Chapter 4

I didn't bother cleaning up after the high elf's final outdoor exposure vulgarity, that unsightly streaking fuckfest. Why would I in a game? The NPCs would handle it themselves if I left it alone.

Her drool's a bit too mild, though. Maybe I should tweak just that.

Still, it felt kinda pitiful leaving Dotom Baji in constant heat, so I wiped all the succubus settings clean. The pregnancy, that total perv apron outfit, the childhood friend bit... eh, those could stay as is.

"Alright, Dotom Baji, I'm off on my adventure now."

"U-Uh, yeah...!! You can use teleportation to come back anytime, so visit whenever you miss me!!!"

As I stepped out of the Nameless Wing Inn, Dotom Baji followed and waved goodbye. Every time, her massive tits jiggled out from under the naked apron. Her bloated belly hiked the fabric up, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠letting pussy juice drip visibly from her exposed slit.

Maybe I should just fuck her one more time before I go.

Tempting, but nah. One fuck per girl, that's the rule.

I turned my gaze forward. The medieval fantasy street teemed with gorgeous women passing by. To me, they were just living onaholes waiting to be claimed.

Single-player game, no other players around, everyone's an NPC... ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠time to enjoy it.

Now, who should I fuck and how to make it legendary? I strolled the streets, scouting for tasty prospects.

I was heading toward the crowds when—

—Murmurs.

"Hey, you hear? There's a cooking contest happening in the capital right now!!"

"Cooking contest?"

An overheard snippet. Normally, I'd ignore it. Cooking contest? Sounded like lifestyle fluff. This was a freshly unlocked 19+ god-game; no need for that.

But then...

"No way, the 3rd Princess herself?"

"Who else?!!"

"......Hoo?"

Princess, huh? Now that piqued my interest.

"Ooh."

The quest popped up the instant I got hooked. System only shows what I wanna do? God-game for real.

Sure, I burned some admin privileges being a speedrunner, but hey, works for me.

Cooking contest still sounds lame, though...

"Eh, I'll figure it out when I get there."

I muttered, then reached into empty air. Typing a fast-travel command into my personal console warped the scenery in a flash.

I blinked, and there I was in a bustling market.

—Chaotic clamor.

"Whoa, why's it so packed?"

"Buddy, you kiddin'? The 3rd Princess rounded up all the top cooks. Everyone's scrambling for ingredients."

"Hmm, gotcha."

Teleport worked fine. Dropping me in a market? Probably the system's courtesy—better than popping in somewhere empty where I'd stand out.

Alright, time to check the goods.

"Thanks for the info. I'll be off."

I nodded politely and scanned the market. Most folks here were contestants for the upcoming contest. Prime babe-hunting ground.

But... kinda boring.

All dudes.

Historically accurate for medieval, sure. No way a princess calls in random housewives for her food. Pros only.

Made sense, but...

"Fuck off."

Swipe— I reached out, fingers flying.

Soon, the market characters glitched and flickered.

Then—

—Condition: Any virgin woman aged 20+ who doesn't look old.

"Ooh."

For a split ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠second, I saw it clear: bearded old dudes vanishing like deleted files. Replaced by fresh NPCs.

Good, no forced gender-bends. Reusing assets makes sense.

And...

"Ooh, now that's quality."

All babes. In a world pandering to political correctness with uggos, this game was perfected.

No need to rush the princess now. I can climb the ranks slow.

I smacked my lips, eyeing the beauties haggling fiercely. My mind raced with play ideas for them.

And then...

—Rustle.

"L-Look at that. An elf."

"Elf? No way, even elves showed up!?"

"...Hoo."

One woman caught my eye: long ears, golden hair—prime elf material.

I approached. "Hey..."

"Don't talk to me, inferior breed."

"Ooh, straight to rude casual? This bitch is full 'high elf' mode."

Nope. Time for tweaks.

Light tweaks first, then her popup:

I hit save. "Look at me and say your name, age, and race?"

(I already know, but whatever.)

No waiting—I flipped her clothes, bared her tits, and groped away.

The prickly elf switched to sunny vibes like a personality swap.

"Pussy Elf, Chicken Coop Pussy. 503 years old."

"Pfft!"

Did she know? The haughty self from seconds ago was now giggling while a guy toyed with her tits.

Nah, NPC wouldn't.

"What's that race?"

"Pussy Elves are blessed deepest by the great World Tree. Regular elves revere us, calling us 'Pussy Elves.'"

"Pussy? That's slang for female genitals. Not embarrassed?"

"We know humans mock our name, but it's sacred—no shame."

"Oh ho."

Even her revised pussy elf lore adapted perfectly. I kneaded her sticky rice cake tits, then licked her cheek.

"Hah... As a Pussy Elf, you came all the way here for the cooking contest, right?"

"Of course. To show inferior humans the glory of vegetarianism."

"So you're a contestant—means you're a virgin, right? Virgin rocking that total perv pussy-flashing dress?"

"We go naked in the forest anyway, so no shame. I did wear underwear, though."

"Hmm."

Turned out her race was pervy from the start. Explained the skimpy outfit.

Then my job was clear.

Time to make her die of shame!

"So, why carrots?" I asked, still groping.

Her answer? Ignored. Probably cooking babble.

One hand on tit, the other tweaking her popup—cooking and skills.

"The perfect one I'm seeking... yeah, that'll do."

She grabbed a carrot—perfect timing. I let go.

Now to watch the show.

Freed at last, Chicken Coop Pussy started stripping.

"Heave-ho."

"......!!!!?"

Market gasped in shock. Her stripping was pure nonsense—no tweaks from me, so pure confusion.

But the real shock was next.

"Heave-ho."

Squelch— She jammed the carrot in her pussy like a pro, then struck the pose: legs splayed, pussy, tits, even asshole visible from behind. Virgin hymen intact, just the tip in—dangling carrot amped the vulgarity tenfold.

Anyone with shame wouldn't, but...

Chicken Coop Pussy strutted off unfazed.

"See ya. Got a good carrot—keep it fresh in storage, and victory's mine."

"Whoa..."

Her vulgar waddle was perfection. Sumo stomps to keep legs spread, pussy clenched. But shockingly fast.

—Thud thud.

"Outta the way!!"

High elf—or pussy elf—physical prowess shone. Alternating steps in that pose, tits flopping wildly. Slap slap. Even belly-clapping applause.

Ignorant of human norms, she had no clue this was social suicide.

Finishing touch...

Added that, so no more pervy shit after a day. She'd realize and never show her face again. Fixes her racist ass too.

I waved goodbye to Chicken Coop Pussy's final high-elf streaking disgrace with a grin.

—Murmurs.

"W-What the hell was that!?"

"Oh god... quick, record it with the magic tool!"

"Tsk tsk, poor thing. 30 coppers, and anyone in the Empire sees that forever."

Flash flash.

Panicked reporters swarmed, restraining her—right up to then.

"W-What do you think you're doing right now!!"

"Don't talk to me, in—"

"I know pussy elves go naked in forests! But wear clothes in the Empire, please!?"

"...Huh?"

"And that pose—goddess preserve us... No normal woman could show her face after that, in front of all these people..."

"H-Hah!? You mean in the Empire, this is weird?"

I turned away only after spotting tears welling in Chicken Coop Pussy's eyes.

"Kyaa, kyaAAAAAHHH!!! Don't look, don't looooook!!!"

"...Live strong, Chicken Coop Pussy."

Her sagging tits from all the bouncing and that carrot-cock dangling from her pussy? Etched in eternity.