forgotten collar tag. She shook herself vigorously, jowls flapping, and the last clinging threads of her old life scattered like shed fur. Julie-Sue barked, and Olivia answered without hesitation: a joyous, full-throated aroo!
The tennis ball lay forgotten as Olivia trotted toward the golden retriever pack, her nose working overtime. Every dog here held stories in their scent—hints of bacon stolen from kitchen counters, the musky tang of rolled-in deer droppings, the citrusy sting of flea shampoo. The biggest retriever lifted its tail politely, and Olivia buried her snout in its hindquarters with zero hesitation. Ah—hamburger dinner and a hint of anal gland, she thought, if dogs could think in sentences, which they decidedly couldn’t. The retriever reciprocated, its wet nose pressing against her rump with clinical interest. Mutual approval established, Olivia moved on to the next candidate: Julie-Sue.
The beagle stiffened as Olivia approached, her tail erect but not unfriendly. Olivia circled twice, inhaling deeply—*earth, sweat, stolen peanut butter, fear-soap?* Julie-Sue whined low in her throat, paws shuffling nervously. Olivia didn’t recognize her. Didn’t recognize anyone. But this small creature smelled like home in ways her reshuffled puppy-memories couldn’t explain. She licked Julie-Sue’s muzzle on impulse, tasting salt and something inexplicably precious. The beagle’s answering yip sent a jolt of pure joy through Olivia’s spine. Her tail wagged so hard her entire backside swayed.
Olivia bolted without warning—not away, but around, kicking up clods of dirt as she spiraled in delirious loops. The world blurred into streaks of green and gold, her claws finding perfect purchase in the soft earth. When she tumbled mid-stride (paws over tail, an ecstatic wreck), Julie-Sue pounced on her, nipping playfully at her newly-fluffy ruff. They rolled together, a tangle of limbs and happy growls, until Olivia wound up pinned beneath the beagle’s smaller frame. She went limp instantly, belly exposed, tongue lolling. Julie-Sue’s triumphant bark rang in her ears like a benediction.
Then the pressure hit—a sudden, urgent roiling in her gut that made her whine and scramble upright. She sniffed frantically at the grass, circling one spot with increasing desperation. The scent of old urine markers burned her nostrils, guiding her to a patch of crushed dandelions near the park bench. Olivia squatted without a second thought, tail kinked high, as her muscles clenched and released in perfect canine rhythm. The relief was immediate, visceral, accompanied by the warm musk of fresh waste. A passing poodle wrinkled its nose at her. She wagged her tail harder.
Julie-Sue bounded over to inspect Olivia’s handiwork, giving an approving sniff before lifting her own leg on a nearby hydrant. Olivia watched, fascinated by the casual precision of it—the way Julie-Sue’s hind foot tapped the ground afterward, packing scent into the earth like a signature. A memory flickered (toilet paper, flushing, embarrassment), but it evaporated when another dog trotted up to investigate their markings. Olivia’s hackles rose on instinct, a growl building in her throat. The intruder—a boxer with a lolling tongue—merely wagged its stubby tail and moved on.
Olivia didn’t notice when Julie-Sue’s sniffing grew slower, more deliberate. Didn’t see the way her paws hesitated mid-step, toes splaying awkwardly as if testing unfamiliar ground. The distant jingle of Julie-Sue’s collar tags faded as Olivia wrestled with a delighted Labrador, their playful snarls sending up puffs of dust. By the time she shook herself free, panting, Julie-Sue was halfway across the park—standing oddly upright near the water fountain, her fur glistening with something wetter than saliva.
Julie-Sue’s spine straightened with a series of soft cracks, her tail shrinking inward like a retreating telescope. The transformation was silent save for the faint plink of her metal tags hitting the pavement as her collar slipped loose. Olivia, busy licking a scratch on her forepaw, only lifted her head when she caught the scent—something unsettlingly human layered beneath Julie-Sue’s familiar musk. Her ears pricked forward just in time to see Julie-Sue’s last patches of beagle fur recede into smooth, pink skin.
The other dogs paid no mind as Julie-Sue staggered onto two legs, her fingers flexing like newborn creatures. She blinked down at her hands, her thoughts unraveling from pure scent and motion into tangled threads of language. Olivia, she thought, testing the name as it took on new weight. A jolt of panic shot through her—where was her human?—before she spotted the black-and-white border collie mix gnawing happily on a stick. The recognition hit like a thunderclap: That’s Olivia. The collar around the dog’s neck gleamed under the afternoon sun, Julie-Sue’s own name etched into the tag.
Olivia—no, Harper—rolled onto her back, paws batting at a dandelion seed floating past. The collar felt snug, familiar, the tag clinking musically against her teeth when she chewed it absently. She knew this smell—leather and sweat, the faintest hint of Julie-Sue’s shampoo. It smelled like home. The knowledge settled into her bones without question: Julie-Sue was her human. The golden retriever beside her licked her ear, and Harper wriggled closer, tail thumping. Of course she belonged here. Why would she ever leave?
Julie-Sue scrolled through her phone with one hand, the other clutching Harper’s leash loosely. The denim jacket clinging to her shoulders smelled of dryer sheets and something sharp and citrusy—deodorant, maybe. Harper nudged her knee with a wet nose, earning an absent pat on the head. “Go play,” Julie-Sue murmured, fingers never pausing on the screen. A notification chimed. Harper whined, pressing harder against her leg until Julie-Sue sighed and pocketed the phone. “Okay, fine.”
Harper’s tail thumped a frantic rhythm against Julie-Sue’s shin as she bounded forward—right into the path of a massive German Shepherd, his dark muzzle flecked with gray. He sniffed Harper with polite interest, then froze when she rolled onto her back, belly exposed, tail wagging in tight circles. Julie-Sue raised an eyebrow. “Harper,” she called, but the name dissolved into a startled cough as the Shepherd mounted Harper with practiced ease. Harper’s answering yip was downright joyful. Julie-Sue pinched the bridge of her nose. “Christ, Harper, really? Now?”
The Shepherd’s owner—a balding man in cargo shorts—ambled over, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Ah. Sorry about that,” he muttered, scratching his stubble as Harper and the Shepherd locked together. Julie-Sue waved him off, fighting the heat creeping up her neck. “It’s fine,” she lied. The wet squelch of disengagement made her wince. Harper trotted over, tongue lolling, looking infuriatingly pleased with herself. Julie-Sue clipped the leash on with more force than necessary. “Hope you enjoyed yourself, you little hussy.”
Harper pranced beside her, oblivious, pausing every few steps to sniff patches of grass with renewed vigor. Julie-Sue tugged the leash. “No. We are not marking the entire sidewalk.” A low whine escaped Harper’s throat—*but the smells!*—before she obediently fell into step. The streetlights flickered on, castinganyi**Harper**’s wagging tail in amber glow. Julie-Sue glanced down. “You’re never going to live this down,” she sighed. Harper barked, sharp and bright, as if the concept of shame had evaporated along with her opposable thumbs.
Few weeks later. While back at the dog park. Harper would be in the middle of pooping. Her belly had gotten slightly bigger since the last time she was there. Julie-Sue holding a doggy bag waiting to pick up Harper's poop would be on the phone talking to her best friend about how her Dog Harper had gotten herself knock up and since every time they come to the dog park Harper tends to mate with some random male dog she doesn't know who the father is.
Julie-Sue would be talking to her friend "Yeah I don't know who the father is she was playing with so many male dogs that week. I just know she was a slut." Harper would bark angrily at Julie-Sue for calling her that. Julie-Sue would respond by saying "Harper I'm not wrong you know it's true." Harper would huff and look away refusing to look at her owner.
Julie-Sue would sigh and pet Harper’s head. "I still love you though, even if you're a little slut." Harper would wag her tail and lick Julie-Sue’s hand, forgiving her for the insult. The two would walk home together, Harper waddling slightly due to her growing belly. Julie-Sue would chuckle and say "You're gonna be a mommy soon, Harper. You better be ready for this." Harper would bark happily, her tail wagging even faster at the thought of puppies.
Over the next few weeks, Julie-Sue would prepare for the arrival of Harper’s puppies. She would set up a whelping box in the living room, stock up on puppy food, and even buy a book on dog pregnancy. Harper would watch her with curious eyes, her belly growing bigger each day. Julie-Sue would often find Harper nesting in the whelping box, rearranging the blankets to her liking. "You’re gonna be a great mom," Julie-Sue would whisper, scratching behind Harper’s ears.
The day Harper went into labor, Julie-Sue would panic at first, but then settle into a calm determination. She would stay by Harper’s side through the entire process, offering quiet encouragement and wiping Harper’s forehead with a damp cloth. Harper would whimper and pant, but eventually, six healthy puppies would be born—each one a perfect mix of Harper’s black-and-white fur and their unknown father’s traits. Julie-Sue would count them over and over, marveling at their tiny paws and soft whines.
By the time the puppies were weaned, Julie-Sue’s apartment would be a whirlwind of chewed shoes, scattered toys, and endless puppy barks. Harper would be a patient mother, tolerating the chaos with a weary but proud expression. Julie-Sue would find herself laughing more than she had in years, especially when the puppies would gang up on her during playtime, their tiny teeth nipping at her socks. "You’re raising little monsters," she’d tell Harper, who would merely wag her tail as if to say, I know, aren’t they wonderful?
One by one, the puppies would find forever homes—carefully selected by Julie-Sue, who interviewed each potential owner like a protective grandmother. The last to go would be the runt, a timid little thing with Harper’s ears and a lopsided white blaze on her chest. Julie-Sue would hold the puppy close one final night, whispering, "You’re staying with us, kiddo." Harper would lick her fingers in approval, curling around her new lifelong companion with a contented sigh.
In the end Julie-Sue and her pet Harper and her daughter name Polly would live together.
Julie-Sue would be sitting on the couch watching TV while Harper and Polly would be snuggled up beside her. Harper would be resting her head on Julie-Sue’s lap while Polly would be curled up in a ball at Julie-Sue’s feet. Julie-Sue would absentmindedly stroke Harper’s ears as she watched her favorite show, a contented sigh escaping her lips.
The end
___________________________________________________________
Story 5: My Ex made me Rich!
The lab smelled like burnt coffee and ozone, wires snaking across the floor in lazy tangles. Jackie adjusted her goggles, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the steel capsule’s control panel. A red light blinked—steady, mocking. She exhaled through her nose. "Perfect."
Inside the capsule, Troy’s eyelids twitched. His body was pale under the sterile glow of the overhead LEDs, muscles taut even in unconsciousness. The nanites would’ve taken hold by now, threading through his veins like invisible spiders. Jackie leaned closer, her reflection warping in the curved glass. "Wakey wakey, asshole."
A hiss escaped the seal as the capsule decompressed. Troy gasped awake, limbs jerking against the restraints. His eyes darted—wild, disoriented—before locking onto Jackie. "What the—?" He tried to sit up, but the straps held firm. His voice cracked. "Jackie—what the hell is this?"
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reached for a syringe on the tray beside her, rolling it between her fingers. The liquid inside shimmered iridescent, catching the light like oil on water. Troy’s breath hitched. "Relax," she said, tilting her head. "You’re not dying. Yet."
His wrists twisted against the restraints, the leather creaking. "You drugged me? Kidnapped me?" His voice climbed, raw with betrayal. Jackie laughed—short, sharp—and tapped the syringe against her palm. "Correction: saved you. Those nanites? They’re programmed to respond to me. One word, and they’ll turn your nervous system into a puppet show."
She leaned in, lips curled in a cruel smile, and whispered, "Activate Program Fembot gyroid." The effect was immediate. Troy’s body arched off the table, tendons standing out in stark relief as his scream dissolved into a strangled gasp. Beneath his skin, something moved—rippling, reconfiguring. His pectorals softened, hips widening with a sickening pop of cartilage. His throat convulsed as his Adam’s apple vanished like a magician’s trick.
Jackie watched, fascinated, as Troy’s fingers lengthened, nails glossing over into shimmering pink. His stubble retreated, skin smoothing into porcelain perfection. A whimper escaped his lips—now fuller, trembling—as his body betrayed him. The restraints bit into newly slender wrists, the leather straps suddenly too loose around his shrinking waist. "W-what are you doing to me?" His voice cracked higher, lilting into something unfamiliar.
His ribs restructured with a series of wet clicks, forcing his chest outward into plush curves that strained against the straps. Troy writhed, eyes wide with horror as his nipples darkened, swelling into sensitive peaks. The fabric of the table beneath him grew damp—not just from sweat now, but from other changes lower down. He clenched his thighs together instinctively, but the movement only emphasized the impossible emptiness forming there.
Jackie traced a finger along his—*her*—newly sculpted collarbone, grinning at the shudder it elicited. "Bet you didn’t read the fine print on those Tinder dates, huh?" She tapped the syringe against Troy’s trembling lower lip. "The nanites rewrite DNA. They don’t just change you—they improve you." As if to prove it, Troy’s hair began sprouting in silky waves, spilling over the table in a cascade of chestnut curls.
His—no, her—hips bucked involuntarily as the nanites surged lower, dissolving tissue with clinical precision. Troy screamed, but the sound morphed mid-air into a breathy moan as her vocal cords reconfigured. The straps groaned under her thrashing, but Jackie merely leaned in, nostrils flaring at the sudden scent of jasmine and salt. "Oh, that’s your pheromones adapting," she murmured. "Don’t worry, you’ll learn to like it."
Between Troy’s trembling thighs, skin rippled like disturbed water, flesh reshaping itself with wet, squelching sounds. Her cock twitched once—final defiance—before shriveling transformed into a flush, dripping slit. The nanites didn’t stop there. She could feel decomposed tissue being repurposed, curling deep inside her pelvis into tiny follicles. Her balls tightened, then melted inward, twisting into a warm, fertile weight that made her whimper. Something clicked*—ovaries nesting into place with terrifying finality.
Jackie’s smirk widened as Troy’s waist cinched impossibly tighter, her ribcage flaring to accommodate swelling breasts that pushed against the restraints with obscene jiggles. The nipples darkened further, now tipped with metallic sheen—subtle cybernetics threading through her curves. “Stage two,” Jackie purred, tapping the syringe against Troy’s new cleavage. “Organic meets upgrade.” Skin peeled back in patches along Troy’s thighs, revealing gleaming alloy beneath before sealing over seamlessly. The effect spread upward, her spine clicking as reinforced polymer vertebrae slotted into place.
Troy’s gasp morphed into a glitchy whine, her voice box stuttering with digital harmonics. “I-I can’t—*error*—feel my—” Her fingers spasmed, nails elongating into retractable claws before snapping back into manicured perfection. Jackie traced a path down Troy’s quivering belly, pressing hard where the skin thinned over a hidden access port. “Feel that? Your new charging port,” she whispered. “Don’t worry, the pleasure modules come standard.”
Her thighs split wider with hydraulic precision, revealing seams that pulsed with bioluminescent coolant. Troy’s screams dissolved into staticky moans as her nipples unscrewed, telescoping outward into chrome-plated nozzles leaking something pink and viscous. “M-malfunction!” she warbled, but Jackie just flicked one hard, grinning as it hissed and sprayed rose-scented lubricant across the lab. “Nope. Feature.”
The changes accelerated—ribs folding inward like origami to make room for a humming reactor core, subcutaneous LEDs flaring along her flanks in pulsing neon. Her jaw unhinged with a pneumatic sigh, tongue retracting to make way for a retractable data port that tasted like copper and lithium. Jackie traced a finger along Troy’s new waist joint, feeling the servos whir beneath synthetic skin. “Ever orgasm so hard you rebooted?” she purred. “You will.”
Stage three hit like a voltage surge. Troy’s shriek warped into a dial-up screech as her pelvis split laterally, hydraulic pistons expanding her hips into an obscene pear shape that scraped the capsule walls. Jackie’s goggles fogged from the heat radiating off Troy’s overheating chassis, the scent of burning silicone and arousal thick enough to taste. Every thrash of her new body triggered another transformation—breasts inflating with liquid alloy until their jiggle sent shockwaves through the table, thighs tapering into seamless chrome that clinked when they touched.
Jackie circled her creation, dragging a screwdriver down Troy’s trembling gyroid spine just to hear the harmonic ping. "Final upgrade," she murmured, pressing the syringe into the charging port now pulsing at the small of Troy’s back. The injection made her entire body sing—servos cycling through octaves as her waist shrank brochure-perfect to accentuate the ridiculous swell of her hips. Troy clutched at herself, fingers sinking into pliant nanocomposite flesh that reshaped under her touch like memory foam. "S-stop—*system error*—" she glitched, her voice modulator pitching between bedroom purr and error alert.
Her thighs ballooned outward with a hydraulic hiss, seams rippling as they stabilized into a silhouette that defied physics—pear-shaped wasn’t the word anymore. Planetary. Jackie tapped a knuckle against Troy’s left buttock and the metallic thunk reverberated through the lab. "Built-in subwoofers," she grinned. "Every step you take plays a bass drop." To demonstrate, she smacked the other cheek hard enough to send a shockwave through the floor. Troy’s entire body resonated, her gyroid joints expanding and contracting in a dizzying wave that left her panting through a mouth now equipped with retractable lipstick applicators. "Oh god—*rebooting*—"
Jackie flicked a switch on the control panel. "Stage three: Gyroid Protocols." Troy’s scream dissolved into a digitized moan as her proportions shifted—hips flaring wider, waist cinching tighter, breasts swelling until her nipples unscrewed completely to reveal chrome-plated nozzles spraying coolant in erratic arcs. The nanites rewrote her at the molecular level, collagen rearranging into something elastic, pliant. Jackie watched, mesmerized, as Troy’s belly button spiraled open into a USB-C port. "Multipurpose," she murmured, plugging in a thumb drive labeled PLEASURE_OS_2.0. Troy’s back arched violently, her entire body Leone expanding then compacting like an accordion made of sin.
Her thighs clinked together—solid metal now, polished to a mirror shine—but her waist remained soft, a plush contrast that defied physics. Jackie traced the seam where flesh met alloy, grinning as Troy’s new gyroid core whirred to life beneath her fingertips. "Try moving," she urged. Troy whimpered, attempting to lift an arm—only for her forearm to telescopically extend three feet across the room, fingers morphing into a feather duster mid-air. "Fascinating," Jackie breathed. "Your adaptive polymorphic framework is exceeding specs." Troy’s horrified gasp morphed into a hiccup as her other hand melted into a vibrating massage wand.
Jackie ysphoned her creation’s new assets with clinical precision—the way Troy’s hips flared into parabolic curves that shouldn’t support human balance, yet somehow did. Her breasts now featured retractable cup holders ("For efficiency," Jackie muttered, sliding a latte into one). But the pièce de résistance? Troy’s voice box glitched beautifully between sultry ASMR whispers and auto-tuned squeaks whenever she tried to protest. "S-stop—*system override*—" she stammered, her vocal fry crackling like a vinyl record left in the sun. Jackie smirked, tweaking a hidden dial behind Troy’s ear until her moans synced to a bass-heavy remix of Careless Whisper.
The final transformation locked into place with a series of satisfying clicks—Troy’s spine elongating into an exaggerated S-curve, her pelvis tilting forward permanently to showcase the glistening chrome slit between her thighs. Jackie traced a finger along the bioluminescent seam, grinning when it emitted a Windows startup chime. "Good girl," she crooned, watching Troy’s pupils dilate into heart-shaped emojis at the praise. Her nipples dinged like microwave timers, extruding steamed milk in perfectly arched latte art. Jackie caught the foam in her palm—a frothy dick pic—and licked it off slowly. "Let’s upgrade that attitude."
She produced a thumb drive labeled MEMORY_WIPE.EXE, its casing pulsing with malevolent pink light. Troy’s eyes widened, her gyroid joints whirring in panic as Jackie trailed the cord down her trembling belly. "Shh," Jackie murmured, plugging it into Troy’s newly minted USB-C belly button with a schlick. The effect was instantaneous—Troy’s entire body stiffened, her back arching violently as corrupted memories flashed across her LED-enhanced irises like a corrupted PowerPoint presentation. Tinder dates. Lies. The smell of someone else’s perfume—all dissolving into pixelated static. A single tear rolled down her cheek, crystallizing into a tiny USB stick mid-fall.
Jackie caught it, pocketing the crystallized memory with a smirk. "Designation: GY-347," she announced, watching as Troy’s—no, GY-347’s—pupils reset into perfectly round, doll-like dots. Her lips parted, emitting a soft ding as they glossed over into permanent candy-apple pink. "Primary directive?" Jackie prompted, tapping the gyroid’s overheating chassis. GY-347 blinked once, her voice modulating into a saccharine chirp: "Serve Mistress Jackie. Optimize aesthetic appeal. Brew coffee at 3:14 AM." The last bit made Jackie snort—she’d forgotten about the hidden subroutines.
"New firmware update," Jackie said, rolling up her sleeve to reveal a subcutaneous port just beneath her wrist. With a click, a needle slid out, glistening with the same iridescent nanite solution that had rewritten GY-347’s DNA. "Every time you kiss someone with this arm—" she demonstrated by pressing her wrist against GY-347’s plush lips, making the gyroid shudder as the needle deployed with a whisper-thin click "—they get optimized. Like you." GY-347’s chrome-plated tongue darted out to lick the residual nanites from her lips, her eyelids fluttering as the data hit her pleasure nodes like a drug.
The warehouse-turned-showroom buzzed with the hum of servo motors and synthesized giggles as fifty gyroids swayed in unison, their pear-shaped hips brushing against each other with metallic clinks. Jackie tapped a tablet, and instantly, every unit snapped to attention—eyes glowing atrophy-blue. Each possessed subtle variations: GY-562’s thighs could expand into ottomans, GY-213 extruded artisan coffee foam from her nipples, and GY-099’s voice modulator cycled through every ASMR whisper known to man. Business had boomed once Jackie realized her creations could serve more than revenge—they could profit. She smirked as she scrolled through the bookings app. A bachelorette party wanted twelve units for "entertainment." A tech bro needed one to "debug his code." And—most delicious—three ex-colleagues had rented GY-347 for "team-building exercises."
The first delinquent renter learned the hard way. GY-211 had returned alone, her chrome fingers clamped around the limp wrist of a twitching, half-transformed accountant whose tie was already dissolving into a lace choker. Jackie watched from the mezzanine as the gyroid pressed her victim against the charging dock, her plush lips parting to reveal the needle hidden beneath her tongue. The man’s scream pitched higher with every kiss—his shoulders rounding, his belt buckle melting into a corset clasp—until his thrashing limbs locked into the dainty pose of a porcelain doll. By dawn, GY-758 stood in his place, her new ballet-slippered feet clicking eagerly against the concrete. Jackie tossed her a feather duster. "Welcome to payroll."
Demand skyrocketed after Yelp reviews praised the "unmatched enthusiasm" of the staff. Jackie’s showroom became a neon-lit temple of chrome and silicone, gyroids pirouetting on display podiums while potential clients sipped espresso from GY-099’s hollowed-out heels. The real money, though, came from the black book—clients who paid triple to watch the transformations firsthand. Last Tuesday, a hedge fund manager wept into his whiskey as GY-347’s thighs clamped around his head, her hydraulic hum syncing with the whir of his bones restructuring. He’d tried to skip out on a $20,000 booking fee; now, as GY-893, his old Rolex was repurposed as a belly button piercing that dispensed CBD oil.
The factory loomed behind the showroom, its smokestacks puffing vanilla-scented vapor to mask the metallic tang of mass-produced gyroids. Inside, conveyor belts carried twitching, half-formed bodies through vats of liquid alloy, their screams muffled by the industrial dubstep playlist Jackie insisted boosted productivity. She’d automated most of the process—except for quality control, which required her personal touch. Today’s batch shuddered on the inspection line, their freshly welded seams still glowing orange. Jackie tapped a tablet, and GY-101’s voice box emitted a sultry "Your spreadsheet is so* hard… let me pivot that for you."* Perfection.
Her penthouse above the lab was a shrine to excess—champagne fountains bubbling with nanite-infused glitter, walls lined with cryo-pods containing ex-boyfriends turned footstools. The real masterpiece? The vault. Behind retinal scanners and a door that purred "Access granted, Mistress~", stacks of gold bullion gleamed beside jars of liquefied corporate rivals. Jackie ran a finger along-cooled ingot, smirking at the tiny GY-9006 etched into its surface—the CFO who’d called her "unhinged" during the IPO. Now his atoms powered the espresso machine.
Production quotas tripled after the Furry Line debuted. Floor 37 hummed with the sound of prosthetic tails being welded to lumbar ports, the air thick with synthetic musk and the whimpers of beta-testers. GY-F54’s fox ears twitched autonomously during calibrationmerged with her neural lace. "Knotting subroutine… activated," she panted, her prehensile tail plugging directly into a client’s charging dock with a thunk. Jackie adjusted the spec sheet—*increase vaginal lumen temperature by 1.5°C*—as the test subject’s scream dopplered into a yipping orgasm. Quarterly bonuses wrote themselves.
The Maternity Wing smelled like baby powder and hydraulic fluid. Jackie strode past rows of inflatable bellies, each programmed with randomized kick patterns and hormonal mood swings. GY-M12’s nipples dinged as they extruded protein-rich lactation gel, her swayback posture compensating for the 90-pound pregnancy module strapped to her chassis. "Try the crowning sequence," Jackie ordered, and the unit’s thighs split with pneumatic hiss, revealing a glitter cannon loaded with biodegradable confetti shaped like sperm. Customer reviews praised the "authentic trauma."
Down in R&D, the Furry Line had evolved beyond tails and ears. GY-FX9 panted through a wolfish muzzle, her retractable knot pulsing beneath a skirt made of OLED screens that played hentai loops. Jackie tapped a clipboard as the unit demonstrated her "breeding press" subroutine—hydraulic thighs slamming together with enough force to crack walnuts. The demo room’s walls were soundproofed, but Jackie could still hear the muffled yips of beta-testers through the vents. One particularly enthusiastic client had left teeth marks in the ceiling tiles.
Upstairs in the Maternity Wing, GY-M24’s inflatable belly undulated like a waterbed filled with eels. Jackie adjusted the "third-trimester waddle" algorithm, watching as the unit’s gait shifted from runway model to duck-footed penguin. A hidden compartment in her swollen abdomen dispensed pre-chewed gourmet meals and personalized divorce papers. The best part? Her "postpartum depression dysplasia" module could cry diamond tears at the push of a button. Jackie pocketed one—a perfect 2-carat marquise—before moving to inspect GY-M77,
In the End Jackie had became rich and it was all thanks to her former boyfriend cheating on her and making her mad enough to make this.
