My Femboy System-Chapter 53: Let’s have Sex

Aria’s words didn’t hang in the air.

They didn’t drift like smoke or land soft like petals. No, they slammed into me with the force of a spell I hadn’t braced for. "Let’s have sex," she said, and it might as well have been a divine command.

One that bypassed every rational nerve in my body and struck squarely at the chaos in my chest, where lust, confusion, curiosity, and thirty-seven varieties of "what the fuck" did somersaults in time with my pulse.

I blinked. I actually blinked. Not the slow, smoldering kind, but the deer-in-headlights, "did-someone-slip-me-a-potion" kind. My lips parted, but no words came out—just a little squeak of breath that betrayed the storm in my skull. My body hadn’t moved. Every limb had frozen in place like I’d stepped on a pressure plate, and the wrong breath would detonate the world. I couldn’t decide whether to laugh, run, or offer her a drink and a place to sit.

"Aria..." I began, and didn’t finish.

Because that was when she kissed me.

It wasn’t a shy thing. Not a soft, fluttering, maidens-curiosity kind of kiss. No, it was wet, messy, and inarguable. Her mouth crushed against mine, lips parting with such slick determination that all thought left the room and slammed the door behind it. I tasted breath, fire, a whimper caught in the back of her throat like a secret, and maybe just a hint of whatever starlight she was spun from.

She pulled back just barely—enough for breath, not logic.

Then she lifted her dress.

Not with a coy hand or a seductive slink. Just—lifted. Straight up, tattered fabric sliding over her thighs like it had betrayed her modesty for the last time. And there, in the low blue glow of the greenhouse light, her body spoke for her.

No underwear. No pretense. Just slick, glistening confirmation that she hadn’t been joking. Moisture threaded between her thighs in slow, sticky strings like molten silver catching the moonlight. It wasn’t the sort of thing you looked at. It was the kind of sight that pulled you in, like the tide, like gravity, like fate holding a wet, trembling breath.

She whispered one word. A single syllable, fragile and trembling with too many layers to count.

"...Please."

And gods forgive me, I folded.

Like parchment. Like a traitor. Like a man who’d survived fire and blood and betrayal only to crumble at the tremble in a girl’s voice and the shimmer of her skin.

I didn’t answer.

I just moved.

Spun her around, my hand on her hip, guiding her back against me like she’d always belonged there. Our mouths collided again—less kiss, more collision, all teeth and heat and a groan that might’ve belonged to either of us. I grabbed the back of her dress and yanked—not roughly, not carelessly, just hungrily. The sound of cloth parting was satisfying in a way that was borderline immoral.

She gasped. Actually gasped. And then—

A soft, choked moan spilled from her throat like something she hadn’t meant to release.

She didn’t fall—but she buckled.

My hands found her waist, her ribs, then higher, then lower, trailing fingertips across every inch of bare skin like I was reading an epic carved into marble. She shivered at every touch. Her whole body responded—tiny jerks, nervous quivers, little jolts of tension every time my palms pressed a new path across her thighs, her hips, the back of her neck.

When I cupped the soft curve beneath her navel, she shuddered—and a second later, she climaxed. Just a little. But I felt it. Her legs shook, breath hitched, her back arched ever so slightly against me, and I knew—knew—that my name was echoing somewhere behind her eyes.

She pulled away—pushed me, really—with trembling hands, face flushed beyond reason.

"Not so fast," she breathed, panting now, her voice caught somewhere between shame and need and so much want it almost hurt to hear.

I froze.

And watched.

Aria stepped forward—no, stalked—like a beast born of silk and blush and terrible, unspeakable bravery. Her hands were shaking, but she didn’t stop. One foot in front of the other until she was kneeling—slowly, tentatively—before me. She looked up, unsure. Then down.

Then leaned in.

And sniffed.

A little one. Then another. Like she was committing the scent of me to memory. Her eyes glazed. Her lips parted. And then—delicately, reverently—she pressed a kiss to the bulge in my trousers.

It was like being struck by lightning wearing nothing but pride.

A long, sticky string of saliva clung between her lips and the fabric when she pulled back. Her face was wild now, lost somewhere between hunger and disbelief and something fragile that hadn’t decided if it was courage or madness. She looked up again—those wide, glassy eyes locking to mine like she was waiting for permission to keep breathing.

I undid my belt.

Let it fall on her face.

My skin kissed her cheek as it dropped, and I swear she nearly melted. I saw her nose twitch. She moaned. Moaned like a girl chasing after a scent she couldn’t bear to lose. Then, with trembling hands, she reached for it.

One kiss.

Then another.

Then she parted her lips and took me in.

The world narrowed. My thoughts stuttered. My knees wobbled like I was standing on the edge of something so sharp it could only be pleasure. Her tongue moved slow—so slow—curling and exploring like she wasn’t sure which part of me to worship first. She built rhythm like a hymn, each motion more desperate than the last, until she was taking more, deeper, lips stretched, eyes glassy with devotion and something fevered.

Her other hand drifted down.

Between her legs.

She didn’t try to hide it.

Didn’t blush or pretend.

She wanted. And every stroke of her fingers matched the pull of her mouth.

Faster now. Suckling, drawing, every noise sticky and wet and obscene in the quiet greenhouse air. Her breath came in muffled huffs, cheeks flushing deeper with every pass. I groaned—loudly, helplessly. My hand tangled in her hair, not pushing, not guiding—just holding, like I needed to be tethered to something or I’d fly apart entirely.

I felt the end approaching. Like a rising storm.

The pressure built—tight, high, dangerous.

Just before it hit, she pulled off—gasping, coughing, licking the corner of her lips in dazed confusion.

And then—

I came.

Hard.

A thick, pulsing release that struck the bridge of her nose in one long, impossible arc. It clung to her lashes. Her cheeks. A single pearl slid down her lips like melted prayer.

She collapsed backward with a whimper, limbs jelly-soft, breath lost.

And I followed, crashing down beside her, the world still spinning in syrup-slow circles around me.

We lay there—naked, undone, silent.

The fake stars above us twinkled like they’d seen too much.

I glanced sideways, my voice a raw whisper. "You okay?"

Aria didn’t answer at first. Just stared up at the painted sky like it might wink at her. Then she nodded—slowly, eyes glazed but dreamy—and whispered back.

"...Yeah."

I reached for her tattered dress. Draped it across her like a blanket spun from secrets and aftermath.

She looked at me then.

And smiled.

"Thanks," she murmured.

We lay in silence for what felt like hours—naked, exhausted, breathless, the sticky warmth of shared sin cooling between us. The stars above, fake though they were, hung like glitter pinned to velvet, unmoving and indifferent. Their light flickered across the greenhouse dome, kissing the blue of her eyes and the sweat still glistening on her skin. And in that quiet, when all the chaos of the Tower seemed to finally step back and give us just one moment of peace, she turned her head and whispered, "Cecil... if you could be anything in the world, what would you be?"

The question was gentle. A breath. But it landed in my chest like a stone in water. I turned to look at her, the way her fingers brushed idly across her stomach, the way her eyes looked past me—at nothing. At everything. My voice came soft. Barely a rasp. "A king," I said. "Not for power. Just... for control. Over something. Anything."

She giggled. Soft and melodic. But there was no mockery in it—only fondness. "Of course you would," she said. "You already carry yourself like you wear a crown no one can see."

I smirked, but she didn’t.

She looked back up at the stars—or their cheap imitation. Her voice turned quieter. "I think I’d be a star. One of those big, distant ones. Unmoving. Unchanging. Just... fixed. Like I’d never have to doubt anything again."

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. "It’s stupid, I know," she continued. "I ran away from home. From my responsibilities. From people who needed me. I thought if I got far enough away, I’d find something bigger. But the Tower didn’t give me meaning. It just reminded me I never had any."

I sat in silence. Not out of pity. Not because I didn’t understand.

But because I did.

Because I’d felt that ache too—some deep, gnawing yearning to be whole, to be true, to finally become the shape of the man I was always chasing. The person I glimpsed in mirrors and shadows but never fully found. It was like chasing smoke with bare hands.

"I keep telling myself I’m brave," she said, voice trembling now. "But maybe I was just stupid. And selfish. I don’t even know what I am anymore. Not to the people I left. Not to myself."

When I looked at her, there was a single tear sliding down the curve of her cheek. It caught the false starlight like it deserved to be a constellation of its own. She turned her head. Her lips didn’t move, but her eyes pleaded.

"I just...I want a place. I want to belong again. Even if it’s only to one person." She reached for me, voice no louder than breath. "Can I belong to you, Cecil? Not just now. Always. Can I have a place in your life?"

Something caught in my throat. I sat up slowly. She followed. We faced each other—wounded, worn, but wide open.

I reached into my coat.

And drew the pen.

Her breath caught.

She nodded.

No fanfare. No ceremony. Just understanding.

I leaned in. Kissed her softly—slow, steady. Then I pressed the pen gently against her collarbone and whispered the word. The magic took hold instantly. Not a flash of light. Not a tremor. Just... transformation. Her form shifted beneath my hands, elegant and gentle. Her frame narrowed. Her voice caught in her throat. Her dress loosened around different hips. And when she blinked and looked down—

She was smiling.

She—no, he now—let out a small laugh, somewhere between disbelief and delight. "It... it worked," he whispered, hands tracing down his new chest, then stopping abruptly as his palm brushed lower. His face flushed deep scarlet. "Oh, gods," he gasped, laughing again, giddy and bashful all at once. "I’m going to need... a lot of adjusting."

He turned to me, eyes bright with new identity and old longing. "Thank you," he said, then leaned in for another kiss. This one sweeter. Less desperate. More real.

The dress slipped off his shoulder and he shrugged it off completely, letting it slide to the floor. His eyes flicked down, cheeks flushed. "Still getting used to this..." he muttered, chuckling awkwardly.

I chuckled too. "I think it suits you."

And from there?

Well, we stopped talking.

Let’s just say: skin met skin, again and again, in every variation the gods never intended and the Tower would never forgive. Every new movement made him gasp like he’d just discovered his own body for the first time. I pinned him down and he trembled. He teased and danced and rode the waves of our shared hunger like a man learning how to live again.

We lost ourselves. We found each other. We moaned. We bit. We collapsed and did it again. Every surface in the room became part of the story.

Until we slammed into a desk.

Papers flew like startled birds, scattering across the room. We froze, laughing breathlessly, tangled up and utterly spent.

Something fluttered to the floor beside me.

A map.

I reached for it absently, still panting, fingers twitching.

It wasn’t marked with paths or trails or danger zones like a usual Tower map. No, this one was almost blank—no detail, no elevation. Just outlines. The island. A few ridges. The beach.

And then...one spot. Inked black. Out at sea.

It had been purposefully obscured. As though someone hadn’t wanted it seen. A smear of ink like a wound in the ocean.

And suddenly—

I remembered the axe.

Vincent had one. Not a sword. Not a pistol. An axe.

Why?

What was he chopping?

The answer struck like lightning.

I bolted upright, heart hammering, brain already halfway to the next move. Aria sat up, startled. "What is it?" he asked, breathless.

"No time," I said, already tugging my shirt over my head. "Vincent’s not playing the game anymore."

I crossed the greenhouse in a sprint, nearly knocking over a display of flowers as I reached a tall closet near the elevator. I wrenched it open.

Inside—tools.

Lumber tools.

Axes, saws, hammers. Rusted and heavy, with handles wrapped in moldy cloth and iron blades dulled by disuse but still very much real.

I grabbed one—long, two-handed, cruel.

And grinned.

I ran out into the jungle, found the nearest tree thick with age and resistance, and brought the blade down.

THWACK.

Aria ran after me, now dressed again, breathless and confused. "Cecil—what are you doing?"

I turned to him with wild eyes and a manic smile.

"Carving our way out of here."