The first thing she says is, "I'm not actually a furry," looking down at the paws, the tail, the soft cloudy grey fur, the long lithe body adorned with six rows of breasts. But it doesn't feel wrong, exactly, just unexpected. Her fur is beautiful, and so is the porcelain-pale skin that shows all down those rows of breasts, which—she hesitantly runs a paw up her elongated chest, and gasps at the pure sweet pleasure of the sensation. Nothing she can ever remember experiencing has felt as good as this.

Is she lying in... a snowbank? On a rock? How is she so comfortable? But it simply doesn't feel chilly to her at all. Just pleasantly cool, even on all twelve of her exposed nipples. She makes a scooping motion through the loose snow, and watches individual flakes melt slowly on the pads of her paw-fingers, and feels... fine. Perfectly comfortable.

A presence in the back of her mind says without words, It's okay. You're safe. This is your life now. From now on you get to feel good and not bad. From now on you never have to go anywhere, or do anything, or feel anything you don't want to.

Maybe she should distrust that strange voice, but she doesn't. She takes the comfort at face value, and closes her eyes, and stretches again. Even in this new body, there's that sensation after stretching out her limbs, of being wrung out and having to rest before moving again; but without the pain, without the exhaustion, it's a purely pleasant sensation, and she happily relaxes into it.

A feeling of heaviness overtakes her limbs. It's still good, not at all the same as the exhaustion she's grown to loathe. It's like... a feeling, not of being unable to move, but of not having to. A feeling that she could simply rest comfortably, perfectly still, forever.

Won't she have to get up at some point? To eat, to drink, to pee? To get out of the rain? To find food and shelter so that she can partake of them?

The presence says no. The presence says that if she wants, she can simply never move again.

There is a stirring in her groin. She almost wants to move, at that, but not quite. Her body remains stone-still. Slowly, softly, the sensation builds. Warmth trickles down the length of her chest, and there is a feeling of being touched there too, and the presence says this is its doing. Never having to move again means never having to touch herself again, because the presence can do it for her, better than she ever has.

Gratefully, joyfully, she gives herself up to pleasure.

Time quickly loses all meaning.

She is expertly caressed by a presence that knows her more intimately than anything or anyone has ever known her before. She is fucked and filled and stroked and sucked and loved, and from the first moment that the rising tide of pleasure spills gently over into orgasm, she never again stops cumming, nor does she stop feeling that tide continue to rise.

The first time the pleasure gets so overwhelming she can barely think through it, she feels nervous for a moment; but the presence promises it will be okay, and it is. Her thoughts clear, and she can luxuriate fully in every sensation of her body again, the snow on her fur and the warm wetness pouring from her chest, the constant gentle squeezing of her breasts, the orchestra of pleasure between her soft-furred thighs.

It happens again, and again. Every time it gets to be too much, she just has to wait a while, and then it isn't anymore. She comes to long for those moments, eventually, anticipate them eagerly and welcome them as they build, because feeling overwhelmed is its own strange kind of pleasure and its patient cycle is long enough for her to get a lot of daydreaming in.

She dreams real dreams, too. She falls asleep being fucked and wakes up being fucked, and mostly, at this point, dreams about being fucked, though there are also other things. Sometimes in her dreams, she has a human body and the presence has a snow leopard body, and they cuddle. Sometimes they do more than cuddle. Sometimes the dream sex blurs into the real sex, and she gets to enjoy long blurred moments in the space between, where she can feel everything that's happening to her real body while her dream body shudders and gasps and writhes about it.

The first time something touches her that's not the presence, it's startling. She feels an outside force nudge her breast and she instinctively wants to flinch, but of course her body doesn't move. The touch trails curiously down her chest, dips between her spread legs. It's deliciously strange and exciting. She wants to squirm eagerly under it, but her stillness won't break for such a fleeting urge. It's been so good, being still for so long. And, separately, there's something extra delicious about being touched when she effectively can't move, when all she can do is wait to see what happens next.

What happens next involves many hands caressing her, and then she is left alone for a while. The thought of being touched again occupies her daydreams until she falls asleep, and then occupies her dreams instead.

When she wakes, something is different in a way that it hasn't been for a long time. There have been changes, of course. Every day the sun rises and sets and the light on her closed eyelids shifts in brightness and direction. Sometimes she is shaded by clouds. Sometimes she is covered by snow, and then the snow blows away.

She's not covered by snow now. She's warm, and the light is all wrong. The surface beneath her is not a snowy rock. It feels smoother, and maybe less hard? Or maybe just different.

Is she indoors? Has she been moved?

Silently, she asks the presence if this means something is wrong. The presence assures her that it's just the opposite. She's home now. She's where she belongs, doing what she was meant to do.

Strange hands caress her body again. A murmur of words, which she could probably understand if she tried, but she doesn't want to. The tone is... reverent. Grateful?

What is this place? Where is home? What is her purpose?

The presence doesn't really have the words or concepts to explain fully, but what it can tell her is that she is a gift to these people, that she's safe, that they will use the milk that pours from her body to nourish their city. Safe. Safe safe safe.

She relaxes into that certainty. The reverent caresses continue. Someone climbs on top of her, and she could be scared of them, she distantly remembers what it would be like to be scared of being mounted by a stranger while frozen in place, but she's safe here. The presence said so. It's still saying so, a constant pulse of reassurance wrapped around her mind like a warm blanket.

So the strange hands touch her, and the stranger fucks her, and it feels wonderful. It feels right. Pleasure crashes over her in waves, new and different from all the pleasure that came before, mingling with the presence's neverending touch, together making something more beautiful than either could have created alone. She drifts off to sleep again still being fucked, and dreams of warmth and safety in the arms of her snow leopard friend.