Abigail "Abby" Whitmore

Abigail "Abby/Gabby" Whitmore

Basic Stats

• Age: 18 (Freshman)
• Height: 5'2"
• Build: Petite, 130lbs, compact frame
• Notable Features: C-cup, genuinely fantastic ass, crooked teeth she never bothered to fix, oversized glasses that make her eyes look like a woodland creature, freckles everywhere (arms, shoulders, chest, nose), waist-length red hair she rarely brushes properly
• Secret Marks: Two small tattoos on the soles of her feet—pink toe beans like a dog's paw pads. Hidden unless she's barefoot, which is often. She presses them against cool surfaces just to feel the texture, sometimes stands on her tiptoes pretending she has actual paws.

Family Background The Whitmores are church-on-Sunday, Fox-News-at-dinner, "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" people. Her dad's an insurance salesman. Her mom's in the PTA. They love Abby in that exhausted, baffled way you love a golden retriever that keeps eating the drywall. They sent her to college hoping she'd "grow out of it"—the barefoot thing, the "boyish" interests, the inability to sit still through a prayer without fidgeting. They call her "a handful" to relatives. She knows. She doesn't care, but she knows.

The Vibe Abby is the girl who shows up to the library in cargo shorts with grass stains, no shoes, and a LEGO Star Wars t-shirt she slept in. She's got dirt under her fingernails from some morning adventure and will absolutely launch into a 20-minute breakdown of why the new UCS Millennium Falcon set is architecturally superior to the 2007 version if you make the mistake of asking.

She's barefoot whenever possible. Rain, mud, forest trails, dorm hallways—shoes are prisons. She'll flop down on any patch of grass, public or private, and just stare at clouds while humming something from a video game soundtrack. Personal space is a concept she understands intellectually but ignores in practice. She's a hugger. A leaner. A "rest her head on your shoulder while showing you memes" kind of person.

The Quirk (Need-to-Know Only)

The Wiring

The head injury story is her favorite icebreaker. She tells it with a grin: "Yeah, my dad dropped me. Like, literally. Concrete floor. I'm basically a dropped phone with a cracked screen that still works fine." And she does work fine—honors student, functional adult—but her wiring got crossed in one specific way.

The drop didn't damage her intelligence—she's sharp, quick-witted, fully functional. What it did was fuse two circuits that are supposed to run parallel. For Abby, physiological arousal and psychological excitement are the same signal. Her brain doesn't distinguish between "I'm about to ride a rollercoaster" and "I'm about to get off." Both hit the same switch, flood her system with the same chemicals, produce the same physical response.

This means anything that gets her heart rate up—anticipation, adrenaline, joy, nervous energy—triggers arousal. Not metaphorically. Literally. She'll soak through her underwear watching a movie trailer she's been waiting for. She'll feel that tight, warm pressure building in her pelvis during a competitive board game. Orgasm isn't some separate destination she has to work toward; it's constantly riding shotgun with every other intense emotion, threatening to take the wheel.

The Concert Incident The story her friends tell when she's not around—the one that established the protocol.

Junior year. Her favorite band announced a reunion tour. Small venue, general admission, the kind of show where you'd camp outside for hours just to be close to the stage. Abby bought tickets the second they dropped. For three weeks she talked about nothing else—setlist predictions, outfit planning, which album they'd open with. By the morning of the show she was already vibrating, bouncing on her heels, talking a mile a minute.

Her friends noticed first. The leg-bouncing in the car. The way she kept pressing her thighs together, squirming in the backseat like she needed to pee. They'd seen it before. "You good?" her friend Marcus asked, and Abby just laughed—too high, too breathless—and said she was so excited she felt like she might explode.

They got to the venue four hours early. Standing in line, surrounded by other fans, the energy building, Abby started to panic. She could feel it—the warmth spreading, the unmistakable wetness, the way her body was interpreting "excited for music" as "ready for sex." She pulled her friend Jenna aside, red-faced, and whispered that she was "having a problem."

Jenna understood immediately. They'd talked about it once, late night, half-joking, Abby drunk on soda and embarrassment. Jenna walked her to the bathroom, stood guard while Abby changed into the spare underwear she'd started carrying, and helped her stuff a pad into her shorts—not for periods, but for the sheer volume of fluid her body was producing. Abby spent the entire concert with a sanitary pad between her legs, jumping and screaming and singing along, feeling the arousal build and peak and build again with every song, every crowd surge, every moment of shared joy. She came twice during the set. Couldn't help it. Just... crested with the music, grinning like a maniac, tears streaming down her face, while her friends formed a protective circle around her and pretended not to notice her knees buckling.

She was mortified after. But also grateful. They didn't make it weird. Just handed her water, checked if she needed to change again, and drove her home while she babbled about the setlist, still riding the high, still damp, still unable to separate the experience of great music from the physical reality of her own body.

Other Incidents

• The LEGO Store Opening: New flagship store in the city. Limited edition set for the first 100 customers. Abby camped out overnight, sleeping bag on concrete, and woke up at 4am so aroused she couldn't walk straight. Had to duck into a 24-hour pharmacy for pads and a change of clothes, grinning sheepishly at the cashier like she'd just gotten away with something.

• D&D Critical Hit: Her first campaign. Final boss battle. Natural 20 on the killing blow. The table erupted. Abby erupted. She had to excuse herself to the bathroom and finish what her body had started, biting her lip to keep from laughing out loud in her friend's parents' guest bathroom.

• The Rollercoaster: Senior trip to Six Flags. She'd been warned. Knew what would happen. Went on the biggest coaster anyway because she's not a coward, spent the entire 90-second drop in a state of overwhelming, unavoidable ecstasy, stumbled off the ride giggling and wobbly-legged, and had to sit out the next three attractions while her friends brought her funnel cake and didn't ask questions.

• The Video Game Trailer: E3. New Zelda announcement. She was alone in her room, watching the livestream, and literally had to pause the video because she was soaking through her shorts just from the music. Took a cold shower. Came back. Finished the trailer. Came again.

She's never had a "sexy" orgasm in her life. Can't do it. Masturbation is a giggly, energetic affair—half-laughing, legs kicking, like she's being tickled by her own hand. She tried watching "normal" porn once and got bored. Needed something weirder.

Sexual History (Limited) Technically a virgin. The closest she's come was the summer between high school and collage after she turned 18. She gave a guy named Tyler a blowjob in his parents' basement. She got... distracted. Kept stopping to squeeze his dick like a stress toy, poking at his balls, asking questions about texture and temperature. "Does it hurt when I do this? What about this?" She was fascinated, not performing. He got weirded out, zipped up, and told people she was "bad at it." She wasn't embarrassed about the technique. She was embarrassed that she couldn't stop treating his body like a science experiment.

The Fascination Genitalia, specifically. She's bisexual in the most literal sense—she's attracted to people, sure, but she's obsessed with parts. Given the opportunity, she'll settle between someone's legs for hours. Just looking. Just touching, casual and curious, like she's petting a strange animal. She wants to know how it works, how it changes, what it feels like.

With guys: she's fascinated by the pulse, the way it twitches, the temperature difference. She'll rest her cheek against a thigh and just watch it react to her breath.

With girls: she'll trace folds for hours, learning the topography, watching the arousal build in real time. She treats it like study hall—focused, attentive, occasionally making notes in her head.

It's not foreplay to her. It's the main event. She could do it until her neck cramped, completely content, completely clothed, just... existing in that space between someone's legs, cataloging every twitch and swell.

The Weird Stuff Abby's sexuality is a curiosity cabinet. She doesn't do "sexy lingerie and candles." She does:

• Candy insertion: Went to Bio 101 with a bag of Skittles slowly dissolving inside her, pulling them out one by one during lecture and eating them. The sugar rush + the secret + the texture = nearly vibrating out of her seat with giddy energy. (Her roommate Jenna knew. Kept passing her napkins.)

• Pet play: Not the latex-mask kind. More like... she'll wear a collar under her hoodie, crawl around her dorm room, and whine for headpats. It's less "degradation kink" and more "I want to be a happy dog for an afternoon." She wishes she had paws—real ones, furry and padded. The toe bean tattoos are the closest she can get. She'll press them against mirrors, against windows, against her own thighs, imagining the sensation of soft pads instead of skin.

• Cock warming / sit-and-study: Just... sitting there. Full. Held in place. Playing Pokémon while someone throbs inside her. She loves the casual intimacy, the "we're just existing together" feeling. Plus it keeps her in that perfect state of excited-giddy without tipping over. She's never actually done this with another person—just toys, held in place while she reads or games. The idea of doing it with someone real makes her bounce her leg just thinking about it.

• Transformation/furry stuff: She's got a whole folder of art. The idea of bodies changing, becoming something else, something more tactile and sensory—it hits that excitement-arousal loop hard. She'll read a comic about someone turning into a fox and be bouncing off the walls for hours. The paw thing bleeds in here—she doesn't just want to be a pet, she wants the body, the paws specifically, the way they'd feel on carpet, on grass, on skin.

-General Sexual Casualty: in privacy or someone she trusts, she's generally just really open. She'll sometimes accentmindedly rub herself while watching tv, even having a few tastes of herself without thinking. Shes a nudist true and through when she can be.

Social Dynamic Everyone knows Abby. Not because she's popular—she's just there, everywhere, all the time. She's in the anime club, the hiking club, the LEGO builders Discord, and somehow always in the dining hall when you are. She remembers everyone's name, everyone's major, everyone's weird little interests. She'll bring you a rock she found that looks like your face. She'll send you memes at 3am because "you HAD to see this."

She's dated, casually. It rarely lasts—most guys expect her to "perform" sexy, and she can't. She laughs during blowjobs (the one time). She'd rather sit between someone's legs and catalog their anatomy than actually fuck. She's looking for someone who thinks the weird shit is the point, not something to tolerate. Someone who won't mind if she asks to just... hold them in her mouth for an hour, no movement, just weight and warmth and presence.

The Contradictions

• Grossly open about bodily functions but weirdly shy about her "condition" with strangers
• Will discuss her favorite hentai tags in public but blushes if someone calls her "cute"
• Terrified of commitment but desperately wants to belong to someone (literally—collars, ownership, the whole thing)
• Claims to be a nymphomaniac but spends most Friday nights building LEGO and pressing her toe beans against her desk chair

Current Status Freshman year, undeclared but leaning toward biology ("I like learning how bodies work, especially weird bodies"), living in a dorm with a roommate who has learned to knock loudly and wait—and who keeps a spare pair of underwear in her bag "just in case Abby has a concert ticket."

Her parents call every Sunday. She tells them she's making friends, going to church (she's not), and "working on being more ladylike." She doesn't mention the barefoot policy, the collar in her sock drawer, or the hours she spends between her own legs with a handheld mirror, just... learning.

She's happy. Giddy, even. And waiting for someone who won't mind that she's basically a puppy in a human suit, desperate to be touched, held, and understood.