>>249891
How much would this cost me in time and money if I commissioned it as a comic from Saxxon?
A Felid’s Descent: The Smuggler’s Hell
I am Lysara Vey’thrin, a Syltheri from Vyris-IX—tall, elegant, and graceful, my feline form a vision of refinement in silk robes. When the Galactic Council cursed us with their Feminization and Fat Viruses, I escaped the worst, my lithe frame softened only slightly while others swelled. Exiled for dissent, I hired a human smuggler to ferry me through the Nexis Belt to safety. I anticipated hardship. I found a horror beyond imagining.
The Greasy Galactic loomed in the docking bay, a garish rig splashed with flaming tacos and vulgar pinups. I boarded, tail flicking, and the hatch sealed behind me. The air struck like a fist—a humid, salty wall of sweat and grease that made my whiskers curl. Then I saw her: Roserita Rivera, a short Latina behemoth wider than a feasting hall. Her body was a landslide of dough—rolls upon rolls of fat spilling over pristine, sun-kissed skin. A stained white tube top stretched across her massive chest, purple leggings groaned under thighs that chafed like grinding stones, and her face—round and fat, with a second chin fusing into her neck—squared her jaw into a slab of brute defiance. Her shoulders, bulky and round, melded with upper arms thicker than my torso, her sausage fingers tipped with neon pink nails. She belched—a deep, booming BRRRAAAPPP!—her flab quaking, and I gagged, claws clutching my robes.
“Bienvenida, gatita,” she rasped, chugging an energy drink and tossing the can—clank—into a pile of wrappers. “Gotta haul you through the Belt. Hang on.” I stood near the hatch, paralyzed, my eyes wide as she shifted on her couch—a sagging, reinforced slab at the back of the cabin.
The Slog and The Squeeze
Then it began. Roserita planted her meaty hands on the couch’s arms and heaved, a guttural grunt escaping as her gut lifted with a sticky schlorp, dragging across the floor like a molten tide. I froze, a deer in headlights, my tail stiff, my breath caught—how could this behemoth move? Her ass wobbled, cheeks slapping with a dull thwap-thwap, sweat pouring in glistening rivers—dripping from her brow, pooling in her rolls, sizzling on the floor. “Move over, kitty,” she grunted, her bulk lumbering toward me, hips brushing the walls. I couldn’t—fear pinned me, my limbs locked, my mind blank with terror.
She squeezed closer, her meaty upper arm—soft as dough, heavy as iron—plapping against my face. I yelped, but she pressed on, trapping me between her arm and the sheer mass of her side torso. My muzzle slammed into her sideboob, a pillowy wall that smothered me, then slid up—stars forbid—into her armpit. The stench hit: a hot, salty blast of sweat and grease, raw and overwhelming. For two solid minutes, my lungs burned with it, her heartbeat thumping through her flab into my skull. I thrashed, tail lashing, but she chuckled, chugging another drink—glug-glug—her rolls quivering. My fur and silk robes soaked with her sweat, clinging damp and heavy, and then I realized—too late—I was on the wrong end of her bulk, facing her ass.
Frrrrrrt… A low rumble built, her ass cheeks trembling. I stared, wide-eyed, as she revved up a fart—PRRRRRTTT!—a monstrous, brassy blast that erupted with such force it launched me backward. I sailed through the cabin, crashing into her couch with a thud, the damp, sweat-soaked cushion sinking under me. My fur prickled, my soul recoiled, and Roserita cackled, “Whoops, gatita!” as she continued her slog. Her gut dragged with every step, thighs rubbing with a sandpaper shrrrkk, sweat raining down in torrents. BWORRRPPP! A belch boomed, wet and resonant, shaking the cabin as she waddled forward, a slow, wheezing trek that took twenty agonizing minutes. I gaped, still sprawled on the couch, my damp fur shuddering as she flopped into the driver’s seat—ass spilling over the edges, gut pinning her against the dash. “Let’s roll,” she rasped, firing the engines, and we lurched into the asteroid field.
Day One: The Heartbeat
The slog through the Belt began, and Roserita stayed put, chugging energy drinks—glug-glug—tossing cans—clank—around me. Her heartbeat pounded, a relentless thump-thump I felt from the couch, vibrating through her rolls. Frrrrrrt! A fart ripped out, a sharp, bubbly burst that quaked her gut, thickening the air with a greasy haze. I gagged, whiskers twitching, the damp couch seeping into my fur—warm, slick, unbearable. I leapt to a crate, shuddering, as she belched—BRRRAAAPPP!—a guttural roar that sent wrappers fluttering.
Day Two: The Trash Tide
Roserita’s trash piled up—quarter-pounders yanked from her cleavage, devoured with a chomp, wrappers flung—thud—energy drinks chugged and tossed—clank. The cabin became a landfill, her sweat dripping in oily beads to sizzle on the dash. Frrrrt-frrrt! Twin farts blasted, loud and brassy, her thighs bouncing as she swerved, gut slapping the wheel. BWORRRPPP! A belch followed, deep and wet, rattling the windshield. I clung to my crate, gagging, her heartbeat a constant drum in my ears, her stench—salty, greasy, unrelenting—clogging my senses.
Day Three: The Imprint
I stared at her couch, its imprint a cavern where one ass cheek had sat—deep enough to swallow me whole. The thought chilled my soul; I could fit my entire body in that dent. Frrrrrrt! A fart erupted, a long, gurgling blast that rippled her rolls, her tube top straining as her chest jiggled. She chugged another drink—glug—tossing the can—clank—and belched—BRRRAAAPPP!—shaking the cabin. “Council’s sniffin’,” she grunted, sweat pouring in sheets, pooling on the floor. I gagged, the air thickening, her heartbeat thumping through the haze.
Day Four: The Pulse
The air grew hotter, her sweat relentless—glistening torrents streaming from her brow, dripping from her chin, soaking her tube top translucent. Frrrrrrt! A fart boomed, sharp and bubbly, quaking her flab as she adjusted in her seat. BWORRRPPP! A belch roared, wet and deep, sending a quarter-pounder wrapper fluttering into my face. Her heartbeat pounded louder, a thump-thump that shook the crate, her energy drink chugs—glug-glug—a constant rhythm. I retched, tail lashing, her stench a brutal fog I couldn’t escape.
Day Five: The Docking
We hit the pirate den, and Roserita grunted, “Time to check the rig.” She heaved up—gut slurping off the seat, ass wobbling, sweat raining—and waddled out. I followed, trembling, watching her crawl around the Greasy Galactic—gut dragging, ass swaying, sweat pooling. Frrrrrrt! A fart blasted, rippling her rolls, as she tossed a quarter-pounder wrapper—thud—and an energy drink can—clank. Aliens fled, gagging, while I stumbled to my contacts, fur damp, soul scarred. Her heartbeat, her stench, that couch—they’d haunt me forever.
The Aftermath
Roserita had smuggled me, but her cabin—her bulk—was a torment no Syltheri grace could endure. I fled, tail low, her belch—BWORRRPPP!—echoing behind me, a human storm I’d never unfeel.