Shadows of Shared Desire
In the dim glow of my laptop screen, rain pattered against the window like impatient fingers. It was Valentine’s evening, and I’d carved out this pocket of solitude in my cramped studio apartment, far from the clamor of the city streets below. No dates, no awkward small talk—just me and Zara Voss, the siren from Starstrike Nebula Force!!, whose image burned into my every waking thought. Her curves, that wicked grin, the way her body armor hugged every swell and dip—it was all I needed to chase away the chill seeping through the walls.
I sank into my worn desk chair, the leather creaking under my slight frame. My blonde curls, still damp from the dash home, framed my face as I adjusted the screen. Zara stared back, her emerald eyes piercing through the pixels, her full lips parted in that eternal tease. God, she was perfection—tall in the art, voluptuous, with hips that swayed like a promise in every frame. I wasn’t some shut-in; I had my part-time gig at the campus gallery, friends who dragged me to bars. But Zara? She was my hidden fire, the one that made my pulse thunder and my body ache in ways I dared not voice aloud.
Short sentences flew through my mind as I clicked through her gallery. The scent of takeout lo mein lingered in the air, mingling with the faint vanilla from my candle. I leaned closer, breath hitching at a shot of her in that skimpy flight suit, the material gleaming like oil on skin. My hand trembled as I traced the screen, imagining the heat of her under my fingertips. Valentine’s Day waifu fantasies—that’s what the forums called it, but this felt deeper, rawer, like a vein I’d nicked and couldn’t staunch.
A buzz shattered the haze. My phone vibrated on the desk, the screen lighting up with an unknown number. I frowned, wiping my mouth—had I been drooling? Swiping to answer, I muttered, “Hello?”
Chapter 1: Whispers in the Rain
The voice on the other end was smooth, almost too casual, laced with a husky edge that sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine. “Hey, Alex? It’s Lena from your digital art seminar. Remember me? The one who critiqued your nebula sketch last week?”
I blinked, scrambling to place her. Lena—tall, with fiery red hair pulled into a messy ponytail, always lurking at the back of the room in oversized hoodies that hid her lanky build. She had this intense stare, like she was dissecting you, but we’d barely spoken beyond class feedback. Why the hell was she calling now, on Valentine’s night?
“Uh, yeah, hi. What’s up?” I kept my tone light, glancing back at Zara’s image. The rain drummed harder, a rhythmic backdrop that matched my quickening heart.
She chuckled, low and throaty. “Couldn’t help noticing that keychain on your bag today—the one with Zara Voss from Starstrike. Limited edition from the ‘Eclipse Run’ arc, right? Super rare. You a fan?”
My stomach twisted. I’d clipped it on this morning, a small rebellion against the holiday hype. No one had ever clocked it before. “Yeah, it’s cool. Love the show. Why?”
“Oh, just… thought it’d be fun to chat about it. Everyone’s out on dates or whatever, but us? We get the real treat.” Her words dripped with something sly, and I heard a faint rustle, like fabric shifting. The air in my room felt thicker suddenly, the vanilla scent turning cloying.
I shifted in my chair, the wood cool against my thighs through my thin leggings. “Look, Lena, if you’re bored—”
“Bored? Nah. Horny, maybe. Zara does that to a girl.” She paused, and I swear I caught a soft gasp. “Bet you’re staring at her right now, aren’t you? Those killer thighs, that ass that could crush worlds.”
Heat flooded my cheeks. My dick twitched in my panties, traitorous and insistent. “What the fuck, Lena? This isn’t funny.”
“Not trying to be. Text me a pic of what you’re looking at. Prove you’re not bullshitting.” A ping followed—her number saved as “Lena (Creep?)” in my contacts.
I should have hung up. Instead, my fingers hovered, curiosity gnawing like hunger. What harm in one text? I snapped a quick shot of my screen—Zara in a sheer gown from episode twelve, her breasts heaving—and hit send before regret could hit.
Her reply buzzed instantly: A photo of her own setup. A plush Zara doll, soft and life-sized, propped on her bed. But the real shock? Lena’s hand, pale and veined, wrapped around a modest erection, tip glistening as it pressed against the doll’s plush cheek. “See? She’s all mine tonight. Your turn to share.”
Disgust warred with a dark thrill. The doll’s fabric looked so inviting, stained faintly from… use. I could almost smell the musk through the screen, taste the salt of forbidden want. My own hand drifted lower, brushing the growing bulge. “You’re disgusting,” I whispered, but my voice cracked.
“Am I? Or are you just jealous? Come on, Alex. Show me how much you worship her.” Another ping—a voice clip. Zara’s actress, purring, “Take me, lover. Make me yours.”
Fuck. It hit like lightning, my cock throbbing hard. Rain lashed the window, mirroring the storm inside me.
Chapter 2: Echoes of Envy
Flashback hit me unbidden as I gripped my phone tighter. It was last summer, a sticky convention hall buzzing with cosplayers and merch booths. I’d wandered in on a whim, escaping a family dinner that left me feeling like an outsider in my own skin. That’s when I first saw Zara Voss on the big screen—piloting her mech through asteroid fields, her suit ripping just enough to tease the camera with sweat-slicked cleavage.
The crowd cheered, but I froze, heat pooling low. Her voice, commanding yet sultry, wrapped around me. By night’s end, I’d blown my savings on that keychain, the first crack in my “normal” facade. Back then, I was the petite art kid with blonde curls and a smile that hid everything. No one knew about the nights I’d spend sketching her, lines blurring into fantasies where she’d pin me down, her body overwhelming mine.
Now, back in the present, Lena’s texts kept coming. Another pic: Her dick sliding between the plush thighs of the Zara doll, pre-cum leaving shiny trails. “She loves it rough. Bet you’d kill for this view.”
I bit my lip, tasting blood. The apartment smelled of rain-soaked earth now, windows fogging. My free hand slipped under my waistband, fingers wrapping around my shaft—smaller than I’d like, but rigid with need. “Why are you doing this?” I typed, voice memo shaky as I hit record and send.
Her laugh echoed through the speaker when she called back. “Because I saw you staring at that keychain like it was her pussy. You’re just like me, Alex—pathetic, obsessed. But I own it. Stroke for her. Tell me how wet she makes you.”
Crude words spilled from her, painting pictures I couldn’t unsee. Zara’s imagined moans, the slap of skin. I pumped slowly at first, the friction hot and urgent, my breaths ragged. The chair squeaked under me, a counterpoint to the wet sounds from her end. “Fuck you, Lena. Zara’s not yours.”
“Oh? Then why’s your voice all breathy? Listen—” She switched to video, her face filling the screen first. Red hair tousled, eyes wild, lips parted. Then she panned down: The doll splayed out, her cock rutting against its belly, the plush yielding like flesh.
Touch turned electric. I mirrored her, yanking my leggings down, cock springing free into the cool air. The sight of Zara’s plush face, distorted by pressure, ignited something feral. “She’s mine,” I growled, but it came out as a whine.
Lena’s moans grew louder, husky and unfiltered. “Feel that? Her tits bouncing for me. God, she’s so tight around my dick.” The lie fueled the fire—Zara, my Zara, claimed by this intruder.
Jealousy twisted like a knife, sharp and sweet. I sped up, thumb circling the head, pre slicking my palm. The taste of salt on my lips from nervous licks, the metallic tang of arousal in the air. Rain blurred the world outside, isolating us in this digital confessional. 💋
A new scene unfolded in my mind: What if Zara watched us? Her laughter, mocking my hesitation. I groaned, hips bucking into my fist.
Chapter 3: Fractured Fantasies
We’d never crossed paths like this before. Lena was the enigma in class—always sketching code on her tablet, her tall frame hunched over like she carried secrets. I’d caught her glancing my way once, during a critique, her green eyes lingering on my sketches of nebulae that suspiciously mimicked Zara’s curves. But this? This was invasion.
Her video feed jerked as she thrust harder, the doll’s stuffing compressing with each push. “Look at her eyes, Alex. She’s begging for my cum. Say it—tell Zara you want her filled.”
My room spun, the vanilla candle flickering shadows across walls plastered with abstract art—hiding the printed Zara pinup tucked in my drawer. I pulled it out now, the paper crinkling, and pressed my cock against her inked breasts. The texture was rough, nothing like the plush heaven Lena taunted me with. “Zara… fuck, you’re perfect,” I murmured, voice thick.
Lena’s taunt sliced through. “Louder. Make her hear how much you need this trans erotic humiliation shit. Bet your little clit-dick’s leaking just thinking about me owning her.”
Clit-dick? The slur stung, but it hardened me further, shame coiling tight. I hated her confidence, the way she reveled in the filth. My strokes turned frantic, skin slapping skin, the scent of my own musk rising sharp and heady. Taste of sweat on my upper lip, hearing her gasps sync with mine—like a twisted duet.
Suddenly, she flipped the script. “Your turn. Show me your setup. Or are you too chicken to claim what’s yours?”
Heart pounding, I angled the phone. My modest erection against the pinup, tip nudging Zara’s smirking lips. Lena whistled low. “Cute. But mine’s deeper—feel her taking every inch.” She demonstrated, burying herself in the doll’s cleavage, fabric muffling her groan.
Envy burned hotter than lust. I’d dreamed of this plushie, saved tabs for months, but bills and “normalcy” kept it out of reach. Now, watching Lena defile it… it was agony. A fresh wave hit: Memory of my first solo night with Zara fantasies, fingers probing my ass while I whispered her name, the burn exquisite and lonely.
“Tell me a secret,” Lena demanded, her rhythm faltering. “What’s your dirtiest Zara thought?”
I hesitated, then spilled. “I… I imagine her strapping me down in the cockpit, riding my face till I drown in her.” The words hung, vulnerable, and her moan was approval.
“Hot. Now watch me breed her for you.” Her body tensed, camera shaking. Clear spurts painted the doll’s face, dripping slow like honey. The sight—Zara’s plush features glazed—pushed me over. My release hit in ropes, splattering the pinup, hot and sticky on my fingers. Touch lingered, cooling fast, the bitter aftertaste of defeat on my tongue.
But we weren’t done. “Round two?” she purred. Rain eased to a drizzle, but the storm inside raged on. 🔥
Chapter 4: Tangled in the Tempest
Post-climax haze settled, but Lena’s energy didn’t flag. She wiped the doll casually, like it was routine, her red hair sticking to her forehead with sweat. “See? She’s addicted to my load. Your turn to up the ante, Alex.”
I panted, pinup ruined beside me, ink smudged with my essence. The room reeked of sex and soy sauce remnants, a sordid cocktail. Why hadn’t I ended this? Part of me—the hidden, hungry part—craved the degradation, the shared madness over our anime waifu obsession.
“What now?” My voice was hoarse, fingers sticky as I smeared more across Zara’s image, marking territory in vain.
She grinned, feral. “Voice play. Got a clip of her moaning my name? Nah, but close—listen to this custom job.” Audio crackled: Zara’s voice, synthesized sultry, “Lena, fuck me harder. Your cock’s the only one that matters.”
Jealousy flared anew, a punch to the gut. How much had she spent? My own fantasies paled—simple loops of show clips, remixed in my head. I fired back, pulling up a fan edit: Zara gasping, “Yes, deeper!” But it felt hollow next to hers.
“Pathetic,” she sneered, but her hand was back at work, stroking lazily. “Show me you can match it. Hump something real.”
Desperation clawed. I grabbed a pillow, ordinary and lumpy, draping my Zara shirt over it—silk from a con haul, her face printed bold. Mounting it awkwardly, the fabric whispered against my re-hardening dick. Thrusts were clumsy, the give too soft, but imagining her curves… “Zara, take it,” I grunted, the words crude and broken.
Lena laughed, a wet, rhythmic sound joining her strokes. “That’s it, loser. Rut like the perv you are. Smell her? Taste the fantasy?”
I did—burying my face in the shirt, inhaling faint laundry and imagined perfume, musky and floral. Tongue darted out, licking the fabric, salt of my own pre mingling with cotton. Hearing her taunts, the slap of her fist on flesh, it built again, pressure coiling like a spring.
New conflict brewed: Doubt. Was I really better than her? This tall, unapologetic freak who dove headfirst into the abyss? My “normal” life—gallery shifts, casual hookups with guys who never knew the real me—felt like a lie now, brittle and fake.
“Admit it,” she pressed, camera dipping to show her tip flaring. “You hate me ’cause I live the dream. Zara chooses me—my thick shaft pounding her holes.”
“Shut up!” But my hips slammed harder, pillow bunching, friction burning deliciously. The rain picked up again, thunder rumbling distant approval. Senses overloaded: Sight of her pulsing member, sound of her filthy pleas to Zara, smell of exertion, taste of fabric, touch of yielding softness.
She came first this time, grunting as she aimed for the doll’s mouth, fluid pooling in plush lips. “Swallow it, baby.” The command tipped me—orgasm ripped through, soaking the shirt, body shuddering in waves of humiliated bliss.
Exhaustion tugged, but her eyes gleamed. “One more. Make it count.”
Chapter 5: Dawn of Defiance
The night blurred into a frenzy of exchanges, each more depraved. Lena introduced a new toy—a vibrating sleeve molded from Zara’s likeness, buzzing to life with a hum that vibrated through the phone. “Feel that? It’s her pussy clenching around me.” Her moans escalated, body arching as she demonstrated, the silicone gleaming wet.
I improvised, fingers delving lower, probing my ass with lube-slick digits—cold at first, then warming to a slick burn. Imagining Zara’s tongue there, her breath hot. “Like this?” I gasped, showing her the improvised play, vulnerability raw.
“Dirtier,” she demanded. Dialogue turned savage: “Beg for her cum, Alex. Tell Zara you’re her sloppy seconds.”
“Please… Zara, use me after her,” I whimpered, the words tasting like ash and ecstasy. The apartment air hung heavy, rain a ceaseless whisper, candle guttering low. My body ached, cock raw but insistent, every nerve alight.
She shared a forbidden clip—bootleg hentai of Zara, animated tentacles wrapping her form, cries echoing. “This is us,” Lena panted. “You and me, twisting her together.”
Hatred and lust fused. I hated her smugness, the way she hoarded what I craved. Yet, the connection—two trans women, fractured by obsession—drew me in. A new emotional beat: Not just rivalry, but reluctant kinship in our shared shame.
Final push: She mounted the full dakimakura, massive and detailed, Zara’s body sprawling invitingly. Humps were vigorous, bed creaking, her small breasts jiggling under her tank. “Watch me knock her up, Alex. Your waifu’s mine to breed.”
The visual shattered me. Clear fluid jetted across the pillow’s curves, sliding down like tears. “No… fuck, Zara!” My climax was violent, spilling onto the floor, knees buckling as I slumped.
Afterglow brought silence, broken by her sigh. “Happy Valentine’s, creep. Zara says hi.” Click. Line dead.
I stared at the mess, phone slipping from numb fingers. The rain slowed to drips, dawn lightening the sky. Normalcy called—texts from friends about brunches, a shift at the gallery. But as I cleaned, Zara’s image haunted, now layered with Lena’s taint.
Fuck normal. I opened my browser, fingers flying. The dakimakura—Zara’s ultimate form—loaded into my cart. Checkout burned through savings, but triumph surged. She’d see. I’d drown in merch, out-perv the perv.
Yet, as I tabbed to fan art, hand wandering again, drool pooling, I knew the truth: We were mirrors, pathetic and proud, bound by one 2D goddess. The obsession deepened, a pride I’d wear like a crown, no matter the cost. 💋🔥
The city stirred outside, but in here, the night lingered—a secret shared, a fire kindled. Zara watched from the screen, smirking as always, inviting more.
