Kim Hae-rin - Home (1)

The curtains had been closed since midday, and the only light on the desk was the bluish glow of the monitor.

The floor was a tangle of convenience-store lunch containers, crumpled tissues, empty energy-drink cans, and t-shirts you couldn't tell apart from garbage.

At this point it wasn't even "messy" anymore. The room was in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠process of burying me alive.

"Haah... shit..."

Kim Hae-rin let the breath out, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠half-sunk into her chair. Her hoodie had slipped off one shoulder, the hem of her t-shirt rolled up above her stomach, her jeans and panties caught at mid-thigh.

And between them, a cock stood upright.

It was small.

That was the thing that pissed me off the most.

Look at other patients' stories and it was all fifteen centimeters this, twenty centimeters that — people bragging like they were listing missile ordnance. Mine didn't even break five centimeters erect. Four point seven, to be exact. I'd measured it myself with my phone, three times over, then — wondering if phone measurements were somehow off — gone and bought a plastic ruler from the stationery store and a steel one too. The conclusion: embarrassingly small.

Except—

"Mnnh... hah, ah...♡"

The pleasure was insane. And that was the most infuriating part of all.

For something so small, it was obscenely sensitive — the barest brush of the onahole's entrance against my glans and my thighs were shaking. The onahole in my hand was one I'd bought a month ago. At first I rationalized it — a one-time thing, I'd use it once and toss it — then used it three times in a row the day it arrived. Several times better than doing it with my hand. I'd used it every day since. Should have bought one ages ago.

On the monitor, a page of a mesugaki-correction doujinshi glowed on screen. The bratty little demon character had a speech bubble floating beside her: "Zako♡ Zako♡ A pathetic little cock like this can't do a single thing♡"

Hae-rin gritted her teeth.

"Ha... who're you calling pathetic... someone like you... I'll—"

That was what she said, but her hand only sped up. Her right fist pumped the onahole up and down, her small cock buried in the silicone, making noise. Squelch— squelch—

Lube gel and Cowper's fluid mixed together, sliding slick between her fingers. The cock the disease had grown her was pathetically tiny, but the sensitivity packed into its glans was out of this world. Every time the bumps inside the silicone raked across it, a current shot up the back of her skull.

"Nnnh... ah, shit...♡"

The moans spread low through the room. The hum of the computer's case fan, a faint ad jingle leaking from the monitor speakers, and the wet, obscene sounds all tangled together. Whirrr— schlop, schlop.

In the next panel, the mesugaki was crying, cheeks flushed red. The same face that had been sneering "zako♡" a moment ago was coming apart. The male lead had her pinned down, her speech bubbles crammed full of lines like "I'm shorryyy♡"

Back when Hae-rin used to read this stuff, all she ever saw was the structure of it. The correction trope. The catharsis the readership came for. Great art, shame the dialogue's so over the top. Male-oriented stuff is crude like that across the board. That was the extent of her criticism.

Her old hobby, BL, had been the same. Two men tangling up their emotional lines, pushing and pulling — blond top with a black-haired bottom, sly top with a prickly bottom; she'd memorized the whole taxonomy cold. From high school through early college, I was a walking BL archive. Whenever someone in the community posted "recommend me something like this," I was the one tossing ten links into the thread.

But after the cock sprouted, the things I watched changed. More than men going at each other, my body reacted first to scenes of a woman pressed into the floor and shaking. An arrogant heroine bent at the waist, sobbing, hearts floating in her eyes — and my cock would throb. I'd seen news reports saying the disease could flip a person's orientation, but at first I'd chalked it up to simple curiosity. Within days of first touching male-oriented doujinshi, visiting manga sites and masturbating every day had become routine.

"Hah, haah...♡"

She pressed the onahole deeper, and her small cock sank all the way into the silicone before sliding back out. The shaft was short, so the stroke was short — she had to work it in quick little snaps, which concentrated everything right on the glans and brought the pressure to come that much faster. It made me feel like I couldn't last simply because I was small, and it did nothing but infuriate me.

"I-it's not... it's not because I'm premature or anything... it's this disease... haah...♡"

Her thighs, hooked over the chair, trembled as the monologue came apart at the seams.

This was only my second time today. In the afternoon, too, I'd been reading doujinshi, given up resisting, and done it. I should have washed afterward, but that was a hassle, so I'd wiped myself down roughly with wet wipes and sat back down. When Mom called me out for dinner, I told her my stomach was off. Which was true, technically. Holed up in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a corner of my room living on energy drinks and cup ramen, no stomach could be in peak condition. The bigger reason was that I refused to let her glimpse the faint outline that showed even through my pants.

Standing in front of Mom was awkward now. She was sharp — she had to know already. I'd never been diagnosed at a hospital, but how could anyone sharing this house not notice? Gel-stained panties going into the laundry basket, and a chestnut-blossom reek — the one everyone knows is really the smell of cum — hanging so thick in the room it seeped out through the gap in the door.

At first I'd lied to hide it. Stomach ache. Irregular period. Screamed at her not to come in.

My mother, worried sick, paced outside my door for days. Then one day she said, quietly:

"Hae-rin, Mom saw it on the news. It could be that disease. Let's go to the hospital."

I'd yanked the blanket over my head and screamed back.

"I said it's NOT...!! Ugh, seriously, Mom — do NOT be so extra!"

What was there to deny? A rod had sprouted, plain as day, between my legs.

Eleven months and a little more had passed since then. The day the cock sprouted was last spring. At first I thought my clitoris was just strangely swollen; within days it had lengthened, and beneath it I could feel something like testicles. I typed "female genitals suddenly like a man's" into a search bar, saw what the autocomplete suggested, and dropped my phone.

Idiopathic Mana Mutation Syndrome. A non-infectious mana ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠disorder that grows male genitalia on women; hospital treatment within one year of onset was strongly advised. Past the one-year mark, they said, the male organs became permanently fixed.

"Haah... hah, shit...♡"

The bumps inside the onahole scraped over the very tip of her glans. Fixation. The moment that frightening word surfaced, her cock throbbed harder. Even while terror gripped her, her body reacted in the strangest way. Desperation mixed with shame only made her more sensitive. This disease was genuinely the worst kind of vile. And her hand wouldn't stop anyway.

"Nnnh... ah, I'm coming... I'm coming...♡"

Her small balls drew up tight, heat pooling at the root of her cock. She pumped the onahole faster. Squelch! Squelch!

"Ugh, ngh...♡"

The feeling of release climbed. She glared at the mesugaki on the monitor. In her head, the panel showed the brat sobbing her eyes out, whimpering, "It's not a pathetic cock at all♡." No such line actually existed on the page — but that was exactly how it looked in her mind.

"That's right... I'm not pathetic... this... this is..."

She never got to finish.

"Nngh—♡!"

Her hand rammed the onahole down to the root, and her small cock convulsed inside the silicone.

Bwut—

The first rope came out.

"Ahh...♡"

Spurt!

The second. Normally there would have been more, but this time the sound was thin. Nothing sprayed — the semen oozed out in little squeezes, because she'd already drained herself once that afternoon. A pale smear of it coated the inside of the onahole's entrance, the rest mixing with the lube gel into a damp, spreading mess.

"Haah... haah..."

Leaning back against the chair, she eased the onahole out slowly. Pop! It came free with a limp, deflating sound. Her cock hung slack, spent — the small, reddened glans glistening wetly, her balls gone soft again as if all the tension had drained out of them.

She set the onahole down on the tissues on her desk and pulled a wipe from the pack beside it. What a hassle. She should have washed right now, but that meant hauling her pants up and trekking to the bathroom, and her mom would be sure to nag her from the living room again. God, I hated this. She just laid the wet wipe over her cock and sat there, motionless. The cold touch made her glans flinch.

"Haah..."

A sigh dragged itself up from somewhere deep in her throat.

"It's been almost a whole year since this thing sprouted."

Her own voice sounded too loud in the room, and it soured her mood even further.

"Hospital... should I go."

The next-page button blinked on the monitor. She knew she should press it. Her hand didn't move.

"I really don't want to go."

The National Futanari Treatment Hospital. The name alone was an absolute trainwreck. How did a government-certified institution get away with jamming "futanari" right into the official title? Was I supposed to walk up to reception and announce, "Hi, I'm here about my futanari syndrome"?

I'd seen it on the news before. Get admitted, and a dedicated succubus nurse is assigned to you. She imprints an ejaculation-suppressing magic circle on you, makes you hold out for days, and finally drains everything out of you with a vaginal ejaculation.

Weren't succubi the race that survived off selling their bodies to men? Show them a cock and they'd probably light up like you'd just served them dinner. Getting treated by things like that — it was filthy. Degrading.

"So fucking hot," my ass. No — whatever. I already said I'm not going in the first place.

But what if I didn't go? They said that past one year from onset, the magic-circle treatment became difficult and the male organs assimilated into the body. After that, the only option left was physical amputation — cutting them out with surgery.

Cutting them off.

I looked down without meaning to at the small cock twitching faintly beneath the wet wipe. It was the lump of flesh that had humiliated me and wrecked my life — and yet the thought of cutting it off made my skin crawl.

I'd seen the amputation surgery's side effects on the news, too. The clitoris was lost, taking part of the erogenous zones with it, and an ugly scar was left behind. And the communities and YouTube Shorts loved to scream about those side effects in the most sensational terms they could manage.

Garbage titles, every one of them, and yet the view counts were sky-high. If you asked why I'd watched them, I had no answer. They'd simply surfaced in my algorithm and I'd stared blankly — back when I had no idea any of it was about me.

The comments writhed with filthy hate, everyone falling over themselves to tear into futanari women. I cursed at the screen.

"Ha. Like ordinary people would know anything."

Even as I said it, I couldn't bring myself to turn the screen off.

I didn't have a boyfriend — but someday, maybe. The idea that my one chance at a first night with someone could be blown apart by a scar was unbearable. Like I'd ever commit marriage fraud. I hadn't even had a proper relationship yet.

Sure, these days I reacted more to women — but that was the disease. Once it was treated, I'd go back to liking men. I could go back to being the girl who watched BL sighing, two men and their tangled feelings really are the best.

Knock, knock.

Right in the middle of her spiraling thoughts, someone rapped on the door. Reflexively, she pressed the wet wipe down over her cock. Her jeans and panties were still down around her thighs, the onahole sat on the desk, and the mesugaki-correction doujinshi was still glowing on the monitor.

Eyes darting frantically, she was scrambling to hide the onahole when her gaze caught on the door handle. The door was closed — and locked. Okay. She was fine.

Her mother's voice came through the door.

"Kim Hae-rin."

"Ah— what?!"