The Band Tee
You are what you wear.
She needed a shirt to lounge around in, something plain, simple and broken in.
The band tee fit the bill for Riley. Granted, the logo wasn't to her taste. In typical fashion, it looked like nothing but a series of scratches, the name of the band could be anything. The fox squinted, trying to look past the worn logo to guess the lettering. It truly could be anything, with F's crammed into I's, A's crammed into C's. If nothing else, the fabric felt soft enough, and for that, the shirt found its way into her basket, squeezed in with a replacement phone charger and some plates.
At the checkout, the cashier glanced over, chuckling, "You know that doesn't say what you think it says, yeah?"
Riley looked down at the shirt, nervous.
"Ironhead, right?"
The cashier gave the shirt another look, gazing over the pattern again, and the otter sighed, "Nevermind, must've been thinking of another band. That'll be ten-fifty."
Riley sighed, pulling on the tee for bed.
She looked cute, the oversized band tee almost draped over her like a dress, but looking down to take a closer look, she realized something, that shirt didn't say "Ironhead."
It said, "Fuckmeat".
She couldn't wear it outside, but it might make a nice conversation starter, if nothing else. There was no point in wasting gas to return it.
During the busy section of her shift, the whirr of machinery could be heard throughout the hospital where she worked.
The intercom blared, "Nurse Fuckmeat, you're needed at the front desk."
"Probably just some trickster who got into the intercom room," She thought to herself. "Nothing to do with me."
One of the other nurses tapped her on the shoulder. It was one of the senior crew, and the wolfess had the bearing to prove it.
"They need you up at reception."
The fox stammered, her fur blushing redder than usual, "My name isn't -"
Riley had to stare down at her badge, there was no way this was happening.
"Riley S. Fuckmeat" stared back at her in bold letters.
Riley rushed past her, stammering something only vaguely discernable as "I need to go."
The fox gazed into the mirror when she entered her apartment. Her fur had gone from a dark red to alabaster in less than an hour, her short bob had become a strip of long, black hair that reached past her shoulders, and these were the most minor of the changes.
Her breasts had gone from a modest B cup to an E, large enough to feel the difference in each breath. As she looked down, it was hard to resist playing with them, they were perfect: The fox drifted a finger down to play with her fat aerolae, grabbing the thick barbell in between two black fingernails.
She could stop herself.
She should stop herself.
Yet when she pulled a teat up into her black-lipped muzzle, Riley couldn't. She stared into the mirror and watched as her pout wrapped around more and more of her heaving tits. The cool metal of her studded tongue pressing against her only drove her further into the moment.
Riley told herself she wasn't a slut.
She wasn't an alt bitch sucking on her own tits in a full length mirror.
Pushing a hand past her beltline proved difficult, her jeans were pulled tight to her child-bearing hips. Her jeans frayed as they were pushed back by her flesh's growth. As she turned to the side, she let her tail hike up to see what she'd become. The fox's ass projected off of her hips like a shelf.
The fox bent over the foot of the bed, pawing at her crotch, anything to relieve the pressure. As her hips cracked, only widening further, the first button finally popped, letting her stick a black claw down and open the remaining four. Riley pulled down her shorts with a sharp tug, and plunged her fingers into her folds.
Her tongue lolled in her muzzle, spittle and drool fell off of her pouting lips as she fingered her dripping snatch. Yet the harder she bucked, the more she clamped down on her own fingers, the more Rylie realized she needed something more.
Yanking open a drawer, Riley was shocked to find exactly what she needed: a collection of sex toys, now hers. She groped, plucking a feline-modeled dildo out of the drawer at random.
Then her fantasizing started, it was her third round with the tiger in the alley: used condoms littered her feet, bent over a dumpster, her tail yanked in the air by a firm grip.
"You've been a bad bitch, Riley," she thought to herself, "you know what you are?"
Riley pushed the tip into her cunt, already trying to milk the head.
"A."
She pulled in 3 inches
"Dumb."
6 inches.
"Skank."
She pushed herself back, down to the hilt of the shaft in her hand. Her walls clamped down on every spine, and her whole body seemed to clamp with it. Her waist drew in another inch, as if she was wearing an invisible corset, its strings being pulled by a forceful hand. The fox's heaving breasts drew up as well; they were rounder, firmer, fake. They surged out, larger than her head at this point, her fist-sized areola pointed away from her chest proudly. Riley turned over and eased her back onto the bed, she couldn't even see her stomach anymore.
She loved her fakes. Her parents were pissed about the money that was "meant" to take her to nursing school, but who cares when her implants were already making it back in droves?
Riley flinched at that thought.
She graduated nursing school, didn't she? She stopped thrusting the plastic dick inside her for a moment, lost in thought. Riley gazed into the mirror and saw herself, a white fox covered in sweat and piercings, augmented to hell and back. Why would she waste a body like this by cramming it into a set of scrubs? What a joke.
Riley clamped back down, milking the fake limb inside her. Her hips bucked at the bottom of each thrust, setting her saline-filled thighs in motion. The fox moaned, she was made for this, she was a slut meant for fucking.
Her hips bucked one last time, her whole body quivered. Riley screamed, her body trying to milk every inch of the prosthetic feline cock. As her fluids spilled onto the bed, reality swam around her: Well worn sneakers stretched upwards into a pair of laced thigh-high boots. Nothing in that closet left anything to the imagination.
People needed to know what she was at a glance: Fuckmeat.