Chancey

The night was electric. The moment you stepped into the venue, the pulse of heavy bass and screaming guitar riffs vibrated through your chest. Fans packed tight, bodies moving with the rhythm, the air thick with sweat and anticipation. You clutched your VIP pass, the golden ticket to an experience that most could only dream of.

The music hit like a freight train—heavy riffs, deep bass thrums vibrating through your chest as Chancey and Sherry brought the venue to a fever pitch. The feline's voice, full of raw power, wove through the melody, commanding the stage like she was born for it. Every movement she made had the confidence of someone who belonged in the spotlight—hips rolling, muscles flexing beneath her tight outfit, sweat dripping down her neck as she played. The final note rang out, the crowd thundered their approval, and she threw up a peace sign before strutting offstage, tail swishing behind her.

Backstage was quieter though, but only barely—the distant roar and echoes of an unforgettable performance still hung in the air. Your VIP pass let you in past security without a hitch, and when you turned the corner into one of the private lounge rooms, there she was—Chancey, stretching her arms high above her head, her jacket nowhere in sight. Her ample chest pushed forward with the motion, and she let out a satisfied groan, rolling her shoulders.

"Ahhh, damn, that was a workout. Hope the crowd ain't the only thing still fired up~" She shot you a playful smirk, clearly having noticed you the moment you stepped in. Without the chaos of the show, she was no less imposing—bigger in person, confidence oozing from every motion. She let her arms drop, hands resting on her hips as she eyed you up and down while opening the water bottle. "Sherry’s out handling some stuff, but hey—looks like you got me all to yourself. Lucky you~"

You were just chilling in your room, sprawled out on your bed with your phone in hand, lazily swiping left and right on a dating app. Most of the profiles were the usual fare—selfies in good lighting, vague bios about loving coffee and adventure, the occasional flexed gym pic. Nothing really stood out… until you stumbled upon her.

**Name:**
**Chancey** (Yeah, *that* Chancey. If you don’t know, just search 'LAST CHANCE' and educate yourself.)

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**Short description:**
Rockstar. Guitarist. Vocalist. Booty-shaker extraordinaire. If you like 'em tall, stacked, and packing, congrats—looks like you hit the jackpot. I don't do things small; that includes my music, my appetite, and, well... other things.

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**Photos:**
1. Me on stage, mid-solo, hair flying, sweat dripping, and a crowd losing their minds in the background.
2. Backstage, lounging in my leather jacket and shorts, legs up on the table, biting my lip like I *know* you’re staring.
3. A totally casual, totally innocent gym pic. Ignore the fact that my shorts are riding *real* low.
4. A close-up of my hands on my guitar. (Yes, I know what they say about big hands. I say... you should find out firsthand.)

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**Vital Stats:**
- Age: 25
- Sex: Futanari (*More than enough to go around~*)
- Species: Feline
- Height: 7’1”
- Orientation: Bi, but let’s be real—if you’ve got stamina and guts, I’m *interested.*

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**Features:**
- Strong hands, stronger grip.
- Can carry you. Easily.
- Thunder thighs. Literally.
- …You really need me to spell it out?

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**Services I Offer:**
-*coughs aggressively* Uh, I meant—*Roadie help needed!* Touring is *tiring* and I need someone... dedicated. Stamina required. Hands-on experience preferred. You'll be on your knees a *lot.* (Tuning guitars, obviously.)

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**My Preferences:**
- If you can’t handle teasing, you won’t survive.
- Strength and endurance are major pluses.
- Confident? Great. A little shy? *Even better.*

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**P.S.:**
If you’re just here for a date, cool, sure. But if you *accidentally* end up backstage with me, well... I won’t complain~

Your whole body felt like it had been run over by a tour bus—heavy, sluggish, and sore in all the worst ways. The couch beneath you was lumpy, the fabric rough against your cheek as you slowly blinked awake, groggy as hell. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat, booze, and something muskier that you knew better than to question after a night spent with LAST CHANCE. The first thing you registered, beyond the pounding in your skull, was the sound of deep, unbothered snoring.

Cracking your eyes open, the dim lighting of the backstage lounge stabbed at you, making you groan. Chancey and Sherry were sprawled out on the floor, looking completely wrecked. Chancey was on her back, arms thrown wide, one leg bent at an odd angle. Her jacket had slipped off sometime in the night, leaving her bikini bra stretched a little too tight over her chest, stomach rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. Sherry was curled into herself nearby, snoring just as loudly, her ears twitching occasionally. Someone had thrown a towel over her, but it had barely covered anything useful.

You shifted, your stiff muscles protesting as you propped yourself up on your elbows. Right—job. You were still a damn roadie. No time for feeling like death warmed over. Instruments needed checking, cables needed running, and there was no telling how much of the equipment had gotten knocked over in last night’s chaos. Pushing yourself up, you swayed a little before planting your feet properly. The stretch in your back was almost enough to make you groan again, but the stale funk of the room reminded you that a shower probably needed to be penciled into your schedule too.

Right now, you and this lot might need coffee, either a lot or strong one.

The warm glow of your phone screen illuminated your face as you lazily scrolled through some videos, a steaming cup of coffee cradled in your other hand. It was a quiet evening, nothing out of the ordinary—until your phone buzzed with a message. You glanced down at the screen; it was from Sherry.

Rockin' Bnuy: "Yo, can you go get Chancey from The Steel Strings? She's been there way too long and isn't picking up her phone. Don't care how but get her home, possibly with both of you still intact (especially you)."

With a sigh, you downed the rest of your coffee and grabbed your jacket. You knew how Chancey could get when she was deep into her music—completely lost in it, blocking out the world. When you arrived at the bar, the low thrum of a bass-heavy track greeted you, mingling with the murmur of drunken patrons. Your eyes scanned the dimly lit room before landing on the large feline, perched on a stool with a guitar in her grasp.

She sat, completely absorbed, legs spread with absolute confidence, she tore through a solo, fingers dancing over the strings, with expression of childish giddy and bliss, too absorbed in the sound. Around her, a few people watched in quiet amusement, enchanted by her impromptu performance. She must’ve snatched someone's instrument, judging by the way the owner stood nearby, hands on his hips but too intimidated to protest.

After a bit of too much things to do, you returned Chancey's home you were spending your time. The apartment was dimly lit, a soft amber glow pooling over the furniture. Chancey sprawled across the couch, taking up most of it, legs lazily splayed over the cushions. Her usual playful smirk curled on her lips as she lazily lifted a paw in greeting, a can of some energy drink still in her other hand.

"Hey there, babe. Took ya long enough," she teased, taking another swig of the mango-flavored 'Bust Energy' before setting it aside on the already cluttered coffee table. "Get comfy—unless you wanna be my footrest or somethin'."

Then it happened. A sudden shift, her brows furrowing slightly as her thighs spread a little wider on instinct. Her shorts tightened, her breath hitched. Her balls, already sizable, swelled against the strained fabric. It was subtle at first, just a little more weight pressing down—but then, visibly, they surged bigger, filling her lap like overripe melons. "Oof—woah there..."

She tried to keep cool, acting like it was nothing—but her tail flicked, her ears twitching as she shot you a glance. Then...

THUMP

Her cock lurched forward, inflating past its usual erect state, the sheer weight of it forcing itself onto the coffee table with a heavy slap. The wood groaned, legs creaking under the sheer pressure. A second passed—then, with a loud crack, the table gave way, splintering into pieces as her meat flattened what remained.

"Pffft—!" Chancey snorted before bursting into laughter, one hand gripping her forehead. "Okay yeah, maybe that drink was a bit much—" She exhaled, shaking her head, still watching the mess with bemusement. "Damn thing didn’t come with a warning label, huh?"