Steve picked his phone up off the charger and saw the lock screen light up, revealing a fully charged battery indicator in the top right corner of screen. Holding a dainty, black furred finger over the bottom of the screen, Steve quickly scrolled up while looking into the camera, only for a picture of a frowny face to appear on the screen.
Scrolling up again, Steve was greeted with the same frowny face, and he realized what was going on. The phone had locked itself when it had run out of power, and now it was trying to unlock itself using Steve’s face, which… Steve closed his eyes as he felt a pit open up at the bottom of his throat.
The blackness that permeated Steve’s vision faded as his brain forced him to imagine the life history of the female skunk whose body he now inhabited. Steve watched as the petite anthro lay on her hands and knees while a technician prodded at her enflamed cunt before injecting a syringe full of thick, white cum into her womb.
It was such a contradictory scene – on the one hand, the skunk’s face was awash in lust and joy as she anticipated the “pleasures” of a breeding slave bringing her first baby to term. However, the wince on the technician’s face belied his knowledge of just how bad of an idea it was to pump dragon cum into the receptive anthro skunk before her skeleton had fully softened.
The scene flashed forward as the skunk girl lay on her side with her arms wrapped around her now overly gravid belly. That look of pleasure and anticipation from earlier had been wiped off her face. She’d been bred along with some of other slaves and, from the size of their bellies, it was becoming more and more clear to the skunk girl that something about her pregnancy was different. The fact that her master seemed completely unconcerned about her wellbeing – or her ability to give birth to whatever was inside of her – was becoming increasingly reflected in the grimace that the skunk girl now wore.
Steve’s vision shifted and the skunk girl was now sitting up against a wall; arms wrapped around her belly, tail tucked behind her, and legs spread as water pooled below her crotch. Her eyes were clenched shut, the top of her muzzle was pulled back in a sneer, and her mouth was wide open as she screamed out in agony as she experienced the first contraction of what was supposed to be a long, birth-filled life.
Then image flashed to black, before reappearing as the skunk girl laid on her back – a position that Steve knew from firsthand experience to be agony due to the pressure the baby inside of her would place on her spine. The skunk girl’s black and white fur was matted with sweat, while a massive, draconic snout was wedged partway out of her cunt, stretching her thin, pink labial lips stretched until they were little more than a thin string of flesh wrapped around the baby that her body was struggling to birth.
The laboring skunk girl just laid there with her limbs splayed limply to her sides. The pain wracking her body was like nothing that Steve could imagine – or wanted to experience. But despite the unending horror of her situation, the skunk was just staring listlessly to the side. Steve’s eyes met the skunk’s, and that pit in the back of his throat turned into a chasm of emotion.
His vagina clenched down, causing the firm muscles inside to rub together as though they were trying to imagine what it would be like to be unwillingly wrapped around the same draconic snout from Steve’s imagination. A wispy, female voice began speaking in Steve’s head: “why does it hurt so badly…”; “why is my body doing this to me…”; “why am I so helpless…”; “why won’t anybody help me…”; “what else am I supposed to do? I’ve been a good girl…”
Steve’s eyes grew watery as a torrent of emotion flooded out of the more primitive parts of his brain. Those words in his mind weren’t from the app, he realized, but from his own subconscious. They were his words, grown from the maternal seed that had been planted inside of him.
His former masculinity was a dam that he had been using to hold back the lake of femininity behind him and, so far, the dam had held. But the dam was falling apart, and a maternal storm was swelling the waters behind it as thoughts of labor, birth, and motherhood drained down from the surrounding countryside.
There was a brief moment where Steve’s rational, male mind was able to poke its head above the emotion, and in that moment, Steve realized that he had a choice. He could keep fighting and the water would overtop the dam, tearing down the last shreds of his masculinity in the process, or he could open the flood gates and let it all out – but preserve what little was left of him in the process. Steve chose the latter.
Steve fell into the chasm of despair as tears matted his cheek fur and the pathetic wails of a despairing, expectant mother echoed through the room. “This shouldn’t be happening to me! I’m not stupid! I don’t deserve this!” But neither Steve’s tears nor his cries of regret changed the situation.
The fact of the matter was that he knew he was a fool to use an app that had made its goal of turning him into a birthing girl perfectly clear, that he was stupid to ignore its obvious attempt to set him up and, more importantly, that this was the very definition of an ironic punishment that it had inflicted on him.
Steve knew that right now, as he cried about his own situation, most of the men from the community center were strapped into birthing beds themselves. He knew that they too were pleading with the universe as they tried to explain how they didn’t deserve their own motherly fates. Even worse, Steve knew that they would eventually break down as each accepted that there was no possibility of their lives ever going back, and that the scope of their pleadings would narrow substantially until they were all asking for just one thing: “Please let my labor end. Please just let me give me birth.”
Whatever Steve’s tears might try to claim he deserved, deep down he knew that there was no one else alive who deserved the cunt between his legs, the breasts on his chest, or the impending agony of an impossible labor more than he did. One last thought percolated in the waters behind Steve’s dam before, it too, was sucked through the flood gates: “Please god, I just want to be a good girl.”
A good girl. Steve wanted to be…
Some deep, primal sensor that was buried in the concrete of Steve’s masculinity determined that enough femininity had passed through him, and the flood gates slammed shut. He didn’t want to be a good girl, but his body did, and the words had flowed so easily out of his mouth. With a sniffle, Steve wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, using the deep black fur that covered it as a towel to soak them up.
Steve knew that his intellect had been reduced to the point that he was no longer capable of solving this problem on his own, and it was all he could do to keep himself from having another emotional fit. With no other options, he did the thing that seemed to now come naturally – looking at the monitor, he clicked on the icon for Riscord to see if anyone was online who could help him.