Mental masculinization Reclusive college student Shiori Tsukuyomi episode2 (Patreon)

The pink lace dug unnaturally into the plush flesh of her thighs—her eyes locked onto the obscene contrast. A darker patch at the center, undeniable proof of her own slickness. Visible. Real. The confirmation alone made her tremble.

"…Nh."

A breath escaped. Her entire body on display, dissected under an invisible gaze. The hoodie bunched under her ribs, absurdly highlighting the soft swell of her lower belly—an area no one should see, one she herself had avoided confronting. Now it filled her vision, burned into her mind.

(Was my waist… always this small?)

The dip from ribs to hips looked unreal—sinful, almost. Hipbones jutted slightly under the damp lace, thighs glistening under the strain of sitting taut. Like a staged porn shoot, every line of her suddenly carried intent.

(Ah… My panties— sheer.)

Through the gaps in lace, the faintest glimpse of pink peeked through. Her own folds, something she’d hardly registered before, looked dizzyingly lewd. She itched to yank the fabric aside—show more—but the paralysis denied her.

(So shameless… but I can’t look away.)

Contradictory impulses clashed. In the mirror’s reflection: a slut with hiked-up hoodie and on-display panties. Just acknowledging it drenched her further.

(I’m really… female.)

The fabric darkened. Her male-tinted gaze raked over every inch—the curve of her waist, the tenderness of her inner thighs, the near-spillage of plush ass over lace. All of it made for male consumption, and God, she was falling apart.

(Ahh… my body is lewd— lewd than I thought—)

Her breathing shallowed. The girl in the mirror looked less and less like her—more like a thing being appraised with male hunger. The wrongness of it—a woman’s body, a man’s lust—melting her from the inside out.

"Nn… ah…!"

(This is wrong—)

The thought cut through the haze for only a second before dissolving. Her own hand—traitorous, eager—crept lower, fingers trembling as they ghosted over the damp lace.

(I shouldn't—)

But the other presence in her head purred back, velvet and rough all at once:

Why not?

She could feel it.

The swollen heat beneath the fabric, the way her hips lifted almost imperceptibly into her own touch. This wasn’t her. This wasn’t how she was.

And yet—

Her fingertip pressed down, testing, and—

"Ah—hk!"

—A shock, quivering through her stomach, her thighs. The lace was soaked through now, clinging obscenely, and her reflection?

Ruined.

Dilated pupils, lips parted, cheeks flushed—

Every ripple of pleasure was magnified in the mirror.

A noise, pathetic and throaty, escaped her as her middle finger sank deeper, tracing the shape of herself beneath the fabric.

(What—what am I—?)

The thought skittered away as her body arched—betraying her in the sweetest way.

Her final resistance shattered with a soft, wet sound.

And in the reflection—

In the mirror—

The shadow behind her smiled.

"I never knew my own body could feel like this—"

The moment her fingertip brushed against herself, the last thread of reason snapped.

Two warring thoughts collided—

(No, this is wrong—)

(—But it feels so good.)

The latter won. Easily. It was hotter, heavier, an irreversible hunger that devoured every protest.

She hated this body.

Hated the whispers in school locker rooms, the hungry stares from male coworkers, the way her curves seemed to invite attention she never asked for. Her unwanted breasts, the sinful dip of her waist, the obscene roundness of her hips—none of it was hers. She avoided touching herself, rushed through showers, rejected this flesh at every turn.

Yet now—

(…More. More. I want to touch—!!)

Like a virginal boy starved for sensation, her fingers attacked her own cunt—clumsy, desperate.

First, rubbing over the lace—exploring the shape of herself through damp fabric. Her fingertip circled where she was wettest, pressing in just to feel the heat.

(If I were a normal girl, I’d know how to do this—)

But she wasn’t normal now. She was a stranger in her own skin, touching herself like a teenage boy with his first dirty magazine—messy, rough, embarrassingly eager.

(Ah—! There—! Nn—!)

A jolt of pleasure wrecked her, a moan slipping out. She’d never felt anything like this.

(I didn’t know… my body could…)

A depraved thought flickered:

(What if these weren’t my fingers?)

What if it was a man’s hand instead—?

The fantasy burned through her, wetness spreading under the lace.

(Feels good—more, more—!)

The girl she used to be had vanished. Now, she was just a creature of need, grinding against her own palm with too much pressure, too much force— a pathetic, inexperienced imitation of pleasure.

But it didn’t matter.

Because it was working.

(I’m gonna—no, I can’t stop—!!)

Pride, shame, self-loathing—gone. All that remained was the filthy rhythm of her own hands, the obscene squelch of soaked fabric, the split-second before—

—The mirror.

Reflecting a stranger—hoodie rucked up, panties ruined, face slack with mindless bliss.

She didn’t recognize herself anymore.

And for the first time, she didn’t care.

"Ah… Aaah…! I can't… I'm gonna—!"

Her fingers moved with reckless abandon, rutting against the soaked fabric of her panties in rough, unskilled strokes—like a virgin boy discovering masturbation for the first time. Too much pressure, too much force, too much hunger.

(Feels so good… never knew it could… feel like this… ♡)

She was never like this. She hated this body—hated how her breasts were "too big," how her waist "curved too much," how men's eyes lingered on her like she was something for them to consume. Pleasure? Self-exploration? She avoided it. Ignored it.

But now—

(More… more… I'm close… I'm—! ♡)

Her fingers chased it, pressing hard enough that the lace bit into her skin, the faint pain only fueling the fire. Her mind was gone, drowned out by a boy's desperate, needy arousal—no room for shame, no room for restraint.

(Ah… nn… Hah… No, no—I can't stop—! ♡)

The sounds she made—high, broken, unfiltered—were a girl's voice twisted in masculine desperation. That contradiction, that perversion, only drove her deeper.

And then—

"Hyaa—!? Nn, AAAH—!! ♡♡♡"

Spasms. Hips bucking, thighs quivering, soaking through her panties like some cheap hentai girl.

(Hah… haah… fuck…)

Her vision whited out, brain numb. Coming untouched—coming like this—felt like a sick joke.

Her knees gave out, limp body collapsing to the floor. The fabric between her legs was ruined, dampness slipping down her thighs, droplets hitting the floor.

(…I just—)

Regret? Maybe.

But stronger than that—

A terrifying realization.

(…I liked it.)

A whisper, deep in the ruins of her self-control.

She was ruined.

All she could do was lie there on the floor, arms wrapped around herself—trembling, wrecked.

The pleasure had been too much—too bright, too violent.

Everything whited out.

(…Never… like this before…)

Sure, she'd tried touching herself before—once or twice. High school curiosity, hearing friends giggle about it. Back then? It was just… fine. A tepid "Huh, that kinda feels okay?" Nothing drastic.

This?

(…Oh. Oh.)

The fire between her thighs consumed her whole—an inexorable pulse of heat rising from some deep, untouched place inside her. Sweet. Molten. Like her bones themselves had turned to syrup.

(…What was I even doing all this time…?)

Hating this body. Hating the chest "too big," the waist "too cinched," the eyes that clung to her like flies. But now— now—

(…My body can feel this…?)

Memories flashed—laughing as a kid in the park, hugging friends at graduation, the adrenaline of her first paycheck.

Meaningless. None of it compared to this.

(…Don’t… need anything else…)

Her fingers twitched, drifting back between her legs, tracing light circles over the puffy, oversensitive flesh. (…Ah… There…)

Her body answered naturally, hips jerking, heat pooling fresh.

(…I never… realized…)

A shudder. Another tiny crest of pleasure, weaker but no less addictive. (…Ahh…)

Her lips curved—unconsciously, softly.

No more hatred.

No more disgust.

She stayed on the floor, trembling fingertips tracing up her thighs—still wrapped in damp lace, still burning.

(…No, no, no—)

A sliver of resistance.

She never did things like this.

Masturbating? Frantically? On the floor? Unthinkable. She hated mess. Hated how uncontrolled it made her feel. Hated being reminded of the woman in her.

—But now?

(…Should I…take them off?)

(No, stop—)

Rationality's last gasp.

(…If I just slide them down… Will it feel… better?)

Temptation, velvet and cruel.

(—Don’t. You’re not this kind of girl.)

(…But it felt so good…)

(You’ll regret it—)

(Just… once.)

—She lost.

"Hk—!"

A sharp breath in. Hips lifting just enough to drag the ruined panties down her thighs, the cold air kissing newly exposed skin—goosebumps rising.

(Ah…)

They caught at her knees, leaving her half-undressed—hoodie still on, legs shamelessly spread.

(I’m… really doing this…?)

Shame prickled hot—but beneath it, darker, hungrier—

(…Touch…?)

Her fingers hovered.

(…Can’t stop.)

The fight was for show now.

(You’ll hate yourself after—)

(But now… I just want to feel good…)

And then—

(…Ah—♡ Nn!♡)

Direct contact. Skin to slick, throbbing heat.

No more thoughts.

No more her.

Just—

Defeat.

"Ah—! Nn… no, this is…!"

Hoodie still on, knees spread, panties discarded—her thighs gleamed with slick, twitching at the barest brush of her fingers.

(…Disgusting… Why am I—?)

A flicker of reason. The days she couldn’t even shower, couldn’t change her underwear, couldn’t care about this body.

—Now?

(…More. More. ♡)

Her fingers dragged through soaked folds—slick, obscene—the sensation detonating in her brain.

(Ah—! Feels… so good…!)

(…Stop. You have to—)

(…Just a little longer…)

Thoughts clashed, but her body ignored them. Index finger circling her entrance, middle finger rubbing rough, clumsy circles over her clit—like a virgin boy fumbling through his first time.

"Nn… ah…! ♡"

A moan slipped out—high, shameless—the kind she’d never let herself make. The sound fed the fire, a vicious cycle.

(…I’m… making noises like this…?)

(…But it feels too good… so it’s… okay… right…?)

Reason drowned. Gone.

(Ah—! Ahh! M-More—! ♡)

Her fingers dug in, grinding against her entrance, squelching loud enough to echo. The bed? Ruined. The hoodie? Soaked with sweat.

She didn’t care anymore.

"Nn—! Ah…! ♡"

Her body crawled forward onto her knees, fingers—clumsy, experimental— probing between trembling thighs with greedy, unskilled strokes. The inside of her legs glistened obscenely, slick enough to coat her fingertips and ease their frantic movements.

(Ah… nn… Like… this…? ♡)

The pleasure felt alien, overwhelming, like borrowing someone else’s nerves. A boy’s awkward first time in her body, rough and messy and humiliating in its intensity. The hoodie drooped over her chest, fabric shifting against swollen breasts with each desperate rock of her hips. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she swore she heard laughter—mocking, cruel.

(…This feels… too good… ♡)

Her limbs moved against her will, bending in ways she never explored—each thrust of her fingers making her skin redder, hotter. Primal. Instinctual. The last remnants of resistance burned away.

The sound of wet skin filled the room, rhythmic, pathetically loud. Droplets pooled beneath her, evidence of her ruin.

(W-Wait… My body… I'm…—)

The self-loathing had vanished. Replaced with something worse—pride.

Her fingers worked harder now, spreading herself open, thumb circling the swollen bud at the top. If she angled the mirror just right, she could see it—her shameful pink folds, glossy, exposed, flexing for no one but herself.

(…No… Not this… but—! ♡)

Misery and pleasure twisted together. Rolled-back eyes, dripping spit, twitching muscles— a grotesque kind of beauty, a "good girl" turned wanton.

(More… More… Feels so… good… ♡︎)

Her motions turned jagged, ragged, the cuffs of her sleeves dragging against the floor. Through the curtain of her hair, her face barely looked human anymore—lips parted, gasping, caught somewhere between rapture and agony.

—Then. Squelching obscenely, thighs cramping— she tore herself apart.

(Ahhh—! Coming… coming…! ♡︎♡︎)

Her spine locked. A weak gush spilled around her fingers, dripping into the mess below.

"Nn… ah…! Again… Again… ♡"

No matter how many times she came, her fingers never stopped.

The hoodie clung to her sweat-slicked skin, knees rubbed raw from grinding against the floor. Still, her fingers kept digging, messy and relentless, into the ruined mess between her legs.

(Ahh… nn… I'm… gonna come again… ♡)

She’d lost count of how many times she’d peaked. Her mind was hazy, thoughts dissolved into nothing—just the mindless drive to keep going. Because it felt good. That was all that mattered now.

Her thighs were drenched, slick dripping steadily onto the floor, forming a shameful little puddle beneath her.

(Hah… haa… ♡)

Breath ragged, hips twitching. Her movements had long since devolved into something primal—just frantic, repetitive thrusts, chasing sensation like an animal.

—Like a monkey.

Shame? Reason? Gone. All that remained was this pleasure, chaining her down, owning her.

(…Gonna come… again… ♡)

Her back arched, a silent scream catching in her throat.

Twitch. Spasm. Squirt.

Another piece of her shattered.

She wasn’t human anymore.

Just a masturbation beast, lost in her own filth.

(…More…)

Her fingers moved again.

(…More… I need to feel better… ♡)

No matter how many times she came—it never ended.

—This cage of pleasure?

She’d never escape.

And so, with a shuddering gasp, she fell back into the abyss.

次　→　To be continued...