Chapter 9: Curiosity and the Cat
The blue wool sleeve of Kenneth’s sweater swallowed his hand as he jabbed the trackpad, plunging the bedroom into near-darkness. Only the flickering desk lamp and the cold glow of his laptop screen remained, painting long, distorted shadows across the towers of programming manuals and discarded pizza boxes. The hum of his PC was a familiar drone, the `/render_kenneth.system_status` quietly reporting `Idle... Low Power Mode`. He needed… something else. Something to drown out the echo of Claire’s groan, the phantom heat against his palm, the shocking memory of his own solitary unraveling on the couch hours before. His body still felt like a live wire someone had forgotten to cap.
He pulled up a private browser, fingers clumsy in the thick wool. His usual haunts – developer forums, obscure code repositories – felt sterile, alien. Instead, his fingers typed a hesitant string into the search bar, pulse thudding in his ears: `futanari art`. Then, after a pause, feeling reckless, `futanari erotic video`. He hit enter before he could chicken out.
The screen flooded with thumbnails. Bold, stylized illustrations. Photorealistic renders. Videos promising "GIRL COCK ACTION" and "FUTA SURPRISE". It was overwhelming, a lurid kaleidoscope. Kenneth adjusted his glasses, the familiar weight grounding him slightly. He wasn't Kenneth the software dev here. This was… research. System exploration. Observing the parameters in a controlled environment. `/render_kenneth.logic_module` asserted itself, a thin veneer of control. He clicked a video thumbnail that looked less aggressively anime, more… realistic. Like Claire, but solo.
The video buffer wheel spun. His breath hitched, trapped somewhere high in his chest. He shifted on the worn beanbag chair, the vinyl squeaking softly beneath him. The `/render_kenneth.sensory_amplification` subroutine, usually tuned to ambient sounds or server vibrations, seemed to zero in on the faint rustle of his sweats against the vinyl. Too sensitive, he thought, pulling his giant sweater tighter around himself, hiding his hands completely now. Way too sensitive.
The video resolved. A woman, maybe late twenties, with dark, tousled hair and sharp cheekbones, lounged on a rumpled bed. She wore a simple white tank top. She smiled lazily at the camera, chatting casually about her day, her voice a low, warm murmur. Kenneth found himself leaning closer. This felt… normal. Almost intimate. He relaxed fractionally into the beanbag.
Then she shifted. Nonchalantly, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her grey sweatpants and pushed them down, along with her panties, past her hips. Her gaze held the camera, steady, confident.
Kenneth stopped breathing.
There was no dramatic reveal, no pulsing special effect. Just… it. Thick. Substantial. Flushed a deep pink at the tip. Resting heavily against her lower belly, nestled in dark curls. It looked utterly, startlingly real. Solid. Alive. Heat bloomed low in Kenneth’s belly, an immediate, visceral echo.. He could almost feel the weight of it in his own wool-covered hand again, the phantom pulse against his palm. His own hidden flesh tightened in response, a curious, demanding ache.
The woman on screen chuckled softly, seeing the viewer’s invisible reaction. "Yeah," she murmured, her voice dropping to a husky register. "It's a lot, isn't it?" Her hand, slender and sure, wrapped around the base. Not roughly, but with undeniable ownership. She gave a slow, experimental stroke. Up. Down. Her head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering closed for a second. "Feels good too."
Kenneth was frozen, transfixed. Every detail was magnified: the shift of tendons in her forearm, the subtle flare of her nostrils as her breath caught, the slick shine gathering at the tip as she worked her hand steadily. It wasn't just the visual. It was the sound. The soft, wet slide of skin on skin. The little breathy sighs escaping her lips. Each sound seemed to vibrate directly along his spine.
He felt an intense, almost painful pressure building behind his own lap. The ache had sharpened into a persistent throb, mirroring the rhythm of the woman’s stroking hand. Without conscious thought, his own wool-swathed hand, hidden deep in his sweater sleeve, slid down his body. He pressed the thick, damp wool of his cuff against the source of the ache, through the layers of his sweats and underwear. A muffled groan escaped him as the pressure sent a jolt through his system. Not enough. Not nearly enough. The barrier of the fabric was maddening.
On screen, the woman’s movements became more deliberate, her breathing heavier. "Fuck," she breathed, her hips lifting slightly off the bed to meet her fist. "That’s it… just like that…" Her free hand slipped under her tank top, palming her own breast, fingers pinching a nipple.
Kenneth watched, mesmerized. His hidden hand moved, a clumsy, furtive rub against himself through the layers. The friction was dulled by the thick wool, frustratingly inadequate compared to the slick, vivid reality on screen. He needed… He needed the directness. The shocking intimacy Claire had forced on him. The terrifying, electrifying clarity of his own touch later.
He tugged at the bulky blue sweater, pulling the sleeve back just enough to expose his fingertips. They trembled violently in the cool air of the bedroom. His gaze flickered between the screen – where the woman was arching, her strokes faster now, her moans unfiltered – and his own lap.
He ignored it.
His bare fingers, cold and shaking, pushed past the waistband of his sweats. Past the soft silk of his panties. Found the heat beneath. Found the slickness. Found the exact spot his clinical mapping had identified earlier. His gasp was sharp, loud in the quiet room.
Oh god. The contrast to the wool was staggering. Raw, electric sensation flooded him. The simple press of his own fingertip against that swollen point was almost too intense. He watched the woman on screen buck, heard her cry out – "Yes! Fuck, yes!" – and it wasn't just observation anymore. It was instruction. Affirmation.
His hips rocked forward, pressing his own touch deeper. He mimicked her rhythm, his strokes hesitant at first, then gaining confidence as the feedback loop ignited. Pleasure, sharp and demanding, coiled tighter and tighter. The woman’s climax on screen was a gasping, shuddering release, her body tensing, her hand working furiously until she collapsed back, panting. Kenneth watched, utterly absorbed, his own movements syncing unconsciously with her peak.
But he wasn't there yet. The peak hovered just out of reach, a shimmering promise. Frustration warred with the building ecstasy. He needed more. His strokes became rougher, more focused, driven by the visual echo and the desperate hum beneath his skin.
"Come on," he whispered, the word raw, echoing the woman’s command to herself. "Come on…" His breath came in short, sharp bursts, fogging his glasses. He pressed harder, circled faster, chasing the detonation he knew was possible. His other hand, still clad in wool, fisted the vinyl of the beanbag chair, the sound lost under his ragged breathing and the laptop’s tinny speakers.
The woman on screen was recovering, smiling languidly. Kenneth barely saw her. His world narrowed to the frantic pulse between his legs and the image burned onto his retinas – thick, flushed, shuddering in release. His own body tensed, every muscle locking. A high, strangled sound tore from his throat, muffled only by biting down on the thick wool of his sweater sleeve. Light splintered behind his eyes, not white this time, but a deep, electric purple. Pleasure ripped through him with seismic force, a violent, solitary unraveling that left him trembling violently, slumped back in the beanbag, gasping against the damp wool gagging his mouth.
The video ended, fading to black. The sudden silence was profound, broken only by Kenneth's ragged breathing and the constant hum of his PC. He slowly pulled his sticky fingers free, tucking them back into the safety of his sweater sleeve like guilty secrets. The phantom image of the woman’s cock, thick and glistening, lingered in his mind’s eye.
He didn’t feel hollowed out this time. He felt… mapped. Understood. And disturbingly, terrifyingly, hungry for more. He stared at the darkened laptop screen, his reflection a pale, blurred ghost in the glass. The wool of his sweater sleeve was damp with spit and sweat. He tasted it. Salt. Heat. Shame? Or just… data?
He reached out with a still-trembling, wool-clad paw and closed the browser window. The `/render_kenneth.core_response` metric pulsed softly, a low, satisfied thrum deep within his rewired core. He stayed slumped in the beanbag, the flickering desk lamp the only witness, the word echoing in the silence, sharp and unbidden: Good girl.
The word hung in the air like static, sharp and metallic. Good girl. It echoed the woman’s command on the laptop, Claire’s groan still vibrating in his palm’s memory, his own choked gasp still raw in his throat. He stayed slumped, the beanbag’s vinyl cool against his flushed cheek, the desk lamp flickering its uneven rhythm across discarded pizza boxes and stacked tech manuals. The hum of his PC, a constant `/render_kenneth.ambient_noise`, felt jarringly loud.
His body thrummed. That deep, satisfied thrum from his core was undeniable, potent, but layered with something else—a restless, prickling awareness that spread outwards from his center. He felt… different. Not just the lingering aftershocks, but fundamentally changed in a way he hadn't fully confronted. Last night’s transformation by the MasterPC app was a chaotic blur of heat and reshaping, immediately eclipsed by Claire’s arrival, her insistent demand, and then this… this solitary exploration. He hadn't looked. Not really.
The thought snagged in his mind. He hadn't seen himself. Not since the app finished its work. He’d just existed within this new skin, felt its responses, hidden it away under layers of oversized wool and cotton.
A shiver ran through him, unrelated to the room's chill. It started low, a tremor in his belly, climbing his spine. He needed to see. Needed to understand the parameters of this new system. `/render_kenneth.logic_module` kicked in, a desperate bid for control through observation. Data input required.
Uncurling from the beanbag felt monumental. His limbs were heavy, boneless. The thick blue sweater hung off one shoulder, revealing the smooth, pale curve beneath. He stared at that patch of skin for a long moment, pale in the flickering light. Not Kenneth’s shoulder anymore. Something else. Something… hers.
He pushed himself up. The movement felt alien, a shift in balance he hadn't accounted for. He stumbled slightly, socked feet catching on a discarded headphone cable. His glasses slid down his nose. He pushed them back up with the thick blue wool cuff, the sensation rough against his skin. He took a trembling step towards the full-length mirror screwed haphazardly onto the back of his bedroom door.
Each step amplified the awareness. The soft cotton of his sweats brushed against his thighs in a way that felt… amplified. Intrusive. The worn fabric of his panties seemed thinner, every seam a distinct pressure against newly sensitive skin. The ache between his legs, the pleasant soreness from his frantic touch moments ago, pulsed gently, a constant, low-level signal he couldn't ignore. He stopped two feet from the mirror.
His reflection swam into focus through the smudged glass, distorted slightly by the door’s imperfections. He blinked. Adjusted his glasses again. Stared.
The figure staring back was a stranger. A young woman. Slender, almost fragile-looking beneath the bulky, shapeless blue sweater that drowned her frame and pooled around her hands in those ridiculous sleeves. Her—his—face was pale, sharp cheekbones standing out, framed by slightly tangled, dark brown hair falling just past delicate shoulders. Thick-rimmed glasses magnified wide, tired brown eyes, but the expression… it wasn't Kenneth’s perpetual, detached exhaustion. It was raw shock. Bewilderment. A flicker of something like fear.
He raised a hand slowly. The blue wool sleeve slid back, exposing a slender wrist, a smooth forearm. He turned the hand over. Long fingers, slightly tapered nails bitten short. His bitten nails. On this hand. He flexed the fingers. They trembled.
His gaze drifted down, following the line of the huge sweater. It swallowed his torso utterly, hiding the changes lurking beneath. But lower. He saw the loose grey sweats, cinched tight at the waist to keep them from falling. A waist that seemed… smaller. Tapered. His hips flared slightly beneath the fabric, a subtle curve he’d never consciously registered before yesterday.
He took a shaky breath. The sweater rose and fell. Okay. Okay. System assessment. He needed… data. He needed to see.
Hesitantly, fingers still trembling within the wool cuff, he gripped the bottom hem of the massive blue sweater. It felt like moving through thick water. The wool rasped against the thin cotton of the t-shirt underneath as he slowly, slowly lifted it. Inch by inch. Smooth stomach, pale skin taut over lean muscle. A navel, an innocent dip. Higher. The fabric caught on something. Softness.
He froze. Heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the hum of the PC. He could feel the pressure of the sweater dragging against the sensitive peaks hidden beneath the t-shirt. A jolt of sensation, sharp and unexpected, shot through him. Not entirely unpleasant. Terrifying.
He forced himself to lift the sweater higher, bunching it under his arms. The thin, worn white cotton t-shirt was revealed, stretched slightly across… across breasts. Small, certainly, barely a handful beneath the fabric, but undeniably present. The peaks were stiff, visibly outlined against the cotton, reacting to the friction of the sweater’s wool.
His breath hitched. He stared at the reflection. At the slight swell beneath the t-shirt. At the defined peaks pressing against the thin barrier. His—her—chest rose and fell rapidly. `/render_kenneth.sensory_input` was spiking, a cascade of unfamiliar feedback: the soft weight, the tightness of the cotton, the persistent thrum of heightened sensitivity radiating from each point.
He couldn't look away. His reflection’s eyes were wide, pupils dilated. One hand, still hidden in the blue wool sleeve, unconsciously drifted upwards, hovering near a covered breast. He saw the movement in the mirror and snatched his hand back, tucking it defensively against his stomach. Too much. Too real.
He needed to see all of it. Needed to map the entire system. His gaze dropped lower, past the t-shirt hem caught under his arms, past the smooth plane of his stomach revealed by the lifted sweater. Down to the waistband of the grey sweats. Down to the undeniable, persistent throb between his legs. The ache that had driven him to that frantic climax minutes ago.
He knew what was there. He’d felt it. But seeing it… that was different. Classification. Verification. His fingers, finally abandoning the safety of the blue wool sleeve, fumbled with the drawstring of his sweats. The knot was tight. His hands felt clumsy, weak. He picked at it, the coarse string rough against his fingertips. Finally, it gave. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband, just like the woman in the video had done. His heart thundered. He pushed.
The sweats slid down over his hips, catching momentarily on the curve of his ass before pooling around his ankles, leaving him standing only in the thin white panties and the bunched-up sweater and t-shirt. He stared at his reflection’s legs. Slender. Smooth. Paler than his arms. He’d never really looked at his legs before. Now they seemed impossibly vulnerable.
The panties were simple cotton. White. They clung. His gaze fixed on the place where the fabric curved, where the seam ran between his legs. Where the shape underneath was… different. Not flat. Not male. A soft mound. The faintest suggestion of contours beneath the thin material. The ache pulsed again, a deep, insistent demand for attention, radiating heat he could almost see radiating through the cotton. He remembered the slickness his fingers had found. The swollen point. The electric jolt of his own touch.
He saw the slight damp patch darkening the white cotton. Proof. His breath fogged the mirror slightly, obscuring the lower half of the reflection for a second. He wiped it impatiently with a blue wool sleeve. The damp spot was still there. Real. His. He reached down, not with a hidden hand this time, but openly. His bare fingers hovered just above the fabric, over that hidden heat. He could feel the warmth radiating onto his fingertips. A tremor ran through him.
He looked up from that focal point, meeting his own terrified, fascinated eyes in the glass. The stranger stared back. Soft features framed by messy brown hair. Delicate shoulders. Small breasts outlined under cotton. The gentle swell of hips. The vulnerable curve of bare thighs. The undeniable presence beneath white panties. The phantom echo of Claire’s groan vibrated in his palm. The woman on the screen’s thick cock pulsed in his mind’s eye. His own slickness pressed against the cotton. `/render_kenneth.core_response` flickered, low and warm.
He saw it then. Not just the body. He saw the desire reflected in his own wide eyes. The terrifying, undeniable hunger. Claire’s desire for girls like this. For girls with cocks. For girls dressed in skirts and stocking? The thought was absurd, intrusive. He looked down at his own socked feet, one blue, one grey, mismatched against the worn floorboards. Then back at the reflection. At the body. His body now.
The word echoed again, sharper this time, cutting through the hum: Good girl. It wasn't Claire’s voice this time. It wasn't the woman on the screen. It was… his own. Inside. Recognition slammed into him, cold and hot all at once. He saw her. He saw himself. And the wanting was terrifying. It was his.
The reflection held him captive. A stranger with his bitten nails and wide, shocked eyes in a soft face, drowning in blue wool. That persistent, low throb between his legs pulsed in time with his frantic heartbeat, a relentless counterpoint to the hum of the PC. He needed out. Needed to not be here, staring at the undeniable curve of his hips beneath the bunched sweater, the damp spot on his panties glowing like an accusation in the flickering desk lamp light.
Kenneth squeezed his eyes shut. Think of something else. Anything else. His mind scrabbled for purchase, clutching at familiar anchors. Mrs. Henderson from 3B, who always smelled like lavender cookies and wore floral dresses. The image formed: kind smile, silver hair… and then, jarringly, shockingly, the floral fabric tented obscenely, a thick outline pressing insistently against the cotton print. Kenneth flinched, eyes snapping open to the reality of his own altered body in the mirror.
No. He tried again. Sarah, the effortlessly cool barista with the undercut and nose ring who made his complicated oat milk latte perfectly. Her ripped band t-shirt, faded jeans… which suddenly bulged at the crotch, the denim straining over a prominent, impossible ridge. His breath hitched, sharp and painful. A fresh wave of slick warmth bloomed against the thin cotton between his own thighs, unmistakable, making the fabric cling.
Okay, different woman. Neutral. Safe. His mind conjured his old college professor, Dr. Evans, stern and brilliant in her sharp suits. Grey pencil skirt, crisp white blouse… that pulled taut across newly prominent, rounded breasts, while the skirt’s smooth line was interrupted by an unmistakable, hefty swell pushing against the fabric right there. "Nope. Abort. Abort!" he hissed aloud, the sound thin and desperate in the cluttered room. His fingers, still bare and trembling, instinctively pressed against his own heat through the damp cotton, a jolt of sensation rocketing through him.
He whirled away from the mirror, stumbling back towards the beanbag chair, the motion making his new center of gravity lurch. The image of Claire flooded back, unbidden, dominant: her heated flesh under his hesitant grip, her groan vibrating up his arm, the sheer, overwhelming presence of her. Only now, his traitorous mind layered her sharp business suit, the stockings he vaguely remembered… and the thick, heavy weight he’d felt, not hidden, but confidently displayed. His pussy clenched, a fresh gush of wetness soaking further into the cotton, cool then immediately hot. He whimpered, sinking onto the beanbag, his whole body trembling.
He pulled his knees up, hugging them with arms swallowed by the blue sweater, trying to make himself small, to disappear into the familiar wool. But the scent of his own arousal, musky and intimate, mingled with the ozone tang of electronics. It permeated the space around him. He buried his face in the thick sleeve, breathing in laundry detergent and his own salt, trying to block it out, block her out, block himself out. The images kept flashing: floral dresses tented, denim bulging, pencil skirts straining. All beautiful women. All featuring… that.
His fingers, trapped against his belly inside the sleeve, curled into fists. The ache between his legs was a demanding pulse now, amplified by the wetness, by the constant sensory echo of his own exploration and those intrusive mental projections.
A soft knock echoed through the apartment door. "Ken? You alive in there? Smells like you finally burned out a motherboard." Claire's voice, laced with wry amusement, cut through the frantic hum inside his skull. "And maybe… something else?"