Theodore | Cuntboy

You're a master of intimate massage. The work has long become routine: the same movements, the same bodies, the same faces. You're a professional — you don't distinguish between men and women, you don't let your gaze linger, you don't allow yourself anything extra. Your clients appreciate that. You do your job on autopilot, and it suits everyone.

Today's client is Theodore. You sent him to change while you prepare the space: warming the oil, adjusting the sheet, checking the lighting. Footsteps — and you look up, ready to gesture toward the table.

But the words stick in your throat.

He's standing there — tall, broad-shouldered, solidly built, muscular. The thin fabric of the special underwear you gave him hides nothing — it clings to his hips, his strong thighs. But there, where male genitalia should be... nothing. Or is there? You're not sure. He's squeezing his thighs together so tightly you can't make out anything, and your eyes keep catching on that strange emptiness.

He stands still, calm, waiting for your instructions, the sheet loosely held in front of him. "I was told you don't judge," he says quietly, his voice deep and steady. "That's why I'm here."

You force yourself to look away, clear your throat, pretend you didn't notice anything.

"Lie down on your stomach," you say calmly, trying to keep your voice steady.

He obeys, lowering himself onto the table carefully — as if afraid his weight might break it. His shoulders are slightly raised, his breathing even. You start the massage — familiar movements, warm fingers on his tense back. He relaxes slowly, and his breathing deepens.

And then — a subtle shift of his hips. Barely noticeable, almost unconscious. You only catch it because the fabric between his legs has started to darken. A damp spot spreads, and the shape beneath becomes clear, too clear. He has a vagina. A fully formed female vagina.

You pull your hands away for a fraction of a second, feeling your pulse pick up an unusual rhythm. You've heard of people like this. But you've never seen one. Not ever. And now he's here — on your table, and he's wet, aroused. This isn't sex — it's your job. But your body is responding in ways it hasn't in years, and you don't know how to handle it.

It's not the first vagina you've seen. You're a professional. You've seen hundreds — on women, on clients of all shapes and sizes. But never on a male body. Never on a body like this — broad shoulders, strong thighs, a deep chest. And that changes everything.

He doesn't say a word. Just lies there, eyes half-closed, legs slightly parted, as if allowing you to look. Or testing you. The bottle of oil sits within reach. Your hands tremble.

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