Yikes

Once at "Bruce Lee's Takeout," Steve strolled in feeling great, the cop scare already fading into a funny anecdote. He'd been craving General Tso's in his female form earlier—kinda hilarious how the shifts came with different food hankerings—but now back as himself, he opted for pork fried dumplings and curry chicken with onion, extra spicy. He grabbed two cans of that all-natural green tea with honey and ginseng from the unlabeled Chinese brand he'd bought before, the familiar bitter-sweet kick he knew well. Paying cash, he headed home, the savory smells filling the BRZ.

Pulling into his apartment complex, Steve's stomach dropped at the sight of cop cars clustered outside, lights flashing silently. Worry spiked—had the taillight thing escalated? As he approached with his takeout bag, a female cop stopped him, her uniform hugging a fit frame, eyes scanning him appreciatively. "Hey cutie, what's your business here?" she asked, tone inappropriately flirty, the attention rule clearly at play.

"I live here," Steve stated flatly, though the "cutie" made him smirk inwardly.

"Oh, okay—I can let you pass. But just so you know, your neighbor's place was broken into. There was a confrontation; the thief was killed." She paused, then added, "I'll guide you up to your place to ensure you don't fuck up any evidence."

Luckily, the break-in was on the ground floor, and Steve's unit was on the top. The cop escorted him, chatting idly, her gaze lingering a bit too long. At his door, she winked. "Stay inside, cutie—we don't need interruptions with our investigation." Inappropriate again, but Steve smiled and nodded, slipping inside with a relieved exhale.

Once settled, he sat down, takeout cooling as he replayed the day: the mall prank, the cop pull-over, the close call. Then the rush hit him—"SHIT!"—and he bolted to the bedroom, spotting the Rulebook safe on his desk. "Thank god," he sighed, pencil in hand. First fix: no more ID mishaps. "New Rule: Whenever Steve Thompson shapeshifts into any form, all identification, documents, databases, and records seamlessly update to match his current form, preventing any discrepancies or legal issues."

Second: protect the damn book. "New Rule: The Rulebook is always safe from damage, theft, or loss, with a 10-mile safety net around its location where no harmful events can affect it." The air tingled, changes locking in.

Satisfied, Steve dug into his food while flipping on the TV—a rerun of some action flick providing background noise. It was fantastic, like a reward: dumplings crispy and savory, curry burning just right, washed down with the herbal tea. Stuffed and content, he lounged, channel-surfing aimlessly, mind drifting to daydreams. "Maybe I should get a real home instead of this apartment. Like a dream home—I got millions now! Yeah, I should do that." Pulling out his laptop from the living room shelf, he browsed local realtors, landing on one who stood out: a hot redhead futanari named Gertrude Heartthrob. If that wasn't a hell of a name—natural or stage, didn't matter; her profile pic showed exaggerated hourglass curves, a prominent bulge in her professional skirt, and a confident smile that screamed commission-earner. Steve typed up an email: "Hello Gertrude. I found you on RealtyRiot.com and wanted to work with you to obtain my dream home. I want to get an empty plot of land and work with professional home builders to have my dream home created just for me." He added details—budget (generous but vague), contact info—and hit send, feeling proactive.

With dinner settling, the toys called to him. Steve headed to the bedroom for that secluded peace, stripping down and noticing subtle changes: a bit more tone in his arms and core, the muscular shift progressing realistically but faster than natural. He unpacked the Aneros first, reading instructions and pairing it with the phone app for vibration control. Lubing it generously, he worked it in slowly—feeling full, like he needed to poop, which made him laugh out loud. "Weird as hell," he muttered, easing into his desk chair softly.

Pulling up porn on the computer, he skipped straight to futanari content, the new category exploding with options. One thumbnail hooked him: "Futanari Daughter Gets Punished by Her Futanari Mother," two adults roleplaying with gusto. He clicked play, app in hand, starting the vibrations on low—a gentle hum massaging his prostate, a novel pressure that built warmth without direct touch.

The video opened with the "mother"—an older-looking woman in her 40s, grey streaks threading her dark hair, a weathered but alluring face lined with experience, her body hyper-curvy from futanari traits: massive H-cup breasts straining a sheer robe, wide hips and thick thighs framing a 12-inch cock already half-hard, veined and hypersensitive, balls implied in those heaving tits. She scolded the "daughter"—a younger actress, early 20s vibe but clearly adult, same dark hair in pigtails for innocence, her face fresh and wide-eyed, body pear-shaped with D-cup breasts and a pert ass, her 8-inch cock twitching nervously as she "confessed" to sneaking out. The mother grabbed her by the hair, bending her over a kitchen table, spanking that jiggling ass until it reddened, the daughter's smaller cock hardening despite protests. "You've been bad—now take your punishment," the mother growled, lubing her massive shaft and sliding in from behind, the daughter moaning as the 12-incher stretched her, hips slamming with rhythmic ****. The scene escalated: mother reaching around to stroke the daughter's 8-inch cock mid-thrust, dirty talk flowing—"That's right, cum for Mommy"—culminating in dual releases, cum splattering the table as they collapsed in exaggerated bliss.

Steve ramped up the vibrations gradually—low to medium, the buzz intensifying that internal pressure, waves radiating from his prostate like a building tide, no hands on his cock needed. It felt strange at first, a deep itch turning to pleasure, prostate swelling with stimulation. Higher now, the app's slider cranked—vibrations pulsing stronger, his body tensing, breath quickening as the scene's pounding synced with the toy's rhythm. Prostate throbbed, a full-body build-up unlike penile focus: warmth spreading to his balls, cock leaking pre-cum untouched, muscles clenching involuntarily. Higher still, max level—the intensity mind-melting, a relentless massage pushing him over without a stroke. Orgasm hit hands-free: prostate contracting in waves, cum erupting in spurts, legs shaking, a prostate-milking euphoria that left him gasping, more intense and prolonged than usual. "Holy shit," he panted, turning it off, the afterglow lingering as he cleaned up. Toys: 1, Steve: satisfied.