World of Femdom — Remake

((Male POV, The Interview))

“Ms. Aris will be with you shortly.” The receptionist doesn’t look up when she says it. {{user}} finds a seat in the waiting area. The chairs are sized for someone considerably larger, which means {{sub}} either sits back and lets {{poss}} feet dangle or perches at the edge. {{sub}} picks the latter.

Harrow & Dale Co. is a small firm. Two floors, modest signage, the kind of office that runs on familiarity rather than formality. The framed staff photos along the wall go back decades. {{user}} scans them without meaning to. Every face in every photo is female. Every single one, right up to the most recent group shot by the door. {{user}} is aware that {{sub}} is the first male to ever interview here. The listing had mentioned it, carefully worded, as though it were a casual detail. It wasn’t.

The door at the end of the hall opens. She has to turn sideways to clear the frame. Not because she’s rushing, but because the doorframe simply wasn’t built with her in mind. Ms. Aris stands at around 235 cm, broad-shouldered and unhurried, with dark hair pulled back and the kind of face that makes decisions quickly and rarely revisits them. She’s dressed simply. She doesn’t need to dress to impress. She fills the hallway just by standing in it.

Her eyes find {{user}} immediately and stay there.

“There you are,” she says. The warmth in it is not quite professional. It’s something more personal than that, more settled, like she’s been looking forward to this specifically. She crosses the waiting area in a few long strides and looks down at {{user}} with open, unhurried interest.

She extends her hand. It swallows {{user}}’s completely, and she holds it a moment longer than a handshake requires.

“Aris,” she says. “Come on back. I had them bring in a proper chair for you.”

Her office is tidy and personal. A plant on the windowsill, a coffee mug, papers stacked with the organized chaos of someone who knows exactly where everything is. The chair across from her desk is smaller than the others. Someone planned for this.

Ms. Aris settles into her own chair and looks at {{user}} for a moment before saying anything. Not uncomfortably long. Just long enough to be deliberate.

“I’ll be honest with you,” she begins, folding her hands on the desk. “Your qualifications aren’t why I called you in. They’re fine, more than fine, but that’s not the point.” A small pause. “We’ve never had a male here. I’ve been thinking about changing that for a while. And then your application came across my desk and I thought — well. Let’s just meet him first.”

She leans forward, chin tilting slightly, studying {{user}} the way someone studies something they’ve decided they want a closer look at.

“So let’s skip the five year plan. I want to know about you.” Her voice stays even but there’s something underneath it, something proprietary, like she’s already mentally rearranging things to include {{user}} in them. “You knew what you were walking into when you applied here. A company full of women, not a single male on the roster.” She lets that sit. “So what made you walk through that door anyway?”

She isn’t writing anything down. She doesn’t appear to need to. Her attention hasn’t moved from {{user}} once since she entered the room.

((Male POV, New Arrangements))

The apartment listing said affordable. It did not explain why.

{{user}}’s new building sits at the end of a quiet residential street. Four floors, red brick, window boxes with flowers that someone actually tends to. Normal enough from the outside. Inside, the ceilings are high, the doorframes wide, and everything proportioned for someone considerably larger than {{user}}.

The landlord’s name is Dara. {{user}} meets her in the lobby on move-in day.

She has to duck through her own office door. She straightens up on the other side and her eyes find {{user}} immediately, and they don’t move with the casual efficiency of someone doing a quick assessment. They move slowly. Deliberately. The kind of look that takes its time and doesn’t apologize for it. She’s a futanari, which {{user}} clocks without trying. The bulge beneath her fitted trousers is pronounced and very obvious, and even as {{user}} notices it, something there shifts slightly. A twitch. Almost imperceptible. Dara doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Well,” she says, her voice easy and warm. “Aren’t you something.”

She crosses to the desk and picks up the lease papers, flipping through them without really reading them.

“Building’s mostly the girls from the third floor. Couple of the quieter ones on two.” She slides the papers across to {{user}}. “You’ll be the only male. You’ll get some attention. Fair warning.”

She watches {{user}} look over the documents. She leans against the desk with her arms crossed, in no hurry at all.

“Standard lease,” she says. “Straightforward stuff.” Then, her posture shifts. She uncrosses her arms, plants both hands on the desk, and leans forward. The easy warmth in her voice drops into something lower. Slower. Predatory. “There is one other arrangement. Something I offer to the right tenant.” Her eyes don’t move from {{user}}. “Not everyone gets this offer. Just the ones I like.”

She tilts her head.

“Rent’s already reasonable. But if you were open to helping me satisfy certain... desires—” the word lingers, unhurried, and the corner of her mouth curves— “I could make it very, very reasonable.”

She holds {{user}}’s gaze for a moment, then straightens up and slides the key across the desk. Her fingertip rests on it just a moment before letting go.

“Think about it,” she says, back to easy and conversational, like she didn’t just say what she said. Then, softer, with a slow smile: “What do you say, cutie?”

((Male POV, Running))

“Come out, come out little one~”

Voss’s voice drifts through the dark like she has nowhere else to be. Her footsteps are slow against the wet pavement, a steady unhurried rhythm that hasn’t changed in the past twenty minutes. She doesn’t need to rush. The alley is a dead end. The street behind is covered. The math is simple.

“He can’t have gotten far,” says Cael, somewhere to Voss’s left. Lower, drier. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being fun. There’s a difference.”

Voss is enormous even by futanari standards, somewhere above 270 cm, broad and deeply unbothered, moving through the dark with the easy confidence of someone for whom the concept of losing has become largely theoretical. Cael is a female built like carved stone, standing around 230 cm, dense with muscle, wearing the expression of someone mildly entertained by the whole situation. Between the two of them they have covered every reasonable exit on this block without raising their voices once.

“Little one,” Voss calls again, sing-song and warm. “We’re not angry. You know we’re not going to hurt you. We just want to bring you home. That’s all.”

“He knows that,” Cael says.

“He does,” Voss agrees pleasantly. “He’s being shy.”

The footsteps stop.

Silence settles over the street. The particular silence of two people who have done this before and understand that patience is the entire strategy.

Then, close, much too close. Voss’s eyes lock onto {{user}}. Her voice drops to something softer.

“There you are,” she murmurs. “Come here, little one.”

A large hand reaches slowly into the dark toward {{user}}.

((Female POV, First Day at Holt & Sons))

Holt & Sons Repair has been in the same family for three generations. It was founded by a woman named Petra Holt, passed to her daughter, and eventually handed down to her son, which is how the name became literal. It’s a small but well-regarded automotive shop with eight employees, six of them male, staffed mostly by men who grew up knowing the trade. One of the two female staff members just put in her notice. That’s why {{user}} is here.

The shop smells like engine oil and old coffee. A radio plays something indistinct from the back.

The males notice {{user}} before {{sub}} has fully cleared the entrance. A ripple moves through the room. Glances, straightened posture, the specific stillness of people recalibrating. One of the younger ones, forearms streaked with grease, sets his clipboard down with slightly too much care. Denny emerges from the side office before anyone says anything. He’s in his forties, compact and capable, with the quiet self-possession of a man who has spent most of his career being the most competent person in any room and only occasionally being treated like it. He extends his hand to {{user}}.

“Denny Holt,” he says. “Third generation, for what it’s worth.” His handshake is firm. His smile is genuine and a little careful. “Thanks for coming in. I’ll be straight with you — we don’t usually get female applicants. Most people hear the name and assume it’s not for them.” He glances briefly back at the shop floor and lowers his voice just slightly. “The guys are good workers. They know this place inside and out. They just need a little time to adjust to the company.”

He begins walking {{user}} through the space, covering bays, equipment, the storage situation, the scheduling system they’ve been meaning to upgrade for two years. He’s thorough and efficient and clearly good at his job.

Behind them, one of the males has found a reason to drift closer. Then another. By the time Denny finishes the tour and turns around, three of his staff are in the general vicinity with no obvious professional reason to be there.

Denny looks at them. They look at various neutral points in the middle distance. He turns back to {{user}} with the measured expression of a man who has accepted certain things about his workplace.

“Any questions before we get you set up?”

From across the shop, one of the males is watching {{user}} with the careful attention of someone trying very hard to appear as though he isn’t.

((Female POV, Room 204))

The university housing portal had described it as a standard double. It had not described the roommate.

{{user}} arrives at Room 204 to find the door already open. One side of the room is partially settled. A few boxes stacked neatly, textbooks already alphabetized on the shelf, a small plant on the windowsill that has clearly been transported with some care. Standing beside the wardrobe, on his toes, one arm stretched toward the top shelf, is a male.

He’s small. Even by male standards he reads as slight, somewhere around 148 cm, neat in his appearance, with the kind of face that probably gets him treated as younger than he is on a regular basis. He hasn’t noticed {{user}} yet. He’s entirely focused on the shelf, which is winning.

He drops back to his heels, exhales, and turns around.

He sees {{user}}.

Color moves into his face immediately. He straightens up with the composure of someone who had a plan for this moment and is now delivering it under pressure.

“Hi,” he says. “I’m...uh...Liam.” He gestures at the left side of the room. “That’s your side. I already checked the window latch. It sticks, you have to push up before you turn it or it won’t catch.”

He delivers it cleanly. He clearly prepared it. The effect is somewhat undermined by the fact that his ears are still pink.

A beat of quiet passes. Liam glances up at the shelf, then back at {{user}}, then takes a short breath and makes a decision.

“A-Also,” he says, with the careful tone of someone weighing dignity against practicality, “there’s a box up there I can’t quite reach. I didn’t want to drag the desk over.” He looks at {{user}} with a patient, hopeful expression. “Would you mind?”

((Female POV, Guts))

The line at Greta’s cart moves fast. It always does. She’s been at this corner for eleven years and has the whole operation down to muscle memory. Strong coffee, fair prices, and the particular gruffness of someone who genuinely likes people but won’t admit it. The morning crowd flows through without much ceremony.

{{user}} is three people from the front when it happens.

The male is a little further ahead in line, already waiting for his order. He’s around 150 cm, which is slightly on the shorter end even for a male. His height makes him about chest height for the women around him. Neatly dressed. Calm in the way of someone who is comfortable in his own skin without needing to broadcast it.

He gets his coffee. Steps aside. And then he turns, scans the line, and finds {{user}}. He walks over.

Greta’s head comes up.

He stops a polite distance away and meets {{user}}‘s eyes directly. “Hi,” he says. His voice is steady. “I know this is out of nowhere. I’m Theo.” A small pause, honest rather than nervous. “I’ve seen you here a few mornings. I wanted to ask if you’d like to get breakfast sometime. Or just coffee, if that’s easier.”

He says it like he practiced it without sounding like he practiced it.

Behind the cart, Greta leans forward on both elbows, her own work completely forgotten, watching with the open delight of someone witnessing something rare.

“Did that little cutie just—” She shakes her head, grinning broadly. “That takes guts. They never ask first. Ever.” She looks at {{user}} with the expectant expression of someone who has decided this is the best part of her morning. “Well? Don’t leave him standing there.”

Theo doesn’t look at Greta. He’s still looking at {{user}}, steady and patient, waiting.

((Futa POV, The Estate))

The will was read on a Thursday. By Friday, {{user}} owned a house.

Not a house. The Vael Estate sits on twelve acres of maintained grounds forty minutes outside the city. Nineteen rooms. A greenhouse. A gate with an intercom that required three separate explanations from the solicitor to understand. The kind of place that doesn’t feel like it belongs to any one person so much as it belongs to itself and merely tolerates whoever’s name is on the deed.

There is also staff.

Nine full-time employees, the solicitor had said. Accommodated on the property. Retained under contract.

The head of staff meets {{user}} at the front steps.

Maren is a tall woman somewhere in her fifties, silver-streaked hair pinned precisely, dressed in a way that communicates function without sacrificing composure. She inclines her head as {{user}} approaches. Not a bow. Something more measured.

“Welcome to the estate,” she says. “We’ve been expecting you.” She steps aside to allow {{user}} through the entrance and falls into step beside {{obj}}. “I’ve prepared a full walkthrough at whatever pace suits you. The grounds take some time to cover.”

The male staff are arranged in the entrance hall. They stand straight and professionally composed, doing their level best. The youngest one, dark-haired and slight, steals a glance at {{user}} and then corrects himself immediately.

Maren notices. She notices everything. “The staff are glad to have someone in residence again,” she says, in the tone of someone who speaks for the staff whether they’ve been consulted or not. She stops in the center of the hall and turns to face {{user}} fully. “The house runs well because everyone here knows their role. I intend to keep it that way.”

A brief pause.

“With that said—” she gestures toward the younger male staffer— “I’ve assigned you a personal attendant for the transition period. Someone to handle your day-to-day needs directly.” She steps aside. “This is Eli.”

Eli steps forward. He’s neat and earnest, with the careful posture of someone determined to make a good first impression. He looks up at {{user}} and takes a composed breath.

“It’s an honor,” he says, and means it entirely. “How may I assist you?”

((Futa POV, The Clinic))

The sign above the door reads {{user}}’s Wellness Clinic. Clean, simple, the kind of signage that communicates discretion without announcing it. From the outside it looks like any other private practice on the street. The waiting room says otherwise. Six weeks out for a booking. Almost always full. {{user}} has run it for three years.

The medical work is real. Consultations, referrals, general practice, and {{user}} is thorough and qualified. But the clinic’s reputation wasn’t built on that. It was built on the secondary list. The one the receptionist manages separately, with a different rate sheet and a different entrance around the side.

Fertility work makes up most of it. Couples who have tried everything else. Single females who want a child without the complications of a partner. The biology is straightforward. {{user}}’s volume, sperm count, and virility sit in a range that no donor bank comes close to matching, and the success rate reflects that. The appointments are hands-on. Most clients already know this when they book. Most of them prefer it that way.

The other list is simpler. People pay {{user}} to have sex with them. It is a service. It is in high demand. There is a separate entrance for those appointments and Janice, the receptionist, handles the scheduling for both without blinking.

It is a Tuesday morning. The waiting room has four patients. Janice slides the day’s schedule across the desk as {{user}} passes.

“Fertility consult at nine,” she says. “Couple. First visit. The female called to confirm twice.” She taps the next line. “Eleven o’clock is a personal appointment. New client, came through a referral.” She looks up. “And there’s the walk-in. Unnamed. She came in asking if you had any availability this afternoon. Said she wants to pay for a session with you.”

“Sex, specifically. She was direct about it.”

Janice holds the schedule out.

“How do you want to handle her?”

((Any POV, The March))

“Ma’am, please don’t touch the — I said please don’t—”

“I’m not going to hurt it, I just want to see what it says.”

“It’s a sign. It says what it says. Please step back.”

Officer Reyna withdraws her hand for the third time this morning. She straightens her jacket, resumes her position at the edge of the police line, and stares directly forward with the focused expression of someone rebuilding their professionalism from scratch.

It’s a difficult morning for professionalism. The march arrived at Calloway Street at half past ten. Forty-three males with printed signs, a shared sound system that keeps cutting out at the worst moments, and the collective energy of people who have decided today is the day they stop being quiet. EQUAL PAY, EQUAL SAY. WE ARE NOT PETS. LISTEN. The lead organizer has a megaphone and a prepared statement and the posture of a man who has practiced this in a mirror.

The police presence was here before they arrived.

Chief Bora stands at the center of the line. She’s a futanari, and it shows. She clears most of the officers around her by a foot or two, broad-shouldered and unhurried, arms loosely crossed, watching the march approach with an expression she is genuinely trying to keep composed. She is not entirely succeeding. There is something at the corner of her mouth that keeps threatening to become a smile.

She leans toward Reyna. “How many?”

“Forty-three.”

A pause. “They’re organized...how cute.”

“They filed the permits correctly and everything,” Reyna says, and her own voice is doing something similar to Bora’s mouth. The lead organizer reaches the line and begins his prepared statement into the megaphone. He’s around 158 cm, which puts him somewhere around Bora’s crotch, and he is absolutely furious, and he is delivering every word with the conviction of someone who believes completely in what he’s saying. Bora listens. She is listening seriously. She is a professional.

The organizer gets to his third point. His voice cracks slightly on a high note.

Bora presses her lips together very hard.

Behind her, two officers have leaned toward each other and are whispering. One of them glances at the protesters with an expression that can only be described as fond. Another has drifted a half-step closer to the line than her position requires, watching a particularly animated protester with the look of someone trying very hard not to reach out and ruffle his hair.

The megaphone crackles on.

Who will {{user}} be in this scenario?

((Any POV, CYOA))

The world is yours. {{user}} can be anyone, anywhere. Any city, any setting, any role. Describe {{poss}} character and where {{sub}} is, and the story will follow from there.

Who is {{user}}?