This choice: Choose another storyline • Go Back...Chapter #4The psychic’s sidekick. by: Unknown Black ski mask? Check.
Black sweat pants? Check.
Black tunic? Check.
You tug and play around with your uniform a few more times in the mirror, keeping your eyes exercised for any gaps of skin that could be noticeable on a dark summer night, and grin in satisfaction. It’d be a good night, you could feel. Yes, Iris would be pleased.
Scanning over your mental checklist one last time, double checking that your uniform, mind, and body were all up to the test, you give a triumphant nod and run over to the balcony of your manor’s bedroom; indeed, probably a human from the ancient times would’ve envied a man to possess enough expensive jewelry, housing, and furniture to be bored of, and especially any of the rare, rare humans living near extinction today would have slaughtered to sleep in a bed as big as yours was; to think it was all due to the generosity of an anthro, of all things.
Not that you needed them, really, just the fact that they were all marks of approval. Blessings from a goddess, one of the few anthros alive who deserved to call themselves such.
The nighttime’s darkness bleeds into the canopy of Iris’s tent, the living space illuminated by candles periodically hung from the supporting poles. The fruit bat woman’s home had flair to match hers onstage; plenty of colorful, flowing blankets that curtained her bed, bottles of doctor good everywhere that hung on poles, and tons of mirrors, giving her every possible chance she’d desire to mirth over her own beauty.
...and speaking of, your goddess was busy abusing her most favorite one. That is, her only one, as of now, and likely due to succumb the fate of many others that’d been abandoned before in the dirt, tangled amongst articles of clothing that couldn’t match the rate of her nightly feasting. It’s not to say Iris was ever a thin woman before you and her met; heck, had she been as large as you were, she would’ve clocked in a good three hundred pounds, maybe six hundred several months after when the profits of her shows allowed her to double in on her gluttony, but after her appetite finally pulled the bottom brick, when the obtusely round fruit-bat lady you knew today really began to take form, she blew up at a rate that no scale or medical book could compare her weight to, any skeleton or definition beneath her globular physique “reduced” to but a forever inflating balloon with but four obscenely obese limbs to give her any remaining form.
Abnormally wide, stretching shoulders and arms accommodated her towering stature, dwarving even most of the fattest anthros that you’d seen in her audiences, but her vertical build never drew the scale of hips that outmatched what her hands could reach, bloated buttocks so large that they were always visible in her form, regardless of where she was facing, but were always curtained in front by a stomach so immense that it always mashed generously on wherever her feet stood, too heavy to lift from its expansive perch on the ground without several strongmen to keep it carried, yet structured underneath by enough muscle (or food, in many cases) that it surged off of her in a pronounced ball as opposed to sag around in a shapeless mass, thick, meaty rolls sitting on her hips while her ever-abundant bosom rested comfortably on its massive perch.
Dressed in a burgundy shawl wrapped to keep her breasts contained, a toga-like fashion of blankets that clothed what little of her legs she could reach, and a silken cap which a river of wavy brown hair drooped from its rear, black pointed ears poking through slits cut into the fabric, all Iris had left to do was stretch and work our her mouth, her maw vaguely akin to a wolf’s that was shrouded by pitch black fur. At the joint of your door squeaking slightly, one of her ears swiveled your way, and she went still before craning her head towards your little enclosure. Wringing out her flabby arms, her leathery wings flaring out briefly, she lumbered over to your corner, her feet landing in large, thunderous quakes that tested the nails and walls keeping your house together. A fearful premonition to some, but you welcomed it now, having attributed it to the fact that she was near.
Smiling that smile that’d emptied out so many others’ wallets before, Iris observed you with eyes so shiny and green that even you were convinced that she truly had the power to stare into your and see your thoughts, soul, and whatever lay between.
“...and an evening to you, my little human.” She doted, her rich, yet serene voice as well-paying as being given a swimming pool by the hour. “I trust you’re ready for tonight’s show?”
You nod so vigorously that your neck hurts, and she snickers before offering a hand close to the balcony.
“Excellent. Be wary, our dinners rely on your judgement tonight.” She warns, but not in an intimidating tone; she teasingly licks her sharp fangs, fully aware of how much you adored seeing her extra-fattened figure every morning. You obediently leap onto her palm and allow her to carry you to the window of her tent, a cord tied to the rung that leads outside, into the trees.
“Ta-Ta, my little dear!” She bids with a polite wave of her fingers, and as she rotates to presume her work, you flail your arm about to wave back, then wrap your legs around the cord and climb, the warm autumn air spawning a little sweat under your clothes.
.....
Oh, yes. It’s going to be fun tonight.
Sitting on the tip of a tree branch, you closely observe the line of anthros spiraling through the forest and to the entrance of Iris’s tent. Through the light of the torches, you can see dozens of faces chattering to one another, some apathetic, some excited, but none looking too dirty or poor to plop down some hefty payment. It’s almost overwhelming, but you remember not to get distracted by all the choices. You needed the perfect mark, one with too much more cash than brain cells to talk their way into keeping it.
Eenie...meenie...Minie... You count off, observing their clothing, makeup, or whatever could clue you in on their lifestyle at home, how expensively they lived. Moe!
Perfect. Absolutely perfect! With her face lit up by the glow of a cell phone, her awareness of her surroundings completely depleted, a wolf girl stands crammed by the guest before and behind her, asscheeks overflowing beyond the width of the pathway. It’s impressive, really; blasphemous as it may be, she probably has the height to meet Iris in the eye. Even her weight is on par, sporting nice, meaty breasts and a round, ample belly beneath an orange tank top, but both merely sit atop an thundering, bottom-heavy build, any movement from her impossible without setting a rain of thunderous jiggling amongst the two mammoth orbs of flesh that desperately try to pour through her shorts, and by the dimly lit look in her eyes you have a sense that she wasn’t alien to getting her way through life with it.
Even better is the excess of pocket size, her enormous (but no less cramped) shorts fitted with large back pockets stuffed to their bursting point with plenty of candy wrappers and potato chip bags long forgotten, and as she pries herself from her phone’s screen to pay, she stuffs in into her pocket to grapple with her purse. Watching your angles closely, feeling the wind and its direction, you time your jump and leap from the branch, dangling by a length of thread tied around your waist. It’s not to say that you’re totally invisible, but on a night far from the city’s light’s, you’re no more visible than a spider spinning its web in a dark basement, the raccoon-girl behind her giving no acknowledgement tot he speck that lands straight on her fellow line-waiter’s pants, burrowing into her pocket.
The various wrappers crunching loudly against your digging, you manage to reach her phone, the slab of black plastic and metal twice as large as you are. Hitting the home button lights up the screen, but no further than the password menu. No big deal of course, as you examine four particularly cheese puff-stained marks over some of the numbers.
Two, five, four, and eight... you recite in your head. Maybe 4-5-8-2? You ponder, testing the code. Nothing. 8-4-5-2? Again, no dice. 5-2-8-4?
Satisfyingly, her phone is now open, but not as a whopping thirty texts left unread. She’s a girl with connections, you’re certain, and you open them without haste.
Your hunch is proven right; rich parents that sent her to a rich school, all communicated to through texts that can’t contain more than half the alphabet, mostly substituted for emojis and words abbreviated beyond recognition. Best of all, her dad’s a recent landowner, hoping to strike it rich on the oil business. Most of her other texts go to random friends on campus, some even related to a few celebrities out there, but considering what you’ve discovered, they’re but an after thought.
Then whatever space her pocket possessed constricts even further, wood flexing loudly beneath her rear as she takes her seat; your cue to leave. Climbing out of her pocket, you gladly take a breath of empty air and look around for your next mark. As luck would have it, the skunk lady behind her has set her purse down before her feet, and is facing away to talk with the anthro next to her.
Confident in your leaping abilities, you pull your legs free and leap with an expert dive, landing right into her purse to scrounge for more.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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