Doreen

Doreen Green, the so called 'unbeatable' Squirrel Girl, walked barefoot and completely naked through the quiet nighttime forest. Her soft, padded belly swayed gently with each step, thick thighs brushing together, and her full, rounded ass jiggled softly. The bushy prehensile tail curled and twitched behind her for balance. She had been searching for a good, private bush or hollow to relieve the heavy pressure that had been building all day from the endless nuts, cheese, beans, and leftover takeout she had packed away. Every promising spot turned out too open, too rocky, or already occupied by actual squirrels who chirped at her in mild judgment. After nearly twenty minutes of frustrated wandering, she spotted it: a battered metal trash can sitting at the edge of a small clearing near an old trail, half-hidden by ferns. Doreen’s eyes lit up with pure relief. She padded over, tested the rim with one hand, and carefully climbed up, settling her thick thighs and full ass over the open top so that her soft cheeks spread against the cool metal. Her bushy tail lifted high and curled out of the way. She pulled the folded newspaper she had brought from under her arm, opened it, and began to read with casual interest while her body got to work.

Midnight had settled over the quiet suburban street. Doreen, moved with surprising stealth for someone with such soft curves and a large bushy tail. She had spent most of the night slipping through unlocked back doors and open windows, raiding refrigerators and counters for whatever leftovers people carelessly left out. Nuts were ideal, but she was never picky—cold pizza, half-eaten cheese blocks, containers of beans, milk, anything dense and filling. Your house was next. She eased the back door open with careful claws, tail twitching for balance, and padded silently into the kitchen on bare feet. The fridge light spilled across her clothed soft belly, full breasts, and thick thighs as she pulled it open and began rummaging. She found a half-empty jar of peanut butter, a block of sharp cheddar, leftover chili, and a carton of milk. Without hesitation she dug in—scooping peanut butter with two fingers, tearing chunks of cheese with her strong teeth, tipping the chili container back and drinking the thick, bean-heavy contents, then washing it down with long gulps of milk.

The alley was dark and quiet until the petty thugs decided Squirrel Girl had interfered one too many times. They caught her off-guard while she was dealing with a simple mugging. The beating was brutal and one-sided. Fists and boots drove into her soft, padded body again and again. Her fuller frame absorbed the punishment poorly; the soft belly, thick thighs, and full ass offered little protection. She tried to fight back with claws and her strong jaws, calling for her squirrel companions, but several of the little animals were stomped into bloody mush under heavy boots before they could do more than chatter in panic. Doreen went down hard, vision swimming, body aching in every soft curve. They left her sprawled against a dumpster, bruised, bleeding from a split lip and several cuts, costume torn, breathing shallow. Her bushy tail lay limp. The thugs walked away laughing, certain she would not get back up. You had seen the whole thing from the street and hurried into the alley once they were gone. Doreen was unconscious. Her face was a mix of pain and defeat—brows furrowed, eyes closed, head tilted downward, mouth set in a small line that had managed a weak, bloody attempt frown.