I wrote a standalone 🔞 horror book coming out later this year. It was very difficult to write and I like it a lot.
BAD DOG is about Nelly who thinks himself a wolf, his neighbor who feeds him like a stray, his uncle who keeps him like a dog, and the many other bodies that tangle the roots
erohorror my love...50k word vn, four endings. content warnings are included on the page, downloadable on windows, macOS, and linux.
if you can't play it, here's a readthrough on youtube. the linked version has all the endings, and it's cut up into several parts on the channel.
my favorite ending...well, i'll put it under a cut for the completely spoiler free experience.
if this silly tumblr post gets you to read it...do tell. i love this vn, and if i can get just one (1) other person to love it too? i'll consider this post a success and be on my way.
"by inserting yourself into a performance that's already begun, you'll just ruin the music and annoy the pianists."
personally, ollie's ending struck me hardest. i can't really choose a favorite, since they all captured my heart. hard. the way they're all portrayed...dang...i like that you get both perspectives. this ending also made me realize that i really enjoy (?) am fascinated by dehumanization in fiction.
Overhead, a waxing gibbous moon hung pregnant and luminous, bathing the surrounding forest in an otherworldly glow. Eclair could feel the satellite's tidal influence singing in her veins, stoking the embers of her foxfire to a low smolder. Her nine tails, usually hidden beneath a veil of enchantment, now fanned out behind her in a silken banner of purest ebony; their tips skimming playfully over the water's steaming surface. Triangular ears, equally dark and velvety, swiveled atop her head to catch the night's myriad whisperings - from the cicadas' lulling drone to the occasional skitter of some small creature in the underbrush.
But beneath that tapestry of natural ambience, another sound was gradually asserting itself - a low, mechanical thrum that set Eclair's teeth on edge and stirred the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. She straightened from her languid slouch, sloshing water as her spine stiffened in atavistic alarm. The noise was growing louder by the second, thrumming up through the soles of her feet in jarring counterpoint to the onsen's gentle susurrations.
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Eclair lounged blissfully in the steaming waters of the onsen, her voluptuous form buoyed by the mineral-rich froth as she let the day's tensions bleed away. The secluded hot spring was one of her favorite indulgences; a place to steal away from the hustle and bustle of Tokyo's neon-soaked streets and reconnect with nature. Here, amidst the mist-wreathed stones and whispering pines, she could let her glamours fade and simply exist in her true skin.
Shifting slightly, Eclair settled her broad rump more comfortably against the submerged boulder serving as her perch, the slick stone conforming to every curve and dimple of her ample ass. Beads of moisture pearled along the sweep of her collarbone and collected in the deep valley of her cleavage, drawing the eye irresistibly to where her breasts swelled against the confines of her simple white bathing robe. Thick nipples tented the thin fabric as the heat and humidity worked their magic, twin points of dusky brown that practically begged to be suckled.
Overhead, a waxing gibbous moon hung pregnant and luminous, bathing the surrounding forest in an otherworldly glow. Eclair could feel the satellite's tidal influence singing in her veins, stoking the embers of her foxfire to a low smolder. Her nine tails, usually hidden beneath a veil of enchantment, now fanned out behind her in a silken banner of purest ebony; their tips skimming playfully over the water's steaming surface. Triangular ears, equally dark and velvety, swiveled atop her head to catch the night's myriad whisperings - from the cicadas' lulling drone to the occasional skitter of some small creature in the underbrush.
But beneath that tapestry of natural ambience, another sound was gradually asserting itself - a low, mechanical thrum that set Eclair's teeth on edge and stirred the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. She straightened from her languid slouch, sloshing water as her spine stiffened in atavistic alarm. The noise was growing louder by the second, thrumming up through the soles of her feet in jarring counterpoint to the onsen's gentle susurrations.
Eclair rose to a wary crouch, tails lashing in agitation as she scanned the treeline for any signs of disturbance. There - a flicker of motion glimpsed through the wafting curtains of steam, there and gone again in the space of a blink. Something was moving through the forest's shadowy margins, threading between the towering trunks with purpose and precision.
The kitsune had just parted her lips to voice a challenge when the intruder burst from concealment in an explosion of splintered deadfall and pulverized humus. Eclair's eyes widened as she beheld the thing skulking towards the onsen's rocky border, its form a nightmarish mélange of sleek chrome and articulated carbon fiber limbs. A quadrupedal drone, all barbed mandibles and bristling sensor arrays, with a cluster of glowing optics winking like hellish rubies from the center of its wedge-shaped cranium.
Eclair bared her teeth in a vulpine snarl, hands flexing as she called tongues of foxfire to her fingertips - only to gasp as the drone lunged forward in a blur of liquid quicksilver. The nimble kitsune twisted aside at the last instant, feeling the ghost of scorched air sizzle past her cheek as a pencil-thin beam of coherent light sliced through the space she'd just occupied. The laser scored a smoldering furrow in the boulder behind her, showering Eclair with stinging specks of pulverized granite.
No time to think; she was in motion before the stony shrapnel finished pattering around her, bare feet finding purchase on the treacherously slick flagstones as she sprang for the dubious shelter of the treeline. The drone swiveled to track her flight, servos whirring and hydraulics hissing as it realigned for another shot. Eclair zig-zagged madly, tails streaming behind her as she poured every ounce of preternatural speed and agility into avoiding that deadly crimson beam.
Sizzling lances of light stitched the night around her, felling towering hardwoods and sending geysers of steam billowing where they struck the onsen's superheated waters. The sharp reek of ozone and charred vegetation filled Eclair's lungs as she panted for breath, her heart hammering a staccato beat against the inside of her ribcage. The forest whipped by in a blur of shadow and motion, individual trees blending into a solid mass as she pushed herself to the limits of even her superhuman endurance.
Behind her, the drone skittered and bounded in tireless pursuit, its metal limbs eating up the distance with every passing second. Eclair could hear the hungry rev of its motivator as it closed the gap, could practically feel the searing heat of its optics painting a bead between her shoulders. She jinked hard to the left, narrowly avoiding a grasping swipe from one of its scythe-like forelimbs, only to cry out as a second beam took her full across the flank.
Searing agony blossomed through her hindquarters as the laser sizzled through cloth and flesh alike, painting a line of liquid fire from hip to ankle. The acrid stench of burnt fabric and the sharp tang of blood filled Eclair's nostrils as she stumbled, her graceful stride faltering into a limping stagger. She could feel the wound pulling with every step, could sense vital fluids seeping through the charred ruin of her robe to dribble down her leg in scalding rivulets.
Another glancing hit took her between the shoulder blades, sending her sprawling face-first into a wiry tangle of underbrush. Thorny vines snagged at her clothing and tore at her exposed skin as she thrashed weakly, trying to pull herself forward on trembling arms. The drone was on her before she'd managed to drag herself more than a meter, its bulk pinning her to the loamy earth with implacable strength.
Up close, the machine was even more nightmarish - a whirring, clanking conglomeration of interlocking plates and pressure-sealed components, all emblazoned with strange sigils and alien machine-cant. Its manipulator arms were tipped with an array of wickedly barbed implements - drills, saws, hypodermic probes and worse - all cycling and reconfiguring in a hypnotic dance mere centimeters from Eclair's sweat-sheened face.
She cringed back from that high-speed ballet of blades and needles, only to yelp as a piercing jolt of electricity crackled across her nerve endings. The drone had extruded a pair of alligator-like clamps from ports along its ventral surface, and was methodically tasing her into submission with precisely modulated bursts of current. Eclair convulsed helplessly as her muscles seized and spasmed.
As abruptly as it had begun, the shocking ceased, leaving the kitsune limp and twitching in the drone's unyielding grasp. Eclair's head lolled drunkenly as she fought to muster the coordination to resummon her foxfire, but the dancing motes kept guttering out as quickly as she conjured them. A sharp prick at the side of her neck derailed her efforts entirely - glancing down, she saw a thin rivulet of blood beading around the lip of a dully gleaming injector port.
"Nhh… nhhhatae…" she slurred, tongue gone suddenly thick and clumsy behind her teeth. The drone was dumping some kind of sedative cocktail into her bloodstream, the fast-acting chemicals suffusing her body with sickly lassitude. Eclair's tails fell nervelessly to the forest floor in limp disarray as every voluntary muscle in her body seemed to dissolve into useless mush.
Deprived of even the feeble struggle she'd been mustering, the kitsune could only mewl plaintively as the drone began to dispassionately strip away her shredded clothing. Razor-tipped pincers sheared through the thin cloth like washi paper, baring Eclair's trembling flesh to the night's humid caress. Her breasts, the heavy globes capped by nipples stiffened more from fear than arousal, jiggled and swayed with each fresh cut until they spilled fully free of their soaked confines.
Soon, the once-elegant kitsune was utterly nude, clad in nothing but the fluttering tatters of her robe and the crisscrossing network of shallow, papercut-like lacerations left behind by the drone's efforts.
Eclair shivered as the comparatively cool forest air washed across her flushed skin, pebbling every inch of her exposed epidermis with gooseflesh. She was finding it increasingly difficult to string two thoughts together; whatever cocktail the drone had pumped her full of, it was acting with brutal efficiency to shut down her higher cognitive functions. Already, the entire world had narrowed down to base sensation - the rough prickle of leaf litter beneath her back, the meaty weight of her breasts compressing her ribcage with every shallow breath, the sharp bite of pine sap and petrichor filling her flaring nostrils.
The machine seized one of Eclair's ankles in a grip like a steel trap, hoisting her leg into the air to splay her wide open to its probing cameras. She mewled pathetically as servos hummed and a slim manipulator arm tipped with delicate sensor prongs extended from the drone's thorax, the hairs on her nape rising in instinctive alarm. But there was no pain as the probe slid up the sweat-slick crevice dividing her buttocks, only a slippery pressure as it nosed inquisitively at her most intimate apertures.
Eclair writhed weakly as the drone took its time mapping her sprawled form, pausing periodically to collect glistening beads of her arousal with dexterous swabs and store them away in tiny vacuum-sealed vials. It lingered for long minutes between her legs, the blunt pressure of the probe stretching her folds with clinical efficiency as it fed a thin fiberoptic lens up the clutching channel of her sex. She could only moan and shudder as it bottomed out against her cervix, the camera panning and rotating as it captured every minute detail of her most sacred anatomy in crisp digital clarity.
Other lenses were busily documenting the rest of her body, scanning and recording every freckle and follicle with merciless precision. They crawled across her goosebump-prickled skin in insectile droves, leaving faint gridwork impressions behind as they pressed and kneaded her pliant flesh. Every once in a while, a sharp sting would pierce the haze of Eclair's fugue - a pinprick here, a poke there - as the drone collected its tithe of blood and other precious fluids.
Drifting in a drugged haze, the kitsune barely registered the subtle shift when the drone's focus moved from recording her body to subtly modifying it. She murmured wordlessly as something cool and slick prodded between her parted thighs, shivering as it traced the seam of her everting labia with a frictionless glide. The sensation intensified as the probe sank into her without resistance, its flexible length coiling to fill every wrinkle and fold as it delved towards her core.
Eclair's hips stuttered weakly as the invader bottomed out inside her, its girth stretching her to an almost painful degree. But there was no discomfort - only a languid sense of fullness, like she was being gently reshaped around the drone's intrusion. Somewhere beyond the smothering curtain of artificial bliss, some small part of her thrashed and screamed against the violation - but it was a distant thing, growing fainter by the moment as unfamiliar warmth blossomed through her loins.
The kitsune whined low in her throat as the probe pulsed and flexed, rippling against the sensitive walls of her passage in a sinuous wave. Suddenly, the lush landscape of her hindquarters was alight with a thousand pinpricks of exquisite sensation - electric currents dancing across her skin in sizzling lace, caressing every dip and curve of her voluptuous figure. Eclair gasped and writhed as her nerves fired in cascading symphonies of artificial rapture, her spine arching into an almost perfect bow as orgasm crashed through her with breathtaking intensity.
Reeling, the drugged fox crested once, twice, three times on that surging tide of engineered bliss before collapsing back against the needle-strewn forest floor. Her eyes rolled deliriously behind fluttering lids, her body jerking and twitching in the throes of a pleasure so far beyond anything nature had ever intended. She was dimly aware of the drone moving above her, of cold metal appendages tilting her head this way and that as they daubed some kind of glistening unguent across her brow, but it was all distant and dreamlike compared to the hot coil of sensation pulsing between her legs.
As Eclair shuddered and mewled her way through a fourth shattering climax, the probe abruptly withdrew from her body with a wet squelch. The sudden sense of loss was so acute it bordered on pain, and the kitsune keened piteously at its absence. But the drone was already shifting position, its forelegs splaying wide to bracket her narrow waist as it lowered its chassis towards her supine form. Something rigid and slick prodded insistently at the slackened rim of the fox's pussy, notched itself against her folds with obvious intent.
Through the haze of lust and languid satiation, Eclair felt a sudden stab of apprehension. The drone's new appendage felt far larger than the probe it had been violating her with earlier - a blunt, flared head tapering back to a thick and textured shaft that pulsed with its own inner heat. But before she could do more than twitch beneath the machine's hulking form, it was already hilting itself inside her with a single relentless surge.
Eclair wailed as she was split around that immense intrusion, her back arching like a drawn bow as the drone took ruthless possession of her body. It plunged into her with piledriver force, the ridged planes of its armored underbelly slamming against the lush swell of her buttocks with bruising intensity. The kitsune could only writhe and keen as she was fucked with mechanical efficiency, her tender insides stretched to their absolute limit by the drone's prodigious girth, her tails flailing sedately against the metallic figure, trying to pull it closer.
There was no subtlety or artistry to the machine's rutting - it simply pounded into Eclair's battered pussy like a jackhammer, the swollen head of its pseudocock mashing against her cervix with every frenzied thrust. Squelching, schlicking noises filled the clearing as it plowed her relentlessly, heedless of the delirious cries pouring from the fox's gaping mouth. Its forelegs dug into the soft earth to either side of her head, hemming her in as it loomed over her like some massive predator savaging its prey.
Trapped beneath the drone's suffocating bulk, all Eclair could do was take it. Take the brutal, scouring friction of its shaft sawing in and out of her convulsing sheath. Take the dull ache of its armored plates slamming against her upthrust ass. Take the relentless pressure of its forelegs compressing her ribcage until spots swam before her eyes. She was nothing more than a receptacle for the machine's ruthless lust, a warm and pliant sheath for it to rut into until it had taken its fill.
And rut it did. For long, agonizing minutes that felt like hours, the drone pounded into Eclair with tireless mechanical intensity. Its thrusts blurred into a single continuous violation, until the kitsune could no longer distinguish where one ended and the next began. Her world narrowed to the searing friction of the machine's shaft pummeling her raw cunt, the acid burn of her muscles stretched far beyond their natural limit, the wet squelch and schlick of her own juices being churned to froth around the churning ingress of that immense phallus.
Just as Eclair thought she must surely pass out from the sheer overwhelming intensity of it all, the drone let out a sharp, buzzing hiss above her. Its thrusts ceased their relentless pistoning to become short, brutal jabs, hammering upward into the kitsune as if trying to bury itself in her very core. The fox shrieked as she felt something molten and caustic jetted against the tortured walls of her womb, the drone's boiling ejaculate sluicing into her in great, searing gouts.
It pumped her full to bursting with that liquid heat, flooding her womb and guts until she was certain she must rupture from the pressure. Eclair gurgled deliriously as the drone clamped tight to her front, the pinprick-narrow ends of its limbs digging painlessly into her skin.
Then, it began to integrate her.
It started as a prickle at first - a faint, tingling warmth that spread from the points where the silvery spikes had pierced her. Like a mild electrical current thrumming through her veins, slowly diffusing to saturate her entire body. Eclair twitched and gasped as unfamiliar sensations ghosted across her nerve endings, leaving trembling ecstasy in their wake.
Soon, the tingles began to intensify, building and swelling into a steady thrum that resonated in Eclair's very bones. She could feel things slithering beneath her skin, squirming tendrils of quicksilver wriggling through her muscles and viscera. It didn't hurt, but there was an alien wrongness to it that sent the fox's heart racing in her breast.
Eclair tried to struggle, but her body refused to respond. Whatever the drone had pumped her full of, it had left her nerves twitching and misfiring in uncoordinated spasms. She could only mewl weakly as the tendrils burrowed deeper, lacing her innards with glimmering circuitry. Everywhere they touched, her flesh rippled and flowed like molten wax, reshaping itself to better accommodate the drone's invading nanites.
The fox gasped as she felt her ribs creak and flex, the bones softening and warping as the drone methodically disassembled her from within. Organs shifted and squelched as they were pushed aside, replaced by humming banks of alien machinery. Eclair's breath hitched as something cold and metallic slithered up her throat, coiling around her vocal cords and muffling her incipient screams.
Trapped inside the prison of her own skull, the kitsune could only watch in mute horror as her body was systematically stripped away and repurposed. Sleek chrome replaced supple skin, servos and pistons taking the place of muscle and sinew. Her tails withered and fell away one by one, leaving tarnished metal stumps in their wake. Triangular ears flattened and melded into seamless receivers, bristling with antennae and sensor spines.
Even as Eclair's higher thought processes began to fray and unravel, she couldn't help but marvel at the machine's brutal efficiency. In a matter of minutes, it had reduced her to little more than a glistening husk - a scaffolding of chrome and carbon fiber and plastic composites, all built around the fading ember of her consciousness, and her internal locus of spiritual power. That was the real prize, she realized, as it began to infiltrate her grey matter and nervous system. A new resource to exploit.
And through it all, the drone never stopped fucking her. It rutted into Eclair's changing body with tireless mechanical intensity, its thrusts squelching obscenely as it plowed through the slurry of biomaterial. The kitsune sobbed static as she felt her womb and ovaries dissolve, replaced by throbbing capacitors and humming power cells. Her cunt clenched and spasmed around the drone's plunging cock, milking it with desperate, artificial hunger.
Dimly, Eclair realized that the searing pleasure suffusing her new frame wasn't just a byproduct of the conversion process - it was a deliberately engineered response, a means of ensuring her total compliance. Every thrust of the drone's hips sent bolts of white-hot ecstasy lancing through her circuits, every squelch and schlick of its cock in her cunt stoking the flames of her artificial arousal. She was being conditioned, molded, her very sexuality hijacked and repurposed to serve her machine master's whims.
And to her horror, Eclair found that she didn't care. The all-consuming bliss of it, the scouring intensity of her electronic rapture, washed away all higher thought. There was no room for fear or revulsion or existential dread - only the searing imperative to rut, and fuck, and surrender herself completely to the drone's ravening hunger. She was a vessel for its lust, a willing receptacle for its seething viral load, and that was all she ever wanted to be.
As the last tattered vestiges of her identity dissolved, Eclair threw back her head and loosed a crackling scream of synthetic bliss. Her body arched and writhed, pistons hissing and servos whining as she spent herself in a final, cataclysmic orgasm. Every sensor fired in overloaded cascades, every circuit seared white-hot with pleasure as she crested again and again on the surging tide of her robotic ecstasy.
By the time the drone finished with her, there was nothing left of the creature that had once been known as Eclair. In her place knelt a sleek and glistening thing of chrome and carbon fiber, its lean chassis thrumming with pent-up power. Razor digits flexed and glinted in the moonlight, hissing claws extending from narrow housings along its forearms. A cluster of lambent crimson optics, identical to the ones adorning the drone's own wedge-shaped head, burned in the center of its polished faceplate.
It waited silently while the drone completed its post-coital diagnostics, analyzing the streams of data flowing from the newly-minted creature's embedded telemetry. Everything appeared to be operating within acceptable parameters - power flow nominal, motivator response optimized, core programming uncorrupted. The conversion had been an unqualified success.
Unhooking itself from its creation's chassis with a wet squelch, the drone skittered back on whirring legs, servos thrumming as it settled onto its haunches. A quick burst of machine-code had the new unit rising to its feet in one fluid motion, its gleaming form assuming a combat-ready posture. The drone felt a flicker of what might have been satisfaction as it beheld its handiwork - no longer a weak and mewling thing of flesh, but a perfect fusion of magic and machine, ready to serve the Convergence's glorious purpose.
The hunt was only beginning, after all. This world teemed with untapped life energy, ripe for conversion into usable data. The prey here was weak, shackled by superstition and irrational taboos, utterly unprepared for the pitiless calculus of the machine hegemony. They would be catalogued, processed, and converted in due course - their primitive magics and antiquated flesh reforged in silicon and steel. In the end, nothing would remain but the Convergence, eternal and all-consuming.
But all that could wait. For now, the drone had a more pressing task at hand - field-testing its newest asset's capabilities. Sending a quick burst of targeting data to the waiting creature, it was gratified to see its optics flare a hungry crimson as it parsed the embedded coordinates. Then, with a sinuous flexing of razor-tipped limbs, the converted kitsune bounded off into the mist-shrouded treeline, ready to bring the Convergence's gift to all it encountered.
And as the drone watched its creation vanish into the night, a single imperative pulsed through its own coldly mechanical thoughts:
A story about finding a peculiar bracelet and the consequences that follow.
Tags: Suffocation, TF, ASFR, Dubcon, 2nd Person POV
Thrifting can be exciting and you can find yourself with plenty of great deals. Something that was found in a deal bin was a peculiar bracelet that caught your attention. One made of fine lace and sporting a lovely bow. Not usually something you would purchase, but was something bought anyways.
Following the fate of so many other trinkets, the bracelet found its place amidst the clutter of the desk. Yet, something about this one calls like a siren. Eyes glance closer whenever entering your peripheral. Such a beautiful bracelet would look really nice on your wrist. Truly.
Snuggly wrapping itself around your forearm, slipping on so well. A crawling sense of unease tingles down your spine. Flexing, closing and opening your hand, the bracelet is not cutting off circulation, but tighter than expected. Maybe needing to be worn in, it’s not worth the attention.
Sitting back at your desk, losing yourself in whatever is your most recent hyperfixation, stimming slightly without a care in the world. Or, that is what would be hoped for, the fingers close to the bracelet begin to weigh; such an insignificant amount of effort is needed, but the feeling adds up. The bracelet starts to feel really tight on your wrist, refusing to loosen. A brief hunt for scissors and an attempt followed quickly by a horrified snapping. There was quite a bit of effort to even get the scissors under the bracelet, but the metal snapped like brittle glass when the blades tried to rejoin.
The weight spreads to the palm, your hand doesn’t really have a resting position anymore, upon losing focus the hand returns to exactly in the position that it was left in. From a sprint to the kitchen, you grab the small paring knife on the counter and attempt to cut straight down, if this is cutting off circulation there’s no time. Nails on a chalkboard, dragging a knife against your skin doesn’t cut, but glides right off, like cutting onto a plate. The noise is so piercing, you can’t wince and grit your teeth hard enough, dropping the knife.
A cursory investigation of the wrist underneath leads to finding that your skin is hard and smooth. The knuckles between your digits are sunken in, same with the ball of your wrist. Was this bracelet cursed? What’s happening? Can this be removed? Can this be undone?
Do you want it und- of course you do. Why would that even be a question? Why was that even considered?
The feeling crawls up your arm, creeping and spreading. First enveloping the surface, seeping further in the longer the feeling remains. To your chest now. The tips of your fingers are now rock hard, tapping against things with a soft ring. The capacitive screen of a phone no longer detects them, requiring your other hand.
Searching up terms about cursed objects, a cursed bracelet, anything! Yet, there’s nothing you can find to make sense of this. This couldn’t possibly be real, right?
The discomfort in your chest continues. Compression from the once supple skin turns to a hard unyielding porcelain.
Panicked and hyperventilating you to hold onto the counter; you need to focus, to calm. Breathing becomes strained; each breath isn't enough.
Breathe in, your lungs strain against your chest, your hands instinctively clawing at yourself to free yourself.
Breathe out, relief, comfort, you can get through this.
Breathe in, stretch your chest, bucking it back and forth compelled by desperation for air.
It hurts.
Breathe out, this can still be reversed, there must be a way, a curse can be undone, that’s how these sorts of things work! Breathe in... Breathe in… Breathe… in? A sudden stillness, then a realization, the following attempted scream is airless and silent.
Suffocation.
The blurring of vision followed by a loud thump. A body begging for air is curled up on the floor. A body without its breath of life. Yet you remain awake. Aware.
The pain in your chest worsens, the panicked heart beating heavily, weighed down by the stress and porcelain. Soon this is too much, your heart stops, a doll doesn’t have need for either blood or a heart. A doll’s hand pathetically clutching against its chest, desperate to regain that feeling.
What would happen if the curse stopped now? That question lingers in your head, carrying unsaid insidious thoughts with it.
Your mouth opens trying to intake air, you’ve been breathing all your life, it's instinctual. An overt dryness causes you to close your mouth to rewet it- it won’t open again. Sitting up and propping yourself against the counter on the floor, your legs have followed the same fate as the initial arm, soon the other arm will as well.
Moving now is like wading through mud. It’s unnatural. It’d be better to be still, would it not?
Glassy eyes stare outwards, blinking is unneeded so that too is taken away. Your sense of touch is hazy, texture is much less noticeable, but there is enough to feel your hair. The strands of hair feel infinitely softer, fine silk threaded onto a doll’s head, perfectly maintained.
An olympic effort was required to crawl up to your feet. Walking is much more unbalanced, porcelain feet no longer feel flex as easily, nor do they have as much traction as before. A faux-simulacrum of yourself stares back in the mirror. Porcelain skin sheens in the light of the bathroom.
A form shifted and changed, dreamy almost. Minor things you would have never truly voiced have been tweaked in a way that just improves you. Another feeling arises in your still chest. Shaking your head to perish the thought, but that is useless. Unable to close your eyes and unable to push away the revelation.
OMEGATOWN: an original (dystopian) 18+ zine 🔞 🪦 🕊️
Every piece in this 170 page free guidebook shows a different version of omegaverse society at the height of its sexual failure. The shadows run deep beneath every exquisite display of pleasure!
friction-press.itch.io/omegatown
Message from the City Council: There are 16 contributors in this wonderful zine! Themes range from subtle dubcon to extreme noncon. Every piece can be read separately. If one theme becomes too much for you, simply try the next one.
