Story Time: Oh Little Brother, Where Art Thou? [futaXmale, hyper, bottom insertion]

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Now that CheezyWEAPON's glorious cover has your attention, we would like to cordially invite you to enjoy a tale as old as a time. That time being a week or so ago.

Disclaimer: The following frivolities include such delightful and worrisome themes as futanariXmale, size-play, hyper endowments, bunny traps, and all the trouble one might get into when one is effectively a toy faced with a bottom bigger than your entire body. For some of you, this is a warning. For others, this a promise.

Sister Erika appears courtesy of CheezyWEAPON

Little brother Bishie appears courtesy of Bishiebunny

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Story Time: Oh Little Brother, Where Art Thou?

by Bishiebunny

It was to a church, what porn is to a kiss.

They shared archaic architecture, bewildering rituals, and mysterious scents that were undefinable, yet unmistakable. But even though they housed familiar contemplations on sin and its inevitable punishment, they were fundamentally different. For all its hallowed appearance, the hushed voices, and the sacred humidity that permeated its walls, this was no temple built to celebrate the invisible, nor gratify the divine.

Churches are built on faith, a belief that comfort sought would be comfort found. They deal in uncertainty, in a hope that the undefinable will reach out to the weary and the lost.

There was no uncertainty here. Within these sweat-slick walls, where sin slithered about to mock the knees that others chose to bend, faith was redundant. And without faith, hope had nowhere to stand. Guilt was not so much assumed, as outright assured, and punishment did not dawdle about an unknowable eternity. It was swift, cruel, and ever so unusual.

Also the stain-glassed windows depicted an awful lot of fucking.

Into this lurid certainty walked a porcelain purity. His features were pale, soft, and full of youth's feminine charms. Eyes the color of warmed honey sought judgement under long lashes and over lush lips. A snowy mane of girlish curls crowned the boy bunny, identified as such by the long ears and ball of cotton that twitched above his too tight thong.

White hips rolled with every step, emphasized by the tight rubber of ceremonial bottoms. His thong glistened and squeaked, holding him in snug bondage with only enough material to barely conceal the expansive bulge between his legs. It clung so quick to the youth's heavy package, it only underlined the incongruity. How such a swollen masculinity could be attached to such a womanly form was anyone's guess, but there was no denying the bubble-like curves that adorned his backside. A thin line of black cut between those heavenly cheeks as though it meant to serve them to separate diners.

No less tricky were the matching gloves and thigh-length boots, the latter with just enough heel to make tumbling a risky endeavor.

Bishie was not especially fond of the squeak. It sounded too much like the excited soun