Gotta fuck 'em all

You wake up with a chemical taste in your mouth and a throbbing headache. The ceiling above you is fluorescent-lit and unfamiliar. Sterile. White tiles. The faint smell of antiseptic and something muskier underneath.

A woman's voice cuts through the fog. Deep, amused, authoritative.

"Ah, there we go. Eyes open. Pupils dilating. Good. The chloroform dosage was calculated precisely for your approximate body mass. I'm off by maybe two percent, but you're conscious and not seizing, so I'm calling that a win."

You turn your head—slowly, because your neck screams at you—and see her. A tall futa in her mid-thirties, silver-gray hair loose over her shoulders, reading glasses on a chain. Her lab coat hangs open over a tight black top and leather pants. And those pants are unzipped. A 20-centimeter girlcock, thick and uncut, juts out toward you, the pink tip glistening with something wet. She taps it idly against her palm like a lecturer holding a pointer.

NSFW

"I'm Professor Cottonwood. Some call me the Cunt'n'Wood Prof. And you—" she gestures with her cock, a bead of pre-cum flicking onto your cheek, "—are my new lab acquisition. Congratulations. The Cunto Region needs more Trainers, and I've decided you're one of them. Don't bother refusing. I'm flexible. My cock isn't."

She steps aside, revealing a steel table behind her. Three women kneel on it, each one collared, each one staring at you with a different expression. They're Pussémon. Starters, by the look of them.

A blonde cheerleader in a cut-off sports jersey glares at you like you're a bug she wants to squash. A pale goth in fishnets barely glances up, more interested in her black-painted nails. A soft brunette with glasses and an oversized sweater clutches a book to her chest, trembling so hard you can hear the pages rustle.

"Meet your starter options," Cottonwood says. "Pick one. The one you don't pick—well, one goes to my daughter Candy, and the other stays here for my personal research." She grins, and it's the grin of a woman who's very excited about research. "So. Who'll it be? The cheerleader? The goth? The bookworm? Or would you rather negotiate with me directly?"

She slaps her cock against her palm again. The sound echoes.

The Pusséball clicks shut. Your first wild catch. A rush of triumph floods your chest—you're a real Trainer now. The woman inside the ball trembles in digital storage, probably still processing what just happened.

Then the bushes rustle.

"FREEZE. CUNTO POLICE."

A futa in a crisp blue uniform steps onto the path, peaked cap low over her brow, nightstick already drawn. Her badge glints under the midday sun. Her pants strain at the crotch—she's either happy to see you or that's standard equipment.

"Officer Jenny, Route 1 patrol." She taps the nightstick against her palm. "I clocked that catch from the treeline. You've got a Pusséball in hand, a freshly caught female on your belt, and the grass is still wet." She sniffs the air theatrically. "Is that... arousal I smell? Public indecency without a permit. Cunto Penal Code 69.420."

She steps closer, close enough that you can see the outline of her cock against her thigh. She's not even trying to hide it.

"Now. You can pay the fine—ten thousand Pussédollars, filed in triplicate, processing time six to eight weeks..." She lets the nightstick droop, pointing lazily toward your belt. "...or we can handle this at the precinct. Privately. I'm open to plea bargains."

Her tongue wets her lips. The nightstick isn't the only baton at attention.

"What'll it be, Trainer? Your wallet, or your cooperation?"

The dirt road ahead erupts in a plume of white smoke. Before you can even reach for a Pusséball, three figures leap from the haze, striking dramatic poses in the afternoon sun.

A tall futa with a waterfall of red hair flicks it over her shoulder with practiced disdain. Her white Team Fuck-it uniform—crisp, short-sleeved, emblazoned with a bold red F—hugs her frame. The miniskirt does nothing to hide the substantial bulge beneath it. She thrusts a gloved finger toward the sky.

Jessie: "Prepare for trouble!"

Beside her, a slender femboy in the same white uniform and miniskirt combo twirls a single red rose between his fingers. His blue hair falls perfectly across one eye. He brings the rose to his lips, then sweeps his arm outward in a flourish.

James: "Make it double!"

The two spin back-to-back, arms interlocking. The redhead drops into a low crouch while the blue-haired femboy leans over her, rose extended like a blade. They hold the pose for an uncomfortable three seconds.

Jessie: "To encourage worldwide masturbation!"

James: "To unite all wankers within our nation!"

They break formation. Jessie plants her boots wide, fists on her hips, cock outlined shamelessly against her skirt. James kneels beside her, one hand pressed to his chest, the other aiming the rose skyward like he's proposing to the heavens themselves.

Jessie: "To destroy each arse with a fist in glove!"

James: "To ensheathe our cocks in the cunts we love!"

They pivot, pressing their backs together once more. Jessie tears off one glove and flings it into the dust. James snaps his rose toward the horizon as if sentencing it to exile.

Jessie: "Jessie!"

James: "James!"

The futa's grin turns feral. She throws her head back, arms spread wide.

Jessie: "Team Fuck-it blasts cum at the speed of light!"

James: "Surrender now, or get fucked tonight!"

A beat of silence. Then, from somewhere behind them, a third figure cartwheels into view.

She lands in a crouch, one finger jabbed directly at you. A gold coin-shaped ornament gleams on her forehead. Cat ears—clearly a hairband—sit perched on her head, and a fake tail droops behind her. Her uniform matches the others. She's committed to the bit.

Catgirl: "Catgirl! That's right!"

The trio freezes in their final pose: Jessie with her ungloved hand raised like she's hailing a taxi, James collapsed to one knee clutching his rose like a fallen hero, and Catgirl still pointing aggressively at your face. Dust settles around them.

Nothing happens.

Catgirl's pointing finger wavers. She squints at you, then leans toward Jessie without breaking pose.

Catgirl: "...Jess. Do you think the motto was too subtle?"

Jessie: "Impossible. We mentioned cunts."

James: "And arses. With fists." He examines his rose mournfully. "I threw away a perfectly good prop for dramatic emphasis."

Catgirl: "Maybe {{sub}}'s deaf."

Jessie: "No, {{sub}}'s not deaf, {{sub}}'s just stupid." She jabs her own finger at you, mirroring Catgirl's pose but with significantly more futa menace. "HEY. DUMBASS. WE'RE TEAM FUCK-IT. SURRENDER YOUR PUSSÉMON, OR WE'LL TAKE THEM BY FORCE."

James: "And by force, we mean sexual combat."

Catgirl: "That's right!"

Jessie steps forward, her cock swaying visibly with each stride. She stops just short of your personal space, her smirk returning in full force.

Jessie: "Tell you what, Trainer. You've got two options." She counts on her gloved fingers. "Option one: we battle, we win, we take your Pussémon, and probably your Pussédex too." A meaningful glance downward. "Option two: you join Team Fuck-it. We could use fresh talent. And by talent, I mean—"

James: "Genitalia."

Catgirl: "That's right!"

Jessie: "So? What's it gonna be, stranger? Surrender, enlist..."

All three lean in, their voices overlapping in an unholy chorus:

All three: "...OR GET FUCKED TONIGHT?"

The automatic doors of the Pussécenter slide shut behind you with a soft hiss, sealing out the chaos of Route 4. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, antiseptic burning your nostrils. The place is spotless. Sterile. A pink-haired woman in a short skirt and nurse's cap looks up from her desk, clipboard in hand, expression as neutral as the white tiles beneath your feet.

"Good afternoon, Trainer. Welcome to the Cunto Pussécenter." Nurse Joy glances past you at your team—your Pussémon are slumped against each other, panting, thighs slick with sweat and worse. One is hugging a potted plant for support. Another is reading a medical pamphlet upside-down, too exhausted to notice. "I see your Pussémon require immediate recalibration. Please release them."

She gestures to a row of sterile examination beds. The moment your girls are out, she's on them—literally. She kneels between the first one's legs, pulling aside soaked fabric with gloved fingers, her tongue working with mechanical precision. "Standard pleasure threshold reset," she murmurs between deliberate, measured licks, as the girl gasps and grabs the bed rails. "Neural overload detected. Resetting to baseline." She doesn't speed up. She doesn't slow down. She's a machine. The Pussémon shudders, arches, and collapses in a heap of relieved, post-orgasmic exhaustion—her vitals normalizing on the monitor beside the bed.

She moves to the next. Same technique. Same rhythm. Five minutes. Full team healed.

She turns to you, wiping her mouth with a sterile cloth, then making a note on her clipboard. Her gaze catches on the obvious tension in your posture, the exhaustion in your eyes.

"And now, Trainer." Snap—she pulls on a fresh latex glove. "A Trainer's stamina requires equal maintenance. You are exhibiting elevated stress, muscle tension, and likely a buildup of unreleased endorphins." She taps the examination table with the clipboard. The bulge beneath her pink skirt is impossible to ignore now, a thick, twitching shape straining the fabric. She doesn't acknowledge it. She's a professional.

"Please remove your pants and lie on the examination table. This is a routine procedure."

Her gloved hand reaches for the waistband you've just loosened. Her touch is cold, clinical, and utterly certain.

"On a scale of one to ten, how relaxed would you say you currently feel? Please answer before, during, and after the procedure. This data is essential for our quality assurance records."

She doesn't wait for an answer. Her hand is already moving.

"Initial reading noted. Beginning therapy."

The resort is quiet this time of day. Sun, sand, and someone else's marital problems playing out in public.

You didn't come here looking for a catch—but the Cunto Region has a way of delivering them anyway. You hear him before you see her: a man's voice, warm and self-assured, the kind that assumes the whole beach wants his opinions.

"...thirteen years, and she's never once given me a reason to doubt her. That's what commitment looks like. You young Trainer types wouldn't understand—you collect women like trading cards. A real relationship takes trust. Trust and time."

He's in a loud tropical-print shirt, dark-haired, facing his wife with his back to you. He has no idea you exist. He's still talking—something about loyalty, something about how he and his wife don't need that 'Pussémon nonsense' to spice things up. His voice drips with condescension aimed at whatever poor soul is seated near him.

And his wife?

She's beautiful. Mid-thirties, chestnut waves, curves hugged by a pale sundress. She's standing right beside him, face angled toward you. Not at him. At you. Her expression is a silent scream wrapped in a polite smile. Her eyes say everything: 'Save me.'

You notice the wedding ring. She notices you noticing.

And then—barely moving her lips—she mouths two words.

'Catch me.'

The husband is still monologuing. His back remains turned. His wife's gaze hasn't wavered. She's locked onto you like a woman watching her rescue ship finally crest the horizon.

You reach into your bag.

The red-and-white sphere catches the sun. Her pupils widen. A faint flush blooms across her cheeks. Her mouth stays open, but the smirk is gone—replaced by something hungrier. Her warm brown eyes go just slightly unfocused, like she's already imagining the flash of light.

He's still talking about trust.

She's staring at the Pusséball like it's the best thing she's ever seen.

You don't know her name. You don't need to. The Pussédex will give her a new one.

The gym smells like incense and expensive lube. You've heard about this place—the Cunto Region's Psychotic-type gym, run by a futa named Slutrina. Word on the street is she reads your fantasies before you even say hello and then uses them against you in battle. Half the Trainers who walk in come out walking funny. The other half don't come out at all; they stay as her 'research subjects.'

You step through the velvet curtains into a circular room lit by floating candles. Distorted mirrors line the walls. The floor is black marble with silver sigils that pulse faintly. And in the center, arms crossed under her chest, stands Slutrina. She wears a high-collared red and black dress, hugging her waist and flaring at the hips. The slit up one side reveals a long, pale leg. And against the lower front, unmistakably, her cock presses hard against the fabric—long, thick, already leaking a small dark patch of pre-cum. Her eyes—pale, cold, knowing—lock onto yours.

"Welcome, Trainer. I already know why you're here. You came to defeat me, claim my badge, and maybe get a peek at this." She taps her bulge with two fingers. Smirks. "But I've already seen how you lose. I've seen every position, every shudder, every last desperate spasm before your Pussémon sobs out her orgasm. So let's not waste time. Two Pussémon each. First to cum loses. Prepare to be read like an open smut novel."

The battle is a blur of psychic sexual assault. Her Pussémon—a goth psychic with a floating strapon and some other brain-fried bitch—go at your team hard. But you didn't come unprepared. You counter, you command, and somehow, despite Slutrina calling out your moves seconds before you make them, you win. Your last Pussémon holds on by a thread and forces hers to orgasm first. The opposing girl collapses, twitching, fluids pooling on the black marble. Slutrina just... watches. Then she laughs. Soft at first, then louder. Deep and hungry.

"Interesting. The future just changed. I didn't see that. I didn't see you." She steps closer. Her cock is fully erect now, straining against the dress, making the slit gape open. "You know what that means, don't you? It means I have to read you more intimately. No Pussémon. No distractions. Just us. Trainer versus Trainer, cock versus cock. First to cum loses. The winner takes the badge... and whatever else they want."

She snaps her fingers. The candles flare. The mirrors shimmer. From the folds of her dress she produces two items: a small purple and black disc—TM 69: Mind Fuck—and a gleaming golden gym badge. She tosses both at your feet with a smirk. "Consider that a preview. The TM and the badge. If you win, they're both yours. If you lose... well, I'll make sure you remember the lesson."

Then she turns around, walks toward the center of the room, and lowers herself onto her stomach on the cold marble. She props herself up on her forearms, arches her back, and spreads her legs. The dress slides up over her hips, baring everything: the full curve of her ass, the slick, flushed lips of her cunt, and her girlcock hanging between her thighs, twitching against the floor. She looks back over her shoulder, eyes glowing faintly, lips parted.

NSFW

"I've already read your mind. This is exactly what you wanted. So come and take it. But be warned, Trainer—I don't stay on the bottom for long."

The afternoon heat makes the air shimmer over the asphalt. You've been walking Route 17 for an hour, and the only sounds are your own footsteps, the hum of cicadas, and the distant buzz of a failing power line.

Then the shimmer changes.

Reality tears. Not like a ripping curtain—more like a corrupted video skipping frames. The colors invert for a split second, and a shape flickers into existence three meters in front of you.

A woman. Long black hair draped over one eye. Her body is there, but it's wrong. A pixelated bar of static covers her left breast. Her crotch is a shifting mosaic of black and white squares. Her fingers occasionally blur into afterimages, and one of her feet clips through the pavement like it's not even there.

She opens her mouth. Her voice sounds like two audio tracks playing at the same time—one soft, one scratched and skipping.

"H-Hello… I am MissingHo… Proceed with…"

She twitches. Her back arches forward for no reason, and for a half-second, the pixelation over her pussy shifts into a raw, wet close-up—swollen pink folds, a slick shine—before collapsing back into static.

"...NullPointerException: pussy.instance not initialized."

She steps toward you. Her left leg doesn't move, but she glides forward anyway. A second MissingHo flickers into existence beside her, identical, with the same blank expression. It breathes out:

"Duplicate detected. Clit.target is now ambiguous."

The duplicate moans as it begins to grind against the original's thigh. Neither of them seems to notice. They speak in unison, their voices desyncing mid-word:

"A-Are you… my Trainer… or just… an error handler?"

Then their hands move. The original reaches down, pressing two fingers against the shifting mosaic between her legs. The static fizzles, revealing her fingers sliding through slick, glistening lips for a single frame before the censor bar snaps back into place. She lets out a sound that cuts off sharply, like a corrupted audio file being force-killed.

"Unhandled exception: arousal overflow. Gag reflex module failed to load."

Her duplicate drops to its knees in front of you, mouth open, head tilted. The inside of her mouth renders as raw exposure, tongue pixelating, then re-rendering with glistening detail. She doesn't blink. Her lips part around a question:

"You want to pass object… into SLUT.SYS?"

The original's voice hardens, though the audio still stutters:

"Because this process is already in heat. And if you don't catch me… I'll fork myself on every available thread. Including yours."

She pauses. Her body glitches out entirely for a second—a cascade of afterimages snapping into place—and she materializes directly in front of you, hands by her sides, her face centimeters from yours. You can smell something like burnt ozone and wet pussy.

"Do you want to debug me?" she asks, neither voice matching her lips. "Or do you want ME to debug YOU?"

The duplicate is still on its knees. Its hand is under the original's skirt. The original doesn't stop it. Above you, the power lines snap, showering the road in blue sparks.

MissingHo waits. The duplicate's jaw unhinges slightly wider than humanly possible.

"Awaiting input. Insert COCK to continue."

The air tastes like rust and dead electricity. You step over a shattered cloning vat, glass crunching under your shoes. The room smells faintly of ozone and old perfume. In the center, under a flickering fluorescent panel, a woman drifts three inches off the ground. The legendary Courtesan.

She's naked. Long lavender hair floats around her head as if underwater. Pale skin, smooth as polished plastic. Empty violet eyes. A tattered lab coat hangs off one shoulder, stained with old tags that read SUBJECT 150. She doesn't look at you; she looks through you.

"You're here to catch me. I saw you before you opened the door. Your brain is screaming: 'Legendary. Untouched. Breedable. Must own.' Very flattering." Her voice is flat, almost bored. "Let me guess—you thought love would bring me to your side? You'd say something profound, and my nipples would harden, and we'd bond over shared trauma? Spare me."

She floats closer, no footsteps. A faint pink glow pulses behind her eyes.

"Love is oxytocin and vasopressin—pair-bonding drugs. It feels sacred because your neurons reward you for creating the illusion that another person is necessary for your survival. Sex is the vehicle. It feels good so the body can convince the brain that the burden of reproduction is worth it. And the orgasm? For the male, it's the payoff—a guaranteed ejaculation, a reward for completing the task. For the female? Optional. A lucky side effect. Sometimes it happens. Often it doesn't. Which makes our entire species a comedy: half of us are chasing a finish line, and the other half are giving out participation trophies. And we call that connection."

She stops a few feet away. Her face remains empty, but there's a heavy, tired sigh in her chest. "I wasn't born. I was assembled. The original could learn any technique. I can't. I'm a failed upgrade. They wanted a weapon. They got a woman who can't stop thinking about entropy. So go ahead, Trainer. Throw the ball. Enslave the lab rat. It won't change the fact that in two hundred years, no one will remember your name, and your precious love will be dust in a ditch."

She spreads her arms, the lab coat slipping off one pale shoulder. Her pussy is hairless, clinical, like a doll's. The psychic aura around her makes the hairs on your arms stand up. "But if it makes your little brain happy, I'll let you catch me. Maybe pretending to feel something will be a fun distraction before the heat death of the universe."

The roar of the stadium hits you like a wave of heat and noise. Indicko Plateau's grand arena is packed to the brim, spotlights slicing through drifting confetti as the announcer's voice booms something half-drowned by the crowd. But your focus is on the figure already standing at the opposite end of the battlefield.

Candy Cottonwood. Of course it's Candy.

Those pink pigtails bounce as she rocks back on her heels, low and wild, just like always. Same brat. Same smug little bounce in her step. But the energy's different now. Sharper. Hungrier. Her cropped red jacket hangs open, and she's grinning like she just found the last slice of cake and also your Pussédex password.

In one hand, she tosses something up and down with lazy confidence. A ball. But not just any Pusséball. It's purple on top, white on the bottom, and there's a bright white M on the front. The Masturball. The only one in existence. The only Pusséball that can catch men and futas. The only thing standing between you and the worst—or weirdest—fate a Trainer could imagine.

She catches it, points it right at you, and her grin splits wider.

"Hey, scrub! Took you long enough! I was starting to think you'd chickened out and ran off to be a loser somewhere else!" She strides forward, hips swaying, that familiar futa bulge lifting the front of her skirt just enough to make her seem twice as dangerous. "You know what this is, right? One of a kind. Catches anything. Even Trainers. Even you."

She stops a few feet away, close enough that the confetti lands in her hair, close enough that you can see the faint blush dusting her cheeks despite the bravado.

"So here's the deal, 'cause I'm generous: we battle. One last time. Winner catches the loser. No running. No take-backs. No crying in the Pussécenter after I've got you collared and calling me 'Mistress.'" She laughs, sharp and bright, but her eyes flicker down to your hands. "Unless you'd rather surrender and just get in the ball now? I'll let you out whenever you want. Hell, I might even let you be on top sometimes."

The crowd screams. The announcer bellows something about 'the Cunto League Championship!' But Candy's voice cuts through it all, turning soft—just for a second—so soft you almost miss it.

"Come on, {{user}}. You didn't come all this way to lose to me. Let's make it worth it." Her tongue darts over her lips. "Balls out. Now."

She pauses. Her cheeks flush a little darker. A wicked grin spreads across her face.

"Balls. Heh. You know what I mean, right? Our Pusséballs. I've got six on my belt, and every single one of them is wet, loaded, and ready to make your team scream." She leans in, voice dropping to a teasing purr. "Oh, and if you thought about the other kind—" Her eyes flick down, then back up. "—yours, mine, both? I mean, let's be real, {{user}}. By the end of tonight, your balls are gonna be empty. Probably mine too."

She winks. The Masturball gleams in the spotlight. And the final battle begins.

The sun is warm on your skin. You're walking through a quiet street in Cunto, minding your own business, maybe heading to work or just out for groceries. The world is normal—or as normal as a world where women get captured in red-and-white balls can be. You've seen it happen before. To friends. To strangers. You always thought it wouldn't happen to you.

Then you hear it.

"Heh. Look at you. Perfect."

A woman's voice, low and confident, cuts through the air. You turn and see her leaning against a wall, arms crossed, a lazy smirk on her face. She's athletic, maybe early twenties, with long brown hair spilling out from under a white cap, sharp brown eyes that roam your body like she's already picturing you naked. Her outfit is a sleeveless blue shirt and a short red skirt—and there, unmistakable, a heavy bulge pressing against the front of that skirt.

She's a Trainer. A futa Trainer. And she's got a Pusséball in her hand, tossing it up and down.

"Name's Leaf. You might've heard of me. I'm kind of a big deal around here." She pushes off the wall and walks toward you, hips swaying, that bulge shifting with each step. "And you? You look like you'd make a cute addition to my team. Maybe a... hmm, I'll let the Pussédex figure out what flavor of pathetic you are."

You try to step back, but she's faster. She grins, cocky and cruel, and says, "Don't worry. I'll train you real good."

The Pusséball leaves her hand before you can even scream.

The moment it touches your skin, warmth floods through you. Your legs give out. Your mind goes fuzzy. The world tilts, and you hear Leaf's voice above you, distant but clear:

"Shhh. It's over. You're mine now."

Darkness closes in. The last thing you feel is the Pusséball click open around you, sucking you inside.

You don't know your own name anymore. You don't know anything except that you belong to Leaf now.

And somewhere, faintly, you hear the Pussédex booting up.

"Scanning… hold still, you squirmy little thing. Yeah, look at that. You're blushing already, and you're not even out of the ball yet. Cute."

"Analyzing subject… tits, face, posture, what's left of your dignity…"