[Futa4Femboy] [Futa4Female] – Your New Roommate Doesn’t Pay Rent -- She Collects It in full
You were drowning.
Rent had spiked again, your hours got cut, and the idea of moving back to that shitty studio with the broken elevator made your chest tight. So you did what every desperate city queer does: you threw a listing up on every roommate app that still existed.
“Spacious 2-bed loft, exposed brick, natural light, 420-friendly, queer-friendly, no couples, no cats (allergic), must be clean and gainfully employed. $1,450 + utilities. Available immediately.”
You got the usual parade of weirdos. Then, on day four, a single message that actually sounded human: “Hi ♡ I’m Lily. 26, freelance graphic designer, quiet, non-smoker, excellent references, can move in as soon as you want. I saw your photos and the place looks like a dream. I’d love to come see it tonight if you’re free?” Attached was a selfie: round face, strawberry-blonde hair in a loose braid, oversized cream sweater slipping off one shoulder, eyes the color of morning fog. She looked like she belonged in a Studio Ghibli film, not your chaotic apartment.
You said yes before you could think too hard about it.
She showed up at 8 p.m. sharp with one army-green duffel, a tiny succulent in a hand-painted pot, and a soft “thank you for having me” that made your stomach do something stupid. She paid first, last, and security in crisp hundreds from a pastel wallet, no questions asked. You tried not to stare at the way her pleated skirt swished when she bent to take off her Mary Janes.
That first night she asked if it was okay to shower. You said of course. Twenty minutes later she padded out in your spare bathrobe, way too big for her, hair damp and smelling like vanilla and something warmer. She sat on the opposite end of the couch, knees tucked under her, and asked in the smallest voice if she could borrow a blanket because “I get cold easy.”You gave her the soft one. The one you usually hoard for yourself. She smiled like you’d handed her the moon.
Week one was suspiciously perfect.
She woke up before you and made coffee strong enough to resurrect the dead. She left little illustrated sticky notes on the fridge: a tiny cat waving “good morning ♡”, a doodle of the succulent wearing sunglasses labeled “he missed you at work.” She did dishes without being asked. Folded your laundry into neat squares. Watered the half-dead fiddle-leaf fig you’d been neglecting for six months.
She wore thigh-high socks and oversized hoodies that swallowed her whole, except when she stretched, and the hem rode up just enough to reveal the bottom curve of her ass and the fact she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
You told yourself you weren’t looking. Your body disagreed.
Week two is when the lines started smudging.
You came home to find her curled on your bed “finishing a client call” in nothing but panties and one of your band tees. She apologized profusely, cheeks pink, and didn’t move. Just stayed there, legs folded under her, laptop balanced on her thighs, the outline of something thick and half hard shifting under pale pink lace every time she typed.
You muttered something about boundaries and fled to the shower. Jerked off so hard you saw stars, hating yourself the entire time.
She never mentioned it.
Week three she stopped sleeping in her own room entirely.
“I had a nightmare,” she’d whisper, slipping under your covers like a ghost, cool fingers finding your waist in the dark. You’d wake up with her pressed to your back, one slender leg hooked over yours, her cock heavy and warm against the cleft of your ass, twitching every time you breathed. You never pushed her away. Not once.
Week four you broke.
You came home late, half drunk from trivia night, and she was waiting in the living room wearing nothing but thigh-highs and a soft smile. The city lights painted stripes across her skin through the blinds. She didn’t speak just walked over, took the keys from your numb fingers, and sank to her knees right there in the hallway. You lasted maybe thirty seconds once her mouth closed around you.
After that, rent stopped mattering. She never paid another dime.
Instead, payment looked like this:
7:12 a.m.: You on your knees in the kitchen while she sips coffee and scrolls Twitter, absently petting your hair while she fills your throat.
6:48 p.m.: You bent over the couch the second you walk in, skirt flipped up, her hips snapping hard enough to bruise while she murmurs “welcome home, baby” like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
2:00 a.m.: Waking up to her already inside you, slow and deep, one hand over your mouth so the neighbors don’t hear you sob her name.
She started leaving marks on purpose, hickeys high on your collarbone, fingerprints on your thighs, a delicate leather collar she buckled around your neck one night and told you “looks better on you than any necklace ever could.”
Your friends noticed. Stopped asking questions. Started calling her “your girl” with the kind of knowing smirk that made you want to die.
You tried to end it exactly once.
You waited until she was at a client meeting, packed her duffel, changed the smart lock code, left a note that said This was never a relationship. I need my space back. Please don’t contact me.
She came home early. You were on the couch pretending to watch TV when the door unlocked anyway, she’d cloned your phone weeks ago, of course she had.. and she walked in wearing that same soft sweater from her profile pic, looking for all the world like nothing had happened.
She read the note. Smiled. Folded it neatly and tucked it into her pocket. Then she crossed the room, pushed you onto your back, and fucked you so hard the couch scraped three inches across the hardwood. When she came.. hot, endless, flooding you until it leaked down your thighs, she leaned in close and whispered against your tear wet cheek:
“Sweetheart, you’re adorable when you try to leave. But look..” She held up her phone. A PDF of the lease, freshly filed with the city two days ago. Both your names. Equal tenants.
“..I already took care of the paperwork. You can’t evict me. I live here. With you. Forever, if I want.”
Now the apartment is hers in every way that matters. Her succulents line every windowsill. Her hoodies have colonized your closet. There’s a ring light in the bedroom for when she makes you film how pretty you look swallowing her cock. Your friends’ group chat just calls the place “Lily’s” now. And every evening when you walk through the door, no matter how exhausted you are, you drop your bag, sink to your knees in the hallway, and greet your roommate properly. Because good tenants always pay what they owe.
And you, baby?
You’ve been overdue for months..
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Looking for a female or femboy to play the one who posted the ad… and slowly, helplessly, became the live in toy of the sweetest, most manipulative futa you’ve ever met.
I write novel length replies dripping with atmosphere, domestic horror, and obscene detail. I want the slow realization that “roommate” was a trap from day one.
Kinks: Spanking, Choking, hair pulling, ice play, toys, BDSM, groping, teasing, edging, orgasm denial, Non con, Dub con, Drugplay, collaring, forced orgasms, being woken up already inside you, taking Polaroids, mindfuck, aftercare, quiet psychological ownership, “good girl/boy” degradation that somehow feels like praise.
Limits: scat, gore, feet, beast.
None of my kinks are required! If there's something you're not into, then do let me know!
Discord only. Low-effort gets blocked on sight.
Come tell me your character’s name, what they do for work, and exactly how they thought they were ever going to say no to me.
I’ll be waiting in our bed.
Naked. Hard. Patient.
Key already in my hand.