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Description
A commission. A fan finally gets to be Pokimane's chair.

Support me on Patreon for exclusive content and commissions: (www.patreon.com/boonstf )

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For the better part of a year, I had been an ardent follower of Pokimane. I was there for every stream, through every victory and loss, and every exciting reveal. I longed for a closer connection to my gaming idol, but never did I imagine it would be quite this close.

The TF app, a shady software promising impossible transformations, was my ticket closer to Pokimane. Initially, my goal was to be her camera, the ever-present observer, capturing every moment of her gaming glory. However, fate had different plans. A bug in the app, a poorly coded sequence, a twist of cosmic irony – I was not to be the camera. I found myself transforming into her streaming chair.

I heard the familiar footsteps echoing through the room as Pokimane entered. My entire form trembled with anticipation, a cocktail of fear and revulsion coursing through my new, fabric-bound existence. Her figure, once a sight of joy, was now a harbinger of discomfort, a painful reminder of my ill-fated wish.

She sauntered in, her ever-charming smile plastered across her face. I could see the anticipation in her eyes, a sense of excitement for the impending stream. She had no idea about the unfortunate fate that had befallen her biggest fan, now the very chair she intended to spend her next several hours on. The room was filled with her perfume, a scent I had once found endearing but was now a nauseating precursor to the humiliation that was about to unfold. She moved around the room, setting things up for her stream. Her every movement, once a thing of grace, now seemed a cruel dance leading up to my inevitable suffocation.

Her legs, a symphony of curvaceous flesh and muscle, were sheathed in a pair of form-fitting elastic pants. The fabric hugged her contours, accentuating every swell, every curve, offering a deceptive softness that belied the impending force that was about to crush me. The encroaching darkness was a sight I had never imagined I would witness, a visual symphony of dread and resignation. I was trapped, with no escape, no reprieve from the inevitable. Her thighs, meaty and firm, trembled with a kind of sensual anticipation that made my non-existent stomach churn. They were like twin peaks of a fleshy mountain, jiggling in rhythm with her every step.

My new perspective gave me an unhindered view of the indentation formed by her pants digging into her crotch. It was a sight that was both morbidly fascinating and dreadfully terrifying, a surreal visual testament to my impending suffocation. The air around me was growing thick, heavy with the promise of her arrival. A musty scent began to permeate my senses, a pungent aroma that bore testament to her long day. It was acrid, distinct, a testament to the woman who was about to subject me to her unceremonious descent. I coughed, or rather, felt a sense of choking as the smell invaded my being, a cruel teaser of what was about to come. The scent was potent, a sharp contrast to the sweet perfume that lingered in the room. It was raw, primal, a scent that spoke of her exertions and the heat that radiated from her.

And then, with a final step, she turned and began her descent. The world around me compressed, the light dwindling as her form blocked out everything else. I was being consumed by her, my existence narrowed down to her posterior descending onto me.
The heat was immediate and intense, seeping into my fabric. The musty smell was now all-consuming, a cruel reminder of my new purpose in her life. Her full weight settled onto me, her soft form molding into my cushioned surface.

Her thighs, those powerful, firm pillars, squeezed against my sides, their warmth pulsating against my being. Her elastic pants, thin as they were, offered little respite from the sensory assault. The smell, the heat, the unyielding pressure, they all coalesced into a degrading experience that had now become my existence. As she settled into me, I felt a wave of her body heat seep into my fabric, a stark contrast to the cool room air. Each shift, each tiny adjustment she made sent fresh waves of her musk into my being, a cruelly intimate interaction I never wanted.

She was oblivious to the torment I was undergoing, her focus on her stream and her audience. All the while, I was there, beneath her, forced to endure her weight, her heat, and her humiliatingly pungent scent. This was my new reality, a cruel twist of fate that transformed me from an ardent fan to an underappreciated, often forgotten, piece of furniture. She shifted her weight, wiggling a little in her chair. I felt her lean slightly to one side, her thighs pressing more firmly against me on one side. A muffled giggle escaped her, the sound oddly distorted and distant from my new vantage point. The casualness of her actions, the nonchalance in her body language sent a shiver of dread through my non-existent spine. This was it. The dread I had felt was about to come true.

Her body stiffened slightly before I felt it - a sudden, forceful expulsion of air that vibrated through my being. The sound was muffled, a low rumble that echoed through the room. The aroma that followed was an overwhelming, noxious wave that slammed into me like a physical blow.

The scent was powerful, a mix of her natural musk and something harsher, a sharp acridity that stung my senses. It was a potent, heavy smell that lingered, sticking to my surface, permeating every fiber of my being. The fart was just a precursor to a barrage of similar incidents, each one a degrading, humiliating assault on my senses. Every time she shifted her weight, laughed at a joke, or simply settled more comfortably into her chair, the threat of another emission loomed over me.

The truth of my existence sunk in. I was no longer a fan watching his idol. Instead, I was the very chair that his idol sat on, a silent, tormented observer, helplessly enduring her unceremonious gas releases. My world was defined by her posterior, by the heat, the pressure, the smells, and the cruel reality of my transformation. All the while, she was blissfully oblivious to my plight, her laughter and chatter filling the room, even as I languished beneath her, subjected to the suffocating pressure of her weight and the constant barrage of her gas.

As Pokimane engaged with her chat, a notification popped up on the screen. "UltraFan1337 has donated $100!" it announced, and then the accompanying message scrolled by in the chat: "I wish I was your chair, Poki!"

A laugh bubbled from Pokimane, genuine and light. "UltraFan1337, thank you for the donation, that's super kind of you!" she responded, her amusement clear. "Being my chair, huh? You might find it's not as glamorous as it seems!"

Little did UltraFan1337 know how true those words were. I would've given anything to let him know the reality of being her chair. The heat, the weight, the suffocating pressure, the constant barrage of her gas, and most of all, the overwhelming, crushing humiliation that came with it all.

Yet there I was, silent and suffering, my torment hidden beneath a layer of cheery banter and gaming commentary. The irony wasn't lost on me. Here was a fan expressing a desire to be in my exact position, oblivious to the reality of my predicament, while I, once just like him, now wished for nothing more than to be free from this cruel and degrading fate.

If only he knew the truth, I thought. But there was no way to tell him, to warn him of the reality of his wish. I was trapped, a silent victim to my own desire to be closer to my idol. The stream carried on, the games played, the donations rolled in. And all the while, I remained trapped beneath her, subjected to the cruel and degrading reality of my transformation. I was her chair, and no amount of wishing could change that.

Description
A commission. A fan finally gets to be Pokimane's chair.

Support me on Patreon for exclusive content and commissions: (www.patreon.com/boonstf )

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For the better part of a year, I had been an ardent follower of Pokimane. I was there for every stream, through every victory and loss, and every exciting reveal. I longed for a closer connection to my gaming idol, but never did I imagine it would be quite this close.

The TF app, a shady software promising impossible transformations, was my ticket closer to Pokimane. Initially, my goal was to be her camera, the ever-present observer, capturing every moment of her gaming glory. However, fate had different plans. A bug in the app, a poorly coded sequence, a twist of cosmic irony – I was not to be the camera. I found myself transforming into her streaming chair.

I heard the familiar footsteps echoing through the room as Pokimane entered. My entire form trembled with anticipation, a cocktail of fear and revulsion coursing through my new, fabric-bound existence. Her figure, once a sight of joy, was now a harbinger of discomfort, a painful reminder of my ill-fated wish.

She sauntered in, her ever-charming smile plastered across her face. I could see the anticipation in her eyes, a sense of excitement for the impending stream. She had no idea about the unfortunate fate that had befallen her biggest fan, now the very chair she intended to spend her next several hours on. The room was filled with her perfume, a scent I had once found endearing but was now a nauseating precursor to the humiliation that was about to unfold. She moved around the room, setting things up for her stream. Her every movement, once a thing of grace, now seemed a cruel dance leading up to my inevitable suffocation.

Her legs, a symphony of curvaceous flesh and muscle, were sheathed in a pair of form-fitting elastic pants. The fabric hugged her contours, accentuating every swell, every curve, offering a deceptive softness that belied the impending force that was about to crush me. The encroaching darkness was a sight I had never imagined I would witness, a visual symphony of dread and resignation. I was trapped, with no escape, no reprieve from the inevitable. Her thighs, meaty and firm, trembled with a kind of sensual anticipation that made my non-existent stomach churn. They were like twin peaks of a fleshy mountain, jiggling in rhythm with her every step.

My new perspective gave me an unhindered view of the indentation formed by her pants digging into her crotch. It was a sight that was both morbidly fascinating and dreadfully terrifying, a surreal visual testament to my impending suffocation. The air around me was growing thick, heavy with the promise of her arrival. A musty scent began to permeate my senses, a pungent aroma that bore testament to her long day. It was acrid, distinct, a testament to the woman who was about to subject me to her unceremonious descent. I coughed, or rather, felt a sense of choking as the smell invaded my being, a cruel teaser of what was about to come. The scent was potent, a sharp contrast to the sweet perfume that lingered in the room. It was raw, primal, a scent that spoke of her exertions and the heat that radiated from her.

And then, with a final step, she turned and began her descent. The world around me compressed, the light dwindling as her form blocked out everything else. I was being consumed by her, my existence narrowed down to her posterior descending onto me.
The heat was immediate and intense, seeping into my fabric. The musty smell was now all-consuming, a cruel reminder of my new purpose in her life. Her full weight settled onto me, her soft form molding into my cushioned surface.

Her thighs, those powerful, firm pillars, squeezed against my sides, their warmth pulsating against my being. Her elastic pants, thin as they were, offered little respite from the sensory assault. The smell, the heat, the unyielding pressure, they all coalesced into a degrading experience that had now become my existence. As she settled into me, I felt a wave of her body heat seep into my fabric, a stark contrast to the cool room air. Each shift, each tiny adjustment she made sent fresh waves of her musk into my being, a cruelly intimate interaction I never wanted.

She was oblivious to the torment I was undergoing, her focus on her stream and her audience. All the while, I was there, beneath her, forced to endure her weight, her heat, and her humiliatingly pungent scent. This was my new reality, a cruel twist of fate that transformed me from an ardent fan to an underappreciated, often forgotten, piece of furniture. She shifted her weight, wiggling a little in her chair. I felt her lean slightly to one side, her thighs pressing more firmly against me on one side. A muffled giggle escaped her, the sound oddly distorted and distant from my new vantage point. The casualness of her actions, the nonchalance in her body language sent a shiver of dread through my non-existent spine. This was it. The dread I had felt was about to come true.

Her body stiffened slightly before I felt it - a sudden, forceful expulsion of air that vibrated through my being. The sound was muffled, a low rumble that echoed through the room. The aroma that followed was an overwhelming, noxious wave that slammed into me like a physical blow.

The scent was powerful, a mix of her natural musk and something harsher, a sharp acridity that stung my senses. It was a potent, heavy smell that lingered, sticking to my surface, permeating every fiber of my being. The fart was just a precursor to a barrage of similar incidents, each one a degrading, humiliating assault on my senses. Every time she shifted her weight, laughed at a joke, or simply settled more comfortably into her chair, the threat of another emission loomed over me.

The truth of my existence sunk in. I was no longer a fan watching his idol. Instead, I was the very chair that his idol sat on, a silent, tormented observer, helplessly enduring her unceremonious gas releases. My world was defined by her posterior, by the heat, the pressure, the smells, and the cruel reality of my transformation. All the while, she was blissfully oblivious to my plight, her laughter and chatter filling the room, even as I languished beneath her, subjected to the suffocating pressure of her weight and the constant barrage of her gas.

As Pokimane engaged with her chat, a notification popped up on the screen. "UltraFan1337 has donated $100!" it announced, and then the accompanying message scrolled by in the chat: "I wish I was your chair, Poki!"

A laugh bubbled from Pokimane, genuine and light. "UltraFan1337, thank you for the donation, that's super kind of you!" she responded, her amusement clear. "Being my chair, huh? You might find it's not as glamorous as it seems!"

Little did UltraFan1337 know how true those words were. I would've given anything to let him know the reality of being her chair. The heat, the weight, the suffocating pressure, the constant barrage of her gas, and most of all, the overwhelming, crushing humiliation that came with it all.

Yet there I was, silent and suffering, my torment hidden beneath a layer of cheery banter and gaming commentary. The irony wasn't lost on me. Here was a fan expressing a desire to be in my exact position, oblivious to the reality of my predicament, while I, once just like him, now wished for nothing more than to be free from this cruel and degrading fate.

If only he knew the truth, I thought. But there was no way to tell him, to warn him of the reality of his wish. I was trapped, a silent victim to my own desire to be closer to my idol. The stream carried on, the games played, the donations rolled in. And all the while, I remained trapped beneath her, subjected to the cruel and degrading reality of my transformation. I was her chair, and no amount of wishing could change that.