Buildup (2)
"Hmmm..."
Before I knew it, the clock had ticked past 1 AM. The sky, which had been a vivid orange when I ate dinner, was now dyed pitch black, without a single star in sight.
Yeah. Aside from going to the bathroom after dinner, I hadn't moved an inch—just pure gaming. Still, six hours isn't exactly short.
"Hmmm..."
I'm groaning in deep thought, my two massive lumps—each as big as my head—propped up on the desk. Of course, resting my breasts on the desk is just because they're so heavy. No one's watching in my apartment, so who cares if it looks a bit lewd? It's for my shoulder health and keeping these things perky and firm.
Damn, I veered into boob talk again without meaning to. Back to the point: the reason I'm striking this ultra-serious pondering pose is to verify my gaming performance from the session I just finished.
My mind hasn't changed, but my body has, which shifts my playstyle in subtle ways. Reaction speed, for one—the core of skillshots and aim in games. Naturally, being good at those translates straight to "good at the game."
And that's what I'm agonizing over right now.
My physicals haven't dropped compared to before. Back then, I was what they call a "mineral"—stuck in Bronze, Silver, Gold, never climbing out of the lower ranks. If becoming a girl made me worse than that, it'd be like my skills got gender-bent too. Sure, the TS itself is real, but TS stories have an ironclad rule: girls get better at games. Thankfully, I'm no exception.
I pull up three windows, each showing match history sites for my main games.
"Hmmm..."
The FPS I mained (and was pretty decent at), the MOBA, and Battle Royale. My account tiers match my old self, but my actual skill has skyrocketed.
[Victory] [1st Place]
Traces of my win streaks—born from overwhelming skill gaps—are etched all over my records.
Of course, if it was just "good," I wouldn't be fretting like this. I'd probably be hyping myself up as the first bishoujo pro gamer or something.
"...It's ambiguous."
Yeah. My level's right there. Good, sure—but pro? Hacker tier? Honestly? No way.
Just below ranking tiers. Push a bit harder, and maybe low-rankings. Top of casuals, but not pro material.
Even in Battle Royale, where 1st is tough with so many players, I've snagged plenty of wins, with most finishes in single digits. But if I had real talent, it'd be double or triple that—unlucky games aside.
Same for FPS and MOBA, where the skill gap is four tiers wide. If I was that broken, there'd be no troll losses or dragging teammates to victory.
Long story short: "You're not there yet."
Peak casual. My cold, hard self-assessment.
Still, being good at games doesn't suck. Play more, climb tiers—might come in handy someday.
"Already this late."
Wrapping up my post-game review, I spot the clock past 2 AM.
Yawn. Focus fades, eyelids droop. An unstoppable yawn stretches my mouth.
I usually had solid sleep habits—even after quitting my job, I kept some routine. 2 AM is brutal for me.
Shut down the PC, collapse into bed. The plush mattress cradles my back, wrapping me in a warm "good job today, even if it was nothing much."
But as we all know, modern humans don't conk out the second they hit the sheets.
Savoring the bed's embrace for a moment, I hug my long body pillow and roll sideways. My breasts—day two, getting familiar—squish against it as I grab my phone like always.
Pre-bed phone time? It's routine.
With the expert fingerwork from my male days, I type a familiar string into the search bar. Starts with H, ends in .la.
...Why'd I open this?
I flopped into bed and my fingers just did it—pure autopilot. Didn't even type; H brings up frequent sites instantly.
But no time for regrets. Eh, I worked kinda hard today, even if short. Reward time?
Right hand slips into my pants; left scrolls the newest uploads.
Swipe past poorly drawn lewd art or off-taste covers. Side-dish glances at the naked girls on thumbnails, my now-familiar hand gently rubbing my outer lips.
Familiar pose, but with the massive change down there. Day two, and I'm adapting.
Mmm... ah. This one's it. Sharp-eyed career woman in a skin-tight suit—intimidating vibe. Art's gorgeous and hot; the setup's pure catnip.
These types always go one of two ways: sweet vanilla with a young, handsome, hung junior... or broken by the old, ugly, hung boss. Personally? Latter's my jam.
Cover screams the latter. I tease my clit more while skimming the buildup.
"Ngh..."
Getting wet—fingertips feel it. Body heat and juices force my pants off. Room air—still comfy—brushes my pussy.
Left scrolls; right keeps rubbing. Wet schlick-schlick now drowns the faint rustle.
"Hng."
I let the moan escape raw. Midway through now: suit half-unbuttoned, black bra peeking. She's kneeling, gazing up at the boss unbuckling his belt.
Scroll more...
"Oh."
Out springs a monstrous, unreal cock from his panties. She scoffs but widens her eyes, gulping. Gulp—I swallow too.
Left hand slows; right speeds up on my pussy. Schlick-schlick—panties yanked aside, suit still on, she takes it. Slow, but deep; her face crumbles. Melting, breaking, but ecstasy blooms undeniable.
My right hand dips lower, up higher—pussy hole to clit, revving my arousal.
"Ngh. Nggh... hng."
I'm projecting onto her now. Thrust in—hand down. Pull out—hand up.
She's pinned under him now, pistoned wildly, crushed. But her face? Pure blissed-out ruin, addicted to womanly joy.
"Ahng... haaahng..."
Right hand blurs on my clit. Fluids splatter the bed, but who cares?
Their fuck ramps up; mine too.
"Ngh... hyaaah... haup. Hngg..."
Moans intensify. Left hand sluggish but persistent. They're cresting—final page: his cock throbs, flooding her depths. She arches back, suit in tatters, body quaking.
And me—hips buck, climax hits near-simultaneous.
"Hiiihng..."
More squirt hits the sheets. Pleasure crashes my brain. Second female orgasm—still heaven.
Left hand flops; phone drops. I roll onto my back, savoring afterglow, hot breaths heaving.
"Haaaah..."
Wrapped in bliss, that nagging thought resurfaces.
"What am I gonna do about the bed..."
Shit, for real.