My Femboy System

Willow, unbothered as ever and somehow still poised like a goddess mid-hangover, leaned lazily against the bars as the guards came for me.

Her expression didn’t so much as twitch—except for a sultry little wink, followed by a kiss blown with all the grace of a tavern courtesan bidding farewell to her favorite client. "Try not to cry too hard, darling," she purred. "Wrath’s a terrible look on you—but you do pout rather sexily when you’re angry."

I muttered something under my breath, my voice half a rasp, half a smirk as the guards wrenched the door open and dragged me into the corridor. Their grip was like iron soaked in oil—slick and bruising. I didn’t resist. What was the point? My arms were already sore from clutching cold metal, my throat was raw from screaming Leo’s name, and my pride had taken more hits than a bard’s favorite bar wench.

They didn’t blindfold me. Didn’t need to. The halls themselves blurred together—long, dripping corridors of black stone veins and glowing red light that buzzed like a hornet trapped in the back of your skull. Every turn felt tighter, more compressed, like the Tower itself was clenching its fist around me. I tried to breathe through it. Steady. Sharp. Calm. But my heartbeat betrayed me, thudding wildly against my ribs like a prisoner with no door left to kick.

Just then I was pushed through a large, gaping corridor before passing under an arch and entering a stone chamber.

Gods, the chamber was massive—cathedral-like, but twisted, malformed, sacred only in the way murder was holy to a dagger. Black chains hung from the rafters. Metal racks, hooks, spires of bone-like sculptures jutted from the walls. Pools of some black, viscous liquid oozed underfoot. It reeked of salt, rust, and something disturbingly sweet—like perfume and old blood. A torture room? A temple? Perhaps an art exhibit from a sociopath? Who could say?

Then it caught my eye. At the center of the room stood a stark wooden doll.

Human-sized and fixed to a post.

Its arms were outstretched like a crucifixion in waiting. Its head tilted at an angle that made it look either curious or deranged. Its body was carved in simple detail, the vague suggestion of joints and muscles shown only when absolutely necessary.

Although it had no eyes, it had a mouth which has been painted shut for some unknown reason. I didn’t move closer. I wanted to, but my instincts screamed at me like a mother catching her child licking a blade. Something about it was wrong. Not evil. Not threatening. Just...waiting.

I was still staring at it when she arrived, peeling away from the shadows like the shape of a secret given legs and an attitude, slow and calculating with each of her motions. She stepped into the dim light of the chamber with the deliberate grace of someone who had been watching me far longer than I’d been aware.

Her body was robed in black—but barely. The fabric clung to her like it owed her money, trailing behind her like smoke laced with perfume and spite. Her feet were bare, silent, toes sliding across the wet stone as if the water parted for her out of respect. But it wasn’t the outfit, or the body, or even the smooth, knowing way her hips moved like a promise you should never keep—it was the hair.