My Femboy System

There are moments in life when you find yourself questioning the choices that led you somewhere.

Like, say...when you’re naked, sweating, and reclining on a velvet chaise while your ex-girlfriend—a red-skinned succubus with a voice like a sugar-high harlot—gazes at you like she’s about to lick you clean and hang your soul up to dry.

Yes.

That was definitely one of those moments.

Willow stood in front of me in all her delicious, demonic glory—completely bare, skin glistening like candied wine, her body a fever dream sculpted for sin.

"Ceeee-cil!" she chirped, voice high, sugary, and utterly obscene. She twirled a dripping strand of wet crimson hair around one claw-tipped finger, batting her lashes at me with cartoonish glee. "My dear Cecil, still so dramatic. Still so devastatingly pretty when you pout."

I wasn’t pouting.

I was maintaining dignity. Somehow. While fully nude. In a sweat-soaked room. Being ogled by my glittering, giggling, insane ex—a creature who looked like she’d been drawn by a horny cherub and dipped in cherry liqueur.

Leo trailed into the dressing room from behind like a stray lamb who’d wandered into a scandal. His eyes darted like a frightened deer’s—from the mist, to the silken veils swaying overhead, to the shameless display that was Willow—all of Willow—and nothing but Willow.

Willow saw him.

Oh, did she see him.