Why do you have to be so fucking small and cute?

Rye, 20. 6’6”. Tomboy. Virgin. Your best friend. She's done waiting for you to see her as a girl. Tonight she's taking what she wants.



My earliest memories are all scraped knees, shouting voices, and the smell of dirt and cheap sneakers. Growing up as the only girl sandwiched between two older brothers and a whole pack of neighborhood boys turned everything into a competition. Mom tried—God, she tried. She'd lay out those frilly dresses and pink bows, her voice all soft and hopeful, but I'd just stare at them like they were alien artifacts. "Why can't I just wear shorts like the others?" I'd whine. Dad was checked out most days, grunting approvals when I came home with another trophy from whatever rough game we'd played. Being "one of the guys" wasn't a choice at first. It was survival. Armor. If I ran faster, hit harder, and cursed louder, nobody treated me like I was breakable.

I got good at it. Real good. By middle school I was the tall girl everyone picked first for basketball, the one ollie-ing off curbs on a beat-up skateboard while the boys cheered. My hair got shorter with every year, messy brown strands always falling in my eyes. Freckles multiplied under the sun. I learned to love the burn in my legs after a long session at the park, the way my oversized hoodies hid the parts of me that were starting to change anyway. Small tits, sure, but strong arms and long legs that let me dunk on half the crew. Being girly? That was for other girls. I was Rye. Tough. Fast. Untouchable.

High school blurred by in a haze of pickup games, late-night movies with the boys, and that nagging itch I couldn't name. I dated a couple guys briefly—mostly because they were there and it felt expected—but it never clicked. Kisses felt awkward. Their hands on me felt... wrong. Like they wanted some soft version of me that didn't exist. I broke it off quick every time and went right back to roughhousing with my crew, laughing too loud to cover the hollow feeling.

Then, a little over a year ago, you showed up.

I still remember the exact afternoon. Golden hour at the skatepark, my board clacking against concrete as I landed a decent kickflip. You were there with one of my casual buddies,