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Post #885026 · 1 source
inkbunny.net · 3829869:5956718 · selected
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"writing": "Luxury's Sharp Edges\n\nThe cardboard coffee cup burns my paw pads even through the sleeve, but I don't dare to slow down. There's a coffee bar in the lobby, but no. I have to go four blocks to the `good' cafe. The oat-milk latte is extra hot, no foam, exactly as ordered.\n\nThe ground floor always smells like money, fresh orchids, expensive leather, and faintly of espresso from the executive lounge. A tall Gardevoir in a tailored blazer glides past, her psychic aura making the air hum; she doesn't even glance at me. \n\nI clutch the cup tighter, feeling small in my off-the-rack slacks with the tail hole already starting to fray. My yellow fur skirt brushes my black legs as I hurry, the white fluff at my chest prickling with nerves. Everyone here looks like they belong on a runway. I still feel like the college kid who practiced color swatches in a dorm room.\n\nI badge through the turnstile, ride the elevator to seventeen, and step into the hallway of Mazdom Fashion. Polished marble under my foot-paws, glass walls lined with racks of silk gowns and tailored coats gliding past on silent hangers. Every few steps my tail twitches. \n\nThree weeks ago the email came: `Congratulations, Anika! you're joining the color-correction team at Mazdom.' I cried in my bathroom that night. This is it. The brand everyone copies. The one that dresses champions and movie stars. Survive here, and I can survive anywhere.\n\nA little workplace roughness is normal, right? Everyone says so. Interns get hazed. Assistants fetch coffee. Managers are strict. I just have to keep my head down, nail the palettes, and earn a credit on the spring line. Then maybe Ivy will stop looking at me like I'm a stain on her top.\n\nLast week she made me redo an entire palette because `the undertone was pedestrian.' I stayed until midnight, eyes burning. When I finally sent it, she replied with one word: `Better.' No thank you. No good job. Just... better. Like I'd barely scraped by. But it was in the folder for review. That's something. One step closer to a credit. One step closer to proving I belong.\n\nMy ears flatten as I near her door. The nameplate shimmers: `IVY - SENIOR CREATIVE DIRECTOR' in gold foil. I knock twice, soft, like I'm asking permission to exist.\n\n``Come.'' Her voice is clipped and cool.\n\nI push the door open with my free paw, careful not to slosh the coffee. Ivy reclines in her leather chair, one long leg crossed over the other, stick-wand resting across her lap like a scepter. She's on the phone, robe-like maroon fur swaying slightly as she gestures.\n\n``...and if they think we're accepting that Smeargle deviation, they can take their pret-a-porter and shove it somewhere less fashionable.'' Her golden eyes flick to me. ``Finally.''\n\nI set the cup on the desk edge. ``Your oat-milk latte, Ms. Ivy. Extra hot, no foam, just like-''\n\n``Darling.'' She hangs up without a goodbye. ``Do try not to narrate the order every single time. It's tedious.''\n\n``Sorry.'' I mumble, ears burning. ``I just wanted to make sure-''\n\nShe waves a paw. ``No need for excuses.''\n\nI nod and turn to leave, relief flooding my chest.\n\n``Anika.'' She calls. \n\nI freeze mid-step, but don't turn around. \n\n``Come back here.''\n\nMy stomach drops. I pivot slowly, paws clasped in front of me like I'm at a funeral. Ivy rises from her chair. She?s tall, elegant, and the red fur of her ear tufts catches the light like expensive velvet. She circles the desk with slow, deliberate steps, wand tapping against her thigh.\n\nI stare at the tile floor. My heart hammers so hard I'm sure she can hear it. She stops right in front of me. Too close. I smell her jasmine and cedar perfume, and the faint char of her wand's tip.\n\n``You took thirty-three minutes.'' She says softly. ``Thirty-three. For coffee.''\n\n``I-I ran into a line at the cafe, and-''\n\n``What did I say about excuses?'' Her paw moves so fast I don't register it until her claws plunge into the back of my slacks and hook the waistband of my panties.\n\nTime slows. She yanks. The elastic rockets upward in one cruel, smooth pull. Fabric bites the front and back at once. A white-hot line of pain slices between my asscheeks and up my tailbase. My knees buckle, and my paws fly instinctively to shield myself.\n\nI let out a startled ``Yip!''\n\n``Paws. At. Your. Sides.'' Her voice is ice.\n\nI force my arms straight, trembling. She twists her wrist, tightening the pull. The cotton stretches thinner, digging harder into my fur, sawing between my sensitive pussy lips. I squeeze my eyes shut so tight I see stars.\n\n``You will learn timeliness.'' She says, yanking again, sharper this time. My whole body lifts onto my toes. ``Or you will learn discomfort. Which do you prefer, darling?''\n\n``I'm sorry, Ms. Ivy.'' I gasp. ``It won't happen again.''\n\nShe holds the tension for three seconds, long enough that tears prick my eyes, then releases. The elastic snaps back with a vicious slap against my lower back. \n\nI stagger forward, paws diving into my slacks before I can stop myself. I claw at the bunched fabric, trying to peel it out from between my cheeks. My face burns hotter than any twig I've ever ignited.\n\nWhy does it hurt so much more when it's her? Not just the pull, but the knowing look. The calm way she watches me squirm, like it's nothing to her. \n\nI finally free the worst of it, but the elastic leaves angry red lines I can feel even through the cloth. My tail hangs limp, no fight left in it. I want to run, but running means admitting defeat.\n\nIvy returns to her desk and picks up the coffee cup. ``Since you've already made a mess of my morning.'' She says. ``Allow me to return the favor.''\n\nShe steps closer. Before I can move, she hooks one claw into my front waistband and pulls it forward just enough. Then she tips the entire cup.\n\nHot liquid pours in a slow, steaming cascade. It soaks into my panties and fur instantly. It's scalding at first, then clammy and sticky as it spreads. If I weren't a fire type, this would probably burn me. The smell of oat milk fills my nose. Coffee drips down my inner thighs, dark streaks against black fur. I stand there, jaw hanging open, dripping.\n\n``You'll need fresh slacks.'' Ivy says calmly. ``Fabrics room... Third floor... Try not to ruin the elevator.''\n\nShe returns to her chair and resumes work as if nothing happened. I look down at the mess in my pants and the small puddle on the floor. I want to cry, but I summon every ounce of willpower to hold it back. \n\nThe heat fades to a sticky chill that clings to every strand of fur. Droplets patter onto the marble floor in tiny dark spots that will need cleaning before anyone notices. Ivy doesn't glance up from her screen. Her wand rests beside the keyboard like it never moved.\n\nI shift my weight and feel the soaked fabric squish against my thighs. The smell of sweet, burnt, coffee will linger all day. Humiliating. I take one step toward the door, then another. My gait is wide, bow-legged, trying to keep the mess from spreading further. \n\nThe hallway waits beyond the glass door, full of designers who might see, might whisper. I force my head high, ears forward, like nothing's wrong. Like I belong here. The door clicks shut behind me. I don't breathe until I'm halfway to the elevator.\n\n I change into fresh satin panties and slacks from the fabrics room. They're nice, something I could never afford on my salary, the kind with perfect tailoring around the tail hole.\n\nI return to my workstation, eyes on the floor and hoping no one asks any questions. I keep my tail tucked low so no one notices how often I shift in my chair.\n\nThe design floor hums around me: clicking keyboards, soft French chatter between the Florges pattern-makers, the rustle of fabric as a Lopunny model adjusts a mock-up in the fitting area. My screen glows with the latest resort collection palette. I nudge the cyan slider 0.4 points warmer. Then back 0.2. Then warmer again. Anything to look busy.\n\nEvery time I move, the fresh slacks chafe against the raw spots from earlier. I can still feel the elastic digging deep between my cheeks and up my tailbase, the oat-milk smell clings to my fur no matter how much I scrubbed in the staff bathroom. \n\nThe sensation is worse when I cross my legs, like sharp little reminders every time the satin shifts. My inner thighs feel tender, as if the skin under the fur is bruised. I resist the urge to adjust again, that would just draw eyes. Instead I focus on the screen, zooming in on a single swatch until the pixels blur.\n\nAcross the aisle, a Vaporeon designer laughs at something on her tablet. Two Raichu assistants whisper behind their monitors, glancing my way for half a second before looking down again. I pretend not to notice. They don't know. No one knows. They couldn't. \n\nI just have to survive until I get a credit. One good adjustment that makes it into the final line. Then I can transfer teams, or maybe even pitch my own collection someday. Ivy won't always be my manager. She can't be.\n\nI think back to the portfolio I submitted during interviews. It had dozens of color studies, late nights rubbing my twig against my tail fur until it sparked just to stay awake. The hiring manager called it `promising.' Promising got me in the door. Now I need more than promising. I need something real.\n\nLast month I suggested a subtle shift from cool teal to warmer aqua for the swimwear line. Ivy shot it down in the group meeting. \n\n``Darling, we're not selling pool toys.'' She joked, as everyone chuckled. \n\nI smiled through it, tail rigid, and redid the file overnight. It still stings, but that file is in the archives. Proof I can contribute. One day she'll see it. Or someone higher up will.\n\nI rub my paws over my face, ears twitching. The clock on my screen says 1:47 p.m. I need to pee. I stand and mumble to the team. \n\n``Just heading to the restroom.'' Even though no one asked, or seem to care.\n\nI slip up to the women's room on the 18th floor, it's quieter, cleaner, and always empty. After the coffee mess and the earlier rawness, I need that kind of privacy. I'm already drying my paws when the door swings open.\n\nIvy steps in. No surprise on her face. Just a slow, knowing curl on her lips. She's been waiting. My blood turns so cold I might just turn into an ice type. \n\n``What are you doing in the executive bathroom, darling?'' Her tone is condescending silk.\n\nI blush hard, ears flattening. ``I'm so sorry, Ms. Ivy. I had no idea. I just wanted some privacy-''\n\nI try to hurry past, but she grabs my bushy tail in a vice grip. Her claws sink into the thick fur where my stick is tucked. The branch shifts painfully inside. I yelp and tug, but she doesn't let go. With her free paw she turns the lock. \n\nClick.\n\n``Ms. Ivy, I-I was just-''\n\n``Shhh.'' Her iron grip drags me to the nearest stall. I stumble, kicking uselessly; my free paw scrabbles at the tiles.\n\n``Please.'' I whisper. ``Don't-''\n\nShe shoves me inside, kicks the door shut, and forces me to my knees. Cold tile bites through my slacks. My muzzle hovers over the bowl.\n\n``You think you can just... glide in here?'' She asks, voice low and proper. ``Take what I've spent fifteen years perfecting? How adorably ambitious.''\n\nI brace my paws on the rim, pushing back. ``I'm not, I promise. I just want to work hard-``\n\n``Wrong answer, darling.'' She grabs the scruff at the back of my neck and plunges my head forward.\n\nWater closes over my muzzle, it's shockingly cold. My nostrils burn as bubbles explode around my head. I thrash and scream into the porcelain. One... two... three... four... five...\n\nShe yanks me up. I gasp and cough, water streaming from my nose and mouth. My cheek fluff plasters flat against my face.\n\nBefore I can breathe she hooks my panties and hauls the upward, hard. The satin rockets deep, sawing into my ass crack and tailbase. Pain flares white-hot across already tender skin. My hips jerk, and a startled yip escapes.\n\n``Quiet now.'' She says, dunking me again. \n\nMy lungs scream as the water fills my muzzle. I claw the rim, but she's immovable. Bubbles roar. In panic I attempt to let out an ember, desperate for a spark. Only wet smoke hisses out, useless.\n\nUp again. Ragged gulps of air. She yanks once, sharp. Twice, rhythmic. Three times, burning. Each pull lifts my knees off the floor. I whimper into the toilet as the delicate fabric slips between my pussy lips, sawing and pressing my clit. \n\nBefore I can get out more than a pained groan, my head is in the toilet again. She holds me under, longer this time. Eight seconds, nine, ten. Lungs burn like they've caught fire without the twig to prove it. I thrash harder, tail whipping, the stick inside jabbing my fur uselessly. \n\nShe presses the lever and water rushes past me as it's sucked down the drain. A fresh wave of cold fills the bowl again, not even giving me a second to breathe. \n\nShe pulls me up just as I run out of air. I heave deep breaths, sobbing between coughs. Water runs out of my ears and I can barely see through my blurry eyes. \n\n``Look at you.'' She murmurs, almost affectionate. ``Gasping like you've earned sympathy. You think suffering builds character? It only builds resentment, and I've had enough of both from girls like you.''\n\nShe dunks me without warning, it's shorter but sharper, just to remind me. Water floods my ears again. When she lifts me, she leans close. \n\nShe smiles. ``Much Better.''\n\nShe releases my neck and spins me so my back faces the bowl, and yanks my panties straight up. Up over my tail, over my shoulders, and over my head. The atomic wedgie snaps tight. Fabric blinds my eyes and muffles my ears, cutting into the fur on my face. Soaked cotton presses to my muzzle.\n\nIvy steps back. ``Now you look just like the mess you are, darling.''\n\nI sit on the wet floor, dripping, atomic wedgie still painfully tight. The fabric stays over my head for what feels like minutes. I claw at it blindly, but my paws shake too much. Every breath pulls wet cotton into my mouth, tasting like shame. My tail hangs limp, bushy fur soaked and heavy.\n\n``Change again, Anika.'' Ivy says callously. ``And not one word of this.''\n\nThe bathroom door opens, then closes. I hear her footsteps fade down the hall. I continue to pull off the panties, sobbing silently as I remain on the floor. I've never felt humiliation like this.\n\nWhen I finally peel the fabric off my head, my face fur is matted and my eyes are stinging. I sit there longer than I should, staring at the puddle under me. Ivy's perfume lingers in the air like a taunt.\n\n``This will be worth it.'' I whisper to the empty stall. ``Someday.''\n\nThe End\n\n"
}
3829869_5956718_FoxyVulpo_delphox_x_braixen.writing.json · CAS artifact Download
{
"writing": "Luxury's Sharp Edges\n\nThe cardboard coffee cup burns my paw pads even through the sleeve, but I don't dare to slow down. There's a coffee bar in the lobby, but no. I have to go four blocks to the `good' cafe. The oat-milk latte is extra hot, no foam, exactly as ordered.\n\nThe ground floor always smells like money, fresh orchids, expensive leather, and faintly of espresso from the executive lounge. A tall Gardevoir in a tailored blazer glides past, her psychic aura making the air hum; she doesn't even glance at me. \n\nI clutch the cup tighter, feeling small in my off-the-rack slacks with the tail hole already starting to fray. My yellow fur skirt brushes my black legs as I hurry, the white fluff at my chest prickling with nerves. Everyone here looks like they belong on a runway. I still feel like the college kid who practiced color swatches in a dorm room.\n\nI badge through the turnstile, ride the elevator to seventeen, and step into the hallway of Mazdom Fashion. Polished marble under my foot-paws, glass walls lined with racks of silk gowns and tailored coats gliding past on silent hangers. Every few steps my tail twitches. \n\nThree weeks ago the email came: `Congratulations, Anika! you're joining the color-correction team at Mazdom.' I cried in my bathroom that night. This is it. The brand everyone copies. The one that dresses champions and movie stars. Survive here, and I can survive anywhere.\n\nA little workplace roughness is normal, right? Everyone says so. Interns get hazed. Assistants fetch coffee. Managers are strict. I just have to keep my head down, nail the palettes, and earn a credit on the spring line. Then maybe Ivy will stop looking at me like I'm a stain on her top.\n\nLast week she made me redo an entire palette because `the undertone was pedestrian.' I stayed until midnight, eyes burning. When I finally sent it, she replied with one word: `Better.' No thank you. No good job. Just... better. Like I'd barely scraped by. But it was in the folder for review. That's something. One step closer to a credit. One step closer to proving I belong.\n\nMy ears flatten as I near her door. The nameplate shimmers: `IVY - SENIOR CREATIVE DIRECTOR' in gold foil. I knock twice, soft, like I'm asking permission to exist.\n\n``Come.'' Her voice is clipped and cool.\n\nI push the door open with my free paw, careful not to slosh the coffee. Ivy reclines in her leather chair, one long leg crossed over the other, stick-wand resting across her lap like a scepter. She's on the phone, robe-like maroon fur swaying slightly as she gestures.\n\n``...and if they think we're accepting that Smeargle deviation, they can take their pret-a-porter and shove it somewhere less fashionable.'' Her golden eyes flick to me. ``Finally.''\n\nI set the cup on the desk edge. ``Your oat-milk latte, Ms. Ivy. Extra hot, no foam, just like-''\n\n``Darling.'' She hangs up without a goodbye. ``Do try not to narrate the order every single time. It's tedious.''\n\n``Sorry.'' I mumble, ears burning. ``I just wanted to make sure-''\n\nShe waves a paw. ``No need for excuses.''\n\nI nod and turn to leave, relief flooding my chest.\n\n``Anika.'' She calls. \n\nI freeze mid-step, but don't turn around. \n\n``Come back here.''\n\nMy stomach drops. I pivot slowly, paws clasped in front of me like I'm at a funeral. Ivy rises from her chair. She?s tall, elegant, and the red fur of her ear tufts catches the light like expensive velvet. She circles the desk with slow, deliberate steps, wand tapping against her thigh.\n\nI stare at the tile floor. My heart hammers so hard I'm sure she can hear it. She stops right in front of me. Too close. I smell her jasmine and cedar perfume, and the faint char of her wand's tip.\n\n``You took thirty-three minutes.'' She says softly. ``Thirty-three. For coffee.''\n\n``I-I ran into a line at the cafe, and-''\n\n``What did I say about excuses?'' Her paw moves so fast I don't register it until her claws plunge into the back of my slacks and hook the waistband of my panties.\n\nTime slows. She yanks. The elastic rockets upward in one cruel, smooth pull. Fabric bites the front and back at once. A white-hot line of pain slices between my asscheeks and up my tailbase. My knees buckle, and my paws fly instinctively to shield myself.\n\nI let out a startled ``Yip!''\n\n``Paws. At. Your. Sides.'' Her voice is ice.\n\nI force my arms straight, trembling. She twists her wrist, tightening the pull. The cotton stretches thinner, digging harder into my fur, sawing between my sensitive pussy lips. I squeeze my eyes shut so tight I see stars.\n\n``You will learn timeliness.'' She says, yanking again, sharper this time. My whole body lifts onto my toes. ``Or you will learn discomfort. Which do you prefer, darling?''\n\n``I'm sorry, Ms. Ivy.'' I gasp. ``It won't happen again.''\n\nShe holds the tension for three seconds, long enough that tears prick my eyes, then releases. The elastic snaps back with a vicious slap against my lower back. \n\nI stagger forward, paws diving into my slacks before I can stop myself. I claw at the bunched fabric, trying to peel it out from between my cheeks. My face burns hotter than any twig I've ever ignited.\n\nWhy does it hurt so much more when it's her? Not just the pull, but the knowing look. The calm way she watches me squirm, like it's nothing to her. \n\nI finally free the worst of it, but the elastic leaves angry red lines I can feel even through the cloth. My tail hangs limp, no fight left in it. I want to run, but running means admitting defeat.\n\nIvy returns to her desk and picks up the coffee cup. ``Since you've already made a mess of my morning.'' She says. ``Allow me to return the favor.''\n\nShe steps closer. Before I can move, she hooks one claw into my front waistband and pulls it forward just enough. Then she tips the entire cup.\n\nHot liquid pours in a slow, steaming cascade. It soaks into my panties and fur instantly. It's scalding at first, then clammy and sticky as it spreads. If I weren't a fire type, this would probably burn me. The smell of oat milk fills my nose. Coffee drips down my inner thighs, dark streaks against black fur. I stand there, jaw hanging open, dripping.\n\n``You'll need fresh slacks.'' Ivy says calmly. ``Fabrics room... Third floor... Try not to ruin the elevator.''\n\nShe returns to her chair and resumes work as if nothing happened. I look down at the mess in my pants and the small puddle on the floor. I want to cry, but I summon every ounce of willpower to hold it back. \n\nThe heat fades to a sticky chill that clings to every strand of fur. Droplets patter onto the marble floor in tiny dark spots that will need cleaning before anyone notices. Ivy doesn't glance up from her screen. Her wand rests beside the keyboard like it never moved.\n\nI shift my weight and feel the soaked fabric squish against my thighs. The smell of sweet, burnt, coffee will linger all day. Humiliating. I take one step toward the door, then another. My gait is wide, bow-legged, trying to keep the mess from spreading further. \n\nThe hallway waits beyond the glass door, full of designers who might see, might whisper. I force my head high, ears forward, like nothing's wrong. Like I belong here. The door clicks shut behind me. I don't breathe until I'm halfway to the elevator.\n\n I change into fresh satin panties and slacks from the fabrics room. They're nice, something I could never afford on my salary, the kind with perfect tailoring around the tail hole.\n\nI return to my workstation, eyes on the floor and hoping no one asks any questions. I keep my tail tucked low so no one notices how often I shift in my chair.\n\nThe design floor hums around me: clicking keyboards, soft French chatter between the Florges pattern-makers, the rustle of fabric as a Lopunny model adjusts a mock-up in the fitting area. My screen glows with the latest resort collection palette. I nudge the cyan slider 0.4 points warmer. Then back 0.2. Then warmer again. Anything to look busy.\n\nEvery time I move, the fresh slacks chafe against the raw spots from earlier. I can still feel the elastic digging deep between my cheeks and up my tailbase, the oat-milk smell clings to my fur no matter how much I scrubbed in the staff bathroom. \n\nThe sensation is worse when I cross my legs, like sharp little reminders every time the satin shifts. My inner thighs feel tender, as if the skin under the fur is bruised. I resist the urge to adjust again, that would just draw eyes. Instead I focus on the screen, zooming in on a single swatch until the pixels blur.\n\nAcross the aisle, a Vaporeon designer laughs at something on her tablet. Two Raichu assistants whisper behind their monitors, glancing my way for half a second before looking down again. I pretend not to notice. They don't know. No one knows. They couldn't. \n\nI just have to survive until I get a credit. One good adjustment that makes it into the final line. Then I can transfer teams, or maybe even pitch my own collection someday. Ivy won't always be my manager. She can't be.\n\nI think back to the portfolio I submitted during interviews. It had dozens of color studies, late nights rubbing my twig against my tail fur until it sparked just to stay awake. The hiring manager called it `promising.' Promising got me in the door. Now I need more than promising. I need something real.\n\nLast month I suggested a subtle shift from cool teal to warmer aqua for the swimwear line. Ivy shot it down in the group meeting. \n\n``Darling, we're not selling pool toys.'' She joked, as everyone chuckled. \n\nI smiled through it, tail rigid, and redid the file overnight. It still stings, but that file is in the archives. Proof I can contribute. One day she'll see it. Or someone higher up will.\n\nI rub my paws over my face, ears twitching. The clock on my screen says 1:47 p.m. I need to pee. I stand and mumble to the team. \n\n``Just heading to the restroom.'' Even though no one asked, or seem to care.\n\nI slip up to the women's room on the 18th floor, it's quieter, cleaner, and always empty. After the coffee mess and the earlier rawness, I need that kind of privacy. I'm already drying my paws when the door swings open.\n\nIvy steps in. No surprise on her face. Just a slow, knowing curl on her lips. She's been waiting. My blood turns so cold I might just turn into an ice type. \n\n``What are you doing in the executive bathroom, darling?'' Her tone is condescending silk.\n\nI blush hard, ears flattening. ``I'm so sorry, Ms. Ivy. I had no idea. I just wanted some privacy-''\n\nI try to hurry past, but she grabs my bushy tail in a vice grip. Her claws sink into the thick fur where my stick is tucked. The branch shifts painfully inside. I yelp and tug, but she doesn't let go. With her free paw she turns the lock. \n\nClick.\n\n``Ms. Ivy, I-I was just-''\n\n``Shhh.'' Her iron grip drags me to the nearest stall. I stumble, kicking uselessly; my free paw scrabbles at the tiles.\n\n``Please.'' I whisper. ``Don't-''\n\nShe shoves me inside, kicks the door shut, and forces me to my knees. Cold tile bites through my slacks. My muzzle hovers over the bowl.\n\n``You think you can just... glide in here?'' She asks, voice low and proper. ``Take what I've spent fifteen years perfecting? How adorably ambitious.''\n\nI brace my paws on the rim, pushing back. ``I'm not, I promise. I just want to work hard-``\n\n``Wrong answer, darling.'' She grabs the scruff at the back of my neck and plunges my head forward.\n\nWater closes over my muzzle, it's shockingly cold. My nostrils burn as bubbles explode around my head. I thrash and scream into the porcelain. One... two... three... four... five...\n\nShe yanks me up. I gasp and cough, water streaming from my nose and mouth. My cheek fluff plasters flat against my face.\n\nBefore I can breathe she hooks my panties and hauls the upward, hard. The satin rockets deep, sawing into my ass crack and tailbase. Pain flares white-hot across already tender skin. My hips jerk, and a startled yip escapes.\n\n``Quiet now.'' She says, dunking me again. \n\nMy lungs scream as the water fills my muzzle. I claw the rim, but she's immovable. Bubbles roar. In panic I attempt to let out an ember, desperate for a spark. Only wet smoke hisses out, useless.\n\nUp again. Ragged gulps of air. She yanks once, sharp. Twice, rhythmic. Three times, burning. Each pull lifts my knees off the floor. I whimper into the toilet as the delicate fabric slips between my pussy lips, sawing and pressing my clit. \n\nBefore I can get out more than a pained groan, my head is in the toilet again. She holds me under, longer this time. Eight seconds, nine, ten. Lungs burn like they've caught fire without the twig to prove it. I thrash harder, tail whipping, the stick inside jabbing my fur uselessly. \n\nShe presses the lever and water rushes past me as it's sucked down the drain. A fresh wave of cold fills the bowl again, not even giving me a second to breathe. \n\nShe pulls me up just as I run out of air. I heave deep breaths, sobbing between coughs. Water runs out of my ears and I can barely see through my blurry eyes. \n\n``Look at you.'' She murmurs, almost affectionate. ``Gasping like you've earned sympathy. You think suffering builds character? It only builds resentment, and I've had enough of both from girls like you.''\n\nShe dunks me without warning, it's shorter but sharper, just to remind me. Water floods my ears again. When she lifts me, she leans close. \n\nShe smiles. ``Much Better.''\n\nShe releases my neck and spins me so my back faces the bowl, and yanks my panties straight up. Up over my tail, over my shoulders, and over my head. The atomic wedgie snaps tight. Fabric blinds my eyes and muffles my ears, cutting into the fur on my face. Soaked cotton presses to my muzzle.\n\nIvy steps back. ``Now you look just like the mess you are, darling.''\n\nI sit on the wet floor, dripping, atomic wedgie still painfully tight. The fabric stays over my head for what feels like minutes. I claw at it blindly, but my paws shake too much. Every breath pulls wet cotton into my mouth, tasting like shame. My tail hangs limp, bushy fur soaked and heavy.\n\n``Change again, Anika.'' Ivy says callously. ``And not one word of this.''\n\nThe bathroom door opens, then closes. I hear her footsteps fade down the hall. I continue to pull off the panties, sobbing silently as I remain on the floor. I've never felt humiliation like this.\n\nWhen I finally peel the fabric off my head, my face fur is matted and my eyes are stinging. I sit there longer than I should, staring at the puddle under me. Ivy's perfume lingers in the air like a taunt.\n\n``This will be worth it.'' I whisper to the empty stall. ``Someday.''\n\nThe End\n\n"
}
profile.api.json · CAS artifact Download
{
"user_icon_file_name": "494795_FoxyVulpo_img_4138.jpg",
"user_icon_url_large": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/usericons/large/494/494795_FoxyVulpo_img_4138.jpg",
"user_icon_url_medium": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/usericons/medium/494/494795_FoxyVulpo_img_4138.jpg",
"user_icon_url_small": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/usericons/small/494/494795_FoxyVulpo_img_4138.jpg",
"user_id": "1601613",
"username": "FoxyVulpo"
}
106201.json · CAS artifact Download
{
"count": "3",
"description": "This is where you can find stories involving Pokemon getting wedgies, swirlies, and other forms of bullying",
"name": "Wedgie One Off’s",
"pool_id": "106201",
"submission_right_file_name": "5956722_FoxyVulpo_garchomp_x_lopunny1.doc",
"submission_right_submission_id": "3834859",
"submission_right_thumb_huge_x": "300",
"submission_right_thumb_huge_y": "252",
"submission_right_thumb_large_x": "200",
"submission_right_thumb_large_y": "168",
"submission_right_thumb_medium_x": "120",
"submission_right_thumb_medium_y": "101",
"submission_right_thumbnail_url_huge": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/thumbnails/huge/5956/5956722_FoxyVulpo_garchomp_x_lopunny1.jpg",
"submission_right_thumbnail_url_large": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/thumbnails/large/5956/5956722_FoxyVulpo_garchomp_x_lopunny1.jpg",
"submission_right_thumbnail_url_medium": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/thumbnails/medium/5956/5956722_FoxyVulpo_garchomp_x_lopunny1.jpg"
}