Should I Really Sign This Contract?

"Ugh... you fucking bitch, you said once a day was the absolute max..."

Forcing my swimming consciousness back into focus, I sat up to find it was already late evening. I looked around — the succubus who'd been bound and restrained was nowhere to be seen, and the only thing left sprawled on the floor was my ballsack buddy, beaten to a bloody pulp.

Surveying the wreckage of the apartment, I called for the Fox God to get an explanation, but she gave me nothing. Dead silence. Either she was sleeping or just ignoring me entirely. With no answers forthcoming, I finally hauled myself up and started moving, determined to figure out the situation myself.

First thing I checked was my ballsack buddy, crumpled on the floor. His clothes, which had been perfectly fine before, were shredded to ribbons, and his whole body was mottled with bruises — but all things considered, he looked pretty decent compared to the state of the apartment.

That said... just how hard had that slutty species been grinding on him in the short time they'd been stuck together? Her scent was still clinging to his body. Disgusting. Needed to get that off him, fast.

I coiled one of my luscious tails around him, hoisted him up, and carried him toward the kitchen, which was in relatively better shape. And there, I found a note that looked like it had been written by the Fox God — the handwriting a frantic scrawl, as if she'd been in a serious hurry. I started reading, slowly deciphering what she'd left behind.

"Enjoy my love, my ass, you goddamn Fox God."

I crumpled the note into a tight ball and chucked it into the trash.

"I am never doing any of that female-corruption shit, okay? Why the hell would I have sex with a guy like that?!"

Just imagining it made me want to gag. Me, bouncing my hips on top of that bald gym-rat like some beast in heat? Get real.

Sure, in an 18+ manga, a fox beastman in heat getting skewered on a bald gymbro's absurdly oversized junk and whimpering about it might be hot — but me actually getting done like that...?

"Nope. Absolutely not. That stuff's only hot because it's manga. Bringing manga into reality is a hard no."

I was shaking my head vigorously, trying to fling the dirty thoughts out of my skull, when my friend — apparently awake now — started squirming against my luscious tail, complaining he couldn't breathe.

"Hey! Unwrap me already! I can't breathe, you asshole! You trying to suffocate your one and only friend?!"

"Suffocate, huh? That's a pretty spicy word choice~ Heh-nnn..."

"Cut the crap and let me go, you horny fox."

At my ballsack buddy's outburst, I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠immediately uncoiled the tail pinning him. Freed at last, he took a few deep breaths, then exhaled a massive sigh of pure survival.

"Hoo... okay, now I feel like I might live. Holy shit, I genuinely thought I was gonna die, you bastard."

"Stop being dramatic. You were into it."

"I mean, you're not wrong, but it felt like getting euthanized, so it was... a whole thing. Not exactly a great experience."

He grabbed one of my luscious tails, pulled it over to his side, and started stroking it, a blissed-out grin spreading across his face.

"This level's just right for sex. Bondage and vore ain't my thing."

"What? Vore stuff's pretty solid though. How hot is it, violating a female fox beastman who wants to resist but can't put up any fight at all?"

"The target just now was a dude, you moron."

"Ah."

Now that he mentioned it — yeah. I had just personally created a disgusting scenario where a man got tied up with zero ability to resist.

Urgh... picturing it again made me want to throw up. Fuck. Gotta forget that, fast.

Desperate to scrub the nauseating image from my mind, I hurriedly grabbed my phone and checked my commission requests — and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sure enough, there was a message from the gacha game advertiser.

The messages had arrived twenty minutes ago. It was well past quitting time, deep into the evening, so I figured a reply would be fine and shot one back.

As if they'd been sitting on the edge of their seat waiting for my reply, the advertiser answered instantly.

Without thinking, I dropped my contact info in the chat — and a moment later, an unknown number lit up my phone screen. The cheerful ringtone blared through the apartment, and at the sound of that obnoxious noise, a forgotten fact slammed into me.

"Ah. Right. I can't actually hold a conversation."

What the hell was I thinking, confidently handing over my number like that? Absolute genius move. Peak idiot behavior.

Fortunately — truly, blessedly fortunately — our angel of an advertiser said it was perfectly fine to handle the contract over text.

That's how good a person they were. The contract terms they offered right from the start were already more than satisfactory, and when I had my friend look them over just in case I was getting played, even he said they weren't bad.

So we settled every condition, and just as our heaven-sent advertiser promised to draft the contract and send it over by tomorrow, I carefully posed a question.

Why entrust their precious first-anniversary stream to a nobody like me?

There were popular celebrities out there. Streamers and YouTubers way funnier than me. So why pick someone who dealt in filthy, deviant sexual fetishes?

The advertiser answered with surprising calm. They said they were a regular viewer of my streams, and that my broadcasts were genuinely entertaining. That I looked more than capable of handling a game's first-anniversary stream, which was why they were offering it to me. Genuinely flattering words.

A complete gentleman — a whole different species from the usual viewers who sexually harassed me about how nice and plump my little belly looked, or went feral demanding I mass-produce the filthiest fetish art imaginable.

Moved by a warmth I hadn't felt even once since transforming into a gumiho, I asked for the advertiser's nickname. And the moment I heard it—

That warmth shattered into a thousand pieces.

...That nickname sounded familiar.

If my memory served, that was one of the absolute worst among my toxic viewers. Time to check. See if it was really the same person.

I opened Halo Streaming on my phone, pulled up a recent VOD, and scrubbed to the timestamp where the toxic chatters usually went nuclear.

And then.

I had just confirmed the ugly true face of my angelic advertiser.

"No. There's no way our angel of an advertiser is some pedo freak."

They had to be joking. Surely they were the quiet type who watched streams without ever chatting. A gentleman like that couldn't possibly be a degenerate pedophile toxic viewer, right?

I believed in my advertiser.

Clinging to denial in the face of an unacceptable reality, I asked them again — and the advertiser drove the stake clean through, as if telling me to face the facts.

Reeling from the advertiser's devastating answer, I staggered over to my ballsack buddy and poured out my woes.

"Dude."

"What."

"Should I... really sign this contract? Money itself hasn't done anything wrong, but I've got a seriously weird feeling about this."

"The game's name is... ah."

He checked the game title, nodded once, and then spoke to me in a voice of absolute, unshakable seriousness.

"I'm not a pedo, but Celina ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Mama is hot."

...Just go die. Please.

You irredeemable pedo furry bastard.