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Missed the first segment? Catch up here: FutaFun! Episode 1 The commercial break ended in a burst of hot-pink static and a jingle selling FutaFun-brand shimmer oil. Then the studio feed slammed back to life. Cam’s new little name still glowed on the scoreboard behind her like an insult with a power source. Before Cam could get in another word, Candy skipped back to contestant number two, calling out with a singsong lilt. “Riva! Riiiva!” A murmur of anticipation fluttered through the audience. Near the backstage entrance, one of the stage assistants leaned heavily against her friend, legs shaking beneath her glittery costume as if she had just been thoroughly reminded why the employee benefits package came with waterproof flooring. Her smile hung loose and dreamy while she whispered breathless nonsense into her friend’s shoulder. The cameras caught it for half a second, just enough to remind everyone watching that FutaFun did not stop being FutaFun just because the main lens had moved on. Riva did not look. She stared forward, expression unreadable beneath the hot glare of the stage lights. “I am playing for the ten thousand credits,” she said. Her voice was low, level, and stripped of decoration. “The winnings will be sent to my son’s educational fund.” Candy cocked her head, fake sympathy glittering across her face. “Aww, so selfless.” She turned to the audience, eyes bright. “She’s a mommy, darlings!” A mix of cheers, whistles, and teasing calls broke from the crowd. Candy spun back to Riva with all her stage-bright cheer restored and took the soldier’s hand between both of her manicured ones. “And I bet you’ll make a sexy FutaFun MILF too.” Riva did not blink. She anchored her stare through Candy’s polished smile as if the screaming audience, the thumping bass, and the hungry cameras were all just bad comms noise she had already learned to ignore. Candy’s smile tightened. Then the moment snapped. Candy laughed, bright and sudden and empty. “Don’t go shy on me, soldier girl. You’ll get your conversion soon enough.” She flounced back toward center stage, her hips swaying with exaggerated cheer as the FutaFun helpers stepped in. The blue-haired bimbo took Riva’s left arm first, then gave a delighted little gasp as her fingers squeezed through the silver robe and found the hard muscle underneath. “Ohhh,” she whispered, loud enough for the nearest microphone to catch. “This one’s got handles.” Riva did not look at her. The green-haired helper slid in on Riva’s other side, giggling as she hooked her arm through the soldier’s and let her free hand pat once against Riva’s waist, testing the rigid line of her posture like she expected to find a hidden button marked fun. “No wiggle at all,” she said dreamily. “That’s so cute.” Together, they guided her toward the chamber. Riva walked without resistance. As the chrome door hissed shut behind her, she kept her gaze locked forward. She did not flinch at the cameras. She did not look back at the woman holding the microphone. She watched the door seal. She watched the pink gas begin to fill the space around her. Her face remained unreadable as the timer started its sixty-second countdown. On the giant screens, a tight close-up of Riva’s stern face showed a single bead of sweat tracing a slow, determined path down her temple. Nothing else moved. Candy purred into her microphone. “Our Camrell noble can’t stop thinking about how shiny she feels.” The screen cut to Cam, who was still trying to pose with dignity in her new form. Unfortunately, her body had other ideas. She stood stiff and proud, chin lifted, shoulders squared, while her reshaped hips tilted just slightly and her new chest pressed forward as if begging for the camera. Cam noticed the shot a second too late. Her face went violet with outrage. Candy giggled. “See? No Bimbo Points yet, and the body is already learning the format.” The audience roared. Candy turned smoothly toward contestant number one. The red-skinned woman’s silver robe swayed as she stepped forward, the motion practiced and fluid beneath the lights. Her polished smile did not waver. Rich crimson skin gleamed under the neon glare, and two short black horns curved neatly from her dark hair, which spilled down her back like a river at midnight. Her gaze skimmed past Candy, past the roaring crowd, and settled on the nearest floating camera as if it were a friendly colleague. Black sclera framed molten-gold irises that caught the studio lights like coins dropped into fire. “I’m Luma Vale,” she said, voice bright and clear. “I’m here because I promised my followers I could win this show on my first try.” Her body snapped into a practiced little pose the instant she finished speaking: one hip cocked, shoulders angled, chin tilted just enough to catch the light. She winked directly into the lens, kissed two fingers, then flicked the gesture toward the stands like she had done it ten thousand times for a hungry camera. “And because I am not going to lose.” The audience answered with a wave of approving shrieks. “You’re not just a reviewer,” Candy said, her grin sharpening. “You’re famous, babe. I’ve seen your feed. You call the answers before the questions finish. You map out the challenges in your sleep. Half the galaxy thinks you can crack any show open if someone gives you a camera and enough glitter.” Luma’s molten-gold eyes blinked slowly, the gesture almost lazy in its confidence. “Patterns are patterns. FutaFun is flashy, but underneath all the glitter, it’s still a game.” A hush of delighted offense rippled through the audience. Candy pressed one hand to her chest. “Did you hear that, darlings? She thinks we’re predictable.” “I think you’re entertaining,” Luma corrected, her smile brightening for the camera. “Predictable is not an insult. It’s a weakness.” The crowd oohed. Candy’s smile stayed fixed, but something sharp glittered behind it. “Oh, I like her,” she said softly. “She’s going to make such pretty mistakes.” Luma laughed, light and effortless. “That sounds like something someone says before losing control of the interview.” Candy gasped. The audience howled. Even Cam, still fuming beside the platform, glanced over with a flicker of reluctant interest. Candy bent down into Luma’s space, bringing her polished smile nearly nose to nose with the shorter woman. Seven feet of chrome-pink perfection loomed over red-skinned confidence while the cameras drank in every inch of the challenge. “Careful, superstar,” Candy purred. “FutaFun loves a girl who performs for the crowd.” Luma’s smile did not falter. “Then the crowd is going to love watching me win.” Candy’s smile held for one perfect, polished second. Then the chamber bell rang. The sound cut through the tension like a silver knife. Every camera in the studio snapped toward the Conversion Chamber as the final numbers vanished from the screen. THREE. TWO. ONE. The pink light inside the chamber faded. The gas thinned in slow curling ribbons, revealing Riva standing exactly where she had stood when the door closed. For one breath, it almost looked as if nothing had happened. Then the glass cleared. Riva had changed. The soldier’s strong frame remained, but FutaFun had softened the hard edges without breaking the shape beneath. Her shoulders were still broad. Her posture was still rigid. Her close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair now shone beneath the lights, and her stern face had been smoothed just enough to make the set of her jaw look sharper by contrast. Her chest had filled out, rounded and heavy against glimmering mocha skin, ebony nipples already stiff beneath the studio’s hungry gaze. The camera panned lower. Between her powerful hips, the chamber had added its signature installation, jutting proudly from her transformed body, attached to muscular legs that looked ready to march through a wall. The blue-haired helper made a strangled little sound of appreciation. “Oh wow,” she breathed, eyes wide. “The handles came with a whole battering ram.” The green-haired one leaned closer, her grin going slack as her gaze dropped and stuck there. Her lower lip caught between her teeth, and for one dangerous second her hand drifted forward as if her body had made the decision before her brain could file the proper paperwork. Riva gave a low warning grunt. The helper froze. Candy’s eyes flashed toward them. The green-haired bimbo recovered with a nervous little giggle and snatched up the waiting strip of FutaFun fabric. “Right. Costume department first.” She fastened it around Riva’s powerful hips with trembling fingers. The strip did not hide much. It was too narrow for that, a glossy little band of reflective fabric that covered the base of Riva’s new anatomy and made everything below it look even more deliberate. Against her thick hips and heavy new length, it functioned less like clothing and more like an arrow with sponsorship branding. Candy’s smile sharpened as if she had just heard the first crack in stone. “Ohhhh, mama!” She fanned herself with both hands. “That is absolutely not standard issue.” The audience roared, their voices bouncing off the chrome surfaces as Riva stepped out of the chamber. She moved with controlled precision, her glossy thighs brushing together with each deliberate step. Riva met Candy’s gaze with a stare as unyielding as a drawn weapon, her expression daring the studio to try and break her. Candy giggled and patted Riva’s shoulder. “Look at all that muscle still there. You’re still a scary lady.” She winked at the camera. “Just a scarier, sexier, and dare I say, a more FutaFuntastic lady. The after-dark crowd is going to love this soldier.” Candy ran one crimson nail down the curve of Riva’s gleaming bicep. “And look at this posture. Still holding onto that self-control, huh? Bet you feel strong. Powerful.” She leaned close, her voice dropping into a teasing purr. “But I bet you’re also just a little bit… curious.” Riva did not answer. She only breathed. In. Out. A quiet rhythm of survival. Her jaw shifted once, the only visible sign that she was already measuring the next threat. Candy’s smile widened. “Oh, I do love a challenge.” She turned back toward Luma, brightening in an instant. “Your turn, babe. Let’s see what we can do for a superstar.” The FutaFun helpers were already moving, their painted hands reaching for Luma with practiced cheer. Luma adjusted her angle by half an inch before they even reached her, chin catching the nearest lens as if being escorted toward the chamber was just another shot she intended to own. But Candy paused. Her finger rose to her plump lips. Her bubblegum curls bounced as her eyes flicked back to Riva, then to Cam, then up to the scoreboard waiting above them. All those clean little numbers glowed bright and innocent. Begging to be ruined. Cam stiffened the instant Candy’s gaze landed on her again, which only made her new body present itself worse. A mischievous grin spread across Candy’s face. “You know what, darlings?” she said, voice turning syrupy. “I’m feeling naughty.” The audience stirred. Candy spun toward the cameras. “We’re not sticking to the program tonight!” The crowd cheered, sensing the deviation before she even explained it. “We’re going to do a tiny little calibration check. A pre-game warm-up. A harmless little something I like to call…” Candy threw one arm high. “The Tease and Please!” The screens behind her flashed the words in bouncing pink letters. TEASE AND PLEASE! Candy gestured dramatically toward Riva and Cam. “Our two newest converts are standing there all glossy and new, looking like they want to rip someone’s head off… or something else.” The cameras zoomed in on Riva’s hardened expression and Cam’s simmering rage. “Here’s the test,” Candy continued, lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper that somehow still boomed through the arena. “Each freshly changed contestant gets one very, very light touch. A little feather. A little breath. A little tickle of sensation. Nothing serious.” She winked. “Just enough to test the equipment.” The crowd went wild. Cam’s lips pulled into a thin line. Riva only reset her breath, slow and measured, as if Candy had just handed her another hostile environment to survive. Candy lifted her free hand, counting the rules off on manicured fingers. “All you have to do is stand still for ten seconds. No moving. No flinching. No gasping. No reacting.” Her grin sharpened into a razor dipped in sugar. “If you last the full ten seconds, clean slate. Zero Bimbo Points. But if you twitch, jump, gasp, moan, or get excited…” She dragged out the pause until the audience started chanting for it. “That’s two points on the scoreboard.” The scoreboard gave a cheerful little chime, as if it approved of being weaponized. Cam flicked a sharp, furious glance toward Riva, looking for any sign that the soldier understood how obscene the whole thing was. Riva kept her gaze fixed forward, jaw tight, breath measured, refusing to let the cameras catch even a scrap of shared panic. Candy noticed anyway, and her smile brightened like she had just found a new button to press. “Aaaaaand go!” Candy chirped. Two more FutaFun girls bounced onto the stage. The first skipped toward Riva with short neon-orange hair, glossy peach skin, and tiny translucent wings fluttering uselessly at her shoulder blades like decoration more than flight. So much shimmer dusted her visible skin that she looked lacquered in sugar, and little white fluff trimmed her wrists, ankles, and the straps barely pretending to be a costume. Her heavy breasts bounced with every eager little step, while the stiff outline beneath her glittering hip-strip bobbed forward as if just as ready as she was to find the first crack in the wall of muscle waiting for her. She held up a single fluffy feather like a sacred instrument, her smile bright with the professional joy of someone about to test a fortress. The other sauntered toward Cam with long lavender pigtails swinging behind her, each one tied with tiny golden ribbons that chimed softly when she moved. Her skin was pale blue with a pearly sheen, and a delicate row of small gold-tipped antennae curved back through her hair like a crown made for trouble. She was softer in shape but sharper in attitude, all plush hips, swaying thighs, glossy lips, and big innocent eyes that were absolutely lying. A small golden bell dangled from one finger, and her smile looked eager, almost hopeful, like she could not wait to hear what pretty little sounds Cam might make for her. Riva did not flinch. She stared straight ahead, her whole body fixed on a single point on the far wall. The orange-haired bimbo gave a delighted little giggle, then lifted the feather and traced it down the side of Riva’s neck. Riva’s jaw tightened. Nothing else moved. The feather drifted along her collarbone, then lower, sliding down the center of her chest before circling one dark, newly sensitive nipple. It pebbled instantly at the touch. Riva inhaled once. Slow. Controlled. Her muscles corded beneath her gleaming skin, discipline pulled tight against the tide of sensation. Next to her, Cam was not faring nearly as well. The lavender-haired helper let the golden bell swing in front of Cam’s face until it tapped softly against her cheek. A bright little chime slipped into the air beneath the roar of the crowd. Then she leaned in close, smile widening with delighted expectation, and blew a long, warm breath across Cam’s newly sensitive neck, right over the glowing markings at her throat. Cam’s entire body shuddered. A sound slipped from her glossy lips, caught halfway between a gasp and a moan. Her head tilted back. Her ears flushed deep violet. It was involuntary, immediate, and utterly damning. The lavender-haired bimbo’s eyes lit up. She rang the bell again. This time on purpose. Tink! The studio lights flashed red. A bright game-show failure tone boomed through the speakers, absurdly cheerful and utterly merciless. On the scoreboard, Cam’s number pulsed. A bright pink +2 appeared beside her perfect zero, then dropped into place. CONTESTANT #3: CAM BIMBO POINTS: 2 Candy winced with fake sympathy, one hand hovering near her heart as if Cam’s failure had wounded her personally. “Ohhh, sorry, Cammy. Looks like you’re not used to that sexy new form yet.” Cam’s eyes blazed. “Do not call me…” “Hold that thought, sweetheart,” Candy said brightly. The countdown kept running. Beside them, Riva had not moved. The orange-haired helper made one final pass with the feather, dragging it lightly along Riva’s collarbone, down the center of her chest, and over one stiff, newly sensitive nipple. Riva’s jaw tightened. Nothing else changed. The timer chirped its final note. Riva had not moved. Not a gasp. Not a flinch. Not a twitch for the cameras to feast on. The orange-haired helper lowered the feather with a tiny pout, looking almost personally offended that the fortress had held. Candy’s smile stayed bright, but something behind it tightened. “Well,” she said, syrup-sweet. “Would you look at that? Mommy’s still at zero.” The scoreboard gave Riva’s name a clean little sparkle. CONTESTANT #2: RIVA BIMBO POINTS: 0 Riva said nothing. Her gaze flicked once toward Cam, then forward again. Candy turned back to the newly renamed Camrell with renewed delight. “But!” Candy chirped. “As a consolation prize, you get to keep the bell.” The lavender-haired bimbo giggled and held up a delicate collar. The golden bell was now attached to a thin pink strap, shimmering beneath the lights. Cam took one step back. The bimbo stepped behind her anyway. The collar fastened with a soft, final click. The little bell settled in the hollow of Cam’s throat, tinkling gently with every furious breath she took. The humiliation landed harder than the points. The collar was not just a penalty. It was a brand. A symbol of failure, broadcast to the entire galaxy with every soft, silvery sound. A constant reminder that her body had betrayed her, that the game had already claimed one tiny piece of her new form and made it decorative. Candy smiled at the camera as Luma was escorted toward the chamber. “And now,” she purred, “let’s see what happens when a superstar steps into the spotlight.” Luma walked without resistance. The silver robe slithered to the floor with a practiced little flourish, revealing a body that already seemed halfway ready for FutaFun. Her rich red skin gleamed beneath the lights, and she carried herself with the easy confidence of someone who had spent a lifetime being watched, wanted, clipped, ranked, and replayed. Two short black horns curved from her dark hair, framing a face that knew exactly which angles pleased a crowd. She stepped into the chrome chamber, blew one last kiss toward the stands, and watched with perfect composure as the door sealed her away from the world. The timer began its sixty-second countdown. Pink gas swirled. The lights throbbed. A low melodic hum vibrated through the stage as the conversion process activated. On the giant screen, Luma’s silhouette blurred and shimmered inside the fog. A soft sigh echoed from the chamber’s speaker, one breathy note that made the audience go silent for half a beat. Then she laughed. A bright, tinkling sound edged with something deeper. Something hungry. The transformation took hold. Luma’s moans began softly at first, then rose sharper and steadier as the change swept through her. The pink gas curled around her body as her curves swelled, deepening the natural hollow of her waist and rounding her ass into a glossy heart. Her breasts, already generous, lifted and tightened, dark nipples pressing hard against the cool chrome wall as she leaned into it with a controlled, deliberate arch. It looked almost practiced. Almost. Her long legs shimmered with new slickness, thighs shifting as the chamber made its signature addition between them. The new flesh rose from her clit in a slow, visible pulse, hardening and lengthening through the fog as her hands slid down to brace against her thighs. The cameras caught every detail: the slight flex of her fingers, the subtle parting of her lips, the molten-gold irises burning inside black sclera. For one second, Luma forgot the camera. Her chin tipped into its usual perfect angle, but her smile slipped off-beat. Her fingers dragged against her slick, shifting thighs, nails catching for balance instead of posing. Then something in her snapped back into place. Her molten-gold eyes found the lens through the fog. The smile returned too quickly. She was not fighting it. She was turning it into footage. Luma lifted both hands over her head and let her hips move. Slow at first. Then smoother. Her new cock swung through the fog with each shift, slick, hard, and impossible for the cameras to ignore. One drone dipped lower. Then another. Luma saw them move and smiled through the heat, adjusting just enough to keep them there. Ten seconds remained. On the screens, Luma’s face was tight with pleasure and sharp, hungry focus. She looked like someone trapped inside the kind of clip she would have paused, replayed, slowed down, and picked apart for her followers later. Her black horns gleamed beneath the pulsing light, and though lust burned bright in her eyes, she kept aiming herself toward the camera, shaping every gasp into something that looked intentional. As the timer reached its final second, Luma pressed both palms to the glass and let one last moan spill out of her, rich and deliberate, feeding the crowd exactly enough to make them beg for more. The bell rang. The gas cleared. When the door opened, Luma Vale stepped out smiling, transformed but nowhere close to dazed, furious, or broken. Her red skin gleamed under the stage lights, glossy and radiant, her curves sharpened into dangerous perfection. Her new cock stood proud between her thighs, the swollen tip already slick and dripping as she swayed back toward the lineup with the measured grace of someone who knew every camera was watching. She did not cover herself. She did not stumble. She simply rolled her shoulders once, tossed her long dark hair back like a river of shadow, and found the nearest lens with terrifying ease. For half a second, the smile almost cracked into something real. She had watched the clips. Scored the reactions. Paused the best moments, replayed the worst ones, built whole theories out of other contestants’ mistakes. None of them had gotten the heat right. Luma drew in one bright, unsteady breath. Then the camera smile snapped back into place. “Well,” she said, breathless and glowing, “the replays did not do that justice.” Candy stared at her for one glittering beat. Then her smile spread. “Oh, darlings,” she purred, turning slowly toward the nearest camera. “Looks like our superstar just learned the difference between watching FutaFun and surviving it.” The audience roared. Candy blew Luma a kiss, then swept one arm toward the remaining contestants still waiting under the hot lights. “Don’t go anywhere, Bubble Babes and Bubble Bros. We still have a genius who thinks math can save her, a nosy little kitty with secrets to scratch at, and one superfan who might be a little too excited to lose.” The music slammed upward. The lights flashed pink and gold. Behind Candy, Luma’s transformed silhouette glowed on the giant screen while the scoreboard waited, hungry and innocent. Candy leaned into the camera, chrome-pink smile bright enough to promise trouble. “We’ll be right back with more FUTAFUN!”
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