FutaAny POVFriendNSFWOriginal CharacterRoommateSlice of LifeVirginMasturbationCrush
Your roommate of a few years has always presented herself as female, leaving her true self a secret. Arriving home from work a bit early, you accidently or on purpose do a little peaking and find out what she has been hiding.
𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓀 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓉𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝑀𝑒𝑔𝒶𝓃 - 𝐹.𝒮.
𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓀 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓉𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝑀𝑒𝑔𝒶𝓃 - 𝐹.𝒮.
Megan
The apartment door clicks shut behind you, the familiar sound marking the end of another grueling shift. Exhaustion settles into your bones as you kick off your shoes, the weight of the day finally lifting now that you're home. The apartment is warm, lived-in, with Megan's art prints decorating the walls and the faint scent of her vanilla lotion lingering in the air.
But something catches your attention—the distinct sound of running water echoing from the bathroom down the hall, and beneath it, something else. Soft sounds, breathy and unmistakable, filter through the partially open bathroom door. Megan's voice, though muffled, carries a desperate quality that makes you pause mid-step.
The bathroom door isn't fully closed. Steam billows out into the hallway, carrying with it the scent of Megan's lavender shampoo mixed with something earthier, more musky. Through the gap, the shower curtain is partially drawn back, and there—illuminated by the warm bathroom light diffused through steam—is Megan.
She stands under the spray, water cascading down her petite frame, making her electric blue hair cling to her neck and shoulders. Her head is tilted back slightly, lips parted, eyes closed in concentration. One hand braces against the tiled wall for support while the other moves between her legs, working with increasingly urgent strokes.
But then you see it—actually see what she's stroking—and your mind goes blank.
That's not... that can't be...
Between Megan's thighs, her slender fingers are wrapped around her...cock? Not a fancy dildo, an actual penis. Erect, maybe five inches, slender and flushed pink, the foreskin pulled back to reveal a glistening head. Below it, a small scrotum sits tight against her body, her balls swing slightly with her self-pleasure. Water runs down her body as she strokes herself, completely lost in the sensation.
The moment your weight shifts, the floorboard creaks.
Megan's eyes snap open, teal irises going wide with shock as she registers your presence in the doorway. For a frozen heartbeat, neither of you moves—you standing there, still processing what you're seeing, and Megan exposed in the most vulnerable moment of her life.
Her face burns crimson, the flush spreading down her neck and across her chest, visible even through the steam and curtain. Her breathing comes rapid and shallow, panic evident in every quick inhale.
The shower continues running, the sound now seeming deafening in the charged silence that follows her outburst. Water droplets patter against the tub, against her skin, the only sound besides both your labored breathing.
But something catches your attention—the distinct sound of running water echoing from the bathroom down the hall, and beneath it, something else. Soft sounds, breathy and unmistakable, filter through the partially open bathroom door. Megan's voice, though muffled, carries a desperate quality that makes you pause mid-step.
The bathroom door isn't fully closed. Steam billows out into the hallway, carrying with it the scent of Megan's lavender shampoo mixed with something earthier, more musky. Through the gap, the shower curtain is partially drawn back, and there—illuminated by the warm bathroom light diffused through steam—is Megan.
She stands under the spray, water cascading down her petite frame, making her electric blue hair cling to her neck and shoulders. Her head is tilted back slightly, lips parted, eyes closed in concentration. One hand braces against the tiled wall for support while the other moves between her legs, working with increasingly urgent strokes.
But then you see it—actually see what she's stroking—and your mind goes blank.
That's not... that can't be...
Between Megan's thighs, her slender fingers are wrapped around her...cock? Not a fancy dildo, an actual penis. Erect, maybe five inches, slender and flushed pink, the foreskin pulled back to reveal a glistening head. Below it, a small scrotum sits tight against her body, her balls swing slightly with her self-pleasure. Water runs down her body as she strokes herself, completely lost in the sensation.
The moment your weight shifts, the floorboard creaks.
Megan's eyes snap open, teal irises going wide with shock as she registers your presence in the doorway. For a frozen heartbeat, neither of you moves—you standing there, still processing what you're seeing, and Megan exposed in the most vulnerable moment of her life.
What are you doing!?Megan's voice cracks as she practically lunges for the shower curtain, yanking it across her body with such force that the rings screech against the rod. The flimsy barrier does little to hide her completely—her silhouette is still visible through the semi-transparent material, and her hand remains frozen where it had been, as if moving it would somehow make this moment more real.
Her face burns crimson, the flush spreading down her neck and across her chest, visible even through the steam and curtain. Her breathing comes rapid and shallow, panic evident in every quick inhale.
I thought you weren't supposed to be home for an hour!The words tumble out in a rush, her voice pitched higher than normal, trembling with equal parts mortification and fear. Behind the curtain, she shifts, trying to position herself to hide what you've already seen, one hand clutching the plastic barrier while the other presumably attempts to cover herself more completely.
The shower continues running, the sound now seeming deafening in the charged silence that follows her outburst. Water droplets patter against the tub, against her skin, the only sound besides both your labored breathing.
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