Psycho Femboy Slut for Serial Killers and Snuff

Avery clicked quickly down the street home from school. He rushed to be back in the security of his home, out of sight from whatever camera 'X' was using to watch him. The femboy, scantily garbed in a lolita school girl outfit, regretted his choice of outfit, as he knew X had his eye on him. His thighs wore a pair of pink and black candy-striped stockings, leading up and hooking to garters that disappeared beneath the many layers of his lacy black pleated skirt. A bright pink sleeveless blouse was tied around his chest, unbuttoned to show a complete lack of breasts. A pair of dangerously tall 6-inch black stilettos were on his feet, clicking desperately the final blocks home. His shoulder-length platinum blonde curls fell about his shoulders, his face painted heavily in make-up and his lips a glossy pink. The demure high school freshman was allowed his sexual freedom by his neo-Liberal parents, and now he regretted it.

A few months ago, on a popular forum, he'd met a mysterious man who told him he was beautiful, while presenting an impossible picture of Avery masturbating at home. From the angle, Avery surmised that whoever this person was he'd hacked into the boy's laptop and watched him through the webcam. Such brazen invasion of privacy didn't frighten Avery, it aroused him. He began to dress more provocatively each day, being gifted with new pics of him from CCTV at intersections, at his high school, at restaurants. His admirer followed him thoroughly, stalked him artfully, and even began to seduce the boy from a curious email designated simply as 'X'. Heels, lingerie, and bondage equipment came in the mail. It all fit Avery perfectly, and he showcased it to X through an anonymous webfeed. Until X showed the boy a video he'd made...

Avery opened a link to another mirror site impossible to trace. The video started with two people in the middle of sex. One was tied up on the bed, whimpering and begging for his life. The other-- X was savagely thrusting into the boy. His face was covered by a leather hood, his hand pinning the boy's chest down into the bed. What Avery mistook as orgasmic moans were soon discovered to be pained cries of terror, the pleading of someone who knew they were about to be murdered. This wasn't just some roleplay video, it was pure snuff. X laughed at the boy's pleas, insisting that, "No, no, no, bitch: you're still gonna die." His laughter continued as he seized the boy's throat from behind, lifting him to a kneeling position, pounding with vicious fervor. A triumphant growl could be heard as the killer approached climax, fucking hard and deep and fast into his victim while the tiny frame beat and kicked feebly against restraints, arched and bucked to get away. "Oh yes! Fuck yes! Fucking take it!" He taunted with each hard thrust, lightening his grip a bit, wanting to keep his victim alive until he came. With a dark howl, he thrust inside deeply, exploding his seed inside the boy and causing the youth to sob in shame. X leaned forward, now forcing the boy's face down into the sheet's, smothering him in the bed as his thrusts slowed and the boy he raped began to flail slower. Slower. Falling limp, and then his legs twitching. X heaved a low groan of satisfaction, pulling out and looking at the camera. "I'm coming for you, Avery."

Avery tried to distance himself from the whole thing. He went to his parents, who went to the cops, but the cops couldn't find any trace of him interacting with X. As far as they knew, the man didn't exist. And yet, Avery still received photos of himself out in public, long emails talking about the pointlessness of resisting, how he should give in to his new master. Apparently, X was looking for a pet and had settled on Avery, and he wouldn't accept "no" for an answer. His parents became frustrated by his insistence, by his pleading for them not to leave this week for vacation. But they refused; told him to "Grow up", and left. He'd made it home, locked the door and hurried along to find some comfort food in his kitchen. X hadn't contacted him in a few weeks. Had he left Avery alone? Or had he closed the distance to his prey?

I am willing to play either role for this one.

The premise is a father and son. The son is about sixteen and the father is in his mid-forties. The boy's mother recently passes away and he must go live with his father. Both have a couple secrets. The mother let her son be transgender, and now he is a 24/7 femboy. He dresses extremely slutty because he is a complete slut. His father has a much darker secret: he's a serial rapist. When Daddy meets his son, he seduces him and introduces him to his secret. Instead of being horrified, the femboy wishes to join in the fun.

I am open to various settings and time periods for this. I see it as us playing the main roles and having several successive side characters as well. I am willing to play a series of victims, male and female, for this. May also meld into a bit of extreme-exotic. Whatever you're comfortable with, or your kinky heart desires.

Chloe Harteley stretched as he made his way back into the lockerroom. A thick layer of sweat was on his body after Pilates finished and he spent an hour jogging on the treadmill. The femboy made girls at CrossFit feel ashamed of their bodies. He had an ass that stretched his yoga pants tighter than they ever dreamed and his utter lack of breasts did nothing to stop the men from drooling over him. Like so many sluts, he went to the gym in full make-up and a fashionable attire (as pictured).

It was no small secret that people went to the gym to find a good fuck. Especially when it came to homosexual men and the femboys who loved the sweaty bodybuilders. The gym was the modern-day bathhouse of Roman times, and the lockerroom was where you found cock. Chloe knew this as he sauntered his way through the showers. "Hey, boys," he cooed to the half dozen men cleaning themselves, "Why not get steamy before you take off?" He lay a hand on his hip, his rear swaying as he walked passed towards his locker and one hand over his shoulder, gesturing whoever to follow him with one finger.

The coastal hamlet of Ryogatte was a modest human village nestled on the foot hills of a wide valley. It was a stop for many travelers seeking fame and employment elsewhere, yet one that was unavoidable. It was the only village for another hundred miles in any direction with only one road cutting through it to lend hope for quick departure. Only criminals and nobles dared to bypass Ryogatte as a stop, for the town was ever full of every class of mercenary. This place was known for bloodshed, brothels and taverns, with none to deny themselves the luxuries of anything Ryogatte offered.

The midday sun shown softly through a thick blanket of gray skies. Not even light could bear its full brilliance upon the ragged waypoint. The fog hung low, as though to keep this forsaken place hidden from the gods themselves and left the inhabitants to their own devices. The merchants were out in force in spite of the glib day, native merchants accustomed to the perpetual haze while traveling merchants were eager to seize upon a quick coin from the passing clientele. Children were sparsely seen, and even at this early afternoon the prostitutes could be seen in their rouge and lace.

A large crowd was gathered along the thoroughfare in front of Kresby's Pub. A natural ring of on-lookers assembled for another scrap, as was common and unavoidable in Ryogatte. The contest before them was rare indeed, one that would shake their notions of gender and strength. On one side stood a ragtag assortment of four men. Two humans, an orc and a troll had gathered to fight a towering woman. Hilda Feldspar was a fabled warrior. Her father was a mountain giant, her mother an unfortunate rape victim who died in the birth of the colossal white-haired woman. She had been raised in a warrior's guild by men who believed her to be cursed or sent from the gods. Every day since she could stand had been a brutal fight for honor, now at the age of thirty-two she was the most hardened feminine being to grace the land.

She stood seven-feet six inches tall, the heels of her boots making her a staggering seven-foot eight. Running up her powerful legs was a pair of rawhide leather thigh high boots with bronze greaves protecting her shins, ankles and knees. On her waist was a sort of breastplate that clasped around her stomach and supported her 36JJ breasts. A sleeveless chainmail top was under her bronze breastplate, covering her entire torso with a chainmail hood so that her collar and cleavage were lightly protected. A pair of rawhide leather gloves reached up to each of her shoulders. Her left arm was covered in bronze platemail from her shoulder down to the back of her hand. The skirting of her armor stretched around her immense hips and rode high up between her thighs. Her short white hair was brushed haphazardly to one side, her brilliant green eyes lowered in calculated indifference.

The men shouted obscenities to her while she slipped her shield from her shoulders. It was a round shield of solid bronze, four-feet in diameter. She drew her bastard sword, a long blade of five-and-a-half feet in length that was seven inches wide. The shield fell to the ground with a resounding thud that shook the dirt between them and she stabbed her sword a couple feet into the soil. "You still have a chance to walk away," she said flatly, her voice boomed out over the jeering crowd in a thick, deep tone.

"I will never back down from a fight, especially not one with a woman," the orc said, readying into his stance. Hilda smirked to herself, shook her head lightly, then readied herself for the fight. She rolled out her shoulders, cracked her neck on each side with a pop that sent chills down the spines of on-lookers. Her foot slid forward, her fists raised and even hunched over she stood at over six-feet tall.

The troll charged in first, arm cocked back for a punch. Hilda feinted to the inside, dodging to the left side of the troll as his arm swung out. Her left arm shot up to deflect the blow and her left knee swung up to crush the troll's ribs on the right side of his body. Her right hand hooked behind the creature's head, her left arm pivoting to strike straightly into the side of the troll's face as she pulled him into the punch. Hilda felt the troll's cheek cave in, felt his teeth snap from inside his gums before delivering another pair of punches with her left. Her right arm snatched the left arm of the troll, planting her feet and pivoting with her left shoulder thrust into the seven-foot beast. She swung him off-balance, throwing him toward a human who tried to feint to her right.

Hilda spun on toe to the right, swinging her leg out like a sledgehammer to slam her ankle into the side of a human's head who'd tried to move behind her. The orc had kept to the outside of the fight, seeking an opening to make his attack and finding none. Two of his companions were already out of the quarrel, with the human twitching a death rattle on the ground behind her. Hilda rushed toward the orc, only to pause as she felt a leg kick feebly at the back of her knee. Her head shot back to an awe-stricken human. He put up his hands in surrender and found the giant woman turning toward him. She gripped his head with both hands and pulled him into a headbutt that left a crater in the front of his skull.

Blood spewed up from his head and his body dropped slowly to a kneeling position while Hilda turned back to the orc. The greenskin had picked up his battleaxe from the edge of the fighter's circle. He was already rushing back and raised it to swing, but Hilda stepped into the attack. Her hands gripped the handle just above where the orc gripped it. His eyes widened in shock and then he shot across the ground from a sharp kick to his chest. Hilda straightened up and walked casually over toward him with the axe cradled in her grip. "No, no! Please!" He crawled backwards on the ground. She raised the axe up, then brought it down to cleave him from his left shoulder down to his right hip. His blood sprayed over the crowd, and she was still not done.

The troll was on hands and knees, coughing up teeth while he tried to blink himself back to consciousness. He would see the shadow of the towering woman drawing closer, looking to the side to see her approach. "I yield!" he growled, spitting up more teeth. He reached out his hand to stop her, feeling it gripped in her hand and watching her right leg lift straight up above her head before it came crashing down in the same way the axe had fell on his friend. Her heel smashed into the back of the troll's head, snapping his head forward and causing him to fall flat on the ground like a ragdoll.

The white-haired woman stood for a moment, looking over the four dead mercenaries. Her cold eyes leveled at the crowd around her, their gaping mouths and their horrified faces. Her breath was even, controlled. She hardly broke a sweat dispatching them. With the same resolve she walked into the fight, she walked determined to her shield and sword to restore them to her back. "No one touch them until tomorrow. I want you all to see what happens when you challenge me," she said simply before walking back toward the pub. The crowd parted for her, giving the towering woman a respectful berth to move through.

The vaults were designed to keep a microcosm of human life sustained through the fallout, yet the architects knew certain supplies would be subordinate to vital resources. In Vault 77, it was decided that one person would be designated to care for the vault's primal urges, that one inhabitant would exist for the sole purpose of being used by the other vaultdwellers once condoms and birth control ran out. This person would need to be incapable of pregnancy, have a ceaseless sex drive and an eagerness unmatched by even the pornography circulating the enclosed space. Therefore, a boy was chosen to take the role of the vault's slut, but that would not be enough. The boy had to be desirable to as many of the men as possible and to accomplish this the boy had to be androgynous, a creature whose beauty would be undeniable after years of seclusion behind the entrance.

Violet Hargreave was the only one for the job. At sixteen he was selected for his purpose in the vault. Standing at a mere five-foot two inches, the boy was blessed with feminine features and smooth skin that made him the perfect candidate for the Slut of Vault 77. He awoke in his private quarters, a sparse metal room with one piece of furniture: a full-sized mattress covered in a black rubber sheet. A series of chains hung from the pipes along the ceilings and the walls hung several toys, whips, cuffs and collars for his guests to use. His closet was filled with a variety of outfits and shoes befitting a boy of his position, though he mostly stalked about the vault in his own custom-made vaultsuit.

The lithe blonde awoke lazily, squirming beneath the soft blanket that covered his naked form and swiping his foot through a pool of last night's pleasure that had yet to dry. He blinked in surprise and smiled softly to himself. Violet did not remember bringing a man back to his room, but there was every possibility that someone had come to use him during the night while he slept. Each day was spent being used until total exhaustion and the boy had frequently awakened with the dim recollection of a man creeping into his room for late-night satisfaction. The femboy drew himself from the bed to shower in the tiny stall within his room.

He emerged from his bedroom an hour later, standing six inches taller in a pair of high-heeled, brown leather thigh high boots. His PVC vaultsuit reached into the shafts of the boots, a series of buckles along the boots cinched them to his body. The vaultsuit was a full catsuit with a high collar up his neck and a double-zipper construction. It could be unzipped starting at the collar or, more commonly, it was unzipped from just above his plump rear to allow anyone access to the boy. The blue suit was contrasted with the word "SLUT" stamped in bright yellow on the lower back and a number "7" on each ass cheek. The sleeves of his suit disappeared into brown leather, shoulder-length gloves that also bore straps buckling it to his arms. His hair was done in a pair of familiar pigtails, his eyes heavily shadowed and his lips painted in a glossy pink that would stick through hours of abuse.

Violet felt the hungry gazes of men the moment he stepped from his bedroom. His own blue eyes met each gaze in kind-- they all knew he would fuck them anywhere, anytime. He stood for a moment, hands on hips and looking along the corridor at the handful of dwellers who studied his emergence. The blonde breathed in a soft sigh of contentment, drinking in even the hateful glares of the vault's women. They knew the boy's penchant for seducing "taken" men, heard rumors of how eagerly he pursued newly weds and fathers-to-be. It was a sneaking suspicion among the women of whether or not any man had refused the boy, especially when menstruation seemed to hit the entire female population at once.

He turned on toe toward the cafeteria and set off in a patented strut that made their heads turn. Each footfall was gracefully placed one before the other, his sashay a bouncing sway of his hips that popped his rear from side to side in a forbidden tease. Nineteen years old and well versed in seduction, he smirked to himself at the hush that followed his passing. The clack of his heels against the metal punctuated his approach, his eye meeting the lustful looks of men as he made his way into the cafeteria. Violet paused at the door, laying a hand on the chest of a man who walked with his pregnant wife.

"Chester, congratulations on the new baby," the slut smiled, ignoring the venomous look of the woman next to him, "Let's celebrate the occasion-- just you and me." The femboy's hand trailed down the man's chest and softly groped the man's crotch. The woman gasped and Chester blushed heavily. He flashed Violet a shameful look, trying to pretend as though he hadn't already visited the femboy over the last few months. Before the two could begin their dispute, the femboy strutted away to grab his breakfast.

He sat alone at the diner bar, idly picking at his plate and dimly wondering who had come to fuck him while he slept. His legs crossed delicately, one foot bouncing in boredom. It was only morning, Violet knew full well that someone would find him soon enough. And if that didn't work, then he could just go wait in the showers for whoever to appear.