Fallout Equestria: Project Horizons - "New Horizons": Zero Dawn
Blackjack stumbles into a sexed-up horse casino and gets a deluxe spa treatment. Mature.
This has to be a mirage, I thought. You didn't just run into spotless, beaming alicorns in the middle of the Equestrian Wasteland. Especially not hot ones with sandy fur and long, black manes and curves like she'd never seen before stuffed into skin-tight bikinis and...
I shook my head. Don't get distracted. Don't look at her chest. (Seriously, how did she have a chest like that? It was so round and soft.) Okay, don't look at her chest, starting now.
"Who are you?" I asked.
With a flick of her bangs and a flutter of her eyes, she said, "I'm Oasis Shimmer, and I'm here to welcome you to The Horse Luxor." As she swept her hoof out in front of her, out of the rippling air behind her appeared a pyramid faced with polished white glass, gleaming and pristine, and surrounded by a spattering of shady palm trees strung up with pink and purple neon lights.
Which is to say that it was some extremely mirage nonsense. All I could think to say was "What?"
"It's a casino, dummy," Oasis said with a roll of her eyes. "And since we haven't been getting many customers, you've been selected to get the deluxe package, on the house."
Damn it, now I was staring at her lips. Thick and plump, painted with glossy purple lipstick, squeezed into a coy pout... Hey, give me some credit, at least it wasn't her chest this time. I tried to come up with some excuse not to go along with this, just on the off chance that it might be real, but everyone else was busy, and Oasis was perplexingly hot.
"Oh, uh...well, why not?" I said.
October 14, 2019
Free Beach Vacation!
A certain someone gets sent to the Vacation Zone and gets turned into an otter bimbo along the way. Mature.
It was spam—it had ended up in his inbox, but it was obviously spam. In colorful bold letters it said, 'Congratulations, you have won a free Beach Vacation! Redemption begins in...' with a timer next to it, ticking down from ten. Curious, he waited for it to count down to zero. Nothing happened, it just stopped. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, a gif of confetti to pop up?
With a click, he sent the spam email to the trash, then turned and pried himself up from his chair. He rubbed his hand along his face. It felt like he'd been sitting in front of his computer all morning. A quick brush of his tongue wet his dry, tender lips...and then they bulged outward.
His lips pressed against either side of his tongue. It felt as if a sudden rush of fluid had been pumped straight to his mouth, swirling out and filling up the available space, leaving his lips taut and nicely plump. He sucked a gasp through his light pout and clapped his hands over his mouth. The urge to fiddle with them was too strong though; they were just so strange that he couldn't resist prodding at them, tugging them, squeezing them gently between his thumb and forefinger to feel their firmness.
In the middle of squeezing them, they swelled out again. With his fingers on his lips, he could feel the pressure welling up from inside, pushing outward against his fingertips, then firming up like a plush pillow. Gingerly, he felt at the edges of his lips. They were large, not unreasonable, but certainly a bit surprising to find on a guy like him.
September 4, 2018
In this story, someone turns into a cartoon rubber doberman, then turns someone else into a cartoon rubber poodle via sex. So, y'know, be warned. Explicit.
It started with a hiss.
He'd been hunched over the desk for---geez, was that the time?---hours, and his back had begun protesting. He set down the pen and rose from his seat, straightened up and arched his spine. There went his joints: pop, pop, pop! A crack so sharp he heard it echo down the hall, followed by a low, steady hissing noise.
Did someone turn on a faucet? He cocked his head, glancing up at the ceiling, then over his shoulder. The sound wasn't coming from the walls. And it wasn't quite as light as running water; it sounded tighter and thicker. He turned in place and waited a moment, but the sound didn't change. The heavy hiss seemed like it was coming from...beneath him.
He looked down. His eyes fell on his crotch, bulging against the front of his jeans. Its shape was smooth and swollen, and slowly straining against the denim while he watched. He staggered backward; his bulging crotch bobbled from side to side against his thighs. The wall caught him and he stood there, staring down at his expanding crotch.
Damn it, not again!
June 24, 2018
A stressed-out college student relaxes by turning herself into a bimbo. Mature.
Kris thunked her face down into the middle of her textbook and let out a groan. Her lips stuck to the pages, which was probably gross, considering she'd bought it used. Dragging back her red hair, she pulled herself up, then folded her arms and flopped back down.
Midterms could eat a dick. Her first one wasn't until next Monday, but she'd been studying all day and she'd barely gotten through the first two weeks of class. She hadn't even changed clothes. She was still wearing the blue, palm-tree-patterned pajama pants and old high school Quiz Bowl tee shirt she'd worn to bed. It wasn't that she didn't want to take a break, it was that she couldn't. Even if she tried to nap, she'd just lie in bed stressing out over her impending doom until her stress headache came back.
What she needed was to relax.
Kris tipped her head to the side and glanced up at the shelf above her desk. Sitting on the side next to her closet was a round red button with a silver base. She reached up and pulled it down, setting it on the desk in front of her. In bold white letters across the was printed 'RELAX'.
Kris tapped her fingers across the letters. She'd never used the button before; never really had a need to. Now, between her headache and gnawing anxiety and her inability to get some rest, this was as good a time as any to try it out.
Her fingertips danced on top of the button while she pursed her lips. Either she should do it now, or put it away, she told herself. She pushed the button with her palm. It sank until hitting the bottom with a ker-click!
February 10, 2018
Some guy's girlfriend gets turned into a trashy rat girl in the Big Apple. Maybe not quite the Big Apple you're thinking of, but still. Explicit.
Rosa leaned against the railing in front of the windows. The city skyline spilled out on either side of her. She gave me the biggest, toothiest smile she could manage. I held her phone up, leaned back, and tapped the screen. There was a soft shutter-click.
I passed her phone back. "All right. I'm ready to climb back down," I said.
She gave me a confused look, the smile still stuck to her face. "What, you don't want a shot of us together?" she asked.
Before I could tell her she shouldn't be giving her phone to a total stranger, she'd slipped by me and passed it off to a wolf in a track jacket, then jogged back over to me.
Rosa hugged me tight around the waist. The side of her head pressed against my chest. I took a breath, put my arm around her, and tried to smile as big as she did.
Standing at the stern of the ferry, Rosa snapped one last picture of the Apple of Liberty, pale green in the afternoon sun. She turned around. The harbor wind pushed back her brown hair, save for a strand or two clinging to the corner of her lips.
"Here," she said, offering me her phone again. "Take a look."
I pressed my shoulder against hers so we could look at her pictures together. There were shots of us underneath the wall of clocks at Times Station. There was one of Rosa pointing up at the impeccably perpendicular corner of the Madison Square Building, and then a matching one of her at the top pointing down. There were shots of the post-modern floral arrangements at the Metropolitan Garden of Art. There were even shots of the hot dogs we'd had for lunch.
I gave her phone back. "That is a lot of photos."
Rosa stuck her phone in her jeans pocket and tugged her flannel shirt tighter against the thick harbor breeze. "We don't get to go on a lot of vacations," she said. "I want to make sure I remember all of this."
I did too. My hand rested on her waist and we leaned together against the wind.
"Hey," she said.
I looked into her eyes.
With a grin, she nodded toward the Apple of Liberty. "I guess that's why they call it the Big Apple, huh?"
I pursed my lips and sighed, which only made Rosa smile brighter.
October 18, 2017
A reality-warping collar turns an office worker into a tough hyena porn star, and changes those around him in pornographic ways. Explicit.
It starts while I'm washing my hands in the bathroom. I look down at the sink, then back up at the mirror, and instead of my tie, I'm wearing a collar.
As collars go, it's not even very work-appropriate.
The band is thick black leather, about an inch and a half tall, studded with round, half-inch steel spikes. It's big enough that I can slip my fist between the collar and my neck and still have wiggle room. There's a clasp in the back. I spin it around so it's facing front, and try to pull it open. It doesn't budge.
All right, fine, I'll just pull the collar up over my head instead. I slide the back up my neck and try to squeeze the front over my chin. Even though it's a loose fit, it's not loose enough to slide off. I keep trying for a good minute, until my neck's pink from the collar rubbing against it. My ears are hot and my face is flushed, too. I let go and it clunks down against my shoulders and collarbone.
If I can't take it off and I can't pull it off, maybe I can cut it off. I've got scissors back at my cubicle. I crack open the bathroom door and peek down the hall before I leave. I don't feel like trying to explain why I'm wearing an oversized punk collar in the middle of the office.
The coast is clear, so I slip down the hall, turn the corner, and see my boss, Tricia, coming my way. She's the sort of person who likes gray suits because 'they're neutral colors' and cares about timesheets and dress codes.
Maybe she won't notice the collar if she doesn't look too closely. I step to the side to slip by Tricia and give her a shy smile.
She smiles back, doesn't even glance at my neck, and says, "Hi, Spike."
I'm already past her, but I stop and pause. Was 'Spike' a dig at the collar? But if she saw it, she would have told me to take it off. I turn back toward her. "Um, what?"
"I was just saying hello," she says with a friendly shrug.
"Yeah, but my name's not Spike."
Tricia frowns lightly, then lifts an eyebrow. "Oh. All right, Mister Ryder," she says with more than a little sarcasm, then turns the corner and walks off toward her office.
My name's not Ryder either.