Choose Good

You… have to do the right thing. Not just for your team, but for everyone.

FUTA is already getting popular. That’s exciting, but it’s also scary.

Social media by itself is kind of dangerous. Social media and budding celebrity status are super dangerous. Social media, budding celebrity, and an environment specifically intended to foster drama and entertaining bullshit? It’s a perfect storm to destroy some poor girl’s mental health.

You don’t think that FUTA is a bad thing. Or it’s no worse than any other entertainment business… but you do think that they might be a bit casual about the risks that they’re taking with their players. Injuries. Stress. Everyone signed a contract, and it’s pretty obvious that those things come with the territory, but lots of these players are young and stupid like you. Did they really know what they were getting into?

OK. You know what you have to do.

The rain won’t stop you. You get moving, making your way through the woods, not back to the Lodge. The camp is awash with rainwater, and all the work they must have planned to do today is canceled. Half-built sets are all over the place, covered in plastic sheets.

The custodial workers in their sexy pink and black uniforms scurry around under umbrellas as you sneak past the fields to the cottages where many of the coaches stay.

You knock on Tiff’s door, and she answers wearing a big t-shirt with some crumbs on it. There’s a muffin in her hand, and she looks startled to see you, quickly tugging at her shirt. That tells you she has nothing on underneath. You aren’t judging. It’s Saturday. Why shouldn’t she lie around and eat snacks? You would if you didn’t have so much on your mind.

“I need to talk to you,” you say.

“Sure,” she says, eyes sparkling. “Come in.” She brushes off crumbs and gets out of the way.

The cottage isn’t much to look at, but her laptop is open at the table. She’s been working. Tiff is a good coach.

“This is a serious conversation,” you warn her. “Get that horny look off your face.”

“OK,” she says. It’s not like your superpower has turned her into a brainless zombie. She’s just… hornier than usual, for you, specifically. You can’t believe you ever thought that power like this would be a good thing.

But maybe it can still do someone some good.

You sit down with her at the table, and you have her full attention. Her eyes keep straying to your body. Your wet clothes stick to you alluringly. She can see your bra through your shirt.

A minute ago her nipples were not hard, but now they are, and very noticeable under that t-shirt. Great. She’s distracting you as much as you’re distracting her.

“I know that you know what’s coming this week,” you say.

She nods. “But I can’t tell you.”

“I don’t need everything. Just the worst stuff.”

“The worst?”

“The worst,” you confirm. “You know what I mean. There’s stuff that’s fun. Then there’s stuff that just sucks. Like fucking around with staffs and obstacle courses in embarrassing costumes.”

“That was fun,” Tiff protests.

OK, it was, kind of. But it was also a bit demeaning. Tiff understands that.

“Tiff,” you say.

“Sorry, Riley. I just, um…” She blushes and looks away, brushing back her long, dark hair. “I’m just having trouble focusing.”

You sigh.

Your wet clothes and Tiff’s t-shirt are on the floor. The bed squeaks, and Tiff does a lot more than squeak. She’s on her knees on the bed, her hands in her hair, back arched, screaming her head off. You’re behind her, also on your knees, buried in her pussy to the hilt. You squeeze your double handful of her huge breasts and bite her sweaty shoulder.

“Oh god! Riley! Yes!” she screams, tossing her hair and undulating her body into your thrusts. You pinch her nips, and she tightens on you, then gives such a strong jerk that she falls. Your cock springs free, dripping her juices on the sheets.

Tiff rolls onto her back and spreads her legs, beckoning desperately to you.

You lower yourself to the bed and crawl over her. Chest to chest, you push inside her. She hisses in agony and satisfaction. You go in and stay. She opens her eyes and mouth to plead, but you touch her flushed cheek with your hand and look into her eyes.

“After this, we talk? You understand?” you pant.

“Yes, baby. Yes. Please. Please.” Her fingernails rake at your back.

“OK,” you gasp, kissing her and starting to thrust.

Tiff made promises that she could not keep. You stare at the ceiling as the aching in your cock starts to die down. She lies beside you a huge wet patch underneath her pelvis as your load dribbles out of her.

You look at the shining droplets of cum spattered all over her belly and breasts.

Is it your imagination, or are your loads getting bigger? She gazes at the ceiling like a zombie, cheeks red, her chest rising and falling as she purrs contentedly.

It’s twenty minutes before she’s lucid enough to talk, and even then she acts like a lovesick girlfriend, clinging to you, touching your hand, and planting quick little kisses on your cheek and shoulder.

But she comes out of that too, and for a second you see her look puzzled, as though she realized how she was just acting with her player. The passionate sex is one thing, but the lovey-dovey stuff… she knows that’s weird.

Ultimately, less than an hour after you knocked on her door, she spills the tea.

“So the main things,” she says, back to her old self… mostly as she sits with you at the table in front of her laptop. “The main things are going to be the captain thing and the wardrobing.”

“Start with the captain thing,” you say.

“They’ll announce it Monday. It’s a system that awards points for performance in the game. The top player on each team gets to be captain the following week.”

You get it. “Competition.”

“Right. It’s going to turn teams against themselves. Drama. Fights. Lots of viral moments to keep people talking about the show,” Tiff explains.

“Got it. What else?”

“New wardrobe. New practice uniforms, new training uniforms, and new team uniforms.”

“After just one week?” you ask, surprised.

“Get used to it. It’s a very visual show,” Tiff says. “These new ones will all be sexier than before, but here’s the problem: I heard a rumor that they’re also engineered to be terrible.”

“What?”

“I mean they’re bad quality on purpose. It means there will be wardrobe malfunctions,” she says.

“What a bunch of assholes,” you say, putting your face in your hand.

Tiff snorts. “I know. It’s show business. What can you do?”

“I can do something,” you say.

~ Route End ~
(Unless Patrons vote to continue it in THE AMAZING FUTA-GIRL in an upcoming poll! Enter the Futa-verse?!)