Whore Calibur, Teaser

This may be a story about a character from the video game Soul Calibur IV being cursed with hermaphrodism. I may continue it, I may not, but just keep in mind the disclaimer:

Even moreso than before, I am an absolute degenerate. Don't expect anything from my stories besides women (and dickgirls) being humiliated and treated like subhuman fuck-toilets. I love to see beautiful women brought low and abused, and I love to hear women talking dirtier than anyone ever has, begging to be subjected to acts that, if they happened in real life, would probably make a woman want to kill herself. This story doesn't have scat in it, but I'm fairly certain some of the upcoming ones will. I am a douche bag. End disclaimer.

I quit writing about futa because I was more interested in sadism and humiliation than futa. That hasn't changed, but futa can be a major factor in degradation stories. There are plenty of Japanese comics about formerly perfect, beautiful women growing penises and subsequently transforming into cum-spurting, rape-craving sperm buckets. Anyway, on with the show.

Whore Calibur, Teaser

In the deep stillness of the night something stirred, and a sprawled woman went quickly from limp to tense. Her keen senses, honed by years of training with the Fuuma ninja, told her something alarming. The attack, whatever it had been, had already occurred. The sensation was like being bitten by a hungry night insect, but though she ran her hands across the skin-tight fabric of her stealth outfit, she couldn't put her finger on any specific point. "Is this it?" she whispered to herself. After all this time, her travels and trials, was she to be felled by the poisoned dart of a passing bandit?

Common sense told Taki that this scenario was very unlikely. Nothing, not even a snake, could sneak up on her. She slept essentially with one eye open, ready to drive her ninja-to through any hostile visitor less than a second after any sound of encroachment.

“But something happened,” she said to herself, and wrapped her arms around her shoulders, shivering slightly in the chill air of the night. She pulled her knees up to her chest, her hips forming a perfect hourglass with the protective bridge of her pauldrons. Then, a terrible thought came to her.

“Soul Edge,” she whispered, her perfect lips vibrating in the night air. 29 years old, she had a body to surpass any and thought nothing of what people might think to see her in garments so tight they were like a second skin. Freedom of movement was what