Rampant Propaganda – 7 [❤️]
You push up your glasses and cross your arms over your massive chest. October gives you a winning smile, but you know him better than the gullible younger demons. You are New Year, and October is asking a lot from you.
He’s gotten it into his head that he’s a valiant defender of what’s right during the day…and the night. Which explains the marked women. He’s been tracking, dominating, and marking the Purity Front women that came back with their ECS broken.
To be fair, they’re easy pickings.
Their pride prevents most of them from coming to the diner whenever their DESIRE flares up. So they stubbornly walk around, getting incrementally hornier. A fascinating study. One which October ruined, because he jumped them out of nowhere, wearing nothing but a mask with his stupid fat cock out.
They practically threw themselves onto him. And he played with them, broke their pride down through lengthier sessions and longer nights.
Just one. One tabloid mentioning the appearances of the Masked Thundercock.
That was all October needed to come to you, with plans for a costume, gadgets, and potential comic book tie-in. You told him there was a non-zero chance he’d convince you to indulge in his ego.
As in, it would take too long to list the decimal places after zero. Of course, he tried anyways. Slapping his bare cock across your tits with every sentence. Yes, he was naked. He threw his clothes off the second he came into the diner. You acted fast and activated an enchantment to hide him until you brought him to the back.
Fucker.
The conversation, as always, went in a weird direction. Wherein October began arguing about population percentages of Haven.
“I’m not saying it’s bad, I’m saying there are more kobold-imps than there are of any other type! If projections are to be believed, kobold demons will out-populate the other types within three generations!” SLAP! SLAP!
October has a suave, handsome face and toned body. He’s been growing a pencil moustache that makes him look like some sort of sweet-talking Casanova that plays the guitar romantically with a rose in his mouth. Not the type of person most would take for a proud nudist.
“There’s no indication this is a measure of things to come, we’ve only had a ‘population’ for a couple months anyways.”
“Are you denying that furries may eventually be a problem?” SLAP!
“I will tolerate a lot in my diner-laboratory,” you wipe his precum from your glasses, “but I won’t tolerate this racist shit. Kobolds are not furries, they’re people.”
“What makes you think I’m talking about kobolds?”
He’s changed things up now, sliding his cock up and down your cleavage. And gaslighting. The massive boob-window is a small privilege you give yourself as diner manager, and you're paying for it now. No matter how tantalizingly close his cock slides to your mouth, you can’t suck it. That’ll mean you lose.
“You were just talking about kobolds, which had nothing to do with my original question: Why do you need a grappling hook, super duct tape, fuzzy handcuffs, and fertility pills?” He pauses, and you smirk.
You wrap your arms around his cock, mashing it between your tits. Then you hop in place. A little bit at first. But increasing pace enough to keep October distracted.
“Don’t tell me you’re seriously trying to be a masked vigilante, catching and impregnating elven supremacists?” You hop faster and do a haughty laugh, one perfectly calculated to match the rhythm of your hops. “How stupid are you trying to be? O-ho-ho-ho! Clearly, there’s a reason you failed to go covert earlier: You can’t help exposing yourself. O-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!”
“I-i-i-in case you ha-haven’t—”
You’re too good. He creams all over you, slathering your face and ginormous honkers in a thick layer of his jizz. You make a point to not lick a single drop, instead walking over to your new coffee machine. Coffee is bitter enough to be barely perceptible to demons, but you’re more interested in the personal attachment, a creamer unlike anything before it. October shamefully follows you, but perks up when he notices your modification.
“Why, hello! Who is she?”
“She’s one of only twenty-two permanent mortal futanaris in the world. She is also the only mortal futa with testicles.”
And what grand testicles. They’re as big as October’s, and he’s got a hefty set himself. Her cock, though quite large, looks small on them. Or it would, if you haven’t been milking her for the past week. The constant jelquing has made her cock more proportionate. The woman was a human you’d found coming back from Haven, smuggling two pockets full of various drugs.
You only found out about the hidden pockets because you were feeling up the massive bulge in her pants.
How could you not, when you spotted what she was packing? You’re glad she wasn’t smuggling a cantaloupe. A pleasant surprise, even if it was a bit annoying to have to recalibrate the smuggling detection enchantments to account for extra weight between the legs or on the chest.
“Introduce yourself, Maxxie.” You remove the gag.
“It’s Max-ly! Maxly Beats, and I said I was sorry about the smuggling! I just wanted some weed, shrooms, and maybe a little E, I didn’t know what I was getting into, I usually buy stuff for my raves from my dealer, but she disappeared and I asked around, and the Front people told me I should go to Haven, and I didn’t know the—”
That’s enough for now. You gag her again.
Then you prepare two hot coffees, taking your time to milk Maxxie for your creamer. She squirms against her restraints, bucking her hips so your hands could jack her off faster. October tries to fill out the time with more yapping.
“So, how’s Sunday…?”
“Busier than ever, barely has time for his classes.”
If there was something that you cherish more than Quinn’s monthly lotto ceremony, it was your frequent classes with Sunday. You aren’t alone, many succubi more powerful than you are common visitors. Sunday, ever dutiful, has regular classes on anything from magic to human-demon relations, most of which involve a sexual demonstration. You’re proud to have the highest attendance. And now, Sunday’s been bringing a few other students. Mortal ones.
None are as good as you. You are the best straight-A student.
You pass October a coffee and get him to look through the one way-glass into the public kitchen. You had your lab cleared out so October wouldn’t get a chance to seduce one of your researchers. They’re in one of the back rooms, entertaining customers. The rest of your employees work like a well-lubricated machine in the kitchen, prepping food, grilling patties, and cleaning plates.
“October, I know you’re having fun. But I’m conducting serious business here. Not just running a smuggling operation and a clean kitchen, but rigorous academic research.” You grin at his surprise as he takes a sip and tastes the coffee.
“Coffee and cum was one of our first potions, you know. A stimulant that actually works on demons? Basic now, but revolutionary then. And now, we’re making potions that make people grow cocks, change genders, lactate…even a few non-sexual purposes, like health potions, curatives, makeup, energy drinks... We’re on the forefront of something new. Dosing mortals to slowly change them on a genetic level.”
You point out a few of your repeat customers. You offered them a discount on the lewder services if they agreed to contribute to your experiments in secrecy. The bratty dwarf who was rude a few weeks back has been steadily turning a shade of purple, a man you’re slowly feminizing as you make his girlfriend more manly, the human woman you’ve had drinking minotaur-based potions who was gradually becoming more bovine. October is interested in them all, but his attention is piqued with the last one.
As you predicted.
His gaze is fixed on the woman with matronly curves. She's asking the waitress where her burger is, who helpfully moves the plate from under her chest. Aside from her enhanced proportions, she seems normal. But to demons, it is obvious that her DESIRE is roiling with potent need, the scent of her overactive ovaries suffusing from between her legs. The development of fertility magic is fraught with errors and dead ends, often resulting in excessive imp births that would leave the mothers in a catatonic pleasure haze for several days. You yourself have spent more than a few days leaking milk and struggling to even form a sentence as imps pushed their way out of your widened cunny. Despite the recent innovations, you are no closer to making a treatment that results in the birth of incubi or succubi without Quinn's help.
But science isn't just about throwing data at the wall and seeing what sticks. It's about taking mistakes and exploring them to the limits! The latest avenue, especially with what you've learned about Enoki from Tightass and September, would be to ensure the longevity of gestation and intensity of magic within the mother's body.
Conditions a certain equint nudist would be all too willing to maintain.
“And the woman who we’ve worked together to stack ovulations. It took a while to develop the tools to check, but we thought it would be interesting to see if we could induce multiple, simultaneous—”
“She’s super fertile, right?” October takes the bait.
“Incredibly.” You grin.
The gears are turning in his head. He can be clever, but his intentions are easily surmised. He won’t let go. Beginning phase two.
“We’ll be breaking the news to her soon so we can invite her to Haven. Better monitor her progress there.”
“Wait…what if I looked after her? In exchange for some of the gadgets I mentioned?”
“I have potions that could slow or accelerate pregnancy, induce ovulation, or make pregnancy as pleasurable as in Haven.” Your offer makes his face light up. “But we need her inseminated by a mortal, October. You can have her join your dumb harem, but she needs another male.”
“Does it have to be a male?” He looks at Maxxie. “Hey, she said she worked at a rave, right? Does that mean she’s got an ear for music?”
What is he on now?
“Let’s find out.” You ungag her.
“Hi, Maxly Beats here! Yes, I’m a music whiz, I’m a DJ! It’s this new thing in the Hacksonville undergro—”
“Okay, I’ve heard enough. Can I take her with me, too?”
“Woah dude, take me where? Also, yes please, I need to pay rent soon.”
“You know, you are remarkably chill for someone stuck in a milking machine.” October ogles her chest. “And your tits aren’t half bad either.”
“Thanks dude, it’s the drugs. And I think your cock looks great.”
October looks at you with sparkles in his eyes. Practically begging for you to let him take her. You sigh. He may be a stupid cockbrain, but he’s still family.
“Bring them back for important milestones. I’ll send miss fertility your way when she’s ready.”
You make sure they leave, clothed, out the backdoor. Just in time for one of the alarm lights to flash black. You take off your glasses and rub your eyes. It’s one thing after another today. Your lab assistants and cooks scramble to clean up, hiding any clients behind enchanted doors and secret passages.
Since setting up Dick’s Diner, you’ve taken steps to ensure that neither you nor Haven will be exposed. Enchantments and hypnotism only do so much before tripping an alarm somewhere, so those are kept to a minimum. Instead, you’ve established a 99% foolproof series of systems, drilling their importance into everyone that works at Dick’s Diner.
Yellow alert is for health inspections. Since Zelkova’s a clean freak, you’ve never had issues with them, but you still need to hide the horny mortals when they come.
Red alert is when the guards come in. It’s happened about 35% more frequently than health inspections, though it’s only because of the criminal element that comes around the store. You’ve made significant efforts to move away from only criminal associations by investing in advertising and imposing harsher border taxes on troublemakers.
There’s a few other alert situations, but only one is more stressful than the Noir alert.
The individual formerly known as Detective Detective stands in line, her hawkish eyes drinking everything in. You put on the dinky paper hat and put on your best customer service smile as you open another till.
Some of the loyal criminal customers asked if you wanted to make her disappear. Making a detective-turned-journalist disappear has an 86% chance of blowing up in your face.
Plus, Lord Quinn finds her useful. Using Silverbrood's information and Detective's investigative --And more importantly, photographic--skills, Quinn is able to blackmail key players in the local political climate. Not just local titans of industry and political figures, but even those with connections to the elven council and the senate.
“The diner, while cleaner than most, reeked of the same sickness that plagued all Hacksonville. A pungent mixture of secrets, criminality, and grease. I raised my eyebrow as the manager opened up another till, as if she was waiting for me. I approached the woman, her body like a swollen hourglass stuffed with saturated fats.”
Keep your customer service smile, keep your customer service smile…
“Hi there, welcome to Dick’s Diner. How can we make your day scrum-diddly-umptious?”
Your studies have shown a direct correlation between asinine language and increased sales. You still hate to say it.
“The manager of the establishment attempted to disarm me with burgers, fries, and cheap marketing tricks. I know how the sausage is made. I know she’s hiding something. I say the codewords. ‘I’d like some buns, spaghetti-style.’ She tries to hide her reaction, but nothing can escape from my gaze.”
Right, the code words. In hindsight, shouting out the codewords before taking people to the back was bound to get noticed. You thought for sure the perception-blurring enchantments you developed would be enough.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but that was a special promotion that has since ended. If you want, we have a double schmeatburger deal going on…”
“An easy deflection. Despite using the proper terms, this gumshoe is left out of the loop. There must be something I was missing. But what? A means to communicate or signal that wasn’t just verbal. Weeks of observation returned nothing but more dead ends…”
She’s close to getting it. Too bad knowing something isn’t as reliable as hard evidence. You cross your arms under your bust, pushing it up as you grin smugly. Serves this mortal right, thinking she can outsmart you.
“I’ve been a detective for decades. My role as an investigative journalist is only a brief detour in my journey to clearing this city of corruption. Or I would have thought, if my proximity to Rampant hasn’t given me an in to a variety of different leads. Each a different thread, begging to be pulled. Each connected to another, and another, forming a messy bundle of twine. In the end, it doesn’t matter.”
Eh? Doesn’t matter?
“I’ll pull on each thread and untangle this web of lies. Piece by piece, answering every unanswered question. All I need to do is be patient, observe, and remember every discrepancy. The diner’s finances, the movement of the workers, and Rampant’s mysterious sources…these errors will pile up, and I will be there to see any gap that forms.”
You shiver. It’s easy to forget that elves have a lot of time on their hands. And Detective seems quite driven. What are the chances that she’ll eventually find something, after months, years, decades of watching?
Undeterminable. That discomforts you. At least this detective can’t ever keep a secret.
“Yet I was assaulted by more than just my hunger for answers. ‘I’ll have a sloppy-toppy, hold the sauce,’ I said.”
“W-without the sauce?” She isn’t driven, she’s mad!
You are Detective. Formerly a down on their luck investigator, struggling to make it in the concrete jungle that is Hacksonville.
Investigative journalism may be a far safer job, but it’s not your calling. This job follows a lot of the same notes, but it leaves you feeling as greasy as the crumpled-up trash you just tossed into the wastebin. You still don’t know what happened to make the sleazy Rampant Corruption make such a heel turn; she’s been keeping all of her biggest cards close to her chest.
You know something is wrong here.
The three gangs are in a frenzy, territories changing hands by the week. Refugees fleeing the mounting demonic attacks come from across Prillia by the wagonload, bringing chaos and uncertainty with them.
The comforting rains of summer have faded into the dreadful dryness of the coming winter.
You stare into the bloodied sunset and pull your fedora low, shadows creeping along the cement facades. You lean against the wall and wait, eyes focused on the diner. The place is incredibly suspicious. They’re being very careful around you.
Case in point: the manager. Despite her insipid attitude, the thick woman in glasses is keeping her eyes on you through the glass as she mans the till. She pretends not to, but you can feel her gaze smothering you every now and then.
A comely enough gal, there’s a fierce intelligence behind her eyes that makes you wary. She’s nothing like the black widow dames sobbing loudly into their dry napkins, hiding plots behind expensive furs and jewelry. No, she’s genial and approachable, with sharp ears, sharp eyes, and a sharp mind.
You’re not after her.
The target leaves the diner, and you wait until the vertically challenged manager is distracted before following them. You keep your distance, going over what you know.
A human mage, flunked out of Camelot University a few years back. Not good enough to become a wizard, not bad enough to become a dark mage. Just powerful enough to work as a magical enforcer for the Purity Front, one of very few to not disappear over the past weeks.
It’s risky.
The other thugs you’ve cornered haven’t been able to help you fill in the details. Even so, they’ve given you enough to define the borders of the vast canvas of conspiracy. They’ve been placed under geass, or some magical contract of some sort.
You thumb the piece of dark stone resting in your pocket. It is clearly something not of this realm.
The other gangsters reacted poorly when you guessed that they’ve been going somewhere. That it’s been based on shifts. And if the mage reacts like the others did to the stone piece you recovered…
Then you’ll know for sure that there’s an interplanar portal somewhere in Hacksonville. And you’ll be one step closer to cracking this case wide open.