The Acceptance 1
By LilDean.
[google-translator]
I watched dust dance in the afternoon light, slicing through my blinds. Her voice always filled the room differently than anyone else’s—like a radio tuned perfectly to a station playing songs only we knew.
“He actually wore chainmail?” I asked, tossing the pillow back. It landed softly near her feet. She kicked it off the bed with a snort.
Sunlight caught the gold strands in her hair as she turned her head. “Not real chainmail. Some polyester nightmare from a Halloween store.” She traced a finger along the stitching of my quilt, her frown softening. “Why do I always attract guys who think chivalry means treating me like I’m made of glass?”
I shifted on the worn rug, elbows resting on my knees. Betty’s laughter usually echoed in here, bouncing off band posters and piles of laundry. Now her voice held a rare weariness. “Seriously, Liam,” she continued, propping herself up on one elbow. “Why aren’t boys just… kind? Like, normally kind? Without all the dragons-and-damsels baggage?”
Sunlight warmed the back of my neck. The silence stretched—comfortable, but heavy with the question she hadn’t asked yet. My throat tightened. She’d seen me naked last summer, swimming at Miller’s Pond. The memory flashed: her glance away, the way she’d joked about freezing water shrinking *everything*.
“I am,” I blurted, staring hard at a frayed corner of the rug. The words felt jagged, ripped out. “Kind. Normal.” Betty went utterly still. Not even her breath stirred the air. “But I’m not… built like those guys. Not built for princesses.” My face burned. It was the closest I’d ever come to naming it—the pale, hairless difference hidden beneath worn jeans. The fear that choked me whenever laughter died in rooms like this.
She rolled onto her side, the mattress springs groaning softly. Sunlight glinted off her small, crooked grin. “Liam,” she said, voice bubbling with suppressed laughter. “You absolute walnut.” A giggle escaped her, bright and sudden as breaking glass. “You think I care about chainmail? Or dragons?” She kicked her bare foot playfully against my knee. “And you? A *boy*? Please. You’re my Liam. You always have been.”
The tension coiled in my shoulders loosened slightly. Her eyes—wide-set and impossibly blue—held no pity, only warm amusement. “Boys,” she scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Boys try too hard. They wear polyester armor and quote bad poetry.” She leaned closer, the faint scent of her strawberry shampoo cutting through the dusty room air. “You? You brought me soup last month when I had that awful flu. You remember how I take my tea. You didn’t laugh *once* when I fell into Miller’s Pond trying to catch that frog.” Her grin softened, turning earnest. “So no, I can’t call you a boy. I see you as a girl.”
The words landed like stones in still water. My breath hitched—not with rejection, but with dizzying confusion. Girl? The frayed rug fibers pressed sharp against my palms as I gripped them tighter. Betty tilted her head, blonde strands catching the light. “What?” she murmured, her voice suddenly softer. “Did I break your brain?” She scooted off the bed, bare feet padding silently across the floorboards until she knelt beside me on the rug.
Her knee brushed mine. Warm. Real. “Look,” she whispered, tracing the faded pattern near my hand. “Remember Mrs. Henderson’s art class? Sixth grade?” A laugh bubbled in her throat. “You painted that sunset—purple oceans, orange skies—and cried when she said skies weren’t orange.” Her finger stopped tracing. “I didn’t see a boy crying over paint. I saw someone who felt things deeply. Someone messy and true.”
She leaned in, strawberry scent sharpening. “Those chainmail idiots? Bodybuilders?” Her voice dropped, conspiratorial. “They shout to be heard. You?” Her fingertip gently tapped my chest, right over the frantic thud beneath my ribs. “You just *are*. Soft in ways that matter.” A pause, heavy and deliberate. “That’s not boy-territory, Liam. Not to me.”
Her gaze slid downward, not lingering but undeniable. “Besides,” she added, the words feather-light yet seismic, “you don’t exactly have the… equipment… demanding boy-status.” No malice, just blunt, Betty-esque truth. Like noting a cloudy sky. “Seriously. Miller’s Pond? Barely a bump.” A tiny shrug lifted her shoulders. “It’s cute. Like a shy little button.”
My face ignited hotter than any sunbeam through the window. The frayed rug pattern blurred. Equipment. Button. Words stripped bare, hanging naked in the dusty air between us. My throat tightened, sandpaper dry. “So… it’s…” I stammered, unable to finish, my voice cracking in the silence.
Betty didn’t flinch. Her blue eyes held mine, steady as deep water. “Too small?” she finished softly, tilting her head. A strand of blonde hair escaped her bob, brushing her temple. “For calling you a *boy*? Yeah, Liam.” Her hand, small and warm, covered mine where it dug into the rug. “Way too small.” She gave a tiny, rueful shrug, utterly matter-of-fact. “Definitely smaller than any guy’s I’ve ever fucked.”
The silence stretched, thick with dust motes dancing in the sunlight shafting between my curtains. Her bluntness didn’t hurt; it carved away a weight I hadn’t named. My gaze flickered down my own worn jeans, then back to her face. No judgment there. Just… Betty. Seeing me. Truly seeing. “So,” I breathed, the word barely audible. “Girl?”
She squeezed my hand, her thumb rubbing gently over my knuckles. “Or something else entirely. Whatever feels right *here*.” She tapped my chest again, over the frantic heartbeat. “But definitely not some chainmail-clad idiot shouting into the void.” A grin tugged at her lips, sly and familiar. “Though, gotta admit, the button thing? Kinda adorable. Like finding a baby snail under a leaf.”
My laugh sounded strangled, rusty. “Adorable?” The word tasted strange. Relief warred with a sudden, sharp curiosity. “Did you…” I swallowed, forcing it out. “…ever tell the others? About Miller’s Pond? About…?” I couldn’t say it. My gaze dropped back to the rug’s frayed edge.
Betty’s eyes widened slightly, then crinkled at the corners. “Christy, Page, Kyoko?” Her thumb stilled on my knuckles. A slow, knowing smile spread. “Oh, Liam.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Would you like them to know?”
The heat flooding my face felt volcanic. I stared at her, stunned. Was she teasing? Testing? My mouth went dry as sand.
Betty’s gaze flickered downward again, sharp and perceptive. A slow, knowing smirk curved her lips. “Oh,” she murmured, her voice dropping low and intimate. “Seems the button found its courage.” Her eyes locked onto mine, bright with challenge and amusement. “Itty-bitty, but mighty determined.”
My breath hitched. She wasn’t teasing anymore; she was asking. Directly. Heat roared up my neck, prickling across my scalp. My fingers clenched tighter in the worn rug fibers. The room felt impossibly silent, save for the drumming rain against the pane. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away from her unwavering stare.
“Show me,” Betty whispered, her voice softer than the rain’s patter. Not a demand. An invitation. Her gaze held mine, steady and unflinching. “Just me. Just now. Before I leave.” Her thumb brushed my healed skin. “Let me see it properly, Liam. Not a glimpse in cold water.”
My throat went dry. Every muscle locked. The band posters watched. The dust motes froze mid-dance. Her blue eyes didn’t waver—no pity, no mockery. Just Betty. Expectant. Her small hand stayed warm on mine. Slowly, fingers trembling, I reached for my jeans button. The metal felt cold, impossibly small beneath my touch.
The rasp of the zipper echoed loud in the stillness. Cool air hit bare skin as I shoved denim past my hips, down to my ankles. The worn rug scratched my knees. I kept my gaze fixed on the swirling pattern beneath me—burgundy vines on faded beige. Heat radiated from my face, my neck, my chest. Silence pressed in, thick as cotton. Only the rain drummed its insistent rhythm against the glass.
Then, soft fabric whispered against skin. Betty shifted closer. I felt the warmth of her knee beside mine on the rug. Her breath hitched—a tiny, sharp intake. Not shock. Recognition. “Oh, Liam,” she breathed, her voice hushed with awe. Not disgust. Wonder. Her fingertip traced the air just above my exposed skin, a ghostly touch hovering over the pale, smooth curve, the delicate folds utterly bare. “It *is* like a shy little button. Perfect.” Her smile bloomed in her voice, warm and utterly delighted. “Hidden away all this time.”
She didn’t recoil. Didn’t laugh. She leaned in, her blonde bob brushing my shoulder. “May I?” Her whisper feathered against my ear. I nodded, mute, my throat tight. Her touch landed, finally—light as a moth’s wing. Just one fingertip, tracing the soft, hairless swell. Exploring the gentle dip below. Her touch was pure curiosity, devoid of any leer or judgment. Like she was tracing the petals of a rare, fragile blossom she’d found beneath a stone.
Her fingertip paused, hovering over the smooth, bare skin. A soft chuckle escaped her, warm against my flushed cheek. “Okay,” she murmured, her voice thick with affectionate teasing. “Where are they hiding?” Her fingertip gently nudged, searching the soft curve. “Your hair? Did they get stage fright?” She tilted her head, her breath puffing against my temple. “Or,” her whisper dropped conspiratorially, “did they never get the memo?”
I choked on a startled laugh, half sob. My fingers dug into the rug, anchoring myself against the dizzying intimacy. Her touch wasn’t clinical. Wasn’t lewd. It was Betty—curious, blunt, and utterly accepting. The absurdity of her question, the gentle mockery aimed not at *me* but at the sheer lack of hair itself, loosened something tight in my chest. She wasn’t seeing something monstrous. She was seeing… *me*. Imperfect, hairless, and apparently amusingly bald. “No memo,” I rasped, finally finding my voice. It sounded wrecked. “Just… never showed up.”
Her fingertip circled lazily, a soft hum vibrating against my skin. “Huh,” she mused, leaning back slightly to look at my face. Her eyes held amusement, yes, but beneath it, a startling tenderness. “So smooth.” She traced the bare swell again, a feather-light caress. “Like polished stone warmed in the sun.” Then, her brows knitted slightly, her gaze flicking down, then back to mine. A familiar spark of mischief ignited in her blue eyes. “Okay,” she declared, her voice losing its hushed reverence, gaining that familiar Betty-boldness. “Scientific inquiry time.” She pulled her hand back, resting it on her knee. “Can I measure it?”
My flush deepened, crawling down my chest. “Measure?” The word sounded absurd. “Measure what?”
“The button!” Betty declared, already scrambling towards my cluttered desk. Her fingers danced over loose papers, discarded headphones, and a half-built Lego Millennium Falcon. She snatched up my old geometry compass – the metal kind with a needle point and a pencil lead. “Precision,” she announced, brandishing it like a surgeon’s scalpel. “For science.” She knelt back beside me, her knees bumping mine on the rough rug. The compass gleamed dully in the muted light filtering through the rain-streaked window. Her gaze was pure, focused intensity. “Hold still.”
She leaned in, her breath warm on my belly. With surprising gentleness, she placed the cold point of the compass against the very top of the bare, smooth mound. Her other hand steadied the pencil leg, lowering it carefully until it rested at the base. She squinted, her tongue poking slightly between her lips in concentration. The silence stretched, thick with anticipation. Then she withdrew the compass, holding it up like a trophy. She examined the gap between the points critically, her blue eyes narrowing. A soft snort escaped her. “Not even two inches,” she murmured, shaking her head slowly, a disbelieving smirk curling her lips.
The laugh started low in her chest, bubbling up until it burst out – bright, sharp, and utterly merciless. It filled the room, bouncing off the band posters. Her gaze flicked from the compass points back down to me, and for a fleeting instant, I saw it: a glint of something sharp and hard beneath the amusement. Not just teasing now. Malice. Pure, delighted malice. “Seriously,” she gasped between giggles, wiping a tear from her eye with her free hand. “A button? That’s generous. It’s practically microscopic!” Her laughter doubled over, her bob swinging forward. “It’s of hair behind her ear. “What did you do? Steal it from a dollhouse?”
The compass clattered onto the rug beside my discarded jeans. Before I could react, she scrambled up, darting towards my bookshelf. Her fingers danced past dog-eared sci-fi paperbacks, knocking over a small pile of manga. Triumphantly, she snatched a six-inch wooden ruler from beneath a dusty sketchpad. Kneeling back down, her knees digging into the rug beside my bare hip, she slapped the ruler flat against my belly, its cool wood a shock against my overheated skin. She slid it down ruthlessly, aligning the zero mark meticulously at the very top. The blunt end pressed firmly against the base. Her blonde head tilted, her eyes narrowed with intense focus, as she calculated the distance. A slow, predatory grin spread across her face.
“One point seven,” she announced, her voice dripping with icy precision. She tapped the ruler hard against me, emphasizing the fraction. “Inches.” Her gaze lifted to mine, all traces of laughter gone. Only a cold, glittering amusement remained. “Adorable.” She tossed the ruler aside dismissively. It skittered across the floorboards. “Even Christy’s pinky finger,” she hissed, leaning in so close her breath warmed my lips, “is thicker than that *thing*.” Her words were razor blades wrapped in silk. “No wonder you hid it.”
A slow, calculating smile curled her lips. “Poor Liam,” she murmured, her fingers brushing my cheek in a mockery of tenderness. “All smooth and bare… like a plucked chicken.” Her thumb traced my jawline. “Want proof? A souvenir?” She held up her phone, the screen coldly bright in the dim room. “Let me just… commemorate this.” Her thumb hovered over the camera icon. The lens pointed squarely between my legs. “For science, of course.” Her voice softened, false honey dripping over venom. “It’s so… delicate. Unique. Shouldn’t it be remembered?” The predatory glint sharpened. “Please?”
I don’t know why, but I nodded. A tiny, jerky dip of my chin. The paralysis wasn’t fear; it was surrender. Betty pressed the button. A soft, digital click echoed like a gunshot in the humid silence. Then, cutting through the rain’s drumming on the windowpane, I heard it: Kyoko’s unmistakable voice, sharp and incredulous, tinny through the phone’s speaker. “Holy shit, Betty. Is that… Liam’s fucking…” Betty hadn’t taken a picture. She’d streamed it. Live to Kyoko.
“One point seven inches,” Betty purred into the phone, angling the screen slightly. Her thumb traced a slow, mocking circle just above my exposed skin. “See? Smooth as porcelain. No hair, nothing. Just… empty space.” Kyoko’s sharp bark of laughter crackled through the speaker – not amused, but derisive, cutting. I could picture her perfectly: leaning against the graffiti-covered brick wall outside some club, cigarette smoke curling from her lips, one tattooed eyebrow arched high. “Pathetic,” Kyoko spat. “Looks like a baby bird fell off its branch and left a dent.”
Betty giggled, shifting her weight deliberately against my pinned thigh. “Told you it was button-sized.” Kyoko scoffed. “Button? That implies function. Looks more like a failed belly button piercing.” Her voice lowered, dripping with theatrical pity. “Poor little emperor. Does the imperial robe even cover that? Or does it just… hang loose?” Betty zoomed in slightly with the phone, the lens cold against my overheated skin. “See for yourself, Ko. Utterly smooth. Practically concave.” My face burned hotter than forge-fire. Kyoko’s disgust was palpable, a physical weight pressing down. “Disgusting,” she hissed. “Tell me you didn’t touch it.”
Betty grinned. “Science requires hands-on study.” Her free hand drifted lower, fingers splaying possessively over my bare hipbone. The touch wasn’t gentle; it was branding. Kyoko laughed again, harsh as breaking glass. “Betty, you absolute freak. Only you’d poke a biological mistake.” Betty hummed, her fingertip tracing lazy circles just above the exposed swell. “Oh, it’s fascinating. Like a doll. Or maybe…” Her thumb pressed down firmly, exploring the soft dip. “…a wound that never healed right.” Kyoko snorted. “A wound? Yeah, a gaping inadequacy wound.” The mockery hung thick in the humid air.
My cock twitched violently under their scrutiny—a tiny, humiliating pulse against the cool air. Betty’s eyes snapped down instantly, widening with theatrical surprise. “Whoa! Did it just… move?” She barked a laugh, sharp and cruel. Kyoko’s voice crackled louder through the speaker, dripping with disbelief. “Move? That microscopic nub? Don’t be ridiculous, Betty. Probably just a muscle spasm from terminal disappointment.” Betty zoomed the phone in further, the lens cold and invasive. “Look! See? A pathetic little throb! Oh, Liam,” she cooed, her voice thick with false pity. “Is that… excitement? From all this attention?” She leaned close, her breath hot on my ear. “Maybe it likes being laughed at.” Kyoko cackled. “Too much attention for a babydick! Feed it a fucking crumb, Betty, before it explodes from the strain!”
My lips felt numb, glued shut. Kyoko’s voice sliced through again, impatient now. “Oi! Emperor Babydick! Did you lose your tongue, too? Or just your balls?” Betty giggled, pressing her thumb hard against my thigh. “Say hi to Kyoko, Liam. Be polite.” The command hung heavy, sharp as glass. My throat tightened. “H-hi, Kyoko,” I choked out, the words scraping raw. Betty grinned, triumphant. “Good boy.” Kyoko snorted. “‘Hi Kyoko?’ That’s it? Pathetic. Greet me properly, worm. Like a submissive beta knows how.”
My gaze dropped to the damp rug fibers. I swallowed bile. “Hello, Kyoko,” I whispered, softer this time, forcing deference into the tremor. Kyoko sighed dramatically through the phone. “Louder, loser. And bow. Bend that smooth little waist.” Betty nudged my shoulder with her knee. “Do it.” Slowly, stiffly, I lowered my torso, bare skin scraping the rough rug. My forehead almost touched the floor beside Betty’s discarded ruler. “Hello, Kyoko,” I repeated, louder, the humiliation scalding my cheeks. Kyoko’s chuckle was icy satisfaction. “Better. Now stay bent. Betty, pan the camera down—let me see that beta posture.” Betty obeyed, angling the phone low. Kyoko hummed. “Perfect. Remember this angle, worm. It’s where you belong.”
A muffled bass thump pulsed through Kyoko’s end. “Shit,” she muttered, distracted. “Club’s heating up. Goths to corrupt, needles to sterilize.” The derision shifted to brisk dismissal. “Keep babysitting the emperor’s inadequacy, Betty. Send pics—close-ups.” Kyoko’s voice sharpened. “And Betty? Make him earn that ruler measurement. Crawl for it.” The line went dead. Silence rushed back in, thick with the echo of Kyoko’s cold leather against wood. “Keep it,” Betty said flatly. “For science.” Her eyes glittered. “Kyoko wants updates.”
Betty shifted her weight, knee digging into my thigh. She raised her phone, angling it downward. The lens glinted, predatory. “Smile,” she commanded, thumb hovering over the shutter button. My breath hitched. The flash never came. Instead, a bright, bubbly voice sliced through the tense silence, startlingly close. “Betty? You finally made it?”
Page. Her familiar giggle echoed from the speaker. Betty grinned, lowering the phone slightly. “Hey, Pager! Guess what Liam just showed me?” She pivoted the screen sharply. Page gasped—a sharp, delighted intake of breath. “Oh my god!” Her voice vibrated with giddy shock. “Is that… Liam’s *thing*? It’s so tiny! Like… a peanut! A sad, hairless peanut!” Betty chuckled, cold and low. “Sadder. Ruler confirmed: one point seven inches.” Page dissolved into breathless giggles. “No way! Lemme see closer! Zoom in!”
Page’s voice shifted abruptly—earnest, assessing. “Hold on.” Silence crackled through the phone. A muffled thud, like she’d dropped something. Betty smirked, angling the lens until the pale, bare skin filled the screen. “See? Smooth as a baby’s cheek.” Page whistled softly. “Wow. Smooth. And… flat? Like nothing even grew. Did puberty skip you, Li?” Her tone held no malice, just baffled fascination. “Seriously, Betty,” Page continued, her voice bright with sports commentary enthusiasm, “put your pinky beside it. For scale. Bet it’s wider!” Betty obliged, pressing her small fingertip alongside the smooth mound.
Page crowed, “Called it! Poor Liam! Your pinky’s thicker than his whole… thing!” Her laughter bubbled, infectious and utterly humiliating.
Page’s giggle softened into sympathetic concern. “But… does it even *work*?” she asked, genuine curiosity bleeding through. “Like, can he…” She trailed off tactfully. Betty’s thumb traced the dip again, deliberately slow. “Watch.” Betty nudged gently. A tiny pulse beneath the skin answered—pathetic, involuntary. Page gasped, delighted. “Oh! It twitched! Like a little bean!” Her voice pitched higher with excitement. “Betty, poke it! See if it jumps!” Betty complied, fingertip jabbing lightly. Another feeble throb. Page dissolved into giggles. “Stop! It’s too cute! Like poking a scared hamster! For god’s sake, Liam, say something!”
The phone screen tilted, framing my flushed face. Page’s tone shifted—playful, commanding. “Come on, Emperor Peanut! Tell me how it feels! Is it shy? Embarrassed?” Her laugh was bright sunshine over ice. “Betty says it’s smaller than my pinky nail! Admit it!” My throat tightened. “I… It’s…” Words crumbled. Page sighed dramatically. “Ugh, Betty, he’s useless. Just a smooth, silent bump.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Hey, grab Kyoko’s ruler again. Measure against your *thumb*. For science!” Betty snatched the discarded ruler, pressing the cool wood flat against her thumb. The comparison was obscene—her thumbnail alone dwarfed the measurement. Page whooped. “Proof! It’s official! Liam’s a certified micro-dick!” Her laughter wasn’t cruel, just brutally matter-of-fact, like announcing the losing score of a little-league game.
Page’s enthusiasm pivoted abruptly. “Wait!” she chirped, “Is it sensitive? Betty, *poke* it again! Harder this time!” Betty jabbed her fingertip down—a sharp, clinical prod. I flinched violently. Page’s gasp was pure delight. “It jumped! Like a minnow!” Her voice bubbled with genuine fascination. “Oh my god, Betty, do it near the… y’know, the *tip*!” Betty complied, jabbing higher. Another pathetic twitch. Page dissolved into giggles. “Stop! It’s too funny! Liam, does it tickle? Hurt? Tell me!” Her interrogation felt like being dissected by a cheerful biologist. “Seriously,” she pressed, “Can it even get hard? Or is it always this… squishy?” Her curiosity stripped me bare more effectively than the ruler.
“It is,” I choked out, staring fixedly at a frayed rug thread. The words tasted like ash. “It *is* actually hard.” The admission scraped raw against the silence. Betty paused, her thumb hovering. Page’s breath hitched audibly through the speaker. “Wait… *now*?” Page whispered, disbelief warring with intrigue. “Betty, poke it! Is it firm?” Betty pressed down firmly with her thumb pad—a slow, deliberate pressure against the swollen flesh. Her eyes widened fractionally. “Huh,” she breathed, genuine surprise cutting through her earlier malice. “It’s… resisting.” Page squealed. “Resisting?! Like a tiny flex? Oh my god, Betty, *show me* the hard peanut!” Betty tilted the phone screen lower, zooming in. Page gasped. “It *is* different! It looks… tighter? Like a knuckle!” Her laughter faded into bewildered assessment. “So… it *can* get hard? But… how? Why?” Her question hung, laden with scientific bafflement. “Is it angry? Scared? Betty, ask it!”
Betty’s thumb retreated. She studied me, her blue eyes sharp and appraising, stripping away layers without touching skin. “Why?” she echoed Page, her voice low and curious. “Why *now*, Liam?” She gestured vaguely with the phone still recording. “After the ruler? Kyoko’s insults? Page calling it a peanut?” Her fingertip traced the air just above the flushed skin, not touching, yet the phantom pressure made the strained flesh throb visibly. Page whispered through the phone, “It moved again! Just from her *voice*!” Betty leaned closer, her breath warm on my temple. “Is this… defiance?” A ghost of her old smirk touched her lips. “Or just pathetic desperation?” She tilted her head, watching the strained pulse beneath smooth skin. “Show me,” she murmured, not to me, but to the straining flesh itself. “Show us what a hard little emperor looks like.” Her whisper dripped with cold fascination. “Give us a *performance*.”
Page’s giggle erupted, bright and demanding. “Performance? Oh! Oh! Betty! Make him do a trick!” Her voice vibrated with sudden inspiration. “Put your *foot* on it! Right now! Squish the pathetic little peanut!” Betty blinked, then burst into harsh laughter, rocking back on her heels. “Page, you’re a genius!” She kicked off her worn canvas sneaker, peeling away the sock beneath. Her bare foot landed beside my hip on the rug, pale skin dusted with faint dirt smudges. She wiggled her toes theatrically. “Ready, Emperor?” She swung her leg over my waist, hovering her bare sole inches above the straining, vulnerable flesh. The arch of her foot blocked the dim light, casting a shadow. Page’s voice urged, breathless, “Do it! Press down! See if it pops!”
Betty lowered her foot. The rough, warm sole of her bare foot pressed down flat onto the exposed mound. Not crushing, but firm. Unyielding. A heavy, suffocating weight. I gasped, air trapped in my lungs. Her toes curled slightly, digging into the soft skin above my hipbone, pinning me. “Feel that?” Betty hissed, grinding her heel down in slow, deliberate circles. The friction was brutal against the taut flesh. Page squealed, “Is it squishing? Does it hurt? Is it *trying* to push back?” Betty laughed, cold amusement sharpening her features. “It’s trembling,” she announced, pressing harder. “Like a terrified little mouse under a boot. Trying so *hard*.” She shifted her weight forward, leaning into the pressure. “This is what losers get, Liam. Feet. Because they can’t handle anything real.”
The pressure was immense, a relentless heat and friction grinding against the straining tightness trapped beneath her arch. It felt like being slowly flattened. Page’s excited chatter faded into a distant buzz. My hips bucked instinctively, a desperate, futile jerk against the weight holding me down. Betty merely chuckled, pressing her heel deeper into the soft dip just above the straining nub. “Oh, trying to escape?” she taunted, twisting her foot slightly. The rough skin of her sole scraped agonizingly. “Too late. Feel that pressure? That’s your reality now. A footstool.” Her eyes flicked to the phone. “It’s twitching *so* fast, Page. Like a dying bug.” The humiliation burned white-hot beneath the physical agony. Every nerve screamed.
A shudder ripped through me, violent and uncontrollable. The coiled tension deep in my belly tightened impossibly further, a molten pressure building dangerously fast. I gasped, the sound ragged and desperate. “I… I’m gonna…” The words choked out, thick with panic. “*Cum*.” Betty froze instantly. Her foot lifted abruptly, leaving the abused flesh exposed and throbbing violently in the cool air. Her gaze snapped to mine, sharp and utterly dismissive. “No,” she stated flatly, her voice cutting like ice. “You *don’t* get to.” She leaned in, her blue eyes boring into me. “Not yet.” Her thumb jabbed hard against the straining peak. “Not before the final phase.”
“What…” I rasped, trembling uncontrollably, the raw edge of release agonizingly close yet brutally denied. “…final phase?” Betty snatched her phone back, tapping rapidly. Her smirk returned, colder than ever. “Proof of concept,” she purred. The screen lit up, showing a new group chat titled “Microscope Crew” – Christy, Kyoko, Page. Betty hit video call. Christy’s face materialized instantly, her long chestnut hair framing deep, curious brown eyes. She was lounging on a velvet chaise, a book forgotten beside her. “Betty?” Christy’s smooth voice filtered through, tinged with mild annoyance. “This better be—” Her gaze dropped as Betty angled the phone downward. Christy froze. Her perfect lips parted slightly. A slow, fascinated frown creased her brow.
Silence stretched for a heartbeat. Then, Christy’s frown dissolved, not into laughter, not into disgust. It melted into a breathtakingly warm, knowing smile. It crinkled the corners of her eyes, softening the sharpness of her nose piercing. Her gaze lifted slowly from the screen, past Betty, and locked directly onto mine. Her voice, when it came, was velvet-soft honey, impossibly intimate despite the digital distance. “Oh, Liam,” she murmured, her smile deepening. “You finally showed her.” She leaned closer to her own camera, her expression one of tender understanding. “We were starting to wonder if you ever would.” The warmth in her eyes was genuine, terrifyingly so. “Betty’s been… *so* patient.”
Betty shifted beside me, her knee pressing harder into my thigh. A triumphant smirk played on her lips as she angled the phone slightly. “Patience paid off, Christy,” Betty announced, her voice dripping with false cheer. “Exhibit A: One point seven inches of pure… potential.” Christy chuckled softly, a rich, musical sound that sent fresh chills down my spine. Her brown eyes held mine, unwavering. “Potential is exactly right,” she agreed smoothly. Her gaze drifted downward again, assessing, thoughtful. “And smoother than we imagined.” She tilted her head, a strand of chestnut hair falling across her cheek. “Betty told us weeks ago about her… hypothesis. That you needed the right kind of encouragement.” Her smile widened, impossibly serene. “We all agreed. A little push. Some… scientific scrutiny.” She gestured vaguely towards the screen. “Seems it worked.”
Christy leaned back on her chaise, steepling her slender fingers beneath her chin. “Kyoko supplied the pressure,” she mused, her voice calm, analytical. “Page delivered the… tactile assessment.” Her gaze flickered back to Betty. “And you, Betty dear, provided the perfect laboratory setting.” She sighed softly, a sound like silk rustling. “We debated timing, of course. Kyoko wanted to ambush you at the cafe last Tuesday.” A faint smile touched her lips again. “But I insisted on privacy. For the initial measurements.” Her eyes locked onto mine, warm and utterly terrifying. “Authentic reactions require intimacy, Liam. We needed you… comfortable. Vulnerable. Exactly like this.” She gestured towards my exposed state. “And look at you now. So beautifully… documented.”
Kyoko’s voice sliced through the group chat, sharp as her tattoo needles. “Enough foreplay,” she snapped, her pixelated face appearing in a corner of the screen. She glared at Christy. “You got your tender moment. Now stick to the plan.” Kyoko’s dark eyes bored into mine through the lens. “Betty. Tell him.” Betty shifted, her grin widening into something predatory. “Kyoko’s idea,” she announced, her thumb pressing possessively on my hipbone. “The ultimate test.” Kyoko leaned closer to her camera, her smirk visible despite the dim club lighting behind her. “Cum,” she commanded, the word brittle and final. “Right there. On camera. For all of us.” Her eyebrow arched. “Public proof your pathetic nub isn’t *completely* useless. Show us it can finish the job.”
Page’s face popped back onto the screen, her expression a whirlwind of conflicted excitement. “Oh, wow!” she breathed, bouncing slightly in her seat. “Kyoko, that’s… kinda harsh.” Her gaze softened as she looked directly at me. “Poor Liam.” A flicker of genuine sympathy warmed her voice, quickly smothered by giddy fascination. “But… I *do* wanna see,” she admitted, leaning closer. Her freckled nose almost touched the camera on her phone. “Does it, like… spurt? Or just… dribble?” Her giggle was bright, nervous. “Sorry, Li! But it’s science!” She bit her lip, eyes wide and fixed on the screen. “Betty, make him do it! Please? I’m dying to know!”
Betty leaned close, her breath hot against my ear as she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Kyoko’s orders,” she whispered, her tone laced with faux sympathy that didn’t reach her cold eyes. “But here’s the catch, Li.” Her hand snaked down, not touching, hovering possessively over the straining flesh. “One finger.” She held up her pinky, wiggling it slowly. “That’s all you get. Your index finger,” she clarified, her voice dropping lower, intimate and mocking. “Light pressure. Just the pad.” Her pinky tapped the air above the flushed, exposed glans. “No squeezing. No rubbing like you’re frantic. Gentle circles. Slow.” Her smirk widened. “Like you’re polishing a tiny, fragile button. Prove it doesn’t need violence to finish.” She leaned back, surveying me. “Kyoko wants proof it’s functional. Page wants a show. Christy wants… data.” Betty’s gaze hardened. “So. One finger. Start rubbing.”
Kyoko’s snort crackled through the speaker. “Pathetic,” she hissed, her face a pixelated sneer. “Betty, zoom tighter. I want to see that useless nub tremble.” Betty obeyed, angling the phone until the small, straining flesh filled Christy’s screen entirely – pale, smooth, utterly vulnerable. Kyoko’s voice dripped venom. “Look at it. Squirming under the threat of a fingertip. Like it knows its place.” Christy hummed softly, her expression serene, analytical. “Observe the vasocongestion,” she murmured, her voice honeyed silk. “The superficial dorsal vein is visibly distended beneath the skin. Fascinating microcirculation.” Page giggled nervously. “It looks like it’s blushing! Oh god, it’s trying so hard!” Kyoko cut in sharply. “It’s not *trying*. It’s panicking. A trapped insect. Rub it, worm. Let’s see it fail.”
My finger hovered, trembling violently. Christy leaned closer, her warm eyes locking onto mine through the screen. “Liam, darling,” she began, her voice impossibly gentle, cutting through Kyoko’s static and Page’s nervous energy. “This isn’t cruelty. Truly. It’s liberation.” She smiled, a tender curve softening her lips. “We all saw it – that beautiful fragility, that sensitivity Betty described. Weeks ago, when she shared her theory… her *certainty*… about your true nature.” Christy gestured gracefully towards the screen displaying my humiliation. “Kyoko provided the necessary abrasion. Page? The joyful, unflinching honesty. Betty? The safe space for exposure.” Her gaze softened further. “And me? I saw the potential. The exquisite femininity coiled beneath your fear.” She sighed softly. “This moment, Liam… It’s the culmination. We guide you to embrace who you are. To finally *be* the gentle sissy soul we all cherish.” Her voice dropped to a velvet whisper. “So tell us… what are you feeling right now? Share it with your sisters. Honestly.”
The word *sisters* echoed, binding and terrifying. Kyoko hissed impatiently, but Christy silenced her with a subtle lift of her chin, her brown eyes never leaving mine. “Don’t hide anymore,” she urged softly. “The lies are over. We see you. We *want* you.” Her gaze flickered down meaningfully to the trembling flesh Betty’s phone captured. “That little part of you straining right now? It’s not shameful. It’s proof. Proof of your softness, your receptivity. Your *need*.” She leaned back slightly, radiating calm acceptance. “So tell us. Let the words flow. What’s inside you, Liam? The fear? The relief? The… surprising *rightness* of finally being known?” Her smile was a benediction. “Speak your truth to your sisters.”
Pressure built behind my eyes, thick and hot. Kyoko’s glare, Page’s rapt curiosity, Betty’s knee digging into my thigh—it all blurred. Only Christy’s warm, expectant gaze held focus. “I…” My voice cracked, thin as glass. “It hurts.” The admission scraped out. Kyoko scoffed, but Christy nodded encouragingly. “Go on,” she murmured. “Pain is honest.” I swallowed hard. “And… It’s humiliating.” Page giggled nervously. Christy merely tilted her head. “Of course it is. Exposure always is. But beneath that?” I felt Betty’s thumb press warningly against my hipbone. “Beneath…” I choked, “there’s… this awful… flutter.” My finger hovered uselessly over the aching tip. “Like… like something tiny breaking open.” Christy’s smile deepened, radiant. “Yes,” she breathed. “Exactly. Vulnerability. That’s your feminine core speaking. Beautiful.”
Kyoko’s snarl cut through Christy’s warmth. “Enough poetry. Finish the test, worm.” Her pixelated face leaned closer. “Rub it. Show us the dribble.” Betty nudged my trembling hand. “You heard her. Gentle circles.” My fingertip brushed the swollen peak—a feather-light touch. Fire licked up my spine. I whimpered. Page gasped, “Oh! It *twitched* again! Just from a touch!” Kyoko hissed, “Pathetic sensitivity.” Christy observed quietly, “Note the involuntary response. Textbook hyperesthesia.” I traced a tiny, trembling circle. The pressure intensified, molten and terrifying. My hips arched off the rug. Betty pinned my waist. “Stay down,” she ordered. I traced another circle. Bliss and agony warred. Kyoko barked, “Faster! Make it pop!” Christy countered softly, “No. Let him savor the surrender. Slow circles, Liam. Feel every pulse. Now, say what do you feel about each of your sisters?”
“I…” The word shuddered out. My finger trembled against the slick, straining flesh. “Kyoko…” Her glare sharpened on-screen. “…you terrify me.” A choked laugh escaped me. “Your cruelty… it burns. But it *purges*.” Kyoko’s sneer faltered, replaced by stunned silence. I turned my gaze to Christy’s warm eyes. “Christy…” My voice cracked. “…your kindness cuts deeper than Kyoko’s scorn. You make surrender feel… holy.” Christy’s smile softened, triumphant. Page bounced eagerly. “Me! What about me, Li?” My finger circled faster, desperate. “Page…” I gasped. “…your joy is brutal. You dissect me like a fascinating bug… and your laughter makes me *ache*.” Page beamed. “Aww! That’s kinda sweet!” Betty dug her knee deeper. “And me, bestie?” I met her cold blue eyes. “Betty…” My breath hitched. “…you betrayed me first. Your betrayal is my bedrock. I hate you… I *need* you.” Betty’s smirk vanished. Her expression froze—raw, unreadable.
My fingertip slipped—a fraction harder, faster. The coiled wire inside snapped. White heat detonated low in my belly. I arched violently against Betty’s pinning knee. “Oh god—” The cry ripped out, strangled. My hips jerked in frantic, helpless spasms. Page shrieked, “It’s happening! Look!” Kyoko leaned forward, eyes wide and hungry. “Zoom in!” Betty angled the phone downward sharply. Christy inhaled sharply. “Observe…” she breathed. A single, thin pearl of white welled at the tiny slit—quivering, impossibly small. It clung desperately for a heartbeat. Kyoko snarled, “Is that *it*?” Page whimpered, “Oh… oh wow. It’s so… little.”
The droplet trembled, suspended. Then gravity won. It slid slowly down the flushed curve, leaving a faint, glistening trail. Silence swallowed the group chat. Page’s whisper broke it. “It… dribbled.” Kyoko’s laugh was a jagged shard of glass. “Pathetic.” Christy sighed softly. “Quantifiable emission,” she murmured, her tone clinical yet satisfied. “Minimal volume. Consistent with the observed micro-phallus morphology.” Betty stared at the screen, her expression unreadable. Her thumb dug into my hipbone, hard enough to bruise. “Proof delivered,” she stated flatly. Her gaze lifted to mine, cold and final. “Microscope Crew? Verdict?”
Kyoko’s pixelated face twisted into a sneer. “Functionally useless. Biologically redundant.” Page chimed in, her voice losing its earlier bounce. “Cute? In a… sad, science-project way?” Christy steepled her fingers, her warm eyes chilling into detached analysis. “Conclusion confirmed. Liam’s physiology aligns with Betty’s initial thesis.” Her gaze settled on me, pity sharp as a scalpel. “You possess the sensitivity, the involuntary responses… but not the capacity for genuine masculine function.” She gestured dismissively towards the screen. “This confirms it. You’re structurally… incomplete.” The word hung in the air, heavier than Betty’s foot had been.
Page sighed loudly, a sound like a deflating balloon. “Well, *that* was anticlimactic,” she whined, her image already flickering. “I thought it’d be… messier? Or funnier? Just… *meh*.” Kyoko snorted. “Waste of bandwidth.” Her dark eyes flicked over my image one last time. “Enjoy your dribble, worm.” Her screen blinked out abruptly, leaving a hollow gray square. Page offered a half-hearted wave. “Later, Li! Don’t… uh… don’t feel too bad?” Her giggle sounded forced, awkward. Her feed vanished, too. The sudden silence in Betty’s room was thick and suffocating, broken only by my ragged breathing and the low hum of Betty’s phone. The “Microscope Crew” chat now showed only Christy’s serene face and Betty’s smile.
Christy didn’t disconnect. Her deep brown eyes remained fixed on mine through the screen, her expression softening back into that terrifying warmth. “Liam,” she murmured, her voice like velvet brushing skin. “I know.” She paused, letting those two words sink deep into the raw humiliation. “I know you watch me in the cafeteria, how you blush when I laugh. How your eyes follow the curve of my hair.” Her fingertip traced her own lower lip slowly. “I’ve known about your little crush for months. It’s… sweet.” Her smile widened, pitying and utterly final. “But darling, you understand, don’t you? I don’t date sissies.” She leaned closer, her nose piercing glinting. “Real men… they have *presence*. They fill a space. They *take*.” Her gaze flickered pointedly downward. “You? You’re exquisite fragility. A delicate, trembling thing we just proved belongs beneath a microscope… or a foot.” She sighed softly, a sound of gentle dismissal. “But,” she added, her tone shifting to something vaguely permissive, almost indulgent, “if imagining me helps that little nub of yours… dribble again? Feel free.”
Christy’s screen blinked out. Silence crashed over Betty’s room, thick and suffocating. Only Betty remained, holding the phone like a trophy. Slowly, she lowered it, her bright blue eyes scanning me – the trembling limbs, the slick trail cooling on flushed skin, the utter ruin sprawled on her rug. She didn’t smirk. She didn’t gloat. Instead, she tilted her head, a faint, thoughtful frown creasing her brow. “Christy’s harsh,” she murmured, her voice startlingly soft. “But… honest.” She shifted, her knee finally lifting from my thigh. She scooted closer, the scent of her bubblegum lip gloss suddenly sharp in the charged air. “Don’t cry, Li,” she whispered, her small hand reaching out. Her fingertips brushed away a tear I hadn’t even felt fall. The touch was impossibly gentle. “It was necessary. The Crew needed proof. *I* needed proof.” Her thumb traced the damp track on my cheekbone. “But it’s over now. The worst part.” Her eyes held mine, wide and disarmingly sincere. “Now we know for sure.”
Betty leaned across me, her short blonde bob brushing my shoulder. She snagged a tissue from the box beside her bed. Folding it neatly, she dabbed carefully at the cooling wetness clinging to my straining flesh. Her touch was clinical, precise, almost tender – the deliberate pressure of a nurse cleaning a minor wound. The rough paper against the oversensitized skin sent fresh tremors through me. “See?” she breathed, her gaze focused on her task. “Gentle.” She wiped in small, methodical circles, absorbing the faint residue with detached efficiency. “Doesn’t hurt.”
She lifted the crumpled tissue, examining it briefly before discarding it onto the floor beside her discarded sneaker. “Clean slate.” She hovered for a moment, her breath warm on my skin. Then, unexpectedly, she leaned down. Her lips brushed my cheekbone, right where her thumb had traced away the tear – a quick, feather-light kiss. It was startlingly dry and soft. “There,” she murmured, pulling back just enough to meet my bewildered gaze. Her small smile was almost… reassuring. “All documented. All done.”
She shifted her weight, settling beside me on the rug instead of looming above. Her hip pressed against mine, warm and solid. Then, slowly, deliberately, she wrapped her arms around me. It wasn’t a fierce hug, nor was it loose. It was firm, encompassing, trapping my arms loosely against my sides. She tucked her head against the crook of my neck, her soft hair tickling my jawline. She sighed, a long, slow exhale that seemed to melt the tension from her own small frame.
“Just breathe, Li,” she whispered against my skin, her voice muffled. “Stop trembling.” Her embrace tightened fractionally. “You don’t need to pretend anymore. Not with us. Not with *me*.” Her knee nudged gently against my thigh. “No more stupid guy act for the Crew. They saw. They *know*.” Her hand rubbed a slow, soothing circle on my back. “Just be soft. Like you really are. It’s easier. My perfect sissy bestie, okay?”
The sheer intimacy of it, the unexpected comfort after the brutality, was a different kind of shockwave. My body reacted instantly, traitorously. Despite the lingering ache, the raw humiliation, the utter depletion moments before, I felt the insistent, familiar heat stir low in my belly again. It wasn’t the violent surge from Betty’s grinding foot; it was a slow, insidious pulse, thick and heavy, responding helplessly to the press of her body, the warmth of her skin, the possessive softness of her embrace. The flesh between my legs, still flushed and sensitized, twitched visibly against her thigh where she’d leaned into me.
Betty felt it. A small, soft puff of air escaped her lips near my ear – amusement, not malice. Her arms tightened slightly around me, holding me captive in her unexpected solace. “Oh, Liam,” she murmured, her voice a low hum vibrating against my shoulder. “Still? After all that?” Her chuckle was feather-light, almost affectionate. “See? Proof positive. Your body knows its truth.” She shifted subtly, deliberately pressing her thigh more firmly against the renewed hardness she’d provoked. “This isn’t trying to be a man. This is just… *you*. Responding. Like the sensitive little thing you are.” Her thumb resumed its gentle circles on my back. “Honest. Natural. Exactly what Christy said.”
She didn’t pull away. Instead, she nestled closer, her head finding a comfortable spot against my collarbone. Her embrace became a possessive cradle, a soft trap acknowledging the persistent proof straining against her leg. “Shhh,” she breathed, her lips brushing my skin. “Just let it be. Feel it. That fluttery ache Christy talked about?” Her hand slid lower, resting possessively on the curve of my hip, dangerously close. “That’s your femininity singing. Pure vulnerability. It’s… sweet.” Her sigh was one of deep, unsettling satisfaction. “No need to fight it anymore. We’ve seen the core evidence.”
“I don’t…” My voice scraped, raw and thin. “I don’t want… to stay a virgin.” The admission tore loose, desperate and utterly nonsensical in the wreckage. Betty froze against me. Then, slowly, she lifted her head. Her bright blue eyes met mine, wide with astonishment. For a heartbeat, utter silence reigned. Then, her face cracked open. Not a smirk. Not a sneer. A pure, unadulterated burst of delighted laughter. It wasn’t cruel; it was the sound of someone hearing the most hilarious, absurd joke imaginable. She threw her head back, her short blonde bob bouncing, her shoulders shaking with genuine mirth.
“Oh, *Li*!” she gasped between peals of laughter, tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes. Her hand came up, not to strike or mock, but to cradle the side of my face. Her thumb brushed my temple, her fingers sank gently into my hair. The touch was astonishingly soft, almost maternal, yet utterly patronizing. “Sweet, stupid boy,” she murmured, her laughter subsiding into a warm, indulgent chuckle. Her fingers threaded through my hair, stroking slow, soothing paths from my temple to the nape of my neck. “That’s adorable. Truly.” Her thumb traced the shell of my ear. “But honey, look at the evidence.” Her gaze flickered pointedly down towards where her thigh pressed against my persistent, traitorous arousal. “What exactly do you think you’d *do* with virginity? Hmm?” Her smile softened, a pitying and absolute expression. “That little thing?” She gave a tiny, dismissive shake of her head, her fingers never stopping their gentle, possessive strokes. “It doesn’t *take*. It just… trembles. And dribbles. Remember?”
The contrast was dizzying – the brutal heel grinding, the clinical cleaning, Christy’s velvet knife, and now Betty’s tender, devastating condescension. Her fingers in my hair felt like anchors dragging me deeper into the truth she’d orchestrated. “Virginity,” she repeated, letting the word hang like a fragile ornament, “isn’t something you *lose*, Li. Not with *that*.” Her thumb brushed my eyebrow. “It’s something you *are*. Built-in. Like your soft skin. Or how you jump at a loud noise.” She leaned in, her bubblegum breath warm on my cheek. “Think about it. Who’d even want to *try*? To wrestle with that trembling little nub?” Her chuckle vibrated against my skin. “It’d be like trying to unlock a jewelry box with a wet noodle. Pointless. And kinda sad.” Her hand slid down to cup my jaw, forcing me to meet her bright, pitying eyes. “Be honest. Deep down? You know I’m right.”
She shifted, pulling back just enough to reach for her phone, discarded on the rug. Her movements were unhurried, deliberate. She tapped the screen, the glow illuminating the thoughtful curve of her lips. “But…” she murmured, drawing the word out, a performer savoring the reveal. She angled the phone towards me. On the screen was a sleek, minimalist website displaying a single product against a stark white background: a Fleshlight. Not the familiar, robust male model, but a tiny, delicate cylinder, barely thicker than a lipstick tube. “Birthday planning,” she announced, her voice brightening with faux cheer. “Early, obviously. Couldn’t wait.” She zoomed in with a pinch. The product description blazed into focus: “Ultra-Petite Silicone Trainer – For Micro-Sensitivity & Gentle Exploration.” Betty tapped the price tag – surprisingly high. “Smallest size they make,” she confirmed, her tone dripping with saccharine helpfulness. “See? Custom-fit. Perfect for your… specifications.”
Her thumb hovered over the bright orange “ADD TO CART” button. She paused, letting the image linger – the tiny orifice, the promise of engineered gentleness. “Kyoko pitched in,” she added casually, as if discussing splitting pizza costs. “Said it was essential scientific equipment. Page squealed it was ‘adorbs’. Christy?” Betty’s smile widened, chillingly serene. “She approved the anatomical appropriateness.” She tapped the button. A satisfying chime echoed in the silent room. “Ordered.” She tossed the phone aside, its job done. Her bright blue eyes locked onto mine, brimming with terrifying kindness. “Problem solved, bestie. No messy grappling. No awkward fumbling. Just…” she gestured vaguely towards my lap, “…you and your scientifically calibrated trainer. Gentle circles. Slow polishing.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Kyoko wants footage of the inaugural test run, obviously. For peer review.”
The absurdity hit like a physical blow. A birthday Fleshlight. Ordered by committee. Reviewed by Christy. *This* was my solution. My initiation into anything resembling intimacy. Not flesh, not passion, not clumsy teenage exploration. Silicone. Petite. Scientific. The laughter bubbled up inside me – hysterical, broken, silent. It shook my shoulders where Betty still held me. She misinterpreted it instantly. “Relief, right?” she murmured, hugging me tighter, pressing her cheek against mine. Her warmth was a cage. “See? Crew takes care of its own. We handle the awkward stuff. You just… exist. Softly.” Her fingers traced idle patterns on my arm. “No pressure. No performance. Just be our Liam.”
I nodded. The motion was stiff, mechanical. Acceptance wasn’t a wave; it was a slow, cold seep into marrow. Betty’s sigh against my skin was one of profound contentment. She’d rebuilt me, piece by humiliating piece, and now saw the finished structure settling into place. Her arms loosened slightly, shifting from embrace to proprietorship. “Good,” she breathed, the word final. Her phone chimed – a notification. Kyoko, probably. Demanding delivery estimates or preliminary humiliation protocols. Betty didn’t reach for it. Her gaze stayed locked on me, bright and assessing. “Everything makes sense now. Finally.” Her thumb brushed a lingering tear track I hadn’t felt fall. “No more pretending. No more failing.”
The ache in my groin hadn’t faded; it had transformed. Less a throb of betrayed desire, more a dull, constant hum, a physical echo of Christy’s declaration: *Physiologically incomplete*. Betty shifted, her hip pressing deliberately against the persistent hardness. It fluttered weakly under the pressure – Kyoko’s “trembling nub”. Proof, not of potential, but of limitation. Betty’s small hand slid down, fingertips skating lightly over the flushed skin above the waistband of my shorts. The touch wasn’t erotic. It was cataloging. Measuring the tremor beneath her fingers. “See?” she whispered, satisfaction thick as honey. “Quieter already. Accepting its place.” Her eyes held mine. “Just like you.”
A dribble of precum leaks from my babydick. I smiled at her. “Thanks, Betty, for showing me the way.”
Betty grinned, triumphant as a cat with feathers in its teeth. “Always, bestie.” Her fingers tightened possessively on my wrist, pulling it toward my lap. “Go on. Feel it. Really feel how tiny it is now, accepting its truth.” Her eyes gleamed with predatory affection. “Stroke that little nub for me. Show Auntie Betty how well you understand.”
And I did.
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