Chelse had always liked cute things. The geeky mouse never really explain why, but anything with a cute face or little cartoons on it made her feel all warm and bouncy. She never did grow out of that childishness; all her shirts bore prints over bright colors, her backpack was covered in colorful patches and pins, and her devices and mirror were covered in stickers. The corner of her room was still adorned with a large collection of plushies piled atop a bean bag, each with a name and a spot at the foot of her bed.
	Her love of cute things wasn't always as bright and happy as all those little cartoons and plushie faces, however. Ever since she'd began to grow into her womanhood, childhood nightmares and little tragedies had begun to evolve within her head. Maybe they weren't so bad after all. In fact, looking back now, maybe she liked some of them, she thought. Maybe she could....
	The first time she'd done it, she felt guilty afterwards. Guilty from what she'd done, yes, but more than that, she felt guilty that she had liked it as much as she had. Enough to do it again. And she did. It started off as a guilty pleasure, something she'd do once in a blue moon, never wanting to admit to herself how much she enjoyed it. She giggled to herself just thinking about it now. That had been a LONG time ago. At this point, she couldn't even remember every time she'd done it. Ah, but that first time, that was burned into her memory.

	She couldn't remember exactly how young she'd been, just that she was in middle school, her body showing its first signs of womanhood. Though she never grew a buxom bosom or a shapely figure like some of her classmates, her form was still distinctly that of a teenager. She liked to think she looked a bit like a shorter version of herself, though she knew from pictures that wasn't the case. She had always been a bookworm, soaking up every lesson in her classes and filling her spare time gobbling up stories in the library. It didn't matter what she read; she always loved reading. But sometime during those early years, a new interest had begun to enter her life.
	She had been reading at her desk late one night. Her family had gone to bed at least an hour ago; she always lost track of time with her nose in a page. She couldn't recall what book she had been reading at the time, although it must have been exceptionally boring, because even back then she distinctly remembered beginning to daydream still arched over the book. As with all hormonal teenagers, her thoughts were beyond her control, sometimes embarrassing, and that night was no different. In her head she recalled childhood tragedies, like when her mom had accidentally bleached her favorite shirt, or she'd torn another playing out in the woods, or the time one of her teddies got caught in a rough housing session too hard and ended up in half. She relived childhood nightmares of several of her plushies and some of her favorite cartoon characters meeting similar fates. In one, she dropped her plushie while climbing a tree, her mom mowing the lawn beneath her. In another, she watched as fire consumed them. She had remembered how after each one, she'd awoken in a panic, tucking every one of those plushies and toys into bed with her to keep them safe.
	As quickly as her thoughts had come to her, they had gone, as she had shaken herself back into the moment. She had been stunned by her thoughts, but not because she was scared, or sad, or even embarrassed. Instead, she felt...funny. Could she have just...enjoyed those memories? She realized that in fact she did enjoy them. A lot. It was only after admitting this to herself that she began to blush, now actively trying to summon back those images in her head. Instead, she had come upon a new thought, one that made her ears twitch and turn bright red.
	Turning in her seat, she had begun to look around her room through a new lens. She surveyed everything slowly, calculating how she would have to hide each thing, how likely it would be that something would be noticed missing, how attached to it she was, and, most importantly, how excited it made her to think about it. Her closet was off-limits; in her head she imagined any missing shirt would be noticed immediately, any pair of undies she had only one of would somehow be noticed, as if her mother had memorized every one. She ignored big things for obvious reasons, skimming past her bed. Her eyes froze immediately, however, when they met those of her stuffed animal collection. For some reason, the same logic of being noticed didn't register in her mind; perhaps she was just too excited. Yes, it would be a plushie. But which one? There were so many of them, every one of them with a name and a special set of memories. She knew them all by heart. Oh, it was too hard to decide! But she had to....
	She had gotten up slowly, feeling as though blood rushed to her head anyway, and crossed her room to stand above her pile. Slowly, she had begun to sift through them, contemplating everything about them. She had realized at this time that her hands were shaking. Eventually, she came upon the one. She knew from the moment she picked up that her little froggy would be the one to go. A voice in her head teased her, made her bite her lip in anticipation just holding it. "And what noise does the froggy make?" the voiced cooed playfully. "That's riiiiiight! Rippit! Hee hee! Rippit!" The voice in her head made the pronunciation very clearly in her head, the intention of the pun unavoidable.
	Mulling it over in her mind, making sure she wanted to, it all made her want it even more somehow. This was her very special Froggie, one of her first plushies. She remembered how he was once the same size as her, how she'd given him his cheesy name just because he was a frog. She used to take him up with her when she climbed the trees, and cuddled with him more than any other plushie, and brought him to every sleepover. Surprisingly, his fur had still felt soft between her fingers, not a single popped stitch in sight. He must have been remarkably well-made, surviving so well all these years. All that made it feel that much more naughty, knowing what she was going to do to him.
	She had made her decision then. Staring down at her little plushie, she carried him with her as she retrieved her scissors from her desk, then padded over to her bed. Then, as if by instinct, she had shed her clothes. She knew what sex was, but this was something new. She was running on instinct alone. Now naked, she struggled to choose a position. Should she stand? Straddle him on her knees? Or maybe she should just lay down and use her hands to guide him? A combination of the above became her answer. She put her left knee up on the bed, spreading herself. Then, holding her Froggie in one hand, she had pressed him, gently, against her moist folds. She hadn't felt much until her hand had begun moving, Froggie's short fur tickling her sensitive labia, brushing across the entire length of her slit. She remembered letting out a gasp at the feeling, pressing him against her harder and rubbing, slowly, deeper and deeper against her. As her arousal grew into full bloom, her reason for this newfound feeling returned.
	"Mmh, what does Froggie say?" she had muttered to herself, feeling her ears flush as she lifted him away from her folds to look at him. His fur was matted where it had touched her, a trail of girl cum still tying the two of them together. "C'mon Mr. Froggie, I need your help! Poor widdle Chelsie needs your help to remember what Froggie says!" She had grinned, practically giggling now, still shaking profusely. She had grabbed her plushie in both paws, tugging on him hard, trying to rip a hole in his body. "Mmm, Mr. Froggie no! You're supposed to-help-me!" She'd grabbed the scissors, opening them up and stabbing her precious Froggie right in his backside with a pop. She remembered seeing the blade poking out of her plushie, submerged to its halfway point. She'd then tried to snip, to make the hole bigger, easier to tear apart, but the scissors wouldn't cut. Frustrated, she had tossed them aside. Her fingers weren't able to fit in the tiny hole the scissors had made.
	With a new idea in mind, she had moved over to her floor, tossing the plushie on the ground. "Mr. Froggie! You're in big trouble!" She scolded, stomping on him. "You're supposed to help your Chelsie remember!" She had reached down, adjusting her stance and grabbing one of Froggie's front arms. "I'm gonna ask one more time, Mister. Now, what does Froggie say?" With that, she pulled hard. The unmistakable sound, alien to her ears yet somehow so familiar, seemed to ring in the air, bringing to her mind a mix of thoughts in an instant. Did anyone hear? That was loud. Oh my gosh, I think I just ripped Mr. Froggie. My Froggie. Look down. I wanna see him. Within an instant, her worries were pushed aside by her curious arousal, the pang of naughty emotion, and a giddy feeling as if she were a cartoon vilain relishing in their wickedness. She held up the arm, the stitches curled an ragged on the edges, a puff of stuffing appearing where it was once attached. Looking down at her Froggie, the hole appeared to be much bigger than the hole where her arm was, as if his side stitching had torn a bit as well. His stitching was clearly visible, but not protruding. She'd done it. She'd ripped her favorite stuffed toy! It brought a grin to her face.
	"That's right, Mr. Froggie," she had said, discarding his arm and crouching down to pick him up, slipping her fingers in the hole. His stuffing was soft, just like his fur. The fur she'd ruined with her slippery cum. She could still feel it on her thumb as she pulled, new stitches popping beneath her fingers with a satisfying crack. "Rippit!" she giggled, tugging again, faster this time. "Rippit! Rippit!" She tore into her childhood stuffy gleefully, until she had torn all the way to his back leg, which seemed unwilling to rip for her. Standing up, she had once again put her foot down, this time on the other back leg whilst she grabbed hold of the stubborn leg in both paws. "Rippit!" She'd cried out, pulling as hard as she could, straightening her back as she threw her whole body into it. Indeed, Froggie's leg was stubborn, more so than the stitching that ran up his back. She looked down in orgasmic pleasure as she saw her special plushie torn apart, the stitching between his legs giving way, the armless half coming with the leg in her paws as the soft toy was shredded in half. His stuffing clung mostly to his innards, until the tear was up to his head, at which time the cloud of fluff gave up and floated down to the carpet below. The moment ended when his final stitches gave in, a little splash of fluff and whip of green fur in the air as his two halves had flown apart. In her right paw dangled the shredded scraps of her plushie, the remains under her foot still mostly recognizable, still firing off shots of hormones in her mind as her memories of the little toy mixed with her arousal.
	"Ah, I remember now," She'd giggled to herself, crouching on the floor to get a better look at her mischief, rubbing herself once more with the green scraps in her paw. "Mmm, rippit, rippit!" she moaned, rubbing herself furiously as she slipped her foot in the other half of the plushie, pulling on one of the remaining limbs with her free hand. "Mmh, yes, yes, I ripped it! I ripped my Mr. Froggie!" She began kicking as she rubbed, her foot still in the plushie, stitches popping with each kick. With each kick, she moaned once more, "Rippit! Rippit!" Giggling to herself, she had given herself her first, and perhaps still her most intense, orgasm. She still didn't know how she'd done it, but she'd giggled the whole time she came, her body shuddering, her tail twitching and thumping against the carpet. She'd realized in the midst of her throes that she'd sat on the cloud of stuffing, the fibers tickling her ass as the moist strip of plushie pelt in her paw continued to tickle her loins, her toes tangled in the little cloud of fluff left inside the remains of her plushie.
	When her climax had finally subsided, She had slowly relaxed from her position. Still sitting on Froggie's stuffing, she'd laid the two halves and the arm next to one another, looking into those beady eyes and bits of mangled smile, a smile of her own reflected in his eyes. She had observed fervently every detail, as if photographing the moment: every popped stitch, loose thread, every patch of matted fur from the sweat of her palms and her profuse discharge. The scrap she'd rubbed against in climax was coated in a clear film, her cum oozing into the rest of his still-dry fur. "Bye-bye, Mr. Froggy," She'd said with a final little giggle.

	A few years later, she recalled that first night, closing her eyes in preparatory bliss. She stood in her bathroom this time, late at night once more, wearing only a pair of green panties, a froggy's face printed on the back, its little eyes sewn almost like ears poking out above the top of the waistband. She'd picked it out specially, having blushed in the store upon looking over at the display bin and seeing that pair on top, as if teasing her. the rest of her clothes lay on the floor, discarded absently. Now, once more, she struggled to decide how she wanted to start. She decided the best way would be to just start and let her instincts do the rest. Rubbing herself through her panties, she whimpered softly to herself, her memories already making her drip through the gusset, a darker green forming between her digits. "Ooh, Mr. Froggie," she whimpered, raising her slick fingers up to her chest to look down at her own arousal. "Mm, fuck," she whimpered, tasting herself slowly, savoring the texture on her tongue. Her girlfriend Cath would love to be here right now. But tonight was private. The moisture in her panties reminded her body of another urge that she needed to take care of. "Oh Mr. Froggie, I gotta pee," she said, smiling and looking over her shoulder as another thought came to her mind. Would the doorknob hold? She certainly hoped so. "You want me to keep you on and go potty? Froggies like being all slimy," she said, rubbing herself once more before slipping up against the door, turning the waistband inside-out around the doorknob and sliding her tail out of the way. "...and wet," she finished, feeling a warm tingle in her pussy as she gently released her stream, her lightly-colored urine already pooling a bit and moistening her fur with its warmth as it struggled to drip through the thick layer of cum already saturating her panties. "Hmm, whaddyu think Froggie? Whaddyu say~?"
	With that, she slid the heels of her feet out from under her, slipping down the door and falling into her growing puddle on the floor with a little splash, soaking her butt. As she slid, her panties stretched, giving her a tight wedgie, but only a little; they were already a size or two too small for her on purpose, and the fabric couldn't keep up. With a long, ear splitting tear, her panties ripped open at the waistband, tearing the froggy on the back in half just as she'd done years ago. Although she couldn't see the face, she could feel the tug, then the release, and once more the echo resonated through her head as they tore, the bathroom's acoustics only amplifying the reverberation in her ears. "Mm, yes Froggie, that's right," she said, rubbing herself furiously, her paw splashing in the small puddle she'd made. She'd worry later about if it had run under the door into the hallway carpet. Right now, she was in utter bliss. "Now, say it with me," she said, feeling with her claws for a dry spot in the front of her panties, right above her bush. She knew from experience how much more the fabric was when it was dry. She began to dig in, feeling the fabric ready to give in. "You ready, Mr. Froggie?" She said, with a slight pause as she caught her breath. "Rippit!" she cried out as she pulled in opposite directions, ripping a hole in her panties right in the middle, exposing her bush. She dove one paw into the hole, her thumb against her thigh outside the fabric as her fingers dug frantically into her folds, fingering herself briefly before pulling her paw out. She wanted to finish her panties before she did. Gripping the sides of the hole like handles, she pulled hard, tearing her panties apart down the front. Gripping the gusset still covering her, she tugged hard back and forth, making quick work of the sodden strip of once-white fabric. She began once more to finger herself with one hand, her other still gripping the hole in the front of her panties, tugging playfully, waiting to synchronize with the inevitable, to prolong her pleasure.
	Within moment, she was crying out in pleasure, her back arching forward, presenting her breasts, her head bumping repeatedly against the door as she lost control of her body, each resonating bang making her little session more and more risky should anyone be awake in any part of the house. "Yes, Yes, rippit, rip-" she tried to say as she came, instead slurring her speech until it was nothing more than a few vague whimpers. "Yeh, y- rih-hmmmm~" Her spare hand followed her plan as it had many times before, pulling one final time, making a long, slow tear that lasted through the first few seconds of her orgasm, tearing her panties apart up to the waistband, then across the length of the waistband's stitching, severing elastic from cotton all the way to the side stitches. She clawed furiously in the last seconds of her orgasm, trying to use the same paw to tear her underwear on the other side of the hole, then to reach for the severed waistband in the back, all unsuccessfully. Finally, her muscles relaxed, and she collapsed into her puddle of cooling urine, the green scraps of fabric hanging off of her covered in speckles and gradients of darker green where her fluids had stained them.

	To this day, cute little froggies are still the one thing that always makes her feel tingly. It's not that she can only play with frogs and things with frog prints; no, anything cute enough will do; the cuter it is, the sexier it is to ruin. It's just that she can't look at a cute frog plushie or a cartoon on a shirt or pair of panties without thinking about her special Mr. Froggie, and how tingly he made her feel that first night, when she'd played with him the last time. Yes, frogs are her biggest weakness. Although, her turtle has been giving her some stares quite unbecoming of a cute little plushie, hasn't he, Reginald? Chelse looks over her shoulder, her daydream over, her head buzzing with arousal as her eyes lock with the stuffed animal poking out from her pile. Looking down at her trash can, she contemplates whether he'll fit in the bag; plushies seem much bigger after they're torn open after all. But then she remembers, a wicked grin spreading across her face. How could she forget? Trash night's tonight. ;3