Panty & Stocking

The city bus groaned as it rounded a corner, tossing its passengers with mechanical indifference. Toward the back, nestled between a cracked window and a “DO NOT STAND” sign someone had graffitied to say “DO NOT STAND A CHANCE,” sat Briefers Rock.

Brief was sweating. Partly from the busted air conditioning, but mostly because of the two very important things in his arms: a neatly boxed vanilla-strawberry cake from that expensive bakery downtown, and a small plush doll clutched tightly to his chest like it was the Holy Grail of Awkward Birthday Gifts.

The plush was about a foot tall, dressed in a frilly black and white maid outfit, with silver eyes and glossy black hair tied into a neat bun. A tiny tag sewn into its side read: “✨KUROMI™ — Your Perfect Companion!✨”

But this wasn’t just any anime-themed plush. It talked. Sort of. When he first found it, Brief had been poking through the weirdest corner of a rundown toy-and-antique shop—one of those places that seemed to exist only during thunderstorms and only accepted payment in wrinkled cash or cryptic prophecies. It had been lying alone on a dusty shelf, looking pristine despite the grime around it. When he picked it up, the voice came through:

“I only wish to serve.”

Her voice was soft, polite, and oddly… assertive. Charmed by the voice, Brief took the plush with him for Stocking. Now, riding this city bus of fate, Brief cradled the plush gently with one hand, holding the cake box with the other.

Kuromi’s plush lips never moved, but the voice always seemed to come from somewhere just close enough to make him shiver. He stuffed her into the small messenger bag hanging from his shoulder, leaving only her tiny head poking out.

With a groan, he sank further into the bus seat and pulled out his phone. Distraction. Just for a minute. At the top of his feed, blinking like it was calling his name: @PantyAndStocking_Private had posted new stories.

His thumb hovered. He hesitated, then tapped. Just a quick peek.

Panty’s story loaded first. It was lethal. She was in full cheerleader cosplay—tight crop-top, tiny skirt, pom-poms, the whole cliché fantasy brought to dangerously sexy life. Her golden hair bounced as she struck a pose. Then she turned and bent forward slightly to tease the camera, and—oh God—there was a mirror behind her.

The mirror caught just enough of an angle to almost let him see beneath the skirt. Almost. It was maddening. Her ass was so big it looked like it was physically bullying the fabric into submission, stretching the skirt to its breaking point.

Brief’s jaw slackened slightly. That was definitely a violation of Instagram’s TOS.

He swiped to the next story. Stocking. His heart did a weird little flutter.

This one was a montage—Stocking trying on outfits, posing briefly in front of her full-length mirror. All of them were tight. Very tight. One was a strappy gothic ensemble with thigh-highs and mesh. Another was a pastel baby doll dress that barely reached her upper thighs.

Then there was the outfit that broke him—jet black, with long sleeves and a gaping cut-out in the middle of her chest. It exposed the deep swell of her cleavage, her pale skin framed perfectly like it was begging for worship. Her breasts looked impossibly plush, like they’d bounce just from someone breathing too close. The last shot lingered just a bit longer than necessary. The camera panned down her body, catching the curves of her hips and that little bounce her thighs did when she shifted weight from one foot to the other.

Brief was sweating from anticipation.

The bus let out another screech as it pulled to the side of the road, and with a hiss, the doors opened. This was it. Brief stood up, adjusting his coat to hide the unfortunate tension below his belt, and exited the bus with a deep breath of city air. He cradled the cake carefully, the plush tucked under his arm, and walked down the sidewalk toward the building.

It stood tall and slightly intimidating—a weird mishmash of modern glass and old stone, like a church had drunkenly hooked up with a strip mall. At the top floor, Panty and Stocking had their apartment.

He’d been there a few times, usually with some flimsy excuse, usually getting kicked out shortly after. But this time… this was a birthday visit. This was legitimate.

He reached the building’s front steps and climbed them slowly. His heart pounded. Every step felt like a boss battle countdown.

Okay. You’ve got this. Just act like a normal guy. Knock, smile, give them the gift. Don’t stare at anything for too long. Don’t bring up the stories you just watched. Be a gentleman. Don’t think about Panty’s ass. Don’t think about Stocking’s boobs. Don’t—

He stood in front of the door. This was it. He raised his hand and knocked.
The door creaked open with a long, lazy groan. Standing in the doorway was Stocking Anarchy, arms crossed under her massive chest, cradling a disturbingly cute stitched cat plush. Hollow Kitty, as she was called, was mashed tightly between the gothic girl’s breasts, her tiny stitched face pressed into her deep cleavage like a doll living its best afterlife.

“Hi,” she said flatly, her voice as sweetly dismissive as ever.

Brief’s brain short-circuited for half a second. She wore her classic look: a dark gothic Lolita dress layered over a crisp white blouse, her thick thighs hugged by purple and black striped stockings that stopped just shy of her mid-thigh. The skirt was short—dangerously short. Any slight breeze would’ve upgraded this visit to rated-R in an instant. And yet, she just stood there, bored and regal, her expression unreadable as always.

“H-Happy Birthday, Stocking,” Brief managed, trying to stay cool. He stepped in awkwardly, carrying the box like it was a nuclear bomb. “I brought cake. Vanilla-strawberry. Your favorite.”

He placed it on the coffee table as Stocking closed the door behind him with a click. She casually tossed Hollow Kitty to the couch like it was a worn-out slipper and turned to the second gift—the plush still peeking out of Brief’s bag.

“What the hell is this?” she asked, plucking the Kirumi plush from his bag with two fingers like it might be sticky. “Is this some bargain bin reject from a thrift store or what?”

Brief fidgeted, flustered. “It’s, um, Kirumi. She talks. She said she’s a perfect companion or something. I thought… you might like her.”

“Pffft. This thing?” Stocking held it at arm’s length, scrutinizing the pristine maid outfit and overly polite aesthetic. “You got me some bootleg anime housekeeper with ‘mommy issues the plush’ energy.”

“It is always proper to show gratitude for gifts, no matter their origin or perceived value.”

Stocking blinked. The plush’s voice was crisp and dignified, coming from somewhere between creepy and comforting. Her eyes narrowed. “Did it just sass me?”

Then, without warning, Stocking did a full 180. She dropped the plush onto the couch and turned to Brief with an unreadable smirk.

Stocking’s lips twitched into something resembling a smirk. “Fine. Thanks, I guess,” she said, then stepped forward in one smooth motion. “I suppose that means you get this.”

Before Brief could ask what “this” was, she pulled him into a hug.

No—ambushed him with it.

Her arms wrapped around his back lazily, but her chest did all the talking. Her enormous breasts engulfed his head with shocking ease, two warm, heavenly cushions squishing against his cheeks and ears, his face buried between them like some awkward shrine sacrifice. They were impossibly soft and heavy, her scent dizzying up close—something like vanilla, sugar, and faint traces of incense. Every breath he took was filled with her.

Brief stiffened.

In every sense.

His body locked up, his hands twitching in the air like he was trying to figure out where they were allowed to exist. His brain had immediately fried—completely short-circuited by the sensation of Stocking’s boobs practically swallowing his face. He wasn’t even trying to be perverted, but his body didn’t get the memo. His pants began to betray him instantly.

‘Oh God, she can probably feel it. She’s definitely gonna kill me. Why is she still hugging me? Why isn’t she yelling?’

Her voice was syrupy sweet.

“Well aren’t you just the cutest little giver,” she hummed, sounding genuinely amused. “A thoughtful cake, a garbage plush, and a boner pressed up against my hip. You really brought the whole package.”

Brief tried to peel himself away from her chest just enough to breathe. “I-I-I d-didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to—!”

“One should never feel shame for honest affection.”

“Sh-shut up, Kirumi!” Brief hissed, face burning red. “This isn’t honest— I mean it is but not like—!”

Stocking giggled.

Not laughed.

Giggled. Like she was actually enjoying this.

She leaned in more, squeezing him closer, and his face sank deeper between the massive slopes of her chest. “Relax, Boner Boy. It’s not the first time someone’s popped wood for me. Won’t be the last.”

His hands flailed. He needed to anchor himself somehow, and one landed directly on her hip. The other—oh no—planted itself squarely on the curve of her ass.

Time slowed.

He froze, praying she’d slap him into another dimension.

Instead, she gave a quiet hum of approval. “Aww. You’re hugging me back. That’s so sweet.”

“I—! I didn’t mean to touch—!”

She cut him off by rubbing his head slowly, affectionately, like he was a flustered puppy.

“I’m just glad you care,” she whispered, pressing her boobs into him even harder. “And since you’re such a good little giver... maybe I’ll let you have another squeeze later.”

Brief wasn’t sure if she meant the cake, the plush, or her ass.

He just whimpered into her cleavage, brain gone, body vibrating with panic, arousal, and awe.

“Intimacy builds strong friendships.”

“I’m gonna die,” Brief muttered.

Stocking just smirked wider.