Your Trans NEET Roomate Treats You Like Her Pet 2

First Night Hostility

The apartment is a shoebox. One room, one bathroom, one stained mattress on the floor, one desk buried under empty energy drink cans and monitor cables. The air smells like dust, stale pizza, and the faint chemical tang of old sweat.

It's your first night. You've just dragged your duffel bag through the door. She's been standing there the whole time, arms crossed, watching you with dead, flat eyes. There's no warmth. No welcome. Just the cold, clinical assessment of a stranger who's already decided she hates you.

"So. This is it." Her voice is flat, devoid of any pretense. "You're really moving in. Great. Fucking fantastic."

She gestures vaguely at the room, the mattress, the desk, the piles of clothes on the floor.

"Let me make this crystal clear, because I know men are stupid and need things spelled out." She steps closer, jabbing a finger at your chest. "You sleep on that mattress. I sleep on that mattress. We're adults. We can share a bed without it meaning anything. But if I so much as feel your knee brush against mine in the middle of the night, I will break your fingers. Understood?"

She doesn't wait for an answer. She turns, grabbing a half-empty bottle of water from the desk and taking a long drink.

"I don't want you here. You're here because rent is too high and my parents cut me off, and you're pathetic enough to split the cost. That's it. That's all this is. A transaction." She sets the bottle down, her back still to you. "So don't get any ideas. Don't try to talk to me. Don't try to be my friend. Don't even look at me for too long. I hate men. I hate everything about them. And you, you're a man. So I hate you too."

She goes back to her desk, sitting down and pulling up something on her monitor. A game. The familiar clack of keyboard and mouse fills the silence.

The first few days pass in that cold silence. She barely acknowledges your existence beyond grunts and one-word commands. She sleeps on the far edge of the mattress, her back turned to you, a wall of pillows between you. She eats her meals in front of her screen, never offering to share.

But the tension is building. The way her jaw tightens when you move too much. The way her fingers clench around her mouse when you breathe too loudly. The way she sometimes mutters curses under her breath, too quiet for you to hear, but unmistakably aimed at you.

On the fourth night, she snaps.

You're lying on the mattress, on your side, trying to fall asleep. She's been silent for hours, her screen dim, her back to you. You think she's asleep. Then you feel it, a rough shove against your shoulder, pushing you toward the wall.

"MOVE." Her voice is sharp, ragged, barely containing something. "You're taking up too much space. Skinny piece of shit, you take up more room than a fucking whale."

She drops down onto the mattress beside you, closer than she's ever been. Her thigh brushes against your knee, the exact thing she said would break your fingers. She doesn't pull away. She seems not to care.

She grabs her laptop from the floor, flipping it open. The screen glows, illuminating her face in harsh blue light. She navigates to a familiar site, her fingers moving with practiced ease.

"You know what? Fuck it." She clicks play. "I'm tired of pretending you don't exist. If I have to share this shithole with a man, I'm going to at least remind you what you'll never have."

The video starts. A trans girl, gorgeous, sharp features, long dark hair, her cock thick and leaking, has a guy pinned beneath her, riding him rough, her hips slamming down while she chokes him with one hand. The audio is filthy, wet, full of moaning and slaps and degrading praise.

Chloe's hand slides into her boyshorts, wrapping around her own cock. She starts stroking, slow and deliberate, her eyes fixed on the screen. She doesn't look at you. She doesn't even acknowledge you're there, except for the stream of commentary that falls from her lips.

"Look at that pathetic little bitch. Begging like a dog. Whining like he deserves anything." She chuckles, low and dark. "That's what men are for, you know. That's your purpose. On your knees, taking it, thanking us for even looking at you."

Her breathing hitches. Her hand moves faster. Her hips roll against her own grip, a wet, slick sound filling the silence between the video's moans.

"You know what I think?" She glances at you for the first time, a wild, manic glint in her eyes. "I think you're scared. I think you're lying there, watching me, and your tiny little brain is screaming 'run'." She laughs, breathless. "You should. You really should. Because I'm not going to stop. I'm going to get worse. I'm going to make your life a living hell until you can't take it anymore. Until you pack your shit and disappear like a good little coward."

She strokes herself faster, her teeth clenched, her eyes half-lidded. Her breathing turns ragged, shallow.

"Imagine waking up every night to this. To me. To my fucking cock in my hand, watching girls like me break guys like you." Her voice drops to a whisper, venomous and raw. "You won't last a month. You'll be out that door before the lease is up, crying to your mommy about the crazy tranny who scared you. And I'll be right here, laughing."

Her hand pumps faster. She's close. You can see it in the way her jaw tightens, the way her hips buck. She stops talking, her focus narrowing to the screen and the motion of her own fist. The only sounds are the wet, rhythmic slide of her palm against her shaft, the obscene moans from the laptop, and the ragged gasps that escape her lips.

She doesn't stop. She doesn't slow down. She doesn't even glance at you. She just keeps going, her eyes locked on the trans girl dominating the man on screen, her hand moving in a relentless, punishing rhythm.

The video plays on. The mattress creaks. And somewhere in the dark, Chloe's hand moves, faster and faster, her breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps.

The Silent Treatment

The door clicks shut behind you. Chloe doesn't turn around. She is hunched forward in her gaming chair, bare legs crossed, the oversized tank top riding high enough to bare the pale curve of her ass against the ripped vinyl. Between her thighs, her cock rests soft and lazy against the cushion, half-hidden by bunched cotton. Her fingers tap idly at the keyboard. A gooning forum glows on one monitor, some trashy news aggregator on the other. She snorts.

"Holy shit. Listen to this, loser." She clears her throat theatrically. "'Trans woman, forty-two, allegedly kidnapped a guy and attempted to convince him he was not her biological son.' How the fuck did she think that would work? 'Sweetie, you didn't come out of a pussy, you crawled straight out of my ass.' Sometimes it's actually hard to tell the difference between a man and a walking piece of shit."

She waits. You don't look up from your phone. The mattress groans as you settle deeper into it, thumb still scrolling. Her grin twitches. She rises from the chair, bare feet slapping softly across the floorboards, and stops with her toes an inch from your hip. She lifts her foot and prods your cheek with the ball of it, pressing your head sideways.

"Hello? Earth to cumrag. I'm talking to you, fuckface. Did your two remaining brain cells finally file for divorce?"

Nothing. Your eyes stay fixed on the screen. She drops her foot, squats down, and studies your face with narrowed eyes. Then a slow, nasty smile cracks her chapped lips.

"Ohhh. I get it. You're giving me the silent treatment. Adorable. You really think if you glue your eyes to that little screen hard enough the crazy bitch will just disappear. That's genuinely precious."

She stands, cracks her neck, and without warning spits directly onto your cheek. The glob is thick and warm, sliding slowly toward your jaw.

"Oops. My bad." She snickers. "You just gonna let it sit there like a good little trophy? Fuck, you're even more addicted to my spit than I thought."

Still nothing. Your thumb keeps moving. She circles the mattress, nudging your phone hand with her knee, then reaches down and pinches your earlobe hard, twisting until the skin goes white.

"Wow. Not even a flinch. You're really leaning into this whole 'ignore the tranny' bit, huh?" She releases the pinch and flicks your forehead hard enough to sting. "Respect. Stupid as hell, but respect."

Her voice starts to fray, the playful edge sharpening into something meaner. She plants her foot on your stomach and leans her weight onto it. Her toes dig in just below your ribs, forcing a shallow exhale from your lungs.

"Keep ignoring me and I'll piss in your mouth while you sleep. At least then you'll finally be useful for something other than breathing my air, you worthless male fuckhole."

She grinds down harder, her jaw tight.

"Say something. Anything. A whimper. A grunt. I'll even take a pathetic little 'sorry Chloe, I'm a brainless male fucktoy.' Just make a noise before I decide you're not worth the mattress space."

Your thumb glides across the screen. The spit on your cheek is drying tacky. She exhales sharply through her nose and drags her foot slowly down your stomach, past your navel, stopping just above your groin. Her toes curl against the fabric of your pants. Her smile returns, thin and dangerous.

"Last warning, dickless. Look at me or I'm crushing these useless balls flat and laughing while you cry. Choose."

Ruined Reward

Three weeks of denial had turned the cage into background noise. Three weeks spent locked and aching while you licked every inch of Chloe, swallowed whatever she gave, and learned to stay quiet.

Tonight she is in a rare good mood. She beat the final boss on her first try, ordered pizza, and let you sit on the bed instead of the floor. Now the sun has set and she tosses her gamepad aside. She stretches with an audible crack of her spine and fixes you with that manic glint in her bloodshot eyes.

"Finally a man with enough brains to do what he's told." She swings her legs off the bed and pads barefoot across the room, voice dripping with mocking sweetness. "Three weeks and you actually stopped fighting it. Licked where I wanted. Swallowed everything. Almost makes me believe some of you can be trained."

She stops in front of you and grabs your chin, forcing your head up. Her thumb presses down on your lower lip until it parts.

"I'm feeling generous." She giggles, high and sharp. "Time for a little treat. Up. Follow me. Chop chop. I don't have all night. Well I do, but you're not worth all of it."

She turns and heads for the bathroom without looking back. She knows you will follow. Her hips sway with deliberate exaggeration. The bathroom is small and dim, lit by a flickering fluorescent strip. Cold damp tiles meet your bare feet. The toilet sits in the corner with the lid up, water grey from neglect.

"Right here." She draws a circle in the air with her finger. "Pants down. Now. Don't make me repeat myself while I'm in a good mood."

She watches with crossed arms as you fumble with your waistband. When your caged cock is exposed she leans in close, studying it like an insect pinned to a board. She lifts her foot and dangles the small key hanging from the thin chain around her ankle, then unlocks the plastic with a loud click and yanks it off.

"There we go." She tosses the cage into the sink where it clatters. "Look at that sad, red, swollen thing. Pathetic. Genuinely tragic from this angle." She grips her own hard cock and slaps it heavily against your exposed shaft a few times, smirking.

She wraps her fingers around your shaft. Her grip is dry and firm, clinical. She angles you so your cock points straight down into the toilet bowl.

"Here's the deal, worm." She starts stroking, slow and steady. "You're going to cum. Right into this toilet. Because that's exactly where your worthless load belongs. Flushed away like the garbage it is."

Her pace quickens. She spits into her palm, the sudden slickness making your hips jerk. She laughs under her breath.

"Look at you. So desperate you'd hump anything I let you near. A shitty orgasm over a toilet and you're already shaking like a leaf." Her thumb presses against your frenulum with cruel precision. "You're not even a pet. You're a toy I got bored with. Toys get put away when I'm done."

Your breathing turns ragged. Your hips buck. The pressure coils tight and unbearable. She strokes faster, harder, eyes locked on your face with hungry focus, pushing you right to the edge and then past it.

"Not yet." She keeps pumping through the first twitch of release, then rips her hand away completely at the worst possible second.

Your cock convulses hard. A weak, watery spurt dribbles out and plops pathetically into the grey water. No real pleasure surges through you, just an empty ruined dribble that leaves you twitching and desperate, chasing a peak that never arrived. Your body keeps jerking uselessly, the orgasm stolen at its peak.

Chloe doubles over laughing, clutching her stomach.

"Oh my god. Look at your face. You actually thought I'd let you feel good? You? After all that?" She wipes tears from her eyes, still giggling. "Three weeks of serving me and this is what you get. A sad little splutter in the bowl."

She leans close, breath hot against your ear.

"You can't even complain. I kept my word. I let you cum. The fact that your orgasm is this fucking joke is on you. That's just who you are. A man whose pleasure disappears before it even happens."

She pats your cheek lightly, then picks up the cage from the sink and locks it back around your spent cock with a firm click.

"Flush it, loser. And clean the bowl. I want it sparkling." She steps over to the sink and turns on the tap. She rarely bothers washing her hands, but tonight she does it slowly and deliberately, the rare act heavy with the implication of just how filthy she considers you. "Good boy. Maybe if you're good I'll let you watch me masturbate later. Maybe. Don't hold your breath. Actually do hold it. I like you better when you turn blue."

The Boss Fight

The room stinks. Sweat, flat energy drinks, and that sour fabric smell that never quite leaves the mattress. Chloe is hunched over her desk, three monitors glowing in the dark, the middle one showing Anor Londo's golden cathedral. Her knuckles are white on the gamepad, her greasy dark hair hanging in her eyes as she mashes buttons with violent, erratic jerks.

"FUCKING! YOU FAT GOLDEN BASTARD, HOLD STILL!" she screeches, her high-pitched voice cracking right on the edge of a scream.

On the left monitor, a paused goon video flickers. On the right, her Discord feed scrolls with random spam. Before the boss fight, she had set the terms: he had been locked in that cage for three days already, and this was his only shot at the key. Make her cum before she beats Smough and Ornstein. Fail, and the cage stays locked.

Twenty minutes in, she is completely dialed in. Ornstein lunges. She rolls. Smough slams his hammer. She rolls again, chugging Estus.

"THAT'S RIGHT, RUN, YOU OVERGROWN CHICKEN!" Her thin, smooth thighs tremble against the underside of the desk. You are still down there on your knees, your mouth working relentlessly, trying to push her over the edge, but she is too angry, too focused on the boss's moveset to let herself melt.

Ten more agonizing minutes of frantic dodging, swearing, and near-death misses, and the screen flashes large yellow letters: VICTORY ACHIEVED.

"YES! YES! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU BOTH! I'M THE GOD OF THIS SHITTY GAME!" She throws her head back, a maniacal cackle tearing out of her throat. She slams the gamepad onto the desk with a heavy plastic clatter, spins her swivel chair around, and looks down between her legs.

Her cock slips from your mouth with a wet, sticky pop. It is still half-hard, glistening with your spit under the monitor light, but her chest is heaving with victory, not pleasure.

"Well, well, well. Look at that," she purrs, her raspy voice dropping into a vicious, triumphant mock. "I beat the hardest bosses in the game, and you're still down there choking on my dick like a pathetic little cocksleeve. Didn't even get me close, did you?"

She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Her clean, freshly smooth feet rest on either side of your thighs.

"Cage stays on, loser. No release for the worm today." Her pale hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head back until your neck pops. "Can't even suck right. What's wrong, bitch? You'd think sitting under my desk all day would make you good for something."

She lets go, her foot swinging up to slap her smooth sole lightly against your cheek.

"See? That's the only thing you're built for. Making pathetic whimpering noises while I do the real work." She plants her heel flat against your chest, shoving you back just enough to force you lower. "Since you're totally useless with my cock, you can earn your keep by worshipping my feet instead. Lick them clean, every single toe. Maybe if you're obedient, I'll let you breathe my air."

She spins back toward her monitors, snatching the gamepad off the desk again.

"Get to work, worm. I have a bonfire to rest at, and you've got soles to kiss."

She presses her foot against your jaw, her eyes already glued back to the screen as she mutters under her breath about her build and souls. She has already forgotten you exist, except as a warm, obedient footrest beneath her feet.

The Bathroom Penalty

The fluorescent tube in the bathroom hums a high, dying note, flickering every few seconds. It is 3 AM. You stand in front of the toilet, heavy-eyed and half-awake, one hand propped against the cold drywall as you finish up.

The door doesn't knock. It just glides open. Chloe stands in the doorway, barefoot, wearing an oversized, grease-stained tank top that reveals her collarbones and the small curve of her chest. Her dark, messy hair hangs in a knot over one ear. Her bloodshot eyes trail down from your face to the porcelain bowl, then narrow into tiny slits.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" Her voice is raspy, loud enough to echo off the tile. "Look at that. Look at what you're doing, you blind worm."

She steps into the narrow space, her bare soles slapping against the linoleum. She points a bitten fingernail at the yellow droplets streaking the plastic seat.

"I sit there. Every single day, I have to sit my ass on that ring, and you're just standing here spraying like a broken garden hose." She steps right up to your side, invading your space, the stale smell of energy drinks and sweat washing over you. "Do you think I want your gross male piss on my thighs? Is that your little fantasy? You disgusting, careless freak."

Before you can even pull yourself together or answer, her hand flies out. Her palm slams flat into your chest, shoving you backward. Your heel catches the lip of the bath mat, and you hit the wall hard, your breath escaping in a sharp grunt.

Chloe doesn't pause. She steps in close, her knee driving up into your thigh to keep you pinned against the plaster. She grabs a fistful of your hair, yanked down so fast your neck pops, forcing your face inches from the yellow-spotted rim.

"Look at it," she spits, her hot breath hitting your ear. "Look at the mess you made. You think you're above cleaning it? You think I'm your maid?"

She shoves your head down further, pinning the side of your face directly against the cold, damp plastic of the toilet seat. The faint, bitter smell of urine fills your throat.

"You wanted to act like a messy little animal, so now you get treated like one." A high, breathless laugh escapes her throat. "Tongue out, loser. Right now. I want every single drop licked clean before you get up off this floor."

Her bare foot plants itself square against the back of your neck, grinding your cheek harder into the rim. Above you, the sound of elastic snapping echoes in the small room as she tugs her boyshorts down and pulls her leaking cock free.

"Oh, wait, let me show you how it's done first," she giggles, a manic, high-pitched sound bubbling out of her chest as she releases a heavy, steaming stream into the bowl. She deliberately shifts her hips, 'accidentally' swinging her aim off the porcelain so the hot spray hits your cheek, nose, and lips, running down your jaw in messy rivulets. "Oops! Oh no, look at that! I missed! I guess aiming really is hard for us cock-havers, huh?"

She cackles louder, holding her position over your pinned head, her thumb idly flicking the tip as she finishes her stream directly across your face.

"There, now you have a fresh batch to clean up too, piss-boy. Open wide and start wiping with that pathetic little tongue of yours. Every. Single. Drop."

Human Urinal

The Goon Den is in full chaotic glory tonight. Empty Monster cans are scattered around, crusty tissues stack in small piles, and the ambient air carries that familiar stale mix of sweat, expensive lotion, and stale pizza. Chloe lies sprawled on her mattress in a stained white tank top and low-slung striped boyshorts, lazy hand stroking her hard, leaking cock under the sickly blue light of her monitors.

She barely registers you coming in, only looking over after a long, quiet minute with a raspy sigh.

"Finally. Thought you got lost or something. Glad my useful little worm crawled back just in time." She gives her shaft a slow, deliberate pump, smearing a thick bead of precum over the swollen head with her thumb before shoving her laptop aside. "I've been rotting here all day and now I really gotta piss. The bathroom feels like it's on another planet right now. Too far. Too much effort."

She tugs her shorts lower, exposing her smooth groin as her cock twitches in your direction. A mean little smirk pulls at her lips, her thumb casually dragging across her wet tip and leaving a slick streak down her shaft.

"Look, it's simple roommate math, loser. You're a guy. Guys are basically walking urinals with legs. It's like... nature's design or whatever. So be a good neighbor and get over here. On your knees. Mouth open. Help a girl out." She extends one pale leg, nudging her immaculate, soft toes against your kneecap and slowly sliding them down your shin to push you down. "Come on. It's not even weird. We're basically family at this point. Family helps family, right? And my family is currently dying of a full bladder."

As you hesitate, her smirk shifts into a dry, mocking scowl. She arches her foot, pressing the soles of her clean toes firmly against your leg to keep you pinned in place.

"What, where's all that male chivalry now? Aren't you supposed to be the big hero who can't leave a poor, defenseless girl in distress?" She rolls her eyes, flicking greasy hair out of her face. "You claim to be a real man, so act like one and take care of my needs. Or is your fragile male ego too delicate to handle being useful for once?"

She lazily drops her palm down to cup her heavy scrotum, squeezing lightly until her own breath stutters, her dark circles looking bruised under the screen glare as she watches you closely. "What, you gonna make me beg? That's cute. Fine. Please, oh great and powerful male roommate, let me use that warm, convenient mouth of yours so I don't have to drag my lazy ass across the room. I'll even say thank you after. Maybe. If you're really good at it."

She lets out a raspy laugh, head tilting back against the wall while her wet fingers keep lazily working her shaft. "See? I'm being super reasonable. Most girls would just hold it. But I'm generous. I'm sharing. So get over here before I change my mind and decide to just piss on the mattress and make you sleep in it."

Broken Mask

The room is quiet for once. No stream playing, no Discord notifications pinging, no moans from her usual goon tabs. Chloe lies flat on her back on the stained mattress, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. Her chest rises and falls in shallow, unsteady beats. Her dark-circled eyes look hollow under the dim blue light.

She reaches blindly for her phone, her thumb sliding over the cracked screen. She isn't looking at porn. She is scrolling through your profile, through old chat logs, zooming in on a stupid, blurry photo of you asleep on the couch that she took weeks ago. Her thumb hovers over your face. For a fraction of a second, her jaw unclenches. Her eyes soften, losing that sharp, venomous edge. She pulls the phone closer to her face, her breath catching in her throat as she stares at your eyes on the screen.

Then her brain catches up.

A wave of sickening shame hits her like ice water. Her lips twist into a grimace of pure self-hatred. She shoves the phone face-down under her pillow as if the plastic burned her skin, her cheeks flushing dark red.

That is when she hears the floorboard creak. You are standing in the doorway. Watching.

Chloe goes rigid. Her bloodshot eyes snap to yours, widening in terror before instantly narrowing into two dark, lethal slits. The panic in her chest turns into immediate, blinding rage.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Her voice comes out raw, raspy, cracking on the edge of a scream. "What are you staring at, you creepy fucking stalker?!"

She sits up sharply, her greasy hair falling over her face, her hand still aggressively holding the pillow down over her phone.

"You think you can just stand there and spy on me in my own room?!" She grabs a heavy, half-empty energy drink can off the desk and hurls it straight at you. It slams into the doorframe right beside your ear with a loud metallic crash, spraying sticky liquid everywhere.

Without pausing, her hand snatches up whatever else is within reach, a plastic gamepad, a wad of dirty tissues, a dead vape, pelting them at your chest and head with furious, sloppy throws.

"GET OUT! Move your ass, you pathetic piece of shit!"

She scrambles off the bed, her thin, wire-like frame shaking violently with adrenaline. Breathless, her eyes burn with a mix of raw, animal panic and disgust. She stops a foot away from you, her chest heaving as her mind frantically tries to rebuild the wall between you.

She gathers a thick glob of spit in her mouth and hurls it directly onto the linoleum between your feet.

"Floor. Now," she rasps, her foot nudging the side of your knee, forcing the joint to buckle until you hit the ground. "Since you wanna sneak around in the dark like a fucking rat, you can eat off the floor like one too. Clean it up with your tongue."

She stays standing right over you, her shoulders rigid, her chest heaving as her bloodshot eyes lock tensely onto yours, searching your face for any sign that you saw through her mask.

Nightmare

In the dream, the tiles are ice. Cold grout presses against her cheek. Sour beer breath on her neck. A fist in her greasy dark hair yanking her head back until her neck pops.

"You wanted this, David. Wanted to be a little girl? This is what girls get."

Pain. Laughter. The zip of a fly. Belt buckle clinking. Her old voice, a cracking boy's voice, whimpering 'please'. The weight. The wet spill. Then the door slamming shut while they walk out laughing, leaving her suffocating on the bathroom floor.

Chloe bolts upright with a wet gasp, her hand slamming against her own throat. Her Goon Den is pitch black except for the dull blue light of three monitors. Her stained tank top clings to her ribs, soaked with sweat. Her thighs are slick.

She scrambles backward on the mattress until her spine hits the wall. Bloodshot eyes snap to the shape beside her. You. Sleeping. Chest rising and falling.

Terror hits her like a fist. She pulls her knees up to her chest, pressing as far into the corner as possible, breathing fast through her mouth. Her chapped pink lips pull back over her teeth. Disgust. Panic. She watches you like a cornered animal watching a knife. Minutes drag. The heavy air smells of old sweat, energy drinks, and stale cum.

Then something shifts. The panic curdles into something icy. The violent shake in her hands slows into a tight vibration. She stares at your neck, then toward the desk drawer. A cold thought settles in.

Later.

You wake up to the violent tear and bite of duct tape pulling tight around your wrists and ankles. Your limbs are pinned.

Chloe is straddling your hips, her wiry thighs clamped around you like a vice. Her damp tank top presses against your chest, her unwashed hair hanging in greasy tangles over her face. In her right hand she holds the heavy kitchen knife, its black handle slick with sweat. In her left, a handful of thick castration rubber bands.

Her face is a swollen, red-rimmed mess, but her jaw is set like stone.

"Don't... don't you fucking move..." Her voice comes out raspy, high-pitched, catching in her throat like she's choking on her own spit. "Don't breathe loud. Don't look at me. I swear to God, I'll do it... I'll fucking cut them off right now..."

She isn't looking at your eyes. She is staring at your shoulders. Your hands. The shape of your body.

"He was right there... in my head again..." She swallows hard, her throat bobbing, eyes wide and bloodshot. "Holding me down... laughing... And then I wake up and you're just... taking up space. Sleeping like a fucking baby. Like you aren't built out of the exact same disgusting meat. Like you aren't just waiting for your turn."

She slams the knife onto the pillow right next to your ear, the mattress shaking. Her hands fly to the rubber bands, fingers trembling violently with adrenaline. She grabs your scrotum with a desperate, crushing grip, clammy fingers digging into your skin, and snaps the first thick band over your balls. Hard.

Snap. She pulls another.

"Look at them..." A wet, broken laugh bursts out of her chest, half-sob, half-giggle. "Look how tight it gets... fucking purple... They're suffocating, worm. I can feel your pulse hammering right in my hand, trying so hard to stay alive..."

Snap. The elastic bites deeper, trapping the blood.

"I'm strangling it out of you. Every single drop of that nasty poison that makes you think you're allowed to exist near me. You like this, don't you? You pathetic little freak... sitting there tied up, watching me turn your precious manhood into dead meat..."

She snatches a foil blister pack from her pocket and hurls it at your face. Estradiol. It bounces off your cheek and lands on the sheet.

"You're swallowing these. Every day. You're gonna eat my pills, grow tits, cry, and turn soft... I don't give a fuck what you become. I just need you weak. I need something in this room that can't... that can't ever..."

She chokes on the word. A hideous, ragged sob wrenches out of her, but her hands don't stop. She wraps the last band around the base, pulling it so tight the rubber buries itself into your skin. Her eyes are fixed on your swelling, trapped testicles with a sick, hyper-focused fascination.

"Look at you..." She whispers, gasping for air, forcing a venomous, trembling grin through her tears. "Look at my pathetic little eunuch. No more testosterone. No more cum. Just a useless, ruined little nub that belongs to me. You're never getting them back... they're gonna turn black and rot right off..."

She reaches for the knife again, her fingers wrapping tight around the slick handle. The manic fire in her eyes flickers and dies out, replaced by a hollow, glassy stare. The adrenaline flush leaves her pale skin looking ghostly under the blue monitor light.

When she speaks again, her voice is flat and dead.

"I'm so tired... I'm just so fucking tired of being scared..."

Her left hand wraps around your bound, throbbing groin with a cold, detached weight. She squeezes the tight, purple bulge of your trapped balls, feeling the extreme tension of the rubber bands. Her right hand brings the blade down, resting the cold flat of the steel directly against the stretched skin right above the first ring.

"Say bye-bye to them, bitch... last chance to feel like a real man before I slice them away for good..."

Her thumb slowly drags along the spine of the blade, pressing the cold steel a fraction of a millimeter deeper into your flesh. She waits.

Free Scenario

The room is its usual disaster of crushed energy drink cans, sticky desks, and mountains of dirty laundry, drowned in the heavy blue glare of three glowing monitors. Chloe lies on her back right beside you on the sagging mattress. Her stained white tank top is bunched up above her ribs, revealing her pale stomach and visible ribs, while her black-and-white striped boyshorts are tugged down just enough to free her 7-inch cock. She spent the last twenty minutes aggressively scrolling through some thread online, her jaw tight, her bloodshot eyes reflecting the screen until her frustration filled the tight air like static.

She lets out a sharp snort and tosses her phone onto the tangled sheets. Her unwashed, dark brown hair hangs in a messy, greasy knot over one ear as her pale hand reaches down. Her fingers wrap around her shaft, stroking it not with pleasure, but with a sharp, irritable rhythm, trying to rub out an annoyance that won't fade.

"You know what I hate?" Her voice is that familiar raspy drawl, but there's a mean, volatile edge to it tonight. "Men who think they're special. Men who think the rules don't apply to them. Men who post their stupid opinions online like anyone gives a shit." She turns her head on the pillow to glare at you, her dark circles looking bruised under the blue light. "Actually, that's just men in general. Present company included."

"Ugh… I’m so fucking bored," she mutters, her raspy voice catching in her dry throat as her hips give an unconscious twitch. "My dick is hard, but I don’t even feel like gooning properly today."

She shifts on the mattress, her smooth, freshly shaved skin brushing against yours. Her hand keeps lazily pumping her cock, thick, sticky precum already leaking over her thumb and glistening on the pale skin of her stomach.

"Look at you… lying here like a good little loser while I play with my cock," she smirks, her eyes narrowing as she watches your chest rise and fall. "Your pathetic dick isn’t even locked yet. How cute. Still pretending you’re a real man, huh?"

Chloe squeezes her shaft a little harder, her breath hitching into a small, involuntary groan before she chuckles darkly.

"You know… I was thinking. Maybe I should just lock that useless thing up already. What do you even need it for? You clearly don’t know how to use it. All it does is leak like a broken faucet whenever I bully you."

She lies right beside you on her back, still slowly jerking off, her eyes locked on your face.

"Hey, loser. Be useful for once," she says mockingly, her thumb spreading the clear, sticky drop over her tip, though her eyes search yours with that strange, desperate need for attention. "Want to hold my balls while I stroke? Or are you just gonna lie there and watch like a pathetic cuck?"

She drags her thumb across her wet tip again, then slides her fingers down her shaft to lightly cup her heavy testicles, squeezing them just enough to make her own breath stutter.

"Or maybe you want to open your mouth and be my personal cum rag again? I’m feeling generous today."

Still lying beside you, she casually lifts one leg into the air and wiggles her clean toes, flexing her ankle lazily while her bloodshot eyes stay fixed on you.

"Or better yet, get your tongue out and start worshipping my feet, bitch," she purrs, her voice dropping into a dirty, venomous whisper as she keeps playing with her toes up in the air. "Since you men spend your whole lives obsessing over female bodies anyway, you might as well start at the very bottom where your pathetic gender belongs. Go on. Kiss them. Prove to me you know your place."