I've had an unusual request from one of our newer visitors, and I've decided to help him out in this small way. fwank has a service set up where, for a fee, he will assist writers of fetish fiction. He offers all level of story or script help, from beginning outlining and plot to final polish proofreading. It can be for short stories, novels, addventure episodes, even cleaning up RPs into a more coherent story.
For those interested in this, the link is here.
Tuesday, 25 February 2116
Sunday, 19 July 2026
Story: Dogi of Delights
The Tendo living room felt cavernous and cold, though the afternoon sun streamed through the shoji screens. Four girls sat in a circle on the tatami mats, surrounding a heap of tattered white and grey fabric. The remnants of the Monkey Clan's battle dogi lay there like a fallen soldier, its sentient threads limp and greyish.
Akane stared at the fabric, her lower lip trembling. A phantom itch danced across her skin, a memory of the rhythmic, pulsing massages the suit had provided. She felt exposed, raw, and irritatingly normal.
"It's just... sitting there," Akane whispered.
"Like a dead fish," Nabiki added. She leaned back on her elbows, her expression a mix of calculation and genuine longing. "My skin feels like it's made of sandpaper. I can't focus on my ledgers. I tried to count my earnings from the Kuno-files and I forgot what a zero looked like for ten seconds."
Ukyo sighed, her shoulders slumped. She had swapped her chef's whites for a simple house-dress, but she kept glancing at the dogi with the hunger of a woman deprived of her favorite spice.
"The precision is gone," Ukyo groaned. "I tried to dice carrots this morning and I nearly took off a finger. My rhythm is off. I need that focus back."
Shampoo crossed her legs, her eyes narrowed. "Airen be mean. Airen break beautiful clothes. Now Shampoo feel... empty. Like bowl of rice with no fish."
"We have to fix it," Akane declared, her voice regaining some of its aggressive edge. "We can't just leave it in pieces. If we can put it back together, we can get the power back. And the... other stuff."
Nabiki reached into a bag and produced a professional sewing kit. Silver needles glinted; spools of heavy-duty thread sat ready.
"I can handle the repairs," Nabiki said, a predatory glint in her eye. "Of course, since I'm providing the equipment and the labor, there will be a consultancy fee. Five thousand yen per stitch. Or, we can negotiate a payment plan involving favors."
"You're charging us to fix something that makes us all crazy?" Ukyo asked, leaning forward. "I'll do it. I'm a chef. I understand the importance of a perfect seam. Precision is everything."
"Precision?" Akane snapped. "I'm the one who wore it the longest! I know how it's supposed to fit! Give me the needle!"
Akane lunged for the kit. Ukyo intercepted her, pinning Akane's wrist to the mat with a sharp, practiced movement.
"Hands off, tomboy," Ukyo smirked. "You'll probably sew the sleeves to the collar and turn us all into straightjackets."
"What did you call me?" Akane yelled, her face flushing.
Shampoo leaped into the fray, her small frame a blur of motion. She didn't go for the needles; she went for the fabric, clutching the main torso of the dogi to her chest.
"Shampoo fix!" she chirped. "Chinese sewing be best in world! I make dogi more powerful! More sexy!"
"Let go of it, you little menace!" Nabiki barked, grabbing Shampoo's ponytail.
The living room dissolved into a chaotic tangle of limbs and screams. It was a classic Tendo household brawl: a whirlwind of flying kicks, pulled hair, and indignant shrieks. In the center of the storm, the dogi remained motionless, though a single thread pulsed a faint, iridescent purple, as if amused by the desperation of its former masters.
Finally, the girls collapsed into a heap, panting and disheveled. Akane had a smudge of dirt on her cheek; Nabiki's hair was a bird's nest; Shampoo was clinging to the fabric like a limpet; and Ukyo was lying flat on her back, staring at the ceiling.
"Fine," Akane gasped, her chest heaving. "We... we work together. Nabiki provides the tools. Ukyo handles the structural seams. I'll oversee the fit. And Shampoo... you just hold the fabric still."
"Deal," Nabiki muttered, adjusting her glasses. "But the fee still stands."
They gathered around the fabric again. Nabiki threaded a needle with a piece of reinforced silk. Ukyo took the lead, carefully aligning a jagged tear along the waistline.
"Steady," Ukyo whispered, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth. "If the tension is too high, the sentient aura won't flow. It needs to be supple, like a well-made crepe."
As the needle pierced the fabric, the dogi reacted. It didn't just sit there; it shuddered. A sudden, violent ripple surged through the cloth, snapping the thread with a sharp ping.
"What was that?" Akane jumped.
"It's resisting," Nabiki observed, leaning in. "It's a sentient entity. It probably has an opinion on who's sewing it. It doesn't like Ukyo's technique."
"My technique is flawless!" Ukyo yelled.
"Maybe it wants a more... passionate touch," Nabiki suggested, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. "Try humming to it. Or maybe tell it how much you miss the way it felt on your thighs."
Ukyo turned a deep shade of crimson. "I am not talking to a piece of clothing!"
"Do it, or we'll never fix it," Akane urged, her own longing overriding her pride. "Tell it... tell it it's a good dogi."
Ukyo looked around to ensure no one else was watching. She leaned down, her voice a barely audible whisper.
"You're a... very efficient piece of attire. Please stop breaking the thread."
The dogi remained still for a moment, then suddenly contracted, clamping down on Ukyo's finger like a tiny, fabric mouth.
"Ow! It bit me!" Ukyo shrieked, shaking her hand.
"It's playing hard to get," Nabiki giggled. "It knows we're desperate. It's leveraging its position. I respect that. I'd do the same if I were a perverted suit of clothes."
"Stop analyzing it and help me hold this piece!" Akane commanded.
For the next hour, the process was a comedy of errors. Every time they made progress, the dogi would find a way to sabotage them. It would slide across the floor when they reached for it; it would tangle itself around Akane's ankles, tripping her into the tea tray; it would suddenly emit a loud, sobbing sound that made them all stop in confusion.
"Is it... crying?" Akane asked, looking at the sleeve.
"It's pining," Nabiki said. "The manual said it weeps for its master. It probably misses the feeling of a warm body. It's lonely."
"Poor thing," Shampoo cooed, stroking the collar. "Do-chan just want love. Shampoo give love!"
Shampoo leaned down and kissed the fabric. The dogi responded instantly, wrapping its collar around her neck in a suffocating, affectionate hug.
"Gah! Help! It's... too... affectionate!" Shampoo wheezed, her face turning purple.
Akane and Ukyo scrambled to pull Shampoo free, resulting in a three-way tug-of-war that ended with the fabric ripping again-this time right down the middle.
The silence that followed was heavy. The girls stared at the now-bisected suit.
"I hate this thing," Akane whispered.
"I love it," Nabiki sighed. "And I hate that I love it."
"We are failures," Ukyo groaned, burying her face in her hands. "We can't even sew a simple garment."
"It's not simple!" Akane yelled. "It's a magical, perverted, monkey-tribe artifact! Why are we treating this like a home economics project?"
"Because we don't have a magical monkey tailor on speed-dial!" Nabiki retorted.
Suddenly, the front door slid open. Ranma stepped inside, looking exhausted. He stopped dead, staring at the scene: four girls sitting in a circle of fabric scraps, looking like they had just survived a war in a textile mill.
"What in the world are you guys doing?" Ranma asked, his voice cautious.
The reaction was instantaneous. The sight of Ranma acted like a catalyst. The lingering effects of the dogi-the horniness, the aggression, the desperation-surged to the surface.
"Ranma!" Akane screamed, leaping up. "You're the one who broke it! Fix it!"
"Why would I fix it?" Ranma yelled, jumping back. "I spent three days trying to get that thing away from you! Why would I want that nightmare back in this house?"
"Because we're suffering!" Nabiki declared, her eyes flashing. "Do you have any idea how boring life is without a sentient suit massaging your pressure points?"
Ranma recoiled, a look of pure horror on his face. "You guys are actually addicted to it! You're insane! All of you!"
"Airen!" Shampoo lunged at him, her mace appearing out of nowhere. "Airen fix Do-chan or Shampoo make Airen into pancake!"
"Get away from me!" Ranma shouted, diving over the sofa.
Ukyo joined the chase, her battle spatula whirling. "You're a martial arts genius, Saotome! Figure out a way to mend the aura of the cloth!"
"I'm a fighter, not a seamstress!" Ranma bellowed, sprinting toward the kitchen.
The living room became a battlefield once more. The girls pursued Ranma with a ferocity that would have intimidated a mountain bear. They weren't just fighting for the suit; they were fighting against the void the suit had left behind. It was a chaotic loop of screams, crashing furniture, and Ranma's desperate pleas for sanity.
In the midst of the madness, Kasumi Tendo entered the room. She carried a tray of freshly sliced oranges and a pot of steaming green tea. She stopped at the threshold, her expression one of serene, unchanging kindness.
She watched as Akane tackled Ranma into a sliding door. She watched as Nabiki tried to trip him with a rug. She watched as Shampoo and Ukyo argued over who got to deliver the final blow.
"My," Kasumi murmured, her voice a soft breeze. "They certainly are energetic today."
She looked down at the floor. There, forgotten in the carnage, lay the pieces of the dogi and Nabiki's sewing kit.
Kasumi set the tea tray down on a side table with a delicate clink. She knelt beside the fabric. To her, the dogi didn't look like a perverted monster or a source of power. It looked like a piece of clothing that had been treated poorly.
"Oh, you poor thing," Kasumi whispered.
She picked up the needle. Her movements were fluid, devoid of the tension and ego that had plagued the other girls. She didn't try to command the fabric or bargain with it. She simply began to sew.
Her stitches were invisible, a masterclass in domesticity. She worked with a rhythmic, soothing precision, her mind focused on the simple act of repair. The dogi, sensing the lack of aggression and the genuine kindness of the wearer, stopped resisting. It didn't ripple or snap the thread. Instead, it leaned into her touch, humming a low, contented vibration that only she could feel.
The girls were still screaming in the background.
"I'll kill you, Saotome!"
"Get off me, you crazy tomboy!"
"Pay me for the emotional distress, Ranma!"
Kasumi smiled. She finished the final stitch on the belt buckle and gave the fabric a gentle pat.
"There we go," she said. "All mended."
The dogi didn't wait. It didn't hesitate. It felt the purity of Kasumi's spirit and the efficiency of her care. In a flash of iridescent light, the fabric leaped from the floor. It didn't just wrap around her; it embraced her. The white and grey cloth flowed over Kasumi's frame, molding itself to her curves with a snug, perfect fit. The collar snapped shut around her neck, and the belt tightened with a satisfied click.
The chaos in the room stopped instantly. Ranma, who was currently pinned under Akane, froze. Nabiki, who had been trying to pull Ranma's pigtail, let go. Shampoo and Ukyo stopped mid-argument.
They all stared at Kasumi. The transformation was subtle but profound. Kasumi still had her gentle smile, but there was a new glow to her skin. Her posture was straighter, her presence more commanding. The dogi seemed to pulse in harmony with her heartbeat, the fabric shimmering with a soft, pearlescent light.
"Kasumi?" Akane asked, her voice small.
Kasumi tilted her head, a look of blissful realization crossing her face. She let out a long, slow sigh-a sound of absolute, unadulterated pleasure.
"Oh my," Kasumi whispered, her voice sounding slightly deeper, more resonant. "I can see why you all liked this so much. It feels... wonderful."
The girls gaped. The "perfect" sister, the one who was always in the background, the one they all assumed was too innocent for such things, was now the wearer of the most perverted garment in existence.
"Give it back!" Akane yelled, leaping up.
"No way!" Nabiki shouted, diving forward.
But as they lunged, Kasumi didn't move a muscle. The dogi reacted for her. A sudden, invisible wave of force erupted from the fabric, a concussive blast of "gentle" energy that sent all four girls flying backward. They hit the walls with a series of loud thumps, sliding down to the floor in a daze.
Ranma scrambled backward, his eyes wide. "Not her. Please, not her."
Kasumi looked down at her hands, then at the group of defeated girls. She didn't look angry; she looked enlightened. She stepped forward, her movements possessing a predatory grace that was entirely new.
"You know," Kasumi said, her smile remaining sweet even as she looked at them with a glimmer of something hungry in her eyes. "I think I've been far too lenient with the housework lately. Perhaps it's time we all learned a bit more about... discipline."
The dogi rippled across her chest, the fabric tightening provocatively. Ranma didn't wait for a second invitation. He turned and bolted for the window, leaping onto the roof with a desperate scream.
"Come back, Ranma-kun!" Kasumi called out, her voice echoing with a playful, dangerous lilt. "The tea is still warm!"
The girls on the floor looked at each other. For the first time in their lives, they were in complete agreement. They were absolutely terrified.
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