The Ven Chronicles: A Futa Druid's Story!

Miranda's fingers crashed onto the keyboard.

Her eyes remained unblinking, staring at the screen in front of her. Were it not for her moving hands, people would probably think she had a staredown context with Medusa. Around her, important calls were picked up, coworkers chatted away, and the clock ticked on... and on... and on...

Until, finally, Miranda stopped.

Her hands froze. Slowly, she straightened her back, her tits wobbling a little beneath her collared shirt.

She decided:

[... I need to quit.]

---

Miranda's supervisor—a balding, sweaty man named Keith—looked like he'd just been asked to explain the thermodynamics of a black hole. His mouth kept opening and closing, hands fidgeting with a half-empty can of Red Bull.

"But... but you can't quit," he sputtered, like the very concept defied the laws of physics. "Quarter-end reports are due next week, and Johnson left for paternity leave yesterday, and—"

"Just sent you all my files," Miranda cut in, already slinging her purse over her shoulder. Her cubicle looked exactly the same as it had five minutes ago, because in three years of employment, she'd never once personalized it. No photos, no little potted plants, no inspirational quotes about "hanging in there" with a cartoon cat dangling from a branch. Just empty beige.

Just like her life.

"I'd say I'd miss this place," she continued, her voice bizarrely calm even to her own ears, "but, uh... I don't think I will." 

Keith's face reddened.

"This is extremely unprofessional, Miranda! I'll have to note this in your—"

"My what?" She laughed, and it felt like a champagne cork popping from a bottle that had been shaken for years. "My permanent record? Will this prevent me from getting into a good college?" She was already walking toward the exit, her flats squeaking against the linoleum. "Write whatever you want, Keith. I genuinely could not give less of a fuck!"

The entire accounting department had gone silent—twelve pairs of eyes watching Miranda's exit like she was some kind of mythological creature. Brenda from payroll actually dropped her coffee mug, the ceramic shattering with a sound that may as well have been applause in Miranda's mind.

Then she was out. Through the fire exit, down the concrete stairwell, and into the parking lot.

She was gone.

In her car, a 2012 Corolla that she'd named Disappointment, Miranda sat for a moment, hands trembling on the steering wheel. She hadn't planned this. Three minutes ago, she'd been inputting data on client acquisition costs. Now she was... unemployed?

Free?

Fucked?

"All of the above, probably," she whispered, turning the key in the ignition.

Miranda's apartment was exactly what you'd expect: a glorified shoebox with rent that somehow ate 40% of her monthly income. The walls were off-white, the furniture was ITEA, and the whole place smelled vaguely of the Thai food she'd ordered three nights ago.

She kicked off her shoes, unhooked her bra through her shirt with the ease of a woman who'd been wearing restrictive undergarments since puberty, and face-planted directly onto her couch.

"What the actual fuck did I just do?" she mumbled into a throw pillow that read "LIVE LAUGH LOVE" (a gift from her mother that she kept out of guilt, not inspiration).

Twenty-eight years old, no savings to speak of, a college degree that had been about as useful as a chocolate teapot, and now no job. The responsible thing would be to immediately update her resume, start applying for new positions, maybe call her temp agency contact.

Instead, Miranda reached for her laptop.

"If I'm going to have an existential crisis," she announced to her empty apartment, "I might as well have an orgasm too."

Her browser history would have made her Catholic grandmother spontaneously combust. Miranda had tastes. Specific tastes. Tastes that involved women with an impressive array of body types. 

"Hello, old friends, da da da..." she murmured, typing in her favorite site's URL. The familiar homepage loaded, a cornucopia of thumbnails featuring women in various states of ecstasy. Miranda clicked on a video featuring two women in an office setting—a bit on the nose considering her day, but whatever.

As the video buffered, she caught her reflection in the darkened screen. Mousy brown hair pulled back in a sensible ponytail. Unremarkable face that could best be described as "technically has all the features a face should have." Body that was neither thin nor fat, just... there. 

Miranda had spent her entire life being thoroughly, aggressively average. Average grades in school. Average performance reviews. Average apartment. Average life.

And she was so fucking tired of it.

The video started playing—some contrived scenario about a boss and secretary that Miranda immediately tuned out in favor of focusing on the actual action. She slipped her hand beneath the waistband of her slacks, already feeling the warmth building between her legs.

This, at least, was one area where Miranda excelled. She had her own body down to a science. Exactly where to touch, how much pressure to apply, when to speed up or slow down. In a life full of mediocrity, Miranda's masturbation game was Olympic-level.

Three minutes in, just as the women on screen were really getting into it, Miranda's phone rang.

"Ugh, fuck OFF," she growled, pausing the video. The caller ID showed "Mom." Of course. The universe's timing was, as always, impeccable.

She declined the call, knowing full well there would be a voicemail waiting for her in approximately thirty seconds. Her mother, Patricia, was nothing if not persistent. A divorcee who'd channeled all her frustrated dreams into her only daughter, Patricia called every Wednesday at 6:30 PM to ask Miranda about her "prospects"—a vague term that somehow encompassed career advancement, potential husbands, and the status of Miranda's uterus.

Today was Wednesday. Miranda had forgotten.

The voicemail notification pinged.

"Mirandaaaa," her mother's voice sang through the speaker. "Just calling for our weekly chat! I have exciting news—Janet's son Michael is getting divorced, and I mentioned you might be available for coffee once the papers are finalized. He's in finance, honey. FINANCE. Call me back!"

Miranda deleted the message, tossed her phone across the room (where it landed safely on a pile of unfolded laundry), and returned to her video.

Where was she? Ah yes. Boss bent over desk. Secretary doing things that would definitely violate HR policies.

Miranda closed her eyes, her fingers finding their rhythm. She imagined herself in the scene—not as either woman, but as some third entity, watching, participating, becoming something beyond herself. In her fantasies, Miranda was never average. She was extraordinary, powerful, desired.

As the familiar pressure built inside her, Miranda's breath quickened. The women on screen moaned in practiced harmony while Miranda's free hand gripped the couch cushion.

And that's when the pain hit.

It started in her left arm—a tingling sensation that quickly morphed into a vice-like squeeze. Then it spread to her chest, a crushing weight like someone had parked a truck on her sternum.

[Oh shit. Am I having a heart attack? During PORN?]

Miranda tried to sit up, but the pain knocked her back down. Her laptop slid to the floor, the women still moaning enthusiastically as Miranda's vision began to blur at the edges.

Her phone. She needed her phone. It was across the room, on that pile of laundry she'd been meaning to fold for three days.

She tried to call out, but her voice came out as a weak croak. The irony wasn't lost on her—thirty minutes after making the first bold decision of her adult life, she was dying on her couch with her pants unbuttoned and lesbian porn playing in the background.

[This is such bullshit,] she thought as darkness crept in. [I didn't even get to finish.]

The last thing Miranda saw before consciousness slipped away was the ceiling fan above her, spinning lazily in circles. Round and round and round, just like her life had been. A perfect, monotonous circle that was now, finally, breaking.

Miranda's last coherent thought wasn't about her mother or her job or even the fact that whoever found her body was going to have one hell of an awkward story to tell.

It was:

[Next time, I want to be someone extraordinary.]

And then, everything went dark.

And then, everything exploded into light.

---

Author Note:

In case you're wondering, yes, I've decided to rewrite this story, mainly so I could have something for my folks subbed over on my Patreon. 

Also, for those of you who were here before, this story is going to be several times smuttier than it had been. I was still new back then and I wasn't really comfortable writing like this, and that's changed at this point. 

So, yeah, incest, monster-fucking, a harem, that sort of thing. Note that this new version will go all the way, and will be mostly futaxfuta.