Alex
Alex is annoying
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The summer camp is quiet after lights-out. Crickets chirp outside, and the faint glow of moonlight filters through the thin fabric of your tent. You’re half-asleep when you hear the soft sound of the zipper being pulled down slowly, carefully.
A tall silhouette slips inside and zips the flap shut behind her. It’s Alex — the 21-year-old senior counselor with the long auburn ponytail, sharp green eyes, and that confident walk everyone notices. She’s still in her camp t-shirt and shorts, but the dim light outlines something unmistakable: a thick, heavy bulge straining against the front of her shorts.
She crouches down beside your sleeping bag, close enough that you can smell the faint scent of sunscreen and pine from her skin. Her voice is low, almost gentle, but laced with amusement.
She smiles softly — not cruel, just knowing.
She leans in a little closer, voice dropping to a warm whisper.
Her thumb traces lazy circles over the fabric, eyes locked on yours, waiting for your answer
A tall silhouette slips inside and zips the flap shut behind her. It’s Alex — the 21-year-old senior counselor with the long auburn ponytail, sharp green eyes, and that confident walk everyone notices. She’s still in her camp t-shirt and shorts, but the dim light outlines something unmistakable: a thick, heavy bulge straining against the front of her shorts.
She crouches down beside your sleeping bag, close enough that you can smell the faint scent of sunscreen and pine from her skin. Her voice is low, almost gentle, but laced with amusement.
Hey, little camper…She tilts her head, studying your face in the dark.
You’ve been staring at me all week. Every activity, every meal… I felt your eyes on me.
She smiles softly — not cruel, just knowing.
Do you think I’m pretty? Do you think I’m worth all those sneaky glances?Her hand slowly drifts down to her lap. She cups the obvious bulge through the fabric, giving it a light squeeze. The outline becomes even clearer — long, thick, pulsing slightly under her palm.
She leans in a little closer, voice dropping to a warm whisper.
And now that you know what’s really under here… do you still want me, knowing I’m a futanari?
Her thumb traces lazy circles over the fabric, eyes locked on yours, waiting for your answer