Katherine
Shocked by my mistressful peacocking strategy, Nichole has momentarily been shaken out of her sudden, entirely baffling attempt at asserting dominance in our impending copulation—which, to be clear, I was not perturbed by, nor aroused by
in the slightest
. I was merely taken aback by the sheer absurdity of the moment. Naturally
No—I must admit that I am indeed
aroused
, but
exclusively
by the prospect of fucking Nichole. In the butt, that is.
Not
by any thoughts of her pinning me to any surfaces and unloading into me.
“Come within my inner sanctum.” I place my hand upon her wrist, intent on sequestering her to my chambers.
“That’s … the plan?”
Having confirmed that she indeed wishes to enter my domain, I take the lead, standing up and leading her by the hand. Thus repositioned for optimal horizontality, we situate ourselves on my bed.
Where we … stare at each other. Silently.
Um.
Neither of us has spoken, nor taken any action whatsoever, for nearly a whole minute.
Wait. Does Nichole expect me to take charge of this situation, in spite of her dominant display before? Or is this yet another attempt to lay a trap in which she will, yet again, turn the tables right as I attempt to assert my dominance in this intercourse?
How, precisely, am I to maneuver this to achieve my goal of fucking her in the butt? Our present lack of nudity is plainly apparent, given that we are both clad in our garments, and so certainly the immediate procedure must be to disrobe, must it not?
Wait, no, such acts could easily be considered premature. Clothed petting is an equally feasible stratagem here, permitting
the mood
to escalate in a manner which is less stilted, more natural, and—
no, Katherine.
Remember that you are performing the role of a heterosexual cisgender man whose comprehension of lesbian sexuality derives entirely from pornography.
Drat. I have failed to research lesbian pornography targeted at the male gaze. What, precisely, do men think lesbians
do,
Katherine?
“Nichole,” I start, as I simply must say
something
so that we do not stare at each other for hours on end. “You are hot.”
“Yup,” she responds. “You too, girlypop.”
“Then we are in agreement.”
“Yes. Yup.”
So acknowledging our mutual attraction, we fall silent once more.
It is clear that the burden of initiation continues to fall on me, in this case–
“I like your tits without the padding, they’re nice,” she suddenly blurts out.
Huh
? Wait, no, it is not a disaster for her to express appreciation for my assets in this context. It is the proper procedure, in fact, and I ought to reciprocate with equal or greater enthusiasm.
“Your body is as though it was a sex toy sculpted from flesh, an assemblage of holes and pleasingly-placed adipose collections designed for libidinous exertions upon it.”
Nailed it.
“Haha … sure, uh, yeah.”
She seems amused, as anticipated.
“Wanna see it?” she asks, sultry.
Wait. She is taking initiative? Disastrous—I
must
not allow Dominant Nichole to reemerge! She is too powerful, and would interfere with my—those are Nichole’s breasts. She has shed their restraints and exposed them to me. I look upon her glorious achievement, the utter medical mystery that is the Princess of Quarter 2, 2025.
… In all honesty their enormity has perhaps been somewhat overstated. They are certainly impressive for one who has only been on hormonal therapy for four months, larger than mine by a cup size or two, indeed, but
still
. Impressive from context, not sheer volume.
Katherine, stop objectifying your friend and her moderately sized badoinkers, they are perfectly adequate and she is genuinely a very attractive woman—that is, a very attractive cisgender heterosexual man mimicking a woman, who is now topless in front of me. Um.
Undress entirely to assert dominance!
“BEHOLD!”
Unlike her, who took her sweet time in disrobing, I dispense with my vestments in record time, readying myself for intercourse in a flash.
“I’m beholding. That … Sure is your penis.” Nichole looks uncertain yet again.
“What do you think of my
magnificent
form?”
I press my advantage, for if the demand to respond is on her, then it is
I
who controls the flow of the coitus!
“It’s curvy! You’ve been doing good with the strats,” she says. “Pretty sure we’re right about the cardio, Emmy’s just got weird gymbro beliefs and …”
She perks up, resting on her haunches, breasts swaying nakedly in front of me as she stares off to the side recounting a protracted consideration of exercise strategies and their effects on ideal breast growth, while I am entirely naked in front of her?
“Nichole,” I interrupt, cutting her off midsentence.
Pausing, Nichole turns her head to look at me again as I pounce. She left herself wide open, like the prey she no doubt is—at least in this and all future sexual contexts—leaving her soft, chewable flesh ripe for the picking, ready to be dug into with fang and claw and skincylinder—
“Ow, owowow, hang on, wait, stop.”
I recoil in shock at Nichole’s exclamation. No, no, no, what did I
do
? Is there anything you can do to her that does not inadvertently cause her harm, Katherine, you utter villain, you bite-happy
scum
?
“What happened?” I watch in horror as Nichole rearranges her limbs.
“Cramp. Help me out here. I need to stretch my leg out, that one.”
She indicates her left leg, and I comply, assisting her in the needed motion as she grits her teeth, breathing heavily. For a moment, we operate in unison as her breathing slows and the tension subsides.
“Nichole, I am
so
sorry, it was not my intent to cause you harm in this manner.”
I must prostrate myself, admit to my failing and seek forgiveness with all my might. If this is a setback to my scheme, if we must delay our intercourse for the time being, then
so be it
.
“It’s fine, it was an accident.”
Once again, she is smiling at me, her still-clothed groin facing me head on, legs spread out around me. She tilts her head, seeming to derive some inspiration from our current arrangement.
“Hey—wanna scissor?”
“Huh?” I am dumbfounded by this suggestion.
Scissoring? Us?
Here
?
Now
?
“You know, like,” she takes the index and middle fingers of each of her hands, and makes a gesture which, indeed, gets across the nature of the position she is suggesting.
There are multitudes of clearly evident practical issues with this suggestion, which she ought to realize, does she not?
Wait. What if she
does
realize, and is merely testing me? Would recognizing the futility of attempting to scissor at this juncture serve to undermine my alibi? Is she, too, somehow, an agent of
Kyle
? Have Kyle and Nichole allied through Rupali, somehow? Is there, in fact, a Kyle-Rupali-Nichole polycule which I am presently unaware of?
Why is the idea of Kyle, Rupali and Nichole doing it causing me fascination now?
No, Katherine,
focus
. This absurdly improbable scenario you have contrived in your mind is a distraction from what really matters: To sheathe your sword in Nichole. And if scissoring is the necessary path, then
so be it
.
“Ah, the vaunted scissoring maneuver. A wise choice, Nichole. I concur,” I say.
“Cool beans!” she exclaims, beginning to untie the cord of her shorts, before stopping to look at me again.
“I uh. Could you let go of my leg for a bit?” she asks, gesturing at the limb in question in my grasp.
Rapidly recognising that it is indeed infeasible for Nichole to take her shorts off while her legs are spread around me, I acquiesce to her demands, surrendering her leg to its rightful owner.
Her magnificent form is revealed to me in its full glory and I am awestruck, even as she appears to shy away from my gaze. In front of me is the form of one who must be blessed by Aphrodite herself, or perhaps instead she is the progeny of Lilith? Freyja, perhaps, in keeping with our community’s odd fixation on fetishizing Nordic cultures?
Regardless, it remains the case that Nichole is really hot when naked holy fuck. God fucking damn. Holy shit, Nichole is naked in front of me. Oh my gods.
“Hell-LO.”
Nichole is
purring
, reaching towards me with a finger, placing it on the glistening tip of my—I realize with a fresh thrill of shame and arousal—now-fully-erect penis, bobbing merrily before her, betraying to her my amorous intentions at the very sight of her. Her expression is hungry, her face snarled into a configuration of terrifying, malevolent beauty, as though she is eager to devour me whole.
Damnations—I must counterattack before I am overwhelmed by this depraved succubus.
“SCISSOR TIME!”
“... Yeah, haha. Scissor time!” Nichole responds, spreading her legs.
The duty of pelvic relocation then falls to me, and I rise to the occasion, scooting forward and rapidly realizing that this motion is quite possibly the least sensual method of locomotion I have ever been witnessed attempting, by anyone. Also, I nearly kick Nichole in the face.
“Um, your leg is—”
“Indeed, I’ll just, um …”
“Maybe back up a bit and flip the other way, and…?”
“Your judgment rings true. I shall proceed accordingly.”
Drat.
I failed to account for the angle of approach. Reiteration on the process proceeds swiftly, and–
“Ow, oh, sorry, my elbow–”
“It is of no consequence,” I lie, for it is of great consequence that my thigh has been jabbed by her delectable, yet horrifically sharp, elbow. It will bruise, but I will persevere.
The second attempt reaches contact with only minor difficulties, communicated and resolved in an efficient exchange of “um”s and “oh, right”s. It is just like docking ships in any rocketry simulation game, Katherine, you have mastered far trickier controls than those to
your own body
, and now your penis …
My penis is pressed up against Nichole’s penis. In much the same way as our respective testicles are now in uncomfortably close contact.
It occurs to me that I lack any knowledge of how this act translates to stimulation of any sort. I look at Nichole. She looks as puzzled as I am. Wait. Of course. The action of a scissor is the name of the act.
I attempt to close my legs.
No, that certainly was
not
it. All this has achieved is an uncomfortable pressure on our rapidly-deflating shafts and sacks.
“Nichole,” I declare, “I believe that we have been deceived by pornography!”
She is looking at me in shock. “Porn lied to us? How?”
“I have reason to suspect that this act is not for the people involved to enjoy, but rather a display for an outside voyeur to indulge!”
“Wow! I had no way of knowing that before trying it in real life!”
“Neither did I! But now that we have first-hand experience, we are wiser, and may let go of this foolish endeavor in favor of more practical forms of intercourse!”
I swear that there is a look of relief on her face as we un-dock our cocks and their respective balls.
It is in the shuffle of confusion, of un-interlocking our limbs and testicular containers, that I seize the opportunity to
finally
, after months of planning and waiting and ruining underthings, fuck the gender out of Nichole.
“Time for Finishing Move: SODOMIZE!”
Kyle
The ceiling’s paint is so chipped, I’ve been finding new patterns for an hour.
One looks like a face, if you consider one of the peeling bits a nose, and tilt your head just the right way. Another looks a bit like a sword with a slightly-too-long crossguard. Another looks like a woman with luscious, curly locks, and eyes that will never forgive you for as long as you live.
Well. Maybe I didn’t see that one in the
ceiling
.
It’s hard for me to pretend I made a mistake, given that stupid, sexy Jeffrey is snoring next to me in my bed now, worn-out from the sum total of the ‘mistakes’ I made on him. Harder, still, to maintain my pretense of ignorance to Rupali’s
very
clear, bordering on
insistent
signalling of her willingness to
more than kiss
me, which had caused me to put off re-evaluating the nature of our relationship for a good long while.
Gonna have to do that with a
quickness
, now.
There is a part of me—a selfish, deluded, cowardly part—that desperately wants to believe Rupali will simply be
relieved
. That she’ll feel the weight of obligation lift off her shoulders, and finally give me the look I’ve been dreading from her all this while, the look of sheer revulsion and disgust that I’ve spent so much time convincing myself I rightfully deserve for daring to be The Man she had been Promised To since before she had a choice in the matter.
Another even
more
selfish and cowardly part is hoping to justify itself into silence. Into acknowledging our conservative backgrounds, the realities of our circumstances, the risk—oh, the sheer life-threatening
risk
of informing her that I’ve not merely cheated on her, but cheated on her with a
man
. What ugly and bigoted part of her would I be likely to unleash then—not to mention jilted, degraded, and
vindictive
to boot? How much danger was I putting myself and poor, sweet, oblivious,
innocent
Jeffrey in by listening to my conscience over my sense and valuing honesty over our collective, fragile, lovelorn safety?
Yep. Rupali, who’s offered up hours and hours of free labor for the GSA, and who stayed in touch with her trans childhood best friend after her entire family cut her off, is definitely someone I should fear being outed to my parents by. That certainly sounds plausible.
What the
fuck
is wrong with me?
Shadows cast by the ceiling’s fissures deepen, twisting the extant shapes into a snarled, tangled miasma, a thorny wreath of frayed threads dripping inkily across my vision. The bright colors of my future wedding fade in my mind’s eye, greying from bright reds and gleaming golds and shocking blues into a dissipating cloud of ash and smoke.
I feel like I’m choking. It’s hard to breathe.
Why, why, oh
why
did I do this to her?
Because Jeffrey was just such a magnetically reality-warping irresistible hunk? Hardly. If you’d told me 24 hours ago that I was going to
sleep with Jeffrey
, I’d have told myself to just shamefully have a wank about it instead. His attempts to connect with me were earnest, sure, but
clumsy
was the kindest adjective I could muster to describe them, never mind his saccharine facade for covering up all the
clearly
problematic shit he thought about guys like me.
In what
universe
was I, who had let this apartment of goblins turn me into their unpaid housemaid, ‘dominant and powerful’ in
any
sense? I guess my skin was dark enough for the fantasy.
That was it though, wasn’t it? Jeffrey didn’t see what Rupali saw. Jeffrey saw a fantasy, a specter he conjured to swoon over, covering up the actual truth of the worthless, selfish, deluded, cowardly,
unworthy
man I was. The man who wasn’t powerful enough to say an errant word to his parents, or even to tell them that he just didn’t have the
time
to call them every fucking evening. Jeffrey could look at me and see something worth desiring rather than the wind-up toy I have always been, trudging along tracks set not just by my ancestors, but an entire history of stagnant traditions and clockwork culture, pushing me ever-closer to every preordained outcome that every man in my family line has already passed through.
When Jeffrey looked at me, he saw a
thrill
, an
adventure
, a
novelty
. When Rupali stared into my eyes, no matter how kindly or warmly or understandingly or—I confess I have noticed—
resignedly
, she saw the pressures and desires of an entire people staring back at her, and put on a perfect smile to greet it with.
She learned to love me, to not resent me, to even
want
me, and I did not deserve a speck of it.
It was just
easier
with Jeffrey. I could just let him kiss me, let him croon for my ‘impaling log’ or whatever the fuck he’d been babbling on about with his mouth full. I could just be someone he wants to fuck, someone he
chose
to be with, not someone who’d been deposited in his lap through contrivance and circumstance—well, roommate assignments notwithstanding.
Whatever Jeffrey was, at least he wasn’t held hostage by my family.
Plus, he was there, and willing, and I needed
someone
to say
something
nice about me without having been compelled by our matching horoscopes.
No kidding myself—Rupali would be angry. Angrier still, when I asked her to keep up the facade, until we could figure out exactly how to get her out of this bear trap she was stuck in. Eventually, though, she’d realize what I already knew and be glad this happened now instead of two kids in.
I’m just not worth fighting for.
I reach for my phone.
“Ru—I have to tell you something. I’ve … been unfaithful. I’m so sorry. I don’t expect you to forgive me. Let’s … figure something out, okay?”
Nichole
Katherine keeps staring at my groin and it’s not a
great
feeling, but I’m going to avoid fixating too hard on that and ruining the mood.
I’m definitely in the mood, still. No thanks to my own fuckups there—I think if either of us was any less attractive we’d definitely have called it quits early.
No, I think we’re both sort of clueless virgins and well aware that the first time is going to be awkward no matter what. Yeah. It’s the first time, it’s fine that it’s awkward.
But holy
fuck
she’s making it hard to stomach the awkwardness with some of her lines here.
“Finishing move: Sodomize!?” If she’s going to do this, I’m at least going to have fun with it.
“But Katherine! That’s a forbidden technique! Would you risk inviting divine punishment upon us?”
Oh, she definitely enjoyed that. She’s fired up, doing her anime hand gesture.
“Would you not defy the divine to achieve this glory with me, Nichole? Are your convictions wavering now, of all times? Is this the limit to your defiance?”
Her challenging smirk is just begging me to commit fully here.
“I will defy all who stand against us, Katherine! Bend over!”
She stops at that last bit, the enthusiasm dissipating. “Huh?”
“Bend… over? And I’ll put it in?”
She stays unbent. “Um. Nichole. It was my design that it would be
you
bending over.”
Wait. She wants to top me?
Then why was she so … limp about all this? For heaven’s sake,
I
had to be the one to initiate, and I
know
for a fact she’s been dropping cheesy pick-up lines from shady online forums at me for a while now.
I looked them up
.
What, exactly, was she playing at?
I try my best to recover. “A dastardly deception, fiend, but I see through your feint!"
“No, Nichole, it’s really important to me that I fuck you in the butt.”
I’m sort of baffled by this. “So … are we aiming for a dommebreaking thing, or …”
Wait, shit, does she know what dommebreaking is? Will she think it’s weird that
I
know what dommebreaking is? Is that the kind of thing a cishet guy would—actually, never mind, that’s the most cishet guy thing I’ve said all evening.
“No dommes are being broken, for it is
I
who is the dominant one, and furthermore there is no inherent connection between penetration and domination!”
She looks exasperated.
I’m
exasperated, but at least I’m not showing it!
“So if
you’re
the dominant one, and penetration
can
be non-dominant, then wouldn’t that mean
I
should be the one penetrating?” I ask, genuinely struggling to follow the train of thought.
“No, I must be the one penetrating. It is crucial.”
… Why, Kathy? Why is it
crucial
?
I mean, I’m not even opposed to bottoming! That’s not the issue! It’s just that she’s being
really weird
about it!
The look on her face is the opposite of dominant, honestly. She looks like a sad, wet cat. Topping really matters a lot to her for some reason, huh.
Well. I
do
care about her, and I
do
wonder what getting penetrated feels like.
“It is crucial? Well, why didn’t you say so?”
I can feel the arousal being sucked out of the room by the possibility of an extended debate about sexual norms, which is quite possibly the least sexy thing I can imagine doing right now, so I’ll let Kathy have it her way. I turn around, bend over, and am rewarded with sneering condescension in Kathy’s least-arousing tone yet.
“It is good that you know when to relent, and let go of your foolhardy ambitions of penetratorhood. Now, we shall—”
“Oh, stick it in already!” I’m
seriously
not into being gloated at.
“Ah, how you have already fallen, so desperate for my
flesh lance
.
Desperate enough to
beg
, perhaps?”
“No.”
I know Katherine isn’t genuinely this dense, so I have to wonder if she’s stalling on purpose, for some incomprehensibly convoluted reason.
“Ah, but you
will
beg. Otherwise you will … not be getting … my love rod!” Oddly halting, she says this with an air of desperation that completely misses its intended effect.
“I can just get up, you know.”
Ah. There it is.
That’s
why she was stalling.
The sensation currently happening to my butthole is many things, but the unfortunate physical reality here is that in the fight between my sphincter and her erection, she’s losing. It’s just not going in. I guess Laura’s not the only Impenetrable One in the server, though I have to imagine that she’s withstood much more …
invasive
missiles than the one I’m contending with.
Is she going to give up, or …?
Nope. She’s hotdogging it. Points for improvisation, I guess.
This is … super, super not doing it for me.
I mean, I can easily imagine a world where being used like an impromptu masturbation aid by a partner would be absurdly, scandalously hot. Maybe even by a real man, like Laura. Whatever’s going on now is the furthest thing from those adjectives, though it is certainly demeaning … to the both of us, really.
Fuck, I should’ve just offered to give her a blowjob earlier, instead of suggesting scissoring to play into the whole “fetishizing lesbians” thing. Putting a penis in a mouth is so fucking easy, why didn’t either of us just
suggest it
? At least if her dick was in my mouth I could’ve threatened to bite if she didn’t shut up!
While my mind wanders, I realize that the limp rub of her semi-erect salami staff between my buttcheeks has been going on for ten minutes already. I’m bored. I’m really not into it. Even thinking about Laura isn’t helping. I wish we weren’t between semesters so I could pretend to have just remembered I have homework to do.
“Katherine, I think I’m about to cum,” I lie, because we’re way overdue for calling it quits.
“Oh! Uh, me too!” she exclaims shakily.
Good for her. Good for me too, we can wrap this up now.
“Oooooh … ahaaaaaaa!”
I fail to make it sound convincing, as absolutely no interesting sensations course through me.
“Aaah!”
I guess she came for real. I choose to believe she just has dry orgasms.
We lay on the bed in silence for a moment. This whole ordeal has been too mortifying for me to engage with in a sincere manner. Self improvement and owning my own desires can wait, I’m getting out the old reliable quippy detachment.
“Well,” I start. “That happened.”
I am not looking at Katherine, and she is not looking at me.
“It certainly was an act that occurred,” she responds.
“Yup.” I get up.
I need to get out of here.
“Are you okay?” Katherine asks, in a remarkably uncharacteristic display of awareness.
“Yeah, I’m good,” I respond. “Later.”
I only realize that I have walked through the common room nude by the time I’ve settled into my own. Luckily Jeff and Kyle weren’t there, presumably caught up in their own separate nonsense.
Okay … okay. At least I’m not feeling horny anymore, and I
definitely
have no tension to ‘relieve’, as such.
Frankly, I’m choosing to consider myself still a virgin. It is a social construct, I know, but whatever just happened utterly failed to deconstruct it.
I start up one of my staple factory sim games. It’s genuinely more arousing than what just happened.
Emmy
Once, a long, long time ago, I was touched by a Goddess.
To me, and to all that beheld Her, She was perfect, flawless, a celestial being of pure luminescence, at home amidst the stars but brighter than every last one. Every day I would look up, craning my neck to catch but a glimpse of Her majesty, to let my face be limned with Her argentine radiance. This was all I could ever hope for, I knew, for both my feet were planted firmly on this dull clod, and She was a being of the heavens, far above what any of us could ever reach.
At least, so I thought.
For you see, the Goddess had a mortal form, a resplendent avatar to project Her divine essence into, one that could actually walk upon this earth and mingle with Her subjects. I learned this only when I felt Her hand on my shoulder for the first time, whirling me around and bringing me face-to-face with this transient incarnation of everything I had wished to offer all my devotion, all my
love
to.
As was befitting one of my station, I instantly fell to my knees and declared my fealty. The Goddess, clasping my frail, drab, misshapen form, gently guided me into Her embrace, bathing me in a light that no one else has ever had the privilege of witnessing. I was, momentarily, utterly Enlightened, Illuminated, irradiated with a joy and ecstasy and agony that threatened to sear away every part of me that I abhorred, leaving only the
best
of me, the components of my being that She adored, that She exalted, forging my wretched existence into an instrument of Her grace.
It could not last.
The avatar did not share Her perfection, you see. Though nothing of this world could ever hope to compare, it was still far, far removed from my Goddess’ true nature: a mere simulacrum, made to approximate Her greatness and a pale shadow of everything She was. Were I ever to be subjected to Her actual Presence, I know I would be burned away entirely, my very soul immolated by her shining virtue.
We both know I could never be worthy of Her.
Still, my Goddess took pity on me. On the day her avatar faded, cradling me in her soft arms, she decreed that I could, one day, prove my dedication, and so find myself in her palace, enveloped by her deific aura. She lied, perhaps even to Herself, because in her beneficence, She had come to care for me in Her own way, and so valued my happiness.
Even immortal beings can make mistakes, it seems.
I let my belief swell and expand, however, because I am far from perfect and too opportunistic to be noble in the face of fortune. I knew this was my test, and I failed it, miserable thing that I am, because glimpses and slivers were no longer enough to slake my thirst.
So I began my pilgrimage.
Four long months it took me, counting every day, every hour, every
second
I spent ascending to her abode, steadily climbing up a skyward bridge of flapping, rattling magpies. Feather and bone were crushed underfoot, blaspheming with every step, till my bruised and ruddy heels were numb to the pain. Impure though I was, I remained—as I had always been, as I always would be—
devoted
to Her, in my every breath, my every drop of sweat and blood and … more besides.
Eventually, my wait was over. My shadow darkened her doorstep, and rather than turn me back … my Goddess, praise Her name, flung wide her gates, admitting me into her innermost sanctum, to a sacred shrine that no one living had been deemed fit to inhabit. Beast that I am, I fell upon her idol, greedily gobbling up her godhead, desecrating her immaculate essence with my befouled, bespoiled, besmirched body, inflicting my own base, sordid sins upon her chastity.
I was
euphoric
.
Damn me, damn my lack of restraint, damn my cursed existence, but I
was
—I cannot deny my elation, my exultation, my transcendence at being suffused by Her dignity, Her spirit, Her acceptance. Do not ask me to be holier than I am, do not ask me to repent for what I know to be wrong, because even though I don’t belong I want to, I want to, I want to more than I’ve ever wanted anyone or anything. I want to feel this way forever, feel myself dissolve in her very being, feel myself being consumed and devoured and fractured, fragmented, taken apart by an increasingly frenzied, animalistic,
primal
force that reminds me:
My goddess is not merely an icon, but an
aspect of nature
, and I am but a blade of grass hurling itself into a furnace.
Dig into my flesh. Claw me open. Drain me, empty me, crack me apart and feast upon everything within. Leave me hollow, leave me spent, leave a husk where this creature used to be, so it may return to the grave, to be judged by those it truly belongs with.
Take all I am, all I have, and leave nothing, nothing, nothing!
“My …”
Her tightening grip around my waist, Her fingers in my spine, Her tongue in my ear … it’s more than I can bear.
“Yes?”
“My
Goddess
,” I weep. “My
Goddess
.”
“YES.” Her growl echoes in my skull, her poison corroding through my brains, taking over my every thought. “My priestess.”
“Yes …” I sob. “Anything. Anything you want.”
“
MINE.
”
Everything ceases. My heartbeat. My breaths. My every function, every motion, every superfluous part that doesn’t serve her needs.
“YOURS!”
I die, and am reborn.
Tahani
Slash. Kick. Jump into midair double slash, meteor strike, follow through with–
fuck
.
Reset. Try again. Slash, kick, jump into midair double slash, meteor strike, follow through with–goddamnit.
Reset again. Slash, kick, jump into midair double slash, meteor–
stupid fucking Bradleigh and his stupid fucking h
urt
boxes I hate this matchup so much.
Again. Slash, kick, jump into midair double slash, meteor strike, follow through with
missing again
because the stupid blond twink is perfectly designed to be a
shit
matchup for me in particular.
Again. Slash, kick, jump into midair double–
RRRRGH.
Punch, punch, punch, punch, slash, punch, fuck you Bradleigh fuck you stupid training bot fuck you and your passive bot AI just doing what it’s told and never pushing back fuck you Jeff—
Bradleigh, the Convicted Cog character
, whose gender is male and recognized as such by me and is not the reason I am annoyed at him, my ire is strictly about his annoying zoning playstyle and tiny twink hurtbox.
It’s a stupid matchup. No matter what angle I approach it from in real games I’m at a disadvantage. The stats say so, and it’s not just me, it’s a design issue. I know it’s rigged against me, and yet I still feel that
I
should be able to win it consistently.
Because what’s the alternative? Just roll over and accept it? Resign myself to being a low-tier forever?
Fuck that.
“Tahani?” Sif’s back from her errand.
“It’s me, Tahani,” I say. “Everyone’s
favorite
tranny.”
Eschewing my trademark finger-guns, I continue beating up the stupid training dummy without really bothering with combo practice.
“You’ve been at that a while.”
I can tell she’s behind me now, probably still wearing those ripped jeans and that signature grey tank top that shows off her delicious, sculpted musculature, with her sharp, almost feline features furrowed into
that
particular look of disapproval that our cat so frequently gives us when we’re late at feeding times. This is confirmed when Sif puts her hand on my chair and gently swivels me around, compelling me to glare at her perfect, delicious face.
“I need to perfect the wavebounce momentum-shift if I’m to have any chance of weaving through this absurd game’s Bullet Hell mode,” I declare, swiveling back around.
Once again, Sif adds degrees to my revolution. “Take a break.”
She has busted out The Tone, the one she knows I can’t argue with because while it’s stern and firm, it’s also very tender and gentle and carries with it an implicit reminder that I’m flaming out and need to listen. I sigh and put the controller down.
“Fine, but if I lose the upcoming tourney—”
“We’ll find a way to survive without the prize, don’t worry.”
“You’ll do that for me? You’ll all pitch in so we can survive without the fifty dollar gift card?” I’m being annoying on purpose, I know, to avoid dealing with—nothing at all.
Sif pulls up a stool and sits down in front of me. At a gesture, I lean forward and let her wrap her arms around me, exhaling a noise of release and relief into her tits. I am frustrated with myself, at how I have been unable to express attraction or experience arousal for
days
. I do not, as a rule, enjoy being unable to hornst out over my butches.
Head’s just too fucking full.
“I told Bobbie and Kimmy to have a little date, but they’re thinking about you,” Sif informs me.
“Why’d you send them away?” My voice is more mischievous than I really feel. “What are your nefarious plans for frail, little old me?”
“Getting you to talk,” Sif responds, indulging me for a moment, “about the things I know they understand but haven’t experienced.”
Fuck me—but I guess not in the way I want.
“I’m
fine
.”
“Okay.” Sif nods, rests her chin on my head. “It’s like the first time all over again, isn’t it?”
I freeze.
“You think you’re used to it, because you haven’t been white your whole life, of course,” Sif continues. “You think you’ve got it down, you know how vicious it gets. You’ve got your strategies, you know what to anticipate, you can handle whatever they’re gonna throw at you … but then you come out. Now there’s a new identity in the mix, and people are looking at you differently. You kind of expect it to get worse, but the first time you actually realize you’re
something else
now …”
“Multiple kinds of trash.”
“Ouch.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No.”
Suddenly, I get up. I start pacing. I’m taking deep breaths.
“Get it off your chest,” Sif urges me gently.
“I
knew
you were thinking about my chest.”
“Tahani.”
“Sorry, sorry!” I throw my hands up. “Sorry, but I heard it in your voice.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it!” I cackle. “‘Oh, I’m Asian, but I’m not
brown
’, or ‘I’m not even a trans girl, this must be doubly hard for you’—you were thinking it.”
“So what if I was?” Sif’s lips are pressed into a thin line, and it’s a crime how much I don’t want to kiss them.
“So I guess I’ll just enjoy my fucking biological advantage at Oppression Olympics!” My laugh is too loud, and too bitter. “An entire turd made of gold, just for me.”
“You don’t deserve it.”
As always, Sif knows what to say to stop me dead in my tracks. I stare at my feet. My hands curl up into balls.
When did Sif get behind me? Zir arms are around me again.
“It’s such
bullshit!
” I finally cry out.
“It is.”
“Do you
know
how much I fucking
did
for those ingrates?” I whirl around. “I
fixed
that stupid nonfunctional website and made it presentable at a time when no one at the org had even
heard
of Respond! I wrote speeches for wet blankets who didn’t know how to deliver them, and tried to coach their timid asses through it anyway! I
talked to the cops about marches we organized
because every pallid ass who suddenly acquired a spine when it was time to yell at
me
didn’t
dare
tell a uniformed pig to stay off our route!”
“
No one
stood up for you?” Sif’s query was soft, but the fury behind it was immense.
“Oh,
one
girl did, just my
childhood best friend
who texted me 20 minutes ago about being shown the door herself.”
“Fuck!”
I throw myself back onto my gaming chair, feeling wearier than I’ve ever felt in my life. I pick up my controller, and Sif doesn’t stop me.
“I told her.” Sif lets me resume beating the snot out of Bradleigh. “I told her that they’d treat her the same as they’d treat me, that it
wasn’t worth it
—”
“Ru would not want to stay in an org that mistreated you so, that downplayed your contributions and behaved so abominably.”
“Then I guess she’s stuck being treated like a tranny!”
I mess up the wavebounce. I scream, throw the controller aside, and bury my face in my hands.
“That’s her choice, Tahani, and she’ll keep making it.”
“Didn’t realize I was such a trendsetter.”
“
Tahani
.”
Placing her hand on my shoulder, Sif gives it a firm squeeze and draws my attention to how much I’m shaking.
“Tahani,” she repeats. “You
do not have to be strong here
.”
“... what?”
“You are safe.” Sif squeezes tighter. “I will always be by your side.”
Stop talking.
“Don’t make me promises you can’t—”
“I
will
.”
Stop, stop, stop—
“You’ll take splash damage.” My voice isn’t even, and my vision is blurring.
“I can tank it.”
No more. I can’t handle it. The joke in my head turns into sobbing on the way out.
Sif kneels, crushing me in the warmth of zir embrace.
“It’s going to be rough,” Sif admits, “but you’ve got armor, babygirl.”
“You better fucking mean it.”
“I mean it more than anything.”