Part 1: https://pastebin.com/ieG4sUZ6

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“Welcome back, sir,” greets the peachette at the counter. of the salon. “Are you here to pick up Chompy?”

You nod, and pay the coins for their services. The counter girl leads you to the back, and you’re nothing short of blown away by what you see.

What once was a disheveled mess of a woman dressed in rags and chained to a crumbling dungeon now stands a beautiful princess. Chained to a barber chair. But, she’s beautiful. Her black shaggy hair that had swept at the cobblestone floor behind her has been cut to a cute neck-length bob, shining like ebony off a piano. She’s wearing the clothes you picked at the tailor, a modest black dress– a shiny black gem pin adorning the center, of course – with a knee-length circle skirt. It looks adorable on her. Her dress shows her legs from the knee down, and you can she’s wearing brand new white stockings. Both of them this time. Shiny black low-heeled shoes cover her once bare feet. And of course, she has her crown.

She’s much cleaner now, too. Her skin, which you now realize is quite pale, is free of any dirt or blemishes. Her eyes are as black and round as ever, and still a little blank, but that’s just a charm point for you at this point. Of course, her signature semi-circle grin full of sharp, metal teeth is as still there. She was grinning and panting as usual when you entered, staring at her reflection on a mirror, but you see her eyes light up as she spots you, and her grin becomes a full, genuine smile. She starts barking immediately, and struggles against her bonds.

Your heart flutters just looking at her, but you try not to look too lovestruck. There are other clients and employees here, and they all seem to be interested in what’s got the chompette all excited (that would be you). Coming closer to Chompy, you realize her hands are still bound behind her back, but the block of solid brick has been replaced with black iron handcuffs, matching her, you now notice, brand new collar.

“We’re sorry for having to restrain her, sir,” the peachette from the counter apologizes, “but we’re required to keep chain chomps bound as per city laws.” She pauses and looks at Chompy before continuing. “No exceptions have been made for chompettes yet, as I believe Chompy here is the first we know of.”

You tell her it’s alright as you step towards the increasingly-excited Chompy. You place a hand on her head, and the chompette presses her skull as far as it can reach into your palm, whimpering as she practically begging you to pet her.

You stroke her hair and tell her you missed her too, which makes seems to make her very happy, based on her little yips of joy. You slide your hand from the top of her head to her chin, making sure to rub the line between her neck and her cheek as you go, and make your way to her chin. Chompy’s eyes flutter open, revealing her pupils rolling up in enjoyment. A little drool wets your palm, and Chompy’s left leg starts shaking, her heel clicking on the tile floor relentlessly. You feel your throat get a little dry as you continue your ministrations.

“Oh my...” the peachette giggles, reminding you of her existence as well as the existence of all others present. “She’s very happy to see you,” she teases, a gloved hand covering her mouth. You nod as you keep your eyes trained to the floor, and your hands to your sides. You barely manage a ‘you too’ as the peachette thanks you for your patronage and hands you the keys to Chompy’s new collar and handcuffs.

You try to ignore the stares and whispers of the patrons and workers around you as you take Chompy’s chain and thank the peachette for their work. You also try to ignore the stares and whispers of random people you pass as you lead a very happy, very noisy, and very cuddly Chompy through town, back to your apartment.

After a short walk that felt like forever, you finally reach your apartment building and enter the lobby, feeling a weight drop off your shoulders as you come to the relative safety of the apartment's main hall.

Relative safety. You’re not quite out of it yet.

“Oh, me oh my,” the sultry voice of Spora, your landlady chimes in. “What have we here?”

You turn to face her, sitting seductively at the front desk, and greet her politely. Even now as you try to hide Chompy behind you, the curious chompette steps aside and barks sweetly at the older peachette.

“Your pet, I assume?” Spora asks, gesturing at Chompy as she fishes out her long pipe and lights it. “You know we have a no pet policy, right darling?” She takes a puff and blows, and even from the distance between the desk and where you’re standing, you are awash with the intoxicating cloud of her scented tobacco.

You shake your head, holding your free hand out and waving it for good measure. You explain that Chompy here – say hello, Chompy – is a friend of yours who needs some place to stay for the indefinite future. Just a friend. Yeah.

You tug on Chompy’s chain to rein her.

Chompy barks.

Spora crosses her long legs over the counter, and you catch a glimpse of inner thigh as she folds one leg over the other on the top of the desk, to the side so she can see you. She takes a long drag and puffs it out before fixing you with a devilish smile and replies.

“And the leash?” Before you can answer, she laughs the crude laugh of a mature, experienced woman and continues. “Kinky, I like it.”

You swallow your spit and keep your mouth shut. Your landlady was once a normal, slightly shy toadette. A little soft spoken, a bit older than you and a lot shorter, and you never saw her smoke. You remember offering to help her bring some supplies back to her office, and she told you it’s fine, and then she struggled with the heavy bags, and then you ended up helping her while she apologized profusely. That was just last week.

One day, you came down to the lobby to find her sitting there, golden hair tied into an intricate braid, dressed in a tight, blue princess’ gown with a fitted skirt up to her shins, with a cleavage window revealing her generous bust. She was wearing dark stockings and blue stiletto heels, and of course, a golden super crown on her head. And it’s not just her appearance that changed – she had grown a lot less shy and a lot bolder, in both clothing decisions and personality, ever since.

You shake your head again, and explain again that Chompette is just a friend, and you describe how you met her – expertly dodging around the details of what happened in that dungeon, instead skipping to the end where you rescued her. She certainly won’t cause any trouble for her or the tenants, you explain. She’ll always wear her collar and outside your apartment, as she is a considerate (obedient) person and obeys the laws (what you tell her).

Spora remains silent for a few moments. Her long, manicured fingernails tap and drum at the edge of the table.

You offhandedly mention you are willing to pay an increase in rent to accommodate Chompy on her property.

“After some consideration” she finally speaks up. “I'll be willing to let her stay with you.”

You begin to thank her, but she raises a hand to stop you.

“Two conditions,” she says, finally putting her pipe down. “One, her crown stays on when in this building."

You nod.

“Two,” she adds, uncrossing her legs and standing up from her seat. She walks up to you and places a finger on your chest. “you won’t have to pay extra,” she half-whispers. “Just be there when I need an...” she trails off, giving you a quick rover eye. “Errand boy,” she says with a sly grin. Her perfume is overpowering from how close you are, and you notice she’s a little taller than you in that form, especially with those heels on.

You try not to think about how good she looks for her age. Is this what Princess Toadstool will look like as she gets older?

Chompy barks happily at Spora, who ignores her and instead continues to make uncomfortable eye contact with you.

You nod politely and thank the landlady, to which she laughs and sends you on your way. With that, you lead Chompy upstairs. Your apartment is the second-to-the-last door on the hall, right next to the abandoned and permanently locked ‘under maintenance’ room at the very end. You manage to find your keys and bring her into your apartment with no further incident, ignoring the creepy and forbidden aura of room neighboring yours.

You sigh, finally free from judging eyes, and lock the door behind for good measure. You turn to find Chompy sniffing at everything in your apartment, which is small in size, and a fucking mess. She wanders as far your grip on her chain will let her, sniffing everything she can. You gently tug on her chain to pull her way from the more breakable furniture, and instead lead her to the beat-up sofa in the center.

You push some pillows aside to make space, and sit her down in the center. You sit next to her and pet her head, which seems to keep her happy and quiet for a while. You go at it for several minutes, petting her head, her neck, and chin, and behind her ears, and then her head some more. The only sounds around you come from Chompy, panting and moaning and other sweet, loving noises – and as you just realize, you’re own heavy breathing as you continue to pet and rub and scratch the girl sitting on the sofa next to you.

That’s when you tell her to stay on the sofa, to which she just barks in response. You stand - despite Chompy’s barks and whines of protest – and look for the TV remote. It’s not on the sofa. It’s not under the sofa. It’s not on the coffee table. Ah, it’s under the coffee table. You grab it and switch the TV on, turning it to a music video channel playing the latest sugary sweet normcore pop song. Chompy is distracted by the bright lights and flashy colors of the TV and turns her full, undivided attention to it.

You gracefully hop over to the kitchen and heat up a microwave dinner, peeking out of the kitchen to check on your chompette every few seconds. When it’s finally over, you step out with the hot meal to the living room and find Chompy sitting on the floor, her face practically merged with the screen. Placing the food down, you gently tug on her chain, dragging the obedient girl back to the sofa. You gently stroke her hair as you fish for the keys to her restraints.

When you find them, you gently unlock her iron handcuffs. She immediately pulls her hands to her face, and remains unusually silent for a few moments, quietly examining her now free hands. It takes you by surprise when she forcefully takes both of your own hands in her, looking at you like a puppy in love, barking and yipping with pure joy. You can’t help but smile and let her hold your hands for a while longer. Finally, after a few seconds of watching her watch you hold her hands, you begin unlocking her collar. With a click, it falls heavy onto the sofa, sinking into the mattress.

Chompy brings her hand to her neck, rubbing at the now exposed skin. Her eyes look even more blank than usual, like her brain is still processing what had just happened. She touches her throat, her nape, the sides of her neck, before snapping out of it. You get thrown onto the floor by a very appreciative Chompy, cuddling and pressing against you as you struggle not to topple the table and all the things strewn across it.

Chompy is relentless in her attack, her hands and face exploring your face, your body, your hands, and you laugh and smile. Then you feel a hand slip down the garter of your pants, and you go blank for a second. Before you can react, you feel the graze of metal teeth your shoulder – the same shoulder from before – and you shriek like a scandalized maiden, trying to straighten up away from her grip.

Despite not having arms for, you assume, most of her life, and having just been freed of her handcuffs, you find Chompy to be very adept at her using her hands. You’re pinned down with no hope for escape, your shirt is already pulled up your chin, and your pants have come undone, a tight yet loving grip on your turgid shaft. Chompy buries her face in your neck as she starts working your length, and her panting and hot breaths make the hairs on your nape stand on end. For a moment, you stop struggling, considering letting her do what she wants, but when you feel the cold metal of her teeth press against your quickening pulse, you start struggling again. To no avail of course, as Chompy has both your wrists in an inescapable grip in one hand, your dick in the other.

A primal instinct in you tells you to let the girl with knife-teeth who’s nuzzled against your neck, and is holding your sensitive bits in an iron grip, to do as she pleases for now. You listen to that instinct, and you surrender to her surprisingly expert ministration. You feel her panting faster on your neck as she increases the speed of her handjob. After a few more seconds her going at it, she suddenly stops, shoots straight up, and starts pulling at her dress. From down there, you can only barely see her face under her hair and the shadows, but you catch a glimpse of her eyes - round and wide like in shock, pupils contracted to dots in the center of seas of white.

You’re terrified.

And you are so, so hard right now.

She pulls up her skirt, revealing lacy white panties that the tailors got for her. A little bow near the garter makes you think more of idols and less of princesses. Chompy finally withdraws her grip on your wrists to remove her panties, and you clasp her white stocking-clad thighs as she straddles you. She lowers herself onto you, concealing your throbbing prick under her dress.

You can’t see it, but you can certainly feel yourself enter her drooling, burning hot slit. She places her hands heavily on your chest and begins to ride you like a frenzied animal, her mouth wide open and eyes rolling up as she frantically bouncing on your rod, panting and barking all the while. You place your hands on her wrists and start bucking your hips into hers. You pull her wrists off of you, and place your palms on hers, letting her hold your hands for balance as she slams your dick into her with increasing pace.

She looks at her hands, locked into yours, and looks ready to cry tears of joy. Her chest crashes into you, her lower body twitching as she her grip your hands like her life depended on it. You feel her love canal spasming around you, convulsing wildly and sending tingles down your dick all the way to your spine. Did she reach orgasm from hand holding? You feel lightheaded as she continues to tighten her hands on your palms and her pussy on your dick, a long drawn out moan of ecstasy coming from her mouth right next to your ear. But you keep pumping until her arms give out, and she collapses on top of you, panting as if tortured by thirst.

You wrap your arms around her waist, clench your teeth, and buck your hips up, up, up as hard as you can, as deep as you can, earning several moans and whines from the limp body on top of you. Finally, you feel the boiling heat in you come to a peak, and you hilt yourself in her, releasing shot after shot of your molten seed into her. You feel her press her face into your neck again, and her open mouth puffing hot breaths at your neck and shoulder, which you feel she is obsessed with. That doesn’t matter though, as you hold onto her for dear life and empty your sack into her waiting, quivering womb.

After what feels like forever, you finally drop your hips to the floor, and you both feel exhausted but content. Your shrinking meat pulls out of her, and you feel warm fluids running down your thighs, proof of your tryst. She falls off of you, onto her back beside you, sandwiched between you and the sofa. You hold hands, panting, staring at the ceiling, knowing nothing but each other’s presence. Finally breaking out of the trance, you reach for her chin and pull it close, planting an innocent kiss on her lips. You look in her eyes to see surprise, quickly replaced by love as she returns the kiss.

After a moment spent in eternity, just kissing, just looking into her eyes, you finally get up and get some tissues off the coffee table. You wipe at your thighs and your numb, flaccid dick, then you wipe at her legs and her pussy overflowing with your juices. She looks inquisitively at you, completely dumbfounded as to what you’re doing, but she never once struggles or bark as you clean her and dress her back up.

You sit her down on the sofa and hand her the TV dinner you heated up earlier, now cool from how long it waited to be eaten. At first, she stares at the tray, the concept of instant food probably alien to her. You realize you should get her utensils, but before you get up she digs into it, hands holding the bottom of the plastic tray, face buried in the food. The sound of chomping and slurping completely fills your apartment as has her first meal in god knows how long. You smile and pet Chompy lovingly as she chows down on her meal.