Widis
What I Do Is Secret.
This is another one shot, but it builds on #1’s world. Reading that is optional, but will help you get certain parts.
___
Your clothes aren’t even all the way off when you get the question:
“makeufreak: Are you a man or a woman”
“For fifty coin, whatever you want,” you reply without missing a beat.
Response #23. You get asked this so often you’ve itemized your comebacks on a spreadsheet. Your niche is experiencing a surge in popularity right now, but with it has come a debate raging across the internet:
“Are shifters traps?”
The whole flamewar clusterfuck bewilders you. Some men’s sexual identities are so fragile. You wait a minute for the inevitable…
“[makeufreak has left the chat]”
…And resume unbuttoning your top. No big loss. Guys like that never provide much in either tips or conversation. And you literally don’t have the answer he wants: Today is girl day, tomorrow’s boy day, Sunday’s hermaphroday, and that’s as deep as it goes. You don’t have a “real sex.” You started shifting in the womb.
Once your underwear’s tossed to the floor, you hit Ctrl+4 and strut to the kitchen. The curtains are wide open, but you don’t care - you always use natural light during the day. Whoever’s in the building across the street must be used to it by now, and it’s a sight some people pay to see; there are five cameras and three mics in your apartment, all of them run back to your desktop with extension cables and assigned to hotkeys. You almost put a sixth one in the bathroom, but decided to keep that your last private space.
Camera 4 and Mic 3 are already on and your food is laid out on the table. You are nothing if not organized.
You pull up your stream on your tablet to read the chat. “Hey, lonelylover!” He’s one of your favorites, eloquent and actually knows how to give a compliment without being a creep. “Oh hi, StrokerAce. How are you?” Great tipper, but total jerkface. You never know how to talk to him. “Bratgirl94! You’re having what? That sounds yummy too!” A lesbian divorcee, she’s one of your vanishingly few female watchers.
You keep chatting through your meal of garlic toast, an eggplant parmigiana sandwich, and rings of fried kraken with marinara sauce, even when it means talking with your mouth full and chewing into the mic. You were mortified the first time you caught yourself doing it, but the viewers “love your enthusiasm” for food. Naked mukbang is a strange combination, but it appeals to a segment of your audience, a segment that’s been growing ever since you announced your weight goals.
Your decision to gain was, of all things, a financial one. You can’t do much with your abilities as of now, and it’s costing you money.
Shapeshifters are governed by three laws:
That takes care of rule two: Every other living thing that’s your size and contains these elements has a brain. It’s theoretically possible to reduce yourself to a blob of meat goo, but every self-preservation instinct prevents it.
Rule three is just physics, and that’s your problem: You’ve always been a twiggy little thing, one of those people whose metabolism blows through anything they eat. It’s a trait most other races would kill for, but it limits what you can turn into, which limits the niches you can do.
You hide your age well, so you’ve been camming for a decade, but the scene’s changed. Viewers’ tastes are getting weirder. There’s demand for 7-foot women, impossible amounts of muscle, wilder species transformations, and whole new chimera. Even futanari takes more tissue than you’d think to form the F-cups and fire-extinguisher dongs they want. And, of course, there’s BBW and BHM.
Being so skinny, where are you going to get the extra matter from? Your bones and organs can’t afford any budget cuts. So unless you start hitting the gym for hours a day to bulk (ha), the best place is a generous reserve of adipose. That means DDoSing your digestive system with food until it has no choice but to convert it to fat.
Your lunch streams are pretty normal despite being done in the nude. They just give your regular viewers in different time zones a chance to hang out with you, often over their own meals. And if your voice is tired or whatever, you can drop to a whisper and do it as ASMR.
Evening is when you get into the sexual stuff, which requires you turn on the theatrics: they rely on entertainment value. You’ve taken up acting classes, which you regret not doing sooner, and filled your closet with costumes over the years. You even take online voice acting courses to master different pitches and accents, so your impressions have gotten spot on, drawing requests to shift into celebrities. Maybe one of those can be a career when you finally age out.
Too bad the actual sex is so boring, a routine of taking on the superficial appearance of someone or something else, doing a practiced vocal impression, then showing off what you can deepthroat or how big a dildo will fit into your pliable body. Parlor tricks. Humans can do that.
After a forgettable couple hours with the same old sex toys, you catch a nap as the sun sets. You’re woken with a start another couple later when the tower across the water erupts into light: all hundred stories of it. You wince, swear, close the drapes, and get up to prepare social media posts for your night show.
The city you live in sits where two rivers meet to form a sideways Y. The north one separates it from the suburbs, downtown is on the peninsula in the middle, and the rest of it - the vast majority - is below the south one. This is where you’ve managed to score a tiny one-bedroom in a waterfront highrise. It costs you most of your money, but the view of the business district was worth it and made for a beautiful background to your fucking yourself.
Was worth it. Last year, they started building that monstrosity on the peninsula’s southern shore, twice the size of the other skyscrapers and blocking half your view. They work on it 24/7, and every night it’s lit up in white like a racist’s Christmas tree, driving your webcam’s autofocus mad.
You adapted by putting up blackout curtains, and that’s when things took a turn. For years, your night streams were more of the same as your evening ones. But being suddenly cast into darkness and hidden from the neighbors’ view… It changed you.
First you bought red gels to make your fill lights a little more devilish. Then you set up a second studio in the living room, sectioning off a corner with room dividers. One morning after a bar crawl, you woke to find you’d ordered tapestries for them depicting occult sigils and ancient demons.
You started out performing on the couch, but soon moved to a Persian rug on the floor. An imitation, of course: a washable one. Later, you started keeping a tarp nearby because some of the shit you were getting into required it. All this has led you to here.
You hit Ctrl+5 and head to the living room wearing a red g-string and electrical tape over your nipples - an outfit somehow dirtier than nudity - and a smile of the kind werewolves use to bare their fangs.
“Good evening, fiends!” you announce, too loud. “I am, as always, your AcidFetishToy…” Thinking about what’s to come makes your eyes widen and your pulse pick up. Shaking a little, although you don’t quite get why, you lean in close to the camera and whisper what’s become a catchphrase: “…And tonight we get weird.”
What usually follows is half sex show, half biological experiment. Questions, questions, questions, so many need to be answered. How much water can a naiad squirt when she comes? As much as you can drink. Can a mermaid bend herself into a b-shape and jill off with her tailfin? Maybe not a real one, but you can. Can you eat a rope, pull it out the other end, and tie yourself into a ball with it? Too easy, next. How many eggs will fit up your nightmarishly elastic rectum before they break? Eleven, it turns out.
After-darks are when the money becomes secondary. First priority is pleasuring yourself in ways that affront both religion and science equally. You enter a sexual trance that turns into a mania, then a derangement. You creep yourself out and you love it.
Lately, though, you’ve been changing it up: a consummate showbeing, you’re trying out a second eating stream with the same approach. Your physiology lets you unhinge your jaw, widen your throat, and stretch your stomach to spectacular proportions, and It turns out there are a lot of weirdos who would kill to watch this.
Among them, 40% are the best audience you’ve ever had, the middle 40% leave the standard “u make me cum” comments, and the bottom 20% heckle you and call you species of livestock. But even when it’s bad, the tips make up for it - the good eggs are generous with food money since you deliver the results live - and it might be the most fun you’ve ever had on cam.
___
Myths#2 - Tonight We Get Weird
by Widis
by Widis
Your clothes aren’t even all the way off when you get the question:
“makeufreak: Are you a man or a woman”
“For fifty coin, whatever you want,” you reply without missing a beat.
Response #23. You get asked this so often you’ve itemized your comebacks on a spreadsheet. Your niche is experiencing a surge in popularity right now, but with it has come a debate raging across the internet:
“Are shifters traps?”
The whole flamewar clusterfuck bewilders you. Some men’s sexual identities are so fragile. You wait a minute for the inevitable…
“[makeufreak has left the chat]”
…And resume unbuttoning your top. No big loss. Guys like that never provide much in either tips or conversation. And you literally don’t have the answer he wants: Today is girl day, tomorrow’s boy day, Sunday’s hermaphroday, and that’s as deep as it goes. You don’t have a “real sex.” You started shifting in the womb.
Once your underwear’s tossed to the floor, you hit Ctrl+4 and strut to the kitchen. The curtains are wide open, but you don’t care - you always use natural light during the day. Whoever’s in the building across the street must be used to it by now, and it’s a sight some people pay to see; there are five cameras and three mics in your apartment, all of them run back to your desktop with extension cables and assigned to hotkeys. You almost put a sixth one in the bathroom, but decided to keep that your last private space.
Camera 4 and Mic 3 are already on and your food is laid out on the table. You are nothing if not organized.
You pull up your stream on your tablet to read the chat. “Hey, lonelylover!” He’s one of your favorites, eloquent and actually knows how to give a compliment without being a creep. “Oh hi, StrokerAce. How are you?” Great tipper, but total jerkface. You never know how to talk to him. “Bratgirl94! You’re having what? That sounds yummy too!” A lesbian divorcee, she’s one of your vanishingly few female watchers.
You keep chatting through your meal of garlic toast, an eggplant parmigiana sandwich, and rings of fried kraken with marinara sauce, even when it means talking with your mouth full and chewing into the mic. You were mortified the first time you caught yourself doing it, but the viewers “love your enthusiasm” for food. Naked mukbang is a strange combination, but it appeals to a segment of your audience, a segment that’s been growing ever since you announced your weight goals.
Your decision to gain was, of all things, a financial one. You can’t do much with your abilities as of now, and it’s costing you money.
Shapeshifters are governed by three laws:
- You can only turn into things made of the same things you are.
- Anything you turn into must have a brain, or else you won’t be able to turn back.
- Anything you turn into must have the same mass as you.
That takes care of rule two: Every other living thing that’s your size and contains these elements has a brain. It’s theoretically possible to reduce yourself to a blob of meat goo, but every self-preservation instinct prevents it.
Rule three is just physics, and that’s your problem: You’ve always been a twiggy little thing, one of those people whose metabolism blows through anything they eat. It’s a trait most other races would kill for, but it limits what you can turn into, which limits the niches you can do.
You hide your age well, so you’ve been camming for a decade, but the scene’s changed. Viewers’ tastes are getting weirder. There’s demand for 7-foot women, impossible amounts of muscle, wilder species transformations, and whole new chimera. Even futanari takes more tissue than you’d think to form the F-cups and fire-extinguisher dongs they want. And, of course, there’s BBW and BHM.
Being so skinny, where are you going to get the extra matter from? Your bones and organs can’t afford any budget cuts. So unless you start hitting the gym for hours a day to bulk (ha), the best place is a generous reserve of adipose. That means DDoSing your digestive system with food until it has no choice but to convert it to fat.
Your lunch streams are pretty normal despite being done in the nude. They just give your regular viewers in different time zones a chance to hang out with you, often over their own meals. And if your voice is tired or whatever, you can drop to a whisper and do it as ASMR.
Evening is when you get into the sexual stuff, which requires you turn on the theatrics: they rely on entertainment value. You’ve taken up acting classes, which you regret not doing sooner, and filled your closet with costumes over the years. You even take online voice acting courses to master different pitches and accents, so your impressions have gotten spot on, drawing requests to shift into celebrities. Maybe one of those can be a career when you finally age out.
Too bad the actual sex is so boring, a routine of taking on the superficial appearance of someone or something else, doing a practiced vocal impression, then showing off what you can deepthroat or how big a dildo will fit into your pliable body. Parlor tricks. Humans can do that.
After a forgettable couple hours with the same old sex toys, you catch a nap as the sun sets. You’re woken with a start another couple later when the tower across the water erupts into light: all hundred stories of it. You wince, swear, close the drapes, and get up to prepare social media posts for your night show.
The city you live in sits where two rivers meet to form a sideways Y. The north one separates it from the suburbs, downtown is on the peninsula in the middle, and the rest of it - the vast majority - is below the south one. This is where you’ve managed to score a tiny one-bedroom in a waterfront highrise. It costs you most of your money, but the view of the business district was worth it and made for a beautiful background to your fucking yourself.
Was worth it. Last year, they started building that monstrosity on the peninsula’s southern shore, twice the size of the other skyscrapers and blocking half your view. They work on it 24/7, and every night it’s lit up in white like a racist’s Christmas tree, driving your webcam’s autofocus mad.
You adapted by putting up blackout curtains, and that’s when things took a turn. For years, your night streams were more of the same as your evening ones. But being suddenly cast into darkness and hidden from the neighbors’ view… It changed you.
First you bought red gels to make your fill lights a little more devilish. Then you set up a second studio in the living room, sectioning off a corner with room dividers. One morning after a bar crawl, you woke to find you’d ordered tapestries for them depicting occult sigils and ancient demons.
You started out performing on the couch, but soon moved to a Persian rug on the floor. An imitation, of course: a washable one. Later, you started keeping a tarp nearby because some of the shit you were getting into required it. All this has led you to here.
You hit Ctrl+5 and head to the living room wearing a red g-string and electrical tape over your nipples - an outfit somehow dirtier than nudity - and a smile of the kind werewolves use to bare their fangs.
“Good evening, fiends!” you announce, too loud. “I am, as always, your AcidFetishToy…” Thinking about what’s to come makes your eyes widen and your pulse pick up. Shaking a little, although you don’t quite get why, you lean in close to the camera and whisper what’s become a catchphrase: “…And tonight we get weird.”
What usually follows is half sex show, half biological experiment. Questions, questions, questions, so many need to be answered. How much water can a naiad squirt when she comes? As much as you can drink. Can a mermaid bend herself into a b-shape and jill off with her tailfin? Maybe not a real one, but you can. Can you eat a rope, pull it out the other end, and tie yourself into a ball with it? Too easy, next. How many eggs will fit up your nightmarishly elastic rectum before they break? Eleven, it turns out.
After-darks are when the money becomes secondary. First priority is pleasuring yourself in ways that affront both religion and science equally. You enter a sexual trance that turns into a mania, then a derangement. You creep yourself out and you love it.
Lately, though, you’ve been changing it up: a consummate showbeing, you’re trying out a second eating stream with the same approach. Your physiology lets you unhinge your jaw, widen your throat, and stretch your stomach to spectacular proportions, and It turns out there are a lot of weirdos who would kill to watch this.
Among them, 40% are the best audience you’ve ever had, the middle 40% leave the standard “u make me cum” comments, and the bottom 20% heckle you and call you species of livestock. But even when it’s bad, the tips make up for it - the good eggs are generous with food money since you deliver the results live - and it might be the most fun you’ve ever had on cam.
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