Description
The studio lights came on like a sunrise with a filthy laugh, flooding the stage in hot pink, electric blue, and enough glitter to bankrupt a small moon. Upbeat music of the poppy, brain-scrambling variety thundered through the speakers. A sea of hooting, whistling audience members surged in their seats, waves of neon glow-sticks cresting through the dark arena. Floating cameras zipped overhead like metallic dragonflies, capturing every gleaming inch of the spectacle. “AND WE ARE LIVE!” Candy Vice’s voice boomed through the studio, smooth and sweet as liquid sugar, with an electrifying current humming underneath every syllable. She posed center stage, her seven-foot frame clad in a shimmering chrome-pink catsuit that looked poured over her exaggerated figure. Her matching hair defied gravity, curling upward in perfect buoyant waves. She tapped her microphone, sending a ripple of pink reverb rolling across the set. “Welcome, darlings, to another sticky, slick, and spectacular edition of… FUTAFUN!” The crowd erupted. One of the drone cameras swooped low, focusing on the host as she drank in the applause. Her smile widened. Her posture arched. The chrome-pink fabric between her thighs strained outward, making no secret of how much she enjoyed the attention. Candy did not bother hiding it. She never did. Her breath hitched against the microphone, each cheerful laugh edged with a soft, shameless moan as the roar of the audience washed over her like a lover’s touch. She drew one hand slowly up her trembling thigh. “For all you newcomers tuning in, hello, potential bimbos-in-waiting!” Candy sang. “And for our loyal viewers who just can’t get enough, welcome back to your favorite corruption contest!” The crowd screamed. Candy leaned toward the nearest camera, lowering her voice into a loud, conspiratorial whisper. “Let’s recap the gorgeous, glossy game that has everyone playing with themselves at home.” She paused, eyes glittering. “And some of you in the audience.” She raised a glittering finger and swept it slowly across the crowd, not landing on anyone in particular. “I see you there!” The audience roared with laughter and cheers. Behind her, neon text flashed across three enormous screens. RULE #1: EVERYONE GETS THE BODY! RULE #2: ONLY LOSERS LOSE THE BRAIN! RULE #3: KEEP IT LOW OR LET IT GLOW! Candy held the pose for a heartbeat, finger still pointed toward the stands. Then, with a quick pivot of her wide hips, she turned toward the main stage and let that same finger land on the raised hexagonal platform. “Six brand-new contestants will go through the Conversion Chamber for all of you to watch,” Candy purred. Six spotlights slammed down at once. There they stood. Six contestants of various humanoid species stood in matching silver robes, each marked with a glowing number above their head. Some shook with nerves. Some gawked at the host, the cameras, the audience, and the impossible scale of the stage. One tall, narrow man tried to look smug and mostly succeeded in looking pale. Another contestant stood perfectly still, eyes narrowed in calculation. And at the end of the line, a short woman with bright eyes and a grin too eager to be sensible was practically hopping on her feet. “The game is so simple,” Candy chirped, her smile never wavering as she walked slowly down the line of contestants, her high heels clicking a hypnotic rhythm across the polished stage. Her chrome-pink catsuit glowed as she passed each of them. “You survive challenges. You answer questions. You play the game. You get the money. Ten thousand credits, darlings. Enough to buy yourself a small, tasteful island.” Candy stopped in front of the pale-faced smug one, contestant number three, and ran her finger down the length of her own collarbone with deliberate slowness. “The person with the LOWEST Bimbo Point score at the end of the show wins. You want the smallest number beside your name.” She snapped her fingers. Above the contestants, a massive scoreboard flickered to life. Six empty meters appeared, one for each contestant, all glowing a clean, innocent zero. “Bimbo Points get to work.” The screens behind her changed. A cartoon silhouette appeared, plain and nervous at first. Then the meter beside it began to rise. At ten points, the silhouette’s lips glossed and its hips swelled. At twenty, its curves deepened and little pink hearts spun around its head. At thirty, it posed with a vacant smile. At forty, it bounced in place, shiny and eager, while cartoon question marks floated where its thoughts should have been. “Every wrong answer, every failed task, every naughty little bargain adds to your score,” Candy said, strolling back toward center stage. “And every Bimbo Point pushes your body and your brain closer to what we call Permanent Prize Status.” The crowd oohed as the cartoon meter climbed higher. “More gloss. More curves. More sensitivity. Bigger smiles. Softer thoughts.” Candy’s grin sharpened as the final number flashed above the screen in pulsing red. “And at fifty points?” The entire audience chanted with her. “YOU’RE OURS FOREVER!” Candy laughed, delighted, and blew the contestants a kiss. “Fifty Bimbo Points means no reversal, no refunds, and no more worrying your pretty little head about boring things like rent, strategy, or multiplication. Just a brand-new body, a brand-new stage name, and a permanent place in the FutaFun family.” Then her eyes slid sideways. “And we are in luck tonight, my fellow futa lovers.” Before contestant number three could step back, Candy swept in and wrapped an arm around him, pressing her chest close to his as she pulled him against her gleaming body. He stiffened at once, his smug expression cracking beneath the heat of the spotlight. He was tall in the Camrell way, all narrow elegance and polished arrogance. His face was long and sharp, framed by sleek black hair tied neatly behind his pointed ears. Silver cuffs glittered along those ears, matching the delicate rings on his slender fingers. Pale lavender skin caught the studio lights with a faint pearlescent sheen, and thin bioluminescent markings traced his throat like aristocratic jewelry. He had the kind of posture that suggested he had spent his whole life being told his bloodline was too refined for ordinary consequences. “We have a Camrell male,” Candy announced, her voice rising into a bright, sugary squeal. “The first man on the show in… oh, darlings, practically all of FutaFun history!” The audience detonated. Cheers, whistles, and filthy encouragement rolled across the arena as the cameras swarmed him from every angle. His glowing number hovered above his head, suddenly less like a contestant marker and more like a target. Candy tilted her head against his shoulder and smiled up at the nearest drone. “He thought he was safe as a dude,” she said, loud enough for the whole arena to hear. His mouth tightened. Candy’s grin became pure chrome-pink mischief. “But I’ve got a little secret for you, my darling Bubble Babes and Bubble Bros.” She hugged him tighter, squishing him against her chest as he tried very hard not to look aroused. “Our top scientists have found a way to transform men too, with no lasting side effects!” The crowd gasped in theatrical delight. Candy lifted one hand to her cheek and widened her eyes in mock innocence. “Isn’t that, like, oh my gawd, so amazing?” The crowd roared. Contestant number three swallowed, his pointed ears flushing a darker violet at the tips. Candy patted his chest. “Don’t worry, handsome. If you win, you get every inch of your boring original body back.” Her smile sharpened. “If you lose, well… let’s just say you’ll be our first Camrell bimbo.” Her eyes dragged slowly down his body, then back up again, glittering as if she could already see the chamber’s work: the narrow elegance softened, the proud posture broken into a bubbly little pose, that aristocratic face glossed over with a vacant, camera-hungry smile. Candy’s grin widened. “And a sexy one at that.” Candy released him with a final pat, then turned back to the others with a grin bright enough to hurt. “And our other contestants are about to get… oh, how do I put this?” She waved a dismissive hand through the air, sending a sparkle of glitter drifting from her sleeve. “Better. Hotter. Glossier. More functional.” Her smile widened. “All they have to do is spend one whole minute inside the brand-new FutaFun Conversion Chamber!” A section of the stage floor irised open with a loud hydraulic hiss, revealing a circular chrome-plated elevator ringed in pulsing violet light. The chamber rose from below in a smooth mechanical glide, all mirrored surfaces, humming coils, and translucent pink tubing lit from within by a deep, inviting glow. It thrummed with the promise of change. “Number Three! Looks like your lucky break has come up early,” Candy chirped, curling her fingers in a playful little come-hither motion. Before contestant number three could object, or think to back out, two FutaFun bimbos bounced onto the stage. They wore matching silver-pink straps that did little to contain their large, round chests, while thin strips of shimmering fabric covered just enough below the waist to count as costume. Beneath the material, the outlines of their cocks stood proud and unmistakable, swaying with each glossy, practiced step. The two assistants were nearly identical except for their hair, one bright blue, the other neon green, and they moved with bouncy, perfectly choreographed efficiency. They took the Camrell by the arms. Their grip looked soft, but it was utterly unyielding. With smiling determination, they guided him toward the Conversion Chamber, his smug composure evaporating with every helpless step. The crowd’s cheers swelled as he was escorted across the stage, and by the time they reached the glowing platform, his elegant confidence had narrowed into a stiff, increasingly obvious panic. Another drone camera swooped down, hovering close enough to feel accusatory. He tried to turn away, but the giant overhead screen betrayed him at once, filling with a close-up of his face, his flushed ears, and the unmistakable bulge straining against the front of his silver robe. “Oh!” Candy cried, pressing a hand to her cheek in theatrical delight. “Look at our new friend!” The audience howled. “He hasn’t even gone in yet, and he’s already getting excited.” The studio lights strobed faster. The main screen split in half. On one side was a tight shot of contestant number three’s flustered, aristocratic features, his face frozen somewhere between humiliation and dread as the bimbos guided him firmly toward the chamber. On the other side, a bright cartoon timer appeared, counting down from sixty. The cheerful ticking echoed through the arena. “Don’t be shy, sweetie,” Candy said, her smile widening as the bimbos began to untie his robe. The silver fabric slithered to the floor in one smooth motion, leaving him completely exposed beneath the lights. The audience erupted again. He had the lean, elegant musculature common to Camrell men, smooth and compact, and he covered himself reflexively as the bimbos helped him step into the chamber. “It’s nothing all our contestants haven’t done before,” Candy said. Then she winked at the camera. “Well. Not as men.” His expression twisted with horror and disbelief as the door sealed shut around him. The moment it latched, the chamber lit up from within. Pink gas swirled through the glass, blurring his outline as the timer began to count down. Sixty seconds. The whole crowd leaned forward as one breathing thing, hungry for the first sign of change. Candy turned back to the remaining contestants. “And as for the rest of you, don’t go getting stage fright. Your turns are coming up fast.” She gestured toward the nearest camera, then pointed at contestant number two, a statuesque woman with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a soldier’s stiff posture. “But right now, we need to hear your names!” The woman stood like she had been carved out of discipline. Broad shoulders. Strong jaw. Eyes sharp enough to cut through the stage glare. Her silver robe hung from her frame with military neatness, belted tight and perfectly centered. Candy leaned closer. “You look like you’ve seen worse than a little pink gas. Who are you?” The woman met the host’s gaze without blinking. “My name is Riva.” Her voice was low and level, practiced and precise. “Riva!” Candy chirped. “Such a strong name for such a strong woman. And what brings a decorated soldier to our little show?” Before she could answer, a moan echoed suddenly through the chamber’s microphone. The camera snapped back to contestant number three. On the giant screen, the Camrell male’s body was already beginning to betray him. His long, elegant frame softened by the second, lean lines blurring into something rounder and more yielding beneath the pink gas. His face, once all aristocratic sharpness, looked hazy now, his features slackening with confused pleasure as his voice climbed in pitch. Another helpless sound spilled from his lips, higher this time, softer, edged with a sweetness that had not been there before. The crowd screamed. His toned chest twitched, then began to soften and swell, two small mounds rising where firm muscle had been only moments ago. His narrow hips gave a sudden jerk. One hand slapped against the glass as if searching for balance, the silver rings now too loose on his shrinking fingers glinting under the chamber lights while his pointed ears burned a deep violet. Candy pressed both hands to her cheeks in delight. “Ohhhh, there we go!” she sang. “Our first little changes of the night!” The timer kept ticking. Forty-three. Forty-two. Forty-one. Inside the chamber, contestant number three’s breathing quickened as the gas curled around him in glowing pink ribbons, and the audience leaned forward as one, hungry for every inch of the transformation. His newly swelling breasts shuddered beneath the haze, their tender surface tingling as they filled into perfect handfuls. Below the fog, between legs now widening and reshaping, a tight heat coiled low in his body and then burst outward, forming new flesh where none had existed before. His body arched away from the glass, head thrown back, lips parted in shock as the transformation rolled through him in another helpless wave. His cock did not vanish. It thickened, darkened at the tip, and lifted against his stomach as if proudly refusing to be erased. Beneath it, his balls drew tighter to his body, still present, still unmistakably his, but the seam running between them began to glow beneath the pink light. A shudder passed through him as that center line softened. The seam parted. Not enough to erase what had been there, but enough to become something new. Soft, flushed folds unfolded from the center, opening between the rounded weight of his testicles in a slick, delicate line. His balls remained on either side, cradling the new cleft between them as the fresh anatomy sealed into place, sensitive, wet-looking, and impossibly alive. The chamber did not make him one thing or the other. It made him both. The crowd lost its mind. Candy fanned herself with one hand, eyes wide with delighted mock innocence. “Oh, that is premium work, darlings. Classic FutaFun architecture. Nothing wasted. Everything improved.” The clock ticked down into its final fifteen seconds. A new tension threaded through the Camrell’s moans: confusion, arousal, shock, and then the unmistakable thrum of pleasure. The kind of deep, body-level joy that scrambled thoughts and bent the spine. His back curved. His hips thrust reflexively. His head fell forward until his forehead pressed against the glass. A fresh blush burned across his newly rounded cheeks as he made a sound higher than before, almost a giggle tangled with a whimper. The countdown hit its final stretch, and the crowd roared with it. “Ten! Nine! Eight!” His eyes opened, pupils wide and dazed with pleasure. He looked out through the fog, but not at the camera. Not at Candy. Not at the jeering, cheering crowd. He looked at the pink glow inside the chamber, at the strange new weight on his chest, at the impossible slickness between his legs. He saw none of it and all of it at once, and somewhere between those points of view, a thought surfaced. “Oooh,” he breathed to no one. “That feels, like… kinda good?” A shiver of unfamiliar sensation made him bounce in place, one small little hop. A test of the strange new feel of it. Just a little test. He did not smile. He did not grimace. His lips simply fell open. “Three! Two! One!” The lights faded. The gas whirred away. A sharp bell rang, signaling the end of the cycle. The chamber door hissed open. A rush of scented air billowed outward. From inside stepped… someone new. Gone was the Camrell aristocrat. In his place stood a shorter, softer figure with rounder hips, fuller breasts, and glossy thighs that brushed together with every uncertain step. As the gas dissipated, his mind cleared just enough for the truth to land. No. Her mind. She gasped, stumbling forward on reshaped legs that no longer obeyed quite the way she expected. Her face had softened around smooth cheekbones and swollen, kissable lips. But behind that new mask, she was still Camrell. Her long black hair remained, though it shimmered now like polished silk. Her pointed ears remained, though the silver cuffs hung loose against them. Her pale purple skin remained, though it glowed with an unnatural sheen beneath the studio lights. And beneath the tight little skirt the bimbos had already wrapped around her waist, barely hiding anything at all, the impossible hybrid anatomy pulsed with new, unfamiliar heat. She turned. The crowd saw the exact moment her expression changed. Her aristocratic features tightened. Her eyes lifted to the giant screen, and there she saw herself: the soft curves, the rounded breasts, the full pouting lips, the glossy thighs, the humiliating shimmer of her new body under ten thousand hungry gazes. Her eyes widened. Then the smugness returned, not as confidence this time, but as pure, cold fury. Candy bounced over with gleeful little clicks of her heels, circling the newly transformed Camrell like an artist admiring a masterpiece that had come out even better than the sketch. She tilted her head, eyes dragging from the shimmer of the woman’s hair to the softened curve of her face, to the tight little skirt straining around her new hips. Candy’s imagination had tried to prepare her. The real thing won anyway. “Well, fuck,” Candy said, loud enough for the microphone to catch every delighted syllable. “She is so sexy. Better than I pictured!” The crowd howled. The Camrell’s lips pulled tight, her pointed ears flushing hot violet as her hands curled into fists at her sides. Then Candy’s eyes widened. She slapped her own forehead hard enough to make her chrome-pink hair bounce. “Oh my gawd, I totally forgot!” Candy gasped, spinning back toward the camera with exaggerated horror. “I am so sorry, Bubble Babes. I got so caught up in our first-ever Camrell cutie that I forgot the basics.” She turned back to the transformed contestant, beaming as if the last minute had been a polite meet-and-greet instead of a public bodily renovation. “Sweetheart, I never asked your name.” Candy leaned in, microphone raised. “And more importantly, why did you want to play FutaFun?” The transformed Camrell drew herself up as much as her new body allowed. It was not as effective as she intended. Her softer hips shifted under the little skirt, and the movement made her grimace before she forced her face back into aristocratic control. “My name,” she said, voice still too high, too sweet, and trembling with fury, “is Vaeltharion Qyssandrel Mor’Veyrath of the Seventh Glass House, Keeper of the Moonline Genealogy, Third Heir to the Pale Meridian, and recognized Scion of the Camrell Highblood Accord.” Silence rippled across the studio. One of the drone cameras made a confused little focusing whir. On the giant screen, the name tried to appear beneath contestant number three’s face. The text squeezed smaller. Then smaller. Then so tiny it became an unreadable silver smear. Candy stared at it for half a second, lips pursed in intense concentration. Then she smiled brightly. “I’m just going to call you Cam.” The audience exploded. Cam’s new lips parted in outrage. “You absolutely will not.” “Cam it is!” Candy chirped, hooking an arm around her shoulders and turning her toward the nearest camera. “Everybody say hi, Cam!” “HI, CAM!” the crowd roared. Cam’s pointed ears flushed almost purple. “I hate this show,” she hissed. Candy beamed. “Aww. That’s usually the first step.” Candy leaned in with the microphone, her smile bright and merciless. “So, Cam,” she sang, putting far too much bounce into the nickname. “Now that you’re officially our first Camrell cutie, tell the Bubble Babes at home why you signed up for FutaFun.” Cam’s jaw tightened. “My name is not Cam.” “It is on the scoreboard.” Her eyes flicked up. Above them, the giant display updated with a cheerful little chime. CONTESTANT #3: CAM BIMBO POINTS: 0 The audience laughed. Cam’s hands curled into fists at her sides. The motion made her newly softened chest shift, and her fury sharpened as several drone cameras immediately dipped lower for a better angle. She forced herself to stand straighter. “I entered this farce for the prize money,” she said, each word clipped and cold. “Ten thousand credits is a trivial sum by Camrell standards, but my house is currently involved in a temporary legal inconvenience regarding frozen assets, disputed inheritance rights, and several frankly insulting accusations of genetic monopoly fraud.” Candy blinked. The audience went quiet for half a beat. Then Candy turned slowly toward the camera. “So… rich girl broke?” The crowd exploded. Cam’s ears flushed dark violet. “That is a grotesque simplification.” “But accurate?” Cam’s lips pressed into a thin, glossy line. Candy gasped, delighted. “Oh, babes, it’s accurate!” More laughter rolled through the arena. Cam lifted her chin, clinging to every scrap of noble poise her new body had not stolen from her. “I was also assured the process would be temporary and fully reversible.” “It is!” Candy chirped. Cam’s eyes narrowed. Candy held up one manicured finger. “As long as you win.” The smile drained from Cam’s face. Candy’s grin widened. “So you better keep that Bimbo Point score nice and low, Cam-Cam.” “Do not call me that.” “Oh, she hates it already,” Candy said, turning to the audience with a delighted shiver. “That means it’s going to stick.” Candy spun toward the nearest camera, her chrome-pink smile bright enough to burn itself into every screen in the galaxy. “Don’t go anywhere, darlings. We’ve got five more contestants, one very sensitive scoreboard, and a whole lot of bad decisions waiting after the break.” The music slammed upward. The lights flashed. Cam’s little new name glowed on the scoreboard behind them while her furious expression filled the giant screen. CONTESTANT #3: CAM BIMBO POINTS: 0 The audience roared as Candy blew the camera a kiss. “We’ll be right back with more FUTAFUN!” End of Segment 1. Next up: Riva steps into the chamber, Luma starts playing the crowd, and Candy decides the rules are more like suggestions.
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