Today, something inside me will break. I can feel it, a hairline fracture spiderwebbing across the tempered glass of my patience.
I am so tired. So tired of the whispers, the sneers, the labels they slap on me for something I never chose, something that is as much a part of me as the blood in my veins. Kurogane Akira is a monster. A freak. My father, with his placid, useless wisdom, always preached that violence solves nothing. He's a fool. My mother, who nods along to his every empty platitude, is a fool by association.
The rope I've been clinging to for three years of high school is frayed down to a single, pathetic thread. I'm done. I'm letting go. The consequences feel distant and meaningless, like echoes from a world I no longer inhabit. One more snide comment, one more pointed finger, one more jab and I will answer with the only language they seem to understand.
They call me futanari. It's a clinical, almost crude term for what I am. Growing up, there was no shame in it. My body was simply… mine. A powerful, energetic vessel that craved motion. Soccer was my religion. The feel of the ball connecting with my instep, the breathless burn in my lungs as I outpaced everyone on the field that was my heaven.
Then came the rigid, unforgiving lines of society. The day they told me I couldn't advance with the girls' team, that my dream of turning pro was dead before it had even learned to walk, was the day a part of me curdled. The reason? The physical examinations, the neat little boxes for 'male' and 'female' that I could never cleanly fit into. I have a girl's face, a girl's chest, a girl's womb. But I also have a cock and balls. The boys' teams rejected me as a girl; the girls' teams, as a boy. My athletic potential, praised by every coach who ever saw me move, was stranded in a bureaucratic no-man's-land. So, the intricate love of soccer, the dance of skill and strategy, was distilled into the raw, simple act of running.
I became a phantom on the track team, a record-breaker in practice who could never compete in an official capacity. Another dead end. All that passion, all that explosive strength, had nowhere to go. So I turned it inward, honing my body into a weapon I was forbidden to wield. I am a fortress of hidden power. Beneath a frame that most would call voluptuous, even soft, lie slabs of muscle that could put the rugby club captain to shame.
And that brings me to the crux of my daily hell here at this school. For three long years, I've endured the taunts of idiots who mistake my restraint for weakness. 'Look, it's Dick-Girl.' 'Hey, Kurogane, which locker room are you gonna pollute today?' The girls' changing room is off-limits; my cock is a violation. The boys' is a no-go; my breasts and pussy are an invitation. So I am relegated to a dusty, forgotten corner of the school: the old, abandoned faculty changing room.
My parents' advice is always the same. 'They're just jealous, Akira-chan. Boys tease the girls they like.' Such breathtaking stupidity. They see my face, my F-cup breasts, my narrow waist and wide hips, and they call me beautiful. A supermodel, they once said. They don't see the seething resentment behind my eyes. They don't understand.
My one solace became Muay Thai, the art of eight limbs. The rhythmic crack of my shins against the heavy bag is a prayer. But it's another love I can never take to the professional stage. Every door is barred. The unfairness of it all is a physical ache, a constant pressure behind my ribs. Sometimes, doctors have approached me, their eyes gleaming with scientific curiosity. They wanted to study me, to poke and prod and publish papers on my unique biology. I refused. This body, this temple of muscle and frustration, is mine alone.
A sigh escapes my lips, steam fogging the bathroom mirror. I let the self-pity drain away, leaving only cold assessment. Fresh from the shower, my skin is still pink. I stare at my reflection, a creature of contradictions. My breasts are heavy, a constant, expensive burden that my father never ceases to complain about when it comes to buying new bras. I trace the deep cuts of my abdomen, the one part of my physique that openly declares its power. My six-pack. I love it with a fierce, narcissistic pride. My arms, however, look deceptively soft, hiding the dense musculature within. It's an infuriating genetic trait. My ass is full and round, a feature that earns me unwanted stares and makes my eyelid twitch.
Then, my gaze drops. Between my thighs, it rests. Even flaccid, it's substantial, a thick seven inches of flesh nestled between a heavy pair of balls. Morning wood is a daily battle, and more than a few pairs of panties have been ruined by dreams I can't control. And periods… periods are a special kind of hell when you have to navigate them around this anatomy. Thank kami for tampons.
Enough. I towel off, the rough cotton a welcome abrasion. I get dressed for my morning run, pulling on a compression top and shorts that hold everything tightly in place, a second skin of black spandex. The relief as the sports bra takes the weight of my chest is immediate and profound. My back, though strong, is always grateful.
I pack my school bag with textbooks I've already mastered; my spare uniform neatly folded on top. Today is the day it ends. The tolerant, quiet Kurogane they know is dead. Today, they will see what I truly am. I have no friends here. I don't need them. They are insects. I am superior. The mantra loops in my head as I hoist the twenty-kilogram backpack. I strap the ten-kilo weights to each ankle, then another ten to each wrist. The familiar burden settles in, a comforting pressure. I bounce on the balls of my feet, feeling the kinetic energy coiled in my muscles, ready to be unleashed.
The front door clicks shut behind me. Two kilometers to school.
Especially that fucking asshole, Yamada Kaito.
The name is acid on my tongue. He's the star of the American Football club, the school's golden boy. He's shorter than me, maybe 175 centimeters to my 180, but he walks with an unearned swagger that scrapes on my last nerve. I'm jealous of him. I hate myself for it, but the emotion is there, ugly and undeniable. He has a future. Scouts from prestigious universities watch his games. He gets to live the life I should have had, all because he was born with the 'correct' set of genitals. My resentment is a living thing, feeding on every cheer he receives, every headline in the school paper.
Every time he calls me 'Dick-Girl' or makes a lewd gesture, I imagine my fist connecting with his smug face. I imagine the crunch of cartilage, the spray of blood. I am stronger than him. I am faster. I am a more versatile athlete by every conceivable metric. But he is a boy, and I am a futanari. That is the only difference that matters.
My pace quickens, running shoes slapping a furious rhythm against the pavement. The city is waking up around me, but I see none of it. My world has narrowed to the burn in my weighted limbs and the fire in my gut. By the time the school gates come into view, a light sheen of sweat covers my body. I'll need to rinse off before class. The shower this morning was just to deal with an inconveniently hard cock; this is to wash away the grime of my workout and my rage. I hope.
The school corridors are mostly empty. I jog towards the east wing, to the disused faculty locker rooms. My sanctuary. A faded 'Stop Bullying' poster is peeling off the wall next to the door, a cruel irony. I slip inside, the familiar scent of dust and mildew greeting me.
The hot water is a blessing, sluicing over my skin. Under the spray, I feel my cock stir and begin to swell, a simple, Pavlovian response to the pleasure of the heat and the aftermath of a good run. Not now. I ignore it, shutting off the water and quickly toweling down. I just turned eighteen last week. I'm officially an adult. A legal adult who has to stuff her semi-hard dick into a pair of lace panties before wrangling herself into the absurd fetish-fuel of our school uniform.
The white blouse strains at the buttons over my chest. The plaid skirt feels ridiculously short. My eyelid twitches. Finally, I'm presentable. I grab the doorknob, ready to face another day of crushing boredom in class.
And then I hear voices from the other side. I freeze.
"—seriously, man? You're talking about Kurogane? That chick is built like a tank. I heard she practically lives in the weight room."
My blood runs cold. I recognize that second voice. It's him. Yamada Kaito.
"So what? I lift too. Probably more than she does. Besides," Kaito's voice drops, slick with a disgusting confidence, "she's still a girl, right? Got a pussy and everything. I'm just curious if it's tighter than a normal girl's, you know?"
A wave of nausea and white-hot fury crashes over me. He wants to…
"Dude, that's fucked up. That's Kurogane we're talking about. I'm out. This is your own stupid idea, man. Don't come crying to me when she breaks your arm." The first voice is retreating. I hear his footsteps fade down the hall.
Silence.
My hand falls from the doorknob. The rage that had been simmering for years finally, violently, boils over. The sound of it is a roar in my ears, deafening and absolute. This motherfucker. This piece of trash thinks he can just… take from me? After everything?
My resolve hardens into something cold and sharp. I turn from the door, my movements deliberate. I walk back to the shower stalls, my mind a placid lake of murderous calm. I turn on the water in the stall furthest from the door, the spray hissing against the tile. Then, I slip into the adjacent stall, pressing myself into the shadows of the corner, my heart hammering a slow, heavy drumbeat against my ribs.
I don't have to wait long.
The locker room door creaks open. A soft scoff. Then footsteps, slow and predatory. I see his shadow first, then him. He's gotten his hair cut over the summer, I note with detached clarity. It's still long for a sports club member, but shorter than before. He's already naked, his own cock semi-hard as he creeps forward, his eyes fixed on the running shower. He doesn't even glance in my direction.
He reaches the stall. He rips back the shower curtain. "Gotcha, you freak—"
His voice cuts off as he sees only empty, steaming tile. "What the fuck?" he mutters, turning off the water.
His head turns.
My hand shoots out and clamps over his face, fingers digging into his cheeks, my palm smothering his mouth. A startled yelp dies in his throat. My other fist drives deep into his solar plexus. The sound is a wet thump. I feel the air explode from his lungs against my hand. Before he can even process the pain, I slam him backwards, the back of his head cracking against the tiled wall.
"You thought you could rape me?" My voice is a low, guttural snarl that doesn't sound like my own.
He tries to gasp, to speak, but he has no air. I hit him again in the same spot, a brutal, piston-like punch. His body convulses. He never knew. None of them did. They saw my soft arms and curvy hips and never imagined the coiled steel beneath.
I grab him by his stupid, wet hair and drag him from the showers, his bare feet scraping on the floor. He's sputtering, choking, trying to get his bearings. I haul him into the middle of the room and drop him. He lands in a heap, a pathetic, gasping mess.
My eyes fall on the door. I walk over and slide the heavy bolt home. This room is practically condemned. No one ever comes here. No one but me. And now, him. This place, my former sanctuary, is about to become Yamada Kaito's personal hell.
A dark, intoxicating thought blooms in my mind, thrilling and terrible. This piece of shit tried to rape me. That one thought eclipses everything else. Reason, fear, consequences—they all burn away in the blaze of my fury.
I turn back to him. He's on his hands and knees, finally managing to draw a ragged breath. I see his discarded clothes in a heap near the lockers. His friend knows he's here, but he washed his hands of it. He won't talk. Kaito is alone. With me.
Slowly, deliberately, I stand over his prone form. I watch his eyes, wide with confusion and dawning terror, track my movements as I begin to unbutton my blouse. One button, then the next. The starchy white fabric parts, revealing the black lace of my bra. I fold the shirt with meticulous care, placing it on a clean bench. Then, my hands go to the clasp of my skirt. The zip glides down. I step out of it, leaving me in nothing but my bra, panties, and socks. He stares, his mouth agape, a mixture of shock and fear warring on his face.
Finally, I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my panties and slide them down my legs. They join the neat pile of clothes.
I am naked now. My cock, still thick and semi-aroused from before, hangs heavy in the cool air. It sways slightly as I step closer, planting my feet on either side of his head. He's forced to look up, his gaze falling on the part of me he and his friends find so amusing. I reach down and pick up his discarded boxers from the floor. They're a cheap, generic brand.
"You wanted to rape me, Yamada," I say. My voice is glacial.
"N-no! Kurogane! Wait!" he stammers, his jock confidence utterly shattered. "It was a misunderstanding! A joke!"
The fire in my belly flares hotter. "Dick-girl," I correct him, my voice dripping with venom. "Isn't that what you call me?" My free hand closes around my shaft, and I begin to stroke myself. The friction, the sight of his terror, the raw power of the moment—it's like gasoline on a flame. My flesh responds instantly, hardening, lengthening, becoming a weapon. "Please… please, this isn't funny…" he begs, scrambling backward.
My voice cuts through his pathetic whimpers. "You're right. There was a misunderstanding." I look down at him, my eyes empty of everything but a chilling dominance. My mind feels strangely clear, as if someone else is at the controls. "The misunderstanding was about who was going to be the little bitch today."
His mouth opens to scream.
In a flash, I lunge forward and shove his own boxers deep into his mouth, gagging him. He thrashes, his hands flying up to stop me, but it's no contest. My strength is overwhelming. One of my hands easily pins both of his wrists to the floor above his head while the other finishes the job, stuffing the fabric in tight. His screams become muffled, desperate grunts. I watch him struggle, my own arousal surging, my cock now fully, painfully erect.
I spit into my palm, lubing my shaft with a slow, deliberate motion, my eyes never leaving his. He's shaking his head frantically, tears welling up, mucus and saliva wetting the gag.
I don't care.
I position myself, pressing the glans of my cock against his tightly clenched asshole. He's on his back now, completely exposed. His sphincter is a stubborn knot of resistance. I look at him, at his terrified, tear-filled eyes. "You're mine now, Kaito," I whisper. I wait, holding the pressure, feeling the subtle tremor as his body betrays him, his muscles finally, involuntarily relaxing.
I push forward.
He screams into the boxers, a raw, primal sound of pain and violation. The sensation of entering him is… electric. It's tight, scorching, and something inside me, some dark and long-dormant predator, clicks into place. My cock feels like it's being branded, and it hardens even further, to the point of aching. A cruel, triumphant grin spreads across my face as I sink the head of my dick inside him.
I look down at his despairing eyes and then, with my free hand, I reach for the phone in my skirt pocket on the bench.
"Smile," I say coldly, activating the camera. I angle it to perfectly capture the sight of my thick, pale shaft invading his body. Inch by torturous inch, I push deeper into him, filming the entire violation. He cries out with every movement, his body bucking beneath me. I feel nothing but a roaring storm of pleasure and vengeance as I slowly bury six inches of my cock inside his tight, virgin ass.
My eyes drift down his body. I see his own cock, a pathetic, shriveled thing now. It was nearly seven inches hard when he came in here to rape me. Now it's barely four. Good.
He's thrashing, sobbing, his whole body trembling. I feel his insides clench, trying to stop me, but I stop on my own. I pull back slowly, agonizingly, until only the tip remains inside, and then I slam back in. His fight intensifies, a desperate, futile struggle against the inevitable. I rape his tight ass, my rhythm slow and punishing. A low moan escapes my own lips, a sound of pure, feral satisfaction. His ass grips me like a vise.
I look at his face, really look at it. He's muscular, yes, a toned four-pack from his endless training. But it's the body of a boy. His brown hair is fanned out around his head in a damp, chaotic halo. Tears stream from his eyes, carving clean paths through the grime on his cheeks. I thrust into him again, and again, and a choked moan escapes him, a sound that is no longer just pain.
His resistance is flagging. The fight is leaving him. I've pushed maybe eight inches deep now, and his body won't take any more. I've been filming for fifteen minutes, a document of his complete and utter subjugation. The pressure builds in my groin, a tidal wave of sensation. I'm close.
With a final, brutal thrust, I pull out. I let go of his wrists and stand over him, my thick, engorged cock aimed at his chest. He throws his hands up in a feeble attempt to shield himself as I come. My whole body arches back as I release my load, a loud, guttural moan tearing from my throat. Hot, thick ropes of my cum splatter across his stomach, his chest, his face. It just keeps coming, one of the biggest loads of my life, coating him in my victory, my rage, my pleasure.
When I'm finished, I stand there, panting, my body visibly relaxing. I turn off the camera, saving the video. I look down at Yamada Kaito. He's looking up at me, his eyes filled with a new emotion. Not just fear. Awe. Abject terror.
And then, reality hits me like a physical blow. The locker room, the gag, the video, the cum drying on his skin. I just… I just did that. A part of me is horrified. But a larger, darker part is intensely, undeniably pleased. The sight of his absolute submission makes my cock twitch, a nascent hardness returning.
My rational mind reasserts control, cold and pragmatic. This is a crime. I need to manage this.
I reach down, grab a fistful of his hair, and haul him to his feet. I drag him back into the showers and turn on the cold water, forcefully washing him down as he cries silently. There is no guilt. Only the grim satisfaction of a job well done. It serves him right. I scrub my seed from his skin, an act not of kindness, but of erasing evidence.
I pull him out again, wet and shivering, and shove him toward his clothes.
"Get dressed, bitch," I say, my voice flat and hard. "If I hear a single word of this from anyone—a teacher, a friend, your parents—I will post this video everywhere. It will be the first thing people see when they search your name for the rest of your life."
His face, already pale, turns the color of ash.
"Be here tomorrow morning. Same time," I command as I pull on my own panties. I dress in the echoing silence, punctuated only by his soft, broken sobs. "Remember, Kaito. Tomorrow. You will be here." I'm fully dressed now. I walk over to him, looming. I grab his chin, forcing him to look me in the eye.
"Where will you be tomorrow morning?" I ask coldly.
"H-here," he whispers, his voice meek and broken.
"Where?" I demand, louder.
"Here!" he squeaks, flinching.
"Good." My fist snaps out, another sharp, precise blow to his stomach. He collapses, all the air knocked out of him again.
"Or else," I say softly, leaning down close to his ear.
I unlock the door and step out into the empty hallway, sliding it shut behind me. The bolt clicks into place on the other side. A slow, genuine smile spreads across my face.
I am a changed woman.