My senior year of high school was nothing short of an ongoing hell. Every corner of the school felt like a trap, where my bullies could torment me undisturbed instead of offering even the smallest refuge. There wasn’t a single place I felt safe, no sanctuary where I could let my guard down. So, I stayed in sight, lingering where the teachers—those few who still cared—might keep an eye out. It wasn’t much of a shield, but it was enough to keep the bruises off my skin, even if the scars inside grew deeper every day.

For the most part, I got by. The occasional piece of trash hurled my way, the sharp bark of laughter, the cruel comments that sank into my chest like stones—I endured them all. I learned to keep my face blank, hide how it hurt, and pretend their words didn’t claw at me every time. But I could never hide it from Alice.

She was the only one who noticed. I don’t know how she managed it, but she was always there—just close enough to catch my eye but never enough to make herself a target. Her flaming red curls were impossible to miss, a beacon of warmth in a sea of cold indifference. She’d send me an encouraging smile whenever she could, her eyes sparkling with a quiet reassurance that sometimes felt like the only thing keeping me afloat. And when it wasn’t safe to smile, her notes waited under our bench: little scraps of paper with her cheerful doodles, quirky wisdom, and a kind of grounded comfort I couldn’t find anywhere else.

But Alice couldn’t follow me everywhere. She couldn’t shield me from everything. And gym class—gym class—was the worst of it.

I’d always been small, my slim build a glaring reminder that I didn’t fit the mold of what a boy was supposed to be. My classmates were bigger, stronger, and louder, their bodies towering over mine in every way that mattered. Their voices boomed, their laughter echoed, and their confidence—so natural, so effortless—made me feel like I barely existed. I hated the way my limbs seemed too thin, too fragile. The way my chest refused to broaden, my arms refused to bulk, and my frame refused to grow into something that could command respect.

But none of it compared to the showers.

Gym class was bad enough, a grueling parade of physicality I could never measure up to. But the showers afterward were a torment all their own. Stripped of my clothes, stripped of my defenses, I felt exposed in ways I couldn’t explain. My classmates moved around me without a second thought, their voices loud and easy, their bodies unashamed as they joked, shoved, and carried on like it was nothing.

For them, it was nothing. For me, it was unbearable.

I’d stand at the edge, waiting for the others to finish, trying to make myself invisible. But there was no hiding from the snickers, the pointed glances, the low whispers I couldn’t quite catch. And if I caught them staring, if their eyes dropped to my groin, I wanted to disappear completely.

I hated my body. I hated the way it betrayed me, the way it made me a target. My penis was small—humiliatingly small—and I couldn’t stop the shame that burned through me every time I caught one of them sneaking a glance. I kept my back to the wall, my hands clenched at my sides, my gaze fixed anywhere but on them. But my eyes betrayed me, too.

Sometimes, in the blur of shame and anxiety, I’d steal a glance—a quick flick of my eyes toward them, toward their bodies, their confidence. I couldn’t help it. Their muscles gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, their voices carried easily, and their cocks swung without pretense or shame. I envied them in ways I couldn’t even begin to untangle. And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to understand what it felt like to be them.

But I wasn’t like them. I never would be.

When the showers emptied, when the last laugh had echoed down the hallway, I’d finally step under the spray, the scalding water washing away the sweat and the shame. But it couldn’t wash away the weight of their stares and words.

As I went to get dressed, my clothes were missing—apart from my underwear. I sighed in resignation, fighting back a trembling lip and the tear that threatened to escape the corner of my eye. This wasn’t new. No, it was all too familiar.

I slid on my boxers and wrapped myself in the damp towel, peeking out the door to check if the coast was clear. But before I could make my escape, I saw her.

She walked silently down the otherwise empty hallway, her head hanging low as if she were uttering curses. When her gaze caught mine, her red curls bounced as though they were waving hello before she did. In her hands, she held my carefully gathered clothes.

“Hang in there,” she whispered, her voice soft but steady.

Her words wrapped around me like a lifeline. As I took my clothes from her hands, I felt something fragile inside me begin to mend. Her smile, her presence, her unshakable belief in me—it was enough to make the day bearable.

But only barely.

The bus ride home offered little comfort. I hunched in the front seat, trying to make myself as invisible as possible. My eyes stayed fixed on the cracked and worn leather, tracing the patterns like they might hold some kind of escape. The air was heavy with the acrid stench of diesel, and the old bus groaned and rattled as it wrestled every pothole on the road between school and my house.

As small as I was—and as small as I tried to make myself—I couldn’t disappear. Their words found me anyway, sharp and cutting, like stones hurled from behind me.

“Hey, tiny, don’t cut yourself wanking off!”

“I’ll bring my mom’s tweezers tomorrow; it’ll make the job easier!”

“You’d better bring a magnifying glass as well, Dwight!”

The laughter that followed was louder than the engine, louder than the creak of the old suspension as the bus jolted over another bump. I gritted my teeth and stared harder at the seat in front of me; my hands clenched into fists on my lap. It didn’t matter how much I ignored them—they didn’t need a response to keep going.

The bus lurched as it neared my stop, and I stood up, bracing myself for the last stretch home. My heart sank as a half-eaten apple hit the back of my head with a wet, silent thud. The laughter erupted again, echoing down the aisle like a wave.

I didn’t look back, not to their taunting eyes, Dwight’s smug grin, or the others’ smirks. I kept my gaze fixed on the front of the bus as it wheezed to a stop. The door creaked open, and I stepped off.

I stood there as the bus roared away, its taillights fading into the distance. I didn’t move; my feet planted on the cracked pavement at the driveway's edge. My eyes drifted toward the house, looming like a shadowed fortress in the distance.

The second hell awaited me.

I squared my shoulders, though it felt pointless. No amount of preparation could make it easier. My mother’s expectations and judgment were heavier than any backpack I’d ever carried. Her voice echoed in my head before I even stepped through the door, sharp and cold, laced with disappointment.

The house didn’t feel like home. It never had. It was just another battlefield, and I was the only soldier.

As I stepped inside, the familiar creak of the front door announced my arrival, but there was no greeting, no warmth—just her voice drifting from the kitchen, sharp and unrelenting.

“…and don’t forget, church on Sunday. Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately,” she said, her tone clipped. I could imagine her standing there, her back to me, wiping down a counter that was already spotless. “His grades are worse than ever. A complete disappointment.”

I froze in the hallway, my fingers gripping the strap of my backpack as her words dug into me like barbs.

“Mrs. Wright’s son, Dwight, now there’s a good boy. Always so polite, so well-behaved. Top of his class. A real leader.” There was a pause, followed by a cabinet slamming shut. “Why can’t you be more like him, David?”

The venom in her words wasn’t new, but it stung all the same. I wanted to shout back, to tell her that Dwight wasn’t the golden boy she thought he was, that he was the reason I flinched every time I walked into a room. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Instead, I stayed silent, clutching my backpack like it might somehow shield me from her disdain.

“You need to spend more time with kids like him,” she continued, her voice rising. “You’ll never amount to anything if you keep this up. Mark my words.”

I forced myself to move, my feet heavy as I crossed the hallway. I plastered on the mask I always wore at home, carefully arranging my ‘yes, ma’ams,’ ‘no ma’ams,’ and ‘sorry, ma’ams’ in what I hoped was the correct order. Each word felt hollow, robotic like I was reading lines in a play I didn’t want to be in.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said when she mentioned church again.

“No, ma’am,” when she asked if I’d finished my homework.

“Sorry, ma’am,” when she criticized my shoes for being scuffed.

She barely looked at me, her focus already shifting to whatever she fussed over on the counter. I didn’t linger. I didn’t want to give her time to find something else to criticize. I hurried up the stairs, the familiar creak of the wooden steps under my weight amplifying the tension in my chest.

When I reached my room, I shut the door quietly, not slamming it—not daring to—and leaned against it for a moment. The muffled sound of her chatter continued below, a ceaseless hum of disappointment and judgment. But it was dulled, muted, like a distant storm up here. I slid down to the floor; my back pressed against the door as I dropped my backpack at my side.

I closed my eyes, trying to will the weight off my chest, but it lingered, pressing down harder with every second. Then, my phone buzzed. The sound cut through the fog, pulling me back to the surface. I didn’t even have to check the screen. I knew who it was. It was always her.

“Come over as soon as you can manage.”

The words lit up my screen, simple and direct. Alice already knew what “as soon as I can manage” meant: as soon as my homework was done, dinner was consumed, and prayers were held. She knew the routine. She didn’t question it. She just waited.

I stared at the message for a moment, my thumb hovering over the screen. I could already picture her sitting cross-legged on her unmade bed, her wild red curls glowing in the soft light of her room, her eyes sparkling with that familiar mix of mischief and understanding. The thought was enough to bring the faintest hint of a smile to my lips.

Alice wasn’t strikingly beautiful nor anonymous enough to be ignored. She existed somewhere in between, colorful and quirky but not quirky enough to draw the wrong kind of attention. She had escaped the “ginger” remarks that might have haunted someone else, standing firmly on the right side of cute.

But none of that mattered to me.

She was my friend. My only friend. The only person who saw me, who truly knew me in a way no one else ever had.

As I sat there, the faint glow of her message illuminating the dim room, I realized she was more than a friend. She was my sanctuary, the place I ran to when the world became too much, the person who made it all bearable, even when it felt like I was drowning.

I typed back a single word—“Soon.”—and hit send before sliding my phone into my pocket. Her message's faint sense of relief settled in my chest like a fragile ember. For now, it was enough.

I shut the door behind me with a sigh of relief, blocking out the repeated reminder of my nine-thirty curfew. Alice’s house was a ten-minute walk, though she was on a different bus route than me. The walk was one I’d grown to love. My feet carried me automatically, leaving my mind free to wander, to escape the weight of everything waiting for me at home.

It was just a few more months before graduation, and I clung to the thought like a lifeline. I counted the days until I could tell my mom and dad I was leaving. That their almighty angel in the sky wasn’t for me. I didn’t know where I was going yet, but I was going. Out. Gone. Determined never to return.

The idea filled me with equal parts exhilaration and dread. The exhilaration was easy to understand—freedom was so close, I could almost taste it. But the dread? That was harder to pin down. It lingered in the back of my mind like a shadow, growing heavier with every step toward Alice’s house.

I dreaded telling her. The thought of saying goodbye to her—to the one person who made life bearable—was a knot I couldn’t untangle. What if she didn’t understand? What if she hated me for leaving? What if I was making a mistake?

My thoughts wrestled and twisted, circling endlessly, as they always did. I didn’t have answers, only questions, and they stayed with me as I climbed the porch steps and rang the doorbell.

Alice, as per usual, was home alone. She greeted me at the door with her typical “What took you so long?”.

My feet followed her instinctively to the well-memorized route through the hallway, past the kitchen and living room, where her dad would occasionally sit and wave his hand in a hello, up the stairs, and into my last refuge, my haven.

Her bedroom was a riot of color—scarves draped over lamps cast warm, jewel-toned light across the walls. Posters of punk bands clung to the peeling wallpaper, and a collection of mismatched candles sat half-burned on her desk. The air smelled faintly of lavender, clove cigarettes, and the earthy sweetness of weed. It was a space as chaotic and alive as Alice herself.

I sat cross-legged on her unmade bed, hands twisting in my lap, and watched Alice rummage through the top drawer of her dresser. Her wild cascade of red curls caught the soft light, glowing like embers as she moved. The drawer was chaos—half-burned candles, a tangled necklace, and a crumpled pack of rolling papers. She sifted through it all with ease, pulling out what she needed one by one: a small tin filled with ground weed, the rolling papers, and a lighter with a peeling sticker of some punk band.

She brought everything to the bed and plopped down in front of me, her legs folding gracefully beneath her. She spread the rolling paper out on her thigh, smoothing it with her thumb. She pinched a bit of weed from the tin between her fingers, sprinkling it onto the paper in an even line. Her hands moved with easy confidence, fingers nimble as she shaped and tucked the paper around the contents, rolling it between her thumbs and forefingers with the precision of someone who’d done it a thousand times.

“Perfect,” she muttered, sealing the edge with a quick tongue swipe. She held up the joint like a piece of art, admiring her work momentarily before reaching for the lighter.

The flame sparked to life with a flick of her thumb, briefly illuminating her face in the dim room. She brought the joint to her lips, holding it delicately between her fingers, and lit the end with a practiced turn of her wrist. The paper crackled faintly as the tip glowed orange, and she inhaled deeply, her cheeks hollowing slightly as she drew in the smoke.

She leaned back, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment as she held the smoke in her lungs. When she exhaled, a thin, curling plume escaped her lips, twisting upward like a ghostly ribbon. Alice opened her eyes, and a soft grin spread across her face.

“Here,” she said, holding the joint out to me. Her voice was low, almost a purr. “Your turn.”

I inhaled softly, yet deeply, and let the sensation of ease and comfort wrap me in a warm and fuzzy blanket. And we stayed like that as time shifted slowly.

Alice sat herself on the floor, resting against the bed. She took a slow, deep drag, the paper crackling faintly as the ember flared orange. Smoke curled lazily from her lips as she exhaled, filling the space between them with a hazy veil.

She giggled softly, the sound light and carefree, but it melted into a slight cough that made her cover her mouth. “Damn,” she muttered, still smiling as she passed me the joint. “Hits different tonight, huh?”

It was subtle, but something in the room—in her--shifted. When I returned the joint to her, she didn’t take it immediately. Instead, her eyes lingered on me, her laughter fading into a thoughtful silence.

She leaned back against the bed, the joint now forgotten between her fingers, and studied me through the faint haze of smoke. It wasn’t just a glance—she saw me. Her gaze softened, and for the first time, I felt like she wasn’t just looking at me but through me.

Her wild red curls framed her face like a fiery halo, and her expression shifted as she exhaled another thin plume of smoke. Her lips parted slightly, her eyes widening with something he couldn’t quite place. Admiration? Desire? Awe?

“Holy shit,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. Her voice was softer now, as if she were afraid to break the moment. She leaned forward, moving slower, more deliberately, and brushing her fingers along my jaw.

I froze at the touch, my heart racing. Her hand was warm, her fingers trailing lightly over my skin as she tilted my face up. She held me there, her gaze searching mine as though she was trying to solve a puzzle.

“You don’t see it, do you?” she murmured, her tone reverent, her voice trembling just slightly. “How beautiful you are. How much potential you have.”

My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong, but the look in her eyes stopped me. She wasn’t teasing. She wasn’t joking.

“You’re stunning,” she said, her voice almost breathless. She leaned back, still watching me, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You don’t even realize it, but... God, you’re incredible.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. The joint smoldered in her hand, forgotten. She stood suddenly, moving to her closet urgently, as though she had just decided something important. Throwing open the doors, she rummaged through the mess of fabric, muttering to herself.

Finally, she turned around, holding a sleek black dress with spaghetti straps. “This one,” she said, grinning as she held it up to her frame. “It’s perfect for you.”

My stomach twisted with a mix of fear and curiosity. “Alice, I don’t know…”

“Trust me,” she said, cutting me off gently. She crossed the room and pressed the dress into my hands. “You need to see what I see. Just try it. Please?”

Her voice was so sure, so full of conviction, that I couldn’t say no. With trembling hands, I took the dress and stepped into her small bathroom to change. The mirror above the sink was cracked and smudged, but I could still see my reflection clearly enough. The dress slid over my slim frame, clinging to my body in ways I wasn’t prepared for. My heart raced as I adjusted the straps, my fingers trembling.

When I finally stepped back into the bedroom, Alice was sitting on the bed, her legs crossed beneath her. She looked up as I entered, and her jaw dropped slightly. She didn’t say anything momentarily, staring at me, her eyes wide and glistening.

“Jesus,” she whispered, standing slowly. “You’re... breathtaking.”

She walked toward me, her movements careful, almost hesitant. Her hands found mine, and she pulled me toward the full-length mirror propped against the wall. We stood side by side, her fingers laced with mine, and for the first time, I saw myself—not as the boy I hated, but as something more. Something new. Something beautiful.

“See?” she said softly, her voice full of pride. “I told you.”

Alice reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, her fingers lingering just a moment too long; I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could believe her.

I stood in front of the mirror, barely recognizing the reflection staring back at me. The black dress hugged my frame, revealing curves I didn’t know I had. My heart was racing, and I couldn’t decide if it was the weed still humming in my veins or how Alice looked at me—like she’d uncovered some long-buried treasure.

“But we’re not done yet,” she whispered, her voice more earthy and deep.

She crossed the room to her desk before I could ask what she meant. Her movements were quick and purposeful as she rummaged through a chaotic drawer. She returned with an armful of supplies—lipstick, brushes, powders—and dumped them onto the bedspread.

“Sit,” she commanded, patting the bed before her.

I hesitated for a moment, still caught in the surreal haze of the moment, but her grin was impossible to resist. I sat down, the soft fabric of the dress brushing against my thighs, and felt her knees press lightly against my back as she positioned herself behind me.

“Your hair first,” she said, fingering the messy blond strands. Her touch was gentle, almost soothing. “We’re going to make this gorgeous.”

I didn’t know what she was doing, but I let her work. The rhythmic tug and twist of her fingers were oddly comforting. She hummed softly under her breath, a tune I couldn’t quite place, as she pulled and pinned my hair into something neater, softer.

“There,” she said finally, spinning me around to face the mirror again. My jaw dropped. She’d transformed my usual mess into soft, flowing waves that framed my face perfectly. For the first time, I looked…pretty.

“I told you,” she said, her voice warm with pride. “You’re stunning. Now, makeup.”

She moved before me, her knees brushing against mine as she leaned close. I could feel her breath on my skin as she studied my face, tilting it slightly with her fingers. “Close your eyes,” she murmured.

I obeyed, and soon, I felt the cool glide of foundation on my skin and the soft sweep of brushes across my cheeks. Her touch was delicate and precise, and I couldn’t help but marvel at how focused she was as if this was as important to her as it was to me.

“Okay,” she said after what felt like an eternity. “Open.”

I opened my eyes and stared at the mirror, my breath catching. The person staring back at me wasn’t the awkward, gangly boy I’d always seen. She was someone else entirely—soft, beautiful, feminine. My lips were painted a deep red, my eyes framed with a dark liner that made my blue irises pop. I didn’t look like me at all.

“That’s Veronica,” Alice whispered, her voice like a secret. “She’s been there all along.”

I swallowed hard, and my throat suddenly dried. I wanted to thank her, to say anything—but the words tangled and caught in my chest. She smiled at me, her fingers squeezing my hand in a way that felt grounding like she could sense how close I was to lose myself in the moment.

“Almost perfect,” she said, standing up and moving to her dresser. Her wild red curls bounced with each step as she began rifling through the drawers, her movements quick and deliberate. But something about the way she furrowed her brow made it clear she wasn’t finding what she was looking for.

She sighed, straightening up and placing her hands on her hips. “Nope,” she muttered, glancing over her shoulder at me with a half-smile. “Oh, right—I’m wearing them.”

Before I could process what she’d said, she turned her back to me and reached for the hem of her skirt. My breath hitched as, without hesitation, she flicked it up, revealing her bare skin and the curve of her backside. My mind reeled, my pulse quickening as the black lace thong she’d been wearing slid down her thighs in one fluid motion.

It wasn’t just the action that stunned me; it was her ease, her complete and utter lack of self-consciousness. She acted as if flashing her bare, flawless ass to me was as mundane as tying her shoes. The fabric caught momentarily on her ankle, and she bent down to free it with the same casual grace, her body flowing like water in motion.

Her leg lifted slightly, her balance shifting as she steadied herself. In that instant, her thighs parted just enough, offering me a fleeting glimpse of her most delicate curve, hidden in shadow yet impossibly inviting. The soft light of the room seemed to caress her skin, illuminating every contour, every graceful line, as if time itself had slowed to let me take it all in.

It was over in a second, perhaps less, but the moment stretched endlessly in my mind. Every detail burned itself into my memory—the way her movements were fluid and effortless, the sheer intimacy of what she had just revealed, intentional or not. Her bare vulnerability was juxtaposed with her confidence, leaving me to marvel at how completely she owned herself.

As she straightened, her movements unhurried, she held the thong in her, her mischievous grin still firmly in place. For her, this was nothing. A natural moment. For me, it was something else entirely—something I couldn’t put words to, no matter how much I tried.

She held the thong between two fingers, dangling it playfully in front of me like a prize. “Here,” she said, her voice light, teasing. “This is what you need.”

I stared at her, my face hot, my thoughts racing. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her, from how her skirt settled back into place as though nothing had happened, from how she stood there, utterly unfazed, like she hadn’t just shattered every coherent thought in my head.

“Alice…” I started, my voice barely above a whisper.

She grinned, holding up the thong like it was a trophy. “Relax. You’re wearing boxers under that dress, and we both know they’re killing the vibe.”

Before I could protest, she knelt in front of me, her hands brushing lightly against my thighs as she reached under the skirt of the dress. I froze as I felt her fingers tug at the waistband of my boxers. My breath caught, and for a moment, everything felt too still.

Her hand grazed me—there, where I hated myself the most. A jolt of warmth shot through me, but it was quickly overshadowed by the familiar sting of shame. Even now, as she’d made me harder than I’d ever been, I was puny, a disappointment, surely. The flush in my cheeks burned brighter, my skin hot with embarrassment.

I glanced at her face, desperate to gauge her reaction, and caught a flicker of something in her eyes—something I couldn’t quite place. It was there for only a heartbeat, a moment so fleeting I questioned if I’d imagined it. Was it curiosity? Amusement? Or something deeper? But before I could dwell on it, it vanished, replaced by her usual calm certainty.

She said nothing, and that silence was almost a relief. With the same effortless ease, she slid the boxers down my hips, the fabric brushing against my skin as she worked them free. She tossed them aside with a casual flick, like they were just another piece of the old me she was helping to shed.

“There,” she said, her voice softer now. She held the thong out to me, her gaze steady. “Put it on.”

I hesitated, but her expression didn’t waver. She wasn’t laughing or teasing. She was serious. And for some reason, that made it easier.

With trembling hands, I took the thong and slid it on. It felt strange and different, but as I adjusted the delicate fabric, I couldn’t deny how it made me feel. Free, maybe. Or something close to it.

Alice stepped back, her eyes roving over me with reverence. “Now,” she said, her smile soft but triumphant, “you’re perfect.”

The air in Alice’s room felt heavy and thick with the lingering scent of lavender and smoke. The candles on her desk flickered, their soft glow casting dancing shadows across the walls. We sat together on her bed, legs crossed, knees almost touching. She leaned back on her hands, her red curls spilling over her shoulders, and her lips quirked into a lazy, content smile.

I couldn’t stop looking at myself in the mirror across the room. The reflection staring back was still unfamiliar but… intoxicating. The soft waves of my blond hair framed my face perfectly, and the makeup brought out features I’d never noticed before. Though strange at first, the dress clung to my body in all the right places, and the thong felt almost natural now, like it belonged.

Alice caught me staring and nudged my leg with her foot, pulling me out of my thoughts. “You can stop gawking, you know,” she teased, her voice playful. “You look incredible. Own it.”

I couldn’t help but laugh; the sound was light and unrestrained in a way that surprised me. “I can’t believe this is me.”

“It’s always been you,” she said, her tone softening. “You just needed a little help seeing it.”

We sat like that for what felt like hours, the silence between us comfortable, her presence grounding me in a way I couldn’t explain. She reached for the joint on her nightstand, taking a slow, practiced drag before passing it to me. I took it without thinking, the familiar warmth blooming in my chest as I exhaled, the haze of the room wrapping around us like a cocoon.

“So, Veronica,” she whispered, a playful lilt to her voice that sent a shiver down my spine, “tell me—who’s got the biggest cock in our class?”

I froze, the question landing like a stone in still water. Not because it shocked me—this was Alice, after all—but because of what it did to me. My mind hesitated for just a moment before racing ahead, unbidden, running through a slideshow of the boys in my class, of all those stolen glances in the showers, those moments I’d tried so hard to ignore.

Before I could stop myself, the word tumbled out of me, too fast, too eager. “Dwight.”

Alice’s loud and uninhibited laughter exploded, and I couldn’t help but blush, the heat rising to my cheeks. She leaned back against the headboard, her wild curls bouncing as she laughed, her whole body vibrating with amusement.

“He’s such a jock!” she managed between giggles. “All muscle and sports, and no brain. Not my type.”

Her words shouldn’t have intrigued me as much as they did, but they did. I felt myself flush deeper, not just at her reaction but at my thoughts. I’d never seen guys in that light before—never allowed myself to, at least. But Veronica… Veronica was different. The same rules and the same fears didn’t weigh her down. She could see the world through a different lens, and I wasn’t sure if it scared or thrilled me.

“What exactly is your type?” I asked, my voice softer now, carrying the faintest trace of honey that felt unfamiliar yet entirely natural. It wasn’t David speaking. It was Veronica.

Alice’s laughter faded into a smile, her crimson lips parting just enough to reveal those perfect rows of white teeth. Her nose twitched, that tiny, almost imperceptible movement she always made when searching for the right thing to say. Her freckles, those little constellations across the bridge of her nose, seemed to glow in the candlelight as her eyes found mine from underneath a wild, burning lock of curls.

“It depends,” she said at last, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as her grin turned sly.

“On what?” Veronica urged, her curiosity spilling into the question, a delicious eagerness coloring her tone.

Alice giggled, leaning closer, her curls brushing against my shoulder. “You see,” she began, her voice hushed but teasing, “there are really only three kinds of boys. The first are the ones you don’t want to be around, hear, or smell. They’re not worth your time.” She scrunched her nose, waving her hand dismissively as if swatting them away. “Then, there are the ones you want to spend time with—maybe even boyfriend material, you know?” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “And frankly, who cares about them?”

I couldn’t help but smile at her candor. She made it all seem so simple, so obvious like she held the key to some secret code I’d never been let in on. But then her voice dropped lower, her grin sharpening into something wicked, and she leaned in so close I could feel the warmth of her breath brushing against my cheek.

“And then,” she whispered, her words dripping with mischief, “there’s the ones you want to fuck.”

The bluntness of her words hit me like a jolt, my breath catching in my throat. She leaned back, her laughter bubbling up again, carefree and uninhibited, as though she’d just told the funniest joke in the world. But I couldn’t laugh. I could only stare at her, my mind spinning, my chest tightening with emotions I couldn’t untangle.

Her heavy and electric words hung in the air, sparking something inside me that I didn’t know how to name. I felt Veronica stir within me, her voice eager, her curiosity insatiable, and before I could stop myself, the question escaped my lips. “And which one is Dwight?”

Alice’s eyes lit up with delight, her smile curling into something sly. “Oh, Dwight?” She tilted her head, her fingers tapping thoughtfully against her lips. “With this new information, you’ve successfully moved him from group one to group three,” she said, finishing with a playful wink.

The room blurred around me, the golden light softening into a haze as her laughter lingered in the air. The joint passed between us again, and I felt the world tilt, the edges of everything softening, blurring. Time seemed to stretch and bend, and for the first time, I wasn’t afraid of where it was taking me.

Alice talked about everything and nothing all at once—her latest favorite band, a book she wanted to read, and the absurdity of our town. I listened, my head resting lightly against the wall, her voice washing over me like a soothing tide.

For a moment, I forgot who I was. I forgot about the boy everyone saw at school, who never fit anywhere. In this room, with Alice, I wasn’t him. I was someone new. Someone beautiful. Someone free.

But then the spell broke.

The faint glow of Alice’s alarm clock caught my eye, its red numbers glaring like an accusation. It was 11:48 PM, and my stomach dropped.

“Oh, shit,” I muttered, sitting up straight. “It’s late.”

Alice raised an eyebrow, clearly unconcerned. “So?”

“I was supposed to be home hours ago,” I said, panic rising in my chest. My voice was shaky, my heart pounding as reality came crashing back. “My mom is going to kill me.”

Alice frowned, her playful demeanor dimming. “Your curfew?”

I nodded, already scrambling to my feet. The dress clung to me as I moved, a reminder of the transformation that felt liberating moments ago but now felt like a risk—a secret I wasn’t ready to take home.

“She’ll be waiting by the door,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “She always waits.”

Alice stood, her hands reaching out to steady me. “Hey, slow down,” she said gently. “You can’t go home like this.”

She was right, of course, but the thought of staying any longer made my chest tighten. I glanced at the mirror again, the reflection of Veronica staring back at me. For a fleeting moment, I didn’t want to let her go.

But I wasn’t Veronica at home. At home, I was David.

“I’ll change,” I said quickly, my voice trembling. “I’ll fix it. I just… I have to go.”

Alice hesitated, her hands lingering on my arms. Her touch was warm and grounding, like an anchor in a storm. Her eyes searched mine, her expression softening into something almost unreadable—part tenderness, part longing, part something I didn’t yet have the words for. Then, before I could pull away, she leaned in.

Her lips were soft and warm, faintly tasting the smoke and sweetness lingering in the air. It wasn’t rushed or forceful—it was gentle, a quiet invitation. My breath caught in my throat, the world narrowing to the delicate pressure of her lips against mine. For a moment, the noise in my head stopped. All the fear, the confusion, the questions—they all melted away. In that kiss, there was only Alice and the unspoken promise that I didn’t have to figure it all out alone.

When she pulled back, her gaze held mine, steady and unyielding. My heart pounded so loudly that I was sure she could hear it. My cheeks flushed, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

“David,” she said quietly, the name a strange contrast to everything I’d felt tonight. Her voice was soft, but there was an edge, a kind of pleading. “You don’t have to rush back to that. You can stay here.”

Her words hung in the air, wrapping around me like a warm blanket. Stay here. It sounded so simple, but I knew it wasn’t. Staying here meant more than avoiding my curfew—it meant choosing this, choosing her, choosing Veronica. It meant letting go of David, even if just for a little while.

I shook my head, already pulling at the hem of the dress. “I can’t. She’ll know. She always knows.”

Alice didn’t argue. She just stepped back, her lips pressing into a thin line as she watched me slip into the bathroom. Veronica was gone when I emerged, dressed in my old clothes again.

The cold night air hit me like a slap as I exited Alice’s house. The faint smell of lavender, weed, and something uniquely Alice clung to my clothes, no matter how much I tried to ignore it. The stars overhead were scattered across the inky sky, indifferent to the panic swirling in my chest.

I walked quickly, my hands stuffed deep into my pockets, the sound of my sneakers against the pavement louder than I wanted it to be. Every shadow stretched long in the dim streetlights, and every noise set my nerves on edge. My mind raced with excuses I could feed her, reasons I could invent for being so late. But I already knew none of it would matter.

My mother didn’t care for excuses. She cared about appearances, about discipline, about the holy wrath of God. And tonight, I reeked of everything she hated.

When I reached the house, the porch light was still on. My stomach twisted as I climbed the stairs, each creak of the old wood feeling like a countdown to my doom. The door opened before I could even reach for the handle.

She stood there, her face sharp in the light spilling from the entryway. Her hair was pinned back tight, not a strand out of place, and her lips were pressed into a thin line. Her eyes—God, those eyes—bore into me like she could see every sin clinging to my skin.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice quiet but heavy with judgment.

“I—” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat, trying again. “I’m sorry. I lost track of time.”

She didn’t move from the doorway, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Where were you?”

“Just…at a friend’s house,” I muttered, not meeting her gaze. I tried to step past her, but she blocked the way, her hand grabbing my arm.

I froze as she leaned in, her nostrils flaring slightly. Her lips curled into a frown as she caught the scent that clung to me—the faint traces of weed, the soft floral notes of Alice’s room, and something warmer, something alive.

Her hand tightened on my arm. “You smell like her.”

My blood ran cold.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I stammered, but my voice betrayed me, trembling under her scrutiny.

She stepped back, her face twisting into a look of disgust. “That girl,” she spat, her voice sharp and venomous. “That scarlet whore. She’s poisoning you.”

“She’s not—” I started, but she immediately cut me off with a glare that silenced me.

“You think I don’t know?” she hissed. “I can smell her on you, David. Her wickedness, her defiance, her filth. She’s dragging you straight to hell, and you’re letting her.”

I wanted to defend Alice, to tell her she was wrong, that Alice wasn’t any of those things. But the words wouldn’t come. They caught in my throat, tangled with the fear and guilt already choking me.

Instead, I dropped my gaze, my hands balling into fists at my sides. “I’m sorry,” I murmured, the words hollow and automatic.

She stepped aside finally, her lips still pressed tight. “Go to your room,” she said coldly. “And pray. Pray for forgiveness. Pray that you find the strength to resist her. God help you, David, if you don’t.”

I nodded numbly and slipped past her, my feet dragging as I climbed the stairs to my room. The door closed behind me with a soft click, and I collapsed onto my bed, the weight of the night pressing down on me.

The scent of Alice still clung to me, faint but unmistakable. I buried my face in my hands, my heart pounding in my chest. For a moment, I hated myself for letting her get to me—for allowing Veronica to emerge, even for a little while. But then I remembered Alice’s voice, touch, and how she’d looked at me like I was someone worth seeing. Someone beautiful.

I smiled, just a little, despite everything. My mother could call her whatever she wanted—The Scarlet Whore, a bad influence, a sinner. It didn’t matter. Because tonight, for the first time, I’d felt free.

It was an encouraging whisper, her sweet voice, that got me to my feet and into my bathroom. The harsh light buzzed overhead as I gazed into the mirror, my face pale and drawn. Behind my tired eyes, I saw her—Veronica. She was there, trapped in sadness, pleading silently.

My hands shook as I pulled off my sweater, the fabric catching slightly on my shoulders. Underneath, it wasn’t David’s bare arms staring back at me—it was hers. Delicate, pale, waiting to be adorned with something beautiful. My heart pounded as I pulled my t-shirt over my head, leaving her chest exposed.

I reached for the waistband of my jeans, unbuttoning them slowly and deliberately. When they slid down to the floor, I felt her emerge fully. The small, curvy bottom reflected in the mirror, the milky white thighs, the tiny, black lace thong—it was all her.

She was there. I was there.

My breath hitched, my eyes stinging with tears I didn’t know I’d been holding back. The reflection staring back at me wasn’t David, yet it wasn’t entirely Veronica. It was something in between—a liminal space where both existed, teetering on the edge of something new. Something terrifying. Something free.

I reached out, my fingers brushing against the cold surface of the mirror. “You’re still here,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “You’re still here.”

The room was silent except for my shallow and unsteady breathing. But as I stared at the reflection, the bare, raw, vulnerable truth staring back at me, I felt something shift. The fear was still there but joined by something else—a spark, a flicker of determination.

I stood there, trembling, and made a silent promise: I would find a way to let her out again.

***

“The fluorescent lights in the locker room buzzed faintly, casting harsh shadows on the damp tile walls. Steam curled lazily from the rows of showers, the air thick with the scent of soap and heat. I stood there, confident and untouchable, my long blonde hair clinging to my back in damp waves, water droplets trailing down my bare shoulders.

I looked over my shoulder, a teasing smile tugging at my lips as my eyes fell on the young, wet men in the showers. Their muscles rippled as they moved, the water cascading down their chests and arms, glistening in the stark lighting. They were watching me—all of them—trying and failing to be discreet. Their gazes traveled over my body, their eyes lingering on the curve of my ass, the dip of my waist, the soft, supple flesh that I flaunted so effortlessly.

I wiggled my hips, and I could see the shift in their postures, the quick glances they exchanged, the way their excitement betrayed them. My smile widened as I turned fully, letting the towel slip slightly, enough to tease but not enough to reveal. Their gazes snapped back to me, their hunger palpable.

One of them—Dwight—stepped forward, his broad shoulders tense, his jaw clenched as though he was trying to hold himself back. His eyes locked with mine, and for a moment, the locker room seemed to dissolve, the steam curling around us like a fog, isolating us from the rest of the world.

“Veronica,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with something raw.

I stepped toward him, my bare feet silent on the wet tile, my movements slow and deliberate. I tilted my head, letting my hair fall over one shoulder, exposing the curve of my neck. I could feel the power thrumming in my veins, the delicious thrill of holding his attention, commanding the room without saying a word.

Reaching out, I trailed my fingers lightly across his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my touch. His breath hitched, his muscles tensing under my fingertips. “You like what you see?” I whispered, my voice dripping with honeyed confidence.

I didn’t wait for a reply. His cock stood erect and trembling, already glistening with pre-cum. The room was silent except for the faint drip of water and the pounding of my own heart.

Behind him, the others watched, their gazes filled with equal parts envy and desire. They wanted me—they all wanted me. And for the first time, I didn’t feel afraid or ashamed. I felt powerful. Desirable. Whole.

Their hands moved in unison, stroking hard lengths as if controlled by my will. One after another, they surrendered, their moans echoing in the tiled room as they spilled themselves onto the floor—a beautiful cascade of desire.

Over me.”

***

The dream dissolved as quickly as it began, leaving me gasping awake in bed. The room was dark and still, but the sensations of the dream lingered—the thrill, the confidence, the power.

My hand trailed over my thong, sticky with my own release. I didn’t pull away. Instead, I let the moment wash over me, my breathing shallow, my fingers trembling.

Inside my head, Veronica’s voice whispered, sweet and intoxicating. You see? They couldn’t resist you. They’ll never resist you.

I brought my fingers to my lips, tasting her confidence, beauty, and freedom. It was a glimpse of something I didn’t yet fully understand but couldn’t ignore.