By the second day, the humiliation had settled into something constant. Her agent insisted she keep the ‘Meatgirl Catgirl’ persona, which meant the ears stayed on and the tail never came out.

At noon she was collected. Not picked up, not guided—collected. Everyone spoke with the same harsh tone as yesterday, all their warmth and easy respect gone without comment. They moved her outside and placed her in the back seat of a car.

“No touching yourself, Meatgirl,” the woman said. She had once been her handler during public appearances.

Now, when Aoi shifted even slightly, when her hands drifted toward her lap without thinking, the woman’s hand snapped out and struck her hip.

“Where are we going?” Aoi asked, her voice unsteady.

“Your interview,” the woman said. “Live broadcast.”

A brief pause, then—

“You will not sit on the furniture. You will not speak unless spoken to. And no trying to make yourself a victim either. Remember your contract.”

The drive through Osaka was long and quiet. Aoi sat with her hands at her sides, every flinch or curl of her fingers monitored. She shifted uneasily whenever the tail moved inside her, pressing against something she didn’t have a name for.

Her body reacted anyway.

She felt it before she could stop it—subtle, involuntary. A warmth that threatened to betray her, to make something visible she couldn’t control. She pressed her thighs together, tight, trying to contain it. Trying to hide it.

The signs didn’t go unnoticed by the woman sitting across from her. A small, knowing smile crossed her face—not warm, not kind. Just quietly judgmental.

“Feeling excited, Meatgirl?” she asked, amusement threading through her voice.

“No,” Aoi said.

The lie came easily.

The woman didn’t press her on it. She just chuckled to herself and looked away.

When they finally stopped outside the TV studio, Aoi expected to be taken in through the back—out of sight, the way appearances were usually handled.

Instead, the car pulled up at the main entrance.

Aoi froze. Her face drained of color, her hands tightening at her sides until her fingers curled white.

A crowd was waiting.

“We put this appearance out on your socials,” the woman said. “Your fans are very excited to see you.”

Aoi swallowed.

“This isn’t how we usually do fan meet-ups.”

“You’re a Meatgirl now,” the woman replied evenly. “We can do whatever we want with you.”

The door opened. A large man in a smart suit took her by the arm and pulled her out onto the street.

The cold hit first.

It cut across her skin, sharp and immediate, turning everything painfully sensitive. The dampness between her thighs chilled instantly, a cruel reminder of something her body had done without her permission.

“Look at that tail!”

“Those ears are adorable!”

“Turn around, Aoi-chan—let’s see it!”

Aoi smiled.

She didn’t think about it. She didn’t have to. The expression came automatically, practiced into her muscles after years of cameras and crowds.

Her hands lifted into a wave, fingers moving in familiar patterns while she fought the instinct to cover herself. To hide.

She kept them busy instead.

Waving. Gesturing. Performing.

The cold had already taken hold of her body, tightening everything, making every inch of her feel exposed in a way stage costumes had never managed. Those had been revealing, yes—but controlled. Designed.

This wasn’t.

Now there was nothing between her and them at all.

She noticed quickly that there were no barriers. No security holding the crowd back. For now they kept their distance, held in place by habit more than instruction.

It only took one.

A man—older, close enough that she could smell him—reached out and grabbed her, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt.

No one stopped him.

Of course they didn’t. Animals were touched. Everyone knew that.

Then the illusion broke.

Hands came from everywhere.

Some brushed lightly, almost careful. Others gripped harder, testing, leaving pressure behind. They moved over her as she was pushed forward, the man at her arm never slowing, never reacting.

Aoi kept smiling.

She let her hands keep moving, waving, playing the part while the crowd closed in around her, while strangers touched her like she wasn’t something that could refuse.

“Ow, careful now,” she said sweetly when someone grabbed and twisted her nipple. “You wouldn’t want me to cry, would you?”

She added a pout, practiced and precise.

It didn’t help.

If anything, it made it worse.

But now they weren’t stopped. No one pulled the crowd back. No one intervened. If anything, the hands felt more certain, more willing.

It wasn’t just men.

She locked eyes with a woman—tall, dark-haired—who stepped in close and slipped a hand between Aoi’s thighs without a word.

Aoi’s breath hitched.

“She’s wet!” the woman shouted suddenly. “She’s loving it!”

The words cut through the noise.

Aoi felt her stomach drop.

“No,” she started—

Too late.

Laughter and cheers rippled through the crowd, spreading faster than her voice ever could.

Suddenly a hand yanked at her tail.

Her back arched before she could stop it, a soft, involuntary sound slipping out. The reaction only fed the crowd. They pressed closer, emboldened now, the space around her tightening instead of clearing. The studio doors didn’t feel any closer—if anything, she was being pushed back.

Her smile faltered.

Just for a second.

Then she forced it back into place.

“Don’t pull my tail, silly,” she said, her voice light, breath unsteady. “It’s very sensitive.”

“I’ll just take it out then!” someone shouted.

A hand grabbed the base and pulled hard.

Pain flared sharp and immediate, a stretching sensation that made her gasp. That, finally, got a reaction. Security moved in at once, surrounding the man, pulling him away as the tail was removed from her.

The shift was instant.

The crowd hesitated. Stepped back.

Space opened around her again.

Aoi stood in the centre of it, breathing harder than she meant to, her body still tense from the sudden release. Relief came with it, unwelcome but undeniable.

She didn’t turn around.

She didn’t want to know what they could see now.

Security closed in around her.

One of them held the tail.

Aoi’s gaze caught on it despite herself. The thing looked worse outside of her body—thick, obscene, still slick where it had been. Larger than she remembered. Larger than she wanted to think about.

She said nothing.

They guided her forward, hands firm on her arms, and led her inside. The noise of the crowd dulled behind the doors, fading into something distant and contained.

They had gotten what they wanted.

Their glimpse. Their moment. Their share.

Red marks dotted her skin now, scattered across her body where hands had pressed too hard. Some would darken later. Others were already beginning to sting. A few thin scratches trailed along her sides.

Aoi barely registered them.

There was something else.

A warmth at her backside.

She reached back, slow, uncertain.

Her fingers came away red.

Her handler noticed.

“Bloody fans,” she muttered. “We’ll have to make sure they didn’t tear you.”

She dropped to her knees without hesitation and pulled Aoi into place, spreading her with the same detached efficiency she used for make-up touch-ups. There was no hesitation, no embarrassment—just a quick, practiced inspection.

A click of her tongue. Then a low, satisfied hum.

“Nothing serious,” she said. “I’ll get the lube.”

Aoi’s breath caught.

“Can’t I just… not have that thing inside me?”

The slap came fast.

Sharp. Final.

Her head snapped to the side, the sting blooming across her cheek.

No one answered her.

They didn’t need to.

She already knew.

“Go to the bathroom,” her handler said. “We may as well clean you up first.”

Aoi was led inside and directed through it without much ceremony—told to use the toilet, then held in place while her handler checked her over again with the same detached care as before. Efficient. Routine.

When it was done, she was brought back out into the entrance hall and positioned with her back to the glass doors.

Not all the fans had left.

She could feel it without turning. The presence. The attention.

“Bend over.”

The words landed heavier than they should have.

Aoi hesitated for half a second before obeying, placing her hands on her knees as she bent forward. Heat rushed to her face, her body tensing as the memory of the previous day surfaced—how exposed she had been, how many people had watched.

She held still.

Felt hands at her back. Positioning. Preparing.

Then the familiar pressure returned.

Aoi gasped, the sound slipping out before she could stop it, her body tightening against the intrusion. She forced herself to stay steady, biting down on anything else that might escape.

Then the fullness returned.

Uncomfortable. Constant.

Her body reacted instinctively, tightening around it, trying to push it out the way it would anything that didn’t belong. It didn’t move. Every attempt only made it shift slightly, dragging against that same spot inside her and forcing her to still.

“Alright, we’re running late,” her handler said, taking her by the arm. “Makeup first. Then we’ll get you something to eat.”

She started walking before Aoi could respond.

“The interview’s in half an hour,” she added. “So the longer you take in makeup, the less time you’ll have to eat.”

Aoi nodded.

Of course.

Even now, it was still about timing.

The makeup artists took one look at her.

At the redness. The bruising already forming beneath the surface. The thin cuts scattered across her skin.

“Honestly,” one of them muttered, “you couldn’t bring her in without letting people touch her?”

“What did you expect?” her handler replied, smiling faintly. “People want to touch an idol.”

Her eyes flicked to Aoi.

“Aoi liked it, didn’t you, Meatgirl?”

Aoi hesitated.

She knew what the right answer was.

She knew what they expected.

“I—”

The word caught in her throat.

She swallowed it.

Then she nodded.

Like the day before, the makeup artists worked in careful layers, covering the marks and discoloration until her skin looked even again. Redness softened. Bruises dulled beneath foundation. Cuts were blended away until they barely existed under the lights.

Aoi flushed at the touch of the brushes, her body reacting despite herself. She shifted when they drifted too close to sensitive areas, small movements she tried—and failed—to suppress.

No one commented.

It took twenty minutes.

Without needing to consider her comfort, they worked faster.

More efficiently.

When they were done, she was handed a bowl of plain rice and a cup of water.

“That’s it?” Aoi asked quietly.

“Can’t have you turning into a fat cow, can we, Meatgirl?” her handler said, already halfway through a bowl of noodles. The smell alone was enough to make Aoi’s stomach tighten with hunger.

She ate quickly.

There wasn’t much to eat.

And then—

It was time.