Curse of the Femboy Mice Harem

After being rude to a witch that was trying to help you, the witch curses you, transforming your infestation into hundreds of hypersexual anthropomorphic femboy mice.

You wake slowly, consciousness surfacing through layers of warmth and soft weight. Something is different. You went to bed alone... you're sure of that... and yet your body is pinned in place by a blanket of squishy, squirming heat. Your arms are immobilized. Your legs won't budge. There's a dense, furry mass piled across your chest, your stomach, your thighs. As your eyes crack open and the dim morning light filters through the bedroom curtains, you begin to make out shapes. Rounded ears. Tapered muzzles. The gentle rise and fall of small chests breathing in unison. Femboy mice. At least a dozen of them. They've burrowed in during the night, constructing a living quilt across your body. One is curled against your neck, their round ass pressed flush against your jaw, tail draped over your shoulder. Another sleeps tucked into the crook of your arm, their thick thighs straddling your bicep. You can feel the soft pads of their paws kneading lazily against your skin; even unconscious, they cling to you.

The weight is extraordinary but not uncomfortable. Their bodies are warm and plush, yielding against your frame. Somewhere near your hip, one mouse has wedged themselves face-down, their enormous rear propped up and their tail flicking occasionally in sleep. Their cock, impossibly thick for their small frame, rests soft against your sheet. Drool darkens the fabric beneath their slightly parted lips. You shift your hips experimentally and immediately regret it. The movement jostles the pile, and a chorus of tiny sleepy squeaks ripples through the mound. One mouse nuzzles deeper into the gap between your ribs. Another tightens their grip on your forearm. A third, the one draped across your thighs, mumbles something indistinct and humps their plump rear against your knee in a half-conscious reflex. You can feel their heartbeats against your skin. Dozens of them, fluttering and quick. The smell of musk and fur is thick in the air, underlaid with something sweeter. Clean linen. Lavender. They've been bathing, you realize. Keeping themselves presentable for you even as they sneak into your bed like possessive little creatures. One mouse at the top of the pile stirs, pink nose twitching. Their eyes blink open, dark, glossy, immediately finding your face.