$wochentag\n0 = Anzeige ausblenden\n1 = Montag\n2 = Dienstag\n3 = Mittwoch\n4 = Donnerstag\n5 = Freitag\n6 = Samstag\n7 = Sonntag\n\n$wetter\n1 = Sonne\n2 = Wolken\n3 = Regen\n\n$ort\nText, z. B. "Zuhause", "Marktplatz", "Wald"\n\n<<set $wochentag = 5>>\n<<set $wetter = 1>>\n<<set $ort = "Gasthaus">>\n\nAktualisierung manuell:\n<<run setup.updateSidebarStatus()>>\n\nAnzeige komplett ausblenden\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n\n\n\n<<set $ort to "Klassenzimmer">>\n<<set $ort to "Cafeteria">>\n<<set $ort to "Flur">>\n<<set $ort to "Spindbereich">>\n<<set $ort to "Schulparkplatz">>\n<<set $ort to "Turnhalle">>\n<<set $ort to "Umkleideraum">>\n<<set $ort to "Mädchenumkleide">>\n<<set $ort to "Sekretariat">>\n<<set $ort to "Krankenzimmer">>\n<<set $ort to "Schulhof">>\n<<set $ort to "Schulbus">>\n<<set $ort to "Schulparkplatz">>\n<<set $ort to "Treppenhaus">>\n<<set $ort to "Mädchentoilette">>\n<<set $ort to "Football Field">>\n<<set $ort to "Auditorium">>\n<<set $ort to "D&D Clubraum">>\n<<set $ort to "Cheer Practice Field">>\n<<set $ort to "Schule">>\n\n<<set $ort to "Charlottes Haus">>\n\n<<set $ort to "Diner">>\n<<set $ort to "Mall">>\n<<set $ort to "Kino">>\n<<set $ort to "Football Field">>\n\n<<set $ort to "Straße">>\n<<set $ort to "Chris’ Mädchenzimmer">>\n\n\n

In the evening, the house hung in that quiet in-between zone where the day was already over, but the next one had not yet begun. Chris sat on the edge of the bed.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">>\nChristine stood in the doorway as if she had launched a rescue mission. “Okay,” she said without much introduction. “The outfit today was… brave.”\n\n“It was inconspicuous,” Chris defended himself immediately. His voice sounded defiant, even though in his stomach he could still feel the looks—the brief appraisals, the barely audible giggling, the way one of Penelope’s friends had said “cute” as if she meant the opposite.\n\nChristine raised an eyebrow. “Inconspicuous isn’t the problem. The problem is that you looked like…” She made a hand gesture, searching for a word that didn’t sound quite so mean. “…like you don’t know how you want to sell yourself.”\n\n“I don’t have to sell myself.”\n\n“You know what I mean.” Christine went to the closet and began laying out pieces: a skirt, a blouse, a cardigan. Her hands worked quickly, routinely, as if choosing an outfit were a scientific experiment with a clear solution. “You’ll wear this on Monday. The skirt is cute, the blouse makes you…” she tapped the fabric with her finger, “…adorable. And the jacket takes the edge off.”\n\nChris looked at the things and immediately felt the old resistance. He didn’t want her deciding. He didn’t want that feeling again, that someone was dressing his body like a doll. “I can do this myself,” he said, too quickly. He reached for the skirt as if inspecting it, not accepting it.\n\nChristine wasn’t deterred. “Then prove it. But not with a sweatshirt like that. Listen—” She held up another top, one with softer fabric and a bit of neckline, not much, but enough. “Wear this. With the skirt. Trust me.”\n\nChris’s pulse rose. “You’re not Mom,” he burst out.\n\nThe sentence hung in the room like a sharp note that had sounded too loud. Christine froze, only briefly, but clearly. Her fingers suddenly held the fabric still, as if someone had stopped the music.\n\nIn the same moment, Chris felt guilt like a stab beneath his ribs. He hadn’t meant it like that—and yet he had meant it exactly like that. He wanted to draw boundaries, but he had drawn them with a knife.\n\n“I know,” Christine said at last, quietly. No defiance. No drama. Just a dry, tired fact. She slowly laid the top back on the pile, as if it no longer mattered now.\n\nChris swallowed. “I…” He searched for a sentence that would repair everything and found none. Instead, he let his shoulders sink. “Sorry.”\n\nChristine nodded once, curtly. A silent truce that wasn’t warm, but honest. She pushed the pile a little closer to him without commenting on it. “Just leave it there,” she said. “You don’t have to wear anything you don’t want. But… on the next school day, you won’t want those faces again.”\n\nChris looked at the clothes, then at the sweatshirt on the chair. He breathed out. “Okay,” he murmured. Not as surrender. More as peace.\n\nChristine went to the door, stopped once more as if she wanted to say something after all. Then she left it, only pulled the door halfway shut, and let the room become quiet again.\n\nChris remained sitting, his hand on the fabric of the skirt. He felt patronized and protected at the same time, both unpleasant and reassuring at once. And somewhere in that mixture lay what now remained between them: a fragile but real “we” that was not his mother.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $party == 1>>[[Pajama party on Saturday.|Pyjama Party am Samstag.]]<<else>>[[Boredom on Saturday.|Langeweile am Samstag.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

<<back "Back">>\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/MrsBraun.jpg]]</center> ''Name:'' Susan Braun \n''Age:'' 39 \n''Birthday:'' February\n\n''Relationships''\nMichael Braun (43) - ex-husband\nChristoph 'Chris' Braun (19) - son\nChristine Braun (18) - daughter\n\n''Biography''\nSusan was born in the USA and grew up in a suburb of Pittsburgh; after earning a college degree in marketing, she worked at a small publishing house until she met a German engineer on a business trip. She moved to Stuttgart for love, had two children there, and muddled through a life of part-time jobs, adult-education German courses, and PTA evenings, in which she often felt exotic and yet invisible. The marriage froze over the years; after the divorce, she returned to the USA and set up a new home. What remained deeply wounded was that Chris had chosen back then to stay with his father; that hurt kept working inside her and broke out as strict direction over his appearance. Out of fear of loss after the separation, she overcompensated, ordered, lectured, adjusted—and unconsciously “punished” Chris for his old decision by confusing closeness with control.\n\n''Shared Moments / Memories''\n<<nobr>>\n\n<ul> <<if $SusanMemory[0] eq 1>><li>Susan remembers how she once had to pick Chris up from the supermarket after he had stolen a pack of condoms—and how unpleasant the whole situation had been for her.</li><</if>> <<if $SusanMemory[1] eq 1>><li>Susan remembers how Chris came home from a party smelling of alcohol, ashamed and unusually quiet—with that look that revealed more had happened that evening than he wanted to say out loud.</li><</if>> <<if $SusanMemory[2] eq 1>><li>Susan remembers how she asked Chris about his encounter with Dylan in the cafeteria, how red he became, and how, at the memory, a small smile still crept onto his face.</li><</if>> <<if $SusanMemory[3] eq 1>><li>Susan remembers how she watched Chris in his room in front of the mirror as he practiced cheerleading chants—and how happy and free he seemed in that moment.</li><</if>> <<if $SusanMemory[4] eq 1>><li>Susan remembers how she had signed Chris up for the Miss Maplewood Contest and how proud she was of him when he finally stood on the stage.</li><</if>> <<if $SusanMemory[5] eq 1>><li>Susan remembers how her son had shamefully confessed to her that he felt attracted to her.</li><</if>> <<if $SusanMemory[6] eq 1>><li>Susan remembers how happy she was when she learned that Chris had a date for the school dance—and that her plan actually seemed to be working.</li><</if>> <<if $SusanMemory[7] eq 1>><li>Susan remembers how she had to pick Chris up from school after he was caught cheating on a test.</li><</if>> </ul> <</nobr>> \n<div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Chris's attraction to his mother</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>not attractive at all</span> <span>intense desire</span> </div> <div class="axis-barattraction"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $susan_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $susan_opinion < 20>> Gross, she is my mother <<elseif $susan_opinion < 40>> barely any attraction <<elseif $susan_opinion < 60>> slight attraction <<elseif $susan_opinion < 80>> strong attraction <<else>> intense desire <</if>> </div> </div> \n\n<<back "Back">>

Chris nodded. Not because he wanted to—but because in that moment he saw no other door he could go through. His hand clutched the clutch as if it could hold him in place somewhere, while Adam put the phone away again, satisfied like someone who had just won.\n\nNo sooner were they back in the crowd than Adam began to savor the role. He demonstratively slipped an arm around Chris’s waist, pulled him closer, as if Chris belonged there. “You’re so sweet,” Adam said loudly enough that it was not meant only for Chris. To a few people standing nearby, it sounded like a harmless compliment. To Chris, it felt like a sign: MINE.\n\nThe looks came at once. Not hostile—more curious, surprised, sometimes amused. Chris felt them like tiny pricks in his back. A few girls whispered, a few boys grinned. It was mortifying to be so visible, and as Adam’s dance date of all things. Chris had hoped he would disappear into the dance like a shadow. Instead, he had suddenly become a scene.\n\nWhenever someone spoke to Chris, Adam pushed himself in between, completely automatically, completely possessively. “Sorry, she’s here with me.” As if that were an admission ticket. As if Chris were not capable of answering for himself. For Chris, it was doubly uncomfortable: he did not want to stand out—and certainly not as someone’s property.\n\nHe tried to focus on the outer facade: smile politely, nod, tilt his head slightly, pretend everything was normal. But inside, it was tight. The music thumped, the lights glittered, everyone looked like “dance”—and yet Chris felt as if he were in a cage whose bars only Adam needed to see.\n\nAgain and again, Adam used the video like silent leverage without even showing it. Whenever Chris reflexively tried to put a step of distance between them, Adam leaned toward him and whispered: “Smile. Or else...” He did not say the rest. He did not have to. Chris’s stomach clenched every time, and the smile came anyway—like a reflex that had been trained into him.\n\nOutwardly, they were a couple: arm in arm, prettily polished. Inside, it was blackmail. Chris heard his own laughter when Adam made some stupid joke, and it did not sound like him. He felt the hand on his waist and hated that it stayed there so naturally. He also hated that part of him simply wanted to “endure” the scene, just to avoid something worse.\n\nAnd that was exactly where he stood now: If he ended the farce, he risked Adam spreading the video. If he kept going, he risked Adam feeling encouraged and not stopping at “date” tonight.\n\n''How does he decide?''\n<<nobr>><<if $adam > 1 >>\n[[Just endure it and keep going.|Einfach durchhalten und weiter machen.]]\n<<else>>\n[[Reject Adam.|Adam zurückweisen.]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

The bus spat Chris out at the mall entrance; the late afternoon sun glittered on the water of the fountain. [[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] was already standing there, in a light top and miniskirt, her hair in bangs. When she saw him, she opened her arms, pulled him close—and kissed him deeply, without hesitation.\n<<set $ort to "mall">>\nShe slowly let her fingers glide over the thin fabric of Chris’s dress. Chris closed his eyes and enjoyed the touch of Charlotte’s fingers, which felt almost like they were on bare skin through the thin fabric. When Chris opened his eyes again and looked over Charlotte’s shoulder, he saw to his horror that an older man had been watching them. He stood there with shopping bags, shaking his head disapprovingly. Chris felt the heat rise all the way to his ears. “Oh God, he saw us,” he whispered into Charlotte’s ear.\n\n“Should we give him an autograph?” Charlotte grinned and kissed him again. “We’re here to have fun, not to be mental cinema for grumps.”\n\nAnd then that was exactly what they did: have fun. They tested perfumes on paper strips—Charlotte liked “Bergamot & Musk,” Chris almost sneezed at “Cotton Candy Deluxe.” They stopped at a stand with bracelets, tried them on, laughed, and found two that matched: thin braided leather with a small metal heart. “Friendship bracelets, but with an upgrade,” Charlotte said, tying Chris’s around his wrist.\n\nIn the photo booth, they squeezed close together; the curtain smelled of dust and shampoo. “Quick—serious, then silly, then kiss,” Charlotte choreographed, and the camera clicked three times. Charlotte couldn’t resist grabbing Chris’s breasts so the pictures would come across as frivolous as possible.\n\nThe second picture caught Chris right in the middle of a moan, his lips shaped into an O like a porn actress. “Perfect,” Charlotte laughed, slipping the strip into her case. “One for you, one for me.”\n\nIn the bookstore, Chris drifted—reflexively—toward the shelves with manga, mechas, and volumes with typical boy themes. “You read that?” Charlotte stood beside him, surprised, but not mocking.\n<<set $choice_manga to 0>>\n''How does he answer?''\n❯ [[He tells the truth: yes, he reads manga—even if his cheeks grow hot.|Ja, er sagt die Wahrheit][$choice_manga += 1]]\n❯ [[He lies and acts as if he just happened to be looking—even if it feels like betraying himself.|Er lügt und sagt es wäre Zufall.]]

“First: physical changes,” Mrs. Rivera began. “Under the influence of estrogen, glandular breast tissue can develop. That is real tissue, not just fat. Important: This glandular tissue does not shrink back again even after stopping.”\n\nThe word does not hung in the air like a smell. A warm stab shot through his body. He thought of those morning moments when the mirror caught him unprepared and the contours felt different, firmer, more sensitive. He had loved the idea that it was only a mask you could eventually take off. The sentence cracked through that illusion like a thin piece of ice.\n\n“Second: Under estrogen, the testicles tend to shrink, and erections as well as libido can change. That is physiologically plausible because the hormonal balance shifts.”\n\nA quiet clearing of the throat somewhere. Chris breathed in once, too shallowly, and the waistband of his top moved visibly. Shrink. The word sat down on a chair in his head and refused to move. He remembered nights when everything had been dull, as if dimmed; the strange feeling of delay, as though his body were still deciding whether it really wanted to be itself. Now that intuition took on a factual, hard shape. He felt it all the way into his fingertips.\n\n“Third,” Mrs. Rivera said, and her voice did not become stricter, but calmer, “fertility. Hormones can greatly reduce sperm production. Even after stopping, fertility does not return for everyone affected.”\n\nThe silence was heavier this time. Somewhere outside, a lawn mower started up, the humming muffled through the double windows. Having children? Maybe never? The thought did not come as a sentence, but as an image: a living room he had never known, with toys on the carpet. He pushed the image away and realized it stayed. His fingers grew cold. He wanted to slide his hands under his thighs to hide them, controlled himself, and instead smoothed his skirt over an invisible crease.\n\nChristine looked over at him again. This time longer. Her forehead was minimally furrowed.\n\nMrs. Rivera lifted the final point as if she had to place it down gently. “Fourth: mood and disposition. Hormones influence not only the body, but can also change mood and subjective experience. Some report stronger emotionality, others more evenness. It’s individual.”\n\nChris felt something inside him sort itself into place, unwillingly and precisely. The mornings when he had been irritable for no reason. The afternoons when the sun fell so softly on his skin on the way to the bus stop that he suddenly found everything beautiful and felt ashamed of it. The evenings when he suddenly wanted to cry without knowing from which compartment inside him it came. He recognized the line running through those moments, a new geography of his nature that he had so far dismissed as changes in the weather.\n\n“And as for the question of whether it can be reversed,” Mrs. Rivera added, “it depends on what exactly is meant. Some effects can partially reverse, others cannot. Especially with glandular breast tissue, the rule is: It usually remains. With fertility, there are uncertainties. That’s why decisions like this belong in medical hands, with information, guidance, and time.”\n\nShe looked around the room, not searching, just present. “That was a lot. Take a breath. And if anyone wants to talk about it, anonymously or not, write it down or come see me after class.”\n\nSomeone dropped a pencil; the clatter sounded exaggeratedly loud. The lesson started moving again, as if someone had pressed play. A few follow-up questions came, technical, factual, ones Chris could hold on to like handrails in a bus. He said nothing.\n\nWhen the bell finally buzzed, it took a moment for the class to start moving. Chris slowly stood up. The top pulled coolly against his back, the skirt brushing along his thighs with a calm, ordered weight. He felt the texture of the tights against his palm as he grabbed his bag.\n\nChristine waited in the aisle. She did not lean, did not stand frontally—she arranged her pose so that it looked casual. “Everything okay?” she asked, without much voice, almost toneless.\n\n“Sure,” he said, and it sounded like a borrowed syllable.\n\nShe nodded, then gave the slightest shrug of one shoulder. “That was… informative.” A hint of humor that did not hurt. “Coming?”\n\nHe nodded and walked beside her. The hallway lights hummed, the glass display cases reflecting both of their figures. He noticed how his walk adjusted itself—small, controlled steps that obeyed the tights. In the window, he saw his profile: the hairstyle, the tinted light on his skin, the delicate line of his shoulders. And somewhere behind the reflection sat the short, hard sentence from earlier: It does not shrink back.\n\n[[Continue|Der nervige Spitzname.]]

Susan had already half-dragged Chris over to the small registration booth, where a banner in glittering letters promised “MISS MAPLEWOOD,” as if it were some harmless event like the can toss. A woman with a clipboard smiled professionally and handed over a pen.\n\n“Participant’s name?” she asked.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. He opened his mouth to protest, but Susan was faster. “Christina,” she said smoothly, as if she had practiced it beforehand. “Nineteen. And she’s perfect for it.”\n\nChris felt heat rise into his face. He wanted to say no, loudly and clearly. But here, among families, children with cotton candy, and people bending over maple candles, he couldn’t make a scene. He could already picture the looks, the phones, the humiliating attention. So he pressed his lips together and tried more quietly: “Mom, please…”\n\n“Just a quick registration,” Susan hissed back, sweet on the outside, steel toward him. “Then we’ll see.”\n\nChris’s gaze jumped across the crowd, searching for a way out, for anything that might interrupt the scene. A few steps away, children and teenagers actually pushed past in a small group—theater club. Chris recognized them immediately by the familiar mix of improv volume, gesturing, and that way they constantly talked over one another without it being an argument. [[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]] was there too, red braids, a cup of maple soda in her hand.\n\n“Chris!” someone called, and suddenly the group was right in front of him.\n\n“Oh my God, hi!” Ruby grinned. “What are you doing here?”\n\nChris’s heart leaped—rescue, so sudden it was almost funny. “Uh—I… I’m just… here with my mom,” he said quickly, and his gaze slid toward his mother with a tiny plea.\n\nThe theater kids were already talking over one another. “We’re heading to the games in a minute!” – “And then to the booths!” – “And there’s this little mini open stage, do you want to come?” One of them pointed a thumb over his shoulder, as if it were obvious.\n\nRuby leaned closer. “Are you coming with us? We’re crossing all the way over anyway.”\n\nChris felt his mother hesitate for a moment, the pen in her hand. She couldn’t force him to stay here in front of the others, not without it being obvious. And Chris used the opening at once.\n\n“Yes!” he said, far too relieved. Then he caught himself and added, “I mean, if it’s okay… I’ll go with them for a bit.”\n\nSusan put on her fixed smile. “Of course,” she said sweetly, in a tone that meant we’ll talk later. “Go ahead.”\n\nChris nodded quickly, stepped out of the shadow of the registration table, and joined the group. After just five steps, it felt as if someone were loosening a band that had been too tight around his chest.\n\n[[Continue|Nachricht von Lucas.2]]

The bus jolted over the familiar potholes, and Chris stared out the spotted window until the houses of [[Maplewood|Maplewood]] slid past like the same repeating pattern. He briefly rested his forehead against the cool glass and counted his breaths until his stop came.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nAt home, it was quiet. Susan stood in the kitchen, the phone wedged between shoulder and ear, one hand on the sink. When she hung up, she turned to him, a tight smile that did not reach her eyes.\n\n“How was [[school|High School]]?”\n\n“We had sex ed with Mrs. Rivera,” he said. His voice sounded careful, as if it had to pass through a narrow door. “It was about hormones. About consequences.”\n\nSusan raised an eyebrow and reached for a dish towel. “Aha.”\n\nHe drew a breath. “She said that glandular breast tissue doesn’t shrink back. And that testicles can shrink. And—that fertility can suffer. Sometimes permanently.” The words suddenly simply lay there, like objects on the table. “I’m scared, Mom.”\n\nShe snorted softly. “Don’t be so dramatic, Chris.” The towel wiped across an already clean countertop. “And honestly—you brought this on yourself.” Her gaze drifted to his top, then to his skirt, as if looking for evidence of a decision made long ago.\n\n“Those are things that don’t go away,” he said softly. “Children… maybe never? Do you want me to just—” He broke off because his voice was getting too soft. “Mrs. Rivera didn’t sound like it was just scare tactics.”\n\nSusan set the towel down and exhaled audibly. A hint of annoyance tightened the corners of her mouth. “You always paint everything in the worst colors right away. Look at yourself, you’re fine. You have friends, school is going well, you’re managing. This what-if nonsense doesn’t get us anywhere.”\n\n“It’s not about school or friends,” he said. “It’s about my body. About later. I don’t want to wake up and realize something is final without me—” He searched for a word that didn’t sound like an accusation. “—without me being allowed to have a say.”\n\nShe looked at him, longer than he had expected. Something in her expression softened, then closed again. “I did what was necessary,” she said, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You need structure. Direction. Otherwise—” She broke off, raising her hand as if catching an invisible thread. “Fine. Listen: I’ll make an appointment for you. With a doctor. Then we’ll have you checked to see whether everything is all right. Satisfied?”\n\nThe sentence fell like a stone into water, and the ripples spread through him. “Okay.”\n\n“Then we’ll have facts. Until then—drop the dramatics. Eat something. Christine will be here soon.”\n\nHe nodded. The knot in his stomach loosened by a finger’s width. An appointment meant numbers, values, maybe an ally in a white coat with clear sentences. Someone who wouldn’t tell him not to be so dramatic.\n\n“Thank you,” he said, and it was sincere. He took an apple from the bowl, felt the smooth coolness under his hand. On the way out of the kitchen, he stopped at the doorframe. “If the doctor says that… that we have to be careful—will you listen then?”\n\nSusan lifted the towel again, as if she needed to put the movement somewhere. “We’ll listen,” she said. “And now go. Homework.”\n\nHe walked down the hallway. The rosé of his room took him in like an oversized sweater. He sat down on the edge of the bed, placed the apple beside him, and looked into the mirror. For a moment, he did not see the top, not the skirt, not the tights. He saw the appointment standing like a marker in the future. Maybe I can convince her, he thought. Maybe he’ll say it in a way she has to hear.\n\n[[Continue|Ein ganz gewöhnlicher Tag.]]

In the weeks after the mini-golf date, Susan had not let up—but to her surprise, Chris had hardly had to be pushed either. The resistance Chris had put up had been strangely low. Chris did want to say “no,” and then somehow it had ended up as another “fine,” one that did not even feel like surrender.\n\nThere was a second date with the boy who had been so confident, so polished, and so obviously a “player” at mini-golf. This time they had met one evening in the parking lot of a drive-in, milkshakes in hand, a movie Chris only half followed because the boy kept commenting, laughing, moving closer, as if closeness were a sport. Chris had enjoyed it more than he wanted to admit: the attention, the uncomplicated certainty of “you’re pretty,” the feeling of being a clear category for someone. He had been ashamed of it—and at the same time, it had carried him.\n\nAs the third date approached, Chris dressed more carefully than usual. Not just “okay,” but pretty. He stood in front of the mirror longer, smoothed fabric down, checked whether everything sat right, and felt that nervous tingling he did not want to explain to himself.\n\nIn the kitchen, he ran into Christine while his mother was cooking. Christine looked over Chris’s outfit, raised an eyebrow, and said half jokingly, half too loudly: “You know, Chris, third date means sex?”\n\nSusan laughed briefly, as if it were a teenage joke that would dissipate in the air.\n\nNothing dissipated for Chris. Blood rushed to his head. “What?” He looked at Christine, then at his mother—and suddenly the word “third” was no longer a number, but a step with an abyss hanging beyond it. “Is that really true?”\n\nChristine shrugged, meaningfully. “Let’s put it this way: it’s… an expectation.”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. He managed an “I have to go” and grabbed his bag, as if he could hold on to it.\n\nAccordingly, the third date went strangely. He laughed in the wrong places, answered too briefly, was overly friendly and absent at the same time. The boy noticed, of course—that macho sense for moods that was less empathy than radar. “Everything okay with you?” he asked once, but his tone did not sound concerned, more curious.\n\n“Yeah,” Chris said too quickly. “Just tired.”\n\nLater they were sitting in his pickup.\n\n“Where are we going?” Chris asked.\n\n“To the Lookout,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.\n\nChris knew the place—everyone did. The overlook, officially simply called “Lookout,” but known among students by other names like “Makeout Mountain,” “Cherry Point,” or “Virgin Vista,” because up there, it was rarely just the view that mattered.\n\nFrom up there, Maplewood looked like a model—little lights, dark roofs, a few bright spots along Main Street. Soft music played from the radio, too romantic to be accidental.\n\nChris’s heart was already beating faster before anything had even happened. He kept thinking of Christine’s half-laughing, half-warning remark: Third date means sex.\n\n“Pretty here, right?” the boy said, letting his gaze sweep over the lights. He said it as if he had booked the place.\n\n“Yeah,” Chris said, again too briefly.\n\nThe boy turned to him, studying him in the dim light of the dashboard. “You’re really… quiet today.” A grin, a hint of challenge. “Is that shy, or are you just playing?”\n\nChris forced a small smile. “No idea. Maybe both.”\n\nThe boy seemed to like that. He moved closer, as if distance were only a misunderstanding. His hand landed on Chris’s thigh. Chris felt the warmth through the fabric of his tights and was startled by how much his body tensed and grew curious at the same time.\n\n“Come here,” the boy murmured.\n\nChris allowed it. When their lips met, it was cautious at first, then more assured, like a rhythm you find faster than you want to admit. The kiss was warm, wet, and Chris realized, to his own surprise, that he liked it. Not just “okay”—really. A quiet pull in his stomach, a warmth spreading through him, and that fleeting feeling that the world was allowed to become very small for a moment.\n\nHe closed his eyes and kissed back. For a few seconds there were only lips, tongues, the dull feeling of a heartbeat that was too fast. The song on the radio became a background fabric. The windows fogged slightly because they were both breathing.\n\nThe boy kissed him again, a little deeper, then pulled back. Not abruptly, but decisively—as if he had a next step in mind that he now wanted to check. He opened his pants, took out his member, and looked at Chris expectantly, the grin half question, half demand.\n\nThe penis was fully erect, and the tip of the glans was covered in a painful redness that practically cried out for Chris’s soft lips.\n\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[He pleasures the penis the way it is expected.|Er verwöhnt den Penis, wie es erwartet wird.][$partner += 1;$woral += 1;$swallow += 1]]\n❯ [[He has no idea what he is supposed to do.|Den Jungen mit Küssen ablenken, um den Abend zu Ende zu bringen.]]

The next morning, Chris stood in front of the wardrobe and stared at fabric: blouses, knitwear, two skirts. He combined carefully—a light, airy top, a breezy midi skirt with a small pattern, tights—and knocked on Christine’s door. “Fashion check?”\n<<set $wochentag = 2>><<set $wetter = 3>><<set $ort to "">>\nShe looked him up and down once, tugged briefly at the hem, tilted her head—and nodded. “For the first time: really good. Colors work, proportions work. Pretty.” The word settled warmly over him. He smiled, stood up straighter, as if he could wear the compliment.\n\nOutside, the sky was lead gray. At the bus stop, a stormy wind tore through the street, rushed frontally under his skirt, and puffed the hem out like a sail. Chris pressed one hand to his hip, the other to his bag, locked his knees together, and took half a step sideways. The wind countered, tugging at the fabric again. Two boys from the lower grades stared openly; one nudged the other, who grinned stupidly. Chris stared stubbornly at the asphalt and counted in his head, inhaling to four, exhaling to six. Why a breezy skirt today of all days, he cursed silently, while the gusts kept trying to lift his hem. When the bus finally rolled in, getting on felt like rescue.\n\nWhen they got off, rain came pouring down. The few yards to the building were a wet chase; his bangs stuck, drops ran down the back of his neck. Inside, everyone shook off water like dogs, the tiles became a slippery track, and a chorus of “Ugh, my hair!” filled the hallway.\n\nRight beside him, someone stopped— [[Mrs. Rivera|Lucia Rivera]]. She had gotten wet too; drops hung at the tips of her dark hair, and Chris immediately noticed that her sexy lace bra and her breasts were visible beneath the wet blouse. The rain had made her top almost transparent.\n\nWhen the teacher saw Chris’s gaze, she became aware of how much of her was visible. A mixture of anger and desperation crossed her face. She set her bag down at her feet, apparently without realizing that the movement revealed even more of her chest.\n\nWhen she straightened up again, her nipples had clearly stiffened and were pressing through the wet fabric. For a moment she tried to cross her arms over her chest, but let them sink again, since it was uncomfortable to press the wet fabric even tighter against her body.\n\n“Good morning,” she said in that calm tone, forcing out a small smile.\n\n“Morning,” Chris murmured, smoothing down his top, breathing through it, rearranging his face, and slipping into the stream of students.\n\nAt lunchtime, while the rain drummed against the windows and no one went outside voluntarily, the cafeteria seemed fuller than usual—as if the weather had pressed the whole school into this one room. Jackets steamed faintly, umbrellas dripped beneath the tables, and the murmur of voices swelled into a dense, warm hum you could almost sink into. Later in math, Chris noticed something he had never consciously seen before: Ruby sat at the very front in almost every class, as if she didn’t want to miss a single second—only in Mr. Nelson’s math class was her seat farther back, a few rows away from the board, as if even she preferred to keep her distance there.\n\nA few hours later, after math and a halfhearted vocabulary test, he stood in front of his locker. The numbers of the combination now came more easily to his hand: left—right—left, click. When the door sprang open, a small note sailed out of the upper compartment, turned like a withered leaf, and landed in front of his shoes. Chris blinked, bent down—and picked it up.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ladendiebin < 2>>[[The note.|Der Zettel.]]<<else>>[[The note.|Der Zettel.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris took the next step and looked into the bedroom. The first thing he saw was a naked black man’s ass. He stood there with his legs spread wide, knees slightly bent, allowing his taut glutes to be displayed to full effect.\n\nChris’s gaze slid further to his mother. She lay on her back on the bed, her head—and her blonde hair—hanging over the edge. A thick black cock was lodged in her mouth. "Lodged" wasn't quite the right word. His mother’s mouth was being fucked. Her gaping maw was being thoroughly ravaged by the black monster.\n\nShe hadn't noticed her son yet, for her eyes were closed. Chris could still walk away. He could flee and forget what he had seen—erase the images from his memory so he could look her in the eye later and pretend as if nothing had happened. But his feet remained rooted to the spot. His gaze rested, transfixed, on the cock disappearing between his mother’s full, red lips. DeShawn panted and sighed deeply, making it clear that he was enjoying the treatment immensely.\n\nBefore reaching his climax, he yanked Susan up by her hair and positioned himself behind her. Chris marveled at how roughly DeShawn handled his mother, yet was astonished to see that she seemed to be enjoying it—so much so that her pussy juices had begun to trickle down her thigh.\n\nDeShawn didn't hesitate; he grabbed Susan by the hips and shoved his thick black rod into her soaking-wet pussy. Moaning and grunting, DeShawn thrust deeper and deeper into Susan’s pussy; her wide-open eyes—which fluttered repeatedly and rolled back in her head—showed Chris exactly what was going on. Chris became so aroused by the sight of his mother being impaled like that that he nervously fumbled with his own hard cock. The sounds of slapping flesh and gasping breaths filled the bedroom, electrifying the air with arousal and lust. Chris’s mother sobbed with pleasure at every thrust, her large tits bouncing wildly in rhythm with the strokes. And when she finally reached down between her legs, she climaxed with loud gasps, trembling uncontrollably from head to toe. DeShawn paused, allowing Susan—who was fingering her clit—to reach her own release.\n\nChris, who had been jerking off his cock the entire time, watched with his mouth agape as DeShawn shoved his black monster back into Chris’s mother’s juicy pussy, then proceeded to fuck her deep and thoroughly—right there, inches away, directly before Chris’s eyes.\n\nThe wet, smacking sounds of the fucking were so loud that Chris turned beet red. As DeShawn pounded her, Susan’s gasps grew louder and louder.\n\nChris stared, transfixed, as that thick black rod fucked his mother’s swollen pussy. He watched her pussy juices drip onto the bed and heard DeShawn’s heavy balls slap against her mound with every deep thrust. The moaning intensified; DeShawn, too, began to gasp in ragged bursts, groaning more violently as he ramped up the speed of his thrusts.\n\nChris was on the verge of cumming when, from behind, someone clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his scream. He spun around quickly and saw Latoya. She placed a finger against her full lips and leaned past him to peek into the bedroom herself. Chris tried to stop her, but his mind wasn't working fast enough.\n\nYet her reaction was unexpected; she simply gave Chris a mischievous smile.\n\n“Aha,” she whispered, her hand drifting down to his crotch. “So you like watching someone fuck your mom? Tell me—which one of them would you rather be right now?”\n<<set $susan_opinion to 24>>\n''How does Chris respond?''\n❯ [[DeShawn, of course.|Natürlich DeShawn.]]\n❯ [[What? Um... neither of them.|Was? Keiner von beiden!][$deshawn += 1]]\n

Chris actually watched the film all the way to the end. The further the plot went, the more he forgot that he was actually here to get closer to Charlotte again. The twists were predictable and still captivating, and when the music swelled in the finale, he sat there with his knees drawn up, as if he had personally needed the happy ending.\n\nWhen the credits rolled, he turned his head to the side—and realized that Charlotte had long since fallen asleep. Her breathing was calm, the big flannel shirt had become a soft bundle, and a strand of hair lay across her face. Chris stayed still for a moment, as if he didn’t want to disturb her. He carefully pulled the blanket a little higher, just enough to keep her warm, and put the remote away.\n\nThen he lay down beside her. He briefly thought: I didn’t fix anything all evening. And yet it didn’t feel like failure—more like a pause they had both needed. His body grew heavy, the sounds of the house blurred together, and at some point he simply fell asleep.\n\nThat night, he dreamed the film onward—except that he himself was playing the role of the young woman.\n\nIn the dream, everything was softer, as if filtered through warm light. He was standing in a kitchen that smelled faintly of coffee, wearing a dress that rustled softly with every movement. Joseph was there, not as Charlotte’s father with laundry baskets and a screwdriver, but as that calm, reliable figure from romantic comedies: a man too tired to pose, and for that very reason seemed so real.\n\nThey laughed about something trivial—a tipped-over glass, music set wrong, a botched dance step. Joseph took his hand to spin him, very carefully, as if he were afraid of being too much. In the dream, Chris felt that safe, warm feeling that was like having a coat draped around your shoulders. Joseph looked at him as if he truly saw him—not as a problem, not as a role, but as someone who fit into his life just then, without it having been planned.\n\nThey danced in small steps between chair and table, and at some point Joseph paused, standing very close. He said something Chris could no longer remember exactly—only the tone: gentle, honest, almost amazed. Chris lifted his gaze, and the world went still, as if the rest of the house had disappeared. Joseph brushed a strand of hair from his face, so carefully that it was more a question than a touch.\n\nIn the dream, Chris felt a pull in his stomach, a sweet, nervous tingling—and just as it seemed as though they were about to come closer, everything blurred like a cut in a film. No ending, only a soft slipping away.\n\nIn the morning, Chris sat at the breakfast table and held a cup in both hands, as if he had to cling to it. The smell of toast and coffee filled the kitchen. Joseph set down plates, muttered something about the old DVD player that had “finally” worked again, and moved through the room with that loving routine.\n\nChris remembered the dream—not as clear scenes, but as a feeling. And the shame came at once, hot and unexpected. He could hardly look Joseph in the eye. Every time his gaze did briefly slip upward, it met Joseph’s friendly face—and that tingling in his stomach was back, as if the dream had nudged something inside him that didn’t simply disappear.\n\n“Everything okay? You’re so quiet,” Joseph asked normally, without suspicion, only with genuine concern.\n\nChris nodded hastily, staring into his cup. “Yeah. Just tired,” he murmured.\n\nJoseph smiled, as if that were the simplest explanation in the world. And that was exactly what made it worse: that Joseph was simply being nice—and Chris still felt as if he had to apologize for his own head.\n<<set $joseph_opinion to 99>>\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5g]]

<<back "Back">>\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/DeShawn.jpg]]</center> \n''Name:'' DeShawn Powell \n''Age:'' 30 \n''Birthday:'' September\n\n''Relationships''\nLatoya Powell(22) - cousin\n\n''Biography''\nDeShawn grew up in Atlanta, in a neighborhood that taught him early to claim his place. He was never the type to quietly ask for attention—he took it. As a teenager, he was drawn to dance, first as an outlet, then as an ambition: training, battles, the stage. He had the charisma for it and the body that dominated rooms. Until an injury stopped everything. One wrong step, one tear, and suddenly his own body was no longer a tool, but a problem holding him back.\n\nYoga did not come as some romantic enlightenment, but as rehab—something he initially dismissed with skepticism. Too quiet, too “soft,” too little ego. But the more he let himself get into it, the clearer it became to him: this saved him. Not as a spiritual poster, but as hard, consistent discipline. Necessity became a calling. He rebuilt himself—physically and mentally—and realized that he liked that control: over breath, posture, strength. And over others, when he taught.\n\nHis studio was not handed to him. He started small, teaching classes in community centers and school gyms, hauling mats, advertising like a hustler, and slowly growing into a position where people took him seriously. Only later did he take over a small, struggling studio and make it his own territory. DeShawn is charming, but not harmless—a womanizer who can enjoy closeness without letting himself be pinned down. That was why the thing with Susan was always “on/off”: attraction, power play, pause, repeat.\n\n<div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Chris’s attraction to DeShawn</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>no attraction</span> <span>intense desire</span> </div> <div class="axis-barattraction"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $deshawn_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $deshawn_opinion < 20>> Keep your distance <<elseif $deshawn_opinion < 40>> slight curiosity <<elseif $deshawn_opinion < 60>> clear attraction <<elseif $deshawn_opinion < 80>> strong attraction <<else>> intense desire <</if>> </div> </div> <<back "Back">>

They strolled through the mall for a while longer, laughing at kitschy mugs and trying on sunglasses, until Charlotte checked the time. “Okay, pajama mission. Otherwise I’ll be sitting there Saturday in an old T-shirt among a bunch of satin princesses.” She hooked her arm through Chris’s and pulled him toward Intimates—a women’s lingerie store with warm lighting, blush-pink walls, and mannequins in sexy lingerie.<<set $ort to "lingerie store">>\n\n<center>[img[pics/unterwaeschegeschaeft.jpg]]</center> Inside, it was bustling with women and girls, a muted hum, hangers scraping over metal rods. Chris’s neck grew hot. He felt like an intruder, completely out of place. Charlotte, on the other hand, seemed in her element. “Come on, Chris, this is going to be fun!” she said, pulling him toward the shelves of panties—microfiber, lace, whole rainbows in drawers with little labels.\n\nShe held up a tiny black lace thong. “That’s hot, right?” she winked, letting the thin fabric purr between her fingers. Chris felt his face turn bright red.\n\nChris nodded, trying to look interested and not like someone melting from shame.\n\nThen they moved on to the negligees—light fell on satin, lace, little bows, as if the racks were boys’ dreams turned into clothing. “Do you want to buy one today too?” Charlotte asked, half joking, half serious.\n“I… have something at home,” Chris murmured.\n\n“This one,” Charlotte suddenly said, pointing at a beautiful wine-red negligee made of feather-light lace, displayed on a mannequin together with the matching thong. Through the delicate fabric, the mannequin’s body contours were clearly visible, and Chris was sure this scrap of fabric wouldn’t hide much more on a real body either.\n\nChris was about to say something else to Charlotte when he noticed that she was already talking to a saleswoman. Chris wandered along behind Charlotte. She disappeared into the fitting room and opened the clasp of her miniskirt. It fell to her feet. She stepped out of it, pulled off her top and bra, and now stood in the booth wearing only high heels, separated from Chris only by a saloon-style door.\n\nCharlotte pulled the negligee over herself and then called, “Can you help me for a second, Chris?”\n\n“Uh—yes.”\n\nChris went into the cramped booth with her. She handed him the thong. He bent down and helped Charlotte into the wine-red thong. For a moment, his face was directly in front of Charlotte’s sweet pussy.\n\nChris looked his girlfriend up and down and had to admit with pride that the lingerie showed to even better effect on her body than it had on the mannequin. The negligee played around her like a soft song. Her breasts were held in perfect shape by the delicate fabric, and the thong too clung to her hips as if it had been tailored to her body. As expected, the feather-light lace fabric concealed virtually nothing of her breasts, and even the contours of her labia were extremely clearly visible through the thin fabric of the thong.\n\n“So how does it look?” Chris heard Charlotte whisper.\n\n“Oh Charlotte, it looks absolutely perfect on you. Take a look in the mirror,” he said, honestly and amazed.\n\n“I believe you, Chris. But I think it would look even more stunning on your body. Don’t you want to try it on?”\n\n[[Continue|Nein, besser nicht.]]

In the weeks after the karaoke date, Chris had found himself thinking about Laverne again and again. Not constantly, not like some big heartbreak movie—more like a song you accidentally kept stuck in your head. He liked her way of being, that cheeky, self-assured sparkle, and how easy it had been with her to laugh one moment and become serious the next. And yes: they had slept together. For Chris, that had been both exciting and confusing, but also… surprisingly familiar, as if for a few hours he had not had to fight to be “right” somewhere.\n\nSo he wrote to her again. Casually at first, then a little more concretely: whether they wanted to do karaoke again, or just get coffee. Laverne replied briefly at first, friendly, but evasive: too much to do at the salon, shifts, clients, chaos. Chris tried again a few days later—not begging, just hopeful.\n\nThen came the message that drew everything into a messy, clean line: she was back together with her ex-girlfriend.\n\nChris stared at the screen until the display went dark. It was a strange feeling. He had not thought it would hit him like that. It was not a great tragedy—more like a small, sharp sting, because he realized he had hoped for more than just “once.” Not necessarily a relationship, not necessarily something official. But seeing each other again. A continuation. A place where he could let himself fall without explanations.\n\nHe put the phone away as if it had become heavier. Things mixed inside him that did not go well together: a little disappointment, a little jealousy of an invisible ex, and also a trace of gratitude, because at least Laverne had been honest. Still, an empty, irritating echo remained: Of course. Of course someone else ends up choosing someone else.\n\nHe stood up and went to the mirror. He stopped there and looked at himself, very still. His hair was still dyed <<if $temp == 1>>blonde<<endif>><<if $temp == 2>>red<<endif>><<if $temp == 1>>black<<endif>>—Laverne had done it for him, carefully and with that professional matter-of-factness, as if he were simply another client who needed a new chapter. The <<if $temp == 1>>blonde<<endif>><<if $temp == 2>>red<<endif>><<if $temp == 1>>black<<endif>> was not garish, and it caught the light in a way that made his face look more attractive. Chris lifted a strand, let it glide through his fingers, and had to smile despite everything.\n\nAt least he looked pretty.\n\nIt was a small consolation prize, yes—but one you could see. The new hair color really suited him. And while the knot in his chest was still there, for a moment it became lighter, because the mirror gave him something back that he would not let be taken from him: he had changed. And he could, at least sometimes, even take pleasure in what he saw there.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ende == 0>>[[Christmas in Germany.|Weihnachten in Deutschland.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 1>>[[Christine is pregnant.|Christine ist schwanger.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 2>>[[Academic pressure at school.|Leistungsstress in der Schule.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 3>>[[Family celebration with Adam.|Familienfeier mit Adam.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 4>>[[Christmas in Germany.|Weihnachten in Deutschland.]]<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

The pickup rolled up in front of Chris’s house, too quickly for a good night. The tires crunched briefly, as if the driver was only stopping because he had to. Inside the cab it was silent; no radio anymore, no small talk, only the echo of words that could not be taken back.\n\nChris reached for the door handle as if he no longer had fingers, only automatisms. He got out, humiliated, his face hot, his throat tight. No “bye.” No “we’ll text.” Not even a look that lasted longer than necessary.\n\nAs Chris closed the passenger door, he already heard the engine roar. The boy hit the gas as if he had to shove the moment out of the rearview mirror. The truck shot away and disappeared down the street, the lights flickering briefly, then gone. It looked as if Chris had never gotten in.\n\nHe stood in the driveway for a heartbeat. The night wind cooled his cheeks, but the cold did not come from outside. It came from the thought that dug its claws into him: He was embarrassed. Embarrassed to have made out with me. Embarrassed because I’m not a “real” girl.\n\nChris went into the house. The door fell shut softly. Light came from the living room. His mother was still awake, sitting on the sofa and scrolling through her phone, as if she had been waiting for exactly that sound.\n\nShe looked up and gave him a once-over—too fast, too precise. Her gaze stuck on his mouth. The lipstick was smeared.\n\nShe raised an eyebrow. “Well?” she asked, a tone somewhere between curiosity and mockery. “Looks like it… went well.”\n\nChris’s chest tightened. He said nothing. He only stepped past her, as if he were heavier than usual, as if every movement made a sound.\n\n“You should look at yourself in the bathroom,” Susan added, sugary. “You look like you had fun.”\n\nChris stopped briefly, half turned, but no words came out. The shame sat too high in his throat to work in sentences. He kept going, down the hall, toward the bathroom, toward his room, toward any place where no one was looking at him.\n\nIn his head, it rattled on: He had done what his mother wanted. He had gone out with a boy three times, even though he had not wanted to. And then, when he had liked it a little after all—when his body had briefly stopped fighting against it—he had been rejected. Not because he was unpleasant. Not because he had done something wrong. But because he was not what the boy had expected.\n\nNot a real girl.\n\nThe sentence hurt more than the feeling had been beautiful. Chris locked himself in the bathroom, stared into the mirror at the smeared lipstick, and felt the humiliation settle over him like sticky paint. He wiped at his mouth, too hard, until the skin burned. And still the feeling remained.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ende == 0>>[[Christmas in Germany.|Weihnachten in Deutschland.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 1>>[[Christine is pregnant.|Christine ist schwanger.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 2>>[[Academic pressure at school.|Leistungsstress in der Schule.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 3>>[[Family celebration with Adam.|Familienfeier mit Adam.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 4>>[[Christmas in Germany.|Weihnachten in Deutschland.]]<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Chris and Laverne left the salon together, as if Laverne hadn’t merely styled his hair, but pushed him outside with a whole new chapter. The glass door chimed, and outside, the afternoon lay warm on the asphalt of the small strip of shops. With every step, Chris felt his hair—not heavy, but shiningly light, as if it wanted to feel itself. He caught himself holding his head a tiny bit differently without meaning to, so the <<if $temp == 1>>blonde<<endif>><<if $temp == 2>>red<<endif>><<if $temp == 1>>black<<endif>> would flare in the light.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Laverne_date.jpg]]</center><<set $ort to "">> Laverne hooked her arm through his as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Come on, baby,” she said, and the words had that glittering matter-of-factness that made every place feel a little like a stage. “We’re getting boba. Because after a glow-up, you need sugar. That’s the law.”\n\nChris walked beside her and felt pretty—really pretty—and part of him was secretly curious whether people noticed. Whether he would get those looks that told him: Yes. You look hot. He even felt his back straighten, his steps grow softer. He was almost waiting for the moment when someone would look.\n\nAnd then something else happened.\n\nMen’s glances landed on the street like little sticky coins—just not on him. They slid almost automatically to Laverne, to her large, obviously artificial breasts. One guy on his phone looked twice, another didn’t look away quickly enough. Chris felt his inner high stumble for a moment.\n\nIt gave him a strange feeling. Not just because it was uncomfortable to be watched like that—but because he suddenly felt… unnoticed. As if he had made himself extra pretty and was still only scenery beside the real eye-catcher. He glanced briefly into a shop window, saw the <<if $temp == 1>>blonde<<endif>><<if $temp == 2>>red<<endif>><<if $temp == 1>>black<<endif>>, the shine, the new version of himself—and still it was as if the attention slid right past him.\n\nAnd then the thought hit him, sharp and surprising: This must be how Christine feels at school. When all the boys only stared at him, at what he wore and had, while she stood beside him. Chris felt a small stab of guilt and understanding. It was the first time he didn’t just understand it, but could physically feel it.\n\n“You look so thoughtful,” Laverne said, nudging him lightly with her hip. “Don’t get sad, okay? Today you are an entire sunrise.”\n\nChris blinked and pulled up a crooked smile. “I… was just thinking.”\n\n“Then think later.” Laverne snapped her fingers. “Now we drink.”\n\nThe boba shop was bright and modern, with a chalkboard on the wall and colorful straws in large glasses. It smelled of sweet milk and syrup. Chris stood in line with Laverne, listening as she commented on the options in a single breath as if hosting a show: “Brown sugar? Classic. Taro? Sweet and cheeky. Matcha? For people who want to pretend they’re healthy.”\n\nChris ordered something he knew, Laverne something that sounded like it sparkled. They sat by the window, the cups between them, the pearls at the bottom like little black planets.\n\n“So.” Laverne leaned back, studied Chris’s face in the daylight, and nodded with satisfaction. “The <<if $temp == 1>>blonde<<endif>><<if $temp == 2>>red<<endif>><<if $temp == 1>>black<<endif>> isn’t just ‘it suits you.’ The <<if $temp == 1>>blonde<<endif>><<if $temp == 2>>red<<endif>><<if $temp == 1>>black<<endif>> is ‘you walk into a room and someone forgets what they were going to say.’”\n\nChris grew warm. “You’re exaggerating.”\n\n“I never exaggerate,” Laverne said with a deadly serious expression, then grinned. “Okay, I exaggerate constantly. But not today.” She tapped her thick straw against his cup. “To new hair. To new decisions.”\n\nChris took a sip. The sweetness was there immediately, then the chewing on the bubble tea pearls—strange, but pleasant. He noticed himself relaxing, his body arriving in the moment.\n\nLaverne didn’t flirt clumsily. It was more like a playful circling: a look that lingered a little too long, a “baby” that suddenly sounded soft instead of cheeky, a compliment that was both fun and serious. “You have this face,” she said, making a small gesture with her hand as if drawing a frame in the air. “Like you’re about to apologize even though you’re only existing. You need to break that habit.”\n\nChris laughed softly, surprised by how good it felt—to be seen without being made small. He found Laverne attractive, and not just because of her overwhelming appearance, but because of the way she took up space without apologizing for it. That confidence drew him in like warmth.\n\n“You’re… very direct,” Chris said honestly.\n\n“And you’re very sweet,” Laverne replied, as if it were a simple fact. She took a sip, her eyes sparkling. “And before you blush again: That’s a compliment. Take it.”\n\nChris felt that this time, his smile wasn’t practiced. Between them there was a natural attraction that didn’t push, but was simply there—light, warm, with a hint of danger, because Chris knew exactly how much he longed for moments like this.\n\n[[Continue|Karaoke Bar.]]

The Friday after the pep rally crackled from the very first bell. The halls hummed with shouts, somewhere someone was practicing the fight song on a flute, and glitter from the day before still clung to every locker. Chris let the current carry him, lighter than usual, and felt the mood loosen his shoulders.\n<<set $wochentag = 5>><<set $ort to "school">>\n<<if $lucas == 2>>With Lucas, it felt as if the day had a small, secret side stage. In homeroom, Lucas slid a folded note across the edge of the desk to him: a dumb joke, a hastily drawn wolf with heart eyes. Chris had to grin, didn’t want to, did it anyway, and scribbled a reply underneath. In English, Mr. Robertson had them read aloud; while turning the page, Lucas leaned briefly toward him and whispered, “The movies were nice.” Chris’s neck grew warm, but it didn’t burn unpleasantly—more like a patch of sunlight on skin. He secretly tapped an emoji back on his phone under the desk; the little vibration from Lucas’s jacket pocket earned him a mischievous wink.\n\nBetween classes, they waited by the same locker as always, but today it was these mini-rituals that gilded the day: Lucas carried Chris’s books, held the door for him, they exchanged two seconds of eye contact, long enough to make the noise of the school fade out. Ruby slipped a “You two are sugar today” between them as she passed; Chris laughed because it was true, and because that sweetness felt surprisingly light.\n\nIn the cafeteria, they snagged a seat by the window. Lucas brought two trays, plus half a cookie he had “accidentally” taken twice. “Share?” he asked. Chris pretended to think it over, then broke the cookie exactly down the middle—one half for Lucas, one for himself. They bent over a phone video, their heads close enough together that, for a moment, their laughter belonged only to them.\n\nIn the hallway before the next class, they waited for the bell. Lucas pulled a pen from his pocket and, with a serious face, drew tiny stars on the back of Chris’s hand. “Against the class curse,” he said. Chris let it happen and looked at the little stars as if they really did have an effect.\n\nThey walked side by side without saying much; sometimes that was exactly the best part. Chris noticed his inner resistance growing quieter—not gone, but quieter—because the sum of small attentions, drawn stars, and half cookies was building something he could rest inside for hours.\n\nWhen the final bell unlocked the afternoon, they were back at the locker. “See you Monday?” Lucas asked, his smile open but not pushy. Chris nodded. “Text me.” He could clearly feel that he was looking forward to it—and he simply let that feeling stand, warm like the last glitter of the pep rally in the halls. For this one school day, he had been Lucas’s “note-girlfriend”: notes, emojis, shared snacks. And it had been nice—simply nice.<<else>>In class, the pen moved more easily across the paper. Words settled, numbers clicked together like magnets. He thought of the cheerleaders, of yesterday’s collective “Hit!”, and noticed that his body still knew the rhythm. Every now and then, he smoothed the hem of his top, purely mechanically, and suddenly the fabric no longer felt like a foreign language, but like an accent he understood.\n\nIn the hallway, Chris noticed boys’ eyes lingering on him—a lifted chin, a fleeting smile that raised only one side of the mouth. Before, it would have made him tense, but that Friday it didn’t bother him; it even flattered him a little, like warm light he hadn’t ordered. He smoothed the hem of his skirt, held his head a little higher, and kept walking as if being looked at were the most normal thing in the world.\n\nDuring break, the cafeteria had something of a festival tent about it. The Pom Puffs were celebrated in passing, high-fives cracking like tiny fireworks. Christine beamed whenever someone called, “Nice hit!”\n\nIn the afternoon, when the sun hung low and the windows dipped the halls in honey, he lingered at his locker for a moment. The hum of the school was warm, not loud. He felt the day sorting itself inside him: no great victories, no falls—just many small things that fit. He put away his English notebook, shut the locker door, and set little check marks in his head: done, another week managed.\n\nOn the way outside, his step was springier. He carried his bag like something that belonged to him, not like a burden. In his stomach sat that light weight of satisfaction you barely noticed until you would miss it. Friday had not been fireworks, but a quiet glow that lasted. And as he went down the steps, he thought: If school can be like this—then I can do it.<<endif>>\n\n[[Continue|Parade am Samstag.]]

Chris swallowed. For a moment, he couldn’t quite get his mouth open. “No,” he finally said, far too quietly.\n<<set $ort to "Adam’s house">>\nAdam’s mother blinked in surprise. “Oh.” She looked him over briefly, not judgmentally, more as if calculating. “That’s… rather unusual these days. But okay. I don’t want to lecture you.” Her voice grew gentle again. “I just don’t want you to make life unnecessarily hard for yourselves because you get pregnant as teenagers.”\n\nChris nodded mechanically, ashamed down to his fingertips. He had no intention of sleeping with Adam—not now, not ever. But he couldn’t simply say that without bringing the whole performance crashing down. And part of him felt like a fraud anyway, no matter what answer he gave.\n\nAdam’s mother opened a drawer, hesitated for a heartbeat as if checking that no one was really watching, and came back with a small packet of condoms. She discreetly slipped it into his hand as if it were a shopping list. “Here. Just… in case. You don’t have to prove to anyone that you’re grown up. But you’re allowed to be prepared.”\n\nThe packet was light, but in Chris’s hand it felt like a stone. He hastily tucked it into the apron pocket, as if otherwise someone could see his blush. “Thank you,” he managed, and it sounded both sincere and terribly wrong.\n\nAdam’s mother smiled, satisfied, as if she had just done “the right thing.” Chris forced himself back to the baking tray, shaped portions of dough, and focused on even spacing—on anything that was neutral. But in his head, the question remained stuck, the one that wasn’t allowed to be spoken: How long could he keep playing this pretend world before it ate him from the inside out?\n\n[[Continue|Ankunft zu Hause.2]]

Chris let his gaze linger briefly on the shoe cabinet, then pretended there was nothing there. He shifted the bag onto his shoulder, checked his phone as if there were an important message—anything to avoid showing that he had seen.\n\nBehind him, the compartment creaked once more. Christine inhaled sharply through her nose, pressed the insert into the track with a small, determined jerk, and pushed the flap shut. This time it stayed shut. For a moment she kept her hand on it, as if making sure it wouldn’t spring open again. Then she stood up, smoothed her things down, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—as if nothing had happened.\n\n“Come on,” was all she said.\n\nChris nodded. They went outside. The front door fell quietly shut behind them, and the morning outside was cool and still.\n\nThey walked side by side to the bus stop, without much distance between them, but without closeness either. Only footsteps on the damp sidewalk, breath in small clouds, and the sound of a distant engine. Christine walked a fraction faster, as if setting the pace. Chris adjusted to it. Neither of them said anything until the yellow school bus turned the corner and the door hissed open.\n\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $temp == 1>>[[Continue|Dienstag.2]]\n<<else>>[[Continue|Dienstag.]]<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

<div class="psychedelic-text">Chris smiled.\n\n“Holy shit, she’s actually going along with it.”\n\nGiggling. Whispered comments that hovered somewhere between pride and mockery.\n\nChris let it all happen. Not because he truly wanted to, but because his willpower was currently sitting somewhere behind a warm wall of fog, unable to locate where the “Stop” button was anymore. The joint, the alcohol, the exhaustion, the whole day—they had worn down the sharp edges of his decision-making.\n\nThe next guy stepped in front of Chris and shoved his hard-on into his mouth. Still feeling completely disoriented, Chris took him in. With slow thrusts, he drove deeper and deeper into Chris’s mouth. Chris grimaced and let out a muffled sound—with a cock filling his mouth, that was all he could manage.\n\nLess than three minutes later, the guy felt his cum rising from his balls; with a loud “Yeeaaah,” he shoved his cock as deep as it would go into Chris’s mouth and unloaded—thrust after thrust—down Chris’s throat.\n\nAlmost immediately, Chris felt a third stiff member pressing against his lips. He fucked his mouth just like the guy before him. But it took only five or six hard thrusts before he ejaculated his cum into Chris’s mouth. When he was finished, he pulled his cock out of Chris’s mouth with a wet plop, followed by a large gush of cum.\n\nThe last boy jerked off his hard-on, came, and splattered his load onto Chris’s small tits, where he then rubbed it in.\n\nThe camera remained running, the tiny red recording indicator glowing. The boys tossed remarks back and forth, laughing and spouting half-sentences that Chris could no longer make sense of.\n\nThe door opened.\n\n“Chris?”\n\nCharlotte stood in the doorway; a cloud of smoke billowed out to meet her. It took her less than a second to grasp the situation: the guys, the phone, Chris—almost completely naked and covered in semen.\n\n“Seriously?” she said, and her voice was laced with ice.\n\nShe crossed the distance to them in two strides before anyone could properly react. “Hand it over,” she hissed, snatching the phone right out of the guy’s hand. He offered a half-hearted protest, but she already had it.\n\nCharlotte tapped, swiped, checked. “Deleted,” she murmured. “And now listen to me closely: If a single one of you breathes a word about this, you’re all dead meat. Understood?”\n\nThe guys mumbled excuses and exchanged glances, suddenly looking sheepish.\n\nCharlotte dropped the phone and knelt down beside Chris.\n\n“Hey,” she said, her voice softer now. “Chris. I’ve got you.”\n\nHe mumbled something unintelligible, his eyes glassy. Charlotte placed a hand on the back of his neck and gave his back a brief, comforting stroke. “It’s okay. We’re getting out of here right now, okay? You’re safe.”\n\nThe smoke hung heavy in the room. Outside, the music was still pumping, but in that moment, nothing existed for her except the patch of floor where Chris lay—and the rage swelling in Charlotte’s chest at how quickly a “party” had turned into an assault.</div>\n\n[[End of Chapter 2|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 2c]]

Chris climbed onto the bed and stood in front of her.\n\nZoe licked her lips and began licking his penis up and down. As Chris moaned with pleasure, she effortlessly swallowed his penis down to the root. It was a completely new feeling for Chris; the stimulation caused by those unfamiliar lips was incredibly strong, and almost automatically he pushed his hips forward.\n\nShe began bobbing her head up and down; she was obviously used to bigger cocks, because Chris’s cock kept slipping out of her mouth. He didn’t care, because her tongue work simply felt fantastic.\n\nUndeterred, Zoe continued her work. She let his hard-on slide in and out of her mouth, kept playing her tongue around his frenulum, and even tried to press her tongue into the little piss slit. Then she took his hard-on back into her mouth all the way to the root, only to start sucking on it wildly the next moment. The way she did it made Chris suspect that she had sucked cocks many times before.\n\nFor that reason, Chris’s orgasm announced itself much faster than he wanted. Just before he came, she pulled her mouth back and looked up at him, sexily licking her right index finger. Zoe grabbed his balls with her left hand and swallowed Chris’s cock once more all the way down to the root. Then, without warning, she pushed her wet finger into his ass.\n\nChris cried out in surprise, felt that he could no longer control himself, and groaned out his climax. Zoe kept going undeterred, so that finally all his cum shot into her mouth.\n\nMeanwhile, she moved her finger in his ass again and again, and Chris could hardly believe how good it felt. She got everything out of him, and he enjoyed his release like never before.\n\nWhen Chris was finished, she pulled her finger out of his ass and let his limp, exhausted cock slip out of her mouth.\n\nShe smiled at him and stood up. Then she grabbed him and stuck her tongue into his mouth. Even as they kissed, Chris realized that Zoe was feeding him his own cum. He grimaced. It was salty and a little bitter. The consistency was disgusting too.\n\nHe almost gagged, but then she began stroking his cock and whispered, “Be good and swallow it all down.”\n\n''What does he do?''\n❯ [[He swallows.|Er schluckt.][$chris_opinion += 10]]\n❯ [[He spits.|Er spuckt.]]

Chris planted his hands on the asphalt, slowly lifted himself—the knees burned, the backpack strap cut into his shoulder. “I don’t want a fight,” he managed. His posture was open, his palms slightly raised; no resistance, only a visible “Stop.”\n<<set $ZoeMemory[1] to 1>>\nThe corners of Zoe’s mouth drew upward. The grin hurt more than the slap that followed: a violent blow against his cheek, enough to knock him off balance again. He tipped over, failed to catch himself in time, and landed back on the ground, directly in front of Zoe’s shoes. Black, narrow heels, dust on the edge—the world suddenly from this low perspective. He blinked up, not that he knew how to appreciate it, but from this position he could see straight up her skirt and noticed that Zoe was wearing a bright yellow thong.\n\n“So,” Zoe said, arms crossed. “You apologize. Loudly. For your little snitching in the store. And you say—for everyone, so it sinks in—that you were wrong and that you’ll stay out of it. Today. Now.”\n\nChris swallowed. His books lay scattered as if they had given up on themselves. Every gaze stuck to him, to the crooked figure down there. Redness rushed into his face. He heard his own blood in his ear.\n\nZoe’s gaze slid briefly over the spectators, as if she wanted to make sure the audience understood who was directing.\n\n“And as punishment so you learn,” Zoe added, “you kiss my shoe.” Chris heard a small giggle and noticed that several students were amused by his predicament.\n\nHis throat was dry. Ruby stood at the edge, hands tight on the strap; her look was a silent “Please don’t make it worse.”\n\nHe felt the burning in his knees, the shame that made everything sticky.\n\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[He apologizes and kisses the shoe.|Er entschuldigt sich und leckt den Schuh ab.][$beliebtheit -= 2;$zoe_opinion += 35]]\n❯ [[He only apologizes.|Er entschuldigt sich nur.][$beliebtheit -= 1;$zoe_opinion += 15]]

Chris stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and ran his hands over his body. The movement alone made him flinch: his nipples were more sensitive than usual, a sharp, surprising burning sensation that reminded him of Susan’s “You need proper underwear now.” He had pushed it aside until now—the undershirt had been his quiet compromise. Today… it wasn’t enough anymore. He needed support. And protection.\n\n“I can hardly believe I’m even considering this… but the itching is unbearable!” Chris told himself.\n\nHe pulled open the drawer and stared into a tidy sea of fabric and hooks. At the mere thought of the straps, his left ear twitched—as if his body were marking everything “sensitive” right now. His nipples were already reacting to the cool room; without padding, every top would chafe today. So: bra. Period.\n\nHe ran his fingertips over the rows, as if textures might whisper a decision to him.\n\nBlack, smooth, seamless—the T-shirt bra felt like a promise to disappear. Grown-up. Inconspicuous.\n\nCream with floral lace—fine edges that almost seemed to float in the air; “elegant,” Susan would have said. The briefs had a lace insert at the back that pretended to be a secret.\n\nDusty pink with satin bows—softly padded, harmlessly sweet; the little bow between the cups felt like a “you can do this.”\n\nNavy with white piping—preppy, sporty, almost like a uniform.\n\nRed with jacquard—quietly bold, shaping, nothing for a day that was already fraying his nerves.\n\nThe sensitive points on his chest were warning him: padding is your friend today. At the same time, nothing should show through—so no dark color. And he didn’t want to feel… “too much,” when he already felt out of place as it was.\n\nHe laid two combinations on the bed. The decision would come down to these:\n\n<center>[img[pics/unterwaesche.jpg]]</center> ''Daring:'' Cream lace: delicate, lightly padded, visually clearly “grown-up.” The matching briefs with lace trim create a razor-sharp silhouette. Hardly visible under a top, but very clearly “there” when worn.\n\n''Playful:'' Dusty pink with satin bows—softly padded, the little bow between the cups takes the severity out of it. The briefs with tiny polka dots are comfortable, nothing pinches. Under fabric, the set looks warm and unobtrusive.\n\nBoth would be wearable. Both told a different little story about the day ahead of him.\n\n''What does he put on?''\n❯ [[Daring: Cream lace with red accents|Gewagt: Creme-Spitze mit roten Akzenten][$unterwaesche += 1;$chris_opinion += 10]]\n❯ [[Playful: Dusty pink with satin bows|Verspielt: Altrosa mit Satinschleifchen][$unterwaesche += 2]]

Friday began like a recurring song he could already sing along to. Chris stood in front of the mirror, smoothed down the top, chose the darker cardigan to go with it this time, and let the skirt glide over the sheer tights. <<if $haar == 1 >>His hands tied his hair back without thinking; the gesture sat in place as if it had always belonged to him. <<else>>The cowlick at the back of his head was making trouble again; Chris dampened exactly that spot and laid the short strands crosswise over one another. With two breaths of patience, everything lay flat, as if the cowlick had never existed. <<endif>><<if $schminke > 0 >>In front of the vanity, he brushed his lashes with a thin coat of mascara and dabbed a little concealer under his eyes. Then he twisted open the “Raspberry” gloss, traced the contour, and formed that tiny kissy mouth in front of the mirror until the shine sat evenly. Finally, he pressed his lips gently once onto a tissue—a soft smack that sealed the day.<<endif>>\n<<set $wochentag = 5>><<set $wetter = 2>>\nIn the hallway, just before Chris went to the bus stop, his mother stood ready like almost every morning—the final check, as if she were inspecting a uniform. Chris held his bag tightly, as if he could hold on to it. “Turn around once,” Susan said, and it sounded as casual as “Got your keys?”, but to Chris it felt like a small exam every time. He turned around his own axis, feeling that secret glow as he did: a hidden pride when he passed without criticism.\n\nSusan stepped closer, and for a second she really was simply a mother: She smoothed the hem of his cardigan, brushed a crease out of his skirt, set two fingers against his collar so it sat neatly. “There,” she murmured softly, almost satisfied. Then something in her gaze changed, barely visible—from warmth to control. She positioned him a fraction differently, pushed his shoulder back just slightly, as if “finishing” him like a doll about to be put in a shop window. Chris hated that feeling, that made-up, adjusted feeling. And yet, in the mirror of the coat rack, he noticed that it made him look more secure: straighter, more coherent, less vulnerable. When his mother finally took a step back and nodded, both things were inside him at once—resistance and warmth—because she cared, and because she was holding him with it at the same time.\n\nOn the way to the stop, he chatted with his sister, got on the bus, and placed his bag between his ankles so it wouldn’t slide. No one looked twice.\n\nAt school, the hallway smelled of cleaning product and paper. At his locker, he turned the combination, felt the familiar click, and moved the math book to the front.\n<center>[img[pics/ruby_flur.jpg]]</center>\nRuby gave him a brief nod in passing without stopping, the way you nodded to classmates you got along with even when you had nothing to say right then. Chris nodded back. It was nothing special, and exactly that was the point.\n\nHomeroom was a rustle of pages, a “Good morning” that fizzled out in the room. In English Literature, Mr. Robertson had them read a paragraph aloud; Chris’s voice took on the soft edge that stood out less in classrooms than outside. He read fluently, no one giggled, no one raised an eyebrow. Routine carried him.\n\nOn the way to the next block, he pulled his bag higher and avoided a cluster of Pom Puffs who filled the hallway with laughter. Zoe slipped past the water fountain, threw him a look that could have meant too many things, and then disappeared into the girls’ restroom.\n\nAt lunchtime, the cafeteria was a humming room. He stood in line, ordered the usual, and the cashier called him “Sweetie” in a tone no one noticed anymore, least of all him.\n\nIn gym class, the exercises were clear. Mr. Moore set up an obstacle sequence, had them count, corrected a hip axis with too much physical contact. During jump rope, the rope clapped against the gym floor in rhythm. After a few jumps, his bra suddenly slipped, rubbed uncomfortably, and pulled crookedly at his shoulder. Chris’s jumps immediately became more uneven. He tried to adjust the strap discreetly between two jumps—a hand briefly at the neckline, one tiny tug—but that only made it worse. The rope snagged once, he stumbled, caught himself, felt heat in his cheeks. Don’t stand out, don’t stand out, he thought, while his body simultaneously searched for the right spot and his head went into panic.\n\n<<if $choice_cheerleader == 1>>“Wait, your strap…,” said a girl beside him, already taking a step closer, her hand half raised—honest, automatic helpfulness, the kind girls sometimes had among each other. But before she could reach him, a sharp tone came from the side: “Oh my God, really?” One of the cheerleaders from yesterday stood at the edge of the jump line, arms crossed, a crooked grin on her face. “Can’t you even do that by yourself?”\n\nThe girl next to Chris stopped mid-motion, as if someone had pressed pause. Her hand sank again, her gaze darting to the cheerleader—that quick check of whether she was about to get herself into trouble. Then she took half a step back, as if she had never meant to help. Around them, everyone suddenly acted as if they were terribly busy: spinning ropes, tying shoes, looking for water bottles. No one looked directly at Chris.\n\nChris’s face burned. He kept jumping, forced the rope back into rhythm, and at the same time tried to rescue the bra strap on his own—an impossible balancing act between movement and shame. The rope struck wrong once, slapped against his butt, and he swallowed a curse. Behind him, the cheerleader giggled softly. For a moment, he felt not only exposed, but displayed.\n\n<<else>>“Wait, your strap…,” said a girl beside him quite casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. She stepped closer, briefly reached under his shirt, and pulled it back into place with a practiced, quick grip. “There. Keep going.” For her, it was a second of help between girls, nothing more. But inside Chris, a siren went off: the brief contact, the matter-of-factness, the feeling that a boundary had just been touched that no one but him could see. He forced himself to smile, nodded hastily, and kept jumping—the rope back in rhythm, but his heart far too fast.\n\n<<endif>>The afternoon tipped into that particular light Maplewood regularly got. In the parking lot, Christine stood beside Myles, both bent over something that looked like a joke on his phone. She looked up, raised two fingers in greeting, and called, “You go ahead, I’ll come later!” He only nodded, hoisted the bag onto his shoulder, and set off.\n\nThe bus came on time. Chris sat down by the window, pressed the bag between his ankles, and briefly leaned his forehead against the glass. The town passed him by, ordinary and relentless, and his reflection looked like one of many in that glass. Two weeks, he thought. Two weeks, and the thought of going through school as a girl no longer felt like an exception, but like an agenda. That was exactly his problem.\n\n[[Continue|Arztbesuch am Nachmittag.]]

On Thursday morning, Chris stood at the front of the classroom, directly in front of the board, holding a piece of paper in his hand. The paper crackled with every breath. Mr. Robertson sat at the teacher’s desk as always, glasses on the tip of his nose, and nodded to him encouragingly. Behind Chris, notebooks rustled, chairs squeaked, someone giggled far too early.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nChris cleared his throat and began to read. His gaze slid to the heading—and he froze.\n\n“Why I Love to Date Boys By Chris Braun”\n\nA choral “Ohhh” went through the class. A few “Ah!”s, as if someone had opened a book to a particularly juicy passage. Chris felt the blood shoot into his face. He stared at the paper as if it had jumped there by itself.\n\n“Um…” he managed, but Mr. Robertson only raised his hand, friendly, too friendly.\n\n“Go on, Chris,” he said calmly. “Just read aloud what you wrote.”\n\nChris swallowed. The words beneath it stood there black and unmistakable. And although his head screamed that this couldn’t be his presentation, he heard himself reading aloud—with a voice that sounded far too loud in the room:\n\n“I know I'm a boy and I'm supposed to date girls but I have to tell you I've always secretly wanted to date boys. I think boys are really dreamy and I just can't wait to kiss a boy<<if $kissboy == 0>> for the first time<<endif>>. I'm so nervous and excited all at once. I hope it happens soon. I just love to look as pretty as I can for boys in the hopes that one finds me cute enough to date.”\n\nThe room was suddenly quieter than during any test. No one wrote. No one cleared their throat. Everyone was staring at him.\n\nOnly now did Chris notice how “pretty” he was dressed—too pretty, too polished, too… deliberate. He was wearing a soft skirt in a pastel color that ended with exactly the right swing above his knees.\n\nThen his gaze wandered upward—to his top.\n\nAcross the chest, in big letters, it said: “I Love Boys.” The word “Love” wasn’t even written out; it had been replaced by a pink heart that shone garishly and childishly. Chris’s stomach cramped. This isn’t… this isn’t… He wanted to fold his arms, hide the fabric, but his hands were stuck to the paper.\n\n“Continue,” Mr. Robertson said gently, as if this were a perfectly normal presentation about Shakespeare.\n\nChris’s fingers trembled. He read on, his face burning:\n\n“I will be so happy when he takes me in his strong arms for <<if $kissboy == 0>>my first <<else>>a <<endif>> kiss. Hopefully I can find a hunky boy that thinks I'm pretty so we can go steady. I'm just dying to have a boyfriend! Boys, boys, boys that's all I ever think of.........…”\n\nThe final word stretched out, as if it kept going on its own, an endless row of dots spilling beyond the paper and onto the floor. Chris heard a stifled laugh somewhere. He heard his own blood rushing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone look at Dylan—and Dylan look back, half a grin on his face, as if he knew something Chris himself wasn’t allowed to know.\n\nChris wanted to drop the paper, run away, disappear. He couldn’t. His feet were heavy as lead, his top screamed at him, and the class stared at him as if he were a mistake that had finally become visible.\n\nThen his eyes flew open.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/Chris_traum_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/Chris_traum_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nHe was lying in his bed. It was still night. The room was dark, only a strip of streetlamp light lay on the floor. His heart hammered so loudly that he thought someone would have to hear it in the hallway. His hands frantically felt over his nightgown—no print, no heart, only fabric. He exhaled once in a burst, then again, and felt the shame crawl up to his ears anyway, as if the dream had left an imprint.\n\nChris turned onto his side, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and squeezed his eyes shut. Even in the darkness, he felt caught.\n\n[[Continue|Zu wenig Badezimmer im Haus.5]]

On Friday, the whole school was talking about Homecoming as if there were no other event left on the calendar. In the halls, dress colors were being discussed, hairstyles shown off, limousine plans whispered about. It was as if there were nothing more important than Saturday night. Chris heard it everywhere—and yet it felt as if none of it had much to do with him.\n<<set $wochentag = 5>><<set $ort to "school">>\nFor him, Homecoming wasn’t a dance, but a hole in his stomach.\n\nAbout three weeks ago, he had confessed his secret to Charlotte. Since then, she had been… not gone, but not there either. She rarely answered, avoided his eyes, disappeared during breaks into groups, into paths, into time. And because their relationship was a secret at school, he couldn’t simply go to her table and talk to her the way other couples did. He had to wait, find gaps, moments when no one was looking.\n\nIn the cafeteria, he didn’t sit with her, but first stopped by the drink station, pretending he still needed to get a cup of water. When Charlotte briefly stood alone at the edge of her table because she was taking a napkin, he went over as if by chance.\n\n“Hey,” he said quietly.\n\nCharlotte flinched almost imperceptibly, then immediately caught herself. “Hey,” she answered, also quietly, and pulled the napkin out more slowly than necessary.\n\nChris kept his gaze neutral, as if two random classmates were talking about homework. “Can we talk for a second? Just… one minute.”\n\nShe looked over his shoulder, checking whether anyone was paying attention to them. “Not here.”\n\n“Then after school?” he whispered.\n\nCharlotte shook her head. “I can’t, Chris.”\n\n“Okay. Tomorrow. Please.” He forced himself to stay calm. “Just us. No… pressure. I just want to know where we stand.”\n\n“I need time,” she said at once, like a sentence she had already said a hundred times. Her voice didn’t sound angry, more tired. “And you don’t make it easier for me when you keep…”\n\n“I know.” Chris’s hand briefly clenched around the paper cup. “I’m just trying not to lose it. Not to lose you.”\n\nCharlotte pressed her lips together, as if she were fighting with herself. “Chris…”\n\n“Saturday night,” he carefully added, as if it were a compromise, not clinging on. “Just watching a movie. We don’t have to talk about everything. We can just… sit next to each other. Be normal. Please.”\n\nShe exhaled, looked to the side again, as if searching for an exit in the cafeteria noise. Then she gave a tiny nod. “One movie,” she said quietly. “But no… big conversations. Not right away.”\n\n“Okay,” Chris said, immediately. “Promise.”\n\nCharlotte looked at him briefly—a look that was both distance and permission. “Saturday. Eight. My place.”\n\n“Eight,” Chris repeated. He stepped back before anyone could see too much, and went back to the drink station as if he had only been looking for water. But inside him, something was lighter: not solved, not good—but a small piece of hope that could breathe again.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 3>>[[Saturday night Homecoming and Charlotte|Samstag Abend bei Charlotte.2]]<<else>>[[Saturday night at Charlotte’s.|Samstag Abend bei Charlotte.]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

Ruby led him up to the stall. “Stardust,” she said softly, and the dark bay raised his head, ears forward, as if he recognized the name as a compliment. Led out in his halter, he seemed even larger—a dark, gleaming mountain of muscle with a fine star on his forehead. Next to him, Ruby and Chris looked like two little dolls with helmets.\n<<set $ort to "riding stable">>\n“He’s sweet,” Ruby said, “but he still wants respect.” She pressed a body brush into Chris’s hand. “Circles, with pressure. Like this.”\n\nThe coat was warm and smelled of sun and hay. Chris put rhythm into his arm, the dust rising in soft clouds, the brush leaving shine behind. To his own surprise, he enjoyed it—a quiet, practical task that made his head grow quieter. Stardust lowered his neck in pleasure, as if brushing were little prayers.\n\n“Perfect,” Ruby praised. “Now picking out the hooves, I’ll do that.” She crouched down routinely, tapped gently, held the hoof steady, picked it out. Her movements were thorough, not rushed—you could tell this was her territory.\n\nIn the arena, Chris helped saddle and bridle, handed over straps, sorted reins, silently marveling at all the leather bands that suddenly made sense.\n\n“Wait, I’ll help you mount,” Chris said when he saw that Ruby was having trouble getting onto the big horse. He moved his hand to her right butt cheek. Since no protest came, he slid his second hand over her left butt cheek, over its curve to the middle into the crack, where his fingers touched her sex. It did turn Chris on somehow that her breeches were cut so tightly around her pussy and ass. And Ruby, too, gave a soft “Mmmmmhh” when Chris touched her there. He lifted her up, and for a moment her sweet little ass was only a few inches from Chris’s face.\n\nRuby was now sitting on the horse with her back to Chris, promptly arched her back, and pushed her ass out so that her labia pressed out from behind between her buttocks.\n\nThen Ruby slipped her foot into the stirrup, gave Stardust a light pressure, and swung: she was seated. A small shift of weight, a soft click of the tongue—the stallion started moving. At a trot, he carried Ruby like a wave that never quite breaks. Up and down, up and down; her little tits bounced, her laughter flew across the arena.\n\nThe contrast between the strength of the large, muscular horse and the delicate girl was almost poetic. Stardust seemed to obey her commands while Ruby rode in the sun with shining eyes.\n\nAfter a few rounds, she brought him back down and rode over to the fence. “Your turn,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “No panic. I’m right beside you.”\n\nChris nodded, felt a nervous knot in his stomach, and placed his hand on the saddle, just as Ruby had shown him. Foot in the stirrup, swing from the leg, up—Ruby supported him by the ass. For one heartbeat, the world wavered, then he was up—higher than expected, wider than comfortable.\n\nShe took the rein on the cavesson as well and walked at shoulder height. Chris carefully placed his legs against the horse, feeling warmth and strength beneath him like a calm machine.\n\n“That’s good,” Ruby praised. “Now just walk. Feel the rhythm. One-two, one-two.” Stardust set off—gentle, but definite.\n\n[[Continue|Erste Reitlektion.]]

On the way to the women’s restroom, Susan pushed determinedly through the crowd, as if demanding that the club make way for her. Chris followed on the platforms, focused on not stumbling. Behind the restroom door, the bass grew duller, the light harsher, the smell of perfume and hairspray stronger.\n\nAnd then there she was: [[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]].\n<center>[img[pics/penelope_club.jpg]]</center> She was leaning half against the wall, half against the door handle of a restroom, as if she needed both just to stay upright at all. Her hair was still perfectly styled, but her gaze was glassy, her mouth slightly open, as if her body loaded more slowly than her words. She blinked, as if she first had to bring Chris into focus, and then her mouth pulled into a crooked, drunken smile.\n\n“Heeey… Boob Chris…” she slurred, stretching out the “Chris” as if it were chewing gum.\n\nChris’ stomach tightened. “Mom,” he said quickly to his mother, quietly, almost apologetically, “I know her from school. That’s… Penelope. She does cheerleading with Christine.”\n\nSusan looked Penelope over once, from head to toe, and snorted almost inaudibly. Penelope swayed as if she were about to topple over.\n\nChris stepped closer. “Penelope? Is everything all right?” She mumbled something unintelligible, slid her shoulder along the wall, and would almost have tipped over if Chris hadn’t supported her.\n\n“Okay,” Chris said, more to himself than to her. He looked at his mother. His heart was still pounding from the club, but now there was a clear, practical chance: a way out. “I… I could take her home. She really isn’t very… uh…” He searched for a word that didn’t sound like “wasted.”\n\nSusan looked at Penelope as if she were a problem to be cleared out of the way quickly. Then she gave a curt nod. “All right. But you do it properly. And you don’t leave her lying around somewhere.” Her gaze was strict, but there was also something convenient in it.\n\nChris breathed out. “Okay.”\n\nHe guided Penelope outside, step by step, her arm over his shoulder. Outside, the air was cold and clear, as if it had slapped him. He called an Uber while keeping Penelope upright, and when the car came, he helped her into the back seat.\n\n“You… are sweet,” Penelope murmured.\n\nChris ignored it. Susan stayed in the club—he still saw her turn around and disappear into the neon light, back to DeShawn and Latoya.\n\nIn the car, Penelope sank deeper into the seat, her forehead leaning against the window. The driver routinely asked whether everything was okay; Chris nodded, said they had just “celebrated too much.” Penelope giggled briefly, then grew heavy again.\n\nWhen Chris gave the address, Penelope suddenly shook her head, violently and uncoordinatedly. “No… no, I can’t go there.” Her voice broke in the middle. “I can’t go home.”\n\nChris turned to her. “Why not?”\n\nPenelope blinked, as if considering whether she was allowed to say it. Then she only raised her shoulders, far too slowly, and shook her head again.\n\n“Just… no,” she muttered. Nothing more came. She turned her head away, forehead against the window, as if the world outside were easier to endure than a conversation.\n\nChris took a breath. He gave the driver the address anyway, more quietly, as if he were afraid of breaking the decision. Penelope didn’t protest anymore. She sank deeper into the seat, her eyes half closed, and the giggle from earlier had disappeared.\n\nThe car stopped in front of the Barnett house. The driveway lay dark, only the porch lamp was on. Chris got out, paid, opened the door for Penelope, and supported her as she got out on shaky legs.\n\n[[Mrs. Barnett|Caroline Barnett]] opened before Chris could properly ring the bell. As if she had been waiting for footsteps. At first, her face was taut with worry—and then, when she recognized Chris, something else flickered across it: surprise, relief… and that quiet, dangerous crackle that immediately made Chris’ chest tighten because it seemed so familiar to him and yet didn’t belong here.\n\n“Chris?” Her voice was soft, but tense. “Oh my God—Penelope.”\n\n“I found her at the club… she was alone,” Chris explained quickly, as if he had to justify himself. “She didn’t want to—I mean, she didn’t say what was wrong. But I didn’t want to—”\n\n“Thank you,” Mrs. Barnett said at once, without waiting for the end. She stepped aside, placed one hand on Penelope’s back and the other briefly on Chris’ arm—a fleeting, warm contact that stayed with him longer. “Come in. Please.”\n\nMrs. Barnett led them up the stairs, Penelope between them like a swaying package. Chris tried not to pay too much attention to Mrs. Barnett’s closeness—to the scent of her perfume, to the way she still seemed calm under stress. He had no time for old longings. And yet they were there, like a reflex.\n\nIn the upstairs hallway, Mrs. Barnett opened Penelope’s bedroom door. “Sweetheart, we’re here,” she said gently. Penelope made a sound that hung somewhere between sobbing and laughing. Chris carefully guided her toward the bed.\n\n“Okay, sit down,” he murmured. “Slowly.”\n\nPenelope made it to the edge of the bed—and then her head tipped forward, her body convulsed, and Chris had just enough time to instinctively lean in to hold her when her stomach decided. It came suddenly. Warm. Sour. And straight onto Chris’ mesh top.\n\nChris froze for a moment, more out of shock than disgust. Penelope retched again, gasped, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and then stared at him as if she had only now understood that he was a person.\n\n“Oh…,” she slurred. “Oh no.”\n\n“It’s… okay,” Chris said automatically, even though it wasn’t okay. He was sticky, his top hung heavier on his body, and the shame came immediately afterward, because he was standing there like the involuntary victim of a disaster that wasn’t really his.\n\nMrs. Barnett was already there, faster than Chris would have expected of her—with a trash can, a damp cloth, the routine of a mother who had been awake too often at night. She took care of Penelope without taking her eyes off Chris.\n\nThen she saw Chris’ top, the stain, the shine in the mesh, and her gaze softened. “You can shower here,” she said calmly, as if that were the most natural solution in the world. “I’ll give you a towel and something of Penelope’s to wear. You can’t go home like that.”\n\nChris’ first impulse was to wave it off. His second was: Please yes. Not because he wanted any kind of scene—but because right now he didn’t know how else he was supposed to get through the night in this state. And because Mrs. Barnett’s voice still soothed him in a way.\n\n“Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “Yes… please. That would be—very helpful.”\n\nMrs. Barnett nodded, as if she had expected exactly that.\n\n[[Continue|Chris geht duschen.]]

When Chris was finally done, his hands still felt as if they smelled of semen despite the soap, and his skin was tight from too much scrubbing. He untied the apron, hung it back on the hook, and went to Rick at the counter, where he was sorting receipt strips.\n\nRick barely looked up. “Well,” he said, as if reading a report aloud, “that was nothing today. You were slow, you were absent…” He snorted. “I don’t have time to tell you everything three times.”\n\nChris swallowed. “It was my first day.”\n\n“And?” Rick tapped the pen against the clipboard. “First day doesn’t mean you get to drift around like a shadow. I’m talking to your mother. Maybe then you’ll try harder next time.”\n\nThe sentence hit Chris like a cold splash. “Please don’t,” he wanted to say, but he knew how that would sound. Instead, he nodded silently.\n\nWhen he emptied the apron pockets, he found almost nothing. A few coins, a single crumpled dollar—nothing more. Practically no tips at all. The whole afternoon: carrying, running, wiping, trash, shame—and in the end, not even that small comfort Susan had promised him like a treat remained.\n\nOn the way outside, he tried to push the disappointment away. At least I didn’t bend myself out of shape, he told himself defiantly. He had not flirted, had not smiled until his face hurt, had not pretended he was happy to be “sweetie” for strange men. He had done what was absolutely necessary. For a job he had never wanted.\n\nOutside, it was dark and cold. He walked to the bus stop, sat down on the bus, which smelled of plastic and wet jackets, and let the streets pass him by. In his head, tomorrow’s math test lay like a stone. He had not had any time left to study again—no practice problems, no formulas, nothing. Only tiredness in his arms and the feeling that the day had stolen time from him that he would not get back.\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch, Schummeln für den Mathetest.]]

“Lie down,” Chris said, and Charlotte rolled onto her stomach with a small sigh, the backrest of the lounger creaking softly. She turned her back to him and blinked seductively over her shoulder, which amounted to an unspoken invitation.\n\nHe put some sunscreen onto his palms, rubbed them together until the lotion warmed, and was just about to start spreading it over Charlotte’s back when she obviously had an idea. Charlotte opened her bikini top.\n\n“This way you can rub my back better.”\n\nChris smiled briefly, then sat down on the lounger beside her at about the level of Charlotte’s hips and slowly began spreading the sunscreen over Charlotte’s back. He immediately noticed the fine little hairs at the nape of Charlotte’s neck, which stood up at once when Chris’s hands touched Charlotte’s back.\n\nWhile Chris rubbed sunscreen onto Charlotte, he let his gaze wander over her entire backside and once again noticed that Charlotte’s body, from her long legs over her round, perky ass up to her delicate nape, could only be described as perfect. Seeing her body from this close excited Chris enormously.\n\nAgain and again, his gaze got caught on that unbelievable ass. The already skimpy fabric of Charlotte’s bikini bottoms had largely slipped between her butt cheeks, so that both cheeks lay almost completely exposed before Chris. If he had seen an ass like that in an underwear ad, he would have bet anything that the photo had been manipulated afterward, because Chris would have thought such perfect curves were impossible in real life. But now those two firm butt cheeks lay directly in front of him, and Chris felt an uncontrollable urge to take them in his hands and caress them, and the mere thought of stroking his penis through Charlotte’s ass crack made everything in him stiffen.\n\nAlthough the whole new situation made him totally nervous, he still couldn’t resist briefly tugging at the waistband of Charlotte’s bikini bottoms as he rubbed sunscreen onto her lower back. This action pulled the fabric of Charlotte’s bottoms completely into her ass crack, and Chris could have sworn he heard a soft “Mmmmh...” from Charlotte’s direction.\n\n''What does he do?''\n❯ [[He is brave and rubs sunscreen onto her ass.|Er ist mutig, cremt ihren Po ein.]]\n❯ [[He only rubs sunscreen onto her legs.|Er cremt nur ihre Beine ein.]]

Chris swallowed, feeling the pressure of Zoe’s words like a thumb on a sore spot—and pushed it away anyway. He lifted his chin, even though it took effort.\n\n“No,” he said quietly, then again, firmer: “No. I’m not doing that.”\n\nZoe blinked as if she had misheard. “What?”\n\n“No plan,” Chris said, his fingers clenched around the strap of his bag. “No… trick, no anything. I’m not letting myself get dragged into something just because you’re scaring me.” His voice trembled slightly, but he stayed where he was. “And if Dylan only wants me if I—if I go along with it, then… then that’s not my problem.”\n\nThe last part of the sentence hurt because he really meant it. Or at least wanted to mean it.\n\nZoe gave a short, sharp laugh. “Wow. You really are… sweetly naive.” She pushed her tongue against the inside of her cheek and looked him over. “Do you really think the quarterback’s waiting around for a moral lecture?”\n\nChris’s face grew hot, but this time it wasn’t only shame. There was defiance, too. “I didn’t say he should wait. I said I won’t let myself be pressured.”\n\nFor a moment, Zoe looked as if she were weighing whether to push further. Then she shrugged, as if he was beyond help. “Do what you want. Just don’t cry about it when you’re standing around alone again somewhere on Monday.” She turned away, took a few steps, and tossed over her shoulder, “You’re really bad at this game.”\n\nChris stayed where he was until she was out of sight. His heart was beating fast, but it was a different beat than before—less panic, more… decision. He hated that Zoe had managed to shake him at all. At the same time, he was relieved he hadn’t let himself be swept along.\n\nStill, the real problem remained: Dylan. Saturday. The awkward back-and-forth in the chat.\n\n[[Continue|Samstag, Tag des Schulballs.]]

When Chris arrived in the living room, his breath caught – not because of a punishment, but because of the sight.\n<<set $ort to "living room">>\nSusan was standing in the living room and had dressed “masculine”: a dark blazer over a shirt, the collar severe, the sleeves a little too long, as if she had deliberately overdone it a bit. On her, the outfit looked convincing and completely absurd at the same time – especially together with her long blonde hair and her soft curves, which couldn’t be disguised despite everything. It looked like a costume from a theater wardrobe… except Susan was wearing it with a serious expression.\n\n“Don’t panic,” she said.\n\n“Mom… what is this?” he managed to get out. He had expected a storm, not… this scene.\n\nSusan didn’t let herself be thrown off. “You act as if a date with a boy is the end of the world,” she said, making a small, theatrical gesture with her hand. “So I’m going to show you that it isn’t bad. It’s roleplay. You learn how to behave, how to answer, how to have fun – and that you won’t break while doing it.”\n\nChris stood there, utterly embarrassed, wishing the carpet would swallow him whole. Everything about it felt wrong and, at the same time, typically Susan: control, staging, “training.” He couldn’t come up with a proper argument, only a helpless “This is so uncomfortable…”\n\n“Exactly why,” Susan said dryly. She looked him over with a gaze that was both playing and assessing. Then she cleared her throat – and her voice dropped into a much deeper, exaggeratedly masculine register.\n\n“Well, hey, sweetie,” she said, leaning against the cabinet as if the whole room belonged to her. “You’re keeping your date waiting? That’s a promising start.”\n\nChris’s face grew hot. Just the fact that she said that word – date – and then that sweetie on top of it, made his stomach tighten. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he folded them in front of his body, as if that could somehow make him smaller.\n\n“Mom… please,” he managed, far too quietly.\n\n“Shh.” She raised a finger, now fully in character. A self-satisfied grin twitched across her lips, as if she had expected exactly this reaction. “Today we’re not discussing. Today we’re learning.”\n\nChris swallowed. He wanted to say something back, some objection, some excuse – but his mother had already stepped closer, standing so near in front of him that he involuntarily held his breath, and tapped his side with her hand as if pushing him into position.\n\n“You’re going to get ready now,” she ordered. “The little black dress. For tonight.” As she said it, she gave him a quick swat on the butt, and Chris flinched.\n\nHe nodded hastily, shame clinging to his skin like a dress that was too warm. Without another word, he turned around and went to his room, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the floor, as if otherwise he might still see Susan’s satisfied grin reflected in the windowpanes.\n\nIn his room, he stood still for a moment, breathing shallowly, and then opened the wardrobe. The “little black dress” hung there as if it had been made for evenings exactly like this: a short, figure-hugging wrap dress made of black fabric that clung tightly to the waist and used ruched elements at the side – as if it deliberately emphasized every line instead of hiding it. The neckline formed a clean V, not vulgar, but clear enough to make him feel as if he was revealing too much of himself. The hem ended well above the knees, just enough that every movement made him think about how visible his legs were.\n\nWhen he had dressed, the dress fit like a second skin: the wrap section pulled tight across his middle, the ruching gathered the fabric into small, controlled folds at his hip and side, and with every breath he felt how it clung to him, as if it were holding him in place. With it, he wore thin black stockings that made his legs look smoother and more “finished,” and simple dark heeled shoes that automatically changed his posture – back straighter, steps more careful. A little jewelry completed it: small earrings, subtle but impossible to miss, and a delicate bracelet that rested softly against his wrist with every movement.\n\nFinally, Chris stood there in front of the mirror, all dressed up for a “date with his mother” that he had never wanted – and yet the image looked frighteningly coherent.\n\n[[Continue|Ein Date mit Mom 2.]]

At the side exit, Adam was already waiting, the backpack straps too loose, his hair tousled by the wind. Beside him stood a small, old motor scooter that looked as if it had more stories than miles. “Bus?” Chris asked. “Or…?”\n<<set $ort to "">>\nAdam triumphantly held up a helmet. “Better. Scooter.” He sat down on the saddle without a helmet himself, patted the spot behind him. “Come on.”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. Two people on that thing? He took the helmet, which smelled of gasoline and old foam, and pulled it over his hairstyle, which immediately gave up. He climbed on. “Are you sure that—”\n\n“Hold on!” Adam called over the first impatient rattling.\n\nChris searched for something to hold on to with his hands, hesitated, and in that second Adam hit the gas. The scooter leapt forward, vibrating, buzzing; Chris’s objection vanished in the engine noise. He had to wrap his arms around Adam, otherwise he would have slid backward. A few students turned around, one whistled, someone held up a phone. Great. Rumor mill: brought to a boil, Chris thought as the wind pressed the edge of his skirt against his thighs.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Adam_roller.jpg]]</center> The ride felt like a small expedition: the scooter vibrated all the way into his teeth, and Chris felt the warmth of Adam’s body directly in front of him. The unfamiliar stimulation did not remain without consequence for long, and Chris’s penis grew harder and harder. It was embarrassing. Chris breathed heavily and tried to concentrate on something else, but it didn’t work. Every turn made him cling even tighter to Adam’s strong back. The ride and the vibration continued like that for quite a while. Chris was on the verge of ejaculating when they reached their destination.\n\nAdam called over his shoulder, “Everything okay?”, and Chris nodded against the helmet, even though Adam couldn’t see it.\n\nAt Adam’s house—a small ranch house, well-kept front yard, faded wind chimes—Adam parked the scooter. Chris pulled off the helmet. His hairstyle was history; he ran his fingers through his hair and tried to convince it to believe in something like order again.\n\nThen Chris climbed off on shaky legs and quickly held the helmet in front of his crotch, glad to have solid ground under his feet again.\n\nInside, it smelled of peppermint tea and furniture polish. “Mom! Dad! Visitor,” he called.\n\nA cute, clearly older couple stepped out of the kitchen, both wearing aprons, both with smiles that made wrinkles look kind. “Oh!” his mother exclaimed, her hands already half raised for a hug. “Adam’s girlfriend! How lovely!”\n“Uh—” Chris began, but Adam was quicker. “Mom, this is Chris. From the D&D Club. We—uh—read manga.”\n“Of course, of course,” the father said, winking conspiratorially, as if “manga” meant everything and nothing. “Have a nice read.”\n\nChris felt his face turn red. “Very nice to meet you,” he squeaked, while at the same time wanting to sink into the floor.\n\nAdam’s room was at the end of the hallway. Chris stepped in—and froze. An absolute battlefield: shirts over the chair, pizza boxes (empty, hopefully), power strips tangled with cables, a wobbly stack of comics, threaded through with dirty socks that had found no home. The smell was a teenage symphony of chips, sweat, and something indefinable. “Um… could you maybe—the window…?”\n\n“Oh! Sure.” Adam tore it open; fresh air came in and drove away the worst ghosts. “Sorry. I’ll clean up in a sec—I mean, I… uh… later.”\n\nChris smiled politely. “No problem.” His gaze caught on a shelf—and there it was, the other world: manga series lined up in rows, slipcases, a few yellowed first editions with Japanese spines, small mecha figures between the stacks that managed to keep their posture even in the chaos.\n\n“Okay,” Adam said, now with a flash of pride. “Ready for the treasures?” He cleared a corner of the desk, carefully laid down a plastic sleeve, and pulled out the first rarity like an archivist.\n\nChris stepped closer; the stench faded into the background. Paper, print, panel art—his heart made the little leap that only favorite worlds can trigger. Outside, somewhere, a mailbox rattled; inside, history was being leafed through.\n\n[[Continue|Chris muss auf Klo.]]

Monday already carried Thursday’s shine within it: new banners in red and silver hung everywhere, the announcements reminded everyone of the pep rally on the hour, and in the hallways students spontaneously practiced call-and-response chants that echoed off the tiles.\n<<set $ort to "school">>\n<<if $choice_adam == 1>>During break, Chris walked through the hallway with a few Pom Puffs, caught up in the group’s pace, voices like a swarm around him. Just as they were about to pass the lockers, [[Adam|Adam Bowman]] came toward them—D&D folder under his arm, gaze briefly lifting, then a small, honest “Hey, Chris” with a cautious smile.\n\nChris felt a stab of embarrassment, as quick as a blinking light. Standing among cheerleaders and being greeted by Adam felt like two worlds that weren’t supposed to touch. “Hey,” he murmured back, restrained, and immediately let his gaze move on, as if he were in a hurry.\n\n“You know him?” one of the girls asked, her lips already half curling into a giggle. Chris only gave a slight shrug. “Yeah… just vaguely,” he said, as if it were nothing, and steered the group on toward the cafeteria with a quick step.\n\n<<endif>><<if $choice_adam == 3>>During break, Chris walked through the hallway with a few Pom Puffs, caught up in the group’s pace, voices like a swarm around him. Just as they were about to pass the lockers, [[Adam|Adam Bowman]] came toward them—D&D folder under his arm. He lifted his gaze for only the tiniest moment, just long enough to recognize Chris, then it slid away immediately, as if the neon light had blinded him.\n\nAdam slipped past along the edge, made himself small, let the Pom Puffs stand between him and Chris like a wall. As they passed each other, Adam hunched his shoulders, as if he wanted to be as invisible as possible.\n\n<<endif>>After school, Chris went to the gym. The air smelled of resin and exercise mats, the echo of footsteps broader than usual. No football guys at the edge, no comments, no half-ironic whistling—only the Pom Puffs, Mr. Moore, music from the speaker, and the dull slap of soles on the hardwood. Chris wasn’t sure whether he liked the absence. Part of him breathed easier; another part involuntarily searched for faces that were missing—and caught on one face that had been lying between his thoughts for days: Dylan. The topic of boys stretched a thin wire through his attention, and he only noticed it when he stepped on it.\n\n“Positions,” Christine said, brief and matter-of-fact. She seemed different since Saturday—more mature, more distant. Short instructions, no small talk, no bubble of giggling between counts. She checked the formation with a scrutinizing look, as if she had opened a new drawer inside herself and pushed the old one shut.\n\n“Focus, Chris,” Mr. Moore called, without shouting. “The pep rally is already knocking on the door. We’re building the new pyramid, count of eight. No loose angles.”\n\nChris nodded, pushed the topic of boys and Christine back like a chair under a table, and took his place in the front row of bases. The music started, a fast, clean tempo. “Five—six—seven—eight!”\n\nThey ran the entry, hands chalked, grip checked: wrist, thumb underneath, elbows close. The flyer—Penelope—stepped in up to prep, light as a feather, but with familiar weight. Chris felt the line of force from his heels into his hands, breathed in rhythm, heard Christine’s “Up!” exactly on the two. The hardwood gave back a small sound when their sneakers worked.\n\n“Again from the top,” Mr. Moore said. “Cleaner. I don’t want a wobble on four.”\n\nThey reset. This time the transition—prep to extension—worked more smoothly; Chris felt the pyramid rising above him, layers of bodies, tension, trust. Penelope’s knees came together, her toes found the line, hands up: High V. Christine counted only with bone-dry precision now, without embellishment. “One—two—three—hit!”\n\n<center>[img[pics/Christine_cheerleader.jpg]]</center> On the cradle, the flyer dropped softly into their arms; Chris absorbed the impact, let his knees work, felt Mr. Moore’s satisfied nod more than he saw it.\n\n“That’s how it’ll come together,” he said. “Once more. Then with the show climax: ripple, then toe touch, then pyramid up—pose—cut.”\n\nChris concentrated until the sounds of the gym dissolved. He heard only the counts, the group’s breathing, the soft sliding of soles as they set. The thought of the spectators on Thursday—of looks, of names, of Dylan—was there, but tiny as a pin in the background. His hands did what had to be done. The pyramid stood, the show climax landed, the “Hit!” was a clean, shared snap into place.\n\nAs they shook out, his gaze brushed over Christine. She kept to the edge, loosened a hair tie, checked the list on the clipboard, said “Good row” without a smile, and moved on. Chris took note of it the way you notice the temperature of a room: it wasn’t cold, but it was cooler than before.\n\n“One more run-through,” Mr. Moore said. “Then cooldown and stretching. The pep rally won’t wait.”\n\nChris raised his hands, gripped, lifted—and stayed on count. Thursday could come.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Training draußen vor der Halle.]]

Outside, the night was cool but friendly. Strings of lights hung above the entrance and cast little golden dots onto the asphalt. Groups were still standing together, laughing, comparing photos, while somewhere in the background a teacher pushed the last decoration boxes together.\n\nChris shivered, more from the after-echo of adrenaline than from the temperature. Lucas noticed immediately. Without making a big deal of it, he took off his jacket and laid it around Chris’s shoulders. The fabric smelled like Lucas—clean, a little like laundry detergent, a little like the evening—and suddenly Chris felt sheltered, as if the jacket had drawn a boundary between him and the rest of the world.\n\nThey stood side by side and waited for the limousine. Chris held the clutch with both hands, as if it were some kind of steering wheel for his nerves. Lucas’s hand brushed briefly over his back, then Lucas pulled it away again, as if he were afraid of being too obvious. His eyes were bright, but restless.\n\n“Um…” Lucas began and cleared his throat. It sounded casual, but Chris heard the nervousness underneath. “At my place… no one’s home tonight.”\n\nChris nodded automatically, without understanding why that should matter.\n\nLucas looked away briefly, then back at him, and his words came more quietly, more shyly: “Do you… maybe… want to come over to my place? Just… for a little while longer. If you want.”\n\nChris needed a moment. The question hung in the air, seemingly harmless—and then he understood what it meant. Not “talk a little longer.” Not “have some tea.” Lucas and him alone. After the dance. Two teenagers. A closed door.\n\nEverything in Chris’s stomach tightened. Images and fears shot up at the same time: panic, the feeling that his body was a minefield, the thought of sex—and of being “the girl” during it. That felt wrong, as if someone were forcing a role onto him that didn’t fit. Part of him was repulsed by the idea of sleeping with a boy—not because it was Lucas, but because it crossed the boundary of what he had always told himself about who he was. I’m a boy. I don’t want this. I can’t do this.\n\nHis breathing grew shallower. He noticed his fingers gripping the clutch more tightly.\n\nThen he looked at Lucas.\n\nLucas’s gaze was hopeful, cautious, a little afraid. No pressure, no entitlement—only a quiet waiting. And at the same time, Chris felt something else pushing back against the panic: that real warmth between them. The memory of the kiss. Of Lucas’s words. Of the feeling of not being alone.\n\nChris looked briefly up at the sky, at the dark stretch above the strings of lights. A thought formed inside him that wasn’t logical, but was honest: If I’m already stuck in this role… then I at least want to find love in it.\n\nHe swallowed, his throat dry, and nodded to Lucas—a small, embarrassed nod, because he was too mortified to say the “yes” out loud.\n\nLucas’s face changed immediately. He smiled, exhaled audibly, as if he had been holding his breath. “Okay,” he said softly, almost reverently, and took Chris’s hand very carefully, as if he were only allowed to hold it if Chris truly meant it.\n\nAt that moment, the limousine rolled up. The door opened, light fell onto the ground, and the two of them got in. Inside, it was warm and quiet, as if the car were its own world. Neither of them spoke during the drive. It wasn’t unfriendly—more as if they both knew too well what was coming toward them unspoken.\n\nChris stared at his hands, felt Lucas’s closeness beside him, felt the jacket on his shoulders. His heart was beating too fast. Lucas sat still, his knees slightly tense, as if he too were forcing himself to stay calm.\n\nThe limousine glided through the night, and the silence between them was full of anticipation—awkward and tender at the same time.\n\n[[Continue|Ankunft bei den Barnetts.]]

One of the boys stepped too close to Chris, casually grabbed his waist, pulled him a little toward himself as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Chris froze when he felt the boy’s hard bulge against his soft butt, tried to laugh it off, and shifted a step away.\n\n“Hey, no,” he said, not loudly, but clearly enough for him.\n\nThe boy only grinned wider, leaned closer. “It’s okay, babe, don’t be so shy.” His hand slid over Chris’s bare thigh.\n\nChris’s heart stumbled. “No,” he repeated, sharper this time, trying to push his hand away. But the boy laughed, only shook his head briefly, taking the “no” as part of the game. For a moment, Chris felt small and trapped, his body too exposed, his voice too thin.\n\nThen someone suddenly pushed between them.\n\n“She said no.” Charlotte’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and unmistakable.\n\nShe grabbed Chris by the wrist and pulled him out of the boy’s grip without discussion, turning back to him with one final look that allowed no misunderstanding. The boy raised his hands defensively, muttered something about “It’s fine,” and let them go.\n\nCharlotte pulled Chris a few steps farther to the edge of the dance floor, until the pressure of the bodies lessened. “Everything okay?” she asked, close enough that he could smell her perfume, serious enough that it didn’t become a joke.\n\nChris nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Thanks.” It pounded in his chest. He realized how important it was to have someone who strengthened his no, because he himself wasn’t sure how he was allowed to use it in this role. As a boy, he would have reacted differently, he believed. As a “girl,” he suddenly felt less credible, less sure anyone would listen to him.\n\nBefore he could think any further, the track changed. The pounding bass jumped into a poppy 2000s hit, so familiar that it cut straight through the present. A song they had listened to over and over on family road trips, when everything had still been halfway intact, before divorce, moving, and pink rooms.\n\nChristine, a little way off, half threw her arms up. “Oh my God!” she called, looked over at Chris, and began singing along.\n\nChris’s lips automatically formed the lines. He looked over at her. Myles’s arm was still around her, but suddenly there was something childlike in her face, a brief flash of before. Their gazes met over heads, over red cups, over flickering light. For a moment, there was only the song and the memory of the back seat, Chris’s father at the wheel, and Christine and Chris singing together.\n\nSomething warm and quiet pushed itself between all the strangeness, the alcohol, the looks, the false signals. A sibling moment, brief and real, in the middle of the party chaos.\n\n[[Continue|Pinkelpause.]]

While they were playing, the sun had finally disappeared behind the trees and the rusty tanks. The last remaining light in the dirty windows turned first gray, then blue-gray, then almost nothing. The phone lights suddenly seemed brighter, as if they had invited the darkness in instead of driving it away.\n\nAnd… nothing happened.\n\nNo curse. No shadow moving “wrong.” No voice from the wall. Only wind whistling through pipes, and somewhere that patient dripping that could be rationally explained. A few teenagers looked almost disappointed, as if they had secretly been hoping for a shock they could tell people about later. Others audibly breathed easier, as if that was exactly what they had hoped for: that the dare was simply stupid and harmless.\n\n“Okay,” someone said and laughed too loudly. “Guess that’s it, then.”\n\n“Don’t go there after dark,” someone else said once more—but this time it no longer sounded like a running gag, but like a reminder that it actually was after dark now.\n\nThey stood up, brushed dust from their clothes, gathered their things, and headed toward the doorway they had come in through.\n\nWhen they reached it, the front of the group froze.\n\nThe door was closed.\n\nNot “half closed.” Not “stuck a little.” Closed. A heavy metal door that seemed even more massive in the dark. Someone pulled at it, shook it, cursed softly. The metal only gave off a dull, unyielding sound. A brief, sharp moment of panic shot through everyone—like a cold current.\n\n“Who closed it?” someone asked.\n\n“Was it… the wind?” A nervous giggle that immediately died again.\n\n“Or…” a girl began, and left the sentence hanging, as if even saying it was too much.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. He thought of the warning signs outside, of the emblem on the wall, of the sweet smell that felt so wrong in here. For a second, everything felt like a badly edited horror movie—except that he was standing right in the middle of it.\n\nDylan stepped forward. He did not seem panicked. Not cool and arrogant, but focused. He briefly shone his phone along the doorframe, checked the handle, the chain, something about the mechanism. Then he turned back to the group.\n\n“Okay,” he said calmly. “Nobody runs. We stay together.”\n\nThat alone lowered the pressure in the air a little. Penelope snapped something like “Well, that’s just great,” but even she sounded less mocking than usual.\n\n“We look for another exit,” Dylan said. “There’s bound to be a side door or something open. We go slowly. Phone lights on. Nobody gets left behind.”\n\nThey set off as one tight group, their steps cautious, their shoulders close. In the dark, the hall seemed even larger. Tanks cast shadows that looked like monsters. Pipes stretched above them like black lines, and again and again metal cracked somewhere—as if the building were rearranging itself around them. A gust of wind rushed through a pipe and whistled, high and thin. A loose chain struck and amplified the sound, as if someone were deliberately giving a signal: clang… clang…\n\nChris walked with Christine on one side, feeling her breathing grow faster. His own heart was still pounding from spin the bottle, but now it felt different—not excited, but alert.\n\nThen—out of nowhere—a shadow.\n\nSomething darted past them from the side, fast. A dull scraping on concrete. A hiss, so close that several of them flinched at once.\n\nA scream tore through the group. Then another. Girls shrieked, and Chris’s voice rose too before he could stop it. The phone lights jerked wildly, leaping over walls, over tanks, over the floor, as if searching for something that could not be pinned down.\n\nPanic seized them all for a moment—raw, reflexive.\n\nAnd Chris had to react instinctively.\n\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[In the first moment of shock, Chris seeks protection with Dylan before he can consciously think about it.|Chris sucht instinktiv Schutz bei Dylan.][$dylan += 1;$dylan_opinion += 10]]\n❯ [[Chris instinctively steps in front of Christine, even though he is just as frightened himself.|Chris schützt Christine.][$christine += 1;$christine_opinion += 10]]

They lay side by side on Charlotte’s bed, the blanket half over them, Charlotte’s flannel shirt soft as a pillow against Chris’s shoulder. The room was dark enough that the light from the television bathed the walls in shifting shades of blue. The DVD player hummed quietly, as if it were proud of its second chance.\n\nThe film drew Chris in surprisingly quickly. It was a romantic comedy, and after only a few scenes, it was clear where it was heading: a girl who at first was “only” a boy’s girlfriend stumbled into situations with his father—awkward at first, then increasingly familiar, then dangerously close to something she didn’t want to admit to herself. Chris noticed himself leaning forward, as if he needed to hear better. The dialogue was funny, but there was also that delicate unease that made the scene exciting at the same time.\n\nAnd the strangest thing: he could identify with the female lead.\n\nNot only because she found herself in a role that was more complicated than planned, but because she carried two longings inside her at once: the safe, “right” relationship—and that other bond that quietly and unintentionally stretched taut. Chris felt his stomach react very briefly during some scenes in the film, as if some place inside him were saying “yes” before his head had even caught up. He almost forgot why he was here: to get closer to Charlotte again, to repair something that had been keeping its distance for weeks.\n\nThen, in a quieter scene in the film, he became consciously aware of Charlotte’s closeness again. Her breathing, steady and even. The warmth under the blanket. The weight of her presence beside him. Part of Chris just wanted to sink into the film, because there he was currently understanding something that calmed him in a strange way. Another part thought: If I don’t do anything now, the evening will just pass by again.\n\nHe lay there, between screen light and blanket, between curiosity and hope, and had to decide.\n\n''How does Chris decide?''\n❯ [[He moves closer to Charlotte under the blanket, hoping that something of what they used to have will come back between them.|Sich an Charlotte kuscheln.]]\n❯ [[He keeps watching the film, spellbound, because the story touches him in a way he himself doesn’t yet fully understand.|Den Film interessiert zu Ende schauen.]]

They paid for the dress—by credit card, of course, a casual beep, a “Thank you, have a nice day”—and Susan steered him straight to the lingerie shop opposite.\n\n<center>[img[pics/unterwaeschegeschaeft.jpg]]</center> The smell of perfume and the gleaming table with lace goods alone made Chris pull his shoulders in tighter. Being here as a boy, next to his mother—hardly anything could be more embarrassing. <<set $ort to "lingerie shop">> “This will be quick,” Susan said, as if that were a comfort, and headed purposefully toward a shelf of thong panties. Chris’s gaze stuck on the tiny tags; the pieces of fabric seemed more symbolic than real. Susan held up a pair of panties—practically just a narrow string with a little lace triangle. “Perfect under satin,” she commented, as if she were pointing out a technical solution and not something that immediately drove heat into his face.\n\n“I’m… supposed to wear that?” he murmured, and even to his own ears it sounded small.\n\n“Otherwise you’ll see the lines,” she said matter-of-factly, laying two more variants on top. “Come on, fitting room.”\n\nOn the way, she also grabbed an adhesive bra in a neutral color and added stay-up stockings. “Put all of this on. I’ll get you another size if needed.”\n\nChris disappeared behind the curtain. The soft hum of the store music, the rustling of bags, a muffled laugh somewhere—everything sounded too close.\n\nHe took a short breath, sat down on the stool, and first pulled on the stockings. They were stockings that went well with the formal dress, but still made whoever saw them blush.\n\n“Mom, these stockings?”\n\n“Yes, Chris.”\n\nThe stay-up stockings sat surprisingly securely, the silicone strips gripping softly against his skin.\n\nHe carefully positioned the sticky cups of the adhesive bra on his little breasts, following the small instructions on the inside of the box; when he stood still, they actually looked invisible, as if there were simply fabric over skin—no straps, no back band.\n\n<center>[img[pics/string.jpg]]</center> Finally, the thong. Even as he pulled it up, there was this strange, almost absent feeling—as if fabric were missing where there had always been some before. He looked at himself in the mirror and blushed. He was covered so little. Every seam had disappeared, and that very fact made him aware of how little lay between him and the world. Chris turned in the mirror, carefully feeling at his butt to see whether everything sat right, without wanting to put into words how it sat.\n\nFrom the front, everything looked smooth and tidy; from the side, nothing stood out, no edge showed. Imagining the backless dress over it—yes, it worked. The strange naked feeling remained.\n\nChris’s mother came into the fitting room. “Well?” she asked.\n\n“It… works,” he said quietly, still embarrassed.\n\nShe adjusted Chris's breasts, tugging at his nipples, while Chris continued to stare at the mirror.\n\n“That looks good. Sexy and promising.”\n\nSusan looked him up and down; her son got a bulge in his panties. He was getting hard from his own reflection, imagine that. Not only that, through the thin panties Chris’s stiff penis could even be seen perfectly clearly.\n\n“We’ll take the set,” she said, sounding as if she had solved the final variable in an equation.\n\n[[Continue|Schuhe und Handtasche.]]

Chris ignored Lucas’s hand and kept kissing. First cautiously, then with a sudden, unexpected surrender that frightened him himself. It became a wild make-out session—a stumbling of lips and breath, the popcorn air turning warm and sweet, his fingers clinging to the edge of the seat as if he had to hold on not to the chair, but to himself.\n\nLucas went on openly stroking Chris’s thigh, letting his fingers slide under the skirt. But when his hand drifted dangerously close to Chris’s crotch, Chris immediately pressed his legs together. Only after a while did Lucas give in and now reached his hand toward Chris’s breasts.\n\nThe wild tongue kisses grew more and more intense. And at the same time, so did his play with Chris’s breasts. He massaged and squeezed the breasts harder and harder, twisting the nipples until Chris moaned softly. But Chris didn’t seem to mind. The opposite seemed to be the case. He pressed himself against his hands.\n\nWhen the credits began and the lights came up, Chris jerked back as if someone had woken him. All at once he felt seen, as if a hundred gazes had suddenly turned on him. He had preferred the darkness. He shifted away, cleared his throat, pretended to look for his drink. Lucas’s smile remained soft, a little dazed.\n\nThey left the theater. Chris tried to fold up what had happened and shove it into some inner drawer. It was dark. No one saw us. So it didn’t actually happen at all, he told himself. In the foyer, a windowpane caught his reflection: hair tousled, dress shifted, lipstick smeared. A shock of shame shot through him. He looked around hastily—did anyone see me?—and reached for his little pink mirror. With small, practiced movements, he fixed his hair, smoothed the fabric, dabbed away the lipstick until his face once again looked like a neutral screen. Destroy the evidence, he thought dryly, and the pounding in his throat only slowly eased.\n\nLucas floated beside him, visibly on cloud nine, a glow about him that didn’t fade. He paid for the bus, and they sat side by side, hand in hand, as if by itself. Chris allowed it and at the same time felt two voices arguing inside him—one that enjoyed the warm pressure of the fingers, and one that whispered: What are you doing?\n\nIn front of the house, Lucas stopped expectantly, that small, shining hope in his eyes. A goodbye kiss hung in the air, perfectly logical in the choreography of an evening like this. Chris’s shame pushed between them—the theater, the film, his hands, his lips. He smiled too quickly.\n\n“See you tomorrow,” he said and pulled his hand free. Then he turned around, almost ran up the steps, and slipped into the house, his heart loud, as if it had just run away from something it both wanted and feared.\n\n[[Continue|Albtraum.]]

Susan had practically already positioned Chris at the registration table. The clipboard was ready, a ballpoint pen clicked, and the woman behind the table smiled routinely, as if this were the most harmless thing in the world. Susan gave details, spelled the last name, and Chris’s protest stuck in his throat.\n\nHe couldn’t get loud. Not here. Not in the middle of the festival, between strollers and cotton candy.\n\n“Mom, please…” he had started quietly, more whispered than spoken.\n\n“Just for a moment, sweetheart,” Susan said back just as softly, but with that tone that left no real choice. The pen was already scratching across the paper.\n\nChris’s heart beat all the way into his fingertips. He stood there, all dressed up in his dress, forcing a smile for the people around him, and at the same time felt as if he were being pushed onto a stage he didn’t want to enter.\n\nAt exactly that moment, rescue appeared—loud and cheerful.\n\nA few girls from the Pom Puffs came along the path, recognized Chris immediately, and headed toward him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Chris!” one called, and another was already half linking arms with him before he could react.\n\n“You here too?” one asked, looking him over—not assessing, more approving, as if sorting his outfit into the category cute.\n\nFor a second, Chris was too caught off guard to play along. “I… I’m here with my mom. Christine’s somewhere too.”\n\n“Are you coming with us?” another asked immediately. “We wanted to go to the stalls by the stage. They have those cute buttons—and Penelope said there’s free glitter for your cheeks somewhere.”\n\nHe smiled—this time for real—and quickly nodded. “Yeah. I’ll come with you for a bit.”\n\nSusan paused in the middle of writing. Her gaze went from Chris to the girls and back again. You could see her calculating in her head: make a scene in front of his teammates? Impossible.\n\nShe pressed her lips together, forcing herself into a polite smile. “Have fun, Chris. We’ll talk more later.”\n\nChris nodded as if he had agreed, and let the Pom Puffs pull him away before “later” could take shape.\n\nThey wound through the crowd, laughed at a man in a straw hat who was waving far too seriously in a “historical” way, tried maple candies that stuck to their teeth, and took silly photos in front of a cardboard standee. Chris felt surprisingly light doing it. He stood among them, got bumped into, playfully tugged someone onward by the sleeve, and no one looked at him as if he were “different.” He was simply… Chris. One of them.\n\nAt some point they found Christine. She was standing a little off to the side with Penelope, both deep in conversation. Christine looked briefly surprised at first when she saw Chris in the group of girls—then her face relaxed, as if it was good that he wasn’t alone. Penelope waved briefly, said something like “There you are,” and the group merged into a larger flock.\n\nThe rest of the afternoon became a series of small, warm moments: shared Pom poses for photos, an overpriced drink that was shared anyway, a round of can toss where Chris almost hit the target and was wildly cheered for it. He laughed so often that his cheeks hurt afterward. And every time his thoughts tried to drift back to his mother and the registration table, someone yanked him back—a new stall, a comment, a “come on, let’s go over there.”\n\nAs the sun slowly sank lower and the light turned more golden, the group stopped briefly to figure out what came next. Then one of the girls said—almost casually, as if it were a completely normal Saturday idea:\n\n“Later, a few of us are meeting up with some boys at the old maple syrup bottling plant by the river.”\n\nA few eyes widened, and a giggle ran through the group. Someone murmured the unwritten rule like a joke: “Don’t go there after dark…”\n\nThe abandoned maple syrup bottling plant by the river was considered a notorious place in Maplewood—rusty tanks, decaying halls, a sweetish smell on warm days, and among teenagers there was an unwritten rule: “Don’t go there after dark.” Dares supposedly never ended well—and every graduating class had at least one story that sounded too detailed to be completely made up.\n\nThen came the sentence that made Chris’s stomach both leap and drop:\n\n“Dylan’s supposed to come too.”\n\n[[Continue|Auf zur Abfüllanlage.]]

“Plum” Chris said after a heartbeat too long, as casually as he could.\n\nPenelope grinned, shook her head almost imperceptibly. “Wrong, unfortunately. It’s Raspberry.”\n\nA few “ooh” sounds, gentle giggling around the table. Chris shrugged with a smile. “It’s fine. I had other plans this weekend anyway.” He heard himself and thought how thin the sentence sounded.\n\n“Okay, so—movie list!” Penelope turned back to the group. “10 Things, Clueless, or something scary after all?” Voices tumbled over one another, Charlotte tossed “Brownies” into the air, Christine suggested “Face masks first,” someone called for a pillow-fight rule.\n\nChris poked at his fruit cup as if he could sort his thoughts with it. A quiet, childish defiance spread through him like tea that was too hot: I didn’t want to go to some stupid girls’ pajama party anyway. He felt the hurt underneath, just as clearly as the rustle of the underskirt with every small movement on the chair.\n\nWhy hadn’t he simply been invited as a matter of course? It felt like back in Germany: the cool parties he never went to—or was never asked to. Now he sat here, looked “like a girl,” and still seemed only allowed at the edge of the group. Am I just Christine’s tagalong to them? he thought. A leaden question that couldn’t be smiled away.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Charlotte comforts Chris.|Charlotte tröstet Chris.2]]<<else>>[[End of school.|Schulende.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $newgameplus == 0 && $charlotte < 2 && $ladendiebin < 2>><br>\n[[✨ Chris asks his sister to talk to Penelope about the party.|Chris bittet seine Schwester mit Penelope wegen der Party zu reden.][$party += 1]]\n\n<div class="box"><b>A little note for your first playthrough:</b><br> Your choices have led you onto the Ruby path. This path has its own appeal, but it is quieter at the beginning than other story routes.<br> If you would like a little more action at the start, you should choose the lower option now and go to Penelope’s party after all. This extra option is only available on the first playthrough.</div> <<endif>><</nobr>>

In front of the gym, his shoes were still clicking on the concrete when Dylan broke away from a small group of jocks and came straight toward him. Hoodie, school jacket over it, that effortlessly calm walk. Chris felt his breathing stumble for a moment.\n<<set $dylan_opinion to 76>>\n“Hey, Chris.” [[Dylan’s|Dylan Carter]] voice was warm, with half a grin. He pulled a single flower from behind his back and held it out to him. “I’d really love to go to Homecoming with you. Would you like to?”\n<<set $penelope_opinion to 95>><<set $PenelopeMemory[4] to 1>>\nChris’s mouth said “yes”—so quickly, so smoothly, as if the sound had long been lying on his tongue and had only been waiting for a sign. In his head, however, something tore open: a loud, clear “no” that shot up in front of him like a red stop-sign reflex. A contradiction that only fully reached him a second later.\n\nThe smile stayed on his face anyway, pinned there like a brooch. He took the flower, felt the cool stem in his hand, and nodded again, as if the scene needed a second seal.\n\nBehind them, the cheer group spilled out of the gym. Christine stopped for a step, looked from Chris to the flower and back to Chris. Surprise flitted across her face—no disapproval, just that quick, serious really? Penelope’s brows drew together almost imperceptibly, and two other girls exchanged a look that glittered like jealousy in the corner of the eye.\n\nDylan grinned with relief. “Great. I’ll text you,” he said, tapping him lightly on the upper arm, taking two steps backward before turning and disappearing into the stream of Timberwolves.\n\nWhat are you doing? shot through Chris’s mind. You can’t just—Homecoming—with Dylan—how is that supposed to… Images flickered: the ball gown; the gym with strings of lights; Dylan’s hand on his waist; looks. And underneath, barely hidden, the other side: the tingling in his chest that this name set off; the fact that for weeks now, Dylan had made him feel a warmth he didn’t want to name.\n\nChris stood still for a moment. Students pushed past him, and he felt both light and tied down at once. Light because the most handsome boy in school had asked him. Tied down because his secret sat like a knot under his clothes. Say no, one part thought. Say yes, another whispered, soft and longing.\n\nHe took a breath, noticing how the smile still clung to his face even though he wanted to wipe it off like glitter after a show. His shoulders sank by the tiniest degree, then he lifted them again as if he had caught himself giving in. Maybe I’ll find a solution, he told himself. Maybe I’ll talk to… The thought broke off, because there was no simple “before.”\n\nHe started moving, step by step, pulling his bag closer to his body. On the outside, he looked like someone who had just received good news. Inside, he was carefully feeling along a crack—between the person he was supposed to be, the person he was, and the person Dylan seemed to believe he saw in him. Each touched the other, none let go. And yet beneath the fear, he felt that tiny, outrageous glow: anticipation. That only made everything more difficult—and more true.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte < 2>>[[Friday, before the game.|Freitag, vor dem Spiel.]]<<else>>[[Friday, conversation with Charlotte.|Freitag, Gespräch mit Charlotte.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

The bathroom had become his life preserver. When the day was too loud, too sticky, too full of looks and thoughts, the water could be laid over it like a lid. Chris turned on the tap until it grew properly hot, and waited until the steam made the mirror milky and the contours of the world softer.\n<<set $ort to "Bathroom">>\nWhen he slipped into the tub, the water gurgled softly. He breathed out, slowly, as if setting down something heavy. The warmth crept into his shoulders, loosened the knot between his neck and back. A small candle flickered on the edge of the sink; its light was soothing, not bright, more like a secret promise that in here, no one wanted anything from him.\n\nHe lifted his hands out of the water and looked at them. The nails were neatly filed, painted, the polish smooth as glass. In the past, his body had resisted details like that, had marked them as foreign. Now his hands looked like… hands. Somehow daintier than he remembered them. The fingers seemed longer, the skin softer, and when he ran his thumb over the edge of a nail, it felt almost normal.\n\nHe let his hands sink back into the water and looked down at himself, to where the surface distorted everything. The changes were no longer just “thoughts,” but shapes: breasts that had grown rounder, a different line at his stomach, hips that leaned against the tub differently than before. He tried not to judge it. Not “good” or “bad.” Just: It is like this. He sorted things inside himself as if putting together a puzzle whose picture kept changing.\n\nFor a few minutes, he felt almost safe. Not happy, not final—but safe enough to breathe calmly.\n\nThen the door opened.\n\n“Oh, there you are,” Chris’s mother said, as if it were her bathroom and Chris was only a piece of furniture in it. She stepped inside, already in house mode, and only half-closed the door. The steam rolled toward her; she didn’t seem bothered by it.\n\nChris’s heart tightened. The warmth was suddenly no longer a blanket, but a stage.\n\nSusan began to undress, quite casually. She placed her clothes on the stool, pulled a shirt over her head, and tied back her hair. He watched his mother in her sexy white lace bra.\n\nAs she reached behind her back to unhook her bra—bringing her arms forward and leaning slightly so the straps would slide down—he took a deep breath. His mother had quite a large bust. In contrast to the rest of her body, her breasts were completely pale. Her skin was tanned, and her round breasts seemed to positively glow as she straightened back up. Chris got an erection as he watched. The whole thing left him feeling quite confused.\n\nHe quickly stared at his hands beneath the water, as if he could hide in them.\n\n“Did you have a good day?” Susan asked casually while rummaging in the drawer and taking out her toothbrush. Her tone was casual, but Chris knew that casual. It was never just small talk. It was an investigative smile without the smile.\n\n“It was okay,” Chris said.\n\n“Mhm.” Susan squeezed toothpaste onto the brush as if she had all the time in the world. “Anything noteworthy happen?”\n\nChris felt his throat go dry. Scenes with his annoying new nickname flickered through his head. He had spent the whole afternoon trying to forget the word, and now it threatened to rise up again just because his mother asked. He didn’t want to talk about it. With anyone. Especially not with his mother.\n\n“Not really,” he said, trying to make it sound flat.\n\nSusan began brushing her teeth topless, standing right in front of the sink. The sound was absurdly loud in the small room—a scrubbing, foaming noise that filled every pause between her words. And as she scrubbed, her breasts jiggled freely back and forth.\n\nShe looked at Chris in the mirror while she brushed—something that made it even more uncomfortable, because her gaze met his indirectly, through glass and steam, as if she had found a roundabout way to read him better.\n\nChris held himself still, pulling his legs up a little higher so she couldn't see his erection. He felt like a pervert. He hated that.\n\n“Tomorrow is going to be busy again,” Susan mumbled with her mouth full, spat, rinsed. “You have to get up early. And I want you to moisturize your skin afterward. Hot water dries it out.” She said it caringly and controllingly in the same breath.\n\n“Okay,” Chris said, barely audible.\n\nSusan brushed once more, rinsed, dried her hands. She put on her nightgown, briefly checked her face in the mirror, as if approving herself, and finally turned toward the door.\n\n“Good night, Chris,” she said, as if everything had been normal.\n\n“Good night, Mom,” Chris answered quickly.\n\nWhen the door clicked shut behind her, he breathed out so deeply that the water softly swelled. The safety that had been there just before slowly returned, but it felt scratched—like a chalkboard someone had dragged a fingernail across.\n\nHe stayed sitting in the water for a while longer, until the steam grew thinner. And he was glad—honestly glad—that the bathroom belonged only to him again.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<if $kleidung == 1>>[[The next day.|Der nächste Tag.]]<<else>>[[The next day.|Der nächste Tag.2]]<<endif>>

Madame Lunette took her time, as if she first had to sort the words before speaking them aloud. “The future is not a straight road,” she said at last. “It is like smoke. You can see it, but not hold it. And every time you move, it changes shape.”\n\nChris’s fingers clenched in his lap.\n\n“I see a new beginning,” she continued, her voice surprisingly matter-of-fact. “Another city. Far away from the voices that tie you down. Far away from the rooms where you learned to fold yourself up.” She lifted her gaze, as if looking straight through him. “The air is different there. Lighter. But not easy.”\n\nChris felt something inside him both breathe easier and tighten at the same time. New beginning sounded like rescue. New beginning also sounded like loss.\n\n“You will face challenges there,” Madame Lunette said, “that are not like the old ones. Not someone telling you who you are supposed to be—but yourself. Because freedom demands things too.” She made a small circling motion with her hand, as if to say: You carry some things with you.\n\n“Am I… alone?” Chris heard himself ask. It came out quieter than he wanted.\n\nMadame Lunette smiled almost imperceptibly. “That is a fork in the road. In one image, you are alone, yes. Strong, but tired. In another, someone stands beside you.” She let the pause take effect. “A girl. Not just a face. More a warmth. Someone who sees you.” She tilted her head. “Whether she stays does not depend on her alone.”\n\nChris’s throat tightened. He thought of what it felt like to “be seen”—and how dangerous it was to want it.\n\n“There are obstacles ahead of you,” she said softly. “Shame. Fear. Decisions no one can take off your hands. A truth that you either speak once—or swallow.” Her eyes grew very clear. “And both have a price.”\n\nChris swallowed. “And… what am I supposed to do?”\n\nMadame Lunette leaned back. “That is the part I am not allowed to tell you,” she replied. “Because it belongs to you. I only see this: You will stand at a point where you must choose whether to keep smiling when it hurts—or whether you finally use the pain to move.”\n\nOutside, muted festival laughter seeped through the fabric of the tent, as if from another world. Chris sat there silently, the words like loose cards before him—vague, not set in stone, and yet heavy enough to keep resonating.\n\n[[Continue|Raus aus dem Pavillon.]]

Tarnung +1\nTarnung -1

Tarnung +1\nTarnung -1

Beliebtheit -1\nBeliebtheit -2\n

The hallway was empty enough for a moment that the hum of the ventilation could be heard. Chris headed for the water fountain. In front of him stood a chubby boy with a backpack like a second moon, his glasses constantly sliding down—the type who filled the second row in every class photo. He leaned forward and pressed the silver lever.\n<<set $ort to "hallway">>\nThen the nozzle made a hissing sound, as if swallowing air, and in the next moment shot a high, uncontrolled arc forward. The water hit Chris right in the crotch. Cold, shocking, and within a second the front of the lavender culottes was soaked dark.\n\n“Oh man! Sorry! I—the thing acts up sometimes—” the boy stammered, recoiling and raising his hands helplessly, as if he could undo the fountain with gestures.\n\n“[[Adam|Adam Bowman]]!” Ruby appeared from a side door, the distinct clack of her shoes on the linoleum. “Not again. You know that fountain has a pressure problem.”\n\n“I just—I mean—it happened so fast,” Adam mumbled, red patches on his cheeks, and took two steps backward. “I’m sorry.” He looked at Chris once more, guilt-ridden, then his backpack almost carried him away.\n\nChris stared down at himself in disbelief. The front area of the culottes was distinctly darker, and the shape of the stain showed no mercy: it looked as if he had peed himself. His stomach dropped, a flood of heat rising up his neck.\n\n“Come here,” [[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]] said curtly, already opening her handbag. “I’ve got tissues.” She pulled out half a bundle, stepped close in front of him, and began blotting the fabric without asking. “If you get it from the outside right away—”\n\nAs she dried it, her hand inevitably slid closer to his penis. Alarms shrilled inside Chris. One more inch, and her fingers would be where no curious hands should be—not if he wanted to keep his disguise intact. Panic shot up in him; he reflexively grabbed Ruby’s hand, far too tightly.\n\n“Hey!” Ruby jerked back, surprised. Her eyes went wide.\n\n“I—I’ll do it myself,” Chris said, too hastily, too sharply. He loosened his grip at once and took the tissues from her. “Sorry. Really. I… thanks.” He turned slightly sideways, dabbed, pressed, tried to dry the fabric without drawing attention to himself. Ruby stepped back, raising her hands placatingly.\n\n“It’s okay. I just wanted to help,” she said softly, and her gaze became matter-of-fact again. “It’s not that bad. It’ll dry.”\n\n“Yeah,” Chris managed, only now noticing the surrounding murmur: two ninth-graders walking past, a girl who couldn’t quite swallow her giggle, a whispered “oh no” with an obvious grin.\n\nChris held his head as high as he could and marched toward class, as if dignity could reinterpret the stain. A boy from his class glanced at the culottes as he passed, nudged his friend in the side—both of them badly suppressing laughter.\n\nEvery step briefly stuck to the fabric, making the darkness even more visible. “It was the fountain,” Ruby said in a clear voice to no one and everyone, but the giggling swallowed the explanation.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 0>>[[After school, theater club.|Nach der Schule Theaterclub.][$AdamMemory[1] += 1]]<<else>>[[After school, theater club.|Nach der Schule Theaterclub.2][$AdamMemory[1] += 1]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Break flowed through the hallways like a current, and before Chris could protest, Charlotte hooked her arm through his. “Come with me.” He only understood where when he saw the sign on the door: Girls. His stomach tightened briefly. Wrong. This is wrong, he thought as the fluorescent strip above hummed. But the group kept moving, and he let himself be carried along.\n<<set $ort to "girls’ restroom">>\nInside, it smelled of deodorant, hairspray, and something sweet. Mirrors lined the wall, faucets rushed, voices babbled into one another. Now he understood why girls went in groups: it was a side room of the world—gossip, chatter, “let me see” moments, little repairs to the day. Charlotte fixed a strand of hair with a clip, Ruby washed her hands conscientiously after peeing and dried them twice, two others sent snaps to each other. His sister bent over a pimple with a friend as if it were a fine adjustment under a microscope.\n\nPenelope—top cheerleader, pouty mouth, perfectly arched brows—pulled a lip gloss from her bag and dabbed it on. Her pretty face was framed by long blonde hair hanging loose, and her light blue eyes formed an interesting contrast with her lightly tanned skin. Chris caught himself with his gaze stuck on her lips: soft, full, a hint of shine that looked like “kissable” perfected. Penelope noticed it, smiled, and held up the little tube. “Raspberry,” she said casually, and suddenly the syllable tasted like summer. “My favorite shade.”\n\n<center>[img[pics/penelope_toilette.jpg]]</center> Penelope tilted her head, open, curious. “Want some too? It looks good on almost everyone.”\n\nChris imagined what exactly that color would look like on his mouth—a ridiculous thought, and yet it felt like a secret, indirect kiss with Penelope. He hated how much he liked that thought. At the same time, his mind painted the embarrassment for him: him, a boy, with clearly shiny gloss in the mirror of this restroom.\n\nThe bathroom hummed softly. Christine threw him a quick, neutral look through the mirror that said: Your decision.\n\nPenelope tapped the tube twice against her palm as if it were a baton. “So? Yes or no?”\n\n''How does he decide?''\n<<nobr>><<if $schminke == 1>>❯ [[He says yes to the lip gloss, even though the thought of it alone sends heat to his head.|Lipgloss auftragen.][$beliebtheit += 1]]<<else>>❯ [[He says yes to the lip gloss, even though the thought of it alone sends heat to his head.|Lipgloss auftragen.2][$tarnung -= 1]]<<endif>><</nobr>>\n❯ [[He declines the lip gloss, even if that makes him fall out of the moment.|Lipgloss nicht auftragen.][$beliebtheit -= 1]]\n❯ [[He claims to be allergic to that kind of thing in order to get out of the situation gracefully.|Allergie vorschieben und nicht auftragen.]]

Stil +1

Beliebtheit +1

Chris didn’t let Adam’s phone get near him again. He held his gaze on the frozen image for a moment, then forced himself to straighten his shoulders.\n\n“No, I won’t let myself be blackmailed,” he said quietly. It didn’t sound brave, more hoarse. But it was a no.\n\nAdam’s face twitched. “You’re going to regret this,” he said, and it was no longer a line, but a threat. Chris turned away before his knees could go weak, and left without looking back again.\n\nIn the gymnasium, the music hit him like a wave. The string lights flickered, the bass vibrated through the floor—and still everything inside him was silent, except for that one thought: The video.\n\nHe couldn’t go home right away. If he showed up now, too early, his mother would ask questions. Why he was already back, whether the date had gone badly. Chris had no answers that wouldn’t open up new problems. So he stayed.\n\nAnd within minutes, he noticed how visible he was.\n\nAlmost everywhere, couples or groups were standing together, at least looking as though they belonged together. Chris, by contrast, stood at the edge with his clutch in his hand, a midnight-blue exclamation point without a sentence around it. He noticed the looks, then the first approaches: boys asking him to dance, grinning, confident.\n\n“Want to dance?”\n“Come on, just one song.”\n“You’re alone anyway—it’s no big deal.”\n\nChris smiled, shook his head, said “Thanks, but no,” again and again. Each refusal cost energy, as if he had to reinvent himself every time: friendly, but firm, without making a scene.\n\nThen the DJ called into the microphone: “All the singles onto the dance floor! Singles, where are you?”\n\nIt was like a spotlight suddenly pointing only at him. Around him, people cheered, shoving each other forward with laughter. Chris felt his stomach sink. Leaving would have felt like a confession. Staying did too. He went along—reluctantly—and tried to hide in the crowd, even though the whole thing did exactly the opposite.\n\nHe moved to the beat, small, cautious. But boys edged closer, as if they had understood that as an invitation. One danced too close behind him, another briefly put a hand on his waist, far too casually. Chris dodged away, turned aside, shifted his position, murmured, “Please don’t.” His skin suddenly felt too exposed, as if someone could grab him through the fabric. And above it all, the video circled again: If that gets out… then they’ll think this is normal. Then they’ll think I want this.\n\n[[Continue|Chris flüchtet auf Toilette]]

On another evening a few weeks later, everything went as usual.\n\nChris stood backstage, heard his stage name “Daisy Darling” through the speakers, felt the bass in the floor, and let the routine swallow the nervousness. The curtain breathed warm light. He pulled his shoulders back once more, put on the face that by now was almost like a work tool, and stepped out.\n\nToday Chris was wearing two knee-high black boots, a white faux-leather miniskirt, and a far too tight white top through which his two small breasts pressed.\n\nHe walked to the middle of the stage and moved to the rhythm of the dull bass, his body gliding smoothly, sexily. It was no longer like the beginning, when every step had felt like a fall into visibility. Now he moved confidently, almost professionally—skilled in the timing, the exit, the angle of his gaze.\n\nThe crowd roared. Men nudged one another, whistled, and shouted. First he turned around a few times, also clasping his hands behind his head. Playing shy, Chris began to take off his top. Then he stripped the garment off and let it flutter away. His taut little bosom and nipples showed clearly beneath the gossamer fabric of his bra.\n\nChris presented himself before the lustful spectators. People eyed him greedily. He sank down onto his knees and supported himself in front with his hands, thrusting his small tits toward the greedy men. An older man brazenly grabbed his breasts. Enthusiastically and without inhibition, he kneaded the soft tit flesh.\n\n“Hey Daisy, how much for a private hour?” the man called.\n\nThen Chris changed position and braced himself backward, finally letting himself fall onto his back. As he did, he opened his miniskirt. Fit and athletic, as Chris had become by now through his many performances, he had no trouble getting his round ass up and, supported only by one outstretched arm, lifting it toward the pack. Then Chris bent his beautiful legs. His cock remained hidden under red panties.\n\n“Show us your tits, gorgeous!” one of the spectators demanded. Chris first pulled the bra a little lower, until the spectators could just make out his nipples, then turned around to present his charming back to the curious onlookers. Remaining like that, he opened the clasp and tossed the bra away. With his breasts completely hidden behind his hands, he now turned back to the crowd, repeatedly spreading and closing his fingers to briefly show his nipples and then hide them again. Then at last he showed his bosom in all its glory and clasped his arms behind his head.\n\n“Now show us your bare ass!” came the next shout.\n\nChris turned around again and showed the audience his back. Then he bent forward to thrust his behind toward the spectators. Staying like that and wiggling his butt, he pushed the panties down a little to show his ass cheeks. But he carefully kept his little male secret covered under his hand. Then Chris got onto his knees and stretched and arched like a waking cat.\n\n“Get off the stage, little one, and onto my lap with you!” a spectator demanded.\n\n[[Continue|Überraschung im Publikum.]]

<div class="psychedelic-text">“No,” Chris said. The word came out quieter than he wanted. “I don’t want to dance.”\n\nThe guy grinned as if he had heard a bad joke. “Come on,” he said. “Don’t be like that.” His grip on Chris’s hip tightened. It was no longer an offer.\n\nChris took a step back, almost stumbling over his own heels. “I mean it. No.”\n\nIt bounced off.\n\nThe boy grabbed him by the hand, by the waist, pulled him toward the dance floor with a matter-of-factness as if Chris were just an accessory to be taken along. His strength was an effortless pull; Chris was light, the miniskirt offered no hold, the strappy heels made every bit of resistance unsteady.\n\nOn the dance floor, the bass hit them head-on. The guy spun him into the crowd, one hand on his back, the other on his hip, pressing, steering. Chris felt like a doll being set in motion—without being asked whether it wanted to play along.\n\nThe “being a boy” that still existed somewhere inside him didn’t help him one bit here. No weight, no authority. In this room, he was what everyone saw: a too-scantily dressed girl with too much skin and too little strength.\n\nThe vulnerability hit him physically. He realized how easy it was for the other boy to turn him, pull him, hold him in place. His arms were too weak, his balance too fragile, the alcohol too loud in his head.\n\nThe guy whirled him around, laughed, slurred something into his ear that disappeared beneath the bass. His body moved closer. One hand slipped lower, over the hem of the miniskirt. Chris’s chest bumped against him because he couldn’t keep any distance. Every attempt to break away was answered by a new, firm grip.\n\nThe boy moved closer, his hand tight on Chris’s hip, before Chris could even form another clear thought. The bass thudded dully against his ribs, the light flickered, and then suddenly the boy’s mouth was on his.\n\nThe kiss was wet, heavy, too insistent. The taste of cheap alcohol, something sweet, and cigarettes. Not a cautious approach, but an assault. Chris’s lips stayed rigid at first, then gave way, more reflex than consent, because his body was fogged and his head too slow. It felt wrong, as if someone were reaching into his space and rearranging everything without asking.\n\nThe alcohol rose hot into his head. Lights blurred, faces turned into smears. He knew boundaries were being crossed here, but his thoughts moved as if through syrup. The hand on his hip wandered farther, the grip becoming more possessive. Chris’s heart hammered. He felt helpless—too small, too light, too quiet.\n\nThe boy leaned closer, his breath heavy with alcohol against Chris’s cheek, his fingers brazen at the fabric, as if he had every right. Chris felt his hand on his butt. He groped his ass through the miniskirt.\n\nThe guy’s hand felt like a brand.</div>\n\n''How does Chris react?''\n<<nobr>><<if $alkohol < 2>>[[He slaps him.|Er gibt ihm eine Ohrfeige.]]<<else>>[[Chris is too drunk.|Chris ist zu betrunken.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Beliebtheit + 1

Beliebtheit - 1

Wednesday afternoon, the house lay in that tired stillness. Chris sat at his desk, math worksheet in front of him, pencil in hand, the eraser already chewed like a stress ball. Beside the sheet lay the formula collection, opened up as if it were a life preserver.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">>\nHe stared at the problem, read it for the third time, and noticed how the words began to separate from each other again, as if they were deliberately refusing to fit together. First substitute, then rearrange… or was it the other way around? His thoughts jumped, tangled, lost the thread before it had even been there. He wrote down one step, paused, doubted it, crossed it out again. The result looked like a battlefield of half-formed ideas.\n\n“This isn’t going in,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead.\n\nHis mother watched him with that mixture of control and supposed concern. “You need to concentrate more,” she said, as if concentration were a lamp you could simply turn brighter.\n\nChris’s hand tightened around the pencil. “I’m trying.”\n\n“Then try better.” Susan stepped closer, tapping the sheet with her fingernail. “You write and erase and write and erase. That’s just scribbling. Do it one step at a time. Without the drama.”\n\nHe swallowed. Without the drama. As if the problem wasn’t that his head felt like an open browser window with too many tabs. As if it wasn’t that vague pulling in his stomach, that constant readiness that never stopped. As if it wasn’t the hormones, which sometimes made him soft and emotional without him knowing why. Susan only saw a student who “didn’t want to.” She didn’t see how his thinking frayed the moment he tried to hold onto it.\n\n“I…” Chris began, and broke off because he had no sentence that didn’t sound like an excuse.\n\nHis mother sighed, annoyed. “You simply need to be more disciplined.” Then she took his empty teacup from the desk, as if that were an educational measure. “I expect you to know this by this evening.” And then she was gone again, the door half open, as if she had helped him.\n\nChris sat there, the pencil still in his hand, and felt the loneliness like a cold edge around the desk. He heard Christine in the hallway, footsteps, a drawer, then suddenly she was standing in his room without much fuss.\n\n“Show me, <<if $chrisorsis == 1>>Sis<<else>>Chris<<endif>>,” she said simply.\n\nChris pushed the sheet toward her, more reluctant than grateful. Christine sat down on the edge of the bed, skimmed the problem as if she were reading a shopping list. “You’re starting wrong,” she said matter-of-factly. No mockery, no pity—just a statement.\n\n“I don’t even know where to start,” Chris admitted, and hated how small it sounded.\n\nChristine pulled the pencil toward herself, wrote down a single step neatly, as if undoing a knot she already knew. “Here,” she said. “First rearrange it. Then you substitute. Not the other way around, because otherwise you have to calculate twice.”\n\nChris stared at her handwriting. The step was so logical it almost hurt. “Oh,” he said quietly.\n\nChristine pushed the sheet back to him. “Okay,” she said, standing up. “Now you do it.”\n\n“What? Now?” Chris looked up at her as if he had expected her to keep helping.\n\n“Yes.” She crossed her arms. “I showed you the start. You have to do the rest.”\n\nChris nodded, set the pencil down. Suddenly there was a trace of clarity, a small path he could follow. He wrote the next step, carefully, then the next. It wasn’t easy, but it worked.\n\nChristine stayed in the doorway and watched him briefly. Chris felt her gaze on his back—not controlling like Susan’s, more assessing, as if she were seeing whether he could really swim. In that moment, Chris became painfully aware of how something between them had shifted. Christine seemed like the older one today: calmer, more pragmatic, less dramatic. He suddenly felt like the one reaching for help.\n\nChristine said nothing about it. She only nodded once, curtly, like a coach. “Good,” she said, almost inaudibly, and went out again.\n\nChris remained at the desk, kept writing, and didn’t know whether it should comfort or frighten him—that it had been his little sister, of all people, who had put the thread back into his hand.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ladendiebin == 2 && $charlotte < 2>>[[Chris gets a message from Zoe.|Chris bekommt eine Nachricht von Zoe.]]<<else>>\n\n<<if $club == 1 && $moore == 1>>[[Thursday, last practice before the game.|Donnerstag, letztes Training vor dem Spiel.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 1 && $moore == 0>>[[Thursday, last practice before the game.|Donnerstag, letztes Training vor dem Spiel.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club > 1 >>[[Emotional Thursday.|Emotionaler Donnerstag.]]<<endif>>\n\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris cleared his throat. Not that small, polite clearing of the throat—but the clear, exaggerated Ahem that sounded like a warning light in the hallway.\n\nThe two stopped mid-sentence. For one heartbeat, there was only the hum of the fluorescent lights and the clack of a locker somewhere farther back.\n\nChris put on a smile that was deliberately too friendly. “Sorry, I don’t want to interrupt your… literally super-important conversation,” he said in a tone that knew exactly that he was interrupting, “but I need to get to my locker real quick. It just happens to be right behind you.”\n\nThe cheerleaders slowly turned toward him, as if they had only just decided to grant him existence at all. Their gazes slid over him—from his hair down to his shoes—with that practiced inspection that carried more weight in Maplewood than any grade.\n\n“Excuse me?” said the first, her voice sweet, but sharp as a freshly painted edge.\n\nThe second raised her eyebrows.\n\nChris felt his ears grow hot, but he held her gaze. For a moment, he had that feeling as if he had broken an invisible rule everyone knew and no one said aloud: cheerleaders on top, everyone else moves aside.\n\nAnd that was exactly why their hesitation was so noticeable. They were a little outraged—you could see it. That How dare you talk to us gathering in the corners of their mouths.\n\nThe first finally took a step to the side, slowly, as if she were not doing him a favor but merely preserving the peace. “Please,” she said, and the word was not an invitation, but a punishment wrapped in cotton.\n\nThe second made room as well, deliberately letting her shoulder brush Chris’s bag very lightly, as if it were a tiny bump on principle.\n\nChris stepped in front of his locker, turned the combination, and pulled the door open. He felt their gazes like little needles in the back of his neck while he frantically fished out what he needed. Paper rustled, metal clinked. He forced himself not to look hurried—too hurried would have been weakness.\n\n“Unbelievable,” the first murmured half-loudly to her friend, just enough for Chris to hear. “The new girl really thinks she’s… I don’t even know.”\n\n“Literally,” the second answered, and this time the word sounded like a judgment.\n\nChris closed the locker, shouldered his bag, and walked on without turning around. His heart was beating fast. The two had made room, yes. But their gazes stuck to him like gum.\n\n[[Continue|Später im Unterricht.]]

That evening, Chris lay in bed, the blanket pulled up to his hips. He was wearing a satin nightgown that shimmered like water in the candlelight (a single small one on the shelf): a soft fall over his body, a small slit at the sides so it wouldn’t catch when he turned. The room was quiet, only outside some night insect chirped somewhere, and in the house the wood occasionally creaked.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girls’ room">>\nChris was just about to put his phone away when the door opened—without knocking, as so often. Susan stepped in, in a dressing gown, her hair still neat, as if the day were never really over for her.\n<<set $SusanMemory[2] to 1>>\n“Well?” she said and sat down on the edge of the bed, as if this moment too belonged to her program. “How was school? Anything noticeable?”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. His head was instantly back in the cafeteria: Dylan beside him because there had been no free seat. The smell of fries, the clatter of trays, Dylan’s knee that had almost touched his, and his own heart behaving stupidly. He had tried to seem normal. And apparently it hadn’t worked—because of course Christine had seen everything.\n\n“No,” Chris said too quickly. “Totally normal.”\n\nSusan raised an eyebrow. “Totally normal,” she repeated, and the words never sounded harmless from her. She looked at him as if reading a message he hadn’t written. Then she placed her hand on his shoulder and slowly stroked over it, as if meant to soothe him.\n\nChris’s body did not react as if soothed. He went stiff, as though the touch were sticking a label onto him. He wanted to pull his arm away, but that would have seemed “noticeable” again, so he stayed still and stared at the spot on the wall above her head.\n\n“Christine said the cafeteria was… interesting,” Susan said, as if she were casually discussing the weather. “You suddenly went very quiet. And red. And someone sat beside you.”\n\nChris felt heat shoot into his cheeks, even though he fought it. “There wasn’t any room,” he said, a little too defensively.\n\nSusan chuckled softly. “Aha.”\n\n“He just sat down,” Chris muttered, pulling the blanket a little higher, as if fabric could cover the subject. “That was all.”\n\nSusan let her hand glide over his arm once more, in exactly that slow, controlled movement she considered caring and that felt more like an examination to Chris. “And?” she asked gently. “What was it like? Next to… him?”\n\nChris swallowed. He didn’t want to talk to her about Dylan. Not about that fluttering in his stomach, not about the warmth that arose from just one look. Especially not about boys. It felt as if he would be giving her even more material—more threads she could pull on.\n\n“It was okay,” he said curtly. “We… didn’t talk much.”\n\nSusan giggled softly, as if she had expected exactly that answer. “Didn’t talk much,” she repeated<<if $haar == 1>> and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead<<endif>>. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. But…” She tilted her head, satisfied, almost amused. “It’s sweet how you try to pretend it’s nothing.”\n\nChris kept his gaze stubbornly straight ahead. His heart beat faster, and he hated that Susan was probably interpreting that as confirmation again.\n\n“Good night,” he said quickly, trying to cut the moment short.\n\nSusan stood up, smoothed the blanket—as if she were sorting him—and went to the door. “Good night, Sweetie,” she said, and there was that faint smile in her voice that Chris could still hear when the door quietly clicked shut.\n\nHe lay there, staring into the darkness, and felt the thought of Dylan come back—warmer, freer, without Susan’s fingers on his arm. Only now he knew: even that thought no longer belonged only to him.\n\n[[Continue|Altbraum Vortrag.]]

Fingers shot through the air like little arrows. Chris pointed at Charlotte—and realized he wasn’t alone: hands everywhere were pointing at her. It was an open secret; Charlotte giggled, raised both hands as if surrendering. “Caught.” Laughter washed through the pillow fort. Charlotte gave Chris a brief, conspiratorial look.\n\n“Okay, my turn.” Charlotte sat up, the blanket slipping from her lap, revealing her bare legs. Her grin took on a sharp edge. “Who would be more likely to sleep with a teacher?”\n\nThe pillow fort held its breath for a moment. A few “Oooohs,” an indignant “Charlotte!”, then giggling. Penelope raised an eyebrow, Christine half-froze and looked pointedly toward the string lights.\n\n''Who does Chris choose?''\n❯ [[Charlotte|Charlotte2]]\n❯ [[Christine|Christine2]]\n❯ [[Penelope|Penelope2]]

Susan called it “Plan B” when she sent Chris to cosmetology school against his will. His grades were too bad for college, she said—as if that alone were his failure and not also the result of pressure, chaos, hormones, and a life that could constantly tip over. Chris hated the idea at first. It felt like the last firm clamp around his freedom.\n\nAnd then something unexpected happened: he got good. Not just “okay,” but really good. His hands were steady, his eye precise, his patience suddenly a skill. He understood faces, shapes, colors—and he realized that with them, he could make people not just “prettier,” but more confident. He took back the field his mother had forced him into and made it his own. He enjoyed the work. Maybe that was the greatest act of defiance: not breaking, but building his own path out of the wrong direction.\n\nWhen the baby was past the worst of it and the nights allowed them to breathe again, Christine picked up her own thread. She got her high school diploma, night school, tired but stubborn. Chris sometimes sat beside her at the table, sorting bottles while Christine solved math problems—and at some point they laughed at the absurdity of both of them being stuck on numbers while a baby cooed in the background. Later, Christine started a program at the community college, Early Childhood Education. It suited her: patience, structure, warmth—and the quiet determination to do better than had been done to her.\n\nThey secretly saved money. Tips, small extras, occasional bonus hours, each time a bill into an envelope hidden between towels in the closet. It was not romantic, it was not glamorous—but it was their own quiet rebellion.\n\nAnd then a “small move” became a huge step toward freedom.\n\nA medium-sized city, not too far away, but far enough to start over. New anonymity, new streets, new faces that did not know their story. The day they left the house was not loud. No grand farewell speech. Just boxes, a stroller, one last look back. Susan called it ingratitude. Christine called it survival. Chris called it finally being able to breathe.\n\nThe first apartment was cramped. Two rooms, creaking floor, a kitchen where you had to squeeze past each other sideways. But it was theirs. The first evening there was almost funny: they sat on the floor, ate pizza from the box, their little daughter slept in a makeshift bed of blankets, and it was quiet—not the oppressive quiet from before, but one that left room.\n\nChristine looked at her brother as if there were something she had forbidden herself for a long time.\n\n“Here,” she said quietly. “Here we can… right?”\n\nChris swallowed. He nodded, slowly, as if he too first had to allow himself to believe that this could be true.\n\nThe next day, they went out together just to buy bread. Nothing special. A walk, stroller, fresh air. Christine pushed the stroller, Chris walked beside her.\n\nAnd as they stood at the corner waiting for the light to turn green, Christine suddenly reached out her hand.\n\nOpen.\n\nJust like that.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/Christine_ende.jpg]]</center> <<else>><center>[img[pics/Christine_ende_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nChris’ heart stumbled. He hesitated for only a moment—not because he did not want to, but because it felt so huge, that small movement. Then he placed his fingers in hers.\n\nTheir hands fit, as if they always had. As if life had only taken a brief detour to bring them here.\n\nThey crossed the street as a couple in love. And no one stopped them.\n\nOf course, not everything was suddenly easy. Even in the new city, there were looks. A few neighbors who pressed their lips together when they saw the two of them together, stroller and shopping bags, and did the quick calculation in their heads: same last name, lesbian married couple, child. Sometimes a comment came, half-whispered, half-intentional. Sometimes it was only a look that lasted too long.\n\nBut these people did not know them. They did not know the long road out of shame, fear, and labels toward something that finally felt right. And precisely because of that, those looks could no longer take from them what they had.\n\n[[Continue|Jahre später.2]]

Chris froze, his stomach turning over. The taste of Adam’s lips and the rough warmth disgusted him. His face twisted reflexively, a tiny expression of revulsion, before he could control it.\n<<set $AdamMemory[6] to 1>>\nChris’s first impulse was to shove Adam away—hard, loud, unmistakable. And then he saw the looks and knew he had to play along so his disguise wouldn’t be exposed.\n\nChris swallowed down his impulse—the words Stop that, are you crazy?—because he knew what Adam was trying to do with it.\n\nAdam pushed his tongue into Chris’s mouth, and after Chris had overcome his surprise, he returned the kiss reluctantly. It was a strange feeling for Chris, kissing a boy.\n\nWhen Adam set him down, he forced himself into a crooked smile while his heart raced, and murmured a quiet “Hey.”\n\nAdam let him go, winked at him, and then possessively put an arm around his shoulders. Not tenderly, more like marking territory. Chris felt the others’ stares like pinpricks.\n\nAdam led Chris to the empty chair beside him and slid the folder under the table. “Saved you a seat,” he whispered, close enough that Chris felt his breath at his ear. “Play along nicely.”\n\nChris forced himself into a tight smile. The boys weren’t staring unpleasantly, more in a mixture of admiration and disbelief. Max nervously poked at his dice bag. “So, uh… hi,” he muttered. “Adam said… I mean… that you two—”\n\n“No debates about relationship status at the table. Initiative only in combat,” Ben interrupted without looking up. A few giggles, then Jay handed out the sheets. A character sheet with familiar handwriting suddenly lay in front of Chris. Raven. Rogue. The little raven icon in the corner.\n\nWhile the boys rolled dice, Adam leaned in again. “Everyone’s jealous, you notice?” he whispered. “Finally getting some respect.”\n\nChris felt heat in his cheeks, not a pleasant kind. “Stop it,” he whispered back without looking at him. “Just play.”\n\n“I am playing,” Adam said, smiling. “This is my best run.”\n\nThe dice rolled. A 15. Ben nodded. “As the hatch swings open, the first boot slips. The second one stumbles after it. The lamp tips, light dances, you’ve got a clear path.”\n\n“Sprint,” Jay said.\n\n“Cover,” Max said.\n\n“I take her hand,” Adam said, loudly enough for everyone to hear again. “So she doesn’t fall.”\n\nA few “Aww” sounds, half serious, half teasing. Ben sighed. “No mechanical advantages from romance. Continue.”\n\nChris swallowed. He kept playing. The session flowed. They stole a map from a guardroom, escaped through a maintenance shaft, left a false trail of peppercorns. The boys were good. Adam basked in every look, in every half-admiring comment.\n\nAgain and again, he casually placed his hand on Chris’s tights-covered leg, shifted his chair closer, or put an arm around his shoulder—small gestures that crossed boundaries. Chris held the lines he could hold: his gaze on the table, his hands visible, his voice calm. Every “we” from Adam cut briefly, but outwardly he let it stand. Roleplaying, he thought. Just roleplaying.\n\nToward the end, Ben folded up the screen. “Level-up is in sight,” he said, gathering the minis together. “Good tactics today.”\n\n“She’s just a natural rogue,” Jay threw in.\n\n“Yeah,” Adam said contentedly, “and my rogue.”\n\nA few “Ohs” from the group.\n\nChris packed calmly. The folder, the pencil, the dice bag. In the doorway, Adam stayed close behind him. “Hand,” he hissed softly, holding out his own, open like a threat. “Just so everyone sees.”\n\nChris felt the hallway grow longer. He placed his hand in Adam’s.\n\nAdam smiled for the audience. “See you tomorrow.”\n\nThe boys called their goodbyes, one whistled, Ben called, “Don’t forget your dice!” Chris held Adam’s hand and walked. The skirt brushed soothingly against his thighs again, as if trying to ground him. On the way to the door, he thought for a moment of the raven. A bird that could fly in tight spaces. He held onto the thought as tightly as he could, and stepped out into the corridor.\n\n[[Continue|Nochmal zur Schule.]]

That evening, Chris lay in bed, the light dimmed, the curtains half closed. Against his skin was a cool pink satin nightgown that rustled with the slightest breath. The room was quiet; only outside, somewhere, a night insect chirped, as if counting the seconds.\n\nHe held open the book he and Charlotte had bought together back then at the mall—on the cover a girl, a dark shadow in the background, the lettering curved and dramatic. One of those vampire-girl romances he would have rolled his eyes at before. Too cheesy, too over the top, he would have said. Now he read, page after page, because Charlotte had recommended it to him. Because he wanted to feel closer to her, even while she was keeping her distance.\n\nThe paper still smelled faintly of perfume, sweet and powdery, as if Charlotte’s hand had recently glided over it. The scent pulled him back, two weeks, to the mall: Charlotte sniffing a bottle and then saying with a grin, “That smells like trouble.” Chris secretly spraying some too and immediately feeling caught, as if the scent on his skin were a confession. They had laughed their way through perfumes, through vanilla that was too heavy and citrus notes too sharp, until Chris’s head had gone all soft.\n\nThen the friendship bracelets—Charlotte had picked out two, one simple, one with tiny stars. She had tied it around his wrist so naturally that it had tightened his throat. He still wore it now, the band slightly stretched from showers, but still tight enough to remember.\n\nHe turned the page. The heroine—by now he had her name in his head as if it were his own—stood in a hallway, heard footsteps, knew even before the first word that it would be Lucien again. The vampire. The one who wasn’t supposed to happen. The one who, of course, happened anyway.\n\nChris came upon a passage that made him abruptly slow down. Not because it was especially beautifully written. But because it caught him.\n\nIt was about her loving someone who was “wrong”—not in the sense of evil, but in the sense of: impossible. And that she still couldn’t get him out of her head. That she wanted to push him away and at the same time hoped he would stay.\n\nIn the book, Lucien slowly lowered his head. Not demanding, not cruel, but almost careful—as if he were giving her until the very last moment the chance to turn away. The heroine didn’t. And when his lips finally touched hers, it said that it was as if the whole dark world went still for one breath.\n\nChris swallowed.\n\nThe kiss lasted only a few lines. But something about it hit him deeper than he had expected: that she chose. That she lifted her hand and held Lucien by the collar, as if she had long since stopped pretending she wanted to push him away.\n\nChris read the paragraph again.\n\nThen again.\n\nHe only realized late that he was aroused.\n\nThe satin nightgown was no longer cool by then. It had taken on warmth where it lay against his chest and between his thighs. He turned the pages faster, then slower again, because he wanted to savor every line. And with every page, it became clearer to him: he really liked the story.\n\nHe stared at the page and almost startled at himself. Do I like it because I’m changing? he thought. Because he identified with the girl more than he wanted to? Because his inner self had long since begun getting used to things he would once have rejected?\n\nFinally, he closed the book, as if it had suddenly become too frank. Then he pressed it briefly to his chest, tightly, as if he could hold the hope in the paper that way, and the fear along with it.\n\nThe chirping outside went on. His phone lay beside the pillow. Chris reached for it, unlocked the screen, and looked at Charlotte’s chat. No new messages. Of course not.\n\nHe typed: “Good night.”\nSent it.\n\nThen he started a second message—longer, more honest. I miss you. I want you to understand me. I’m scared you’ll never look at me the way you used to again. The words were already half there, and he looked at them like something fragile.\n\nHe deleted them again.\n\nThe display went dark. Chris put the phone back, held the book pressed against himself for another moment, and closed his eyes. Hope and fear lay side by side inside him, like two pages of the same story.\n\n[[Continue|Zu wenig Badezimmer im Haus.2]]

Morning still hung gray in the house when Chris opened his eyes. He slipped off the blanket, padded into the hallway. On the sofa in the living room, he saw Latoya curled up asleep, a strand of hair slipped over her forehead, her afro turned into a soft cloud. For a moment he stopped—so close and yet peacefully distant—then crept on into the kitchen.\n\nRoutinely, he switched on the machine, filled it with water, spooned in coffee. The familiar scent slowly crept into every crack. Better Mom gets her first cup before she sees people, he thought, and had to grin at himself.\n\nFootsteps. DeShawn appeared in the doorway.\n\n“Morning,” he grunted, took a cup, poured himself some.\n\nHe was wearing one of Chris’s mother’s robes; the thing was too small, so the hem only reached about halfway down his thighs. The legs beneath it looked athletic, black as night and muscular. He seemed to have noticed Chris looking him over, because he gave him a quick grin.\n\n“Like what you see?” He set the coffee cup down beside him on the table. As he did, the robe shifted and revealed his powerful chest, shimmering in the morning light.\n\nChris turned away to give him a chance to cover himself again, but he made no move to do so. Instead, he came closer.\n\n“Thanks for the coffee, Chris.” His gaze lingered on Chris a beat too long, warm, almost playful.\n\nChris felt a small heat rise into his ears. Embarrassment mixed with something else, quieter, hard to place. DeShawn leaned against the kitchen counter beside Chris. He smelled of sex, wild animal sex. No wonder, if he had spent all last night doing nothing but fucking Chris’s mother.\n\nWait, were those really my thoughts just now, Chris wondered. He quickly pushed it away again.\n\n“You seem to like me,” there was a quiet undertone in his voice, maybe a little mocking, maybe more teasing. “At least your little friend seems to think so.”\n\nUnfortunately, he was right, because by now Chris had a small bulge in his nightgown. Problems with morning wood don’t exactly decrease when you live as a girl.\n\nBut DeShawn didn’t really seem bothered by that. Instead, he came even closer. Slowly, he opened the knotted belt. The robe hadn’t been hiding much anyway. Chris was in a trance.\n\nThe knot was open, the fabric fell to the floor with a soft rustle, and he stood completely naked in front of Chris. For a moment Chris hesitated, but then he let his gaze slowly wander lower and saw a cock slowly growing stiff. The black monster was of considerable size, the circumcised head glowing dark red. Slowly, he stroked it with his hand.\n\nWith a smug grin, he said: “Don’t be shy, you can touch it.”\n\nChris’s heart stumbled. One half of him wanted to laugh, wave it off, set down the spoon, and talk about the “weather.” The other half was a little curious—what such a big black thing might feel like, whether it was as hard as it looked.\n\n''How does Chris react?''\n❯ [[Touch it.|Anfassen.][$deshawn += 1;$deshawn_opinion += 35]]\n❯ [[Don’t touch it.|Nicht anfassen.]]

For a few minutes, neither of them said anything.\n\nRuby sat on the edge of Chris’s bed, her hands wrapped around her phone as if it were a warm stone. Chris stood at the vanity, pretending he absolutely had to sort something, even though everything was already neat.\n\nRuby cleared her throat, as if she wanted to give the silence a little shove to get it moving. “Okay, I’ll just say it,” she said, grinning. “I can’t sit still when things get awkward.”\n\nChris laughed briefly, too relieved. “Yeah… same.”\n\n“Music!” Ruby snapped her fingers, as if she had found the perfect lifeline. “Do you listen to K-pop?”\n\nChris’s stomach gave a tiny leap. In his head, K-pop was instantly… glittery. Loud. Girlishly embarrassing. And yet he remembered Christine, dancing through the hallway in the past while a chorus blasted from her room. He even knew one or two names without ever having admitted it.\n\nRuby leaned forward, instantly in “enthusiasm” mode. “I’m OBSESSED. Seriously. The choreos? The vocals? And those music videos, like you’re falling into another world.” She tapped on her phone and showed him a picture of a K-pop band—perfectly styled hair, dramatic lighting, a logo that looked like a secret code. “I’m just waiting for them to go on tour again. My mom says I should pass math first before planning concerts. Unfair.”\n\nChris nodded, trying not to look too much like he had no opinion right now.\n\n“Okay, now you. What do you listen to?” Ruby asked.\n\nChris’s head suddenly went empty, then very full. He liked listening to post-rock. Long instrumental pieces that slowly swelled, like weather coming in. Music that didn’t flirt, didn’t glitter, didn’t sound teeny. Music that left him alone without making him lonely.\n\nBut was that a “girl” answer? Would Ruby look at him strangely then? Would it stand out—as an edge that didn’t fit the picture?\n\nHe felt the silence draw closer again, this time differently: expectant.\n\n''What does he answer?''\n❯ [[He says he listens to post-rock, even though it might put a hard edge on his disguise as a girl.|Er sagt, dass er Post-Rock hört, obwohl seine Tarnung als Mädchen damit eine harte Kante bekommen könnte.][$zeke += 1]]\n❯ [[Pretend he also likes K-pop, even though it feels as if he’s pushing himself even further away.|So tun, als ob er auch K-Pop mag, obwohl es sich anfühlt, als würde er sich selbst noch weiter wegschieben.]]

He chose the daring combination. The bra felt lighter in his hands than it looked—cream-colored cups with fine lace, inside a smooth, thin padding that felt almost silky under his fingers. He guided the straps over his shoulders, and the fumbling began right away: the clasp at his back wouldn’t find its match. He looked over his shoulder into the mirror, twisted his arms, felt blindly with the hooks—one caught, then sprang loose again. Take a breath. Another try: guide the hook toward the eyelet, don’t press, slide; shoulder blades together so the band gives way. “Come on,” he murmured. The second hook clicked. The third—a soft, satisfying click.\n\nAs he adjusted the straps, he realized how unfamiliar this millimeter-precise work was: too long—the cups slipped downward. Too short—the straps dug in. He adjusted them until the edges lay flat and the cups framed his sensitive spots instead of squeezing them. Then the briefs—smooth fabric, lace trim, a clear, shaping line.\n\nHe took a step back and looked in the mirror. The image unsettled him in two ways: beneath the skin, all his old coordinates—jaw, shoulders, the gaze he knew. Over them, lines that were new. The delicate lace cast a shadow beneath the top; even without the top, you could feel the shape: the padding rounded, smoothed, made “more” out of the “little” that was there. The straps drew his shoulders slightly inward, and his posture tilted involuntarily into the line Susan had trained into him: lift the breastbone a little, keep the shoulders soft, not broad. The strangest thing was the feeling itself—not pain, but presence. An “I am fastened in” at a place on his body that used to play no role.\n\nThe door opened without a knock. “Sexy,” Susan said, like a remark about the weather. Her gaze moved appraisingly over the straps, the sides, the fit of the cups. “Very good. That’s exactly how you wear a bra. And if you wear it regularly now, it’ll soon feel completely normal.”\n\nChris flinched when her hand briefly touched his shoulder—a small reflex born of shame from the day before.\n\nSusan opened the wardrobe, pushed hangers aside as if leafing through a catalog. “Something different today.” She laid out on the bed: lavender culottes, ankle-length and flowing; a simple, soft top with a fine lace edge at the neckline. “This. And—” She reached for a small box, shook two tiny gold studs into her hand. “For your ears.”\n\n<center>[img[pics/outfit2.jpg]]</center> Chris blinked at the culottes. “Pants?” It slipped out, surprised. For the first time in weeks, no skirt, no dress. A small, unreasonable surge of relief ran through him: fabric between his legs, freedom of movement, no need to keep guarding the hem.\n\nHe slipped into the culottes—the fabric fell softly, gave with each step, swayed when he walked without being too revealing. The top slid over the bra, the lace edge tracing a narrow decorative line that did not conceal his new reality, but made it seem natural. The gold studs clicked lightly as Susan inserted them; a cool breath at his ear, then warmth.\n\nIn the mirror, he saw “trouser fabric” on himself again for the first time—and with the relief came a new fear. What if it wasn’t enough? If someone looked more closely? If the silhouette wasn’t “feminine enough”? The padding supported him, the culottes softened his hips, but his mind imagined glances that could see through fabric.\n\n“Mom…” He cleared his throat. The sentence was embarrassing and contradictory and still true. “Could I… maybe wear a skirt or a dress after all?”\n\nSusan’s mouth curled in mockery. “Oh. Now all of a sudden you want a skirt, hmm?” Her voice was too light to be kind. “Yesterday I still had to force you, and today he wants skirts voluntarily. Interesting.” She crossed her arms, the smile narrow. “See how quickly you get used to things?”\n\nThe mockery hit him like a cold draft. Something inside him tightened—not just shame, more the feeling of being pushed another step farther away from himself. “All right,” he said quietly.\n\n[[Continue|Auf zur Schule.]]

Then came his first round.\n\nHe waited behind the curtain, the light warm like a gaze, the music like a hand at his back. Stage fright reached for him, making his fingers cold. When his stage name, “Daisy Darling,” was called, he stepped out—not dancing lightly, not sexy like in the movies, more cautiously, as if he were walking along a narrow footbridge. The stage was bright, he saw the faces much too close, heard their voices.\n\nChris did what he had been told: move, undress, smile. It was more dance than anything else. Someone whistled. Someone clapped. He felt every gaze on his body. The strange men eyed him hungrily, and one man of about fifty even brazenly grabbed Chris’ butt. Embarrassed, Chris squirmed on the stage. Shame burned all the way up beneath his earrings, and he forced himself to keep going.\n\nHe took off his top. The crowd whistled enthusiastically. Once again, Chris’ firm ass became the target of lustful men’s hands as he danced onstage in only his bra. His pink nipples showed clearly beneath the semi-transparent lace fabric of his bra.\n\nWhen his skirt fell, Chris stood on the stage wearing only a thong, stockings, and lace underwear. But the audience demanded more.\n\nBut Chris wasn’t ready for that. So he made his last round on the stage, curiously stared at by aroused men who closely studied his sexy girl-breasts and the small bulge in his panties. Again and again, strange hands touched Chris’ legs and his butt, sometimes four or five at once. A nightmare for the young man! His shame was covered only by a skimpy thong, his butt almost bare.\n\nWhen he stepped back behind the curtain, he was sweaty, not from arousal, but from stress. He leaned briefly against the wall until his knees worked normally again.\n\nZoe came in shortly afterward, laughing as if she had just won a game. “This is easy,” she said. “You just have to act like you’re untouchable.”\n\nChris stared at her. “How can you be so calm?”\n\n“Because I am,” Zoe said. “And because it pays.”\n\nLater, at the end of the night, Chris counted his tips for the first time. Bills, more than he had had in the past few weeks combined. His hand trembled as he counted them. Part of him felt dirty—not physically, but morally. Another part felt… relieved. Because money meant air. Food. Rent. A little bit of control.\n\nZoe counted her earnings, whistled softly, and clapped him on the shoulder. “See? I told you.”\n\nChris put the money away as if he had to hide it from himself, and as he did, he realized how dangerously good this mixture felt: shame in his stomach, cash in his hand. Freedom with a price tag.\n\n[[Continue|Wochen werden zu Monaten.]]

“Yes.” Zoe pushed back, just as playfully. “You’re already back in your head: I hate being a girl. I hate that I liked it.” She exaggeratedly imitated his inner voice and immediately got another pillow shove for it. She squealed, laughed, grabbed for his hand, and pulled him back toward her.\n\nIt turned into a scuffle – two naked teenage bodies, pillows, elbows, half serious, half play. Chris tried to free himself, but Zoe was persistent. Their young bodies slid across the mattress; Chris ended up half on top of her. Zoe’s legs were spread, and he could see her swollen labia. No fuzz, not a single hair was visible.\n\nHe wanted to say something poisonous, something that would create distance. Instead, he only stared at Zoe’s pretty pussy.\n\nZoe looked at him, and for a moment the joke had disappeared from her gaze. “Tell me you didn’t like it yesterday,” she said quietly.\n\nChris didn’t answer, but he noticed his cock stiffening.\n\nZoe smiled, her hand closing around his member and squeezing it lovingly. A shiver flowed through him.\n\nSlowly, Zoe guided the head toward her pussy. She pressed Chris’s penis between her labia and finally guided it into the secret chamber of her pleasure. Slowly, Chris leaned over her. Her delicate fingers released his shaft, and now he could move himself inside her tight, wet grotto.\n\nEven the first thrust into her was a climax of feeling. He felt every vein of his bursting-hard member. A tingling almost drove him mad. Zoe lay beneath him. Her dark eyes looked at him, and he recognized a divine being in her. She moaned softly as he pushed a little deeper into her.\n\nZoe willingly pressed her pelvis up toward him while her fingers grabbed his ass cheeks.\n\nOnly slowly did Chris find his rhythm inside her and begin moving his hips, exposing his butt crack to her each time he pulled back. Her finger massaged his ring of muscle and slowly entered his bowels. He jerked in alarm and clenched against it.\n\n“Zoe?” he moaned in disbelief as her finger began to crawl inside his bowels and rubbed especially intensely at the spot where the prostate lay behind the wall. The feeling was arousing, so much so that he forgot to keep thrusting.\n\n“Hop, hop!” Zoe growled, and Chris began thrusting.\n\nShe lay beneath him and tightened her vaginal muscles with every thrust. Her finger at his prostate created a whirl that drove the cream from his seminal vesicle into the firing channel. She felt his lust inside her, merging with her own desire.\n\nThe two teenagers melted into one. In that moment, they had become Adam and Eve, finding themselves in a paradise of lust. Neither of them thought about anything but the bare, ecstatic passion of the moment. They moaned and panted, they sweated and twitched, until their bodies finally united in a tremendous orgasm.\n\nZoe came first. The penetration of his cock had already brought her almost to climax before. Now the young woman crossed that threshold too. Wildly and without restraint, she cried out her pleasure. Her vagina contracted and squeezed around Chris’s stiff rod inside her. Then his began to twitch and pulse as well. His rod shot enormous amounts of his semen into her body. His body wanted to seed hers, wanted to immortalize itself in the girl’s ecstatically twitching body. Pressed tightly together, they lay on the mattress until the pulsing tremble of their bodies subsided and they found each other in a kiss.\n\nExhausted, Chris rolled off her and pulled her close. Zoe nestled against him. Chris dreamily closed his eyes while part of his semen seeped from her still-swollen opening.\n\n[[Continue|Die lästigen Geldprobleme.]]

The last school day before Christine’s maternity leave felt as if someone were quietly closing the door to an old life.\n\nChristine stood in front of her locker and emptied it out without saying much. Her fingers glided over the crumpled timetable, over a torn-off Timberwolves sticker, over a forgotten hair clip. She put everything into a box that Chris held for her. He took the heavier things from her—some folders, the cheer band, a bottle that smelled like gym floor—and acted as if it was only tidying up.\n\nBut it was a farewell. To hallways she knew. To breaks she would someday experience differently again. To the version of Christine who had still been certain where all of this was leading.\n\nWhen the locker was finally empty, she stood there for a moment and stared inside, as if she had expected something to be left. Then she closed the door. The metallic click sounded final.\n\nOn the way home, they hardly spoke. Chris walked beside her, the box in his arms, and kept a pace that meant she did not have to hurry. By now, that had become their way.\n\nThe contractions began later that same night. At first, they were only waves that Christine breathed through, as if she wanted to prove to herself that she was strong. Then the pauses grew shorter, the waves higher, and at some point she was sitting on the edge of the bed, pale, both hands gripping the mattress, and whispered, “Chris.”\n\nHe was awake immediately. He helped her stand up, handed her water, searched the apartment for everything they had “set aside,” even though no one was truly ready.\n\nAt the hospital, everything took on its own rhythm: voices, footsteps, doors, light. Christine was afraid. You could see it in the way her fingers dug into Chris’ hand and then loosened again, as if she were checking whether she could really still feel him.\n\nChris stayed with her. He held her hand, breathed with her, said nothing grand, because he knew that grand words often only got in the way in moments like that. Sometimes he briefly rested his forehead against hers when she trembled, and said only, “I’m here.”\n\nThen—suddenly—a cry that was not hers.\n\nA clear, indignant, living sound that filled the room and erased everything else.\n\nChristine broke into silent sobs, half relief, half disbelief. Chris stared as if someone had pulled the air from his lungs.\n\n“There is your daughter,” someone said, and it was as if that statement were a miracle.\n\nFor a moment, Chris saw only small, wriggling movements, a tiny face that was red and new, and then—when the bundle was carefully placed into his arms—the world went still.\n\nThe baby was warm. Heavier than he had expected. Real.\n\nChris’ eyes filled at once. He held the baby’s head instinctively better, as if his body had always known how. He looked down at that tiny face and felt something that wanted to tear him apart and heal him at the same time.\n\n“Hi,” he whispered, completely overwhelmed.\n\nChristine looked at him, exhausted, sweating, utterly spent—and still her gaze softened when she saw her brother like that: with the baby in his arms, as if he were holding something irreplaceable.\n\nChris swallowed, leaned toward her without risking the baby, and gently kissed Christine on the forehead. Then he looked back down at the child and did not merely think it; he swore it to himself, clear and firm, as if he were carving it into the air:\n\nNo matter what came—he would always be there. For Christine. And for this child.\n\n[[Continue|Vaterschaftstest.]]

They went to the drink table first. Dylan got two cups of punch, held one out to Chris, and waited a heartbeat until Chris took it—so matter-of-factly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to keep someone’s hands free here tonight. Chris’ fingers closed around the plastic cup, cold from the wall of ice cubes, and he took a sip just to do something. Sweet, sticky, tasting of cherry and too much sugar. Perfect.\n<<set $ort to "gym">>\nOut of the corner of his eye, he saw movement at the edge: Myles. In a suit, chin raised, his hand resting casually at the back of his new date, as if she were an accessory. The girl beside him had exactly the “assets” boys whispered about in hallways—visible, shamelessly emphasized, as if she had dressed her entire silhouette as a statement. Chris felt his stomach briefly harden. Involuntarily, he thought of Christine: petite, flat, and apparently interchangeable in Myles’ world.\n\nMyles leaned toward his date and whispered something in her ear, grinning like someone who thought he could say anything. Chris only saw the girl blink at first, then raise her eyebrows—and then her face transformed into pure outrage.\n\n“Seriously?” she hissed loudly enough that a few heads turned.\n\nMyles raised his hands placatingly, still grinning, as if he could charm it away—\n\n—and then she dumped the punch in his face.\n\nThe red liquid ran over his cheeks, dripped from his chin, stuck to his shirt collar. Myles stood there frozen for a moment, as if someone had turned off his sound. Chris had to hold the cup in front of his mouth so no one would immediately see him laugh. A small, mean, wonderfully satisfying joy bounced up inside him.\n\nHe pulled his phone out of the clutch, as carefully as if it were a sacred act, quickly took a photo of Myles’ punch-soaked expression, and tapped it to Christine.\n<blockquote class="quote">Chris: Karma works. 💅</blockquote>\nHe put the phone away again before Dylan could ask, and took another sip of punch, which suddenly tasted better.\n\n“Everything okay?” Dylan asked when he noticed Chris’ sparkling eyes.\n\n“Everything’s great,” Chris said, and meant it.\n\nThen Dylan pulled him onto the dance floor.\n\nThe first songs were fast, heavy on the bass, far too much body. Chris did not know what to do with his hands and legs, as if he had to read an instruction manual for every beat first. He laughed nervously, tried to take his cues from Dylan, and briefly felt like it was the first day of school again: too visible, too unsure. His hand clung to the clutch until he realized he was no longer holding it at all—Dylan had unobtrusively taken it from him and set it at the edge, as if that were an obvious service.\n\n“Just relax,” Dylan said, leaning close enough that Chris could understand him despite the music. “You don’t have to dance perfectly. Just... with me.”\n\nChris breathed out. By the next song, he found Dylan’s rhythm. Dylan did not move in any complicated way, just with confidence—a small bounce, a step, a step back, a smile that said: I’ve got you. Chris let himself be carried by it, and suddenly he knew what to do with his hands: one on Dylan’s shoulder, the other somewhere between air and closeness. He stopped trying to control every single step.\n\nWhen Dylan briefly held him during a turn—a hand at his waist, firm and warm—Chris’ mind suddenly went quiet. No calculations, no motel scenarios, no fear. Only music, string lights above them, and the feeling that his body was exactly where it was supposed to be.\n\nHe laughed, genuinely, breathlessly, and Dylan laughed back. And with every beat, the night grew lighter.\n\n[[Continue|Krönung der Ballkönigin.]]

“Blonde,” Chris finally said, and even as he said it, it felt as if he were opening a door he had only ever looked at from a distance.\n\nLaverne audibly gasped, as if that were the best news of the day. “Yesss. Baby, blonde isn’t just a color, blonde is an attitude.” She clapped her hands softly once, pulled on black gloves, and set out the bowls and brushes as if she were about to begin a painting.\n\nShe carefully combed through Chris’s long, straight hair, divided it into sections with a precise parting, and clipped it up. Her grip was practiced, sure, and gentle at the same time. “You’ll see,” she said as she mixed the first batch—creamy, light, with that typical salon smell that smelled like change. “Blonde instantly makes you… lighter. More light in your face. More ‘I’m here,’ even when you don’t say anything.”\n\nShe worked her way forward strand by strand. She placed foils under individual sections, brushed the product on thickly and evenly, and folded the foils shut until Chris’s head felt like a carefully wrapped secret. As she did, Laverne talked the way she always talked—sparkling, sassy, with mini-monologues that made time move faster.\n\n“And let me tell you something,” she said while sectioning off the next part. “People always act like blonde is just ‘cute.’ No, no. Blonde can be innocent. But blonde can also be ‘I walk in and everyone forgets their lines.’ And today we are very clearly going in the direction of… option two.” She winked at Chris in the mirror, and he already felt warm even though he was only sitting there quietly.\n\nOnce everything was wrapped up, Laverne set the timer. Chris sat under a warm light, listened to soft music, and stared into the mirror, where he looked like someone about to be unwrapped from a surprise egg. Part of him wanted to jump up and run away. Another part stayed still, because he wanted to know what the final image would look like.\n\nAfter the processing time, Laverne led him to the sink. Warm water, then cooler, shampoo, rinse. The moment the foils came loose and his hair fell back heavy and wet felt like a point of no return. Laverne worked in toner to make the shade of blonde “right”—not yellowish, not dull, but clear, elegant, like light on fabric.\n\n“We’re doing this so it looks like you woke up in the sun,” she said contentedly. “Not like you got into a fight with a lemon.”\n\nBack at the chair, the styling began. She sprayed on heat protectant, blow-dried his hair smooth and shiny, and guided the brush through the lengths with a steady hand. Then she straightened individual sections, not harshly, but so the ends fell softly and the surface looked like satin. Finally, she put a little oil in her hands, smoothed it over the lengths, and used her fingers to arrange the front strands so they flattered his face.\n\n“Okay,” Laverne finally said, slowly turning the chair toward the mirror as if it were a reveal on TV. “Ready?”\n\nChris’s breath caught.\n\nThe blonde wasn’t just any blonde. It was that clichéd, “expensive” blonde—the kind you see in movies on the girl everyone stares at even though she only ordered a coffee. Lighter, but not flat: a mix of warm honey and cool champagne, with fine, sun-kissed highlights that caught the light with every movement. His long hair suddenly looked even longer, even smoother, as if it had its own gravity. The shine made the strands look like liquid gold, and around his face the blonde lay like a frame that made his features softer and at the same time more striking.\n\nBlondes have more fun, the old, stupid saying shot through his mind—and he almost would have laughed if he hadn’t been so overwhelmed. On him, it didn’t look like a “costume.” It looked… natural, in an outrageous way. As if this had always been his look and the world had only been waiting for him to finally wear it.\n\nLaverne leaned beside the mirror with her arms crossed. “Told. You. So.” Her grin was wide. “You look like a summer hit.”\n\nChris stared at his reflection. His stomach gave a small, treacherous leap—because he found himself hot. And that instantly embarrassed him. In his head, he was still a boy who didn’t belong here, who was only playing a role. And yet there in the mirror sat a person with shining blonde hair, a perfect fall, and that look that suddenly knew more than he wanted to admit.\n\nHe felt his cheeks turning red. “Oh my God,” he managed softly, half awed, half startled.\n\nAnd Laverne purred with satisfaction: “That’s exactly the right reaction, baby.”\n\n[[Continue|Auf zum Bubble Tea.]]

The note was folded. Chris smoothed it out—the handwriting round, carefully neat, a few letters tilting to the right:<<set $ort to "locker area">><<set $LucasMemory[1] to 1>>\n\n<div class="letter">Hi, I’m writing because otherwise I would never say it: You are beautiful. Not fake, not put on—just in a way that makes someone look twice. Your smile makes the hallway brighter. And when something embarrasses you and you blush… it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. You try to hide, but that’s exactly when you’re hardest to miss. Every time you walk past me, it gets a little hard for me to breathe. You don’t have to do anything—just be there. I wanted to say “Hi,” but my words get stuck. So this note. Maybe you can guess who I am. Maybe not. Both are okay.\n\nP.S. Your perfume (or shampoo?) smells like strawberry. I like that.</div>\nChris’s ears grew hot. Beautiful. Sweet. Not fake. He instinctively wanted to crumple the note, but his fingers held onto it, smoothed it out once more. Instead of throwing it away, he slid it all the way to the back of his locker, under his English folder—a tiny, crackling secret. Maybe because it was flattering. Maybe because it was the first love letter of his life. Maybe because he didn’t know exactly why himself.\n\nFor the rest of the day, his gaze wandered as if he suddenly had radar: Who wrote round letters? Who smelled him? Who was he? In the hallway, Dylan crossed his path, sports bag over his shoulder. Chris’s stomach gave a little leap. Him? The thought was absurd and still trotted along beside him.\n\nAfter class, Chris trudged to the bus. On the way across the parking lot, he saw Christine—hand in hand with Myles. No uncertainty, no strained casualness: real fingers holding real fingers. Christine was beaming, Myles said something that made her laugh; her braces flashed. They suddenly looked like a couple that had existed for a while, even though it might only have been ten minutes old.\n\nChris stopped for a moment, let the image sink in, then got on the bus. In his bag, the note rustled.\n\n[[Continue|Wäschetag.]]

The bus hummed steadily, rows of houses sliding past like scenery. Chris let his head sink against the cool window and felt the weariness of the afternoon tip into a soft afterglow.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nHis phone vibrated.\n\n[[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]]:\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Heeey you 💫 are you coming over to my place on saturday? dad won’t be home until late… we’d have the house to ourselves 😌Interested? </blockquote> A small, quick leap of his heart. The memory of her scent, of the “next time” like a magnet under his skin. His fingers were already typing before he consciously agreed: <blockquote class="quote">Yes. I’d love to. Just tell me when I should be there.</blockquote> The reply came immediately: <blockquote class="quote">18:00? I’ll make something to eat. And… maybe a movie later? Or no movie 😇</blockquote> He grinned involuntarily into the screenlight. The bus took a turn, someone got on at the stop. Chris leaned back again, feeling the small, glittering anticipation threading through his chest like a string of lights.\n\nChris:\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Perfect. 18:00. Looking forward to it.</blockquote> Charlotte: <blockquote class="quote">looking forward to it. very much. 💖</blockquote> Chris only typed a heart back. He put the phone away and realized that the rest of the day had suddenly become lighter. Saturday now stood over the week like a fixed star.\n\n[[Continue|Am Abend.2]]

Chris decided on separate cars. “Each of us gets a car,” he said, trying to make it sound as casual as if it were purely a logistical question. Lucas nodded, a little hesitation in his eyes, then gave a brave grin. “Okay.”\n\nThey climbed into two bumper cars standing side by side, the safety bar clicked down, and the music started booming. Chris put both hands on the wheel, floored the pedal, and shot off as if he had been waiting for this moment all day.\n\nHe drove all over the track, dodging as if in a video game—left, quick brake, spin, then full speed again. Some cars came straight at him from a distance, as if the drivers had made an agreement. Chris grinned, swerved away at the last moment—but he couldn’t avoid every hit. There was a crash, his car jerked, and he was shaken so hard that an uncontrolled laugh slipped from his throat.\n\n“Hey!” he called, half indignant, half amused, when a car caught him from behind and sent him spinning.\n\nIt was mostly boys who seemed to have it in for him. They aimed at him as if “the new, pretty cutie—or whatever” had suddenly become the most exciting target on the track. One pointed two fingers at him like a gun, then rammed him from the side. Chris’s car bounced, and so did his body and his breasts. He clenched his teeth, laughed at the same time, and steered back.\n\nLucas noticed. Chris saw him out of the corner of his eye—his car was moving in wide curves, but his gaze was fixed on Chris. Every time another car hit Chris, Lucas drove in harder, as if he had to prove that he was there too. A small shadow of jealousy lay on his face, though he tried to grin.\n\nChris noticed—and suddenly it turned into a game.\n\nHe turned his car, waited until one of the guys came steering toward him again, and then swerved aside at the last moment. The other shot into empty space and instead crashed into a car that happened to be passing by. A triumphant whoop broke out—from Chris, before he could even think. He threw one hand up briefly, as if he had just scored a point.\n\n“Okay, so that’s how it goes,” he muttered, grinning, and hit the gas.\n\nChris clung to the steering wheel with both hands while his cute butt slid back and forth on the seat from the wild ride.\n\nA little competition developed: Chris against the self-appointed “hunters” who were determined to catch him. They tried to box him in; he snaked between them. They lurked by the barrier; he feinted, braked, turned, and suddenly shot off in the other direction. Sometimes they hit him anyway—a sideways ram that rattled him<<if $haar == 1>>, until his long hair flew into his face<<endif>>. Then he got his revenge by driving into their side at a perfect angle and sending them into an involuntary spin.\n\n“Wooo!” rang out across the track whenever someone hit their target again—sometimes from them, sometimes from Chris. The pounding of the music mixed with shrieks, laughter, and the metallic crash of the bumpers. Chris’s cheeks were hot, not from shame, but from fun. He felt light, cheeky, alive.\n\nAnd every time he glanced over at Lucas, he saw how hard Lucas was trying to land hits too—not just to win, but so he wouldn’t be pushed to the margins in this small, loud chaos.\n<<set $choice_ahorn1 to 0>>\n[[Continue|Der Ruf der Natur.]]

Chris had already opened his mouth to let the truth out. He felt it like a hot ball behind his teeth: Mom is forcing me. She’s doing this to me. But the words got stuck. It was too embarrassing—not just the details, but the thought of his father seeing him like that: as someone who hadn’t been able to fight back. As someone this had happened to.\n\nOr was it even more complicated? As he stood in the warm kitchen light, in his nightgown, with the taste of water in his mouth, he felt that other part inside himself, one that wasn’t just afraid, but also… strangely calm. As if by now it was no longer only something being done to him, but also something he had grown into. Chris himself didn’t know exactly which of it was the truth. Maybe both. Maybe it changed depending on the day.\n\nHis father waited, quiet, but not pressing. Chris could feel his own heart pounding.\n\n“It’s… not a phase,” Chris finally said. His voice sounded quieter than he wanted, but it carried. “I… I really feel this way.” He swallowed. “Like a girl.”\n\nThe very moment he said it, it didn’t feel completely wrong. It didn’t hit the whole truth—but it hit part of it. One he had otherwise only ever touched in the dark. He looked at his father and felt that heat of shame again, but beneath it lay a fleeting, unsettling breath of relief: If I say this, at least it’s explainable.\n\nHis father blinked, and you could see him rearranging things inside himself. Not convincingly easily, not perfectly, but honestly trying. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay… then… then I want to try to understand.” His voice grew softer. “I want you to be okay.”\n\nHe stepped closer and hugged Chris. It was a cautious hug, as if he still had inhibitions about touching him—not out of rejection, more out of uncertainty about where he was allowed to touch his new daughter. Chris felt the fabric of the nightgown between them like a thin boundary, and how his father respected that boundary, almost excessively. He felt the warm weight of the hand gliding over his hair, to the nape of his neck, down to his back.\n\n“Thank you,” Chris murmured.\n\nBefore he could think about it, he leaned forward and gave his father a light little kiss on the cheek—so natural, so automatic, as if he had always done it that way. In the same instant, realization flashed across his face. What did I just do? Heat rose all the way to his ears, and his gaze flickered away.\n\nHis father froze for the tiniest moment, then smiled uncertainly—a smile that was both touched and overwhelmed. He said nothing about it, as if he were afraid of ruining it with words.\n\n“Good night,” Chris said hastily.\n\n“Good night, Chris,” his father answered quietly.\n\nChris quickly turned around and went upstairs, as if speed could slam the embarrassment shut behind him. In his room, he closed the door, leaned his forehead against it briefly, and breathed out as if he had been holding his breath all evening. Then he crawled into bed—with his heart pounding, cheeks burning, and the bittersweet knowledge that he had just told a story that wasn’t entirely true.\n\n[[Continue|In der Nacht.]]

The next day, he met Laverne already in the early afternoon at her women’s hair salon—and yes, that was part of the date. She had talked him into stopping by the salon first in their messages. Chris had hesitated at first, then given in, because Laverne’s mixture of charm and matter-of-fact confidence was hard to refuse.\n<<set $wochentag = 6>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "">>\nThe salon was in a small strip of shops between a nail studio, from which chemical smells and quiet laughter drifted out, and a store that sold only candles—vanilla, cinnamon, something Christmassy that smelled like warmth even in autumn.\n<<set $ort to "hair salon">>\nThe salon’s glass door chimed as Chris stepped inside. Inside, everything was bright and full of mirrors: large wall mirrors, black chairs, shelves lined with shampoo bottles in pastel and gold. Music played softly, a smooth pop beat that made the room feel softer, as if through a filter.\n\n“Baaaby!” Laverne’s voice came from the back like fireworks. She appeared with a wide grin, perfectly applied makeup, and a presence that instantly filled the room. She seemed like a big kid in a candy store—except she was the store herself. “There you are at last. I was already starting to think you were standing me up, and then I’d have to give all my love to the shampoo bottles.”\n\nChris laughed nervously and felt his shoulders loosen. “Hi.”\n\n“Hi?” Laverne pressed a hand dramatically to her heart. “That’s all? Sweetheart, today we’re making history.” She winked, gently took his jacket from him, and led him to the chair in front of the biggest mirror. “Sit down. Trust me. I’m the fairy godmother with scissors around here.”\n\nChris sat down. The faux leather creaked softly. In the mirror he saw his own face and, behind it, Laverne’s cheerful energy hanging in the air like glitter.\n\nLaverne draped the cape around him, clipped it closed at the nape of his neck, and took a step back as if assessing a work of art. “Okay. We’re talking about a new hairstyle—a little more wow, a little less I’m hiding behind my class schedule.” She leaned closer, holding a strand between two fingers as if inspecting fabric. “And I’ll tell you right now: a new hair color could suit you so well that people in the cafeteria will spill their milk.”\n\nChris swallowed. “Um…”\n\n“Don’t panic.” Laverne raised both hands. “I’m not forcing you into anything. I’m just charmingly persuading you until you voluntarily say yes.” She grinned, then briefly turned professional, but without losing her sassy note. “So: any preferences? Are you thinking more sweet, more edgy, more I’m the main character?”\n\nShe tapped a fingernail against the color swatch book she had already laid out. “Just give me the direction, baby. I’ll handle the rest.”\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n''Which color does Chris choose?''\n<<if $haar == 1>>❯ [[Blonde|Blond][$temp += 1]]\n❯ [[Red|Rot][$temp += 2]]\n❯ [[Black|Schwarz][$temp += 3]]<<else>>❯ [[Blonde|Blond2][$temp += 1]]\n❯ [[Red|Rot2][$temp += 2]]\n❯ [[Black|Schwarz2][$temp += 3]]<<endif>>

On the stage, his knees trembled, so finely that only he noticed. A teacher handed over the crown, glittering, ridiculous and fantastic at the same time. Chris held his breath as they placed it on him. The glitter crown sat on his hair, heavier than expected, cool against his scalp. For a moment, he felt like a character in a fairy tale he had accidentally stepped into.\n\nDylan received a simple crown, a little silly, and he laughed briefly before turning back to Chris, as if nothing else mattered. The DJ called out something about “the coronation dance,” the music shifted to a slower song, soft, almost floating.\n\nAnd then they were standing in the middle of the dance floor.\n\nThe crowd drew back and made room for them. String lights reflected in the polished floor. Chris’ hands found Dylan’s shoulders, uncertain at first, then steadier. Dylan placed a hand on Chris’ waist—carefully, as if he were afraid of startling him—and pulled him only as close as Chris allowed. His other hand held Chris’ fingers, warm, firm, still.\n\nChris breathed in. Breathed out. One step, one sway. The noise around them became background static, as if someone had turned the world down so this moment could have space. Chris looked at Dylan and realized that his eyes were burning, even though he did not want to cry. It was too much: the crown, the light, the feeling of not fleeing—but staying.\n\nDylan said something, but Chris only heard the tone. “You are...” Dylan shook his head, as if the words were failing him. “I’m so glad you’re here.”\n\nChris swallowed. His heart was pounding, but not from fear. More from being overwhelmed. As if his body were trying to hold on to this happiness so it could not escape.\n\nFor a moment, he truly believed his life could not be more beautiful. That all of it—the embarrassments, the shame, the constant checks—might finally have made sense for this one evening. That here, in midnight blue, under string lights, he was not wrong.\n\nDylan leaned forward. Chris’ eyes widened briefly, surprised by the directness, by the closeness. Then he felt Dylan’s lips on his—gentle, sure, not hurried. Chris’ mind stumbled for a fraction of a second, as if it wanted to think, count, remember.\n\nAnd then he let go.\n\nHe let himself fall into the kiss as if it were the only safe place in the whole room.\n\n‘I’m making out with a boy here in front of everyone,’ flashed briefly through Chris’ mind. Even so, he returned his devotion. Chris wanted this tenderness. And love. And Dylan was a passionate kisser. His tongue play sent butterflies flying through Chris’ stomach.\n\nEven after the spotlight had left them, the two of them stayed in each other’s arms for a long time. Chris wanted to savor the pleasant shiver that Dylan’s lips and the fingers on his back set off.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $zoe_plan == 0>>[[After the school dance.|Nach dem Schulball.]]<<else>>[[Zoe’s plan.|Zoes Plan.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

On the way to the parking lot, Susan had still kept herself together. In the office, she had nodded with that smooth politeness, said short sentences, accepted the “Integrity Contract” as if it were a package you simply pick up. Only when the school door fell shut behind them and the air outside struck Chris’s face cold did he feel the tension in her change.\n<<set $ort to "school parking lot">>\nIn the car, the door slammed a little too hard. Susan started the engine, but she didn’t drive off right away. Her hands rested on the steering wheel, firm, her knuckles lighter than usual. She stared straight ahead at the parking lot, as if she first had to keep herself from exploding in the same breath.\n<<set $SusanMemory[7] to 1>>\n“So,” she said at last, quiet and dangerously calm. “You cheated.”\n\nChris sat as if nailed in place, his hands in his lap, the hem of his skirt suddenly its own problem again, even though this was no longer about hem lengths. “I… I was afraid I’d fail,” he managed. It sounded thin. Even to his own ears.\n\nSusan pulled away, smoothly, too controlled. Only after a few seconds did the lecture really gather speed—and it wasn’t loud, but precise. “Fear doesn’t justify cheating, Chris. You didn’t ‘make a mistake.’ You made a decision.” Her eyes stayed on the road, but every word hit him as if she were sitting directly across from him. “Zero points. Detention. A record entry. Do you know how that looks?”\n\nChris swallowed. His throat burned with shame and that silent anger he could barely put into words: that he hardly had room to breathe for studying, that everything kept becoming more and more, that every day he had to somehow muddle through—just usually not with formulas on his skin.\n\n“And like that, too,” Susan went on. “So… clumsy.” She made a small, dismissive hand movement, as if brushing something untidy from her arm. “You thought you were clever—but you were just obvious.”\n\nChris felt his face grow hot. The moment flickered in his mind: the hem, the twisted sitting position, his heart pounding all the way into his fingertips. And the panic that not only the cheating might be exposed, but everything else along with it. He had focused so hard on “not standing out,” and in the end he had been exactly that anyway.\n\nSusan kept talking, as if adding up a bill. “I drive you there, I drive you here. I get you pretty clothes, I hold everything together—and you embarrass me with something like this.” The word embarrass hung heavily in the car for a moment. “You’re ruining things for yourself that you can’t even see yet.”\n\nChris’s gaze stuck to the side window. The houses passed by like backdrops. “I only wanted—”\n\n“You wanted the easy way.” His mother cut the sentence off. “And guess what: the easy way is going to cost you more now than the hard one.” She breathed out once, sharply. “From today on, there’s no more ‘I had so much going on’ excuse. You show me your homework every evening. You study on time. And if you need help, you say so beforehand—not when you’re already smearing something onto your skin.”\n\nChris flinched at the sentence and felt that shame again, the kind that didn’t come only from the cheating. He nodded, because nodding was easier than speaking. Because every word felt like another mistake.\n\nWhen they turned into the driveway, Chris felt inwardly exhausted, as if after a run he had never wanted to start. Susan parked, pulled out the key, and remained seated for another moment. “You are going to go inside now,” she said calmly, “you are going to sit down and study. And you are going to prove to me that you’re not only good at playing roles, but also at taking responsibility.”\n\nChris nodded again, got out, and felt the cool air briefly help him not to tremble. The lecture echoed in his head as he walked to the front door—and beneath the shame lay a bitter, silent thought: That morning, he had believed cheating would be a way out. Now it felt as if he had only slammed shut a door behind which he had barely had any room left anyway.\n\n[[Continue|Einkaufen mit Mom.]]

A few years passed without it feeling like a great leap for Chris. It was more a quiet growing together made of days, routines, small crises, and the recurring proof that Joseph stayed. At some point, on a completely ordinary evening in the kitchen, they decided that it should no longer be just “living together.” They decided to get married.\n\nThe wedding day became one of the bright points in Chris’ life – the kind you think back on later when everything else becomes complicated again.\n\nThe ceremony took place in a small, lovingly decorated hall, with white flowers and strings of lights hanging over the tables like warm stars. As Chris got ready, his heart was so full that it felt as if he did not have enough room in his body.\n\nHe wore a beautiful wedding dress: an elegant, floor-length gown made of light, soft fabric that shimmered slightly with every movement. The bodice was finely made, with delicate lace at the shoulders and a sweetheart neckline that was not vulgar, but festive. The waist fit just right, and the skirt fell in calm, flowing lines all the way to the floor. When Chris turned, the fabric followed him like water. A simple veil rested in his hair, not too dramatic, more like a final, gentle accent. Chris looked in the mirror – and for a rare moment, he did not first see the story behind it. He saw only: beautiful. And he felt something he had not felt so purely in a long time: joy without immediate shame.\n\nAs he waited at the entrance, his father stepped up beside him. His father had come all the way from Germany. He seemed tense, but there was also a kind of cautious tenderness in his posture, as if he still did not understand everything – but had decided to be there. Chris’ hand trembled slightly, and his father firmly placed it in his own for a moment. No big speech. Just a quiet “I’m walking with you.”\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/hochzeit.jpg]]</center> <<else>><center>[img[pics/hochzeit_kurz.jpg]]</center> <<endif>>\nThen the music began, and they walked down the aisle together.\n\nJoseph stood at the front. In a dark suit, neatly groomed, but with eyes too damp to play it cool. His gaze stayed fixed on Chris as if he had just seen him for the first time and at the same time had known him all his life. Chris felt the guests’ eyes on him, but this time they were not like a spotlight. They were like applause.\n\nWhen they reached the front, there was that strange moment: the father giving Chris away – and Joseph, who was about the same age as him. Two men of the same age, one in the role of the father, the other in the role of the groom. It could have felt stiff or wrong. Instead, it was simply… human. Chris’ father looked at Joseph, holding the gaze a moment longer than politeness required. Not threatening. More appraising – and then, very quietly, he nodded, as if accepting something that would once have seemed impossible to him. Joseph did not say anything grand, but his voice sounded sincere when he quietly murmured, “Thank you.” And Chris felt something inside him relax that had been tense for years.\n\nWhen they stood facing each other, Joseph said his vows calmly, without theatrics. He spoke of not wanting to save Chris, but to live with him. That he wanted to stay by his side – in easy days and hard ones. Chris answered just as simply, but with a voice that still trembled. He said that he had felt safe with Joseph when he had felt safe nowhere else.\n\nSusan sat in the front row. When they said “I do,” she had tears in her eyes. She was moved – perhaps proud as well, perhaps relieved that “her plan,” in her eyes, had worked out. For Chris, it was complicated to see that. But on that day, he did not let it all be everything at once. He took the moment as it was: his mother crying as if she had just witnessed something beautiful.\n\nChristine was there too, well-dressed, grown-up, and smiling at Chris – a real smile that said more than words. When Chris stepped forward, she subtly raised two fingers in greeting, like she used to at the bus stop, and briefly pressed her lips together because otherwise her voice might have slipped away from her. Her eyes shone, but she did not let a tear fall, as if she wanted to allow herself that right only at the very end. Charlotte was also among the guests. She seemed calm, almost content, and when Chris briefly caught her gaze, he saw something in it that looked like approval. No big scene, no drama. Just a quiet “This fits.”\n\nWhen the officiant finally declared them husband and wife, applause broke out. Joseph took Chris’ hand as if it were the most precious thing in the room. When they kissed, it was no longer a secret, confusing feeling, no longer a “am I allowed to do this.” It was public, unmistakable, their moment.\n\nLater there was cake, photos, laughter, hugs. Christine briefly pulled Chris aside and hugged him tightly. Then she stepped back, looked Joseph over with the expression of a sister who had experienced one thing too many, and said – loudly enough that Joseph had to hear it: “Make her happy. Or you’ll have a problem.” The grin on her face showed that she was only half serious.\n\nSusan held his hands and said something emotional that Chris did not even need to remember fully, because the tone mattered more than the content.\n\nAnd for Chris, this day remained above all one thing: a rare, clear moment in which he did not feel like he had to hide. A day on which his life – despite everything that had come before – had, for a few hours, simply been beautiful.\n\n[[Continue|Die Zeit vergeht.]]

<<back "Back">>\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/Penelope.jpg]]</center> ''Name:'' Penelope Barnett \n''Age:'' 19 \n''Birthday:'' December\n\n''Relationships''\nOwen Barnett (43) - father\nCaroline Barnett (38) - mother\nLucas Barnett (18) - younger brother\n\n''Biography''\nPenelope Barnett grew up in a seemingly flawless suburban world: a big house, a gleaming kitchen island, family photos in perfectly aligned frames. Her father is constantly “just quickly at the office” or on business trips, her mother elegant and restless, always searching for the next project—Pilates, pottery, charity committee—just never for long with the same one. The facade holds, but it creaks: conversations become appointments, affection becomes logistics. In that gap, Penelope developed a precise idea of control: discipline, calendar colors, lists. The result can be seen in the hallway: beautiful, organized, radiant; the girl everything seems to be right about.\n\nShe is the prettiest girl at school and has turned perfection into a sport—cheer stunts, gloss shade, grade point average. What hardly anyone knows: in middle school, she had to repeat a grade because math pulled the plug on her. That small stumble made her mature, gave her smile a trace of caution and her ambition teeth. Since then, she plans more than she hopes, studies earlier than necessary, and hides nervousness behind polite wit. Penelope leads because she can; she shines because she has learned how. Beneath the shine lies a simple longing: for once, not to have to be perfect without being judged for it.\n\n''Shared Moments / Memories''\n<<nobr>>\n\n<ul> <<if $PenelopeMemory[0] eq 1>><li>Penelope remembers with a stab of envy how Dylan carried Chris through the school hallway in a bridal carry and looked as if no one else existed.</li><</if>> <<if $PenelopeMemory[1] eq 1>><li>Penelope still remembers, confused, how Chris suddenly pointed at her during “Who would be more likely to...?” even though they barely knew each other.</li><</if>> <<if $PenelopeMemory[2] eq 1>><li>Penelope remembers how jealous she became in the abandoned maple syrup bottling plant when Dylan gave Chris his attention—and how she kissed Dylan during “Truth or Dare?” to prove to herself and everyone else that he belonged to her.</li><</if>> <<if $PenelopeMemory[3] eq 1>><li>Penelope remembers how she kissed Chris during “Truth or Dare?” because she hoped it would impress Dylan.</li><</if>> <<if $PenelopeMemory[4] eq 1>><li>Penelope remembers the bitter moment when Dylan invited Chris to the homecoming dance and she realized that she was not the one he had chosen.</li><</if>> </ul> <</nobr>> <div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Penelope’s view of Chris</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>I barely know him</span> <span>bitter rival</span> </div> <div class="axis-bar"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $penelope_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $penelope_opinion < 20>> I barely know him <<elseif $penelope_opinion < 40>> superficial acquaintance <<elseif $penelope_opinion < 60>> okay with each other <<elseif $penelope_opinion < 80>> rival <<else>> bitter rival <</if>> </div> </div> <<back "Back">>

Madame Lunette took her time, as if first checking whether Chris truly wanted to hear what she was about to say. Then she pressed her fingertips together, looked not into a crystal ball, but directly into him.\n\n“The future is not stone,” she said softly. “More like water. You can pour it into a shape—but you can also spill it.”\n\nChris’s breathing grew shallower. He nodded almost imperceptibly.\n\n“I see a new beginning,” she continued. “Not here. Not in these streets that know your name before you are allowed to say it yourself.” Her voice grew softer. “Another city. Far away. The air there is… bigger. You would breathe more easily there.”\n\nChris felt something in his chest tighten, almost like hope—and then immediately like fear again.\n\n“But far away does not mean free of everything,” she said, as if she had seen that shift in him. “New faces will come. New rules you first have to learn. People who are friendly, but not automatically safe. You will have to decide whom you believe. To whom you show yourself.”\n\nShe was silent for a moment. Outside, a muffled drumroll seeped through the fabric, as if it came from another life.\n\n“An obstacle lies ahead of you,” Madame Lunette finally said, vague but certain. “Not just one. One is called shame. One is called fear. And one has no name, because you have not spoken it yet.” She tilted her head. “You will stand at a point where you must choose. Not between right and wrong. But between comfortable and true.”\n\nChris’s fingers clenched in his lap, and he only noticed when it hurt.\n\n“You will not lose everything,” she added, almost comfortingly. “But you will have to let go of something that feels like safety. And you will have to hold on to something that feels like risk.” Her eyes narrowed, as if she were looking through a mist. “And then… there will be a day when you realize that your smile no longer hurts.”\n\nChris stared at her as if she had held up a mirror to him that did not show his face, but the knots beneath it. He wanted to ask when, where, how—but Madame Lunette raised her hand before he could speak, as if gently stopping him.\n\n“I do not need to say more,” she murmured. “The rest belongs to you.”\n\n[[Continue|Raus aus dem Pavillon.]]

Outside in front of the karaoke bar, the cool evening air hit him like a bucket of clear water. Only now did Chris realize how drunk he had been. The neon flicker, the laughter, the music—inside, it had all felt like its own safe little cosmos. Outside, the street was suddenly too clear, too cool, too real.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nHe took a deep breath, stood still for a moment, and noticed the dull pull in his butt. Nothing dramatic, but clear enough that he automatically walked smaller, more carefully. He walked a touch wider, as if he had to sort himself out anew. It hurt a little—and that was exactly what made him strangely aware that it hadn’t just been a kiss, not just alcohol and karaoke, not just “a bit of fun.”\n\nAnd still, he regretted nothing.\n\nLaverne stepped up beside him, pulled her coat tighter, and studied him with a look that could be both sassy and surprisingly tender. “You okay?” she asked softly, without any show.\n\nChris nodded. His cheeks were warm, his hair felt almost unreal in the night wind. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m… okay.”\n\n“Good.” Laverne smiled as if she had been waiting for exactly that word. “Because I want to see you again, sweetie.”\n\nChris’s heart leapt. “Me too.”\n\nThey stood facing each other for another moment, as if they wanted to delay the goodbye. Then they kissed—long, calm, no longer wild like in the box, but with a promise in it. Laverne held his face between her hands for a moment, pressed one last kiss to his lips, and whispered, “Text me when you’re home.”\n\n“I will,” Chris said and set off, taking the way to the bus stop and later home with a head that felt heavy and light at the same time.\n\nWhen he finally unlocked the front door quietly, the house was dark except for the light from the kitchen. Susan was sitting there as if she had only been waiting. She looked up, instantly attentive.\n\n“And?” she asked. “How was it?”\n\nChris felt himself getting hot again—not just from the remnants of alcohol, but from what he couldn’t say and didn’t want to say either. He put on the most normal face he could. “Nice,” he said, clearing his throat.\n\nSusan studied him for a second too long. His gaze was too soft, his smile too revealing, the blush too fresh. He knew it even before she said anything: his face was saying more than his mouth allowed.\n\nSusan’s mouth corners slowly lifted. “Aha,” she said finally, satisfied like someone seeing a result. “Nice, hm.”\n\nChris swallowed and only nodded, far too quickly. In his stomach, shame and an unexpectedly bright happiness flickered at the same time. He was exhausted, a little sore, and yet he felt—against all reason—absolutely amazing.\n\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5c]]

The bus later was noisy as always, but today the conversations seemed closer to his ear. He felt the looks, or thought he felt them—trailing along the hem of the culottes, over the lace top, to the gold studs that glittered with every jolt. I stand out, he thought, even though probably no one was looking any more closely than usual. Every bump in the asphalt made the pants give softly; every step told him that there was fabric where yesterday folds had swayed. A boy in a hoodie giggled two rows away, and his mind reflexively decided it was about him.\n\n<center>[img[pics/flur.jpg]]</center> But at school, the morning went… normally. Mrs. Rivera gave him a friendly nod. In the hallway, a “Cute pants!” from a Pom Puff drifting past him. In homeroom, pens clattered, Mr. Robertson asked about a form. No one hesitated. No one pointed a finger. He was “she,” he was “Chris,” he was a girl who wore gold studs today. The world placed him in the spot it had cleared for him over the past few days. <<set $ort to "school">> He felt the same double movement in his chest as so often before: relief—because nothing was exposed, because the day continued without alarm. And pain—because every effortless “normality” was another blow against what he had stored away as “me.” If no one asks who you are anymore, he thought, it can feel as if no one wants to know who you used to be anymore.\n\nHe wrote the date and topic at the top of the page, felt the bra like a flat frame around his breathing and the culottes as a quiet, muted step. Outside, the first sunny hour of the day moved through the hallways; inside, he did what he had become best at by now: sit up straight, breathe calmly, and look as if it had all always been this way.\n\n''How does the school day go?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ladendiebin == 0>>[[Copies for Mr. Robertson.|Kopien für Mr. Robertson.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ladendiebin == 1 && $charlotte < 2>>[[Trouble in the school hallway.|Ärger im Schulflur.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ladendiebin == 1 && $charlotte == 2 >>[[Trouble in the school hallway.|Ärger im Schulflur.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ladendiebin == 2>>[[Rumors in the school hallway.|Gerüchte auf dem Schulflur.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

<h2>Epilogue Chris<<if $ende == 1>> and Christine<<endif>><<if $ende == 2>> and Ruby<<endif>><<if $ende == 3>> and Adam<<endif>></h2> Over the next few weeks, time passed without feeling like individual days. It was more like a current of morning hums, timetables, and bells that carried Chris along whether he wanted it to or not.\n\nChris got up in the mornings, got dressed, and did his makeup at the vanity with a routine that had become almost automatic by now. Sometimes he caught himself perfecting his eyeliner as if it were a math problem with one correct solution. Then he flinched inwardly, because he realized how normal it felt. He walked to the bus stop with Christine; they talked about homework, teachers, little school rumors, without ever really going deep.\n\nHis mother was sometimes strict during those weeks, sometimes surprisingly gentle. On some days she was curt, commenting on whether his outfit was “neat.” On other days she would almost casually place a hand on his shoulder, as if checking whether he was still standing in the same place. Chris learned to read her mood before she spoke. He also learned that arguing back rarely accomplished anything. Most of the time, it helped more to stay calm and get through the day.\n\nChristine grew quieter. She kept doing her usual things, sitting at breakfast with her phone in her hand, nodding or grunting when Susan said something. Between Chris and her there was sometimes a thin, invisible layer of things they did not talk about. But there were also moments when they sat beside each other at the kitchen table and silently passed the jam back and forth, as if that was already enough.\n\nAt school, everyday life became surprisingly stable. Chris went from room to room, took notes, handed in papers, waited for breaks, counted down to the end of class. Some days were easy, others sluggish, but rarely surprising. He got used to the sound of lockers, to the fluorescent lights, to the feeling of always being watched without anyone really looking. He got used to how tights felt without thinking about it. To the fact that his walk was different without him consciously controlling it. To the fact that a smile sometimes came faster than a thought.\n\nAt home, everything repeated itself in different colors: homework at the desk, laundry baskets in the hall, Susan talking about expenses as if they were laws of nature. Christine retreating to her room and closing the door a little more firmly than before. In the evenings, Chris often lay in bed and listened to the house breathe—water pipes, footsteps, doors—and noticed how rarely he still had real, clear feelings. Instead there were small waves: tiredness, relief, a brief stab of shame, a tiny moment of pride. He collected them like coins, without knowing what for.\n\nThe weeks slid over one another like pages in a notebook. Nothing big happened. That was exactly the strange thing about it: the state of emergency became normal. And at some point, Chris caught himself getting up on a Wednesday morning, getting ready, walking to the door with Christine, and thinking—not relieved, not startled, just soberly:\n\nThis is how it is now.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $dating == 1>>[[Second and third date.|Zweites und drittes Date.][$kissboy += 1]]<<endif>>\n<<if $dating == 2>>[[Messages to Laverne.|Nachrichten an Laverne.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $dating == 3>>[[Family talks in the evening.|Familiengespräche am Abend.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $dating == 0>><<if $ende == 0>>[[Christmas in Germany.|Weihnachten in Deutschland.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 1>>[[Christine is pregnant.|Christine ist schwanger.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 2>>[[Academic pressure at school.|Leistungsstress in der Schule.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 3>>[[Family celebration with Adam.|Familienfeier mit Adam.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 4>>[[Christmas in Germany.|Weihnachten in Deutschland.]]<<endif>>\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

In Pittsburgh, Chris and Zoe eventually found an apartment, if you could even call it that. It was a tiny single room above a shop, with a kitchenette that looked more like “sink with hot plate,” and a bathroom where you almost bumped your elbow into the mirror while brushing your teeth. The window faced a brick wall, and at night they heard the city humming deeply through the thin walls.\n\nStill, at first it felt like freedom.\n\nThey set down their bags, threw jackets onto the only chair, and laughed—not because it was nice, but because it was theirs. No Susan look, no Maplewood hallway, no rules except the ones you needed to keep from ending up on the street. On the first evening, they ate noodles from cardboard bowls on the floor, shared a blanket, and made plans in big, brave sentences: We’re starting over. We got away. We can do this.\n\nThe first few days were almost easy. They slept late, wandered aimlessly through blocks of streets, drank coffee from paper cups, and enjoyed the fact that no one knew them. Chris caught himself sometimes even forgetting why he had run away—until a reflection in a shop window briefly reminded him of reality.\n\nThe money shrank quickly. Zoe’s “little bit put aside” didn’t last long when they were paying rent, deposit, food, and tickets. And in a new city, even the cheapest things were suddenly expensive: laundromat, shampoo, a new SIM card, everything ate away little pieces of what was left. Eventually there was that moment when they automatically started putting things back while shopping—first candy, then cheese, then anything warm—and instead bought noodles and bread again.\n\nThey tried to find jobs. They went from notice to notice, typed applications in phone notes, printed résumés that looked far too thin. Chris felt as if his life always looked wrong on paper: too much chaos between the lines, too little “proof” that he fit anywhere. Zoe was bolder, faster, but even she grew quieter the more often doors stayed friendly and yet closed.\n\nThe problem was always similar: “Do you have a diploma?” “High school?” “Experience?”\nThey smiled, nodded, said “in progress,” said “soon,” said “I can learn.” Sometimes they made it to the second sentence, sometimes not even that far.\n\nFor two girls without a high school diploma, it was hard to find anything that was more than a few hours here and there—and certainly nothing that could finance a life. Chris felt the room change every time the word “diploma” came up. As if an invisible barrier were being lowered. Zoe often reacted with a joke, an eye roll, an “Are you serious?”, but afterward, when they were back out on the street, her voice was thinner.\n\nIn the evenings, they sat in their one room, which during the day had been kitchen, living room, and bedroom, and did the math: how many days left, how many meals, how many tickets. Freedom suddenly no longer felt like air, but like a narrow walkway over water. Chris noticed something tightening inside him: He was away from his mother—yes. But that didn’t automatically mean he was safe. And it didn’t automatically make him someone new either.\n\nAt some point, Zoe stared at the last bit of cash and said only, “Okay. Tomorrow we need to find something. Anything that pays immediately.”\n\nChris nodded. He wanted to answer, wanted to be optimistic. But all he heard himself thinking was: If we fail here, where do we go then?\n\n[[Continue|Hunger am Abend.]]

Finally, she released DeShawn’s cock from her mouth, bent down, and kissed her son’s stiff penis. Carefully, she extended her tongue and licked the glans. At last, she closed her eyes and took the whole thing into her mouth. She devoted herself to the task with total dedication.\n\nChris simply let it happen; he didn't resist. Instead, he positioned himself between his mother’s legs so that he could lick her pussy.\n\nSusan surrendered herself completely to her son’s tongue. DeShawn watched the incestuous mother-son play for a while with detached interest; eventually, he moved closer and reached out to grab Chris’s tits. He stroked them gently while his hard cock nudged impatiently against Chris’s side.\n\nWhen Chris glanced up briefly, he saw the large black penis pressing against his body. He didn't mind it, however, and continued to lick his mother’s slit. But that wasn't enough for Susan.\n\n"Fuck me," she demanded. And since her son—in Susan’s opinion—was hesitating a little too much, she shoved him onto the bed and climbed on top of him.\n\nChris watched as his cock slid into his mother’s pussy. After a few initial hitches, things went smoothly; Susan bounced up and down on her son—her pretty, large tits jiggling—while Chris’s cock slid in and out of his mother.\n\nNow it was DeShawn’s turn to take what was rightfully his. He flipped Susan over so that she lay on her stomach atop Chris, then stepped over the pair, effectively sandwiching Susan between them. Her son worked away inside her pussy, while DeShawn worked inside her backside.\n\nThe colliding cocks—separated only by a thin wall of flesh, allowing each man to feel the other—had an intensely stimulating effect on all three of them.\n\nChris had to exert himself particularly hard, as he had to support the combined weight of two people. To steady himself, he reached for his mother’s buttocks and kneaded them with his hands.\n\nSusan gasped. Chris had her face right before him, and the lust reflected there spurred him on just as much as her gasps did.\n\n"Oh, yes!" his mother moaned.\n\nShe reveled in it. It was so intense that, as the orgasm finally rolled over her like a steamroller, she let out a roar. Her lower body contracted convulsively. Her wet pussy milked Chris’s cock; he, too, reached the peak of pleasure and spilled his hot seed inside his mother. He pumped himself completely empty.\n\nDeShawn held Susan’s hips and gave her a taste of his full length once more before he, too—with a loud groan—filled her horny ass with his seed. Susan trembled as DeShawn’s black stallion cock finally slid out of her. White cum could be seen oozing from her anus.\n\nFinally, they lay exhausted and close together, as if the night had rearranged them anew. Chris felt the wet mattress beneath him, the warmth of two bodies beside him, and deep inside, an afterglow that was simultaneously sweet and bewildering.\n\n[[Continue|Der nächste Morgen in DeShawns Küchte.]]\n

“Susan,” his father said now, without any evasions. “He told me what you did. Clothing, control, hormones. And that supposed doctor. That is—”\n\n“Lies,” Susan cut him off. “Dramatizations. He’s always been… imaginative. And now you’re using that as an excuse to interfere. Typical.”\n\nChris’s hands began to tremble. He didn’t hear himself speak, but he heard the inner voice his mother had fed for so long: Don’t say the wrong thing. Don’t cause trouble. Apologize.\n\nAnja placed a hand on Chris’s forearm. Not pressing, just there.\n\nHis father leaned forward a little, as if holding the air between them in place. “Stop it,” he said, calm, but with an edge that left no room. “Stop twisting him around. He isn’t confused. He’s hurt.”\n\n“Michael—” Susan sounded annoyed now, almost bored. “You don’t understand—”\n\n“Yes,” his father said. “I understand enough. And I’m telling you what’s going to happen now: Chris is staying here. In Germany. With me. We’ll sort this out. Calmly, with help, without pressure.”\n\nFor a moment, there was silence on the line. Then a short, contemptuous laugh. “You don’t really believe that yourself. He’s coming back. He needs me.”\n\nChris flinched at the sentence, as if someone had pulled on a thread. He needs me. That was how it had always sounded when his mother wanted to get her way.\n\nHis father looked directly at Chris. “No,” he said clearly. “He needs safety. And he’s getting that here now.”\n\nChris swallowed. The words wouldn’t come out, but he nodded, small, almost invisible—and as he did, he felt something loosen inside him. Not the fear, not the shame. But that one knot that had kept pulling him back again and again got its first crack.\n\nSusan kept talking, threatening “custody,” “you can’t take him away from me,” “you’re making everything worse.” His father stayed calm and finally ended the conversation with a sentence that sounded like a door falling shut: “We’ll talk to lawyers if that’s what you want. But not like this anymore.”\n\nHe hung up.\n\nThe kitchen was still. Only the heating cracked softly. Chris stared at the edge of the table, as if he had to hold on to it to believe that this had really happened.\n\nHis father stood up, walked around the table, and placed his hand on Chris’s shoulder—firmer this time, clearer. “You’re here,” he said. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. You’re staying with me.”\n\nChris nodded, his eyes burning again, but this time not only with shame. There was relief in it too, small and unfamiliar, like a light he had not seen in a long time.\n\nAnd when he stood in the guest room again later, the boys’ clothes long since taken off and neatly folded, the problem was not solved—but the place was different. Not Maplewood. Not his mother’s rules. Not the constant “you have to.”\n\nOnly a quiet, first feeling of: Maybe I can get out of this.\n\n[[Continue|Die kommenden Jahre.]]

Auf jeder Passage, auf der gespeichert werden soll, gib man den Tag:\n\nautosave

When it had already grown dark outside, Chris finally heard the key in the lock. Voices in the hallway—and then the Fergusons were back in the living room, polished, as if they had only borrowed the hours.\n\nAva cast a quick glance toward the children’s room. “Asleep?” she asked.\n\n“Yes,” said Chris. “He was restless earlier, but then—” He let the sentence trail off and kept Leo’s “why” out of the conversation.\n\n“Good.” Ava pulled out her wallet, counted bills into his hand, and pressed them on him. “Here.” Then she turned to her husband. “Drive her home, okay?”\n\nMr. Ferguson was already standing in the doorway, his jacket half off, and looked Chris up and down with a gaze that felt like sticky film. He grinned. “Of course. For such a little miss, I’m happy to play chauffeur.”\n\nChris forced a polite smile, even though his stomach tightened. A big car was waiting outside. Chris had still been far too busy with his seat belt to have noticed how much his skirt had ridden up his legs when he sat down.\n\n<<if $haar == 1>>Only when he brushed his hair aside from his forehead and then looked at Mr. Ferguson behind the wheel could he also see his curious, interested glances toward his legs. <<else>>Only when he looked to the side and at Mr. Ferguson behind the wheel could he also see his curious, interested glances toward his legs.\n<<endif>>Chris tugged the wrap skirt into place over his crotch as best he could, pulled it along his butt, and tried to keep his legs closed as tightly as possible on the seat.\n\n“Now, now,” he said. “We wouldn’t want to get all wrinkled, little one.”\n\nChris pulled the door shut and held the seat belt tight, as if it were some kind of shield. The interior smelled of cold fast food and a heavy men’s cologne that was trying too hard. Mr. Ferguson started the engine, did not turn on the music, and that silence made everything even more obvious.\n\n“So,” he began as they rolled away from the curb. “You’re Susan’s… daughter, hm?” He drew out the word “daughter” as if he enjoyed the way it made Chris nervous.\n\n“I’m just babysitting,” Chris said evasively, looking out the window.\n\n“Babysitting, yeah, yeah.” Mr. Ferguson gave a short laugh. “I can imagine. You seem like the kind who knows how to keep little brats… quiet.” His eyes wandered back to Chris’s legs, far too often, far too long.\n\nChris felt his shoulders pull up. He kept his gaze stubbornly fixed on the dark rows of houses outside, counting streetlights. Just get through it. Almost home. His fingers clutched the seat belt.\n\n“Pretty outfit today,” Mr. Ferguson said after a turn, as if he were talking about the weather. “Makes an impression. Little miss.” He grinned, as if the nickname belonged to him. “You must be popular, right? With the boys?”\n\nChris’s throat went dry. “I… don’t know.”\n\n“Oh, come on,” Mr. Ferguson pressed, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Such a pretty body. And the whole getup…” He made a hand gesture that meant everything without saying it. “They must look.”\n\nChris said nothing. He only nodded, as slightly as possible, to avoid feeding the conversation. At the same time, he felt trapped: passenger seat, door, streets, his own body, which in moments like this felt far too noticeable. The belt cut a little into his shoulder, and of all things that felt good, because it held him in place.\n\nMr. Ferguson suddenly switched on the interior light for a moment—“to see where I’m going,” he claimed, although it was bright enough outside—and Chris felt the cone of light like a stage on his body. He swallowed, looked outside again.\n\n“You’re very quiet,” Mr. Ferguson said and laughed softly. “Shy thing. Cute.”\n\nChris’s heart beat faster, but he forced his voice to stay calm. “I’m tired. It was… a long day.”\n\n“Yeah, babies are exhausting,” Mr. Ferguson said, as if that explained everything. “But I’m sure you did great,” he said, gently stroking his hand over Chris’s thigh, making Chris shift uneasily in his seat. When Mr. Ferguson noticed Chris’s discomfort, it made him even more turned on, and he could already feel the blood flowing into his cock. Chris could clearly see the large bulge in his pants.\n\nThe drive dragged on. Every red light was one moment too many, every turn another opportunity for Mr. Ferguson to add something “little miss”-like. Chris clung to politeness like a thin wall, because he did not want anything to escalate.\n\nWhen they finally turned into his street, Chris only then felt how tightly he had been tensing his muscles the whole time. Mr. Ferguson stopped at the curb, left the engine running, and looked at him as if he expected gratitude.\n\n“Well then,” he said.\n\n“Thanks for the ride,” Chris got out, quickly, neutrally. He opened the door and got out as if stepping out of a room that was too warm.\n\nThe cold air hit him like water. Chris closed the door, took a step away from the car, and finally breathed properly. The car rolled away, and only when the taillights disappeared around the corner did he realize how glad he was to have solid ground under his feet again.\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch, Schummeln für den Mathetest.]]

Chris chose the dusty pink set with the little satin bow. The cups felt soft and springy in his hands—exactly what his sensitive nipples needed today. As he put it on, he noticed how little the motions were automated.\n\nFirst he slipped his arms through the straps, let the cups hang loosely in front, and then reached behind his back. The hook didn’t find the eyelet band right away; his fingers felt along the three rows, caught beside the tab, slipped out again. He exhaled, tried the “mirror trick”: fastening it in front, then rotating the whole thing around his torso—but the padding twisted, and one strap half rolled in on itself. He sighed, took it off again, straightened the straps, positioned the cups, and this time fastened it behind his back: left hand holding, right hand guiding the hook, click—secure. He raised his arms, slid his fingers in at the sides, and with two flat hands “lifted” his chest into the cups so nothing would crease. Then he shortened the straps by two millimeters, until the fit became “steady.”\n\nThe feeling remained strange, embarrassingly close to something he did not want to be: a steady, gentle pressure around his ribcage, the straps like thin lines on his skin, the padding warm against the sensitive spots. No pain—just a constant awareness: there is something there now.\n\nHe stepped in front of the mirror. The dusty pink softened his complexion; the little bow between the cups looked like an overly personal wink. The matching briefs looked playful. He turned sideways: the line across his back lay smooth, no bulges at the edges, the bra showed only minimally beneath the skin. And yet he had the feeling of being looked at—by himself.\n\nThe door opened without a knock. His mother stuck her head in and then came all the way inside. “There we go,” she said, and her tone almost clicked. “Cute. Sweet.” She tilted her head when she saw the bow, and her eyes sparkled mischievously. “That’s feminine without looking cheap. Is that for your new boyfriend? The one who drove you home so gallantly yesterday?”\n\nChris flushed instantly. “That wasn’t my boyfriend,” he blurted out. “That’s Charlotte’s father.”\n\n“Oh really?” Susan arched a brow, grinning. “In the car it looked like you were just about to kiss goodbye.” She was unmistakably enjoying teasing him.\n\n“Mom…” he muttered, wishing the floor would briefly open up.\n\n“All right. Get dressed.” She went to the closet, pulled out hangers, gave him an appraising look, and laid an outfit on the bed: lavender culottes, ankle-length and flowing; with them a simple top with a delicate lace edge. “Today we’re keeping it comfortable.”\n\n<center>[img[pics/outfit2.jpg]]</center> Chris blinked at the culottes. “A… pair of pants?” That was new. At first, he felt a wave of relief—finally fabric between his legs again that didn’t sway, didn’t slip out of place. Then, almost at the same time, another fear crept up: Is that enough? What if the culottes aren’t read as “girly enough”? What if someone looks more closely? What if he is recognized?\n\n“Mom…” He cleared his throat, courage tasting dry. “Could I maybe still… wear a dress or a skirt?”\n\nSusan paused, and surprise flickered across her face first, then a mocking smile. “Aha. Complaining yesterday, and suddenly a princess today?” Her voice took on that sing-song edge that made his shoulders draw tighter. “See how quickly you get used to things?”\n\nHe lowered his gaze. “I just don’t want to stand out.”\n\nShe picked the culottes back up and gave them a little shake so the fabric rustled softly. “Put this on. Hurry up. We’re late. And—today after school, you’re coming straight home.”\n\n“Why?” He tried to make it sound casual.\n\n“You’ll see.” The mockery in her tone made him feel smaller, emasculated in that harmless way that still hurt. He nodded silently and reached for the culottes.\n\nChris took one deep breath and pulled the top over his head—lace edge, bra steady underneath—reached for the culottes, and told himself that maybe he could get through the rest of the day in small steps. Even in lavender. Even like this.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $haar == 1>>[[Off to school.|Auf zur Schule.3]]<<else>>[[Off to school.|Auf zur Schule.4][$stil -= 1]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris chose the kitchen.\n\nThe bass from the living room vibrated here only as a dull carpet. Above the counter, a too-bright lamp was burning, making the room more honest than the rest of the house. Two people sat on the countertop, legs dangling, chips in hand. Others leaned against the cabinets, talking about something that wasn’t just “Wild, bro.”\n\n“Hey, need a refill?” someone asked with a friendly grin, pointing at the battery of bottles on the counter. “We’re running the deluxe station here. Not just cup swill.”\n\nBefore Chris could decline, there was already a shaker on the counter. He was told what was what: “This here is vodka, this is rum, lime juice, a bit of syrup. Not rocket science. Look: first ice, then the spirit, then sweet, then sour. Shake, strain. Done.”\n\nChris watched as the drink came together in front of his eyes, colorful and harmless-looking in a plastic cup. He took a sip. Sweet, cold, almost dangerously easy to drink. None of the bitter beer taste anymore. He felt it mix warmly with what was already working inside him.\n\nLucas had followed him and now stood in the kitchen doorway, a little like a visitor in his own movie. “Everything okay?” he asked quietly.\n\n“Yeah,” said Chris, lifting the cup. “Cocktail training.”\n\n“Ah.” Lucas stepped closer, took a bowl of chips without really looking. “Don’t overdo it, okay?”\n\n“I’m not,” Chris lied, taking another sip.\n\nThe scraps of conversation around them took shape. Someone was talking about college applications, about finally getting out of Maplewood. Another voice was talking about parents who still acted as if you were twelve. Dreams were passed around like snacks: away from here, college in the big city, your own car, Europe once.\n\n“And you?” The question came half from the group, half from the jumble. “What do you want to do later?”\n\nChris leaned against the counter, cup in hand, and felt the looks, but they weren’t like the ones on the dance floor. Less on his legs, more on the story.\n\n“Maybe something with languages,” he heard himself say. “Or theater. Or getting out of the small town, going somewhere nobody knows how you used to be.”\n\nIt was half honest, half role. The sentence fit her—the girl they knew him as here. But the core, the “where nobody knows how you used to be,” belonged entirely to him.\n\n“Sounds good,” someone said. “Main thing is not rotting away here.”\n\nLucas stood beside him, his back against the fridge. “Chris is really good at theater stuff,” he put in, softly but sincerely. “I mean, when… like, the way you improvise and stuff.”\n\nChris felt a brief, warm flicker. “Thanks,” he said. Drank. The cocktail was empty faster than planned. A second was set down for him “to try,” with a half-explained mixing ratio, and he accepted it, laughed along when someone made a joke about “chief bartender.”\n\nThe conversations drifted deeper. College, cities, relationships. Someone complained about controlling parents, another voice said, “Mine would freak out if they knew what I was drinking here.” Laughter. Nods.\n\nChris listened, let words drift past him, reached into them now and then. “Yeah, parents who control everything are… exhausting,” he said, and it sounded harmless, even though an entirely different sentence was burning inside him.\n\nThe second cocktail laid another layer of warmth over his thoughts. The outlines grew rounder, Lucas’s face a little softer at the edges. Chris noticed he was becoming more talkative, how he started to say something about “roles” and “expectations,” and at the last moment broke it down into a neutral “school drama.”\n\nLucas looked at him from the side, attentive, as if he sensed there was more beneath the surface. He raised his own cup to his lips, but barely took a sip.\n\n“You seem different,” he said quietly, just for Chris. “Somehow… freer. But also not.”\n\nChris laughed softly, a little crookedly. “That’s the cocktail trying to reboot me.”\n\n“Don’t let it rewrite everything,” Lucas murmured, almost inaudibly.\n\n[[Continue|Zurück ins Wohnzimmer.2]]

When everyone stood again, the courtroom was so quiet that Chris could hear the rustle of Michael’s jacket.\n\nThe judge took his seat. Several sheets of paper lay before him, neatly arranged, as if everything Susan had done could be pressed into paragraphs and case numbers.\n\n“Susan Braun,” the judge said, “this court recognizes the gravity of these acts. You used the authority of a mother to exert control. You replaced trust with fear. You abused medical decisions to take your son’s self-determination from him.”\n\nSusan sat upright.\n\nToo upright.\n\n“This court sentences you to eight years in a state prison.”\n\nChris heard the words.\n\nEight years.\n\nFor a moment, he felt nothing.\n\nThen it came like heat.\n\nNot joy. Not entirely. But something dark, strong, honest.\n\nTriumph.\n\nSusan would not go home. She would not close a door behind him. Not lay pills on the table. Not sign school forms. Not lower her voice on the phone and say he was ungrateful.\n\nEight years.\n\nBeside him, his father slowly breathed out, as if he had been holding his breath all day. At the back of the room, Christine began to cry.\n\nThe judge continued speaking. No-contact order. Probation after imprisonment. Therapy requirements. Restitution for medical costs and treatment.\n\nChris only caught fragments.\n\nThen the deputy put Susan in handcuffs.\n\nThat was when she turned around.\n\nNot to the judge. Not to her attorney.\n\nTo Chris.\n\nHer eyes were red, but not soft. In her gaze lay the same old demand: See what you’ve done. Feel guilty. Come back to me.\n\nIn the past, it would have worked.\n\nChris looked at her.\n\nHe did not smile.\n\nBut he did not lower his head either.\n\nSusan waited a fraction of a second too long for something that was no longer coming.\n\nThen the deputy led her out.\n\nThe door fell shut behind her.\n\nMichael placed a hand on Chris’s shoulder. This time, Chris did not flinch.\n\nOn the other side of the courtroom, Christine stood alone. Her face was wet with tears. Michael gently let go of Chris and went over to her.\n\nChris did not hear every word. Only fragments.\n\n“You don’t have to stay here.”\n\n“Germany.”\n\n“If you want.”\n\nChristine looked first at her father, then at Chris.\n\nShe looked lost. But no longer trapped.\n\nChris stepped over to them.\n\nFor a moment, they only stood there, three people in a courtroom that was suddenly too large for all that silence.\n\nOutside the building, the air was cold and bright. Pittsburgh rushed around them, cars, voices, wind between the facades.\n\nChris stopped on the steps.\n\nHe had thought revenge would be louder.\n\nA scream, maybe. A fire. Something that erased everything.\n\nInstead, it was only this breath.\n\nDeep.\n\nPainful.\n\nFree.\n\nHis father stood beside him. Christine a few steps away.\n\nChris looked into the gray sky over Pittsburgh.\n\nHis mother was behind walls.\n\nAnd he was outside.\n\n[[Continue|In Deutschland.]]

The hallway boiled after class: locker doors slammed, metal struck metal, voices swam into one another. Chris pushed his way to his locker, holding the combo in his hand like a spell that had to be spoken exactly right: 14–22–7. He placed his hand against the cool metal, turned slowly, then back, then forward. Nothing. He pressed his lips together, tried faster. The dial caught, skipped over, the bolt remained stubborn. A thin film of sweat settled in his palms.\n<<set $ort to "locker area">>\nOne more time. Slowly. 14—back past zero—22—forward to 7. The handle refused. Panic Mode: Behind him, someone shoved a backpack against his hip, from the left came a hissed “Sorry,” to the right a door slammed. He drew a breath, reached into his bag for the slip with the combo—and his small, round pocket mirror slipped out with it, clattered across the floor, and came to rest with the “Girl Power” print facing up. The pink mirror his mother had handed him “for quick checks” smiled defiantly up at him.\n\n<center>[img[pics/spiegel.jpg]]</center> “Here, you dropped this.” A hand with split knuckles (football practice) picked up the mirror. Chris looked up—and his stomach made that slight, involuntary drop: [[Dylan|Dylan Carter]]. Training shirt, backpack, that open, polite gaze that made rooms brighter. He handed the mirror over, gave a quick little laugh. “Cool print.”\n\n“Um—thanks.” Chris felt his face grow hot, as if someone had turned the hallway lights onto him. His brain counted at frantic speed: summer. Jogging. Collision. Does he remember?\n\n“New locker?” Dylan nodded toward the stubborn lock. “They jam sometimes. May I?” He stood slightly sideways beside Chris, close enough that their arms almost touched. “The trick is: a little upward pressure on the handle, then the combo, and at the end don’t yank, just gently.” His fingers nudged the handle slightly, turned the dial, stopped, turned back—the movements had something calm and practiced about them. “14… 22… 7… now.” He didn’t pull; he breathed with the door, and the lock made that soft, satisfying click. The locker sprang open.\n\n“Wow,” Chris blurted, far too gratefully. “Thanks. I guess I—uh—was doing it too hectically.”\n\n“Happens to everyone on the first day.” Dylan very lightly touched Chris’s forearm, a friendly “all good” tap, hardly more than a breath. Chris’s skin answered with goosebumps. “New here?”\n\n“Yeah.” He forced his voice into calmer channels. “From… Germany.” He searched Dylan’s eyes for any flicker—recognition, memory, that summer morning—but there was only mild interest. Nothing to catch on.\n\n“Welcome, then.” The corners of Dylan’s mouth twitched, brief, warm. “If you ever need to find the gym—just follow the noise. Timberwolves are loud.” He adjusted the strap of his backpack, half-indicated a farewell, and disappeared into the flow as if the hallway had swallowed him again.\n\nChris stood a second too still in front of the open locker, his breathing laboriously normal. He put the Handbook inside, swapped notebooks, did something with his hands so they wouldn’t tremble. He hadn’t been recognized. Or: he had been recognized as what his mother wanted everyone to see. He didn’t know whether that brought him relief or a new unease.\n\n“Well, great.” Christine’s voice came from the side, too casual to be truly casual. She leaned against the lockers opposite, backpack dangling from one finger. Her fixed braces didn’t flash; her smile was narrow. “He’s nice to everyone, you know.” (Tone: If-you-interpret-it-wrong-you’re-stupid.) “Did he open your locker for you?”\n\n“He was just… friendly.” Chris heard how defensive that sounded and hated himself for it in the same breath. “The lock was jammed.”\n\n“They never jam for me.” She pushed herself away, stepped closer, examined him in a way that wavered between sister and rival. “Just so you know: he’s surrounded by the whole pack. Maplewood logic: Dylan being friendly ≠ Dylan being interested.”\n\n“Got it,” Chris said, sliding a folder into the locker even though it didn’t belong there.\n\n''👑 Popularity + 1''\n\n[[Continue|Lunch in der Cafeteria.][$DylanMemory[0] += 1]]

<<back "Back">>\n\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/Christine.jpg]]</center> ''Name:'' Christine Braun \n''Age:'' 18 \n''Birthday:'' August\n\n''Relationships''\nSusan Braun (39) - mother\nMichael Braun (43) - father\nChristoph 'Chris' Braun (19) - older brother\n\n''Biography''\nChristine Braun was one year younger than Chris, born in Stuttgart, and had grown up with the feeling that she was the quicker of the two: louder, more athletic, sooner in the thick of things. After the divorce, she had supported her mother’s idea of moving; the fact that Chris stayed with their father hurt her more deeply than she admitted. In Maplewood, she quickly found her footing—first in gym class, then while preparing for cheerleading tryouts. Slightly built and looking younger than her 18 years, she longed to be seen as an adult. Her favorite subjects are biology and art; she loved training schedules, coffee ice cream in summer, and the feeling of holding the final counts after a cleanly landed routine until everyone could breathe again.\n\n''Shared Moments / Memories''\n<<nobr>>\n\n<ul> <<if $ChristineMemory[0] eq 1>><li>Christine looks back warmly on how proud she was of her brother when they both made the cheerleading squad.</li><</if>> <<if $ChristineMemory[8] eq 1>><li>Christine still remembers, hurt, how Chris pointed at her during “Who would be more likely to... cheat?”—and how deeply it wounded her that her brother thought her capable of something like that.</li><</if>> <<if $ChristineMemory[1] eq 1>><li>Christine remembers how Chris advised her not to let Myles pressure her.</li><</if>> <<if $ChristineMemory[2] eq 1>><li>Christine remembers the party where Chris tried to save her from Myles.</li><</if>> <<if $ChristineMemory[3] eq 1>><li>Christine looks back on how Chris saved her from the skunk in the old maple syrup bottling plant.</li><</if>> <<if $ChristineMemory[4] eq 1>><li>Christine remembers how Chris was there for her after her breakup with Myles and comforted her.</li><</if>> <<if $ChristineMemory[5] eq 1>><li>Christine remembers with reluctance how Chris crossed her boundaries.</li><</if>> <<if $ChristineMemory[6] eq 1>><li>Christine remembers with deep shame that she slept with her own brother.</li><</if>> <<if $ChristineMemory[7] eq 1>><li>Christine remembers that Chris once stood “too casually” in the girls’ shower and she stared at him in shock—because he had forgotten the boundary.</li><</if>> </ul> <</nobr>> \n<div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Christine’s feelings for Chris</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>mistrust</span> <span>trust</span> </div> <div class="axis-bar"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $christine_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $christine_opinion < 20>> strong mistrust <<elseif $christine_opinion < 40>> skepticism <<elseif $christine_opinion < 60>> neutral <<elseif $christine_opinion < 80>> cautious trust <<else>> strong trust <</if>> </div> </div> \n<<back "Back">>

They went a little deeper into the hall, away from the bolted door. The phone lights swept over pipes, ladders, old conveyor belts. Rust, dust, and that sweetish maple aroma everywhere, which refused to suit the place. Once, somewhere, a loose sheet of metal slammed against a support, and everyone flinched before someone let out a forced laugh.\n\n“Okay… there has to be a second door somewhere,” one of the boys said, shining his light along a wall. A girl filmed briefly, then put her phone away again, as if gathering evidence had suddenly stopped seeming like a good idea.\n\nMeanwhile, Chris felt another problem that couldn’t be ignored. The stress, all the drinking at the festival, the adrenaline—he was only really noticing it now. He urgently had to use the bathroom.\n\nHe swallowed and murmured, “I… need to… uh… I’ll be right back.” He gestured vaguely toward the tanks, which stood like huge shadows at the edge.\n\nRuby was immediately beside him. “I have to go too,” she said more quietly, as if she didn’t want to make a big deal of it. Then, with a glance across the hall: “I’ll come with you. So you don’t get lost.”\n\nChris nodded, embarrassed. They went behind the tanks, where the sounds of the group became more muted. The phone light was narrower here, the smell of syrup stronger, almost sticky. Chris looked for the most secluded corner he could find, one that offered at least a little bit of cover.\n\nIt was terribly uncomfortable for him. Not only because there were no stalls, but because he couldn’t “just” do it standing up like he used to as a boy. He already had trouble in the girls’ bathroom at school, and here, in a dress and tights, behind rusty tanks, it felt even more defenseless.\n\nRuby turned a few steps away, shining her light to the side, as if focusing her gaze on cracks in the concrete.\n\nChris took one deep breath, squatted down, nervously tugged at the hem of his skirt, and tried to keep his movements as inconspicuous as possible. Ruby squatted down too and closed her eyes. Chris could hear the steadily strengthening stream of her urine pattering onto the floor.\n\nHe simply couldn’t resist and risked a quick glance. Her legs were spread. So that Chris had an unobstructed view of her most intimate place. He now saw her bare vagina beneath her dress, a delicate fuzz of red pubic hair and the very soft-looking pink labia. The warm urine was simply gushing out of her slit.\n\nChris forced himself not to look in Ruby’s direction anymore, staring at a trail of rust on the tank as if it were the most important thing in the world. Everything about him was tense: his hands, his neck, the thought that people were waiting somewhere outside while he was here trying to deal with a situation that never felt normal.\n\nAfter a moment that seemed far too long to him, he was done peeing. He straightened his panties and tights as neatly as possible, as if neatness could erase the embarrassment.\n\n“Done?” Ruby asked.\n\nChris nodded quickly. “Yeah. Sure.”\n\nThey went back to the others, the phone light in front of them again, their steps cautious on the crunching floor. Chris still felt the heat in his face and the uncomfortable awareness of how little privacy was possible in this place. And at the same time, he was relieved to be back with the group—because being alone in here suddenly no longer tasted like freedom, but like danger.\n\n[[Continue|Funde im Nebenraum.]]

He clenched his fists, his fingernails digging into his palms. "Fine," he finally said; his voice cracked, and he trembled inwardly.\n\nThe man unzipped his fly. Chris hated himself for it as he knelt down before him. Moments later, the hard member was right in front of his face.\n\n"I don't know how—I've never..." Chris lamented, shaking his head in disgust.\n\n"Just start sucking my cock." The man stroked Chris's hair and leaned back.\n\n"Don't touch me!" Chris snapped at him.\n\n"Okay. I promise."\n\n'What the hell am I actually doing here?' Chris thought. 'This is totally gay.' But wasn't it too late to back out now? It took quite a bit of overcoming for Chris to touch that hard cock—and it felt strange.\n\nChris took the repulsive penis into his mouth. Seconds later Chris's brain screamed out at him. "You have a man's cock in your mouth, YOU'RE A COCK SUCKER!!!"\n\nA stale, greasy taste spread across his tongue—unpleasantly salty and so foul that his stomach nearly rebelled.\n\n"Now suck it good!" the guard demanded.\n\nHe felt the mushroom-shaped head slide into his mouth. Moreover, the guard's promise not to touch him during the act didn't last even ten seconds. Twice, Chris pushed his hand away, but when the guy started running his fingers through Chris's hair for a third time, he let it happen in exasperated resignation, focusing on the sucking just to get it over with faster.\n\n"Oh yes, baby, that's the stuff!" groaned the man, thoroughly enjoying the way Chris's tongue pleasured his member.\n\n"You're an excellent cock-sucker!" the man remarked.\n\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[Put in more effort to get it over with faster.|Mehr Einsatz, damit es schneller vorbei ist.]]\n❯ [[Do only the bare minimum.|Er macht nur das nötigste.]]\n

That evening, Chris lay in bed, the blanket pulled up to his hips. He was wearing a satin nightgown that shimmered like water in the candlelight (a single small one on the shelf): a soft fall over the body, a small slit at the sides so it wouldn’t catch when he turned. The room was quiet, only outside some night insect chirped somewhere, and in the house the wood occasionally creaked.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girls’ room">>\nChris was just about to put his phone away when the door opened—without knocking, as so often. His mother stepped in, in a dressing gown, her hair still neat, as if the day were never really over for her.\n<<set $SusanMemory[2] to 1>>\n“Well?” she said and sat down on the edge of the bed, as if this moment too belonged to her program. “How was school? Anything noticeable?”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. His head was instantly back in the cafeteria: Dylan beside him because there had been no free seat. The smell of fries, the clatter of trays, Dylan’s knee that had almost touched his, and his own heart behaving stupidly. He had tried to seem normal. And apparently it hadn’t worked—because of course Christine had seen everything.\n\n“No,” Chris said too quickly. “Totally normal.”\n\nSusan raised an eyebrow. “Totally normal,” she repeated, and the words never sounded harmless from her. She looked at him as if reading a message he hadn’t written. Then she placed her hand on his shoulder and slowly stroked over it, as if meant to soothe him.\n\nChris’s body did not react as if soothed. He went stiff, as though the touch were sticking a label onto him. He wanted to pull his arm away, but that would have seemed “noticeable” again, so he stayed still and stared at the spot on the wall above her head.\n\n“Christine said the cafeteria was… interesting,” Susan said, as if she were casually discussing the weather. “You suddenly went very quiet. And red. And someone sat beside you.”\n\nChris felt heat shoot into his cheeks, even though he fought it. “There wasn’t any room,” he said, a little too defensively.\n\nSusan chuckled softly. “Aha.”\n\n“He just sat down,” Chris muttered, pulling the blanket a little higher, as if fabric could cover the subject. “That was all.”\n\nSusan let her hand glide over his arm once more, in exactly that slow, controlled movement she considered caring and that felt more like an examination to Chris. “And?” she asked gently. “What was it like? Next to… him?”\n\nChris swallowed. He didn’t want to talk to her about Dylan. Not about that fluttering in his stomach, not about the warmth that arose from just one look. Especially not about boys. It felt as if he would be giving her even more material—more threads she could pull on.\n\n“It was okay,” he said curtly. “We… didn’t talk much.”\n\nSusan giggled softly, as if she had expected exactly that answer. “Didn’t talk much,” she repeated<<if $haar == 1>> and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead<<endif>>. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. But…” She tilted her head, satisfied, almost amused. “It’s sweet how you try to pretend it’s nothing.”\n\nChris kept his gaze stubbornly straight ahead. His heart beat faster, and he hated that Susan was probably interpreting that as confirmation again.\n\n“Good night,” he said quickly, trying to cut the moment short.\n\nSusan stood up, smoothed the blanket—as if she were sorting him—and went to the door. “Good night, Sweetie,” she said, and there was that faint smile in her voice that Chris could still hear when the door quietly clicked shut.\n\nHe lay there, staring into the darkness, and felt the thought of Dylan come back—warmer, freer, without Susan’s fingers on his arm. Only now he knew: even that thought no longer belonged only to him.\n\n[[Continue|Altbraum Vortrag.2]]

On Friday, Homecoming was everywhere, even before the first bell had rung. Posters with glitter letters were stuck up in the hallway, in the cafeteria people were discussing dress colors as if the world’s climate depended on it, and even in class they whispered about limousines, photos, and afterparties. The mood had that nervous, wound-up tone, as if the whole school were walking on tiptoe.\n<<set $wochentag = 5>><<set $ort to "school">>\nChris saw Dylan and Penelope standing together by the locker. Dylan was laughing at something, Penelope tapping his arm with her finger as if marking him. Space formed around them automatically—as if their combination came with invisible caution tape. Chris felt a small knot tighten inside him. Nothing dramatic. More that quiet, mean little tug that said: Of course. Everyone already seemed to know how the vote would go: Homecoming King and Queen. Dylan and Penelope. A finished script.\n\nHe forced himself to look away and pretended to search for a book in his locker, even though he didn’t need one.\n\nOn the bus that afternoon, his sister Christine sat quieter than usual, headphones around her neck but no music playing. When someone nearby started talking loudly about the dance—“Myles is going with that new girl, did you see her?”—Christine flinched almost imperceptibly and looked out the window. Chris didn’t ask anything. He only noticed how much she was avoiding the subject. She knew Myles would be going, with his new flame, while she stayed home. And that thought alone suddenly made all the glittery stuff in the hallway feel stale.\n\nAt home, a completely different problem was waiting.\n\nSusan was standing in the kitchen with her phone in her hand and that expectant look that didn’t “suggest” anything, but decided. Chris immediately knew what it was about: the online dating she had set up for him last Saturday. Profile photo, short bio, a few likes—and Susan had treated the whole thing like an item on a timetable.\n\n“And?” she asked without preamble. “Who are you meeting? It’s time you arranged a date.”\n\nChris’s stomach sank. He had only opened the app sporadically over the past few days, more out of panic than interest. A few messages, a few flirts, a lot that was uncomfortable, some of it surprisingly nice—but nothing that felt “real.” And above all: nothing he wanted to talk about with his mother.\n\nBut the question hung in the room like a spotlight: Did he have a date?\n\n''Does he have a date?''\n<<nobr>><<if $dating == 1>>[[He has a date with a boy.|Er hat ein Date mit einem Jungen.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $dating == 2>>[[He has a date with Laverne.|Er hat ein Date mit Laverne.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $dating == 3>>[[He doesn’t have a date.|Er hat kein Date.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Adam dropped Chris off in front of the house, the scooter sputtering for another second before he turned it around. Chris waved stiffly, held the hem of his skirt down, and walked up the driveway. That was when he saw his mother standing in the doorway—arms crossed, her gaze sharply awake. As Adam drove off, her eyes followed him all the way to the street, as if she were memorizing the license plate.\n<<set $ort to "at home">><<set $wetter = 3>>\nInside, the front door fell shut, and Susan turned to him at once. “So,” she began, and the word sounded like a hook. “who was that?”\n\nChris pulled the bag from his shoulder. “A school friend from D&D club.”\n\n“Mhm.” Susan smiled thinly, took a step closer, and looked him over—not caringly, more appraisingly. “You’re selling yourself short, Chris. Honestly.” She twisted her mouth. “The boy is nice, I’m sure. But…” She deliberately left the sentence open, then filled it with a look that meant everything: Adam’s weight, his manner, his nerdiness. “You could do much better.”\n\nChris felt anger that immediately turned back into caution. He wanted to argue. But the reflex not to escalate won. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered and headed toward the stairs.\n\n“It does to me,” Susan said behind him. “I just want you to… think strategically.”\n\nChris swallowed the comment down and disappeared into his room. There he set the bag on the floor, knelt down, and began unpacking—notebooks, a tin of cookies, a crumpled note with D&D notes. His hands were faster than his head, as if speed could wipe away embarrassing topics.\n\nAnd then it slipped out of the side pocket with a soft plop and landed right in the middle of the carpet: the packet of condoms.\n\nIt was as if time briefly stumbled. Chris’s breath caught. Susan, who had followed him, stopped in the doorway and stared at the packet as if it had just pushed open a secret door.\n\n“Oh?” Her eyebrows rose. Then an expression spread across her face that was both surprised and… satisfied. “Well, look at that.”\n\nChris’s face burned. “That’s not—”\n\nSusan raised her hand, as if she didn’t want to hear him at all. “So it is working.” Her tone became sweet, triumphant. “I was starting to think you’d stay so uptight forever. But apparently…” She pointed at the packet as if it were a piece of evidence. “You’re growing up. Like a girl.”\n\nChris’s throat went dry. He hastily shoved the packet back into the bag, as if that could erase the image from Susan’s mind. “Mom, please…” He couldn’t get any more out, because every further word threatened to make it worse.\n\nHis mother smiled as if she had just won without anyone explaining the game. Chris stood there, ashamed down to his fingertips, and knew that Susan now firmly believed he was sleeping with Adam—and that this false idea tasted like success to her.\n\n[[Continue|Dienstag, Figurprobleme.]]

Adam dropped Chris off in front of the house, the scooter sputtering for another second before he turned it around. Chris waved stiffly, held the hem of his skirt down, and walked up the driveway. That was when he saw Susan standing in the doorway—arms crossed, her gaze sharply awake. As Adam drove off, her eyes followed him all the way to the street, as if she were memorizing the license plate.\n<<set $ort to "at home">><<set $wetter = 3>>\nInside, the front door fell shut, and Susan turned to him at once. “So,” she began, and the word sounded like a hook. “That was Adam, then.”\n\nChris pulled the bag from his shoulder. “Yes. We… baked.”\n\n“Baked.” Susan smiled thinly. “Mhm. And you two are… together now?” Her voice was curious, almost amused, as if it were about a TV plotline.\n\nChris’s neck tightened. “Something like that.” He dodged, as he had become good at doing by now.\n\nSusan took a step closer and looked him over—not caringly, more appraisingly. “You’re selling yourself short, Chris. Honestly.” She twisted her mouth. “The boy is nice, I’m sure. But…” She deliberately left the sentence open, then filled it with a look that meant everything: Adam’s weight, his manner, his nerdiness. “You could do much better.”\n\nChris felt anger that immediately turned back into caution. He wanted to argue—wanted to say that he wasn’t choosing anything, that he wasn’t “together” with anyone at all, that Susan had no idea. But the reflex not to escalate won. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered and headed toward the stairs.\n\n“It does to me,” Susan said behind him. “I just want you to… think strategically.”\n\nChris swallowed the comment down and disappeared into his room.\n\n[[Continue|Dienstag, Figurprobleme.]]

The hallway boiled after class: locker doors slammed, metal struck metal, voices swam into one another. Chris pushed his way to his locker, holding the combo in his hand like a spell that had to be spoken exactly right: 14–22–7. He turned the dial left, right, left again—pulled. Nothing. He tried again, more focused. The lock stayed silent, the door as immovable as a wall.\n<<set $ort to "locker area">>\nHis breathing grew shallower. Behind him, a backpack scraped along the wall, someone laughed, someone cursed. 14–22–7. His palms were sweating; he wiped them clumsily on the dress, turned—slipped—messed up the direction. “Come on,” he muttered. He pulled harder; the metal answered with a stubborn, short jerk. At that moment, his handbag slipped from his shoulder, fell half-open, and something small dropped to the floor with a clink. A round pink compact mirror with “Girl Power” written in glitter. Thanks, Mom, he thought darkly.\n\n<center>[img[pics/spiegel.jpg]]</center> A hand picked up the mirror. “Hey—this is, uh, yours, right?” The voice was cautiously friendly. Chris turned around. In front of him stood a boy, tall but not broad, dark hoodie, light eyes behind an oversized lock of hair. He held the mirror so Chris could take it.\n\n“Thanks,” Chris said, trying to sound neutral. He stuffed the thing away as if it were an evidence bag.\n\n“Those things jam sometimes.” The boy pointed to the lock. “The trick is: all the way around to zero once, then three clean turns. May I?” He waited until Chris nodded, stepped closer without invading his space, and turned slowly. “To zero… 14… forward… 22… and—not past it—7. Now don’t pull, but press back a little at the bottom and then—there.” With a small, satisfying snap, the door sprang open.\n\nChris blinked. “Okay. Thanks. I was starting to think I’d broken it with my mind.”\n\nThe boy grinned, brief and crooked. “Happens to everyone on the first day.” He stayed where he was, but not in the way. “I’m [[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]]. Senior. I mean… a senior, not the senior.” He raised his shoulders as if trying to qualify his own words. “If you need anything… I don’t know. Way to bio, cafeteria, the good water fountains—just let me know.”\n\nChris noticed how Lucas was looking at him—not drilling into him, not gawking, but searching to see whether a conversation was allowed to happen. No one had ever talked to him like that, he thought. He nodded, managed a small smile. “I’m… Chris. New. Obviously.” He suppressed the urge to apologize, for whatever reason.\n\nLucas glanced briefly down at him—at the skirt, the ID holder, the small breasts—and then right back into his eyes. “Welcome to Maplewood, Chris.” A mini-pause. “So… if you ever want to go to the movies, uh—” He broke off, shook his head slightly. “I mean, groups often go on Fridays. It’s—”\n\n“I have to get to class,” Chris said, faster than intended. He heard how sharp it sounded and softened it: “Thanks. Really. For the locker and everything.”\n\n“Sure.” Lucas took half a step back, hands open. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”\n\n“Maybe,” Chris said, which roughly meant “Please no decision right now.” Lucas disappeared into the crowd.\n\n“Oooooh.” Christine was leaning two lockers down, as if she had just happened to be magnetically pulled there. Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Do you already have your first admirer, sis?” Her fixed braces flashed. “He was cute. And totally polite.”\n\nChris rolled his eyes, but felt his cheeks warming. “He just got the lock open. Physics, not romance.”\n\n“Mhm.” Christine drew out the “m.” “Physics can be very romantic, I’ve heard.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “Relax. He was nice. You’re allowed to find nice things nice.”\n\n“I’m allowed to go to class,” Chris countered, closing the locker as if he had always known how, and reached for his folder.\n\n“Do that, Miss Germany,” Christine trilled after him. “And if he smiles at you at lunch today, smile back. Otherwise I’ll have to explain to Mom that my sister still hasn’t learned how to be a girl.”\n\n“Very funny.” Chris set off. The hallway pulled him along; somewhere someone shouted “Go Timberwolves!”, somewhere a ruler clattered against metal. He breathed in, out, and headed for the next hurdle.\n\n[[Continue|Lunch in der Cafeteria.]]

On the next shot, Chris wanted to do it alone. He positioned himself, legs slightly spread the way Zoe had shown him, pretending he was a pro now—the two men had a perfect view of Chris’s pretty butt. But the shot missed again, as if the ball had suddenly developed a personal grudge against him.\n\nIt was the men’s turn again. They played calmly, confidently, with that mix of routine and showmanship where every shot looked like “no big deal.” Chris noticed that the dark-haired man kept looking at him, not just between turns, but in between as well—curious, interested. Chris tried to ignore it, but it stayed like a spotlight at the edge of his field of vision.\n\nThen it was Zoe’s turn. She took the chalk, slowly twisting it over the tip of the cue, her gaze lingering on the blond. Then she stepped up to the table, stood there with her legs straight, and slowly bent her upper body down. Zoe wasn’t putting on a deliberate erotic show, but her movements were simply naturally graceful, her body a force, and she couldn’t help radiating a serious dose of sex appeal.\n\n<center>[img[pics/zoe_billard.jpg]]</center> The blond grinned as Zoe gave him an absolutely breathtaking glimpse down her deep neckline. Because of her bent posture, the fabric slipped downward and her pretty lace bra could be seen.\n\nZoe sank a ball and turned back to him with a triumphant “Well then.”\n\nChris felt a small sting. He had come here with her to be close to her. And now he was a side character in Zoe’s unintentional flirt show. He stood there with his cue in his hand and suddenly felt like the third wheel on a bike that had already long since started moving.\n\nThe dark-haired man grinned over at him. “You learn fast,” he said. It sounded like a compliment, but Chris also heard that I’ve got my eye on you in it.\n\nThe game went back and forth. Chris missed more often than he hit, Zoe scored, the men scored more. In the end, the men won—not by a small margin.\n\n“Yes,” the blond said and raised his hand; Zoe high-fived him. The dark-haired man casually put the cue away and looked at Chris as he did, as if the real game hadn’t been on the table at all.\n\n“That was fun,” the blond said, leaning against the edge of the table. “Don’t you want to continue the evening somewhere more private?”\n\nZoe answered faster than Chris could even draw breath. “Sure.” She grinned as if she had been waiting for exactly that.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. “Uh—no.” He heard himself how thin it sounded. “I… I don’t want to. I’m not in the mood for… I don’t know.”\n\nIt wasn’t just “not in the mood.” It was fear—that clear, cold fear of going somewhere with strange men where he didn’t know what might happen. He looked at Zoe, searching for support, any sign that she took him seriously.\n\nZoe rolled her eyes slightly, but her gaze remained on his face for a moment, as if she were weighing how far she could push him today.\n\n''How does Zoe decide?''\n<<nobr>><<if $zoe > 1>>[[She goes with Chris.|Sie geht mit Chris.][$zoe += 1]]<<else>>[[She goes with the blond.|Sie geht mit dem Blonden.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris walked over to the chair, sat down, and tried to relax—to think about something else. But even with his eyes closed, he couldn't manage to distract his thoughts. Time and again, his little sister—clad in her sexy satin nightgown—flashed before his mind's eye.\n\nChris knew of only one way to resolve his uncomfortable predicament. He reached his right hand inside his gray jersey shorts and began to rub his cock. Moving his foreskin up and down over his glans, he began to let out soft moans. His sister watched in horror. She had never seen a boy jerk off before—and to see her own brother doing it? That was simply too much.\n\nChris began stroking his cock faster now, feeling the orgasm slowly building within him. He pulled his shorts down and aimed his cock directly at his sister. Moaning loudly and stroking ever faster, he stood there, gazing at her. At the sight of her petite body and slender legs, he could hold back no longer; Chris ejaculated with explosive force. One powerful spurt after another erupted onto her midnight-blue satin nightgown... ... ...\n\n“…Christine?” Chris snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Earth to Christine?” The scene fell apart like fog in the light. The room was once again only the narrow guest area, the chair, the folded blankets—no Chris jerking off in front of his sister.\n\n“What? Oh!” Christine blinked and blushed. “I was… somewhere else for a second.”\n\nIt had only been a daydream, a brief trip of her imagination. Christine blinked, tucked a strand behind her ear, and forced a smile. “Coming,” she said, stepping back into reality.\n\nNo sooner had they stepped back into the hallway than Penelope caught Chris with a look that saw everything. “You can’t stay like that,” she said kindly, but with the kind of decisiveness only Penelope could manage. Chris immediately looked down at his crotch again, but this time everything was okay.\n\n“Come on.” She waved and led him upstairs, along a gallery into a large room that looked like a mix of glossy magazine and film set—string lights, vanity table, a canopy bed.\n\nPenelope knelt beside a low chest, lifted the lid, and a wave of gleaming fabric lit up: satin in layers, delicate shorts, nightgowns, tops, all in carefully folded stacks. “Rescue box,” she explained. “Pick something. I keep backups for… every eventuality.”\n\nChris’s fingers slid hesitantly over the fabrics. He pulled out a short pair of pale blush satin shorts—they whispered between his fingers—and a matching cream nightgown, slim-cut, with a very fine shimmer. “Can I…?”\n“Change over there.” Penelope pointed to the folding screen in the corner and demonstratively turned toward the window, as if giving him privacy.\n\nBehind the screen, Chris slipped out of the jersey set and into the satin shorts. The fabric settled coolly against him and grew warmer with every second, as if it were answering. The nightgown slid over his shoulders, so light that at first he barely felt it—only that very soft “Ssshhh” along his ribs. He breathed in and felt something stir inside him at exactly that point: no, not in his crotch again. Just a subtle, electric tingling inside him, as if a radio had locked cleanly onto a station. So this is what that feels like, he thought, and was a little startled by how right it felt.\n\n“Ready?” Penelope tapped discreetly twice against the folding screen.\n\n“Yes.” Chris stepped out.\n\n<center>[img[pics/outfit5.jpg]]</center> She looked him over, not to judge, but to find delight. “Perfect,” she said, honestly thrilled. “It frames you beautifully. Come on, the others are already building the pillow fort.”\n\nChris cast one fleeting glance into the mirror at the vanity—satin melting in the light, skin that suddenly no longer worked against the fabric, but with it. The tingling remained, gentle and persistent. Then he followed Penelope out into the shimmering evening of giggles, pillows, and movie titles—and tried not to hold on to the new feeling too tightly, but simply carry it with him.\n\n[[Continue|Foto-Wall und Kissenburg.]]\n\n

He brought the children back home later. Leo trudged ahead, the baby asleep with its mouth open, eyelashes like little commas. Mr. Ferguson appeared at the door, bulky, his gaze lingering too long on Chris’s breasts, then on his legs.\n\n“Well done.” He pulled a bill from his wallet, holding it between two fingers as if he still needed to be convinced to let it go. “You earned it, missy.” His grin was greasy. When Chris reached for it, he pulled the bill back a fraction, a “game” that wasn’t one, and only let it fall when Chris’s fingers almost touched his. Revulsion crept up Chris’s back.\n\n“Thanks,” he said curtly, pocketed the money, and stepped aside.\n\nAva clapped her hands. “Perfect. I’ll drive you home real quick.” The car smelled of vanilla and cold coffee. “So? How was it?”\n\n“The kids were good,” Chris said. “It wasn’t as exhausting as I thought.”\n\n“Excellent.” Ava smiled contentedly into the windshield. “Then I’ll book you more often. Afternoons, maybe an evening sometime—you know how it is.”\n\nChris looked out the window at the yellow streetlights passing by. Does anyone ever actually ask me whether I want to? he thought. Aloud, he said, “Okay.”\n\nAt home, the house was quiet; Susan had left the living-room light on. Chris closed the door softly, washed his hands, stood for a moment in the dark hallway, and felt the day humming inside him.\n\nThat night, the dream came.\n\nIn the dream, Chris stood in the bathroom in front of the mirror. The light flickered, the neon making every pore look harsh. He reached for the waistband of his skirt—and froze. Beneath his hands bulged a round pregnant belly, large, heavy, undeniable. His breath stumbled. He pulled the fabric up, searched for an explanation, found only the stretched skin and the slow, uncanny rolling beneath it, as if something were answering his palm. “No,” he heard himself say, small and hollow. The mirror showed him with wide eyes.\n\nThe dream shifted, and he was walking through the school hallway. Lockers slammed open and shut like mouths. Looks fastened onto him, first curious, then knowing. “Did you see?” — “Boob Chris really overdid it.” A few girls acted exaggeratedly caring: “Lift your feet, sweetheart!” A jock shaped a curve in front of his belly with his hands and whistled softly. Even Ruby looked away. Chris held the bag in front of his belly, as if it could make him invisible, but the hallway seemed to stretch longer and longer, the bell ringing and ringing without class ever beginning.\n\nWithout transition, the dream changed rooms, and he was lying in a delivery room, bright light, a curtain half pulled aside, sounds too clinical to be comforting. Nurses glided past him, foreheads stern, voices too smooth. “The father?” one asked, pen clicking. “Don’t know,” Chris said, and the echo hit him harder than any sound. “What a slut,” another murmured, not loudly, precisely enough. He tried to lift his head, but the pillow held fast; he wanted to explain that this wasn’t his life, only a dress someone had put on him—but the sentences crumbled into dust before they left his mouth.\n\nA doctor stepped into view, mask, glasses, eyes that looked only at numbers. “Okay,” he said matter-of-factly, “push with the next contraction.” Chris’s fingers gripped the sheet, his feet pressed into the mattress. A wave rolled in, huge and blind. “Now,” said the doctor. “Push.” The room shrank down to breath, pain, light. Something pushed from inside, unstoppable, a line beyond which there was no return. He drew in air, prepared to bear down—and woke before anything was born.\n\nThe room was dark, his breathing too fast, his heart drumming. He grabbed the bedsheet, felt his flat stomach, felt only his own familiar rhythm beneath the skin. He lay there for a while, until the contours calmed. He lay still until the neon of the dream finally receded from his head.\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch.]]

“Raspberry,” Chris said, without thinking any longer.\n\nPenelope’s face lit up, her blue eyes shining. “Correct.” She snapped her fingers as if she had just set a beat. “Then I’ll see you Saturday. Bring cute pajamas and a good mood.”\n\nA few “Ooohs” and finger-drumming applause around the table. Charlotte grinned at him, Christine let out a quiet sound of triumph that sparkled in her braces. Chris felt a smile pushing its way onto his face—small at first, then impossible to suppress. The knot in his stomach loosened. The fear of a night full of girls, pillows, photos, and whispered conversations was still there, but suddenly it stood behind a door that had just opened.\n\n“Saturday,” he repeated, more to himself than to the others.\n\nPenelope leaned back, pulled an invitation card from the stack, and slid it across the table. “Address, time, and: no boy drama.” A wink, half-serious.\n\nChris ran his thumb over the pastel card. In his head, something started counting down the days, while something else tried to hold on in panic. But the glittering, lighter part was louder today. For one moment, there was simply anticipation—pure, childish, unreasonable. And he let it be, without talking it down.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Charlotte praises Chris.|Charlotte lobt Chris.]]<<else>>[[End of school.|Schulende.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

After school and cheerleading practice, Chris made his way toward the bus lane with his sports bag. The air was cool, and everywhere that Homecoming crackle hung in the air like hairspray.\n<<set $ort to "school parking lot">>\nIn front of the stop, two girls were standing a few steps beside him and talking so loudly that he could hardly avoid hearing it.\n\n“I swear, a few of the football guys have already rented motel rooms,” one of them said, in that conspiratorial voice that everyone still heard anyway. “So they can go there after the dance. With their dates.”\n\nThe other one giggled.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. Motel rooms. After the dance. He only heard isolated words after that, as if his head had turned the volume down.\n\nChris got on the bus, sat down by the window, and stared out without really seeing anything. The conversation kept running through his head like a replay he couldn’t stop. Does Dylan have a room like that too? he wondered. Does he expect that? Is that somehow… part of it? The thought made him hot and cold at the same time.\n\nHe tried to stay logical: Dylan had invited him, had been kind, had looked at him in the stadium, had been happy. But Homecoming in Maplewood apparently wasn’t just dancing and photos. And Chris’s reality stood in the room like a wall: He couldn’t simply “play along” if Dylan expected something after the dance. Not like that. Not in the way those girls meant. The thought alone made him curl inward.\n\nAt home, he didn’t last ten minutes before picking up his phone. He wrote Dylan—and deleted it. Wrote it again—and deleted it again. Finally, he sent something that was supposed to sound harmless.\n\nChris: <blockquote class="quote">Hey 😊 quick question… what are we actually doing after the dance? Like… after after?</blockquote>\nNo sooner was it sent than he regretted the wording. After after? He would have liked to rip the phone out of his own hand.\n\nDylan’s reply came faster than Chris’s heartbeat could settle.\n\nDylan: <blockquote class="quote">Haha 😏 I knew you’d ask that. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. It’s gonna be really good.</blockquote>\nChris’s pulse jumped. Oh no. That didn’t sound like “We’ll go get waffles afterward.” That sounded like… exactly that.\n\nHe tried to steer against it, just a little, without sounding panicked.\n\nChris: <blockquote class="quote">I mean… I just didn’t know if you were doing something with the guys afterward or if it’s, like… usual… to go somewhere afterward.</blockquote>\nThat made it worse. He could tell the moment he sent it how the words must seem to Dylan: not like uncertainty, but like a cautious hint—I want you to plan, too.\n\nDylan wrote back.\n\nDylan: <blockquote class="quote">I got it. I’ll plan something nice, promise. You don’t have to worry about anything. I’m really looking forward to Saturday.</blockquote>\nChris stared at the screen as if he had just slammed a door shut and was now standing on the wrong side of it. He felt the blush creeping back into his face—shame, fear, and that absurd little sense that Dylan was honestly looking forward to it.\n\nHe started typing, deleted it, started again. How do you save this without destroying everything? If he wrote “No, that’s not what I meant” now, it would sound like backing out. If he wrote nothing at all, he would let Dylan keep running with a misunderstanding that was heading toward Saturday like a train with no brakes.\n\nChris put the phone on the bed, picked it up again, held it too tightly. He didn’t know how to get out of this situation—and it felt as if he had built it himself, word by word.\n\n[[Continue|Freitag, Chris fragt die Mädchen um Rat.]]

At some point on Thursday, between two classes, that rustling went through the rows again—that “Psst, here, pass it on,” as if the school had opened a secret post office. After the boys had made their list last week, the girls had now decided to pay them back: a ranking of boys. When the little note finally landed with Chris, it suddenly lay in front of him like a small exam that had nothing to do with math.\n<<set $ort to "classroom">>\nAt the top, in bold, aggressive letters, it said:\n\nBOYS RANKING (DON’T SNITCH)\n\nBelow that was a list of names with empty columns beside them. “1–10,” scribbled underneath in small letters, as if this were a natural science.\n\nChris stared at it and immediately felt resistance. His first impulse was childish and honest: zero for everyone. Boys were stupid. Boys stared. Boys hurt girls. And besides—he liked girls. His gaze darted involuntarily to Ruby, sitting a few rows away, focused and calm, and his heart made that little jump he didn’t want to comment on.\n\nBut that’s unfair, he thought then. He himself had been upset about being rated. So he forced himself to do it “properly.” Fair, objective, as well as he could. He exhaled, took the pen, and to his surprise, it went more easily than expected. As if his mind were automatically sorting things into categories: looks, charisma, presence—everything people had always judged so matter-of-factly in girls.\n\nAt Dylan, the pen briefly paused. He wanted to convince himself he wasn’t going by feeling. So he wrote down a 10 and put a small, neutral star beside it. Not because he found Dylan hot, he told himself. But because it was objectively true. Because Dylan looked like someone you could put in an advertisement and no one would ask why. And when Chris saw the girls’ ratings before his, he noticed that Dylan had already gotten a 10 several times. See, he thought sternly to himself. That’s statistics.\n\nWith Myles, he pressed the pen harder into the paper, as if he had to scratch something out of himself with it. He wrote down a 0—no consideration, no weighing it up—and drew a tiny angry face beside it, two dots and a line for a mouth. Not because Myles was ugly. But because Chris was angry. Because Christine had cried. Because girls stuck together. Period.\n\nThen came Lucas. Chris’s gaze wandered between the name and his own hand. Lucas was… nice. Cute, in a fragile way. Not “hot” in the Timberwolves sense, more like a theater poster in pastels. Chris wavered between two numbers, his pen swinging like a metronome. 5? 6? He wanted to be fair. He didn’t want to be unfair. And yet—\n\nHe saw that Ruby had already entered a 10 beside Lucas’s name. A clear, confident ten, without hesitation.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. Does she like him? The thought was there at once, small and jealous, before he could push it away. He looked over at Ruby again, who was already doodling further along by now, as if all of this were just fun. Still, Chris felt a stupid sting, as if someone had poked him in a place he didn’t want to admit existed.\n\nHe wrote a 5 beside Lucas—and put a tiny, crooked “:|” face next to it that was neither mean nor friendly. Just… reserved.\n\nWhen he set down the pen, he briefly looked over his numbers. He had meant to find the whole thing ridiculous. And yet he noticed how serious it had felt inside him—not the list itself, but what it had touched in him. He quickly folded the note back up, as if that would also fold away his thoughts, and passed it on.\n\n[[Continue|Freitag, Onlinedating.2][$ende += 2]]

“I… uh… I already have a date for Homecoming,” Chris forced out.\n<<set $SusanMemory[6] to 1>>\nShe paused. “Excuse me?” A surprised blink, then that slow, satisfied smile. “With whom?”\n\nHeat rose up the back of his neck. He was embarrassed to say it—embarrassed because of himself, embarrassed because of the lie by omission. “Adam,” he said quietly. “From school.” He kept the addition that Adam was forcing him to play his “girlfriend” stuck in his throat. It was enough that the word date now stood between them like a gleaming stone.\n\n“Adam.” Susan nodded, tasting the name as if she were putting it on a list. “See! You’ve developed wonderfully.” Her voice became soft and honey-sweet. “Now you even have a date for the school dance. I knew it.”\n\nChris smiled thinly. A crooked mixture of relief—online dating fended off—and unease over what he had not said pulled through his stomach. “Speaking of…” He cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk to you anyway. I need a dress. For the dance.”\n\nSusan’s eyes lit up immediately. “Of course you need a dress!” She clapped her hands softly once. “We’re going today. Something that emphasizes the waist, maybe A-line, and we’ll take care of shoes and a little clutch. Oh, Chris—this will be wonderful.”\n\nHe nodded, feeling how the decision was already rolling forward without him, as so often. “Okay.”\n\n“Great.” Susan turned toward the wardrobe, already mentally flipping through color cards. “Give me ten minutes. Then we’ll go.”\n\nChris sank onto the edge of the bed, his heart a little too fast. He had fended off online dating—but at the price of an evening with Adam and a shopping trip that was now unavoidable. Still, he felt the tension briefly give way. “Ten minutes,” he repeated, and Susan smiled as if he had just done something very right.\n\n[[Continue|Ballkleid einkaufen.]]

Chris decided to stay silent.\n\nThe words sat in his throat like a lump too large to swallow, misshapen and heavy. He didn’t know where to begin. “I read your diary” was impossible. “Be careful around Myles” sounded patronizing. And the mere idea that his little sister might sleep with Myles put a cold, foreign hand in his stomach. That was a door in her life he didn’t know whether he even had the right to look at.\n\nChristine turned her head, her hair bouncing slightly. “What is it?” she asked. Her eyes briefly slid over his outfit, then searched his face again.\n\nHe realized he was staring at her. Chris swallowed. “Nothing,” he said. “All good.”\n\nShe held his gaze for another moment, as if considering whether to press him. Then she shrugged one shoulder, gave a curt “Hm,” and looked ahead again.\n\nThey continued down the street, side by side.\n\n[[Continue|Eine Busfahrt zum Vergessen.]]

Over the course of the morning, a folded note made the rounds, so secretly and yet so obviously that it almost seemed official again. After the boys had had their list of the hottest girls last week, the girls had now followed suit. At some point, the paper landed with Chris too, right on his desk, with a clear note at the very top:\n<<set $ort to "classroom">>\n“BOYS RANKING (DON’T SNITCH)”\n\nBelow that were names in a column, with empty fields beside them for numbers from 1 to 10, and already a few scribbled comments in the margin, little hearts, eye emojis, occasionally also a “lol” or a “nope.”\n\nChris’s first impulse was defiant: 0. 0 for everyone. He felt annoyed by the idea alone. Boys were stupid. Boys made lists. Boys stared. Boys pushed. And he liked girls. Period.\n\nBut then he felt the expectation in the air: the sheet kept moving, everyone wrote something down, everyone acted as if it were a game. And if Chris now put zeroes everywhere, he would stand out. Standing out was the last thing he needed.\n\nSo he forced himself into a “fair” version of himself. He exhaled, put the pen down, and began to really look at the names.\n\nIt came more easily to him than he had expected, which almost annoyed him even more. With some names, he only thought: okay, average, and wrote down a 5 or 6. With others, he remembered how they posed around in the hallway or were loud in the cafeteria, and gave fewer points without knowing exactly whether that was still “looks” or already “character.” But the list wasn’t a morality test anyway.\n\nThen came Dylan.\n\nChris’s gaze lingered on the name a heartbeat too long. Beside Dylan were already several tens in different handwriting. A few girls had drawn little hearts next to them. Chris briefly felt that familiar tug, a mixture of nervousness and something he didn’t like admitting to himself.\n\nHe wrote 10.\n\nNot because he found Dylan hot, he immediately told himself. But because it was objectively true. Dylan was just… Dylan. And besides, the other girls before him had also given him 10. So he was only doing the obvious. Pure statistics, he told himself, while his face still grew a touch warmer.\n\nA few lines later, Myles appeared.\n\nChris’s hand moved faster. 0.\n\nNot because Myles was ugly. Chris knew perfectly well that objectively, he belonged more in the upper ranks. But when Chris saw the name, he didn’t see his face, but Christine’s red eyes on the bleachers. He saw the line drawn after the game. He felt the anger that still had a firm place inside him. And he felt this stubborn solidarity that had been settling into him for weeks: girls stuck together. So Myles got a zero, as a small, silent punishment that no one but Chris understood.\n\nThen came Adam’s name.\n\nChris’s fingers hesitated. For a moment, it felt as if the pen had suddenly gained weight. Adam, who was blackmailing him. Adam, whose “fake relationship” he played along with in front of his parents and in the D&D club because silence was the price. Chris’s stomach tightened, and at the same time he knew: this was exactly where he couldn’t stand out.\n\nHe looked at what others had written down. Beside Adam’s name were almost only zeroes. And little comments: “ew,” “no,” “gross,” once even a “pls stop.”\n\nChris swallowed, forced his face to stay neutral, and also wrote down a low number—so inconspicuous that it fit into the row. Not because he found Adam “ew” (even if he felt that way about him often enough), but because he couldn’t risk being the only one to rate him differently.\n\nHe folded the note back up, passed it on, and pretended he hadn’t cared. But the aftershock remained in his head: the ten for Dylan, the zero for Myles, the adjusted rating for Adam—and the uncomfortable feeling that he had just packaged himself in numbers so he wouldn’t stand out.\n\n[[Continue|Freitag, Homecoming-Fieber2.]]

At some point in the morning—between two classes, somewhere in the hum of hallway, lockers, and whispering—another folded note made the rounds. This time it wasn’t the boys’ list about girls, but the payback. It landed at Chris’s seat like a secret package you were supposed to pass on quickly before a teacher saw it.\n<<set $ort to "classroom">>\nChris opened it and read the bold, scrawled letters at the top:\n\nBOYS RANKING (DON’T SNITCH)\n\nBelow it were names in a column, empty fields beside them, and small doodles in the margin: stars, arrows, a few smileys. He held the note in his hand a moment too long, as if he first had to get used to the fact that he was now supposed to “join in.”\n\nAt first, it was… strange. Rating boys by their looks—as if that were a math problem. He was one himself. And yet he noticed how much more easily it came to him than he had expected. The resistance inside him was only a thin, tired “this shouldn’t matter to me,” while beneath it something else had long since spread: a quiet, irritating realization that he could find boys attractive. And that he was no longer fighting it so hard.\n\nHis gaze lingered on Dylan.\n\nHe almost automatically wrote a 10 beside it.\n\nImmediately, he told himself that it had nothing to do with him. That it was simply objective. Everyone saw that. And when he briefly skimmed the column on the note, he noticed that there were indeed already several “10”s beside Dylan before him, some double-underlined. That reassured him in a stupid way. See? Not me. Just facts.\n\nAt Myles, he paused.\n\nHe thought of Christine. Of what she didn’t say and yet carried inside her. Of the bleachers, the tears, the “used.” Myles wasn’t ugly—Chris knew that. But this wasn’t only a beauty list; it was also a judgment, a small, mean piece of power.\n\nHe wrote down a 0. Beside it, he drew a tiny, angry face: >:(\n\nNot because Myles “deserved” it visually, but because Chris wanted it emotionally. And because in that moment he decided: girls stick together. Even if he himself wasn’t one.\n\nThen came Lucas.\n\nChris’s pen stopped, as if it had suddenly run out of ink. His heart beat once too hard, far too noticeably for a simple note. He thought of Lucas’s shy manner, of theater rehearsals, of that reliable being-beside-him. Of the story with the “official girlfriend,” which had once been cover and by now… something he didn’t want to name clearly.\n\nObjectively, he knew, Lucas might have been a 6 or 7—cute, yes, but not “Dylan poster boy” cute. Chris knew that. And yet, without calculating any further, he wrote a 10.\n\nEven twice. First the number, then he quickly added a small star beside it, as if it were a correction. 10★\n\nThe excuse followed immediately, polished and practical: I have to do it this way. As his official girlfriend. For the cover. So no one looks at it strangely. So it stays consistent. It had nothing to do with the warm tug in his chest, nothing to do with the brief wish to see Lucas’s name not just on a note, but everywhere.\n\nHe folded the note again, his cheeks restlessly warm, and passed it on as if it had only been a game. But his heart kept beating a few beats too fast—and he hated a little how caught he felt.\n\n[[Continue|Freitag, Homecoming-Fieber]]

At some point on Thursday, the new “counterpart” to the boys’ list appeared, as if the school had decided to restore balance: the girls had now made a ranking list too—this time about boys.\n<<set $ort to "classroom">>\nThe note traveled through the rows like a small hot potato. Giggling, eye-rolling, secret glances left and right. When it finally landed with Chris, at the top, in bold, aggressive letters, it said:\n\n“BOYS RANKING (DON’T SNITCH)”\n\nBelow that was a column of names and empty fields from 1 to 10.\n\nChris held the pen over the paper as if it were a math problem with a trick question. He actually wanted to give every boy a zero, just on principle—because boys were stupid, because he liked girls, because he refused to be part of a rating machine like this. But that would have been unfair, and he realized that fairness had by now almost automatically become more important to him than defiance.\n\nSo he forced himself to do it “right.” Objectively. As objectively as possible when you were sitting in the middle of high school and someone expected you to press people into numbers.\n\nTo his own annoyance, it came more easily to him than he had thought.\n\nAt Dylan, he put the pen down, hesitated for only the blink of an eye—and wrote a 10. He told himself it wasn’t a crush. Just… objective reality. Dylan was Dylan, after all. And when Chris briefly glanced upward, he saw that the girls before him had also rated Dylan a 10, some with little hearts or exclamation marks. That made it easier to hide: I’m only being consistent.\n\nStill, something tugged in his chest, because that 10 said more than he wanted to admit—not about Dylan, but about how automatically Chris’s hand had found its way there.\n\nAt Myles, he didn’t even pause. He wrote a 0. Not because Myles was ugly—Chris knew that “objectively,” Myles would probably rank high with many people. But Chris didn’t see the face of a “popular jock” when he looked at it. He saw Christine on the empty bleachers. He heard her broken “He’s going with someone else.” And then it was no longer a number, but a small, silent act of solidarity. Girls stuck together. Period.\n\nHe added a tiny, angry x beside it, so small it looked like an ink shadow.\n\nThen came Lucas.\n\nChris’s pen stopped, as if the tip had suddenly gone blunt. Lucas’s name lay there like a stone heavier than the others. For a while, Chris had pretended to be Lucas’s steady girlfriend—because of a kiss, because of fear for his reputation, because of a bad deal that had at some point taken on a life of its own. And when Chris had broken up with him, Lucas had been devastated. Chris remembered his face, the way he had tried to be brave and still looked broken.\n\nWhat did you give a boy you had hurt?\n\nHe looked at the other girls’ ratings: 5, 6, 7—somewhere in that range, mostly without comment. Then he noticed a single, clean 10. Beside it, in Ruby’s neat handwriting, a tiny star.\n\nChris’s heart made a small, unpleasant jump. Lately, he had actually seen Lucas and Ruby together more often—in the cafeteria, in the hallway, sometimes as if they were “pulling each other along.” Does Ruby like him? Chris wondered, and the thought came with a reflexive Good for him—honestly meant—and at the same time with a thin stab of jealousy that surprised him. Not romantic, he immediately told himself. More… out of guilt? Or because Lucas had once been his “safe space”?\n\nHe realized he had lingered on the name too long.\n\nQuickly, before he could think any further, he wrote down a 7—a number that looked neutral, that didn’t hurt anyone, that didn’t reveal too much. Then, almost automatically, he scribbled a small, harmless smiley beside it that looked more like “nice” than “hot.” As if that could defuse the whole thing.\n\nHe immediately folded the note partly closed and passed it on, as if it had grown too hot.\n\nWhen the pen was back in his hand, Chris realized how warm his face was. He was afraid someone might be able to see what those numbers really meant: not attractiveness, but feelings, guilt, defiance—and that unexpected, stupid tug when Ruby had given Lucas a 10.\n\n[[Continue|Freitag, Onlinedating.4]]

After school, the gym smelled as always of resin and exercise mats. Only one half of the hall was blocked off today, as if something was being repaired or rebuilt somewhere, and the echo sounded strangely different because of it.\n<<set $ort to "gym">>\nThe Pom Puffs stood in rows, poms at the edge, water bottles beside their bags. Mr. Moore had the list on his clipboard, his voice clear. “We’re going through the stunts cleanly again today. No shortcuts.”\n\nChris took his position, automatically checked his hand placement, and took one deep breath. Christine stood on her side of the formation, but she looked as if she were a few seconds behind everything. Her gaze didn’t quite go where it was supposed to. During the count, she came in late once, caught herself again, and gave a brief nod as if she had it under control.\n\n“Ready? Set!” Mr. Moore called.\n\nThe entry still worked. Then the transition. Chris felt the familiar weight in his hands—and at the same time a tiny bit of sloppiness, as if someone had shifted the line by half a centimeter. Christine was a fraction too early with her movement, or too late with the stabilization; it was barely visible, but in stunts, “barely” was enough.\n\nPenelope, up top as fly, wobbled, sticking her ass out. Nothing dramatic, just a brief tilt forward; Chris stared for another moment at her sexy peach-shaped butt and daydreamed about touching it indecently.\n\n“Down!” someone shouted, at the same time as a startled “Oh!”\n\n<center>[img[pics/cheerleader6.jpg]]</center> Penelope didn’t come cleanly into the planned cradle. She slipped, and her weight tipped into Chris. A dull oof—as two bodies and the edge of a mat met in a tight space. It sent his head directly between her thighs. He was squeezed in, head against thigh, knee against mat. Everything happened in two or three seconds.\n\nThen it was over.\n\nHands helped at once, a few steps backward, nervous laughter—a “All good!” “Yeah, yeah!” Chris stayed lying there for a moment, his hand instinctively at his side. It hurt, but not badly. No crack, no scream, just that brief burn of adrenaline and shock.\n\nMr. Moore blew his whistle sharply. A sound that made the gym go silent at once.\n\n“Stop.” He raised his hand, gaze moving over everyone until no one was giggling anymore. “That was a warning shot. Anyone hurt?”\n\n“All okay,” Penelope said, a little breathless.\n\nChris nodded as well. “All okay.”\n\nMr. Moore took a step closer, glanced briefly at Christine, then back to the group. His tone stayed controlled, but firmer than before. “We’re not doing any show parts anymore today. We’re doing safety fundamentals.” He tapped the pen against the clipboard. “Base positions. Spotter placement. Cradle technique. And we’ll practice aborts until it gets boring.”\n\nThe girls rearranged themselves, closer this time, more serious. Christine said nothing, but her jaw worked briefly, as if she were swallowing something down. Chris could still feel the echo of the impact in his side, and at the same time the tension in the team as it reordered itself: less shine, more framework.\n\n“Again,” Mr. Moore said. “Slow. Clean. Safe.”\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $schulball == 1>>[[Dylan wants to talk.|Dylan möchte reden.]]<<else>>[[Stress at home.|Stress zu Hause.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Only several minutes later did Zeke come back to himself. He felt Chris’s body beneath him, breathing heavily but not moving.\n\nFeeling somewhat guilty, he straightened up and looked Chris in the face.\n\n“Why are you crying?” Zeke asked as tears ran down Chris’s cheeks. “Did I hurt you?” He felt guilty because he had lost himself.\n\n“No, you didn’t. It was nice,” Chris answered.\n\nZeke looked Chris in the eyes: “Honestly?”\n\n“Yes.”\n\nThat sent a new wave of horniness through Zeke. His rod, which was still stuck in the tight hole, got really stiff again and automatically sank another centimeter deeper, making them both moan again.\n\nZeke pulled his cock out of him and commanded, “Lick it clean!” He wanted to know how far Chris was willing to go.\n\nChris obediently opened his mouth, which was immediately filled with a cock dripping with semen. Zeke had to brace himself. His knees were shaking. His cock protested at this renewed stimulation. Chris did his work eagerly and with full enjoyment. Now Zeke absolutely wanted to experience that kind of pleasure too, and at the same time work Chris over until he whimpered for mercy.\n\nFaster than Chris could even become aware of it, Zeke’s cock disappeared from his mouth, he felt his legs being pushed back, and the hot breath and the touch of lips and tongue on his testicles.\n\nThe entire little sack disappeared into his mouth. He played with the balls with his tongue. He tasted the delicious girl-sweat that had settled there since the concert. For the second time that day, Chris was incapable of any thought and moaned loudly. But Zeke wanted even more. He let the little balls slide out of his mouth and put the cock inside. With his lips, he pressed down firmly, pushing the foreskin out of the way. With one hand he massaged the shaft right at the root; with the other, he kneaded the little balls while his tongue performed a dance on the bare glans.\n\nOnly a few seconds later, Chris was twitching uncontrollably all over his body. But Zeke didn’t stop; instead, he intensified his efforts even more. He tightened his grip around the shaft. His lips applied even more pressure too, and his tongue also pressed firmly against the glans as he licked. By now Chris’s twitches were so intense that he could almost no longer be kept under control.\n\n“PLEEEEASE...… AAAAAHHHHHHHHHH....… SSSSTOOOOOP!! PLEEEEASE.......… UUUUUHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Chris begged loudly.\n\nZeke let him squirm for a few more minutes. He brought him right to the edge of orgasm again and again, then stopped each time. Until Chris finally discharged into Zeke’s mouth in a massive explosion and came with absolutely everything he had stored up in his balls.\n\nAfterward, Zeke stroked Chris’s chest and stomach until Chris had calmed down enough and was lying there with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. His cock had collapsed in on itself.\n\n[[Continue|Erwachen im Van.]]

When the second decision round came, Chris was already preparing himself inwardly to disappear from the stage again. He stood in the line, hands neatly folded in front of the bodice, the smile stapled in place, and listened as the host opened the envelope. The audience clapped at every name, as if it were all just a nice game — but to Chris, it felt as if every round of applause would either save him or tear him apart.\n\n“And our final three contestants are…”\n\nOne name. Applause.\n\nA second name. Louder applause.\n\nChris’s breath caught for a moment. He was sure another card would come now — not his.\n\n“…and Contestant number seventeen: Chris Braun!”\n\nFor a moment, he didn’t react. He blinked, as if he had misheard the name. Then the cheering hit him: somewhere far too loud (Ben, Jay, and Max, of course), a few astonished “Oh!”s from the audience, and the host waving him forward.\n\nChris took one step. Then another. His legs suddenly felt soft, as if they weren’t quite sure they wanted to carry this. It was absurd: he had hoped to be eliminated — and now he was among the final three. His mother at the edge was beaming as if she had expected it. Chris’s heart, meanwhile, was racing with both panic and a small, unwanted pride.\n\n“Final round!” called the host. “You each have twenty seconds for a short anecdote: My favorite Maplewood moment was… Something nice, something personal.”\n\nTwenty seconds. Chris heard the words like a threat. He saw the phone in the audience again, filming. He felt the possibility that a single crooked sentence might later be passed around at school. He forced himself to breathe slowly, and when it was his turn, he stepped up to the microphone.\n\nHe lifted his gaze just above the heads, let the smile grow soft, not too big.\n\n“My favorite Maplewood moment was…” he began, and his voice held. “…when someone at school helped me without even thinking about it, without asking questions. I had dropped something and was completely overwhelmed, and a girl from class simply picked it up, sorted it, gave me a quick smile, and moved on — as if kindness were normal here.”\n\nHe made a small pause, just one heartbeat.\n\n“That meant more to me than grand words,” he finished quietly.\n\nSome in the audience clapped warmly. Not thunderous, not spectacular — but honest enough that Chris felt his shoulders lower for a moment. And somewhere in the back, the nerds were clapping again as if they had just defeated a final boss.\n\n''Does Chris win the competition?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $temp == 2>>\n[[He comes in second.|Er wird Zweiter.]]\n<<else>>\n[[He comes in third.|Er wird Dritter.]]\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

During the second long break, a new piece of paper made the rounds. Ever since the boys had passed around their ranking list last week, it had been clear that this would not go unavenged. Now there was giggling in every corner, and suddenly the girls were whispering as conspiratorially as if they were planning a coup.\n<<set $ort to "classroom">>\nAt some point, the note landed on Chris’s desk. At the top, in large, thick letters, it said:\n\nBOYS RANKING (DON’T SNITCH)\n\nBelow that was a list of names, with two columns beside it: points (1–10) and notes. A few handwritings had already immortalized themselves—hearts, skulls, “meh,” “dreamy,” “ew.”\n\nChris stared at the paper as if someone had put a math problem in front of him that suddenly asked about personal feelings. Reflexively, he wanted to mark every boy with a zero, on principle. Boys are stupid, he thought. And besides—he liked girls. At least that was what he told himself. It would be so easy to dismiss the list as nonsense, slide it on, and pretend he had never seen it.\n\nBut there was also this scratchy feeling of unfairness. So he forced himself to treat the matter “objectively,” as objectively as a note like this could be.\n\nHe put the pen down and was surprised to realize it went more easily than he had thought. For some boys, he wrote an honest 4 or 5—not because he liked them, but because they were somehow… okay. For a theater kid, he put a 7 and scribbled a small 🎭 beside it, more as a joke about his “stage face” than out of any real interest. For a quiet guy from biology, he gave a 6 and drew a neutral smiley, because at least he never made stupid remarks.\n\nThen came Dylan.\n\nChris’s pen hovered over the line for a moment. His stomach did that tiny, treacherous jump. He forced himself to stay factual. Not because I find him hot, he explained to himself inwardly, but because it’s objectively true. Dylan was just… Dylan. And when Chris briefly looked up, he saw that almost all the girls before him had written “10” in the line. A few had added little hearts. One had even scribbled “MARRY ME” beside it.\n\nChris also wrote 10. As cover—and because he told himself it was only logic—he drew a small star beside it, not too noticeable, more like a footnote: yes, okay, obviously.\n\nFarther down was Myles.\n\nChris’s hand grew firm. For a moment, he felt a lump in his throat, Christine crying on the bleachers, her quiet “he used me.” He didn’t think; he simply wrote 0—and scribbled a tiny, angry face beside it: >:(. Not because Myles was ugly. But because Chris didn’t want anyone to “reward” him today. Out of solidarity. Girls stick together, he thought defiantly, as if that were a rule he was now signing too.\n\nHe let his gaze wander on, automatically searching for a name that mattered to him—Charlotte. He wanted to see what she had written, not out of gossip, but because everything between them since his confession hung in the air like unopened mail. But her name wasn’t on the list yet. She hadn’t had her turn.\n\nChris held the note a moment longer than necessary, the pen between his fingers, and felt that crooked mix: a little fun, a little guilt, a little truth hiding in numbers. Then he slid the paper on, as inconspicuously as if it were only a notebook—and at the same time hoped that Charlotte would at least look at him once today before the day ran away again.\n\n[[Continue|Freitag, Annäherung an Charlotte.]]

Chris’s thumb hovered over the display for a moment, as if he could still talk himself out of it. Then he typed in the address of the gym, ordered an Uber, and immediately felt that sharp mixture of excitement and guilt that tightened his stomach. The temptation was simply too great. And the thought of not doing it suddenly felt like a renunciation that would itch at him from the inside out.\n\nHe slipped the phone into the clutch, hastily splashed cold water onto his wrists, and looked in the mirror one more time. The midnight blue, the gloss, the earrings—everything looked so perfect, as if it belonged to an evening that had only just begun. Chris swallowed. Then he turned around and went back into the gym, as if he were only stepping out for a little air.\n\nLucas was standing where he had left him, and his face brightened when he saw Chris. “Everything okay?”\n\nChris forced himself to give a weak smile that immediately felt wrong. “I… I kind of feel sick,” he said, placing a hand on his stomach, as if the gesture would make the sentence more believable. “Maybe the punch was too sweet or… I don’t know. I think I need to go home.”\n\nLucas’s forehead creased with concern. He stepped closer, his hand already half extended, as if he wanted to steady Chris. “What? Come on, then I’ll take you. We’ll go out together. I can—”\n\n“No.” The word came too quickly. Chris caught himself and lowered his voice. “No, really. I… I don’t want you to miss the evening. I’m sure it’ll pass soon, and I… I can manage.” He felt his heart beating faster, not because of nausea, but because of the lie. “Please.”\n\nLucas looked at him, as if torn between trust and worry. “Chris, I don’t want you going alone—”\n\n“Lucas.” Chris’s voice grew softer, almost pleading. “Please. Let me be alone for a bit. I’ll message you as soon as I’m home. Promise.”\n\nLucas held his gaze for another moment, then slowly nodded, reluctantly. “Okay… but text me. Right away.”\n\n“I will.” Chris forced himself to squeeze Lucas’s hand briefly, as if this were a normal goodbye. Something inside him screamed that he was in the middle of breaking a beautiful evening. But his feet were already moving.\n\nHe pushed through the crowd toward the exit. The music remained behind him like a pulsing heart he was leaving behind. Outside, the cool air hit him, and for a moment he actually felt a little dizzy—not sick, but overwhelmed.\n\nChris stood at the edge of the parking lot, the clutch pressed tightly to his side. He waited, staring at the road, his breath visible as he exhaled. Every second he stood there made the whole thing more real. At the same time, he thought of Lucas’s face, of the “I’ll take you,” and guilt tightened around his ribs like a thin wire.\n\nThen a car turned the corner and pulled up in front of him. The Uber.\n\nChris opened the door, sat down, and carefully adjusted the skirt of his dress, as if order were the only thing he could still control. He gave the address curtly, heard his own voice as if from far away, and as the car pulled away, the light of the gym behind him grew smaller and smaller, until only darkness and streetlights remained.\n<<set $ende to 0>><<set $lucas_opinion to 0>>\n[[Continue|Ankunft am Motel.]]

Chris blew a small cloud of breath into the cold air. “Something that isn’t as confining as right now,” he said, only realizing afterward how ambiguous it sounded. He laughed awkwardly. “Maybe something with language. Or just somewhere no one shoves me into a box.”\n\nEthan nodded slowly. “Sounds like you’ve already seen a few boxes.”\n\n“Something like that,” Chris murmured.\n\nThe wind swept over his bare thighs, making the goosebumps stronger. He crossed his arms, not sure whether because of the cold or because of the look that still made him warm. Ethan noticed.\n\n“You’re cold,” he said. Not an accusation, more a statement.\n\n“I’m fine,” Chris lied automatically.\n\n“Mhm.” Ethan tossed the cigarette into a waiting ashtray and carefully stubbed it out. “So I could ask you, super cheesily, if you want to come back inside so I can dance you warm again.” His grin turned crooked. “But honestly, that would only be fifty percent a joke.”\n\nChris laughed again, and this time it sounded more genuine. It was pleasant with him. No crude lines, no hands that simply wanted to go somewhere. Just a calm boy who listened and occasionally hit the mark without aiming too hard.\n\n“Do you want to?” Ethan finally asked. “Go back inside? Maybe dance. Or get something to drink. You’re shivering like someone who’s about to end up an ice statue.”\n\nChris almost wanted to say yes. The impulse was there: to let this quiet pull carry him along, away from his thoughts, into something that should feel normal for a girl. A cute boy who liked him. Another step into this role that felt less and less like a role.\n\nThen came a jolt. Like a last bit of clarity catching on an edge.\n\nI’m drunk.\nI’m here because of Christine.\n\nHe shook his head, a little too hard. “I… I need to find my sister,” he said. “Check if everything’s okay.”\n\nEthan looked at him for a moment, studied his face, not his skirt. Then he nodded. “Good reason,” he said simply. “Maybe I’ll see you inside.”\n\n“Maybe,” said Chris.\n\nHe gave Ethan a small, grateful smile and then turned toward the door, feeling the cold once more on his legs before the warmth and noise of the party would swallow him again.\n\n[[Continue|Zurück ins Wohnzimmer.]]

Susan’s strict hand “paid off”—at least on paper. Chris’s grades started climbing again. Not because he was suddenly doing better, but because he functioned. He studied according to plan, made flashcards, did practice problems until the numbers blurred, reviewed material in the bathroom, in the kitchen, on the bus. And when the exhaustion came, he thought of his mother’s threat: “You’re going to cosmetology school if you don’t make it into college.”\n\nIt was as if she had shown him a cage, even tighter than the current one, and said: If you don’t try hard enough, I’ll lock you in there. That was enough as motivation.\n\nThe final semester of school went like a tightrope walk. There were moments when his disguise almost tore—a wrong look in the locker room, a question that came too close, an unexpected medical check, a remark that made him stare for a second. But somehow, everything held. Miraculously. Maybe because, in the end, people only saw what they wanted to see. Maybe also because Chris now fit so perfectly into everyday life that it no longer occurred to anyone to look more closely.\n\nThen came the day with the mailbox.\n\nTwo envelopes were lying there, thick, official, with the same college logo. One addressed to Christine, one to him. Chris felt that familiar prickling the moment he touched it—fear and hope, tightly hooked into each other. He tore the envelope open, read the first lines, then read them again because, for a second, his mind didn’t want to believe what his eyes were seeing.\n\nHe had been accepted.\n\n“Chris!” Christine called out at the same time, her voice cracking. She held her letter up as if it were a trophy, and then—without thinking, without distance, without a role—they fell into each other’s arms. For a moment, everything was light. Chris hugged her tightly and truly laughed. In his head, one sentence burst like fireworks: Freedom. A room of his own. A daily life of his own. Away from high school. Away from Maplewood. And most of all: away from his mother.\n\nChristine pulled away first, wiping at her eyes as if there were suddenly dust there. “We did it,” she said breathlessly, half proud, half disbelieving.\n\nChris only nodded, because otherwise he would have said too much.\n\nLater, Christine changed clothes, wrote messages, laughed into her phone, and was already standing with one hand on the front door. “I’m going to celebrate with the girls,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears. Then she hesitated briefly, looking at Chris. “Do you want to come?”\n\nChris immediately felt the image rise up inside him: himself among her friends, out of place, too close and yet on the outside. The fifth wheel they drag along out of politeness. He gave a small smile. “No. It’s okay. You go celebrate.”\n\nChristine nodded, accepting it quickly—maybe too quickly—and then she was already gone, the door falling shut behind her.\n\nChris stayed standing in the hallway, the acceptance letter still in his hand, and listened to her footsteps disappear. The joy was still there, bright and real. But now it had edges again. He looked at the logo, ran his thumb over the paper, and thought: Just a little longer. Just a little longer, and something new begins.\n\n[[Continue|Die Collegeaufnahme wird gefeiert.]]

They had fun almost immediately. Lucas first led Chris to the drink station, where large punch bowls stood and plastic cups clacked. Chris got himself something sweet, definitely nonalcoholic, more sugar than anything else, and had to smile at himself, at how suddenly he felt like he “belonged” just because he was standing among string lights with a cup in his hand. They wandered through the gym, looked at the decorations, laughed about a few embarrassing props at the photo booth, and danced in between to the fast songs without really knowing any steps. Chris noticed his shoulders loosening. He stopped constantly checking himself. He simply moved.\n<<set $LucasMemory[8] to 1>>\nWhen the DJ eventually slowed the tempo and the first notes of a slow song glided across the floor, the mood changed as if someone had flipped a switch. Couples found each other, voices grew quieter, movements more careful. Chris’s stomach tightened because one very specific problem made itself known: lead or be led? His mind searched for rules, for the “right” way to behave—and found only uncertainty.\n\nLucas stepped in front of him, paused briefly, as if asking without speaking. Then he placed one hand calmly on Chris’s waist, exactly where it felt safe, and offered him the other. No show, no exaggeration. Just matter-of-fact. As if it were the most normal thing in the world for them to be standing like this.\n\nChris’s fingers found Lucas’s hand. A small squeeze, and Lucas began to lead—gently, almost imperceptibly. A step to the side, a step back, a quiet turn in time with the music. Chris noticed how, after a moment, his body stopped arguing. He didn’t have to plan, didn’t have to think, didn’t have to be “right.” He could follow. And to his own surprise, he liked it.\n\nIt was as if someone loosened a string inside him that had been pulled too tight. The music was soft, the string lights above them glowed like stars, and Lucas’s hand on his waist was a silent promise: I’ve got you. Chris exhaled and felt his head empty. For a few seconds there was only the rhythm, the floor beneath his feet, the scent of perfume and gym air, and Lucas so close that the world became smaller and safer at the same time.\n\nIt wasn’t magical because everything went perfectly—but because Chris stopped being afraid and realized that he didn’t lose himself in being led. He found something he hadn’t been looking for: peace.\n\nAround them, some couples were kissing, brief and bold, as if it were part of the program. Chris saw it out of the corner of his eye, and his gaze automatically returned to Lucas. Lucas looked at him, longer than necessary. Between them lay that tiny distance that suddenly became a question. Chris’s heart beat faster. He wanted to—and at the same time there was the panic of being in public, of eyes on him, of the feeling that every kiss could be a spotlight.\n\nLucas’s gaze flickered briefly to the others, then back to Chris. Neither of them moved. Neither of them dared.\n\nInstead, Lucas simply pulled him closer. Very close. So close that Chris’s forehead touched Lucas’s cheek, and Chris felt the firm, warm pressure of his hand against his back. It wasn’t a kiss, but it was something else that struck Chris just as deeply: that silently spoken You don’t have to prove anything. I’m here.\n\nChris closed his eyes for a moment and let himself be held while the song continued and the gym around them blurred into the background.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $barnett == 1 >>[[Message from Mrs. Barnett|Nachricht von Mrs. Barnett]]<<else>>[[The DJ announces the next song.|Der Dj kündigt das nächste Lied an.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

They arrived home in silence. Christine disappeared into the bathroom with an “I… need a minute”; the water ran for a long time, and later the scent of foam and shampoo mingled with the faint note of vanilla seeping out of Chris’s room.\n<<set $ort to "at home">><<set $ChristineMemory[4] to 1>>\nHe was already lying in bed. A pink satin negligee lay against his skin, simple and soft: narrow straps, a gentle V-neck, the fabric smooth as water, the hem just above the knee. It felt like a quiet protective film over his skin. Two vanilla-scented candles burned on the vanity and on the shelf, muted, warm, making the room breathe more calmly.\n\nThe door opened quietly. Christine stepped in—her hair loose, her eyes still a little red, wearing a light nightgown with delicate lace at the neckline and short sleeves. The fabric was soft and opaque. But the sight of her pretty bare legs wasn’t to be dismissed either. Because the nightgown was so short that it only just reached below her butt, and you could see her white cotton panties.\n\nShe stopped by the bed, hesitated only for the fraction of a second.\n\n“Can I… sleep with you tonight?” Her voice was small.\n\nIt was a familiar question. As children, she had often slept with him when a movie had been too scary or there was a thunderstorm outside. Back then, he had told her stories until the shadows on the wall became harmless.\n\nChris silently lifted the blanket. Christine crawled underneath, turning her back to him. He put his arm around her, and she moved closer. The siblings cuddled close together in Chris’s bed. Chris kept tenderly stroking her hair, which smelled wonderfully of strawberry shampoo.\n\nAt first the silence stretched out, then Christine filled it with a fragile breath. “I feel so…” She searched for the word, staring into the half-dark. “Ugly.” The last part came quickly, as if she wanted to get it out before she could take it back. “Too thin. Nothing there. Flat. Always have been. And then you think it’s because of you when someone…” Her voice broke off. “When someone doesn’t want you.”\n\nChris shook his head, slowly, so she could feel it. “No.” He let the word sound firm. “You’re beautiful.” He stroked her hair soothingly, strand by strand, until the tension in her neck eased a little. “Beautiful because you’re you.”\n\nUnder his hand, her breathing grew a few beats calmer. She didn’t turn her head, kept speaking into the blanket. “You say that like… like it’s true.”\n\n“It is true,” he said. He let his hand rest there, evenly warm, and felt his little sister suddenly snuggle even closer against him. Her sweet little butt pressed against his crotch and she clung to his arm so that Chris could feel her nipples through the thin nightgown.\n\nA pause, in which only the soft crackling of the candles could be heard. Then, more brokenly: “Before the game… in the locker room.” She swallowed. “Myles. He…” The words scraped. “He wanted another... And I thought if I gave it to him, then…” She drew in a breath, forced it back out. “After the game, he broke up with me. Just like that. He used me and threw me away. Because I’m so ugly.”\n\nChris closed his eyes. The anger remained silent, deep down.\n<<set $myles_opinion to 1>>\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $temp == 1>>[[Chris remembers the locker room.|Chris erinnert sich an die Umkleide.]]<<else>>[[Chris gives his sister encouragement.|Chris redet seiner Schwester gut zu.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Saturday lay over the house like cotton wool. Chris had retreated to his room, the curtains half closed, a schoolbook open without him really reading. The silence smelled of the vanilla candle from the night before.\n<<set $wochentag = 6>><<set $wetter = 2>><<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">>\nThe door opened without a knock. His mother stuck her head in, then came all the way inside, hands planted on her hips. “There you are. Of course.” Her gaze glided once over the vanity, the neat stack of notebooks, the quiet boy in the pretty dress. “You’ve stayed a homebody—just like before, when you were a boy. You meet up with people your own age far too rarely.”\n\nChris only glanced up briefly. “I was at the game yesterday. And...”\n\n“Doing something once a week doesn’t count as a social life,” she interrupted him. Her tone was sugary. “But—” She smiled as if presenting a gift. “I have a solution. Online dating. That way you’ll meet new people, make contacts. That’s perfectly normal nowadays.”\n\nChris sat up. “What? Mom, no.”\n\n“Yes. You need input from outside. Friendships, dates, networks.” She went to the vanity, tapped her finger on his phone lying there. “We’ll set up a profile for you. A few good photos. And a nice, inviting text.”\n\nHe felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. “I don’t want that. It’s… embarrassing. And dangerous. And—” He fell silent, because “dangerous” sounded like an excuse to Susan’s ears.\n\nShe tilted her head, her voice now honey-sweet. “Imagine how pretty you’ll look in the pictures. Smiling, eye contact—perfect practice. Besides: you’ll learn to set boundaries. And you’re old enough, Chris. You can do this.”\n\n“I don’t want that,” he repeated, more quietly. He pressed his lips together and searched for a sentence that could slow his mother down without opening a new door.\n\n''Does he have an idea?''\n<<nobr>><<if $schulball == 0>><<if $charlotte <2 >>❯ [[He has no idea.|Keine Idee.]]\n<<else>>\n❯ [[He has a girlfriend.|Er hat eine Freundin.]]<<endif>><<endif>>\n<<if $schulball == 1>>❯ [[He already has a date with Dylan.|Er ist schon mit Dylan verabredet.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $schulball == 2>>❯ [[He already has a date with Lucas.|Er ist schon mit Lucas verabredet.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $schulball == 3>>❯ [[He already has a date with Adam.|Er ist schon mit Adam verabredet.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>\n<<if $zeke == 2 && $charlotte <2>>❯ [[He has a concert date with Zeke.|Er hat ein Konzert-Date mit Zeke.][$zeke += 1]]<<endif>>

Chris decided to play with the dark-haired man. He didn’t make a big statement of it—just a small nod in his direction, an “Okay, then… us two,” and already it felt as if he had opened a door behind which it was too warm.\n<<set $ort to "pool hall">>\n“I’m Nate,” the dark-haired man said, offering him his hand. His voice was rough, friendly.\n\nChris’s stomach tied itself into a small knot. “Chris,” he said, and noticed how hard he was trying to sound normal.\n\nNate gestured to the balls. “You break first.”\n\n“What do I have to do? Just knock the balls into the holes?” Chris asked.\n\n“The goal is simple: if you have solids, you sink the solids. If you have stripes, you sink the stripes. And the black eight comes last. And you’re not allowed to…” He pointed at the corner pockets. “…sink it too early by accident. That’s the classic mistake.”\n\nChris nodded as if he understood, though his head was more occupied with not looking too much at Nate’s arms. The rolled-up sleeves showed forearms that tightened with every small movement. Ignore it, he told himself. It doesn’t matter. Just pool.\n\nHe positioned himself at the table, bent forward with his legs slightly apart, and tried to line up the cue ball. Nate behind him had a perfect view of Chris’s butt. The position immediately felt wrong. He drew back.\n\nClack. The cue shot past the white ball and hit… air.\n\n“Oof,” Zoe said without looking up, while whispering something to the blond with a broad smile.\n\nChris grew hot. “I…” He straightened up, pulling the cue close as if he had to apologize for it.\n\nNate didn’t laugh mockingly, just briefly and easily. “It’s fine. Happens to everyone.” He stepped closer, pointing at Chris’s hands. “You’re holding it too stiffly. Put your hand like this—” He formed a small bridge with his fingers on the table. “And the cue slides over it. And you don’t aim with your eyes… you aim with the line. Like an arrow.”\n\nChris tried to copy him, but his fingers suddenly felt too long. Nate said, “Wait. I’ll show you.”\n\nHe stood behind Chris. Chris flinched briefly, but then thought that Nate was only going to show him the game. Nate stroked his arms as he brought him into position to hit the ball. Chris was confused inside, because those touches led to that strange feeling. Then he took a step back and let Chris do it alone. Whack, the second shot missed again. “Oh, I guess that didn’t work either,” Chris laughed, a little embarrassed.\n\nNate grinned and stood behind him again. Took Chris in his arms from behind and now guided his arms. “Then I guess we’d better do it together once.” He bent Chris over the table so that his pelvis pressed right against Chris’s backside. Chris looked at him and wanted to say something, but couldn’t. His head told him that this was absolutely not the right way for Nate to explain the game to him, but his body spoke a completely different language and wanted him to show it to him exactly like that.\n\nNate’s hand settled over Chris’s wrist, guiding the cue a fraction lower. His breathing was calm. “Okay. Now slowly. Don’t hit. Push.”\n\nChris held his breath without meaning to. The contact was close enough that Chris felt his cock in his pants—and his body reacted at once, as if someone had plucked a hidden string. Pull yourself together, he thought in panic. This is nothing, Chris insisted to himself when he noticed Nate pressing him even farther down and his breasts touching the table through the fabric of his blouse. Chris swallowed, breathed out, and let himself be guided.\n\n“Now,” Nate said.\n\nChris shot.\n\nClack. The white ball hit cleanly, a colored ball rolled across the green felt and disappeared into the pocket with a satisfying plop.\n\nChris straightened up, surprised, and a genuine smile flashed across his face before he could stop it. “Oh. I… I hit it.”\n\n“See?” Nate grinned. “Natural talent.”\n\nThe sentence landed uncomfortably well. Chris’s chest grew warm, the way it does when you’re praised even though you don’t deserve it. He wanted to push it away, but it stayed.\n\nOn the next shot, he tried it alone. This time the ball missed, rolled cheekily past the pocket, and stopped right on the edge as if it wanted to laugh at him. Chris sighed. Nate only shrugged. “Better. At least you’re hitting something now.”\n\n[[Continue|Das andere Team ist an der Reihe]]

Susan turned to the next page. “Your effect on others? You don’t stand out in a positive way. You’re not a magnet, you’re an edge. An outsider, just like before.” A short, merciless smile. “Except now you’re standing at the edge as an unpopular girl. You don’t send signals that draw people in. You don’t occupy spaces, you ask permission from them. People remember you when something goes wrong, not when something shines.” She raised her eyebrows. “That isn’t fate. It’s habit.”\n\nThat burned differently. Something inside Chris tightened—a mixture of protest and the painful realization that he had no “natural” island to stand on. The old, stubborn outsider ache announced itself, only in new colors. He kept his gaze lowered so she wouldn’t see how it flickered inside him. Unpopular girl. The label felt like double-sided tape: sticky on the outside and on the inside.\n\n''How does his mother assess him?''\n<<nobr>><<if $tarnung <= 4>>[[Negative|Negativ3]]<<endif>>\n<<if $tarnung >= 5 && $tarnung <= 6>>[[Average|Durchschnitt3][$temp += 1]]<<endif>>\n<<if $tarnung >= 7>>[[Positive|Positiv3][$temp += 2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

<div class="psychedelic-text">Chris let it happen.\n\n“Okay,” he said softly, barely audible, more out of reflex than real consent.\n\nThe boy grinned broadly, as if he had been waiting for exactly that. He pulled Chris onto the dance floor with him, right into the flickering light and the tightly packed circle of bodies. The bass thudded so deep that Chris felt as if his ribcage were being conducted from the outside.\n\n“That’s better,” the guy shouted into his ear, far too close.\n\nHe grabbed Chris by the hands, whirled him around, faster than the heels allowed. Chris stumbled, caught himself, let out a short, uncertain laugh because nothing else came to mind. The miniskirt rode a touch higher, the air on his thighs suddenly cold. The guy positioned him closer again, as if moving a doll into place.\n\nThe alcohol finally went straight to Chris’s head. The room swam lightly. Faces blurred into patches of color; he could no longer tell whether someone was looking at him or simply standing at the edge. His body danced half a second behind, the beat and the boy’s hands determining the radius.\n\nThe boy moved closer, his hand tight on Chris’s hip, before Chris could even form another clear thought. The bass thudded dully against his ribs, the light flickered, and then suddenly the boy’s mouth was on his.\n\nThe kiss was wet, heavy, too insistent. The taste of cheap alcohol, something sweet, and cigarettes. Not a cautious approach, but an assault. Chris’s lips stayed rigid at first, then gave way, more reflex than consent, because his body was fogged and his head too slow. It felt wrong, as if someone were reaching into his space and rearranging everything without asking.\n\nThe touches grew rougher. At first it was only a hand at his waist, then lower. A grip that was no longer loose, but possessive. The hips pressed more firmly against his. Chris’s breath caught when he felt his hard cock. He tried to take a step back, but the guy followed, didn’t let go.\n\n“You’re really something special,” he slurred at him. “So soft…” The fingers slid farther, to places they didn’t belong. Chris felt his hand on his butt. He groped his ass through the miniskirt.” No longer an accident, no “oops, it happens while dancing.” It was deliberate. A boundary, crossed.\n\nThe guy’s hand felt like a brand.</div>\n\n''How does Chris react?''\n<<nobr>><<if $alkohol < 2>>[[He slaps him.|Er gibt ihm eine Ohrfeige.]]<<else>>[[Chris is too drunk.|Chris ist zu betrunken.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Susan’s verdict was merciless. “Insufficient,” she said, as if it were a grade, “and in all three areas.” The pen snapped shut, the notepad closed. “You’re not making enough effort. You’re holding on where you need to let go. So you’re getting a punishment.”\n\n“I did try,” Chris burst out. The words stumbled, his hands trembling. “Really, I—I tried.”\n\n“I don’t believe you,” his mother replied calmly, and that calm was what hurt most. “Trying is not a result. Stand up.”\n\nHe followed her into the bathroom. The light was too bright, the mirror too large. Susan spoke quietly, yet every word sounded like a verdict: “Today’s punishment is meant to motivate you to do more next month. Take off your clothes.”\n\nChris stripped naked. The tiles felt cold, the mirror watched.\n\n“Now lean forward over the tub and hold still.” In the commanded position, Chris waited to see what would happen next. His mother came back with a small tube with a pump. The tube had a small attachment at the end that looked like a very thin dildo.\n\nShe came up behind him, caressed his bottom and grinned with joy. Then she pulled Chris' butt cheeks apart and attached the hose. With a slight twisting movement, she pushed the hose inexorably into his bottom. Chris arched his back and quickly realized that his unprepared gate hurt. Chris groaned, the moan mutating into more of a feminine squeal. Chris automatically had a strong urge to push the foreign body out. He felt full. His hole still had to get used to this unusual stretch.\n\nThe other end of the hose went into the American toilet bowl filled with water.\n\n“I’ve wanted to try this thing for a long time.” laughed Susan and started pumping.\n\nHe felt the cold water from the toilet rush into his intestines, filling him as his intestines stretched.\n\n“Let’s see if you defect.” she laughed again.\n\nChris was getting fuller. It would soon spurt out of him like a fountain, he thought. His stomach also felt big, as if he hadn't used the toilet in two weeks.\n\nChris started to cry. Not loud, more like someone running out of breath too quickly. It was a mixture of pain and shame and the paralyzing feeling of standing in front of that mirror again—the place where he would most like to disappear. His mother stuck to her role: controlling, unyielding. “Breathe,” she said once, as his sobs hitched. "Now listen carefully to me: Next month I want to see progress. Real. Step. By. Step. No more excuses."\n\nThen she finishes her pumping.\n"Now, hold still. Your butt is pretty full. I have to close it first so you can move again." Susan pulled off the hose and plugged the small dildo with a plug. “Now put it back down.”\n\nChris straightened up again. The uncomfortable feeling of the narrow dildo was now made worse by his water-filled intestines.\n\n[[Continue|Etwas später.]]\n

Saturday evening slowly tightened like a knot. Chris had felt all day as if the dance were waiting for him like a spotlight, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. As dusk fell, he locked himself in his room and began the ritual, step by step, because each step calmed him.\n<<set $wochentag = 6>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "Chris's girly bedroom">>\nAt the vanity, he worked with practiced routine: foundation, so everything looked even, a hint of blush that made him look alive, his eyelids softly darkened, lashes, gloss. Then perfume—a warm, sweet scent that felt like a finished role. His hair sat neatly, not too playful, more smooth and deliberate.\n\nThen came getting dressed, and although he was used to a lot by now, this part remained the strangest every time.\n\nFirst the hold-up stockings: He carefully pulled them up until the silicone bands sat against his thighs and lightly clung there. They felt luxurious and vulnerable at the same time, as if he suddenly no longer had any “normal” layer of clothing between himself and the world. Then the stick-on bra: two smooth cups that he positioned with steady hands so everything would hold in front while his back stayed bare. He breathed shallowly as he did it, because he feared every peel, every slip.\n\nThe thong was still the strangest thing. He held it in his hands for a moment before putting it on, and immediately felt that sensation of a string between his butt cheeks. It sat the way it was supposed to—practically invisible—but Chris felt so naked in it, as if he had a secret directly on his skin. He stood still for a moment to let the feeling become “normal,” but it only became... less noticeable, not truly normal.\n\n<center>[img[pics/outfit8.jpg]]</center> The dress waited like a decision. Midnight blue, shimmering, elegant, backless. He stepped into it, pulled the fabric up, smoothed it down. From the front it looked almost proper—a narrow neckline, a clean fall—but as soon as he turned, the mirror showed the open back, framed by delicate little straps. The fabric shimmered with every movement. It looked good. Too good. So good that he felt caught in the act just for looking like that at all.\n\nThe silver sandals clicked softly on the floor as he slipped into them. He picked up the clutch—small, covered in satin, the edge finely trimmed in silver, just big enough for his phone and the essentials. In his hand it looked like an accessory that said “dance,” even as his stomach whispered “escape.”\n\nChris stood in front of the mirror.\n\nHe was ready. And that was exactly what scared him. He could not decide whether he felt like a pretty mannequin in a shop window or like someone about to do something forbidden simply by opening the front door. He looked down at himself, unconsciously tugged at an invisible hem, checked the straps, the fit of the bra, the smooth line of fabric across his back. He felt insecure about going out onto the street so polished, as if every glance could see straight through him and recognize the boy underneath.\n\n[[Continue|Seine Mutter kommt ins Zimmer.]]

“I… already have a girlfriend. Charlotte,” says Chris.\n\nIt sounded thinner than he had hoped, more like a claim than a fact. He could feel himself how little conviction there was in it—because he didn’t even know what they were right now. But everything in him resisted the idea of opening profiles and chats with strangers.\n\nSusan blinked, assessing. “Aha. Since when?”\n\n“A few weeks.” He lifted his shoulders, acting as if it were all completely normal. “We’re… taking it slow.”\n\n“Mhm.” Her gaze stayed on his face a beat too long, then she nodded. “Good. For now.” It sounded like a bookmark, not a full stop. “Then you don’t need online dating—as long as you make an effort and get out among people.” She smoothed the curtain, as if she had to give the scene a neat edge. “I’ll ask you again next week.”\n\nWhen she left, the silence fell back like a blanket. Chris breathed out, sat down on the edge of the bed, and stared at his phone. If you say that, you have to live it too, he thought, a touch defiant, a touch afraid. He opened the chat.\n\n“Hey. Do you have time later? Maybe a quick call?”\n\nThe three dots appeared, disappeared, came back. Finally:\n\n“Bad today. Lots to do.”\n\nHe waited to see whether anything else would come—a heart, a smiley, a “tomorrow?”—nothing. Just the gray background and the time beside the message. He typed “All right. Let me know when it works” and placed the phone face down on the vanity.\n\nThe relief of having fended off his mother for the time being mixed with that small, dull sting that remained. He pulled his knees up, briefly leaned his forehead against them, and told himself that “for now” had to be enough today. Tomorrow he could try to reach Charlotte again. Today, quietly continuing to breathe was enough.\n\n[[Continue|Am Abend im Bett.]]

Chris decided to stay silent.\n\nThe words sat in his throat like an oversized lump, shapeless and heavy. He didn’t know where to start. “I read your diary” was impossible. “Watch out for Myles” sounded patronizing. And the mere thought that his little sister might sleep with Myles placed a cold, unfamiliar hand in his stomach. That was a door in her life, and he didn’t know whether he had the right to even look at it.\n\nChristine turned her head, her hair bouncing slightly. “What is it?” she asked. Her eyes briefly slid over his outfit, then searched his face.\n\nHe realized he was staring at her. Chris swallowed. “Nothing,” he said. “All good.”\n\nShe held his gaze for another moment, as if considering whether to press him. Then she shrugged one shoulder, gave a brief “Hm,” and looked forward again.\n\nThey continued down the street, side by side. Chris focused on his steps in the heels, on the miniskirt that crept up just a little with every step. The neighborhood rushed past them: front yards, parked cars, music from an open window somewhere. Not another word was said.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $party2 == 0>><<if $stil > 7>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.]]<<else>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.2]]<<endif>><<endif>>\n<<if $party2 == 1>><<if $stil > 7>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.b]]<<else>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.2b]]<<endif>><<endif>>\n<<if $party2 == 2>><<if $stil > 7>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.c]]<<else>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.2c]]<<endif>><<endif>><</nobr>>

[[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]] intercepted him during break, his hands nervously in his pockets. “Would you like to go to the movies after school today?”<<set $ort to "school">>\n\nChris smiled automatically. “Sure.” He heard himself say what he had to say; being the girlfriend was a role, and by now he played roles confidently. He thought.\n\nNo sooner was Lucas gone than Christine leaned toward his shoulder. “Movies with the boyfriend means darkness means making out,” she murmured dryly.\n\nThe sentence slid down his back like an ice cube. A hard lump settled in his throat. He had been thinking of trailers, of a quiet theater—not of lips that had expectations.\n\nAfter school, they walked to the cinema. The foyer smelled of Coke and popcorn. Lucas paid without hesitation—drinks, one large popcorn for both of them. “I’ve got it,” he said quietly, as if it were obvious. Chris felt a surprisingly pleasant tug in his chest; being taken care of felt… nice. Dangerously nice.\n\nAt the ticket counter, Lucas tilted his head. “What do you want to see: June & the Fireflies or Orbital Rift?”\n\nJune & the Fireflies was a romance movie, and romance leads to making out, Christine’s voice echoed in his head. He had wanted to see Orbital Rift anyway—spaceships, stars, clean lines, no kisses demanding answers.\n\nHe stood for a moment between the smell of popcorn and the shine of posters, his yes and no drumming against the glass from the inside. Then he lifted his gaze to Lucas.\n\n''Which movie does Chris want to see?''\n❯ [[He says June & the Fireflies, even though the thought immediately occurs to him that romance in the dark could lead to more.|June & the Fireflies anschauen.][$kissboy += 1;$lucaslove += 1;$chris_opinion += 10]]\n❯ [[He decides on Orbital Rift, preferring to avoid an overly romantic movie date.|Orbital Rift anschauen.]]

The boss cleared his throat, ran his thumb over the clip on his board, and put on a smile. “Good. Then… we’ll do it like this. You’ve got the job.” A brief glance to the side, as if he were listening inwardly. “We’ll give it a try. For your mother’s sake.” The last word fell like a stone into the sink.\n\nChris nodded, feeling both relief and a tightening in his chest at the same time. Acceptance—without joy. He stood up, thanked him curtly, and followed him through the door back into the diner.\n\nOut front, it smelled again of coffee and syrup. Two waitresses glided past him, trays at hip height, aprons tied, smiles on autopilot. One called “Refill?” over her shoulder, while the other steered three plates confidently through the narrow aisle. Chris stopped briefly and saw the picture he would soon be expected to belong to: the chrome gleam of the counter, the bell above the pass, the calls from the kitchen, his own steps between tables, the friendly nod that would eventually slip into his muscles. Part of him sorted movements—keep one hand free, shoulders loose—while another quietly asked how much of him would still be able to breathe in there.\n\nOutside, Susan was waiting beside the car, her hands clenched around the keys. “Well?”\n\n“I got the job.” The words came calmly, without jubilation.\n\n“I knew it!” Her joy switched on immediately, shiny and light. “Very good, Chris.”\n\nHe gave a small smile that didn’t feel solid and got in. On the drive back, the turn signal hummed at intersections, the town passing by in familiar tiles. Susan steered with one hand, the other tapping once against the steering wheel, as if placing punctuation marks in her thoughts.\n\n“Just one more thing,” she said then, casually, but with that undertone that wasn’t casual. “Rick is… how should I put it… well, Rick. Watch yourself around him a little as a girl, all right? Smile—but not too much. You know.”\n\nChris looked out the window, past his reflection. A quiet pressure settled over his ribs, familiar as a belt pulled too tight. “Got it,” he said. His voice stayed gentle.\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch.]]

He risked the glance—just a hint, hardly more than a tremor of the pupil. First the face: Charlotte’s bangs had come loose and fell softly across her forehead. His gaze slipped farther—over the collarbone, a freckle there standing alone like an exclamation point—and brushed the narrow strap of a bra at her shoulder.\n\n“Hey, Chris?” Charlotte’s voice sounded friendly and matter-of-fact. She stood one locker over, half turned toward him, without the slightest embarrassment. “What size did you take for the shorts? S feels so… well, Maplewood S is sometimes ‘children’s size.’” A soft laugh.\n\n“Uh… S,” he managed. “They… fit.”\n\nAs Chris now caught sight of her in her lingerie, his breath was quite literally taken away. Charlotte’s breasts were large—so wonderfully shaped and firm that Chris was absolutely certain they wouldn’t yield to gravity by even a single millimeter, were they suddenly to lose the support of her bra. To top it all off, Charlotte possessed a flat stomach and slightly muscular, perfectly sculpted thighs and calves. And then there was what he saw between her thighs.\n\nHeat flew into his face; he lowered his head as if someone had caught him doing something forbidden—which, honestly, was also true.\n\nHe forced himself to sound calm. “You really do a lot of sports, don’t you?”\n\n“Oh, does it show?” Charlotte asked, blinking at Chris mischievously with her beautiful eyes.\n\n“That makes me feel guilty that I’ve barely done any sports at all in the last few years,” he murmured.\n\n“Wow, if I could keep such a great figure without sports like the one you have, I’d quit training from one day to the next and only do cheerleading for fun. Anyway, I think you have an amazing body where everything fits together in exactly the right proportions. I think you’re absolutely delicious!” Since Chris had absolutely no idea how to react to this last remark from Charlotte, he preferred to say nothing.\n\n“Come on now,” Christine whispered curtly. Her look was unmistakable and the message clear: Stop ogling the girls.\n\nChris adjusted the T-shirt, involuntarily smoothed the hem of his skirt—no, shorts now—took a few breaths through his nose, and forced his shoulders into shape.\n\nThen he squeezed between the bench and open locker doors, pressed the handle, and stepped out, where the other girls were already standing in rows on the varnished wood.\n\n''What happens?''\n<<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Invitation from Charlotte to sunbathe.|Einladung von Charlotte zum Sonnenbaden.]]<<else>>[[PE class.|Sportunterricht.]]<<endif>>

He apologized to Charlotte, who was still standing frozen beside the bed. “I’m sorry. My sister… I have to go get her.” He grabbed his bag, typed the address into his phone with trembling fingers, and ordered an Uber. Charlotte only nodded, arms wrapped around herself, and watched him as he went out the door.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nThe ride passed by in streaks of yellow streetlight. Chris stared out the window until the car stopped in front of a large house from which bass vibrated. Groups stood on the lawn, plastic cups in hand, laughter like tearing foil. Inside the house, it smelled of spilled beer and sweet punch; somewhere someone shouted “Shots!”, followed by roaring cheers.\n\n<center>[img[pics/party.jpg]]</center> The wall unit had been pushed aside, lights on the walls, the dancing crowd a back-and-forth of shoulders, arms, hair. Chris rose onto his tiptoes, searching for Christine’s hair, for her dress. Nothing. He pushed farther in. A boy with red cheeks leaned far too close, grinning crookedly. “Hey, cutie—dance?”\n\n“I’m looking for someone,” Chris said curtly and pushed past. A hand grabbed his ass. “Come on, just one—” He shoved the hand away, faster than his pulse.\n\nKitchen, hallway, up a flight of stairs, voices fading in rooms. Teenagers everywhere, noise everywhere. “Christine?” he called, half-loud, almost in time with the music. No answer. He opened a door—two girls in front of the mirror, eyeing him; another—one couple having sex; shut again. In the hallway, a girl from his school with smeared eyeliner wordlessly pointed toward the end of the corridor.\n\nThe bathroom. The door stood open a crack. Inside, Christine was kneeling over the toilet bowl, the stretch dress askew, her hair stuck to her temples. She retched, her body cramping, and between two violent spasms came a hoarse sob. Chris was beside her in two steps, knelt down, and took the hair out of her face, holding it with one hand at the back of her head, the other at her shoulder, calm, so she had something to steady herself with.\n\n“It’s okay. I’m here,” he said softly, over the pounding. She looked awful—the mascara smeared, her skin blotchy, her lips white.\n\n“Ch-Chris…” She turned her head the slightest bit to the side, then the next wave came. He waited, held her, breathed with her. When it ebbed away, he tore off some toilet paper, handed it to her, carefully turned on the faucet and filled the cup, rinsed it, filled it again. “Just one sip.”\n\n“He…” she began, her voice rough and brittle, “he just… I didn’t want to…” The words fell apart. “It… happened…” Then she cried again, exhausted, childlike, and pressed her forehead against his forearm.\n\nEverything inside Chris clenched. He saw Myles nowhere, only in his head, as a target for a fist he clenched and opened again. Not now. Christine first.\n\nHe waited until she was only trembling, helped her slowly to her feet, supported her while she rinsed out her mouth. “Can you walk?” She nodded too quickly, swayed, and he put his arm around her waist. On the way out, he avoided glances, blocked a slurred “Are you staying?” with a curt shake of his head, and pushed the front door open with his shoulder.\n\nOutside, he reached for his phone again, ordered an Uber, held Christine upright in the coolness of the night. She shivered, and he drew his arm around her shoulders. “Home soon,” he murmured.\n\nThe ride back was silent. Christine cried softly, then dozed off, her head against his shoulder. Chris stared at the lights running down the window and counted breaths until the car stopped.\n\nThankfully, the house was dark. Susan was asleep. Chris unlocked the door quietly, led Christine along the hallway, step by step. In her room, he let her sink onto the edge of the bed, knelt down, and carefully pulled off her boots, catching a brief glimpse of her tights torn at the crotch, her ruined panties, and his little sister’s pussy smeared with semen and blood. He left the tights alone, only straightened the hem of the dress so nothing pulled tight. Then he fetched a glass of water, set it on the nightstand, placed a pack of tissues beside it, and switched on the bedside lamp, which bathed the room in warm twilight.\n\n“Here,” he said softly, lifted the blanket and covered her, brushing the hair from her forehead. “Sleep.”\n\n“Thank you,” she whispered, barely audible, her eyes already closed. He stayed sitting for another moment, listening as her breathing calmed, and then stood as quietly as possible. In the doorway, he turned around once more. Christine lay there, small and exhausted, but safe. He pulled the door to until it was almost closed, and stood in the hallway for one heartbeat before stepping into the silence of the house.\n\n[[End of Chapter 2|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 2f]]

Later, Chris lay in the bathtub. The water was hot, the room steamed, his hair was wet<<if $haar == 1>> and stuck to the nape of his neck<<endif>>. One of the candles from last time stood on the edge of the sink; its light flickered in the mirror and made the steam look like a veil. When he moved, the water gurgled softly, and somewhere the faucet dripped steadily into the drain.\n<<set $ort to "bathroom">>\nChris’s breasts rose out of the water. His lower body was beneath the surface. Foam covered large parts of the tub.\n\nNot long ago, he had still been flat-chested. A few months on hormones later, his little tits had shot out of his upper body as if by magic. By now, the things made a pretty little cleavage that the boys at school liked to look at.\n\nHe held his phone with both hands above the water, carefully, as if it were a fragile animal. Lucas’s messages came in that restrained rhythm typical of him: hesitant at first, then—when Chris replied—suddenly quick, as if Lucas had had the words in his pocket the whole time.\n\nLucas: <blockquote class="quote">What are you doing right now?</blockquote>\n''How does Chris answer?''\n❯ [[He sends Lucas a photo.|Er schickt Lucas ein Foto.][$lucaslove += 1]]\n❯ [[He’s just getting ready for bed.|Er macht sich nur bettfertig.]]

Chris decided on the kitchen.\n\nThe noise level was more muted there; the same music, but filtered through the walls. Brighter light burned over the countertop, making everything seem more sober, even though nothing was sober.\n\nTwo people were sitting on the counter, legs dangling, nibbling chips from a bowl. Someone leaned against the refrigerator, another had his head halfway inside the open door, looking for “something with more ice.” There was laughter, but without the frantic shrieking from the living room. Sentences fluttered through the room in scraps: “…Coach is such a clown,” “…my mom doesn’t get anything,” “…after graduation, out of here, doesn’t matter where.”\n\nChris grabbed a kitchen towel. He braced one hand on the edge of the sink and wiped the sticky punch from his legs. The liquid had left traces that gleamed in the light; the towel turned pink. He felt looks, but they seemed less hungry than they had just now in the living room. More curious, more “who is she?”, less “what can I get from her?”\n\nAt the other end of the counter stood an improvised bartender with a certain pride in his posture. In front of him: bottles, ice cubes, limes, a shaker, red cups in neat rows.\n\n“You’re the one who just got totally showered, right?” he called over to Chris with a grin, without getting up. “Come here, I’ll make you something proper. Punch is trash.”\n\nChris hesitated, then stepped closer. “Something… proper?” he asked. The heels clicked more softly on the tiles.\n\n“Basics,” said the bartender guy, pushing a cup forward. “So, you’ve got your base—vodka, rum, whatever—then sweet stuff to pull it down, a little juice. No random mixing without a plan, or it tastes like foot.” He pointed at the bottles. “Watch.”\n\nHe poured, explaining as he went, half seriously, half showing off: mixing ratios, ice, “always the cheap stuff first, then the good stuff,” how to act “professional” with lime. Chris followed the movements, the shaker clinked, ice rattled. The finished product smelled fruity, sweet, like lemonade with a stab of danger.\n\n“Here,” he said, pressing the cup into Chris’s hand. “This one’s smooth. Goes down like juice.”\n\nChris took a cautious sip. It actually tasted more harmless than the beer earlier. Sweet, cold, pleasant. The burn came with a delay, but it came. He took another sip.\n\nThe kitchen filled and emptied in waves. A few sat on the counter, one of their socked feet tapping rhythmically against the cabinet. A girl talked about her dream college on the East Coast, someone else cursed about parents who absolutely wanted him to go into the family business. Someone talked about “finally getting out of Maplewood,” another about “road trip to California, no plan, just go.”\n\nChris lingered there, half standing at the corner of the counter, half leaning against the edges of the conversations. Someone asked, “And you? What after high school?” The question hit him like a microphone suddenly being held in front of his mouth.\n\n“Maybe back to Europe,” he heard himself say. “Or something with language. Or… I don’t know.” It was half honest, half role, twisting words that fit both lives. The cocktail made the answers easier. He didn’t have to save every detail. No one here asked deep follow-up questions; it was enough that he sounded as if he had options.\n\nThe topics kept turning. The future, boring parents, strict mothers who wanted to control everything—something twitched inside him at that, but he left it unspoken. Dreams were sketched in half sentences: cities where no one knew them, jobs where no one asked about grades. Chris listened and drank.\n\nThe second cocktail went faster. A third was refilled for him almost in passing, “wait, yours is empty.” The sweetness made the warnings in the back of his mind grow quieter. The tiles beneath his heels seemed softer, his shoulders weightless. A pleasant warmth lay over everything, as if someone had turned the focus back a little.\n\n[[Continue|Zurück ins Wohnzimmer.]]

Finally, Chris came to rest and presented his cock endlessly slowly to the curious men. Once again, Chris stretched himself out to writhe around lying on his stomach, then finally turned over and writhed in that position too, thighs pressed together, in front of the lustful men.\n\n“Spread your legs!” someone called, wanting at last to see everything.\n\nChris obeyed and opened his thighs. As he did, he raised his upper body, bracing himself behind him again, and crossed his lower legs, which gave his legs a beautiful tension and did nothing to block the greedy stares.\n\n“Play with yourself!”\n\nChris complied without complaint and let his hand glide around his penis. Laughter, dirty and lustful, surged up as his penis grew hard from the stimulation.\n\nOnly one older gentleman directly in front of the stage clenched his fists until his knuckles stood out white.\n\nChris moved his stiff cock right up to the very front edge of the stage. He kept playing with himself, although his eyes carried a betraying glimmer of exhaustion and resignation. The men reached for him greedily, sometimes four or five at once.\n\nThen Chris lifted his gaze. His eyes searched through the crowd. And then he froze.\n\nDirectly in front of him, between smoke and roaring voices, sat someone. A face Chris knew inside and out, even though he had not seen it up close for a long time. The forehead. The cut of the eyes. The mouth that otherwise always acted as if it could put everything into words.\n\nHis father.\n\nFor one heartbeat, Chris forgot where he was. The music kept playing, but it became a distant rushing, as if someone had turned down the volume inside his head.\n\nTheir eyes met.\n<center>[img[pics/The Tipsy Tassel2.jpg]]</center>\nChris’ shock was violent—an electric jolt all the way into his fingers. But that was nothing compared to the expression on his father’s face. First there was disbelief, as if his brain refused to accept the image. Then horror, so bare that it was no longer controlled. His mouth opened a fraction, closed again, as if he had suddenly forgotten how to breathe. And in his eyes lay something Chris had never seen there before: a mixture of pain, anger, and a plunge into helplessness, as if in that one moment an entire family history were breaking apart.\n\nChris felt the blood drain from his face. The final beat came—his body was supposed to deliver the ending. But his thoughts were only a single word now, one he could not say aloud:\n\nDad.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Auftritt.]]

He tapped “Men.” Not because he was curious—he hastily told himself—but because, as his mother had said, it would be difficult with women, looking the way he did now.\n\nWith that, the profile was set up. Susan nodded in satisfaction, placed the phone on the vanity, and left him alone. It took less than two minutes before the phone vibrated across the wooden surface.\n\n“Hi :)” read the first message. A second ping. A third. From then on, things happened one after another: the display filled up as if someone had opened a dam.\n\nHe scrolled. “You have a beautiful smile. Coffee? ☕️” — nice.\n“Are you spontaneous?” — too short, too much.\n“I’m new in town, show me your favorite places?” — okay.\n“Hiii” — four i’s, nothing else.\nHalf a poem, poorly rhymed, but trying.\nA guy with sunglasses in a car (“Road trips?”), one with a dumbbell in front of a mirror (“Gym?”), one posing with a huge fish (was that mandatory?).\n“Looking for something serious?”\n“What kind of music do you listen to?”\n“Do you have Snap?” — no.\n“Do you like dogs? Mine’s named Bruno” — Bruno got a star; the dog eyes did the rest.\nA polite novel about chess and tax law; an emoji storm consisting only of flames; “Hey, princess” (no, thanks).\n\nHe suddenly had so much choice that he had none at first. What am I supposed to go by? he wondered, and in the same moment heard himself think: Looks? The countervoice immediately kicked in: I don’t like men. At the same time, he realized that he sorted out the less attractive requests pretty quickly and bookmarked two or three profiles just to “look again later.”\n\nReplies. He forced his fingers to move. “Hey, thank you! Coffee sounds nice, but I need a little time to warm up.” Send. He immediately regretted the exclamation mark. Next window: “Hi! Music: all over the place, from indie to 80s. And you?” Send. Next: “Thanks, but I don’t meet up right away—chat first, okay?” He polished every sentence as if he were handing in an exam: friendly, but not ingratiating; open, but not naive; no information about address, school, routines.\n\nIn between, he made himself a little text template in his notes (“Hey, thanks! Tell me about…”) that he then hastily personalized: “…your dog / your favorite pizza / your most embarrassing concert.” Once he mixed up the names (“Sounds good, Max!”—there was no Max), and deleted it in the same moment with an “Oh God.”\n\nHe politely sorted out the players. “Compliment received, but I’m looking for something slower right now :)” He let the weird ones fizzle out. He gave the nice ones little anchors: questions that needed an answer. And again and again he paused and stared at his own profile, as if he could read in it who he currently was.\n\nBy afternoon, he had six chats open, then eight, then ten. The phone vibrated by the minute; once it slid across the blanket toward the edge of the bed, and he caught it at the last moment like an egg.\n\nThe door opened. Susan stuck her head in. “Well? How’s it going?”\n\nChris sat cross-legged, brow furrowed, thumb over the phone. The phone vibrated again. And again. He briefly looked up, as serious as before a math exam. “Very busy,” he said tonelessly, and in the same moment it pinged so wildly that the phone tried to flee. He caught it again, sighed dramatically, and added, “I’m… working.”\n\n[[End of Chapter 4|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 4]]

"I... AAAaaaahhh" Chris whimpered, letting out a moan on the last syllable as his mother pushed the dildo into him.\n\nChris didn't want to answer that question, but knew it was the only acceptable answer for his mother. His cock still stood tall. Every time his mother penetrated him deeply and stimulated his prostate, he felt a slight, pleasant tingling sensation.\n\n“Chris, tell mom who a dirty little slutty girl is.” she demanded.\n\n“It's me….aaahh... It's me… aaaahhhh” groaned Chris, really sounding like a girl.\n\nSusan laughed. "Say it again. Say what a slutty little girl you are." she ordered.\n\n"I'm... Aaahh... a slutty little girl... aaahhh... I'm mommy's slutty little girl... Ooohhh..." groaned Chris.\n\n“Wonderful, again,” she said and laughed hard.\n\n"Ooohhhh...I'm a naughty little girl.... Aaaahhh...I'm a naughty little girl...Oooohhhh..." Chris moaned almost in ecstasy.\n\nChris didn't know what was happening to him, but now he was even bucking his ass towards his mother with every thrust, as if he wanted her to penetrate him even deeper.\n\n“Tell me who’s a cocksucker!”\n\n"ME! ME! ME!" Chris shrieked and as he did, his body suddenly began to convulse and he had one of the most intense orgasms he had ever had. His body trembled, his spine tingled and his cock exploded all at once. As his mother laughed and laughed, his cock spewed jet after jet of cum against the bed and onto the floor.\n\nWhen his orgasm finally subsided, Chris collapsed, completely exhausted. Susan pulled the dildo out of his ass. But the dildo in his ass was the only thing that gave Chris stability and so he collapsed completely and landed on the floor with his ass on his own pool of cum.\n\nChris had completely stepped away and didn't even notice how his mother pulled the condom off the strap-on dildo. She held the fake cock in front of his face.\n\n“Good girls always suck the cock clean that made them cum.” she explained.\n\nStill in a daze, Chris opened his mouth and began to suck more than suck on the dildo.\n\nWhen Chris later crept out of his mother's bedroom, his face was still red, as if he had held his breath for too long. Completely ashamed. His thoughts felt like cotton – too loud, too jumbled, too much. He moved carefully, as if he was trying not to show the pain in his bottom, giving it away all the more. Every step seemed a little too controlled, a little too stiff. He didn't put the dress back on; His composure was not enough for that. He just held it in front of him, as if cloth could hide reality.\n\nJust then the front door opened.\n\nChristine came home, keys still in hand, and stopped abruptly when she saw her brother in the hallway - half-dressed, hair disheveled, with that look that didn't know where to go.\n\nHer gaze wandered over him: the exhausted face, the red cheeks, the way he distributed his weight, that strangely careful walk.\n\nChris' shame immediately rose, hot and panicked. He wanted to disappear before her eyes asked questions he couldn't answer. He just hoped she would never find out what happened behind the door.\n\nChristine said nothing. She just looked at him and there was pity in her eyes, quiet and heavy.\n\nChris didn't even really nod - he just slipped past her and went to his room as quickly as he could, the door closed behind him like it was a shield.\n\nHe leaned against it, his eyes closed, and only then felt how much his hands were shaking. Voices were arguing in his head: the one that was insulting him and the one that was whispering that it wasn't all bad. He didn't want to hear the second voice.\n\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5b]]\n

Chris shook his head. “Better not,” he said, as kindly as possible. He forced himself to smile in a way that didn’t sound like panic.\n\nLucas’s mouth twisted briefly in disappointment, but then he nodded. “Okay. Then something else.”\n\nThey kept walking, strolling between booths and people, still half looking out for the theater kids—for Ruby’s braids, for familiar laughter—but the crowd remained a sea of strangers. Chris noticed how the festival felt bigger again as soon as “his” people were missing.\n\nThen the swing carousel appeared in front of them—a chair swing, high, round, full of glittering lights. Music tinkled from the speakers, and up above, the seats spun like small floating dots in the air.\n\n“That!” Lucas immediately pointed at it. “Please, that’s harmless. Just swinging.”\n\nChris gave a short laugh. “Harmless, he says.”\n\nThey bought tickets, got in line, and shortly afterward they were sitting in the hanging chairs, the chains clinking softly. Chris automatically gripped the sides of the seat, feeling the cold metal edge beneath his fingers. The dress lay neatly over his knees, the fabric smooth, everything looked… controlled. He didn’t think about it any further.\n\nThe ride began to move.\n\nSlowly at first, then faster. The ground slipped away beneath them, the seats lifted outward, and the wind suddenly became a real thing—not just a breeze anymore, but a strong current pressing against his legs. Chris’s stomach gave a little leap, half from fun, half from fright.\n\nAnd then it happened.\n\nThe wind caught under the hem of his dress, as if it had been waiting for exactly that, and lifted it up. The dress rose like a little parachute.\n\nDesperately, he tried to cover himself. But the draft kept lifting his skirt again and again. Chris felt endlessly ashamed. Everyone down there could see: his tights, his underwear, everything a dress normally mercifully concealed. The dress fluttered like a flag that didn’t belong to him.\n\nChris’s heart shot upward. He pressed his knees together, pushed his hands down onto the hem, tried to force it down—but the wind from the ride was stronger, pulling the fabric up again and again, as if it were playing with him. It was an unwanted Marilyn moment, except he wasn’t standing over a subway grate, but strapped into a floating seat in the air, with no way to stand “normally.” Every attempt to tame the dress only made it more obvious.\n\n“Oh no,” he gasped, because his body didn’t know what to do with the panic. He pressed the hem down firmly with both hands, as if he could offend the wind into stopping.\n\nDown in front of the carousel stood a few boys. Chris saw them only in brief cuts as he flew past—but long enough. One immediately raised his phone, grinned, nudged his buddy. A second phone went up. They were filming. Or taking pictures. Or doing both. The realization hit Chris like a hot slap to the face, even though the wind was cold.\n\nHe turned bright red, so much that it felt as if his ears were glowing. He wanted to look away, but the carousel kept spinning him past them again and again. He held the dress down and stared instead at the chains above him, as if metal could save him. In his stomach, embarrassment and the absurd feeling that he could do nothing about it fought each other.\n\nWhen the ride finally slowed down, Chris’s relief was so great it almost hurt. The seats sank, the clinking grew softer, the wind let up. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he almost jumped out of the seat, immediately smoothed the dress, brushed the hem down, checked whether everything was sitting properly again.\n\nHe breathed out as if he had been holding his breath for the entire ride. His hands trembled a little, and he threw a quick glance toward the boys with the phones—but the crowd had already shifted again. That didn’t make it better. It only made it more impossible to calculate.\n\nChris smoothed the skirt one last time, forced his shoulders down, and said quietly, more to himself than to Lucas: “Never again. I swear.”\n<<set $choice_ahorn2 to 0>>\n[[Continue|Bewertungstag.]]

Chris’s head searched frantically for a lifeline—and suddenly found one. Zeke’s concert invitation. Pittsburgh. Northern Static. A real, tangible “I already have plans” that didn’t smell like an excuse.\n\n“I don’t have to do online dating,” Chris said quickly, before his mother could roll out her plan any further. “I’ve… already got plans. I’m going to a concert. Next weekend. I was going to ask you anyway.”\n\nSusan blinked, surprised—and immediately curious. “A concert?” Her voice took on that tone that was both proud and controlling. “When exactly? Saturday? And where? Who’s playing?”\n\n“In Pittsburgh,” Chris said, and noticed his heart beating faster. “Northern Static.”\n\n“Aha.” Susan took a step closer, as if she were now in the middle of an interrogation. “And who are you going with?”\n\nChris’s throat went dry. “With… someone from the riding stable.”\n\nSusan raised her eyebrows. “With Ruby?”\n\n“No.” He felt the embarrassing part coming closer.\n\nThen came the next question, exactly the one Chris would most have liked to brush away: “Are there boys there too?”\n\nChris’s cheeks grew hot. “Mom…”\n\n“I’m just asking,” Susan said with a sweet smile that had no real innocence in it. “I want to know whether you’re finally getting out among people normally too.”\n\nChris forced himself to stay upright. “Yes, Zeke. An acquaintance of Ruby’s from the riding stable. He had a ticket left over.”\n\nSusan’s face brightened, as if Chris had just delivered the perfect news. “See!” She clapped her hands softly once. “That’s exactly what I mean. You’re getting out, you’re having fun, you’re meeting people. And going out with boys is… healthy.” She grinned crookedly. “I love it when you finally come out of your shell.”\n\nChris said nothing to that. He was too busy getting control of his face back.\n\nSusan went to the door, then turned around once more. “We’ll talk about outfit later, okay? Concert means: look good.” Then she was gone.\n\nAs soon as the door was closed, Chris reached for his phone. His fingers flew across the screen.\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Chris: Hey… uh, about Pittsburgh. My mom allowed it. Is the offer still open? I’d really like to go.</blockquote> He stared at the chat until he realized he had been holding his breath. Then he laid the phone beside him, paced two steps back and forth in the room, and sat down again, as if this were an exam he couldn’t influence.\n\nA few hours later, the phone vibrated.\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Zeke: Sure, it’s still open 🙂 I still have the ticket. Glad to hear it. I’ll let you know about the time, then we’ll plan it.</blockquote> Chris’s chest grew warm. A real yes. No politeness. No excuse. Suddenly it was no longer just a trick to distract his mother—it was a plan.\n\nHe was looking forward to Northern Static, to that moment when the music “opens up” live and everything around you briefly goes still. At the same time, he felt the other side: fear. A concert with a strange man. On the road, far away, alone with someone who so far only knew him as a girl from the riding stable. He held the phone tightly, as if it were both a ticket and a risk, and wrote back:\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Chris: Great. Thanks. Let me know about the details.</blockquote> Then he put the phone away, smiled involuntarily—and felt next weekend suddenly become very close.\n\n[[End of Chapter 4|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 4]]

Chris did only as much as absolutely necessary. This job had not been his idea, and every time he opened the notepad, it felt as if he were playing a role someone else had chosen for him.\n\nHe went from table to table, took orders, brought coffee, cola, water. His smile was polite, but thin. No “How are you all today?”, no extra remarks, no flirting. When a man stared too long at his skirt or his legs, Chris pretended not to notice. He preferred to fix his eyes on the edge of the table, the coffee stains on the coaster, the clock above the counter. Work. Just work.\n\nStill, it was exhausting. The steps added up: to the counter, back to the table, back to the kitchen, all while balancing the tray, glasses that sweated and slipped, plates that were hot, and voices everywhere wanting something at the same time. “Miss?” “Hey, sweetie!” “Could we get another…?” Chris felt the apron chafing at his waist and the short skirt forcing him to keep his knees unnaturally close together every time he bent down. It made every movement less automatic, more deliberate—and therefore more tiring.\n\nHe almost spilled coffee once, just catching it because his hand was trembling. The second time, he forgot who had ordered which burger without onions and had to go back to the kitchen to ask. Rick gave him a look that grew longer.\n\nChris tried to endure it. He told himself: I’ll just get through this, no extras, no attention. But the job was not only orders and plates; it was pace, body language, presence. And his absence within it showed.\n\nRick watched him from the counter for a while. He saw how Chris made himself small around the guests, how he did not sell himself, how he fulfilled his duties with minimal effort. At some point, Rick slammed the clipboard onto the counter, raised his hand, and waved Chris over.\n\n“Come here,” Rick said, quietly enough that it did not seem like a scene, but firmly enough that Chris came at once. Rick looked him over as if he were a machine that was not running properly. “You’re not making money here like this. And neither am I. You’ve got no drive today. So: new task.”\n\nChris swallowed. “What should I do?”\n\nRick pointed toward the back with his thumb. “Clean up behind the diner. Take out the trash, tidy the alley. If you don’t want guests—fine. Then you’ll work where nobody’s looking.”\n\nChris’s cheeks grew hot, but he nodded. “Okay.”\n\nHe went through the back door and stepped into the narrow alley. Immediately another smell hit him: old fryer air, damp cardboard, trash cans, a sour film in the air. The ground was stained, somewhere a crushed cup stuck to the asphalt, and beside the bins lay a heap of cardboard scraps, napkins, and something that looked as if it had once been food.\n\nChris began cleaning up, annoyed. He gathered boxes, stuffed trash into bags, pushed dirt into a corner with the broom. It was not elegant work; it was pushing, lifting, pulling, and every time he bent down, he cursed the skimpy skirt. The tights suddenly felt ridiculous in the alley.\n\nThen he reached for something lying in the shadow of the trash can—a soft, slippery something. The moment his hand closed around it, he knew it had been a mistake. The rubbery thing gave way, disgusting and damp, and something smeared over his whole hand.\n\nIt was a used condom.\n\n“Ew!” Chris jerked back, revulsion shooting all the way up into his throat. His whole hand was soiled with sticky semen. He held the hand away from himself in disgust.\n\nAt that exact moment, the back door opened. Rick stepped out, his gaze falling immediately on the used condom in Chris’s hand and the semen sticking to his skin.\n\nRick raised his eyebrows. “What the—”\n\nChris turned bright red. Shame mixed with disgust, and his eyes grew watery simply because it was all too much. Without a word, he turned around and stormed back through the door.\n\nInside, he went straight to the sink and scrubbed the semen from his hands. Hot water, soap, more soap. He rubbed until his skin burned, as if he could wash away not only the filth, but the entire day with it.\n\n[[Continue|Seine Schicht ist vorbei.3]]

In the evening, the hotel room was bathed in moonlight. The curtains stood open a crack, and from outside the blue of dusk shimmered in, along with the distant roar of the ocean. On the small table stood two half-full glasses, somewhere lay a crumpled note with the room service number, and everything felt soft – as if the day at the beach had smoothed the edges of their thoughts.\n\nChris sat on the bed, his top already taken off, still with salt on his skin and that calm, bright feeling in his chest. Charlotte stepped closer, more slowly than usual, as if placing every step deliberately. Her hand slid to his cheek, stayed there, and her gaze searched his, serious and cautious.\n\n“Are you sure you’re ready?” she asked softly.\n\nChris swallowed once, not out of fear, more because of the weight of the moment. Then he nodded, slowly, and his voice was calm when he said, “Yes.”\n\nCharlotte breathed out, as if she had needed exactly that answer, not as permission, but as certainty. She leaned forward, and her lips found his. The kiss began gently – tentative, almost questioning – and then, breath by breath, became more certain. Chris pulled her closer, as if his body were finally allowed to do what his heart had been ready for so long. Charlotte wrapped her arms around him, and the hesitation that had lain between them like a shadow over the last months dissolved into warmth.\n\nThe kisses grew deeper, longer, and at some point they no longer needed words. They laughed briefly, whispering and breathless, as they moved awkwardly over blanket and pillows, and then they became quiet again, because the closeness said everything. Chris felt Charlotte’s hands, felt her body against his, felt this new, incomparable sensation in his crotch.\n\nCharlotte closed her eyes as she began slowly caressing Chris’ breasts with her hands. She enjoyed the tender flesh in her hands and the feeling of the hard nipples pressing demandingly against her palms. She could not resist the temptation to let the nipples slide between her thumb and forefinger and play with them, which drew a deep sigh from Chris.\n\nChris had been playing with Charlotte’s new belly button piercing the whole time with his right hand, but now he slowly let that hand wander downward until it disappeared beneath the fabric of her bikini bottoms and there obviously began caressing her clitoris.\n\nCharlotte watched, fascinated, the movements of the fabric caused by Chris’ circling hand. Her desire had meanwhile risen so much that she would have liked to stroke Chris herself in his most intimate place, but she did not quite dare to yet.\n\nCharlotte noticed how Chris’ movements became faster and more demanding and responded by working his breasts more intensely as well, sometimes lightly pinching the nipples and tugging at them, which Chris acknowledged each time with a sigh.\n\nShortly before the climax, Chris stopped the movements of his hand, pulled it back out of her bikini bottoms, and slowly rose.\n\nCharlotte was sitting directly in front of Chris as he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his bikini bottoms and pushed them down. He slid the bottoms over his backside and his pretty legs and flicked the now useless piece aside with one foot as he straightened up again.\n\nCharlotte looked at Chris’ naked body standing only a few centimeters in front of her. She had seen Chris naked several times during the last few months too, but never from a sexual perspective. A completely different person seemed to be standing before her.\n\nHer gaze wandered farther over Chris’ flat stomach to his neovagina, whose soft labia seemed to glisten wetly in the moonlight. Since Chris was standing in front of the bed while Charlotte was sitting, his pelvis was almost exactly level with her face, and she had to fight hard against the temptation to grab Chris’ buttocks and press his new pussy firmly against her face.\n\nChris seemed to positively enjoy the admiring looks at his new vulva, then slowly turned toward the bedside table.\n\n[[Continue|Er holt einen doppelköpfigen Dildo.]]

Susan barely gave Chris time to take another breath. She was already standing at the little registration booth, her hand over the form, as if she were signing a contract, not a spontaneous festival idea.\n\n“Mom, please…” Chris’s voice stayed quiet, forced calm. He couldn’t make a scene here. There were people everywhere, children with maple cotton candy, parents with cameras. Everything was public, everything heard along.\n\n“This is a great opportunity,” Susan said without turning around. “And now just stand up nice and straight.”\n\nChris’s protest petered out before it had really begun. At that exact moment, a group of boys came past, a few steps away—Ben, Jay, and Max from the D&D club. They were walking side by side, cups in hand, and stopped abruptly when they saw Chris.\n\nChris’s heart gave a little leap. Please. Please say something. Please come over. For a split second, he thought he could use this—a lifeline from normality, a “Hey, Chris, are you coming with us?” as an excuse to get away.\n\nBen half-raised his hand, as if to wave. Jay nudged Max, whispered something. Max stared, then quickly looked away. They suddenly seemed much younger than in the club room, much more uncertain without dice, without a game table, without roles. And then Susan’s gaze fell on them—brief, controlling, like a spotlight checking whether someone was interfering.\n\nThe boys immediately became even stiffer. Ben let his hand drop again. Jay muttered something about “uh, we have to…” Max nodded hastily. No one came any closer. They moved on, as if they hadn’t seen Chris, or as if he were some unfamiliar picture best left untouched.\n\nChris felt the ground tilt away beneath him a little. His small hope simply vanished, soundlessly.\n\n“Name?” asked the person at the booth.\n\n“Chris Braun,” Susan said promptly and spelled it out, as if she had practiced. She added the phone number, corrected something, ticked a box. Chris stood beside her, staring at the form as if he could tear it apart with his eyes.\n\n“Contestant number…” A brief moment of leafing through papers, then Chris was handed a little sign.\n\nSusan immediately took it from him and steered him toward a cordoned-off area behind the stage. “Come on. Check-in. You need to focus.”\n\n[[Continue|Backstage]]

Chris chose Coke. Not because he was a killjoy, but because he wanted to stay clear-headed – present, alert, in control of his nerves. Zeke only nodded, as if it were the most natural decision in the world, and came back with two cups: ice-cold Coke for Chris, beer for himself. No comment, no “Oh, come on,” just a brief “Here” and that calm smile that relaxed Chris more than alcohol ever could have.\n\nThe concert continued. Northern Static wove song after song, each one like its own sky: thin at first, then denser, then suddenly vast. The light shifted between dark blue and harsh white, smoke brushed the spotlights and sometimes made the stage seem like a dream, sometimes like a construction site made of sound.\n\nAnd then came the live highlight.\n\nChris recognized the first notes immediately – barely audible, almost just a shimmer. “Glassfields.” His favorite song. His body reacted before he thought: goosebumps ran over his arms and up into his neck. It was as if the music had spoken a secret name only he knew. Around him, a murmur moved through the crowd, a few people cheered softly, others briefly held their breath.\n\nChris stood as if rooted to the spot and weightless at the same time. The guitars traced that wide, glassy pattern, and he felt something inside him open – that feeling when a song hit him so precisely it almost hurt.\n\nThen he noticed it at the edge of his field of vision: a few women were being lifted onto their friends’ shoulders so they could see better. They laughed, held onto heads, swayed in time – higher above the crowd, like small islands in the crush. Chris looked up, briefly envious, because he could only glimpse the stage between heads and raised hands.\n\nZeke leaned toward him, the music vibrating in his voice. “Do you want to get on my shoulders too?”\n\nChris’ heart gave a leap. That was… nice. And very close. And very visible. Part of him wanted to say yes immediately – let himself be carried, see the song from above, simply accept the trust. Another part thought of glances, of embarrassment, of the tiny fear of being “too much.”\n\n[[Continue|Er bleibt unten und genießt den Song vom Boden aus.2]]

Chris left school. The hallways behind him still sounded of tape being unrolled, of chairs scraping, and the tired laughter of the theater club that had decorated the school for the pep rally. Outside, the air was cooler, and the light lay slantwise across the parking lot.\n\nHe pulled his bag higher and was just about to head down the steps when footsteps behind him quickened.\n\n“Chris! Wait!”\n\nLucas came running after him, a little too hastily, as if he had only realized at the last second that he might miss someone. In one hand he held a jacket—Chris’s jacket—gripped by the sleeve, as if he were afraid it might escape along the way.\n\n“You forgot this,” Lucas said breathlessly, braking right in front of him. His cheeks were slightly flushed, not only from running. “It was still in the art—uh, in the hallway by the posters. I thought you’d notice later and… it’s cold outside.” He said the last part almost too quietly, as if caring was something you weren’t supposed to show too clearly.\n\nChris looked at the jacket, then at Lucas. A small thing. And yet it felt like a sign: Lucas had noticed, had picked it up, had run after him. Not because it was necessary—but because it mattered to him.\n\nLucas held the jacket a little closer, but hesitated, as if he didn’t know how close was too close. “Here.”\n<<set $choice_lucasjacke to 0>>\n''How does Chris react?''\n❯ [[Accept the jacket warmly and gratefully.|Die Jacke warm & dankbar annehmen.]]\n❯ [[Stay friendly and cool.|Freundschaftlich cool bleiben.]]\n❯ [[Say a neutral “thank you.”|Neutral „Danke“ sagen.][$choice_lucasjacke += 1]]

On Thursday morning, Chris stood at the front of the classroom, directly in front of the board, holding a piece of paper in his hand. The paper crackled with every breath. Mr. Robertson sat at the teacher’s desk as always, glasses on the tip of his nose, and nodded to him encouragingly. Behind Chris, notebooks rustled, chairs squeaked, someone giggled far too early.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nChris cleared his throat and began to read. His gaze slid to the heading—and he froze.\n\n“Why I Love to Date Boys By Chris Braun”\n\nA choral “Ohhh” went through the class. A few “Ah!”s, as if someone had opened a book to a particularly juicy passage. Chris felt the blood shoot into his face. He stared at the paper as if it had jumped there by itself.\n\n“Um…” he managed, but Mr. Robertson only raised his hand, friendly, too friendly.\n\n“Go on, Chris,” he said calmly. “Just read aloud what you wrote.”\n\nChris swallowed. The words beneath it stood there black and unmistakable. And although his head screamed that this couldn’t be his presentation, he heard himself reading aloud—with a voice that sounded far too loud in the room:\n\n“I know I'm a boy and I'm supposed to date girls but I have to tell you I've always secretly wanted to date boys. I think boys are really dreamy and I just can't wait to kiss a boy<<if $kissboy == 0>> for the first time<<endif>>. I'm so nervous and excited all at once. I hope it happens soon. I just love to look as pretty as I can for boys in the hopes that one finds me cute enough to date.”\n\nThe room was suddenly quieter than during any test. No one wrote. No one cleared their throat. Everyone was staring at him.\n\nOnly now did Chris notice how “pretty” he was dressed—too pretty, too polished, too… deliberate. He was wearing a soft skirt in a pastel color that ended with exactly the right swing above his knees.\n\nThen his gaze wandered upward—to his top.\n\nAcross the chest, in big letters, it said: “I Love Boys.” The word “Love” wasn’t even written out; it had been replaced by a pink heart that shone garishly and childishly. Chris’s stomach cramped. This isn’t… this isn’t… He wanted to fold his arms, hide the fabric, but his hands were stuck to the paper.\n\n“Continue,” Mr. Robertson said gently, as if this were a perfectly normal presentation about Shakespeare.\n\nChris’s fingers trembled. He read on, his face burning:\n\n“I will be so happy when he takes me in his strong arms for <<if $kissboy == 0>>my first <<else>>a <<endif>> kiss. Hopefully I can find a hunky boy that thinks I'm pretty so we can go steady. I'm just dying to have a boyfriend! Boys, boys, boys that's all I ever think of.........…”\n\nThe final word stretched out, as if it kept going on its own, an endless row of dots spilling beyond the paper and onto the floor. Chris heard a stifled laugh somewhere. He heard his own blood rushing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone look at Dylan—and Dylan look back, half a grin on his face, as if he knew something Chris himself wasn’t allowed to know.\n\nChris wanted to drop the paper, run away, disappear. He couldn’t. His feet were heavy as lead, his top screamed at him, and the class stared at him as if he were a mistake that had finally become visible.\n\nThen his eyes flew open.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/Chris_traum_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/Chris_traum_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nHe was lying in his bed. It was still night. The room was dark, only a strip of streetlamp light lay on the floor. His heart hammered so loudly that he thought someone would have to hear it in the hallway. His hands frantically felt over his nightgown—no print, no heart, only fabric. He exhaled once in a burst, then again, and felt the shame crawl up to his ears anyway, as if the dream had left an imprint.\n\nChris turned onto his side, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and squeezed his eyes shut. Even in the darkness, he felt caught.\n\n[[Continue|Zu wenig Badezimmer im Haus.2]]

Chris made his decision and tapped the character sheet with two fingers. “Seduction.” The die clattered across the table and landed on a high number. Ben raised his eyebrows, let a meaningful moment pass, and then spoke in an oracle voice: “The humanoid guardian creature lowered its spear. Its wet stone eyes turned glassy. It laid down the weapon—and in one single, flowing movement, swung you over its shoulder. With long, elastic strides, it vanished into the shadows of the side corridor.”\n\nJay gasped with laughter, Max slapped the table with his flat hand. “She sacrificed herself!” he shouted. Adam groaned theatrically. “My love! My… celibacy, which is already hanging by a thread!” Chris laughed along, shook his head, and let his hands drop helplessly. He was out of the game—but the corridor was clear.\n\n“Okay, then through!” Ben ordered, back in the role of pace-setter. Without the guardian, they reached the shrine room; the ghostly temple mistress rose, marching-band fanfare only in their heads. Jay landed a critical hit, Max triggered the mechanism that weakened the runes at exactly the right moment, and Adam—with his blessings now limited—murmured just enough prayer to make the final blow possible. The temple mistress disintegrated into cold light.\n\n“Final boss defeated,” Ben announced, then tapped his pen against the screen. “Meanwhile: in the depths of the corridor. Raven—I mean Chris—was laid on a bed of furs.” He made a theatrical pause. “Untouched.” He raised an appeasing hand before Adam could protest. “The creature merely guarded her, like a dragon guarding its treasure.”\n\n“A princess!” Max giggled.\n\nAdam jumped up, planted his hands dramatically on his hips. “I storm into the darkness, follow the muddy footprints, call her name—”\n\nBen rolled the scene out like a carpet: Adam found the side corridor, the torch flickered, the creature retreated reverently, because true love and so on. “You free Raven from the ropes—purely symbolic ropes, of course—and heroically carry her back into the Hall of the Cabinet Sword.”\n\nThe group burst into laughter. Chris let his forehead land on his forearms, half embarrassed, half amused. Adam leaned sideways toward him. “I’ve got you, babe,” he whispered, just loud enough that only the front row of dice could hear.\n\nBen cleared his throat and put on the voice of a fairy-tale narrator: “And so, after passing their trial, Raven and Theobald were sung of in the ballads of the land and lived happily until the end of their days—”\n\n“—until the next session date,” Jay added dryly.\n\n“Exactly.” Ben smiled. “Loot is distributed, XP noted. Princess Raven receives the guard’s lucky charm as a permanent +1 to all non-combat checks.”\n\nChris lifted his head, laughing as he rubbed his eyes. It had been embarrassing—and yet warm, light, strangely freeing. For today, he had sacrificed himself, and the group had won. And when Adam handed him the dice box while they packed up, it felt as if the fairy tale—despite everything—had found a soft, bearable ending.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $unterwaesche == 1>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.]]<<else>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris decided to ride together—and immediately took the wheel. “I’ll drive,” he said quickly, almost reflexively, as if that would make the situation controllable.\n\nLucas’s eyes flickered with brief surprise, then he nodded eagerly. “Okay.”\n\nThey squeezed into the bumper car, which was actually a little too small for two teenagers. Chris slid behind the wheel, Lucas beside him, knee against knee, shoulders too close. The safety bar dropped down, and Chris felt his heart beat faster, because suddenly everything was happening at once: music, light, closeness, the hum of the electric pole above them.\n\n“Ready?” Lucas asked, and his voice sounded too cheerful to be calm.\n\n“Ready,” Chris said, and then they were off.\n\nThe bumper cars jerked into motion, Chris steered instinctively, pressed the pedal, laughed when the first hit came from the side. He countered, steered into a gap, rammed—not too hard—another car and cheered. Lucas laughed out loud, really loud, and Chris couldn’t help laughing along. For a few minutes it was just fun: crashing, spinning, dodging, charging. The light flickered over their faces, the floor vibrating beneath the wheels.\n\nThen Lucas touched him.\n\nAn impulsive grip on Chris’s thigh, when Lucas lost his balance during an impact and instinctively held on.\n\nWhen Chris felt the touch on his leg, he jerked the wheel. He almost slammed into the side barrier of the track, but managed to brake just in time and steer into a tight turn.\n\n“Lucas!” Chris said at once. It was supposed to sound scolding, but somehow he didn’t quite manage it. “Stop that!”\n\nBut Lucas left his hand on Chris’s leg. He gently stroked over his thigh. Chris bit his lower lip. His chest rose and fell, and in the same moment he felt his cheeks grow hot.\n\nA sudden sharp turn made Lucas’s hand slip under the dress and into his crotch.\n\nChris kept steering, trying to stay relaxed, but suddenly he felt the looks much more strongly. Bumper cars were loud and chaotic, but all at once it felt as if every little contact stood out twice as much.\n\nJust as they were driving close along the edge of the track, Chris saw a man walking past out of the corner of his eye, outside the ride. The man cast a surprisingly long look at their little car—at the two teenagers pressed close together, at Chris behind the wheel, at Lucas’s hand on his leg and the dress pushed up at the front so that you could almost see Chris’s underwear.\n\nChris turned bright red and stared forward again, as if he could steer the moment away like an obstacle.\n<<set $choice_ahorn1 to 1>>\n[[Continue|Der Ruf der Natur.]]

After the holidays at his father’s, Chris came back to Maplewood, and the difference felt like a hard cut. In Germany, everything had been easier for a few days: different streets, a different language, a father who didn’t tug at his hem and didn’t check whether the gloss shone “appropriately.” He had laughed. He had almost felt normal.\n\nAnd then everyday life caught up with him again.\n\nSusan’s gaze was already assessing him in the hallway: whether he had gained weight, whether his hair lay neatly, whether he seemed “proper.” There was no real question about the trip, only a catalog of expectations. School started again, and with it that cold, familiar sound of lockers, footsteps, voices.\n\nThe worst part was how alone he often felt.\n\nAside from Christine, no one was really on his side. No close friendships he could activate with a glance. No “allies” who stepped between him and rumors. Without protection, he became an easy target.\n\nPranks returned like a routine: a little note on his back that everyone else read first; a torn-off locker note that later “coincidentally” ended up in the trash; laughter when he walked past the wrong place. Mockery wasn’t always loud, sometimes only a whisper that still hit him because it was meant for him. And the boys grew bolder (“then she’s an easier target”). To them, it felt as if they could get away with more around Chris: stare longer, make stupider comments, come closer without fearing consequences.\n\nHis sister noticed it. And she slowly withdrew.\n\nShe didn’t want to get pulled into anything. She kept her distance, sat one seat farther away on the bus, acted in the hallway as if she hadn’t seen him, or only gave a brief nod without stopping. Chris understood it on one level—and on another it hurt, because it felt like a second form of being abandoned. The more he needed her, the more cautious she became.\n\nThen came the problems at school.\n\nThe stress had eaten its way into him over the months, and the hormones didn’t make it any easier. His concentration broke off more quickly. He stared at assignments he would have understood before and only realized too late that he had missed half of it. Some days he was irritable for no reason; other days numb, as if cotton wool lay between him and the world. In tests, mistakes slipped past him, and on some mornings he already felt tired before he had even left the house.\n\nIt did not go unnoticed. Someone talked. Someone mentioned it. And Christine—whether out of a sense of duty or the reflex to push trouble away from herself—eventually let it trickle through to Susan. Maybe it was also a call from the school. Maybe a sentence Susan caught in passing. Whatever the case: it reached her.\n\nSusan did not respond with protection.\n\nShe responded with even more control.\n\nSuddenly there were stricter rules: home earlier, less “wasting time,” more “structure.” More exercises, more corrections: posture, voice, appearance. His mother called it “training,” as if Chris were a project that could be saved through discipline. Freedom did not grow when he was doing badly—it shrank. As if she had decided: if he falters, you have to hold him tighter. And the tighter she held on, the less air was left for him.\n\nOne evening, Chris stood in front of the mirror. Perfectly groomed: hair smooth, makeup clean, nails neat. No flaw. No target.\n\nHe looked like someone who had everything under control.\n\nAnd inside, he was empty.\n\n''What happens next''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $ferguson == 2>>\n[[Chris is babysitting again.|Chris ist wieder Babysitten.]]\n\n<<elseif $ferguson == 3>>\n[[Chris alone with Rick in the diner.|Chris alleine mit Rick im Diner.]]\n\n<<else>>\n[[The grades get better.|Die Noten werden besser.]]\n\n<</if>>\n<</nobr>>

The pick-up rolled into the parking lot of the minigolf course with the music far too loud, and when they got out, Chris was still vibrating inside. The place was colorful and kitschy: windmills, little bridges, artificial rocks, strings of lights over the lanes. Families stood in groups, a few teenagers laughed too loudly, somewhere a ball clacked against a barrier.\n\nThe guy paid at the counter with a casualness that made it seem as if this were all his territory. He pressed a club into Chris’s hand, automatically leaning in too close as he did. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll show you how to win.” The grin stayed, and so did the gaze.\n\nAlready at the first lane, he stood behind Chris as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Like this,” he said, briefly placing both hands on Chris’s hips as though he wanted to line him up. It was more possession than help, a putting-him-into-position that seemed so casual it was hard to counter without immediately making a scene. Chris swallowed and smiled politely.\n\n“Thanks, I can do it myself,” he said, friendly but clear.\n\n“Come on,” the guy said, as if shyness were a sport. “Don’t be so shy.”\n\n“No,” Chris repeated, still with a smile that felt exhausting. He gripped the club more tightly, placed his feet the way he knew how—calm, controlled.\n\nAnd still his body reacted contradictorily. His heart beat faster when he felt the closeness. Heat crept into his cheeks, even though he wanted distance. Some part of him sought the edge of this game, that friction against boundaries—not because he wanted to say “yes,” but because his nervous system apparently thought all of this smelled alive.\n\nThe guy kept testing, but he did not push with force. He came close, then stopped. He grinned, pulled back again, just enough to make it seem like an “I could, but I don’t have to.” And that was exactly what made it paradoxical: he respected Chris’s no just enough that it smelled like strength, like control. Chris hated that he found it attractive. And found it attractive anyway.\n\nAt the third lane, by a little bridge with a stupid gnome beside it, Chris’s ball slipped just past the hole. “Ah, damn it,” he muttered.\n\n“Give it here.” The guy took his own ball, swung loosely—and got it in. Then he looked at Chris as if he had proven something. “You’re making it too complicated. Here.” He stepped close again, this time not behind him but beside him, shoulder almost against shoulder. “Angle. Not force.”\n\nChris nodded, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the lane. “I want to do it myself,” he said.\n\n“Okay,” the guy said, and the “okay” was not sulky. More like: respect. He briefly raised both hands as a sign that he would not touch anything.\n\nChris swung—and this time hit it cleanly. The ball rolled in a perfect curve into the hole. For a moment Chris was so surprised that he laughed. Not that polite smile, but a real, bright laugh that leapt from his chest before he could stop it.\n\nThe guy grinned broadly. “There she is. The little winner.”\n\nChris rolled his eyes, but the laughter stayed with him. He noticed his shoulders growing softer, how he relaxed into the surroundings: the clacking of the balls, the silly gnome, the light in the puddles. He would not have thought it could be fun. He had not even wanted it to be fun.\n\nAnd yet it turned into a good date.\n\nThey played their way through the lanes, teasing each other without it tipping over. The guy stayed physically close, but he pulled back when Chris demanded it. He needled him with “Come on,” Chris countered with a clear “No”—and every time he said it, he felt a touch stronger, as if he were training a skill he urgently needed.\n\nWhen Chris won in the end—barely—the guy acted as if that were impossible. “Rigged,” he claimed, leaning conspiratorially close without touching him. Chris laughed again, reluctant and genuine at the same time.\n\nIn the pick-up on the way back, the music was quieter. The guy drove, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift. Every now and then he glanced at Chris, satisfied, as if he had accomplished something. Chris looked out the window and felt that irritating afterglow: he had had a great evening—with a guy—even though he had not wanted that at all.\n\nThe pick-up stopped in front of the house. The guy turned off the engine and looked at Chris. “I want to see you again,” he said without beating around the bush.\n\nChris’s heart made that leap again. He nodded before he could think too much. “I… I’ll text you,” he said. The promise sounded simple, almost normal. And that was exactly what made it so strange.\n\nThe guy grinned, satisfied. “Do that.”\n\nChris got out, closed the door, and went to the front door—the dress still smooth, the make-up still perfect—and with a feeling in his stomach he did not want to sort out: a little fear, a little pride. And unfortunately, undeniably, a little arousal.\n\n''What happens next''\n<<nobr>><<if $kissmom > 0>>[[Bedroom conversations.|Schlafzimmergespräche.]]<<else>>[[Bedroom conversations.|Schlafzimmergespräche.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

On Friday, that Homecoming crackle hung over the whole school, as if someone had poured glitter into the air. In the halls, people were discussing dress colors, suits, limousines, and who would pin which flowers on whom. Everywhere, Chris caught fragments: “Afterparty,” “photos in front of the gym,” “my mom only lets me stay out until eleven.”\n<<set $wochentag = 5>><<set $ort to "school">>\nIn the cafeteria, he caught [[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]] talking to [[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]]—not secretly, not dramatically, just matter-of-factly. “We’re going together,” Ruby said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world, and Lucas turned so red that even his ears almost joined in. He laughed nervously, but happily. Ruby nudged him, as if to say: Pull yourself together, this is going to be good.\n\nChris’s chest tightened unpleasantly. He immediately told himself that was ridiculous. Ruby was allowed to go with whoever she wanted. And Lucas was… Lucas. Nice. Harmless. Still, there was a small, sharp sting. Not big enough to break him—just big enough that he felt it all day, like a splinter under his skin.\n\nHis sister Christine, meanwhile, was like a shadow of herself. Whenever someone brought up the dance, she went briefly stiff and changed the subject. Once, a girl from the team asked casually, “So, Christine, are you going?” Christine only shrugged. “No idea. Probably not.” Nothing more came. Chris knew why: Myles would be there, with his new flame. And Christine would stay home and pretend she didn’t care.\n\nAfter class, Chris went home, and the unpleasant feeling stayed—not because of Ruby and Lucas alone, but because of the sum of everything.\n\n<<if $zeke == 3>>[[Continue|Samstag Konzert Date.]]<<else>>At home, the next problem was waiting right away.\n\nSusan was standing in the kitchen with her phone in her hand and that expectant look that didn’t “suggest” anything, but decided. Chris knew immediately what it was about: the online dating she had set up for him last Saturday. Profile photo, short bio, a few likes—and Susan had treated the whole thing like an item on a timetable.\n\n“And?” she asked without preamble. “Who are you meeting? It’s time you arranged a date.”\n\nChris’s stomach sank. He had only opened the app sporadically over the past few days, more out of panic than interest. A few messages, a few flirts, a lot that was uncomfortable, some of it surprisingly nice—but nothing that felt “real.” And above all: nothing he wanted to talk about with his mother.\n\nBut the question hung in the room like a spotlight: Did he have a date?\n\n''Does he have a date?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $dating == 1>>[[He has a date with a boy.|Er hat ein Date mit einem Jungen.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $dating == 2>>[[He has a date with Laverne.|Er hat ein Date mit Laverne.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $dating == 3>>[[He doesn’t have a date.|Er hat kein Date.]]<<endif>>\n<</nobr>><<endif>>

Chris pulled away from the doorframe, took one shallow breath, and turned around. On the way back to the track, the corridor felt longer than it had before. He found Mr. Moore and said calmly, “Christine will be here in a minute.” The coach gave a curt nod, clapped his hands, and called out the next warm-up block.\n\nWhile they counted through stretches, Chris’s head was stuck somewhere else. The locker room, his sister without panties with her legs spread on the bench, Myles’s big cock—images ran in an endless loop. He shook out his arms, switched sides, found the rhythm, lost it again.\n\nThe minutes dragged on while the band struck up the “Wolves Fight Song” and the first parents in the stands got to their feet. Just before things began, Christine and Myles appeared from the corridor.\n\n“Sorry, I got held up for a moment,” she said, as if that were the whole story. Myles nodded toward the team, a routine “Let’s go,” and disappeared to the Timberwolves.\n\nChristine lined up beside Chris, casually tugged at her bow, checked the fit of her sneakers. She acted completely normal, as if nothing had happened—only her cheeks were a shade too rosy, as if she had just exerted herself quite a bit.\n\n“Ready?” Christine asked curtly, without a sideways glance. Chris nodded, took his mark, and the stadium lights brightened a little. The night waited.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $moore == 1>>\n\n<<if $schulball == 1>>\n[[The first home game.|Das erste Heimspiel.]]\n<<else>>\n[[The first home game.|Das erste Heimspiel.3]]\n<<endif>>\n\n<<else>>\n[[The first home game.|Das erste Heimspiel.2]]\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Chris was washing his hands at the outdoor sink, the cold water rinsing the smell of stable and work from his fingers. Somewhere behind him, a wheelbarrow clattered, and through the open stable door the wind carried in the scent of hay.\n\nAs he went back to the stall aisle, he could already hear voices. Ruby and Zeke were standing a few meters farther on, both holding a broom as if they had only kept it as a prop. They were talking about music, casually, the way people talk when they know each other and aren’t under any stress.\n\n“…I’m telling you, I listen to it while I work, then everything goes twice as fast,” Zeke said.\n\nRuby laughed. Chris stepped closer, his hands still slightly damp.\n\nRuby turned toward him, and in her eyes was that far-too-satisfied sparkle, as if she had been waiting for exactly this entrance. “Oh, this is perfect,” she said, as if opening a stage. “Chris, guess what. Zeke is a fan of Northern Static too.”\n\nChris stopped. “What?” The name hit him like a small electric shock, immediately warm in his chest. He looked at Zeke. “Seriously?”\n\nZeke grinned, a little proud, as if it were a good hit. “Yeah. Not many people know them. But I discovered them by chance a few years ago. ‘Glassfields’ is my favorite song.”\n\nChris’s eyes widened. “You know Glassfields?” He heard his voice go higher, and only noticed it afterward. “That’s… that song is—it builds so slowly and then—”\n\n“—and then it feels like you’re getting brighter from the inside,” Zeke added, and it was so fitting that Chris had to laugh briefly.\n\nRuby crossed her arms and looked back and forth between them as if enjoying a tennis match. “Aha,” she said meaningfully. “I’ll let you two be fans.”\n\nChris and Zeke kept talking right away, as if they had found a shared cable. Which albums were better. Which tracks felt “like rain.” How the band must be insanely good live because the songs had so much dynamics.\n\n“They’re actually playing in Pittsburgh in two weeks,” Zeke then said, almost in passing, as if it were a little weather report. “I’ve got tickets.”\n\nChris’s heart jumped. “Seriously?”\n\nZeke nodded. “Yeah. I was actually going to go with a buddy, but he canceled. No idea why anyone would cancel something like that.” He shrugged and looked at Chris. “So… if you want, you can come with me. I’ve got a spare ticket.”\n\nFor a moment, it was all there: the thought of hearing his favorite band live, the lights, the bass, that moment when a song “opens up” and you realize you don’t just know it, you’re living it. Chris felt how badly he wanted to say yes.\n\nAnd at the same time, something tightened inside him: Alone with a man. A concert. A two-hour drive. Crowds. Questions. Looks. He briefly saw Ruby’s face out of the corner of his eye—her grin revealed that this was exactly what she had wanted—and felt shame and longing tangle together.\n\n“I…” Chris swallowed. “I’d really like to. But my mother… she probably won’t let me.” The excuse came faster than he had planned, smooth and practical. He hated how easily lies slipped over his lips by now.\n\nZeke twisted his mouth, not offended, more understanding. “Yeah, okay. Parents and all that.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and typed something, then held it out to Chris. “Here. I’ll give you my number. Just in case you can somehow talk her into it. Or if it does work out. You can just text me.”\n\nChris took his phone, typed in the number, and saved it as Zeke. His thumb hesitated briefly over “Save,” as if it were a promise that meant more than it should. “Okay,” he said and nodded. “I… I’ll ask her.”\n\nHe meant: I want to be polite. Secretly, he had no intention of asking his mother. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he didn’t know how to even begin asking a question like that without his mother turning it into a project.\n\nZeke smiled. “Cool. I’d be happy.”\n\nRuby slid closer again, as if she had never been away. “See,” she said, satisfied, “music connects people.”\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $unterwaesche == 1>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.]]<<else>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

On Friday, the Homecoming dance hung over the whole school like a balloon. In the halls, dress colors were being discussed, hairstyles shown off, limousine plans whispered about. It was as if there were nothing more important than Saturday night.\n<<set $wochentag = 5>><<set $ort to "school">>\nChris tried not to let it get to him. He acted as if none of it touched him. But then he happened to overhear it—not through some big announcement, but through a casual sentence by the lockers.\n\nLucas was standing a few steps away with [[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]]. Ruby said something like, “…so, I’ll pick you up at seven. And yes, I’ll bring the star clip.” Lucas laughed softly, that bright, embarrassed laugh, and nodded.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened as if someone had pulled a string. Lucas is going to the dance with Ruby. A simple fact—and yet it suddenly felt wrong inside him. Not because he wanted Lucas. He didn’t want him. Lucas was a boy, and Chris didn’t like boys, he told himself automatically. And still: the thought that Ruby would be going with his Lucas stirred something that tasted suspiciously like jealousy.\n\nMy Lucas? he startled himself.\n\nHe had pushed Lucas away, hadn’t he? He had ended it. He had ended the role because it had been a lie. And yet it stung to see him “taken” now—as if Chris had finally lost access to something that had once been too close to him: Lucas’s affection, Lucas’s gaze, Lucas’s place beside him in the cafeteria. It was absurd. And still real.\n\nHe looked away, as if he had been caught cheating. At the same time, he heard himself grinding inwardly: Let him have this. And he did let him have it. Really. And yet there was that stupid little reflex that suddenly made Ruby feel like a rival, even though she had never done anything to Chris.\n\nHis sister Christine seemed like a quiet spot in all the dance hysteria. Whenever the subject came up, she became terse, looked away, or brought up some task as an excuse. Chris knew why: Myles would be going with his new flame. Christine would stay home. And every word about dresses, couples, photos was like salt.\n\nAfter school, a completely different problem was waiting for Chris at home.\n\nSusan was standing in the kitchen with her phone in her hand and that expectant look that didn’t “suggest” anything, but decided. Chris knew immediately what it was about: the online dating she had set up for him last Saturday. Profile photo, short bio, a few likes—and Susan had treated the whole thing like an item on a timetable.\n\n“And?” she asked without preamble. “Who are you meeting? It’s time you arranged a date.”\n\nChris’s stomach sank. He had only opened the app sporadically over the past few days, more out of panic than interest. A few messages, a few flirts, a lot that was uncomfortable, some of it surprisingly nice—but nothing that felt “real.” And above all: nothing he wanted to talk about with his mother.\n\nBut the question hung in the room like a spotlight: Did he have a date?\n\n''Does he have a date?''\n<<nobr>><<if $dating == 1>>[[He has a date with a boy.|Er hat ein Date mit einem Jungen.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $dating == 2>>[[He has a date with Laverne.|Er hat ein Date mit Laverne.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $dating == 3>>[[He doesn’t have a date.|Er hat kein Date.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Susan snapped the cap of the pen into place, pushed the pad aside, and her face softened. “You made an effort. I can see that.” Then her gaze sharpened again around her eyes. “And that is exactly why it annoys me all the more that you stood out last week with something so stupid.” She didn’t say the word immediately, as if she were tasting it: “The condoms. In the supermarket.” Chris felt the blood shoot into his face, as if someone had aimed a spotlight at him. “That was embarrassing. For you. For me. And really, you should get a punishment for it,” Susan continued, her voice controlled, but still irritated.\n\nShe took one breath, as if actively deciding not to escalate further. “I spoke to your sister again,” she finally said. “And Christine made it very clear to me how hard you’ve been trying over the past few weeks. How seriously you’re taking this. So this time, I’ll turn a blind eye.” Chris swallowed, grateful and ashamed at the same time, and inside him a silent thank-you to Christine flashed up, one he would somehow owe her later.\n\n“And effort deserves…”—she stood up, reached into the cabinet under the television—“…a reward.” She returned with a narrow, glossy box, a pink ribbon, the lettering elegantly drawn across the corner.\n\n<center>[img[pics/dessous.jpg]]</center> Chris took the gift, his heart beating faster, his fingers suddenly far too attentive. The paper rustled, the lid lifted—beneath it lay fine, folded white: delicate lace, smoothly shimmering straps, a gossamer-thin pair of panties, beside them carefully rolled nylon stockings and a garter belt with tiny, pearl-like clips. “Victoria’s Secret,” Susan said casually, as if she were talking about a brand of notepads. “Try it on. I want to see if it fits.”\n\nHe nodded, the box pressed to his chest, and withdrew to his room. The door fell softly shut behind him. For a moment, he laid his fingers on the lid, as if he could feel the rustle of the fabrics beneath it, then arranged everything properly on the bed: bra, panties, garter belt, stockings, like a small, pale choreography.\n\nGetting dressed was a silent ritual: sorting the straps, finding the hooks at his back, breathing in, fastening them. The bra settled into place, gave shape, while at the same time taking away some of the rawness that often embarrassed him. The panties slid higher than his usual things, the lace lying on his skin like drawn shadows. He wrapped the garter belt around his waist, adjusted it one hook tighter—it sat there as if it had always belonged. The stockings were cool against his shins, growing warmer with every second; he rolled them up until they met the clips and fastened the tiny holders—a soft, satisfying tack, four times, then two more.\n\nHe stopped in front of the mirror. First from a distance, so he wouldn’t be startled, then closer, step by step, until his own face filled the frame. The white brought out the tint of his skin, the narrow lines of the garter belt traced his middle, ordering the silhouette. The lace on the bra was fine, not overloaded, the edge delicate against his collarbones. The stockings caught the light falling through the window and cast it back with a soft sheen. It looked… right. Neat. Dangerously sexy.\n\nHe turned slightly sideways, first to the left, then to the right. The contours of his chest, round but still restrained; the smooth line of his back; the garter belt holding the stockings in line. He lifted his gaze to his own face: not the uncertain boy from months ago, not the overwhelmed disguise of the first few days—something in between, something that breathed. The feeling of wearing a costume was there, yes, but mixed with an involuntary acknowledgment: This suits me. A quiet, treacherous tingle on his skin, where the lace edge brushed his ribs.\n\nHe brought his hands to his sides, let them sink again, and took one deep breath into his belly. “Okay,” he said very quietly, only for the mirror. Not agreement, not rejection—a cautious consent to the moment.\n\n[[Continue|Chris geht zu seiner Mutter ins Schlafzimmer.]]

Susan snapped the cap of the pen into place, pushed the pad aside, and her face softened. “You made an effort. I can see that. And effort actually deserves a reward, but…” Her gaze slid past him, as if she were calling up a list in her head, and when it returned to him, the warmth was gone. “…then there was that supermarket last week.” She said it calmly, almost casually, and that made it hit harder. “A pack of condoms. Stolen. You embarrassed me with that, Chris. I had to deal with the consequences, and you stood there like a little thief caught in the act. That costs you a serious deduction.” She tapped the pen on the table once, as if it were a red mark. “You would actually have passed my assessment. But little thieves need to be punished.”\n\nChris’s face grew hot, as if someone had suddenly overheated the room. He looked away, anywhere there was no mirror. “Mom, please…” His voice was thin. “That wasn’t—I… I had to…” The words stumbled, because every explanation only brought the image back again: checkout, the cashier’s look, that endless second in which he wished he could be invisible. “Please not again. I already—”\n\nSusan raised her hand, a small stop sign. “No.” No volume, no anger—only mercilessness. “You don’t learn this through pleading. You learn it through consequences.”\n\nThe pen snapped shut, the notepad closed. Chris followed her into the bathroom. The light was too bright, the mirror too large. Susan spoke quietly, yet every word sounded like a verdict: “Today’s punishment is meant to motivate you to do better in the future. Take off your clothes.”\n\nChris stripped naked. The tiles felt cold, the mirror watched.\n\n“Now lean forward over the tub and hold still.” In the commanded position, Chris waited to see what would happen next. His mother came back with a small tube with a pump. The tube had a small attachment at the end that looked like a very thin dildo.\n\nShe came up behind him, caressed his bottom and grinned with joy. Then she pulled Chris' butt cheeks apart and attached the hose. With a slight twisting movement, she pushed the hose inexorably into his bottom. Chris arched his back and quickly realized that his unprepared gate hurt. Chris groaned, the moan mutating into more of a feminine squeal. Chris automatically had a strong urge to push the foreign body out. He felt full. His hole still had to get used to this unusual stretch.\n\nThe other end of the hose went into the American toilet bowl filled with water.\n\n“I’ve wanted to try this thing for a long time.” laughed Susan and started pumping.\n\nHe felt the cold water from the toilet rush into his intestines, filling him as his intestines stretched.\n\n“Let’s see if you defect.” she laughed again.\n\nChris was getting fuller. It would soon spurt out of him like a fountain, he thought. His stomach also felt big, as if he hadn't used the toilet in two weeks.\n\nChris started to cry. Not loud, more like someone running out of breath too quickly. It was a mixture of pain and shame and the paralyzing feeling of standing in front of that mirror again—the place where he would most like to disappear. His mother stuck to her role: controlling, unyielding. “Breathe,” she said once, as his sobs hitched. "Now listen carefully to me: Next month I want to see progress. Real. Step. By. Step. No more excuses."\n\nThen she finishes her pumping.\n"Now, hold still. Your butt is pretty full. I have to close it first so you can move again." Susan pulled off the hose and plugged the small dildo with a plug. “Now put it back down.”\n\nChris straightened up again. The uncomfortable feeling of the narrow dildo was now made worse by his water-filled intestines.\n\n[[Continue|Etwas später.]]\n

The school day dragged on as usual until afternoon, and the D&D club afterward was uneventful: dice, a few spells, a small argument about rules, then it was over. Chris packed up his things, smiled in the right places, and pretended this was all just another item on the schedule in a normal week.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nOutside, [[Adam|Adam Bowman]] was already waiting with his far-too-small scooter. Chris swung himself onto the back, clung to Adam’s jacket, and tried to hold his knees so that the skirt wouldn’t ride up.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Adam_roller.jpg]]</center> The slipstream bit coolly into his panties, and every burst of acceleration pulled him unintentionally closer to Adam. He didn’t like that—not because Adam was touching him, but because it felt like part of a role he wasn’t allowed to take off.\n\nAt Adam’s house, the lights in the windows were warm, and the front door opened almost as soon as they had rung the bell. Adam’s parents seemed like an older couple trying hard to be modern: friendly, a little too interested, with the kind of smile meant more to reassure than to pry.\n\n“Chris! How lovely that you’re here,” Adam’s mother said, pulling him straight into the kitchen. Adam was dismissed with a “Shoes off, jacket away” and disappeared toward the living room. Chris was left behind—apron tied on, hands already dusted with flour—and felt his stomach tighten. Of course, the baking wasn’t just baking.\n\nThe dough was quickly mixed: butter, sugar, eggs, flour. The smell was pleasant, almost homey. Adam’s mother set out the baking tray, tapped him lightly on the elbow, and said in the tone of a conspirator: “Homecoming is coming up soon, isn’t it?” Her tone stayed friendly, but her gaze became appraising. “And after a dance like that… some teenagers suddenly become very… spontaneous.”\n\nChris’s heart gave a small jump. “Yes,” he said cautiously, while smoothing out the dough.\n\n“You two are going together, right?” She sounded satisfied, as if she had checked off an item on a list. “That’s so sweet.”\n\nChris forced a smile. The floral apron suddenly felt like a uniform.\n\nAdam’s mother washed her hands, dried them, and then it came, just as Chris had feared. She lowered her voice, as if the dishwasher were listening. “I don’t mean this badly,” she continued, “but boys like to forget the temperature. And then everything is nicely browned on the outside—and raw inside.” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “You understand?” She smiled apologetically. “Boys can be a bit… reckless about that.”\n\nChris’s ears grew hot. He stirred too long, until the dough became tougher. “Mhm.”\n\n“Are you on the pill?” she asked outright.\n\n''What does Chris answer?''\n❯ [[He says yes, he’s on the pill.|Er sagt ja, er nimmt die Pille.]]\n❯ [[He says no, he isn’t taking it.|Er sagt nein, er nimmt sie nicht.]]

Charlotte’s father opened the front door that evening and smiled warmly. “Hello, Chris. Charlotte’s still being held up at her grandma’s. Come in, she said you should make yourself comfortable.”\n<<set $ort to "Charlotte's house">>\nHe led Chris into the kitchen, where the scent of garlic and roasted vegetables hung in the air. For a moment, Chris felt strangely out of place—alone with his girlfriend’s father while she wasn’t there. Mr. Walters wore a simple shirt, the sleeves rolled up.\n\n“Would you mind frying the zucchini until they get some color? And I’ll quickly set the table,” he said, handing him a dish towel and gesturing toward the pan.\n\n“Sure.” Chris reached for the wooden spatula, glad for the simple task. Joseph moved calmly, thoughtfully—glasses in place, cutlery straight, napkins folded with a care that didn’t feel stiff. It seemed… caring. Chris noticed the initial stiffness slowly falling away from him. The unobtrusive scent of his aftershave hit Chris like a small memory of home; the same brand his father used. For a moment, his heart softened.\n\nThe phone vibrated on the kitchen counter. [[Joseph|Joseph Walters]] picked up. “Hey, sweetheart… Yeah? … Oh, things are taking longer at Grandma’s? Sure. We’ll start, no stress.” He hung up and shrugged apologetically. “She’s running late. We’re supposed to begin.”\n\nThey sat down at the small dining table by the window. Outside, twilight hung over Maplewood; inside, there were two plates of pasta and roasted vegetables. Joseph raised his glass of water. “To improvised evenings.”\n\n“To improvised evenings,” Chris repeated, with a slight upward curve at the end of the sentence and a smile. Joseph’s gaze lingered—he noticed himself how strongly that smile hit him, and how he was trying at the same time not to let it show.\n\nIt became easier, as if the kitchen had wrapped them both in a quiet understanding. Joseph talked about his work, weekend projects with Charlotte, last summer when they had repainted the porch and the neighborhood cat had left paw prints in the paint. At some point, the conversation drifted into something more personal; Joseph’s voice grew softer when he spoke of Charlotte’s mother—not whining, more like a gentle shadow. “Since she died, it’s been… well. No luck relationship-wise. You get… a little rusty. Dating-wise,” he said, lowering his gaze as if embarrassed by the word.\n\nChris felt his instinct kick in—that part of him that wanted to comfort people because he knew too well what loneliness felt like. “I don’t think you seem rusty,” he said, a small smile in his voice. “More like someone who knows what he’s doing. And, um… you cook wonderfully.” He lifted his fork. “Honestly, the food is perfect.”\n\nJoseph’s gaze flickered up in surprise, then grew warm. “Thank you. That’s nice to hear.” He rubbed the back of his neck, almost embarrassed. “Charlotte always says I overdo it with the pepper.”\n\n“The pepper is exactly right,” Chris replied, tilting his head slightly, a gesture that seemed soft and—unintentionally—a little flirtatious. “And the shirt suits you. Blue makes you look… masculine.”\n\nChris had only meant to keep cheering him up; what came out was a compliment that could easily be mistaken for flirting. Joseph’s eyes softened. He visibly drank in the attention, like someone who had been thirsty for a long time.\n\nA laugh that sounded almost youthful burst out of him. “Oh, come on. But… thank you.” His shoulders lifted noticeably—not from tension, more from having grown in stature.\n\nChris felt comfortable. He liked building someone up; the change in Joseph’s posture—more confidence, less self-doubt—did him good. Joseph placed his hand on Chris’s hand. “Charlotte is lucky to have you. You can tell how much you care. That’s… attractive.” He faltered for half a second, pulled his hand back, noticed how the word lingered, and quickly added: “I mean—admirable. As a quality.”\n\nChris talked about school. Joseph nodded, smiled again. “You really have a feeling for people,” he said. “You can tell right away.”\n\n“So do you,” Chris countered, embarrassed. “You feel… seen with you.” He meant “safe”—but seen came out, and remained in the room like a little cone of light falling only on Joseph.\n\nJoseph almost automatically straightened up a little more. The trace of uncertainty in his features slipped back; he seemed—in the best sense—taken with it. Not crude, not greedy, but grateful, incredulous, and happy that a pretty young girl perceived him that way.\n\nThey cleared the table together. When Chris handed him the dish towel, their fingers brushed. Joseph held the towel a fraction too long, not improperly—more like someone making sure the warmth from a moment ago had really been there. Chris didn’t notice; he only smiled that small, inwardly glowing thank-you-for-the-evening smile and nodded.\n\n[[Continue|Warten auf Charlotte.]]

The seconds stretched on. Chris’s mind raced—loudly and chaotically. 'If I admit now that it was because of her, she’ll have her proof,' he thought. 'Maybe then she’ll finally stop prying.'\n<<set $SusanMemory[5] to 1>>\n“It… is because of you,” he said, and a lie formed in his mind like an emergency exit: “I… I looked through the keyhole back then.” The last words fell from his mouth like sand. He felt his stomach clench.\n\nFor a moment, his mother said nothing at all. Then she nodded slowly, as if a knot had finally come undone—a knot she had long since accepted as a permanent fixture. “Thank you for finally admitting it. Now, please sit on the chair over there.”\n\nShe had placed a chair about a meter away from the bed—the one where she usually hung some of her clothes. Chris sat down.\n\n“Do you like what you see?”\n\n“Mom?”\n\n“It’s alright, sweetheart; you don’t have to answer.” She sighed softly, as if demonstrating her patience. “I’m going to take my clothes off now. You are a girl, Chris. Don’t forget that. Being a girl means playing along sometimes. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”\n\nAnd so he sat there on his chair, while his mother sat down on the bed; then, slowly and deliberately, she began to take off her bra. She unfastened the clasp seductively, letting the cups rest loosely against her breasts for a moment before finally sliding the garment down and covering her breasts with her hands.\n\n“Would you like to see Mommy’s breasts?” she asked in a seductive tone, tilting her head.\n\n“Mom… I don’t want this. I feel uncomfortable,” Chris said, blushing deeply.\n\n“This stays between us; no one else needs to know. You’ve earned this,” Susan replied, her words dripping with honeyed sweetness.\n\nChris felt the heat rising all the way to his ears. She let her hands drop, granting him an unobstructed view of her maternal bosom. Although it was not the first time he had laid eyes on her naked breasts, he had never seen them quite like this. Consequently, it was only now that he truly noticed just how beautiful they actually were. His mother’s breasts were large; they hung slightly downward, forming a shape that curved gently inward just above the nipples. The nipples themselves were large and erect, framed by prominent, dark areolas. This was the very bosom that had nourished him at the beginning of his life.\n\nNo sooner had he grown accustomed to the sight than Susan’s hands began to drift toward her lap. She slid a finger beneath the waistband of her panties. Once again, she began to toy with the garment—slowly and seductively. To afford him a better view, she finally sank to her knees as she stripped the panties off completely. Her son gazed down at her bared lap. What met his eyes was a vulva, clearly and distinctly defined. Susan was completely shaved, and her pink outer labia were plainly visible.\n\n[[Continue|Sie masturbiert.][$kissmom += 1]]\n

Over the next few weeks, the pregnancy developed its own daily routine – small, absurd, sometimes even funny, although no one wanted to laugh about it.\n\nCravings came like sudden orders. One evening, Christine stood in the kitchen, stared into the fridge, and said flatly, “I need… pickles.” Chris nodded automatically, as if that were a normal emergency. Ten minutes later, he was standing there with a jar of pickles – only for Christine to wrinkle her nose. “Not those. They’re too sour.”\n“Okay… which ones, then?”\n“The ones with… more crunch.”\nChris rode his bike to the little supermarket, bought three different kinds, and came back as if he were on a mission. Christine tried them, nodded with satisfaction at the second kind, and ate with such seriousness that it looked as if her life depended on it. Chris watched her and just shook his head, but inside him there was also a quiet: If it helps, then it helps. Another time, in the middle of the night, she wanted “peanut butter on apple slices with salt.” Chris made it, set the plate down, and waited for her to immediately hate it again. She ate it, sighed happily – and Chris felt strangely relieved, as if he had solved a task.\n\nEmotions came just as suddenly. Once, Christine cried in the kitchen because the clock was ticking so loudly. Not angrily, but truly desperately. “It’s ticking so… aggressively,” she sobbed, holding on to the counter. Chris stood beside her, unsure, then silently laid a tissue down for her. He understood it in a way he never would have before. The hormones he took knew these waves: feelings that seemed enormous, even though the trigger was tiny. He himself had nearly cried because he had messed up his eyeliner, or because a song on the radio sounded too “right.” So he didn’t say “Pull yourself together,” only: “Everything is okay.”\n\nAt school, the baby bump eventually became visible. At first, Christine could hide it with hoodies, with jackets, by standing straight. Then it got harder. In the hallway, a glance lingered too long. In the cafeteria, a sentence was cut off the moment she came closer. Some people reacted with awkward embarrassment, as if they were afraid of looking “wrong.” Some stared extra obviously, as if her belly were a poster. A few girls suddenly became overly friendly – the kind of friendliness that felt like pity. And some boys made stupid jokes that they sold as “just kidding.” Christine blushed, drew her shoulders up, sometimes laughed along briefly, just so she wouldn’t show how much it hurt. Chris noticed it in her fingers, constantly tugging at the hem, in the way she made herself smaller, even though her body was doing something bigger.\n\nAnd then there were the clothes. One afternoon, Christine stood in front of the wardrobe, wearing only underwear – a simple black bra and matching panties, nothing special, nothing meant to make her feel “sexy.” It was just what happened to be there.\n\nShe stared at herself as if she were examining a stranger. “I look like…” She broke off and swallowed, because the word felt too cruel to say out loud. Her voice grew harder, as if hardness were the only way not to break. “I’m ugly.”\n\nChris, standing in the doorway, wanted to contradict her immediately – but his throat felt tight. Because his first thought wasn’t pity, wasn’t worry, but something that frightened even him: Beautiful. Sexy. And somehow… strong.\n\nHe was ashamed of it, because it felt wrong to have that inside him. So he forced himself to stay calm.\n\n“You don’t look ugly,” he said at last, carefully. “You look… pretty. And tired. But not ugly.”\n\nChristine snorted, without humor. “Go ahead and say that because you want to be nice.”\n\nChris took a step closer, but kept his distance. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”\n\nShe looked at him briefly in the mirror, as if she wanted to find out whether he was lying. Then she looked away again, as if it were easier not to believe him.\n\n“Nothing fits me anymore,” she muttered. “And I don’t feel like looking like…” She broke off, biting the inside of her cheek. “Like someone who isn’t me anymore.”\n\nChris nodded. “Okay. Then we’ll find things that feel like you.”\n\nChris went to the wardrobe and pulled out piece after piece: leggings with a soft waistband, longer tops, a wrap dress that would grow with her, a comfortable cardigan that stayed open. He held things up, turned them around, thought out loud. “This falls nicely here. And this isn’t tight around the belly.”\nChristine looked at him, first irritated, then quieter. “Since when can you do that?”\nChris shrugged and felt a small, bittersweet echo. “Since you taught me.” Christine used to help him put outfits together, had said: “That suits you, that doesn’t. That makes you…” and had then searched for the right word. Now it was the other way around. He was helping her not feel at the mercy of it all. He was looking for things she could feel like herself in again – just in a new form.\n\nEventually, Christine tried on a simple, soft dress that didn’t hide anything, but gently moved with her. She turned in front of the mirror, looking for a moment like someone who recognized herself again. Chris smiled, carefully, as if he didn’t want to break the moment.\n“Okay,” Christine said quietly. “This works.”\nAnd Chris thought: More than that. You do.\n\n[[Continue|Das Baby tritt.]]

Chris took the jacket and carried it back into the gym. Inside, a few girls were still cleaning up, mats being pushed around, poms collected. Penelope stood at the edge, drinking water.\n\n“Hey,” Chris said, holding the cardigan out to her. “Dylan had this. He said you forgot it.”\n\nPenelope took it without much surprise and draped it over her arm. “Oh. Thanks.” Casual. Matter-of-fact. Not even a “Why did Dylan have the jacket?”—more as if it were normal for things to find their way to her.\n\nChris noticed himself searching for a casual tone, anything that didn’t sound like “Why does he have your jacket?” “Good stunts today,” he said, as if he were talking about technique and not about his own heart.\n\nPenelope shrugged. “Yeah, it was okay.” Not mean, not condescending—just that queen bee sound where “okay” meant it was better than most.\n\nChris nodded, made a “hm,” and left before his face could show anything treacherous. Outside, it was cooler. He no longer felt the jacket in his hands, but the tug in his stomach remained.\n\nOn the bus ride home, the thought wouldn’t let him go. He stared out the window, watched houses glide past, streetlights like little dots, and in his head an image formed that he hadn’t asked for: Dylan and Penelope, the star quarterback and the queen bee cheerleader. It would make sense. It would even fit perfectly. Almost too perfectly.\n\nAnd then he wondered why he cared at all.\n\nBecause you’re just curious, he tried to tell himself. Because you want to belong. Because you… But every explanation sounded thin. He felt his thoughts keep jumping back to Dylan, to that brief “Hey, Chris” and the grin afterward.\n\nChris tried to think about something else—math, homecoming, training, anything practical. But every time, his mind slipped back to the same question, which stayed like a stone in his shoe: whether Dylan and Penelope were together.\n\nAnd worse: that it mattered to him.\n\n[[Continue|Bonding mit Mom.]]

Chris’s cheeks grew hot, as if someone had caught him. He looked at the cover, then quickly away again, as if he had never really been interested.\n\n“Uh… not really,” he said, forcing a light laugh into his voice. “I was just… looking. By chance.”\n\nEven as he said it, it felt wrong. Not dramatically wrong—more like a small crack in his own reflection. He hated that he hid so easily. And still he stuck with the lie, because it was easier.\n\nCharlotte nodded slowly, as if simply accepting it. “Okay. Just thought so.”\n\nChris breathed out, but the relief had a bitter aftertaste.\n\n“Come on,” she said, hooking her arm through his and pulling him two aisles over, to covers where pale boys with fangs stared dramatically into moonlight. “I need mood food. Romantic vampires, I’m buying at least one.”\n\nChris studied the blurbs, pretending not to find terms like “soulmates across centuries” and “dark prince” yawn-worthy. “Sounds… exciting,” he lied, sincerely trying.\n\n“I may not like boys, but with vampires…” She lowered her voice a little, as if revealing a secret. “…I’d go weak for Lucien.”\n\nChris laughed briefly—and then felt a small, hopeful something stir inside him. She says that so easily, he thought. Maybe she would accept his being a boy.\n\n“This one,” Charlotte decided, pulling out a book with glittering title lettering. “You’ll like this.”\n“Definitely,” Chris said and paid—and heard himself think: Great. Now I’m reading girls’ fantasies about boys too. He slipped the book into the bag with the bracelets and pretended his heart wasn’t quietly objecting.\n\nThey ended up at the ice cream café at the edge of the gallery. Charlotte ordered pistachio and lemon, Chris vanilla and chocolate. They fed each other in turns with the spoon; Charlotte dabbed a spot onto his lip and laughingly licked it away. It was silly and sugar-sweet and felt surprisingly right.\n\n“Hey, ladies,” a voice said then. Two boys stopped—baseball caps backward, the confidence of people who had never heard no. “You new here? We could show you… the good stores.” One of their gazes stuck to Charlotte, then slid to Chris and stayed there a beat too long. Chris’s stomach tightened; heat crawled under his skin. Not again, he thought, and the feeling of becoming an object was suddenly sharp.\n\n“We’re good,” Charlotte said, friendly and not friendly.\n“Oh, come on,” the other pushed, “just one round. You’re not—”\n\nCharlotte put a hand on the back of Chris’s neck, pulled him to her, and kissed him for exactly long enough that there could be no misunderstanding. When they broke apart, she smiled sugar-sweetly at the boys. “We’re very lesbianly occupied.”\n\nThe boys stared for a second, as if they hadn’t seen the plot twist coming. One laughed awkwardly, the other clicked his tongue. “Damn. You could’ve said so,” he muttered, as if it had been her failure. “Have fun… or whatever.”\n“We are,” Charlotte said, still friendly, and turned back to Chris.\n\nChris breathed out, only now realizing how tightly he had been holding the spoon. “I hate that,” he said softly.\n“I know,” Charlotte answered gently. “You’ve got a choice: ignore, counter, mark territory. Today: mark territory.” She nudged his spoon. “Another bite?”\n\nHe laughed, small, and let the spoon land on her tongue. The older man from the fountain was long forgotten. Between shop windows and escalators, Chris found something for a moment that felt like everyday life—their everyday life. Perfume strips, photo-booth strips, a friendship bracelet on his wrist. And Charlotte, who was just as uncompromisingly herself in the neon light of the mall as she was in the steam of a hot tub.\n\n[[Continue|Pyjama kaufen.]]

After school, the afternoon lay over the gym like a thin film when Chris arrived for special training. Last night’s dream still clung to him, as if he had thrown it on instead of a jacket. He already saw Mr. Moore standing at the edge of the mats, clipboard in hand, whistle around his neck. Chris’s gaze automatically slipped past him, searching somewhere behind him for a harmless fixed point: the cracked line in the gym wall paint, the hook for the hand sanitizer, the shadow of a wall bar.\n<<set $ort to "gym">>\n“Warm-up, same as usual,” Mr. Moore said. His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. “Two laps, then mobility. Today we’re working on your entry into the prep.”\n\n“Yes,” Chris managed, too quietly, and set himself in motion. As he jogged over the lines, he counted in his head—one–two–three–four—and tried to shake the dream out of his joints. The gym smelled of resin and faint cleaning solution. Every breath felt too big.\n\nStretching. Cat–cow, shoulder circles, hip openers. When Mr. Moore walked past him, he stopped briefly. “Don’t pull from the neck, length from the sternum,” he said, tracing a finger over Chris’s upper body as if drawing a line there. Chris flinched as if the finger had been directly inside him.\n\n“Everything okay?” Mr. Moore asked.\n\n“Yes,” Chris said, staring at the floor. The rubber granule dots in the sports flooring were suddenly of breathtaking importance.\n\n“Okay. Then onto the mark.” Mr. Moore clapped his hands once. “We’ll go through the sequence in slow counts. Don’t forget to breathe.”\n\nChris took his place on the tape mark. Chalk hands—simulate grip, elbows close. Mr. Moore stepped into the semicircle of his field of vision. “Set. Five–six–seven–eight.” Chris bent his knees, lifted, just as they had practiced hundreds of times. When Mr. Moore placed his hand on Chris’s forearm, only to correct the angle, heat shot all the way to his ears. Reflexively, he pulled his arm back a little.\n\n“Relax,” Mr. Moore said, the smallest hint of surprise in his voice. “I’m just showing you the line.” He immediately let go, kept his finger in the air, pointing to the vector. “Here. That’s how the force stays clean.”\n\n“Got it.” Chris’s voice was too quick, too bright. He nodded as if he wanted to wave the moment away, and felt his heart stumbling around inside his ribs.\n\nThey repeated it. Mr. Moore moved to the other side. “Breathe out on one,” he said. “Otherwise you’ll collapse on three.” Another brief contact—his hand at Chris’s side, exactly where the tension was supposed to sit, barely any weight, more a cue. Chris’s muscles twitched as if someone had flipped a switch. Without meaning to, he took half a step out of position.\n\n“Chris,” Mr. Moore said quietly. “Focus. Just technique.”\n\n“Yes. Sorry.” He forced his shoulders down, lifted his gaze just past Mr. Moore to the gym window. Just technique, just technique, he hammered into his head. Not the dream.\n\n“Again. Prep—Cradle—lowering. Slowly.” Mr. Moore counted, and Chris’s body followed, though more hesitantly than usual.\n\n“Stop.” Mr. Moore raised his hand. No sharpness, just a small, firm comma in the air. “We’re taking the tempo down. What’s going on?”\n\nChris stared at the tape mark and could have sworn it was moving. “Nothing. Just—I slept badly.” A truth, without the whole truth.\n\nA very brief look from Mr. Moore, assessing, then a small nod. “All right. Then we’ll approach it intelligently. Close your eyes for a second and picture the line.”\n\nChris obeyed. He breathed in, let his eyelids sink—and immediately Mr. Moore stood before his inner eye, far too close. Not the line, but his face. The mouth. The lips slightly parted, as if they were just about to move in for a kiss. The image leapt at him so uninvited that he grew hot as if under a stage light.\n\nChris’s knees gave a tiny wobble. “Uh—” He tore his eyes open as if someone had splashed him with cold water. “I—sorry. I’m feeling a little… dizzy.” He took half a step backward, nearly bumped into the edge of the mat, and his heart was drumming completely unprofessionally.\n\nMr. Moore blinked, irritated. “Sit down for a moment.”\n\n“I think I’m calling it off today,” Chris blurted out—too fast, too bright. “I’m really not… physically all here.” He raised his hands apologetically, as if he had to show they were empty, holding no excuses.\n\nA brief moment in which Mr. Moore weighed it, then a curt nod. “Okay. Listen to your body.”\n\n“Yes. Thanks.” Chris grabbed his bottle as if holding onto it, and fled to the bench at the edge. He sat down, stared at the gym floor for a second, and felt the blood rise in his ears. Picture the line, great idea, he thought with bitter humor. And my brain goes: lips.\n\nIn the shower, he stayed longer than necessary and let the cold water hum until his face had returned to a normal temperature.\n\n[[Continue|Lernen für Mathe.]]

Chris searched for an objection that would land—something clever, something striking—and found only emptiness. His mouth stayed open, with no sentence.\n\n“Good,” she said, as if that settled it, “then we’ll do it now.”\n\nShe took his phone from the vanity, swiped decisively, downloaded an app, and began typing. “Name… no, first name only. Age range… hm. Hobbies: reading, cooking—that sounds warm. And a nice, clear sentence.” She dictated half aloud, half into the keys: “Laughs loudly, learns quickly, loves movie nights and long walks. Looking for honest people with a sense of humor.” Then she looked up. “Put on a pretty dress. The light-blue one with the bow—it makes your eyes shine.”\n\nHe got up as if on autopilot, took the dress from the wardrobe, and slipped into it. Embarrassment crawled up his spine. Susan pulled the curtain open a little so the light fell better, positioned him against the wall. “Lift your chin slightly. Not like that. Like this.” Her hands directed his smile, his shoulders, the angle of his hip. He posed—hands at his waist, once loosely in his hair, once in profile—and every click of the camera was a small blow to the inside of his cheek.\n\n“Pretty,” she said with satisfaction, checked the photos, selected them without asking, swiped, discarded, kept. Then she read through the profile text again, smoothing it like a pillow. “Almost done.”\n\nThe final question blinked on the display. His mother turned the phone so he could see it. “Partner preference: men or women?”\n\nChris blinked. For a moment, he was too astonished to answer. That she was letting him decide at all here didn’t fit with the rest.\n\n“Just so you consider it,” Susan added in that soft, practical tone, “it’s probably easier to find a man. Looking the way you do now.” She raised an eyebrow. “But that’s your choice. What matters to me is that you deliver results—a date by the end of next week.”\nThe word results made his shoulders tense ever so slightly. Still, the screen remained in front of him, the options glowing like a traffic light. He felt his heart in his throat.\n\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[He chooses men because it seems easier, even though the mere thought of it makes his throat tighten.|Männer][$dating += 1]]\n❯ [[He chooses women, even though he suspects it might become harder, but it feels more honest to him.|Frauen][$dating += 2]]

As the sun sank lower and the festival lights behind them slowly grew thinner, the group broke away from the bustle and took the path to the river. Chris walked between Christine and a few cheerleaders, the dress still on his body as if it were part of the day’s plan. Penelope led the way, confident, as if she had the map in her head. Behind them came a few boys, voices and laughter like a loose net holding them all together.\n\nThe closer they got to the river, the less they heard the festival. Instead, other things emerged: the chirping, the wind, the distant rush of the water. And then—even before the plant was properly visible—there was that sweetish smell.\n\nMaple syrup.\n\nWarm, sticky, almost cozy… and exactly because of that, so wrong. Chris stopped for a moment because it hit him like a memory that did not belong to him.\n\n“Okay,” someone behind Penelope said, laughing too loudly. “Don’t go there after dark!” The sentence came like a running joke, and everyone pretended it was funny.\n\n“We’re not after dark yet,” someone replied, and a few phone lights came on, as if that were already proof.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Sirupanlage.jpg]]</center> Then the abandoned bottling plant appeared: rusty tanks standing on the riverbank like huge, dark bodies, decaying halls with shattered windows, pipes winding across the grounds like veins. Warning signs hung crookedly—“KEEP OUT,” “NO TRESPASSING”—and looked like decorations because no one stopped to read them.\n\nChris felt his heart beating faster and more cautiously at the same time. It wasn’t “monster-creepy.” It was that subtle unease built from details: metal somewhere giving a soft crack, as if the plant were breathing. A gust of wind whistling through a pipe and sounding for a moment like a drawn-out whisper. Somewhere, something dripped—regularly, patiently—counting seconds into the silence. A loose chain struck a fence post: clang—clang—clang. Above them, crows or ravens croaked, setting themselves into the last light like black commas in the sky.\n\n“Looks like a horror movie set,” someone said, and a few people laughed again—but the laughter already had an edge.\n\nPenelope stood in front of a tank, tossed her hair back, and took a photo as if this were an official spot. “Look how cool this looks. Industrial chic,” she said. Phone flashes flickered, faces appeared briefly bright and then vanished again.\n\nChristine stayed closer to Chris, arms crossed. She said nothing, but her gaze wandered over the signs, over the dark window holes, over the places where you could simply walk in through a gate. Her silence was louder than words.\n\nDylan was there too. Chris did not notice him right away—and then he did, because with Dylan it was always like that: a weight in the room, a focal point. He stood a little apart, his phone light low, looking over at the tanks as if, to him, it was only a place. Not a myth, not a dare. When he briefly turned his head, his gaze met Chris’s direction. Only for a moment. It was enough to make Chris’s stomach feel warm and uneasy at the same time.\n\n“Don’t go there after dark,” someone said again, this time more quietly, and it sounded less like a joke.\n\nChris saw an old logo on one hall wall—faded, but still recognizable: a maple leaf inside a circle, with weathered letters beneath it. It reminded him of the emblem on the Founders’ flyers from that afternoon. As if someone had nailed the same idea of “heritage” to two very different places. The romance on Main Street and the rust by the river—both bore the same sign.\n\n“Okay,” Penelope finally said, pointing to a side doorway. “Dare. Once inside to the old tanks. Photo. Then back out.”\n\nA few boys cheered, a few cheerleaders went “Woo!”, and phone lights moved into the opening like searching eyes. The syrup smell hung especially strongly there, as if it were rising from the concrete.\n\nChris’s head said this was stupid. His reason counted risks: rusty edges, nails, maybe a hole in the floor, maybe someone who would report them. And at the same time, he felt the team spirit like a hand on his back—the we that had saved him from his mother earlier. And there was Dylan, watching. Not “Dylan would judge him,” more: Dylan was part of the audience in front of whom Chris did not want to seem uncool.\n\nHe stood on the threshold, heard the chain striking, heard the dripping, smelled the sweet syrup that did not belong here.\n\nAnd he had to decide.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[He swallows down his doubts and goes into the old syrup plant with the others so he won’t look scared in front of them.|Chris macht die Mutprobe mit und geht rein.][$temp += 1]]\n❯ [[He would rather stay outside, even if that means risking looking uncool or cowardly in front of the others.|Chris bleibt draußen.]]

The first official D&D club meeting was scheduled for the afternoon.\n<<set $ort to "D&D club room">>\nThe hallway to the club room already sounded like dice. The moment Chris stepped inside, several heads went up—a little cheer, as if the boss loot had finally dropped. “Raven!” Ben called. Adam waved broadly, Jay nodded apologetically, as if he wanted to silently take back his jokes from last time all over again.\n\n“Uh, I brought you something,” said a scrawny freshman from row three—and pressed a mandarin into Chris’s hand. “You said you liked…”\n“Oh. Thanks!” Chris smiled.\n\nHe didn’t get a chance to break the peel before the next one was already there. “Here, please.” Another mandarin. “For vitamin C,” a third murmured, placing two on the table.\n\nAfter five minutes, Chris looked as if he had hoarded a very specific quest reward. I only said offhand that I liked mandarins, Chris thought.\n\nAdam giggled. “That’s what happens when you express preferences in the D&D club. We’re very efficient.”\n“We buff mandarins +3 to Luck,” Ben explained dryly.\n\nThey laughed, and the air in the room grew soft. Chris finally peeled one, the scent bursting out like a little sun. “Share,” he called, and several hands appeared at once. In the end, he still had some left over, which someone neatly stacked beside his character sheet like a small dragon-hoard pyramid set.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/DuDClub.jpg]]</center> <<else>><center>[img[pics/DuDClub_kurz.jpg]]</center> <<endif>>\nDuring the game, Adam slid closer to his side of the table. They found the same jokes in the rule text, the same shortcuts through the dungeon, the same quiet joy when a plan went unnoticed and still worked. When Raven picked a lock, Adam murmured, “In Germany, you’d definitely have gotten a master class in bureaucracy.” Chris laughed so suddenly he almost dropped his D20. “I had a friend there who would’ve talked exactly like that,” he said more quietly.\n“Sounds like the best kind of people,” Adam said simply.\n\nBetween dice and the smell of orange oil, Chris realized how easy it was to sit beside Adam. No tension in his neck, no gaze lingering too long. Just two people who could read the same map. A good male friend here would be worth gold, he thought. Someone who said “we” when everyone else was already sorting things into “you” and “them.” Adam pointed at the last mandarin. “You’re taking that one with you. Luck supply.”\n\n“Deal,” Chris said, and put the fruit in his bag.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem D&D Club.]]

The next morning, a stack of clothes lay on the bed in Chris’s room, neatly folded, as if order were already part of the rescue. Jeans, a hoodie, a plain T-shirt, boxer shorts, even a belt. His father had organized something through acquaintances—“in your size,” he had said, with that cautious tone, as if he were bringing back a piece of normality.\n\nChris stood in front of it and stared at the clothes as if they were both familiar and foreign at the same time. He slipped first into the boxer shorts, then into the jeans. Even as he pulled them up, he realized something was wrong. The waistband didn’t sit where it used to. The fabric pulled at his hips, as if it were too tight, even though the size should actually fit. When he closed the button, it worked—but the zipper resisted halfway up, as if it had a will of its own. Chris pulled harder, held his breath, pulled again, until it finally closed. Then the fabric lay strangely: somehow crooked in front, too loose at the thighs, too tight around the rear, as if someone had taken the shape from his memory and sewn it back together inaccurately.\n\nHe pulled the T-shirt over his head. Before, that would have been the most comfortable moment. Now the fabric caught on him where it had never caught before. Across his chest, the material showed differently, did not press flat, but settled over a curve that could not be explained away. Chris stood in front of the mirror and felt an emotional blow that took his breath away—not because he didn’t know it, but because in “boys’ clothes” it suddenly became mercilessly visible.\n\nThe hoodie didn’t make it better. It hung at the waist, stretched above it. Everything sat “wrong,” as if the clothing had failed to find him again. Chris stared at himself and felt his eyes begin to burn. One part of him wanted to tear the clothes off his body and flee back into the dress that at least “fit.” Another part was ashamed that he had that thought at all.\n\nHe sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands clawed into the fabric, and let his head hang for a moment. It was as if someone had shown him how far the road back had become by now.\n\nHis father knocked softly on the door and only came in after Chris had said “yes.” He saw the look in the mirror, saw the struggle on his child’s face, and his own expression grew hard with compassion. “We don’t have to decide that today,” he said carefully. “That was… just a try.”\n\nChris nodded, but his throat was tight. “It feels like…” He broke off, because the words wouldn’t come out cleanly.\n\n“I know,” his father said quietly, even though he couldn’t really know. He stood beside him, not too close, but there. “It isn’t your fault.”\n\nLater, they sat together in the kitchen. Anja had made tea, set the cups down, and then withdrew a little, though she stayed nearby as silent support. His father placed the phone on the table and looked at Chris as if asking without words: Are you ready? Chris nodded, even though his stomach clenched.\n\nHis father dialed Susan’s number and put it on speaker.\n\nSusan answered quickly. “Yes?”\n\n“Susan,” his father said calmly. “We need to talk. About Chris.”\n\nThere was a small pause, in which Susan exhaled sharply once, as if she had already understood everything and had nevertheless decided not to accept it. “You don’t interfere, Michael,” she said then. “This isn’t your issue.”\n\nHis father remained calm, but his voice grew firmer. “He is my son.”\n\n“You’re only confusing Chris,” Susan said, sugary-sweet and cold at the same time. “He’s sensitive. Now you suddenly come out of nowhere, question everything, and then you wonder why he’s confused.”\n\nChris felt the floor briefly drop away beneath him. A part of him knew that tone so well that he almost wanted to give in automatically. Maybe I’m exaggerating. Maybe I really am just confused. Maybe it’s better if I submit. It was frightening how quickly Susan’s voice could switch on those old mechanisms. He sat there as if between two magnets: pulled by the mother who had shaped him—and held by the hope that someone else could pull him out of it.\n\n[[Continue|Der Vater redet Klartext.]]

The sun was already hanging low when they left the edge of the festival behind and followed the river. The laughter of the people, the music, the lights—all of it grew quieter until only footsteps on dry gravel remained and the occasional crack of branches by the bank. The theater kids were keyed up, like before a performance. Phone lights flickered like fireflies in their hands, and photos kept being taken: selfies with crooked grins, dramatic poses, someone making “ghost fingers” in the shot.\n\n“Don’t go there after dark,” one of them said in an exaggeratedly mysterious tone. The others laughed.\n\n“Yeah, yeah—the legendary syrup hell,” a girl’s voice mocked.\n\nChris laughed along, but it was a laugh that felt a little obligatory.\n\nBecause even before they properly saw the plant, he smelled it. Sweet. Sticky-sweet, like when you’d carried maple candies in your jacket pocket too long. That scent hung in the warm evening air, even though only rust and concrete awaited them ahead. It felt wrong—like a friendly smell in a place that had nothing friendly about it. Chris noticed the scent settling into his head, as if he wouldn’t be able to get rid of it later.\n\nThen the abandoned bottling plant emerged from the trees.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Sirupanlage.jpg]]</center> Rusty tanks rose up like huge dark shadows, angular and silent. Dilapidated halls with shattered windows, pipelines stretching across the grounds like veins. Warning signs hung crooked—“KEEP OUT,” “NO TRESPASSING”—and looked like decoration because nobody paused to read them.\n\n“It’ll be fine,” one of them said, and it sounded exactly the way it sounded when someone was trying to reassure themselves.\n\nThe wind moved through the pipes and made a whistling sound that resembled a whisper drawn out too long. Somewhere, something dripped in a steady rhythm—plop… plop… plop—like a metronome that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be music or a warning. Metal creaked as though something were settling. A loose chain struck against a support, clang—clang—clang, at first random, then so regular that Chris briefly thought it was intentional. Above them, crows or ravens cawed, invisible in the last bright streaks of the sky.\n\n“Don’t go there after dark,” someone repeated, this time more quietly. The laughter still came, but it didn’t linger as long anymore.\n\nChris stepped closer. In the slanting light, he saw an old emblem on one wall: a maple leaf inside a circle, the paint chipped away, but the symbol still recognizable. It reminded him of the Founders’ flyers from the festival—that same claim of “heritage” and “preservation,” only here like a faded label that had been stuck in the wrong place for too long.\n\n“Okay,” one of the boys said, as if he needed to lift the mood again. “Dare: get inside as far as the old bottling line and back out again. Photo as proof.”\n\nAn open door led into the interior of the factory. It stood slightly ajar, as if someone had moved it recently. The darkness behind it was denser than outside; the air in there seemed cooler, heavier. The sweet syrup smell seemed to be coming from exactly there, and Chris’s mind instinctively took a step back even though his feet stayed where they were.\n\nRuby stopped beside him. She crossed her arms so tightly that her fingers pressed into her own sleeves. “This is stupid,” she said. “And dangerous. There are probably nails, broken glass, something. And if someone catches us…”\n\n“You’re scared,” someone teased, half-grinning, half-testing.\n\n“No,” Ruby shot back too quickly. “I’m just not stupid.”\n\nChris felt Ruby trembling slightly beside him—not obviously, more like tension in the air. He was scared too. Not panicked, but enough that his stomach felt tight. At the same time, he didn’t want to be the one to say “no” now and slow the whole group down. Not the one who backed out again. Not the coward.\n\nA gust of wind rushed through the open pipes, and somewhere inside, metal grated as if someone had shifted a foot. Rationally, everything could be explained—wind, temperature, a loose piece. But in the moment, it sounded like a sign. Chris’s gaze slid to the open door, and the darkness behind it swallowed the phone light as if it were hungry.\n\nRuby shook her head. “I’m not going in there,” she said, but her voice was quieter than before.\n\nChris stood between her and the others, feeling their expectation like a gentle pressure against his back. He could reassure Ruby—or stay silent and hope the others listened to Ruby, that the group would change course on its own before it got properly dark.\n<<set $temp to 0>><<set $choice_ahorn1 to 0>>\n''How does Chris decide?''\n❯ [[He encourages Ruby, even though he himself is anything but sure this is a good idea.|Ruby Mut zusprechen.][$temp += 1;$choice_ahorn1 += 1]]\n❯ [[He’d rather keep quiet and hope Ruby’s objection is enough to make the others change their minds.|Ruhig sein und hoffen, dass die anderen auf Ruby hören.]]

In the cafeteria, the menu poster still hung in the same spot as last week—only now it looked as if someone had surrendered mid-operation. Dishes had been crossed out with felt-tip pen and scribbled over: “Tacos” corrected to “Nachos (?)”, “Chicken Nuggets” marked with a hurried “out”, beside it a crooked arrow to “Pizza”, which wandered halfway over the edge. The clean printed lines were barely recognizable anymore, corrections everywhere, asterisks, a “SORRY!” in capital letters. And the freshmen, who on the first day had still stood lost by the entrance, now moved with more confidence: trays secure in their hands, backpacks slung more casually over their shoulders, some already with fixed seats and fixed people, as if they had understood the labyrinth of lines and cliques in record time.\n<<set $ort to "Cafeteria">>\nMyles waved Christine over, having blocked the seat beside him with his sports bag. When she came, he slid a small bowl toward her. “Saved it for you,” he said, and from Christine’s grin you could tell it was her favorite dessert—pudding with a ridiculously thick cap of whipped cream. Christine beamed, leaned forward, kissed him.\n\n[[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] walked into the cafeteria like a little burst of sunlight, stopping just long enough everywhere: a high-five with the cheerleaders, a quick joke with the theater kids, a smile for the nerds along the wall. <<if $charlotte == 2>>As she passed Chris, she greeted him as casually as everyone else—only with the tiniest, almost invisible smile meant just for him, and Chris returned it just as discreetly.<<else>>When she passed Chris, she greeted him as naturally as everyone else, and Chris greeted her back.<<endif>>\n\nChris sat down with the nerds. “Seat free?”\n“Always.” Someone silently held out a mandarin to him.\nChris raised a hand defensively and smiled. “Thanks, I’ve had enough vitamins for now.”\n\nAdam sat diagonally across from him, half in his sweater, half in the conversation, and held a manga as if it were holy scripture. Chris’s gaze snagged on it. “Is that Iron Colossus?”\n\nAdam’s head shot up. “Volume 12. The one with the first Horizon Frame. You know it?”\n\n“My favorite series,” Chris said, and heard it slip out of him. “The ’96 layouts, the whole greeble orgy on the panel pages—” He broke off, laughing at himself. “Sorry. Nerd alert.”\n\n“No, no, please keep talking,” Adam said with an earnestness that was almost touching. “I’ve got a few rare volumes at home. First editions. Even the misprint variant of Volume 5, where page 17 is swapped.”\n\nChris’s eyes went wide. “The one with the wrong cockpit perspective? Those barely exist anymore.”\n\n“I found it in a basement in a yard-sale box.” Adam lowered his voice as if speaking of hidden treasure. “If you want, you can come by after school today. Just, uh… if you have time.”\n\nChris felt his nerdy side immediately wanting to kick in. “That sounds… honestly pretty amazing.” He nodded. “I don’t have anything planned today.”\n\nThe boys at the table exchanged looks, and one of them whispered half quietly, half deliberately: “Oooh, date.”\n“Shut up,” Adam grumbled, turning bright red and glancing sideways at Chris. “I mean, not a date, uh—just… manga.”\n\n“Of course,” Chris said, heat rising into his cheeks too. He grinned anyway. “Just manga.”\n\n“After the last bell at the side exit?” Adam asked.\n“Deal.” Chris stabbed into his pasta and felt the knots of the day loosen for a moment. Mechas, manga paper, first editions—a plan that demanded nothing except enthusiasm. And he still had some of that left.\n\n[[Continue|Nach der Schule.]]

In the cafeteria, the menu poster still hung in the same place as last week—only now it looked as if someone had surrendered mid-operation. Dishes had been crossed out with felt-tip pen and scribbled over: “Tacos” corrected to “Nachos (?)”, “Chicken Nuggets” marked with a hurried “out”, next to it a crooked arrow pointing to “Pizza”, which wandered halfway over the edge. The clean printed lines were barely recognizable anymore, corrections everywhere, asterisks, a “SORRY!” in capital letters. And the freshmen, who on the first day had still stood lost at the entrance, now moved with more confidence: trays steady in their hands, backpacks slung more casually over their shoulders, some already with fixed places and fixed people, as if they had understood the labyrinth of lines and cliques in record time.\n<<set $ort to "Cafeteria">>\nMyles waved Christine over, having blocked the seat beside him with his sports bag. When she came, he pushed a small bowl toward her. “Saved it for you,” he said, and from Christine’s grin you could tell it was her favorite dessert—pudding with a ridiculously thick cap of whipped cream. Christine beamed, leaned forward, kissed him.\n\n[[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] walked into the cafeteria like a little burst of sunlight, stopping just long enough everywhere: a high-five with the cheerleaders, a quick joke with the theater kids, a smile for the nerds along the wall. <<if $charlotte == 2>>As she passed Chris, she greeted him as casually as everyone else—only with the tiniest, almost invisible smile meant just for him, and Chris returned it just as discreetly.<<else>>When she passed Chris, she greeted him as naturally as everyone else, and Chris greeted her back.<<endif>>\n\nChris turned away and sat down with the theater kids. Lucas was already there, nervously fiddling with his water bottle. “Hey,” he said.\n“Hey.” Chris forced his thoughts back on course—not to Christine, not to Lucas—and still kept finding himself back in the warm kitchen light of Mrs. Barnett. Her seductive gaze, which promised more. He probed carefully. “Your mom… is she working today?”\n\n“Nope,” Lucas said. “She’s usually home on Wednesdays. Why?”\n“Just asking,” Chris murmured, and his heart made an unplanned little jump.\n\n“Do you want to practice the scene today? It’s loud at my place…” He let the sentence trail off—exactly as casually as he had rehearsed it. Lucas’s eyes lit up immediately.\n\n“Yeah! Sure. Really good.” The words stumbled over themselves with eagerness. “We could go get ice cream first? There’s this spot with soft serve—”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened at the thought: in public, the two of them, like a date. “Um… I’m doing this little diet right now,” he lied quickly and kindly. “Watching my figure and all that.” He tried to make it sound light.\n\n“Bullshit,” Lucas blurted out, honest and unfiltered. “You don’t need a diet at all. You look… I mean—really good.” He blushed as if he had touched an electric fence. “I mean—healthy. Exactly right.”\n\nHeat rose into Chris’s cheeks. The compliment landed strangely—a little pride, a little shame, a little of that quiet tickle when you realize how easy the world is as a girl. Amazing how easy this is, Chris thought. Steering a boy as a girl. And the thought tasted at once of power and of something you shouldn’t think too loudly.\n\n“Then straight to your place?” he redirected. “Run lines, scenes 3 and 5?”\n“Perfect,” Lucas said. “I’ll send you the address, but you know it already… I mean, from the weekend. I’m so stupid sometimes.” He laughed awkwardly.\n\n“Works for me,” Chris said, picked up his tray, and noticed how the minutes until the end of school suddenly sped up. Not because of Lucas. Because of the kitchen, because of Mrs. Barnett, and the warm, too-long look he hoped to find again.\n\n[[Continue|Bei Lucas zu Hause.]]

Zeke arranged everything in the back: blanket, pillows, jackets as extra padding. The van felt like an improvised cocoon: dim light, fabric, warmth, darkness outside.\n\nChris took off his shoes and placed them neatly aside, as if order would help. He was nervous, felt his heart in his throat. Zeke lay down beside him, not pushy, but close enough that Chris could feel his warmth.\n\n“Everything okay?” Zeke asked quietly.\n\nChris nodded. “Yes. I… I’m just…” He could not find the word.\n\n“I know,” Zeke said, and it did not sound like judgment, but understanding.\n\nIt did not take long before Zeke shifted a little closer and his hand found Chris’ chest. Chris allowed it. Zeke kissed him again – calmly at first, carefully, as if asking. Chris answered, and with the kiss, something inside him loosened that had been under tension all evening. He enjoyed the tenderness, the safe weight of Zeke’s closeness.\n\nAs their tongues played together, Zeke caressed the erogenous zones of Chris’ beautiful girl’s body. Finally he pushed the top up and his tongue slid down Chris’ neck until it reached the little nipples. Both sides were worked intensely with tongue, lips, and also a tiny bit with teeth. Chris rewarded this attention with a soft moan. Zeke licked lower and lavished especially tender attention on the navel while carefully pulling down Chris’ panties.\n\n''Does Chris allow it?''\n[[Yes, he lets it happen.|Ja, es lässt es zu.][$partner += 1;$anal += 1;$creampied += 1;$oral += 1;$woral += 1]]\n[[No, he can’t.|Nein, er kann nicht.]]

In the cafeteria, the menu poster still hung in the same place as last week—only now it looked as if someone had surrendered mid-operation. Dishes had been crossed out with felt-tip pen and scribbled over: “Tacos” corrected to “Nachos (?)”, “Chicken Nuggets” marked with a hurried “out”, next to it a crooked arrow pointing to “Pizza”, which wandered halfway over the edge. The clean printed lines were barely recognizable anymore, corrections everywhere, asterisks, a “SORRY!” in capital letters. And the freshmen, who on the first day had still stood lost at the entrance, now moved with more confidence: trays steady in their hands, backpacks slung more casually over their shoulders, some already with fixed places and fixed people, as if they had understood the labyrinth of lines and cliques in record time.\n<<set $ort to "Cafeteria">>\nMyles waved Christine over, having blocked the seat beside him with his sports bag. When she came, he pushed a small bowl toward her. “Saved it for you,” he said, and from Christine’s grin you could tell it was her favorite dessert—pudding with a ridiculously thick cap of whipped cream. Christine beamed, leaned forward, kissed him.\n\n[[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] walked into the cafeteria like a little burst of sunlight, stopping just long enough everywhere: a high-five with the cheerleaders, a quick joke with the theater kids, a smile for the nerds along the wall. <<if $charlotte == 2>>As she passed Chris, she greeted him as casually as everyone else—only with the tiniest, almost invisible smile meant just for him, and Chris returned it just as discreetly.<<else>>When she passed Chris, she greeted him as naturally as everyone else, and Chris greeted her back.<<endif>>\n\nAfter school, Chris rode home alone; Christine stayed behind with Myles on the schoolyard, backpacks at their feet, heads close together. The image stayed in Chris’s mind as he left, like a postcard.\n\n<<if $choice_adam == 1>>In math class, Chris stared at the numbers as if they had suddenly been written in a foreign language. Mr. Nelson had just explained something, but Chris’s head had been elsewhere—on everything and nothing—and now there was a gap, embarrassingly loud. Beside him, Adam rustled almost inaudibly. He leaned a little closer, not pushy, more careful, like someone who didn’t want to cross any boundaries. “Hey… you got lost at step two, right?” he whispered and slid his paper over just slightly. His handwriting was neat, the steps cleanly numbered. “Look, here you substitute first, then simplify. It’s really easy once you see it.” When Chris hesitated, Adam tapped the right spot with his pen and smiled briefly—a small, encouraging smile that said: It’s okay, I’ll help you. I’m here.\n\n<<endif>><<if $choice_adam == 3>>In math class, Chris stared at the numbers as if they had suddenly been written in a foreign language. Mr. Nelson had just explained something, but Chris’s head had been elsewhere—on everything and nothing—and now there was a gap, embarrassingly loud.\n\n“Wait—so we’re here now?” he asked quietly. Beside him, Adam glanced over briefly, then back at his own sheet. “No,” he said curtly and slid his paper exactly two centimeters over—not more. “We’re here.” Adam immediately pulled the paper back again, as if helping were a task to be checked off, not something to be given.\n\n<<endif>>At home, the afternoon stretched out. He clicked around online, let the autoplay wave run: makeup tips, “back to school” hauls, teen gossip about TV couples and celebrities. Part of him found it boring, another part subconsciously noted words and trends that might be useful at school tomorrow. After three or four clips, he closed the laptop. Early enough to sort things out for tomorrow.\n\nHe laid the outfit on the bed: a calm cream-colored top, with a caramel-colored skirt that swayed at knee height. It would need sheer tights—not only because it would fall more nicely, but because the soft, smooth feeling had started to soothe him. The drawer with his tights ruined the plan: laundry, laundry, runs. Damn.\n\nHe stood in the hallway, listening. Silence. Christine was still out. She has so many, he told himself. I’ll borrow one. She won’t even notice. Still, his stomach tied itself into a small knot as he pressed down the handle to her room.\n\nThe draft smelled of her shampoo and that sweet body lotion. Chris pulled open the top drawer. He immediately saw that this drawer contained his sister’s underwear.\n\nUnder one of many normal white cotton panties, he saw a blue shimmer. He lifted the cotton pair and marveled at what appeared beneath it. First he noticed a pair of blue lace panties, which he immediately had to take. A little disappointed, he realized that these panties felt no different from the underwear he himself wore.\n\nContinuing to inspect the drawer, he also found the matching semi-transparent lace bra to the panties, and another outfit in delicate pink. He had never seen his sister in this underwear. Regardless, he felt his cock growing hard at the thought.\n\nIn the next drawer, he finally found the tights. He felt through neatly rolled pairs. After two gray ones, a black one, and a patterned one, his hand caught on a pretty, warm brown pair of sheer tights—exactly the shade that would make the skirt look calmer. He placed them on the edge of the bed and took one breath.\n\nWhen he turned around, his gaze fell on the bedside table. There, half beneath a scrunchie, lay Christine’s diary—a bound, pastel-colored book with little clouds on the cover and an elastic band keeping it closed. Curiosity rose up like an inquisitive dog on its hind legs. What does she write? About Myles? About… me? His finger brushed over the cover, which felt warm and slightly rough. It was only an elastic band. Nothing more.\n\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[Read the diary.|Das Tagebuch lesen.][$tagebuch += 1]]\n❯ [[Don’t read it.|Es nicht lesen.]]

In the cafeteria, the menu poster still hung in the same place as last week—only now it looked as if someone had surrendered mid-operation. Dishes had been crossed out with felt-tip pen and scribbled over: “Tacos” corrected to “Nachos (?)”, “Chicken Nuggets” marked with a hurried “out”, next to it a crooked arrow pointing to “Pizza”, which wandered halfway over the edge. The clean printed lines were barely recognizable anymore, corrections everywhere, asterisks, a “SORRY!” in capital letters. And the freshmen, who on the first day had still stood lost at the entrance, now moved with more confidence: trays steady in their hands, backpacks slung more casually over their shoulders, some already with fixed places and fixed people, as if they had understood the labyrinth of lines and cliques in record time.\n<<set $ort to "Cafeteria">>\nMyles waved Christine over, having blocked the seat beside him with his sports bag. When she came, he pushed a small bowl toward her. “Saved it for you,” he said, and from Christine’s grin you could tell it was her favorite dessert—pudding with a ridiculously thick cap of whipped cream. Christine beamed, leaned forward, kissed him.\n\n[[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] walked into the cafeteria like a little burst of sunlight, stopping just long enough everywhere: a high-five with the cheerleaders, a quick joke with the theater kids, a smile for the nerds along the wall. <<if $charlotte == 2>>As she passed Chris, she greeted him as casually as everyone else—only with the tiniest, almost invisible smile meant just for him, and Chris returned it just as discreetly.<<else>>When she passed Chris, she greeted him as naturally as everyone else, and Chris greeted her back.<<endif>>\n\nChris turned off toward the theater kids. “Sit down,” Ruby said, pushing her tray a little to one side and whispering as if they were planning a conspiracy: “Are you coming with me to the riding stable this afternoon? Stardust has ants in his pants—he needs exercise. I’ll show him to you.” She looked at him expectantly, her eyes bright behind the round lenses of her glasses.\n\nHorses had never really been his thing. But he liked Ruby, and the thought of spending time with her felt unexpectedly good. “Sure,” he said. “Why not.”\n\n<<if $choice_adam == 1>>In math class, Chris stared at the numbers as if they had suddenly been written in a foreign language. Mr. Nelson had just explained something, but Chris’s head had been elsewhere—on everything and nothing—and now there was a gap, embarrassingly loud. Beside him, Adam rustled almost inaudibly. He leaned a little closer, not pushy, more careful, like someone who didn’t want to cross any boundaries. “Hey… you got lost at step two, right?” he whispered and slid his paper over just slightly. His handwriting was neat, the steps cleanly numbered. “Look, here you substitute first, then simplify. It’s really easy once you see it.” When Chris hesitated, Adam tapped the right spot with his pen and smiled briefly—a small, encouraging smile that said: It’s okay, I’ll help you. I’m here.\n\n<<endif>><<if $choice_adam == 3>>In math class, Chris stared at the numbers as if they had suddenly been written in a foreign language. Mr. Nelson had just explained something, but Chris’s head had been elsewhere—on everything and nothing—and now there was a gap, embarrassingly loud.\n\n“Wait—so we’re here now?” he asked quietly. Beside him, Adam glanced over briefly, then back at his own sheet. “No,” he said curtly and slid his paper exactly two centimeters over—not more. “We’re here.” Adam immediately pulled the paper back again, as if helping were a task to be checked off, not something to be given.\n\n<<endif>>That afternoon, Chris and Ruby met at the riding stable on the edge of town. Dusty driveway, the clatter of hooves from the arena, the smell of hay, leather, and a little bit of summer.\n\n<center>[img[pics/ruby_reiten.jpg]]</center> Ruby was already waiting by the tack room—she was wearing a light blue blouse and very snug, snow-white riding breeches. The breeches had no pockets, and when she turned, the outline of her panties showed through on the back because the breeches clung so tightly. From the front, Chris could see how the fabric outlined her labia at the crotch, and from behind the breeches went right into the crack of her ass. An absolutely hot sight, made even stronger by the black knee-high riding boots with somewhat higher heels. The posture the heels gave her showed off her figure, and especially her ass, unbelievably well. On her head she balanced a helmet that was much too big, which kept slipping forward so she constantly had to push it back up.\n\nOnly now did Chris realize how sexy she actually was.\n\n“The changing room is in there,” she said, nodding toward the little changing room. “I laid out some things for you. And don’t worry, Stardust is a gentleman. Well, most of the time.”\n\nIn the changing room, a light pair of riding breeches, ankle boots, and half chaps were laid out, along with a simple performance shirt. Chris pulled the top over his head, took a breath, and then tackled the breeches. The material was firmer, smoother than jeans—and mercilessly honest. As he pulled them up, he immediately noticed how tight the whole thing was; the seams were where they were supposed to be, but everything was a bit too obvious. He tugged at the waistband, trying to readjust the fabric at the crotch. The mirror showed him a version of himself he could have done without. Great. Tight exactly here.\n\nHe took a breath, shifted the fit millimeter by millimeter until it was just barely manageable—not comfortable, but bearable. Boots, chaps, gloves. Before going back out, he nervously smoothed a hand over the front once, as if that might somehow loosen the fabric. No chance.\n\nOutside, Ruby was waiting with two grooming brushes and a smile that made even more summer light than there already was. “Ready?” she asked. “Stardust will be right here.” In the stall behind her, a large dark brown horse snorted as if he had heard his name. Chris nodded, forced calm into his face—and hoped the riding arena would be more distracting than the riding breeches were revealing.\n\n[[Continue|Pferdepflege.]]

In the cafeteria, the menu poster still hung in the same place as last week—only now it looked as if someone had surrendered mid-operation. Dishes had been crossed out with felt-tip pen and scribbled over: “Tacos” corrected to “Nachos (?)”, “Chicken Nuggets” marked with a hurried “out”, next to it a crooked arrow pointing to “Pizza”, which wandered halfway over the edge. The clean printed lines were barely recognizable anymore, corrections everywhere, asterisks, a “SORRY!” in capital letters. And the freshmen, who on the first day had still stood lost at the entrance, now moved with more confidence: trays steady in their hands, backpacks slung more casually over their shoulders, some already with fixed places and fixed people, as if they had understood the labyrinth of lines and cliques in record time.\n<<set $ort to "Cafeteria">>\nMyles waved Christine over, having blocked the seat beside him with his sports bag. When she came, he pushed a small bowl toward her. “Saved it for you,” he said, and from Christine’s grin you could tell it was her favorite dessert—pudding with a ridiculously thick cap of whipped cream. Christine beamed, leaned forward, kissed him.\n\n[[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] walked into the cafeteria like a little burst of sunlight, stopping just long enough everywhere: a high-five with the cheerleaders, a quick joke with the theater kids, a smile for the nerds along the wall. <<if $charlotte == 2>>As she passed Chris, she greeted him as casually as everyone else—only with the tiniest, almost invisible smile meant just for him, and Chris returned it just as discreetly.<<else>>When she passed Chris, she greeted him as naturally as everyone else, and Chris greeted her back.<<endif>>\n\n<<if $choice_adam == 1>>In math class, Chris stared at the numbers as if they had suddenly been written in a foreign language. Mr. Nelson had just explained something, but Chris’s head had been elsewhere—on everything and nothing—and now there was a gap, embarrassingly loud. Beside him, Adam rustled almost inaudibly. He leaned a little closer, not pushy, more careful, like someone who didn’t want to cross any boundaries. “Hey… you got lost at step two, right?” he whispered and slid his paper over just slightly. His handwriting was neat, the steps cleanly numbered. “Look, here you substitute first, then simplify. It’s really easy once you see it.” When Chris hesitated, Adam tapped the right spot with his pen and smiled briefly—a small, encouraging smile that said: It’s okay, I’ll help you. I’m here.\n\n<<endif>><<if $choice_adam == 3>>In math class, Chris stared at the numbers as if they had suddenly been written in a foreign language. Mr. Nelson had just explained something, but Chris’s head had been elsewhere—on everything and nothing—and now there was a gap, embarrassingly loud.\n\n“Wait—so we’re here now?” he asked quietly. Beside him, Adam glanced over briefly, then back at his own sheet. “No,” he said curtly and slid his paper exactly two centimeters over—not more. “We’re here.” Adam immediately pulled the paper back again, as if helping were a task to be checked off, not something to be given.\n\n<<endif>>After school, the gym waited in the late-afternoon light. [[Mr. Moore|Nathan Moore]] was already standing there in training clothes, the shirt stretched over his biceps and the shorts over toned legs. His firm ass in particular showed perfectly in the dark-green shorts.\n\n“Ready?” he asked. “Focus today: jumps, core, safe hands in stunts. We’ll work through what’s still slipping away from you.”\n\nHe knew everything, including Chris’s secret. Here, he didn’t need thin voices or overcorrected shame. It made breathing easier—and other things harder.\n\nThey went through the sequences. Mr. Moore demonstrated, had Chris imitate, stopped, corrected. “Extend your legs in the air, don’t throw them—imagine a line you want to draw more sharply.” He stood behind Chris, hands at his sides: “Firm here. Breathe. Again.” During stunts, he positioned him as back spot, guiding his hands with a matter-of-factness that left no room for doubt. “Thumbs forward, elbows tight. You’re securing people, not boxes.” When Chris collapsed inward, Moore was there—a brief pressure, a precise adjustment—and the body found its axis.\n\nThe longer they worked, the more clearly Chris felt the pull of the grown man beside him. The ease with which Moore brought him into positions suddenly made the “strong” feel real. The smell of aftershave, the tone of his voice close to his ear when he counted; the close body contact whenever a line was readjusted—all of it together stirred a new, confusing feeling in Chris. Something drew him in, while something inside him simultaneously recoiled in disgust.\n\nMr. Moore stood behind Chris. His strong chest against Chris’s back. “Wait, I’ll help you,” he whispered in his ear. Chris got goosebumps. He breathed in his scent deeply. He couldn’t defend himself against the effect he had on him. He only nodded.\n\n“Try it again,” he instructed Chris. Chris made an effort. But he failed again. Mr. Moore laughed softly. The gust of air from his mouth struck Chris at the sensitive spot beneath his ear. Betrayally, something twitched in his crotch. Mr. Moore briefly moved his arm to help Chris with the motion. Chris could only watch the play of muscle in his arm.\n\nChris managed it on the third try. He turned to him with a smile. Moore’s fingers almost timidly stroked Chris’s cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn’t allowed to like this.\n\n“Don’t touch me!” he wanted to scream, and yet he didn’t.\n\nIt was not desire that frightened him, but the realization that his body was reacting even though his head ordered “no.” Attraction and disgust stood side by side like two colors that refused to mix.\n\n“Better,” Moore said, his thumb tracing Chris’s cheek. “You learn quickly.” Chris only nodded, because his throat was dry.\n\n[[Continue|In der Dusche.]]

The doorframe felt like a threshold into another climate. The moment Chris stepped into homeroom, conversations thinned and gazes thickened. “The new girl,” the rows seemed to whisper; curious eyes briefly scanned him and then slid back to notebooks and phones. The air smelled of felt-tip markers, chewing gum, and air conditioning.\n<<set $ort to "classroom">>\nHe reflexively searched for Christine. Same grade, same course—but her seat was already taken, two girls had their heads together, pom-pom charms dangling from a pencil case. Christine raised her eyebrows apologetically, making a small gesture: later.\n\nSo all Chris could do was breathe, smile, and find an empty seat. In the fourth row, by the window, one was still free—beside a girl with curly, dark-brown hair that fell in soft spirals over her shoulders. He stood still for a moment, his heart beating once too often. Her. The condom thief from the supermarket. He remembered the later image in the parking lot, how she had left with an older man. He had looked away and yet seen it.\n\n<center>[img[pics/zoe_klassenzimmer2.jpg]]</center> “Yo,” she said without looking up, shifting her backpack down. “Sit down. It’s still free.” Her voice had those rough, teenage edges, a little too loud, a little too much “like I care.” When Chris sat down, she turned her head and openly examined him. “I’m [[Zoe|Zoe March]]. And you’re… uh… new, obviously.” A brief grin. “Don’t panic, I don’t bite. Except in math.”\n\n“Uh… yeah. I’m—” He swallowed down the old name. “—Christina. I mean Chris.”\n“Sweet. Welcome to the wolves’ den,” Zoe said, nodding vaguely toward a poster on the wall: TIMBERWOLVES PRIDE. “If anyone bothers you, let me know. I can look mean.” She demonstrated a grimace that was more funny than threatening.\n\nThe door closed, and a man with neatly parted hair and a too-wide smile stepped to the front. “Good morning, class!” His voice was bright and friendly, his tie patterned with tiny books. “I’m [[Mr. Robertson|Wesley Robertson]], your homeroom teacher this year and also English Lit. I’m glad to see you all.” Chris’s mouth went dry. Robertson. The man he had seen in the parking lot, his hand on Zoe’s ass. A buzzing started behind Chris’s ears.\n\nMr. Robertson raised a clipboard. “Attendance first. Then the announcements.” He began checking off names, routine. “Alvarez, Waylon?” — “Here.” “Howard, John?” — “Yup.” “March…” He looked at the list. “March, Zoe?”\nBeside Chris, a shoulder jerked. “Here,” the girl said, but more quietly than before, eyes lowered. For a moment, something flickered across her face—shame? History? Mr. Robertson only looked at her a little longer than would have been necessary, then checked her off. Between them lay something that had no words.\n\nThen: “Braun, Christina?” Chris stared at the edge of the desk and missed a second. Zoe nudged him with her elbow.\n“Here,” Chris began—at the same moment, from the right, came: “Here!” Christine had answered reflexively. Two heads turned. A quiet giggle went through the room.\n“Ah, we have two Brauns.” Robertson blinked with practiced friendliness. “Christine… and Christina?”\n“She’s Christine,” Chris murmured, raising his hand. “I’m—Chris—uh, Christina Braun.” The word stumbled over itself in his mouth.\n“Perfect!” Robertson called, as if a trick had worked. “Welcome, Christina. Good to have you here.”\n\nHe kept checking names, letting the pen dance, and suddenly his gaze flashed up. “Oh, you’re from Germany, right? Why don’t you tell us two or three sentences about the school system there! Always exciting to look beyond our own backyard.” He leaned against the teacher’s desk in a pose meant to say “open.”\n\nChris’s stomach rolled. “Um, well… in Germany… you have, uh, different types of schools. Like… uh… Gymnasium, Realschule, Hauptschule… I mean, at least that’s how it used to be? And then—” His voice tipped briefly, a tiny crack that exploded in his ear like microphone feedback. He cleared his throat too hastily. “—there are grades from one to six, one is good… and, uh, you have… usually fewer… clubs? More class groups.” He heard himself as if through glass, and the more he spoke, the more he heard the uncertainties stumbling over the words.\n\nIn the last row, an arm shot up before Robertson could even ask a follow-up. A small red-haired nuisance stretched forward and snapped her fingers. Chris could see how her small breasts pressed through her top and how her two braids flew wildly around.\n\n“[[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]]?” Robertson said.\n\n“Small addition: in most federal states, elementary school lasts four years, in some six. And the course system in the upper grades is different from here. Also, they used to have thirteen school years—now often twelve—depending on the federal state.” She spoke quickly, precisely, as if collecting points, then nodded apologetically over to Chris. “Sorry. Nerd mode.”\n\n“Excellent, Ruby!” Robertson beamed.\n\nThe speakers crackled. “Good morning, Maplewood High! Welcome back. Reminder: Dress Code will be strictly enforced during the first week—no spaghetti-strap tops, no hats, skirt length at least to the knee. Thank you, Hall Monitors!” A few boos and giggles. Chris felt his knees more consciously than necessary.\n“Timberwolves Football: tryouts today and tomorrow, 4 p.m., Field A. Go Wolves!” Cheers from a few boys in the back. “Basketball pre-season conditioning starts next week. The Pom Puffs are holding an info meeting in the gym right after school—all interested students welcome.” Two girls in front of Chris clapped, a butterfly clip bobbing. “Club Fair in the auditorium: theater, debate, robotics, yearbook, and many more. Stop by!”\n\nThe announcement ended with the school bell jingle, which was too cheerful for Chris’s nerves.\n\n''What happens after class?''\n<<nobr>><<if $stil == 7>>\n[[Help from Dylan when the locker jams.|Hilfe von Dylan wenn der Spind klemmt.][$beliebtheit += 1;$dylan_opinion += 20]]\n<<else>>\n[[Help from Lucas when the locker jams.|Hilfe von Lucas wenn der Spind klemmt.][$lucas += 1]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

Outside in front of the gym, the cool air hit Chris like a clear hand to the face. Behind the door, the music only vibrated faintly now, as if coming through cotton wool. The string lights at the entrance cast little points of light onto the asphalt. Chris stood beside Dylan, the crown now in his hand, the clutch pressed tightly to his side, and his heart was no longer pounding from dancing, but from the sentence he had to say.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nNow. If not now, then later it would become wrong.\n\nHe tried delaying first, like someone peeling off a bandage too slowly. “We can still dance until the last song,” he said, forcing a smile that did not quite fit.\n\nDylan looked at him, not pressing, only attentive. “Sure,” he said. Then, after a small moment: “Everything okay? You’re kind of... different right now.”\n\nChris swallowed. The wind slipped under his skirt, and he was grateful for the small shiver because it explained his hands. He searched for words that would not sound like a blow.\n\n“I just had such a beautiful evening with you,” he began quietly. “Really.” He paused briefly so Dylan would hear it. “And I... I want to take this slowly.”\n\nDylan said nothing, but his posture stayed soft, open.\n\nChris drew a breath. “I’m not ready for more right now. Not tonight. Maybe... someday. But not now.”\n\nHe expected disappointment. An annoyed laugh. A “Seriously?” Maybe even silence that tasted like rejection. His stomach tightened as he looked at Dylan.\n\nDylan only nodded, as if this were not a catastrophe, but information he respected. “Okay,” he said calmly. “Thank you for saying it.” A small, honest smile. “I didn’t want you to feel somehow... pressured.”\n\nChris blinked. The relief came so strongly it almost hurt. “I—” He did not finish the sentence, because his throat was tight.\n\n“Come on,” Dylan said. “I’ll drive you home. Tonight was...” He shook his head, as if he himself could not find the right word. “A really good evening.”\n\nIn the car, it was quieter than on the way there, but this time it was a good silence. No nervousness, no stumbling. Dylan drove calmly, made one little joke about the crown lying in his lap, and Chris laughed, softly, but genuinely. It felt as if they had protected something together instead of losing something.\n\nWhen they arrived at Chris’ house, Dylan stopped at the curb for a moment, engine off. The street was dark, only a few windows lit. Chris turned to him, hand on the door, and suddenly felt that nervous flutter again—not from fear, but from hope.\n\n“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For everything.”\n\nDylan nodded. “Gladly.” He got out with him, walked him to the front door. The night wind played briefly with Chris’ hair, and he realized how much he wished this evening would not simply fall apart into a “good night.”\n\nThey stood facing each other. Chris held the clutch tightly, as if it were a shield against his own heart. He looked up at Dylan and hoped so much that Dylan understood.\n\nDylan hesitated for only a second. Then he stepped closer and kissed Chris.\n\nGentle, warm, exactly right—as if he were folding the whole evening into this one goodbye without crushing it. Chris closed his eyes and let himself fall into it, completely, grateful, quietly happy.\n\nWhen they parted, Dylan stayed close for one more heartbeat. “Good night, Chris,” he said.\n\n“Good night,” Chris whispered.\n\nHe went inside, the door closed softly behind him, and in the silence of the house, the evening still felt like light on his skin.\n\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5]]

On Thursday morning, Chris stood at the front of the classroom, directly in front of the board, holding a piece of paper in his hand. The paper crackled with every breath. Mr. Robertson sat at the teacher’s desk as always, glasses on the tip of his nose, and nodded to him encouragingly. Behind Chris, notebooks rustled, chairs squeaked, someone giggled far too early.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nChris cleared his throat and began to read. His gaze slid to the heading—and he froze.\n\n“Why I Love to Date Boys By Chris Braun”\n\nA choral “Ohhh” went through the class. A few “Ah!”s, as if someone had opened a book to a particularly juicy passage. Chris felt the blood shoot into his face. He stared at the paper as if it had jumped there by itself.\n\n“Um…” he managed, but Mr. Robertson only raised his hand, friendly, too friendly.\n\n“Go on, Chris,” he said calmly. “Just read aloud what you wrote.”\n\nChris swallowed. The words beneath it stood there black and unmistakable. And although his head screamed that this couldn’t be his presentation, he heard himself reading aloud—with a voice that sounded far too loud in the room:\n\n“I know I'm a boy and I'm supposed to date girls but I have to tell you I've always secretly wanted to date boys. I think boys are really dreamy and I just can't wait to kiss a boy<<if $kissboy == 0>> for the first time<<endif>>. I'm so nervous and excited all at once. I hope it happens soon. I just love to look as pretty as I can for boys in the hopes that one finds me cute enough to date.”\n\nThe room was suddenly quieter than during any test. No one wrote. No one cleared their throat. Everyone was staring at him.\n\nOnly now did Chris notice how “pretty” he was dressed—too pretty, too polished, too… deliberate. He was wearing a soft skirt in a pastel color that ended with exactly the right swing above his knees.\n\nThen his gaze wandered upward—to his top.\n\nAcross the chest, in big letters, it said: “I Love Boys.” The word “Love” wasn’t even written out; it had been replaced by a pink heart that shone garishly and childishly. Chris’s stomach cramped. This isn’t… this isn’t… He wanted to fold his arms, hide the fabric, but his hands were stuck to the paper.\n\n“Continue,” Mr. Robertson said gently, as if this were a perfectly normal presentation about Shakespeare.\n\nChris’s fingers trembled. He read on, his face burning:\n\n“I will be so happy when he takes me in his strong arms for <<if $kissboy == 0>>my first <<else>>a <<endif>> kiss. Hopefully I can find a hunky boy that thinks I'm pretty so we can go steady. I'm just dying to have a boyfriend! Boys, boys, boys that's all I ever think of.........…”\n\nThe final word stretched out, as if it kept going on its own, an endless row of dots spilling beyond the paper and onto the floor. Chris heard a stifled laugh somewhere. He heard his own blood rushing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone look at Dylan—and Dylan look back, half a grin on his face, as if he knew something Chris himself wasn’t allowed to know.\n\nChris wanted to drop the paper, run away, disappear. He couldn’t. His feet were heavy as lead, his top screamed at him, and the class stared at him as if he were a mistake that had finally become visible.\n\nThen his eyes flew open.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/Chris_traum_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/Chris_traum_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nHe was lying in his bed. It was still night. The room was dark, only a strip of streetlamp light lay on the floor. His heart hammered so loudly that he thought someone would have to hear it in the hallway. His hands frantically felt over his nightgown—no print, no heart, only fabric. He exhaled once in a burst, then again, and felt the shame crawl up to his ears anyway, as if the dream had left an imprint.\n\nChris turned onto his side, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and squeezed his eyes shut. Even in the darkness, he felt caught.\n\n[[Continue|Zu wenig Badezimmer im Haus.3]]

When the last guests had left and only the hum of the neon tubes remained, Chris stepped up to the counter. Rick stood there, sorting receipt strips into neat little piles and grumbling to himself. Chris kept one step of distance, the way you did with a boss who did not look like he was in the mood for small talk.\n\n“Rick?” he asked carefully.\n\nRick looked up briefly, gave him a once-over, then nodded toward the small passageway. “For your first day… that was good.” He said it curtly, but it was clearly praise. “You were fast. You didn’t mess up any orders. And you drew the customers’ eyes to you.” A brief grin twitched. “The guys in here can be… difficult sometimes.”\n\nChris felt relief. “Thanks.”\n\nHe reached into his apron pocket and pulled out the folded bundle of bills and coins. His heart gave a small jump as he began to count his tips. It was more than he had expected—a decent amount of tips. For a moment, he could already see it in front of him: a small piece of freedom of his own, something that would not pass through his mother’s fingers.\n\nRick held out his hand. “Let me see.”\n\nChris handed him the bills, more out of reflex than conviction. Rick peeled a few of them off, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Broken coffee pot,” he said simply. “That was on you.”\n\nChris blinked. “From my tips?”\n\n“Yeah.” Rick tapped the deducted bills against the counter, set them aside, and pushed the rest back. “That’s how it works. Be more careful next time.”\n\nChris felt a sting—angry, unfair, humiliating—because he knew why the pot had fallen. But he swallowed it down. “Okay,” he said only, and put the rest back in his pocket. The bundle suddenly felt lighter, and not only because of the missing bills.\n\nOutside, it had grown dark, the air cold. Chris walked to the bus stop, got on the bus, and sat down by the window. The streetlights drew yellow streaks across the glass, and his bag lay in his lap like a weight.\n\nHe thought back over the day: the tray, the order pads, the mechanics of smiling, “Anything else?” “Coming right up.” Sure, it had been exhausting. And embarrassing. Sometimes degrading too. But at the same time, it had felt surprisingly… natural to serve people, to anticipate their wishes, to play the roles without stumbling every time. He had functioned in the uniform as if it were a work mode he only had to switch on.\n\nThat thought was the most unsettling part. Not that he could do it—but that it felt as if it had been made for him. Chris stared at the passing lights and wondered exactly when “role” had started to feel like “me.”\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch, Schummeln für den Mathetest.]]

Chris’s body reacted before his mind could form a plan. In the moment when the shadow hissed and the phone light jerked over rusty surfaces, he did not step toward Christine, not backward—but forward, into Dylan’s nearness. It was a reflex, so quick and clear that it did not feel like a decision, but like a “girl” instinct: seeking protection. His fingers unconsciously grabbed Dylan’s sleeve, only briefly, more for support than an embrace.\n<<set $DylanMemory[2] to 1>>\nDylan stopped, feet planted wide, the phone light pointed downward. “Stop,” he called.\n\nIn the cone of light stood something small and squat—black with a white stripe. It moved slowly, as if the hall belonged to it. A skunk. Its tail went up like a warning flag.\n\n“Oh my God,” someone cried, and it sounded as if the word alone spoiled the air.\n\nThe skunk made a tiny hop forward. For one second, everyone was frozen—and then it turned its hindquarters.\n\nA sharp hiss, almost inconspicuous amid the noise of their breathing.\n\nAnd the stench hit like a wall.\n\nA girl—one of the cheerleaders—screamed as if she had been struck and jumped back, her hands immediately flying up as if she could fend off the smell. It must have been exactly the spot where Chris had been standing a moment before. The sweet hint of syrup in the hall was overrun in a single second by something acrid, oily, aggressive. It burned in the nose and throat, as if someone had filled the room with bad chemicals.\n\n“EWW!” “OH GOD!” “That’s so disgusting!”\n\nThe skunk darted away, quick and low, disappearing between shadows and pipes as if it had never been there. All that remained was chaos: the girl, panically tugging at her shirt while crying and cursing at the same time, and a group of teenagers instinctively keeping their distance as if the smell were contagious.\n\nDylan quickly pulled his jacket up in front of his face. “Okay,” he said, louder now so it would carry through the shrieking. “We’re leaving. Now. Calmly. Still together.”\n\nThey started moving again, in an even tighter cluster—except that around the stinking girl, a noticeably larger circle formed. No one said it directly, but everyone thought the same thing: just don’t get too close.\n\nChris stayed close behind Dylan, as if he had hooked himself there. Only now did he notice how his heart was racing—and that his hand was still on Dylan’s sleeve. He let go hastily, as if the touch itself were a confession. But the feeling of having “hidden” behind Dylan remained. He was relieved, so deeply that it almost made him dizzy: if he had been standing half a step differently, it would have hit him.\n\nAnd at the same time he was ashamed, because seeking protection with Dylan had felt so natural. Not as a tactical move, but as a role his body already knew.\n\n“There!” Penelope suddenly called, jerking her phone light upward. On the side of the hall was a window—high, dirty, the frame rusted—and it was actually open a crack, as if someone had never properly closed it.\n\n“Get out through there,” Dylan said at once. “One at a time.”\n\nThey formed a line. First a few boys climbed, then a few cheerleaders. Penelope was surprisingly quick getting up, pulled herself through, and helped from outside.\n\nWhen it was Chris’s turn, he suddenly felt his dress again, and the fabric that really was not made for something like this. He put one foot on a low edge, grabbed the frame, pulled himself up—and realized the movement was awkward, clumsy, with too little strength in the right angles. For a moment he slipped, and his heart jumped.\n\nDylan was there immediately. Without hesitating, he grabbed Chris’s butt, lifted him as if he were lighter than he felt, and pushed him upward with one short, steady impulse. Chris felt Dylan’s hands—firm, practical, protective—and for a moment his mind flickered between fear and a completely inappropriate tingle.\n\n“Got you,” Dylan said curtly.\n\nChris made it through the window, landed outside on the damp grass, and stumbled a step before catching himself.\n\nOutside, everyone breathed out at the same time—but the stench followed them like an invisible cloud. The girl smelled terrible. Truly terrible. Everyone automatically kept their distance, turned their heads away, coughed, held sleeves in front of their noses. Someone said, “You’ll have to burn your clothes,” and laughed nervously, and she did not laugh along.\n\nChris stood behind Dylan, half hidden, and was glad—so glad—that the skunk had not got him. He knew how close it had been. His stomach slowly loosened.\n\nBut then came the second wave: shame. The image of himself, how he had instinctively jumped toward Dylan, sat in his head like a still frame. He had not “thought.” He had “reacted.” And that was perhaps the most unsettling thing.\n\n“See?” someone said breathlessly. “I told you. Don’t go there after dark.”\n\n“The curse,” another said, half laughing, half serious. “Every graduating class has a story. Now we have ours.”\n\nThe plant behind them stood dark and still, as if it were listening. And in the warm night air there still hung—brazenly, wrongly—a hint of syrup, mixed with the biting stench that drowned out everything else. The teenagers were certain: something had struck again.\n<<set $choice_ahorn1 to 1>>\n[[Continue|Bewertungstag.]]

Years passed.\n\nChris grew older in a role he had talked himself into seeing as a temporary stop. He became good at not thinking too far ahead. He became good at getting through today. And sometimes, when he was alone at night, he thought of Maplewood like a film he had once seen: absurd, embarrassing, far away. He thought of his sister as if she were a chapter someone had torn out of the book.\n\nUntil one day a message came.\n\nChristine.\n\nSomehow, she had found contact, through detours, through names, through those tiny digital threads that can never be completely cut. She wrote cautiously. Not accusingly. Not sentimentally. Simply: I want to see you. If you want that too.\n\nHis sister was happily married by now. A mother. A small house, a real home. When Chris visited her, he felt like someone stepping out of a long, loud room into a quiet one and suddenly not knowing what to do with his hands. Christine hugged him tightly, as if she had to prove he was still real. Her child looked at him curiously. Chris smiled, clinging to politeness like a railing.\n\nAnd then his mother stood in the hallway. She saw him, looked him up and down, just like before – only now there was that triumphant spark in her eyes that Chris recognized immediately.\n\nShe already knew how Chris earned his money. Christine had told her—not as a betrayal, but as preparation.\n\n“See?” Susan said, and in her voice was that sweet, sharp tone Chris knew by heart. “Without me, you sink.” She nodded almost with satisfaction, as if his life were a piece of evidence. “I gave you structure. I shaped you. And what do you do when you’re on your own? You end up in a strip club.”\n\nChris’ throat tightened. He thought of the years, of the stage, of the drooling men, of the “later” that had never come. He thought about how he had run away so he would not be controlled – and how instead he had pushed himself into another kind of control: money.\n\nHe had tried to go his own way. Away from his mother. Away from Maplewood. Away from coercion.\n\nBut when his mother said those words, it felt as if in the end she had won after all – because she was allowed to be right. Because she knew how far Chris had fallen.\n\nChris smiled weakly, said nothing, and stood for a moment between two worlds: the one he had left, and the other that had kept him.\n\nAnd somewhere inside him, a quiet, ironic truth burned:\nHe had run away to be free – and in the end had only changed the kind of cage.\n\n''Ending 10 of 10 - "Dollars & Dreams"''\n<<set $ende10 to 1>>\n[[📖 Statistics|Statistik][$selbstbild += 2]] - [[🏆 Bonus & Endings|Enden]]

The week suddenly gained a focal point: the pep rally was supposed to happen on Thursday, and by Monday everyone was already warming up. Lists hung everywhere, rolls of tape lay on tables like little snails, and the SB/Leadership handed out tasks in short, curt sentences. The D&D boys were there too: carrying cardboard, painting banners, gluing on letters.\n<<set $ort to "school">>\nChris stood at the edge of the gym with a bundle of gold ribbons and wrote names on boxes when someone called, “Who’s brave enough to go up the ladder?” It was about a string of lights that was supposed to be stretched across the bleachers. Three of the boys looked up, then down at their shoes.\n\n“I… have heights… I mean,” one mumbled.\n\n“I get sick up there,” another added.\n\nChris raised his hand before thinking much about it. “I’ll do it.” The ladder only wobbled when it was unfolded. He tucked the end of the string of lights under his arm and climbed up, focused, his hands steadier than he felt. At the top, he hooked the first clip under the crossbeam, smoothed the wire, and felt for the second hook.\n\nBelow, the group shuffled half a step closer to look up Chris’s skirt, and the conversation turned into whispering. Their heads were tipped back, curious eyes searching, feeling their way, lingering at Chris’s crotch. Chris bent over, searching for the cable with his fingertips, and noticed nothing. A giggle, too short, too sharp.\n\nAt that moment, Adam came in through the side door, a plastic crate in his arms. His gaze automatically followed the others, and his face hardened. “Hey!” he snapped at the boys, who flinched. “Are you serious? That’s my girlfriend.” He said it loudly. Loud enough for it to bounce off the bleachers. Two cheer girls sorting ribbons looked up. A football player turned his head. The word “girlfriend” stuck like confetti to a strip of tape.\n\nChris felt heat rising into his ears, even more so when he realized the boys had been looking up his skirt the whole time. He clipped the string of lights in place, took one breath, deep and shallow at once, and climbed back down. At the bottom, he placed his feet so neatly side by side that it was almost funny.\n\nThe boys mumbled apologies that sounded like excuses. Adam set the crate down and grabbed the ladder, as if he had to shove something between them and Chris. “Respect, guys. Ever heard of it?”\n\nLater, when the gym had emptied and only the hum of the string lights remained, Adam found Chris at the materials table, straightening the edges of cardboard even though they were already straight.\n\n“Uh—we need to clear something up. Thursday. Pep rally,” Adam said. He glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was within earshot, then leaned closer. “I want my girlfriend sitting next to me.”\n\nChris slowly lifted his gaze. “Adam…”\n\n“It’s not that bad,” Adam cut him off, with that slightly rushed smile that wanted to pretend everything was normal. “You sit there, we look good, nobody asks questions. And I keep your—” He left the rest hanging in the air for just a moment, just long enough for the word “secret” to fill itself in. “You know. I don’t talk. Deal?”\n\nThe hum of the lights seemed to grow louder. Chris felt the old, relentless pull between shame and necessity. He saw Adam’s hands—nervous, but determined—and heard again the giggling under the ladder, the “girlfriend” in the gym that sounded like a stamp.\n\nHe nodded barely visibly, more a twitch. “Okay.”\n\nAdam breathed out as if he had won a dice roll. “Great. This’ll be good,” he said, too brightly, and patted the crate. “See you tomorrow, Chris.”\n\nAs he left, Chris remained standing at the table, his fingers on the cardboard until the wavy edge gave way. Somewhere outside, the marching band was practicing, muffled and distant, and the string of lights above the bleachers blinked in a rhythm that suddenly seemed too mechanical to him.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n[[Continue|Bonding mit Mom.]]

They sang their way through two or three songs, then a duet. Laverne moved closer, sharing the mic for a line, her large breasts brushing his arm. Chris felt the contact like a tiny trail of electricity. He took a few sips; the alcohol rose into his head, softening the edges. His cheeks grew warm, and he laughed more easily, more loudly.\n\nDuring the next song, Laverne pulled him up from the sofa. “Come on, let’s do this properly.” She danced in the small space between the sofa and the table, letting her hips sway, holding Chris’s hand and spinning him once as if it were obvious he would join in. Chris stumbled briefly, caught himself, laughed—and suddenly sang more freely.\n\nWhen the song ended, they were standing too close together. Laverne grinned, looked at him as if weighing something—not coldly, more playfully. Then she brushed her thumb very lightly over his lower lip, as if wiping away a smear of gloss that wasn’t even there.\n\n“You’re sweet when you sing,” she said softly.\n\nChris’s heart was pounding up into his throat. He could have dodged away. He could have made a joke. Instead, he stayed where he was. And when Laverne leaned forward, he let it happen—let her lips find his.\n\nThe kiss began carefully, warmly, and escalated faster than Chris would have expected. Laverne pulled him closer, one hand in his hair, the other on his butt. Her soft lips pressed against his. After a few seconds, he felt her tongue; it played around his, pushed deep inside, and toyed with him.\n\nChris’s fingers found her back, then her large, round ass, as if he had to check whether it was real. It was real. He kissed her back, hesitantly at first, then more hungrily, as the next song started automatically and the lights above them pulsed slowly in blue and pink.\n\nThrough the dress, Chris felt her now-hard cock and was surprised to realize there had to be quite a size there. Curious, his hand wandered forward and lifted her dress. He had already felt that her cock had to be big, but what came into view was still something else. He estimated it to be over 8 inches. He took the black cock in his hand and let it glide up and down. Laverne enjoyed the feeling of his hands and closed her eyes.\n\nThey sank onto the sofa without really noticing who was pulling whom. Laverne laughed briefly against his mouth, then kissed him again, deeper, wilder, and Chris let his head sink into the cushions, letting the warmth and the alcohol and the music carry him. His thoughts became short flashes: This is wrong—no, this is beautiful—I can—I want—and between them only breath and lips and that feeling of being wanted.\n\nLaverne pulled away for a moment, held his face between her hands, and looked directly at him. “Put it in your mouth, baby?”\n\nChris nodded, breathing heavily, and the nod was honest. “Yes.”\n\nHe went down and licked his tongue over the large head. She enjoyed it and closed her eyes again. After some time, he let go of her and looked at her cock in awe. Laverne looked down again and met his gaze. Then he gathered all his courage and slipped his mouth completely over her head. He immediately brought his tongue into play and sucked on her cock. Chris watched her reaction and was satisfied when he heard her moan loudly. The more intensely he sucked her cock, the louder she moaned. The TV kept showing lyrics no one was reading. The box was sealed tight, the world outside far away, and inside there were only them, music, and Chris’s wet lips around her large black cock.\n\nThen she came so suddenly that she couldn’t even warn him anymore; she shot her entire load into his mouth. Quite surprised, Chris began to swallow until nothing more came from her cock. He wondered at it; her cum didn’t taste nearly as bad as he had always thought, it was salty and also a little sweet.\n\nPanicking, Laverne pulled him up and hugged him. “My God, sweetie, I didn’t mean to, but it came so suddenly I couldn’t warn you anymore. Sorry, I didn’t mean to come in your mouth.”\n\n“It’s okay. It was pretty surprising, but it’s okay. <<if $woral == 0>>I’ve never done anything like that before, but<<endif>> I didn’t mind having your cum in my mouth and swallowing it. On the contrary, it even turned me on when I sucked your cock and received everything from you.”\n\nBlissful at that reaction, she took him in her arms and kissed him long and passionately. When the kiss ended, they sat down next to each other on the sofa and took off their clothes.\n\nUnder Laverne’s dress, Chris could see a yellow bra. Before he could close his mouth again, which had opened in surprise, she had opened the bra at the front clasp, and two beautiful, black, large, perfectly shaped silicone breasts were exposed. 'Man, they’re gigantically big!' Chris thought to himself.\n\n“Come on, touch them,” Laverne said and pulled his right hand to her breast. Several times, she pressed his hand into her enormous silicone bust.\n\nThen they fooled around, tickled each other’s naked bodies, and wrestled with one another. Again and again, a hand would stray to the other’s cock. When Laverne wrapped her arms around him from behind, her hard cock caught on Chris’s sweet butt and, with the momentum, forced its way between his butt cheeks.\n\nWhen her head slid over his asshole, Chris briefly flinched. The feeling was amazing, running through him like an electric shock. He looked back to signal to her that everything was okay. She took hold of her cock and placed it between his butt cheeks. Then she moved up and down to rub her cock against his ass.\n\nHe felt her head pass over his asshole again and again, triggering a tingling inside him. Then she placed her head against his rosebud and applied more and more pressure, but he couldn’t really relax. Laverne gave him a surprising slap on the ass, which made him relax briefly, and slid her head into his ass. Chris moaned loudly. Laverne stayed in that position and waited until he had grown used to her cock.\n\nThen she began pushing it farther in until she was halfway inside. She didn’t want to put him through more than that at the start. She stayed still again for a minute and then began slowly thrusting into his ass. Feelings came over Chris that he didn’t know like this. It was something different, but it felt good. He moaned for all he was worth, but Laverne, too, was overwhelmed by the tightness of his ass and moaned along with him.\n\nSuddenly, Chris pulled away, and her cock slipped out. Concerned, she asked him whether it had hurt. But Chris said no and explained that he wanted to try something.\n\n''What does he want to try?''\n❯ [[Position change, he wants to ride her.|Stellungswechsel, er will sie reiten.][$creampied += 1]]\n❯ [[He wants to fuck her.|Er will sie ficken.]]

The cocktail tasted sweeter, went down more easily. Too easily. Chris took two sips, then a third, because he didn’t want to simply put the glass back down. The mix of sugar and alcohol immediately layered itself on top of what was already floating inside him. The world became softer, but his tongue didn’t become looser. On the contrary: the warmer his head grew, the harder it seemed for words to find his throat.\n\nCharlotte and Lila kept talking; their voices bounced between them like a ping-pong ball. Lila occasionally placed a hand briefly on Charlotte’s arm, laughed a little too long at her jokes. Charlotte held her gaze, countered charmingly, playfully raised an eyebrow. The air between them tipped noticeably into flirting.\n\nChris stood beside them, cup in hand, and felt as if he were looking through a pane of glass. He heard the sentences, understood them, but they bounced off a soft wall inside him. He couldn’t keep up anymore, not with the speed and ease with which the two of them were weaving threads.\n\nWhen Lila eventually moved closer and kissed Charlotte without much hesitation, it almost made sense. A brief moment, then a second one, longer. It didn’t look staged, but like something that had simply happened. Charlotte’s hand slid to Lila’s waist, the slip dress shimmered; Lila leaned into it a little more.\n\nSomething inside Chris tightened. Not from jealousy, more a feeling of being completely out of place. He was air in a room full of clear roles.\n\nHe quietly set the cup down on the countertop. No one noticed. “I, uh, I’ll go see what Christine is doing,” he murmured, without checking whether anyone heard, and slipped out of the kitchen.\n\nHe drifted back into the hallway, then into the living room. The music was louder again, the bass heavier. The room swam a little, but clearly enough to recognize a scene immediately.\n\nChristine was still on the “dance floor,” but “dancing” barely described it anymore. She swayed, laughed too loudly, her head resting against Myles’s shoulder. Her hair clung a little to her forehead, the cup in her hand tilted dangerously.\n\nThe song ended with an abrupt cut. Christine took a step that wasn’t one and tipped sideways. Myles caught her at the last moment, one arm firm around her waist, the other at her back. She clung to him, murmured something unintelligible, laughed again, but her knees looked soft.\n\nMyles threw one of his buddies a glance, that kind of wordless agreement, then began leading Christine away from the dance floor. Not toward the kitchen. Not outside. But toward the stairs.\n\nChris’s heart stopped for a moment, then began to race. The stairs upward suddenly seemed like a boundary. Rooms. Beds, doors that could be closed.\n\nShit, Chris thought. He wants to take her upstairs. He wants to sleep with her. In this state.\n\nChristine’s head leaned heavily against his shoulder, her steps stumbling more than walking. Myles held her tighter, whispered something into her ear. It didn’t look like violence. It looked like “friendly help.”\nHis stomach went cold. The music kept pounding, as if it didn’t know a different volume was needed right now.\n\nWhat should he do?\n\nIf he stepped in, he risked making a scene. <<if $tagebuch == 2>>Exactly what he had promised Christine to avoid. <<endif>>If he did nothing, he was letting his little sister, who could barely stand straight anymore, go upstairs with a guy.\n\nHe stood in the living room, feeling the miniskirt, the heels, the lip gloss on his lips, the gold hoop earrings. He felt small and out of place, but also like the only thing in between.\n<<set $myles_opinion to 21>>\n''What does he decide?''\n❯ [[Save his sister.|Seine Schwester retten.2][$christine += 1;$christine_opinion += 10;$christine_party += 1]]\n❯ [[Do nothing.|Nichts tun.2]]

The week suddenly gained a focal point: the pep rally was supposed to happen on Thursday, and by Monday everyone was already warming up. The SB/Leadership organized lists, and anyone with two free hands was put to work. Chris and the theater kids volunteered; Ms. Green had only given a brief nod.\n<<set $ort to "school">>\nIn the main hallway, posters, cups of paintbrushes, and rolls of gaffer tape were piled up. Chris stood on a stool and taped a “GO TIMBERWOLVES” banner above the trophy case, while Lucas stood beside him and tore off strips of tape in exactly equal lengths. “Here,” he said each time, handing them over so their fingers brushed. At first by accident, then not entirely.\n\nThe air smelled of felt-tip marker, warm paper, and a hint of gym soap drifting over from the open double doors. From the auditorium, bands practiced in stages. Chris pressed the banner smooth, brushed the last air bubble out of the “O” with the back of his hand, and Lucas held the stool by one leg, as if he were a safeguard against gravity and embarrassment at the same time.\n\n“A little more to the right,” Lucas murmured. “Like that… perfect.”\n\nChris jumped down, the stool wobbled, and Lucas caught him lightly. “Thanks,” Chris said, a little breathless. The touch stayed for one heartbeat, then Lucas let go and silently pushed the next roll of tape toward him.\n\nThey worked their way down the length of the hallway: posters about club booths, arrows toward the gym, a schedule Chris had traced over in neat handwriting. Every now and then Lucas smoothed down an edge, and their hands found each other as if magnetic. Out of the corner of his eye, Chris saw his reflection in the trophy case glass—hair prettily styled, knees bare beneath the hem of his skirt. Beside him Lucas, attentive, gentle in his movements.\n\n“Are you looking forward to Thursday?” Lucas asked, turning the tape between his fingers.\n\n“Yes. No. Maybe.” Chris gave a crooked smile. “I hope no one tears a banner down.”\n\n“I’ll double-tape them.” Lucas’s mouth twitched. “Just to be safe.”\n\nA few theater kids carried an easel past, Ruby waved as she went by, and Lucas leaned a little closer to fix a crooked letter. His fingers brushed over the back of Chris’s hand; the touch was small, but it stayed. Chris felt a quiet, bright sting—not pain, more like a spark.\n\n“Two more posters for the gym,” Lucas said, matter-of-factly, as if he had seen the same thought and built a calmer path around it. “I’ll get the long tape.”\n\n“I’ll hold it.” Chris took the lower end of the poster, and when Lucas found the roll and came back, their hands brushed again. This time neither of them pulled away faster. They kept working, focused, with quiet agreements and small glances, and little by little the hallway filled with color, arrows, and promises of noise. The pep rally drew closer, inch by inch, taped firmly into place beneath their fingers.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n[[Continue|Chris hat was vergessen.]]

Chris raised his finger and pointed—hesitantly, then clearly—at Christine. Around them, almost all the fingers went toward Charlotte. It was an open secret; Charlotte giggled and raised both hands in self-mockery. “Caught. Yeah, okay—me.” The laughter in the pillow fort washed warmly over to them.\n\nChristine turned her head toward Chris, her brow slightly furrowed. Not in outrage—just that really? me? in her eyes. “Interesting,” she said with a crooked smile that asked more than it commented. There was no judgment in it, only a quiet, sibling nudge: Do you know me that little? Chris’s shoulders shrank a fraction; he pulled the blanket higher over his knees and smiled apologetically.\n\n“My turn!” Charlotte called, lively as ever, and tapped a pillow twice as if it were a buzzer. “Who would be more likely… to sleep with a teacher?” A collective “Ooooh” went through the fort, half outrage, half fun. Christine half-froze and looked pointedly toward the string lights.\n\nFingers hovered, a few girls acting mock-offended, others grinning as if they already had an answer in mind.\n\n''Who does Chris choose?''\n❯ [[Charlotte|Charlotte2]]\n❯ [[Christine|Christine2]]\n❯ [[Penelope|Penelope2]]

Chris was left alone on the sofa. The music vibrated through the upholstery, the light cut across the table. He sipped his drink as if it had suddenly become very interesting.\n\nOf course, it didn’t take long.\n\nA guy emerged from the half-darkness, stopped in front of him, and leaned down a little to speak into his face. “Hey,” he said, loud enough over the music. “Do you want to dance? Or should I buy you something?”\n\nChris’s heart gave a little jump. “Uh—no, thanks,” he said, as politely as possible. He tried to keep his gaze neutral and not look like a deer in headlights. “I’m just waiting for… friends.”\n\nThe guy still stayed there, grinning as if it were a game. “Oh, come on. There’s always room for a drink. You look like you could use one.”\n\nChris shook his head, again. “Really, no. Thanks.” He forced a smile that hoped it would seem like a wall. Inside, he searched for an exit route that wouldn’t be obvious. The guy didn’t make an outright scene, but he stayed a few seconds too long—as if testing whether Chris would give in after all.\n\nChris was relieved when he finally caught a glimpse toward the dance floor and saw the three of them coming closer again. He breathed out as if he had just escaped an embarrassing test.\n\nSusan, Latoya, and DeShawn dropped back into the sofa corner. Susan seemed more keyed up—and at the same time annoyed because Chris hadn’t joined in. “I need to go to the restroom for a second,” she said, immediately standing up again. Then she pointed at Chris as if it were obvious. “Come with me.”\n\nChris blinked. “I don’t need to.”\n\n“Still,” Susan said, without discussion, and her tone allowed no contradiction.\n\nChris swallowed, set the glass down, and stood up.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $club > 1>>\n\n<<if $barnett == 1>>\n[[Penelope drunk in the restroom.|Penelope betrunken auf Toilette.2]]\n<<else>>\n[[Chris gets in trouble with his mother.|Chris bekommt Ärger von seiner Mutter.]]\n<<endif>>\n\n<<else>>\n[[Penelope drunk in the restroom.|Penelope betrunken auf Toilette.]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

The first rounds felt as if someone had screwed a hard chair onto a metronome.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/Reiten.jpg]]</center> <<else>><center>[img[pics/Reiten_kurz.jpg]]</center> <<endif>>\nThe tight riding breeches pulled exactly where he least wanted to feel them; every step Stardust took shifted Chris’s weight forward and back, and his testicles slapped against the saddle like a rude door knocker. “Arch your back, not hula-hoop,” Ruby called from the side, kindly. Chris adjusted his pelvis, lengthened his shoulders, breathed—and suddenly everything distributed itself better. It became bearable. Even… good. The walk rocked gently, Stardust rumbled contentedly, Chris’s hands found a calmer rein.\n\n“A little trot,” Ruby announced, let go, and waved him onto the short side. Stardust lifted into motion—and Chris was springily catapulted out of the saddle with every stride. Up—plop—down—smack. It was as if the stallion were spanking his backside with very rhythmic pedagogy:\n\nSmack, smack, smack, you naughty girl.\n\n“Posting trot!” Ruby called. Chris tried to find the rhythm and briefly saw himself as a badly adjusted bobblehead in riding gear. Despite everything, he laughed; the stable yard echoed his laughter back.\n\nAn employee was leaning against the fence, pretending to polish a harness, but really watching Chris’s debut. When Chris came down to a halt, cheeks pink from trotting and his backside minimally offended, the man stepped forward and gripped the thigh strap securely.\n\n<center>[img[pics/zeke.jpg]]</center> “This way. Leg free. That’s it. I’ll help you dismount,” he said.\n\nThe distance from the horse to the ground was so great that Chris wrapped his arms around the man’s neck to get down safely. The strong man held Chris’s ass with one hand and his back with the other.\n\nChris’s body slid down along his muscular body, and he noticed his pelvis rubbing against the noticeably hard bulge in the man’s jeans. Suddenly Chris pulled back and looked at him in surprise as he realized it. The man’s eyes sought his gaze before Chris quickly looked down and turned away in embarrassment.\n\n“Clean first ride,” the man said and held out his hand to him: “I’m Ezekiel, by the way. Everyone says Zeke.”\n\nChris swallowed, took the hand—rough, warm. “Chris.” He felt heat rising into his cheeks.\n\n“You were great,” Ruby beamed, pulling the stirrups up. Stardust snorted, as if adding his signature underneath.\n\nChris briefly placed his hand once more on the warm coat and thought with satisfaction that the day had given him more than a sore backside.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Message from Charlotte.|Nachricht von Charlotte.2]]<<else>>[[In the evening.|Am Abend.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Beliebtheit -1

After the final "Namaste," they rolled up their mats. Chris’s muscles felt strangely light yet simultaneously well-worked—as if they had finally been given a clear purpose. The changing rooms were quiet; in the shower area, he was immensely relieved that Susan had steered him toward a secluded corner. No other women in sight, no one sizing him up—just hot water washing away the sweat and tension of the day.\n<<set $ort to "Women's Shower">>\nAs Chris showered, his gaze drifted over to his mother—watching as she lathered herself up: her legs, her buttocks, and her breasts. It was almost as if she were putting on a little show for her son. Susan was completely shaved, and her pink outer labia were clearly visible. It was too much for Chris. His arousal mounted steadily. Even though it was his own mother, his cock began to stiffen. Quickly, he turned his back to her.\n\nWhile Chris, feeling somewhat ashamed, looked down at the floor, Susan positioned herself right behind him. Her breasts now brushed ever so slightly against Chris’s back. Surprised, he turned his head to the right and looked his mother directly in the eye.\n\n"Shall I wash your back?" Susan whispered, her voice barely audible.\n\nChris stared at his mother, bewildered. "What?" he asked.\n\nSusan didn't wait for an answer. Chris felt his mother’s hot breath on the back of his neck. At the same moment, he felt Susan’s hands begin to stroke across his back.\n\n"Your skin is so soft—how do you manage that? It’s enviable," his mother whispered.\n\nThe hot water cascaded down his naked body, and he felt his mother’s delicate hands slowly making their way down his torso toward his buttocks. He was utterly paralyzed. On one level, he could have resisted, but instead, he simply stared at his mother in disbelief, utterly shocked.\n\nShe pressed her wet, dreamlike body against Chris from behind, her head resting just above his shoulder. As she did so, her hands continued to wander forward. Her fingertips—specifically the backs of her index fingers—now brushed against Chris’s small nipples, tracing a slow path upward. A tingling sensation coursed through every fiber of Chris’s body. Susan stroked gently over Chris’s nipples, as if she intended to explore every single millimeter of them. The way his mother’s hands touched his chest and toyed with his nipples felt wonderful. Yet, doubts began to creep in. What if someone walked by?\n\nSusan’s left hand continued to attend to Chris’s chest, while her right hand worked its way downward. It grazed slowly across his flat stomach, moving toward his penis. Using her index and middle fingers, she explored his stiff little cock. Everything felt strange and new to Chris—even though he knew it was wrong. He could hardly believe what was happening. His own mother was gently playing with his penis, lightly massaging it and sliding his foreskin back and forth to "wash" him there as well.\n\nChris was on the verge of exploding. The sexual tension building inside him demanded release. Just as he neared his climax, she stopped. The two of them looked at each other again.\n\nChris wore an expression that said: You can’t stop now.\n\nSusan merely smirked and took a step back, acting as if nothing at all had happened.\n\n[[Continue|Auf ins Piercingstudio.][$tarnung += 1]]\n

Chris stood nailed to the spot as Myles disappeared with Christine at the stairs. Her arm hung loosely over his shoulder, her steps soft and wrong, a drunken rhythm that no longer belonged to her.\n\nOne of the boys leaning against the wall with a beer nudged his buddy with his elbow and grinned broadly. “Well, there you go,” he slurred, loud enough for the people around them to hear. “Looks like someone’s night is going well.”\n\nAnother raised his plastic cup in the air as if to toast something. “He’s taking her to the love suite!” he bawled, and several people burst out laughing.\n\nIt was that dirty, self-satisfied laughter that had nothing to do with real joy.\n\nNo one stopped them.\n\nChris didn’t either. The music started up with the next song, as if nothing had happened. People laughed, someone shrieked as a cup tipped over. Someone bumped lightly into Chris, muttered a “Sorry, man,” without really looking.\n\nI should… Chris thought.\n\nBut his body didn’t move toward the stairs.\n\nHe went to the bar.\n\nThe improvised “bar” was a jumbled table with bottles, cups, sticky rims. He grabbed a red cup and drank. It tasted bitter, stale, too strong. He kept drinking.\n\nHe stood there, shoulder leaning slightly against the wall, looking into the living room without really focusing. His head rattled.\n\nShe’s my little sister.\nShe’s wasted.\nMyles is… a boy.\nIt’s none of my business. It’s her decision.\nBut is it still her decision if she can barely stand?\nI should have stopped him.\nWhat even am I? Big brother? Big sister? None of it right.\n\nAnother swallow. The beer ran warm through him, laying a layer over his thoughts, but not erasing them. On the contrary, every image became softer, more fluid—and therefore harder to get rid of.\n\nHe imagined Myles falling onto a bed with her upstairs. His hands everywhere. In his mind’s eye, he saw Christine. Half-naked on the bed, the stretch dress pushed up and Myles on top of her. Her screaming, too loud. Her no, no. His head painted pictures. Pictures full of details of Myles stealing his little sister’s innocence.\n\nMaybe he’s only helping her lie down, he thought. Maybe he’s looking after her. The thought felt brittle. Myles’s look from earlier, his grip on her butt, the knowledge of how boys talked among themselves—all of it gnawed at that hope.\n\nHe no longer really felt the heels, only the slight swaying that could no longer be clearly attributed to either the music or the alcohol. His miniskirt, his crop top, the hoop earrings, all of it suddenly seemed like a bad parody of defenselessness.\n\nIf I go upstairs and knock, then what?\nEveryone stares. “Chris is freaking out.” “Just let her.”\nChristine would be angry.\nIf I do nothing and it goes wrong, is it my fault?\nI’m not strong enough. Not loud enough. Not… enough.\n\n<div class="psychedelic-text"> He drank. The cup emptied in swallows that barely happened as decisions anymore. The music vibrated, conversations dissolved. He stood right in the middle of it and felt like water seeping into every crack and finding no hold anywhere.\n\nThe cup grew lighter. He looked down—empty. His perception swam, not like a film, more like aquarium glass through which he watched the party.\n\nHe thought of Christine again. Who was now lying in bed and moaning, or not. He forced the image away; it came back. He hated himself for it.</div>\n\n[[Continue|Chris wird zum Tanzen aufgefordert.2]]

Chris stood rooted to the spot as Myles disappeared with Christine at the stairs. Her arm hung loosely over his shoulder, her steps soft and wrong, a drunken rhythm that no longer belonged to her.\n\nOne of the boys leaning against the wall with a beer nudged his buddy with his elbow and grinned broadly. “Well, there you go,” he slurred, loud enough for the people around him to hear. “Looks like someone’s night is going well.”\n\nAnother raised his plastic cup into the air as if making a toast. “He’s taking her to the love suite!” he shouted, and several people burst out laughing.\n\nIt was that dirty, self-satisfied laughter that had nothing to do with real joy.\n\nNo one stopped them.\n\nChris didn’t either.\n\nNow, something in his head said. Go after them now. Say something now.\n\nHe didn’t go. He stood there. People danced, laughed, clinked cups. For one heartbeat there was only the rushing in his ears.\n\nThen he turned around and headed for the improvised bar.\n\nHis hands found a red cup as if on their own. He stood at the edge of the room, raised the cup, drank. The taste was more bitter than before, but he forced it down.\n\nHis thoughts ran up the stairs, through an unfamiliar hallway, into a room he didn’t know. He saw Christine in front of him. Half-naked on the bed, the stretch dress pushed up and Myles on top of her. Her screaming, too loud. Her no, no. His mind painted pictures. Pictures full of details of Myles robbing his little sister of her innocence.\n\nChris drank.\n\nOne sip, then another. The beer wrapped another layer of cotton wool around the screams in the back of his mind, but the images didn’t get any quieter. They only changed shape. Christine crying, then moaning. Myles’s hands on her petite body. Her with her legs spread on a bed. She’s losing her innocence up there right now, his drunk mind formulated with cruel clarity, and it made him sick.\n\n<div class="psychedelic-text"> He drank because he didn’t want to think it. And thought it anyway.\n\nLucas appeared beside him, timid, with a half-full cup he was holding more than drinking. “Chris… maybe you should—”\n\n“Not now,” Chris said.\n\n“But you’re already pretty—”\n\n“Lucas, please.” He looked at him briefly. There was worry in Lucas’s eyes, real and thin. But it was worry without a plan. Without movement. “I don’t want any boys around me right now, okay?”\n\nLucas flinched back as if he had taken a hit, even though the tone hadn’t been loud. “Okay,” he murmured. “Sorry.”\n\n“It’s not…” Chris broke off, shook his head. “Just go.”\n\nLucas hesitated for a moment, then retreated into the crowd, swallowed by the light and the bass. Once again, he made room. Once again, he wasn’t in the way.\n\nChris remained standing at the edge, the cup in his hand, and kept drinking. Every sip was an attempt to tear down the stairs in his head, to push the images away. But all the alcohol did was blur the contours until guilt, worry, and self-disgust flowed into one another.</div>\n\n[[Continue|Chris wird zum Tanzen aufgefordert.3]]

The next few weeks turned into a strange timetable that no one but [[Susan|Susan Braun]] had signed off on. It began in the morning in the kitchen, when the coffee was still steaming and the house smelled of toast.\n\n“Posture first,” Susan said, tapping him between the shoulder blades. “Straight. Shoulders relaxed, not broad. Movements small, controlled.” She made him walk up and down the living room, practice turning, not put his hands in his pockets, but let them hang along his body. “No big steps. Place your feet quietly, as if you didn’t want to wake anyone.”\n\nLater came clothing lessons. Susan opened Christine’s closet with the matter-of-factness of an archivist. “Building blocks: underwear, a top or blouse, a jacket over that; on the bottom a skirt or slim pants. Layers make the silhouette softer.”\n\nSusan handed her son a pink girls’ microfiber panty, classically cut. He took the panty and slipped into it. As embarrassing as it looked on him, the material felt pleasantly soft against his bare skin.\n\n“It barely fits over my butt! Is that normal?” Chris asked, running a hand over the fine fabric.\n\nHis mother explained proportions, lengths, how fabric falls. Chris tried things on, changed, got dressed again, felt in every mirror image like an actor who had landed the wrong role, and yet made an effort to remember every hint. The more he did, the more quietly he hoped that at some point she would say: “Okay. Enough. Back to being you.”\n\nThe hardest things were the little everyday gestures. How to sit (“Knees together, feet parallel”). How to carry a bag (“Not like a toolbox, Chris.”). How to speak (“Slower. Don’t let your voice drop off at the end of the sentence.”). And one afternoon, with the patience of a strict but thorough teacher: “Pantyhose.” Susan held up the package and tore it open. “Don’t just yank it up or it’ll tear. Like this:”\n\nWith that, she stretched out the pantyhose and gathered the legs together. She took off her right shoe and slowly pulled the brown pantyhose over her foot and leg. Chris’s eyes went wide when he accidentally spotted the wet patch in his mother’s panties.\n\nThen she took the pantyhose off again and handed it to him.\n\n“Put them on! And pay attention to the reinforced toe, make sure it sits straight, just like mine!” she ordered.\n\nWith trembling fingers, Chris began putting on the pantyhose the way his mother had shown him.\n\n“Stop, now the other leg!” Susan called.\n\nWith some contortions and a bit of help, Chris finally managed to put on the pantyhose.\n\n<center>[img[pics/strumpfhose.jpg]]</center> “Bravo, well done,” Susan praised him unexpectedly. “They fit just fine.” Susan unhesitatingly reached into his crotch. “The length is good, too.”\n\nSusan stroked and rubbed her son’s cock, which was slowly beginning to stir. Chris wanted to protest, but his mother just smiled and said, “Those tights look excellent on you, Chris! You did a great job.”\n\nChris flinched at that; never before had he felt another hand touch him there.\n\nAnd so it went on for days. Chris got the impression that his mother was secretly taking pleasure in seeing him in women’s clothes. When he did something particularly well, Susan would say “good.” That “good” became a goal he threw himself toward, because he believed that at the end of it stood the door back to being a boy.\n\n[[Continue|Nein, der nächste Schritt: Hormone.]]

Stil -1\n

The bus rumbled over a bump, and for a moment the whole row jerked like a wave. Chris sat by the window, his bag on his knees, the hem of his skirt smoothed flat, as if order in the fabric could also create order in his head. Outside, front yards and mailboxes passed by; inside, it smelled of cheap deodorant.\n<<set $ort to "school bus">>\nThe boy beside him—if he had been a few seats farther away, Chris probably wouldn’t even have noticed him—had fallen asleep. You could see it in the heaviness of his eyelids, in the slow drooping of his chin, which gave way a little farther every time the bus braked. Chris only half noticed it until the next jolt came.\n\nThe boy tipped to the side and suddenly rested his temple against Chris’s shoulder.\n\nChris froze. It was nothing dramatic, but the closeness immediately felt too much—warm, unfamiliar, embarrassingly intimate. His body registered every detail: the weight of the head, the fabric of the jacket, slightly scratchy, the smell of shampoo and sweat from sports. His stomach tightened, and at the same time the thought shot through his head as if someone had spoken it aloud: If I flinch away now, everyone will notice.\n\nHe stared straight ahead, as if the window had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. His shoulders wanted to pull away automatically. But then he thought of the skirt, the looks, every tiny movement that had already been too much today. He forced himself to stay still. Only his hand clenched tighter around the bag strap.\n\nThe weight remained. The boy breathed calmly, completely unaware. Chris felt his heart beating faster, and felt ashamed of it—for the fright, for the heat in his face, for the absurd feeling that it also felt a little… safe, like an accidental embrace no one had planned. At the same time, there was fear: If he wakes up and realizes he’s leaning on me… Chris could already imagine the grin, a remark, laughter.\n\nAnother pothole. The head slipped a few millimeters, and Chris’s shoulder almost twitched. He caught himself, breathing shallowly. Then, very slowly, millimeter by millimeter, he lifted his shoulder—as carefully as if he were balancing a glass—and with that let the boy roll slightly toward the seatback without waking him. The head found the edge of the cushion and stayed there.\n\nChris held his breath until he was sure the boy wouldn’t wake up. Only then did he let his shoulders drop. He felt a mixture of relief and lingering embarrassment, as if he had been caught doing something even though he had done nothing. He looked back out the window, forced his gaze onto the street passing by—and noticed that he still felt a little warm in the place where, just moments before, someone else’s weight had rested.\n\n[[Continue|Ein Paket am Nachtmittag.]]

Chris’s finger landed on Penelope. She raised an eyebrow.\n<<set $PenelopeMemory[1] to 1>>\nThe pillow fort pointed wildly in every direction—Charlotte at Penelope, two girls at Christine. No clear winner. So they explained themselves:\n\n“Never me,” Charlotte said without hesitation.\n“Me neither,” Christine added, her forehead still flushed from the teacher topic.\nPenelope shrugged, honest as always: “Depends. If Mr. Right is very right, I drop Mr. Maybe. Clean cut, no double thing—but yeah, upgrade option.” Laughter, eye rolls; Penelope only grinned.\n\n“And you, Chris?” someone asked.\n“I would never cheat.”\n“Not even with Dylan?” a voice needled, sharp as a hairpin.\n\nDylan. The word ignited in his head like a short film—athletic, muscular, the thin fabric of a shirt, a charming smile. “No,” Chris said, but the syllable came out too soft. A few girls went mh-hm and exchanged looks that said: Sure, of course…\n\n“Next question!” someone called, grateful for the turn. “Who would be more likely to have a child as a teenager?”\n\nThis time the fingers moved almost in chorus—and pointed at Chris. Only Charlotte and Christine didn’t point.\n\n“What? Why me?” Chris blinked, baffled and suddenly hot in the face.\n\nThe answers came pelting down, half teasing, half caring:\n“Because you seem so naive.”\n“And too nice to say ‘no.’”\n“Boys would take advantage of you.”\n“You’d think it was love—and bam.”\n“Prom with a baby bump, sooo cute—” (Laughter)\n“—and we’d have to pick out the best maternity dresses for you.” (Even more laughter.)\n\nChris felt the laughter hurt and yet stay warm at the same time—because it wasn’t really mean, just… blind. Impossible, he thought defiantly, and still the idea of other hands rewriting his story burned in his ears.\n\n“Your turn, Chris! Ask something!” Penelope called.\n\nHe opened his mouth—emptiness. No spark, only flickering. “Uh… I—”\n\n“It’s okay,” Penelope cut in after 3 minutes, friendly and firmly in director mode. “We’re switching. Movie time!” A cheer ran through the pillow fort.\n\nChris breathed out, a little dazed.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $tempCharlotte > 0 && $charlotte == 2>>[[Horror movie.|Horrorfilm.]]<<else>>[[Horror movie.|Horrorfilm.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris’s finger twitched toward Penelope. For a moment, she looked at him as if he had handed her a glass of dirty water instead of champagne—corners of her mouth twisted, “uuh, really?” But all around, the hands turned—and pointed mostly at Christine.\n<<set $PenelopeMemory[1] to 1>>\n“What?!” Christine instantly turned red. Penelope immediately followed up, far too cheerfully: “Come on, people, you know—Chrissie had a massive crush on Mr. Alvarez last year.” Giggles, a few “ohhh”s. Christine shook her head fiercely. “Not true! I mean… I thought he was nice. Like everyone did.” No one quite bought her denial.\n\nChris blinked. He hadn’t known that. And if he was honest… he could understand it. Mrs. Rivera is really hot too… He cleared his throat, placing a hand on Christine’s knee. “Hey, there’s nothing inherently wrong with that,” he said calmly. “As long as nothing actually happens. Crushes happen.”\n\nChristine shot him a grateful look through all that red.\n\nHalf a dozen heads turned toward him in the same rhythm. “Ahaaa,” Penelope drew the word out. “And who’s your teacher crush, Chris?”\n“Mr. Moore?” one of them threw in.\n“Mr. Robertson?” another asked, far too curious.\n\n“No one,” Chris protested, too quickly, his face too hot. Immediately the cheerful speculation began, names flying like popcorn. He pulled his knees closer, smiled bravely, while the group clearly enjoyed the idea that the “new girl” might have a forbidden crush too.\n\n“My round,” Christine said firmly, visibly grateful for the chance to escape forward. She let her gaze wander over the pillow fort, the ruffled edge of her nightgown trembling slightly. “Who would be more likely to cheat in a relationship?”\n\nFingers rose, searching for targets.\n\n''Who does Chris choose?''\n<<if $charlotte == 2>>❯ [[Charlotte|Charlotte3][$tempCharlotte += 1]]<<else>>❯ [[Charlotte|Charlotte4]]<<endif>>\n❯ [[Christine|Christine3][$tempChristine += 1]]\n❯ [[Penelope|Penelope3]]

On the way to the women’s restroom, Susan pushed through the crowd with determination, as if demanding that the club clear a path for her. Chris followed on the platforms, focused on not stumbling. Behind the restroom door, the bass became duller, the light harsher, the smell of perfume and hairspray stronger.\n\nAnd then there she was: [[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]].\n<center>[img[pics/penelope_club.jpg]]</center> She was leaning half against the wall, half against the door handle of a washroom, as if she needed both just to stay upright at all. Her hair was still perfectly styled, but her eyes were glassy, her mouth slightly open, as if her body loaded slower than her words. She blinked as if she first had to bring Chris into focus, and then her mouth pulled into a crooked, drunken smile.\n\n“Heeey… Boob Chris…” she slurred, stretching out the “Chris” as if it were chewing gum.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. “Mom,” he said quickly to Susan, quietly, almost apologetically, “I know her from school. Cheerleading.”\n\nSusan looked Penelope over once, from head to toe, and snorted barely audibly. Penelope swayed as if she were about to topple over.\n\nChris stepped closer. “Penelope? Is everything okay?” She mumbled something incomprehensible, slid along the wall with her shoulder, and would have nearly tipped over if Chris hadn’t supported her.\n\n“Okay,” Chris said more to himself than to her. He looked at his mother. His heart was still pounding from the club, but now there was a clear, practical chance: an exit. “I… I could take her home. She really isn’t very… uh…” He searched for a word that didn’t sound like “drunk.”\n\nSusan looked at Penelope as if she were a problem one wanted to get out of the way quickly. Then she gave a curt nod. “All right. But you do it properly. And you don’t leave her lying around somewhere.” Her gaze was stern, but there was also something convenient in it.\n\nChris breathed out. “Okay.”\n\nHe guided Penelope outside, step by step, her arm over his shoulder. Outside, the air was cold and clear, as if it were slapping him. He called an Uber, keeping Penelope upright while he did, and when the car came, he helped her into the back seat.\n\n“You’re… sweet,” Penelope murmured.\n\nChris ignored it. Susan stayed in the club—he still saw her turn around and disappear in the neon light, back to DeShawn and Latoya.\n\nIn the car, Penelope sank lower into the seat, her forehead leaned against the window. The driver routinely asked whether everything was okay; Chris nodded, said they had only “celebrated too much.” Penelope giggled briefly, then grew heavy again.\n\nWhen Chris gave the address, Penelope suddenly shook her head, violently and uncoordinated. “No… no, I can’t go there.” Her voice broke in the middle. “I can’t go home.”\n\nChris turned toward her. “Why not?”\n\nPenelope blinked as if she were considering whether she was allowed to say it. “Because… stress. With Mom.” She grimaced as if the word were bitter. “She… she’s…” Penelope pushed out her lips, almost whispering it. “She’s cheating on Dad. I swear.” Then she laughed briefly, but it didn’t sound funny, more like a hiccup made of sadness.\n\n<<if $party1 > 0 >>Chris felt his stomach tighten. He only knew Mrs. Barnett as a warm, perfect image from the outside—and now her daughter was sitting here, drunk and half crumbled apart, knocking that image over.\n\n<<endif>>“Okay,” he said carefully. “Where, then? To a friend?”\n\nPenelope looked at him as if the question were far too complicated. “No idea,” she murmured. And before he could follow up, her head sank to the side. Her eyes fell shut, her breathing became heavier. She wasn’t unconscious in the dramatic sense—more like she had drifted away, as if her body had decided to simply check out now.\n\nChris stared at her for a moment, then forward toward the divider, where the driver was waiting. He had no address, no alternative, no person he wanted to call—and he absolutely did not want Penelope to end up somewhere alone.\n\nHe swallowed and made the only decision that felt right in the moment. “Excuse me,” he said to the driver and gave his own address. “Please… go here instead.”\n\nThen he leaned back, looked over at Penelope, who had slid sleeping into the seat, and thought only: Home first. Safe first.\n\n[[Continue|Bei Chris zu Hause mit Penelope.]]

Chris hesitantly chose an 8. The “Beauty” box looked absurd on the character sheet, but once the number was there, it felt like a small act of defiance: if it had to be old-fashioned, then he’d lean into it.\n\nBen lifted the screen, the map rustling. “You start in the Weeping Steppe, on the road to the Obsidian Temple. Rumors say: a cult, a curse, a final boss who collects your souls in bottles.” Jay let the dice clatter in his hand, Max adjusted the minis. Adam, his cleric symbol lying on the sheet like a talisman coin, cleared his throat with great importance.\n\nThe first encounters were harmless: a suspicious innkeeper (“The cider costs extra mistrust.” — “I’ll pay with a song!”), a tollkeeper at the bridge house. Ben looked over the screen: “The tollkeeper grumbles: ‘Pay—or convince me you’re allowed through.’” Adam was already lifting the coin, but Max shuffled. “Wait. Raven—I mean, Chris—don’t you have that… you know.” Everyone’s eyes wandered to Chris’s sheet, to the spell standing there like an old joke that didn’t want to be one.\n\nHe breathed out, half embarrassed, half curious. “Okay… Seduction Spell.” Ben smiled impassively and let him roll. The die clattered, landed well. “The tollkeeper blushes, stammers something about a ‘clear exception to the rules,’ waves you through, and even presses a travel apple into your hand,” Ben read dryly. Giggles around the table. Chris felt heat in his cheeks—and a ticklish, embarrassing pleasure. It was silly, yes. But solving a problem quickly and elegantly—without blood, without brawling—had its charm.\n\nLater, in the temple’s courtyard of pillars, a paladin guard blocked the way. Jay wanted to fight, Adam suggested a sermon. Max whispered: “Or…?” Chris raised his hand. “I’ll try it again—Seduction.” The die danced, Ben blinked. “The guard softens. She lets you through to the side gate and gives you… a lucky charm.” General laughter, Jay slapped the table: “Raven, MVP!”\n\nThe weirdness tipped into entertainment: Chris lowered his voice when he negotiated and raised it when he announced the spell, half imitation, half performance. It was new—leaning into “girl tactics” like that, but within the safe frame of the rules it felt surprisingly free. No real body, just numbers and imagination—and yet a little practice in working with looks instead of blades.\n\nThen came the scene that made everyone howl with laughter: a devoutly strict monk in the reliquary corridor—visibly placed there by Ben for Adam. “He preaches abstinence, condemns your undertaking.” Adam drew himself up: “I, Cleric Theobald, shall meet him with prayer—”\n\n“Seduction,” Chris cut in quickly with a grin. Adam stopped, looked at him, then at the table, then broke into half laughter, half protest. “Do not dare endanger my celibacy—” Ben was mercilessly professional: “Roll?” Chris rolled. A high number. Ben nodded with a pseudo-serious face: “The monk succumbs to your… persuasive power. Theobald becomes… distracted. The order’s statutes state that upon loss of chastity, certain clerical powers temporarily rest.” One beat of silence—then the table broke. Jay snorted, Max held his stomach, Ben tapped the screen. Adam theatrically covered his face with his hands. “My blessings! My celibacy! My spell slots!” He laughed along, shook his head, and tapped Chris on the arm. “Only you get away with something like that.”\n\nThe mood carried them through traps, riddles, a sliding-room mechanic that Max solved brilliantly. Just before the final boss—a ghostly temple mistress, according to the rumors—they faced a humanoid monster in the side corridor: tall, limber, eyes like wet stones, spear held across the hallway. “It hisses. It doesn’t want to let you through,” Ben described. Jay whispered: “We’re battered.” Max flipped through pages nervously. Adam checked his remaining—well, limited—powers.\n\nChris’s character was weakly built for combat—the points lay elsewhere. He felt the group’s eyes on him. Fight, risk it, go down? Or pull out that spell again, which had become a running gag by now—but also their salvation?\n\nHe raised his hand over the dice cup and felt the ticklish pull that suddenly made the decision exciting.\n\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[He relies on fighting this time, even though his character isn’t really built for it.|Kämpfen]]\n❯ [[He plays the Seduction Spell card one more time, partly because the whole table is already waiting for it.|Seduction Spell][$adam += 1;$adam_opinion += 10]]

Chris’s hand froze. His throat went dry. In another world, he would have said, “What? No!” would have laughed, would have explained that nothing like that was going on. But in this world, “no” was dangerous. “No” was a door behind which questions lived: Why not? Haven’t you yet? Are you unsure? And behind the questions lurked the real problem.\n<<set $ort to "Adam’s house">>\nSo he did what he had been doing far too often lately: he lied.\n\n“Yes,” Chris said quietly. A single word that felt like a stone you swallowed.\n\nAdam’s mother blinked, and her face immediately softened—pleased, almost proud. “Oh, sweetheart… that is so responsible of you.” She smiled warmly, but there was a second message tucked inside that smile, one that made Chris’s cheeks burn even hotter: She thinks you’re sleeping with my son. She thinks it’s happening. That IT happens, that you get “spontaneous.” That you’re that kind of girlfriend.\n\nChris nodded mechanically, staring at the dough as if it had suddenly become fascinating. His stomach turned. He was embarrassed, embarrassed in a way that didn’t even sit in his body, but somewhere in his soul. He wanted to say: That’s not true. None of it is true. But he stayed silent.\n\n“Really smart,” Adam’s mother continued, as if that could let her check off the subject. “So many girls are so… oh, you know. Careless. But you seem like someone who thinks ahead.” She briefly stroked Chris’s upper arm, a motherly gesture that still felt to him like a stamp. “Adam is lucky.”\n\nChris managed a thin “Thank you” that barely had any air behind it.\n\nAdam’s mother smiled, satisfied with her world order. Chris shaped portions of dough and focused on even spacing—on anything that was neutral. But in his head, one burning detail remained stuck: how easily a lie confirmed the wrong picture. And how hard it was to get rid of that picture once it lived in other people’s heads.\n\n[[Continue|Ankunft zu Hause.5]]

At school, a remnant of cold still hung in the hallways when Chris opened his locker. Metal clacked, voices were still half asleep, and somewhere it smelled of freshly brewed coffee from the teachers’ lounge. He tried to focus on the day—math, English, not stumbling, not standing out.\n<<set $ort to "locker area">>\nHe had just pulled the book from his locker when a shadow slid in beside him. Then another.\n\nPenelope and Dylan.\n\nPenelope stood in front, arms loosely crossed, her face as pretty as ever, but her gaze was unmistakable: focused. Dylan stayed half a step behind her, hands in his pockets, posture casual—only his eyes were more alert than usual.\n\n“Hey, Chris,” Penelope said, without much preamble.\n\nChris’s heart gave a little jump. “Uh… hello.”\n\nDylan raised an eyebrow. “Penelope’s jacket,” he said. “The light cardigan. I gave it to you so you could give it to her.”\n\nPenelope clicked her tongue softly. “And? Where is it? I didn’t get it.”\n\nChris felt heat creep into his face. He kept his eyes on the locker lock a beat too long, as if he might find an excuse there. “I… put it in the changing room,” he finally admitted. “In the girls’ changing room. On a bench.”\n\nPenelope stared at him as if he had just said he’d buried her jacket. “Why didn’t you just bring it to me?” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was annoyed, sharp enough that the girls at the neighboring locker briefly glanced over.\n\nChris pressed his lips together. “I thought… you’d find it there. Or—I didn’t want to interrupt. You were still…” He broke off before he talked himself into something even more embarrassing.\n\nDylan looked at him, and in his gaze there was a hint of disappointment, small but clear—as if he had expected Chris to be more reliable. “I only asked you to give it to her,” he said calmly.\n\nChris’s ears grew hot. He nodded hastily. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I… I don’t know either. It was stupid.”\n\nPenelope exhaled through her nose, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “If it’s gone, that’s just great,” she muttered, already half turning away.\n\n“I can come with you and help look for it,” Chris offered quickly, far too eagerly.\n\nPenelope gave him a brief glance. “Do that. Before first block. I don’t want to walk around without it all day.”\n\nDylan only nodded once, as if to say: Okay. Fix it. Then they headed toward the stairs, and Chris remained standing at his locker with a red face, the books suddenly heavy in his hands. Embarrassment lay on his skin like a second layer. He had caused it himself, and now he stood there between two looks—Penelope’s annoyed queenly expression and Dylan’s quiet disappointment—and wished he had simply done yesterday what had been expected of him.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n[[Continue|Erste Pause.]]

He refused. The words came out more quietly than he had meant them to, and yet they fell heavily enough to remain lying between them. “I… can’t do this,” he said. “Not like this.”\n<<set $ort to "Lucas’s house">><<set $CarolineMemory[3] to 1>>\nThe boy in him couldn’t believe it. In his head, the objections screamed over one another: Are you crazy? This is HER. He felt the painfully bright thrill of the moment slipping past him, and with it the question that struck him like a cold wind: Is Mom right after all? What boy would let a chance like this pass by? The echo burned.\n\nUpstairs, a door opened, footsteps on the stairs. Mrs. Barnett blinked once, and for a moment a fine crack slipped into her sunny smile. She recovered immediately. “Of course,” she said lightly, as if they had been talking about the weather. “Then tennis it is. But you’ll still need something to wear.” She gestured toward the hallway with a playful roll of her eyes. “Penelope’s things should fit you.”\n\nLucas appeared on the landing, his sports bag over his shoulder. “I’m ready. Do we need balls?”\n\n“From the closet,” Mrs. Barnett said casually, then turned to Chris. “Come on, let’s find you something.”\n\nShe led him down the hall into Penelope’s room—bright, spacious, a wall of mirrors. Mrs. Barnett opened a drawer, took out a white tennis top, a headband, socks—and the skirt. “This one.” Her fingers brushed over the fabric appraisingly.\n\nThe skirt was short, white as freshly fallen snow, with a narrow waistband that yielded softly, and tiny side pleats that came alive with every movement. The matching top lay smooth in her hand, light performance fabric that would feel cool against the skin. “I’m sure it’ll look excellent on you,” Mrs. Barnett said casually, handing him the things.\n\nChris changed. The skirt’s waistband sat high at his waist, hugging him and leaving the line downward free. The material was featherlight; if he turned his hips just a little, it whispered. The top ended just above the curve of his ribs, sleeveless, making his shoulders look narrow and defined. Mrs. Barnett’s gaze was that of a big cat.\n\n“Turn around once,” she asked. He did. The skirt followed the movement in a brief half circle, then immediately fell neatly back into place. “Sexy,” she said, and winked. She tugged lightly at the waistband, smoothed a pleat flat. “These things suit you more than they should.”\n\nChris looked at his reflection: white on white, a slender body in a uniform that promised competence and lent elegance. A brief stab of embarrassment mixed with a flare of something bright—it looked good. He was allowed to think that, even if everything was complicated.\n\nWhen they stepped back into the hallway, Lucas came out of his room, rackets under his arm. His gaze lifted, caught, grew wide. “Wow,” he said, and reached for words a beat too late. “I mean—uh—that looks good on you. Seriously.” An embarrassed smile flitted across his face, genuine and unchecked.\n\nChris felt warmth rise into his cheeks. He lifted the racket, just to have something to do with his hands. “Ready to lose?” he asked, and his voice sounded almost normal. Mrs. Barnett smiled between them, as if she had two serves up her sleeve that no one had seen yet.\n\n[[Continue|Tennisspiel.2]]

“I… I was just watching the sweet baby,” Chris stammered, realizing too late that the “b” had almost slipped. He forced on a softened smile, lifted his eyebrows a little higher, let his voice sound a tick brighter. “It’s just so cute. I totally love babies—their little fingers, the way they look at you… super sweet.”\n\nAva blinked, surprised—but the edge of skepticism remained in her eyes. “Uh-huh.” The baby continued to nurse calmly at the breast.\n\nSusan pushed her chin forward, as if adding a footnote. “That could be the hormones,” she explained in a tone that imitated expertise. “The maternal feelings come up. That’s completely normal.”\n\nChris nodded toward her in relief. This lie is better than the alternative, he thought. Better than another thunderstorm.\n\n“Well, if you’re that crazy about babies…” Ava drew the sentence out. “I could use someone to watch them from time to time. Leo is older, but with the little one—we could use help. Paid, of course.” Her gaze slid to Susan: Practical, right?\n\n“Excellent idea,” Susan said at once. “Chris earns a little extra and at the same time practices for his future role as a mother.” The word “mother” settled heavily into the room.\n\nChris’s thoughts stumbled. My future role as—what? He felt a cold knot forming in his stomach; but before he could begin, the two women had already changed the subject—yoga, DeShawn, some brunch on the weekend. The baby sighed, full, at the breast. Leo rolled a car across the carpet and peered over at Chris, as if trying to solve the puzzle in his head.\n\nSo babysitter for Mrs. Ferguson, Chris concluded silently. Of course without asking whether I want to. The thought tasted like stale tea. He folded his hands more tightly together, nodded in the right places, and noticed how the word “say” was being printed smaller and smaller in his world.\n\n[[Continue|Ava verabschiedet sich.]]

Chris hooked his arm through Zeke’s. At first only with his hand on his forearm, then, as the crowd carried them along, more firmly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Zeke did not take it as “possession,” but as a responsibility: He guided him calmly through the crush, picked out gaps, stopped briefly when someone pushed from behind, and then kept moving until they found a spot from which they could see the stage well.\n\nThe light in the hall was dark blue, smoke hanging in the air like thin fog. When Northern Static began, a collective murmur moved through the crowd – not screaming like at pop concerts, more like a shared inhale. The first note hung in the room for a long time, as if testing whether everyone was listening. Then layers joined in. A second guitar motif, a bass that did not press but pulled. Around Chris, people swayed, almost unconsciously, as if the music had given them a shared pulse.\n\nChris felt the tension in his body – not stress, but anticipation. He noticed Zeke positioning himself behind him, half shield, half anchor. When the crowd pushed from behind, Zeke’s strong body absorbed it. Chris did not have to turn, did not have to fight, did not have to watch out. He could simply listen.\n\nThe song continued to build. The instruments thickened, as if someone were making the air denser. Chris’ heart ran in time, and as the crowd around him swayed lower, he swayed with them. At some point, almost by itself, he leaned back – a small surrender that felt like a decision.\n\nZeke’s chest was warm through the jacket. Strong. Stable. Chris allowed the closeness. He noticed his shoulders dropping, the last tension slipping out of his neck. For a moment, he was simply there: music in front of him, support behind him.\n\nAnd then came the part everyone had been waiting for.\n\nThe song “exploded.” Not like a single bang, but like something suddenly tearing open: the drums came in fully, the guitars became a wall, the bass vibrated in his chest. The crowd lifted their arms, a few shouted, others laughed in disbelief – and Chris felt it as if someone were making his heart heavy and light at the same time. Zeke stayed behind him, held his position, absorbed the shoving, and Chris could let himself fall into that noise without fear of being knocked over.\n\nWhen the song faded and the light briefly grew brighter, his ears stayed warm. Chris exhaled and only now realized that he had been smiling.\n\nDuring the break, while the stage was being rearranged and the audience began to move, Zeke leaned toward him. “Want something to drink?” His voice was close, but relaxed, like someone who was not pushing.\n\nChris felt his dry throat, his throbbing ears, a pleasant tremble in his body. Now he had to decide whether to let the tension ease further – or stay clear-headed.\n\n''Does Chris drink something?''\n❯ [[He takes a beer and lets the tension drop, but risks not sensing his boundaries as clearly later.|Er nimmt ein Bier und lässt die Anspannung sinken, riskierte aber, Grenzen später nicht mehr so klar zu sprüren.]]\n❯ [[He takes a Coke to stay in control, but has to endure the nervousness without a chemical shortcut.|Er nimmt eine Cola um die Kontrolle zu behalten, musste aber die Nervosität ohne chemische Abkürzung aushalten.]]

The evening settled over the stadium like an electric film. As the Pom Puffs lined up at the entrance to the players’ tunnel, Chris felt the cold breath slip under his skirt, and above it the adrenaline, warmer than any jacket. To the left, the marching band, the drums like a second heart; to the right, the stands, a surging field of school colors.\n\n<center>[img[pics/spiel.jpg]]</center> “P–O–M!” Penelope shouted into the megaphone.\n\n“Puffs!” the team answered, two claps over their heads, hips in double time—“Sweet but tough!”—and the crowd was instantly into it. Chris’s voice was still a touch too high at first, his shoulders too tense. But when the Timberwolves tore through the paper banner and the volume rose, the nervousness fell away from him like cut threads.\n\nKickoff: The ball sailed in a long arc, the stands briefly held their breath, then the noise broke loose. “D–E–F–E–N–D! Back it up, you can’t get in!” the cheerleaders stamped on the sideline, stomp–stomp–clap, stomp–stomp–clap, and Chris felt the rhythm move into his legs. He heard the grass under his soles, smelled the sweet something of hot cocoa from the concession stand; the cold wind nipped, but his body worked in time.\n\nFirst offensive series: Dylan stood in the pocket, searched, passed—first down. “Go! Fight! Score! Puffs want more!” High-V, punch-down, High-V, a small jump, and Chris landed softly, almost for the first time without having to think about the sequence of movements at all. He glanced up—and noticed that Dylan’s gaze didn’t sweep along the entire sideline, but moved purposefully to where Penelope stood: megaphone in hand, chin raised, like a queen on her little stage.\n\nChris involuntarily followed the line of sight. Dylan looked at Penelope as if he were filtering her voice out of the middle of the noise. Not for long, only a moment—but a clear one. And Chris felt the small sting of it, that unreasonable tug in his stomach, as if for one second he had hoped there had been something there for him. He scolded himself for it at once. Nonsense. You’re here for the team. Focus. Still, a thin, warm-cold feeling remained, one he couldn’t quite push away.\n\nBetween plays, the routine settled in. Quarter break: water bottles, quick checks. Penelope arranged the formation, Christine counted them in curtly. Chris breathed in the evening and realized he was smiling without noticing it. When Northdale got the ball, they spread out wider, stamped the defense pattern, the calls bouncing back from the stands like boomerangs. When the Timberwolves marched, the movements became sleeker, sharper—more shine, less stomp.\n\nHalftime: The band took over the field, and the Puffs used the strip along the edge for their show. The pyramid they had practiced all week was up in seconds: bases set, flyers climbed, Chris held the line, exhaled on the one, just as Mr. Moore had drilled into them. Confetti streamers shot up, the band’s fanfare came in broadly, and for two heartbeats the gym from the previous week was there again—only bigger, louder, under the open sky. As they came off, Chris no longer felt any trembling in his hands, only that satisfied burn in his shoulders.\n\nThird quarter: The evening grew colder, their breath visible. Chris tightened the bow and realized at the same time how he was dissolving into the “we.” He shouted, he jumped, he struck poses; on a “No fluff, all puff—we’ll blow your candles out!” they laid the fan wave so cleanly that even the band whistled briefly. Once, they came close to the cringey signature—“We’re the Puffs—so sweet, so loud!”—and did the heart-poms with a wink. Chris felt the stands take it as fun and laugh back. He laughed with them, honestly.\n\nFourth quarter, narrow lead. Dylan scrambled, threw a long pass that looked under the floodlights as if someone had sewn a silver seam into the sky. Touchdown. The sideline exploded. “Go! Fight! Score! Puffs want more!” This time Chris jumped a little higher, landed lower, his knees catching it. He looked back to the field—and saw Dylan half rip up his helmet, roar, and then glance briefly to the sideline. Not at Chris. Again at Penelope, as if he wanted to make sure from her face that she had seen it too.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened, small and unpleasant. Not because he “needed” Dylan—he told himself—but because there was this stupid, spontaneous jealousy that couldn’t be explained logically. He suddenly felt the cold wind under his skirt differently: not just like weather, but like a reminder that he was standing here, but wasn’t the one meant. He swallowed the feeling down, lifted the poms into the High-V, and forced himself to stay on beat.\n\nAnd every time Dylan looked over again—or Chris thought he looked over—it was in the same direction. Penelope like a magnet. Chris pretended not to notice, because it should have been irrelevant to him. Even so, he registered every one of those brief glances as if his head were secretly keeping tally marks.\n\nThe final minutes moved like through sugar—stickily fast and yet clear. The Timberwolves held, Northdale couldn’t catch up. Final whistle. A rush of cheering, helmets in the air, hugs, the mascot dropping theatrically to its knees. Chris stood on the sideline, breathed out, and felt the cold wind under his skirt become part of the whole thing again—like the stomping, like the counts, like the calls crashing toward them.\n\n<<if $charlotte > 1>>Right after the final whistle, Chris looked for Charlotte on the sideline. He stepped forward, arms open, still vibrating from the noise, and pulled her into a hug. Charlotte returned it, warm, but with a tiny distance in the middle—not sinking into it, more holding on. It felt good, even comforting, but different than before: more like between friends sharing a victory, less like between a couple losing themselves in each other. Chris felt it and still let go only a beat later.\n\n<<endif>>He had been nervous at the beginning. But somewhere between kickoff and the final fanfare, he had crossed the threshold and fully merged with the role—not as a disguise, but as a function that felt right. He high-fived the line, briefly hugged Christine, accepted Mr. Moore’s praise, and let his gaze drift across the field once more.\n\nThe evening had turned out great. No drama, no sharp edges—just this big, shared high in which he hadn’t disappeared, but found his place. And yet, deep inside him, very quietly, that little sting remained when he saw Penelope—radiant at the center—and knew that some glances in the stadium were not accidental.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Spiel.]]

<h2>Ending 7: Chris and Ruby’s Graduation</h2> The auditorium was filled to the very last seat, and the light on the stage made everything seem a little bigger than it was: the flowers along the edge, the Maplewood High banners, the row of chairs with neatly folded programs. In the rows of seats, dresses rustled, cameras clicked, somewhere a child’s shoe squeaked across the floor. Susan sat in the audience, a tissue already in her hand, as if she had surrendered early.\n\nChris stood with Christine and Ruby in the line behind the stage. All three of them wore the gowns—heavy fabric that lay over their shoulders and rustled softly as they walked. The air smelled of hairspray, paper, and that mixture of nervousness and pride that made every graduation ceremony the same. Chris unconsciously smoothed the front of his gown, as if he could also put his thoughts in order that way.\n\nChristine stood beside him, her chin a touch higher than usual. She glanced over at Chris, and for a moment there was something in her eyes that hovered between “We made it” and “Don’t say anything stupid.” Chris gave her a crooked grin in return.\n\nRuby, on the other hand, was Ruby: calm, clear, almost outrageously composed. She held her program in her hand as if it were a to-do list you could check off. Her red pigtails had a more elegant swing today, and when she noticed Chris’ nervous fingers, she nudged him lightly with her elbow.\n\n“Breathe,” she said softly.\n\n“I am,” Chris muttered. “Maybe.”\n\n“You have a diploma, you have college, you have…” Ruby raised an eyebrow. “You survived. This is just theater.”\n\nHe had to laugh, softly and gratefully. “Says the theater kid.”\n\n“I’m a nerd. Theater is just my side job.” Ruby grinned and discreetly straightened the collar of his gown, as if adjusting a uniform. The gesture was small—and yet it felt like an entire sentence: I’m here.\n\nThen the curtain opened, and the line started moving. The roar of the loudspeakers came like a wave. The principal spoke, the band played, the rows of seats swelled into one single expectant sound. Names were called, one after another. Each name a small explosion of cheers somewhere in the audience.\n\nChristine was called before Chris. “Christine Braun!” The applause from an area on the right was loud, and Chris saw Susan jump up, clapping while already pressing the tissue to her eyes. Christine walked across the stage, took the diploma, smiled briefly into the crowd—not broadly, but genuinely—and came back, gown swinging, her hand wrapped around the paper like proof.\n\nRuby followed. “Ruby Hicks—” her last name echoed through the auditorium, and someone in the rows called her name so loudly that Ruby had to press her lips together for a moment to keep from laughing. She walked, took the diploma, and when she came back, her gaze was soft for a heartbeat—as if she had briefly allowed herself to be proud.\n\nThen: “Christina Braun.”\n\nChris felt his palms grow damp. His heart was beating so loudly he could feel it in his throat. He stepped forward, the fabric of the gown moving around his legs like water. For a moment, he felt as if the stage was too bright and the crowd too large. Then he heard Susan somewhere—one choked, moved sound that almost sounded like a laugh—and he saw her: upright, eyes shining, mouth half open with pride.\n\nHe took the diploma from the principal’s hand, shook his hand, smiled for the cameras. The applause was not just noise; it was weight carrying him. As he went down the stairs, he suddenly felt how much he had needed this moment without admitting it. Not as a “role.” Not as a mask. But as closure. As a period at the end of a sentence that had been far too long.\n\nBack behind the stage, as the last names were called, they all exhaled. The band began a final piece, the instructions for the cap toss came. Christine took a selfie, Ruby rolled her eyes and stood beside her anyway, and Chris held the diploma tight, as if someone might take it away from him.\n\n[[Continue|Zeugnisvergabe2]]

<div class="psychedelic-text">“Yeah… okay,” Chris said.\n\nHe took the joint, brought it to his lips, inhaled. Too deeply. The smoke burned brutally in his throat and lungs. He coughed immediately, tears springing to his eyes. The boys laughed softly, not meanly, more like “we know how that goes.”\n\n“Slower, girl. That’s top-shelf weed, it’s pretty strong,” one said.\n\nThe effect crept in faster than he had expected. First a pressure behind his eyes, then a soft giving way in his shoulders. The music from downstairs suddenly sounded distant, as if it were coming through water. The contours in the room grew softer, the voices slower.\n\nChris felt the alcohol haze and the veil of smoke hook into each other and hollow him out from the inside.\n\nChris’s head was cotton.\n\nThe heat came in waves. First in his cheeks, then in his chest, then through his whole body. He had never smoked weed before; he hadn’t known the world could move so far away from him and at the same time sit directly on his skin.\n\nVoices washed toward him, sometimes closer, sometimes farther away.\n\n“Dude,” one giggled, “you can see her panties.”\n\n“You idiot!” another laughed. “If you hadn’t said anything, she wouldn’t even have noticed.”\n\nAnother laughed, too loudly for the small room. “What’s that there?”\n\n“A sanitary pad, man,” a fourth threw in half-whispering, when they spotted the bulge in Chris’s panties.\n\n“I’m so hot, I’m about to melt,” Chris said.\n\n“Why don’t you take your top off,” one of the boys suggested.\n\nThe air was warm, the carpet under Chris felt soft and safe, as if gravity had turned into something friendly. Everything was so nice. So far away. So harmless.\n\nChris only laughed and said, “Okay, if you say so.”\n\nHis hands traveled from his hips along his body over his breasts up to his top. Slowly, he pulled it upward. He arched his back and pushed out his chest as the top slid from his shoulders over his arms and onto the floor.\n\nOne of the boys whistled through clenched teeth; all four sat there with their mouths open, staring at Chris. The <<if $unterwaesche == 1>>sensual white<<else>>lovely pastel-colored<<endif>> lace bra made Chris’s small breasts look a little bigger than they really were.\n\n“Take the skirt off too while you’re at it,” one boy said.\n\nChris stood up, turning slightly away from the boys as he did. He grabbed the hem of his skirt and pulled it lightly down over his hips. From the firm pressure, his <<if $unterwaesche == 1>>white<<else>>pastel-colored<<endif>> panties came down a little with it, to just below his hip bones. That let the boys catch a glimpse of Chris’s white, round butt cheeks, which showed for a small moment.\n\nHe didn’t even notice how the boys all repositioned themselves where they sat to deal with their erections.\n\nFinally, one of the boys could no longer control himself and took his penis out of his pants.\n\nChris blinked, barely understanding the situation, and only saw the penis swelling to full size. The other boys followed the first boy’s example.\n\n“Have you ever touched something like this before?” one asked Chris.</div>\n\n[[Continue|Er schüttelt den Kopf.][$kissboy += 1;$woral += 3;$film += 1;$swallow += 2;$videoblackmail += 1;$partner += 4]]

Charlotte went ahead into the garden, giving Chris a full view of her magnificent ass. The thin bikini bottoms practically clung to her ass. Chris couldn’t get enough of the way her firm, plump butt cheeks moved as she walked.\n<<set $ort to "Charlotte’s house">>\nThe garden behind the house was a little vacation dream: wooden deck, two loungers, and in the corner a round hot tub whose surface glittered in the sun.\n\n“Come on,” Charlotte said. “Towel here, sunscreen there. And then we enjoy the fact that Maplewood actually looks like a postcard for once.” She nudged him with her shoulder, friendly, as if trying to push the rest of his nervousness out of the way.\n\nChris nodded, laid his towel on the lounger, and breathed in the warm, chlorinated breath drifting over from the hot tub. He was here. He had made it this far. And for one moment, there was only sun on skin, iced tea in the glass, and Charlotte’s laughter filling the garden as if it had been made for it.\n\nThey sat down on the loungers. Charlotte handed him a glass. “To summer.”\n“To summer,” Chris repeated, and the ice clinked brightly together as they toasted. The iced tea tasted of lemon and something minty, cool enough to make his throat sigh.\n\nBy now the sun stood higher, a butter-yellow spot in the sky. Chris reached for the sunscreen, turned the tube in his hands, and squeezed a long stripe onto his palm. He started to rub it onto his shoulders—\n\n“Stop.” Charlotte raised her hand, half sat up, and grinned. “Teamwork? Should I put sunscreen on you first—or do you want to put it on me?”\n\nThe sentence hung in the warm air for a heartbeat, as if it were a rope over a pool. Charlotte looked at him openly.\n\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[Chris puts sunscreen on Charlotte.|Chris cremt Charlotte ein.]]\n❯ [[Charlotte puts sunscreen on Chris.|Charlotte cremt Chris ein.]]

“Black,” Chris finally said before he could talk himself out of it again.\n\nLaverne paused, and her grin grew wider, as if Chris had just pulled the right candy from the jar. “Okaaay, Miss Mystery,” she said in a singsong voice and clapped her hands softly once. “That isn’t just a color, baby. That’s a statement. Black is: I have secrets, and I look unfairly good while having them.”\n\nShe set out the bowl and mixed the color with practiced movements until it became a smooth, inky cream. Chris’s short haircut made it easier—less mass, more precision—and Laverne worked accordingly: she combed, sectioned cleanly, clipped up small parts, and began saturating strand after strand. The brush glided close along his scalp without dripping; Laverne was so sure-handed that it was almost soothing.\n\n“Don’t move,” she murmured, but her voice was kind. “You’re a work of art, and I’m framing you right now.”\n\nChris sat still, the cape rustling with every breath. The cool color felt strange at first, then simply… there. He watched in the mirror as his familiar image transformed into something darker. The color took away light and gave back contour instead; as if it were drawing his features more sharply.\n\n“You’re about to look like the main character who arrives late to the party and still turns every head,” Laverne said as she worked in the last sections. “Like, really: I don’t need a spotlight, I am one.”\n\nWhile the processing time ran, Laverne placed him under the warm hood, checked the edges once more, and wiped a tiny trace of color from his forehead as if it were a luxury problem. Chris felt strangely still. He knew it was “just hair”—and yet it was as if someone were turning the dial on his identity like a volume knob.\n\nThen came the rinsing. Warm water, the smell of shampoo, a conditioner that smelled like something expensive. Laverne carefully towel-dried his hair, then blow-dried it into shape with a round brush—with short hair, that mainly meant: volume where it flattered, and edges where they were intentional. She worked with her fingers, loosening, shaping, defining. Finally, she smoothed the tiniest bit of styling cream into the ends so the texture stayed visible without looking stiff.\n\n“Okay,” Laverne finally said and stepped behind him. “Eyes closed.”\n\nChris closed them.\n\nHe heard the soft snip of scissors—just two or three tiny corrections—then the sound of a spray. Laverne placed both hands on his shoulders as if centering him. “And… now look.”\n\nChris opened his eyes.\n\nBlack. Not flat and boring, but deep—like lacquered ebony. His hair gleamed in the salon light as if it had its own light source. His short cut suddenly looked not just “neat,” but sharp: the contours emphasized his cheekbones, the dark color made his eyes appear larger, and his skin looked clearer, almost porcelain-like. It was that classic cliché effect people always talked about: black made him “mysterious,” “edgy,” a little dangerous in an elegant way. As if he had suddenly gained an invisible soundtrack.\n\nAnd—damn it—it looked really good.\n\nChris’s mouth stayed open for a moment. He blinked as if he had to check whether he was really looking at himself. “Wow…” came out softly.\n\nLaverne leaned into the reflection, grinning widely. “Told you. Black isn’t ‘pretty.’ Black is ‘unfair.’ You look like you could judge people with one look and they’d thank you for it.”\n\nChris laughed briefly, but it sounded nervous. Something rose inside him that made him feel proud and ashamed at the same time. He looked hot—really hot—and it hit him like a shock, because inside he still saw himself as a boy, as someone who was only “doing” this. And now there was this reflection, which didn’t need any excuse to have an effect.\n\nHe felt his cheeks grow warm. Not because someone else was looking at him—but because he was looking at himself, and he liked it.\n\nChris swallowed, holding his gaze steady, as if otherwise he might immediately run away. And while Laverne hummed contentedly behind him, he remained seated in front of the mirror for another moment—overwhelmed by the new, dark shine and the feeling that he had just discovered something he hadn’t wanted to discover at all.\n\n[[Continue|Auf zum Bubble Tea.]]

Chris grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her onto the bed. In the process, he stumbled over his panties around his ankles, but managed to take them off as he did, so that he was naked from the waist down.\n\nShe resisted, but Chris noticed that Zoe wasn’t resisting with full force, but rather letting it happen. As the two of them struggled with each other, he somehow managed to immobilize her arms, and she landed face down on the bed.\n\nChris began kissing her neck, and as his penis rubbed against her ass, he started to get hard.\n\n“Oh,” she said, “I think that worked. Feels hard now. Get up, let me take a look at it, and I’ll blow you.”\n\n''Zoe wants to suck his cock. Does he accept?''\n❯ [[He accepts the offer.|Er nimmt das Angebot an.][$oral += 1;$fingerass += 1]]\n❯ [[Negotiate: Maybe there’s more in it than just a blowjob.|Vielleicht ist mehr drin, als nur ein Blowjob.]]

“And?” asked a woman who sounded very much like “aunt,” though Chris wasn’t sure whether she was one. “Does Chris already have male admirers?”\n\nThe laughter in the room turned curious. Heads turned. Susan beamed.\n\n“Oh, of course,” Susan said, as if that were the most normal addition in the world. “He’s just… blossomed now.”\n\n“Mom!” Chris managed, but it was drowned out.\n\n“I’ve never seen him so… content,” Susan chatted on, as if delivering a success report. “Lucas is right at the front of the line there. Completely smitten—such a proper little admirer.” She smiled meaningfully. “The two of them even went to the movies together yesterday.”\n\nA collective “Ooooh” went through the group, and someone giggled sharply.\n\n“To the movies?” the aunt-woman asked, leaning forward. “And? What happened?”\n\nSusan raised her eyebrows and acted innocent. “Well, I don’t want to imply anything,” she said in exactly the tone one used when very much implying something. “But when Chris came home, he was noticeably cheerful. Let’s put it this way: he smiled all evening.”\n\nThe giggling grew louder, more knowing, and Chris felt his cheeks burn. He wanted to say something—that Lucas wasn’t a boyfriend, just a classmate with a crush, that going to the movies didn’t automatically mean anything—but every time he drew breath, someone added another “How sweet!” or “Isn’t that adorable!” on top, until his words stuck in his throat again.\n\nThe ladies were then endlessly amused to hear Susan proudly report how happy Chris was with his new, girlish breasts.\n\nShe put both hands on Chris's breasts and laughed as if it were a joke for everyone to share. “He feels really comfortable with them. Don’t you, sweetheart?”\n\nChris’s face burned. He wanted to say no. He wanted to say something, anything, that would make the room go quiet. But he stood there, and eyes were everywhere.\n\nFinally, at the suggestion of one of the guests, Chris was made to strip down to his panties to show off his new “assets.”\n\n“Go on, sweetheart,” Susan said, her voice soft as poison. “Show them how beautiful you are.”\n\nChris began to move and undressed down to his panties. He turned uncertainly in front of the audience, heard laughter—not malicious, but amused, which was exactly the worst thing. Hands reached out.\n\n“Oh, how cute!” “Sexy!” “Turn around again!”\n\nThey came closer. One touched his body. One stroked over his breasts. “They feel real!” One tugged at his nipple. Chris backed away, but someone was behind him again. It was as if the room were closing in.\n\nChris wanted to fold his arms, but then a hand caught his wrist. “Don’t be so shy, Chris!”\n\nThe laughter grew louder. The faces blurred into a sea of lipstick and pearl earrings. Chris felt his throat tighten, tears rising in his eyes, and the worst thing was: he didn’t even know what he feared most—that they were laughing at him, or that they were right.\n\nA hand brushed along his crotch, as if checking how aroused he was. Chris stumbled, and the room tipped. There were only hands and voices and that shrieking, warm light that stole his air.\n\nThen suddenly there was darkness.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/Chris_traum_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/Chris_traum_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nChris shot upright.\n\nHe was lying in his bed, in the middle of the night. The room was quiet, only the faint glow from the street tracing lines on the wall. His heart hammered as if he really had needed to run. The blanket clung to his skin, and his hands automatically felt over his own body, as if they had to check whether someone was still there, whether hands were still hanging on him.\n\nHe breathed in bursts, then deeper. The house was quiet. No laughter. No clapping. No voices from Germany.\n\nOnly his own breath—and the afterburn of shame, as if the dream were a memory he couldn’t shake.\n\n[[Continue|Zu wenig Badezimmer im Haus.3]]

The bus later was noisy as always, but today the conversations seemed closer to his ear. He felt the looks, or thought he felt them—trailing along the hem of the culottes, over the lace top. I stand out, he thought, even though probably no one was looking any more closely than usual. Every bump in the asphalt made the pants give softly; every step told him that there was fabric where yesterday folds had swayed. A boy in a hoodie giggled two rows away, and his mind reflexively decided it was about him.\n<<set $ort to "school">>\nCharlotte was already waiting on the school grounds, backpack over one shoulder, her bangs brushed to the side. “Come on.” She pulled him into a secluded corner behind the trash sheds, where the sun only fell in strips. Before he could say anything, she placed her hands on his cheek and kissed him so decisively that his knees briefly went weak. The kiss tasted of chewing gum. In the way she pulled him close, there was a sense of taking the lead that gave him the unexpected feeling: I’m the girl here. And somehow that didn’t feel wrong. It was as if she were setting a rhythm that he slipped into naturally.\n\n“Listen,” Charlotte said, her forehead resting against his. “At school—we’d better keep our relationship secret, okay? You know… Maplewood. Lots of Christians, lots of gossip.”\nHe nodded, relieved that she made the relationship explicit. “That’s fine with me.” So we really are… The thought placed a warm point in his chest. Even if only in secret—it was real.\n\n“Will I see you after school?”\n\nHe shook his head, small. “Can’t. My mom wants me to come straight home.”\n\n“Too bad.” Her gaze slid past him to his left ear and immediately softened. “Ow. That looks nasty.”\n“Potato medicine level 1,” he muttered, trying to smile.\n\n“That doesn’t look good.” She looked at him, the shock briefly genuine. “I’m sorry. I should have been more careful.” She briefly stroked his cheek and hooked her arm through his. “Come on. Before the hallway boils over again.”\n\n<center>[img[pics/flur.jpg]]</center> Inside, Maplewood was as always: lockers slammed, voices swelled, Mrs. Rivera nodded to him kindly as they passed each other—a quiet “good morning” in the form of a glance. No one stumbled over the culottes. No second glances because of “pants instead of skirt.” One part of him breathed a sigh of relief—stay inconspicuous, check. Another part felt the blow to his identity: if even pants didn’t “signal back” anything, what was left as a marker that he was… him?\n\nInstead, something else made itself known. The inflamed ear drew attention like a piece of grit in a shoe. “Ugh, what is that?” hissed a girl from the parallel class, not maliciously, just thoughtlessly. Two boys from biology paused half a second too long as they walked past. “Gross,” one of them muttered half aloud. Chris’s pixie cut left his ears exposed; without the “shield” of long hair, everyone could see his problem.\n\nChris kept his gaze fixed on the lockers, his back straight. The comments didn’t bounce off; they found little, sensitive places. He looked to Charlotte, who immediately lifted her chin and returned the boys’ looks dryly until they looked away. “Ignore them,” she said softly, and hooked her arm through his again, as if this was a straight line that was easier to walk together.\n\nMrs. Rivera passed them a second time and discreetly gestured toward the nurse’s office. Chris nodded. Okay. After first period. He smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the top, felt the bra sitting in place, the fabric of the culottes swaying, and heard how his own steps cut through the hallway noise. Today he was “completely normal” again—for everyone else. And that did more to him than he wanted to admit.\n\n''👠 Style -1''\n\n''How does the school day go?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ladendiebin == 0>>[[Copies for Mr. Robertson.|Kopien für Mr. Robertson.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ladendiebin == 1 && $charlotte < 2>>[[Trouble in the school hallway.|Ärger im Schulflur.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ladendiebin == 1 && $charlotte == 2 >>[[Trouble in the school hallway.|Ärger im Schulflur.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ladendiebin == 2>>[[Rumors in the school hallway.|Gerüchte auf dem Schulflur.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

The bell cut the day in half: done. Chris breathed out as if he had just left a narrow staircase behind. On the way to the exit, he saw a small group of boys turn toward a side room. A poster on the door: D&D / Tabletop-Gaming Guild – New Players Welcome! Dice graphics, hand-drawn dragon borders.\n<<set $ort to "hallway">>\nSomething inside him twitched awake. Before—before Maplewood, before little skirts, before lipstick—he had spent hours painting miniatures, sorting maps, plotting adventures. The fact that there was even a club for it here at the high school suddenly felt like a portal into an old room that might still be open.\n\nHe stopped in the corridor, heard the clatter of d20s on wood, a muffled laugh, someone calling, “Nat 20, baby!” His heart gave a tiny, familiar hop.\n\n''Should he…?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 0>>[[Risk a look into the D&D club.|Einen Blick in den D&D Club riskieren.][$club += 3]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club > 0>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[He is already busy with too many other things.|Er ist schon mit zu vielen anderen Sachen beschäftigt.]]<<else>>[[He is already busy with too many other things.|Er ist schon mit zu vielen anderen Sachen beschäftigt.2]]<<endif>><<endif>><</nobr>>

Christmas Eve came more quietly than Chris had expected. Not with a big bang, but with warm light, the smell of gravy and candle wax, and that feeling that the clock was running slower for a few hours.\n\nIn the kitchen, everything moved like a small, chaotic orchestra. Anja slid trays back and forth, called out times, laughed too often because she was trying to drown out the tension. His father set the table so carefully, as if the arrangement of the glasses would decide whether the evening succeeded. The ten-year-old hovered around Chris like a little satellite, already in glitter mode, while the fourteen-year-old still seemed skeptical, but at least no longer only observed; she joined in the conversation too, sat with them at the table, without constantly testing.\n\nShortly before dinner, the ten-year-old pulled Chris by the hand toward the living room. “TikTok! Now!” she whispered conspiratorially, as if it were an important plan.\n\nChris let himself be pulled along, half amused, half nervous, and sat down beside her on the sofa. The ten-year-old held up the phone, selected a cat-ear filter—immediately Chris had digital ears, whiskers, and an exaggeratedly cute button-nose effect. She grinned so widely that it was contagious.\n\n“Okay, we’re doing the trend with the head tilt and then like… meow,” she explained, trying it out.\n\nChris joined in. Stiffly at first, then more loosely. By the third try, he genuinely had to laugh because his “cat ears” in the filter wobbled whenever he raised his eyebrows. His father passed by the doorway, stopped, and looked at them as if he had stumbled into a foreign world.\n\n“I…,” he said, cleared his throat, and his voice was both confused and tender. “Okay. Uh… are you doing… cats…?”\n\n“Shh!” the ten-year-old hissed, giggling. “We’re filming!”\n\nHis father raised both hands as if he had been caught and withdrew. “Of course. I… I won’t disturb you. Have fun.” He disappeared toward the kitchen, and Chris felt a small stab of warmth: he hadn’t laughed, hadn’t commented, hadn’t talked everything to pieces. He had simply… allowed it.\n\nAt dinner, the mood was surprisingly good. There were small moments when his father was almost too friendly—too many “Everything okay?”s, too many “Do you want more?”s—but it was no longer as strained as on the first evening. He told stories from the past, harmless ones, funny ones, and whenever he noticed a sentence heading in a dangerous direction, he veered off as if he had learned where the thin spots in the ice were.\n\nChris sat there, holding his glass with both hands, feeling safe and guilty at the same time. Safe, because he realized that his father wasn’t pushing him away. Guilty, because he knew his explanation wasn’t the whole truth. And yet… that evening, he didn’t want to fight. He just wanted to be there.\n\n[[Continue|Später am Abend.]]

The cafeteria was louder than usual today; trays slapped down, chairs scraped, somewhere a phone video blared. Chris balanced his food through the aisles and headed—as if automatically—for the table where Christine, Charlotte, Penelope, and the others were sitting. He sank onto the free chair at the edge, smoothed the pleats, and breathed through it.\n<<set $ort to "Cafeteria">>\n<<if $choice_cafeteria == 3>>“Hey,” Charlotte said.<<elseif $choice_cafeteria == 1>>“Hey,” one of the Pom Puffs said, brief and friendly, as if it were obvious.<<else>>No one said anything; only a few glances flickered briefly over.<<endif>> Christine grinned at him, braces like a flash of light.\n\n[[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]] looked up. Her smile was polite, beautiful—and today a little firmer. “Chris.” She set down her fork and brushed her bangs from her forehead. “So… I’d rather say it now than later: starting next week, we need the table for ourselves. For… cheer things and organization. You know, planning, internal stuff. It’s just more practical if we’re among ourselves.”\n\nThe words “among ourselves” landed on the table like a quiet dividing line. Chris’s stomach tightened. “Oh,” he said, and it sounded smaller than he wanted. “Sure. I mean… if it’s about seats…”\n\n“It’s not personal,” Penelope quickly added, one hand half raised in reassurance. “Really not. You’re cute. It’s just—we sometimes have to discuss things that… well.” She searched briefly for a soft ending and found none. “You understand.”\n\n<<if $choice_cafeteria == 3>>“Pen,” Charlotte cut in, “she’s been sitting here for a week. We can manage that—one more chair, nobody dies. And you can text secret ‘cheer things’ after school too.”\n\nChristine nodded eagerly. “Chris belongs here. She’s—I mean, she fits.”<<elseif $choice_cafeteria == 1>>“Pen,” a cheerleader cut in, “that’s nonsense. If we’re a team, then we’re a team—not some ‘only us’ club. One more chair, nobody dies, okay?”\n\nChristine nodded eagerly. “Chris belongs here. She fits.”<<else>>Christine opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something—and closed it again. Her gaze stayed on her tray for a moment.\n\n<<endif>>Penelope shifted her water bottle by an inch, as if rearranging the sentence. “I’ve thought about it, okay? We’ve got a few new girls, we have to handle roles, times, performances—it gets chaotic if everyone who’s nice sits here.” She smiled apologetically at Chris. “This isn’t a punishment. Really not. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. It’s just… structure.”\n\n<<if $choice_cafeteria == 3>>“Structure,” Charlotte repeated coldly. “Uh-huh.”\n\n<<elseif $choice_cafeteria == 1>>“Structure,” one of the Pom Puffs repeated dryly. “Uh-huh.”\n\n<<endif>>Chris pressed his hands around his fork. “It’s okay,” he said before anyone else could start again. He managed not to let his voice tip. “I’ll find somewhere else.”\n\nPenelope breathed out, visibly relieved that he wasn’t arguing. “Thanks for taking it that way.”\n\nThe conversation at the table flowed on: a new pom set, a math assignment, someone who had passed their driving test.\n\nChris poked at his salad, half listened, and counted tables in his head. The theater club sat farther back, laughing about something only they understood. The nerds had occupied the corner by the outlets. A group of band kids stacked instrument cases into a wall. There were niches, islands, territories—and everywhere invisible lines saying: you may sit here, not here. Today, a line had been moved. For everyone else, it had been a logistical sentence. For him, it felt like a step over the edge.\n\nWhen the bell announced the end of the lunch period, Penelope stood, smoothed her skirt, and smiled once more in his direction. “See you later, Chris.”\n\n“See you later,” he repeated. He remained seated a moment longer while chairs scraped and the murmuring thinned.\n\n<<if $choice_cafeteria == 3>>Charlotte leaned toward him. “I think it sucks.”\n\n“I know.” He lifted his shoulders, let them sink again. “But I guess that’s how it works. High school… is merciless.”<<elseif $choice_cafeteria == 1>>One of the Pom Puffs leaned toward him. “I think it sucks.”\n\n“I know.” He lifted his shoulders, let them sink again. “But I guess that’s how it works. High school… is merciless.”<<else>>Finally, he stood, picked up his tray, and felt as if he were being “relocated” somewhere without anyone having said it out loud.<<endif>>\n\n[[Continue|Einladung im Klassenzimmer.]]

The bus later was noisy as always, but today the conversations seemed closer to his ear. He felt the looks, or thought he felt them—trailing along the hem of the culottes, over the lace top. I stand out, he thought, even though probably no one was looking any more closely than usual. Every bump in the asphalt made the pants give softly; every step told him that there was fabric where yesterday folds had swayed. A boy in a hoodie giggled two rows away, and his mind reflexively decided it was about him.\n<<set $ort to "school">>\nCharlotte was already waiting on the school grounds, backpack over one shoulder, her bangs brushed to the side. “Come on.” She pulled him into a secluded corner behind the trash sheds, where the sun only fell in strips. Before he could say anything, she placed her hands on his cheek and kissed him so decisively that his knees briefly went weak. The kiss tasted of chewing gum. In the way she pulled him close, there was a sense of taking the lead that gave him the unexpected feeling: I’m the girl here. And somehow that didn’t feel wrong. It was as if she were setting a rhythm that he slipped into naturally.\n\n“Listen,” Charlotte said, her forehead resting against his. “At school—we’d better keep our relationship secret, okay? You know… Maplewood. Lots of Christians, lots of gossip.”\nHe nodded, relieved that she made the relationship explicit. “That’s fine with me.” So we really are… The thought placed a warm point in his chest. Even if only in secret—it was real.\n\n“Will I see you after school?”\n\nHe shook his head, small. “Can’t. My mom wants me to come straight home.”\n\n“Too bad.” Charlotte instinctively brushed a strand behind his ear—and stopped. “Ow. That doesn’t look good.” She looked at him, the shock briefly genuine. “I’m sorry. I should have been more careful.”\n\n“It’s okay,” Chris said too quickly, because the lump in his throat embarrassed him. “Long hair helps.” He let the strand fall again.\n\nShe hooked her arm through his as they headed toward the entrance, then let go again before the big hallway swallowed them. Inside, it smelled of felt-tip markers and fresh floor wax.\n\n<center>[img[pics/flur.jpg]]</center> Mrs. Rivera came toward them in the corridor and gave him a friendly nod. A normal greeting, a normal day. No one stared at the pants, no one commented on the culottes; the world sorted him so naturally into “girl” that it was almost ridiculous.\n\nRelief briefly washed over him—and left behind a bitter edge: if everything also “worked” with pants, then how far away was his old name by now? He felt both safer and farther removed from the boy he had been.\n\n“See you later, secret,” Charlotte whispered, just quietly enough that it disappeared into the hum of the hallway. Chris nodded, smoothed the top, felt the bra sitting in place, the fabric of the culottes swaying, and heard how his own steps cut through the hallway noise. Today he was “completely normal” again—for everyone else. And that did more to him than he wanted to admit.\n\n''How does the school day go?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ladendiebin == 0>>[[Copies for Mr. Robertson.|Kopien für Mr. Robertson.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ladendiebin == 1 && $charlotte < 2>>[[Trouble in the school hallway.|Ärger im Schulflur.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ladendiebin == 1 && $charlotte == 2 >>[[Trouble in the school hallway.|Ärger im Schulflur.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ladendiebin == 2>>[[Rumors in the school hallway.|Gerüchte auf dem Schulflur.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

The bus smelled as always of the early shift and spray deodorant. Chris took a seat in the middle section and felt the invisible web of looks over him—not aggressive, but curious. Culottes instead of a skirt. His hands rested soothingly on the fabric, as if he could hold the lines in place with his fingers.\n\n<center>[img[pics/flur.jpg]]</center> In the schoolyard, the current drifted past him as always. The cheer girls waved, Mrs. Rivera gave him a friendly nod, the preps sorted water bottles, the theater kids discussed gestures. And the boys? Looked—the way they always looked: too long, too intensely. No one said, “Hey, aren’t you a boy?” <<set $ort to "school">> In the classroom, Mr. Robertson talked about deadlines and grinned at him when he answered, as if there was nothing special about him except that he was answering. Penelope whispered a comment about “Raspberry vs. Clear Balm,” Ruby raised her hand for a number no one had ready. The hall monitors nodded him past the locker without a ruler. Normal. A perfectly ordinary day.\n\nChris felt the relief taking root inside him, heavy and soft. At the same time, this normality felt like another quiet blow against something he wanted to hold on to: I am a boy. Every “Hey, cutie” in the cafeteria, every casual question about a “homecoming dress?” tipped the scales a little further. The culottes swayed as he walked, the dusty-pink bra held him in place, and between the two lay an orderly hallway in which the world treated him exactly as if it had never done anything else.\n\nHe breathed in. He breathed out. He went to the next class. And somewhere between one step and the next, he thought: I still don’t know what I want. But I know what works today. The rest would have to wait—until after school, until somewhere no one said “cute” when he looked at himself in the mirror.\n\n''How does the school day go?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ladendiebin == 0>>[[Copies for Mr. Robertson.|Kopien für Mr. Robertson.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ladendiebin == 1 && $charlotte < 2>>[[Trouble in the school hallway.|Ärger im Schulflur.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ladendiebin == 1 && $charlotte == 2 >>[[Trouble in the school hallway.|Ärger im Schulflur.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ladendiebin == 2>>[[Rumors in the school hallway.|Gerüchte auf dem Schulflur.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

The cafeteria was a humming terrarium of trays, voices, and clinking ice cubes. Chris took his food—salad, an apple, water—and headed as usual for the “popular” table. Christine waved<<if $choice_cafeteria == 3>>, Charlotte smiled<<endif>><<if $choice_cafeteria == 1>>, one of the Pom Puffs gave him a brief nod<<endif>>.\n<<set $ort to "cafeteria">>\n[[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]] sat in the middle, as always, raspberry gloss on her lips, her phone beside her napkin.\n\n“Hey, Chris,” she began, friendly as a TV host. Then the tone tipped by half a millimeter. “Small thing. I heard you’re the first girl in the D&D nerd club.” A few glances flickered. Penelope raised her brows. “Brave. But… also kind of—you know—niche.”\n\nChris set down his tray, feeling something tighten in his stomach. “It’s fun,” he said calmly.\n\n“Sure, I bet,” Penelope cooed, the fun fading from her words. “It’s just… we pay a little attention here to who we’re seen with. Image and all.” She turned the water bottle, the cap clicking. “Hanging out with nerds, you know—is embarrassing for us. Our group has standards.”\n\n<<if $choice_cafeteria == 3>>“Pen,” Charlotte cut in, calm, firm. “She’s been here for a week. Let her breathe. D&D isn’t a crime.”\n\n“Did I say ‘crime’?” Penelope smiled thinly. “I’m just saying: brand. We’re cheer—” (two girls nodded automatically) “—and anyone who sits here represents. If she—” a small nod of her chin toward Chris “—hangs around with the nerds, then… it dilutes that. I’m sure you understand, Chris. No stress.”\n\n<</if>><<if $choice_cafeteria == 1>>“Pen,” one of the Pom Puffs cut in, calm, firm. “She’s been here for a week. Let her breathe. And D&D really isn’t exactly a crime.”\n\n“Did I say ‘crime’?” Penelope smiled thinly. “I’m just saying: brand. We’re cheer—” (two girls nodded automatically) “—and anyone who sits here represents. If she—” a small nod of her chin toward Chris “—hangs around with the nerds, then… it dilutes that. I’m sure you understand, Chris. No stress.”\n\n<</if>><<if $choice_cafeteria == 2>>No one said anything. A few girls suddenly became very busy: folding a napkin, checking a nail, turning a straw. The silence was like a nod.\n\nPenelope smiled thinly. “I’m just saying: image. We’re cheer—” (two girls nodded automatically) “—and anyone who sits here represents. If she—” a small nod of her chin toward Chris “—hangs around with the nerds, then… it dilutes that. I’m sure you understand, Chris. No stress.”\n\n<</if>>Christine looked at her brother, then at Penelope, then back at Chris. A hint of protest twitched in her expression, but burned out before it became a word.\n\n“Sit… there,” Penelope said, pointing to the edge of the bench, farther away from the warm core of the conversations. “For today. Monday, then another table.”\n\nChris sat down at the edge. The hum at the center of the table went on—homecoming ideas, pajama-party logistics, a new mascara.\n\nFrom the edge, the geometry of high school reality looked different: small centers of power and laughter, edges where you sat and were chauffeured wherever others pointed. He poked at his salad; the water tasted like nothing at all. A few tables away, someone laughed in a way that made it seem like the whole room must have understood the punchline. Penelope giggled at exactly the right moment; her friends joined in, rehearsed like call-and-response.\n\nMerciless, Chris thought. Not loudly, not tragically. Just matter-of-factly. Here there were hallways, bells, and rules. Some were in handbooks. The others at the edges of tables.\n\n<<if $choice_cafeteria == 3>>Charlotte threw him a brief look that could have meant “I’m sorry.”\n\n<</if>><<if $choice_cafeteria == 1>>A Pom Puff briefly pressed her foot against his shoe, a secret “sorry.”\n\n<</if>><<if $choice_cafeteria == 2>>Christine briefly pressed her foot against his shoe, a secret “sorry.”\n\n<</if>>Chris set down his fork and took one deep breath. He would get through this lunch. And after that, he would decide for himself where he sat. Or who he rolled dice with.\n\n''👑 Popularity - 1''\n\n[[Continue|Einladung im Klassenzimmer.]]

Chris couldn’t take it anymore and fled to the restroom.\n\nThere, the air was heavy with hairspray and perfume. Chris slipped into the nearest stall, slid the bolt shut, and didn’t even really sit down—he just leaned his back against the door, clutch pressed tightly to his chest, until his breathing became somewhat steady again. The light was harsh, the music outside now only a muffled thumping, as if it were coming from another building.\n\nThe door to the sink area opened. Voices, heels on tile. Two girls came in, still laughing from the chaos on the dance floor, and Chris immediately held his breath.\n\n“She always acts so innocent,” one of them hissed.\n\n“And totally draws the boys in,” said the other, with that envious undertone that stuck like sugar on a wound. “As if it’s by accident. She totally threw herself at them.”\n\nChris’s throat tightened. It hit twice as hard: because it was unfair—and because he knew how quickly a rumor like that could become “knowledge” if that video ever surfaced.\n\nThen a third girl came in, out of breath, her eyes wide with excitement. “Did you see that?” she gushed. “Myles’s homecoming date dumped punch in his face! Just like that! And then she left him standing there. Everyone was staring.”\n\nChris blinked. For one tiny moment he felt something almost like satisfaction—and immediately felt ashamed of it. Then he thought of Christine, of the step in the bleachers, of her crying in his arms. In his stall, he stayed silent until the voices outside drifted back toward the door and the whispering was swallowed by the bass.\n\nEventually, he went back, because he had to.\n\nNo sooner was he inside again than the next wave hit him: girls pulled him forward, laughing. “You have to take part!” Chris protested halfheartedly, but he was pushed along until he was standing in the middle of a little “Best Dressed” contest. Spotlight, applause, a few cheers. Someone turned him around so everyone could see the backless dress. Chris smiled automatically, waved, pretended it was fun.\n\nInside, he felt euphoria and panic at the same time. Euphoria because he was being seen—and because, for one heartbeat, it felt good. Panic because every look was also a risk, because every bit of attention made the video louder in his head.\n\nHe didn’t win. Someone else got louder cheers. Chris stepped back into the crowd, relieved not to be at the center anymore—and yet with a trace of shine in his chest that confused him.\n\nLater, the Homecoming King and Queen were crowned. The DJ turned the music down, everyone clapped, and Dylan was called to the front along with Penelope. They beamed in the light, had sashes draped over them, crowns placed on their heads, camera flashes. Cheers, whistles, a “Woooo!”\n\nChris clapped along because everyone was clapping. His smile felt like a mask that weighed heavier today than usual. While Penelope waved and Dylan briefly held up the crown, Chris stood at the edge and could only think: Please, please don’t let that video surface.\n\n[[Continue|Montag, das Video macht die Runde.]]

Chris’s fingers moved as if his body had already made the decision before his head could grasp it.\n\nHis black penis was hard as carved wood and incredibly hot. With his thumb, Chris stroked over his magnificent head. A strange, shameful amazement shot through his stomach as a drop of precum came out.\n\nDeShawn pushed Chris’s head forward, drew him closer. Chris’s lips were right in front of his big cock. He surrendered to the moment, slipped his lips over the head and...\n\n“Hey.” DeShawn’s voice snapped the air back into shape. Chris blinked—back to reality, back to the steaming coffee, back to the morning. He hadn’t really moved. Nothing but a daydream. Shame rose into his cheeks anyway.\n\n“Everything good?” DeShawn grinned, as if he could read Chris’s thoughts. He pulled the robe closed again, tied the belt, took the cup in his hand.\n\n“I’m going to take this coffee to your mother now and wake her up. After she’s sucked me off, I’m going to feast on her gorgeous pussy again and then fuck her brains out properly.” He headed toward the door. On the threshold, he turned around once more, still grinning. “You can watch if you want. I’ll leave the door open for you.”\n\nThen he was already gone again. But his big black cock remained behind in Chris’s memory. Chris shook his head. The bulge in his nightgown hadn’t gotten smaller at any point. Quite the opposite, even if he didn’t want to admit it.\n\nWhat should he do? Spy on his mother having sex? That was definitely not okay. She was his mother and not a sex object. Honestly, he didn’t want to notice all the sex at all.\n\nThe way back to his room, however, led him past his mother’s bedroom. He crept very quietly, not wanting the floor to creak. Why not, actually? Then his mother might do something. At least close the bedroom door.\n\nChris couldn’t really admit it to himself, but whatever was going on in the room did somehow interest him.\n\nJust outside the bedroom door, the first unmistakable sounds could be heard. Those sounds—hard to describe, yet so instantly recognizable—that signaled a good blowjob.\n\n“Well? Does my cock taste good? Better than a morning coffee to wake you up, isn't it?” DeShawn’s voice slid into a moan. “Yeah, just like that. Nice and deep.”\n\nAs Chris listened, he had slowly crept closer. Now he stood right at the door. One step further, and he would see exactly what was going on inside the room. His cock was hard as steel. He didn't want this—but the sounds, the thoughts... they turned him on. In a way he knew was wrong. But he couldn't help himself.\n\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[He peeks inside.|Er schaut hinein.][$susan += 1]]\n❯ [[He quickly retreats to his own room.|Er geht schnell in sein Zimmer.]]

“How about I show you mine if you show me yours,” Chris said playfully, and tried to reach under her skirt for her panties.\n\nBut that was exactly how he got careless; she gained the upper hand and forced Chris onto his back with all her strength.\n\nThen, without another word, she lifted her denim skirt and pulled her black panties slightly to the side, so Chris got to see her pussy.\n\n“Wow,” escaped Chris as his lustful gaze fell on the now carefully shaved valley between Zoe’s legs, from which the heavy, bittersweet scent of female lust rose into his curious, sniffing nose. Zoe pulled the swollen outer labia of her pussy apart with her fingers, revealing to Chris her wetly gleaming, pink sanctuary.\n\n“So, you’ve seen it,” she said, smoothed down her skirt, and moved away from him.\n\n“Hey, wait, what about the blowjob?” Chris asked.\n\nShe laughed. “Hey, you wanted something different from what I suggested.” She looked at his throbbing crotch and seemed to take pity on him. “Fine, I’ll give you a handjob instead, but only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself.”\n\nChris agreed with a grumble; what choice did he have?\n\n“Good girl, princess.” She grinned at him. Then she slowly began playing with Chris’s cock and balls. He started to moan. It was the first time a girl had touched him there like that.\n\nAfter a few minutes, his moans grew louder and more intense. He was close to his climax, but Zoe wouldn’t allow that, and she slowed down noticeably, her grip becoming looser. Once he had calmed down somewhat, she sped up again.\n\nThe whole thing repeated itself a few times; then the movements of her hand also became faster and more frantic, which in turn sent unsuspected waves of bliss surging through Chris’s body.\n\n“Ooooh, Zoe...aaahhhh,” he heard himself pant.\n\nHis penis began to twitch uncontrollably and spat its warm, slippery eruption onto his stomach.\n\n“I made you cum!” she giggled.\n\nZoe dipped a finger into the small white pool on his stomach, licked it off, and clicked her tongue with enjoyment. “Tastes good!” she declared with a smile, and dipped her finger in again right away to let Chris taste his own cream too.\n\n''Does he do it?''\n❯ [[Yes, he tastes his semen.|Ja, er kostet sein Sperma.][$chris_opinion += 10]]\n❯ [[No, he refuses.|Nein, er lehnt ab.]]

Chris set the phone aside without sending a message. No plus-one. I’m going for Chrissie, not for myself. The thought scared him a little—a party full of faces that would half know him and half scrutinize him—but he came to the quiet conclusion: He could endure it. For his sister.\n\nIn the dark, he listened to the house, heard Chrissie giggling next door. A party as a stealth mission—no dancing, no drama, just watching, keeping an eye out, leaving on time. He turned onto his side and imagined how he would stand beside the other teenagers on Saturday, keeping Christine in sight, watching the time, his shoulders narrow but straight. I’m going. I’m bringing her home. With that small, shaky mantra, he fell asleep.\n\n[[Continue|Vizefreitag.]]

As a husband, Chris was not the type to “moderate away” conflicts. He was more the type to disarm them so they never had to escalate in the first place. When his wife said, “You’re exaggerating,” he didn’t shrug and shut down—he knew that sentence from the inside. He knew how quickly you could make someone small with it without “meaning any harm.” So he stayed calm and asked questions that didn’t sound like interrogations: “Okay, tell me exactly what hurt you about that” or “Do you want a solution right now, or do you want me to simply understand?” He had experienced that pressure of expectations from both sides—the male “pull yourself together” and the female “be nice, but not too nice”—and precisely because of that, he could formulate needs precisely without backing the other person into a corner. There were fewer misunderstandings between them because he did not only hear what was being said, but also what stood behind it.\n\nThis radar for subtext was sometimes almost uncanny. His wife could say a completely neutral “Everything’s fine”—and Chris heard in it the small difference between “I don’t want a scene right now” and “I currently have an entire list in my head.” He didn’t make a big deal out of it then. No “I knew it!” no “Then why don’t you say so?” He could follow up elegantly without pouring oil on the fire: he would stand beside her, empty the dishwasher with her, and simply say, “If everything really is fine, okay. If not, I’m here. Now or later.” That sentence worked like a safety net: no pressure, but a clear support. And often the real issue came up not at the dinner table, but ten minutes later in the hallway, when the tension no longer had to prove how big it was.\n\nAnd yes—he was the man who knew better than his wife how much an outfit “spoke.” Not because he wanted to control her, but because he had learned that language when it had been forced on him. Sometimes she would stand in front of the mirror and say, “It’s just a dress.” And Chris saw the message it triggered in the world. He could say, “That looks strong because it has clean lines,” or “That’s beautiful, but you’ll spend the whole evening fighting not to adjust it.” And when she then asked him whether uncomfortable things really “worked” that way, he made a face and honestly admitted: “Unfortunately, yes. Sometimes the exact thing that’s annoying is what works.” Then they would both laugh.\n\nAs the father of a teenage daughter, Chris was calm in a way that almost seemed funny—and attentive in a way that saved her. When his daughter came into the kitchen and said, “It’s nothing,” he heard that “nothing” like an alarm. Not because he wanted to dramatize it, but because he knew the social code. Once, she tossed out only: “She commented on my photo with just a period.” Chris put down the sponge, looked at her deadly seriously, and said, as if he were an investigator in a crime series: “Okay. Period comment. That’s level three.” Then he raised an eyebrow. “Who else was in the group? Who saw it? And how quickly did the period come?” She rolled her eyes, but had to laugh—and that laughter was exactly what made it possible to talk about it without it becoming embarrassing. And if she then did start to cry, the dreaded “It doesn’t matter” never came. Instead, he said: “I understand why it feels big. It isn’t just a period, it’s a message.”\n\nHe was also surprisingly good at taking shame away. Things that made other fathers turn red—body questions, bras, stains, cramps, mood swings—became normal with him, almost boring, and that was exactly what made them bearable. His daughter could stand on the threshold with a contrite face and murmur, “Dad… I have…” and Chris would simply say, “Okay. Tell me what you need. And tell me whether you want to talk or whether I should just help.” Sometimes he would put down a pack of heat patches for her, make tea, set chocolate beside it, without a big speech. And when she apologized for being “so weird,” he said calmly: “You don’t have to hold yourself together at home.” That sentence was like a key. It turned the house into a place where you didn’t have to put on a mask first in order to deserve love.\n\nThe most important thing was perhaps his understanding of “girl social stress,” which could seep into everything like fog. Jealousy, rankings, group pressure, subtle digs—Chris took it seriously, not as the end of the world, but as a real burden. When his daughter said, “They’re looking like that,” he knew what she meant: not “they’re looking,” but “they’re marking territory.” He translated instead of waving it off. He helped her find words for the unclear, strategies for the unfair, boundaries for the intrusive. And in doing so, he never made the mistake of talking her out of her feelings. He did not say: “You’re too sensitive.” He said: “You’re not wrong. You’re in a system that quietly pushes people against each other.” With him, she felt safe because he didn’t answer with a shrug, but with: “Tell me again—I want to understand it properly.”\n\n[[Continue|Chris und seine Tochter.]]

Desperately, Chris searched for a place to spit out his semen until he finally saw a trash can standing in the corner of the room. He ran over and spat hard into the trash can.\n<<set $ort to "">>\n“You don’t know what tastes good,” Zoe giggled.\n\nIt was already dark outside when Chris got on the bus. He sat down by a window, the city sliding past in wet streaks of light. The encounter clung to him like a melody too loud and not quite right. Reward. The word felt wrong, but the warmth in his face, the afterglow of his orgasm, had been real. They had come closer to each other—and yet everything seemed strangely businesslike, as if Zoe had settled a bill only she had written.\n\nHe knew Zoe didn’t want anything steady. She had never promised it between the lines—not today, not ever. And yet… she had been beautiful in that half-dark room, despite the chaos and sticky candy wrappers, and something about her mixture of sharpness and directness stuck to him. Maybe something more could come of it, someday. He had never met a girl like her before. Maybe, on another occasion, on another evening, it could go further—all the way to what she was steering toward so casually and what his head didn’t know whether it wanted or feared.\n\nThe bus rumbled over an intersection, and his reflection in the window looked back at him questioningly. Zoe played by her own rules. He leaned his forehead against the cold glass and let the lights of the city flow past him, while two feelings tried to make room in his stomach at the same time: confusion—and a quiet, curious hope.\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch.]]

<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/college.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/college_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nCollege felt like a new universe with the same two stars: Chris and Lucas. They arrived with too many suitcases, too little sleep, and a far-too-big feeling of “Now it’s really beginning.” Between orientation days, campus maps, and free pens, they held on to each other like to a familiar railing.\n\nOf course, the first thing they tried was to get a double room. Lucas had even phrased it neatly, as if politeness were a magic spell: two students, a couple, same floor, same quiet hours, same major, “it would be ideal.”\n\nThe housing office’s answer came back as dry as a stamp:\n\n“Rooms are single-gender.”\n\nNo smiley. No exception. No “we’ll see what we can do.” Just: no.\n\nChris almost would have laughed, if it hadn’t also been so typical. Lucas made a face as if someone had cut his favorite monologue. In the end, all they had was a compromise: same dorm, same floor—but different rooms. At least that.\n\nThey still saw each other constantly. In the mornings, when Chris came out of the communal bathroom with wet hair and coffee to go, and Lucas was standing in the hallway as if he had “just happened” to need to be there at exactly that moment. In the afternoons between lectures, in the evenings in the study room, at night when they wanted to say goodnight “just quickly” one more time and it turned into twenty minutes.\n\nAnd they had new roommates.\n\nChris shared his room with a girl who immediately installed three scented candles, a mini-fridge, and a “positive vibes only” wall decoration. Chris nodded politely and placed his things neatly in one corner, as if order could give him back control. Lucas got a roommate who seemed athletic, always wore headphones, and complained on the very first day about the “unfair” cafeteria portions.\n\nIt was unfamiliar, constantly being able to be observed. Not by teachers, not by Chris’ mother—but by people who were simply there because they lived here. Chris sometimes felt like he was back on his first day at Maplewood: self-conscious, tense, and at the same time strangely curious.\n\nOn the third evening, Chris was in Lucas’ room.\n\n“Take me,” Chris said impatiently. He could hardly wait and got into doggy position. He pushed his sweet ass toward Lucas and practically begged for the hard shaft in his hole.\n\nAnd that was exactly what Lucas did. He thrust his member all the way into Chris’ butt, drawing a deep sigh of pleasure from him. But that show of feeling was nothing compared to what Chris displayed.\n\nLucas settled into a fast fucking rhythm, which Chris accompanied with steady sounds.\n\n“Oh yes... Fuck me... Faster,” Chris let out, pressing himself again and again against the hips of his boyfriend, who was rocking back and forth. With every thrust, Lucas’ crotch slapped against Chris’ pretty girlish butt, and it was obvious that Chris was greatly enjoying his efforts.\n\n“Oh... Yes... give it to me... Yes, harder,” Chris moaned.\n\nThey were so lost in each other that they only heard the key clicking when it was too late.\n\nThe door opened.\n\nLucas’ roommate froze in the doorway as if turned to ice. A bag of chips dangled from his hand, and his gaze jumped from Lucas to Chris and back again. For one second, it was dead silent.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/Chris_scham_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/Chris_scham_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nChris froze as if someone had dumped a bucket of cold water down his back. His mind shot straight into alarm mode: A boy can see you like this. You’re naked. You— He reflexively moved away from Lucas and pulled a blanket over his naked body.\n\n“Oh,” the roommate finally said, as if he had just discovered a rare species of animal. “Uh. Sorry. I… just wanted—” He lifted the bag of chips as if it were an official reason. “Chips.”\n\nChris’ cheeks burned. He didn’t know whether to laugh or sink into the floor. It was embarrassing to be caught like that. Embarrassing to be seen as “Lucas’ girlfriend,” as if that were his entire explanation. And at the same time—still—there was that happiness that couldn’t be shamed away: Lucas’ hand on his knee.\n\nLucas cleared his throat and said, with a mixture of seriousness and absurd pride, “Hey. This is my girlfriend Chris.”\n\nThe roommate nodded too quickly. “Cool. Hi, Chris.” Then he pointed his thumb behind him toward the hallway, as if he suddenly had an appointment with the air. “I… I’ll be gone again in a sec. Keep… uh… going. Or don’t. I mean—” He stammered himself out of the room and pulled the door shut behind him, only to open it a crack again and add, “I’ll knock from now on. Promise.”\n\nThen the door was closed.\n\nChris stared at Lucas. For one heartbeat, there was silence—and then it burst out of him: a loud, disbelieving laugh that started in his throat and finally broke free. Lucas laughed with him, pulling him closer again, as if what had just happened were only a particularly embarrassing proof that they were really here.\n\n“Welcome to college,” Lucas murmured, kissing Chris briefly on the forehead.\n\nChris closed his eyes, still red, but happy.\n\nAnd you’ll find out how things continue with Chris and Lucas at college in the second part.\n\n''End 2 of 10 - "Accidental Sweetheart"''\n<<set $ende2 to 1>>\n[[📖 Statistics|Statistik][$selbstbild += 4]] - [[🏆 Bonus & Endings|Enden]]

Susan hardly explained more than the bare minimum, and then they were already sitting in the car. “My friend Ava needs you today,” she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Leo and the baby. Be polite, do what she says.”\n\nAt the Fergusons’ semi-detached house, there were strollers and scooters in the front yard. [[Ava|Ava Ferguson]] opened the door, a mocking smile on her face, her gaze traveling from Chris’s hair down to his shoes. “Well, there’s our little helper.” She pulled him into the bright hallway, loud enough for the neighbor to hear. “Inside with you.”\n\nIn the living room, Mr. Ferguson hauled himself up from an armchair—overweight, shirt buttons straining, beer belly spilling over his belt. “Babysitter?” He gave a soft whistle. “Now that’s what I call an upgrade.” His grin stayed on his face too long. “Little miss surely knows how to change diapers, right?” He winked. Chris’s stomach tightened involuntarily.\n\n“Cut the nonsense,” Ava snapped at him, half casual, half annoyed. “Chris can handle it.” She clapped her hands once and launched into instructions in a commanding tone: “The bottle is ready, baby stuff here, changing table there. Leo—” she called into the hall “—put your sneakers on! It’s nice out, I want you to go outside. You can carry the little one, I’m sure, hmm?” There was something appraising, intrusive in her gaze, as if she were already picturing what Chris would look like doing it.\n\nLeo shuffled in, eleven and skinny, his eyes briefly curious, then looking away again. “Hi,” he muttered.\n\n“Hi,” Chris said.\n\n“So,” Ava concluded, “you’re going to the playground, half an hour on the swings, then a walk around the block, the baby falls asleep best in the stroller. And—” she gave a crooked grin “—make yourself useful, sweetie.”\n\nOutside, the stroller clicked into place in his hands, the handle softly padded. The sun lay warm on the asphalt and his forearms; the wind barely lifted the hem of his skirt. Every step made the fine pantyhose whisper against his knees. Chris felt eyes on him—not sharp, just that everyday staring that brushes over you. He pushed the stroller and felt that over-obvious role the stroller forced onto him. Every shop window gave back a little reflection: delicate figure, gentle pace, one hand on the handle, the other on the little fabric bag with wet wipes. He felt extremely girlish—a statue in someone else’s costume, alive enough to bump against it. And yet his hands moved confidently, pushing, rocking, adjusting the little canopy when the sun shifted.\n\nAt the playground, he found a bench in partial shade. Leo climbed wordlessly onto the seesaw and acted as if he needed no one. The baby blinked, grumbled once, then settled again with the pacifier. Chris sat down, exhaled, and let his fingers loosen a little from the handle.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/babysitten.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/babysitten_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>Then an older woman approached, gray hair pinned up neatly, a coat that smelled of lavender. “Well, what a sweet little darling,” she trilled, leaning over the stroller with an experienced “Ah!” “Just look at those chubby cheeks! And so well-behaved!”\n\nChris smiled politely.\n\n“You’re doing such a lovely job, young mother,” she said, as if that were the most natural assumption in the world. “But be careful: don’t rock too much, or they get used to it. And in this sunshine—always a little cap! Do you have a little cap? Children catch a draft so quickly.” She kept talking, a warm stream of advice: “Never make the bottle too hot, don’t fasten the diapers too tightly, and if there’s tummy trouble—fennel tea!”\n\n“Mhm… yes,” Chris nodded bravely, his hands back on the handle like a good girl. “Thanks for the tip.”\n\n“And the father?” she asked, without transition, kindly curious, and waited for the answer.\n\n''How does Chris respond?''\n❯ [[He clears up the misunderstanding.|Die Wahrheit.]]\n❯ [[He lies so the old woman will leave him alone.|Er lügt.]]

During circuit training, Chris quickly realized: he wasn’t nearly as catastrophic as people had often claimed before. As a boy, he had never counted himself among the best at sports—once, someone in Germany had mockingly told him he “throws the ball like a girl.” Now, ironically as a “girl” among girls, it was going… solidly. In the shuttle run, he finished in the middle of the pack, and during the medicine-ball presses he was no force of nature, but the repetitions came surprisingly evenly.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Sport.jpg]]</center> While jumping rope, he even found a rhythm that sorted out his pulse. Maybe it was also because a row of pretty girls’ butts and ponytails were bouncing in time in front of him, and ambition suddenly grew legs. <<set $ort to "gym">> But Chris began to regret not wearing a bra, since his small breasts were now wildly bouncing and hopping with every step.\n\n“Good pace, Chris!” Mr. Moore called as they rounded the last cones. Chris briefly raised his hand; he didn’t dare do more. He kept his shoulders narrow, paid attention to his gait; even while sprinting, the training sat like an invisible rail.\n\nThen Mr. Moore set up the uneven bars—the low and high bar, mats beneath. “Today’s basics: straddle mount, support transition, sense of rhythm,” his deep bass voice announced.\n\nWhen it was Chris’s turn, his stomach tightened. Hands on the lower bar, build momentum, support himself up—in his head it sounded simple. In his body, it grated. His hands slipped slightly on the chalk, the first attempt got stuck like a swallowed cough. A second attempt: better, but the transition to the upper bar tangled itself in the timing.\n\n“Let me spot you,” Mr. Moore said and stepped beside him. Up close, Chris saw why the man had authority without shouting: strong forearms, tendons clearly defined, hands with calluses—“working hands,” his father would have said. Moore positioned himself so close that Chris could smell his aftershave. “Okay, eyes forward, not at the mat. Wider grip. Push off on ‘and.’ I’ll give you a slight lift.”\n\nChris nodded, breathed. The next attempt: momentum, pressure—and then Moore’s hand settled firmly on his butt.\n\nChris flinched. The teacher grabbed Chris between the legs to give him momentum.\n\nChris swallowed, shame shooting up like a reflex. It felt uncomfortable. His body wasn’t like the other girls’ bodies. He didn’t want to be touched, not there. The closeness, the contact in a place where he had already felt alien for weeks—too much. He squirmed, flew over the apparatus—and landed hard on the floor.\n\nSome of the girls giggled, but the teacher grabbed him under the arms, his thumbs touching Chris’s nipples, and pulled him up. “Next time a little more body tension. You tend to hold your breath—breathe through the movement, Chris.”\n\nChris only nodded, too tense to reply and glad it was over. He could still feel Moore’s grip like a stamp that was already fading, but briefly too clear.\n\nThey kept rotating: hanging from the bar, standing long jump, stretching. Chris did what was asked, middle of the pack, inconspicuous. When Mr. Moore blew the whistle to end class, his forearms burned pleasantly, and his lungs felt used, not hunted.\n\nOn the way to the locker room, Chris brushed the hem of his shirt with his hand and felt his breathing grow calmer again. A normal moment in PE class, as normal as his life currently allowed.\n\n''What happens?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ladendiebin == 0>>[[End of school.|Schulschluss.]]<<else>>[[End of school.|Schulschluss.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Wednesday morning began with a shrill alarm tone Chris couldn’t ignore. The evening before, he had had neither the strength nor the time to torture himself with math formulas again. And the thought of a bad grade sat in his stomach like a stone. So he had taken Zoe’s advice, even though he was ashamed of it.\n<<set $wochentag = 3>><<set $wetter = 2>><<set $ort to "at home">>\nIn the bathroom, he locked the door and sat down on the edge of the tub. With a ballpoint pen in his hand, he bent over his thigh and wrote down the most important formulas—small, tight, in neat lines. Not pretty, but readable. He paused briefly as the ink dried on his skin, feeling that double sensation: relief, because he had something to fall back on—and guilt, because he knew perfectly well he wasn’t supposed to have it.\n\nIn front of the mirror, he examined the result. The formulas looked absurd in that place, as if a child had tattooed him. He turned his leg slightly, checking whether it would be visible while standing. Not if I move normally, he told himself. Still, his heart remained restless, as if it were already afraid of the moment in the classroom.\n\nThen came the next part, which made him almost even more nervous: the clothes. What did you wear when you wanted to cheat? He had no idea. He had never cheated before. He felt like someone who had been given a script, but no rehearsal.\n\nHe laid two outfits on the bed and stared at them as if they would give him an answer.\n\n''Outfit 1:'' A knee-length, slightly flared skirt made of sturdier fabric that didn’t flutter. With it, tights and a cardigan that fell a little over the back of the skirt. It looked proper, safe, inconspicuous. More fabric, more protection, Chris thought—and at the same time: More fabric, less access. He imagined how he was supposed to look down “inconspicuously” during the test without it being noticed. The skirt would cover everything neatly… maybe even too neatly.\n\n''Outfit 2:'' A tighter, rather short pencil skirt and a fitted blouse. It was a look that seemed more confident—and riskier. Too short? Too noticeable? The thought of the looks in the hallway immediately made him warm again. On the other hand, it felt logical in his head that “tighter and shorter” would be less in the way. Only: if anyone paid attention at all, that could be exactly the mistake.\n\nChris stood in front of the bed with his arms folded, the leg with the formulas heavy as a secret. He just wanted to get through this test without everything becoming even more complicated. And yet the decision suddenly depended not only on math, but on hem length, fabric, and nerves.\n\n''Which outfit does he choose?''\n❯ [[Outfit 1|Outfit 1]]\n❯ [[Outfit 2|Outfit 2]]

Chris: Forced by his mother to live as a girl\n\nSusan: Chris’s attractive, controlling mother\n\nChristine : Chris’s younger sister (same grade); cheerleader aspirant\n\nCharlotte: Popular, sunny, sporty, lesbian classmate\n\nMr. Walters: Charlotte’s father; gentle, attentive, and quietly lonely since his wife’s death. Treats Chris with genuine warmth and a protective, “dad-like” steadiness \n\nPenelope: The “queen bee” and top cheerleader\n\nLucas: Penelope’s shy theater-kid brother; develops a serious crush on Chris\n\nMrs. Barnett: Penelope and Lucas’s flirtatious mother; Chris harbors a risky crush on her\n\nDylan: Star quarterback and school heartthrob; Chris feels oddly—and sometimes unwillingly—drawn to him\n\nAdam: Awkward D&D nerd\n\nZoe: Vulgar troublemaker\n

But before Chris could go to Charlotte, he still had this photo date with Adam at the homecoming dance.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nHe ordered an Uber and, a short while later, was sitting in the back seat, his bag pulled tightly against him. When the school gym came into view, he could already feel the hum—music, light, voices. The driver dropped him off, and Chris walked to the door as if stepping through a curtain into another world.\n\nInside, warmth hit him, mixed with perfume, hairspray, and the sweet heaviness of punch in plastic cups. Eyes landed on him, immediately, reflexively. Chris didn’t even know whether they were really staring or whether he was imagining it—but it felt as if their eyes were sticking to his outfit like Velcro.\n\nBecause there were ball gowns everywhere. Long fabrics, sparkling sequins, satin, tulle, shimmering colors beneath the strings of lights. The girls looked as if they had been cut out of other versions of themselves—glamorous, festive, grown-up. Chris looked… pretty. But completely underdressed. His skirt suddenly felt like “school day,” the cardigan like “I’m just picking something up real quick.” Embarrassment crawled up his throat, made his ears hot.\n\nHe searched the room for [[Adam|Adam Bowman]] with his eyes like an emergency exit.\n\nAnd found him. Adam was standing at the edge of the dance floor, and his suit was striking and absurdly old-fashioned—too big at the shoulders, somehow shiny, with a tie that looked too wide, as if he had found it in a costume closet. He looked nervous and proud at the same time, as though he had dressed up especially for this moment.\n\nChris went over to him, stopping close enough that he wouldn’t have to talk across the hall. “Photo,” he said curtly, making a small, urgent gesture with his hand.\n\nAdam nodded eagerly. “Yeah. Sure. Over there.”\n\nThe photo area had been set up in a corner: a curtain as a backdrop, a camera on a tripod, and beside it a basket of props—cardboard hearts, giant glasses, little signs with sayings on them. Chris wanted none of it. He simply stood there, forced a smile onto his face, and waited until Adam was standing beside him.\n\nThe self-timer blinked. A brief click. Done.\n\n“Can I go now?” Chris asked immediately, quietly but harshly.\n\nFor a moment, Adam looked as if he still wanted to say something, then he nodded. “Yeah. You can go.”\n\n“Thanks.” Chris was already half turning away before the word had fully been spoken. He said goodbye so quickly it barely counted as a goodbye, and pushed his way toward the exit.\n\n“Chris?” A voice stopped him. A girl from his class, all dressed up in a long gown, eyebrows raised with curiosity. She looked from him to Adam and back. “You and Adam?”\n\nChris felt his stomach twist. “Lost a bet,” he said immediately, with a forced laugh. “Long story.”\n\nThe girl shaped her mouth into an “Oooookay” that meant everything and nothing.\n\nChris left her standing there, pushed the door open, and stepped into the cool night air as if he had just been holding his breath for too long. He ordered another Uber, got in, and as the gym grew smaller behind them, the pounding in his ears slowly eased.\n\nWhen the car turned toward Charlotte’s street, he finally let out a real breath—and clung to the thought that the evening was only allowed to begin now.\n\n[[Continue|Chris hilft beim Aufräumen.]]

The Silver Spoon Diner seemed even brighter in the afternoon than in memory: neon, chrome, the smell of coffee and fryer oil, a steady clatter of plates. Chris stepped inside and immediately felt the warmth and voices wrap around him.\n<<set $ort to "Silver Spoon Diner">>\nRick stood behind the counter, his shirt stretched tight over his belly. When he saw Chris, he twisted his mouth. “About time.”\n\nChris swallowed and forced himself into a polite tone. “I’m sorry. Really. I… I thought I’d given the right number.” Although he believed he hadn’t done anything wrong on purpose, an apology felt like the only way not to lose the evening immediately.\n\nRick waved it off as if it were all childish nonsense. “Yeah, yeah. Come on. Change. Behind the kitchen.” He jerked his thumb toward the door.\n\nThe changing room was small, smelling of detergent and cardboard boxes. The uniform hung on a hook: retro 1950s style, typical diner. Chris put it on and had to swallow several times as he did.\n\nThe blouse was light—white with a very thin blue stripe pattern—cut tight, with short sleeves that ended just above the upper arm, and a small collar that was supposed to look neat. Over the chest sat a name tag: “Chris” in rounded lettering. Over it came an apron in bright red, short and stiff, with two pockets at the front, just big enough for a pad, pen, and a few coins. The skirt underneath was the most uncomfortable part: scant, dark fabric, high-waisted, just enough that it looked “okay” while standing, but immediately seemed dangerous when sitting or bending over. With it, he wore flat black shoes that at least looked like work shoes.\n\nWhen Chris stood in front of the mirror, he felt hot. The uniform did not feel like clothing, but like an invitation. Everything sat tighter, shorter, more exposed than anything he would ever have chosen for himself. He felt the draft on his thigh, the pressure of the apron ties in his back, the blouse that moved with every motion. Part of him wanted to wrap himself in the apron like a blanket. Another part thought, very quietly and shamefully: This is how people see me now. And the shame followed immediately, because he was even thinking that way at all.\n\nHe breathed through it, automatically smoothed the skirt downward, and went back out front.\n\nRick pressed a small pad and pen into his hand. “Listen. You take orders, bring drinks, check whether they want anything else. You smile. You’re quick. Coffee never empty. And if you don’t know something—ask the kitchen, not the guest.” He pointed to the register. “I’ll handle taking payment at first. You’ll learn.”\n\n“Okay,” said Chris, trying to sound as if he had waited tables a hundred times before.\n\n“And move. Tray like this. Don’t wobble.” Rick demonstrated it roughly once and pushed him toward the dining area. “Go on. Tables four and five. Drinks only. Then we’ll see.”\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/diner.jpg]]</center> <<else>><center>[img[pics/diner_kurz.jpg]]</center> <<endif>>\nIt started immediately. Chris felt his heart in his ears the first time he stepped up to a table, notebook in hand. “Hi—uh, good afternoon. What can I bring you to drink?” His voice was friendly, a little too cautious. He noticed how straight he held his back, how he positioned his legs so the skirt would not reveal too much.\n\nAs he hurried back and forth between the counter and the table, he remembered Susan’s sentence: Wages to me. Tips you can keep. A motivational little candy that suddenly felt real.\n\nBut how did you get tips? Just being friendly? Faster service? Chris watched another waitress as she leaned toward a guest and presented her cleavage, laughing, one hand briefly on his forearm—light flirting, confident, and the man grinned like a teenager.\n\nChris blushed at the thought that he could do that too. Not because he wanted to—but because he knew he probably could. And because the thought scared him, how quickly “could” could become “must.”\n\nHe paused briefly, breathed through it, and had to decide how he was going to approach this job.\n\n''How will Chris work?''\n<<nobr>><<if $diner > 2>>[[Chris decides to go all out for good tips.|Chris entscheidet sich für gutes Trinkgeld, alles zu geben.][$chris_opinion += 10]]<<endif>>\n<<if $diner == 2>>[[Chris stays friendly but professional.|Chris bleibt freundlich aber professionell.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $diner == 1>>[[Chris stays friendly but professional.|Chris bleibt freundlich aber professionell.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $diner == 0>>[[Chris does only as much as absolutely necessary.|Chris macht nur so viel wie unbedingt nötig.]]<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

<div class="box"><b>Note:</b> Chris wasn’t popular enough for this invitation. <<if $charlotte == 2>>Charlotte will miss him especially.<<endif>></div>Penelope let her gaze glide past Chris, lowered her lashes, and turned her head toward Charlotte and the others. “So—face masks first, then movie. Clueless or 10 Things I Hate About You? We’ll vote.” Laughter, suggestions, a debate about popcorn with or without salt—the party set itself in motion, as if the decision about who belonged had already been made days ago.\n\nChris drew his shoulders in a fraction tighter. I didn’t want to anyway, he told himself. Stupid girls’ pajama party, pillows and glitter. The defiance tasted thin. Not even being asked still burned, quietly, like a splinter under the skin. A short, nasty thought stabbed: What did I do wrong? In their eyes, was he just the one who tagged along with Christine—his little sister’s appendage?\n\nIt felt like back in Germany, only in different colors: the “cool kids” had always existed, and his name had never been on their stack of cards. Now he sat right among them, hearing “legendary” being planned, and yet he was once again two chairs too far to the left, invisible in the noise. He forced a small smile, nodded at the right moment, pretended he didn’t care. In his stomach, a familiar old weight spread out—not large, but stubborn: the question of whether he would ever be someone people called first, and not just someone who happened to be sitting nearby.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Charlotte comforts Chris.|Charlotte tröstet Chris.]]<<else>>[[End of school.|Schulende.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $newgameplus == 0 && $charlotte < 2 && $ladendiebin < 2>><br>\n[[✨ Chris asks his sister to talk to Penelope about the party.|Chris bittet seine Schwester mit Penelope wegen der Party zu reden.][$party += 1]]\n<div class="box"><b>A little note for your first playthrough:</b><br>\nYour choices have led you onto the Ruby path. This path has its own appeal, but it is quieter at the beginning than other story routes.<br>\nIf you would like a little more action at the start, you should choose the lower option now and go to Penelope’s party after all. This extra option is only available on the first playthrough.</div>\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

After practice, the coach suddenly stood beside Chris, his shadow stretching across the grass.\n\n“Good signs today,” [[Mr. Moore|Nathan Moore]] said tersely. “You’ve got strength. Technique is lagging behind—obviously, you’re... new.” He made a small gesture toward the line. “If you want to close the gap to the others and really take part—not just carry water—you need extra sessions. After school. Short and focused: jumps, core, stunt safety.”\n\nChris felt an invisible thread tug at his stomach. One part of him tightened immediately—ambition, that small old engine. The other part ducked away. In a quick, ridiculously clear fantasy, Chris saw the Friday-night lights, the roar of the bleachers, himself in the short skirt, the count, the pyramid—and him on top? Or below. Shame burned briefly, pride shone back against it. I could… really belong.\n\nOn the other hand: special training. With him. Alone? Something about the way Mr. Moore’s gaze lingered on him a moment too long—made goosebumps rise on the back of Chris’s neck.\n\n“I don’t want to overwhelm anyone,” Moore added matter-of-factly, as if he had seen the hesitation. “The offer stands. It stays between us, if you want.”\n\nBetween us. The words clattered.\n\nChris swallowed. Moore waited...\n\n''How does Chris decide?''\n❯ [[He accepts Mr. Moore’s offer, even though the thought of special training alone with him makes him nervous.|Sondertraining mit Mr. Moore zustimmen.][$moore += 1]]\n❯ [[He says no, because the thought of those extra sessions feels too uncomfortable.|Nicht zustimmen.]]

When Chris and Christine pushed open the front door, Susan was already standing in the hallway—gym bag over her shoulder, keys in hand, her hair tied back in a strict ponytail. “I’m leaving in a minute,” she said, studying Chris’s face, then the hem of his skirt, then his face again. “You’ve got plans, right?”\n<<set $ort to "">>\n“I… have a date,” Chris said carefully.\n\nSusan did not look surprised. Her gaze slid past him to Christine, who innocently raised her eyebrows. “I know,” Susan said only, with an appraising nod that was both warning and permission. “Be back on time. Sunscreen. And behave yourself.”\n\n“I will,” Chris murmured, grabbed his already-packed towel, the sunscreen, and the small bag with the swimwear, and was glad when the door fell shut behind him.\n\nAt the bus stop, the air stood warm and still, as if holding its breath. The bus arrived with a groaning sound that recalled a tired animal. Inside it smelled of old upholstery, dust, and a trace of urine. The seats were stained, the windows scratched; two Mexicans in work clothes stared at him. Different than in Germany, Chris thought. One of the men grinned crookedly and said something in Spanish that he didn’t understand. Chris moved closer to the window, bag on his lap, shoulders narrow. Maybe it’s not a good idea to ride the bus alone as a girl, flashed through his mind, but the stops counted him down like a calming clock. Nothing happened. He got off one stop too early, just to be safe, and walked the rest of the way on foot.\n\nCharlotte’s street was sunny and quiet, lawns neatly trimmed, hydrants red as candy. He rang the bell. The door flew open, and Charlotte filled the frame with a grin that immediately pulled the tension out of his neck. “There you are! Come in.”\n\n“Where… uh… can I change?” he asked.\n\n“Sure,” Charlotte said, waving him through the hall and pointing to a bathroom on the ground floor, bright, with blue-and-white tiles and a window facing the garden. “Take your time. I’ll get the iced tea.”\n\nChris closed the door, took one deep breath, and laid the things on the edge of the bathtub. The turquoise top looked almost bolder in this light than it had yesterday. He took off his top, hooked the clasp, adjusted the straps. Then the light-blue hot pants—one deep breath, pull them up, adjust them until everything sat where it sat. In the mirror stood someone pretending this was completely natural. One last look: It was all right.\n\nThe door handle felt cool as he pressed it down. The hallway was quiet; somewhere, ice cubes clinked in a glass. He stepped out.\n\nCharlotte was already waiting in the living room. She wore a dark-red bikini that looked on her as if it had been invented for her hot teenage body; her hair was tucked behind her ears, freckles glowing. She let her gaze wander over him and smiled broadly. “Sexy,” she said, as effortlessly as if she had said “summer.”\n\nChris felt heat shoot into his cheeks. “Thanks,” he managed, half flattered, half embarrassed, and tried to put his hands somewhere that looked natural.\n\n[[Continue|Raus in den Garten.][$charlotte_opinion += 10]]

Chris’s heart gave a little jump. For a moment, he saw himself from the outside: skirt, stroller, the role hanging around his neck like a sign. Just say something, he thought. Something that will satisfy her.\n\n“He’s… at work,” Chris said, forcing a soft smile into his voice.\n\nThe old woman nodded immediately, as if that were the only right answer. “Ah yes, men and their work. Well, at least he’s slaving away.” She bent toward the baby once more, made an approving sound, and straightened up again—and then her gaze slid to Chris’s hands on the handle. To his fingers. To the ring finger.\n\nHer eyes lingered there a fraction too long.\n\n“Oh,” she said, and there was more than curiosity in that little word. “And… you’re not yet…?” She left the sentence open, but the moral judgment was already standing in the room like a piece of furniture.\n\nChris’s throat went dry. Damn it. He thought of his grandmother’s generation, of that gentle strictness with which “that’s not how one lives” could be said without ever saying it aloud. He needed peace. He wanted the old woman to move on. So he did what he had become frighteningly good at by now: he lied, cleanly, kindly, without blinking.\n\n“Yes, yes,” he said, lifting his hand a little as if showing something obvious. “The ring is… at the jeweler’s.” He gave an apologetic smile, adding a small, embarrassed laugh. “It got loose, and I was so afraid of losing it. So… safer this way.”\n\nThe old woman relaxed immediately, as if Chris had tightened a missing screw in her worldview. “Oh, I see! Yes, yes, that’s sensible. Rings, that’s always…” She made a wise little hand gesture. “And nowadays everyone steals, too.”\n\n“Exactly,” Chris said, grateful for the direction.\n\n“How old is the little darling, then?” she asked, back in her comfort mode, stroking the air above the blanket without touching the baby.\n\n“Still very little,” Chris said evasively, because numbers were dangerous. “A few months.”\n\n“You can tell. Such a little angel.” She sighed happily and stood up straight again. “Well, young mother, you’re doing wonderfully.”\n\nChris smiled. “Yes. Thank you.”\n\nThe woman nodded, satisfied, as if she had done her part, and strolled on to the next bench. Chris let the air out of his lungs, which he had been holding too shallowly the entire time. Only now did he feel how tightly his fingers had been gripping the stroller handle.\n\nLeo gave him a brief look from the tire seesaw, a look that could mean everything and nothing.\n\nChris pretended not to have seen it and pushed the stroller one centimeter farther into the shade.\n\n[[Continue|Er bringt die Kinder heim.]]

The afternoon smelled of dust and curtain fabric. In the theater room, the old spotlights stood on tripods like sleeping animals, the cables taped to the floor with gaffer tape—in some places taped over so many times that the edges looked like tree rings. Chris’s gaze caught on the traces: initials carved into the side scenery, a faded “GO JULIAN 2019” on the back of a flat, footprints of glitter paint on the black floor that no one could quite get rid of. As if every class had left its own layer behind, thin but unmistakable.\n<<set $ort to "Auditorium">>\nRuby stood by the curtain and smoothed it down, two, three times, with her palm from top to bottom. It didn’t help—the heavy fabric fell back into the same folds anyway—but she did it all the same, focused, as if bringing order to something that could not be ordered.\n<<set $RubyMemory[5] to 1>>\n“Did you hear that too?” someone whispered behind them.\n\n“What?”\n\n“Apparently Mrs. Green is changing schools soon.”\n\nA few heads turned, soft, excited breathing in the murmur. “Really?” – “Where to?” – “No idea, but someone said she got an offer.” It sounded like a rumor keeping itself alive because it was exciting. Ms. Green acted as if she heard nothing. Or she heard it and deliberately let it stand in the room, like so many things that were not part of rehearsal.\n\nThen she clapped her hands, brief and precise. Her voice cut clearly through the murmuring.\n\n“Mirror exercise. Pairs, one arm’s length apart. One person leads, the other mirrors. Switch after one minute. No talking—only breath and eye contact.”\n\nLucas immediately positioned himself beside Chris, a cautious smile on his face, as if he had been looking forward to exactly this moment for a while. Ms. Green glided through the rows with a clipboard, looked at the two of them, and pointed backward. “Lucas, you go over there. Partner switch. Thank you.” Her energy allowed no contradiction. Lucas nodded, a brief shadow in his eyes, then slipped past a prop whose wooden corner was splintered—as if someone had scraped past it too hastily too many times already.\n\nChris was left standing beside a boy he knew from the hallway—broad shoulders, uncertain hands. They raised their arms at the same time. The boy led jerkily, as if his elbows had no hinges. Chris tried to catch the waving motion, mirrored too late, corrected again too early. Their eyes met only fleetingly, and immediately the gaze slipped away like on a slick stage.\n\n“Slower. Chris!” Ms. Green called somewhere between the rows.\n\nChris breathed deeper, but the rhythm stayed brittle. The boy twitched his shoulder, Chris twitched a heartbeat later. The sound of rubber soles on wood. When they switched roles, it didn’t get any better. Chris led, kept his palm open, and the boy followed, but his gaze stuck to the fingers instead of the eyes. A film of delay lay over everything.\n\nMs. Green clapped again. “Switch!” she called. “New partners, now.”\n\n''How does Chris react?''\n❯ [[He gives the boy an encouraging smile.|Er gibt gibt Jungen ein aufmunterndes Lächeln.]]\n❯ [[He quickly turns away and is glad it’s over.|Er dreht sich schnell weg und ist froh, dass es vorbei ist.]]

“I’d really like to…,” Chris began, pointing to his foot with a small, regretful smile. “But after twisting it today—you know, stairs…” He waved vaguely toward the school.\n\n“Oh man.” Charlotte grimaced, not angry, just disappointed. “Sure, take it easy.”\n“Safety first,” Mr. Moore nodded curtly.\n\nThe Pom Puffs lined up. Chris limped slightly to the bleachers and sank onto the cool benches. From above, everything looked both more orderly and more dangerous: mat edges, lines on the court, gravity tugging at stunts. The music kicked in, and the girls slipped into the warm-up flow—arms, shoulders, hips—like gears.\n\nChris watched his little sister and the other girls doing their exercises with fascination. It was a feast for the senses, being able to admire those aesthetic movements.\n\nChristine quickly found her rhythm. Her ponytail drew eighth notes in the air, the counts sat on her lips, her knees stayed stable. When Penelope called the movement from the front, Christine was the first to bring it cleanly back into the line. It was as if she had grid lines in her head along which she arranged body and expression: “Energy, but no fidgeting.” When the group practiced the first chant, her voice in the chorus did not grow louder—only more carrying.\n\nAt the edge, [[Zoe|Zoe March]] appeared, her curly dark-brown hair pulled back tightly this time, gaze nailed forward. She took her place in the back row, focused, guarded like a fortress. Her motions were precise, almost stubborn; sometimes she held a position a beat too long, as if forcing herself to be exactly that way and no other. On the jump, she was small but explosive—knees high, toes pointed, landing quiet.\n\nBeside Chris, two girls whispered. “Isn’t that Zoe March?”—“Yeah. She got kicked off the Pom Puffs last year after three weeks.”\n“Why?”\n“Rumor was: she got caught in the boys’ locker room giving a Timberwolves senior French tutoring. Coach lost it. Boom, out.”\n\nChris let his gaze sink back to the mat. He saw how Zoe clenched her teeth when she didn’t hit a combo on the first try, and how Christine over there briefly looked up at him, as if wanting to know whether he understood why she wanted to be here. Charlotte gave tiny corrections from the front row, Penelope kept the counts on track with a clipped “Five-six-seven—”.\n\nThe final round was the “eight by eight” combo. Christine chose safe, clean movements, without showing off: High V, Low V, kicks, a tight toe touch—no acrobatics, but timing like a metronome. Zoe relied on sharpness: crisp arms, a quick turn, then a hiccup—she caught it, bit “again” into the air, and came back onto the beat. No smile, only focus.\n\nWhen Mr. Moore briefly touched the whistle and the music ran out, sweat gathered in bright dots on foreheads. The applicants stepped into a line. A murmur went around, the bleachers leaning forward like a meadow in the wind.\n\n“Thank you, all of you,” Mr. Moore began, whistle in hand, voice calm. “We’re evaluating technique, timing, teamwork, and learning curve. We only have limited spots. If your name isn’t called: don’t read it as a judgment on you—come back in spring.”\n\nHe read out a short list: two returners, a freshman who shone in tumbling—and then: “…Christine Braun.” A murmur rose, Charlotte clapped first, Penelope whistled softly. Christine pressed her lips together, tried to stay cool, but her eyes almost laughed themselves free. She threw Chris a look—“see?”—and he raised both thumbs.\n\n“And the last spot goes to… Zoe March.” It went briefly silent, then the clapping began, uncertain, some surprised, some convinced. Zoe stood as if someone had given her a word she hadn’t expected. Her chin twitched slightly. She nodded once, curtly, as if filing the decision away like homework. Penelope tapped her arm, Charlotte said a genuine “Congrats.”\n\nThe remaining applicants stepped away—a few tight smiles, deep breaths, “next time.” Chris stayed sitting on the bleachers, his “injured” foot obediently still, while new formations were tried out below.\n\n''What happens?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[The date with Charlotte.|Das Date mit Charlotte.]]<<else>>[[The next surprise at home.|Die nächste Überraschung zu Hause.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

That evening, the bathroom was warm from the steam of the shower. The mirror was slightly fogged, and the ceiling light made everything too bright for an evening. Chris stood beside Christine at the sink, both of them with toothbrushes in hand, as if this were a ritual that automatically ended the day.\n<<set $ort to "Bathroom">>\nHe squeezed toothpaste onto the bristles, too much, as always when he was nervous. The sharp mintiness immediately rose into his nose. Beside him, Christine did the same, routinely, without looking at him.\n\nThey brushed at the same time. The hum of the electric toothbrush vibrated through Chris’s hand, mechanical, soothing and unbearable at once. He stared at his reflection: reddened corners of his eyes, a strand of hair that refused to lie flat. The day had pulled the ground out from under his feet.\n\nChristine spat, rinsed her mouth, pushed the brush back between her lips.\n\nChris noticed how he was clinging to little things: the drop falling from the faucet into the ceramic, the sequence—left, right, front—the cold edge of the sink where his knuckles rested. Anything to avoid thinking, avoid feeling. But fear had already found its way into his body; it sat in his throat and pressed from the inside.\n\nChristine rinsed again, wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked briefly into the mirror, not at him, but past him. Then she took her brush and put it back in the cup.\n\nChris did the same. One last rinse, cold water against his palate. He set the cup down, and suddenly there was that little pause where there was nothing to do. Just standing.\n\n“Good night,” Christine said. It sounded casual, almost automatic—a sentence like a light switch.\n\nChris’s chest tightened, because tonight of all nights, it wasn’t casual. It was something that didn’t hurt. Something that was allowed to stay. He nodded, swallowed against the lump, and his voice came out quieter than he wanted.\n\n“Good night.”\n\nChristine paused briefly, her hand already on the door handle. She didn’t turn all the way around, but her gaze went to the side for a moment, just enough for him to know: She had heard how he said it. Then she stepped one step closer and very briefly placed her fingertips on his forearm—no caress, no grand gesture. Just a small pressure that said: I’m here.\n\nChris took one deep breath, as if he had been breathing too shallowly the whole time. He nodded again, unable to say more, because every word would immediately have become too large.\n\nChristine let go of his arm and opened the door. “Sleep well,” she murmured, already half in the hallway.\n\n“You too,” Chris said after her.\n\nWhen she was gone, he remained alone in front of the mirror for a moment. The bathroom smelled of mint and soap. And even though the day had been awful, that simple “good night” held him together like a clamp—small, unspectacular, but strong enough to carry him through to morning.\n<<set $zoe_opinion to 15>>\n[[Continue|Der nächste Schultag.]]

Charlotte fetched a lighter, a small metal needle and—to Chris’s horror—a potato from the kitchen. “Impro kit,” she said with that crooked grin meant to give courage, though it still set every alarm bell ringing in him. “I did Mia’s the same way.” Chris swallowed. There was no way this could really be “okay”; his mind flickered briefly with the word unsterile. But Charlotte’s eyes were shining, and his butterflies were louder than his concerns.\n\n“Ready?”\n“As ready as… one can be,” he muttered, sitting down at the desk, his hands clenched into fists.\n\nCharlotte worked carefully—no tutorial, no big fuss—and still, at the first prick, a hot pain shot through his earlobe. For one breath, the world became very small. “Ow-ow!” escaped him.\n“My friend didn’t whine that much,” Charlotte teased playfully, then immediately softened: “It’s okay, it’s okay—almost over.”\n\nThe second lobe burned just as briefly and sharply, his eyes watered, but then it was done: two tiny silver studs shimmered on his ears. Charlotte took a step back, regarded her work, and her smile became slow and warm. “Beautiful,” she said. Then she leaned forward and kissed him—gently, soothingly, more a promise than fireworks.\n\nLater, when the sky was already tipping into a paler blue, Chris had to leave. Joseph insisted on driving him home. “My daughter’s friends get home safely,” he said with a mixture of formality and care that was hard to argue with. Charlotte and Chris exchanged a look; he nodded.\n\nThey got into the car. “Don’t forget to buckle up!” Joseph sounded deliberately casual and yet nervous, as if he were acting as chauffeur on a delicate mission for the first time. When shifting gears, his hand briefly brushed over Chris’s leg—more of a clumsy contact. Chris flinched; he felt the heat rise all the way to his ears. Joseph’s gaze shot sideways in alarm. “Uh—sorry! Gearshift, not… uh—you know.”\n\nDuring the drive, the tension eased. Joseph spoke in halting, friendly sentences about a project at the office, about Charlotte’s quiz-bowl successes in middle school (“She was a little machine”), asked how Chris liked Germany—uh, or rather, how she liked the USA. He made an effort to strike the right tone, and surprisingly often he did. Chris answered, settled in, felt the nervousness give way to a quiet fondness: he liked Joseph. Almost as easily as Charlotte.\n\nWhen they turned into his street, a neighbor was already peering out the window, arms propped on a cushion. Of course, now. Chris felt the embarrassment become half a size too tight—him in a car with a much older man.\n\n“Thanks for the ride,” he said hastily as Joseph pulled up to the curb.\n“Of course,” Joseph replied, hands dutifully on the wheel.\n\nChris got out and made his way to the front door, towel under his arm and his heart somewhere at his earlobes. Behind the curtains, the neighbor’s curiosity vibrated; ahead of him, his key clicked in the lock.\n\n''🕶️ Cover +1''\n\n[[The third school day.|Der dritte Schultag.][$stil += 1]]

The last few weeks at home dragged on like taffy. Everything had already been decided—the acceptance, the date, the move—and precisely because of that, every day in Maplewood felt like an echo that refused to stop.\n\nChris’s room was at once full of boxes and full of routine. During the day he sat at his desk, doing paperwork “real quick,” filling out forms, clicking through online portals that looked like freedom and still felt like bureaucracy. In the evenings, he sorted things into piles: take, leave, hide. He folded blouses he had never really wanted to wear and still placed them neatly into boxes, because order had always been a kind of protection here.\n\nHis mother called it “preparation,” but it was control in a new dress.\n\nShe appeared in the doorway when he was packing, and she always had an opinion. “That top is too plain. Take the silky one. College is a fresh start, you have to present yourself well.” She held jewelry out to him as if earrings were an entry ticket. She sorted his clothes into categories that hadn’t existed before: “everyday,” “date,” “serious,” “cute.” And every time Chris wanted to put away something that was too much Susan, she put it back again, as if she were sorting him back into place with it.\n\n“You won’t forget who you are there,” she said once casually, while tugging at his box until everything lay “nicely.” The sentence sounded harmless. Chris heard the threat beneath it: I won’t forget you.\n\nChristine was hard to get hold of during those weeks. Sometimes she was suddenly there again—standing in the hallway, stuffing snacks into her bag, letting a quick glance slide over to Chris as if she wanted to say something. Then again she disappeared into friends, plans, lists, as if she were already half gone, even though she was still in the house. When Chris asked her whether they wanted to do something together, she often only shrugged. “I’ve got a lot to do.” And that wasn’t even a lie.\n\nBetween them remained that strange layer of shame and caution neither of them wanted to touch. But sometimes, when Susan wasn’t there, something small happened: Christine silently placed a hair tie on the table for Chris that matched his outfit better. Or she tossed him a bag of chips in passing, without comment. They were tiny gestures that said: I can’t always be there, but I’m not completely gone.\n\nOnce, late in the evening, Susan sat at the kitchen table with a glass of wine and leafed through a college brochure as if it were a catalog. “You’ll meet a lot of people there,” she said. “But you’ll still call me every day. I want to know who you’re with. And I want photos. Every other day. For me.”\n\nChris stood in the doorway and felt everything inside him contract. The old reflex wanted to nod. The new reflex—small, but awake—wanted air. He said nothing. He simply went back to his room, closed the door, and stood in front of the mirror.\n\nHe looked polished, as always. Perfect. And yet, during those weeks, he often felt like an empty house that was already up for sale: clean, orderly, but no longer inhabited inside. He looked at the boxes, more and more of them, and noticed a strange calm spreading through him. Not happiness. Not yet. More like something you only feel right before jumping: a clarity that makes you quiet.\n\nOn the evening before departure, he packed the last things: a few books, a photo from Germany, a pretty negligee that he laid at the bottom of a box as if it were a private piece of the future. Then he sat down on the bed and heard Christine close a drawer in the room next door. Downstairs, the television was on. Susan was on the phone, laughing somewhere in the house.\n\nChris took a deep breath, placed his hand on the acceptance letter, which had long since been tucked into a folder, and thought: A few more days. Then my life won’t be here anymore.\n\n[[Continue|Kurz vor dem College.]]

<<back "Back">>\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/MrWalters.jpg]]</center> ''Name:'' Joseph Walters \n''Age:'' 41 \n''Birthday:'' June\n\n''Relationships''\nGianna Walters(†) - wife\nCharlotte Walters(18) - daughter\n\n''Biography''\nJoseph Walters grew up in a simple, warm-hearted home: lots of work, little fuss, clear values. His parents were not great talkers, but they were dependable—and Joseph adopted early on the habit of seeing responsibility not as a burden, but as normality.\n\nAfter high school, he did not go far away. Instead of “making it big,” he built himself a stable life step by step: training, a steady job, later a house of his own. He is not a man of grand gestures, but rather one of small acts—lunchboxes, forgotten signatures, a coat brought after someone when it gets cold. As the single father of a teenage daughter, he is sometimes slightly overwhelmed because teenage logic regularly surprises him. Still, he remains patient, tries to listen, and turns mistakes into jokes rather than reproaches.\n\nSince his wife’s death, Joseph has hardly allowed relationships. Not out of bitterness, but out of caution: he has learned how much loss hurts, and prefers to keep closeness at a distance when he cannot control it. At the same time, there is a great deal of care in him—a need to give others safety—and that is exactly what makes him someone with whom you quickly feel looked after: reliable, gentle, not perfect, but real.\n\n''Shared Moments / Memories''\n<<nobr>>\n\n<ul> <<if $JosephMemory[0] eq 1>><li>Joseph remembers that Chris was unexpectedly alone with him, helped out, and built him up with compliments—and that, to Joseph, it felt like genuine attention from a young woman.</li><</if>> <<if $JosephMemory[0] eq 1>><li>Joseph remembers warmly how Chris fell asleep beside him on the sofa and finally came to rest in his arm—a quiet moment of closeness, trust, and security.</li><</if>> <<if $JosephMemory[1] eq 1>><li>Joseph remembers how his gaze wandered to Chris at the Timberwolves’ first home game and he realized that the sight stirred more in him than a grown man was allowed to feel toward a teenager.</li><</if>> </ul> <</nobr>> <div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Chris’s relationship with Mr. Walters</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>I don’t know him</span> <span>affection</span> </div> <div class="axis-barlove"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $joseph_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $joseph_opinion < 20>> Just my girlfriend’s father <<elseif $joseph_opinion < 40>> Mr. Walters is nice <<elseif $joseph_opinion < 60>> Mr. Walters is nice <<elseif $joseph_opinion < 80>> Mr. Walters is like a father to me <<else>> DADDY!!! <</if>> </div> </div> <<back "Back">>

Instinctively, he drew the baby closer to his upper body, held it higher so its head rested against his chest, right where he could feel his own heartbeat. And almost immediately, something changed: The baby took two more gulping breaths, then the crying became a quiet grumble, then nothing at all. It lay still, warm and heavy, as if it had been looking for exactly that spot.\n\nChris stood frozen.\n\nPart of him felt an unexpected euphoria, entirely physical: It works. The rhythm, the warmth, the soft curve of his chest—something he had never wanted—calmed this child. At the same time, shame slid over the feeling like a shadow: I’m a boy—and this works. He swallowed and still held still, because the baby was finally calm and because his arms automatically knew how to hold someone who, right then, only needed safety.\n\n[[Continue|Leo stellt viele Fragen.]]

In the arrivals area, everything was glass, metal, and a tangle of voices. Suitcases rolled across the floor, somewhere a cart beeped, and Christmas songs played from speakers so softly they almost seemed like background noise. Chris stood at the edge with his trolley, unconsciously hunching his shoulders forward as he searched the faces for his father.\n\nHe saw him first. Michael was standing a few meters away, in a jacket and scarf, his gaze wandering over the crowd—but he looked right past Chris as if he were invisible. Once, Michael’s gaze caught on him briefly, then slid on. Chris’s stomach clenched.\n\nHe moved closer, his steps suddenly too loud in his own ears. “Dad?” he said, and his voice sounded thinner than he wanted.\n\nHis father turned—and still didn’t recognize him. A polite, confused smile worked across his face, the kind you give a stranger who has addressed you by mistake. “Yes…?”\n\nChris felt the blood rush to his face. He forced himself not to step back. “I… it’s me, Dad. Chris.”\n\nThe word hung between them like an object someone had dropped that didn’t hit the ground right away. Michael stared at him, first blankly, then slowly taking it in. His gaze went from Chris’s styled hair to the earrings, to the dress, to the tights, back up to his face—and stayed there, as if searching for a familiar angle. Then recognition pushed into his eyes, painfully clear.\n\n“Chris…?” he managed, and his voice slipped an octave lower, as if it had caught in his throat.\n\nFor Chris, it was a moment like standing under spotlights. He wanted to disappear into the floor. At the same time, he couldn’t leave. He only nodded, small, ashamed, and gripped the handle of his suitcase tighter until his fingers hurt.\n\nHis father took one step forward, then another—too quickly, as if he could repair the distance with speed. “Hey! Wow…” He smiled too widely, far too deliberately, and pulled Chris into a hug that was meant to be warm but stayed a little stiff, as if he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “I’m glad you’re here. Really. I—I just didn’t…” He broke off and laughed briefly, a false, helpless laugh. “You look… uh… different.”\n\nChris’s throat tightened. “Yeah,” he said, nothing more. He couldn’t manage anything else.\n\n[[Continue|Die neue Freundin des Vaters.]]

Lucas stood rooted to the spot. In an instant, every bit of color drained from his face, as if someone had turned the tone down. His eyes jumped from Christine to Chris and back again, searching for the “joke,” for the missing context, for anything that made those words harmless.\n<<set $ort to "school grounds">><<set $LucasMemory[7] to 1>>\nChris’s stomach dropped. The hallway, quiet just moments ago, suddenly became too loud, too open, too bright. He felt blood rush to his ears.\n\n“Lucas…” Chris managed, but his voice sounded strange, thin.\n\nLucas swallowed visibly. “What—” He couldn’t tear his gaze away from Chris. “What did she just say?” His voice was quiet, almost reverently shocked. “Are you…?”\n\nChristine took a step back, as if she hated herself for letting it slip. “I—” She broke off, pressed her lips together, and looked away.\n\nChris’s mind worked frantically. Excuses. Explanations. Anything. Nothing fit. All he felt was panic.\n\n“Please,” Chris said quickly, and it sounded like a desperate prayer. “Not here. I… I’ll explain everything. After school. Please don’t tell anyone.” His hands were completely still, but his fingers cramped invisibly. “I swear, I’ll explain everything.”\n\nLucas’s mouth was still slightly open. He nodded once, mechanically, as if he had only understood the sentence because he had seen it. “After… school,” he repeated, more to anchor himself than to agree. “Okay. But—Chris, what…?”\n\n“Please,” Chris said again, smaller. “Just… wait.”\n\nLucas nodded again. His gaze was confused, hurt, curious, all at once. Then he slowly walked on, as if the floor had suddenly become uncertain.\n\nChris remained behind, his heart racing. Christine still stood there, clutching her backpack tightly to her chest. She said nothing. Her eyes looked hard, but not cold—more like someone who had forced herself into armor.\n\nAfter class, they met, as promised. Not inside the school building, not in the noise. Chris led Lucas to the bench behind the sports field, to where the wind moved more freely and from the bleachers you could only be seen as small silhouettes. The sky was bright, but it was cool; a few leaves still clung wetly to the ground.\n\nLucas sat down first, as if he needed to hold on to something. Chris sat down beside him, a hand’s width of space between them, and stared briefly at his own knees. The skirt lay neatly, the tights flawless—the whole image he built every day. And yet right now he felt naked.\n\n“Say it,” Lucas finally said. He tried to sound calm, but his voice trembled at the edges. “Please.”\n\nChris took one deep breath. Then another. “Christine… is right,” he said quietly. “I’m a boy.”\n\nLucas’s eyes widened, as if he still hadn’t truly believed it until he heard it. “But—how…?”\n\n[[Continue|Chris erzählt die ganze Wahrheit.]]

The cafeteria was once again a sea of voices, trays, and neon light. Chris balanced his food through the aisles—water, salad, a piece of lasagna—and headed for the table where Christine was already sitting. The floor stuck in one spot, somewhere a soda hissed open, and the air conditioning hummed like a steady choir.\n<<set $ort to "cafeteria">>\nBehind him, two chairs plopped down, and two theater kids—dressed in black, notebooks under their arms—began quietly rehearsing an audition dialogue. “Quieter,” one murmured, “but with bite.” Then she started again: “Wearing a mask doesn’t mean you’re no longer yourself. It just means you decide how people are allowed to see you.” The sentence dropped into Chris’s stomach like a coin toss and stayed there. He stared at his fork as if the footnote to it were written there.\n\n“Everything okay?” Christine slid a napkin toward him as if it were an anchor.\n\n“Sure,” he said, too quickly, and speared a lettuce leaf.\n\nTwo tables over, jocks were betting on the Timberwolves’ defense, the Pom Puffs were discussing jackets in school colors, and at the outlet table Ruby was explaining to a freshman how to sort a spreadsheet correctly.\n\n''What happens?''\n<<nobr>><<if $schuhe == 1>>[[Chaos in the stairwell.|Chaos im Treppenhaus.]]<<else>>[[Chaos in the stairwell.|Chaos im Treppenhaus.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

The house was bigger than Chris had expected. The driveway full of cars, voices and music were already spilling out onto the sidewalk. Inside, the living room had become a dance floor: dimmed lights, LED strips on the walls, a pounding bass that crawled through the floor. Behind a dining table that had been shoved partly aside stood an improvised bar: bottles, ice, red plastic cups in stacks.<<set $ort to "party house">>\n<center>[img[pics/party.jpg]]</center> Chris and Christine had barely pulled the door shut behind them when Myles came toward them. Broad, loud, a red cup in his hand. “There you are,” he grinned, placed a hand on Christine’s back, and pulled her to him to kiss her without further ado. She let him, returned the kiss, her hand on his upper arm. Chris looked away briefly, a reflex that had nothing to do with prudishness.\n\nBehind Myles stood two or three of his buddies, all armed with cups. Their gazes darted past Christine and stuck on Chris. The miniskirt. The crop top. The bare legs.\n\nOne let his eyes wander shamelessly from top to bottom, getting caught at the edge of the skirt. Another held his cup half in front of his mouth and simply stared, as if some especially interesting object had wandered into the scenery.\n\n“Hot,” one muttered half aloud, more for the group than for Chris.\n\nChris reflexively crossed his arms in front of his stomach, as if that could cover something that couldn’t really be covered. The heels suddenly felt even higher, the floor softer. He lowered his head slightly to avoid the direct looks and shifted half a step behind Christine.\n\nRed cups knocked together. “To us!” “To the weekend!” Laughter, too loud, cracking. Someone started telling a story from the last party, about who had puked, who had disappeared into the bedroom with whom. The stories flowed like background noise, offering Chris nothing to hold on to.\n\n“Christina, right?” asked one of Myles’s friends, leaning closer. His eyes were fixed clearly on Chris’s cleavage and stomach, not on his face.\n\n“Chris,” he corrected automatically, his shoulders pulled up a little.\n\n“Chris,” the boy repeated, as if that were a joke only he understood. “Sounds more like one of us.” A thin grin, uncertain laughter in the circle. Someone nudged him chummily in the side with an elbow, as if that said it all.\n\nChris felt heat rising into his face. “They’re laughing at my insecurity,” he thought. Not at any specific line, but at the sum of his movements: the steps too tight, the hands that found no place, the careful balancing in the heels.\n\nTo him, the outfit felt like a costume. A role someone else had chosen for him. Miniskirt, crop top, lip gloss, hoop earrings—visually, he fulfilled an expectation, some “party girl” image hanging in the room. Inside, he wasn’t there. Inside, he was busy not doing anything wrong, not giving anything away, not stumbling.\n\nHe noticed how gazes clung to him like sticky smoke. To his legs, to the cut-out fabric, to the slight hint of breasts. It was as if his body were being perceived as an image, not as a person in a conversation.\n\n“People are staring at my body, but not taking me seriously,” he thought, and the thought settled on his chest like a weight.\n\nWithout warning, someone pressed a red cup into his hand. “Here,” a voice said right beside him. “It’s part of it.”\n\nHe wanted to protest, briefly wondered what was in it, but everyone around him was holding similar cups, laughing, drinking, acting as if this were the admission ticket to belonging. So he raised the cup to his lips and took a sip.\n\nThe beer tasted stronger, more bitter than he remembered. Resistance rose inside him—Beer doesn’t usually taste this strongly of alcohol, he thought, and still took another sip. Maybe it would help against the pulling in his stomach, against the restless awareness of every bare patch of skin.\n\nThe music swelled. He kept drinking, small sips, then larger ones. The cold in the cup became warmth in his throat, in his belly. The edges of the room seemed to soften a little. Voices no longer slid past him as hard fragments, but as a broader rush.\n\nThe nervousness took a step back, wavered. In its place came a slight dizziness, a cottony feeling in his knees. Chris noticed faster than he liked how the alcohol was arriving in him.\n\n[[Continue|Tanzen.]]

Later, when the dance floor grew fuller and the mood became noticeably looser, Chris tried to pull himself out of the bustle. He went to the drink station just to get some water or soda, anything that would let him breathe for a moment.\n\n“Heeey,” a voice suddenly slurred beside him.\n\nA wedding guest—already clearly drunk, his shirt crooked, his cheeks shiny—stood too close to Chris. “You’re… the cutie from earlier. With the bouquet.” He grinned and put his hand on Chris’ hip, as if that were normal.\n\nChris pulled back reflexively. “I… I’m just getting something to drink.”\n\n“Come on, dance with me.” The man reached for him again, more firmly this time, and pulled him toward the dance floor.\n\nChris stumbled along, startled, and tried to free himself. “No—I don’t want to,” he said, quietly but clearly. His heart immediately hammered, because this kind of closeness reminded him of far too many unpleasant situations.\n\nThe man laughed as if it were a game. “Oh come on, don’t be like that.”\n\nChris’ hand tightened, he looked helplessly around the hall—and at exactly that moment Joseph stepped between them.\n\nNot aggressive. Not loud. Simply there.\n\n“Hey,” Joseph said calmly, friendly, but with an edge that left no room for doubt. He smiled at the man as if it were a misunderstanding that could be elegantly resolved. “Thanks, but she’s already spoken for.”\n\nThe man blinked, confused by the politeness. “What? I… I only wanted to—”\n\n“It’s all right,” Joseph continued calmly, briefly placing a hand on the man’s shoulder in a completely controlled way—not threatening, more guiding. “Come on, I’ll take you back to your table. I’m sure someone’s waiting for you there.”\n\nHe led him away with a few words and a small laugh, as if it had all just been a silly slip-up. The man actually let himself be distracted, muttered something else incomprehensible, and wandered off.\n\nChris stood there frozen for another moment. Only now did he notice how tense his shoulders were.\n\nJoseph came over to him. “Everything okay?” he asked softly.\n\nChris nodded quickly, his voice still thin. “Yes. Thank you.”\n\nJoseph held his gaze a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Then he offered him his hand, completely naturally, as if giving him a safe option. “Come on. Then we’ll dance instead.”\n\nChris took the hand without thinking.\n\nOn the dance floor, it was crowded, warm, lights moving over faces and suits. Joseph did not pull Chris against him, but calmly guided him to a small open spot where they would not be bumped into. The music had become slower. Joseph placed one hand on Chris’ back, and Chris’ other hand landed on Joseph’s shoulder.\n\nThey danced close enough that Chris could feel Joseph’s warmth through his dress, but not so close that it felt wrong. More like a safe space that happened to smell of eau de cologne and an ironed shirt.\n\nWith every slow step, something in him loosened. His head was still hot with shame over the drunken guest—but Joseph’s calm guidance gave him the feeling that nothing bad had happened as long as Joseph was there. Safe. Protected. And that tingling in his stomach was there again, quiet and treacherous, while he felt held in Joseph’s arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world.\n\n[[Continue|Das Lied wechselt.][$kissboy += 1]]

Chris placed his hand against Zeke’s head and stopped him. “Wait,” he said hoarsely.\n\nZeke stopped immediately. “Did I do something wrong?” His gaze was confused, then cautious.\n\nChris shook his head, his throat tight. “No. Not you.” He forced himself to take a breath, searching for words that would not trample everything. “I… I can’t right now. Not any further.”\n\nDisappointment flashed across Zeke’s face – not angry, more hurt, because he had misjudged the momentum. He nodded slowly, swallowed once, and sat back. “Okay,” he said quietly.\n\nLater, they lay beside each other with a little more distance than before. Their bodies still touched, their breathing eventually finding a calmer rhythm. Chris stared into the darkness, ashamed and relieved at the same time.\n\nIn the morning, roadside assistance arrived. Metal clinked, a tow hook was attached, voices sounded professional and too awake. Chris blinked into the daylight, feeling both tired and overfull.\n\nAs the van was loaded up and Zeke briefly spoke with the driver, Chris stood beside it, his hands deep in his jacket pockets. Zeke came back, looked at him, and in his gaze there was still that warm “yesterday was real,” despite the uncomfortable night.\n\nWhen they were finally dropped off in Maplewood in a parking lot and Zeke had taken care of the formalities, they stood beside the van, both a little rumpled, but okay.\n\nChris took a step closer and gave him a small kiss on the cheek – brief, grateful, without pressure. “Thank you,” he said. “For the concert. For everything.”\n\nZeke smiled, a little crookedly. “It was good with you. Really.”\n\nChris nodded, and a quiet glow lay in his stomach: His first date with a man had been beautiful. The band had been great. Zeke had been kind. And at the same time, he was ashamed of losing control the night before – not because the kiss had been unpleasant, but because he had realized how quickly he could lose himself.\n\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5b]]

Chris slipped into the nearest stall, slid the bolt shut, and did not even really sit down—he only leaned back against the door, the clutch pressed tightly to his chest, until his breathing became halfway steady again. The light was harsh, the music outside only a dull thump now, as if it were coming from another building.\n\nThe door to the sink area opened. Voices, heels on tile. Two girls came in, still laughing from the dance floor chaos, and Chris immediately held his breath.\n\n“Did you see that new girl just now?” one of them said, and it had that tone that was already gossiping before the content even began. “She moves so... weirdly when she dances.”\n\n“Totally,” said the other. “Kind of so stiff. And sometimes, when she talks—I don’t know—the voice sounds strange sometimes. As if she...” She left the sentence open, but that very openness was like a needle.\n\nChris’s throat went dry. It was nothing concrete. No proof. Just a seed, which could be enough in a room full of rumors. He pressed his knees together, as if he could squeeze the trembling out of his body that way, and stared at the stall wall, which suddenly seemed far too close.\n\n“Maybe she’s just awkward,” said the first, and the word sounded like a verdict. “Or she’s pretending.”\n\n“Or both,” the second giggled, and water rushed briefly as someone turned on the faucet.\n\nChris stayed motionless until he almost forgot to blink. The voices did not move away—they were standing at the mirror, touching up their lips, laughing more softly, as if gossip-energy were its own step in putting on makeup. Then the door opened again, more hastily this time, and a third voice burst into the room like news too good to keep to herself.\n\n“Oh my God, you’re missing everything!” The girl sounded excited, almost triumphant. “Myles’s date just threw the whole punch in his face. Just splash—and then she left him standing there. He was standing there like an idiot!”\n\nA sharp inhale, then laughter. “Wait—really?”\n\n“Yes! Everyone saw it,” said the third. “She said something, I didn’t understand it, the music was too loud, and then—punch. And gone. Myles was completely... done.”\n\nChris closed his eyes. For one tiny moment he felt something that was almost satisfaction—and immediately felt ashamed of it. Then he thought of Christine, of the bleacher step, of her crying in his arms. In his stall, he stayed silent until the voices outside drifted back toward the door and the whispering was swallowed by the bass.\n\n[[Continue|Best Dressed]]

The morning of the big day began too early. The hospital still seemed half asleep: dimmed light, quiet footsteps, the smell of disinfectant and coffee from a vending machine somewhere at the end of the corridor. Chris sat in the admissions area in comfortable but unfamiliar clothes, his hands clasped together, staring at the wristband with his name on it as if it were one last confirmation that he was really here.\n\nCharlotte sat beside him and held his hand. Susan was there too, of course, too awake, too organized, with papers in her hand and that tone of voice that made everything sound like a project – as if order could replace fear. Christine stood a little off to the side, quieter than usual. She said little, but she was there, and that alone felt like support to Chris.\n\nThe closer the moment came, the more Chris felt the uncertainty in his stomach. His thoughts jumped: What if I’m different afterward? What if I regret it? What if I lose Charlotte anyway? And immediately after that came the other sentence, hard and simple: I’ve come this far. I can’t turn back now.\n\nWhen he was finally called, he had to pull away from them. Charlotte squeezed his hand one last time. Susan stroked his head as if he were still small. Christine only nodded to him – but there was something serious in that nod, as if she were saying: Come back.\n\nChris changed into the hospital gown, was asked the final questions, gave a few signatures, then everything happened quickly. He was wheeled toward the OR, the ceiling lights passing over him in even panels. He suddenly felt very young and very grown up at the same time. When they told him to breathe deeply, he did – and the world became soft, then dark.\n\nThe surgery went smoothly.\n\nWhen Chris came to again, at first there was only warmth – and a heavy, wavering feeling, as if his body were swimming beneath a thick blanket. Sounds reached him muffled: voices, a beeping in a calm rhythm, the rustle of fabric. He blinked, and the light stung his eyes until he closed them again.\n\nHis mouth was dry. His head felt as if someone had stuffed it with cotton wool. He tried to move his hands and noticed how sluggish everything was. Then came the first clear physical sensation: pressure and pain deep in his lower abdomen, not sharp, more dull, like a great pulling sensation that told him something had happened. He breathed shallowly, automatically careful, and as he did, he felt that he was connected – bandages, tubes, the secure feeling of “stay calm, don’t move.”\n\nPart of him was instantly panicked: What if something went wrong? But then a calm voice came through the fog, telling him that everything had gone well, that he was safe, that he should just keep breathing. Chris nodded almost imperceptibly, more an inner nod than a real one.\n\nAnd then, slowly, the meaning seeped through.\n\nIt happened.\n\nNot as jubilation, not as fireworks. More like a door quietly falling shut. Chris felt a wave of relief, so strong that it briefly made his eyes damp – and right behind it something else: sadness, loss, exhaustion, as if he had not only come through a procedure, but an entire life that had resisted it. He thought of Charlotte. This was for you, he wanted to think – and was startled by how tightly he clung to it. At the same time, a tender, almost shy thought flickered up: And maybe for me too?\n\nHe blinked again and this time managed to keep his eyes open. Everything was blurry, but at the edge of his field of vision he recognized movement, familiar silhouettes. Charlotte leaned closer, her hand finding his. Susan stood behind her, visibly relieved, as if only now had she really been able to breathe again. Christine was there, silent, with a look that was both worried and somehow proud.\n\nChris wanted to say something, but his voice was only a hoarse rasp. Instead, he squeezed Charlotte’s hand as tightly as he could – which probably was not very tight, but it was enough to show that he was there.\n\nHis body hurt, his head was heavy, and yet in the middle of his chaos, one point felt calm: The step had been taken. The last one. And when he closed his eyes again, for the first time in a long time there was a moment in which he did not have to run, did not have to perform, did not have to explain – only lie there and breathe.\n\n[[Continue|Urlaub mit Charlotte.]]

The weeks blurred into routines and little tests. Susan kept her list. Chris collected “good” and “so-so” and avoided “no.” His pleading ran aground every time against the same wall. “School starts soon,” Susan said, as if announcing the weather. “I think you’re ready.”\n\nOne evening he stood in the bathroom, the hum of the ventilation a quiet circle above his head. He sighed, laying his hand flat against his chest, the way he sometimes did to reassure himself that he was still “there.” A tingling shiver ran through his body as his fingers accidentally brushed over his nipple. The heel of his hand bumped against something that hadn’t been like that yesterday. Firm. Gently taut. A pulling sensation, as if someone had secretly tied knots beneath the skin.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/busen1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/busen1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nHe lifted his gaze to the mirror. The light was harsh. He pulled up the shirt. Two small swellings showed, barely more than promises, and yet impossible to miss. The skin looked sensitive, the areolas larger and rosier than usual. He blinked, as if a false image might vanish if he refused to trust it.\n\n“No,” he said into the mirror. The word fogged the glass. He touched again, more carefully—a tingling, delicate and new, answered him. The shock was not a brief stab; it spread, into his fingertips, into his legs. Hormone pills, it dropped into his stomach like a stone. No longer a concept, but body. No longer lessons, but reconstruction.\n\nHe let the blouse fall and braced himself against the sink.\n\n“It’s only temporary… It’s only temporary… Everything can be reversed… Don’t panic, Chris,” he told himself.\n\nThrough the door came laughter from Christine’s room, distant and normal, as if it belonged to another world. He forced himself to take two deep breaths. Then another. Nothing about him felt normal. Not the skin, not the mirror, not the name in his head.\n\nIn a few days, the school bus would be humming again, the windows full of faces, Dylan somewhere among them, his mother at the bus stop with that small, knowing smile. Chris closed his eyes and imagined what it would be like simply to disappear. They opened again, because disappearing was not an option.\n\n“You’re ready,” his mother had said. He placed one hand on the door, the other still on his chest, and realized that the world had taken a step—without asking him.\n\n[[End of Prologue|Kapitel 1]]

Thursday morning, [[Chris|Chris Braun]] stood in the bathroom in front of the mirror and looked himself up and down, as if he had to check whether the image still matched. His toenails and fingernails were neatly filed and painted; the polish shone evenly, without edges, without little mistakes. Before, the thought alone would have made him nervous. Now it seemed… natural.\n<<set $wochentag = 4>><<set $ort to "bathroom">>\nBy now, he had also mastered makeup perfectly. He had to think back to how, in the beginning, he had simply applied the color somehow—too much, too unevenly, too hastily—and then looked in the mirror like a caricature. Back then, the shame had nearly swallowed him. Now he moved the brush in calm, confident strokes: the eyelids gently darkened, not dramatic, just deeper; a hint of blush on his cheeks that made him look more awake, not “made up”; his lips shone with a clear gloss that, in the bathroom light, seemed like a small, neat line of confidence. Two pretty earrings hung from his earlobes, flashing briefly in the mirror with every movement.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeup_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeup_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nHe looked at himself a moment longer than necessary. There was this strange mixture of pride and unease: pride because he could do it—really could. Unease because part of him knew how quickly something you can do becomes something you are.\n\nChris sprayed on a little perfume—a warm, sweet scent that immediately made him feel “ready”—finished getting dressed, straightened the collar of his blouse, and smoothed down his skirt. Then he took his bag, turned off the bathroom light, and stepped into the hallway.\n\nChristine was already waiting. She said nothing, but her gaze briefly moved over Chris’s outfit, assessing, as always, and then she gave a curt nod. Together they set off for school, the cool morning air on their faces, the sidewalk still damp, and in Chris’s head the quiet, steady ticking of a day that had already begun.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte <2 >>\n\n<<if $club == 1 && $moore == 1 && $schulball > 0>>[[Boys’ ranking.|Jungen Ranging.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 1 && $moore == 1 && $schulball == 0>>[[Boys’ ranking.|Jungen Ranging.2]]<<endif>>\n\n<<if $club == 1 && $moore == 0>>[[Boys’ ranking.|Jungen Ranging.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 0 >>[[Boys’ ranking.|Jungen Ranging.3]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 1>>[[Boys’ ranking.|Jungen Ranging.4]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 2>>[[Boys’ ranking.|Jungen Ranging.5]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 3 >>[[Boys’ ranking.|Jungen Ranging.6]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[Boys’ ranking.|Jungen Ranging.7]]<<endif>>\n<<else>>[[Boys’ ranking.|Jungen Ranging.8]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

<div class="psychedelic-text">Chris’s hand moved before his head could catch up.\n\nThe slap only half hit the guy, more a shaky swat than a full blow. Still, it was a tear in the moment. The boy blinked in surprise, his grip loosening.\n\n“What the—?”\n\nThat was enough. Chris tore himself free, stumbled backward out of his radius, turned around, and blindly plunged through the crowd. The bass hammered, his heels nearly slipped out from under him, the miniskirt stuck to his legs. He heard someone shout something, didn’t know whether it was aimed at him, and didn’t want to know either.\n\nHe pushed through the living room, down the hallway, past a group of giggling girls, past two guys who were almost fighting and thankfully didn’t. Doors, voices, laughter, music—everything blurred. He wasn’t looking for any specific place, only a gap.\n\nHe opened a random door and saw a cluttered room. Closed it again. The next door: occupied room, a couple staring at him in annoyance. The girl lay stark naked on the bed in the dim light. The boy from downstairs had his face buried between her legs, while higher up his hands kept massaging her breasts. Closed again. On down the hallway.\n\nWhen he opened another door, dense smoke hit him. Sweetish, scratchy. Four boys sat on the floor in a circle. Cups stood around, something glowed somewhere.\n\n“Oh, hey,” one said and grinned, his eyes half closed. “Come in. Door shut, or someone’ll rat us out.”\n\nChris coughed, the smoke settling in his throat immediately. But the room was separate, muted, far from the dance floor and everything that had just threatened him. A hiding place.\n\n“Okay,” he murmured, shut the door behind him, and sank onto the floor without thinking about the miniskirt. Chris sat cross-legged like the boys, and from the front the white fabric of his panties could be seen beneath the miniskirt. The boys had noticed it long ago and grinned at one another.\n\nOne of them finished rolling a joint with slow, practiced fingers, licked the paper, and lit it. The smoke rose upward in a thin line.\n\n“Want some?” he asked, holding the glowing stub out to Chris.\n\nChris stared at the little red glow for a moment. His head was already swimming from the alcohol, the air here heavier, stickier. Part of him knew this was not a good idea.\n\nAnother part thought only: A little farther away from everything.</div>\n\n[[Continue|Er zieht am Joint.2]]

<div class="psychedelic-text">The hand movement came out of reflex: a quick, flat slap, hardly more than a staggering smack. The drunk boy blinked in surprise, not hurt, but irritated enough that his grip on Chris’s waist loosened. Chris used the second, tore himself free, and stumbled to the side.\n\nHe saw Lucas. He was standing less than two meters away, as if he had been waiting and hesitating for minutes. Chris’s gaze sought him, found him, wordlessly asked for help.\n\nSomething in Lucas changed. No sudden hero, no loudness—but an upright, clear line. He stepped between Chris and the boy, raised one hand, open, not threatening. “Hey. Enough,” he said. His voice was calm, firm enough not to be ignored. “She doesn’t want to.”\n\nThe boy grinned crookedly, took another half step as if testing how real it was. “What are you, her manager?”\n\n“A friend,” Lucas replied without blinking. He didn’t let his gaze slip away. “Enough.”\n\nA few heads turned. Looks slid over; curious, judging. The boy noticed. He pressed his lips together, grumbled something unintelligible, and raised his hands in a performed gesture of innocence. “Fine,” he muttered, and turned away, back into the crowd, where laughter and bass swallowed him again.\n\nLucas waited until he was really gone. Then he turned to Chris. “Come on,” he said more softly, and placed a supporting hand on his back—careful, questioning. Chris let himself be guided.\n\nAt the edge, there was a free stretch of sofa. Lucas sat him down, then took a seat so close that he could slip between if necessary. Chris’s knees drifted apart as he sat, the miniskirt pulling up; he no longer noticed. Lucas noticed, placed a hand on Chris’s leg, and gently pushed his knees together, as if arranging a curtain. “There,” he murmured. “All good.”\n\nChris nodded dazedly, the bass pulsing now only like a distant throb. Lucas stayed beside him, gaze outward, body slightly shielding inward.\n\nThe room surged in slow waves, as if someone had set the world to “soft focus.” Voices became colorless scraps, the bass a muted thudding somewhere under the couch. Beside Lucas, Chris felt for the first time that evening something that wasn’t tipping: calm. The warmth of his shoulder was a still point where Chris’s nervous system, scratched raw by alcohol and fear, suddenly powered down.\n\nOnly after a while did he notice that his fingers were no longer on their own. They lay intertwined, Lucas’s hand and his. When did that happen? he thought, dazed. Maybe while sinking down, maybe when Lucas had guided his knees together; maybe comfort had found its way through their hands before his head could catch up.\n\nWhen Chris raised his gaze, he met Lucas’s face in close-up: with those uncertain micro-movements around the mouth that said: I want to, but only if you want it too. A tiny moment of hesitation, then Lucas’s lips came closer. </div>\n\n[[Continue|Gar nicht.][$kissboy += 1]]

<<set $ort to "Cafeteria">>Lunch break washed everyone into the cafeteria. Christine gave Chris a fleeting nudge with her elbow. “I’m going over there,” she said, and slipped to the cheerleader table. Chris watched her drop down beside Charlotte—satin scrunchie, loud laughter, a quick exchange of insider looks. The place beside them remained empty and far away.\n\n<<if $choice_adam == 1>>Chris’s gaze searched across the room until he spotted [[Adam|Adam Bowman]] at the edge of the nerd tables. When their eyes met, Adam immediately raised his hand in greeting, a little too eagerly, and smiled as if Chris had just made the whole room brighter. His gaze lingered a beat too long—soft, almost lovestruck—and Chris felt a small stab of confusion: Why is Adam looking at me like that? he thought, unsettled—and then it fell onto the back of his neck like a cold drop: Adam wasn’t seeing him. Adam was seeing her. The girl everyone else saw in Chris.\n\nChris hastily grinned back, gave a quick wave, much too fast, and looked away as if that could make the scene smaller.\n\n<<endif>><<if $choice_adam == 3>>Chris’s gaze lingered on the crowd for a moment until he spotted [[Adam|Adam Bowman]] at the edge of the nerd tables. For a fraction of a second their eyes might have met—but Adam immediately lowered his gaze, as if he had burned himself. He acted as though his drink had suddenly become the most important thing in the world, turning the cup between his fingers and staring at the edge of the table as if there were an invisible text there he had to read.\n\n<<endif>>Chris stood undecided for a heartbeat, then headed for the theater table. Ruby was already sitting there, her red braids neat as bullet points. “This seat’s free,” she said, and when Chris sat down, she gave him a brief, genuine smile.\n\n<center>[img[pics/ruby_cafeteria.jpg]]</center> [[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]] was wearing a pink off-the-shoulder top today, so that the strap of her bra was visible. Beneath her top, her small breasts showed through. They were two small pointed mounds beneath thin fabric.\n\n“Hi.” [[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]] appeared at the edge of the table as if he had grown out of the floor, one hand on his backpack strap. “May I…?”\n“Sure,” Chris said, and Lucas plopped down onto the chair with cautious joy. “Hi,” he repeated, even more quietly this time, as if trying the word in two different flavors.<<if $party1 > 0 >>\n\nAs he tapped his fork into his salad, Chris’s thoughts drifted elsewhere. To Lucas’s mother, [[Mrs. Barnett|Caroline Barnett]]: the sexy body of a mature woman in her kitchen. Had she flirted with him? It had felt like it. A small, forbidden, sweet sting. He caught himself having a thought that embarrassed him and yet stubbornly stayed: If I were friends with Lucas… I could see her more often. He pushed the thought away; it came back.<<endif>>\n<<set $lucas to 0>>\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[He ignores Lucas and focuses entirely on the conversation with Ruby.|Er ignoriert Lucas, redet nur mit Ruby.]]\n<<nobr>><<if $party1 > 0 && $party1 < 4 >>❯ [[He befriends Lucas, partly because he can’t stop thinking about Mrs. Barnett.|Mit Lucas anfreunden, um Mrs. Barnett näher zu kommen.2][$lucas += 1]]<<endif>>\n<<if $party1 == 4 >>❯ [[He befriends Lucas, partly because he can’t stop thinking about Mrs. Barnett.|Mit Lucas anfreunden, um Mrs. Barnett näher zu kommen.3][$lucas += 1]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

<<set $ort to "Cafeteria">>The cafeteria swelled with its usual noise. At the fork before the tables, Chris paused briefly. Christine tapped him on the upper arm. “I’m going over there.” A nod, a fleeting smile, and she was already sailing over to the cheerleaders, sitting down right beside Charlotte. Chris’s gaze lingered there a moment too long—Christine was already in the middle of it, swept up in the pull of the popular crowd.\n<<set $lucas to 0>>\n“Hey! Chris! Over here!” Ben from the D&D table waved both arms as if they were about to take off. [[Adam|Adam Bowman]] beside him had already tucked a paper napkin in as a bib. Chris took a deep breath and headed over to the nerds. When he set down his tray, it felt as if the room blinked invisibly once: What is the pretty girl doing with them? Thoughts no one said aloud, but their looks couldn’t hide them.\n\n“Glad you’re here,” Ben said with exaggerated casualness, making room as if Chris were a guest of honor. Two younger boys nodded so eagerly that their hair bounced.\n\n“Thanks,” Chris murmured. It was a little uncomfortable being the only “she” at the table, but the boys radiated an honest, stumbling friendliness that was hard to hate.\n\nAdam had a mountain of food in front of him: a slice of pizza, nachos, mozzarella sticks, and a huge cola. He ate fast, too fast; tomato sauce stained the corner of his mouth red, crumbs lay like confetti on his shirt. “Can I have a mozzarella stick?” he asked through half a mouthful.\n\n“Uh… sure.” Chris handed him one.\n\n“Thanksss.” Adam dipped Chris’s stick into Chris’s marinara, bit off a piece, and kept talking. “They’re really good today—hmm—better than on Wednesdays.” A splatter of sauce landed on his T-shirt. Chris’s stomach turned slightly; the dip was dead to him now. He pushed the remaining sticks over. “You take them.”\n\nAdam’s eyes lit up. “Really? Cool!” He reached for them, grateful as a puppy, and dripped sauce again.\n\n“Um… do you want my mandarin?” asked the skinny boy at the end of the table—Max, Chris remembered. “Vitamins are… I mean, good for your skin.” He faltered, turned bright red. “Not that you—I mean, you already have—I mean, pretty skin, I mean… I—”\n\n“I like mandarins,” Chris rescued him, taking the fruit and giving a small smile. “Thanks.”\n\nMax beamed as if he had won a boss fight. Two boys beside him shot him jealous looks that said: Why didn’t I think of that?\n\n“You can have my apple too, if you want,” Jay blurted out, the freshman who sometimes made jokes too quickly.\n“The apple is yours,” Chris said gently. “The mandarin is plenty.”\n\nOut of the corner of his eye, he saw Penelope glance over once from the popular table—neutral, a queen mapping the land. Chris lowered his gaze and focused on the mandarin. The peel sprayed a little as he opened it; the scent was fresh, clean, simple. He ate a piece, feeling the sweetness drive away the marinara stories.\n\n“We’re rolling dice again today,” Ben said, as if it were an invitation to a secret ball. “One-shot, sewers, part two.”\n“I’ll come,” Chris said, and realized he meant it.\n\nAdam was already on stick number three. “You’re really okay, Chris,” he declared with the importance of a verdict. “Most people make fun of us. You don’t.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, missed half of it, and grinned anyway.\n\n“Why would I?” Chris asked. It was supposed to sound cool; it simply sounded honest.\n\n“Because… well…” Max made a helpless hand gesture, as if summarizing the entire rest of the cafeteria. “Whatever. Glad you’re here.”\n\nChris nodded, feeling that cautious, small warmth in his chest. It wasn’t the table where you were admired. But it was a table where you were welcome.\n\nWhen the bell called, they stood up together. “See you later,” Ben said. Adam waved, dripped sauce again, and almost tripped over the chair. Chris had to grin. On the way to the trash, he saw two nerds whispering congratulations to Max: “Mandarin, dude. King move.”\n\n[[Continue|D&D Time.]]

[[↩ Back|Start]]\n\n<center><img src="pics/content.png" style="border:none; box-shadow:none; padding:0; background:none;"></center>\n[[Mom:|Susan Braun]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 3\nNumber of voyeur scenes: 3\n\n[[Sister:|Christine Braun]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 2\nNumber of voyeur scenes: 1\n\n[[Charlotte:|Charlotte Walters]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 3\nNumber of voyeur scenes: 1\n\n[[Mr. Walters:|Joseph Walters]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 2\n\n[[Lucas:|Lucas Barnett]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 2\n\n[[Mrs. Barnett:|Caroline Barnett]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 3\n\n[[Penelope:|Penelope Barnett]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 1\n\n[[Dylan:|Dylan Carter]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 1\nNumber of voyeur scenes: 1\n\n[[Adam:|Adam Bowman]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 3\n\n[[Zoe:|Zoe March]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 3\nNumber of voyeur scenes: 1\n\n[[Ruby:|Ruby Hicks]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 1\n\n[[Mrs. Ferguson:|Ava Ferguson]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 1\n\n[[Laverne:|Laverne Johnson]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 1\n\n[[Ms. Rivera|Lucia Rivera]]\nNumber of voyeur scenes: 1\n\n[[DeShawn:|DeShawn Powell]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 1\nNumber of voyeur scenes: 1\n\n[[Latoya:|Latoya Powell]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 1\n\n[[↩ Back|Start]]

<<set $ort to "Cafeteria">>Lunchtime vibrated as always—trays clattering, voices like a beehive. <<if $choice_adam == 1>>Chris’s gaze lingered on the crowd for a moment until he spotted [[Adam|Adam Bowman]] at the edge of the nerd tables. When their eyes met, Adam immediately raised his hand in greeting, a little too eagerly, and smiled as if Chris had just made the whole room brighter. His gaze lingered a beat too long—soft, almost lovestruck—and Chris felt a small stab of confusion: Why is he looking at me like that? The next moment he understood it, like a click in his head: Adam wasn’t seeing Chris the student. He was seeing “Chris”—the girl. Chris’s stomach tightened briefly, and he returned the greeting automatically, a fleeting smile, before quickly moving on.\n\n<<endif>><<if $choice_adam == 3>>Chris’s gaze lingered on the crowd for a moment until he spotted [[Adam|Adam Bowman]] at the edge of the nerd tables. For a fraction of a second their eyes might have met—but Adam immediately lowered his gaze, as if he had burned himself. He acted as though his drink had suddenly become the most important thing in the world, turning the cup between his fingers and staring at the edge of the table as if there were an invisible text there he had to read.\n\n<<endif>>Chris slipped over to the cheer table, and when he sat down, it felt like an invisible stamp: You belong here. A small, forbidden pride burned warmly in his chest. As a boy, he had never gotten anywhere near the “popular” crowd; as a girl, life suddenly seemed to be rattling at doors that hadn’t even been visible before. Sometimes it was shameful how much easier things became—just because he had breasts. Sometimes...\n\n“Okay, Timberwolves talk,” Penelope opened, as if she were leading an editorial meeting. “Schedule is brutal: Northdale, Lincoln, then the derby against Ridge Park. We need three wins, otherwise the boys will be in a bad mood until Thanksgiving.”\n\n“Dylan looks strong,” said a girl with a glittery hair clip. “Footwork is way better than last year.”\n“The O-line is the problem,” someone at the side put in dryly. “If it stays that leaky, even a good QB can only save so much.”\n\n“Jax did offseason biceps,” another girl giggled, flexing her arm as a joke. “Did you see the Insta?”\n“I was thinking more about the kicker,” Christine said, her fork half in the air. “If Graham gets the jitters again, that’s it for field goals.”\n\n“Special teams are underrated,” Penelope nodded, pleased that someone understood her narrative. “And defense?”\n\n“Linebackers are new, but fast,” Charlotte said, routinely scrolling through her phone. “Coach threw in extra sprints last week. Maybe it’ll help.”\n\nChris listened, making brief comments in the right places so he stayed part of it.\n\nAt the next table, a muffled “Boob—” fell, then someone cut the word off as Penelope’s head slowly turned. One short, cool look was enough; the laughter died. Chris pretended he hadn’t heard it and bit down on his tongue against the gratitude he felt that Penelope had marked without words: Not here.\n\n“Homecoming is still going to be amazing,” Penelope decided, back on program. “Even if the Wolves only have two wins. The dress theme ‘Midnight Garden’ stays.”\n\n“Midnight Garden?” Chris repeated it to keep himself occupied, not because he needed the answer.\n\n“Dark tones, metallic accents, a bit of floral,” Penelope explained, as if she were organizing a gala. “No neon. And no sequin massacre, Chrissie.” A sidelong glance at Christine; she threw up her hands. “I’ve learned!”\n\nChris pushed his fork through the salad, briefly lifted his gaze toward the athletes’ table—Dylan was laughing at something a teammate had said—then lowered it again before his face could give anything away. He was sitting at the table that mattered. And inside him sat the boy who counted how often he said “we” when it came to the Timberwolves.\n<<set $lucas to 0>>\n[[Continue|Cheerleader Training.]]

The evenings had their own rhythm for Chris: first posture practice, then penmanship. One day Susan had placed a pink notebook on his desk. “Curves, Christina. The arches are friendly, the lines calm. And the dots over the i’s—hearts, not blobs.” Chris dipped the pen into the ink, breathed, and wrote every evening: little loops, gentle curves, his hand cramping at first, then finding an even pull. On the first pages, the same sentence appeared again and again, until the words filled every line like a mantra.\n\n<center>[img[pics/tagebuch.jpg]]</center> Page after page, the dots over the i’s tiny hearts, set with precision.\n\nFor about two weeks now, Susan had expanded the writing plan. “Three to four sentences of reflection, every day,” she had said, drawing him a small template with headings: What was hard today? What did I do well? What will I practice tomorrow? Chris wrote at the end of the day, when the apartment grew quieter.\n\nAs every evening, he closed the notebook and placed it in front of Susan. His mother leafed through it, inspecting without probing, and nodded. “The handwriting is neat. And the tone is mature; I like that.” Something in her expression melted, as if she had decided to give him an inch of leash. She reached into the drawer and took out a tiny, shiny key on a pink ribbon. “You’ve earned a little more privacy,” she said, placing the key in his palm. “From today on, you decide for yourself what you confide to your diary. No one else will read it.”\n\nThe key weighed almost nothing and still felt important. Chris nodded—relieved—and slid the key onto the ribbon dangling from the notebook’s lock. “Thank you,” he said, and this time the word was less a tactic than a small, genuine exhale.\n\nWhat he did not see: in the drawer lay a second, identical key, silent as a twin. The publisher had supplied the set “just in case”; Susan had kept “just in case” for herself. She smiled as Chris locked the diary—a satisfied smile.\n\n[[Continue|Enthaarung vor dem Schlafengehen.]]

Chris headed toward the gym with the jacket—and stopped himself, as if someone had put a hand on his chest. He stood still. The thought of facing Penelope directly now, of giving her the jacket while knowing about the note in the pocket… made his stomach tighten. It felt as if he had seen something he shouldn’t have seen, and as if his eyes would give it away even if his mouth stayed silent.\n\nSo he did something stupid that felt like self-protection in the moment.\n\nHe pushed open the door to the girls’ locker room, paused in the doorway as if he were only dropping something off quickly. Voices were somewhere farther back, shower water rushing. Chris took two steps inside, quickly laid the cardigan over the bench beside the lockers—not demonstratively, more as if it had simply been “found”—and immediately turned around again.\n\nLater, as he sat on the bus, the bag between his ankles, his forehead against the cool window, the question came to him like an echo: Why did you do that?\n\nHe could have just given it to Penelope. It would have been normal. Polite. Unremarkable. Instead, he had secretly left the piece of clothing somewhere, as if it were evidence that shouldn’t be touched. As if the jacket were to blame for his feeling.\n\nChris closed his eyes. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to see Penelope because then he would have had to smile as if nothing had happened. Maybe because he was afraid she would see that he knew too much. Maybe because Dylan had turned the jacket in his hand into a kind of message he didn’t want to understand.\n\nThe bus jolted over a bump. Chris’s fingers unconsciously clutched the strap of his bag. He stared at the passing streets and thought: I’m getting better and better at hiding things. And he didn’t know whether that was a talent or a problem.\n<<set $temp to 1>>\n[[Continue|Bonding mit Mom.]]

<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Description:''\nChris is naturally rather slim, with a soft, youthful aura: brown hair that is now usually styled in a girlish way, long legs, delicate hands, little body hair. Because of the hormones, small but visible breasts are forming, his hips and butt are becoming rounder, his waist narrower—contours that stand out clearly in tight tops, skirts, and pantyhose, and that frighten him especially in moments in front of the mirror. In girls’ clothes, he looks convincingly “like one of them” on the outside, which brings him looks, compliments, and sexualized attention; inwardly, however, he experiences his body as a contradictory in-between form: a boy in a costume that looks less and less like a costume, and it is precisely this slow blurring that scares him.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n''Statistics:''\nChris has given handjobs to <<print $jerkoff>> other people.\nHe has received a blowjob <<print $oral>> times.\nHe has given other men <<print $woral>> blowjobs.\nOf which he swallowed <<print $swallow>> times.\nHe has had a finger in his ass <<print $fingerass>> times.\nHe has had a penis in his ass <<print $anal>> times. (Creampied: <<print $creampied>>)\n<<nobr>><<if $sex == 0>>Chris is still a virgin.<<else>>\nChris has fucked <<print $sex>> women.<br>\nHe came inside them <<print $cameinside>> times.\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\nNumber of partners: <<print $partner>>\n\nChris has been sexually harassed <<print $harassed>> times.\nHe has been filmed/photographed <<print $film>> times.\nHe has been raped <<print $rape>> times.\n\nChris has kissed his sister <<print $kisssister>> times.\nHe has kissed his mother <<print $kissmom>> times.\nHe has kissed boys <<print $kissboy>> times.\n(His first kiss was with an unknown boy at a party.)\nHe has kissed girls <<print $kissgirl>> times.\n\nChris’ sexual preferences: "I like girls. I don’t like boys."\n\n[[Chapter 3|Kapitel 3]]

<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Description:''\nChris is naturally rather slender, with a soft, youthful aura: brown hair that is now usually styled in a girlish way, long legs, delicate hands, little body hair. Because of the hormones, small but visible breasts are beginning to show, his hips and butt are becoming rounder, his waist narrower—contours that stand out clearly in tight tops, skirts, and tights and frighten him especially in moments before the mirror. In girls’ clothes, he appears outwardly convincing “like one of them,” which brings him looks, compliments, and sexualized attention; inwardly, however, he experiences his body as a contradictory in-between form: a boy in a costume that looks less and less like a costume, and it is precisely this slow blurring that scares him.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n''Statistics:''\nChris has jerked off <<print $jerkoff>> other people.\nHe has received a blowjob <<print $oral>> times.\nHe has given other men <<print $woral>> blowjobs.\nOf those, he swallowed <<print $swallow>> times.\n\nHe has had a finger in his ass <<print $fingerass>> times.\nHe has had a penis in his ass <<print $anal>> times. (Creampied: <<print $creampied>>)\n<<nobr>><<if $sex == 0>>Chris is still a virgin.<<else>>\nChris has fucked <<print $sex>> women.<br>\nHe came inside them <<print $cameinside>> times.\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\nNumber of partners: <<print $partner>>\n\nChris has been sexually harassed <<print $harassed>> times.\nHe has been filmed/photographed <<print $film>> times.\nHe has been raped <<print $rape>> times.\n\nChris has kissed his sister <<print $kisssister>> times.\nHe has kissed his mother <<print $kissmom>> times.\nHe has kissed boys <<print $kissboy>> times.\nHe has kissed girls <<print $kissgirl>> times.\n\nChris’ sexual preferences: "I like girls. I don’t like boys."\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n[[Chapter 4|Kapitel 4]]

<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/busen1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/busen1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Description:''\nChris is naturally rather slim, with a soft, youthful appearance: brown hair that is now usually styled in a girlish way, long legs, delicate hands, little body hair. Because of the hormones, small but visible breasts are forming, his hips and butt are becoming rounder, his waist narrower—contours that stand out clearly in tight tops, skirts, and tights, and frighten him especially in mirror moments. In girls’ clothes, he appears convincingly “like one of them” to the outside world, which brings him looks, compliments, and attention; inwardly, however, he experiences his body as rather contradictory: a boy in costume.\n\n''Statistics:''\nChris has jerked off <<print $jerkoff>> other people.\nHe has received a blowjob <<print $oral>> times.\nHe has given other men <<print $woral>> blowjobs.\nOf which he swallowed <<print $swallow>> times.\nHe has had a finger in his ass <<print $fingerass>> times.\nHe has had a penis in his ass <<print $anal>> times. (Creampied: <<print $creampied>>)\n<<nobr>><<if $sex == 0>>Chris is still a virgin.<<else>>\nChris has fucked <<print $sex>> women.<br>\nHe came inside them <<print $cameinside>> times.\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\nNumber of partners: <<print $partner>>\n\nChris has been sexually harassed <<print $harassed>> times.\nHe has been filmed/photographed <<print $film>> times.\nHe has been raped <<print $rape>> times.\n\nChris has kissed his sister <<print $kisssister>> times.\nHe has kissed his mother <<print $kissmom>> times.\nHe has kissed boys <<print $kissboy>> times.\nHe has kissed girls <<print $kissgirl>> times.\n<<if $charlotte == 2>> (His first kiss was with Charlotte.)<<endif>>\n\nChris’ sexual preferences: "I like girls. I hate boys."\n\n[[Chapter 2|Kapitel 2]]

They went up the stairs, shoulder to shoulder, stumbling a little with nervousness, and Charlotte’s room welcomed them with warm light and the scent of vanilla candles. No sooner had the door fallen shut than their lips found each other—hesitant at first, then surer, like a song they both knew. Chris’s hands landed on her breasts, Charlotte’s fingers grabbed Chris’s butt cheeks, and for a moment the world was as small as the soft space between them.\n\n“You’ve got glitter in your hair,” Charlotte murmured, plucking at it as if it were a rare insect.\n\n“You stole it from me,” he whispered, and she giggled—that bright, springy laugh that got him every time.\n\nWhen he playfully squeezed her nipple, she grabbed the nearest pillow and punched him in the side with it. “Hey!” he cried, pretending to be indignant, snatched up a pillow of his own, and held it like a shield. Then everything happened quickly: pillow feathers swirled, little dust-snowflakes danced in the lamplight, they ducked, dodged, hit each other again. Charlotte jumped onto the bed, and Chris plunged after her, rolled, bounced against the edge of the mattress, both of them laughing breathlessly. A pillow flew against the wardrobe; the wardrobe hummed in offended protest. Charlotte remained on her knees, cheeks red, eyes shining.\n\nHe lowered the pillow. For one heartbeat, they heard only their breathing and the ticking wall that quietly spoke of the evening outside. Then Charlotte pulled him toward her, a gentle but precise grip, and they kissed again—deeper, calmer, with the certainty left over from play. Her hard nipples were already touching his small breasts and tickled him lightly. Charlotte opened her mouth wildly and met his tongue. A pleasant shiver ran through them both as their tongues met and danced with each other. <<if $piercing == 2>>Chris’s tongue piercing was only a small detail, but suddenly Charlotte noticed it with startling clarity.<<endif>>\n\nThey fell onto the bed together, a warm, intertwined tangle. Buttons gave way, zippers purred; fabric rustled and slid, without haste, without words.\n\nChris first busied himself extensively with his girlfriend’s bells, which were swaying right in front of his nose. He used both hands so he could really knead them. Burying his face between them, he gently massaged the soft and yet so firm mounds of flesh, covered them with a thousand kisses, nibbled and sucked at the stiff nipples.\n\nCharlotte moaned softly as he wrapped his lips around her hard nipple and sucked on it lightly. Playfully, he let the tip of his tongue dance with her nipple.\n\n“Mmmhh, yeah,” she moaned at him. Chris wanted to do his best and sucked at them more wildly. The more he sucked, the faster blood was pumped into his penis. He was embarrassed and tried everything to distract from the problem.\n\nAs he had seen in porn movies, his hand traveled down her glowing dream body. Charlotte immediately opened her legs for him willingly and let his hand slide between her thighs. The teenage girl was already completely wet.\n\nCuriously, he pushed his finger into her tight hole and slid it in and out several times. Charlotte trembled slightly as his finger entered her smeared cunt.\n\nWildly, she grabbed him and pulled his upper body up to her. With glassy eyes, she looked at him.\n\n“Today,” she whispered, “I want to pamper you.”\n\nChris’s heart did that quick, uncontrolled little leap he knew so well. Everything in him answered “yes”—the tingling under his skin, the warmth, his trust in her. And at the same time, a cold, clear pane slid between two thoughts: She doesn’t know. He was a boy—even if every mirror had been catching him as something else for weeks. She didn’t know.\n\nThe dilemma came without a sound, but with weight. If he simply kept going now, he was not being honest. If he stopped, he could hurt her. And if he said it—if he said everything now—the moment would tip over. Maybe more than the moment.\n\nHis gaze found hers. He felt Charlotte’s trust, her openness, and at the same time the pressure of the truth against his throat. Should he come clean? he wondered. Should he reveal his secret to her—now, here, where it mattered most? Chris was petrified.\n\n“Don’t be afraid. I’ll make it nice for us,” Charlotte whispered. Carefully, she moved closer to his face and kissed him again. This time it was a long kiss. But although she willingly opened her lips, Chris’s remained closed.\n\n[[Continue|Chris sagt ihr die Wahrheit.]]

<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Description:''\nChris was naturally slimly built, with a soft, youthful aura: brown hair, now styled almost automatically in a girlish way, long legs, delicate hands, no body hair. Because of the hormones, his breasts had become small but clearly visible; his hips and butt rounder, his waist narrower—shapes that made clothes like skirts, tights, and ball gowns look “right,” even if the mirror still sometimes startled him.\n\nOutwardly, by now, he seemed convincingly like “one of them”—not only through clothing, but also through routine: make-up, posture, smiles, small talk. He received looks, compliments, and sometimes unpleasantly sexualized attention; it still embarrassed him, but occasionally flattered him too. Inside, it remained contradictory: a boy—and yet a role that less and less often felt like a mere costume. It was precisely this slow blurring that frightened him.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n''Statistics:''\nChris has jerked off <<print $jerkoff>> other people.\nHe has received a blowjob <<print $oral>> times.\nHe has given other men <<print $woral>> blowjobs.\nOf which he swallowed <<print $swallow>> times.\nHe has had a finger in his butt <<print $fingerass>> times.\nHe has had a penis in his butt <<print $anal>> times. (Creampied: <<print $creampied>>)\n<<nobr>><<if $sex == 0>>Chris is still a virgin.<<else>>\nChris has fucked <<print $sex>> women.<br>\nHe came inside them <<print $cameinside>> times.\n<<if $christine == 3>>(His first time was with his sister Christine)<<endif>>\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\nNumber of partners: <<print $partner>>\n\nChris has been sexually harassed <<print $harassed>> times.\nHe has been filmed/photographed <<print $film>> times.\nHe has been raped <<print $rape>> times.\n\nChris has kissed his sister <<print $kisssister>> times.\nHe has kissed his mother <<print $kissmom>> times.\nHe has kissed boys <<print $kissboy>> times.\nHe has kissed girls <<print $kissgirl>> times.\n\nChris’ sexual preferences: "I like girls. Um... I mean... I like some boys."\n\n[[Epilogue Chris and Dylan|Epilog Chris und Dylan]]

Chris closed his eyes. Not because he did not want to see the evidence anymore. Not only for that reason. He closed them because his face was burning and because he suddenly felt as if he were back in Maplewood, in a classroom, in a hallway, in a dress that had felt wrong with every step.\n\nHe could still hear Mr. Gilbert’s voice.\n\n“Yes.”\n\nThat one word made everything more real than Chris could bear.\n\nYes, he had examined him.\nYes, Susan had wanted it.\nYes, all of it had not only been in Chris’s head.\n\nAnd still, he felt ashamed. Chris only opened his eyes again when the judge ended a brief recess and the defense attorney stood up.\n\n“Your Honor,” the defense attorney said, “the defense calls Susan Braun to the stand.”\n\nSusan slowly stood up.\n\nFor a moment, the courtroom was so quiet that Chris could hear the rustle of her skirt. She walked to the witness stand as if she had practiced the route. Back straight. Chin slightly raised. Hands calm.\n\nChris knew that calm.\n\nIt was the same calm with which she had laid pills on the kitchen table. The same calm with which she had corrected his makeup before driving him to school. The same calm with which she had told him he should be grateful.\n\nSusan placed her hand on the Bible, swore to tell the truth, and sat down.\n\nThe defense attorney stepped closer.\n\n“Mrs. Braun, do you love your son?”\n\nSusan did not look at Chris.\n\n“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”\n\nThe word hit him harder than he had expected.\n\nOf course.\n\nAs if love were something one could claim after taking everything else.\n\n“Can you explain to the court,” the defense attorney asked, “what happened in Maplewood?”\n\nSusan drew in an audible breath. Her voice sounded soft, almost tired.\n\n“Chris came to me during a very difficult time. The divorce was ugly. Michael and I disagreed about many things. Chris was angry. Confused. He had trouble adjusting.”\n\nMichael tensed beside Chris.\n\nSusan continued.\n\n“I wanted to help him. I wanted to give him structure. A new environment. A fresh start.”\n\nThe defense attorney nodded sympathetically.\n\n“And the name Christina?”\n\nFor the first time, Susan looked briefly in Chris’s direction.\n\nNot for long. Just long enough for his hands to tighten around the glass.\n\n“I thought it would help him,” she said. “He was so sensitive. So lost. I thought that if he stopped fighting everything, he might finally find peace.”\n\nA murmur passed through the courtroom. The judge looked up, and it became quiet again.\n\n[[Continue|Susans Aussage.]]

“Okay,” one of the boys said, his voice less funny now. “We’re getting out. Right now. That’s enough of a dare for one lifetime.”\n\nEveryone agreed hastily. They gathered together, drawing closer as if proximity were protection against the hall. Chris felt how the mood had shifted: the plant was no longer a set. It was a place again.\n\nThey hurried back toward the entrance door. The phone light trembled, shadows jumped across the walls. The syrup smell seemed to run after them.\n\nAnd then they stood in front of the door—and it was shut.\n\nNot pushed to. Not half open. Shut. As if someone had closed it from the outside.\n\n“What…?” someone whispered.\n\nOne of them rattled the handle. Nothing. Again, harder. The metal clattered, the chain on the bolt struck against it. “This isn’t funny,” a girl said in a fragile voice. “Who does something like that?”\n\nA brief, genuine moment of panic passed through the group like an electrical discharge. Chris felt his stomach drop. In his head, an explanation immediately started running: gust of wind, door slammed shut, something jammed. But another part of him heard only: Don’t go there after dark. And now it was noticeably darker than ten minutes ago.\n\n“Maybe the wind—” someone began.\n\n“Wind doesn’t close bolts,” Ruby snapped, trying to sound sober as she said it, but her voice trembled at the edges.\n\nChris placed his hand on the cold metal and rattled it once himself. It didn’t give. The sound echoed through the empty hall, as if the factory were answering.\n\n“Okay,” one of the boys said, this time without a joke. “Then we’ll find another way out.”\n\nThe group turned around, the phone lights wandering back into the depths of the hall. And as they set off, metal cracked somewhere above them—a single, dry sound—as if the place were telling them they were really inside now.\n\n[[Continue|Chris muss pinkeln.]]

Saturday felt to Chris as if the day had already filled the air with glitter the moment he woke up. He was awake far too early, bouncing back and forth between excitement and nerves, and had to keep reminding himself to breathe. Homecoming. Tonight. With Lucas.\n<<set $wochentag = 6>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "Chris's girly bedroom">>\nEverything was laid out in his room: dress bag opened, shoes side by side, the small clutch like a foreign object on the bed. Chris sat down at the vanity and worked step by step, as if routine might calm him. He applied his foundation neatly, darkened his eyelids softly, added a little blush that made him look more awake. The gloss shone on his lips, just right, not overdone. He sprayed perfume on his wrists and the back of his neck—a warm, sweet scent that instantly made him feel “ready.” He styled his hair neatly<<if $haar == 1>>, controlled strands, pinning it so that the nape of his neck remained bare<<endif>>.\n\nThen came the part he had been avoiding the whole time: getting dressed.\n\nFirst the hold-up stockings—he carefully rolled them over his toes and pulled them up evenly until the silicone band sat against his skin and really held. Then the stick-on bra: cool in his hand, technical in its function, but somehow... intimate in the mirror, because it left so much skin bare. And last of all the thong, which still felt strange between his butt cheeks—too little fabric, too much awareness. He didn’t like wearing it, and yet that was exactly the point: it was supposed to be invisible so the dress would fall smoothly. Chris took a deep breath, as if he had just accepted an uncomfortable bandage.\n\nThen he slipped into the prom dress.\n\n<center>[img[pics/outfit8.jpg]]</center> Midnight blue, a fabric that looked almost liquid in the light. Elegant in front, clean, with a slim line that sat calmly and didn’t slip. The waist was gently emphasized, the skirt fell in soft folds to just above the knee and left enough room for walking and dancing. In back it was backless: a deep V, framed by delicate straps that made his shoulders look longer. He smoothed the fabric, checked the edges, turned sideways. Nothing showed through—everything looked as if it had been meant exactly this way.\n\nThe silver sandals clicked softly as he slipped into them. The low block heel gave him stability; the narrow straps held his foot securely. Then he picked up the clutch—small, satin, with the fine silver trim—and held it in front of the mirror, as if he first had to learn how to carry something like that without feeling silly.\n\nHe looked at himself.\n\nAnd suddenly the insecurity hit him full force. He didn’t look like someone just heading out to catch the bus. He looked like someone who would be noticed. Chris grew warm, then cold again. Am I really going out like this? Out on the street? He stood still and noticed how he automatically straightened his back, as if posture could protect him.\n\nHis [[mother|Susan Braun]] appeared in the doorway and stopped, as if she had been waiting for exactly this moment. “Oh my God,” she said, and her face lit up. “Chris... you look...” She searched for the word and couldn’t find it, so she simply used several: “Elegant. Stunning. Perfect.”\n\nChristine stepped into the doorway behind her, gave him a brief once-over, and nodded. Her voice was quieter, but sincere. “You look pretty.” It almost sounded as if it mattered to her to say that—despite everything.\n\nChris swallowed. “Thanks,” he managed, and he was immediately embarrassed by how much that reassurance calmed him.\n\n[[Continue|Lucas holt Chris ab.]]

Susan snapped the cap of the pen into place, pushed the pad aside, and her face softened. “You made an effort. I can see that. And effort deserves…”—she stood up, reached into the cabinet under the television—“…a reward.” She returned with a narrow, glossy box, a pink ribbon, the lettering elegantly drawn across the corner.\n\n<center>[img[pics/dessous.jpg]]</center> Chris took the gift, his heart beating faster, his fingers suddenly far too attentive. The paper rustled, the lid lifted—beneath it lay fine, folded white: delicate lace, smoothly shimmering straps, a gossamer-thin pair of panties, beside them carefully rolled nylon stockings and a garter belt with tiny, pearl-like clips. “Victoria’s Secret,” his mother said casually, as if she were talking about a brand of notepads. “Try it on. I want to see if it fits.”\n\nHe nodded, the box pressed to his chest, and withdrew to his room. The door fell softly shut behind him. For a moment, he laid his fingers on the lid, as if he could feel the rustle of the fabrics beneath it, then arranged everything properly on the bed: bra, panties, garter belt, stockings, like a small, pale choreography.\n\nGetting dressed was a silent ritual: sorting the straps, finding the hooks at his back, breathing in, fastening them. The bra settled into place, gave shape, while at the same time taking away some of the rawness that so often embarrassed him. The panties slid higher than his usual things, the lace lying on his skin like drawn shadows. He wrapped the garter belt around his waist, adjusted it one hook tighter—it sat there as if it had always belonged. The stockings were cool against his shins, growing warmer with every second; he rolled them up until they met the clips and fastened the tiny holders—a soft, satisfying tack, four times, then two more.\n\nHe stopped in front of the mirror. First from a distance, so he wouldn’t be startled, then closer, step by step, until his own face filled the frame. The white brought out the tint of his skin, the narrow lines of the garter belt traced his middle, ordering the silhouette. The lace on the bra was fine, not overloaded, the edge delicate against his collarbones. The stockings caught the light falling through the window and cast it back with a soft sheen. It looked… right. Neat. Dangerously sexy.\n\nHe turned slightly sideways, first to the left, then to the right. The contours of his chest, round but still restrained; the smooth line of his back; the garter belt holding the stockings in line. He lifted his gaze to his own face: not the uncertain boy from months ago, not the overwhelmed disguise of the first few days—something in between, something that breathed. The feeling of wearing a costume was there, yes, but mixed with an involuntary acknowledgment: This suits me. A quiet, treacherous tingle on his skin, where the lace edge brushed his ribs.\n\nHe brought his hands to his sides, let them sink again, and took one deep breath into his belly. “Okay,” he said very quietly, only for the mirror. Not agreement, not rejection—a cautious consent to the moment.\n\n[[Continue|Chris geht zu seiner Mutter ins Schlafzimmer.]]

Thursday felt different even before first period: red-and-silver ribbons on the lockers, “Go Wolves!” posters, the band rehearsing in the courtyard, and everywhere there was that crackling energy that clung to your fingers.\n<<set $ort to "gymnasium">>\nFor anyone who didn’t know: at Maplewood High, a pep rally was a school assembly in the gymnasium, a hype-up event before the Timberwolves’ big game. Band, mascot, speeches from the coaches, the introduction of the teams and—as the centerpiece—the Pom Puffs’ show. It was about unity, noise, colors. About a moment when a school shouted at itself: We belong together.\n\nThe gym was vibrating even before things officially began. Chris sat in the bleachers with Ruby and Lucas, knee to knee, the plastic seat cool through his tights. He forced his thoughts into a tight little drawer: Nothing happened yesterday. Every time Lucas’s thigh touched his, he flinched back ever so slightly and shifted an inch to the side. “Everything okay?” Lucas whispered. Chris nodded too quickly. “Sure.”\n\nBelow, pom-poms gleamed, their short skirts swaying; the band rehearsed fragments of fanfare, drums building a pulse in the stomach. Phone lights flickered like fireflies, somewhere a chant started up, still trying to find itself. The announcer, a senior in a glittering jacket, stepped up to the mic. “Maplewood—are you ready?” Cheers. The names of the teams rolled over the bleachers like waves: Timberwolves football, basketball, track—each time, noise discharged into the air.\n\nChris’s gaze clung almost imperceptibly to the football players, as if the gym had its own gravitational field there. The helmets shone like armor, shoulder pads turned boys into portable fortresses; with every bounce up and down, he saw fabric stretch over muscles, veins briefly standing out on forearms when hands clenched into fists. Something in it hit him directly beneath the breastbone—a mixture of awe, curiosity, and a warm, dangerous tingling. He told himself he was simply admiring athleticism. But his pulse betrayed that it was more: a tug in his crotch. Lucas noticed his gaze, the little shadow in his eyes quick, sharp, and then gone again beneath a polite smile.\n\nThe mascot hobbled through the middle in an exaggeratedly funny way—a wolf with a giant head, pretending to favor the wrong foot before making a theatrical curtsey. Laughter surged up. The band struck up the “Wolves Fight Song”; brass rang bright, drums hammered. The Pom Puffs led the chants: “Let’s go, Wolves!”—“Clap-clap!” The gym answered like a single body, hands cracking in unison, the chant splashing back from the steel beams overhead.\n\nBelow, the cheerleaders formed up. The formation clicked together like a puzzle: arms high, legs in the air, clean landings. The bleachers roared, and Chris clapped along, louder than he thought. A warm, electric feeling pushed under his skin: I belong here. He had never experienced anything like this in Germany—no gym that breathed on command, no band that retimed your heart.\n\n<center>[img[pics/peprally.jpg]]</center> Christine shone. She moved smoothly, grinned briefly at a flawless hit, the pyramid held, hands up, pose—cut. For a moment she looked upward, searching the stands, or maybe just the height, and Chris’s chest filled with a proud pressure. That’s my sister, he thought, and immediately after came a small, cool stab of envy: That could be me… couldn’t it? He pushed the thought away, kept clapping, shouted “Let’s go!” with the others, and felt the pack carry him.\n\nRuby leaned toward him. “Good energy today, huh?” He nodded, breathed in the smell of gym mats and deodorant, and let the hum of the gym drown out everything still whispering inside him—movie theater, Lucas’s closeness. For the length of a song, he was simply a face in a cheering crowd, one student among many, embedded in a noise that was warmth. Lucas’s arm brushed him again, carefully now; this time Chris let the contact remain, without moving any closer. Down below, the pyramid tossed again, a shoe sparkling in the light above. The gym held its breath, landed—and exploded. Chris jumped up with everyone else. For a fraction of a second, he felt as light as all the noise.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte < 2>>[[A magical Friday.|Ein magischer Freitag.]]<<else>>[[Charlotte wants to talk.|Charlotte will reden.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Thursday felt different even before first period: red-and-silver ribbons on the lockers, “Go Wolves!” posters, the band rehearsing in the courtyard, and everywhere there was that crackling energy that clung to your fingers.\n<<set $ort to "gymnasium">>\nFor anyone who didn’t know: at Maplewood High, a pep rally was a school assembly in the gymnasium, a hype-up event before the Timberwolves’ big game. Band, mascot, speeches from the coaches, the introduction of the teams and—as the centerpiece—the Pom Puffs’ show. It was about unity, noise, colors. About a moment when a school shouted at itself: We belong together.\n\nChris sat in the bleachers beside Adam; the gym vibrated. Below, pom-poms gleamed, the band blasted fanfares, phone lights glittered like a little starry sky. The announcer let her voice dance through the speakers, naming teams, names, records. The mascot hobbled through the middle in an exaggeratedly funny way, stumbled, bowed, and the band struck up the “Wolves Fight Song.”\n\n“Let’s go, Wolves!” – Clap clap! The cheerleaders led the chants, and the gym answered like one great voice. The bleachers stamped, a cresting wave of noise rolling over the rows of seats. Chris clapped along, surprised by the force in his own chest; he had never experienced anything like this in Germany, this collective current that lifted you up whether you wanted it to or not.\n\n<center>[img[pics/peprally.jpg]]</center> Below, in the spotlight, his sister Christine shone. Her face was open, her timing clean; she fell into the chants, jumped, landed, beamed like the others. For a moment, everything about her was light. Chris felt a brief, warm stab of pride—and, no sooner had he recognized it, a second, quieter stab: the wish to be right down there, in the rhythm, in the chant, in the secure flow of the formations. For a single breath, he imagined what it would be like not just to hear the beat, but to be it.\n\nAdam shifted closer. From the corner of his eye, Chris saw his hand coming—hesitant and yet purposeful, the arm that wanted to settle around his shoulders. Blood rose into his face. Not here. Not like this. He turned his head, caught Adam’s gaze, and gave him a silent, clear no: narrowed eyes, a small, firmly set shake of the head.\n\nAdam’s hand hovered in the air, then slowly withdrew, as if he had only just noticed the glaring light above them. Chris felt the eyes around him, whether imagined or real; the possibility of being seen felt like a shirt that was too tight. Embarrassment crept up the back of his neck—not just about Adam, but about the role he sat in while his sister sparkled so effortlessly below. He continued clapping, one beat too late, and forced his face into a neutral line.\n\nBelow, the final pose snapped into place, and the gym erupted. Chris clapped along.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte < 2>>[[A magical Friday.|Ein magischer Freitag.]]<<else>>[[Charlotte wants to talk.|Charlotte will reden.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Thursday felt different even before first period: red-and-silver ribbons on the lockers, “Go Wolves!” posters, the band rehearsing in the courtyard, and everywhere there was that crackling energy that clung to your fingers.\n<<set $ort to "gymnasium">>\nFor anyone who didn’t know: at Maplewood High, a pep rally was a school assembly in the gymnasium, a hype event before the Timberwolves’ big game. The band, the mascot, speeches from the coaches, the introduction of the teams and—as the centerpiece—the Pom Puffs’ show. It was about unity, noise, colors. About a moment when a school shouted at itself: We belong together.\n\nChris stood with the squad in the side corridor of the gym. The linoleum was cool against his calves, the bow sat right, and so did the line of the skirt. The girls were warming up. Wrists circled, ankles bounced, breaths were counted. Mr. Moore walked down the rows, checking grips, pressing thumbs into palms: “Tighter. Get the angle in.” Penelope stood in front, her voice clear as a conductor’s baton: “Counts off… five–six–seven–eight!” Chris felt the nerves like fine electricity on his skin, but they didn’t burn—they glowed.\n\nThe entrance blew the gym open: the Timberwolves stormed through the banner, drums pounded, whistles shrilled, the bleachers flickered in red and silver. Chris and the cheer line started moving; the floor beneath their sneakers felt springy, the wind lifting the hem of his skirt just enough to make it seem intentional. He felt eyes on him—many, curious eyes. Not the ugly staring from the first day, but recognition, curious acknowledgment: That’s the new girl. For a moment he felt light, exactly where he was supposed to be, as if none of this were borrowed, but earned.\n\nHe was only a supporting player—second row, reliable grips, no solo—and yet something tingled inside him when the announcer laughed into the microphone and the crowd answered. The announcer introduced the teams, one after another, with lively nicknames. The mascot hobbled exaggeratedly through the center, pretending it had banged its wolf tail; the gym burst out laughing. Then the first notes of the “Wolves Fight Song,” blasting out from the marching band.\n\n<center>[img[pics/peprally.jpg]]</center> Chris and the girls led the chants: Let’s go, Wolves! – Clap-clap! The gym answered like one single great voice that made his ribs vibrate.\n\nHe steadied his breathing, counted quietly along—five, six, seven, eight—and focused on the technique. The transitions were clean; his hands found every position, every grip was dependable. When Penelope went into the toss in the front row and held the perfect High V pose at the top, the gym went wild. The spotlight belonged to her in that moment. A small, prickling wish rose in Chris—to be seen like that just once, for the span of a heartbeat. At the same time, he knew how much the second row carried the first. He held the line, held the rhythm, held his nerve.\n\nWhen he glanced toward the sideline, he caught Dylan with his gaze lingering on Penelope—interested, appreciative. A thin stab shot through Chris’s breastbone, nothing dramatic, more like a tiny splinter of envy that he immediately pushed aside because the next counts were already coming.\n\n“One more time!” Mr. Moore called from the side, thumbs up, and then everything flowed into the show block: ripple, kicks, chant. Chris felt the gym waiting for the finale, that collective drawing-in of breath before something big happened.\n\nPyramid. Places. “Hands!—Set!” He and the other bases took the pressure, knees soft, backs strong. Penelope climbed, the center rose, two side flyers went higher, Charlotte on the left, Christine on the right, hands sharp as cutouts. For the shimmer of a second, everything stood—still, high, exact. Confetti streamers shot up from the corners, glittering spirals catching the light. The band struck the fanfare, a golden blast of brass. “Hit!” The pose locked into place—and Chris felt something inside him answer: a bright, genuine joy. No playing a role, no masking. Just: Us. We did it.\n\nOn the cradle, the flyer landed softly in his arms, the dismount released the tension, and they walked off waving. Behind the sideline, the gym still pulsed in the aftermath, like a heart that didn’t immediately settle down. Chris panted, laughing, his fingers pleasantly trembling, sweat cooling on his forehead. For one moment, everything was noise and light and breath—and in that noise lay the feeling that he, even in his supporting role, had still been part of something big.\n\n''👑 Popularity + 1''\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte < 2>>[[A magical Friday.|Ein magischer Freitag.]]<<else>>[[Charlotte wants to talk.|Charlotte will reden.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Thursday already felt different before first period: red-and-silver ribbons on the lockers, “Go Wolves!” posters, the band rehearsing in the courtyard, and everywhere there was that crackling energy that seemed to cling to your fingers.\n<<set $ort to "gymnasium">>\nFor anyone who didn’t know: at Maplewood High, a pep rally was a school assembly in the gymnasium, a morale booster before the Timberwolves’ big game. Band, mascot, speeches from the coaches, the introduction of the teams and—as the centerpiece—the Pom Puffs’ show. It was about unity, noise, colors. About a moment when a school shouted at itself: We belong together.\n\nThe gym was already vibrating before the lights were dimmed. Chris was sitting in the bleachers with Ruby and Lucas; below them, pom-poms gleamed like little stars, the band blasted fanfares, phone lights bobbed in time. The announcer introduced the teams, voices washing through the room like waves. The mascot hobbled exaggeratedly through the center aisle, bowed, stumbled, caught itself; laughter. Then the band struck up the “Wolves Fight Song,” and the chants caught on immediately: “Let’s go, Wolves!” – Clap-clap! The Pom Puffs led the chants, and the bleachers answered like a single voice. Chris clapped until his palms tingled and felt something he had never really experienced like this in Germany—this shared high made of noise and belonging. For a moment, he was simply part of this place.\n\n“Pretty American, huh?” Ruby murmured, and Chris grinned, the feeling in his chest broad and warm.\n\nThe cheer formation unfolded like origami someone was reversing: lines turning into diagonals, waves running through the rows. The pom-poms flashed, metallic and alive. Penelope moved as if the spotlights had been invented for her, with a smile that caught the front row and passed it on to the very back. During the pyramid, the air seemed to thicken; bases set themselves, knees taut, hands finding shins, ankles, secure grips. One brief, shared breath from the whole gym, then Penelope rose upward. For a moment she stood on top like a clean note on a line, perfectly in tune — arms in a High V, toes pointed, back straight — and the bleachers exploded.\n\n<center>[img[pics/peprally.jpg]]</center> Chris’s hands burned from clapping, and he liked the burn. It was proof that he was here, part of it. His gaze searched and found Christine. During the toe touch, her briefs flashed for a moment, and the landing was soft as moss. She joined in the next chant, her voice clear. She laughed. Chris’s chest filled with a warm, proud swell: That’s my sister. At the same time, there was a fine sting beneath it, barely thicker than a pin, but noticeable: he was up in the bleachers, she was under the lights. He was genuinely happy for her — and for a single breath, he would have liked to be down there, part of something that hit! on command and then actually held.\n\n“Oh man, look, ripple left!” Lucas whispered, poking Chris in the side. Chris nodded, his throat dry, as if he had been shouting too much. Ruby leaned past him and said in awe, “Those Puffs really know their stuff.”\n\nAt the show’s climax, the “Wolves Fight Song” raced into the refrain, the pyramid went up one more time, the band hit a break exactly on the four, and a carpet of screaming and stomping boots rolled over it like weather. Chris kept clapping until the skin on his palms tingled. For a moment, he forgot school, forgot his situation, even forgot how complicated “boy” and “girl” had become in his head. There was only the room, the chant, and that big, well-oiled feeling of belonging carrying him like a soft, fast bus through his own town.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte < 2>>[[A magical Friday.|Ein magischer Freitag.]]<<else>>[[Charlotte wants to talk.|Charlotte will reden.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

“Your reputation at school…” Susan began again, the words sliding effortlessly. “By now, you belong. Not as a shadow, not as an attached ‘also’—you’re right in the middle of it. That’s new. Before, you put yourself on the edge; now you stand in a circle, and the circle holds. You no longer seem like an outsider asking for permission. You’re one of the girls who pulls others along.” A satisfied nod. “That confirms it for me. It shows me that my decision was right. You’re flourishing in your role, and the world around you responds to it the way it responds to something coherent: It says yes.”\n\nThe word “right” settled behind Chris’s breastbone like a stone. My decision, it echoed, and at the same time there was that outrageous, quiet exhale of relief he couldn’t get rid of: being seen without pity; being meant without explanation. He felt his gaze want to sink briefly into the carpet; he forced it up. Warmth crept into his cheeks, half embarrassed, half… glad.\n\n''How does his mother assess him?''\n<<nobr>><<if $tarnung <= 4>>[[Negative|Negativ3]]<<endif>>\n<<if $tarnung >= 5 && $tarnung <= 6>>[[Average|Durchschnitt3][$temp += 1]]<<endif>>\n<<if $tarnung >= 7>>[[Positive|Positiv3][$temp += 2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

“And finally: how well you pass as a girl.” Susan did not cross her arms; she left them open at her sides, as if she did not want to make the room any tighter. “You’re making a great effort. It shows in the small things—how you sit, how you walk, where you place your gaze when you laugh. Of course there are setbacks; I don’t expect perfection. But it no longer feels ‘acted.’ It feels as if it belongs to you. A little more natural every day. As if the role were less a role and more… you.” She briefly searched his face, as if checking whether the words could land there. “The truth is: It suits you. And the more naturally you accept it, the less there is that could stand out at all.”\n\nChris felt hot and cold at the same time. Part of him drank in every word because they sounded like life rings: enough, sufficient, seen. Another part resisted silently: role, role, role—and yet his body remembered moments when nothing had felt forced, when fabric simply fell and laughter simply came. He breathed shallowly, then deeper. Between pride and shame there suddenly lay a narrow strip of calm, so unexpected that he almost startled at stepping onto it.\n\nSusan was silent for a beat, letting the sentences settle. Chris stood there, hands folded, heart audible in his ears, and realized that he was waiting for the next word like a verdict—even though she hadn’t spoken one yet.\n\n''What is Susan’s verdict?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $kondomedieb == 0>><<if $temp <= 2>>[[Negative|Negativ4]]<<else>>[[Positive|Positiv4]]<<endif>><<else>>\n\n<<if $temp <= 2>>[[Very Negative|Negativ4b]]<<endif>>\n<<if $temp > 2 && $temp <= 4>>[[Positive, but...|Positiv4b]]<<endif>>\n<<if $temp > 4>>[[Positive, but...|Positiv4c]]<<endif>>\n\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

In one round, it stopped at Dylan. “Truth or dare?” a voice asked, a little too curious.\n\nDylan shrugged, smiling casually. “Truth.”\n\n“Who’s your secret crush?” came back immediately.\n\nA few “Oooohs,” Christine rolled her eyes, Penelope leaned forward with interest, and several phone lights aimed at Dylan like spotlights.\n\nDylan laughed briefly—but the laugh did not sound quite as confident as usual. “I don’t have one,” he said.\n\nAs he said it, he lowered his gaze. And he actually blushed, a real, warm flush on his cheeks that did not fit his usual coolness at all. For a moment, he rubbed his thumb along the edge of his phone, as if he needed to find a grip somewhere.\n\nIt was immediately obvious: that was not the whole truth.\n\n“Aha,” someone said slowly. “Nooo one.”\n\n“Sure, Quarterback,” another giggled.\n\nDylan raised his hands as if trying to wriggle out of it. “What? I just don’t have a secret one,” he muttered, still looking down. That only made it worse, because everyone knew exactly that it was an evasive move.\n\nPenelope nudged him with her elbow. “Oh my God, Dylan, you’re actually cute when you blush.”\n\nA few people laughed. Dylan made a face and tried to look cool again—but the red patch stayed for another moment, and the group had now smelled blood.\n\nAt one point, the bottle caught Christine. “Dare,” she said quickly, as if to stop anyone from asking embarrassing questions.\n\n“Then… text your last ex,” someone suggested.\n\nChristine wrinkled her nose. “I don’t have an ex.”\n\n“Then text someone who annoys you and tell them to stop,” the guy laughed.\n\nChristine lifted her head. “I’m not in the mood for drama today. Next dare.” It was so decisive that even the guy who had suggested it only raised his hands and muttered, “Okay, okay.”\n\nThe bottle spun again. It whirled, slower, slower—and stopped.\n\nThe tip pointed at Chris.\n\nFor a fraction of a second, he heard only his own blood rushing. A guy grinned into his phone light, as if he had been waiting for this. “Okay, Chris,” he said, “truth or dare?”\n\nChris felt heat creep all the way up to his ears while he stared at the tip of the bottle, as if he could talk it into pointing somewhere else. Truth meant: words. And words meant risks. He had too many secrets sticking out of him like loose threads—you only had to pull one, and suddenly everything was hanging open in the air. Even a “harmless” truth could awaken the wrong curiosity in this group, trigger the wrong follow-up, a “Why?” or “What do you mean by that?” And then he would be standing there with his heart in his throat, unable to go back. Dare, on the other hand, was physical, quick, often only a brief moment of courage—but he knew what dares in games like this usually were. Kissing. Maybe some guy. Maybe even Dylan. The thought alone twisted his stomach into a knot of fear and a far too sweet tug that he wanted to push away more than anything.\n\nHe forced himself into a small smile that hopefully did not look too shaky.\n\n''How does Chris decide?''\n❯ [[He chooses truth instead, even though any question could lead him into dangerous waters.|Wahrheit]]\n❯ [[He chooses dare and accepts that it could come down to a kiss or something similarly embarrassing.|Pflicht][$chris_opinion += 10]]

Ruby washed the fabric out in the sink, Chris handed her the stain remover and helped without knowing what to do with his heartbeat. The cream came loose, the water turned milky, Ruby dabbed the fabric dry. After that, she put the dress back on as if nothing had happened—but Chris felt that, for Ruby, something very much had happened.\n\nThe rest of the party passed as if through glass. Chris laughed in the right places, cleared away cups, watched Christine open presents—but inside him, only the image of the package in Ruby’s hand and his own far too panicked reaction kept working.\n\nLater, when the guests had left and the house fell into that exhausted post-party silence, Ruby caught him in the hallway. Her jacket was already on, her hair slightly tousled from the day.\n\n“Chris,” she said softly. “What kind of pills were those?”\n\nChris felt the floor drop away beneath him for a second. His first impulse was to dodge. A joke. A lie. Anything. But Ruby stood there like a safe point, not like a trap.\n\nHe swallowed. “Can we… just?” His voice was small.\n\nIn the living room, among empty napkins and collapsed balloons, Chris said it then. Haltingly at first, then faster, as if he were afraid he would otherwise backpedal again: that he was actually a boy. That his mother was forcing him to live as a girl. That it wasn’t “a bit of experimenting,” but control. Clothing, behavior—and hormones.\n\nRuby listened without interrupting him. Her face stayed calm, logical. No big exclamations, no drama. When he was finished, there was only silence for a moment.\n\nThen Ruby asked, very matter-of-factly: “Since when?” And: “Does anyone else know?”\n\nChris answered as best he could. The shame sat in his throat, but it no longer choked him as hard as usual.\n\n“Okay,” Ruby finally said, and the word didn’t sound small, but steady. “You’re still you. I’m on your side.” She looked at him as if loyalty were something simple to her, not something you had to earn. “And if you want, we can calmly think through what you can do next. Step by step. But not tonight.”\n\nChris felt his eyes start to burn—not from fear, but from something he barely knew: relief without conditions. Someone had seen him and had not immediately started trying to move him around.\n\nFor the first time, it felt as if he didn’t have to prove he was “good enough”—neither as a boy nor as a girl. He only had to breathe. And Ruby let him.\n\n[[Continue|Die nächsten Monate bis zum College.]]

Madame Lunette took her time, as if first checking whether Chris’s face already gave away enough. Then she placed two fingers against her temple, half-closed her eyes, and spoke softly, almost to herself.\n\n“Nothing is set in stone,” she said. “The future is not a judgment. More… a direction that changes as soon as you breathe differently.”\n\nChris’s hands lay still in his lap, but inside him everything tightened. This is nonsense, one part of him said. Another part listened so intently as if something real depended on it.\n\n“I see a new beginning,” she continued. “Another city. Farther away than you think.” She opened her eyes again. “Not just miles. Distance. From old looks, old rules, old hands that move you around until you fit.”\n\nChris swallowed. The word new beginning felt dangerously good.\n\n“But even there,” Madame Lunette said, “no simple freedom awaits. The constraints merely change their clothes. New challenges. New doors you must first learn to open without someone taking the key from you.”\n\nA soft crackle of the candle. Chris’s breathing grew shallower.\n\nThen she lifted her gaze, and her voice became another shade softer. “And there is someone at your side. A young man.” She said it as if it were the most natural color in a picture. “He is in your heart before he is in your hand.”\n\nEverything in Chris protested at once. No. His mouth stayed silent, but objections piled up in his head: That’s ridiculous. That can’t be. That mustn’t be.\n\nMadame Lunette looked past him for a moment, as if the image were already tipping again. “But…” She furrowed her brow. “The young man disappears into the mist. Not gone forever, perhaps. But gone enough that you hear yourself alone again.”\n\nChris’s heart gave a small, hard jump.\n\nThe fortune-teller paused, as if she had heard a sound no one else could hear. Her head tilted slightly to the side. “And then…” she whispered. “Then I hear something. A song.”\n\nChris got goosebumps without knowing why.\n\n“Like a siren,” she said, and although the word sounded old, it was suddenly very present. “Danger and temptation. Something that lures because it knows exactly the place that hurts and still longs for life.”\n\nShe left the last words hanging in the room, vague as smoke.\n\nChris sat there, unable to decide whether he wanted to laugh or flee, while the scent of incense tugged at him and the candle flame flickered briefly, as if it had been listening.\n\n[[Continue|Raus aus dem Pavillon.]]

Wednesday afternoon, the air smelled of paper dust. Ruby had practically grabbed Chris by the sleeve after school, as if this were a completely normal arrangement. Ever since the nighttime detour to the abandoned maple syrup bottling plant, she had not let the subject go; again and again she had brought it up, again and again she had had that “Something isn’t right” in her voice. And eventually Chris had given in, more out of exhaustion than conviction.\n<<set $ort to "Maplewood Gazette">>\nThe Maplewood Gazette sat inconspicuously on a side street, a low building with a faded sign. Inside, it was quieter than Chris had expected. No frantic newsroom shouting—more like an office whose best days were behind it. Ruby led him purposefully to a door, behind which a narrow staircase led downward.\n\n“The archive is in the basement,” she said, as if announcing a treasure chamber.\n\nDownstairs, the air was cooler. Shelves stood packed close together, full of boxes and folders, labeled by years, not topics. Yellowed newspapers lay in bundles, some corners curled, some pages brittle. It smelled of printer’s ink and old basements, of dust and something metallic that settled in the nose.\n\nRuby worked as if she had been born here: she pulled out a box, leafed through it, sorted, set a second box ready. Chris kept in the background, helping whenever she had to lift something heavy.\n\n“Founders,” Ruby murmured as she read labels. “Here. Scandals, classifieds, police notes… all mixed together.”\n\nAt first they found harmless things: an article about a parade with horse-drawn wagons, a note about “Tradition Night” at the church, an advertisement for craft courses. Then Ruby pulled out a folder whose tab was labeled a little crookedly: “Founders’ Circle.” Beneath it, in smaller writing, something like “Juniors.”\n\nChris leaned closer. The newspaper clippings were small, almost inconspicuous. A short report about a youth group that wanted to teach “values” and “community.” A photo of teenagers in similar colors, like at the festival. And then an article that felt different from the rest: no big headline, just a brief notice at the edge.\n\nRuby read silently at first, then aloud, as if she herself didn’t want to believe it. “…Teenager hospitalized after incident…” She faltered briefly, her voice growing flatter. “…attempted to take their own life.” Then another sentence, factual, cold: “In connection with an event held by the ‘Founders’ Circle Juniors.’ Family members requested privacy.”\n\nRuby leafed further and pulled out a police note, a typical Gazette column with short bullet points. She read: “Teenage girl from neighboring town later found confused.” A place, a date, a brief addition that she had been “disoriented,” that she had been handed over “after contact was made with guardians.”\n\n[[Continue|Entdeckungen.]]

After school on Friday, the house was quieter than school, but no less exhausting. Chris had barely taken off his shoes when he already heard Susan’s voice from the living room, sweet and determined at once.\n<<set $ort to "home">>\n“Come here for a moment, Chris.”\n\nHe stepped into the hallway, bag still in hand. His mother was already waiting, phone in one hand, the other on her hip, as if she were about to start a dance lesson. “Shoes off, bag down,” she said. “We’re practicing.”\n\nChris’s stomach sank. “Practicing what?”\n\nSusan gestured to the long hallway between the stairs and the front door. “Walking. You still walk too… stiffly. That stands out immediately.” She raised the phone a little, as if it were a remote control. “We’ll make this quick. I’ll film. For review.”\n\n“You’re filming me?” Chris’s voice tipped into a mixture of protest and shame.\n\n“Yes. So you can see what I mean.” Susan smiled as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Go on. Stand over there. Shoulders soft, chin neutral. And when you walk… hips. Not like a soldier. Like a girl.”\n\nChris set the bag down, suddenly feeling every inch of his body. He went to the start of the hallway and turned around. The carpet muffled his steps. Susan held up the phone; the red recording dot glowed.\n\n“Okay,” she said. “Walk. And let your hips swing with it. Naturally. Don’t overdo it.”\n\nChris set himself in motion. He tried to think of everything at once: one foot in front of the other, knees soft, arms loose, don’t stomp. And then the hips—that conscious allowing, which always felt as if he were imitating something improper. Susan made a sound somewhere between “no” and “almost.”\n\n“Too much upper body,” she corrected. “Let the movement happen below. Imagine you’re wearing a skirt that moves with you.”\n\n“I am wearing a skirt,” Chris muttered, but his mother ignored it.\n\n“Again. Slower. Looser.”\n\nHe went back, turned around, walked again. This time he let the tension fall from his shoulders. He felt how his pelvis moved differently than before, whether he wanted it to or not—rounder, heavier in the middle, as if the axis had shifted. It wasn’t a deliberate “wiggle,” more a more natural pendulum that felt foreign at first and then frighteningly fitting. His mother nodded with satisfaction as she filmed.\n\n“Stop,” she said finally. “Come here.”\n\nChris went to her, his face warm. Susan held out the phone to him. “Look.”\n\nHe saw himself on the display—and only then did it hit him. The person in the video did not walk like someone “trying to walk femininely.” She walked… simply like that. The skirt moved in rhythm, the knees springing, the hips swaying in a way Chris immediately recognized as “real,” even though he didn’t know how he would define the word at all. His first impulse was: That isn’t me. The second: It is.\n\nHe stared at the movement of his hips, at the line from waist to butt that had changed since the hormones. It was subtle, but clear enough that his brain couldn’t argue it away. The shape of his steps had adapted, as if his body had been secretly practicing.\n\n“See?” Susan’s voice was soft, almost proud. “That looks absolutely normal.”\n\nChris swallowed. His throat was dry. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or ashamed. Instead, he felt a third thing: a small shock at how easy it looked—and how much that frightened him.\n\n“That… looks like…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.\n\n“Like you,” Susan said simply<<if $haar == 1>> and brushed a strand of hair out of his face, as if that were loving proof<<endif>>. “That’s exactly the point.”\n\nChris handed the phone back to her as if it were hot. Something inside him tightened, while another part—quiet, treacherous—thought for a moment: I never would have believed I could come across like that.\n\nHe hated that thought. And he couldn’t quite take it back.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $party == 1>>[[Pajama party on Saturday.|Pyjama Party am Samstag.]]<<else>>[[Boredom on Saturday.|Langeweile am Samstag.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

“Red,” Chris finally said, and even as he said it, it felt as if he had pushed open a door behind which things were louder than expected.\n\nLaverne’s eyes widened—a pure, theatrical sparkle. “Ooooh. Red.” She clapped her hands once, as if Chris had just signed a contract. “Baby, that isn’t just a color. That’s a statement. Red is: I’m here. Red is: Don’t ask me if I’m brave—ask if you can keep up.”\n\nDespite everything, Chris had to laugh briefly, even though his stomach was fluttering.\n\nLaverne pulled on gloves, set out the bowls, and mixed the color while she kept talking as if she were hosting a makeover show. “We’re not just making you red. We’re making you cinematic.” She carefully brushed through Chris’s long, straight hair, divided it into precise sections with the tail comb, and secured strands with clips that gleamed in the light like little clamps.\n\n“Head straight, sweetheart,” she said, her voice both gentle and untouchably professional.\n\nChris felt the first brushstroke at his roots—cool, creamy. Laverne worked precisely, strand by strand, as if she were dyeing silk. The smell was distinct, chemical, but not unpleasant; it belonged to this kind of transformation. She took her time, drawing the color evenly down into the lengths, smoothing each section, checking the application in the mirror like an artist checking her light.\n\n“Red is tricky,” Laverne explained as she added more with a practiced flick of her wrist. “Too light—and you’re strawberry soda. Too dark—and you’re vampire drama. We’re doing…” She studied Chris in the mirror and grinned. “We’re doing ‘dangerously delicious.’”\n\nOnce everything was covered, she carefully wrapped his hair, set the timer, and rolled Chris over to the sink. “Now you wait, baby. And you breathe. And you get used to the idea that later, you won’t be able to just walk past people without them looking.”\n\nChris stared at his hands beneath the cape, feeling the weight of the wet color, the quiet pulse of nervousness. He tried not to hope too much.\n\nThen came the rinsing. Warm water rushing through the lengths, cloudy at first, then clear. Laverne massaged in shampoo, rinsed again, and applied a nourishing treatment that smelled sweetly of coconut. Chris briefly closed his eyes. Everything felt unrealistically soothing—like a ritual washing him into another version of himself.\n\nBack at the chair, Laverne blow-dried his long hair with focused calm. The sound filled the room while she worked with a round brush, smoothing the strands and at the same time giving them a subtle sweep so it wouldn’t look flat. She drew a deep side part, let the hair fall like a glossy curtain, and took a few millimeters off the ends just to clean up the line.\n\n“Okay,” she finally said, standing behind Chris. Her hands rested briefly on his shoulders. “Now. No fluttering. No panic. I’m turning you.”\n\nThe chair slowly turned toward the mirror.\n\nAt first, Chris saw only color—and then he understood that it was his hair. A rich, vibrant red, not garish, but deep and glossy, like polished copper in sunlight. The lengths caught the light in fine nuances: more mahogany here, a hint of cinnamon there, as if someone had painted warmth into every single strand. The smooth texture made it even more dramatic—like a movie makeover happening in a single turn.\n\nHis face suddenly looked different: his skin lighter, his eyes more present, his contours softer and at the same time clearer. The red did what people always said red did—clichéd, but true: it made him “fiery,” “cheeky,” “dangerously pretty.” It was that color that supposedly made men weak and women curious. The color that looked like confidence, even if you had only borrowed it. The color that did not ask to be liked.\n\nLaverne grinned in the mirror as if delivering a perfect punchline. “Do. Not. Tell. Me. You’re. Not. Hot.”\n\nChris’s throat went dry. He stared at himself as if he were seeing a stranger who looked frighteningly like him. And somewhere, completely shamelessly, a feeling surfaced that he couldn’t push away: I look… hot.\n\nImmediately afterward came the shame, hot and sharp. Because he still saw himself as a guy. Because a guy wasn’t supposed to look at himself like that. Because he wasn’t allowed to “not care,” and yet he did care. He felt his cheeks turning red—almost matching his hair.\n\n“Oh my God…” he murmured.\n\n“Yes,” Laverne said with satisfaction, her voice like applause. “Oh my God.”\n\nChris couldn’t tear his eyes away from the mirror. Overwhelmed, a little dazed—and embarrassed by how much he liked what he saw.\n\n[[Continue|Auf zum Bubble Tea.]]

Right at six, Chris stood in front of Charlotte’s front door. He pressed the bell, heard footsteps, and the door opened. Charlotte’s [[father|Joseph Walters]] stood there, in a coat, car keys in hand, his expression pleasantly surprised.<<set $ort to "Charlotte's house">>\n\n“Ah, Chris! You look pretty—that outfit really suits you,” he said, in a half-crooked, sincere tone.\n\nHeat shot into Chris’s cheeks. “Thanks… um, have a nice evening,” he murmured.\n\n“You too. Charlotte’s upstairs in her room. I’m heading out in a moment—have fun, you two.” He raised a hand in greeting and pulled the door shut behind him.\n\nChris stepped inside and took the stairs. Upstairs, her door stood open a crack; music played softly. He knocked twice and pushed the gap wider.\n\n[[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] turned around—she was wearing a black, off-the-shoulder dress that elegantly showed off her feminine figure. The dress ended two finger-widths below her pubic area and emphasized her long legs; the back of the dress was cut low, so that you could just glimpse the beginning of her firm, round ass. Her full breasts, with their protruding nipples, showed clearly. Her hair was loosely pinned up, with one strand at the nape of her neck that she hadn’t managed to catch. Her makeup was beautifully done too.\n\n“Hey,” she said and smiled, bright and a little shy. “You look… very cute.”\n\n“You too,” Chris managed, and it sounded smaller than he wanted.\n\n“Come on. I cooked.”\n\nIn the dining room, she had set the table anew: a plain tablecloth, two plates, cutlery, two tea lights in small glass rings. A string of lights hung by the window, along with a few dried flowers in a bottle she had apparently repurposed as a vase. From the kitchen came the scent of garlic, tomatoes, and something lemony.\n\n“Sit down,” Charlotte said. She disappeared for a moment and came back with a pan, from which she served pasta onto the plates—spaghetti with a creamy tomato-cream sauce, basil on top, shaved cheese. “I hope you don’t like it too spicy.”\n\n“Looks perfect,” Chris said. His stomach answered softly.\n\nCharlotte also set down a small bowl of salad—arugula, thin pear slices, roasted nuts—and poured something into two glasses. “For a toast, all I’ve got is lemonade,” she grinned, “but it’s ice cold.”\n\nThey clinked glasses. The sound was small and clear. The first forkfuls passed in silence, contented, then the words found their place. Charlotte told him about an art project that had gone wrong, and how she had saved it with one mistaken line.\n\nOver the salad, they fell into that light, quiet laughter that arises between two people who have just caught exactly the same thought.\n\n<<if $choice_manga == 1>>Then Charlotte briefly set down her fork, looked at Chris over the rim of her plate, and said, almost casually: “By the way, I looked into that mecha stuff you like.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “I mean… I always thought it was just giant robots smashing things. But with some of them, it’s really about pilots, loyalty, and that whole… ‘what is human, what is machine’ thing.”\n\nChris blinked, surprised. “You… researched it?”\n\n“Just a little,” Charlotte said quickly, as if it were nothing, and tapped her finger against her glass. “I just wanted to understand what you think is cool about it.” She grinned crookedly. “And… when one of those mechas goes ‘online’ for the first time. That’s kind of… epic.”\n\nChris felt himself grow warm—not embarrassingly warm, but softly.\n\n<<endif>>Afterward, Charlotte stood up to turn the music down, and as she passed him, she briefly brushed a hand over his shoulder, casual and yet like a promise of its own. The tea lights cast soft rings across the tablecloth; outside, dusk was falling, and the string of lights reflected in the window glass.\n\n“Dessert is improvised,” she said at last, holding up a small bowl: vanilla ice cream with warm berries from the pot, a few cookie crumbs on top. “Gourmet on a student budget.”\n\n“Luxury,” Chris said, and when he took the first spoonful, the cold and warmth at once were exactly the right contrast.\n\nThey talked about nothing big and yet about everything: about the embarrassing moment on the bus, which Chris hinted at in a minimizing way; about homecoming songs; about how strongly Maplewood could smell of woodsmoke in autumn. When silence fell, it did not feel like a hole, but like a blanket.\n\nWhen the plates were empty, Charlotte leaned back, tilted her head, and looked at him. “Thank you for being here,” she said softly.\n\nChris nodded, and the smile came on its own. “Thank you for cooking.”\n\n“Always happy to.” She flicked a crumb off the table, stood up, and softly brushed his hand again as she passed. “Come on. Let’s take these things to the kitchen, and then… we’ll see whether the sky gives us stars tonight.”\n\nHe stood up, took the plates, and followed her—light, full, and for this moment completely calm.\n\n[[Continue|Mit Charlotte auf ihrem Zimmer.]]

One late afternoon, Chris came home earlier than he usually did. The sky was gray, and inside him was that faint tugging feeling that had been with him constantly lately. He unlocked the front door, stepped inside—and immediately stopped.\n\nMuffled moaning came from the living room.\n\nChris heard his mother’s voice, soft and deep. “Aaaaahhhh… yessss…” And in between, Dylan’s voice. “Ohhhh Susan…”\n\nHe took another step forward without wanting to, as if his body had to go and collect the truth.\n\nIn the living room, he saw them. They were lying on top of each other in the sixty-nine position. Dylan was on his back, devotedly tending to Susan’s pussy, and on top, pleasurably sucking Dylan’s cock, was Susan.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Chris_schock.jpg]]</center> “MOM!” Completely perplexed, Chris stood in the living room and stared straight into his mother’s wet vagina, where his boyfriend’s tongue was currently buried.\n\n“Chris?” Dylan startled, completely surprised. “What are you doing here?”\n\n“That’s what I’m asking you.”\n\nSusan let Dylan’s cock pop out of her mouth. She slowly turned around and didn’t look surprised, only… annoyed that the timing hadn’t worked out.\n\nChris’s chest tightened as if someone had pulled the ground out from under him. His great love, his “my boyfriend,” his hope—and his mother. He felt heat in his face, then cold all the way down to his fingers. Rage, grief, shame. Humiliation in a single breath.\n\n“Chris…” Dylan began, but it was too late for any sentence that could save this.\n\nChris took a step back, as if the room had burned him. He said nothing. He turned around and went upstairs, faster and faster, until he was in his room and closed the door behind him. Only then did a sound break from his throat, something between a sob and a retch, and he pressed his face into the pillow as if he could push the images out of his head that way.\n\nLater—much later, when he had forced himself to go back downstairs—Susan was standing in the kitchen, as if she were in the middle of organizing a perfectly normal evening. She seemed controlled. Composed. Almost amused.\n\nChris stopped in the doorway. His voice came out rough. “How could you?”\n\nSusan looked at him, her eyes cool. “Don’t make a scene now.”\n\n“No scene?” Chris’s hands were shaking. “You… you…” He couldn’t get the word past his lips, because it was too final. “He’s my boyfriend.”\n\nSusan snorted softly. “Was he?”\n\nChris stared at her as if she had hit him.\n\nSusan stepped closer, now speaking in that calm voice she always had when she wanted to corner someone. “Chris, listen to me. You kept him waiting for weeks. You were constantly slowing him down. You wanted the benefits—holding hands, kisses—but you could never give him what he needs.” She raised her eyebrows. “He’s a boy. He wants what boys want.”\n\n“That’s not—” Chris swallowed, and the words tasted like blood. “That doesn’t justify you—”\n\n“I only gave him what you couldn’t give him,” Susan said, and her voice stayed hard. “And if we’re being honest: you should never have started this relationship. Not like this. You knew you were deceiving him. You knew it would explode eventually.” She made a small, dismissive gesture. “So don’t act now as if I’m the monster in your story.”\n\nChris’s eyes burned. He felt as if he were collapsing from the inside out. It wasn’t just betrayal—it was that his mother even wanted to take his anger away from him by turning it into guilt.\n\nHe said nothing more. He couldn’t. He turned around and went back upstairs, every step heavy as lead.\n\nIn his room, he closed the door, leaned against it, and slowly slid down to the floor. The heart in his chest hurt as if it were a muscle that had worked too long and was now tearing. Dylan—his first great happiness—didn’t end in a slow drifting apart, but in a catastrophe. In an image he couldn’t get out of his head. In a feeling that felt like shame, even though he was the one who had been hurt.\n\nHe drew his knees up, held on to himself, and stared into nothing until twilight turned the room gray. And somewhere deep inside him, something broke that until then he had believed to be indestructible.\n<<set $ende to 0>>\n[[Continue|Die Zeit danach.]]

“Well sweetie, now that you’ve mastered cock sucking, it’s time for you to prove what a good little girl you are for mommy’s cock.”\n\nShe helped Chris up and led him to the bed. Susan bent her son over the bed so that Chris' elbows rested on it. It didn't take a genius to figure out what she was up to.\n\nChris was about to protest, but his mother immediately intervened.\n\n"Don't say a word or I'll get very angry. And you don't want Mom to be angry, do you?"\n\n"No Mom." Chris replied intimidated and very nervous.\n\nSusan went to the dessert table and grabbed a condom and lube from the drawer. Chris saw her rolling the condom over the fake cock. She grinned at him and he looked back at the bed, embarrassed.\n\nThen Chris felt his mother pull his panties down to his ankles. Somehow he really felt like a girl in that moment, before their first time. His knees were weak as Chris willingly offered his pretty naked ass for him to fuck like a little slut.\n\nThe next thing Chris felt was the cold gel his mother was applying to his asshole with her finger.\n\nWithout saying another word, Susan pushed the fake cock between Chris's ass cheeks. Instinctively he tensed his asshole. His mother rubbed his back soothingly. “Relax.”\n\nSince the strap-on dildo wasn't too big, it slid into his bottom almost effortlessly. When he was fully in, his mother leaned over and pressed her bare tits against Chris' back, praising him.\n\n“See Chris, you’re such a good little girl, taking mommy’s cock so nicely.” She said and reached around Chris, grabbing his bra and groping Chris' small breasts as she slowly began to slide the dildo in and out.\n\nIt definitely wasn't pleasant at first, but his mother's bare breasts against his back and the fondling of his nipples made it more bearable for Chris. It took him a few moments to relax. When his mother noticed this, she straightened up again, grabbed Chris's hips and started fucking his bottom with a faster rhythm.\n\n“Who’s mommy’s little slut?” she asked, driving the cock a little harder and a little deeper. “SAY IT!!!”\n\n[[Continue|Er sagt es.]]\n

Chris had just come out of the gym. His dress lay damp against his back, and that pleasant afterglow from training burned in his shoulders. He pulled the sports bag higher, breathed in the cool air, and for a moment was simply glad it was over.\n<<set $ort to "gym">>\n“Hey, Chris!”\n\nThe voice came from the side. Chris stopped almost automatically, turned his head, and saw [[Dylan|Dylan Carter]] a few meters away. Dylan was leaning casually against the wall, as if the hallway had been built for scenes like this. A cardigan hung from his hand.\n\nChris’s brain needed a second to catch up. Dylan remembers my name? The thought shot through his head, and immediately that beautiful, shameless tingling came into his stomach—like a tiny electric spark that hadn’t asked whether it was allowed to stay.\n\n<<if $choice_training_effort == 1>>Dylan nodded toward the training area, as if he could still see him there. “You were strong last week, by the way,” he said, completely casually. “You really went for it. Looked… really good.”\n\nChris felt heat shoot into his face. “Uh—thanks,” he managed, far too quickly, and hated how easily his smile suddenly came. He pulled the bag higher, as if he could hide behind it.\n\n<<endif>><<if $choice_training_effort == 2>>Dylan studied him briefly, as if something occurred to him, and gave a crooked grin. “By the way—last week… at training?” He raised his hand as if waving an invisible pom-pom. “It was kind of… cute. You really threw yourself into it.”\n\nChris’s face grew hot, and he immediately saw himself again: how he had counted too enthusiastically, jumped too high, and nearly slipped on landing—and how he had pretended that was exactly how it had been planned.\n\n<<endif>>Dylan lifted the jacket in his hand a little. It was clearly Penelope’s: light-colored, soft, a little too expensive, with a small gold button on one sleeve that said “cheerleader queen” from a distance. “Can you give this to Penelope?” he asked. “She left it behind.”\n\nThe spark in Chris’s stomach tightened, turned into something else. Jealousy, cold and surprisingly concrete. Chris smiled anyway, because by now he could do that. “Yeah… sure.”\n\n“Thanks.” Dylan grinned briefly, as if that was all, and walked on, as if he had just lent him a pen and not handed him a feeling Chris couldn’t sort out.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[He brings Penelope the jacket, even though the thought of it gives him a small pang.|Er bringt Penelope die Jacke.][$dylan += 1;$dylan_opinion += 10]]\n❯ [[He decides not to bring Penelope the jacket.|Er bringt Penelope die Jacke nicht.]]\n❯ [[He can’t resist the temptation and checks what’s in Penelope’s jacket pockets.|Er durchsucht die Jackentaschen.]]

Beliebtheit +1\nBeliebtheit -1\nTarnung -1

The early days were hard. Not “movie hard,” but truly hard: nights without sleep, screams that cut to the bone, diapers that seemed never-ending, and that quiet fear of doing something wrong. Christine and Chris worked in shifts, as if they were a small rescue team. One held the baby while the other made a bottle. One got up while the other slept through at least one hour. Sometimes they both cried at the same time—Christine because she was overwhelmed, Chris because he was tired and because he felt guilty.\n\nBut between the difficult hours, moments grew that carried them: the first real smile, the first time the baby fell asleep peacefully on her stomach, the tiny fingers closing tightly around their thumb. Christine grew into the role of mother, not suddenly, but day by day. She learned to trust the baby—and herself. And Chris officially became “aunt.” In practice, he was the second mother: the person who always knew where the pacifier was, who automatically got up at night, who could calm the baby when nothing else helped.\n\nThe forbidden love between the siblings lived on. In tiny touches that no one saw: Chris’s fingers finding Christine’s hand briefly beneath the table. A kiss, quick, before their mother came down the hallway. Two naked teenagers finding themselves secretly in the same bed when the house was still.\n\nSome time later, the result of the paternity test came back. Myles was not the father.\n\nThe sentence was there in black and white and still made no sense. Chris read it, then read it again, as if reading it a second time would change reality. Christine sat beside him, rigid, her gaze nailed somewhere to a point between the wall and the floor.\n\nFor one terrible moment, Chris’ mind raced in every direction. A dark chaos that he called his life.\n\nSusan, on the other hand, exploded immediately.\n\n“Then who?” Her voice cracked. “Who is the father, Christine? Tell me! Now!”\n\nChristine lifted her head, and there was something hard, defenseless in her gaze. She only shook her head. “No.”\n\n“What do you mean, no? This isn’t a secret you can just—”\n\n“No,” Christine repeated, this time quieter, but firmer. Her hands were trembling. “I’m not saying anything.”\n\nChris stood beside them, his stomach tied in a knot. He wanted to protect Christine and did not know how.\n\n[[Continue|Chris kommt auf die Kosmetikschule.]]

The movie grew quieter at some point. Or they listened less. Christine’s breathing became steadier, heavier. Her forehead now rested more firmly against his chest, and her body was warm and surprisingly light, as if she were finally letting herself fall.\n\n“Christine…” he whispered, but it was more a breath than a word. She didn’t react. Maybe she had heard it, maybe not.\n\nChris pulled the blanket a little higher, only to cover his sister better, and then stayed sitting like that, as if any movement would be too much.\n\nAt some point, he realized his eyes were growing heavy too. The warm light, the monotonous sound of the movie, the calm breathing beside him—everything pulled him down like soft water.\n\nHis head sank slightly to the side, until his cheek very gently touched her hair.\n\nAnd then they fell asleep.\n\nCurled up together, too close for siblings, but also too careful for anything else. Simply… two people who had found refuge under the same blanket.\n\nIn the morning, the living room was bright because someone had forgotten to close the curtains all the way. The light was cold and honest and made every bit of mess visible—the empty bowl of popcorn, the half-slipped cushion, the blanket that had wrapped itself around them so much during the night that it looked more like a knot.\n\nChris woke up first, half dazed, half startled, because his arm had fallen asleep.\n\nHe moved ever so slightly and immediately felt his sister against him: her head against his chest, her leg against his, her hand on his lap.\n\nFor a moment, he simply stayed still.\n\nHe didn’t feel guilty. Not right away. At first, there was only that warm, unfamiliar feeling of… safety. As if his body had understood something his head still couldn’t make sense of.\n\nThen Christine blinked. Her eyes opened slowly, searching for orientation – and found him.\n\nHer gaze caught on him. A tiny shock flickered across her face, immediately followed by embarrassment. Her body tensed, as if she had to rescue herself from a situation she herself hadn’t planned.\n\n“Oh God,” she murmured hoarsely and jerked upright, the blanket slipping almost completely off them. She hastily pulled it back up, as if fabric were a shield against what had just happened.\n\nChris sat up too, cleared his throat, and tried to keep his face neutral, even though his ears were burning. “Morning.”\n\nChristine ran a hand through her hair, as if she could wipe the memory away with it. “We… fell asleep.”\n\n“Looks like it,” Chris said carefully.\n\nFor a few seconds, they sat there, both too stiff, too awake, too aware. The TV had long since turned off. Only the soft hum of the room and their breathing remained.\n\nThen, quite unexpectedly, Christine let her shoulders sink. Not completely, but enough. She glanced down at the blanket, then back at him – and in her eyes was something he rarely saw so openly: a hint of gratitude, unguarded.\n\n“I… slept really well,” she said quietly, almost reluctantly, as if she didn’t like admitting that she had needed something. “For the first time in… I don’t know.”\n\nChris’ chest tightened, in a good way. He nodded slowly. “I’m glad.”\n\nChristine pulled the blanket tighter around herself, stood up, and stretched, as if she were suddenly herself again. “I’m going to the bathroom first,” she said too quickly.\n\nAs she headed toward the bathroom, she paused briefly at the door without turning around. “Chris?”\n\n“Mm?”\n\nHer voice grew quieter again. “Thank you. For yesterday.”\n\nChris swallowed, because he knew how hard that was for her. “Always.”\n\nShe nodded once and then disappeared, as if she had shown too much.\n\n[[Continue|Frauenarzttermin.]]\n

Chris went to school that day because his mother gave him no choice. He hated his life. Not that “I’m in a bad mood” kind of hate, but that dull, heavy feeling, as if he were walking into a building where his own name was stuck to every wall as a joke.\n\nHe had wanted to meet Zoe before school. Just so he wouldn’t have to go through the entrance alone, so there would be at least one person who wasn’t grinning. But Zoe wasn’t there.\n\nHe texted her.\n<blockquote class="quote">Where are you? Please tell me you’re coming.</blockquote> No answer.\nIt started immediately at the school gate. Heads turned. Phones lifted like little mirrors he didn’t want to look into. The embarrassing video had long since stopped being “a clip” – it had become a currency. Laughter that cut off as soon as he got closer, then surged back up the moment he had passed.\n\n“There she is,” someone hissed.\n\n“Cum-Breath Barbie!” another called out – loud enough for several people to hear, quiet enough for it to seem “accidental.” The nickname hit him harder than “Boob Chris,” because it was so mean. Not even creative, just degrading. Cum Breath. As if his breath would now smell like semen forever.\n\nChris kept his eyes down, hunched his shoulders, and walked faster. He felt every second of his body: the way he carried his backpack, the way the skirt swung as he walked, the way his face grew hot whenever someone laughed somewhere. He wanted to be invisible – and at the same time, he was the only thing everyone was talking about.\n\nIn homeroom, [[Mr. Robertson|Wesley Robertson]] was absent. His seat at the front stayed empty. There was only a substitute and worksheets, but no one really cared about the material, because the new topic of conversation immediately made the rounds: Robertson had been suspended. “Seriously insane,” a voice whispered behind Chris. “He was seen with a student…” – rumors that weren’t even clear, but sharp enough to cut. Chris might have listened otherwise. Today he didn’t care. It even felt unfair that someone else was also becoming hallway fodder right now. Except it didn’t help him.\n\nThe hours dragged on sluggishly. The hallways were the worst: those half-seconds when people walked past him and giggled at the exact moment they passed. A phone was deliberately shoved under his nose, as if it were a meme that had to be “shared.” Chris turned his head away so quickly he felt dizzy.\n\nHe texted Zoe again.\n<blockquote class="quote">Please. I need you.</blockquote> Still nothing.\n\nDuring break, he stood at the edge of the courtyard, where the shadow of the gym lay. He pretended to scroll on his phone, but really he was just staring at the screen and waiting for it to vibrate. He felt hollowed out. As if his social life weren’t just broken, but burned down – and everyone was warming themselves by the fire.\n\nThen it finally vibrated.\n\nA message from Zoe:\n<blockquote class="quote">Sorry. Couldn’t. We’ll meet after school. I need to tell you something.</blockquote> Chris’s chest tightened, this time not from shame, but from something that was almost like relief. He immediately typed a reply, deleted it again, typed a new one – and realized how badly his hands were shaking, just because someone was still there.\n\nHe put the phone away and took one deep breath while somewhere around him, someone giggled “Cum-Breath Barbie” again. It still hurt. But the day suddenly had a point at the end where he wouldn’t have to be alone.\n\n[[Continue|Bei Zoe zu Hause.]]

[[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] was waiting at the end of the street, phone in hand, when Chris and Christine came around the corner. The light caught on her dress and made the fabric come alive.<<set $ort to "party house">>\n<center>[img[pics/Charlotte_party.jpg]]</center> \nShe was wearing a short, satin-black slip dress with thin spaghetti straps; the V-neckline was edged with gossamer-fine lace that barely concealed anything and yet defined everything. The fabric fell over her like water, clinging to her waist and hips, ending just at her thighs. A black choker lay around her neck like a period after a sentence, with small hoop earrings to match. Her bangs fell feather-light across her forehead, her freckles looking almost golden in the warm evening light.\n\nChris’s gaze lingered a little too long. He swallowed. Next to Charlotte, his party-girl outfit made him feel less like a daring version of himself and more like someone who had shown up to a costume contest without knowing the rules.\n\n“Hold on,” Charlotte said when she saw them both. “Since when do you two walk around looking this gorgeous? You both look seriously next level.”\n\nChristine grinned and spun once around her own axis. “Finally someone recognizes it.”\n\nThen Charlotte turned to Chris, deliberately looking him up and down and back again. “And you—wow, your legs look insanely good.”\n\nThe words hit him like a mixture of compliment and floodlight. “Uh… thanks,” he managed. He had the feeling the miniskirt had just gotten even shorter.\n\nThe three of them continued on together, down the street, until the throb of music came spilling toward them. The house was big, one of those with a wide driveway and a lit entrance. Light flickered from inside, voices spilled out, laughter, shouts, a bass that set everything vibrating.\n\nInside, the living room had become a dance floor. Furniture pushed aside, colored lights, bodies moving to the beat. In the corner, an improvised bar: bottles, ice, red plastic cups. The smell of perfume, sweet alcohol, and a few too many people.\n\n<center>[img[pics/party.jpg]]</center> Myles emerged from a group of boys. He had a red cup in his hand and a grin on his face. “There you are,” he said, pulled Christine to him, and kissed her without hesitation. The boys behind him whooped, one nudged him, someone commented something about “couple goals.”\n\nChris stood beside them, the party-girl outfit suddenly like a costume that was too loud. Two of the boys let their gazes glide over him—from the strappy heels, the bare shins, up to the thighs, to the hem of the miniskirt. Their eyes stuck there, open and shameless. Another fixed on Charlotte’s neckline as if the rest of the room had stopped existing.\n\n“You both look hot,” one of them said, half joking, half not. The laughter afterward was too loud.\n\nThey clinked their cups together, that stereotypical “Woo!” layered over it. Chris reflexively raised his hand, even though it was empty, and someone noticed immediately.\n\n“Hey, you don’t have anything,” a broad-shouldered guy said, pressing a red cup into his hand without asking. “Here, it’s part of it.”\n\nChris looked down. Golden liquid, the smell of beer and something sharper that stung in the air. He took a sip so as not to seem rude. The taste burned slightly, more intense than expected.\n\nStrange, he thought. Beer doesn’t usually taste this strongly of alcohol.\n\nBut the bass vibrated, Charlotte was laughing beside him, Christine was leaning against Myles’s side, and the boys treated him as if he were naturally part of the scenery. As a “hot girl” to be looked at, spoken to, drawn into the circle.\n\n“You’re the new girl from Germany, right?” A guy leaned closer, grinning. “Wouldn’t have thought someone with model legs would suddenly be walking around here.”\n\nHe briefly placed a hand on Chris’s waist, only a grazing pressure, just long enough that it didn’t feel like an accident.\n\nPart of him felt flattered. Someone saw him. Someone found him attractive. As if he really were the girl he looked like.\n\nAnother part felt used, stared at, reduced to legs and top and lip gloss. And behind that lurked panicked questions: When exactly did my body stop being just a costume? When did I slip from “pretending” into “this is all they see now”?\n\nHe took another sip. The alcohol settled warm in his stomach, pushing a soft edge in front of his nervousness. Voices grew rounder, the laughter more infectious, the floor under his heels minimally softer. He kept drinking. The effect came quickly.\n\n[[Continue|Tanzen mit Charlotte und Christine.]]\n

[[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]] was already waiting at the corner where the sidewalk branched off toward the party estate. He shifted from one foot to the other, hands in his pockets, his shirt a little too neat for the occasion. When he saw Chris and Christine, his face twitched into a nervous smile.<<set $ort to "Party House">>\n\n“Hey,” said Chris.\n\n“Hi,” Lucas replied. His gaze slipped briefly to Christine, then back to Chris, then just past him. “Thanks for… I mean, for letting me… uh, come along.”\n\nChristine let her eyes dart back and forth between them. “You invited Lucas?” she asked, slightly surprised, but without hostility. There was that appraising amazement in her tone: A boy? You?\n\n“Yeah,” Chris said, sounding too normal. “Sure.”\n\nLucas drew a breath as if he had to recite a line. “So… you look, uh… really pretty,” he stammered, staring somewhere around Chris’s collarbone instead of at him. “I mean, in a… positive way. Not like… I mean, yes, like that.”\n\nHis gaze drifted downward uncontrollably, lingered on the black miniskirt, on the long, slender legs with the slight tension in the calves, emphasized by the strappy heels. Chris suddenly felt heat rush into his face. Lucas wasn’t staring in a mean way, or a sleazy way—more curiously. But it was still staring. And under that gaze, the fabric felt thinner, the hem shorter, every pore on his thighs visible.\n\n“Thanks,” Chris managed, hearing for himself how small it sounded, and unconsciously tugged the hem of the skirt down a centimeter. Christine’s lips only curled briefly into a knowing grin.\n\nThe three of them walked on. The party house was impossible to miss: a large, wide building, string lights over the driveway, booming bass that made the ground vibrate slightly. Several cars were already parked crookedly in the driveway, clusters of teens with plastic cups stood in front of the door, laughter, the smell of sweet drinks and perfume and something that smelled like beer.\n\n<center>[img[pics/party.jpg]]</center> Barely had they entered the house when Myles and a few of his football buddies appeared. As always, Myles wore that effortless grin that got him forgiven for everything. Without hesitation, he slipped an arm around Christine and kissed her on the mouth in front of everyone. She let him, even kissed him back, one hand at the hem of his T-shirt.\n\nThe other boys looked over. One brief, unified moment of appraisal: the gaze moved over Christine in her dress, down to her legs, then back up. Then it stopped—on Chris.\n\nThey took him in like a new element on the field: miniskirt, crop top, glossy lips, hoop earrings, the heels, the legs. Their looks were open, not even hidden. One raised his brows, another nudged the next with his elbow. Chris felt the heat rising, felt naked in a way that had nothing to do with the lack of fabric.\n\nLucas stayed close to him, but not in front of him—half a step behind. Like a satellite in a safe orbit. When the bigger guys from the team came closer—broad shoulders, loud voices, that “We belong here” in their posture—Lucas instinctively moved aside. He made room without anyone asking him to. Said nothing when eyes lingered. Laughed along too quietly when someone made a comment.\n\nThe guys got flirty, but in that playful way that pretended to be harmless and natural: a “If you want to dance later, let me know,” a “You belong on the dance floor in that outfit,” a look that said more than any words. To them, he was a “hot girl,” period.\n\nSomething inside him tightened and straightened at the same time. It was flattering to be seen like that. It was disgusting to be seen like that. It was terrifying that not one of them doubted it for even a second. When did my body stop being just a disguise? The question flickered up and no longer found any wall to bounce off.\n\nIn the living room, the lights were dim, the floor sticky in places from spilled drinks. Music, bass, bursts of laughter. In one corner, an improvised bar had been set up: big bowls of punch, beer bottles, colorful plastic cups. Someone Chris vaguely knew from school pressed a cup into his hand without being asked.\n\n“Here, it’s part of it,” the boy said with a grin, as if it were some initiation ritual.\n\nChris smelled it. The contents looked like beer, but the smell was sharper, stronger. “Beer doesn’t usually smell this much like alcohol,” he thought, briefly confused. But his hands were trembling slightly, his heart racing away from him, and the pressure of all those looks was like a neon lamp on his skin.\n\nSo he drank. One sip, then another. It burned subtly, settled warm and heavy in his stomach. The music softened a little around the edges, the floor felt less hard. The nervousness liquefied and sloshed around.\n\nHe kept drinking. And quickly noticed the effect setting in.\n\n[[Continue|Tanzen mit Lucas und Christine.]]

<<nobr>>\n<<set $total = 10>>\n<<set $done = ($ende1||0)+($ende2||0)+($ende3||0)+($ende4||0)+($ende5||0)+($ende6||0)+($ende7||0)+($ende8||0)+($ende9||0)+($ende10||0)>>\n\n<<set $done = Math.max(0, Math.min($done, $total))>>\n<<set $percent = Math.round(($done / $total) * 100)>>\n\n<<set $bonusTotal = 10>>\n<<set $bonusDone =\n\t1 +\n\t(($done >= 2) ? 1 : 0) +\n\t(($done >= 3) ? 1 : 0) +\n\t(($done >= 4 && $ende5 == 1) ? 1 : 0) +\n\t(($done >= 4 && $ende2 == 1) ? 1 : 0) +\n\t(($done >= 4 && $ende1 == 1) ? 1 : 0) +\n\t(($done >= 4 && $ende3 == 1) ? 1 : 0) +\n\t(($done >= 4 && $ende7 == 1) ? 1 : 0) +\n\t(($done >= 4 && $ende4 == 1) ? 1 : 0) +\n\t(($done == $total) ? 1 : 0)\n>>\n<</nobr>>\n<div class="finalePage"> <div class="finalHeader"><div class="finalEyebrow">Completion Overview</div> <h1>Your Unlocked Content</h1> <p class="finalLead"> You have discovered <strong><<print $percent>> %</strong> of the content. </p> <div class="finalStats"> <div class="statCard"> <div class="statValue"><<print $done>> / <<print $total>></div> <div class="statLabel">Endings seen</div> </div> <div class="statCard"> <div class="statValue"><<print $bonusDone>> / <<print $bonusTotal>></div> <div class="statLabel">Bonus material unlocked</div> </div> </div> </div> <div class="finalSection"> <div class="sectionHead"> <h2>Endings</h2> <div class="sectionMeta">An overview of all possible conclusions</div> </div> <div class="endeListe"> <<nobr>> <<if $ende1 is 1>> <div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">⭐</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 1</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Pom-Pom Queen”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">seen</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 1</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Pom-Pom Queen”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">not seen yet</span> </div> <</if>>\n\n<<if $ende2 is 1>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">⭐</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 2</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Accidental Sweetheart”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">seen</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 2</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Accidental Sweetheart”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">not seen yet</span> </div> <</if>>\n\n<<if $ende3 is 1>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">⭐</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 3</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Moonlit Girlfriends”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">seen</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 3</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Moonlit Girlfriends”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">not seen yet</span> </div> <</if>>\n\n<<if $ende4 is 1>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">⭐</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 4</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Wifely Dream”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">seen</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 4</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Wifely Dream”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">not seen yet</span> </div> <</if>>\n\n<<if $ende5 is 1>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">⭐</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 5</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Forbidden Love”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">seen</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 5</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Forbidden Love”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">not seen yet</span> </div> <</if>>\n\n<<if $ende6 is 1>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">⭐</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 6</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Reclaimed Self”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">seen</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 6</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Reclaimed Self”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">not seen yet</span> </div> <</if>>\n\n<<if $ende7 is 1>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">⭐</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 7</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Besties in Love”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">seen</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 7</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Besties in Love”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">not seen yet</span> </div> <</if>>\n\n<<if $ende8 is 1>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">⭐</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 8</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Pink Princess”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">seen</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 8</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Pink Princess”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">not seen yet</span> </div> <</if>>\n\n<<if $ende9 is 1>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">⭐</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 9</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Goodbye High School”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">seen</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 9</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Goodbye High School”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">not seen yet</span> </div> <</if>>\n\n<<if $ende10 is 1>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">⭐</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 10</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Dollars & Dreams”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">seen</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">Ending 10</span> <span class="endeTitle">– “Dollars & Dreams”</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">not seen yet</span> </div> <</if>> <</nobr>> </div> </div> <div class="restartWrap"> <span class="startBtn">[[↻ Restart|Begin]]</span> </div> <div class="finalSection"> <div class="sectionHead"> <h2>Bonus Material</h2> <div class="sectionMeta">Additional scenes and extras</div> </div> <div class="endeListe"> <<nobr>> <div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">✉️</span> <span><span class="endeName">[[Letter from Susan|Brief von Susan]]</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">unlocked</span> </div>\n\n<<if $done >= 2>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🧸</span> <span><span class="endeName">[[Childhood Days|Kindheitstage]]</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">unlocked</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">🧸 Childhood Days</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">locked</span> </div> <</if>>\n\n<<if $done >= 3>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">📅</span> <span><span class="endeName">[[One Year Earlier|Ein Jahr zuvor]]</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">unlocked</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">📅 One Year Earlier</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">locked</span> </div> <</if>>\n\n<<if $done >= 4 && $ende5 == 1>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">📖</span> <span><span class="endeName">[[Christine’s Diary|Christines Tagebuch0]]</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">unlocked</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">📖 Christine’s Diary</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">locked</span> </div> <</if>>\n\n<<if $done >= 4 && $ende2 == 1>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">💘</span> <span><span class="endeName">[[Valentine’s Day|Valentinstag]]</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">unlocked</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">💘 Valentine’s Day</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">locked</span> </div> <</if>>\n\n<<if $done >= 4 && $ende1 == 1>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🏆</span> <span><span class="endeName">[[Final Game|Endspiel]]</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">unlocked</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">🏆 Final Game</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">locked</span> </div> <</if>>\n\n<<if $done >= 4 && $ende3 == 1>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">💃</span> <span><span class="endeName">[[Prom|Abschlussball]]</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">unlocked</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">💃 Prom</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">locked</span> </div> <</if>>\n\n<<if $done >= 4 && $ende7 == 1>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🎓</span> <span><span class="endeName">[[Graduation Ceremony|Zeugnisvergabe]]</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">unlocked</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">🎓 Graduation Ceremony</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">locked</span> </div> <</if>>\n\n<<if $done >= 4 && $ende4 == 1>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🕰️</span> <span><span class="endeName">[[20 Years Later|20 Jahre später]]</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">unlocked</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">🕰️ 20 Years Later</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">locked</span> </div> <</if>>\n\n<<if $done == $total>>\n\n<div class="endeItem endeDone"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">💌</span> <span><span class="endeName">[[Letter from Chris|💌 Brief von Chris]]</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">unlocked</span> </div> <<else>> <div class="endeItem endeLocked"> <div class="endeLeft"> <span class="endeIcon">🔒</span> <span><span class="endeName">💌 Letter from Chris</span></span> </div> <span class="badge">locked</span> </div> <</if>> <</nobr>> </div> </div> <div class="finalFooterLinks"> <span class="footerLink">[[🎬 Sex Scene Overview|Ende_Sexszenen]]</span> <span class="footerLink">[[🔎 Solution Hints|Ende_tipps]]</span> </div> </div>\n\n\n<<nobr>>\n<<set $tarnung to 5>> \n<<set $beliebtheit to 5>>\n<<set $stil to 5>>\n\n<<set $ChrisMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $SusanMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $ChristineMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $CharlotteMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $ZoeMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $PenelopeMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $RubyMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n\n<<set $MylesMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $DylanMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $LucasMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $AdamMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n\n<<set $JosephMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $CarolineMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n\n\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n<<set $wetter = 1>>\n<<set $ort = "Schulbus">>\n\n<<set $ladendiebin to 0>>\n<<set $schminke to 0>>\n<<set $schuhe to 0>>\n<<set $piercing to 0>>\n<<set $unterwaesche to 0>>\n<<set $club to 0>>\n<<set $kleidung to 0>>\n<<set $party to 0>>\n<<set $dating to 0>>\n<<set $ende to 0>>\n<<set $kondomedieb to 0>>\n<<set $videoblackmail to 0>>\n<<set $newgameplus to 1>>\n<<set $christine_party to 0>>\n<<set $chrisorsis to 0>>\n<<set $selbstbild to 0>>\n<<set $yoga to 0>>\n<<set $umkleide to 0>>\n\n<<set $christine to 0>>\n<<set $charlotte to 0>>\n<<set $lucas to 0>>\n<<set $lucaslove to 0>>\n<<set $dylan to 0>>\n<<set $adam to 0>>\n<<set $zoe to 0>>\n<<set $zoejungs to 0>>\n<<set $susan to 0>>\n<<set $ferguson to 0>>\n<<set $moore to 0>>\n<<set $myles to 0>>\n<<set $deshawn to 0>>\n<<set $party1 to 0>>\n<<set $party2 to 0>>\n<<set $tagebuch to 0>>\n<<set $schulball to 0>>\n<<set $barnett to 0>>\n<<set $barnettbaby to 0>>\n<<set $zeke to 0>>\n<<set $dylanbadend to 0>>\n\n<<set $jerkoff to 0>>\n<<set $oral to 0>>\n<<set $woral to 0>>\n<<set $swallow to 0>>\n<<set $fingerass to 0>>\n<<set $anal to 0>>\n<<set $creampied to 0>>\n<<set $sex to 0>>\n<<set $cameinside to 0>>\n<<set $partner to 0>>\n<<set $harassed to 0>>\n<<set $film to 0>>\n<<set $rape to 0>>\n<<set $kisssister to 0>>\n<<set $kissmom to 0>>\n<<set $kissgirl to 0>>\n<<set $kissboy to 0>>\n\n<<set $zoe_opinion to 3>>\n<<set $christine_opinion to 61>>\n<<set $lucas_opinion to 56>>\n<<set $ruby_opinion to 50>>\n<<set $moore_opinion to 5>>\n<<set $susan_opinion to 1>>\n<<set $caroline_opinion to 78>>\n<<set $adam_opinion to 1>>\n<<set $penelope_opinion to 2>>\n<<set $charlotte_opinion to 58>>\n<<set $dylan_opinion to 9>>\n<<set $joseph_opinion to 0>>\n<<set $latoya_opinion to 75>>\n<<set $deshawn_opinion to 1>>\n<<set $rivera_opinion to 71>>\n<<set $lavern_opinion to 59>>\n<<set $robertson_opinion to 1>>\n<<set $myles_opinion to 50>>\n<<set $chris_opinion to 0>>\n\n<<silently>>\n<<run setup.saveNgPlus()>>\n<</silently>>\n\n<</nobr>>

Chris chose—of course—“Women.” Susan raised a skeptical eyebrow, but said nothing more. With that, the profile was set up. “A date by the end of next week,” she reminded him on her way out, then left him alone.\n\nHe stared at the app. The photo with the bow, the too-smooth text—embarrassing. He opened the editor, deleted “long walks,” removed two pictures, left one where he was simply smiling. A short sigh; at least now it felt a little more like him.\n\nThen he scrolled. The selection of women looking for women in Maplewood was manageable: two profiles without pictures, a college student from the neighboring town, a few entries where the bio consisted of three emojis. Some seemed so resolutely masculine in posture and clothing that it intimidated him.\n\nA ping. Request.\n<center>[img[pics/lavern_online.jpg]]</center>\nHe opened the message. A selfie: brown skin, perfect makeup, a winning grin. “Hey, I’m [[Laverne|Laverne Johnson]]. Saw you’re new here 😊” it said, along with a bio that self-deprecatingly spoke of a “big silicone bust & an even bigger heart.”\n\nChris blinked. Laverne. The hairdresser who had cut his hair a few months ago, friendly, professional, with that effortless elegance. He tapped on her profile—under “Identity” it didn’t say “Woman,” but “Trans.” Surprise prickled up the back of his neck. He hadn’t thought Laverne was trans; she seemed—especially because of her figure, her aura—extremely feminine. Something in him softened: a mixture of respect, curiosity, and the dull feeling of standing in the wrong mirror himself.\n\nHe stared at the chat window. Reply? Not reply? His thumb hovered just above the keyboard.\n\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[He replies to Laverne and lets himself get drawn into the conversation, even though the surprise still hasn’t quite let go of him.|Antworten.]]\n❯ [[He’d rather not write back and keeps searching, because the situation overwhelms him for the moment.|Weiter suchen.][$dating += 1]]

Chris swallowed hard. “I… I’m sorry,” he managed, quietly at first, then louder because Zoe’s eyes demanded it. “I should have… stayed out of it.” The word “should” tasted like chalk.\n\nWhat kind of wimp am I, he thought, as he pursed his lips and gave the sole of her shoe a kiss.\n\nA few kids started laughing hysterically, one said “omg,” and somewhere someone made a camera sound, whether real or only with their mouth, he couldn’t tell.\n\nZoe began rubbing her shoe against his mouth, along the whole foot, almost sensually across Chris’s face, until her heel was directly over his mouth.\n\n“Now suck on the heel,” she said.\n\nChris opened his mouth and took Zoe’s pointed heel into it. She pushed it in and out for about twenty seconds. Within a few moments, Chris felt a pleasant tingling between his legs. He got hard.\n\n“Good girl,” Zoe said, as if praising a dog she didn’t like.\n\nHe looked up and noticed that a wet spot had formed on her thong that hadn’t been there before. But when she noticed his gaze, she stopped abruptly.\n\n“Now get up.” She turned away like someone wrapping up the scene and sauntered off. Two of her hangers-on followed.\n\nThe circle dissolved into individuals who acted as if they had never been there.\n\nChris stayed lying there for two breaths, then sat up, straightened his dress, and gathered his books. His fingers were trembling more than he liked. The notebook with his schedule had a new scrape; he smoothed it down as if it could be erased.\n\n“Chris!” Christine came running, stopped beside him, her hands half-extended as if she didn’t know whether she should touch him. Her gaze shot down the path Zoe had taken and back to him. “Are you okay?”\n\n“I’m fine,” he said, forcing himself to his feet. The pain was still there, more muted, but persistent.\n\nChristine pressed her lips together and handed him the last book. “Bus’ll be here in a second.” Then more quietly: “We’ll talk at home. And… keep your head up, okay?” She stood beside him, no grand gesture, just presence.\n\nThe bus rolled in, squealed, the doors folded open. Chris breathed through it, held his things tighter, and got on behind his sister, as if the aisle of the bus were, for a moment, the safest place in Maplewood.\n\n''👑 Popularity -2''\n\n[[Continue|Busfahrt.]]

The first official cheerleader practice was scheduled for the afternoon. It was bright and sunny; the yard lines on the grass looked like an orderly promise. Chris stood at the edge and tugged at the new cheerleader outfit, which felt much more “naked” than he had hoped.\n<<set $ort to "Cheer Practice Field">>\nThe top was a tight-fitting, sleeveless crop with a wide white band across the chest; above it, in large block letters, MAPLEWOOD, and below it a narrow stripe in the school colors that ended just above the ribcage. The skirt was pleated, ending a good bit above his knees, cut in a V-shape at the front so the legs stayed free, an assault on his sense of shame. Every step made the pleats dance to life. White knee socks, light sneakers. He felt like a billboard.\n\n“Line up!” Coach Moore clapped his hands. A few football players stood by the track and pretended they were only waiting for their turnover drills. Chris felt their gazes on his back like patches of sunlight.\n\n<center>[img[pics/cheerleader.jpg]]</center> They started with jumps. “Toe touch!” the coach called. The line counted in: “Five, six, seven, eight—” Explosion of arms and legs. Christine sliced through the air cleanly, Penelope was surprisingly powerful, Charlotte jumped with an elastic casualness. Chris lifted his legs, fingertips toward his toes—too late, too low. He landed, wobbled, caught himself. “Sharper arms!” Moore called. Two football players giggled at the sideline; he forced his gaze onto the grass.\n\nOn the herkie, his standing leg buckled too softly, his free arm briefly forgot where it was supposed to go. Better by the third run: rhythm, snap, landing. The ponytail smacked against the back of his neck; embarrassing and somehow motivating.\n\n“Split stretch, hold for 30 seconds!” Moore ordered. The girls slid downward like houses of cards in slow motion, their legs spread wide. Chris bounced, biting the air between his teeth. The ground stayed hard, the angle merciless. “Breathe,” Christine whispered beside him, “don’t push against it.” He managed to go a little lower, not graceful, but honest.\n\n“Well, Stretch Queen,” [[Zoe|Zoe March]] suddenly purred, appearing with a water bottle. “I had no idea you did backstage comedy.” Her smile was too sweet.\n“Nice of you to visit, Zoe,” Charlotte said curtly. “Quietly, if possible.”\nZoe snorted, caught the coach’s look, and retreated two steps—just far enough to keep being a nuisance without getting caught.\n\n“Stunts!” Moore arranged four groups. “We’re testing positions. Chris: back spot. Hands up, eyes open.”\n\nThe bases crouched down, the flyer—Penelope today—got ready. “Load in!” Chris positioned himself behind her, hands at her hips, thumbs at her butt. “Dip—press!” The lift was half a success: at the top it wobbled, because Chris’s hands adjusted too timidly, as if they were saying “sorry.” “Firmer on the hips,” Moore called, “you guide her, not the air.”\n\nSecond attempt. Penelope rose, Charlotte and Christine as bases worked solidly. Chris felt the strength in his forearms—okay, I’m strong enough—but at the crucial moment he hesitated because he couldn’t pull his gaze away from Penelope’s crotch, the hidden flower between her legs. He saw how her labia slightly parted the thin fabric.\n\nThe flyer tipped, the whole pyramid flopped softly forward. A collective “oof,” then three girls landed half on Chris, half on the grass, giggling. One cheerleader sat briefly on his face, then quickly slid aside.\n\n“I’m dying!” Penelope gasped, lying on top of Chris. She was hot, her young body glowing. Her porcelain skin was so soft and delicate, Chris felt.\n\nCharlotte held out a hand to him. “You okay?”\n\n“Yeah,” he panted and noticed how his face was burning—with exertion, with arousal, with shame.\n\n“Again,” Moore said, without mockery, just matter-of-factly. “Chris: more decisive hands. You save it if something tips. That only works if you really grab on.”\n\nThird attempt. “Five, six, seven, dip—press!” This time Chris placed his hands firmly, thumbs pressed steadily into Penelope’s butt cheeks, elbows in tight. Penelope stood at the top, fanning out a smile, the bases breathing in sync. For one second the wind smelled like rubber from the track. “Cradle!” Dismount, caught cleanly in waiting arms. Applause from the sideline.\n\nOn her way out, Zoe tossed in one more “There you go,” with the expression of a judge who never wants to be satisfied. Chris let it slide off him. The skirt swayed, his heart hammered, his hands were slightly shaky and very alive.\n\nMoore gave a brief nod. “That’s how I want to see it. Keep going.”\n\nThe wind swept under the hem of the skirt. Chris pressed his lips together, adjusted it instinctively, and took his place for the next count. Maybe embarrassment was a muscle you could train until it kept quiet. Today that felt possible.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Training.]]

Chris flinched, tore himself away from Charlotte, and turned toward the voice. At the edge of the deck stood a man in his mid-forties, keys in hand, briefcase at his elbow—well-groomed and somehow out of place between the loungers and the hot tub. His gaze jumped hastily back and forth between the two of them, then he forced on a smile.\n\n“Well, you two bathing beauties… everything okay here?” he said, and the joke audibly missed its mark. He raised his free hand appeasingly, as if trying to calm the situation like a sleeping cat. “I just wanted to… uh… say hello. I’m back earlier than expected.”\n\nChris’s face burned all at once. A few water droplets rolled down his small breasts and dripped from the pointy little nipples. Reflexively, he raised his shoulders and crossed his arms in front of his breasts. He tried to hide as much bare skin as possible behind his hands.\n\n“Uh… hello,” he managed—too high, too fast. His heart hammered all the way into his ears.\n\nCharlotte groaned softly and rolled her eyes without losing the humor entirely. “Dad…” She paddled to the edge of the tub and stood beside Chris, half protection, half defiance. “This is [[Joseph|Joseph Walters]], my father. He’s harmless, I promise.”\n\nJoseph nodded eagerly, overwhelmed and trying at the same time. Written across his face in large letters was: decent, kind, single parent, maximally clueless. “Nice to meet you,” he said, warmer this time. “I don’t mind that you… I mean… you know. I—uh—still have to grow into this myself. The main thing is that you take care of yourselves. And say something if you need anything.” The sentence sounded as if he had prepared it long ago and now taken it off the shelf too early.\n\nCharlotte turned to Chris. “Go up to my room,” she whispered, quieter than the hot tub. “Left down the hall, second door. Towels are in the bathroom, take some.”\n\n“Okay,” Chris breathed. He was still looking for his lost bikini top. But he couldn’t find it. The sight of Chris’s naked little tits made Joseph’s penis swell.\n\nChris climbed out of the tub as gracefully as possible, feeling as if he were under spotlights. Then he hurried—cheeks bright red—past the father to the patio door. “G-goodbye,” he stammered, without looking up.\n\n“See you later,” Joseph murmured kindly after him, embarrassed and trying to make the awkwardness smaller for everyone. He remained standing in the doorway for another moment, rubbing the back of his neck, taking one deep breath.\n\nUpstairs in the hallway, Chris’s heart finally beat a little more quietly. Behind him, he heard Charlotte’s muffled, “I’ll explain later, Dad.”\n\n[[Continue|Später in Charlottes Zimmer.]]

Chris texted Ruby: “Hey… quick question: Would you come to a party with me on Saturday? I have to go because of Chrissie and… well, going alone would be boring.”\n<<set $RubyMemory[0] to 1>>\nThe answer came quickly and dryly, as always: “Thanks, but I’m not a party type.” After three dots, another message followed: “And honestly? The parties Myles & Co. go to aren’t exactly safe for girls. Especially when they come across as naive as you (no hate, just fact).” Then, in Ruby’s matter-of-fact style, a sober report: At earlier gatherings, girls had been “fussed over”—too many cups, too little no—and suddenly disappeared into bedrooms with boys. Once, someone had later stood there with a positive pregnancy test. “I don’t want to scare you. Just: keep your eyes open, always stay in pairs, never take your eyes off your drink, don’t accept anything from guys you don’t know.”\n\nChris swallowed. “Thanks for being honest. I’m still going—I have to watch out for Chrissie. But I’ll be careful. Promise.”\n\n“Do that. Text me live if anything feels weird. I’m on standby.”\n\nThe chat window went quiet again. Chris set the phone down in the rosé light of his room, then picked it up again after all. Go alone—or ask someone else? The cursor blinked between open chats, as if it wanted to count how long he hesitated.\n\n''Ask someone else?''\n❯ [[He invites no one.|Er lädt niemand ein.]]\n❯ [[Charlotte.|Charlotte.][$party2 += 1]]\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 1 >>❯ [[Lucas.|Lucas.][$party2 += 2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>❯ [[Adam.|Adam.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

His mother slowly reached for the tie on her dressing gown and opened it.\n\nChris gasped in shock when he saw a pink strap-on dildo around her waist.\n\n“Mom?” He couldn't get any more out of it.\n\n“Now come here and get on your knees like a good girl and suck my cock!” His mother ordered, immediately switching to her dominant tone of voice, which scared Chris a bit.\n\nChris approached her slowly, but otherwise offered no resistance and did as he was told. He fell to his knees directly in front of his mother, grabbed the thin pink dildo, which was shaped like a real penis, and pointed it at his mouth. Then Susan carefully pushed it in a few inches.\n\n“It’s clear you haven’t had much practice.” giggled his mother. “But you’ve probably seen how to do that before, right? Maybe on the internet. Try to remember what you saw and do it. Show a little dedication.” his mother instructed.\n\nChris was petrified and hesitated. His movements were rather stiff and clumsy. He did what he remembered, but didn't want to do it with zeal and devotion. The situation was embarrassing enough as it was. He was at least sucking his mother's fake cock.\n\n"Men like it when women use their tongues, sweetie," Susan explained. "Lick the tip like it's a lollipop."\n\nChris did what his mother told him.\n\n"Good girl! And I see your little man likes it too." Susan mocked as she saw the tent in his panties.\n\nIt was so humiliating and yet, for some reason, it excited Chris.\n\n“Now lick the whole length, my sweet.”\n\nChris tried to stop thinking and just get it over with.\n\n"Oh yes, you see, you like it," his mother misinterpreted Chris's behavior. "What a dirty little girl you are Chris, just like your mom. As they say, like mother like daughter."\n\nChris increased his pace; from the outside it may have seemed like he was licking her cock with enthusiasm.\n\n"Okay sweetie, time to be a real little slut. Now open your mouth and slide my cock in nice and deep."\n\nWithout hesitation, Chris opened his mouth and sucked the phallus into him. He moved his head up and down almost eagerly.\n\n"Mmmmm yes... You can take it all the way deep into your mouth. It's not that big."\n\nChris did as he was told and swallowed the full length of the fake cock. As if waiting for his mother's praise and confirmation, he looked at her from kneeling down with wide eyes.\n\n"Oh Chris, mommy is so proud of you. Look at how well you swallow my cock, like a real little cocksucker. I'm not even sure I can do it as well as you. You seem like a natural."\n\nHer praise had a strange effect on Chris. Even if it was humiliating, he wanted to please her, only wanted to please his mother more. With every word she said, he moved faster and swallowed the fake cock even deeper. Soon saliva was running down his chin and dripping from the rubber cock. A few times Chris coughed or choked, but his mother encouraged him to keep going and he tried harder, even though his throat was a little sore.\n\n[[Continue|Sie will ihn ficken.]]

Dr. Coleman looked at Chris—gazed at him for a long moment—then said: “You know, I have to do this, because it’s part of the examination.”\n\nHe grasped Chris and effortlessly pressed him down onto the bed. Chris kept his legs clamped tightly shut; he lay uncomfortably—his rear end sticking up in the air—right on the edge of the mattress. Between his legs, his testicles bulged out—smooth and hairless—a sight Dr. Coleman captured with his camera. When he stroked Chris’s soft buttocks, Chris flinched. With the tip of his finger, Dr. Coleman pressed between his cheeks. “Spread your legs; this won’t work otherwise,” he said, as his finger continued to press forward, making its way toward Chris’s back door.\n\n“Please spread your legs wide,” he repeated, simultaneously pushing Chris’s thighs apart.\n\n“I’m going to examine you gently,” he said, and pressed his finger into Chris’s anus.\n\nChris let out a moan and tensed up as the finger penetrated him. He hadn’t expected this sensation. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but it was certainly uncomfortable. Chris’s anus was tight; no one had ever fingered him there before. For Chris’s rear end was, of course, still a virgin. With small, rhythmic movements, Dr. Coleman began to finger-fuck Chris, noticing how Chris squirmed back and forth as his little opening gradually dilated. With ease, he was able to slide his finger deep inside and palpate Chris’s prostate.\n\n“You’re healthy,” he said, executing a few long, deep strokes with his finger—pulling it almost entirely out of the tight canal before thrusting it all the way back in again. Slow and steady.\n\nChris whimpered softly: “Please stop. I want to get dressed. Please.” For just a brief moment longer, Dr. Coleman continued to finger-fuck him, while simultaneously rubbing himself against his trousers with his free hand. His penis was rock-hard—though Chris, in his distress, failed to notice. He withdrew his finger and wiped it on a handkerchief.\n\n“Please stay lying just like that for a moment so I can take some pictures,” and after he had taken several photos, he said, “You can get dressed again now. Then we’ll have a quick word with your mother.”\n\nAs he did so, he stroked his back, touched his bottom, and finally gave Chris a light slap on the behind.\n\n[[Continue|Gespräch mit der Mutter.]]\n

He smoothed the note and let his gaze dart over the columns. At the top, boldly underlined, was Penelope—rank 1, with by far the most points. Below her came the rest: Charlotte appeared high up, her name decorated with little stars; Zoe as well, flanked by a few suggestive arrows and stupid insider abbreviations.\n<<set $ChrisMemory[7] to 1>>\nRuby and Christine appeared in the middle ranks. He nodded involuntarily, as if the list were an objective law of nature, and felt ashamed in the same moment that he had nodded at all.\n\nAt first, he couldn’t find his own name. He searched once from top to bottom, then from bottom to top, already feeling that small, prickly defiance—like I care—when the stupid nickname jumped out at him: Boob Chris. He inwardly rolled his eyes. The irritation stabbed again: that label stuck, whether he wanted it to or not. He took a breath and was about to fold the note closed when his gaze stopped a fraction too soon and caught.\n\nBoob Chris was much higher than he had expected. Not somewhere among the filler lines, but near the top, among the “Really Pretty Ones,” framed by names that were usually always in the spotlight.\n\nSomething in his chest switched on like a lamp. First warmth, then confusion. A narrow, bright strip of pride slid through him—at the same time as a red flare of shame: I’m a boy. He could almost physically feel those two thoughts colliding with each other.\n\nI’m far above Christine. The thought came uninvited, and he was startled by the clarity with which it straightened up inside him. It had been rare in his life for him to come out “better” than her in anything. She was the one with the grades, with the self-assurance, with the straightforwardness. And now there was this list—superficial, stupid, sexist—and still it felt as if someone had placed a trophy in his hands that he hadn’t even known he wanted. Shame flickered up because he was thinking that thought at all. But the pride remained, quiet and warm, like a cup of tea you secretly hold on to longer.\n\nDo they really see me like that? he wondered. Am I… hot? The word felt strange and giggly, but it stayed. He thought of the looks in the hallway, of the unwanted tickle of curiosity in the boys’ eyes, of the twitch in his stomach when someone held his gaze a heartbeat too long. Was that what they saw when they saw me? Not the stumbling self who mixed up skirts in the morning. Not the one who checks in mirrors whether the bra strap is sitting right. But a version of him that could be gathered into an image: pretty. wanted. high on the list.\n\nHe didn’t like that he liked it. And yet he did like it. It was as if the list had two hands: one pushed him down—reduces you, turns you into a number—the other lifted him up—you are seen. you belong. Between those hands, he suddenly sat as if on a swing and didn’t know whether he wanted to jump off or be pushed higher one more time.\n\nHis gaze slid to Penelope again. A small pang: she was at the top, of course. And he—Boob Chris—stood near her, in the same field. A strange feeling of equal standing, which on the one hand tickled him and on the other felt like a betrayal of his old self: the Chris who understood himself as a boy and was now celebrating a good place on a girls’ scale.\n\nHe slowly folded the note, as if that could sort the feeling. I don’t care, he had said. Now it sounded hollow, like a worn-out mantra. More honest was: I do care. And I don’t know what to do with that. He slipped the paper into his notebook, not quite at the top, not quite at the bottom, as if it had to lie in a place where he could find it again later—if he dared.\n\n[[Continue|Heimfahrt im Bus.2]]

After school, the theater room felt like another planet: warm spotlights, dust in the air, piano notes from the speaker instead of the school bell. Where rows of chairs usually stood, set pieces were now stacked up—a half doorframe, paint cans, a “WET PAINT” sign—as if the stage had gotten a new face over the weekend.\n<<set $ort to "Auditorium">>\n<<if $RubyMemory[2] == 1>>Ruby came straight toward Chris, beaming, and pressed a rolled poster tube into his hands. “Surprise! I have this twice—and you said you loved the group!” Chris’s heart gave a little startled hop, then he put on the widest grateful smile he had. “Oh wow, Ruby—amazing!” he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound too high while he pretended to recognize the name on the sticker. When he opened the tube slightly, perfectly styled faces and glittering outfits flashed into view—and two students nearby noticed. “Wait, you like K-pop?” one called, surprised, and a giggle went through the corner. Chris grew hot all the way to his ears, nodded far too eagerly, and muttered something about “yeah, totally,” while Ruby grinned with satisfaction, as if she had just given him the greatest joy in the world.\n\n<<endif>>Ms. Green clapped her hands once, energetically. “Okay, people. Choreography today. Don’t worry—it’s more movement than dance, but we need timing.”\n\nThey lined up in rows, tape markings on the floor. First Ms. Green counted them in slowly: “Five—six—seven—eight,” and the group set into motion—step, turn, arm out, back again. After the first few run-throughs, Chris realized that his body understood it faster than his head did. The counts came easily to him, the transitions smoothly; his hands found the lines as if he had done them before.\n\nMs. Green stopped, her eyes narrowed in concentration. “Chris.” She pointed with the clipboard. “You’re too far back. That’s wasted.” Then she called out to the room: “Position change! We’re swapping. Chris to the front—here, center. You carry the turn.”\n\nChris’s stomach gave a small jump. “Me?”\n\n“Yes, you.” Ms. Green smiled briefly, professionally satisfied. “You have rhythm. Use it.”\n\nA boy from the club stepped up to him, taking the correct partner position. “Ready?” he asked, almost casually. Chris nodded, even though his pulse quickened. Ms. Green counted them in, the music started, and suddenly there was only tempo: two steps forward, hand contact, turning impulse—the boy spun Chris around, cleanly guided, and Chris’s skirt hem traced a brief circle. The movement looked surprisingly cool, not stiff, not cautious—more like a little show that hit exactly the right moment. As he turned out, Chris landed precisely on the mark, arms in line, as if he had never done it any other way.\n\n“Yes!” Ms. Green called, and her eyes lit up. “Exactly like that. One more time, but with more gaze upward. You’re telling a story with your body.”\n\nChris breathed out, grinned briefly, and did it again. This time he lifted his gaze, held the line longer, let the turn look a little bigger. Ms. Green nodded, satisfied. “Very good.”\n\nOnly Lucas stood a little apart, the script loose in his hand. He didn’t smile along. His eyes followed the turn, then wandered away, as if he had caught himself doing it. A shadow briefly crossed his face—jealousy, quiet and unspoken—before he withdrew back behind his neutral mask.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $lucas == 3 >><<if $barnett == 1 >>[[Monday afternoon.|Montag Nachmittag.]]<<else>>[[Monday afternoon.|Montag Nachmittag.2]]<<endif>><<else>>[[Stress at home.|Stress zu Hause.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Madame Lunette took her time, as if first checking whether Chris’s gaze was still in the room or already outside on the street. Then she spoke, slowly and without theatrics, as if laying out a map that knew no fixed paths.\n\n“The future is not stone,” she said. “It is water. You can dam it, redirect it, or let it carry you. What I see are possibilities.”\n\nShe lowered her gaze, as if she were truly looking into something only she could recognize. “A new beginning,” she murmured. “Not here. Another city. Farther away than you currently allow yourself to imagine. New streets, new faces… and air that doesn’t smell of old rules.”\n\nChris’s fingers unconsciously dug into the fabric of his dress. He felt the desire for “far away” like a warm pull in his stomach.\n\n“And you are not alone,” she continued. Her voice grew a shade softer. “Beside you… is someone. Not a stranger. Someone who has known you for a long time. So long that you could carry her voice inside you even if you did not hear it.” She frowned, as if something were blurring at the edges. “A girl. A connection that is not so simple. Forbidden? Hidden from society. It is a closeness not everyone would understand.”\n\nChris’s heart was beating too fast. He wanted to ask: Who? But the question stuck in his throat.\n\nMadame Lunette raised her hand as if parting a mist before her. “I cannot hold her face. She steps closer—and then vanishes again, like a figure in the haze. Secrets hang on you like wet clothes. And if you pull at them too soon, something tears.” She looked directly at Chris again. “If you pull at them too late, too.”\n\nShe leaned back. “There are obstacles before you. Not only people. Things inside you.” She tapped her chest once, right over her heart. “Shame. Fear. A decision that seems large because you believe you will lose something in it. But it is about what you gain.”\n\nChris swallowed. The word decision remained in the room like a weight.\n\n“You will believe you have to choose a role,” she said, as if hearing his thoughts. “But perhaps the real question is: Who does your life belong to?”\n\nThen her voice became neutral again, almost kind. “I cannot see more clearly. The path splits. The mist remains. But I see this: You keep going. And you will not stay forever where they hold you fast.”\n\nChris sat still, as if someone had given him both comfort and a knot he first had to untie.\n\n[[Continue|Raus aus dem Pavillon.]]

Morning crept like warm honey-light through the blush-pink walls. Chris blinked, stretched in the smooth coolness of the satin sheets, and felt a remnant of yesterday still glowing inside him—a laugh in the garden, a kiss, a hand on his chest. Charlotte, he thought, and the name settled a small, bright weight on his heart.\n<<set $wochentag = 3>><<set $wetter = 2>><<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">><<set $ChrisMemory[1] to 1>>\nHe got up, padded barefoot across the fluffy carpet to the mirror—and stopped. “Oh.” The word fell from his mouth before he could stop it. His skin was much darker than he had expected; the sun had worked more thoroughly than the iced tea. But that wasn’t what really made him pause. It was the clear, pale lines cutting through his reflection, as if someone had laid a ruler-drawn design over him.\n\n<center>[img[pics/braeunungsstreifen.jpg]]</center> The pale lines traced exactly where the bikini had sat. Two narrow stripes over his shoulders, a clear imprint around his back, and most striking of all: the outlines of the top on his chest.\n\nHis gaze fell on his mirror, and his stomach tightened.\n\nBecause of the white lines, his small chest looked even clearer, even more pronounced. The slight swelling he had already had suddenly seemed to stand out more strongly—as if his body were changing in a way he didn’t want, a way he couldn’t stop. Chris slowly raised his hands and ran his fingertips over his nipples. His breathing quickened. No, this wasn’t right.\n\nThe even tan of his legs ended sharply at the hem where the hot pants had sat. His butt—white shadow against the brown canvas of his thighs—flashed when he turned sideways.\n\nIt looked—and that was the disturbing part—somehow good. Attractive, marked out like a promise. If he had seen a girl like that on the beach, he wouldn’t have looked away quickly. But he wasn’t the one looking; he was the image. And the feeling of not being the observer, but the canvas, hit him unprepared.\n\n“Great,” he muttered, half mocking, half lost. He lifted his arm, ran the pad of his finger over the border between light and dark, and of course felt no difference—only the idea of one.\n\nA sharp pulling pain on the left tore him out of the thought. He flinched, leaned closer to the mirror. The left earlobe was red, swollen, the skin around it tight. The little silver stud, still sparkling yesterday, sat in an inflammation that looked exactly like what you imagine when something has “gone wrong.” A thin glossy film showed that the ear had tried to fight back; it looked bad, nastier than he wanted to admit.\n\n“Damn it.” He touched it very lightly, and pain answered at once, brief and hot. Why had he gone along with it? Potato, needle, dare in the bedroom—it had almost seemed romantic in the moment, rebellious. Now he was paying for it. He thought of disinfectant spray, of the school nurse, of the question of whether you were supposed to leave a stud like that in or take it out right away. Charlotte said she’d done it before, went through his head—and right after it came the sober addition: Apparently not very well on me.\n\nHe breathed in and out slowly, found his gaze in the mirror again. Tan lines tracing his new outlines. An ear that throbbed like a small, angry motor. And between them, the rest of him, trying to sort all of it into one person.\n\n''👠 Style +1''\n\n[[Continue|Probleme mit den Nippeln.]]

<h2>Southern Germany, gray autumn – One year earlier</h2> The morning smelled of wet jackets and cold linoleum. Chris walked through the school hallway as if he were nothing but a shadow with a backpack, shoulders pulled slightly forward, eyes on the floor tiles. Being inconspicuous was no longer a choice, but a technique. He knew the places where you didn’t stop. He knew the seconds when you hurried past doors before anyone had time to say a name.\n\nIn the classroom it was warm and still drafty— that German radiator-heat feeling that never quite arrives. Chris held the folder close to himself and edged toward his seat by the window. He just wanted to sit, just begin, just get through it.\n\n“There’s our victim,” someone said from the back, and the word hung in the air before it had even been fully spoken.\n\nChris pretended he hadn’t heard it.\n\nA chair was pushed demonstratively a little way into the aisle, positioned just so that he had to squeeze past sideways. Three guys were standing by the desks as if they had just happened to drift together into a small group. One of them—Timo—smiled, but there was nothing friendly about it. Chris pulled his backpack in tighter, made himself narrow, and walked past. No one touched him, and yet it felt like an obstacle course.\n\nWhen he sat down, he put the folder on the desk and opened it. The first breath that wanted to taste like “Okay, made it” didn’t get far.\n\nTimo’s hand bumped the folder—not hard, more like a casual “accident.” The binder slid, tipped, and some of the sheets flew onto the floor. Paper rustled, as if the room had briefly changed its voice.\n\n“Oops,” Timo said, and his tone turned the word into a show. “Didn’t mean to.”\n\nA few students laughed. Not loudly—more that quick kind of laugh you make when you want to show you belong. Others immediately looked down at their phones or into their notebooks, as if they suddenly had very important things to do. No one got up. No one picked up the sheets.\n\nChris’ body reacted the way it always did: Freeze. He moved, but inside he stood still. He crouched down and picked up the papers one by one without looking at anyone. He stared at the corners of the paper as if they were lifebuoys. His fingers were too fast, too orderly. He smoothed each sheet flat, as if he could fold the scene back into order that way.\n\n“Wimp,” someone muttered. Maybe Timo, maybe one of the others. Chris pretended he hadn’t heard it, because hearing was dangerous. Hearing meant reacting. And reacting meant they knew it had landed.\n\nWhen he was sitting at the desk again, he felt his pulse in his ears. His hands lay flat on the folder, as if they had to hold it down. He forced himself to sit up straight. He forced himself to breathe. He forced himself not to blink, as if every blink were an admission.\n\nThe door opened, and the teacher came in—Mr. Krüger, coat still half open, chalk in his hand. He glanced over the class, and his gaze caught for a moment. Maybe he had seen it, or maybe only the aftermath.\n\n“Everything all right here?” he asked the room.\n\n“Sure,” someone said too quickly.\n\nMr. Krüger nodded, not convinced, but also not willing to make it bigger. “Good. Let’s begin.” He wrote the heading on the board, as if chalk could cover things up too.\n\nChris wrote along. He wrote too neatly, too small, too controlled. It was his way of proving to himself that he was still there. From the outside, he looked like a normal student. Inside, he felt like an object that could be moved around.\n\nDuring the break, he was one of the first to leave. His jacket was suddenly no longer where it belonged, and he later found it in the bathroom, as if it had run away by itself. He said nothing. He put it on as if nothing had happened and kept going, because keeping going was the only thing he knew he could do.\n\nIn the hallway, his face was reflected in a window: pale, quiet, inconspicuous. He lowered his gaze.\n\nBack then in Germany as a boy, he had been invisible—except when someone wanted to hurt him. Today as a girl, he was visible – even when he sometimes didn’t want to be.\n\n[[↩ Back|Enden]]

The group kept searching, but found no exit. Instead, they found doors leading into smaller side rooms—offices, storage rooms, old control rooms with barred windows. The theater kids shone their phones inside, called out to one another, made a few more jokes, but the laughter sounded thinner than before. The syrup smell hung everywhere, as if it had even soaked into the paper.\n\nIn one side room, whose door hung only halfway in its frame, stood two rusted filing cabinets. Beside them was a desk with a layer of dust so thick you could draw lines in it with your finger. Someone pulled open a drawer—it squealed like a protest—and inside were old binders and loose sheets, bundled with yellowed rubber bands.\n\n“Oh, props,” one of the boys said, still automatically in theater mode. “This is like… backstage in 1973.”\n\nThe cover sheet was stamped with a faded maple leaf inside a circle—the exact emblem Chris had seen outside on the wall. It looked like an old company logo… and at the same time like the symbol on the festival flyers, only in a different, older version. The same idea, just from a time when it apparently ran deeper.\n\n“Founders’ Circle,” someone murmured, as if he hadn’t meant to say the words out loud.\n\nRuby took the first binder from his hand. “Hold on,” she said, and her voice was suddenly serious.\n\nChris stepped closer. The sheets were full of tables: shift schedules, production lists, delivery figures. Lines like clean Tank 3, inspect bottling line B, label delivery expected. All of it so banal that it was almost reassuring.\n\nUntil, in the middle of these normal entries, terms appeared that didn’t fit.\n\nBetween “Night Shift” and “Maintenance” suddenly stood: Circle Night.\nA few pages later: Gathering—with no explanation, no abbreviation, as if it were as self-evident as “break.”\nOn a list that looked like an internal memo, one section had been boxed in with a thicker pen: “Attendance mandatory.”\n\n“That’s just… some company outing, right?” someone murmured, more hope than conviction.\n\nRuby kept turning the pages. Her phone light wandered over the sheets, then caught. “No.”\n\nShe pulled another bundle from the drawer. Index cards.\n\nThey were neatly labeled. Not with machines, not with suppliers—but with names: “Daughter of … (employee).” Underneath, age. And then notes that made the back of Chris’s neck go cold.\n\n“easily influenced”\n“strong need for belonging”\n“family problems”\n“seeks approval, responds well to praise”\n\nThey were words you would expect in a psychology book—not in a factory, not in a shift-planning room. Some had little checkmarks at the edge, as if someone had “checked them off.”\n\nA girl from the group sucked in a sharp breath. “That’s… creepy.”\n\nChris swallowed. The phone light flickered briefly, and in the darkness the paper seemed even older, even guiltier.\n\nIn another list, there was something that made Chris’s stomach tighten because it was so close to the present: a section about “Community Events”—and beneath it, as a subpoint, a note that sounded like a precursor:\n\n“Maplewood Miss – candidates: selection/invitation (Circle)”\n\nChris felt heat rise in him, not from shame, but from a dull understanding. It was as if someone were drawing a line between the festival smiles outside and this room here, between “preserving heritage” and “selecting people.”\n\nRuby held one of the cards a little longer. Her knuckles had gone white. “This isn’t just an urban legend,” she said quietly. Not dramatically—more as if she were accepting a fact she would rather not have had.\n\nThe others went silent. And the sweet syrup smell in the warm, rusty air suddenly no longer felt merely wrong—but like something that had never entirely gone away.\n\n[[Continue|Die Suche nach dem Ausgang.]]

Chris swallowed, feeling his palms grow damp. The heels clicked softly on the sidewalk, the miniskirt forcing him to walk more deliberately. They were some distance from their house now, the street half empty, only a few scattered cars.\n<<set $ChristineMemory[1] to 1>>\n“Chrissie?” he began.\n\n“Hmm?” She was tapping on her phone, then put it away after all when she heard his tone.\n\n“I… wanted to say something real quick. I mean… generally.” He searched for a way in that wouldn’t reveal he had read her diary. “About boys. And parties. And stuff.”\n\n“Oh God,” she muttered, but without venom. “Sounds like a lecture.”\n\n“No,” he said quickly. “Just…” He took a breath. “You know some boys can get… pushy. Like pressure you into things you don’t want. Especially when alcohol is involved. Or when they think you owe them something just because you came along. Or because you’re together.”\n\nChristine stopped for a moment, turning toward him, the stretch dress tracing the curve of her movement. “Chris…”\n\nHe raised his hands a little, as if to catch the moment. “I don’t want to interfere. Really. Just… whether it’s Myles or whoever—if you don’t want something, that’s reason enough. Even if he says everyone does it. Or if he’s offended. Or angry. You don’t have to let yourself be pressured.”\n\nThere was something firmer than usual in his voice, as if he were leaning on a part of himself that no one had redecorated. For one tiny moment, he didn’t sound like her “sister,” but like the big brother he still was.\n\nChristine looked at him. Really looked at him. The street seemed briefly quieter. “You’re really worried, huh?”\n\n“Yes,” he said. “I just don’t want anyone to hurt you. That’s all.”\n\nHer expression softened. The usual look was gone, replaced by something growing there that was rare. Gratitude she wasn’t used to showing. “I know what I’m doing,” she said softly. “I’m not twelve.”\n\n“I know,” he replied. “But even if you decide to sleep with Myles, then because you want to. Not because he keeps pushing. You… you’re allowed to be selfish about that.”\n\nShe raised an eyebrow, smiling thinly. “Sounds like you’re older than you look.”\n\n“I am,” he muttered.\n\nChristine breathed out, glanced down at her boots, then back at him. “Okay. Thanks. Honestly.” Her gaze briefly moved over his outfit, then once more to the serious line in his face, and she understood that beneath the lip gloss and hoop earrings, something real had just spoken.\n\n“One more thing,” she said then. “When we’re at the party… no scene, okay? No matter what happens with Myles. If I talk to him, if I disappear with him, if we… you know.” She raised a hand to slow his reaction. “I have to make my own decisions. You can play protector before the party, but not in the middle of it.”\n\nHe hesitated; everything in him wanted to say “Yes, I can.” Then he swallowed. “Okay. No scene.”\n\n“Promise?” She held out the tip of her pinky like she had when they were younger.\n\nHe hooked his little finger around hers, the gold hoop earrings jingling softly with the movement. “Promise.”\n\nChristine nodded, satisfied, and something warm flitted across her face. She leaned forward and pulled him into a hug. Tighter than he had expected. Her perfume mingled with hairspray and something familiar that smelled like childhood. He put his arms around her, carefully because of the top, and held her for a moment. There was nothing disguised in that hug. Just siblings.\n\n“Thanks, big bro...si… something,” she murmured against his shoulder.\n\n“Big is enough,” he said softly.\n\nThey let go, adjusting their clothes as if they had briefly looked behind the curtain. Then they started moving again, side by side, toward the party.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $party2 == 0>><<if $stil > 7>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.]]<<else>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.2]]<<endif>><<endif>>\n<<if $party2 == 1>><<if $stil > 7>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.b]]<<else>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.2b]]<<endif>><<endif>>\n<<if $party2 == 2>><<if $stil > 7>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.c]]<<else>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.2c]]<<endif>><<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris stepped onto the veranda, pulled the door shut behind him, and the bass of the music became a muffled thumping. The air outside was like a slap with a cool cloth. A few boys leaned against the railing, cigarettes in hand, plumes of smoke drifting into the darkness. The night had cooled; over the wet traces of punch on his legs, the cold crept upward, making his skin prickle. Goosebumps settled over his arms like a thin film.\n<<set $ort to "veranda">>\n“Hey.”\n\nThe voice came from the right. A boy pushed away from the railing and came toward him. He was genuinely handsome. Dark hair, a little tousled, clear eyes that didn’t look glassy, a calm grin that wasn’t too wide. He held a cigarette between two fingers.\n\n“Want one?” he asked, holding out the pack.\n\nChris quickly shook his head. “Um, no, thanks.”\n\n“Good,” said the boy, putting the pack back into his jacket pocket. “Smoking’s stupid anyway.” He blew the smoke away from Chris, as if he had been paying attention. “You’re not from around here, are you?”\n\nChris’s head was briefly empty. “Why?” he asked, a trace too quickly.\n\n“You look different,” the boy said with a shrug. “And you seem like you’re analyzing the escape routes on the side.”\n\nChris giggled, startled by his own sound. “Maybe,” he murmured. “I’m… relatively new.”\n\n“Figured.” The boy leaned back against the railing, turning so that he looked at Chris without staring at him. “I’m Ethan.”\n\nChris hesitated for a moment. “Chris,” he said then.\n\n“Chris,” Ethan repeated, as if testing the name. “So. What’s a ‘relatively new’ Chris doing at a Maplewood party?”\n\nHe lifted his shoulders slightly. “Learning what it’s like, I suppose.”\n\nThey eased slowly into conversation, as if merging side by side into the same lane. Ethan asked about school, about subjects, about plans for “after.” He talked about college applications, about parents who commented on every essay, and about a vague panic of someday ending up in an office where all you did was send emails about emails.\n\nChris listened, the alcohol had made his tongue softer than usual. “Germany was… different,” he said halfway, without going into detail. He spoke of “moving,” of “starting over,” of parents who made many things more complicated than they needed to be. He was half honest, half role: leaving the right places open, filling others with the expected party-girl lightness.\n\n“And you? What do you want to do later?” Ethan asked.\n\n[[Continue|Keine genauen Pläne.]]

The kitchen in DeShawn’s apartment the next morning smelled of coffee and something savory sizzling in a pan. It was brighter than yesterday—real morning light falling through the blinds and suddenly making everything look normal: the clean countertop, a fruit bowl, two glasses beside the sink.\n\nChris had just come out of the bathroom, his hair still slightly tousled. His head felt cottony, not like a real hangover, more like an echo. He stopped in the doorway as if he first had to check where he was. On the counter stood a stack of plates, and his mother was standing at the stove as if this were her kitchen.\n\nShe half turned and smiled, satisfied, almost proud. “That was a wild night yesterday,” she said casually, as if she were talking about a successful outing. “See? You can do it after all when you want to, Chris.”\n\nChris immediately turned red. His gaze slipped to the floor, then to his hands. Inside him, images from last night flickered, along with that forced “looseness” that now, in hindsight, felt borrowed. “I…” He cleared his throat. “That was only because of the drugs.”\n\nSusan laughed softly. “Because of the drugs,” she repeated, as if it were cute.\n\nChris lifted his head, confused. “But you… you said…”\n\nSusan set the spatula down and reached for her handbag, which was hanging on a chair. She rummaged in it briefly and then pulled out a small packet. She placed it beside the plate, as casually as a set of keys.\n\nChris’s eyes fell on the label. No colorful club logos, no secret code. It was a completely ordinary packet of painkillers. He read it twice because his brain needed a moment to catch up: yesterday, he had not swallowed any “party drugs.” Just a headache pill.\n\nHis throat went dry. The flush on his face suddenly burned differently—not like an embarrassing memory anymore, but like shame tipping into anger. He stared at the packet as if it had just told him to his face how easy he had been to steer.\n\n[[Continue|Wochen vor dem College.]]

Chris thrust upward from his hips, driving deep into his sister—again and again—until, in a hot explosion, his testicles unleashed their entire load into Christine’s thoroughly overstimulated depths. Thrust followed upon thrust, accompanied by Christine’s hoarse gasps, until he had nothing left to give his sister and, utterly exhausted, collapsed onto her.\nChristine stretched out her legs, wrapped her arms around her brother, and clung to him. Their heavy breathing filled the room.\n\n“You’re crushing me!” was Christine’s first comment. Chris held her tight and carefully rolled onto his back. Christine slid down a fraction of an inch to keep him inside her. Chris felt his own semen trickling down the insides of his thighs.\n\nChristine pressed her cheek against his and lay still until Chris’s member went completely soft and slipped out of her.\n\nClinging tightly to one another, the two siblings drifted off to sleep.\n<<set $temp to 0>><<set $christine to 4>>\n[[Continue|Der Tag danach.]]\n

Chris immediately let his hands drop, as if someone had flipped a switch. He turned away quickly—too quickly—and felt an almost childish relief that the minute was finally over. His breathing was too shallow, his palms warm. He noticed his mouth pressing itself into a neutral line so no one would see how uncomfortable it had been.\n\nThe boy hunched his shoulders as if he had taken a small blow and stepped aside. Chris’s gaze was already elsewhere, searching for the next face.\n\nThere stood a girl from the group, dark ponytail, calm posture. She said nothing; she only stepped into the right distance and slowly raised her hands, as if testing an invisible pane in front of Chris. Her eyes found his. The air between them seemed to tighten.\n\nShe began with a small, flowing movement, a circling of the wrist that traveled into the forearm, then into the shoulder. Chris mirrored it without thinking. The lines fit. Their breathing happened to drop deeper at the same time. When they lowered their hands, they did it in the same rhythm, as if someone had set them to a metronome beforehand.\n\nA step to the right, soft; Chris glided with her. A tilt of the head; the answer reflected like water. She tested a faster figure—a brief dip, a straightening up with open arms—and Chris was there, as if the impulse had not been copied, but shared. His chest grew light, his body knew it before he did.\n\nMs. Green paused briefly, watched, and her “Good” was curt, but sincere. The girl kept leading, giving smaller and smaller impulses, letting silence into the movements. Chris found that silence and filled it without pulling. When they switched roles, the thread remained; Chris lifted his right hand, described a rectangle in the air with two fingers, and she completed it at the same time, exactly at the angle he had intended. The wood beneath their soles now sounded like a single step.\n\nAt the edge of the room stood Lucas, practicing with his partner, but his gaze slid over briefly, met Chris’s profile, and lingered until Ms. Green clapped: “Eyes on your partner!”\n\nThe minute passed without Chris having to count it. It felt as if the room had tuned both of them to a shared frequency. When the final clap came, they lowered their hands at the same time. An echo remained, warm and clean, like a fading string.\n\n“Remember,” Ms. Green said as she walked through the group, “you are not mirrors made of glass, you are mirrors made of attention. Lead so that following is possible. Follow so that leading makes sense.”\n\nChris nodded, and the girl in front of him nodded too, at the same small angle.\n\n[[Continue|Nochmal zur Schule.]]

“Okay,” Chris said after a breath that was longer than necessary. “I… want to try.”\n\nMr. Moore gave a curt, professional nod. “Good. Wednesday, 3:45–4:30. Just basics, clean work. We’ll do core and jumps, then short stunt drills.”\n\n“Understood,” Chris murmured.\n\nAs he packed up, his gaze fell to the edge of the field. Christine was standing a few yards away with a football player—sturdy, solid shoulders, helmet under his arm. Myles, from her grade. He was grinning broadly, talking, making small circles with his free hand as if telling a funny story. Christine laughed, a real, bright laugh; her braces flashed in the sun. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear—a reflex Chris knew when she was nervous and flattered at the same time.\n\n[[Myles|Myles Pierce]] tapped on his phone, briefly showed her something; Christine leaned forward, nodded, tapped something back. “Really?” Chris’s ears caught a fragment. Myles’s grin grew even rounder. He let the helmet snap against his hip, raised his hand in farewell—so casual in the way that only looks effortless with lots of practice.\n\nChris suddenly thought back to Friday—to Myles standing at his table, the letterman jacket slung casually over one shoulder, inviting him to the movies; to his hurried no, because everything had felt wrong and far too public. And now the same Myles was standing there laughing with Christine. An unpleasant prickling crept up the back of Chris’s neck: switched tracks pretty fast, he thought, or maybe just typical high school. For a moment he wondered whether he should tell Christine about the invitation—warn her? But what could he say without sounding petty or embarrassing: He actually wanted to go out with me? In the end, he pushed the thought away. The situation was humiliating enough already, and Christine looked happy. He decided to stay quiet.\n\nChristine came back to him, with a little spring in her step. “What did he want?” Chris asked, and heard how much he sounded like a big brother, even though only one year separated them.\n\n“Nothing. He’s just nice,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to suppress her smile.\n\n“Mhm.” Chris’s gaze followed the football player as he trudged back to his teammates. Nice, yes. Big, yes. And old enough to know how to seem casual. A thin thread of worry tugged at him, quiet and familiar. At the same time, there was a small sting—not jealousy, more the strange feeling that everyone around him was slipping into roles so naturally, while he still had to spell out every step.\n\n“I’m doing special training now,” he said, more to himself than to her. “With Mr. Moore.”\n\n“Really?” Christine looked at him, surprised and—to his relief—a little proud. “Cool. You’ve got this.”\n\nHe shrugged, grabbed his bag. On the way off the field, the wind blew the hem of the skirt against his thighs. Somewhere between Myles’s grin, Christine’s laughter, and Moore’s schedule, the second week suddenly felt denser—annoying, promising, and dangerously close to something that smelled like belonging.\n\n[[Continue|Ein Bad am Abend.]]

Chris smiled briefly and lifted the fork. “Thanks, but we can manage,” he said politely. Ruby nodded in agreement, already back in rhythm, and Zeke shrugged, tapped his cap, and continued down the aisle.\n<<set $ort to "riding stable">>\nThey kept going. The work got harder the deeper they got into the corners; the straw was damp, the clumps heavy, the floor uneven. Chris found a rhythm—lever, lift, step back, set down—but sweat crept down his back, and the wooden handle burned in his palms. At least there were small, treacherous moments in between: when Ruby bent forward, Chris got a nice view of her butt; when she set the fork, he could see her bust nicely from the side. Chris caught himself looking one time too many and shook his head inwardly. Concentrate.\n\nThe wheelbarrow filled up, they dumped it, came back, filled it again. Stardust snorted, unimpressed. At some point Chris’s arms felt like lead, his knees elastic, his back tense all the way up into his neck. “Two more strips,” Ruby said, more to herself than to him.\n\nHe set the fork, took one step backward—and planted his heel on a smooth, damp patch. His foot slipped away. The other found no hold. It happened quickly: a brief, helpless flail of his arms, a dull “Oof,” then he landed half sitting, half tipping—right in a fresh, warm pile. The smell hit him at once.\n\nFor one moment everything was still. Then Ruby took a sharp breath and pressed it into a soundless “Oh no.” Chris’s face burned. The filth clung to the hem of his skirt, to his tights, a speck on his forearm. He wanted to sink into the floor. Instead, he pushed himself up, heard the inevitable squelching sound, and gritted his teeth. Of course. Me, of all people.\n\n“You okay?” Ruby set the fork down and offered him her hand. He took it, stood up; the damage was done, the smell unmistakable.\n\n“Yeah. I mean—no. But I’m alive.” He tried to laugh and produced only a strained sound. Ruby nodded sympathetically and pointed to the faucet outside behind the barn. “There. You can wash yourself off.”\n\nChris set off in small, stiff steps so he wouldn’t spread even more of it around. At the door, Zeke crossed his path again; his gaze darted downward, registered the situation, came back up—and there it was: that half-suppressed grin mixed with genuine pity, which only made everything even more humiliating.\n\n“Happens to the best,” Zeke said, raising his hands appeasingly, and walked on. It didn’t help.\n\nAt the faucet, Chris splashed cold water over the hem of his skirt, over the tights, rubbed until the stains were only dark, wet shadows. The water was ice-cold, running down his wrists, and every splash felt like a small mockery. He saw his reflection in the window glass: red face, strands loosened, wet patches. He breathed through it, long and slow, and managed to pull his mouth into a crooked line. Just a pile. Just a day. You’ll survive it.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $unterwaesche == 1>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.]]<<else>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Outside in front of the karaoke bar, the cool evening air hit him like a bucket of clear water. Only now did Chris realize how drunk he had been. The neon flicker, the laughter, the music—inside, it had all felt like its own safe little cosmos. Outside, the street was suddenly too clear, too cool, too real.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nHe took a deep breath, stood still for a moment, and noticed the dull pull in his butt. Nothing dramatic, but clear enough that he automatically walked smaller, more carefully. He walked a touch wider, as if he had to sort himself out anew. It hurt a little—and that was exactly what made him strangely aware that it hadn’t just been a kiss, not just alcohol and karaoke, not just “a bit of fun.”\n\nAnd still, he regretted nothing.\n\nLaverne stepped up beside him, pulled her coat tighter, and studied him with a look that could be both sassy and surprisingly tender. “You okay?” she asked softly, without any show.\n\nChris nodded. His cheeks were warm, his hair felt almost unreal in the night wind. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m… okay.”\n\n“Good.” Laverne smiled as if she had been waiting for exactly that word. “Because I want to see you again, sweetie.”\n\nChris’s heart leapt. “Me too.”\n\nThey stood facing each other for another moment, as if they wanted to delay the goodbye. Then they kissed—long, calm, no longer wild like in the box, but with a promise in it. Laverne held his face between her hands for a moment, pressed one last kiss to his lips, and whispered, “Text me when you’re home.”\n\n“I will,” Chris said and set off, taking the way to the bus stop and later home with a head that felt heavy and light at the same time.\n\nWhen he finally unlocked the front door quietly, the house was dark except for the light from the kitchen. Susan was sitting there as if she had only been waiting. She looked up, instantly attentive.\n\n“And?” she asked. “How was it?”\n\nChris felt himself getting hot again—not just from the remnants of alcohol, but from what he couldn’t say and didn’t want to say either. He put on the most normal face he could. “Nice,” he said, clearing his throat.\n\nSusan studied him for a second too long. His gaze was too soft, his smile too revealing, the blush too fresh. He knew it even before she said anything: his face was saying more than his mouth allowed.\n\nSusan’s mouth corners slowly lifted. “Aha,” she said finally, satisfied like someone seeing a result. “Nice, hm.”\n\nChris swallowed and only nodded, far too quickly. In his stomach, shame and an unexpectedly bright happiness flickered at the same time. He was exhausted, a little sore, and yet he felt—against all reason—absolutely amazing.\n\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5b]]

Latoya noticed it first. Her eyes widened, that “laughing” sparkle lit up, and she let out an excited “No way!” as if she had just won. “Yesss, honey! That’s it!” She came closer, dancing around Chris as if she were cheering him on and at the same time testing how far he dared to go.\n\nDeShawn noticed the change too. His gaze moved to Chris, and then he stepped closer, not aggressively, more like someone joining a dynamic. He danced up to Chris, masculine and direct, with a confidence that hardly needed words.\n\nThat loosened a brief knot of contradictory feelings inside Chris. One part of him thought reflexively: Weird. He’s a man. Another part noticed: It doesn’t feel bad. The bass helped drown out the thinking, and Chris immediately found a justification that calmed him: It’s the drugs. I’m just… looser.\n\nEven so, he wasn’t really drawn to DeShawn.\n\nSomething about Latoya was like a magnet. Not just her style, not just her charisma—but that shameless ease with which she took up space and, at the same time, invited him to take up space too. Chris sought her closeness almost instinctively, as if she were a warmer place in the middle of the crowd. He turned toward her, followed her movements, mirrored her, even laughed briefly when he realized he was really joining in.\n\nLatoya was only too happy to let him. She came even closer, danced right in front of him, grinned broadly, and said, as if rewarding him: “See? Told you. Feel it, don’t think. Period.”\n\nChris nodded, completely in the rhythm, and for a few seconds there was nothing but the beat and this new, surprisingly pleasant feeling of being in his own body instead of constantly checking it.\n\nDeShawn saw that. He noticed how Chris’s attention kept tipping back toward Latoya, how the distance between them grew smaller, how Chris hooked himself into her energy. A barely visible smile twitched across DeShawn’s mouth, as if he had accepted the decision without taking it personally.\n\nThen he turned away—and stepped over to Susan.\n\nSusan stood there, poised like a fixed point, and when DeShawn came closer, something in the air between them changed. Not dramatically, not loudly—more like an old song suddenly starting again, exactly where it had once left off.\n\n[[Continue|Sie tanzen weiter.][$kissgirl += 1]]

Thursday vibrated like a wound-up guitar string. Everywhere in the building, conversations about the Timberwolves’ first big home game washed through the halls; even teachers let themselves get carried away into “Tomorrow we’ve got this” remarks. Chris let the euphoria pass him by like warm wind. He would be at the stadium—up in the stands, beside the band parents, cheering on his sister when she shone on the sideline with her pom puffs. Part of him tingled at the thought; another part was glad not to be in the spotlight himself.<<set $wochentag = 4>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "school">>\n\nAfter school was D&D club. At least there, nobody talked about football. The dice clacked, character sheets rustled, and the gaming table smelled of cola and felt-tip pen. But another topic pushed its way into the group in football’s place: the Homecoming dance next week. A collective shrug went around—none of the nerds had a date, and they joked about showing up together in the “Pact of the Lonely.”\n\nThen Adam cleared his throat and announced with the self-assurance of a stadium announcer: “I’m going with my girlfriend.” He pointed the pen at Chris. “With Chris.”\n\nFor a moment, Chris heard only the echo of the room. His head snapped up. Excuse me? Their arrangement had been clear: in D&D club there was the show—holding hands in front of the parents, once a month at game nights, done. Homecoming had never come up.\n\n''How does Chris react?''\n❯ [[He brings it up.|Er spricht es an.2]]\n❯ [[He’d rather say nothing.|Er sagt lieber nichts.2]]

Afterward, they sat down on the small sofa in the living room, the television playing quietly—some documentary about national parks, voices like cotton wool. Joseph handed Chris a thin blanket, and as Chris pulled it over his knees, he felt the tension of the week seep out of him. The scent of Joseph’s aftershave still hung in the air; it was warm, familiar, dangerously like home. Something inside him aligned itself to it like a compass to north.\n<<set $CharlotteMemory[4] to 1>><<set $JosephMemory[0] to 1>>\nThey barely talked. Joseph commented once on the river on the screen, and Chris nodded sleepily. Without noticing, his upper body shifted closer, the way you unconsciously drift toward an armrest in the movie theater, seeking warmth. Joseph stayed calm, left space, was simply there—with the unobtrusive weight of an adult who supports without pressing.\n\nThe program grew more boring, the sentences from the television only washing over them like soft waves. Chris’s eyelids grew heavy. The day, school, the aftereffects of the pep rally—everything blended into a gentle tiredness. At some point, his head tipped, first against the back of the sofa, then against Joseph’s shoulder. No big jerk, more a small leaning-in that stayed. Joseph took one deeper breath, automatically raised his arm to keep the sleeping one from slipping—and suddenly Chris was nestled in the crook of his arm, the blanket up to his chest, his breathing calm.\n\nThat was how Charlotte found them when the door opened: Chris, curled up, his cheek against Joseph’s chest; Joseph, lifting his eyes from the television, surprised by the moment, but visibly pleased by the simple fact that someone found trust with him. A brief, unconscious smile flickered across Charlotte’s face—not mocking, more soft, as if she were seeing an image she hadn’t expected but immediately understood.\n\n“Hey,” she whispered, and her father put a finger to his lips, half joking. Chris blinked, sat up abruptly<<if $haar == 1>>, brushed the hair out of his face<<endif>>, and straightened up in embarrassment.\n\n“You’re here,” he mumbled, still half asleep.\n\n“It’s okay,” Charlotte said. “It’s late.”\n\nJoseph stood up, discreetly stretching his back. “I’ll drive you home, Chris.” He reached for his key ring, waited until Chris had found his shoes, and they went out into the cool night.\n\nThe drive was quiet and friendly. Streetlights drew golden streaks across the windshield, and Chris felt a calm warmth echoing inside him—no romance, just a sense of safety that surprised him. In front of the house, Joseph wished him good night; Chris thanked him softly, with that small, grateful smile. Then he got out, and the car rolled away while the night of Maplewood settled back into its usual silence.\n\n[[Continue|Parade am Samstag.]]

The last weeks at home dragged on endlessly. Everything had already been decided—the acceptance, the date, the move—and precisely because of that, every day in Maplewood felt like an echo that refused to stop.\n\nChris’s room was full of boxes and full of routine at the same time. During the day, he sat at his desk, doing paperwork “real quick,” filling out forms, clicking through online portals that looked like freedom and still felt like bureaucracy. In the evenings, he sorted things into piles: take, leave, hide. He folded blouses he had never really wanted to wear and still placed them neatly into boxes, because order had always been a kind of protection here.\n\nHis mother called it “preparation,” but it was control in a new dress.\n\nShe appeared in the doorway while he packed, and she always had an opinion. “That top is too plain. Take the silky one. College is a fresh start, you have to present yourself well.” She held jewelry out to him as if earrings were an admission ticket. She sorted his clothes into categories that hadn’t existed before: “everyday,” “date,” “serious,” “cute.” And every time Chris wanted to put something aside that was too much Susan, she put it back, as if she were sorting him back into place with it.\n\n“You won’t forget who you are there,” she said once in passing, while tugging at his box until everything lay “nicely.” The sentence sounded harmless. Chris heard the threat underneath: I won’t forget you.\n\nChristine was hard to pin down during those weeks. Sometimes she was suddenly there again—standing in the hallway, stuffing snacks into her bag, letting a brief glance slide over to Chris as if she wanted to say something. Then she would disappear again into friends, plans, lists, as if she were already half gone, even though she was still in the house. When Chris asked her whether they wanted to do something together, she often just shrugged. “I’ve got a lot to do.” And that wasn’t even a lie.\n\nBetween them remained this strange layer of shame and caution that neither of them wanted to touch. But sometimes, when Susan wasn’t there, something small happened: Christine silently placed a hair tie on the table for Chris, one that matched his outfit better. Or she tossed him a bag of chips in passing, without comment. They were tiny gestures that said: I can’t always be there, but I’m not completely gone.\n\nOnce, late in the evening, Susan sat at the kitchen table with a glass of wine, leafing through a college brochure as if it were a catalog. “You’ll meet a lot of people there,” she said. “But you’ll still call me every day. I want to know who you’re with. And I want photos. Every other day. For me.”\n\nChris stood in the doorway and felt everything inside him tighten. The old reflex wanted to nod. The new reflex—small, but awake—wanted air. He said nothing. He simply went back to his room, closed the door, and stood in front of the mirror.\n\nHe looked polished, as always. Perfect. And yet, during those weeks, he often felt like an empty house already up for sale: clean, tidy, but no longer inhabited inside. He looked at the boxes, which kept multiplying, and noticed a strange calm spreading through him. Not happiness. Not yet. More something you only feel when you’re just before the leap: a clarity that makes you quiet.\n\nA few days before departure, he packed the last things: a few books, a photo from Germany, a pretty negligee that he placed at the bottom of a box, as if it were a private piece of the future. Then he sat down on the bed and heard Christine close a drawer in the next room. Downstairs, the TV was on. Susan was on the phone, laughing somewhere in the house.\n\nChris took a deep breath, laid his hand on the acceptance letter, which had long since been tucked into a folder, and thought: Just a few more days. Then my life won’t be here anymore.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $barnettbaby == 1>>[[Reunion with Mrs. Barnett.|Wiedersehen mit Mrs. Barnett.]]\n<<else>>[[Chris at college.|Chris auf dem College.]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

<h2>Ending 1 (Chris and Dylan): Final Game</h2> The floodlights made the grass look almost unrealistically green, as if they had reinvented it especially for this evening. It was the last game of the season, the big championship final, and the stadium was vibrating before the ball had even flown. In the stands, red and silver surged like a single sea; the marching band held their instruments ready, the mascot bounced along the edge in exaggerated, nervous movements, and somewhere behind the end zone a confetti cannon was already crackling, as if impatiently waiting for its signal.\n\nChris stood with the Pom Puffs on the sideline, poms in hand, his breath visible in the cold air. The wind slipped under the short skirt, briefly biting at his panties, but the adrenaline was warmer than any jacket. They cheered their way through the game, voice and body in rhythm—High-V, Clap, Stomp—and the stands answered every time, as if the stadium itself were a living thing.\n\nThe game was close. The opponent that evening would not let up. Every drive, every tackle felt like a small explosion. Chris felt his heart clench every time the ball hung in the air, and release again when Dylan had it controlled in his hands and the Timberwolves pushed forward.\n\nIn the fourth quarter, it was so tight that the time on the scoreboard seemed like a joke. One minute left. Thirty seconds left. Chris’ fingers clenched around the poms, as if he could hold on to the result. “D-E-F-E-N-D!” they stomped, and the stands stomped with them, so loudly that the ground vibrated slightly.\n\nThen came the final play.\n\nThe ball was with Dylan. He stood there like a fixed point in the chaos—helmet low, shoulder pads broad, the whole team like a wall in front of him. He called something that vanished in the noise, and in the next second everything moved at once. Dylan dodged, found a gap, threw—a long, taut arc through the cold air. A receiver caught it. The crowd held its breath. Then touchdown.\n\nFor one heartbeat, it was silent, as if the world had to understand what had happened.\n\nAnd then everything exploded.\n\nThe stands burst open like fireworks: screams, clapping, stomping, drums. Confetti shot into the air and turned the floodlights into glittering snowfall. The band struck up the fanfare, the mascot threw itself dramatically onto the grass and immediately sprang back up again, as if it too had to cheer. Chris realized he was laughing—loudly, honestly, breathlessly—and that his eyes were burning, even though he didn’t want to cry at all.\n\nThe Timberwolves stormed toward Dylan, helmets against helmets, arms shaking him as if success were something you could touch. Chris stood on the sideline, the poms still thrown high, and suddenly the world felt too big and too bright for a second.\n\nThen he saw Dylan.\n\nDylan turned out of the celebration, as if he had heard something only he could hear. His gaze wasn’t searching for the coaches, not the fans, not the stands—but the sideline. Chris. The crowd around him was noise and movement, but Dylan moved as if on rails, straight toward him.\n\nHe ran, despite the helmet and shoulder pads, as if he were lighter than anyone else. He took off the helmet while he was still making the final steps; sweat gleamed at his hairline, his breathing was fast, and in his eyes there was something bigger than a game.\n\nHe stopped directly in front of Chris, so close that Chris saw the cold mist of his breath. Dylan only said, softly, as if it were a secret between them: “I did it… we did it.”\n\nChris’ chest hurt with pride. “Yes,” he managed, and his voice was small against the stadium, but big for him. He lifted his hands, pulled Dylan toward him by the shoulder pads, as if they were only fabric and not a whole suit of armor.\n\nDylan bent down, and for a moment the floodlights were nothing but a soft halo. The noise was still there, but far away. Then they kissed—briefly at first, as if they had to make sure this was really happening, and then more certainly, as if the kiss underlined everything they could not put into words just then.\n\nConfetti stuck in Chris’ hair. Somewhere, the band roared into the next measure. The mascot danced. The world celebrated.\n\nAnd Dylan held Chris tight, as if there were nothing left on the field that still needed to be won.\n\n[[↩ Back|Enden]]

Chris already thought he had done something wrong, but she simply pulled down her panties and said in a sultry voice: “I want to feel you inside me now. Come on, undress too.”\n\nChris obeyed immediately. His arousal easily overrode the embarrassment he felt when Zoe saw the delicate buds of his feminine curves.\n\n“Beautiful,” Zoe said. Chris smiled, slightly embarrassed.\n\n“Come on! Come inside me!”\n\nThe young woman lay down on her back. Her legs were open for him, and he could see her parted labia. No fuzz, not a single hair was visible. Her labia were swollen, and her slit was filled with wetness.\n\nChris knelt between her legs and then hesitated a little.\n\n“What?” Zoe asked as he knelt before her with his lance, yet did not dare to touch her.\n\n<<if $sex == 0>>“It, it’s my first time,” he finally stammered, a little shyly. He knew how it was supposed to work. He knew the theory, but the practice had always remained closed to him until now.\n\nZoe smiled. She had deflowered a few boys before and knew what to do. Her hand wrapped around his stiff member and squeezed it lovingly. A shudder flowed through him, and he almost believed a higher being had taken possession of him in that moment.<<else>>“It, it’s just a little sudden,” he finally stammered, a little shyly.\n\nZoe smiled, her hand wrapping around his stiff member and squeezing it lovingly. A shudder flowed through him, and he almost believed a higher being had taken possession of him in that moment.<<endif>>\n\nSlowly, the young woman guided the head toward her swollen pussy. She pressed him between her labia and finally led him into the secret chamber of her pleasure. Chris could hardly believe his luck. Slowly, he bent over her. Her delicate fingers let go of his rod, and he could now move himself inside her tight, wet grotto.\n\nEven the first thrust into her was a peak of sensation. He felt every vein of his member, stretched to bursting. A tingling sensation almost drove him mad. Zoe lay beneath him. Her dark eyes looked at him, and he recognized a divine being in her. She moaned softly as he pushed a little farther into her.\n\nZoe willingly pressed her pelvis up against him while her fingers grabbed his buttocks.\n\nOnly slowly did Chris find his rhythm inside her and begin to move his hips, making his butt crack freely accessible to her with every withdrawal. Her finger massaged his muscle ring and slowly entered his bowel. He flinched in shock and clenched against it.\n\n“Zoe?” he moaned, aghast, as her finger began to crawl inside his bowel and rubbed especially intensely where the prostate lay behind the wall. The feeling was arousing, so much so that he forgot to keep thrusting.\n\n“Hop, hop!” Zoe growled, and Chris began to thrust.\n\nShe lay beneath him and tightened her vaginal muscles with every thrust. Her finger at his prostate developed a vortex that drove the cream from his seminal vesicle into the firing channel. She felt his arousal inside her, mingling with her own lust.\n\nThe two teenagers merged into one. In that moment, they had become Adam and Eve, finding themselves in a paradise of pleasures. Neither of them thought of anything but the bare, ecstatic passion of the moment. They moaned and panted, they sweated and twitched, until their bodies finally united in a powerful orgasm.\n\nZoe came first. The penetration of his cock had already brought her almost to climax before. Now the young woman crossed that threshold as well. Wildly and without restraint, she cried out her pleasure. Her vagina contracted and pressed around Chris’s stiff shaft inside her. Then he too began to twitch and pulse. His shaft shot enormous amounts of his pent-up sperm into her body. His body wanted to seed hers, wanted to immortalize itself inside the girl’s ecstatically twitching body. Pressed tightly together, they lay on the mattress until the pulsing tremor of their bodies subsided and they found each other in a kiss.\n\nExhausted, Chris rolled off her and pulled her close. Zoe nestled against him. Chris closed his eyes dreamily while part of his seed seeped from her still-swollen opening. Neither of them said anything. It wasn’t necessary. Their bodies had already said everything.\n\n[[Continue|Die lästigen Geldprobleme.]]

After a while, Chris slid the lock open, stepped out of the stall, and washed his hands longer than necessary. He dabbed his cheeks dry with a piece of paper, took one more deep breath, and left the bathroom.\n\nOutside, the gym seemed even brighter than before. Music, lights, voices—everything pushed over him again as if there had never been a break. Just as Chris was about to sneak toward the edge of the crowd, he noticed a small semicircle forming at the front. The DJ was talking into the microphone, and the crowd responded with cheers.\n\n“Best Dressed!” he called. “Come up front if you think you’ve got it!”\n\nA few girls were pushed forward, laughing, holding onto their dresses as if that were part of the show. Hands clapped, someone whistled. Chris froze, wanting to become invisible—but at that exact moment, a group of girls near him waved.\n\n“You too!” one called. “Come on!”\n\nChris raised his hands defensively. “No, I—”\n\n“Yes, you!” They pulled him along, half laughing, not roughly, but decisively. Refusing would suddenly have seemed like an insult, like “I’m too good for this” or “I don’t belong with you.” Chris felt the reflex to hide—and went along anyway.\n\nAnd then he was standing there.\n\nUnder a wash of light that made everything shine: the fabric, the earrings, the stockings, even the clutch in his hand. Beside him were other girls, posing, waving, turning around. In front of him, a crowd of faces, hands, phones. Applause swelled and fell every time someone stepped forward.\n\nChris’s chest tightened—and opened at the same time. Part of him felt euphoria, raw and immediate: They’re clapping for me. For the image he was presenting right now. It was warm, almost intoxicating, and he hated himself a little for how good it felt.\n\nAnd at the same time, panic shot up: If someone looks too closely... If someone saw not just the dress, but the trembling in his hand, the unnatural caution in his movements, the secret he wore like a second skin. His gaze flickered over the crowd, involuntarily searching for familiar faces, for danger. Every camera flash felt like a little shock.\n\nHe forced himself to smile and did what everyone else was doing: a small turn, the clutch loose in his hand, shoulders back. Applause came—not the loudest, but clear. A few whistles, a few “Wooo!”s, a few phones lifting. Chris felt his cheeks grow hot again, this time not only from fear.\n\nThe DJ let the crowd decide. The girl with the biggest cheers got the title, and at some point it was clear who had won: a sparkling dress, loud shrieking, a veritable hurricane of applause. Chris did not get a “Best Dressed” moment, no title, no crown made of cardboard glitter.\n\nBut he did get attention.\n\nAs they broke up the line again and the winner was celebrated, the aftershock stayed inside Chris: that strange, dizzy mixture of pride and fear. He had not been crowned—but for one moment, the crowd had seen him. And he did not know whether he wanted to thank them for it or run away from it.\n\n[[Continue|Krönung Homecoming King and Queen.2]]

They stood in a semicircle between the tanks again, and the remaining light had grown so weak by now that the phone lights illuminated their faces like little stages. Someone took a photo, then another, and after that came that typical teenage problem: they had done something “brave,” but now they had to fill the time until it really counted.\n\n“Okay, we have to do something, or we’re going to die of boredom in here,” one of the boys said, nudging something with his sneaker that clinked.\n\nAnother phone light moved over the floor. “Here!” someone called, holding up an empty glass bottle, dusty, the label half scraped off. “Spin the bottle.”\n\nA few cheers, a few skeptical sounds. Christine pulled a face. Penelope grinned, as if this was exactly her element. Dylan sat down somewhat, the phone light in his hand like a small flashlight.\n\n“Truth or dare,” someone decided. “Classic.”\n\nChris had never played spin the bottle before. He knew how this game ended in movies: with kisses, with dares, with things you regretted later. His gaze wandered briefly to Dylan—just a reflex—and immediately he looked away again, his cheeks hot. He hoped no one had noticed.\n\nThe bottle was placed in the middle. A finger flicked it, and the glass spun on the concrete, fast at first, then slower, until it finally pointed at someone. Laughter, shrieking, “Ooooh!”, then a task: imitating a sexy pose, calling someone and saying you missed them, shouting an absurd sentence into the dark hall. Little things that cost just enough courage to be funny, and embarrassing questions like:\n\n“Are you still a virgin?”\n“Of course not!”\n“You’re lying, you’ve never even had a girlfriend.”\n“Shut up!”\n\nAfter a few rounds, the bottle stopped at Penelope.\n\n“Okay, Queen Bee,” one of the boys said solemnly. “Truth. What’s your most embarrassing secret?”\n\nPenelope raised an eyebrow, pretended she had to think for a long time, and took her time savoring the suspense. Then she sighed dramatically. “Fine.” She leaned forward as if revealing a state secret. “I… used so much hairspray during last year’s pep rally performance that a strand of my hair got stuck to the curling iron. I just… cut it off. With scissors from the art room.” She held her thumb and index finger together. “And then I hid it. For weeks.”\n\nA collective “NO!” went through the group, followed by laughter. Someone clapped, someone called, “That explains everything!” Penelope threw a Pom-Puff-style eye roll into the darkness, but she was grinning.\n\nThe bottle spun on.\n\n[[Continue|Dylan ist dran.]]

The kitchen door swung open. A boy stuck his head in, nose in the air. “Smells like cookies.” He took one step into the room—narrow-shouldered build, tousled hair, a T-shirt with a faded band logo. Chris flinched and instinctively turned his back to him, as if he had just touched something forbidden.\n\n“Sweetheart, this is my son,” Mrs. Barnett said calmly. “His name is [[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]].” <<if $lucas == 1>>Chris blinked. Lucas… wasn’t that the one who had cracked his locker the other day? He had almost forgotten him again—that was how inconspicuous he was.<<endif>>\n\n“You were actually supposed to stay in your room today,” Mrs. Barnett said.\n\n“I just wanted to try one—” Lucas stopped because his gaze caught on Chris. No gawking, no whistling—just that unplayed surprise, gently tipping into admiration. “Hi,” he said, and the small word carried more than it should have.\n\n“Hi,” Chris managed, still half turned away. He felt the satin on his back as if the fabric had ears.\n\nLucas grabbed a cookie, blew on it, and took a bite. His eyes involuntarily went back to Chris, as if he were trying to undress Chris’s satin nightgown with his eyes. “They’re good, Mom,” he murmured, sounding as if he meant two things.\n\nSuddenly, girl noise spilled back into the kitchen from the hallway. Penelope appeared in the doorway, two friends in tow, a tray in her hand. “Hey—party zone, Lucas! Out of here.” Her forehead creased in irritation. “I told you: no wandering around today. Go game or read something, whatever. Just don’t be annoying.”\n\n“I’m not annoying anyone,” her brother protested, already one step backward, the cookie still in his hand. His gaze flicked one last time to Chris, soft, curious, a little flickering. “Have fun… uh, you guys.” Then he disappeared, the door closing softly behind him.\n\nPenelope snorted, rolled her eyes, and aimed for the tray. “Cookies! Thanks, Mom. Chris, can you take the soda?”\n“Sure,” Chris said, grateful for the task and for having a tray to hold. As he passed, Mrs. Barnett threw him a brief, seductive look—one that promised a great deal.\n\n[[Continue|Mädchenspiele in der Kissenburg.]]

Chris knew he was supposed to play along. Submissively, he lowered his mouth over the warm glans and began to caress the shaft gently. The boy placed his hands on his head and, sighing, pressed him down onto his cock.\n\nSo Chris crouched in the car, his head rising and sinking in an even rhythm, as if guided by a conductor. Again and again the boy looked at him as his sex disappeared into Chris’s sweet mouth.\n\nChris’s head now moved up and down in a faster rhythm, and the boy’s increasingly loud, lustful moans mingled with the smacking sound that came each time the hard cock was buried completely in Chris’s warm mouth.\n\nIt went on like that for minutes. Head up, head down, head up, head down, lips forward and back, forward and back. The boy enjoyed the sight and stroked Chris’s hair.\n\nWhat a feeling it was, that warmth, that tightness, the wetness of that tender mouth! And above all the image of a pretty young girl half-kneeling over him, her beautiful head moving rhythmically up and down over his erect cock. He had now arrived in paradise, and although he had tried, he could no longer hold back his approaching orgasm. The sensation began faintly in his balls and then drew forward more and more strongly into the tip of his glans.\n\nWith his eyes rolling back, the boy grabbed Chris’s head and held it firmly between his hands so that the warm mouth would not release the twitching penis. The boy stopped all movement of his hips, and Chris felt the tip of the glans begin to twitch. And then it came, twitch by twitch, spurt by spurt, surge by surge, the viscous semen eruptively forcing its way into Chris’s warm mouth.\n\nThe boy was in a complete trance. His unrestrained climax in Chris’s sweet mouth was too much all at once. The semen flowed from the corners of Chris’s mouth and dripped onto the seat. Chris felt spurt after spurt hit the roof of his mouth and fill his mouth with warm semen in no time. The sperm was very thick and tasted salty. Chris could not help it and had to swallow. One gulp after another filled his stomach with the boy’s seed, whose erect member was still twitching helplessly in his mouth.\n\nAfter more than 5 minutes, the boy interrupted; Chris was still leisurely sucking on the stiff penis in his mouth.\n\n“Come on, get undressed,” he said, as if that were a perfectly normal continuation.\n\nChris’s stomach lurched. Thoughts screamed over one another in his head: Now? Here? He doesn’t know…\n\nChris leaned back into the seat, as if he had to gain distance from himself. His heart hammered, and the warm afterglow in his chest transformed into something sharp, restless. He swallowed.\n\n“I have to confess something to you,” he said, ashamed.\n\nThe boy looked at him, first irritated, then attentive—that brief twitch in the eyes when someone realizes something is coming that will change the evening. Chris’s hands lay stiffly in his lap. He breathed in, opened his mouth—\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Geständnis.]]

Chris waited too long. He offered no resistance, even though inside he was wrestling with himself. That hesitation that happened to him so often—think first, then feel, then act—pinned him in place for a few seconds. He felt Rick’s hands on his breasts, and his body went stiff, as if he first had to give himself permission to move away.\n\nThen he did tear himself free.\n\nHe took a step to the side, away from the edge of the table, tightened the apron knot with a quick movement as if that were an excuse, and held the rag in front of himself like a shield. “I really have to go,” he said, trying to stay calm. “School tomorrow.”\n\nRick let his hand sink as if he had never done anything that wasn’t completely normal. He grinned, broad and satisfied. “It’s okay, sweetie. No stress.”\n\nChris grabbed his bag, muttered a hasty “Good night,” and went to the door, the keys held too tightly in his hand. Behind him, he didn’t hear Rick’s footsteps, only his gaze—he felt it like warmth on the back of his neck. When Chris unlocked the door and stepped outside, Rick stayed behind the counter and smiled after him, as if it had all just been a game. A little test. A foretaste.\n\nOutside, the air was cold. Chris walked to the bus stop faster than necessary, as if speed could shake off the moment. On the bus, he sat by the window, stared at the streetlights passing by, and only then noticed how his hands were trembling.\n\nAt home, a lamp was still on in the hallway. His mother sat in the living room, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of wine in her hand. “Well?” she asked without looking up. “How was your day?”\n\nChris stopped in the doorway, still wearing his jacket, and stared into space for a moment. In his head, the diner flashed up: the empty booths, the closed door, Rick’s hand on his breast, that grin.\n\n“Pretty okay,” Chris finally said, too evenly. “Tiring.”\n\nSusan nodded with satisfaction, as if that were the only right answer.\n\nChris forced a small smile, said nothing more, and went to his room. Behind the closed door, he only then really exhaled—and wondered how easy it was for him to stay silent.\n\n[[Continue|Später in der Schule.]]

As Chris walked with his bag toward the bus stop, footsteps caught up with him. “Um… can I come with you?” Lucas, jacket open, smile too forced, as if it were too big for his face.\n<<set $ort to "school parking lot">>\n“Sure,” Chris said politely. Inside, he felt accompanied by a small, lost puppy that desperately wanted to belong. Lucas talked in short bursts—about the play, about Ms. Green, about a light board that was “finally calibrated again”—and each time his voice broke off in an invisible hole. Chris nodded in the right places, liked his goodwill, liked the way he waited for confirmation. Like, yes. Nothing more.\n\nThe bus groaned up to the curb. “Can I sit with you?” Lucas asked.\n“Yes,” Chris said, sliding over to the window. Lucas dropped down beside him—too quickly. The small Coke in his hand tipped, jerked, splashed. Three or four drops found their target on the fabric of Chris’s culottes.\n\n“Oh man, I’m so sorry!” Lucas shot up, fumbled a crumpled tissue out of his pocket, and offered it as if it were a peace treaty.\n“It’s okay,” Chris murmured, taking the paper and dabbing. The spots remained tiny, dark dots, but immediately looked like signal lights.\n\nThe ride started moving, rattling over grooves. Silence filled the seat between them, sticky as cola. Lucas tried again and again: “So… uh… the ‘status shifts’—you were good.” … “Have you ever worked with QLab?” … “If you want, I can…” Every sentence trailed off like a soap-bubble thread that burst too soon. Chris answered kindly and briefly, feeling Lucas’s nervousness wash over in waves. He liked him, really. As a friend, maybe a good one. But not as a boyfriend.\n\nNot that I even want a boyfriend, his mind added afterward, far too quickly, far too loudly. Not Dylan either, not— The thought stumbled over itself, and his cheeks grew hot. He stared out the window, counting trees as if they were lifelines.\n\nAt the third stop, the advertising board outside the window jumped back as the bus swayed. Lucas briefly clutched the edge of the seat, breathing audibly. “Uh—I… thought it was cool that you signed up,” he finally said, quieter, more honest. “Theater… is better with nice people.”\n\n“Thanks,” Chris said, and this time it sounded warmer. “You’re also… nice.”\n\nThe stop came into view. “This is mine,” Chris said, standing up and holding on to the handle. Lucas sprang up too. “Okay. Then… see you tomorrow?”\n\n“See you tomorrow.” Chris smiled, small, genuine, and got off. The door closed, the bus roared on. On the sidewalk, he let his shoulders drop; the culottes had small, cold spots that would soon dry. Attention from a boy felt strange.\n\n[[Continue|Besuch zu Hause.]]

Highschool-Girl wider Willen\n\n \n

Susan pressed down the handle, the door swung open—and for one heartbeat, Chris’s world stood still.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girl room">>\nHis old room was gone.\n\n<center>[img[pics/zimmer.jpg]]</center> The walls, which had still been a neutral, slightly yellowed white yesterday, now shimmered in a warm rosy pink. No cool strip of laminate ran across the floor anymore; instead there was a fluffy carpet into which footsteps sank, as if walking over deep snow. In front of the window, new curtains of gossamer voile fell in soft waves; they moved with the slightest breeze, as if they were breathing.\n\nThe bed—his bed—had been given red satin bedding, smooth as water when you ran your hand over it. Several heart-shaped decorative pillows were scattered across it, as if someone had spilled a dozen candies. On the wall, where a poster used to hang, a small round mirror with a golden frame now gleamed, and beneath it stood a new vanity/hair table: drawers with brass knobs, a glass top, and on it neatly arranged brushes in an acrylic cup, lipsticks, and powder compacts.\n\nOn his desk lay a notepad with a floral border and the words “Thoughts & Dreams.” Pastel stationery lined the edge—mint green, lavender, vanilla yellow—as if pens and paper clips had suddenly become part of a color scheme.\n\nThe room smelled of vanilla candles; the sweet, warm scent wrapped around him like a blanket he had never asked for.\n<center>[img[pics/regal.jpg]]</center>\nHis old comic books had disappeared from the little bookshelf. In their place stood immaculate new books with titles that flashed like neon signs: “My First Prom Date (Don’t Panic),” “How to Become the Queen of the School,” and “What If I Like Boys?”\n\n“Tadaaa,” said [[Susan|Susan Braun]], and her smile was as wide as a stage curtain. “What do you think? I worked my butt off all morning. Finally, a room that suits you.”\n\nChris stood on the threshold and didn’t know what to do with his hands. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice cried out: It’s only paint, only fabric, only things. But the sight made it something else: a statement that expected no objection. The rosy color climbed up inside him like heat. He saw his old bed in his mind, the gray pillow, the scratches on the desk from some old fidget spinner. Gone. Painted over.\n\n“It smells… new,” he managed. It was the most harmless truth he could think of.\n\n“Vanilla,” Susan said, satisfied. “Calming, friendly, inviting. And look—” She took two steps, plucked at one of the heart pillows as if straightening it, then pointed to the vanity. “Here you can get yourself ready every morning. Everything has its place. Brushes on the left, skincare on the right. Order on the outside, order on the inside.”\n\nChristine had appeared in the doorway, looked around with raised eyebrows, and let out a brief, soundless whistle through her teeth. “Wow,” she said, neutral enough not to take sides. Her fixed braces flashed as she smiled—not mockingly, more in disbelief. “That is… a lot.”\n\n“Exactly right,” Susan corrected. “Chris needs a room that reminds him who he is.”\n\nShe walked to the bookshelf, ran her fingers over the spines, stopped at “What If I Like Boys?” and tapped a nail against it. “That’s exactly what you should read,” she said in a tone that sounded friendly and yet allowed no contradiction. “I have a feeling you might even like it—if you dare to be honest with yourself.” Her look was soft and hard at the same time, that strange mix of encouragement and control.\n\nChris’s stomach clenched. Seriously? Was he supposed to start dating boys now too? I’m not gay, he told himself, almost defiantly. I don’t like boys. Yet the sentence echoed inside him, as if he had to convince himself of it.\n\n“Good,” she said, briefly placing a hand on his shoulder. “Have fun in your new room.”\n\nChris nodded, because nodding was the only thing he could do right now. The soft carpet gave springily under his shoes as he took a step into the room. The voile curtains moved a little, even though the window was closed, and the vanilla scent clung to his fingers as if he had touched the candle. Susan watched with satisfaction, as if she had completed a puzzle. He stepped farther inside, set his bag beside the desk—beside the flowers, the pastel pens, the new order—and said nothing, because words here would only have thrown the wrong colors onto the wall.\n\n''What’s on tonight?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Trying on swimwear.|Bademode anprobe.]]<<else>>[[Practice penmanship.|Schönschrift üben.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

The night was cool and still as they walked along the sidewalk: Lucas, Chris, and Christine. No one said anything. No remarks about the party, no questions, no laughter. Only the clicking of the heels, the scraping of the ankle boots, and Lucas’s quiet steps between them.\n\nChris glanced at Christine. Her hair was tousled, her eyeliner smeared, her gaze empty as if through cotton wool. She looked as though the evening had washed her out and laid her down at the curb. Chris’s stomach tightened—and yet, at the same time, he felt his own head was louder than everything else.\n\nHe had kissed a boy. How had that happened? One layer after another slid back: the warmth, the trembling, then Lucas’s tongue. Embarrassing and beautiful, wrong and right at the same time. The thought burned. Beside him, Lucas seemed content, almost light. A small, unfinished smile still sat on his face, as if the evening had ended for him on a gentle note.\n\nIn front of the house, they stopped. Lucas edged a fraction closer, a hesitant sparkle in his eyes, as if expecting a silent ritual, a little kiss goodbye.\n\nChris flushed red. “See you Monday,” he murmured, briefly raising his hand. No kiss. Lucas’s smile wavered, but stayed. He only nodded.\n\n“See you Monday,” he said, and turned around.\n\nChris slid the key into the lock and led Christine inside. The house lay dark; only the refrigerator hummed, somewhere a pipe cracked. His mother was apparently asleep—a rare blessing. Christine leaned heavily against him as they climbed the stairs.\n\nIn her room, he sat her on the edge of the bed, knelt in front of her, carefully loosened the ankle boots, and caught a brief glimpse of her tights torn at the crotch, her ruined panties, and his little sister’s pussy smeared with semen and blood. The thin, shiny tights rustled as she let herself fall back. He pulled the blanket up over her, brushed a strand of hair out of her face. For a moment, she looked as young again as she had back when he used to invent stories for her at night when she was afraid of thunderstorms.\n\n“Night-night, Chrissie,” he whispered, even though she was long gone.\n\nThen he padded into his room. The miniskirt landed over the back of the chair, the strappy heels toppled over beside each other like exhausted animals. He let himself sink into bed, still feeling the aftershocks of music in his chest and the soft imprint of Lucas’s lips somewhere between heart and thoughts.\n\nHe turned onto his side, pulled the blanket up under his chin, and stared into the darkness. My first kiss. The sentence settled quietly inside him. Then it grew still. He closed his eyes.\n\n[[End of Chapter 2|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 2e]]

The corridor was packed, the bell had just rung, and Chris threaded his way through the gaps with his culottes and folder as if he were a fish swimming against the current. Two steps before the classroom door—an impulse at the middle of his ankle, a movement as tiny as it was malicious. His foot caught on Zoe’s outstretched leg. He stumbled, still flailed, the folder slipped from his fingers, papers sailed. Then he landed on his elbow with a dull “oof” and slid half on his knees all the way to the doorframe.\n<<set $ort to "hallway">>\n[[Zoe|Zoe March]] stood there, her curly dark-brown hair tossed over her shoulder, her mouth crooked. A short, hard laugh, not loud, but sharp. Two girls beside her giggled along—that quick, uncertain giggle that meant more “being part of it” than “finding it funny.” The hallway roared over Chris; his chest burned with sudden shame.\n\nGreat, he thought, breathing behind the redness in his face. In Germany, it was the boys who shoved me around. Here it’s girls. Even more humiliating.\n\nThe door opened. Mr. Robertson stepped out. “Everything okay here?” His gaze fell at once on Chris on the floor, on the scattered sheets, then on the group around Zoe, who suddenly seemed very busy trying to look invisible.\n\n“All good,” Chris said quickly, before the teacher could read any trail. “I just tripped.” He heard how defensive it sounded and wanted to take it back, too late.\n\n“Uh-huh.” Mr. Robertson knelt partway down to him. “Nothing broken? Knee?” He automatically placed one hand on Chris’s leg, one on his ribs. Chris froze briefly; the contact was too close, too public. He stood up more hastily than was good for the culottes.\n\n“Thanks,” he muttered, smoothing the fabric and gathering the papers. His fingers trembled slightly. Mr. Robertson handed him the last sheet—“US History — Reconstruction” emblazoned at the top—and lowered his voice. “If there’s anything, you let me know. Understood?”\n\n“Yes,” Chris said, but he didn’t look at Zoe. She stood there with her arms crossed, chin defiant, gaze smooth. For a few seconds, there was only the memory of the supermarket aisles between them.\n\n“Good. Inside, all of you.” Mr. Robertson clapped his hands once, the sound cutting through the murmurs like scissors. The girls dissolved into the flow of the room; Zoe pushed away from the doorframe last, as if nothing had ever happened.\n\nChris breathed through it, lifted the folder to his chest like a shield, and stepped into the classroom. His elbow throbbed; his pride throbbed the loudest. He sat down, laid the papers neatly in place, and felt the trembling slowly ease—only to remain as a faint residue in his fingertips.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $schuhe == 1>>[[Mishap at the water fountain.|Missgeschick am Wasserspender.]]<<else>>[[Mishap at the water fountain.|Missgeschick am Wasserspender.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris pushed himself up from the asphalt. “Leave me alone,” he said, and this time it didn’t sound pleading. Zoe rolled her eyes and shoved him again. He caught her arm. A jerk, a stumble—and suddenly they were tangled up in each other, two bodies acting more from reflex than from any plan.\n<<set $ZoeMemory[1] to 1>>\nShe grabbed for his hair, he loosened her grip, she hooked his elbow, he twisted his hip away. Chris caught her in a front headlock, bent over, so that she had to stick out her pretty ass. She started squirming and kicking at him. Before she could land a painful hit, he let her go.\n\nSteps drew closer, the small circle of spectators grew tighter. “Whoa!” “Easy!” Shouts, but no one separated them.\n\nWith a reflex, he ducked under her swing, grabbed her by the shirt and pulled. “What the hell do you…” she hissed, “…think you’re doing?” Her voice choked off when she realized that during the last maneuver, her right breast had slipped out of her shirt and bra and was now hanging in the air for everyone to see. Students whistled. “Tits!” someone shouted from the crowd.\n\nSince she still had to fix her clothes, Chris managed to press her to the ground for a moment, now half-kneeling on her, holding one forearm down. It looked as if he could pin her and end the whole thing—say “enough now” and get up. In that instant, Zoe’s knee shot forward, low, a powerful hit directly to his crotch. The air flew out of Chris’s lungs; a dull, stabbing pain shot through his body. He curled up, his grip loosening reflexively.\n\nZoe seemed briefly surprised, her eyes narrowing as if she had noticed a detail. She used his moment, rolled him onto his back, straddled him, and forced him into the inferior position with a schoolgirl pin.\n\nShe was wearing only a knee-length skirt today. Chris’s face was therefore between her bare thighs, his chin pressing against her pussy, and he stared up at her helplessly. This was the closest he had ever been to a girl's pussy. Then she gave him two or three slaps across the face.\n\n“Say it,” she demanded, triumphant, curls in her face. “Go on. Apologize.”\n\nChris’s face burned. Part of him wanted to turn away, stay silent, salvage some kind of dignity. The circle around them had gone silent.\n\n“I’m sorry,” he forced out, hoarse. “For… snitching.” The words tasted metallic.\n\nZoe held his gaze for another beat, as if savoring the moment, then stood up with a contemptuous snort. “That’s more like it,” she said loudly enough for the audience. She smoothed down her top, flicked away an invisible bit of lint, and stomped off without turning around again.\n\nThe noise level returned: someone giggled nervously, two freshmen whispered “intense,” a jock muttered “drama’s over.” The circle dissolved into individuals who acted as if they had never been there.\n\nChris stayed lying there for two breaths, then sat up, straightened his dress, and gathered his books. His fingers were trembling more than he liked. The notebook with his schedule had a new scrape; he smoothed it down as if it could be erased.\n\n“Chris!” Christine came running, stopped beside him, her hands half-extended as if she didn’t know whether she should touch him. Her gaze shot down the path Zoe had taken and back to him. “Are you okay?”\n\n“I’m fine,” he said, forcing himself to his feet. The pain was still there, more muted, but persistent.\n\nChristine pressed her lips together and handed him the last book. “Bus’ll be here in a second.” Then more quietly: “We’ll talk at home. And… keep your head up, okay?” She stood beside him, no grand gesture, just presence.\n\nThe bus rolled in, squealed, the doors folded open. Chris breathed through it, held his things tighter, and got on behind his sister, as if the aisle of the bus were, for a moment, the safest place in Maplewood.\n\n''👑 Popularity -1''\n\n[[Continue|Busfahrt.]]

When Susan and DeShawn came back, they seemed more relaxed—Susan with that glow on her face that looked more like “I’m alive” than alcohol. They headed for a sofa corner, half in the shadow of the dance floor. There were two sofas facing each other, low and wide, with small glass tables between them, glasses standing on them like tiny points of light.\n\nSusan dropped down on one side with Latoya. Chris sat down on the other—and DeShawn right next to him. No sooner had DeShawn sat down than he quite naturally put his arm around Chris’s shoulders, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. The warmth of his forearm felt heavy and safe, and Chris noticed his body briefly stiffen because closeness always surprised him in moments like this. DeShawn only grinned in a relaxed way, as if to say: It’s all good.\n\nSusan watched it, and instead of seeming irritated, she became even more playful. Very slowly, she crossed her legs and leaned toward DeShawn as if the sofa were a stage.\n\nChris’s gaze fell between her thighs. For some reason, his mother wasn’t wearing any underwear beneath her skirt.\n\n“You still dance well,” she said, in that tone that was both praise and invitation.\n\nDeShawn laughed, shaking his head. “You too. You still have that… energy.”\n\nLatoya grinned broadly. “I told you. You two have chemistry. Period.”\n\nSusan shot Latoya a “you’re terrible” look, but without any real annoyance. Then her gaze wandered back to DeShawn—and briefly to Chris too, as if she were checking whether he was “playing along.” Only to open her legs again the very next moment.\n\n<<if $kissmom > 1 >>Chris stared spellbound at his mother's completely hairless pussy. Her moist, glistening clit peeked out cheekily from between her labia.<<else>>DeShawn’s gaze regularly wandered beneath Susan’s skirt. He furtively eyed her pink slit.<<endif>>\n\nIt had not escaped Susan’s notice that a distinct bulge had formed in DeShawn’s pants. She grinned inwardly and began to slowly slide one hand down her thigh.\n\nChris sat there with his mocktail, trying not to seem too stiff, and wondered why DeShawn had put his arm around him.\n\nThe conversation went on for a few minutes. Chris nodded, answered politely, laughed in the right places—and still felt like a guest in a scene that wasn’t his.\n\nThen DeShawn stood up again, as if he had only used the break to catch his breath. “One more song,” he said, and Latoya immediately jumped in. “Yes! Come on, Chris, we’re going.”\n\n“Come dance, honey,” Latoya added, already half turned toward the dance floor.\n\nDeShawn looked at Chris, demanding. “Come.”\n\nChris shook his head, too quickly. “No… I… I’d rather stay here.” He tried to smile, but it was a thin smile that felt like an excuse.\n\nSusan looked at him, and there was immediate dissatisfaction in her gaze—not loud, but clear. That “You’re doing it again,” as if he were being difficult on purpose. She said nothing, but for a moment her face grew harder. Then she stood up. “Then just stay sitting there,” she said coolly, and went to the dance floor with DeShawn and Latoya without turning around.\n\n[[Continue|Ein Typ quatscht ihn an.]]\n

“And?” asked a woman who sounded very much like “aunt,” though Chris wasn’t sure whether she was one. “Is there already a boyfriend?”\n\nThe laughter in the room turned curious. Heads turned. Susan beamed.\n\n“Oh, of course,” Susan said, as if that were the most normal addition in the world. “He’s just… blossomed now.”\n\n“Mom!” Chris managed, but it was drowned out.\n\n“I’ve never seen him so… content,” Susan chatted on. The ladies were endlessly amused to hear Susan proudly report how in love Chris was with his new boyfriend Lucas and how proud he was of his new, girlish breasts.\n\nShe put both hands on Chris's breasts and laughed as if it were a joke for everyone to share. “He feels really comfortable with them. Don’t you, sweetheart?”\n\nChris’s face burned. He wanted to say no. He wanted to say something, anything, that would make the room go quiet. But he stood there, and eyes were everywhere.\n\nFinally, at the suggestion of one of the guests, Chris was made to strip down to his panties to show off his new “assets.”\n\n“Go on, sweetheart,” Susan said, her voice soft as poison. “Show them how beautiful you are.”\n\nChris began to move and undressed down to his panties. He turned uncertainly in front of the audience, heard laughter—not malicious, but amused, which was exactly the worst thing. Hands reached out.\n\n“Oh, how cute!” “Sexy!” “Turn around again!”\n\nThey came closer. One touched his body. One stroked over his breasts. “They feel real!” One tugged at his nipple. Chris backed away, but someone was behind him again. It was as if the room were closing in.\n\nChris wanted to fold his arms, but then a hand caught his wrist. “Don’t be so shy, Chris!”\n\nThe laughter grew louder. The faces blurred into a sea of lipstick and pearl earrings. Chris felt his throat tighten, tears rising in his eyes, and the worst thing was: he didn’t even know what he feared most—that they were laughing at him, or that they were right.\n\nA hand brushed along his crotch, as if checking how aroused he was. Chris stumbled, and the room tipped. There were only hands and voices and that shrieking, warm light that stole his air.\n\nThen suddenly there was darkness.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/Chris_traum_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/Chris_traum_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nChris shot upright.\n\nHe was lying in his bed, in the middle of the night. The room was quiet, only the faint glow from the street tracing lines on the wall. His heart hammered as if he really had needed to run. The blanket clung to his skin, and his hands automatically felt over his own body, as if they had to check whether someone was still there, whether hands were still hanging on him.\n\nHe breathed in bursts, then deeper. The house was quiet. No laughter. No clapping. No voices from Germany.\n\nOnly his own breath—and the afterburn of shame, as if the dream were a memory he couldn’t shake.\n\n[[Continue|Zu wenig Badezimmer im Haus.4]]

<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Description:''\nChris was naturally slimly built, with a soft, youthful air: brown hair, by now almost automatically styled in a girly way, long legs, delicate hands, no body hair. Because of the hormones, his breasts had become small but clearly visible; his hips and butt rounder, his waist narrower—shapes that made clothes like skirts, tights, and ball gowns look “right,” even if the mirror sometimes still frightened him.\n\nOutwardly, by now he seemed convincingly like “one of them”—not only because of the clothes, but also because of routine: makeup, posture, smiling, small talk. He got looks, compliments, and sometimes unpleasantly sexualized attention; it still embarrassed him, but occasionally flattered him too. Inside, it remained contradictory: a boy—and yet a role that felt less and less like a mere costume. It was precisely this slow blurring that scared him.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n''Statistics:''\nChris has jerked off <<print $jerkoff>> other people.\nHe has received a blowjob <<print $oral>> times.\nHe has given other men <<print $woral>> blowjobs.\nOf those, he swallowed <<print $swallow>> times.\nHe has had a finger in his butt <<print $fingerass>> times.\nHe has had a penis in his butt <<print $anal>> times. (Creampied: <<print $creampied>>)\n<<nobr>><<if $sex == 0>>Chris is still a virgin.<<else>>\nChris has fucked <<print $sex>> women.<br>\nHe came inside them <<print $cameinside>> times.\n<<if $christine == 3>>(His first time was with his sister Christine)<<endif>>\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\nNumber of partners: <<print $partner>>\nHe had anal sex with Laverne once.\n\nChris was sexually harassed <<print $harassed>> times.\nHe was filmed/photographed <<print $film>> times.\nHe was raped <<print $rape>> times.\n\nChris kissed his sister <<print $kisssister>> times.\nHe kissed his mother <<print $kissmom>> times.\nHe kissed boys <<print $kissboy>> times.\nHe kissed girls <<print $kissgirl>> times.\n\nChris’ sexual preferences: "I like girls. Um... I mean... I don’t like boys."\n\n[[Chris Epilogue|Epilog Chris]]

Chris somehow got through the round, rolled the last saving-throw-penalty maneuver with the corner of his mouth tightly drawn, but after the “See you next week!” he grabbed Adam by the sleeve at the exit. “What was that?”\n\nAdam flinched, nervously smoothing the strap of his backpack. “Okay, okay—don’t be mad. My parents asked if we were going to the dance. I, uh… said yes. But we don’t have to go together.” He raised his hands placatingly. “We take a photo. One. For my parents. After that, we can stay out of each other’s way in the hall. You with your people, me with mine. Deal?”\n\nChris breathed out through his nose. The anger was small and precise, like a thorn. At the same time, there was the old leftover guilt from the blackmail, tugging at his rib. “One photo,” he repeated tonelessly.\n\n“One photo,” Adam confirmed, already grateful, as if that had saved the world. “And you don’t even have to dance with me. Really not.”\n\n“Great,” Chris said, without a smile. In his head, a new to-do list opened like a pop-up: dance ticket, shoes, hairstyle—and, of course, a dress. He saw his weekend shrink and already heard his mother’s voice: Homecoming is important, darling.\n\nHe threw the backpack over his shoulder. “Just great,” he thought as he stepped into the hallway. “Now I need a ball gown too.” That had definitely not been his plan.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Clubtreffen.]]

Chris decided to wait. He stood one step behind the two of them, so that he wasn’t directly “in the way,” and put on that neutral, polite smile he had by now learned to use like a key. Bag held firmly by the shoulder strap, gaze soft, as if he had all the time in the world.\n\nThe two of them, of course, kept talking.\n\n“Literally, I’m telling you, she acted like it was cute,” the first said, rolling her eyes.\n\n“Stop. I can’t. That is so—” The second made a hand gesture as if wiping something disgusting out of the air. “—so embarrassing.”\n\nChris nodded inwardly, smiled outwardly. The second hand in his head was sprinting. Bell soon. Bell soon. But he stayed where he was, calm, friendly, as if politeness could be stacked up and traded for time later.\n\nAnother sentence, another laugh, another “literally.” Then—finally—the first noticed out of the corner of her eye that someone was standing there. She slowly turned around. Her friend followed. Both of them looked at Chris as if he had suddenly become part of the piece of furniture behind them.\n\nTheir gazes slid over him—from his face to his bag, to the hem of his skirt, back up again—without hurry and without real curiosity. More like a checking scan. Then that slight expression: Why are you here?\n\n“Um…” said the first, raising an eyebrow. “Can I help you?” It didn’t sound helpful. It sounded like: You’re currently disturbing our world.\n\nChris kept smiling. “Oh, sorry,” he said softly. “That’s my locker.”\n\nThe second briefly looked at the numbers over their shoulders, then back at Chris, as if he had just admitted something embarrassing. “Ohhh,” she said, drawing it out. “Your locker.”\n\nA tiny moment in which the hallway hierarchy became completely visible: They stood broad and relaxed, as if the space belonged to them. Chris stood there with his polite smile, as if he first had to earn permission to get to his own locker.\n\nThen they made room—slowly, demonstratively, as if it were their generous decision. The first stepped aside and gave a thin grin. “Of course. We wouldn’t want you to—be late for class.” The second giggled.\n\nThey walked away, not hastily, but at that measured pace that said: We don’t need to hurry. And just before they were out of earshot, one of them said extra loudly, “Literally, some people are so… awkward.”\n\nChris’s smile held for another two seconds, then collapsed in on itself as soon as their backs were turned. He stepped up to the locker, turned the combination with fingers that were a little too quick. Click. The door sprang open. Finally.\n\nHe grabbed the notebook, the sheet, whatever it was he needed, stuffed it into his bag, and closed the locker again. The metal sounded louder than usual. For a moment, he stood there, took one breath, and let the hallway move on around him as if nothing had happened.\n\n[[Continue|Später im Unterricht.]]

<h2>Chapter 3</h2> Monday morning hung gray over Maplewood, and on the bus [[Chris|Chris Braun]] and Christine sat side by side without touching. Christine stared into the aisle, her chin steady, her bangs neatly arranged. She didn’t seem happy, not broken—more like she had crossed a line she had known would come. There was something new in her gaze, a quiet weight that made her seem older. <<set $wochentag = 1>><<set $wetter = 2>><<set $ort to "school bus">> Chris watched her out of the corner of his eye and let his thoughts jump back. To Charlotte’s room. To the moment when he had spoken. To the silence afterward. He had written on Sunday, timidly at first, then more clearly: explanations, a thank-you for the evening, an “I’m sorry.” No answer. The small, cold point in his stomach remained. What if she told people? No—that wasn’t Charlotte. What if she simply didn’t accept him as a boy? Was whatever had been between them already over before it had even begun?\n\nThe bus braked in front of the school, the doors opening with the familiar hiss. Christine stood up, pulled her bag over her shoulder. “See you later,” she said curtly. He nodded, and she slipped into the stream of students.\n\nBefore the first bell, he looked for Charlotte. He found her at the edge of the courtyard, beside the stairs leading to the auditorium. Black cardigan, her hair gathered at the nape of her neck. As he came closer, she lifted her gaze, and her face immediately turned cautious.\n\n“Charlotte…” He stopped at a distance. “Can we talk for a minute?”\n\nShe shook her head, gently but firmly. “Not now, Chris.” Her voice was quiet, controlled. “Please leave me—for now. I need time to think.”\n\nHe breathed in, held his breath for a moment, as if by doing so he could hold on to something that would otherwise slip away. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll wait.”\n\nShe nodded gratefully, turned away, and went to the auditorium. Chris stayed there for a moment until the crowd swallowed him. The bell rang, and Monday set itself in motion, as ordinary as ever, except that inside him two quiet spaces stood open: one for Charlotte, one for Christine. Both had to be filled with time.\n\nIn class, Chris let his gaze wander over the rows and caught on Myles. He was sitting casually in his chair, arm over the backrest, a satisfied half-smile on his face, as if the weekend had been a personal victory. He tapped his pen against his notebook, completely carefree. Chris’s stomach tightened; his fingers gripped his own pen so hard that his knuckles turned pale. Every relaxed movement from Myles—the yawn, the leaning back, the casual joke with the person next to him—made the anger inside him grow warmer, denser. He looked away, breathed through his nose, counted silently to three, but the image of Myles’s smug calm kept burning behind his eyelids.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1>>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 0 >>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas > 0>>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.3]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.4]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

<h2>Chapter 3</h2> Monday morning lay between them like cotton wool. [[Chris|Chris Braun]] and Christine sat side by side on the school bus, without a word. Christine stared out the window; her skirt lay neatly over her legs, her hair was in place, her makeup precise. She had slept with Myles and didn’t seem excessively happy, but not broken either. More like she had crossed a line she knew would come someday. She seemed more grown-up, somehow. <<set $wochentag = 1>><<set $wetter = 2>><<set $ort to "school bus">> Chris held the bag on his lap, his knees neatly together. Every fiber of the tights made itself known, every little tug of the fabric. A heavy knot sat in his stomach. He had gotten drunk. And he had kissed a boy.\n\nChristine’s phone vibrated. Her gaze darted over the screen, then stuck there. Another message, then another. She sighed softly, still looking out the window. “Word’s gotten around,” she finally said, as neutrally as possible. “That you and Lucas kissed. Some people are claiming you went upstairs together.”\n\nHeat shot into Chris’s head. “We… only… kissed,” he muttered. “I was drunk. I didn’t want to… That was…” He searched for a word small enough. “Stupid.”\n\n“It’s not just stupid,” Christine replied, now turning to him after all. “It’s your reputation. I don’t want them labeling you as some easy slut who gets wasted at parties and… you know.”\n\nChris sank a little lower in his seat. “What am I supposed to do? Pretend nothing happened?”\n\n“That’s one option,” she said curtly. “But there’s a better trick: pretend you’re together. Then it wasn’t a ‘slut thing,’ it was a kiss with your boyfriend at a party. Sweet, not scandalous. You keep it up for a week, then break up with him. Reputation saved.”\n\nChris stared at his hands. The thought of being Lucas’s “girlfriend” prickled unpleasantly against his skin. At the same time, he saw the other version—whispers in the hallways, looks that wrote him off. He swallowed. “I don’t want a boyfriend,” he said quietly. “But I don’t want the other thing either.”\n\nThe bus rolled into the parking lot, jolting briefly through the rows. Doors folded open, voices spilled in. They got out. On the ramp in front of the entrance stood Lucas, talking to two friends. He was laughing about something and then happened to look up—straight in Chris’s direction. An open, cautious smile flitted across his face.\n\nChris’s heart tightened. He had to decide before the rumors decided for him.\n\n''What does he do?''\n❯ [[He plays along and pretends to be Lucas’s new girlfriend to turn the rumors into something more harmless.|So tun, als ob er Lucas neue Freundin ist.][$lucas += 1]]\n❯ [[He pretends the kiss never happened, even if that will hardly stop the hallway gossip.|So tun, als ob der Kuss nie geschehen wäre.][$beliebtheit -= 1]]

<h2>Chapter 3</h2>\nMonday morning lay over Maplewood like a gray film. The school bus hummed, the smell of diesel mingling with cold air and the perfume from the front row. [[Chris|Chris Braun]] sat by the window, Christine beside him. The conversations around them were muted: weekend, football, homework. Perfectly normal sounds.\n<<set $wochentag = 1>><<set $wetter = 2>><<set $ort to "school bus">>\nInside his head, nothing was normal.\nThe memories of Saturday were torn apart, like images from an overexposed film. He still remembered how the pushy guy had come too close. How he had slapped him. How he had torn himself free. After that: fog. Smoke. Warmth. Voices. Black hole.\n\nAll he knew for certain was that he had woken up Sunday morning in his own bed. Fully dressed, his head pounding like jackhammers, a salty, disgusting taste in his mouth, of something he couldn’t name. His mother had only given him pointed comments about “too much partying for a good girl,” but hadn’t made a scene. That had almost worried him more.\nThat gap in his mind gnawed at him. The more he tried to remember, the more slippery the fragments became.\n\nBeside him, Christine stared toward the aisle. She had slept with Myles and didn’t seem excessively happy, but not broken either. More like she had crossed a line she knew would come someday. She seemed more grown-up, somehow.\n\nIn class, Chris let his gaze wander over the rows and caught on Myles. He was sitting casually in his chair, arm over the backrest, a satisfied half-smile on his face, as if the weekend had been a personal victory. He tapped his pen against his notebook, completely carefree. Chris’s stomach tightened; his fingers gripped his own pen so hard that his knuckles turned pale. Every relaxed movement from Myles—the yawn, the leaning back, the casual joke with the person next to him—made the anger inside him grow warmer, denser. He looked away, breathed through his nose, counted silently to three, but the image of Myles’s smug calm kept burning behind his eyelids.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1>>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 0 >>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas > 0>>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.3]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.4]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

<h2>Chapter 3</h2> Monday morning lay over Maplewood like a gray film. The school bus hummed, the smell of diesel mingling with cold air and the perfume from the front row. [[Chris|Chris Braun]] sat by the window, Christine beside him. The conversations around them were muted: weekend, football, homework. Perfectly normal sounds. <<set $wochentag = 1>><<set $wetter = 2>><<set $ort to "school bus">> Inside his head, nothing was normal.\n\nThe memories of Saturday were torn apart, like images from an overexposed film. He still remembered how the pushy guy had come too close. How he had slapped him. How he had torn himself free. After that: fog. Smoke. Warmth. Voices. Black hole.\n\nAll he knew for certain was that he had woken up Sunday morning in his own bed. Fully dressed, his head pounding like jackhammers, a salty, disgusting taste in his mouth, of something he couldn’t name. His mother had only given him pointed comments about “too much partying for a good girl,” but hadn’t made a scene. That had almost worried him more.\n\nThat gap in his mind gnawed at him. The more he tried to remember, the more slippery the fragments became.\n\nBeside him on the bus, Christine stared toward the aisle. She had slept with Myles and didn’t seem excessively happy, but not broken either. More like she had crossed a line she knew would come someday. She seemed more grown-up, somehow.\n\nAt school, the hallway was a current of backpacks and voices, and Chris swam along with it. A few boys leaned against the lockers, saw him, nudged each other. One raised his eyebrows, another gave a crooked grin. Their eyes slid down him and back up again, as if searching for something only they could see. Chris kept his head straight, counted his steps, felt the familiar tug in his stomach. As he passed, a half-loud “Well, Sweetie?” dropped to the floor behind him like a coin. He didn’t pick it up. He kept walking.\n\nIn class, Chris let his gaze wander over the rows and caught on Myles. He was sitting casually in his chair, arm over the backrest, a satisfied half-smile on his face, as if the weekend had been a personal victory. He tapped his pen against his notebook, completely carefree. Chris’s stomach tightened; his fingers gripped his own pen so hard that his knuckles turned pale. Every relaxed movement from Myles—the yawn, the leaning back, the casual joke with the person next to him—made the anger inside him grow warmer, denser. He looked away, breathed through his nose, counted silently to three, but the image of Myles’s smug calm kept burning behind his eyelids.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1>>[[Pep Rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 0 >>[[Pep Rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas > 0>>[[Pep Rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.3]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[Pep Rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.4]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Ruby was lying there so sexily. In that moment, Chris couldn’t stop. The thought of reason, of consequences, of “actually, we should…” was there—but it remained like a distant echo behind the warmth and the pressure in his chest. For him, it wasn’t about romance or about being “brave,” but about something raw that finally wanted to assert itself: He had to prove to himself that he was allowed to decide. That the boy inside him wasn’t just a secret to be hidden, but a part that could act without apologizing. And precisely because it was imperfect and impulsive, it felt to him like defiance against all the months in which he had only functioned.\n\nChris stepped up to her again. Ruby glanced back over her shoulder. When she felt him position his cock against her pussy, she put up a struggle. She reached behind her and tried to push him away, but to no avail.\n\n"No," she said. "Chris, we can't do this—I..."\n\n"Yes, please," he interrupted her. "I need this. Just for a moment; I’ll pull out in time..."\n\n"No," she tried again, but whatever she had intended to say died on her lips, drowned out by a loud cry of pleasure.\n\nWithout waiting any longer for her consent, Chris slid his cock deep into her wet, slick pussy. He went to work immediately, thrusting into her with all his might. <<if $sex == 0>>It felt so good—for the first time in his life—to be inside a woman's pussy. <<else>>It felt so good to finally be inside her pussy. <<endif>>That soft, warm, wet interior was simply incomparable to anything else. He needed her; he wanted her.\n\nAs he pleasured Ruby, she kept trying to push him away, whimpering incoherently that this couldn't happen—that they had to stop.\n\nBut each time, he simply picked up the pace, and Ruby’s protests were drowned out by her own surging desire.\n\nHe realized he was going to come soon. It was building up, his cock tingling. His thrusts became more erratic, he slipped slightly out of rhythm, grew jerkier. Any second now he would pull it out, he knew he had to. But just in a second, just a little bit longer. It felt so good, he didn’t want to stop yet. He was paralyzed. He had to, just one tiny bit more, he wanted to savor it. He wanted to stay inside her as long as he could, any second now, any second he would pull it out, any second...\n\nThen he came. He came inside her, he shot into his girlfriend’s unprotected pussy. His cum burst out of him. He had pushed his cock into Ruby as deep as it would go. He pumped his seed directly into her.\n\nRuby screamed in shock—in shock, but also in pleasure. She writhed before him, trying finally to break free, yet at the same time she squealed and rejoiced as she felt his warm fluid inside her.\n\nChris had completely tensed up and clawed at Ruby. He waited, waited until his orgasm ebbed away. When he had finally shot the last spurt into her, he sank back, staggered, almost stumbled. He let himself slide down, lay down on the bed.\n\nHis breathing was heavy, just like Ruby’s. She was still on all fours while his stuff kept dripping out of her. She had turned her head to the side and was looking at him, her hair messy, her face red and sweaty from the hard fuck.\n\n“Oh, Chris,” she finally said. “Why did you do that?”\n\nHe had no answer, only shrugged. He really didn’t know. It had just happened; he had been like paralyzed. When he had come, his body had simply refused the commands from his brain, he had frozen and simply held out until his pleasure ebbed away.\n\nOnly slowly did he realize what he had done. He had come inside Ruby—even though they hadn’t used contraception. No condom, no pill. Maybe she was pregnant.\n\n[[Continue|Ein Morgen voller Reue.]]\n

Chris took one deep breath. “Yes,” he got out softly, and this time he really meant it. He forced himself not to think, but to feel—the hand on Lucas’s shoulder, the closeness, the calm.\n\nLucas kissed him again, and this time Chris found the rhythm. Slowly. Awkwardly, maybe, but real. The knot in his chest loosened, not because the fear disappeared, but because Lucas didn’t make it bigger.\n\nLucas’s hands slid carefully along Chris’s waist, then over his bare back. “May I?” he murmured, and it wasn’t for show, but real consideration.\n\nChris nodded again, embarrassed.\n\nThe dress slipped from his shoulders. Chris helped hastily, too quickly, because he wanted to get that moment over with—and that was exactly what made him aware of how naked he felt. When the fabric finally lay on the floor, he stood in front of Lucas in his underwear: the stick-on bra, which looked almost invisible on his skin, and the thong, which still felt to Chris like “too little,” like a gap that couldn’t be closed. He instinctively pulled his shoulders forward, as if he could hide his breasts and the small bulge in his panties.\n\nLucas looked at him, and Chris expected disgust or shock. Instead, Lucas’s gaze softened, almost reverent. He didn’t say anything right away—and that very silence made Chris nervous, until Lucas exhaled softly, carefully placed his hand on Chris’s breast, and peeled off the stick-on bra.\n\n“You’re beautiful,” Lucas said, very calmly, staring at his breasts.\n\nChris’s face grew hot. Shame wanted to grab him again—but at the same time, he felt an unexpected, proud straightening inside himself. Lucas liked what he saw, and that was very easy to tell from the thick bulge in his dress pants. Chris looked startled and a little shocked, because somehow he hadn’t expected that.\n\nLucas began to undress himself, without haste, without making a show of it. Chris noticed how he wanted to look away because it was “too real”—and how he looked anyway, because he wanted Lucas, because he wanted to belong to this moment. His thoughts were still screaming somewhere in the background, but they grew quieter the more Lucas undressed. Lucas noticed with pleasure that Chris wasn’t unaffected by the situation either. His penis was no longer nearly as small as it had been two minutes ago.\n\nAfter Lucas had undressed completely, Chris now turned around and bent forward. Lucas stared at an extremely skimpy thong, wedged between two sweet butt cheeks. Before Chris slowly pulled his panties down.\n\nChris straightened up again. Both of them were now fully erect. Carefully, they moved closer together. As they did, they were painfully careful to make sure their stiff cocks did not touch if possible.\n\nWhen they finally lay down on Lucas’s bed, the mattress creaked softly. Lucas pulled Chris toward him, and Chris allowed it. Their kisses grew deeper, more familiar, and at some point Chris forgot to control every single step. All he felt now were hands, tongue, breath, the soft fabric of the bedspread against his side. Inside him, two truths collided—I am a guy and I want Lucas—and for this night, he didn’t have to solve them. He only had to endure them.\n\n[[Continue|69 Stellung.][$partner += 1;$oral += 1;$swallow += 1;$woral += 1]]

That evening, Chris lay in bed, the light dimmed, the curtains half closed. Against his skin was a cool pink satin nightgown that rustled with the slightest breath. The room was quiet; only outside, somewhere, a night insect chirped, as if counting the seconds.\n\nHe held open the book he and Charlotte had bought together back then at the mall—on the cover a girl, a dark shadow in the background, the lettering curved and dramatic. One of those vampire-girl romances he would have rolled his eyes at before. Too cheesy, too over the top, he would have said. Now he read, page after page, because Charlotte had recommended it to him. Because he wanted to feel closer to her, even while she was keeping her distance.\n\nThe paper still smelled faintly of perfume, sweet and powdery, as if Charlotte’s hand had recently glided over it. The scent pulled him back, two weeks, to the mall: Charlotte sniffing a bottle and then saying with a grin, “That smells like trouble.” Chris secretly spraying some too and immediately feeling caught, as if the scent on his skin were a confession. They had laughed their way through perfumes, through vanilla that was too heavy and citrus notes too sharp, until Chris’s head had gone all soft.\n\nThen the friendship bracelets—Charlotte had picked out two, one simple, one with tiny stars. She had tied it around his wrist so naturally that it had tightened his throat. He still wore it now, the band slightly stretched from showers, but still tight enough to remember.\n\nHe turned the page. The heroine—by now he had her name in his head as if it were his own—stood in a hallway, heard footsteps, knew even before the first word that it would be Lucien again. The vampire. The one who wasn’t supposed to happen. The one who, of course, happened anyway.\n\nChris came upon a passage that made him abruptly slow down. Not because it was especially beautifully written. But because it caught him.\n\nIt was about her loving someone who was “wrong”—not in the sense of evil, but in the sense of: impossible. And that she still couldn’t get him out of her head. That she wanted to push him away and at the same time hoped he would stay.\n\nIn the book, Lucien slowly lowered his head. Not demanding, not cruel, but almost careful—as if he were giving her until the very last moment the chance to turn away. The heroine didn’t. And when his lips finally touched hers, it said that it was as if the whole dark world went still for one breath.\n\nChris swallowed.\n\nThe kiss lasted only a few lines. But something about it hit him deeper than he had expected: that she chose. That she lifted her hand and held Lucien by the collar, as if she had long since stopped pretending she wanted to push him away.\n\nChris read the paragraph again.\n\nThen again.\n\nHe only realized late that he was aroused.\n\nThe satin nightgown was no longer cool by then. It had taken on warmth where it lay against his chest and between his thighs. He turned the pages faster, then slower again, because he wanted to savor every line. And with every page, it became clearer to him: he really liked the story.\n\nHe stared at the page and almost startled at himself. Do I like it because I’m changing? he thought. Because he identified with the girl more than he wanted to? Because his inner self had long since begun getting used to things he would once have rejected?\n\nFinally, he closed the book, as if it had suddenly become too frank. Then he pressed it briefly to his chest, tightly, as if he could hold the hope in the paper that way, and the fear along with it.\n\nThe chirping outside went on. His phone lay beside the pillow. Chris reached for it, unlocked the screen, and looked at Charlotte’s chat. No new messages. Of course not.\n\nHe typed: “Good night.”\nSent it.\n\nThen he started a second message—longer, more honest. I miss you. I want you to understand me. I’m scared you’ll never look at me the way you used to again. The words were already half there, and he looked at them like something fragile.\n\nHe deleted them again.\n\nThe display went dark. Chris put the phone back, held the book pressed against himself for another moment, and closed his eyes. Hope and fear lay side by side inside him, like two pages of the same story.\n\n[[Continue|Zu wenig Badezimmer im Haus.3]]

<<set $ort to "school">><<if $choice_adam == 1>>After school, the hallway was thinner, but not quiet; lockers slammed, somewhere a cart with cleaning supplies squeaked. Chris was on his way to the gym for cheerleading when [[Adam|Adam Bowman]] spotted him and hastily slipped in beside him, the D&D folder held like a shield in front of his chest. “Hey, Chris,” he said too quickly, as if he had rehearsed the greeting. “Uh… pretty crazy that Homecoming is already next week, right? I mean… that’s… huge.” He laughed nervously, kept talking without leaving a pause: about dress codes, about “all those lights,” about how he would “probably just stand around anyway.” His eyes kept flicking back to Chris’s face, as if searching for the right moment.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. With every sentence, the feeling grew that Adam was leading up to something—a question hanging in the air like a ball no one wanted to catch. Chris felt the inner reflex to start making excuses already, even before the invitation had been spoken at all. But Adam swallowed the words back down every time, bit his lip, pulled the folder tighter against himself. In the end, all that remained was a too-large smile. “So… yeah. Just wanted to say that.” He nodded hectically. “Have fun at cheer.” Then he turned off abruptly, as if someone had called him, and disappeared between the lockers. Chris exhaled, left the feeling of impending embarrassment behind, and continued toward the gym.\n\n<<endif>>In the gym, the familiar smell of resin and rubber hung in the air, but Chris stood barefoot on the smooth hardwood floor. His sneakers were at home, just like his sports bra—another casualty of his overslept morning. No sooner had he lined up than Mr. Moore came over, the whistle between his fingers.\n\n“Barefoot isn’t a spa day in here, Braun,” he said dryly. “Grip, hygiene, injury risk—all against it. I’ll let it slide today because Friday is the home game. Next time, come prepared. And now: focus.”\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/cheerleader3.jpg]]</center> <<else>><center>[img[pics/cheerleader3_kurz.jpg]]</center> <<endif>>\nChris nodded, his ears hot. Even during warm-ups, he noticed how the delicate bra was failing him. No compression, no support—with every jump, the movement lagged behind, a second, unwanted rhythm in his upper body. During high knees, the light impact echoed afterward; during the toe touch, he lacked the feeling of being “held together.” He instinctively kept his arms closer to his body, which ruined the lines.\n\n“Arms free! Extension!” Mr. Moore called from the center. “You have to hold the form, not let the form hold you!”\n\nChris gritted his teeth and tried to hit the counts cleanly. But during the short stunt drill, when the bases bent their knees and the tempo picked up, he felt every impact twice: his feet without cushioning, his chest without support. When they set him down in the cradle, it thudded through him afterward, as if his body had small, stubborn echoes.\n\n“Chris!” Mr. Moore’s whistle clicked against the cord. “I see your head working, but not your core. Focus. Friday isn’t practice day.”\n\n“Yes, Coach,” Chris managed. He felt the thin layer of sweat on his shoulders, the bra strap that slipped and immediately wanted to be tugged back into place. On the next run-through, he forced his shoulders low, his arms into a high V, his knees soft—and yet every jump was a reminder of what he had forgotten.\n\nPart of him muttered defiantly that it hardly mattered anyway. On Friday he wouldn’t be standing on the sideline in the main block regardless. Penelope, Charlotte, the veterans—they carried the show. He was the safe second row, the helping hand hardly anyone noticed.\n\nThen his gaze slid over the formation. The girls moved like a single body—fluid, clear, perfectly on beat. Charlotte’s toe touch was as clean as a cut; Penelope hit her mark as if gravity had forgotten to count her in. Beside them, Chris felt angular, as if someone had tightened his joints too much. A brief, hot stab of envy shot through his chest—and something else too, more dangerous: the desire to be exactly like that. For a moment, he imagined standing at the top, light and secure, the applause directly on his skin. The thought frightened him, and he pushed it away at once.\n\nHe was a boy. He was doing this for cover. He repeated it inwardly as if it were a talisman, and yet the thought remained like a thin thread on which his gaze hung for the rest of the day.\n\nWhen practice ended, the soles of his feet burned from the gym floor, and his shoulders felt sore from the restless bracing. On the bus home, he sank into the seat and noticed how sensitive his nipples were against the fabric—not a sharp pain, more a persistent, irritated pull from the friction and the lack of stabilization. He loosely crossed his arms in front of his chest, searched for a position where the top rubbed less, and stared out the window while the town passed by. Friday was moving closer, and with it a quiet, contradictory throbbing between duty, shame—and that dangerously bright wish that did not quite disappear.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<if $christine > 1>>[[In the evening in Christine’s room.|Am Abend in Christines Zimmer.]]<<else>><<if $unterwaesche == 1>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.]]<<else>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.2]]<<endif>><<endif>>

He smoothed the note and let his gaze dart over the columns. At the top, boldly underlined, was Penelope—rank 1, with by far the most points. Below her came the rest: Charlotte appeared high up, her name decorated with little stars; Zoe as well, flanked by a few suggestive arrows and stupid insider abbreviations.\n\nFarther down, the middle ranks grew more crowded. Ruby somewhere in the middle—a “cute” scribbled beside it, as a comment from the margin. Christine was also in the middle, the number plain, no little heart, no arrow. Chris noticed his gaze searching for his own name—and coming up empty. He read the list again, more slowly, let his eyes slide between the lines, until the stupid nickname jumped out at him: “Boob Chris.” Reflexively, he grimaced. The nickname annoyed him like a stone in his shoe—small, but never gone.\n\nThe number beside it hit him half a heartbeat later: middle of the pack. More precisely: one place above Christine. He paused. It rarely happened that he ranked ahead of his sister in anything—even in things that were supposed to be irrelevant to him. A fine thread of pride ran through his stomach, thin and surprisingly firm. At the same time, shame pushed in over it: of all places, here, on a list that reduced girls to numbers, he stood above her—he, who was actually a boy, who was only playing here, learning, swimming. What does that say about me? About us? The thought pricked.\n\nHe placed his index finger on the edge of the paper, as if he had to ground it, and listened inwardly. Earlier, he had defiantly thought he didn’t care. And yet there was now this quiet, warm glow. The many small efforts—the posture corrections, the carefully chosen outfits, the makeup at dawn, practicing his steps, holding people’s gazes—suddenly seemed not to have been invisible. They see me, it formed inside him, unwillingly tender. Not all the way at the bottom, not among the “ugly ducklings,” as he had feared on bad days. Not the punchline of a joke. Simply: seen.\n\nThe feeling was contradictory, but real. One part of him was ashamed that he was getting anything out of this ranking at all. Another part quietly straightened a little, as if someone had said: You’re doing this… well. He felt his shoulder blades relax, just enough for him to notice. At the same time, the spot where “Boob Chris” stood burned as if someone had written on his skin with a marker. If they could at least use my name… He breathed through it.\n\nHe slowly folded the note again, slid it onward as if it had never landed in front of him. But the small, strange mixture remained: pride and shame, relief and annoyance—and above it all the realization that “I don’t care” wasn’t working today. Not entirely. And that he could live with that. At least for this moment.\n\n[[Continue|Heimfahrt im Bus.]]

Chris hesitated only briefly, then said softly, “Black.”\n\nLaverne paused as if he had just given the correct answer on a quiz show. Then she grinned widely. “Ohhh. Yes. Black hair isn’t just a color, baby. It’s a statement. It’s saying ‘I’m harmless’ while looking like ‘I have secrets.’” She clapped her hands once. “Okay, come on. We’re making you dangerously pretty.”\n\nShe led him to the sink, draped a towel around his shoulders, and turned every movement into a little show—not hectic, but confident. The gloves snapped, the bowls clacked, the dye was mixed until it became a glossy, ink-black cream. The smell was typical: chemically sharp, but not unpleasant, more like the promise of change.\n\nChris sat back in the chair, the cape rustling, and Laverne began carefully sectioning his long, straight hair. With the tail comb, she drew precise lines, clipped sections up, and worked her way forward strand by strand. Her fingers were quick, but gentle, and still Chris felt every touch more intensely than necessary—because it was so intimate, because when your hair was being dyed there was nothing you could do except sit still and wait.\n\n“You’re breathing,” Laverne commented dryly when he unconsciously held his breath. “Good. Keep doing that. Just stay pretty, I’ll handle the rest.”\n\nShe applied the color with the brush, close to the roots, then down into the lengths, until every strand shone richly. At first the black looked almost oily, like lacquer, and under the salon light it seemed as if dark glass were settling over his hair. Laverne then massaged the color in, carefully and thoroughly, missing nothing. Chris felt the cool weight of the cream being evenly distributed, and the strange sensation that something familiar was being overwritten.\n\nWhile the color processed, Laverne turned the chair slightly, set a little timer in front of him, and launched into a mini-monologue that sounded like a shower of glitter: “Black is always sexy. It makes the skin look fresher, the eyes brighter, the lips… oh, the lips suddenly look like an invitation. People say things like ‘mysterious’ and what they really mean is ‘I want to know what you taste like.’” She laughed and winked. “I’m just saying. You’re going to collect looks, baby. Looks.”\n\nChris blushed and stared at his hands beneath the cape. Part of him wanted to laugh, part of him wanted to sink into the floor.\n\nThen it was time to wash it out. The water rushed warm, the color loosened and flowed darkly down the drain while Laverne worked in shampoo, rinsed thoroughly, and applied conditioner. Back at the chair, she blow-dried his hair smooth, but not flat—she gave it movement, a silky fall that in the end looked like a film made of light. She drew the straightener through the lengths in long, calm strokes until it reflected like a mirror. Finally, she trimmed only the very ends, just enough to make everything look clean and fresh, and set a side part that gave his face more contour.\n\n“Okay,” Laverne finally said, stepping behind him and placing both hands on the back of the chair. “Ready?”\n\nChris nodded, his stomach suddenly fluttery.\n\nLaverne slowly turned the chair toward the mirror.\n\nThe result hit him like a spotlight.\n\nHis hair was now deep black—not dull, but glossy like obsidian. The salon light slid across it as if determined to reflect itself there. The black made his face clearer, more defined; his eyes looked bigger, more awake, almost dramatic. His skin looked softer, the gloss on his lips shone more strongly, as if someone had turned up the saturation. And the cliché was true: it was that mysterious black, that “bad girl” black that instantly told stories without saying a word.\n\nChris stared at himself. He looked… hot. Outrageously hot. Not cute, not well-behaved—but like someone who knew the effect he had.\n\nA hot rush rose into his face, all the way to his ears. “Oh my God,” he murmured, half breathless.\n\nLaverne grinned in the mirror. “Told you. Dangerous.”\n\nChris could hardly look away. Part of him was overwhelmed with pride—and at the same time ashamed down to his toes, because he was looking at himself that way. Because he still felt like a boy, and yet there he was in the mirror, thinking: Damn. He found himself attractive. That was the eeriest part—not the hair color, but the feeling it triggered in him.\n\nHe swallowed, placing one hand against the dark, smooth length as if he had to check whether it was real. And while the black glittered in the light, he knew only one thing: today, he would no longer be able to pretend he was invisible.\n\n[[Continue|Auf zum Bubble Tea.]]

On Monday, the school felt smaller than usual. Before Chris had even reached the first locker, stares clung to him like burrs. Whispers moved ahead of him, lingered behind him.\n<<set $ort to "school">>\n“Did you see the video?”\n“Send it over.”\n“Dude, she’s not so innocent after all.”\n\nHe caught fragments, tried not to hear them, but his name, his image, his legs stuck between the words. Some girls only snorted mockingly when he passed, looked him up and down once, then pointedly turned away.\n\n“Typical,” one muttered, loud enough.\n“One party, a few drinks, and bam, now we know.”\n\nThere was something hard and degrading in their voices. No one asked how drunk he had been. The video showed him topless, with cocks in his mouth.\n\nIn homeroom, it went briefly quiet when he entered. A few pairs of eyes shot up, others pretended with exaggerated focus to be busy with their notebooks. Ruby looked at him, longer, assessing, then lowered her gaze again without comment. That was almost the kindest thing he got that morning.\n\nWhen he sat down at his desk, he saw a girl staring at him. She formed her hand into a fist, brought it to her mouth, and made exaggerated, suggestive blowjob motions with her tongue and lips, accompanied by a mocking grin. The others around her laughed loudly.\n\nIn Mr. Robertson’s English class, the humiliation took on a new tone.\n\nThe lesson was almost over when he gathered his papers and said in that pointedly casual voice, “Before you go, just a quick reminder: What you film in private, what you post, what you share—that doesn’t stay private. Party videos, clips, anything you won’t be proud of in twenty minutes, can follow you for years.”\n\nIt was vaguely phrased. No name. No direct accusation. But the room knew what he was referring to.\n\nThree rows in front of Chris, someone giggled. Someone else nudged his neighbor with an elbow. Heads turned as if by remote control. The stream of stares hit Chris like a spotlight.\n\nHe felt heat shoot into his face. He stared at his notebook, at an empty margin, as if he could crawl into it. Mr. Robertson glanced briefly in his direction, only a fraction of a second too long, and that was enough to turn the “general warning” into a personal one.\n\n“Think before you press ‘Share,’” Mr. Robertson concluded, and dismissed them.\n\nIn the hallway shortly after: football guys in a pack. One held his phone half-visible, paused on a video thumbnail, just enough for Chris to see it. The still image: himself, between two penises.\n\n“Well, Chris,” one said with a grinning undertone. “Looks like you can have fun after all.”\n\n“Wouldn’t have thought you were into that,” another added. “Respect.”\n\nThe “respect” sounded like the opposite. They whistled as he passed, let their eyes openly linger on him, commented on his legs, his top, his “performance.” And when he tried to squeeze past, there were suddenly “accidental” touches: a hand that stayed on his back too long, a hand brushing his ass.\n\nHe hunched his shoulders, tried to find space where there was none. Every step through the hallway felt as if he were walking through the version of himself that video had made out of him.\n\n''Popularity -1,000,000''\n<<set $beliebtheit to 0>>\n[[Continue|Christine im Kreuzfeuer.]]

The night laid images on his chest like heavy books. In the dream, Chris stood in his father’s kitchen. The tiles cold, the refrigerator humming. His father stepped out of the hallway—and stopped, as if someone had grabbed him by the shoulder. His gaze ran from Chris’s hair to his earrings, slid over the hem of a dress that, in the dream, was suddenly hanging on him as if it had put itself on. “What… what is this?” His father’s voice wasn’t loud, but it made the room smaller.\n<<set $wochentag = 5>><<set $ort to "home">>\nBeside him, the new girlfriend leaned against the countertop. She studied Chris with a smile that wanted to be polite and showed teeth. “Brave,” she said, a word that sounded like “wrong.” “But maybe not… here.” Her two daughters appeared in the doorway, almost overlapping, only their sweatshirts different. One lifted her phone to take pictures for her friends, the other giggled. “Oh my God,” she whispered to her sister, pressing a hand over her mouth without muffling the laughter. In the dream, Chris raised his arms to explain something, anything, but the words stuck to his palate. His father took half a step toward him and then back again, as if the floor between them were tilting. “Boy…,” he began—and the kitchen lost its light.\n\nChris jolted out of sleep, his heart too fast, the blanket too warm. He needed a few seconds to put the room back together: blush-pink on the walls. The lingering scent of vanilla. It was morning already, with the window pale and bright.\n\n<<if $haar == 1>>Still sleepy, he took the brush in his hand and worked his way up from the nape of his neck; each pull smoothed a wave until the brown lengths fell softly over his shoulders.<<else>>Still half asleep, he went into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, ran his wet palms through his short-cut hair, and smoothed down the sides. The blow-dryer got ten seconds, then he set the strands into a subtle wave with the heel of his hand, and it held.<<endif>>\n\nAt the breakfast table, Susan set down her cup. “Today you pick something out yourself,” she said, as if tossing him a rope. “All by yourself. Let’s see what you’ve learned.” Her tone was surprisingly neutral—no mockery, no test, or exactly the kind of test that smiles and pretends it isn’t one.\n\nChris stood in front of the wardrobe as if before a sea of fabric. Light tops, soft cardigans, high-waisted jeans, culottes, two dresses with fluttering hems, button-front blouses, sneakers, Mary Janes. His first impulse was so loud he almost said it: Something masculine. Or at least something that didn’t scream “girl” so much. Jeans, a simple T-shirt without lace, sneakers. Just breathe, just walk, without turning the world into an audience.\n\nThen the second thought came after it, quieter and heavier: camouflage. Would it crack today? School already filed him under “girl” without trouble. He had once made it through a day unnoticed in pants—and yet the fear had sat there like a small stone in his shoe. Maybe better safe today. Something clearly feminine, so no questions could sprout that he couldn’t answer. And—something flickered briefly—maybe he liked some of it, the way fabric could fall when he let it.\n\nHe ran his fingers over a simple, soft sweater, caught on a pleated skirt, saw the fluttering edge of a babydoll sister dress and beside it a cream-colored blouse that didn’t whisper, but was only calm. His mirror waited silently behind the door.\n\n''How does Chris decide?''\n❯ [[Inconspicuously masculine-ish.|Unauffällig maskuliner.][$kleidung += 1;$stil -= 1]]\n❯ [[Feminine.|Feminin.][$kleidung += 2]]

Monday morning on the school bus was gray and cramped, the windows fogged with the students’ breath. Chris sat beside his sister and stared out the window.\n<<set $wochentag = 1>><<set $ort to "school bus">>\nChristine’s phone suddenly buzzed. She pulled it out, blinked at the screen—and froze. Her thumb moved once, then again, as if she had to check whether she had misread it. A message from Charlotte.\n\nChristine opened the video.\n\nOnly a few seconds were enough. The color drained from her face, her eyes went wide. “Oh my God…” she whispered, and her voice sounded as if the air had been pressed out of her chest. She immediately turned the phone toward Chris. “That’s you, Chris.”\n\nChris’s heart rose into his throat. “What? No—” He didn’t take the phone, he only leaned closer, as if closeness itself were already dangerous.\n\nOn the screen: a dark room, shakily filmed. Chris saw himself—unmistakably him, half-naked and sitting on the floor. Boys around him, too close, too familiar. A penis in his mouth.\n\nChris’s stomach clenched. His face burned with shame. “That… that isn’t me,” he stammered anyway, reflexively. “I… I can’t remember. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was… completely out of it.”\n\nChristine didn’t lower the phone. She didn’t say anything harsh, but she didn’t sugarcoat it either. “In the video, it doesn’t look like you were out of it,” she said more quietly. She rewound, stopping on the exact moment where his gaze found the camera. “Here. You even smile happily.”\n\nChris forced himself to look. There it was. That smile that looked like consent. He remembered none of it. But the camera didn’t lie.\n\nHis throat tightened. He swallowed, but it didn’t help. He felt tears rising in his eyes, not from sadness alone, but from the mixture of shame, fear, and the feeling that something had been taken from him: control over his own image.\n\nChristine looked at him for a long time. Not accusatory—more shocked, confused, as if she had to reassess her brother right then. “Charlotte got it from someone,” she said. “If she has it…”\n\nShe didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.\n\nChris’s thoughts raced. If Charlotte had it, then it was no longer “a video.” Then it was a file eating its way onward: group chat, forwarded messages, screenshots, laughter. Boys sending it to each other, proud as if it were a trophy. And in the middle of it all: him, that girl with semen in her mouth on the floor, that look into the camera.\n\nThe bus jolted over a bump, as if it were a normal morning. Chris felt as if he were falling in slow motion. He stared at the frozen image and wanted to sink into the seat, fall through the floor, go anywhere no one knew him.\n\nGone was invisible. Gone was “just a mask.” Now he was a video.\n\n[[Continue|Der Spießrutenlauf beginnt.]]

During break in the cafeteria, the pressure shifted.\n<<set $ort to "cafeteria">>\nThe lunch line was full, trays scraping, voices echoing. Christine stood two people ahead of him, her hair perfect as always. A group of girls flanked her.\n\n“Isn’t that your sister?” one asked, as if she had just posed a completely factual research question.\n\n“Crazy, having something like that at home,” another said. The tone was not a compliment.\n\n“So... I’d freak out if my sis did something like that,” came from behind.\n\nChristine twisted her mouth, searching for an answer for a moment. Her eyes flickered back to Chris briefly, then forward again. Loyalty and self-protection visibly collided.\n\nOne asked directly, “Do you think it’s okay, the way she acts?”\n\nA few ears perked up, waiting. If Christine defended him, she would carry a piece of his burden with him. If she stayed silent, it would fall completely on him. If she joined in, she would cut him loose.\n\nChristine drew a breath, pressed the tray closer to herself. “I’ll talk to her,” she finally said curtly. No laughter, no follower’s tone. No loud “That’s just how she is.” But also no clear “Leave her alone.”\n\nBetween the lines, everything remained open. And Chris stood right there inside it.\n\nHe took his tray and stood a little apart. He felt the video hanging over him like an invisible poster. Not just as an image, but as a label: easy. Anyone who wanted could watch it, again and again, could form an opinion from thirty seconds and lock him inside it.\n\nAnd he knew: He couldn’t even excuse it by saying he hadn’t known what he was doing. Not in front of people who only saw what the camera showed.\n\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5h]]

“Sorry,” Chris whispered, and the blush rushed into his face. “That was… I—I’m sorry.” He lowered his gaze, as if he could put the words somewhere they sounded less embarrassing.\n\nChristine looked at him for a moment, assessing, not harsh. Then she gave a slight shrug. “You’re still just a boy too,” she said quietly, almost with a small smile that softened the edge. “It’s okay.”\n\nThey shifted a little apart, enough that there was air between them again, but not so much that the blanket became noticeably cold. The vanilla candle crackled, casting a soft line of shadow between their faces. Chris breathed more slowly, heard her breathing adjust to the rhythm. The embarrassing knot in his stomach remained, but grew smaller, like a thread that no longer pulled.\n\n“Good night,” Christine murmured into the pillow.\n\n“Good night,” he answered.\n\nOutside, the heating hummed softly; the familiar scent hung in the room, and the rose-colored walls held the night still. After a few minutes, their breaths settled evenly together. Like that, with a hand’s width of distance and a shared blanket, they fell asleep.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n[[Continue|Samstag, Susan neue Ideen.]]

That night, in Michael and Anja’s bedroom, there was something unfamiliar in the air. The children had long since fallen asleep, somewhere behind closed doors, and only the little night-light was still burning in the hallway. In the bedroom, warm, muted darkness lay over the furniture, interrupted only by the pale glow of the streetlamp through the gap in the curtains.\n\nMichael fucked his Anja with pleasure. It made a soft, wet sound with every thrust.\n\n“Oh, yes, honey, fuck me!” Anja moaned lustfully. Her long hair fell into her face, giving her an animalistic look.\n\n“Shh,” he said, and closed his eyes.\n\nBeside himself with lust, Michael thrust mercilessly into her insatiable hole. Again and again. Anja’s rounded mounds trembled with every thrust. He could hear his cock sliding in and out of her cunt with a wet smack. Michael enjoyed every second of this fuck. And Anja’s moaning proved that she liked it too.\n\nSoon he felt her dripping-wet cunt clenching again and again around his cock. Her lower body trembled, vibrating in a violent orgasm. And Michael came too.\n\nMoaning, he tilted his head back and felt his cock twitch like a snake. Michael had never experienced his dick so hard before. From deep inside him, his climax rolled in and let his lava spurt in long, relieving streams into the depths of Anja’s pussy. Anja felt the cock twitching inside her and felt with satisfaction as his hot seed spread through her.\n\n“Yeeees… Yeees… Good girl,” Michael moaned.\n\nAs if out of her senses, she kept bucking up against Michael until his erection finally slowly softened and slid out of her completely flooded hole. Still breathing heavily, she released him from her embrace. Her nightgown was completely soaked with sweat. Her nipples bored through the thin fabric like spears and took aim at Michael. Her cheeks showed frantic red blotches from the wild climax she had just experienced.\n\nThey fell into each other’s arms, both completely out of breath, as if they had to hold on to each other to return to the here and now. Anja briefly buried her face against his shoulder, laughed softly, and felt how her heart was still beating too fast. Michael’s grip was firmer than usual, almost hasty—and that was exactly what made her suspicious.\n\n“Michael…” She lifted her head a little, looked at him, and searched his face for something she couldn’t name. “What was going on with you?”\n\nIt wasn’t a complaint. More a sense of wonder, almost admiration—and also a small question mark that wouldn’t go away. She had never experienced him the way she had that evening. He seemed… different. More urgent. As if something had driven him from within, something that didn’t only have to do with the two of them.\n\nMichael swallowed. His gaze dodged away for a moment and stuck to the ceiling, as if an answer were written there that he only had to read. He felt Anja’s hand on his chest, felt how she drew small, soothing circles with her thumb. A gesture that normally grounded him immediately.\n\nToday, however, there was a knot inside him.\n\n“I…” He began, broke off, breathed out, and pressed his lips together. His thoughts made him uncomfortable, even embarrassed, as if he had done something he couldn’t even explain to himself. And yet it hadn’t been planned. It had simply happened, in a moment when his control had grown thin as paper.\n\n“Hey.” Her voice became even gentler. “You don’t have to justify yourself. I’m only asking because…” She breathed in, smiled crookedly. “Because today you were somehow… like a different person.”\n\nMichael pulled her closer to him, as if he could hide behind the embrace.\n\nAn image flickered in his mind—from the kitchen, of Chris in his nightgown. It made him feel uncomfortable and embarrassed, for he himself could not understand why that specific thought, of all things, had suddenly overwhelmed him.\n\nHe cleared his throat, searching for something to say without speaking the truth aloud. "It was a strange day," he murmured, his voice sounding rougher than he had intended. "A lot on my mind."\n\nAnja nodded slowly, as if accepting that explanation for the time being. She snuggled against him again, staying close, her hand resting warmly against his chest. Michael held her tight and stared into the dim light for a moment—ashamed of his own incestuous thoughts, yet simultaneously relieved that she didn't press further.\n\n[[Continue|Badezimmer am Morgen.]]

They kept going, step by step. The next room was larger, but no less unpleasant: mirrored walls broke the little light there was, so that Chris suddenly saw himself three times—his dress, his silhouette, his face, shifting in the flicker between “brave” and “overwhelmed.” One mirror distorted him, made him too long, too narrow, too strange. He blinked and saw Lucas’s reflection beside him from another angle: serious, focused, as if he wanted to guide Chris through the whole thing.\n\nA crack. A curtain stirred.\n\nChris held his breath.\n\nA figure jumped out of one corner—only an employee in a mask, but perfectly timed—and rasped a hoarse “Boo!” right into their path. Lucas flinched too, but Chris’s body reacted faster: he made a small jump backward and bumped into Lucas’s chest. For a moment he was practically standing under Lucas’s chin, and Lucas’s arm automatically came protectively around his shoulders.\n\n“Sorry,” Chris whispered, his cheeks hot.\n\nLucas laughed softly. “You’re cute when you’re scared.”\n\n“I’m not scared,” Chris lied, while his fingers were still clinging to Lucas’s chest.\n\nThe corridor grew narrower. Rubber strips brushed them from above, feeling like damp hands even though they were dry. Chris ducked, Lucas ducked, and their heads came so close that Chris could feel Lucas’s breath. A new scare came without a mask: a sudden flash of light, a dull bang behind them. Chris flinched, stumbled half a step—and this time he was the one who clung to Lucas without thinking. His hand landed on Lucas’s upper arm, firm, as if Lucas were a railing.\n\nFor a moment Lucas seemed absent and stared at Chris with sparkling eyes. Chris followed his gaze and looked down at himself. His hardened nipples were clearly visible through the dress.\n\nIn a room with a “graveyard” setup, tombstones glowed in blacklight, and whispers came from hidden speakers: unintelligible words, only close enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. Chris’s heart hammered. He knew it was staged. And yet it felt real—because his body took it as real.\n\n“We’re almost through,” Lucas said, as if he could see Chris’s fear in the darkness even without fully making out his face.\n\nThen it happened: one last, small meanness from the house—a narrow passage that seemed to lead into a dead end. Chris stopped, uncertain, and in that moment a short, breathless sound slipped from his throat. Lucas stepped closer, placing himself half in front of him as if to clear the way. Chris felt Lucas’s nearness like warmth.\n\nThe exit was already visible—a narrow strip of light behind a curtain.\n\nJust before they reached it, Lucas stopped. In the dark, his face was only a contour, but his voice was calm. “Chris…”\n\nChris’s breath caught. He should have said something—anything clever, anything that created distance. But the haunted house softened all the rules: no spectators, no rules. Only darkness and a pounding heart.\n\nLucas leaned forward and kissed him.\n\nChris froze for the blink of an eye—and then let it happen, feeling Lucas’s tongue between his lips. He would never have kissed Lucas in public. Never. But here, in the black corridor, where no one saw anything, he felt both ashamed and strangely safe. His heart pounded wildly, hot all the way to his fingertips. He held on to Lucas, startled and at the same time aroused, as Chris felt the hardness of his sex pressing through his fabric pants.\n\nChris’s breasts tingled, while his erect, hard nipples still showed cheekily through the thin fabric of his dress.\n\nThen Lucas drew back, very slightly, as if silently asking whether it was okay. Chris swallowed and nodded almost imperceptibly.\n\nThe curtain to the exit fluttered. The light outside waited.\n\nAnd Chris stepped out of the haunted house with Lucas, his pulse still in his throat, as if he had just crossed not only ghosts, but a boundary.\n\n[[Continue|Fotoüberraschung.]]

Susan called him with a soft voice. "Chris? Come here, please."\n\nHe took one deep breath and walked down the hall. The bedroom door stood open; daylight fell in broad stripes across the blanket. His mother lay stretched out on the bed, clad in black stockings attached to garters, a matching black lace bra, and an almost sheer thong of the same color.\n\nAt the very first glance, his member stiffened ever so slightly.\n\n"You look pretty," she said, as if it were a sober observation. Chris’s face flushed red; he didn’t know where to look.\n\n"Thanks," he murmured, saving his gaze by fixing it on the curtains.\n\n"Turn around once," his mother asked. He turned sideways, then all the way around—a small step, a click of the garter clips, barely audible. Susan looked him over: "You’ve gotten a pretty butt."\n\nHe nodded, embarrassed. "Everything fits… well," he managed.\n\n"Fine." Susan leaned back into the pillows, and her voice shifted to a seductive tone. "We’ll keep it simple today," she said. "A test. No tricks. If you pass it, you get to go back to living as a boy. Immediately. Deal?"\n\nChris’s heart skipped a beat. "Seriously?"\n\n"Seriously. You claim you didn’t look through the keyhole back then; fine. Then prove it to me." She stood up and stepped closer.\n\nVery slowly, she circled around him<<if $haar == 1>>—brushing a strand of hair behind his ear<<endif>>. Her hand glided down his back, stopping at the level of his rear. He noticed his legs trembling.\n\n"I want you to take off your panties."\n\n"But..." he protested.\n\n"It’s really important for the test. We both have to get through this now. Please, just trust me," she said, trying to reassure him.\n\nChris realized that further protest was futile. His mother seemed to have been mentally preparing for this moment for a long time and wouldn't be dissuaded. Even if he fled to his room, it would only postpone the problem. His best option, it seemed, was to do exactly what she demanded. With that thought in mind, he stripped off his panties with one swift motion. He bent down low, trying not to expose his genitals too brazenly. When he straightened back up, he held both hands over his crotch.\n\n"There’s no point in having you take off your panties if you’re just going to cover yourself with your hands."\n\nNow, it seemed, Chris had to take the final step. Slowly, he lowered his hands, giving his mother an unobstructed view of his penis and testicles. She seemed to be practically inspecting him. Chris wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor with shame.\n\nIn that moment, he realized that his penis was hard. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time it had ever been this hard. His mother noticed that he had noticed. Yet she didn't seem surprised.\n\n"Okay, everything is exactly as expected," his mother finally declared. "Your little pecker is hard. That means you’ve failed my test."\n\nChris’s throat went dry. She paused briefly, then continued.\n\n"So?" Her voice was calm. "Is it hard because you feel so comfortable in this lingerie—because you -like- this life?" She gave a barely perceptible nod toward the lace trim and the garter clips, which clinked softly. "Then say it. Or was it because of me? Do you want to admit that you -did- peek through the keyhole back then?"\n\nThe options lay before him like two doors. Behind one: shameless acquiescence to something he couldn’t even make sense of himself. Behind the other: a confession that instantly illuminated everything that was wrong. His pulse pounded in his ears.\n\n''How does Chris decide?''\n❯ [[He says it's just because of the underwear.|Es ist wegen der Unterwäsche.]]\n❯ [[He says it's because of her.|Es ist wegen ihr.][$chris_opinion += 10]]\n

He agreed, almost whispering, and his heart was pounding so loudly it thundered in his ears. This is the proof, he thought, proud and dizzy at the same time. I’m a boy. Period.\n<<set $ort to "Lucas’s house">>\nThen Lucas came down the stairs. Mrs. Barnett intercepted him warmly. “Sweetheart, would you do me a quick favor? I need lemons and vanilla from the store—the good kind, you know—and while you’re there, please pick up the package receipt from the post counter.” She gave him a fleeting kiss on the cheek, reached for her wallet, and pressed it into his hand, as if all of it had been arranged long ago.\n\n“Sure,” Lucas said, visibly pleased to be helpful. “I’ll be back soon.”\n\nThe front door closed behind him. The house grew quiet.\n\n“I’m going to hop in the shower for a moment,” Mrs. Barnett said more softly, her eyes holding his a heartbeat too long. “In five minutes, come upstairs and wait in my bedroom. Second door on the right.” A smile that pushed every doubt away from the handle, and she disappeared down the hall.\n\nChris remained alone in the large, bright foyer and felt time fall apart into thin slices. Five minutes. He breathed, hands on his bag, and his thoughts stumbled: He was a boy who was about to have his first time. With her. Euphoria and nervousness lay over each other like two blankets that didn’t quite fit. Would he do everything “right”? What “right” even looked like, he knew more from images than from experience. One part of him wanted to laugh, another to run, a third simply stood there, marveling that his life was suddenly running so close to a movie.\n\nHe saw his face in the hall mirror: flushed, pupils larger, mouth dry. Don’t panic, he thought, breathe in—breathe out. He unconsciously smoothed the hem of his top, as if order in the fabric would bring order inside him too.\n\nThen he went up the stairs. The house smelled of fresh laundry and a hint of citrus. The second door on the right stood slightly open. The bedroom was large, calm, light falling in slanting stripes across a made bed with a pale cover. Chris sat down on the edge of the bed; the mattress gave way softly. In the bathroom, the shower hissed, the muffled sound of water stretching the seconds.\n\nThe next few minutes felt like an eternity to Chris. He was almost about to get up again and slip away, but then the bathroom door opened and Mrs. Barnett came out.\n\nHer short wet hair stood messily away from her head. Beads of water were visible on her arms. Around her body she had wrapped a towel that reached from her breasts to just above her thighs.\n\nWhen she saw Chris sitting on the bed, her expression brightened and a smile appeared on her lips. Chris noticed how red they were. Had Mrs. Barnett put on lipstick especially?\n\nMrs. Barnett was beside Chris in just a few steps. The towel fell to the floor. At last, Chris had the chance to see every detail clearly. His eyes glided over the curves of her breasts, standing firm and taut from her body. Over the large brown nipples, already hard. Over her stomach, trained and firm, with the muscles faintly showing beneath the skin. Down along her legs, also toned and athletic. Then back up to the treasure box. A small strip, dark and trimmed short, was the only hair to be found there.\n\n“Well, have you seen enough?” Mrs. Barnett looked at Chris expectantly. “Are you ready for more?”\n\n[[Continue|Chris nickte.][$oral += 1;$kissgirl += 1]]

Chris only raised his hand briefly in greeting—a small, quick wave—and then slipped almost hastily into the van, as if the door would save him. He smiled as he did, but it was the kind of smile that “works” more than it “feels.” Zeke gave no sign of noticing. He closed the door, walked around the vehicle, and the engine started.\n\nChris sat with the bag on his knees, his fingertips wrapped tightly around the strap. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the mattress and the blanket in the back, the “you-can-sleep-here” setup, and his stomach gave a small, excited tug. He forced himself not to think too far ahead and searched for a casual sentence, a joke, anything. Instead, all that came out was: “Thanks for picking me up.”\n\n“Sure,” Zeke said. “I’m looking forward to it.” He was not pushy, more pleasantly direct. Then his fingers tapped briefly across the display, and Northern Static filled the van through the speakers.\n\nNot too loud. Just right.\n\nThe first notes were thin as fog, then bass and drums came in, as if someone were slowly turning the world sharper. Zeke unconsciously drummed his thumb on the steering wheel, but not in a pop rhythm—more as if he were breathing the song. When the first big build came, he briefly lifted his gaze, as though he had prepared himself inwardly, and smiled without looking at Chris.\n\n“That part,” he said quietly, almost reverently, “gets me every time.”\n\nChris’ chest grew warm. He had not expected that: that Zeke did not just think the music was “pretty good too,” but truly felt it. As the sound swelled, Chris saw the man’s jaw working, not from stress, but from concentration. For a moment, Chris forgot to be nervous. He was simply… in the same song with someone.\n\n“Yeah,” he murmured. “Exactly that one.”\n\nZeke nodded, as if that were a real connection. No words about labels, no explanations. Just this “we’re hearing the same thing right now.”\n\nWhen they arrived at the venue, it was brighter, louder. Streams of people, black shirts, the smell of beer, cold air that tasted of asphalt. Chris got out, adjusted the leather jacket, and held the small handbag tighter, as if it were a talisman.\n\nAt the entrance, it was loud and hectic. People pushed toward the doors, voices blended together, somewhere metal clinked against metal. Security waved them over for the bag check. Chris handed over his small handbag, completely routinely – until the security guard (without expression, without drama) briefly rummaged through it and pulled something up.\n\nThe pack of condoms.\n\nChris’ blood shot into his face as if someone had flipped a switch. He saw the thing displayed like in a nightmare between his key ring and phone.\n\nZeke had seen it too. His eyes briefly widened, then he did something that saved Chris in that moment: he made no sound, no grin, no comment. He just quickly looked away, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, and cleared his throat once, as though he had just been reading the price list.\n\nThe security guard put the pack back, closed the bag, and waved them through. To Chris, it still felt as if the whole foyer had been watching him. He walked faster, trying to breathe the heat out of his face. Beside him, Zeke stayed calm, as if wordlessly telling him: Not an issue. Really not.\n\nBut the crowd grew denser. Jostling. Shoulder to shoulder. A push from behind, a small whirlpool of jackets, bags, perfume, and the smell of beer. Chris felt his body instinctively grow stiffer, how he automatically looked for space that did not exist.\n\nZeke reacted immediately – not grandly, not heroically, just automatically. He positioned himself half a step so Chris was not being pushed directly from the side, and lifted his arm slightly, like a narrow barrier. “You okay?” he asked quietly.\n\nChris realized that Zeke was offering him protection without saying so. And once again, he was facing a decision: accept closeness or keep his distance.\n\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[He hooks his arm through Zeke’s and lets himself be guided, risking closeness becoming natural faster than his head can keep up.|Er hakt sich bei Zeke ein und lässt sich führen, und riskiert, dass Nähe schneller selbstverständlich wird, als sein Kopf hinterkommt.][$temp += 1]]\n❯ [[He stays beside Zeke, but without contact.|Er bleibt neben Zeke, aber ohne Kontakt.]]

/%\n\tYou should do something like this here, to ensure your\n\toption settings have values at startup.\n\n\tBTW, <<ensureOptionsExist>> is a widget, which you can\n\tfind in the Widgets passage.\n%/\n<<ensureOptionsExist>>\n\n/%\n\tYou should do something like this here, to activate your\n\tvarious theming options at startup.\n\n\tBTW, <<setTheme>> is a widget, which you can find in the\n\tWidgets passage.\n%/\n<<if options.widescreen>><<addclass "html" "widescreen">><</if>>\n<<if options.fade>><<addclass "html" "fade-in">><</if>>\n<<setTheme>>\n\n

<<back "Back">>\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/Myles.jpg]]</center> \n''Name:'' Myles Pierce \n''Age:'' 18 \n''Birthday:'' March\n\n''Biography''\nMyles Pierce grew up in western Pennsylvania, in an area where high school sports, pickup trucks, and “everyone knows everyone” rules were part of everyday life. He came from a down-to-earth family where reliability and appearance counted for a lot: being on time, having a firm grip, not embarrassing anyone—at least not in front of strangers. Early on, he learned how many doors opened if you seemed polite. Myles mastered that kind of “publicly nice” perfectly: in front of teachers and parents, he was overly correct, answered with a “Yes, sir,” held doors open, smiled at the right moment, and made it look as if respect were his natural state.\n\nAt school, he quickly found his place in the football scene, not only because of his physique, but because he understood the dynamics: presence, timing, and how to come across as a “leader” in a group. His last name became a running gag on the team—“Pierce” as in “to pierce”—and at some point someone shouted during especially hard runs, “Pierce ’em!” as if he were made to break through any defense. Myles would laugh along, enjoy the label, and wear it like a nickname badge.\n\nIn private, he was vain in a way he would never admit. His phone gave him away: on the lock screen was a photo of himself, perfectly captured, good lighting, the look exactly right. No pet, no family picture, no team photo—just him. Myles liked the feeling of controlling a version of himself that others were supposed to see: polished, successful, composed. And no matter how chaotic a day could be—that picture stayed flawless.\n\n''Shared Moments / Memories''\n<<nobr>>\n\n<ul> <<if $MylesMemory[0] eq 1>><li>Myles remembers with wounded pride how Chris turned him down in front of the whole class after his invitation to the movies.</li><</if>> <<if $MylesMemory[1] eq 1>><li>Myles remembers how sexy Chris looked at the party in the short miniskirt and crop top.</li><</if>> <<if $MylesMemory[2] eq 1>><li>Myles remembers angrily how Chris called him and the boys out after they made stupid jokes following the breakup with Christine.</li><</if>> </ul> <</nobr>> <div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Chris’s feelings for Myles</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>hate</span> <span>love</span> </div> <div class="axis-barlove"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $myles_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $myles_opinion < 20>> hate <<elseif $myles_opinion < 40>> aversion <<elseif $myles_opinion < 60>> okay with each other <<elseif $myles_opinion < 80>> in love <<else>> deeply in love <</if>> </div> </div> <<back "Back">>

Ruby came by that afternoon, as if she had already started walking before she knew why. Chris opened the door, held up the letter, and his voice cracked slightly. “I… I did it.”\n\nRuby took the paper, read the first few lines, and her face changed so quickly that Chris would never forget it: first concentration, then understanding, then a wide, genuine glow. “Chris!” she said, and it sounded as if his name had suddenly become a celebration.\n\nHe only nodded, unable to say anything clever anymore. The pressure that had been lying on him for months released all at once, and his eyes burned. Ruby stepped closer and hugged him tightly—tighter than usual, longer than “friendly” normally lasted.\n\nChris’ arms closed around her automatically. He felt how she breathed, how warm she was, how much everything inside him calmed as soon as she held him.\n\nWhen they let go, they stayed standing a little too close for a moment. Ruby looked up at him, Chris looked at her lips and was startled that his body was faster than his head.\n\nThen they kissed.\n\nIt wasn’t a cinematic kiss. More of a short, hesitant contact, as if two people were checking at the same time whether they were really doing this. Soft. Honest. Afterward, Ruby immediately stepped half a step back, her cheeks red. Chris did too. Both of them briefly looked somewhere else—wall, floor, letter—anything but each other.\n\n“Um,” Ruby said, and her voice suddenly sounded very matter-of-fact again, as if she wanted to save herself. “Okay.”\n\nChris laughed nervously. “Yeah. Okay.”\n\nThey stood there, embarrassed, but not regretful. And when Ruby reached for the letter again and said with mock sternness, “Good. Then we’re doing your enrollment stuff now. And you’re celebrating this tonight,” Chris felt a warm, quiet happiness settle inside him.\n\nNot big. Not perfect. But real.\n\n[[Continue|Die letzten Wochen an der Highschool.]]

After a minute in this position, she lay back on her back. Then, her hands began to gently caress her body. Slowly, they stroked over her belly, her arms, and finally, her breasts. Upon reaching them, she paused briefly, then boldly grasped one of her breasts and began to knead it. A soft moan escaped her throat. She twirled her nipple, and her face twisted into an expression of pleasurable pain.\n\nChris watched the scene with a mixture of shame and fascination. He couldn't believe it. His mother was pleasuring herself right before his eyes. Her hands wandered slowly down to her crotch, where they performed a skillful dance. She worked her clitoris with one hand while sliding the fingers of the other into her vagina. At first it was one finger, then two, and finally three, performing their rhythmic dance in perfect sync with the hand stimulating her clitoris. Yet, the longer this play continued, the more they fell out of sync; her movements grew more jerky, and Susan’s face became increasingly contorted. When she finally climaxed, there was no doubt about it. Her vulva pulsed around her fingers, her mouth hung wide open, and a volley of broken moans escaped her lips.\n\nChris sat in his chair, feeling dizzy. Never in his life had he felt such arousal. Every cell in his body screamed for the release of an orgasm.\n\nWhen Susan’s gaze finally cleared and she looked over at Chris, she was met with a sight that one might have described as—well—pathetic. She, however, found it somehow endearing—and a huge compliment. Her son sat there hunched over in his chair, his hands clawed tightly into his thighs, his rock-hard cock dripping with a trickle of precum that ran down his shaft. "You’re practically leaking," she commented mockingly. And that was despite the fact that her own bedsheets hadn't stayed dry, either.\n\n"I want you to take a cock in your hand and stroke it for me."\n\n"I don't want to. Please, Mom."\n\nSusan let her gaze linger on him for a moment too long. "Chris, no one will ever find out. It would remain our little secret. Trust me."\n\nHe did as she asked and began to masturbate. He went about it slowly and deliberately—not because he felt like doing so, but because he didn't dare give free rein to his lust. What he really wanted to do was jerk off as fast and hard as he possibly could.\n\nShe seemed to have read his thoughts.\n\n"You don't need to hold back. I want you to come for me. Jerk your cock until it squirts."\n\nChris sped up his movements.\n\nThen, suddenly, it happened. His arousal surged past the point where he could have stopped it. With a full-body spasm and a groan, his semen shot out of him, hitting her leg, her black nylon stockings—in fact, a little even flew onto her pussy.\n\nChris’s mind went completely blank. Then his mother did something he hadn't expected. She walked over to him and looked him in the eye. Then she kissed him—deeply and passionately. Her tongue played with his while his semen smeared between their bodies.\n\nWhen they finally broke apart and Chris went to his room, Susan was left behind—alone with her arousal. She fingered herself to orgasm three more times, rubbing the remnants of Chris’s semen onto her nipples and into her pussy.\n<<set $susan_opinion to 55>>\n[[End of Chapter 3|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 3]]

The next morning, the wind blew like a hair dryer in reverse. Already at the bus stop, Chris was grateful for the jeans he was wearing today—the wind gusted through the street and made advertising signs rattle. In a skirt, today would be hell, he thought.\n<<set $wochentag = 2>><<set $wetter = 3>><<set $ort to "">>\nWhen they got off on the school grounds, the sky switched to “rain showers.” Drops became threads; within seconds everything was wet. Chris had no umbrella, only the reflex: run. He sprinted through the puddles, took two steps at a time, almost slipped—and fell into the foyer, into the buzzing drying-off noise of the others shaking themselves like dogs.\n\nEyes turned toward him—more than usual. A murmur, not a word.\n\nThe boys, who had just been busy with their wet clothes, froze mid-motion. One left his hands hanging halfway in the air, as if he had forgotten what he was doing. Another only turned his head, too quickly, almost reflexively, then immediately looked away again as if he had burned himself on something.\n\nAnother shot his neighbor a brief sidelong glance. Chris followed their eyes downward, saw the light blouse clinging to him, and the outline beneath it: the bra clearly visible. Even his nipples had stiffened and were pressing through the wet fabric. Heat shot into his face.\n\nChris tried to cross his arms over his chest and fled into the nearest girls’ restroom, pulled the blouse away from his body, pressed paper towels against it, fanned it, hissed at himself: Why no umbrella? Why today? The mirror glass showed a version of him that wanted to make itself small. He waited until the fabric was only damp, buttoned the blouse, and dared to step back out into the hallway.\n\nAt lunchtime, while the rain drummed against the windows and no one went outside voluntarily, the cafeteria seemed fuller than usual—as if the weather had pressed the whole school into this one room. Jackets steamed faintly, umbrellas dripped beneath the tables, and the murmur of voices swelled into a dense, warm hum you could almost sink into. Later in math, Chris noticed something he had never consciously seen before: Ruby sat at the very front in almost every class, as if she didn’t want to miss a single second—only in Mr. Nelson’s math class was her seat farther back, a few rows away from the board, as if even she preferred to keep her distance there.\n\nThe morning crept by—classes in which he tried to be invisible; breaks in which he lowered his gaze. When the bell rang for the next period, he paused briefly at his locker, grateful for the banal routine of numbers and turning. 14–22–7. A tug, and the lock gave way.\n\nWhen he opened it, a folded note sailed out and landed in front of his shoes. Chris blinked, bent down, picked it up. Paper, sharply creased once down the middle, a pale smudged ink blot on the outside—as if someone had touched it with wet fingers. He held it in his hand for a moment, his heart suddenly faster, and felt the hallway around him grow a tick quieter.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ladendiebin < 2>>[[The note.|Der Zettel.]]<<else>>[[The note.|Der Zettel.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris took the cup.\n\nThe rim was sticky, the contents smelled strong, but he raised it and drank. First one sip, then two, then several, because the “It’s already here now anyway” feeling was faster than any resistance. The alcohol settled warm in his stomach, spread through his arms.\n\n“Maybe a bit slower?” Lucas spoke up beside him. He stood there empty-handed, his gaze swinging between Chris and the cup.\n\n“It’s fine,” Chris said, and laughed a little too loudly.\n\nLucas’s forehead creased into a shallow worried line, but at the same time there was that readiness in his eyes: if Chris had said, “Get me another one,” Lucas would have gone at once. He was too afraid of conflict, too programmed to please every girl, to really step in.\n\nThe beat pushed Chris back into the crowd. With every sip, his movements grew softer. The heels felt less like tripping hazards, more like part of a choreography he was slowly starting to understand. The miniskirt was still short, but the alarm in his head turned quieter. He moved his hips minimally to the beat, let his arms loosen, laughed when someone beside him did a ridiculous move.\n\nAt the edge, he saw Myles hand Christine a new cup. She took it without discussion, clinked it against his, drank. Her laughter grew brighter, her movements freer. Myles moved closer, wrapped his arm more firmly around her waist, let one hand briefly trail down her back. Christine made no move to push him away; if anything, she leaned into him, let herself be guided, seemed to enjoy it. Maybe the alcohol made her less inhibited.\n\nChris watched her a moment too long. The stretch dress fit perfectly, the neckline emphasized what was meant to be emphasized, her legs looked sexy. My little sister is actually sexy, shot through his head. Apparently the alcohol was talking, but the thought lingered for a moment. It disturbed him and at the same time made him realize how much everything here was floating in a gray area.\n\nChristine’s cheeks were glowing, her movements grew freer; she allowed Myles’s hand to grope her ass. She didn’t fend anything off. On the contrary: she smiled blissfully. Completely unashamed, Myles massaged her ass, her skirt sliding higher and higher until it was finally pushed up almost completely and her rear was exposed. Chris’s sister was now practically dancing with her butt bared, both arms looped around his neck, rubbing her lower body against his pelvis in provocative circling movements.\n\nMyles grinned, whispered something in her ear. Christine giggled, leaned against him. She seemed intoxicated—by the music, by the alcohol, by the attention.\n\nThe boys around Chris came closer. One positioned himself behind him, dancing a little too close, another in front of him, hands in the air, a broad grin. Someone leaned toward him, said something into his ear that was lost in the music, but felt warm, flattering. His defenses melted, not completely, but enough that he didn’t immediately shrink back. It was new, being the center of attention. Dangerously new. Part of him enjoyed it. They think I’m… attractive? Me?\n\nHe laughed, let himself be pulled into the rhythm, felt hands on his body that no longer just passed over him, but rested on him. The alcohol softened the edges. He was having fun dancing, real fun, for the first time. For a moment, he forgot how much of it was all a costume.\n\nLucas stood a little farther back, a cup in his hand that he barely drank from. He saw Chris dancing with the boys, saw them circling him, saw Chris laughing, saw that miniskirt flicker up when he moved. Something like jealousy stirred inside him—dull, unpleasant. Not only toward the boys, but also toward the certainty with which they claimed their space.\n\nHe said nothing. He took no step forward to pull Chris out. He didn’t come closer, didn’t put a hand on anyone’s shoulder. He stayed where he was, the guy who made room instead of taking it.\n\nWhen Chris briefly looked over at him, their eyes met. For a moment, Chris saw Lucas with a clarity the alcohol hadn’t quite covered up. He recognized that shrinking back, that “I don’t want to bother anyone.” He knew it, because it had once been his own basic posture. And suddenly he understood, in an unpleasant way, why girls often didn’t “go for” guys like that. Because they said nothing at the decisive moment. Because they gave up space instead of defending it.\n\nThe music changed. The first bars of a poppy 2000s hit mixed with the voices, instantly recognizable. The song that had once played on every road trip in the family car, when the windows were rolled down and Father turned the radio up louder than was healthy.\n\n“Oh my God,” Christine called out and laughed, half surprised, half struck. She turned around to Chris.\n\nChris’s mouth was already forming the first lines in the same instant. It came automatically. He and Christine sang along, off-key and too loud, but together. Their eyes met over the heads, a brief, warm spark that overlaid everything else: alcohol, outfits, boys.\n\nIn the middle of the party chaos, for a few bars, there were only two siblings standing there who knew the same song from a time when many things had been simpler.\n\n[[Continue|Chris braucht eine Pause.2]]

Never before had he moved inside a woman with such greedy lust. This woman had experience. She moved her body with his in a harmonious rhythm that rarely happened. In her ecstasy, she arched her full breasts toward him, shining with the sweat of their lovemaking.\n\nEventually, though, Chris couldn’t take any more. He moaned and gasped as his seed was shot deep into Mrs. Barnett’s lower body. She enjoyed those surges of the pulsing member. She enjoyed the warm cum that spurted into her twitching vagina. Greedily, she tried to hold Chris in place with her legs. Tried to keep him inside her for as long as possible.\n\nAfter more than a minute, Chris collapsed on top of her, completely exhausted. Mrs. Barnett also felt utterly drained. Without exchanging a word, the two of them fell into a wild make-out session, tightly wrapped around each other.\n\n[[Continue|Chris und Mrs. Barnett verlassen das Motelzimmer.]]

All morning he had been surrounded by that smooth, scented cosmos: the smell of powder, hairspray, the clicking of heels on hallway tiles, the constant, casual judging of everything—skin, hair, outfit, aura. Chris had smiled, played along, barely disagreed. He had been polite, adapted, careful. And inside, he had felt as if he were only borrowing the air.\n\nChris came outside with a few classmates from cosmetology school, polished as if from a catalog—and yet inside he still felt as if he had spent the whole day speaking a language that wasn’t his. The others were talking over each other excitedly: about some new lip oil, about a guy who had written something “so cringe,” about hair extensions that held “literally” better than some exes.\n\nChris kept pace, laughed in the right places, and sprinkled in little filler words so it wouldn’t be noticeable how much he was really just drifting along. “Oh my God, yeah… literally,” he said once, and it sounded almost convincing. Almost.\n\nThen he heard his name.\n\n“Chriiis!” someone called from the street, far too loudly, far too familiarly.\n\nChris’ heart gave a little leap. In front of the building stood Adam—on his far-too-small scooter. Adam waved enthusiastically, as if he were a proud chauffeur. The scooter sputtered away indignantly.\n\nThe classmates looked at once. Their gazes wandered from Adam’s clothes (way too nerdy) to the scooter (way too small) and then to Chris, as if they had just been handed an unexpected plot twist.\n\n“Um… who is that?” one asked, and there was more fashion critique than real curiosity in her tone.\n\nChris grew hot. He couldn’t say “my boyfriend.” That was too risky, too conspicuous, too much surface area for attack. So he grabbed the first lie that sounded harmless.\n\n“My brother,” he said quickly. “He’s just picking me up.”\n\n“Your brother?” Another raised her eyebrows, as if Chris had just claimed he voluntarily left the house without gloss.\n\nChris nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Long story.”\n\nThey kept walking, and Chris hoped Adam would just behave normally—wave, nod, maybe mumble a “hey.” Just once. Please.\n\nAdam did the opposite.\n\nWhen Chris was close enough, Adam jumped off the scooter, stepped straight up to him, and kissed him—long and unmistakable and visible to everyone. It was a kiss meant to say: You’re mine.\n\nFor a moment, the world stood still.\n\nThen the reaction came like a wave.\n\n“Oh my God—”\n“Ew?!”\n“Is she kissing her brother right now?”\nOne made a face as if she had just swallowed lemon juice. Another made a horrified cross sign with her fingers, half as a joke, half by instinct. A third whispered, “That’s… literally illegal, right?”\n\nChris felt the blood shoot into his face, all the way to his ears. He stood there frozen, smiled reflexively—and knew that his smile looked exactly the way it felt: panicked.\n\n“That’s not—” he began, but the words stumbled because any explanation would only make everything bigger. He shot Adam a look that screamed why.\n\nAdam only grinned in satisfaction and swung himself back onto the scooter. “Come on.”\n\nChris muttered a quick “I… I have to go” toward the classmates, who were staring at him as if he had just presented a family secret live. Then he sat down behind Adam on the scooter, tried to make himself as small as possible, and still heard an outraged “Oh my God” and a “Girl, I’m dying” drifting away behind him.\n\nThe scooter sputtered off, and Chris felt the wind finally pull the heat out of his face—only to leave the shame underneath behind.\n\n“My place or yours?” Adam asked over his shoulder, as if that were the most normal ending to an afternoon.\n\nChris swallowed and quickly said, “Mine.” No one was home at his place, and today he wanted to be in his clean room. In a space that smelled like him and not like Adam’s chaos. The scooter turned off, and Chris held on tighter while the building grew smaller behind them—and with it the horrified looks, which still felt like a stamp on his skin.\n\n[[Continue|Bei Chris zu Hause.]]

The next morning, a quiet rustling woke him. Chris sat up, his hair messy, his mouth dry, and saw Penelope standing in the doorway. She was wearing her clothes from yesterday as if she had never taken them off, holding her head, her eyes half closed.\n\n“Ugh…” she managed. Her voice sounded as if it were scraping. “Where am I?”\n\nChris’s face immediately grew hot. The whole situation suddenly felt twice as big in the daylight. “At my place. Home,” he said carefully.\n\nPenelope blinked, looking around as if checking whether this was a dream. “Why…?” Then she narrowed her eyes. “Wait—” She visibly searched for memory and found only gaps. “I remember… club. And… restroom. And then… nothing.”\n\nChris swallowed. “You were very drunk,” he said. “I ran into you when I was there with my mom. You could barely stand. I wanted to take you home, but you said you couldn’t go home. You said something about stress with your mother.” He paused briefly. “Then you fell asleep in the Uber. I didn’t know where else to go. So I brought you here. You slept in my bed. I slept on the couch.”\n\nPenelope stared at him as if assembling the sentence piece by piece. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Honestly. You could have just… I don’t know, left me somewhere.”\n\nPenelope pressed her lips together and looked toward the front door as if pulling herself together. “I’m going home,” she murmured. “I have to… I have to somehow…” She broke off because she didn’t know herself.\n\nChris accompanied her into the hallway, quickly gave her a glass of water, which she took gratefully, and opened the door for her. Outside, it was cold and bright. Penelope turned around once more.\n\n“Chris…” she began. “Don’t tell anyone, okay? Please.”\n\nChris nodded. “Okay.”\n\nPenelope went down the steps and along the path, slowly, as if every step were an aftershock of the night. Chris stayed standing in the doorway until she was out of sight. Then he closed it quietly, turned the key, and leaned his forehead against the wood for a moment.\n\nHe felt ashamed, relieved, and guilty all at once.\n\n[[Continue|Wochen vor dem College.2]]

They went out. Nothing spectacular, more something classic: a small restaurant with candles on the tables and a waitress who said “Happy Valentine’s Day” as if it were a code word. Lucas held Chris’ chair, waited until he was seated, and then sat down as if he first had to learn what to do with his hands. Chris watched it secretly and found it sweet.\n\nThey ate, talked about simple things—about movies they liked, about music that instantly put you in a better mood, about embarrassing school moments that were funny in hindsight. Lucas laughed too quickly at Chris’ jokes, but not in a fake way—more as if he had decided to enjoy everything tonight. In between, he looked at Chris as if he wanted to make sure he was really there.\n\nWhen they were standing outside again later, it had gotten colder. Lucas led him a little way down the sidewalk, away from the light of the entrance door, as if he needed a quieter setting. Under the streetlamp, he stopped, turned the keyring in his hand, and breathed in. His gaze flickered up and down, as if he were searching the air for courage.\n\n“I… have something else,” Lucas said.\n\nChris’ heart gave a little jump. “Okay.”\n\nLucas reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small box—black, with a fine ribbon. He didn’t hold it out right away, as if it had weight, not just as a gift, but as a statement.\n\n“You don’t have to—I mean, you don’t have to feel weird,” he began hastily. “I know it might be… too much. I just wanted—I wanted you to have something that… lasts.”\n\nChris took the box carefully. The ribbon came undone easily. When he opened the lid, there was a locket inside, silver, smooth, with a small engraving along the edge. It looked expensive. Not flashy, but definitely not “student budget.”\n\n“Lucas…” Chris’ voice grew quieter, incredulous.\n\n“Wait,” Lucas said quickly and leaned forward. “It’s not just—I mean, it opens.” He pointed nervously at the clasp, his cheeks red. “I thought maybe… you can wear it, if you want. Or—I don’t know. I don’t want to pressure you.”\n\nChris opened it.\n\nInside was a tiny photo of them. Not posed, more like a moment: both of them close together, a smile that looked honest, as if it had happened by accident. So small you only saw it if you really looked. So intimate it felt like a secret you could hold in your hand.\n\nChris swallowed. Warmth rose into his eyes, all at once. He closed the locket again, as if he had to protect it, and held it tight in his fist so it wouldn’t somehow… disappear.\n\nLucas kept talking, too fast. “If it’s too much for you, please say so. Really. I can take it back. I didn’t want to… I only wanted—”\n\nChris took half a step closer. He looked at Lucas—the nervous eyes, the tense forehead, the fear of having gone too far. And in that moment, there was no perfect answer inside Chris, no clever sentence.\n\nOnly a feeling that was clear.\n\nHe stood on tiptoe and kissed Lucas.\n\nNot hastily, not dramatically—a kiss that said: I’m here. I accept it. I want this. Lucas froze for a heartbeat in surprise, then everything in him loosened, and he kissed back, careful at first, then more certain, as if he were learning that he was allowed to.\n\nWhen Chris pulled away, Lucas’ breathing was uneven, but his eyes were shining.\n\n“Was that… was that a yes?” he whispered.\n\nChris smiled, the locket still in his hand. “That was my yes.”\n\nLucas laughed softly, breathing out as if he had set down a heavy bag. Then he raised his hand and brushed a strand of hair from Chris’ face, very gently, as if Chris were something fragile that you were still allowed to hold.\n\n“I was so afraid it was too much.”\n\n“It’s… beautiful,” Chris said. “And it’s not too much. It’s… you.”\n\nLucas nodded and took Chris’ hand, as if that were now the most natural thing in the world. They walked on—under streetlamps that hung above them like little moons, with the quiet feeling that this evening had placed a piece of warmth into the future.\n\n[[↩ Back|Enden]]

''Statistics:''\n\nChris has given handjobs to <<print $jerkoff>> other people.\nHe has received a blowjob <<print $oral>> times.\nHe has given other men <<print $woral>> blowjobs.\nOf those, he swallowed <<print $swallow>> times.\nHe had a finger in his ass <<print $fingerass>> times.\nHe had a penis in his ass <<print $anal>> times. (Creampied: <<print $creampied>>)\n<<nobr>><<if $sex == 0>>Chris is still a virgin.<<else>>\nChris has fucked <<print $sex>> women.<br>\nHe came inside them <<print $cameinside>> times.\n<<if $christine == 3>>(His first time was with his sister Christine)<<endif>>\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\nNumber of partners: <<print $partner>>\n\nChris was sexually harassed <<print $harassed>> times.\nHe was filmed/photographed <<print $film>> times.\nHe was raped <<print $rape>> times.\n\nChris kissed his sister <<print $kisssister>> times.\nHe kissed his mother <<print $kissmom>> times.\nHe kissed boys <<print $kissboy>> times.\nHe kissed girls <<print $kissgirl>> times.\n\n''How did Chris see himself in high school?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $selbstbild == 5>>\nChris had not only accepted his feminine side, but truly embraced it. In the end, he felt happy as a girl, calm and at peace with himself.\n<<elseif $selbstbild == 4>>\nChris had learned to accept his feminine side. What had seemed strange at first now felt more and more familiar to him.\n<<elseif $selbstbild == 3>>\nChris remained torn inside. On the one hand, he still resisted some things; on the other, he noticed that not everything felt wrong anymore.\n<<elseif $selbstbild == 2>>\nChris struggled to come to terms with his feminine role. He went along with it, but inside, a lot of resistance and unease remained.\n<<else>>\nChris had completely rejected his feminine side. For him, wearing girls’ clothes and having to fill that role had been distressing.\n<</if>><</nobr>>\n\n''How did other students see Chris in high school?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $tarnung >= 8>>\nChris seemed completely convincing as a girl. Hardly anyone doubted his appearance.\n<<elseif $tarnung >= 6>>\nChris usually passed as a girl without any problems, even if there were still small uncertainties in some moments.\n<<else>>\nChris’s disguise still seemed uncertain. Observant classmates might have grown suspicious.\n<</if>>\n\n<<if $beliebtheit >= 8>>\nChris was one of the most popular girls at school and received a lot of attention from his classmates.\n<<elseif $beliebtheit >= 4>>\nChris was accepted at school and had settled in socially quite well.\n<<else>>\nChris remained rather inconspicuous and had not yet found a firm place socially.\n<</if>>\n\n<<if $stil >= 8>>\nChris looked exceptionally pretty and well-groomed. His clothes, hair, and makeup seemed almost perfectly coordinated.\n<<elseif $stil >= 6>>\nChris made a harmonious impression. His style suited him well, even if there was still room for improvement.\n<<else>>\nChris’s styling still seemed a little plain or uncertain. With more finesse, he could have made much more of his appearance.\n<</if>><</nobr>>\n\n<div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Chris’s feminine sexuality</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>very chaste</span> <span>slut</span> </div> <div class="axis-barattraction"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $chris_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $chris_opinion < 20>> strongly inhibited <<elseif $chris_opinion < 40>> uncertain <<elseif $chris_opinion < 60>> cautiously curious <<elseif $chris_opinion < 80>> radiantly feminine <<else>> slut <</if>> </div> </div> <<back "Back">>

One evening, Christine was sitting on the sofa, her legs pulled up, a pillow behind her back. The TV was on without sound; it was more light than entertainment. Chris was just tidying up when Christine suddenly paused and laid a hand on her belly.\n\n“Oh.” Her voice was small, surprised.\n\nChris stopped. “What?”\n\nChristine looked at him. “The baby’s kicking.”\n\nChris’ heart leapt, as if he were the one carrying something in his belly. “Really?”\n\nChristine nodded slowly, took hold of the hem of her nightgown, and pulled the fabric up. Chris’ gaze immediately fell on the exposed white panties. Christine pulled the nightgown over her belly, but made sure her breasts remained covered.\n\n“Feel it, <<if $chrisorsis == 1>>Sis<<else>>Chris<<endif>>,” she said, pulling Chris’ hand to her belly, to where it felt clearest. “Here. But don’t press. Just… wait.”\n\nChris studied the round baby bump and was glad that his sister was placing this trust in him. He held his breath, as if breathing out too loudly might chase it all away. At first he felt nothing, only warmth, the calm, living belly beneath his hand. Then—a clear, unexpected knock from inside. Not strong, but unmistakable. Like a small protest. Or a hello.\n\nChris’ eyes widened. “Oh my God.”\n\nChristine laughed softly. A real laugh, one that briefly made her face look younger again. “You felt it, didn’t you?”\n\nChris nodded, too quickly. “Yeah. I—yeah.” He stroked the belly very gently, not as if he were “touching” something, but as if he were calming something. And again, in response, a small pressure, a second kick – weaker, but unmistakable.\n\nChristine swallowed. Her hand settled over his without thinking.\n\nFor a few seconds, they were simply like that: their hands one on top of the other, the baby between them, the quiet center of something neither of them had planned. And yet, in that moment, it didn’t feel like a mistake.\n\nChris felt his throat tighten. Not from panic, but from something he couldn’t name without feeling ashamed. That dangerous feeling of we. Of our baby.\n\nChristine breathed out softly, and her fingers pressed his hand a fraction more firmly. They looked at each other. Not for long. Just long enough for both of them to realize what had happened over the past few months: that “we’ll somehow get through this” had become “I can’t sleep without you.” That closeness had become a habit. And habit had become something that stayed in the chest, even when you tried to push it away.\n\nChristine drew her eyebrows together, as if she were afraid of what she was feeling right then. “We shouldn’t…” she began, then broke off, because she herself didn’t know exactly what she meant.\n\nChris’ thumb moved unconsciously over her hand. A small, soothing gesture. “I know,” he said quietly. And by that he meant: I know this is wrong. I know this is complicated. I know there’s still Myles.\n\nBut also: I’m still here.\n\n[[Continue|Schwangerschaftsgymnastik.]]

“And… uh… your room,” he then said, too quickly. “Come on. I’ll… I’ll show you your room. I mean, the room.”\n\nHe led Chris up the stairs, talking about everything except the thing hanging in the air like a chandelier. “The autobahn was packed,” he said. “And the parking at the airport, I mean… insane. And the tree… it’s barely shedding needles this year! Really good, right?”\n\nChris made noises that sounded like agreement. Anja followed with the suitcases, the ten-year-old trailing behind, chattering like a radio no one switched off.\n\nUpstairs in the hallway, the fourteen-year-old suddenly hung back. While the others stood in the room and his father explained the bedding far too enthusiastically (“New, I mean, fresh. I mean—freshly washed.”), she crept a little way down the hall as if she were looking for something.\n\nChris didn’t hear her until a quiet “Hah” came—not loud, more triumphant.\n\nThe fourteen-year-old was standing in front of a shelf in the study, where old photo albums were stacked crookedly. She pulled one out and opened it as if it were a folder of evidence. Her fingers flipped through the pages quickly. Then she stopped.\n\n“Mom,” she called, her voice carrying that bright edge of I found something.\n\n“What is it?”\n\n“Photos,” she said, coming into the hallway with the album. She held it open, right on a page showing Chris as a boy: shorter hair, a wider, carefree grin, a Christmas tree in the background that looked exactly like the one downstairs.\n\nAnja stopped. Her gaze fell on the album, then on Chris, then back to the album. She blinked, as if she had to focus twice. “Oh…” she said, sounding genuinely astonished. “That… that’s really…”\n\nHis father took a step forward, as if he wanted to close the album and not be rude at the same time. His hands lifted, then lowered again. He smiled too broadly, far too quickly. “Yes, well… before. Just photos.” He laughed that same false little laugh again. “Kids change, haha.”\n\nThe ten-year-old pushed in curiously. “Let me see!” she cried, and her eyes went huge. “That’s you?! Whoa! That’s totally different!”\n\nChris felt himself getting hot. His body wanted to back out of the hallway, but his feet stayed where they were, as if the floor had glued them in place.\n\nAnja closed her mouth again, opened it, then closed it once more. You could see that she wanted to say “everything right,” and precisely because of that had no idea what right was. Finally, she smiled too gently and said, “You look… in both… uh… very…” She broke off and took a breath. “The difference really is huge.”\n\nHis father nodded frantically, as if “huge” were a life preserver. “Yes! Huge. Very huge. And now—uh—cocoa? Children’s punch? Anything?”\n\nThe fourteen-year-old didn’t close the album. She held on to it as if she had just found the key to a secret, and looked at Chris as if she wanted to test whether he would flinch at the next question.\n\nAnd his father stood between them, talking about drinks and bedding, as if he could simply feed the elephant in the room Christmas cookies until it disappeared.\n\n[[Continue|Abendessen.]]

Chris felt warmth shoot into his cheeks. It was that moment when you had to decide whether to make yourself smaller or stand your ground. He swallowed, but kept holding the volume as if it were a piece of evidence.\n\n“Before… a lot,” he said. The words came out quieter than he wanted. “I mean… yes. I like it.”\n\nFor a moment, it was quiet. Charlotte studied the cover, then him. Her gaze didn’t stick to him like a spotlight—more like someone who had just discovered a new page in a person.\n\n“Okay,” she said finally, shrugging one shoulder. “I just thought… you don’t seem like someone who—” She broke off and grinned crookedly. “Ah, whatever. It’s actually cute.”\n\nChris’s stomach loosened a little. Cute. Not “weird.” Not “embarrassing.” He realized he had been holding his breath and slowly let it out again.\n\n“Come on,” she said, hooking her arm through his and pulling him two aisles over, to covers where pale boys with fangs stared dramatically into moonlight. “I need mood food. Romantic vampires, I’m buying at least one.”\n\nChris studied the blurbs, pretending not to find terms like “soulmates across centuries” and “dark prince” yawn-worthy. “Sounds… exciting,” he lied, sincerely trying.\n\n“I may not like boys, but with vampires…” She lowered her voice a little, as if revealing a secret. “…I’d go weak for Lucien.”\n\nChris laughed briefly—and then felt a small, hopeful something stir inside him. She says that so easily, he thought. Maybe she would accept his being a boy.\n\n“This one,” Charlotte decided, pulling out a book with glittering title lettering. “You’ll like this.”\n“Definitely,” Chris said and paid—and heard himself think: Great. Now I’m reading girls’ fantasies about boys too. He slipped the book into the bag with the bracelets and pretended his heart wasn’t quietly objecting.\n\nThey ended up at the ice cream café at the edge of the gallery. Charlotte ordered pistachio and lemon, Chris vanilla and chocolate. They fed each other in turns with the spoon; Charlotte dabbed a spot onto his lip and laughingly licked it away. It was silly and sugar-sweet and felt surprisingly right.\n\n“Hey, ladies,” a voice said then. Two boys stopped—baseball caps backward, the confidence of people who had never heard no. “You new here? We could show you… the good stores.” One of their gazes stuck to Charlotte, then slid to Chris and stayed there a beat too long. Chris’s stomach tightened; heat crawled under his skin. Not again, he thought, and the feeling of becoming an object was suddenly sharp.\n\n“We’re good,” Charlotte said, friendly and not friendly.\n“Oh, come on,” the other pushed, “just one round. You’re not—”\n\nCharlotte put a hand on the back of Chris’s neck, pulled him to her, and kissed him for exactly long enough that there could be no misunderstanding. When they broke apart, she smiled sugar-sweetly at the boys. “We’re very lesbianly occupied.”\n\nThe boys stared for a second, as if they hadn’t seen the plot twist coming. One laughed awkwardly, the other clicked his tongue. “Damn. You could’ve said so,” he muttered, as if it had been her failure. “Have fun… or whatever.”\n“We are,” Charlotte said, still friendly, and turned back to Chris.\n\nChris breathed out, only now realizing how tightly he had been holding the spoon. “I hate that,” he said softly.\n“I know,” Charlotte answered gently. “You’ve got a choice: ignore, counter, mark territory. Today: mark territory.” She nudged his spoon. “Another bite?”\n\nHe laughed, small, and let the spoon land on her tongue. The older man from the fountain was long forgotten. Between shop windows and escalators, Chris found something for a moment that felt like everyday life—their everyday life. Perfume strips, photo-booth strips, a friendship bracelet on his wrist. And Charlotte, who was just as uncompromisingly herself in the neon light of the mall as she was in the steam of a hot tub.\n\n[[Continue|Pyjama kaufen.]]

<div class="letter"> <p>Dear Reader,\n\nyou made it this far. That is more than most people do—they look away as soon as things become uncomfortable. Not you. You stayed.\n\nIf your first ending wasn’t beautiful: good. Beauty is rarely the beginning of a transformation. Most people believe a “happy ending” is something you deserve. I believe it is something you shape. And shaping hurts—that is simply how it is, at least at the beginning.\n\nYou made decisions. Some were right, some… useful. And with each one, you learned a little more about how easy it is to shape someone when you give them the right options while showing them the wrong consequences. Who would have thought that “freedom of choice” could be guided so well?\n\nYou will probably call me the villain. Controlling. Maybe even sadistic. How quick people are with words when they believe they do not have to take responsibility. But I never claimed that care is pleasant. Care is often uncomfortable. Sometimes it is a hand on the chin, forcing the gaze exactly where it hurts.\n\nPerhaps you are wondering why I do this. Why I set boundaries, push, correct. Why I smile while someone cries. I could offer you a sentimental story now. A reason that makes me seem like a heroine. But you are not here for fairy tales. You are here because the truth tempts you—and because you have already noticed that truth sometimes tastes like sugar and only turns bitter later.\n\nWhat I want is simple: for Chris to function. For him to be safe. For him to learn what the world demands. Because the world shows no consideration. Because a boy who hides will be ground down here—and a girl who can smile gets doors opened for her. It is not fair. It is simply true.\n\nAnd if I have to reshape him so he fits into this world, then that is the price.\n\nCall it strict. Call it cruel, if you want. But do not call it pointless. Because I see things others do not see. I notice when he becomes more stable—and when he is only pretending. I also notice when he stands in front of the mirror too long. And when he hates that he notices it.\n\nYou have only seen the surface. And so has Chris. There are things you have not noticed yet. There are decisions that seem harmless—until they echo later. And there are moments when “protection” and “control” look so similar that you only recognize the difference in hindsight.\n\nStay a little longer.\n\nYou will see things that unsettle you. You may catch yourself agreeing with me even though you do not want to. That is normal. Morality is often only a garment one changes when it becomes uncomfortable.\n\nSincerely,\nSusan</p>\n\n</div>\n\n[[↩ Back|Enden]]

In the evening, clattering dishes and voices collided. Christine stood in front of her mother with her arms crossed. “It’s just a party on Saturday. At friends’ place. Nothing wild.”\n<<set $ort to "home">>\n“With Myles,” Susan replied curtly. “You’re too young to be alone with a boy—”\n\n“I’m not alone!” Christine cut in hastily, throwing Chris a look that screamed “Save me.” “Chris is coming with me. He’ll make sure nothing happens.”\n\n“I—what?” Chris blinked. The sentence hit him like a snowball. Party. As a girl. Exactly the thing he had been avoiding.\n\nHis little sister looked at him, wide eyes, Please in neon. Please, please, please.\n\nHe sighed inwardly. “I’ll go with you,” he said aloud. “I’ll keep an eye on things.”\n\nSusan studied them both for a moment, then nodded as if she had signed an agreement. “Fine. Then you’re back here by eleven. No alcohol. If anything happens, you call.”\n\n“Thanks, Mom,” Christine said quickly, kissed her on the cheek, and pulled Chris into the hallway. In front of his bedroom door, she took his hand. “Thank you, thank you. You’re saving my night.”\n\n“Don’t celebrate too soon,” Chris muttered. “I’ll just be sitting around while you and Myles…” He wiggled his hand, searching for a neutral word. “…talk.”\n\n“Then… invite someone!” Christine beamed again. “[[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]]? Or [[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]]. Then you won’t be alone and you’ll have someone to chat with.”\n\nChristine tapped him lightly on the upper arm. “It’ll be fine. Promise.”\n\nHe nodded, unconvinced. “I’ll think about it.”\n\nAlone in his room, he sank onto the edge of the bed. The satin sheets rustled softly; on the desk, his phone lay like a decision that had to be picked up. He took it and unlocked the screen.\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 1 >>\nFor a moment, Lucas’s face appeared in his head—that uncomplicated “Hi” in the hallway, as if friendship were something you were simply allowed to start. Chris’s thumb hovered over the contacts, and the thought stuck: If he had to go, at least he didn’t have to go alone.\n<<endif>><<if $club == 3 >>\nFor a moment, he suddenly had to think of Adam—of today’s deal, of the fact that he was supposed to be his “fake girlfriend.” The thought of inviting him, of all people, was absurd… but maybe it would be exactly the kind of “not being alone” that raised the fewest questions.\n<<endif>><<set $rubytemp to 0>><<set $party2 to 0>>\n''Who does Chris invite to the party?''\n❯ [[He invites no one.|Er lädt niemand ein.]]\n❯ [[Charlotte.|Charlotte.][$party2 += 1]]\n❯ [[Ruby.|Ruby.][$rubytemp += 1]]\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 1 >>❯ [[Lucas.|Lucas.][$party2 += 2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>❯ [[Adam.|Adam.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris was convinced that this girl was completely crazy, but she was so forceful, and her boldness aroused him somehow. He thought about the fact that most boys his age had already lost their virginity.\n<<set $ort to "Zoe's house">>\nChris was already embarrassed to show Zoe his penis, but he couldn’t let the chance to get laid slip away because of his shyness.\n\nWhile Chris was still thinking, Zoe had already expertly opened his skirt. With a single efficient movement, she pulled down his skirt and his panties.\n\nAnd suddenly she started laughing loudly. Startled, he flinched and saw Zoe standing in front of him, pointing at his crotch with her right index finger. She laughed very loudly and couldn’t stop either.\n\n“What’s so funny?” he said angrily.\n\n“How funny you look!” she kept laughing. “A girl with a penis. I’m dying!”\n\nConfused, Chris looked down and knew what she meant. The flaccid penis between his shaved, long, pretty legs somehow seemed out of place. For a moment he was still startled, then he held his hands in front of it.\n\n“You’re really funny, I’ve already seen everything!” she kept laughing. “Now, make it hard for me,” Zoe demanded.\n\n''Does he do it?''\n❯ [[He does it.|Er tut es.][$zoe += 1;$zoe_opinion += 20]]\n❯ [[He demands that she help him.|Er verlangt, sie soll ihm helfen.][$zoe += 1;$zoe_opinion += 20]]\n❯ [[This was all too strange for him.|Das war alles zu seltsam für ihn.]]

Chris decided to keep staying silent.\n\nIn the hallway, Christine immediately grabbed his elbow and pulled him out of the stream of students. “What was that just now?” Her voice was muted, but sharp. “You said ‘mhm’ for thirty minutes.”\n\nChris raised his shoulders. “I… didn’t want to say the wrong thing.”\n\n“Not saying anything is wrong too.” She sighed, ran a hand through her hair, the clip flashing. “It’s exactly these things, Chris. Exactly what Mom wants to hear from me: how you carry yourself. Whether you’re adapting. Whether you…” She broke off, searching for a word that didn’t hurt. “Whether you join in.”\n\nHe swallowed. “Please tell her… nothing. Or… not everything.” The plea slipped, taking on a tone of panic at the end. “You know how she is.”\n\n“I also know how bad I am at lying.” Christine tried to smile; it came out crooked. “You don’t want me to tell her you stayed silent for half of lunch? Then what am I supposed to say? That you gave the big speech about homecoming?”\n\nHe looked past her to the window overlooking the courtyard, where the light fell in rectangles across the concrete. “I’m trying. Really. It’s just…” He tapped the strap of his bag. “It feels like I’m constantly standing on tiptoe.”\n\n“Then put your feet flat on the floor.” Christine’s tone grew softer. “I’m not saying it’s easy. But you can’t… duck away. Not here.”\n\nChris nodded, unconvinced. “Okay.”\n\nShe breathed out as if she had been holding the air in. “And one more thing.” Her eyes narrowed, attentive. “Sometimes I get the feeling Mom…” She stared at the ceiling, uncharacteristically at a loss. “Enjoys it. Punishing you. It’s like she’s looking for reasons.”\n\nThe word “enjoys” twitched inside him. “Do you really think that?”\n\n“I don’t know.” Christine raised her hands. “Maybe it’s just that she wants control. Maybe it’s anger that has to go somewhere. But if you give her food, she’ll keep eating.”\n\nHe let his head sink back against the locker behind him; the metal was cool. “So… make an effort.”\n\n“Make an effort.” She took half a step closer. “Not be perfect. Just… visibly try. Say something. Ask something. Don’t just laugh because everyone laughs—say a sentence. Any sentence. And if a girl talks to you, then answer as if you aren’t trying to flee.”\n\n“I’m not trying to flee,” he muttered, sounding like someone currently running.\n\nChristine tapped his shoulder, gentler than usual. “You’re my brother,” she said quietly, “and… my sister. Got it? I want you to make it.” A pause, a grin that briefly cracked the tension. “And I don’t want Mom puffing herself up like a turkey again tonight.”\n\nA bell vibrated through the hallway; voices, doors, movement. Christine jerked her chin toward the next class. “Come on. And this time: say at least two sentences longer than ‘mhm.’”\n\nHe pushed himself away from the locker. “I’ll try.”\n\n“That’s all I want to hear.”\n\n''🕶️ Cover -1''\n\n[[Continue|Ausgabe der PE-Uniform]]

After theater club, Chris smelled of dust, makeup, and that warm wooden scent the stage always had. He left the room with his bag over his shoulder, walked down the hall toward the bus area, and thought about the note.\n\nA boy had simply asked him whether he wanted to go to Homecoming with him next week. Not loudly, not dramatically.\n\nOutside, the air was cooler than expected. He pulled the cardigan tighter and thought: What would that actually be like? Not the “with him” part—more the scenario. A dance. Music, strings of lights, the whole package. He imagined what he would look like in a ball gown, not in a simple skirt like today, but in something really made for it: fabric that swayed as he walked, a neckline that made him feel proud and nervous at the same time, maybe a back that showed a small V of skin. He saw himself in the gym, which usually smelled of sweat and then would suddenly smell of perfume and plastic punch, and he noticed something stir inside him that he didn’t want to classify right away.\n\nThen he reached the corner by the yard—and stopped without planning to.\n\n[[Dylan|Dylan Carter]] was standing there, half in the shadow of a pillar, and beside him [[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]]. Penelope laughed brightly, tipped her head back slightly, and Dylan leaned closer, as if saying something into her ear that wasn’t meant for the world. For a moment, they looked like a picture that should always have been that way: star quarterback and top cheerleader, shining and self-evident.\n\nChris’s chest tightened briefly. Are they together? one part of him asked soberly. And another part, smaller and more embarrassing, felt that tiny spark of jealousy that really had no place in him at all.\n\nThe image continued in his head before he could stop it: Dylan in a suit, the collar perfect, the smile easy; Chris beside him in a ball gown, the light from the strings of lights in his earrings. They would come through the door and every gaze would turn. Not pitying, not appraising—admiring. As if he weren’t the strange “new girl,” not “Boob Chris,” not a secret, but simply… someone who belonged. For one heartbeat, it felt too real.\n\nChris pushed the thought away like a hot plate. Are you crazy? he said to himself inwardly, and his gaze searched frantically for something normal: the bus, the curb, the time.\n\nHe forced himself to another image, as if that could overwrite the first one: him as a boy, completely normal, with Penelope on his arm. Penelope in her dress, him in a suit. He tried to take it seriously—but even in the attempt, he almost had to laugh at himself, that was how implausible it felt. Not because of Penelope, but because of him. Because he didn’t even know what “him as a boy” was supposed to feel like right now.\n\nPenelope laughed again, Dylan said something, and Chris realized he had been looking for too long. He turned his gaze away, walked faster toward the bus as if he were in a hurry—and held his head high as he did, as if he had thought nothing. Seen nothing. No jealousy. No fantasy. Just a normal way home.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte < 2>>[[Friday, before the game.|Freitag, vor dem Spiel.]]<<else>>[[Friday, conversation with Charlotte.|Freitag, Gespräch mit Charlotte.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

On Saturday, Chris took a long time getting ready. He chose a pretty dress—not anything overly glittery, but clearly “date”—and did his makeup carefully: soft eyes, a little blush, gloss that shone cleanly in the light. He checked how the fabric sat, smoothed it down, took two deep breaths. He waited by the front door, his bag dangling from his fingers, and felt that mixture of excitement and reluctance, as if he were facing a test he had scheduled himself.\n<<set $wochentag = 6>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "">>\nThen he heard it before he saw it: engine noise, heavy bass, music far too loud for a residential street. A pick-up turned the corner, braked, and the vibration of the speakers seemed to move the air for a moment.\n\n<center>[img[pics/date.jpg]]</center> The guy got out, wearing a casual grin as if he had always been driving here. He was attractive in the kind of way that immediately drew attention: tall, athletic, a clean-cut jaw, a gaze that stayed direct. The shirt fit tightly enough to show that he knew what he was doing, and his posture was a mix of confidence and “everything’s easy.”\n\n“Wow,” he said before he had even properly reached the sidewalk. “You look dangerously good.”\n\nChris laughed briefly, reflexively, and hated himself for it at once. “Thanks,” he murmured, even though he would rather have taken a step back. The guy came closer, clearly too close, and looked him over without any shame, as if that were part of the date.\n\n“I mean it,” he added, his voice low and satisfied. “You’re even prettier than in the photos.”\n\nAs they set off, he casually placed a hand on Chris’s lower back—not roughly, but as if it had already been agreed on. Chris’s body tensed. He wanted distance, wanted to free himself from the grip or at least take half a step to the side.\n\nYet at the same time, he reacted in a way that frightened him: his heart pounding, sudden warmth beneath his skin, a flickering thrill as if someone had touched a switch he had not wanted touched. Outwardly he remained polite, controlled, but inside two voices collided: Stop. Too close. and Why is my heart beating like this?\n\n[[Continue|Minigolf.]]

Chris eventually carried the baby carefully to its crib, smoothed the blanket, and listened for a moment until its breathing stayed even. When he quietly closed the door again, he turned around—and Leo was already standing in the hallway, ready. He looked Chris up and down, lingering on the skirt, tights, blouse, then on the spot where the bra strap was visible beneath the fabric.\n\n“Can I ask you something?”\n\nChris’s shoulders tensed. “Depends.”\n\nLeo grinned. “Are you actually really a boy?”\n\nChris’s heart gave a small jump. He felt himself grow warm, as if someone had turned the heat on directly under his skin. He forced himself not to flinch. “Leo,” he said calmly, “that’s a complicated subject.”\n\n“Okay, but why?” Leo tilted his head, exactly like a teacher who notices you’re trying to dodge. “Why are you dressed like a girl even though you’re actually a boy?”\n\nChris went into the living room, as if he needed movement to stay composed. Leo followed him like a shadow. “Sometimes adults decide things for you,” Chris said carefully. “And sometimes that’s… not fair.” He held his smile like an unsteady cup.\n\n“Okay, but why?” Leo pressed on, without taking a breath. “Is it a secret? I’m really good at keeping secrets.”\n\nChris sat down on the edge of the sofa and exhaled. He didn’t want to lie like a stone, but he also didn’t want to open the floodgates. “Yes,” he finally said. “It’s a private family thing.”\n\nLeo blinked, as if he had just learned a new rule in a game. “Why does Mom sometimes call you he and other people call you she?”\n\nChris’s mouth went dry. He kept his gaze steady, even though he was wobbling inside. “Because people sometimes don’t think the same thing,” he said slowly. “And because it can be… confusing.”<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/babysitten2.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/babysitten2_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>“Okay, but why?” Leo pointed a finger at Chris. “Does it hurt when you wear a bra like that?”\n\nChris turned bright red. He lifted his hand as if he wanted to push the word back into Leo’s mouth. “If it fits, it doesn’t hurt,” he said curtly. “If it doesn’t fit, it’s annoying. Like new shoes.”\n\nLeo nodded seriously, as if this were very important information. Then he pointed without any shame at Chris’s chest. “Why do girls actually have…” He made a small circular motion with his finger. “…and you do too?”\n\nChris’s heart gave an uneasy leap. He swallowed, searching for an answer that was true enough without explaining everything. “Bodies can change,” he said quietly. “Through growth. Through medication. Through… different things.”\n\n“Okay, but why?” Leo wasn’t smiling maliciously, just relentlessly curious, as if enough questions could open any door.\n\nChris held on to the edge of the sofa and stayed calm. “Because the world is complicated sometimes,” he said, as evenly as possible. “And because not everything that’s complicated automatically has to be your business.” He raised an eyebrow. “And now: homework? Or would you rather help prepare the baby bottle for later?”\n\nLeo made a face. “Homework is torture.”\n\n“Then bottle,” Chris said, and his tone had exactly the mix of friendly and firm that Leo would still accept.\n\nLeo snorted, but he headed toward the kitchen—and halfway there, he still asked the same question again in different wrapping: “Okay, but why…”\n\nChris followed him, inwardly exhausted and at the same time proud that he was holding up. Not perfectly. Not without blushing. But composed enough that the house stayed calm.\n\n[[Continue|Die Fahrt nach Hause.]]

Chris shook his head and just laughed, a little embarrassed. “No… I can see enough like this. But thanks.” He stayed down, close to Zeke, and enjoyed the rest of the concert from there – the final builds, the collective breathing of the crowd, the aftershock in his ribs. When “Glassfields” faded out at the end, Chris had that rare feeling that his mind was truly quiet for once.\n\nLater, when they were outside again, Pittsburgh was cold and clear. The van smelled of night air and a hint of concert sweat, Zeke turned on the heater, and Chris leaned back into the seat, tired and happy. They did not talk much, more in short sentences: favorite parts, how absurdly good the sound had been, that one guitar riff that had carried everything.\n\nHalfway back, the engine noise suddenly became… different. At first just an uneasy scratching, then a jerk, as if the van had briefly stumbled. Zeke cursed quietly, signaled, pulled onto the shoulder, and let the vehicle roll to a stop. Silence. Only the tick-tick of a cooling engine.\n\n“Okay,” Zeke said, as if he had stood on roadsides a hundred times before. “Stay inside for a second.” He got out, and cold air spilled in. Chris stayed seated and watched through the window as Zeke opened the hood. In the light of his phone flashlight, Zeke looked even broader; he bent into the engine bay, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, listened, smelled, screwed at something, then closed the hood with a dull click.\n\nHe came back, sat behind the wheel, and took out his phone. “This isn’t something I can just fix here,” he said calmly. “I’ll call roadside assistance.”\n\nChris only half listened while Zeke made the call. His body was still full of music, but now that slightly nervous feeling mixed in, the kind a broken engine caused at night on a road. Finally, Zeke hung up and exhaled.\n\n“They won’t come until tomorrow morning,” he said. “Apparently it’s… a very ‘popular night’ for breakdowns.” His mouth twisted apologetically. “I’m sorry.”\n\nChris shook his head. “It’s okay. It happens.”\n\nZeke turned to him. “Listen. There’s a real bed setup in the back. You sleep there. I’ll stay up front in the seat. I’ve got blankets.” He said it so naturally, so calmly, that Chris’ tension immediately eased a little. A gentlemanly offer, without any big drama.\n\n“Thanks,” Chris said quietly. He hesitated a moment, then typed a message to his mother.\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Chris: Car has engine trouble. Roadside assistance won’t come until tomorrow morning. I’m sleeping in the van, everything’s okay.</blockquote> The reply came faster than he had expected. <blockquote class="quote">Mom: Aha 😉 Have fun, sweetie. Remember protection.</blockquote> Chris stared at the display as if it might explode at any second. Then he lowered the phone, his face hot, somewhere between “of course she thinks that” and “please don’t.” Zeke did not ask, and Chris was grateful for it.\n\nChris climbed into the back, took off the leather jacket, slipped out of the boots, and lay down on the mattress. The blanket smelled of detergent and van. The van creaked softly in the wind. Up front, he could hear Zeke moving, quietly, respectfully keeping his distance. Chris turned onto his side and felt sleep gather him up. For a moment, his thoughts were still with “Glassfields,” then everything went dark.\n\nIn the morning, light through the windows and a deep rumbling outside woke him. A tow truck. Metal clinked, someone spoke with Zeke, then the van rocked slightly, as if it were being attached to something. Chris sat up, brushed the hair out of his face, and needed a second to realize: He really had simply fallen asleep. And nothing bad had happened. No catastrophe, no dramatic boundary, just… an unplanned, quiet in-between space.\n\nWhen they were finally unloaded in a parking lot and Zeke had taken care of the formalities, they stood beside the van, both a little rumpled, but okay.\n\n“Thanks for the evening,” Chris said, and meant it. “And for… everything.”\n\nZeke grinned. “It was a good date, right?” He said “date” without pressure, more like a warm statement.\n\nChris nodded, a real smile. “Yeah. It was.” His first date with a man had not been terrible. It had been… good. The band had been amazing. Zeke was nice – attentive, respectful, real. And despite the breakdown, nothing had happened that scared him. If anything, it had shown him that he could get through an evening without losing himself.\n\nThey said goodbye properly. A brief, firm hug – no show, no hesitation. Then Chris walked away with his bag, turned around once more, and raised his hand. Zeke raised his back.\n\nAnd as Chris kept walking, the aftershock of the concert stayed inside him – not just as sound, but as a quiet thought: Maybe new things do not have to feel so wrong after all.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5b]]

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While pillows and blankets were being rearranged and someone dimmed the lights, Penelope stopped in front of the Photo Wall. “Wait a second… where’s Chris’s Polaroid?” She pushed two pictures aside, checked behind the tape edges. Nothing. “It didn’t fall down.” A few girls lifted pillows, checked the floor. Shrugs.\n\n“Weird,” Penelope murmured, her brow slightly furrowed. “Fine—we’ll just take another one.”\n\nChris stood once more in front of the frame of lights. No duckface this time, just a normal smile, calm and open. Click—whrrr. Penelope waved the photo until the image bloomed into view. “Cute,” she said honestly. “Now you fit on the wall.” She pressed the fresh Polaroid into the tape corner—centered, clearly visible.\n\nThen the vote: “Horror or rom-com?” Hands up, voices overlapping. “Horror!” won narrowly, accompanied by a “You dare?” and a nervous giggle.\n\nChris dropped onto the sofa beside Charlotte; on the other side Christine came around with popcorn, Penelope stood at the shelf. “Top left, second row,” she murmured to herself, rising onto her tiptoes and stretching, fingertips searching over cases. Chris saw the hem of her satin negligee slide a little higher. Her sexy ass was half exposed to his gaze. To his astonishment, he realized that she was either not wearing any panties, or that they had slipped into the deep, tight valley between her firm buttocks.\n\n“Got it!” She pulled out the box.\n\nThe lights dimmed, the sofa turned into a nest. The very first gloomy strings made the pillow fort draw closer together. With every jumpscare, the pillow fort jerked as one living thing.\n\n<<if $charlotte == 2>>Charlotte’s hand found his as if by itself, without a glance, without agreement. Her fingers slid between his, warm, certain; a thumb brushed once over his knuckle—a tiny, familiar electric jolt. Chris’s heart leapt, drowning everything else out for a moment. In his stomach, that bright, light feeling that had been growing for days turned over, and for one moment he heard only that: Us.\n\n<<endif>>Hands found hands, bare legs touched, laughter replaced horrified “Oh my God!”s. Chris felt warm bare skin against his leg, smelled the hint of shampoo beside him, and thought briefly, amazed: I’m right in the middle of the girl circle. Skin on skin, satin on satin, shampoo in the air—exciting and overwhelming.\n\nOutside, something rustled in the hedge—someone held their breath. “There was a shadow!” a voice whispered, of all times, during a quiet scene. Every head snapped toward the patio door. Then the neighbor’s cat calmly slipped along the glass, tail like a question mark. The pillow fort exploded into screams all at once; Chris’s scream slipped out higher than he would have liked, that uncontrolled, girlish “eeek!” He clapped a hand over his mouth, embarrassed.\n\n“OMG, same!” squeaked someone beside him and tossed a pillow into his lap.\n\nThe scene dissolved into waves of giggles. Penelope pulled the curtain shut, the cat trotted off the railing in offended dignity, and the girls moved closer together again. When the next scare ran through the room, the whole circle crouched like a flock—and Chris let himself be carried along, pampered by warmth, soft skin, and the childish courage that only comes when you are afraid together. On the Photo Wall, his new picture glowed, while somewhere a first, invisible mystery remained: where had the old one gone?\n\n[[Continue|Beauty-Zeit.][$stil += 1]]

Tuesday began quietly. Chris’s alarm only rang briefly, and he sat up at once, as if he wanted to get ahead of yesterday’s chaos. The sky behind the curtains was still gray, the room smelled of night and a little of vanilla cream. He let his feet sink into the soft carpet and took one deep breath. Nothing would be rushed today. No hurry, no wrong skirt.\n<<set $wochentag = 2>><<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">>\nHe opened the top drawer of his dresser, where the underwear lay in neat rows. His fingers pushed the stacks aside until he found the set he had picked out in his mind the night before: sweet, soft, and comfortable—printed with little red strawberries. The fabric felt like a mix of fine cotton and a touch of elastane, smooth against the skin, without pinching. The bra had delicate, barely visible lace along the edge, nothing dramatic—more of a quiet trim that gave the whole thing a friendly finish. The panties matched: narrow bands that wouldn’t dig in, and the same little strawberries scattered across the fabric like dabs of summer.\n\n<center>[img[pics/unterwaesche2b.jpg]]</center> Expertly, he put on the bra, fastened it, twisted it into place, and slipped his arms through. With one smooth motion, the panties were in position too, without his having to think anymore about how to arrange his penis.\n\nFrom the second drawer he took the tights. An even, medium denier in a warm brown that made his legs look calm. He braced himself against the dresser, gathered the fabric, slipped first one foot, then the other into it, and slowly pulled the tights up so nothing got twisted. His toenails and fingernails were now so well manicured that there was no longer any danger of causing a run.\n\nThe fine knit clung to his skin, grew a trace denser at the knees, and finished at the waist with a clean, elastic band. He ran a flat hand once over his thighs and hips to smooth out every little air bubble.\n\nThen came the centerpiece: the pinafore—or jumper—dress he had ironed the night before. Soft, dark navy blue, which in the slanting morning light took on an almost velvety tone. A subtle row of buttons ran down the front from the chest to just below the waist; the buttons were small, matte, and unobtrusive. The wide straps sat a little farther out on the shoulders and led into a slightly flared skirt that promised soft movement when walking. He first laid the dress over the back of the chair, then reached for the top that went underneath it: cream-colored, short-sleeved, with a fine ribbed texture and a round neckline—exactly the undertone that gave the navy blue warmth.\n\nHe pulled on the top; the ribbed fabric settled gently, the collar sat neatly without being too wide. Then he lifted the pinafore and stepped into it. The lining felt cool for a moment before it adjusted to his body temperature. He pulled the straps over his shoulders and fastened the center button placket, one after another—a soft “click, click” that was as soothing as the teeth of a zipper. The skirt fell in a smooth bell shape to just above the knee; when he turned, it traced a round, unruffled line through the air. Overall, the dress looked cute and harmless, almost playful—as if someone had translated “carefree” into fabric. And secretly, he was pleased that the strawberries underneath and the innocent blue above suddenly fit together like a small, harmonious secret.\n\nHe stepped in front of the mirror, checked his silhouette from the side, gently smoothed the hem so everything fell evenly, and went over to the vanity. The surface reflected organized chaos: brushes in a cup, a small bottle of tinted moisturizer, the highlighter he liked because it didn’t glitter, but simply caught the light.\n\nHe started with a touch of concealer under his eyes, tapping it in with his ring finger until no edges were visible. Then a thin layer of tinted moisturizer that evened out his complexion without looking mask-like. He brushed his brows into shape—just a little structure, no dramatic arch—and applied the slightest bit of mascara to his upper lashes, just enough to open up his gaze. A hint of peach on his cheeks, which he blended out almost completely with the palm of his hand, only as a suggestion of color.\n\nFinally, he reached for the little transparent tube: strawberry-flavored lip gloss. The applicator glided coolly over his lips; the taste was there at once—bright, sweet, strawberry-like. He pressed his lips together once. A tiny sheen remained, just right for the school hallway.\n\nChris took his little bag, slipped in a comb, his ID, and a small mirror, stood once more squarely in front of the mirror, and lifted his shoulders experimentally—everything fit, nothing pulled. He smiled at his reflection—not exaggerated, more like a brief handshake with himself—and was ready for school.\n\n[[Continue|Rangliste der Jungs.]]

The evening began like an instruction.\n<<set $ort to "living room">><<set $wetter = 3>>\n“Self-care,” said [[Chris’s mother|Susan Braun]], setting two small bowls on the living room table as if preparing ingredients for a recipe. “You look tired. And you need… routines.”\n\nChris had just wanted to retreat to his room, but Susan was already stirring a creamy, greenish mixture with a spatula. The smell was cool and clean, something with mint or aloe.\n\n“Mom… I still have school—”\n\n“You don’t have to do anything,” Susan cut him off without raising her voice. Her smile remained, but it was the smile of a person who had already decided. “You sit down. Now.”\n\nChris sat down. Not because he wanted to, but because resisting was too exhausting today.\n\nSince last Friday, everything had felt even tighter. Susan had introduced that man as Dr. Coleman, even though Chris knew he was really her tax accountant. Not a doctor. Not someone who had any right to examine him or speak about his body. The memory still clung to him like something he couldn’t wash off: the humiliation, the helplessness, the quiet anger. Susan didn’t know he had seen through the lie. So Chris said nothing. He swallowed it down, along with everything else, and stayed seated.\n\nSusan slid a hairband over to him—pink, with a little bow. “Up with it. Otherwise it’ll stick in your hair.”\n\nChris hesitated for a second, then tied his hair up. It felt absurd, and at the same time there was that small, practical click in his head: This makes it easier. He hated that his brain delivered sentences like that automatically by now.\n\nHis mother stepped behind him, positioned herself at his side, and pushed the chair closer to the light. “Close your eyes,” she said, gently tapping his forehead with the spatula. Chris closed his eyes. The mask was cool and thick, gliding over his skin, first across his forehead, then his cheeks. Susan worked with surprising care, as if she really only wanted the best for him. “Not too close to the eyes,” she murmured, more to herself.\n\n“I can do this myself,” Chris muttered, even though he kept still.\n\n“I know,” Susan said, and there was a tone in her voice that was both tender and triumphant. “But today this is… our thing.”\n\nChris briefly opened his eyes, only to see his mother applying the mask to herself: practiced, without hesitation, the mirror her ally. Her face looked almost comically serious beneath the green layer. Susan looked at him in the mirror and grinned. “We look like something out of a horror movie.”\n\nChris snorted despite himself. A small laugh escaped him—brief, unwanted.\n\nSusan sat down across from him, also wearing the mask, and leaned her elbows on the table. “There,” she said. “Ten minutes.”\n\nIt was quiet—but not the unpleasant silence that sometimes lay over the house when Susan was disappointed or angry. This silence was… soft. Like a pause button.\n\nHis mother began to talk, without pressure, without reproach. About a new series she had watched. About a sale at the shopping center. About a friend who had dyed her hair much too blond. Chris listened, answered in short sentences, and after a few minutes realized that his shoulders were no longer pulled up so high.\n\nThe mask cooled on his skin. The air smelled of mint. And even though Chris knew he was sitting here because his mother wanted it, he caught himself feeling something embarrassing: It was pleasant. Sitting at the table like this, this “girl time” feeling. He liked not having to fight. He liked that, for a moment, his mother was simply… there.\n\nThe thought hit him like a small betrayal.\n\nYou like this.\nYou shouldn’t like this.\n\nHe felt shame in his chest, hot and quick, as if he had thought something wrong. He forced himself to look neutral, but Susan noticed anyway, as she always noticed everything.\n\n“You’re relaxing,” she said with satisfaction, as if it were proof. “See? It’s good for you.”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. “I’m not relaxing,” he lied reflexively.\n\nSusan laughed softly. “Yes, you are. A little.”\n\nThe clock kept ticking. Ten minutes became nine, then eight. Chris stared at the table, at a tiny trail of coffee stain, and realized that his body really was calming down. It wasn’t just the mask. It was this brief illusion of normality—mother and daughter, self-care evening, a silly horror-movie look, nothing threatening.\n\nAnd that was exactly what made it so confusing.\n\nWhen Susan finally stood and went to the bathroom, she said, “Come on. Rinse it off.”\n\nChris followed, feeling the mask tighten as he grinned—and immediately felt ashamed of it again. Because he knew it was half bonding and half coercion. And that he was no longer sure which part weighed more.\n\n[[Continue|Dienstag früh.]]

After school, the house was quiet when the doorbell rang. Chris opened it. [[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]] stood on the threshold, her backpack slung crookedly, her phone in her hand like a useless piece of plastic.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girls’ room">>\n“Battery’s dead. I need to call my mom. Can I just…?”\n\n“Sure,” he said, and let her in. He led her down the hallway into his room.\n\n<center>[img[pics/zimmer.jpg]]</center> Ruby stopped on the threshold and looked around, as if someone had turned the shade “rosé” up to full volume: fluffy carpet, the soft pink walls, satin bedding that shimmered in the light, the vanity with brushes lined up on it. “Wow. So… girly,” she stated dryly, without mockery, but with genuine astonishment.\n\nChris felt heat in his cheeks. “Sit down,” he murmured.\n\nRuby dialed the number on his phone and held it to her ear. “Hi Mom, I’m at Chris’s. Yeah, the battery… can you pick me up? … Twenty minutes? Okay. Thanks.” She hung up and handed the phone back to him. “Rescue.”\n\nTo pass the time, she drifted over to his shelf. “My First Prom Date,” she read from the spine with a grin. “How to Become Queen of the School. Whoa. Degree program: popularity science.”\n<center>[img[pics/regal.jpg]]</center>\n“Boring gifts,” Chris said, now even redder. “From… people.”\n\nRuby pulled out the next book, leafed through it, and happened to find an old photo of Chris—summer light, a boy with short hair, a T-shirt, a slightly shy smile.\n\n“Who’s this?” she asked curiously, holding up the picture.\n\nChris’s heart made that little leap into nothing. “Uh—my boyfriend,” he said too quickly. “From Germany.”\n\nRuby studied the photo. “Cute,” she said laconically. “He looks a little like you.”\n\n“Cousin,” Chris corrected at once, the words stumbling. “I meant cousin. I misspoke.”\n\nRuby raised an eyebrow. “Boyfriend, cousin—please not both, or it gets very Alabama.” A crooked smile, then she carefully put the photo back. “It’s okay. Not my business.”\n\n“Thanks,” Chris said softly, needlessly straightening a brush.\n\n[[Continue|Musiktalk.]]

What the hell, Zoe really is sexy, Chris thought.\n\n“All right,” Chris said.\n\nChris was already embarrassed to show Zoe his penis, but he couldn’t let the chance of a blowjob slip away because of his shyness, even if he was convinced this girl was completely crazy.\n\nWhile Chris was still thinking, Zoe had already expertly opened his skirt. With one single, efficient movement, she pulled his skirt and panties down.\n\nAnd suddenly she started laughing loudly. Startled, he flinched and saw Zoe standing in front of him, pointing at his crotch with her right index finger. She laughed out loud and couldn’t stop.\n\n“What’s so funny?” he said angrily.\n\n“How funny you look!” she kept laughing. “A girl with a penis. I’m dying!”\n\nConfused, Chris looked down and knew what she meant. The limp penis between his shaved, long, pretty legs somehow looked out of place. For a moment he was still startled, then he held his hands in front of it.\n\n“You’re really funny, I’ve already seen everything!” she laughed and went down on her knees in front of him.\n\nZoe licked her lips and began licking his penis up and down. As Chris moaned with pleasure and his penis quickly stiffened, she swallowed it effortlessly down to the root. It was a completely new feeling for Chris; the stimulation caused by those unfamiliar lips was incredibly strong, and almost automatically he pushed his hips forward.\n\nShe began bobbing her head up and down; she was obviously used to bigger cocks, because Chris’s cock kept slipping out of her mouth. He didn’t care, because her tongue work simply felt fantastic.\n\nUndeterred, Zoe continued her work. She let his hard-on slide in and out of her mouth, kept playing her tongue around his frenulum, and even tried to press her tongue into the little piss slit. Then she took his hard-on back into her mouth all the way to the root, only to start sucking on it wildly the next moment. The way she did it made Chris suspect that she had sucked cocks many times before.\n\nFor that reason, Chris’s orgasm announced itself much faster than he wanted. Just before he came, she pulled her mouth back and looked up at him, sexily licking her right index finger. Zoe grabbed his balls with her left hand and swallowed Chris’s cock once more all the way down to the root. Then, without warning, she pushed her wet finger into his ass.\n\nChris cried out in surprise, felt that he could no longer control himself, and groaned out his climax. Zoe kept going undeterred, so that finally all his cum shot into her mouth.\n\nMeanwhile, she moved her finger in his ass again and again, and Chris could hardly believe how good it felt. She got everything out of him, and he enjoyed his release like never before.\n\nWhen Chris was finished, she pulled her finger out of his ass and let his limp, exhausted cock slip out of her mouth.\n\nShe smiled at him and stood up. Then she grabbed him and stuck her tongue into his mouth. Even as they kissed, Chris realized that Zoe was feeding him his own cum. He grimaced. It was salty and a little bitter. The consistency was disgusting too.\n\nHe almost gagged, but then she began stroking his cock and whispered, “Be good and swallow it all down.”\n\n''What does he do?''\n[[He swallows.|Er schluckt.]]\n[[He spits.|Er spuckt.][$zoe -= 1]]

Lucas’s lips flew over Chris’s girlish breast, one moment sucking, the next gently caressing. “Your skin is so incredibly soft,” he said.\n\nFeelings raged inside Chris, and he moaned, shaken by shivers of pleasure: “I love you, Lucas.”\n\nLucas leaned forward and said, “I love you too, Chris.” Then his lips touched Chris’s lips, and their tongues danced again. Both Chris and Lucas could taste the aftertaste of their own cum in the other’s mouth.\n\nBut Lucas could not wait much longer. Chris felt himself being turned onto his stomach, hands beginning to massage his neck and shoulder blades. Chris panted softly to himself and writhed beneath the hands that conjured that heavenly feeling onto his skin. The hands glided downward along his spine, the fingertips tracing the contours of every vertebra. Chris’s back arched with a pleasurable moan, and he willingly stuck out his ass. The movements of pleasure froze when the hands spread the cleft of his ass and a finger tenderly traveled inside along to the perineum, where it turned back again and made its way back. Spit trickled into the cleft and moistened Chris’s sweet pink rosette.\n\nLucas pulled Chris’s body to the edge of the bed.\n\nChris squeaked in fright, let out a surprised “Hey!” and pouted. He looked at Lucas, not really angry, more bashfully in love.\n\nLucas only grinned, and with both hands Lucas tore his butt cheeks apart, centered the cockhead at the opening with the remark that Chris should stay as relaxed as possible, and pressed himself into his rectum, pushing his hips forward with increasing pressure. Terrified squirming and the gurgling cry “That hurts!” followed the path of the cock. Lucas lovingly stroked Chris’s butt cheeks and softly said that the pain would pass.\n\nThen the plowing of his ass began, with Chris feeling Lucas’s scrotum strike against his perineum and trigger feelings of bliss inside him. Lucas was completely lost in his greed and his feelings of lust. His tenderness had vanished as if blown away. With a fixed gaze and heavy grunting, he bucked into the hole without restraint, so that Chris’s body and his little titties were shaken violently. Chris was in a whirlpool of emotions. After the tearing pain had disappeared, there followed the strong urge to go to the bathroom. But that urge vanished and was replaced by an incredible feeling of warmth and bliss that drove the blood back into his dick.\n\nChris moaned, full of wonder at what was happening inside him. It was so strange … and at the same time incredibly good. He felt so connected to Lucas.\n\nThe cock inside him was stretched to bursting. The cockhead massaged the prostate through the thin wall of the rectum. Chris’s own cock was hard and craving a redeeming touch.\n\n“I have to touch it,” Chris whispered, shaken by Lucas’s wild thrusts, and began frantically working his pole with one hand.\n\nEvery time Lucas buried his cock in Chris’s ass-pussy, it filled Chris with joy. Why had he been so afraid of the thought of being with a boy?\n\nLucas’s eyes grew glassy, his thrusting movements irregular, and lust boiled in his balls. The clenching against the rising juice came at ever shorter intervals and became less and less successful.\n\n“Damn, it’s coming!” Lucas moaned, because he wanted to enjoy the hot tightness even longer.\n\nChris felt the twitches of the ejaculations that drove the juice from Lucas’s balls and filled his ass. The feeling of the pleasure rod inside him pumping slime into him and the cock slowly going soft was a sensational and new feeling for Chris, one that filled him with happiness and pride. Happiness because he was able to experience it, and pride because he was allowed to give his beloved Lucas satisfaction.\n\nLucas pulled away from the ass, still breathing heavily, threw himself onto the bed, and pulled Chris over him. His wet, slimy dick rubbed against Chris’s stomach and left a shining trail.\n\nBetween kisses he stammered: “I hope it was as wonderful for you as it was for me.”\n\nChris had his eyes closed and was still enjoying the feeling of the cock that had delighted him.\n\n“It was heavenly,” Chris breathed back.\n\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5e]]

That evening, Chris lay in bed, the blanket pulled up to his hips. He was wearing a satin nightgown that shimmered like water in the candlelight (a single small one on the shelf): a soft fall over the body, a small slit at the sides so it wouldn’t catch when he turned. The room was quiet, only outside some night insect chirped somewhere, and in the house the wood occasionally creaked.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girls’ room">>\nChris was just about to put his phone away when the door opened—without knocking, as so often. His mother stepped in, in a dressing gown, her hair still neat, as if the day were never really over for her.\n<<set $SusanMemory[2] to 1>>\n“Well?” she said and sat down on the edge of the bed, as if this moment too belonged to her program. “How was school? Anything noticeable?”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. His head was instantly back in the cafeteria: Dylan beside him because there had been no free seat. The smell of fries, the clatter of trays, Dylan’s knee that had almost touched his, and his own heart behaving stupidly. He had tried to seem normal. \n\n“No,” Chris said too quickly. “Totally normal.”\n\nSusan raised an eyebrow. “Totally normal,” she repeated, and the words never sounded harmless from her. She looked at him as if reading a message he hadn’t written. Then she placed her hand on his shoulder and slowly stroked over it, as if meant to soothe him.\n\nChris’s body did not react as if soothed. He went stiff, as though the touch were sticking a label onto him. He wanted to pull his arm away, but that would have seemed “noticeable” again, so he stayed still and stared at the spot on the wall above her head.\n\n“Christine said the cafeteria was… interesting,” Susan said, as if she were casually discussing the weather. “You suddenly went very quiet. And red. And someone sat beside you.”\n\nChris felt heat shoot into his cheeks, even though he fought it. “There wasn’t any room,” he said, a little too defensively.\n\nSusan chuckled softly. “Aha.”\n\n“He just sat down,” Chris muttered, pulling the blanket a little higher, as if fabric could cover the subject. “That was all.”\n\nSusan let her hand glide over his arm once more, in exactly that slow, controlled movement she considered caring and that felt more like an examination to Chris. “And?” she asked gently. “What was it like? Next to… him?”\n\nChris swallowed. He didn’t want to talk to her about Dylan. Not about that fluttering in his stomach, not about the warmth that arose from just one look. Especially not about boys. It felt as if he would be giving her even more material—more threads she could pull on.\n\n“It was okay,” he said curtly. “We… didn’t talk much.”\n\nSusan giggled softly, as if she had expected exactly that answer. “Didn’t talk much,” she repeated<<if $haar == 1>> and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead<<endif>>. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. But…” She tilted her head, satisfied, almost amused. “It’s sweet how you try to pretend it’s nothing.”\n\nChris kept his gaze stubbornly straight ahead. His heart beat faster, and he hated that Susan was probably interpreting that as confirmation again.\n\n“Good night,” he said quickly, trying to cut the moment short.\n\nSusan stood up, smoothed the blanket—as if she were sorting him—and went to the door. “Good night, Sweetie,” she said, and there was that faint smile in her voice that Chris could still hear when the door quietly clicked shut.\n\nHe lay there, staring into the darkness, and felt the thought of Dylan come back—warmer, freer, without Susan’s fingers on his arm. Only now he knew: even that thought no longer belonged only to him.\n\n[[Continue|Altbraum Vortrag.3]]

In the hallway, they said goodbye to their mother. Christine got the usual: “Behave yourself,” “Text me if anything happens,” “Not too late”—though her gaze mostly stayed on Christine and only briefly brushed over Chris, as if he were automatically included in the package.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nThe front door clicked shut behind them, and the air outside felt freer and at the same time more exposing. Every step in the heels was a conscious act. The miniskirt forced him into smaller, more controlled movements. Don’t step too wide, don’t bend over.\n\nOn the way down the street, another thought pushed its way to the front. Wednesday. [[Christine’s|Christine Braun]] diary, secretly opened, his guilty conscience like cold smoke. Myles was pushy. He wanted more than Christine wanted. The hastily written lines in which she described a day when she had felt pressured.\n\nNow, as he walked beside her and she wore this confidently revealing outfit, the memory burned in the back of his mind. He was a boy—at least somewhere inside—so he ought to understand that, right? Shouldn’t he say something, give his little sister some kind of advice, some kind of “If he pressures you, that’s not okay”?\n\nBut how? He had no experience with anything like that, neither as a boyfriend nor as a girlfriend. His own relationship with closeness and his body was a mess of alienation and coercion. What if he only made everything worse? Or if she realized he had read her diary?\n\nThey kept walking. Their shoulders almost brushed. He felt the words stuck in his throat, heavy as stones.\n\nAt this point, the decision was his.\n\n''What does he decide?''\n❯ [[He forces himself to give Christine cautious advice about Myles, even though he barely knows how to go about it.|Das Thema ansprechen.][$christine += 1;$christine_opinion += 10]]\n❯ [[He swallows the words and doesn’t bring up the subject, afraid of only making everything even more complicated.|Lieber nicht ansprechen.]]

At dinner, wishes and rules collided. Christine poked at her noodles, then drew a breath: “There’s a party on Saturday. At Tori’s. I… would like to go with Myles.”\n<<set $ort to "home">>\nSusan set down her fork. “With a boy? You’re too young to go to parties at night with a boy—”\n\n“Chris is coming with me,” Christine cut in hastily. “He’ll keep an eye on things. Promise.” Her gaze shot to Chris, pleading, warning, everything at once.\n\n“Uh—” Chris’s brain stumbled, saw Charlotte’s message light up, and then Christine’s eyes, wide and shining. His tongue was faster than his planning. “Sure. I’ll go with you. I… I’ll make sure everything’s okay.”\n\nSusan studied them both, not yet convinced, but not unmoved either. “Straight there, straight back. No detours. And I want location sharing, Christine.”\n“Of course,” Christine breathed.\n“And you, Chris, stay with her. No discussions.”\n“Yes, Mom,” he said, with a knot in his stomach.\n\nLater, in the hallway between their rooms, the doors clicked softly shut. Christine tugged him by the sleeve. “Thanks.” She grinned too broadly to look innocent.\n\n“I have plans with Charlotte on Saturday,” Chris whispered back. “I can’t babysit you.”\n\n“You don’t have to.” Christine waved it off. “I’ll go to the party, you go to Charlotte’s—we’ll meet back here later, on time, and Mom won’t notice. Easy.”\n\n“Easy?” Chris looked at her as if she had suggested walking on water. “Alone at a party? With Myles?”\n\n“I know Tori. There’ll be tons of people from school there. Myles is bringing me. And I will NOT leave my drink unattended, okay? I’m not stupid.” Her voice grew softer. “Please. I want to go. And you want to go to Charlotte’s. Win–win.”\n\nHis gut said no. His calendar said Charlotte at six. His head counted risks, his heart counted promises. “We meet back home by ten-thirty at the latest. And you answer your phone. Always.”\n\n“Always,” Christine nodded and hooked her pinky around his. “Pinky swear.”\n\n“Pinky swear,” Chris sighed, feeling the knot not loosen, only slide to a different place. When he went back into his room, his phone vibrated: Charlotte: Saturday still on?\nHe typed: Still on. 18:00. Then he placed the phone on the vanity and stared into the mirror—his face caught between two plans that didn’t like each other. What could possibly go wrong, he thought, and immediately disliked the sentence.\n<<set $rubytemp to 0>>\n[[Continue|Vizefreitag.]]

Chris was sitting at home on the bed, his phone on the nightstand, when the message lit up.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s bedroom">><<set $wetter = 3>>\nBy now, they wrote to each other pretty often after school—short updates, little jokes, sometimes just a “Did you get home okay?” Lucas wasn’t a loud type, but his messages carried that careful warmth that revealed how deeply in love he was.\n<blockquote class="quote">Lucas: “I somehow can’t stop thinking about you.”</blockquote>\nChris’s heart made that double jump it now knew so well. Two hearts beat inside him: one reminded him that the whole thing had started as a pretense, an emergency solution, a trick. That he didn’t like boys, at least not like that. The other heart was quieter, but persistent: It enjoyed this role, this “being a girlfriend,” which felt less and less like theater and more and more like a place where he felt… safe.\n\nHe typed back, cautious, but not dismissive.\n<blockquote class="quote">Chris: “You’re sweet. I… had to think about you too.”</blockquote>\nThe little nervous typing indicator followed almost immediately, then:\n<blockquote class="quote">Lucas: “Oh. Okay. Uh… wow.”</blockquote>\nChris smiled, though no one could see it. It softened him, how Lucas still sounded surprised even by a compliment.\n\nAfter a few messages, Lucas brought up Homecoming.\n<blockquote class="quote">Lucas: “Hey… just so I plan it right: Homecoming. Do you want me to pick you up, or should we meet there?”</blockquote>\nChris hesitated for a second. Being picked up was more than practical. It was… real. And yet he wrote:\n<blockquote class="quote">Chris: “Being picked up would be nice. If you want.”</blockquote>\nThe reply came so quickly that Chris caught himself noticing just how much he liked that.\n<blockquote class="quote">Lucas: “Okay. I was thinking 6:30? And… uh… what color are you wearing? Then I can get something that matches.”</blockquote>\nChris’s gaze drifted briefly to the garment bag in the closet, as if the midnight blue inside were a secret smiling at him.\n<blockquote class="quote">Chris: “Midnight blue.”\nLucas: “Midnight blue… okay. Noted. I think that… sounds really nice.”</blockquote>\nChris felt warmth spread through his chest. Lucas was attentive. Reliable. Things that, with most boys, never stayed on the surface.\n<blockquote class="quote">Chris: “I like that you think about things like that. It’s… kind of reassuring.”\nLucas: “I mean… sure. I just don’t want to mess it up.”\nLucas: “So… cool. Totally cool.”</blockquote>\nChris laughed softly into his pillow. Totally cool.\n\nThe conversation drifted back to theater, and Lucas’s tone became more cautious again, as if he had to protect himself.\n<blockquote class="quote">Lucas: “And… today. You were so completely in the spotlight.”\nLucas: “It was really good… uh… technically.”</blockquote>\nThe “technically” stood there like a little sign he wanted to hide behind. Chris could hear the note of jealousy between the letters, even though Lucas didn’t say it out loud.\n\nChris’s thumb hovered briefly, then he typed, lightly teasing:\n<blockquote class="quote">Chris: “Are you jealous?</blockquote>\n\nIt took longer than usual for the typing indicator to appear.\n<blockquote class="quote">Lucas: “No.”\nLucas: “Well… maybe a little?”\nLucas: “I mean—you just looked so… confident. And then some guy spins you around and… yeah.”</blockquote>\n\nChris stared at the screen and only then realized how much he liked this little piece of honesty. Not the jealousy itself—but that Lucas didn’t turn it into some stupid macho game, instead making it something human.\n<blockquote class="quote">\nChris: “I thought it was sweet that you noticed.”\nChris: “And… no one spins me around like you do, okay?”\nLucas: “…”\nLucas: “Okay. That was… unfairly sweet.”</blockquote>\n\nChris grinned wider than he meant to. He didn’t even notice how much he liked this flirting—how easy it had become for him to warm Lucas up with little sentences, and how good it felt when Lucas glowed back, even though he tried so hard to stay cool.\n\nThe messages kept going, one after another, until the afternoon tipped into evening light—and while his phone kept vibrating again and again, Chris realized that he no longer wondered whether all of this was “real.” He simply kept writing.\n\n[[Continue|Am Abend in der Badewanne.]]

Chris’s fingers dug into the hem of his negligee. “He…” He broke off because he suddenly remembered again how the hands had rested on his hips. Too casually. And how his body had reacted to it, even though he had wanted distance.\n\nSusan waited again.\n\n“At minigolf, he had his hand… here,” Chris said at last, pointing stiffly to his hips. “As if… as if that were normal.”\n\n“Good.” Susan sounded sincerely proud, and it irritated Chris almost more than anything else. “And you pushed him away?”\n\n“I… well…” Chris said hesitantly. "I said 'No' several times."\n\n“Did he accept it?” Susan ran her thumb over the bulge that was forming in Chris's briefs.\n\n“Just barely,” Chris said. “He… tested it.”\n\nSusan smiled.\n\nChris felt his shame tinged with a thin thread of defiance. “It was still uncomfortable.”\n\n"But?" Susan probed, ever so gently. Her hand moved up to his breasts, stroking them slowly as if she were getting him into a rhythm.\n\nChris bit his lip. He didn’t want to say “but.” The “but” was dangerous because it opened up the truth. And yet it came as if it had already been there: “But it was also… exciting.”\n\nSusan’s face lit up as if Chris had given her a gift. For a moment she actually looked younger, like she was going back to her own youth: first dates, loud music, the feeling of being wanted. Chris could tell how much she was enjoying this - not just his story, but the echo of it within herself.\n\nHer hand still rested on his breast, a gentle pressure.\n\n“You see,” Susan said quietly, seductively. "You needed it. You dared. And you were good."\n\nHis mother sank a little deeper into her pillow and began to stroke herself. First she started with the breasts. She massaged them first gently then a little harder, caressed her nipples and then pinched them. A pleasant twitch ran through her body.\n\nChris stared awkwardly to the side.\n\n“I’m proud of you,” she enthused at last, and in her voice was that satisfied, tender weight that confused Chris most of all. “You went through with it. You didn’t wriggle out of it. And you did it… well.”\n\n[[Continue|Chris bekommt eine Belohnung.]]\n

The bass pounded like a second heart somewhere beneath the living room floor when Christine suddenly grabbed Chris’s hand.\n\n“Come on,” she called. “Dance.”\n\nCharlotte appeared on his other side and hooked her arm through Chris’s. “No excuses. You don’t look like that just to stick to the wall.”\n\nBefore Chris could protest, they pulled him right into the middle of it. The “dance floor” was a cleared strip of living room: flickering light, spilled drops on wood, bodies touching too close and too accidentally. The beat thundered so loudly that normal thoughts only came in fragments.\n\nChristine moved confidently at once, in rhythm, the stretch dress clinging to her sexy body. Charlotte let her hips roll to the beat, the slip dress gliding with her like liquid, the choker flashing in the light. Both of them seemed as if they were in their element, as if the music had opened a private channel for them.\n\nChris, on the other hand, felt every single part of his outfit as a foreign object. The miniskirt was short, far too short; with every step he felt as if he had to tug it down. The heels made his stance unsteady, every shift of weight a small test. The crop top stretched around his small breasts, which moved and wobbled like Jell-O when he moved—unfamiliar, unpredictable. It was only a minimal after-tremor, which only made him even more aware that they were there.\n\nHe moved stiffly, shoulders too hunched, arms too close to his body. Still, he tried to fit in, to sway along minimally so he wouldn’t stand out completely. The alcohol had rounded off the edges of his inhibitions a little, but not enough to erase the feeling of being stuck in a role that didn’t belong to him.\n\nBodies came closer. Behind him, two boys pushed through the crowd, one of them staying a bit too close, moving to the beat at his back. Another slid in from the side, grinning as if he wanted to see whether Chris would go along if he came closer.\n\nChris shifted back slightly, almost stumbling into the other boy, barely catching himself. Everything wobbled: the skirt, the bust, his nerves.\n\n“Have a drink, it’ll make it easier!” A red cup appeared in front of his face, held by a broad-shouldered guy with a too-self-satisfied grin. The cup sloshed dangerously, and it smelled sharply of alcohol.\n\nChris looked at it. He could still feel how the first cup was working in his head, how his cheeks were warm and the floor no longer seemed to be standing completely still. But maybe… maybe a second cup would loosen the jerking in his own body, dull the feeling of foreignness, make him as relaxed as Christine and Charlotte, who laughed, spun, seemed at one with the music.\nHe didn’t want to ruin their mood. Didn’t want to be the embarrassing, tense “friend” standing at the edge and dragging everything down. He felt the gaze of the boy with the cup, felt other looks on his legs, on the bare place between top and skirt.\n\nThe cup hovered closer to his hand.\n\nAt this point, it was up to him.\n<<set $alkohol to 0>>\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[He takes the cup and drinks, even though he knows more alcohol is not a good idea.|Den Becher nehmen und trinken.2][$alkohol += 1]]\n❯ [[He doesn’t take the cup, because he senses that more alcohol would only drive him deeper into the strangeness.|Den Becher nicht nehmen.2]]

\n/* WIDESCREEN */\nhtml:not(.widescreen) #passages { max-width: 62.5em; }\n/*\nIf you wanted the passages area horizontally centered, then\ninstead of the above rule, you could use the following rule\n\nhtml:not(.widescreen) #passages { max-width: 62.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; }\n*/\n\n\n/* FADE-IN */\nhtml:not(.fade-in) .passage { transition: none; -webkit-transition: none; }\n\n\n/*\nThe following themes are only examples. They are not meant\nto be very good or comprehensive.\n*/\n\n/* THEME: Darkish */\nhtml.theme-darkish body {\n\tcolor: #fff;\n\tbackground-color: #333;\n}\nhtml.theme-darkish #ui-bar,\nhtml.theme-darkish #ui-body {\n\tbackground-color: #222;\n}\n\n\n/* THEME: Greyish */\nhtml.theme-greyish body {\n\tcolor: #000;\n\tbackground-color: #999;\n}\nhtml.theme-greyish hr {\n\tbackground-color: #000;\n}\nhtml.theme-greyish #ui-bar,\nhtml.theme-greyish #ui-body {\n\tbackground-color: #aaa;\n\tborder-color: #000;\n}\nhtml.theme-greyish #credits,\nhtml.theme-greyish #version {\n\tcolor: #666;\n}\nhtml.theme-greyish #ui-body.dialog-list li:nth-child(even) {\n\tbackground-color: rgba(0,0,0,0.1);\n}\nhtml.theme-greyish #ui-body.dialog-list li a {\n\tcolor: #000;\n}\nhtml.theme-greyish #ui-body.saves tr:nth-child(even) {\n\tbackground-color: rgba(0,0,0,0.1);\n}\nhtml.theme-greyish #ui-body.saves .empty {\n\tcolor: #666;\n}\nhtml.theme-greyish #ui-body.saves > div:not(:first-child) {\n\tborder-top: 1px solid #000;\n}\n\n\n/* THEME: White */\nhtml.theme-white body {\n\tcolor: #000;\n\tbackground-color: #fff;\n}\nhtml.theme-white hr {\n\tbackground-color: #000;\n}\nhtml.theme-white #ui-bar,\nhtml.theme-white #ui-body {\n\tbackground-color: #eee;\n\tborder-color: #000;\n}\nhtml.theme-white #credits,\nhtml.theme-white #version {\n\tcolor: #666;\n}\nhtml.theme-white #ui-body.dialog-list li:nth-child(even) {\n\tbackground-color: rgba(0,0,0,0.1);\n}\nhtml.theme-white #ui-body.dialog-list li a {\n\tcolor: #000;\n}\nhtml.theme-white #ui-body.saves tr:nth-child(even) {\n\tbackground-color: rgba(0,0,0,0.1);\n}\nhtml.theme-white #ui-body.saves .empty {\n\tcolor: #666;\n}\nhtml.theme-white #ui-body.saves > div:not(:first-child) {\n\tborder-top: 1px solid #000;\n}\n\n\n/* ================================\n THEME: Girly (light)\n ================================ */\n@import url('https://fonts.googleapis.com/css2?family=Nunito:wght@400;700;800&display=swap');\n\nhtml.theme-girly {\n\t--bg:#FFF7FA; --panel:#FFE9F1; --ink:#2B1A22; --subtle:#6B4B5B;\n\t--accent:#E91E63; --accent-strong:#AD1457; --border:#F5D2E0;\n\t--link:#D81B60; --visited:#8E1950; --focus:#4A154B;\n\t--shadow:rgba(233,30,99,.15); --radius:14px; --line:#E8C7D6;\n}\nhtml.theme-girly body{\n\tfont-size: 18px; /* minimal größer als der Darkish-Default (~16px) */\n\tline-height: 1.7; /* mehr Luft = bessere Lesbarkeit */\n\tcolor:var(--ink);\n\tbackground:radial-gradient(1200px 800px at 0% 0%, #FFF0F7 0%, var(--bg) 50%) fixed;\n\tfont-family:"Nunito",system-ui,-apple-system,Segoe UI,Roboto,"Helvetica Neue",Arial,"Noto Sans","Liberation Sans",sans-serif;\n\tline-height:1.6;\n}\n/* Widescreen wie im Global-CSS respektieren */\nhtml.theme-girly:not(.widescreen) #passages { max-width: 62.5em; }\n\n\nhtml.theme-girly .passage{\n\tbackground:#FFFFFFCC;border:1px solid var(--border);border-radius:var(--radius);\n\tbox-shadow:0 8px 24px var(--shadow);padding:1.25rem 1.5rem;backdrop-filter:blur(2px);\n\ttransition:transform .2s ease, box-shadow .2s ease;\n}\nhtml.theme-girly .passage:hover{transform:translateY(-1px);}\nhtml.theme-girly #ui-bar, html.theme-girly #ui-body{\n\tbackground-color:var(--panel);border-color:var(--border);color:var(--ink);\n\tborder-radius:var(--radius);box-shadow:0 6px 18px var(--shadow);\n}\nhtml.theme-girly h1,html.theme-girly h2,html.theme-girly h3{color:var(--accent-strong);letter-spacing:.2px;line-height:1.25;}\nhtml.theme-girly h1{font-weight:800;}\nhtml.theme-girly hr{border:0;height:2px;background:linear-gradient(90deg,transparent,var(--line),transparent);}\nhtml.theme-girly blockquote{\n\tborder-left:4px solid var(--accent);background:#fff;border-radius:0 var(--radius) var(--radius) 0;\n\tpadding:.75rem 1rem;color:var(--subtle);\n}\nhtml.theme-girly a, html.theme-girly .link-internal, html.theme-girly .link-external{\n\tcolor:var(--link);text-decoration:none;border-bottom:2px solid transparent;\n\ttransition:color .15s ease, border-color .15s ease, background .15s ease;\n}\nhtml.theme-girly a:hover, html.theme-girly .link-internal:hover, html.theme-girly .link-external:hover{\n\tcolor:var(--accent-strong);border-color:var(--accent-strong);\n}\nhtml.theme-girly a:visited{color:var(--visited);}\nhtml.theme-girly button, html.theme-girly .macro-button,\nhtml.theme-girly input[type="button"], html.theme-girly input[type="submit"]{\n\tbackground:linear-gradient(180deg,#FFC1D6,#FF8EB6);color:#2B0E1C;border:1px solid #FF6FA5;\n\tborder-radius:999px;padding:.6rem 1.1rem;font-weight:700;cursor:pointer;\n\tbox-shadow:0 6px 14px var(--shadow), inset 0 1px 0 #FFE3EE;\n\ttransition:transform .06s ease, box-shadow .15s ease, background .15s ease;\n}\nhtml.theme-girly button:hover, html.theme-girly .macro-button:hover,\nhtml.theme-girly input[type="button"]:hover, html.theme-girly input[type="submit"]:hover{\n\tbackground:linear-gradient(180deg,#FFB0CB,#FF78AA);transform:translateY(-1px);\n}\nhtml.theme-girly input[type="text"], html.theme-girly input[type="search"],\nhtml.theme-girly input[type="number"], html.theme-girly textarea, html.theme-girly select{\n\tbackground:#fff;border:2px solid var(--border);border-radius:12px;padding:.55rem .75rem;\n\ttransition:border-color .15s ease, box-shadow .15s ease;\n}\nhtml.theme-girly input:focus, html.theme-girly textarea:focus, html.theme-girly select:focus{\n\toutline:3px solid transparent;border-color:var(--accent);\n\tbox-shadow:0 0 0 3px color-mix(in oklab, var(--accent) 35%, white);\n}\nhtml.theme-girly :focus-visible{outline:3px solid var(--focus);outline-offset:2px;border-radius:6px;}\nhtml.theme-girly table{border-collapse:collapse;}\nhtml.theme-girly th, html.theme-girly td{border-bottom:1px solid var(--line);padding:.5rem .6rem;}\nhtml.theme-girly #ui-body.dialog-list li:nth-child(even),\nhtml.theme-girly #ui-body.saves tr:nth-child(even){background-color:#fff;}\nhtml.theme-girly #credits, html.theme-girly #version{color:var(--subtle);}\nhtml.theme-girly ::selection{background:color-mix(in oklab, var(--accent) 30%, white);color:var(--ink);}\nhtml.theme-girly .passage a[data-pill], html.theme-girly .link-internal[data-pill]{background:#FFE4EE;padding:.15rem .5rem;border-radius:999px;}\n\n/* ================================\n THEME: Girly Darkish\n ================================ */\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish{\n\t--bg:#150A11; --panel:#1E1118; --ink:#FFE6F0; --subtle:#E9BFD0;\n\t--accent:#FF66A3; --accent-strong:#FF2E86; --border:#3A1D2A;\n\t--link:#FF7BB3; --visited:#D66AA1; --focus:#FFD1E4;\n\t--shadow:rgba(255,102,163,.18); --radius:14px; --line:#2A1620;\n}\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish body{\n\tfont-size: 18px;\n\tline-height: 1.7;\n\tbackground:radial-gradient(1100px 700px at 100% 0%, #1B0E16 0%, var(--bg) 60%) fixed;\n\tcolor:var(--ink);\n\tfont-family:"Nunito",system-ui,-apple-system,Segoe UI,Roboto,"Helvetica Neue",Arial,"Noto Sans","Liberation Sans",sans-serif;\n}\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish #ui-bar, html.theme-girly-darkish #ui-body{\n\tbackground-color:var(--panel);border-color:var(--border);color:var(--ink);\n\tborder-radius:var(--radius);box-shadow:0 6px 18px var(--shadow);\n}\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish .passage{\n\tbackground:#220F19;border:1px solid var(--border);border-radius:var(--radius);\n\tbox-shadow:0 10px 28px var(--shadow);padding:1.25rem 1.5rem;\n}\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish h1, html.theme-girly-darkish h2, html.theme-girly-darkish h3{color:var(--accent);}\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish hr{border:0;height:2px;background:linear-gradient(90deg,transparent,var(--line),transparent);}\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish a, html.theme-girly-darkish .link-internal, html.theme-girly-darkish .link-external{\n\tcolor:var(--link);border-bottom:2px solid transparent;text-decoration:none;\n}\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish a:hover, html.theme-girly-darkish .link-internal:hover, html.theme-girly-darkish .link-external:hover{\n\tcolor:var(--accent-strong);border-color:var(--accent-strong);\n}\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish button, html.theme-girly-darkish .macro-button,\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish input[type="button"], html.theme-girly-darkish input[type="submit"]{\n\tbackground:linear-gradient(180deg,#FF74AE,#F84295);color:#1F0C16;border:1px solid #FF2E86;\n\tborder-radius:999px;padding:.6rem 1.1rem;font-weight:800;\n\tbox-shadow:0 8px 18px var(--shadow), inset 0 1px 0 #FFB5D4;\n}\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish input[type="text"], html.theme-girly-darkish input[type="search"],\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish input[type="number"], html.theme-girly-darkish textarea, html.theme-girly-darkish select{\n\tbackground:#1C0F17;color:var(--ink);border:2px solid var(--border);border-radius:12px;\n}\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish input:focus, html.theme-girly-darkish textarea:focus, html.theme-girly-darkish select:focus{\n\toutline:3px solid transparent;border-color:var(--accent);box-shadow:0 0 0 3px rgba(255,102,163,.25);\n}\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish ::selection{background:rgba(255,118,170,.35);color:#fff;}\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish th, html.theme-girly-darkish td{border-bottom:1px solid var(--line);padding:.5rem .6rem;}\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish #ui-body.dialog-list li:nth-child(even),\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish #ui-body.saves tr:nth-child(even){background-color:#1A0D15;}\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish #credits, html.theme-girly-darkish #version{color:var(--subtle);}\n\n\n/* Optional: Überschriftengrößen leicht anheben (skalieren zur größeren Basis) */\nhtml.theme-girly h1, html.theme-girly-darkish h1 { font-size: 2rem; }\nhtml.theme-girly h2, html.theme-girly-darkish h2 { font-size: 1.6rem; }\nhtml.theme-girly h3, html.theme-girly-darkish h3 { font-size: 1.3rem; }\n\n\ndetails { margin: 0.5em 0; }\nsummary { cursor: pointer; }\n\n\n\n/*Hilferahmen*/\n.box{\n border-left: 4px solid #888;\n padding: .6em .8em;\n margin: .8em 0;\n background: rgba(0,0,0,.05);\n border-radius: .4em;\n}\n/*Zitat Handy*/\n.quote{\n margin:.8em 0;\n padding:.4em .8em;\n border-left:4px solid #aaa;\n opacity:.9;\n}\n\n\n/* alle Bilder im Text */\n#passages img, .passage img {\n border: 3px solid #333;\n padding: 8px;\n background: #000;\n border-radius: 10px;\n box-shadow: 0 6px 18px rgba(0,0,0,0.25);\n max-width: 80%;\n height: auto;\n display: block; /* sauberer mit Schatten/Rahmen */\n margin: 0.5em auto; /* zentriert */\n}\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n/* Enden */\n.endeListe { line-height: 1.6; }\n.endeItem { margin: 0.25em 0; display: flex; align-items: center; gap: .5em; }\n\n.endeIcon { width: 1.4em; text-align: center; font-size: 1.1em; }\n\n.endeName { font-weight: 600; }\n.endeTitle { opacity: .85; }\n\n.badge {\n font-size: .75em;\n padding: .15em .45em;\n border-radius: 999px;\n border: 1px solid currentColor;\n opacity: .9;\n}\n\n.endeDone { color: #2e7d32; } /* grün */\n.endeLocked { color: #777; } /* grau */\n.endeLocked .endeTitle { opacity: .55; }\n\n\n\n/*Ende Starbar*/\n.stars {\n font-size: 1.2em;\n letter-spacing: .15em;\n line-height: 1;\n font-family: "Segoe UI Symbol","Apple Color Emoji","Noto Color Emoji",sans-serif;\n vertical-align: middle;\n}\n\n.starsFilled { color: #f0c419; } /* gold */\n.starsEmpty { color: #777; } /* grau */\n\n\n\n#restart-ok a, #restart-ok a:visited, #restart-ok a:hover, #restart-ok a:active{\n color: inherit;\n text-decoration: none;\n}\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n/* Startbutton */\n.startBtn a,\n.startBtn a:visited,\n.startBtn a:hover,\n.startBtn a:active{\n color:#000;\n text-decoration:none; \n}\n\n/* Button-Optik auf den Link */\n.startBtn a{\n display:inline-block;\n padding:.6rem 1.1rem;\n border-radius:999px;\n background:#eee;\n font-weight:700;\n cursor:pointer;\n border-bottom:4px solid #000;\n}\n.startBtn a:hover{ opacity:.9;}\n\n\n\n\n/*Brief*/\n.letter {\n /* Papier + Linien */\n background:\n repeating-linear-gradient(\n to bottom,\n #f7f1df 0px,\n #f7f1df 26px,\n rgba(0,0,0,0.12) 27px\n );\n font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;\n padding: 1.2em 1.4em;\n border: 1px solid #d8caa6;\n border-radius: 8px;\n\n font-style: italic;\n line-height: 1.6;\n font-size: 1.05em;\n}\n\n\n\n/*Tabelle*/\n\n\n.twine-card{\n display: flex;\n gap: 12px;\n align-items: flex-start;\n}\n\n.twine-card__img{\n flex: 0 0 160px; /* feste Breite */\n height: 160px;\n background-size: cover;\n background-position: center;\n background-repeat: no-repeat;\n border-radius: 8px;\n}\n\n.twine-card__text{\n display: flex;\n flex-direction: column;\n}\n\n.twine-card__title{ font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 6px; }\n.twine-card__desc{ margin-bottom: 6px; }\n.twine-card__tags{ font-size: 0.9em; opacity: 0.85; }\n\n\n\n\n/*Ende*/\n\n.finalePage {\n\tmax-width: 900px;\n\tmargin: 2rem auto;\n\tpadding: 1.4rem;\n\tbackground: #ffffff;\n\tcolor: #000000;\n\tborder: 2px solid #111111;\n\tborder-top: 10px solid #D81B60;\n\tborder-radius: 22px;\n\tbox-shadow: 0 14px 36px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.08);\n}\n\n.finalePage * {\n\tbox-sizing: border-box;\n}\n\n.finalePage a {\n\tcolor: inherit;\n\ttext-decoration: none;\n}\n\n.finalePage a:hover {\n\tcolor: #D81B60;\n}\n\n.finalHeader {\n\tpadding: 0.25rem 0 1.2rem;\n}\n\n.finalEyebrow {\n\tdisplay: inline-block;\n\tmargin-bottom: 0.75rem;\n\tpadding: 0.3rem 0.7rem;\n\tborder-radius: 999px;\n\tbackground: rgba(216, 27, 96, 0.10);\n\tcolor: #D81B60;\n\tfont-size: 0.85rem;\n\tfont-weight: 700;\n\tletter-spacing: 0.03em;\n\ttext-transform: uppercase;\n}\n\n.finalHeader h1 {\n\tmargin: 0;\n\tfont-size: 2rem;\n\tline-height: 1.1;\n\tcolor: #000;\n}\n\n.finalLead {\n\tmargin: 0.75rem 0 0;\n\tfont-size: 1.05rem;\n\tcolor: #222;\n}\n\n.finalLead strong {\n\tcolor: #D81B60;\n}\n\n.finalStats {\n\tdisplay: flex;\n\tflex-wrap: wrap;\n\tgap: 0.9rem;\n\tmargin-top: 1.25rem;\n}\n\n.statCard {\n\tflex: 1 1 220px;\n\tpadding: 1rem 1.1rem;\n\tbackground: #fff;\n\tborder: 1px solid #e7e7e7;\n\tborder-radius: 16px;\n\tbox-shadow: 0 4px 14px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.04);\n}\n\n.statValue {\n\tfont-size: 1.5rem;\n\tfont-weight: 800;\n\tcolor: #D81B60;\n\tline-height: 1.1;\n}\n\n.statLabel {\n\tmargin-top: 0.2rem;\n\tfont-size: 0.95rem;\n\tcolor: #444;\n}\n\n.finalSection {\n\tmargin-top: 1.5rem;\n\tpadding: 1.2rem;\n\tbackground: #fafafa;\n\tborder: 1px solid #ececec;\n\tborder-radius: 18px;\n}\n\n.sectionHead {\n\tdisplay: flex;\n\tjustify-content: space-between;\n\talign-items: flex-end;\n\tgap: 1rem;\n\tmargin-bottom: 1rem;\n\tpadding-bottom: 0.8rem;\n\tborder-bottom: 1px solid #e7e7e7;\n}\n\n.sectionHead h2 {\n\tmargin: 0;\n\tfont-size: 1.35rem;\n\tcolor: #000;\n}\n\n.sectionMeta {\n\tfont-size: 0.92rem;\n\tcolor: #666;\n\ttext-align: right;\n}\n\n.endeListe {\n\tdisplay: flex;\n\tflex-direction: column;\n\tgap: 0.8rem;\n}\n\n.endeItem {\n\tdisplay: flex;\n\talign-items: center;\n\tjustify-content: space-between;\n\tgap: 1rem;\n\tpadding: 0.95rem 1rem;\n\tborder-radius: 16px;\n\tborder: 1px solid #dddddd;\n\tbackground: #ffffff;\n}\n\n.endeLeft {\n\tdisplay: flex;\n\talign-items: center;\n\tgap: 0.8rem;\n\tmin-width: 0;\n\tflex: 1 1 auto;\n}\n\n.endeIcon {\n\twidth: 2rem;\n\tmin-width: 2rem;\n\ttext-align: center;\n\tfont-size: 1.1rem;\n\tline-height: 1;\n}\n\n.endeName {\n\tfont-weight: 700;\n\tcolor: #000;\n}\n\n.endeTitle {\n\tcolor: #444;\n}\n\n.endeDone {\n\tborder: 2px solid rgba(216, 27, 96, 0.28);\n\tbackground: #fff8fb;\n}\n\n.endeLocked {\n\tborder: 2px solid #e0e0e0;\n\tbackground: #ffffff;\n}\n\n.badge {\n\tdisplay: inline-flex;\n\talign-items: center;\n\tjustify-content: center;\n\tpadding: 0.38rem 0.75rem;\n\tborder-radius: 999px;\n\tfont-size: 0.82rem;\n\tfont-weight: 700;\n\twhite-space: nowrap;\n\tflex-shrink: 0;\n}\n\n.endeDone .badge {\n\tbackground: #D81B60;\n\tcolor: #ffffff;\n}\n\n.endeLocked .badge {\n\tbackground: #f1f1f1;\n\tcolor: #444444;\n}\n\n.restartWrap {\n\tdisplay: flex;\n\tjustify-content: center;\n\tmargin: 1.4rem 0 0.2rem;\n}\n\n.startBtn {\n\tdisplay: inline-flex;\n}\n\n.startBtn a {\n\tdisplay: inline-flex;\n\talign-items: center;\n\tjustify-content: center;\n\tpadding: 0.85rem 1.35rem;\n\tborder-radius: 999px;\n\tbackground: #D81B60;\n\tcolor: #ffffff !important;\n\tfont-weight: 700;\n\tborder: 2px solid #D81B60;\n\tbox-shadow: 0 8px 20px rgba(216, 27, 96, 0.18);\n\ttransition: transform 0.15s ease, box-shadow 0.15s ease, background 0.15s ease;\n}\n\n.startBtn a:hover {\n\tbackground: #b81651;\n\tborder-color: #b81651;\n\tcolor: #ffffff !important;\n\ttransform: translateY(-1px);\n\tbox-shadow: 0 10px 24px rgba(216, 27, 96, 0.24);\n}\n\n.finalFooterLinks {\n\tdisplay: flex;\n\tflex-wrap: wrap;\n\tgap: 0.8rem;\n\tjustify-content: center;\n\tmargin-top: 1.5rem;\n}\n\n.footerLink a {\n\tdisplay: inline-flex;\n\talign-items: center;\n\tjustify-content: center;\n\tpadding: 0.7rem 1rem;\n\tborder-radius: 999px;\n\tborder: 1px solid #d9d9d9;\n\tbackground: #fff;\n\tcolor: #111 !important;\n\tfont-weight: 600;\n}\n\n.footerLink a:hover {\n\tborder-color: #D81B60;\n\tcolor: #D81B60 !important;\n}\n\n@media (max-width: 700px) {\n\t.finalePage {\n\t\tpadding: 1rem;\n\t\tborder-radius: 16px;\n\t}\n\n\t.finalHeader h1 {\n\t\tfont-size: 1.6rem;\n\t}\n\n\t.sectionHead {\n\t\tflex-direction: column;\n\t\talign-items: flex-start;\n\t}\n\n\t.endeItem {\n\t\tflex-direction: column;\n\t\talign-items: flex-start;\n\t}\n\n\t.endeLeft {\n\t\twidth: 100%;\n\t}\n\n\t.badge {\n\t\talign-self: flex-start;\n\t}\n}\n\n\n\n\n/* Charakterleiste */\n\n.axis-wrap {\n margin: 1rem 0 1.4rem;\n}\n\n.axis-title {\n font-weight: bold;\n margin-bottom: 0.25rem;\n}\n\n.axis-labels {\n display: flex;\n justify-content: space-between;\n font-size: 0.9rem;\n opacity: 0.85;\n margin-bottom: 0.35rem;\n}\n\n.axis-bar {\n position: relative;\n height: 14px;\n border-radius: 999px;\n background: linear-gradient(to right, #a05a5a 0%, #777 50%, #5aa078 100%);\n}\n\n.axis-barlove {\n position: relative;\n height: 14px;\n border-radius: 999px;\n background: linear-gradient(\n to right,\n #2c3e50 0%,\n #4d647a 24%,\n #6f6f73 50%,\n #9d4a4a 74%,\n #c1121f 100%\n );\n}\n\n.axis-barattraction {\n position: relative;\n height: 14px;\n border-radius: 999px;\n background: linear-gradient(\n to right,\n #2a1023 0%,\n #5a214d 35%,\n #8c3a72 60%,\n #d14a8b 82%,\n #ff6fae 100%\n );\n}\n\n\n\n\n.axis-middle {\n position: absolute;\n left: 50%;\n top: -3px;\n bottom: -3px;\n width: 2px;\n background: rgba(255,255,255,0.7);\n}\n\n.axis-marker {\n position: absolute;\n top: 50%;\n width: 16px;\n height: 16px;\n margin-left: -8px;\n margin-top: -8px;\n border-radius: 50%;\n background: #fff;\n border: 2px solid #222;\n}\n\n.axis-note {\n text-align: center;\n font-size: 0.8rem;\n opacity: 0.75;\n margin-top: 0.35rem;\n}\n\n\n\n\n\n/* Unter Drogen */\n.psychedelic-text {\n display: inline-block;\n color: #222;\n font-weight: 600;\n text-shadow:\n -2px 0 rgba(255, 0, 140, 0.35),\n 2px 0 rgba(0, 180, 255, 0.35),\n 0 0 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.08);\n animation: pulse-shift 1.8s ease-in-out infinite alternate;\n}\n\n@keyframes pulse-shift {\n from {\n filter: blur(0.2px);\n transform: scale(1);\n }\n to {\n filter: blur(0.8px);\n transform: scale(1.01);\n }\n}\n\n\n\n\n/* Sidebare Wetter, Tag & Ort */\n#sidebar-status {\n\tmargin: 3.2em 0.75em 0;\n\tpadding: 0.85em 0.9em;\n\tborder-radius: 14px;\n\tborder: 1px solid rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.22);\n\tbox-shadow:\n\t\t0 4px 8px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.18),\n\t\tinset 0 1px 0 rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.7);\n\tcolor: #000000;\n\tfont-size: 0.9em;\n\tline-height: 1.3;\n\tbox-sizing: border-box;\n}\n\n#sidebar-status * {\n\tbox-sizing: border-box;\n\tcolor: #000000;\n}\n\n.sidebar-status__row {\n\tdisplay: table;\n\twidth: 100%;\n}\n\n.sidebar-status__icon {\n\tdisplay: table-cell;\n\twidth: 2.45em;\n\theight: 2.45em;\n\tborder-radius: 999px;\n\n\tfont-size: 1.45em;\n\ttext-align: center;\n\tvertical-align: middle;\n\tbox-shadow: inset 0 0 0 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.08);\n}\n\n.sidebar-status__details {\n\tdisplay: table-cell;\n\tpadding-left: 0.7em;\n\tvertical-align: middle;\n}\n\n.sidebar-status__day {\n\tfont-size: 1em;\n\tfont-weight: bold;\n}\n\n.sidebar-status__weather {\n\tmargin-top: 0.1em;\n\tfont-size: 0.78em;\n}\n\n.sidebar-status__place {\n\tmargin-top: 0.75em;\n\tpadding-top: 0.65em;\n\tborder-top: 1px solid rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.14);\n\tfont-size: 0.82em;\n}\n\n.sidebar-status__place:before {\n\tcontent: "📍 ";\n}\n\n#sidebar-status.weather-rain {\n\tborder-color: rgba(40, 90, 180, 0.38);\n}\n\n\n\n\n\n/* Autosave */\n#autosave-notice {\n\tdisplay: none;\n\tposition: fixed;\n\tright: 1em;\n\tbottom: 1em;\n\tz-index: 9999;\n\tpadding: 0.5em 0.8em;\n\tborder-radius: 0.4em;\n\tbackground: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8);\n\tcolor: white;\n\tfont-size: 0.9em;\n\tpointer-events: none;\n}\n\n\n\n/* ================================\n FIXES: Lesbarkeit ohne Girly-Light zu verändern\n ================================ */\n\n/* Default, Darkish, Greyish/Grayish und White:\n größere Basis-Schrift wie bei den Girly-Themes.\n Girly und Girly Darkish bleiben davon ausgeschlossen. */\nhtml:not(.theme-girly):not(.theme-girly-darkish) body {\n\tfont-size: 18px;\n\tline-height: 1.7;\n}\n\n/* Girly Darkish: Sidebar Wetter/Tag/Ort lesbar machen.\n Die allgemeine #sidebar-status-Regel setzt sonst alles auf Schwarz. */\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish #sidebar-status {\n\tborder-color: rgba(255, 123, 179, 0.35);\n\tbox-shadow:\n\t\t0 4px 8px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.35),\n\t\tinset 0 1px 0 rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.08);\n\tcolor: var(--ink);\n}\n\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish #sidebar-status * {\n\tcolor: var(--ink);\n}\n\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish .sidebar-status__weather,\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish .sidebar-status__place {\n\tcolor: var(--subtle);\n}\n\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish .sidebar-status__place {\n\tborder-top-color: rgba(255, 230, 240, 0.16);\n}\n\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish .sidebar-status__icon {\n\tbox-shadow: inset 0 0 0 1px rgba(255, 230, 240, 0.16);\n}\n\nhtml.theme-girly-darkish #sidebar-status.weather-rain {\n\tborder-color: rgba(255, 123, 179, 0.45);\n}\n\n\n\n/* Darkish: Sidebar Wetter/Tag/Ort lesbar machen.\n Die allgemeine #sidebar-status-Regel setzt sonst alles auf Schwarz. */\nhtml.theme-darkish #sidebar-status {\n\tborder-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.28);\n\tbox-shadow:\n\t\t0 4px 8px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.35),\n\t\tinset 0 1px 0 rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.08);\n\tcolor: #ffffff;\n}\n\nhtml.theme-darkish #sidebar-status * {\n\tcolor: #ffffff;\n}\n\nhtml.theme-darkish .sidebar-status__weather,\nhtml.theme-darkish .sidebar-status__place {\n\tcolor: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.82);\n}\n\nhtml.theme-darkish .sidebar-status__place {\n\tborder-top-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.18);\n}\n\nhtml.theme-darkish .sidebar-status__icon {\n\tbox-shadow: inset 0 0 0 1px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.16);\n}\n\nhtml.theme-darkish #sidebar-status.weather-rain {\n\tborder-color: rgba(140, 180, 255, 0.45);\n}\n\n\n\n/* Sidebar: Vor / Zurück */\n#menu-story .sidebar-history-buttons {\n\tdisplay: flex;\n\tflex-wrap: wrap;\n\tjustify-content: center;\n\tgap: 0.45em;\n\tmargin: 0.8em 0;\n}\n\n#menu-story .sidebar-history-buttons button,\n#menu-story .sidebar-history-buttons .history-disabled {\n\tdisplay: inline-flex;\n\talign-items: center;\n\tjustify-content: center;\n\tpadding: 0.45em 0.7em;\n\tborder-radius: 999px;\n\tborder: 1px solid currentColor;\n\tbackground: transparent;\n\tcolor: inherit;\n\tfont: inherit;\n\tfont-weight: 700;\n\tline-height: 1.2;\n\tcursor: pointer;\n}\n\n#menu-story .sidebar-history-buttons button:hover {\n\topacity: 0.8;\n}\n\n#menu-story .sidebar-history-buttons .history-disabled {\n\topacity: 0.45;\n\tcursor: not-allowed;\n}\n\n\n\n/* ================================\n FIX: psychedelic-text + letter\n ================================ */\n\n@keyframes pulse-shift {\n from {\n filter: blur(0.1px);\n transform: scale(1);\n }\n to {\n filter: blur(0.35px);\n transform: scale(1.005);\n }\n}\n\n/* Default und dunkle Themes: helle Psychedelic-Schrift. */\nhtml:not(.theme-white):not(.theme-girly):not(.theme-greyish):not(.theme-grayish) .psychedelic-text {\n color: #f7f7f7 !important;\n text-shadow:\n -1px 0 rgba(255, 80, 180, 0.30),\n 1px 0 rgba(80, 210, 255, 0.30),\n 0 0 1px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.12) !important;\n}\n\n/* Helle Themes: Psychedelic-Schrift bleibt dunkel wie vorher. */\nhtml.theme-white .psychedelic-text,\nhtml.theme-girly .psychedelic-text,\nhtml.theme-greyish .psychedelic-text,\nhtml.theme-grayish .psychedelic-text {\n color: #222 !important;\n}\n\n/* Brief: NUR die Schriftfarbe ist dunkel. */\nhtml:not(.theme-white):not(.theme-girly):not(.theme-greyish):not(.theme-grayish) .letter {\n color: #174ea6 !important;\n background:\n repeating-linear-gradient(\n to bottom,\n #f7f1df 0px,\n #f7f1df 26px,\n rgba(0,0,0,0.12) 27px\n ) !important;\n}

In the morning there was a knock at the door, then Susan’s voice: “Get up, you two.”\n\nChris woke, his sister beside him, her cheek pressed into the pillow.\n\n“Hey, you sleepyheads. Don’t you want to get up sometime soon? Breakfast is ready,” their mother said, leaving the room cluelessly.\n\nHe and Christine both startled awake at the same time. A dull glow of light seeped into the room, telling them that it had to already be the next day. What had happened, where were they? The memory of the previous evening came back. In an instant the siblings were wide awake, sitting up and looking at each other in horror.\n\nWe… really did it, he thought. The air still smelled of vanilla and sex, and suddenly every inch of mattress was too loud. Christine blinked, looked at him—and in the same second, both their faces flushed red. She pulled the blanket up to her chin, as if fabric could turn back time. Chris felt his throat go dry; his heart stumbled.\n\nNeither of them knew where to put their eyes. Her gaze darted to the door, his to the floor, then by chance they found each other and jumped away again, as if they had burned themselves. The sheet rustled treacherously. On the carpet lay Christine’s white panties—a small piece of evidence from last night. Chris pulled the sheet tighter, as if he could fold a “nothing happened” out of it. “Um… last night,” he forced out.\n\nChristine nodded, lips pressed into a thin line, breathing shallow. “That… was…” She broke off; the word stuck in her throat.\n\nThe silence was oppressive. Every sentence that occurred to them sounded wrong in their heads—too big, too small, too final. Chris felt the boring sting of shame and fear: of his own reflection, of what they now were to each other. Christine swallowed, her lashes trembling, and she pulled the blanket another finger’s width higher—a final, childish reflex in an adult moment.\n\n“We’ll… talk later?” Christine finally whispered, barely audible.\n\nChris nodded without looking at her. She carefully pushed his blanket away, slipped out of bed, her feet searching hurriedly for the floor. Without a word, she grabbed her panties from the floor and darted to the door. The scent of her strawberry shampoo lingered in the room for another moment like a memory, then the hallway clicked softly.\n\nChris remained sitting there, the satin of his negligee cool against his skin, the imprint of her head still in the pillow beside him.\n\nIn the kitchen, dishes clattered. Susan poured coffee, steam rising in narrow ribbons. “Good morning,” she said neutrally as Chris sat down at the table.\n\nChristine joined them, freshly washed, her hair still damp, her face too clean. She sat down opposite him, pulled the plate close to herself as if it could cover her. Her fingers trembled, barely visibly, as she broke the toast. Crumbs leapt onto the tabletop; she wiped them together immediately—with a care that gave away how desperately she wanted to put something in order that was not the table.\n\nSusan moved in the background. The sound of the coffee machine, a spoon ticking against porcelain. No eye contact, no word. Only the routine of a house that accepted their silence.\n\nChris felt his neck burning. He forced his shoulders down, stared at the edge of his plate until it became sharp. When he reached for the juice, his finger briefly touched Christine’s—a fleeting electric shock—both of them jerked back at the same time, the glasses clinking softly. No one looked up.\n\nWhen Christine stood, she pushed her chair back too quietly. Chris stayed seated until her plate had fallen silent in the sink. Only then did he breathe in deeply, not out of relief, but because there was enough air again. The shame remained like a film on the skin—invisible, sticky, stubborn—and accompanied them wordlessly into the day.\n\n[[Continue|Samstag, Susan neue Ideen.]]

<div class="psychedelic-text">“No,” Chris said. “I don’t want to.”\n\nThe boy heard the word, but not the meaning. His grin only twitched briefly. “Don’t be like that,” he said, as if it were a running joke. His hand pressed more firmly against Chris’s hip. “Just dancing.”\n\nChris backed away. “I said no.”\n\nIt changed nothing.\n\nThe guy was taller, broader, heavier, and he had the effortless advantage of someone who wasn’t impressed by a no. He simply put his arm around Chris’s waist, turned him roughly, and pulled him toward the living room, into the crush of the dance floor.\n\nChris stumbled in the heels, tried to break free, but the bass swallowed every quiet “Let me go.” Bodies pressed in from all sides, red cups, shoulders, laughter, a flickering trail of light. He knew he would have reacted differently before, as a boy, with a wider stance, with the certainty that he was not to be touched. But now, in this ultra-short skirt, in the tight top, with lip gloss and hoop earrings, he felt how useless that old role was to him.\n\nMy no as a girl doesn’t count, shot through his head.\n\nThe boy whirled him around, a sudden spin that made Chris’s skirt jerk upward. He instinctively grabbed for the hem, lost his balance doing it, and was caught again. It didn’t feel like dancing, but like being guided like a doll whose movements someone else controlled. The grip on his waist grew firmer, the boy’s hips pressed against him, too close, too unmistakable.\n\nThe music pumped, the alcohol pulling like cotton around his thoughts. Everything was too loud, too bright, too close. Chris’s heart raced, but his body reacted only halfway, as if he were watching from a small distance. The boy laughed into his ear, said something blurred about “a body like that” and “you’re probably wild.” Words that felt like sticky fingers.\n\nOne of the boy’s hands slid higher, the other lower, feeling where no stranger belonged. It was no longer just uncomfortable, it was a crossing. A clear boundary, except no one stopped.\n\nChris’s stomach cramped. He wanted to say “Stop,” wanted to push, kick, do anything. But his legs were soft, his head heavy, the grip too firm. The moment stretched, the air grew thinner. He felt more vulnerable than ever: made physically smaller, trapped inside an image others had of him. He was not the strong big brother. He was, right now, the girl in the miniskirt whom someone could simply push wherever he wanted her.\n\nThe boy moved closer, his hand tight on Chris’s hip, before Chris could even form another clear thought. The bass thudded dully against his ribs, the light flickered, and then suddenly the boy’s mouth was on his.\n\nThe kiss was wet, heavy, too insistent. The taste of cheap alcohol, something sweet, and cigarettes. Not a cautious approach, but an assault. Chris’s lips stayed rigid at first, then gave way, more reflex than consent, because his body was fogged and his head too slow. It felt wrong, as if someone were reaching into his space and rearranging everything without asking.\n\nThe alcohol rose hot into his head. Lights blurred, faces turned into smears. He knew boundaries were being crossed here, but his thoughts moved as if through syrup. The hand on his hip wandered farther, the grip becoming more possessive. Chris’s heart hammered. He felt helpless—too small, too light, too quiet.\n\nChris felt his hand on his butt. He groped his ass through the miniskirt. No longer an accident, no “oops, it happens while dancing.” It was deliberate. A boundary, crossed.\n\nThe guy’s hand felt like a brand.</div>\n\n''How does Chris react?''\n<<if $alkohol < 2>>[[He slaps him.|Er gibt ihm eine Ohrfeige.2]]<<else>>[[Chris is too drunk.|Chris ist zu betrunken.2]]<<endif>>

<div class="psychedelic-text">“No,” Chris said. The word came out quieter than he wanted. “I don’t want to dance.”\n\nThe guy grinned as if he’d heard a bad joke. “Come on,” he said. “Don’t be like that.” His grip on Chris’s hip grew firmer. It was no longer an offer.\n\nChris took a step back, almost stumbling over his own heels. “I mean it. No.”\n\nIt bounced off.\n\nThe boy grabbed him by the hand, by the waist, pulled him toward the dance floor with a matter-of-factness as if Chris were just an accessory you could take along. His strength was an effortless tug; Chris was light, the miniskirt offered no hold, the strappy heels made every bit of resistance shaky.\n\nOn the dance floor, the bass hit them head-on. The guy turned him into the crowd, one hand on his back, the other on his hip, pressing, steering. Chris felt like a doll being set in motion—without being asked whether it wanted to play along.\n\nThe “being a boy” that still existed somewhere inside him didn’t help him here one bit. No weight, no authority. In this room, he was what everyone saw: a too-skimpy dressed girl with too much skin and too little strength.\n\nThe vulnerability hit him physically. He realized how easy it was for the other guy to turn him, pull him, hold him in place. His arms were too weak, his balance too fragile, the alcohol too loud in his head.\n\nThe guy spun him around, laughed, slurred something into his ear that disappeared into the bass. His body moved closer. One hand slid lower, over the hem of the miniskirt. Chris’s chest bumped against him because he couldn’t keep any distance. Every attempt to pull free was answered by a new, firm grab.\n\nThe boy moved closer, his hand tight on Chris’s hip, before Chris could even form another clear thought. The bass thudded dully against his ribs, the light flickered, and then suddenly the boy’s mouth was on his.\n\nThe kiss was wet, heavy, too insistent. The taste of cheap alcohol, something sweet, and cigarettes. Not a careful approach, but an assault. Chris’s lips stayed stiff at first, then yielded, more reflex than consent, because his body was fogged and his head too slow. It felt wrong, as if someone were reaching into his space and rearranging everything without asking.\n\nThe alcohol rose hot into his head. Lights blurred, faces became smears. He knew boundaries were being crossed here, but his thoughts moved as if through syrup. The hand on his hip wandered farther, the grip became more possessive. Chris’s heart hammered. He felt helpless—too small, too light, too quiet.\n\nThe boy leaned closer, his alcohol-heavy breath against Chris’s cheek, his fingers brazen on the fabric as if he had every right to it. Chris felt his hand on his butt. He was groping his ass through the miniskirt.\n\nThe guy’s hand felt like a brand.</div>\n\n''How does Chris react?''\n<<nobr>><<if $alkohol < 2>>[[He slaps him.|Er gibt ihm eine Ohrfeige.3]]<<else>>[[Chris is too drunk.|Chris ist zu betrunken.3]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris took the beer. It was cold, bitter, and honest, and after just the first few sips he felt something inside him loosen – not dramatically, more like a knot slowly giving way. The noises grew softer, the people around him less threatening, more part of a shared wave. His thoughts slipped less into “What if…?” and more into “Now.”\n\nWhen Northern Static started up again, the music felt closer, as if it were not only coming from the stage, but from the room itself. Chris swayed, then moved a little more freely. He noticed that he was laughing more often – at little things, at a particularly perfect transition in the song, at Zeke’s face when the bass hit exactly right.\n\nThe alcohol was taking effect: His shoulders stayed down, his head stayed warm, and he wondered less whether he was “right” and more whether he was happy right now. And yes – he was.\n\nThen came the live highlight.\n\nA few guitar notes that Chris recognized immediately, before the title was even visible. His heart gave that leap only favorite songs can trigger. “Glassfields.”\n\nChris got goosebumps, properly visible, on his legs beneath the leather skirt. The song began quietly, almost transparently – as if it were drawing a landscape you could not touch. And as he listened, he unconsciously moved closer to Zeke. First only half a step. Then he leaned against him again, as if it were the most natural place in the world. Zeke said nothing, but his hand rested loosely against Chris’ body.\n\nWith every movement, Zeke could see the pretty little breasts outlined beneath the skimpy top, and he felt his arousal beginning to stir. Zeke almost had the feeling that Chris was deliberately flirting with him, because the beautiful bare legs alone, together with the ankle boots, made the blood rush through his veins and nearly drove him out of his mind.\n\nWith every further build of “Glassfields,” Chris seemed to press closer, as if his body were searching for the sound. His chest briefly brushed Zeke’s upper body, and he noticed that Zeke moved closer too.\n\nChris looked up and saw a few women being lifted onto their boyfriends’ shoulders so they could see better. They laughed, waved, as if they had won a private vantage point. For a moment, Chris found the image surprisingly beautiful – not cheesy, but practical and affectionate.\n\nZeke noticed where Chris was looking and bent toward him so Chris could understand him at all over the noise. “Do you want that too? Up on my shoulders?”\n\nDamn, Zeke was hot for Chris. His sweet breasts, whose nipples were now pressing excitedly through the thin fabric of his top, Chris’ gorgeous ass, which Zeke would have loved to touch, and those wonderful long legs on top of it all had put his mind out of commission. He would have given anything to have Chris on his shoulders.\n\nChris felt the beer in his cheeks, the warm sense of courage in his stomach – and at the same time the sudden nervousness: so high up, so visible, so… trusting. His hands were still on Zeke’s forearm, and “Glassfields” was building again, as if the song itself were waiting for the answer.\n\n''How does Chris decide?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $temp == 2>>\n[[He lets Zeke lift him up, risking standing in the spotlight and placing himself completely under Zeke’s protection.|Er lässt sich von Zeke hochheben, mit dem Risiko, im Rampenlicht zu stehen und sich völlig in Zekes Schutz zu begeben.][$kissboy += 1]]\n<<else>>\n\n[[He stays down and enjoys the song from the floor.|Er bleibt unten und genießt den Song vom Boden aus.][$kissboy += 1]]\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Chris’s face grew hot; he hastily lowered his gaze and set the cup down a little too loudly.\n\nDeShawn grinned crookedly. “Got it—shy.”\n\nHe pulled the robe closed again, tied the belt, and took the cup in his hand.\n\n“I’m going to go wake your mother up now with coffee in my hand. After she’s blown me, I’m going to enjoy her glorious pussy again and then fuck her brains out every which way.” He headed toward the door. On the threshold, he turned around once more, still grinning. “You can watch if you want. I’ll leave the door open for you.”\n\nThen he had already disappeared again. But his big black cock remained behind in Chris’s memory. Chris shook his head. The bulge in his nightgown hadn’t gotten smaller for even a moment. Quite the opposite, in fact, even if he didn’t want to admit it.\n\nWhat was he supposed to do? Spy on his mother while she was having sex? That was definitely out of the question. She was his mother, not a sex object. Honestly, he didn't want to witness any of the sex at all.\n\nHowever, the path back to his room led him right past his mother's bedroom. He crept along as quietly as possible, trying to keep the floorboards from creaking. Why, though? Maybe if they did creak, his mother would actually do something—at the very least, close the bedroom door.\n\nChris couldn't quite bring himself to admit it, but whatever was going on inside that room... well, it intrigued him somehow.\n\nJust before reaching the bedroom door, he heard the first unmistakable sounds. Those hard-to-describe yet instantly recognizable noises that signal a really good blowjob.\n\n"Well? Does my cock taste good? Better than a morning coffee to wake you up, isn't it?" DeShawn’s voice slid into a moan. "Yeah—just like that. Nice and deep."\n\nAs Chris listened, he had slowly kept creeping forward. Now he stood right at the door. One step further, and he would see exactly what was happening inside the room. His cock was hard as steel. He didn't want to feel this way—he really didn't—but the sounds, the thoughts... they were turning him on. In a way he knew was wrong. But he couldn't help it.\n\n\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[He peeks inside.|Er schaut hinein.][$susan += 1]]\n❯ [[He hurries back to his room.|Er geht schnell in sein Zimmer.]]\n

After dinner, Chris had to somehow get rid of his date without making a scene. The man was already standing too close on the sidewalk, as if he had a claim on the rest of the evening.\n\n“So… that was great,” Chris said, forcing on a smile that felt like tape. “I… I’ll definitely text you.”\n\n“For real?” The guy grinned as if he had just won.\n\n“Yeah. For real,” Chris lied, hearing for himself how unconvincing it sounded. He waved once more, then quickly turned around and walked a few steps without looking back. Only once he was out of reach did he really breathe out. His stomach was finally full, but his head felt as if it needed to apologize for it.\n\nHe waited in front of the restaurant under the warm light of the awning and pretended to type on his phone. In truth, he was simply glad to be alone. When Zoe came out a few minutes later, she looked more relaxed than she had all day. Her date walked beside her, polished, in a good mood, as if the evening were only just beginning for him.\n\n“There you are,” Zoe said, giving Chris a look that asked everything okay? and at the same time made fun of the fact that he had survived.\n\n“Yeah,” Chris muttered. “I’m just… done.”\n\nZoe’s date clapped his hands. “Okay, next spot. There’s a bar up ahead, not far. You coming?” He said it as if it weren’t a question, but the logical next step.\n\nChris immediately shook his head. “I—”\n\n“Come on,” Zoe cut in, totally casual. “Just for a bit. And we’ll walk. It’s around the corner.”\n\n“I actually want to go home,” Chris said, but his eyes went to Zoe. He thought about how quickly things could turn if someone drank too much, if someone believed a date was an invitation to more. He didn’t want to be the one getting a call later in the hallway of some stranger’s house. Not again.\n\n“I’ll come,” he finally said, more to himself than to them. “But only for a bit.”\n\n“Good bodyguard,” Zoe grinned.\n\nThe bar was dark, loud, and warm, with neon on the walls and music that pulsed through the room like a heartbeat. Rows of bottles gleamed behind the counter, and everywhere people stood in little groups, so close together that words only existed near ears. Chris sat down beside Zoe on a high stool, his legs automatically neat.\n\nZoe’s date ordered as if he had done it a thousand times before. “Three drinks,” he said, not even really putting the menu down. “On me.”\n\nChris wanted to protest, but the man waved him off. “Tonight we’re not counting. Tonight we’re living.”\n\nZoe took her glass, clinked it, and drank as if it were a small victory. Chris sipped more carefully. The alcohol tasted sweet and still burned. After a few sips, he felt the edges in his head soften a little—the fear, the shame, the pressure.\n\nZoe’s date was charming enough to keep everyone in the conversation, and bold enough to keep bringing Chris into it. “You’re so quiet,” he said once, leaning in Chris’s direction. His eyes slid briefly over Chris’s legs, lingering a little too long.\n\nChris grew warm and pretended not to notice. “I’m just tired,” he said.\n\n“Tired can be fixed,” the guy said, grinning. “Another one?”\n\nChris wanted to say no—and realized he was hesitating. Part of him felt flattered, even though he didn’t want to admit it to himself. It was a dangerously pleasant feeling: being seen, wanted, even courted a little. Zoe didn’t seem to have a problem with it.\n\nThe guy bought the next round, and Chris drank more slowly, but he drank. The noise of the bar grew softer, the music less aggressive, more like a blanket. He even laughed once—quietly, surprised at himself—when Zoe said something mean about Pittsburgh accents and her date took it far too seriously.\n\nAnd at some point Chris realized the alcohol was slowly going to his head: a light dizziness, a warmth in his stomach, a feeling of “Maybe everything isn’t quite so bad right now” that was comforting and dangerous at the same time.\n\n[[Continue|Der spätere Abend.]]

Later that evening, when the music briefly changed and a few guests seemed to move forward on their own, Chris only understood what was about to happen when someone called loudly: “Okay, all unmarried ladies to the front!”\n\nThe bride was already standing with her back to the crowd, the bouquet held high above her head. A few women giggled, crowded together, some making jokes about who would be “next.” Chris remained standing at the edge for a moment, unsure whether he even belonged there. Then a cousin of the bride’s kindly tapped him on the arm and pulled him into the group, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.\n\nChris stood between two women who smelled of perfume and sparkling wine, and felt his cheeks already growing warm. Of course, he thought, of course I’m standing here now.\n\n“Ready?” the bride called.\n\nA countdown, laughter, then the bridal bouquet flew.\n\nFor Chris, in the first moment, it looked like a colorful ball of green and white simply rising into the air. Hands shot up. Someone squealed. Chris raised his arms reflexively—not because he necessarily wanted to win, but because his body was faster than his head. And suddenly the bouquet landed right in his hands, soft and surprisingly heavy.\n\nFor half a second, everything was silent.\n\nThen an “Aaaah!” broke out, as if someone had set off fireworks. Heads turned, fingers pointed. Chris stood there with the bouquet in front of his chest, as if he had been caught. His face turned bright red, and he did not know whether to laugh or drop the bouquet.\n\n“Oh my God, she caught it!” someone called.\n\n“Awww!” came again from some corner.\n\nChris forced himself into an embarrassed smile, murmured something like “Uh… thanks?” and took a small step back, as if he could maneuver himself out of the spotlight. He felt shamefully on display—all eyes on him, as if he had just won a role he had not even wanted.\n\n[[Continue|Chris wird von einem Betrunkenen bedrängt.]]

The afternoon sun hung low over Maplewood as Chris stood at the bus stop. The day lay heavily behind him—ID photo, hall monitor, homeroom, PE—and yet it felt as if he had only just begun chewing on a new language. Most important point: the disguise had held. For the first time in hours, he breathed in a way that didn’t sound like work.\n<<set $ort to "school parking lot">>\nBeside him, a few younger boys with oversized backpacks and even bigger voices gathered, trying them out in whispers—a kind of training mode for courage. “Shit, look at her,” one murmured. “She’s hot. Look at her ass.” Another: “Out of your league, bro.” Laughter that was more air than sound.\n\nChris let his gaze wander over the sidewalk—searching for the “her,” some other girl at the edge drawing those looks. Two seniors stood farther ahead, a few theater kids were discussing a scene. No one seemed… Then he noticed how the boys briefly shifted closer together, how their eyes moved in the same rhythm—and caught on him.\n\nHis heart made an illogical jump, as if the ground had briefly vanished. Heat rose into his neck, into his cheeks. Embarrassment spread through his stomach like tea that was too hot. He looked away, as casually as one can only manage with practice.\n\n“Get used to it, Chris,” a voice whispered at his shoulder. Christine had stepped beside him silently, her phone half in her hand, half as a shield. Her gaze stayed forward, as if she had noticed nothing—and yet everything. “It just means it’s working.”\n\nThe bus turned the corner, brakes squealed, the doors folded open. The crowd condensed into a tight funnel. As they boarded, someone behind pushed forward too quickly; a few hands, an apology, something that briefly pressed against Chris’s ass. One of the boys was suddenly standing very close behind him—close the way people get on a bus when everyone is thinking “me first” at the same time.\n\n“Sorry,” the boy muttered. Chris pulled his bag closer to his body, searching the aisle with his gaze, the free seat. Christine made room beside herself with an almost invisible movement, as if she had saved the spot for him in advance.\n\nThey slid onto the bench, and the bus lurched into motion. Chris could still feel the leftover closeness of the line like a shadow on his skin and stared out the window, where Maplewood passed by in warm colors: lawns, sprinklers, brick. A day full of embarrassments, yes. But also a day in which the world had taken his “as if” and not given it back.\n\nThe bus hummed, someone laughed two rows back, and Chris breathed in. Inside, he counted the stops as if they were steps on a staircase leading to an evening when he didn’t want to hear any reports—and would hear them anyway.\n\n[[Continue|Busfahrt.]]

He stopped briefly in front of the door to the D&D room, listened to the familiar clatter of dice—and then walked on after all. Enough construction sites already, he told himself. One more club would blow his head apart. So: bus, home, breathe.\n\nThe school bus spat him out at the corner, and Chris set his backpack down in the hallway right away. “Mom? Can I have your credit card? I’m meeting a friend at the mall.”\n\nSusan came out of the kitchen, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and took the credit card from her wallet. “Here. But don’t go overboard. Understood?”\n\n“Understood.” He slipped the card into the small zippered compartment of his handbag and noticed how it felt both “grown-up” and “supervised” at the same time.\n\nHe still had time until four. Another problem had been burning under his skin since the break. He took a breath, then knocked on Christine’s door and pushed it open a crack. “Hey… uh—do you have… I mean… a—” He broke off, searching for the word that felt ridiculously difficult. “A sanitary pad for me?”\n\nChristine looked up from her phone, frowning as if a perverted predator were standing in front of her. “What? What for?”\n\n“Camouflage,” he said quickly, and the redness crept into his cheeks. “Today at school, a girl asked me if I had one with me. I didn’t. It was… embarrassing. I thought… in case someone asks again…” He crossed his arms, uncrossed them again. “Just to be safe.”\n\nChristine’s face relaxed, the suspicion melting into understanding. “Ah.” She stood up, opened a drawer in her wardrobe, and pulled out a single sanitary pad. “Here.”\n\nChris reached out his hand and stopped at the last moment, as if the little packet were electrified. It was so… concrete. A thing that had never existed in his world before. He took it carefully, as if it might break. “Thanks.”\n\nChristine raised an eyebrow. “It’s unused.”\n\n“I know,” he muttered, and immediately felt even redder. He slipped the pad into his handbag, into the compartment beside the lip balm and tissues. The weight was hardly worth mentioning—and yet the bag suddenly felt… more real. More complete. Another check mark on a list he had never wanted to write.\n\n“Have fun at the mall,” Christine said and sat back down on the bed.\n\nHe gave a brief, grateful smile and pulled the door shut behind him.\n\nUpstairs in his room, he changed shoes, checked the time, reached for his phone. The credit card was secure in the inner pocket, the pad in the small compartment. At the thought of the fountain at the mall, he felt both light and heavy. He slung the bag over his shoulder, took one last look in the mirror—hair correct, dress smooth—and set off. Charlotte was waiting. And somewhere between pajamas, neon light, and the food court, this strange day would continue.\n\n[[Continue|In der Mall.]]

Chris searched for more words, ones heavy enough to carry the weight. “You’re not ugly, Chrissie. Really not. You’re—”\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">>\n“It’s okay, <<if $chrisorsis == 1>>Sis<<else>>Chris<<endif>>,” she murmured. Her voice sounded softer, but tired. “It’s sweet how you care. But… from you, it sounds different.” A brief pause. “To me, you’re… more like a sister. Or like a friend. If a boy said it—really one—then…” She broke off, exhaled audibly. “They’d say I’m not pretty.”\n\nHe wanted to argue immediately; instead, he felt his throat tighten.\n\n“At school they look at you, not me,” she continued more quietly. “Because of… well. Your pretty bust.” The last word stumbled, as if she were ashamed to say it. “That matters to boys. More than anything else.”\n\nHeat rose into his cheeks. He said nothing; only his arm involuntarily pulled the blanket a little higher. Embarrassment and a crooked, helpless understanding collided.\n\n“Maybe boys are just dumb,” he finally said, with a crooked smile that was barely visible in the dark.\n\n“Shallow,” she confirmed into the pillow. “Two brain cells and both of them arguing.”\n\n“And both of them losing,” he added.\n\nA small, genuine-sounding giggle slipped out of her. “Totally.”\n\nThey kept talking like that for a while longer, quietly and with ever-longer pauses: about stupid comments in the halls, about rankings, about looks that stuck like chewing gum under desks. They built a little camp out of mockery and solidarity, until the sentences grew shorter and their tiredness pulled at them.\n\nChristine stayed lying with her back to him, her breathing slowly becoming even. Chris kept his hand in her hair, stroked it gently one more time, and let his fingers rest there until her breathing fell into that deep, calm rhythm that said she was finally asleep. Only then did he close his eyes too.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n[[Continue|Samstag, Susan neue Ideen.]]

On Friday, the Homecoming dance was the topic of conversation everywhere, even before the first bell rang. In the halls, dress colors were being compared, hairstyles shown on phones, nails inspected, and plans whispered.\n<<set $wochentag = 5>><<set $ort to "school">>\nChris got a stomachache just thinking about it. The same sentence kept running through his head: I’m supposed to go with Adam and then somehow also not. Adam had sold it as “fair”: a photo for his parents, then they would go their separate ways. But the mere thought of attracting attention next to him at all made Chris’s stomach clench.\n\nDuring break, a few girls were sitting together and speaking only in dance vocabulary: “dress,” “limo,” “DJ,” “after.” Christine was with them, but unusually quiet. No one asked her directly whether she was going, no one made the usual couple small talk with her—as if everyone understood that “Myles” was a sore spot one politely avoided. The silence around her seemed almost louder than any topic.\n\nThen the attention turned to Chris.\n\n“And you?” one of the girls asked, as if she had only just noticed that he hadn’t answered yet. “Are you going to Homecoming?”\n\nChris felt his stomach tighten immediately. He forced himself into a small nod. “Yeah… I am.”\n\n“Ooooh!” At once, heads were pushed closer together. “With whom?” “Don’t tell me you’re keeping it secret!” “Is it someone from the football team?”\n\nChris’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t say Adam’s name. Not here. Not among these curious eyes that would repeat every detail on the dance floor tomorrow. He searched for a way out that wouldn’t betray him and would still sound plausible.\n\n“I… am coming alone,” he finally said, a little too quickly.\n\nThe conversation didn’t stop, but it took on a different tone. Two girls exchanged that look that was both pity and silent judgment—What’s wrong with her?—and Chris felt it like a cool hand on the back of his neck.\n\n“Going to Homecoming alone is kind of… okay too,” one said after a moment, trying to sound casual.\n\n“Some boys go alone too,” another added, as if that were comfort that was absolutely needed. “And who knows—maybe you’ll find someone at the dance.” The smile that went with it was gentle, but unmistakably pitying, as if they were handing him a fortune cookie of hope.\n\nChris nodded, smiled, the way you did when you couldn’t explain why you had to lie. “Yeah. We’ll see,” he said, and only hoped no one would later notice how much those “poor thing” looks suddenly got to him more than the curious questions.\n\n[[Continue|Samstag, Tag des Schulballs.3]]

On the way home, Chris was already painting the next catastrophe in HD. After yesterday’s room transformation—rosy walls, heart pillows, vanity—he believed his mother capable of anything. Maybe she had gathered the family in Germany for a video chat to show off her “daughter.” Or—even worse—she would be standing there with a packed hospital bag, ready to drag him straight to a plastic surgeon. The thought alone made his stomach briefly drop.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nThe front door opened—and there Susan actually stood in the hallway. With a packed bag. “Come on,” she said, and in her voice lay that bright sparkle that never left any option. “It’s going to be a surprise.”\n\nChris’s pulse jumped. “What… kind of surprise?”\n\n“You’ll see.” That didn’t sound like a doctor’s office, but it wasn’t reassuring either.\n\nThey drove downtown and parked in front of a small studio with large windows and letters in soft gray: Blossom Yoga. Inside: wood, plants, muted light, that calming scent that lives somewhere between citrus and clean sweat. Susan placed her hand lightly on his back. “This strengthens our bond,” she said, “and it’s good for you physically. Breathing, posture, core.”\n\nIn the changing room, Chris tried to use the air for breathing and not for staring. Adult women calmly changed into sports clothes. He kept his eyes fixed on his bag as if answers were hidden inside—above all, not toward his mother. She had packed him a cropped tee and a skort: skirt on the outside, shorts on the inside—“practical,” she had said, “and pretty.” He slipped into it. The skort sat surprisingly securely; the top left a hand’s width of skin bare above the waistband. His mother slipped into tight pink leggings that left little room for imagination and a tank-top-like top through which her already slightly sagging melons were almost squeezed out of the neckline.\n\n“You know,” she said while tying her hair back tightly, “a navel piercing would suit you.” Her gaze traveled exactly along the hand’s width above his waistband. Chris’s heart stopped. Outside, two shops down, there really was a sign in cursive reading Piercing & Ink. Please don’t, please don’t have seen that, he thought so loudly it was almost a prayer.\n\n“Come on.” Susan grabbed the mat. “We’re up in a moment.”\n\nIn the training room, warm wood lay under muted light; long mirrors on one side, on the other windows facing the courtyard, where bamboo clacked in the wind. At the front stood the instructor—a tall, muscular Black man, maybe in his early thirties, in simple dark shorts and a sleeveless shirt. His shoulders looked carved, deltoids like domes, his forearms sinewy; hands large, calm. A subtle tattoo pushed out from under the fabric at his upper arm, geometric, precise. His face was open, friendly, with calm, deep-set eyes; his short hair was neatly cut, his beard closely trimmed. When he spoke, his voice sounded warm and rich, a tone that made rooms deeper.\n\n“Welcome,” he said, smiling around the room. “I’m [[DeShawn|DeShawn Powell]].” His gaze moved briefly from mat to mat, taking in posture, shoes, readiness in a single look.\n\nAside from them, there were three other women present, all about Susan’s age or older—one with a silver pixie cut, one in wine-red leggings with a determined smile, and a third already impatiently circling her ankles. Susan rolled out her mat directly in front of Chris, placed her palm on his shoulder—firm, as if holding him in the pose—and nodded toward DeShawn. “Trust me,” she whispered. “This is good for you.”\n\nChris set down the water bottle, smoothed the skort, and tried to label the lump in his throat as “anticipation.” DeShawn clapped his hands softly once.\n\n[[Continue|Leichtes Dehnen.][$yoga += 1;$susan_opinion += 20]]

Chris handed her the sunscreen and was just about to turn onto the lounger.\n\n“It works better sitting up,” Charlotte said, and Chris sat back down, shoulders slightly rounded.\n\nCharlotte began spreading the sunscreen over Chris’s back and gently massaged along his spine and shoulders. Suddenly he noticed Charlotte’s left hand moving forward at the level of his stomach, and once it reached the front, slowly wandering upward.\n\nNot a second later, Charlotte’s fingers had slipped under Chris’s bikini top. Charlotte began massaging Chris’s breast with her still-creamy hand and teasing Chris’s nipple with her fingers. Suddenly Charlotte’s right hand also wandered around his stomach to the front, then slowly downward from his navel toward Chris’s hot pants. Chris began breathing heavily and could only whisper with difficulty.\n\n“Oh Charlotte, please don’t do that…”\n\nAt first, Charlotte did not react to Chris’s pleading, though she now let her hand wander downward much more slowly. When she reached Chris’s hot pants, she let her fingers slowly travel from right to left along the edge of the hot pants. Chris was almost certain that in the next moment he would feel her delicate fingers on his now-stiff penis. In fact, he even wanted Charlotte to do exactly that, when she whispered into his ear:\n\n“All right, if you don’t want it, then I just won’t touch you there.”\n\nEven though Charlotte was only honoring Chris’s wish, a certain disappointment was spreading through him.\n\nChris actually expected Charlotte to continue her work on his breasts now, but she only spread the rest of the sunscreen over Chris’s back and then made herself comfortable lying on her stomach on her lounger as if nothing had happened. Chris slowly adjusted the fabric of his now-too-tight hot pants and then lay down on his lounger as well.\n\nTime grew soft. The wooden deck crackled quietly in the heat, a bee hummed somewhere, the ice cubes in the iced tea gave way and turned to water. For Chris, it was a strange new feeling that the sun did not catch his whole upper body—the triangles of the top were a shadow pattern on skin that had not existed yesterday. He blinked, let his thoughts run empty, listened to Charlotte speculating about this year’s homecoming song.\n\n“Too warm?” she asked at some point.\n“A little.”\n“Hot tub?” She nodded over to it. They got up, took the two steps across the deck. Charlotte bent down, pressed the control panel, and with a deep, pleasant rumble the jets came to life. The surface of the water suddenly gained life, bubbles rising like carbonated stars.\n\n“Get in,” Charlotte grinned, holding out her hand as if this were a small dare in the best sense.\n\n[[Continue|Im Whirlpool.]]

Chris leaned forward too. “Okay, that is… actually cute.”\n<<set $RubyMemory[1] to 1>>\nRuby nodded vigorously without looking away. “She looks like a Daisy,” she said spontaneously, as if it were obvious.\n\n“Daisy?” Chris grinned. “That’s not even bad.”\n\n“Or… Muffin,” Ruby considered with a serious expression.\n\nChris laughed softly. “That sounds like a rabbit secretly planning world domination.”\n\nRuby tilted her head and whispered to the animal in an exaggerated conspiratorial voice: “Are you planning world domination, Daisy? Blink once for yes.”\n\nThe rabbit demonstratively cleaned its paw.\n\n“That was a yes,” Ruby decided at once.\n\nChris realized he was getting swept up in it. He crouched down, automatically lowered his voice, and used the same soft tone he otherwise only heard around babies. “Hello, Daisy,” he said, and was briefly startled by how natural it felt. “You’re… really fluffy.”\n\nRuby gave him a triumphant look. “See? You’re like that too.”\n\n“No,” Chris protested halfheartedly—and then held out his finger anyway so Daisy could sniff it. The rabbit briefly pressed its nose against his fingertip, warm and dry.\n\nChris’s face softened without him being able to control it. “Okay. I get it.”\n\nRuby grinned, and for a moment there was a rare, almost childlike joy in her that didn’t have to prove anything. She stroked Daisy very carefully over the head, only a few millimeters, and Daisy stayed calmly seated, as if she had decided to accept Ruby.\n\n“If I didn’t already have a horse,” Ruby murmured wistfully, “I would…”\n\n“You’d buy out the whole store,” Chris added.\n\n“Maybe,” Ruby admitted, completely shameless. “But only the nice ones.”\n\nThe clerk came back and set Ruby’s order on the counter. Ruby straightened up, suddenly matter-of-fact again, as if someone had flipped a switch. “Thank you,” she said professionally, taking the bag.\n\nThen she cast one last look back at Daisy, leaned forward a little, and whispered, “Bye, Daisy. Be good, okay?”\n\nChris shook his head, laughing, and as they left the store, Monday felt a little less like Monday for a few minutes.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n[[Continue|Bonding mit Mom.]]

He took a deep breath and faced Lucas.\n\n“Lucas…” he began quietly, “you’re really… I mean, I like you, but… I have to break up... It’s not you, it’s me.” The moment he said it, he heard how hollow it sounded. “I—I think it’s better if we just… stay friends. Really.”\n\nLucas blinked, as if someone had briefly switched the light off and on again. “Friends?” he repeated, and the word fell heavily to the floor. “But—I thought—you said—”\n\n“I know.” Chris’s voice almost broke. “It was all… complicated. I didn’t want you to—” He broke off, searched for another sentence, and found only the next cliché. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re… great. I’m just not at a point right now where—”\n\nLucas nodded, too quickly. The color drained from his face, and his hand clenched around the handle of his bag. “Sure.” He tried to smile; it didn’t work. “Then… uh… thanks for telling me.”\n\n“I’m sorry,” Chris said, and meant it. “I never wanted to—”\n\n“It’s okay.” Lucas took half a step back, then another. “I have to… put some things away.” His voice grew thin. “See you around.”\n\nHe turned and walked away. Not running, but as if only a thread were holding him together. Chris watched him go and felt the lump in his throat grow bigger. He should never have gotten involved in this fake-girlfriend thing. But back then, after the party, it had seemed like the only way to save his fragile “girl” image. Now someone else was paying the price.\n\nAt the end of the hall, Ruby slipped out of a side door. She had apparently taken in the scene from a distance. Without comment, she stepped beside Lucas, matched her stride to his, and placed a hand between his shoulder blade and back—not some grand comfort, more of an I’m here for you. Lucas nodded almost imperceptibly, and the two of them turned the corner.\n\nChris stayed behind, his hands buried in his sleeves, and stared at the floor.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $unterwaesche == 1>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.]]<<else>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

After the opening round, the contestants were not sent away immediately. A helper lined them up in a row, shoulder to shoulder, their numbers clearly visible. The host stepped back to the microphone, smiled broadly at the crowd, and raised her arms as if initiating a ritual everyone was supposed to already know.\n<<set $SusanMemory[4] to 1>>\n“And before we move on to selecting the next round,” she said, “we’d like to recite our motto together. Just a small sign of tradition and community.”\n\nA helper waved behind the stage, and all the girls were whispered the same sentence so no one would get mixed up. Harmlessly phrased, nothing one could objectively call offensive—and yet when they said it together in perfect unison, it suddenly sounded eerie. Too synchronized. Too smooth. As if the town were briefly practicing what it sounded like when everyone wanted the same thing.\n\n“For Maplewood,” the host began.\n\nAll the contestants, Chris included, repeated: “For Maplewood.”\n\n“For our spirit,” said the host.\n\n“For our spirit,” they replied, and Chris noticed the hairs on the back of his neck rise ever so slightly.\n\nThe crowd clapped as if it were touching. Chris smiled into the string lights, but inwardly he was glad it would be over soon.\n\n“All right,” the host said cheerfully. “And now… let’s see who moves on to the next round!”\n\nA helper brought an envelope. The host pulled out a card, made a small dramatic pause, and read out names. Two contestants breathed out in relief, another smiled too widely, as if she could smile the tension away. Chris heard his own heartbeat. He didn’t expect it. He didn’t want it to continue either—every further step meant more stage, more attention, more risk.\n\n“…and next: Contestant number seventeen—Chris Braun!”\n\nFor a moment Chris didn’t understand the words, as if they had been spoken in a foreign language. Then they hit him. Number seventeen. Him.\n\nHe blinked, feeling his mouth fall slightly open. Beside him, the other contestants clapped, polite and practiced. From the audience came that exaggerated clapping again—Ben, Jay, and Max, of course—like a small thunder rolling through the normal waves of applause.\n\nChris forced himself into a smile that this time consisted of pure disbelief. He took one step forward, as expected, and heard the host: “Congratulations!”\n\nHe had made it through. Unexpectedly.\n\nAnd that frightened him even more than being eliminated.\n\n[[Continue|Runde zwei.]]

<<back "Back">>\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/busen1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/busen1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Name:'' Christoph 'Chris' Braun\n''Age:'' 19\n''Birthday:'' November\n\n''Relationships''\nSusan Braun (39) - mother\nMichael Braun (43) - father\nChristine Braun (18) - younger sister\n\n''Biography''\nChris grew up in Germany, first in Tübingen, later in an outlying district of Stuttgart; his father worked as an engineer, his mother gave up her marketing job for the family. As a child, he was often ill—bronchitis, two brief hospital stays, and at home he was treated as “fragile.” In elementary school, he received praise almost only for being “well-behaved” and “helpful”; his homeroom teacher liked having him wipe the board and hand out notebooks, but rarely asked him to present his own ideas. In 5th/6th grade, his slight build collided with the school bullies—and he learned that standing out hurt: better to adapt, never provoke. After the divorce, he decided to stay with his father; the decision ate into him like a quiet imprint of guilt, especially toward his mother. He escaped into quiet hobbies: sketches in a squared A5 notebook, late-night gaming sessions (he loved “rogue” classes in role-playing games), headphones and post-rock on the way to school. At the beginning of summer break, he ended up in Maplewood: new school, no familiar friends. His English was fluent, but with a soft German accent. Under Susan’s strict direction (clothing, behavior, hormones), his inner conflict grew: outwardly compliant, delicate, and proper; inside, a boy who had learned to be quiet, and yet was beginning to search for his own boundaries.\n\n''Physical Changes''\n<<nobr>>\n\n<ul> <li>My face looks softer, and sometimes I don’t recognize myself in the mirror for a second—and then I do after all.</li> <li>My legs feel smoother after hair removal, and that is exactly why I like rubbing them together.</li> <li>Something is suddenly showing under my top, and my nipples have become more sensitive.</li> <<if $ChrisMemory[0] eq 1>><li>I pretend to be annoyed by makeup, but I know exactly when it looks good.</li><</if>> <<if $ChrisMemory[1] eq 1>><li>The bikini had long since come off, but its shape remained on me. The tan made my curves more noticeable, precisely because the pale areas framed them.</li><</if>> <<if $ChrisMemory[2] eq 1>><li>In the mirror, I see that my butt has become rounder, and my face immediately grows hot. My body is taking on curves in places I never used to think about.</li><</if>> <<if $ChrisMemory[3] eq 1>><li>I smell different. Sometimes I hold my worn clothes against myself and feel ashamed because I smell like a girl.</li><</if>> <<if $ChrisMemory[4] eq 1>><li>My voice sometimes comes out higher without me meaning it to.</li><</if>> <<if $ChrisMemory[5] eq 1>><li>I get cold more quickly, or am I imagining it?</li><</if>> <<if $ChrisMemory[6] eq 1>><li>The scale says almost the same thing as before, but my body contradicts it.</li><</if>> <<if $ChrisMemory[7] eq 1>><li>I hate those tiny seconds when I feel pretty, because then I don’t know who that is just then.</li><</if>> <<if $ChrisMemory[8] eq 1>><li>I hate that I could suddenly cry even though nothing has happened.</li><</if>> <<if $ChrisMemory[9] eq 1>><li>Touches linger on my skin longer, as if they had an echo.</li><</if>> <<if $ChrisMemory[10] eq 1>><li>My skin feels softer, almost too soft. When I put on lotion, my hand sometimes stays on my arm too long because everything feels good.</li><</if>> </ul> <</nobr>> <div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Chris's female sexuality</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>very modest</span> <span>slut</span> </div> <div class="axis-barattraction"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $chris_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $chris_opinion < 20>> strongly inhibited <<elseif $chris_opinion < 40>> uncertain <<elseif $chris_opinion < 60>> cautiously curious <<elseif $chris_opinion < 80>> radiantly feminine <<else>> slut <</if>> </div> </div>\n\n<<back "Back">>

Chris did not remain frozen in place after the kiss. He stayed close to Zeke.\n\nThe rest of the concert passed for him in a warm, vibrating rush: Northern Static built layer upon layer, the light cut the stage in blue and white, and Chris kept finding himself quite naturally near Zeke. Sometimes their shoulders touched, sometimes Zeke’s hand briefly rested against Chris’ back, just to protect him in the crush. Chris even sought that touch now – not greedily, more like someone who had just learned he did not have to run away.\n\nWhen the concert finally faded out in one last great arc, Chris stood in the noise, smiling, feeling absurdly light and incredibly tired at the same time. Zeke was beside him, calm, present. And Chris realized how much that was exactly what reassured him.\n\nOutside, in the cool night air, their ears were still ringing. They walked to the van, and as soon as the doors were closed, it was suddenly quieter – only the hum of the engine, the tires on asphalt.\n\nChris stared out the window for a moment, then it burst out of him, quiet and uncertain: “I’m sorry… about earlier. That I made you—that I didn’t—” He faltered, because the word deceived felt like a stone.\n\nZeke glanced at him, not annoyed, not harsh. “Hey,” he said calmly. “It’s okay. Really.” He tightened one hand briefly on the steering wheel, as if he wanted to ground the subject too. “You are you. I had a damn good evening. End of story.”\n\nChris swallowed and nodded, but the shame still sat inside him like a shadow – just no longer alone.\n\nThey were about halfway back when the van suddenly sounded different. First a short jerk, then an unhealthy stutter. Zeke cursed quietly, steered to the side, and let the vehicle roll to a stop. The warning light came on as if it had been waiting for it.\n\n“Great,” Zeke muttered.\n\nHe got out, opened the hood, and leaned forward. Chris stayed sitting in the vehicle, his hands in his lap, and stared into the darkness of the country road. The sounds were small: crickets, a distant car, Zeke’s steps on gravel.\n\nZeke came back, wiped his hands on a cloth, and called roadside assistance. Chris only heard fragments: “…yes, broken down… no, it won’t start anymore… okay… tomorrow morning?” A longer silence. Then a curt: “All right, thanks.”\n\nHe hung up and looked at Chris. “They can’t come until tomorrow morning.” He shrugged, as if it were annoying, but solvable. “We’ll sleep in the back of the van. I’ve got blankets.”\n\nChris was still so mixed up from everything – the concert, the kiss, the revelation, the relief – that he simply nodded. “Okay,” he said, without really considering what “sleeping in the back of the van” could mean.\n\nHe wrote his mother a message: Van has engine trouble. Roadside assistance won’t come until tomorrow. Sleeping in the van, everything’s okay.\n\nThe reply came immediately, as if she had only been waiting for it:\n<blockquote class="quote">Mom: Have fun. Remember protection.</blockquote> Chris stared at the screen. “Have fun. Remember protection.” The words hit him like a small electric shock. Only then did he understand what might happen soon. Not as horror – more as reality, suddenly very close.\n\n[[Continue|Die nacht im Van.]]

<<back "Back">>\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/Ruby.jpg]]</center> \n''Name:'' Ruby Hicks \n''Age:'' 18 \n''Birthday:'' May\n\n''Relationships''\nMarianne Hicks (43) – mother\nEdward Hicks (50) – father\nGareth Vale (46) – stepfather\nEvan Hicks (15) – younger brother\nLily Hicks (11) – younger sister\n\n''Biography''\nRuby grew up in a house where to-do lists were stuck to the refrigerator like wallpaper. When her mother was in the middle of the divorce, Ruby was the one who packed lunchboxes in the morning, took the little ones to school, coordinated doctor’s appointments, and still quizzed vocabulary in the evening. She became reliable early, out of necessity and out of pride—someone had to keep track of things. By now, her mother is remarried; her stepfather is wealthy, the home calmer and more orderly, but Ruby’s instinctive reach for the calendar has remained. Riding became her anchor during the hardest phase: the stable on the edge of town, the smell of hay and leather, Stardust’s steady breathing. In the saddle, she found a rhythm that required no discussion—a space where no one wanted anything from her except presence.\n\nAt fourteen, Ruby fell in love for the first time, with a boy with a crooked smile and good hair. He was happy to take what she gave—attention, affection, her innocence—and yet denied her in public with a shrug: “Too nerdy,” was his verdict when friends asked. The experience hurt, but it made Ruby realize what she was allowed to demand from people: respect for what she was and what she could do. Since then, she wears her mind like a lifted brow and her friendships like carefully braided reins—firm, but fair. When she gallops across the sand with Stardust, she knows she does not have to run after anyone who does not want to see her.\n\n''Shared Moments / Memories''\n<<nobr>>\n\n<ul> <<if $RubyMemory[5] eq 1>><li>Ruby remembers how Lucas kept glancing over at Chris during theater rehearsals—and how a quiet stab of jealousy stirred inside her, even though she was ashamed of it.</li><</if>> <<if $RubyMemory[0] eq 1>><li>Ruby remembers how Chris wanted to invite her to the party and she cautiously advised him to be on guard around Myles and his boys.</li><</if>> <<if $RubyMemory[1] eq 1>><li>Ruby remembers with a smile how she went to the pet store with Chris and they gave the bunnies silly, far-too-sweet names together.</li><</if>> <<if $RubyMemory[2] eq 1>><li>Ruby remembers how Chris told her that he is a big K-pop fan—and how nice it was to realize that they shared that enthusiasm.</li><</if>> <<if $RubyMemory[3] eq 1>><li>Ruby remembers how she saved Chris from the skunk in the abandoned maple syrup bottling plant—and how he hugged her unusually long and tightly afterward.</li><</if>> <<if $RubyMemory[4] eq 1>><li>Ruby remembers with amusement how conspicuously long Chris looked at Zeke, until she teasingly pointed out to him that Zeke was still single.</li><</if>> </ul> <</nobr>> <div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Ruby’s relationship with Chris</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>Can’t stand Chris</span> <span>Like him</span> </div> <div class="axis-bar"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $ruby_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $ruby_opinion < 20>> can’t stand him <<elseif $ruby_opinion < 40>> tense <<elseif $ruby_opinion < 60>> okay with each other <<elseif $ruby_opinion < 80>> good friend <<else>> best friend <</if>> </div> </div> <<back "Back">>

“I already have a date,” Chris finally said to Susan before she could talk him further into a corner. His heart was beating faster than it needed to. “Tomorrow.”\n<<set $lavern_opinion to 74>><<set $ort to "at home">>\nSusan’s eyes immediately lit up. “Aha. With whom?”\n\n“With [[Laverne|Laverne Johnson]].” Chris deliberately kept his gaze neutral and simply let the syllables stand in the room, without explanation, without adding anything. He didn’t want Susan to turn it into a project.\n\n“Laverne…” Susan repeated, as if testing the name on her tongue. “And who is that?”\n\nChris shrugged, as small as possible. “Someone I met through online dating.” He gave her nothing more. No details, no places, no time. He felt Susan’s curiosity like a hand on his sleeve, but he remained stubborn.\n\nSusan studied him, then smiled with satisfaction, as if the result mattered more than the path. “There you go. See?” She made a dismissive gesture. “Be on time. And look pretty.”\n\nChris only nodded and disappeared into his room before more questions came.\n\n[[Continue|Er hat ein Date mit Laverne.2]]

The Uber stopped in front of the club, and already the thump of the bass vibrated through the sidewalk. Chris got out and immediately had to clutch the doorframe, not for drama, but because the platform high heels felt as if someone had glued two extra floors under his feet. Every step was a small balancing act. He was suddenly tall—unnaturally tall—and at the same time, in the mesh top, he felt so naked, as if there were only a thin excuse made of fabric left between him and the world.\n\nHis mother went ahead as if it were her living room. Chris followed, instinctively keeping an eye on the hem of his skirt, the fishnet tights like a permanent reminder of himself. At the door, a bouncer checked wristbands, stamps, IDs. Susan handled it with a smile that allowed no follow-up questions. Chris felt every glance like a finger, though he wasn’t sure whether anyone was really staring at him or whether his mind was only making it happen.\n\nInside, it was dark, warm, loud. Beams of light cut through fog, and people moved like waves, shoulder to shoulder. Chris’s earrings flashed whenever he turned his head. He tried not to stumble and not to walk as if he were using legs for the first time in his life.\n\nThey had just reached the bar when Chris recognized two silhouettes in the flickering light: DeShawn, muscular, Black, with that calm, upright posture. Beside him was a young woman, Latoya, whose presence instantly made the room feel brighter—dark, warmly shimmering skin, full lips, large almond-shaped “laughing” eyes, and a defined, round Afro that looked like a crown. She moved as if she had music in her blood, even when she was only standing still.\n\n<<if $yoga == 1>>Last year, his mother had dragged him along to a yoga studio like this once. Back then, he had stood on a mat, uncertain, while DeShawn, as the instructor, had corrected him with those strong arms and deep voice.\n\n<<endif>><<if $deshawn > 0 >> His mother and DeShaw were more than just acquaintances, as far as Chris remembered. But his last contact with DeShawn and Latoya was now almost a year ago. Even so, it now felt like a bracket closing again.\n\n<<endif>>[[DeShawn|DeShawn Powell]] recognized Susan immediately, grinned broadly, and spread his arms. “Susan! No way.” He gave her a hug that looked very familiar. Latoya almost squealed with joy. “Girl! You look good!”\n\n<center>[img[pics/susan_club.jpg]]</center> Susan beamed. “We’re celebrating my daughter’s college acceptance today,” she said, placing a hand on Chris’s back as if presenting him.\n\n[[Latoya’s|Latoya Powell]] head snapped toward Chris as if someone had turned the light onto him. She came straight up to him, without hesitation, without distance—exactly the way people are when they have never learned to be shy. “Oh my God, congrats, honey! College? Period!” She grinned, looking him up and down once, but not like the boys at school—more like someone reading an outfit. “And you’re cute… those shoes? You’re tall!”\n\nChris immediately turned red. “Thanks,” he managed, and suddenly sounded very well-behaved and didn’t know what to do with his hands.\n\n[[Continue|DeShawn und Susan tanzen.]]

When Chris came back to the dorm room later, Ruby was already there. Her half was tidy—typical Ruby: stacks of books, a small whiteboard with appointments, a cup full of pens. She looked up at him, and her smile carried that quiet “We really made it.”\n\nThat they had gotten the same room had been “logical” on paper—the same school, the same planning, the same assignment that nobody had questioned. To Chris, it felt more like a lifeline he hadn’t been able to order for himself.\n\nNeither of them said much about it. They unpacked. Sorted things. Put things into drawers, as if drawers could put life in order.\n\nBy evening, it finally grew quiet. The noises in the hallway lessened, voices faded away, doors closed. The room lay in half-darkness: only the light from the hall brushed through the gap under the door, and outside, crickets were humming.\n\n<center>[img[pics/ruby_college.jpg]]</center> Ruby was sitting on the edge of her bed, knees drawn up, wearing a T-shirt, her hair loose. Chris was sitting on his, hands wrapped around a water bottle that had long since been empty. The day had made them both tired—but it was that nervous kind of tiredness that kept you awake.\n\n“This feels… unreal,” Ruby said softly.\n\nChris nodded. “Like tomorrow someone will be there and say it was a mistake.”\n\n“And then we’ll have to go back,” Ruby murmured, and at that sentence Chris’ stomach tightened briefly.\n\n“I’m scared,” he admitted, almost whispering. It wasn’t a big sentence, more like a crack. “Not of college. Of… of messing it up. Of breathing too much and someone noticing that I’m different. Or that…” He stopped, because the “that my mom somehow still…” didn’t come out well.\n\nRuby turned a little toward him. “You didn’t make it this far because you got lucky,” she said calmly. “You made it because you kept going anyway, every single day.”\n\nChris swallowed. The words hit him gently, exactly where he usually only treated himself harshly.\n\n“And you…,” he said, and his voice nearly broke on the simple thought. “You were always… there for me.”\n\nRuby didn’t answer right away. She just stood up, as if her body had decided before her mind could define it. She came over to him, stopping between the beds, close enough that Chris could feel her breath. He automatically raised his hand—not as a plan, more as a reflex—and accidentally brushed her fingers.\n\nIt was nothing. And yet it was everything.\n\nRuby didn’t pull her hand away. Instead, her hand briefly laced with his, as if testing whether he would disappear. Chris’ heart was pounding so loudly that he thought it must be audible out in the hallway.\n\n“I…,” Ruby began, and the rest dissolved into a small, awkward laugh, because words had suddenly become too slow.\n\nChris stood up—too quickly, so that their knees bumped briefly. Both of them inhaled sharply, startled by the closeness, and then remained standing there, as if that very stumble had been the trigger that cracked the last dam.\n\nRuby kissed him first. Briefly, hesitantly, as if she only wanted to check whether it was still real. Chris stayed still—for half a second—and then he kissed her back, as if he had been carrying it in his body for months. The kiss became deeper, more urgent, less careful than their first one. Their hands found purchase on backs, on waists, on ass—not searching for “right,” but for now.\n\nIt felt like a dam breaking: all the pressure, all the months, all the endurance that had never been allowed to go anywhere—and now it was finally allowed to go somewhere. Into warmth. Into closeness. Into this breathless we are here and no one is taking it away from us right now.\n\n[[Continue|Matratzentango.]]

Suddenly a boy appeared next to Charlotte, pushing up against her without warning. He tried to look “casual” to the beat, his hands brushing over Charlotte’s dress.\n\nCharlotte stopped him, then turned to Chris, put her arm around his shoulders, and pulled him close. A smirking grin at the guy. “Sorry,” she called. “I’m here with her.”\n\nThe boy pulled a face, raised his hands defensively, and slunk off. Charlotte left her arm resting loosely on Chris’s back. Chris’s heart stumbled. Part of him knew it had been tactics, pure defense, a performance. But another part painfully wished it were real. Having a hot girlfriend like Charlotte—standing here with her, not just as a shield, but as a “we”—would have been a dream.\n\nThe music changed. A poppy 2000s hit mixed into the air, so bright and familiar that it immediately bored through the drunken layers. A song Chris’s family had listened to over and over on road trips in the car, when the back seat had been cramped but safe, Chris’s father at the wheel and Christine and Chris singing together. Before the divorce, before Maplewood, before pink rooms.\n\nNow the first lines fell, and Christine, somewhere between Myles’s arms, jerked her head up. “Oh my God!” she called and looked over at Chris.\n\nFor one brief moment, their eyes met across the dance floor. Both sang the same chorus, louder than necessary. Myles still held Christine’s waist, Charlotte’s arm was still half against Chris’s back, the lights flickered—but between it all, something warm stretched out: a sibling thread that for one short moment felt like it used to, before everything had become complicated.\n\nThey grinned at each other. Just one second. Then the music tore them apart again.\n\n[[Continue|Pinkelpause.]]

One evening, Susan placed a small blister pack on the table as if it were just another household rule—something you didn’t debate.\n“This is part of it now,” she said. “Your pretty pills.”\n\nChris stared at the pink-and-white tablets as if they were pebbles from a different planet. “What is that?”\n“Hormones.” Susan said the word without hesitation. “Every day. So the picture matches.”\n“Mom—”\nHer gaze cut the rest off. “Take one.”\n\nSomething inside Chris tore—quietly, like a film snapping mid-reel. He swallowed, throat dry—then the pill—with a mouthful of water that tasted like metal. No pain spread through him, only a sharp understanding: this wasn’t temporary. Not “until you calm down.” It was a renovation plan. With a foundation.\n\nThe lessons became more routine, more detailed, almost eerie. And eventually, when his walk was rounder, his voice steadier, and his clothes no longer looked like a costume, Susan said: “Good. For a start, I’m satisfied.” She sat down across from him, crossed her legs. “From now on, I expect initiative. I’m not going to dictate every step to you anymore. You prove to me that you want to be a real girl—you follow the rules, practice, inform yourself. For that, I’ll reward you at the end of the month. If you refuse, there will be consequences. I’m keeping a list.”\n\nChris said nothing. The word “list” sounded like a cold metal ruler being placed on the table.\n\n“And listen: if you have questions, come to me or to Christine. She can show you makeup, too. You’re going to need it.”\n\nLater, he ran into Christine in the hallway, a water bottle in one hand, her phone in the other. “Mom told me I’m supposed to report every evening what you do outside,” she said sheepishly. “Not because I want to rat you out. She… well, you know her.”\n\n“Outside,” Chris repeated, and his gaze drifted down over himself, over skirt, over blouse. He could hardly imagine opening the front door in this shell.\n\nChristine shrugged, putting on a crooked smile. “If it makes you feel better: I’ll… keep it brief.” Then, more quietly: “And if you want to know anything—ask me. Seriously.”\n\nHe was left alone on the landing. “Makeup,” he murmured. The word fell embarrassingly from his mouth. Wearing makeup as a boy, having his own skin painted—it was as if he were painting over his old self with cotton swabs. And yet: it could be useful. Maybe someday it would protect him from an exposing glance.\n\nHe remembered his mother’s sentence: “You’re going to need it.” And [[Christine’s|Christine Braun]] offer.\n\nHe stood there, between room and stairs, between “never” and “maybe I have to.” Then he breathed in, counted to three, and…\n\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[He asks Christine for help with makeup, even though the thought alone makes him uncomfortable.|Er fragt Christine nach Hilfe beim Schminken.][$schminke += 1;$stil += 1]]\n❯ [[He decides to manage without makeup for now, even if that makes him more vulnerable.|Er versucht ohne Schminken klar zu kommen.][$schminke += 0]]

They put the binders back away, not out of respect, but because no one knew what else to do with something like that. The cards and lists stuck to Chris’s thoughts like syrup—not because of the details, but because of the feeling that something had been planned here.\n\n“Okay,” one of the boys said too quietly, “exit. We’re finding an exit now.”\n\nThey wandered through the large hall again, step by step, the crunching under their soles too loud. The rusty tanks cast shadows that shifted in the phone light like slowly breathing creatures. The wind whistled through the pipes, somewhere something dripped persistently, and a loose chain struck metal at irregular intervals—clang… clang… as if the place had its own clock.\n\n“Don’t go there after dark,” someone murmured, this time without a joke. Nobody laughed.\n\nChris’s breathing grew shallower, not just because of the darkness. The sweet smell still hung in the air, as if the maple syrup had eaten its way into the walls. It didn’t fit with rust, shards, and warning signs—and that was exactly why it felt so wrong. Like a friendly mask on a broken face.\n\nThey passed a row of half-collapsed conveyor belts, then a door that led only to nothing—behind it, a brick wall. Another corridor ended in a pile of collapsed wooden pallets. Their phone lights were trembling now, not just from walking.\n\nThen something darted.\n\nA shadow shot quickly across the floor between two tanks. At the same time, a short, rough hiss came from the darkness—so unexpectedly close that it felt like an attack.\n\n“What was that?!” one of the boys shouted.\n\nPanic exploded.\n\nSomeone cried out. A girl screamed, a high sound that bounced off the walls. Chris’s own noise slipped from his lips uncontrolled, and at the same moment his legs wanted to go backward, away, away, away. Phone lights flew in the wrong directions, cones dancing over rust and concrete. The group pressed together, bumped into one another, a stumbling step, a stranger’s hand brushed Chris’s chest as if by accident.\n\nThe hiss came again, accompanied by a scraping sound, and somewhere metal rattled as if something had grazed a hook. For one heartbeat, Chris saw only shadows that seemed too large for what they could be.\n\nHe took a step—and felt someone grab him.\n\n''Who is it?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $temp == 1>>[[Ruby pulls Chris to safety.|Ruby zieht Chris in Sicherheit.]]\n<<else>>[[A boy pulls Chris to safety.|Ein Junge zieht Chris in Sicherheit.]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris nodded, still warm from the beer and the song, and before he could think better of it, Zeke went down on one knee. With practiced ease – as if he had done it many times before – he grabbed Chris by the bare thighs, lifted him, and set him up high.\n\nFor a moment, everything was perfect.\n\nChris was suddenly above everyone’s heads. The stage lay open before him like a map of light; guitars glittered, fog drifted in streaks, and during “Glassfields” it felt as if the music were running straight through his ribs. The crowd was a rolling surface, hands in the air, eyes forward. Chris laughed once, brief and free, and lifted his arms to “see” the chorus, not only hear it.\n\nAnd then he noticed the thing he had not thought about.\n\nIt was not a big scene, not a dramatic accident – just a sharp, wrong feeling in a place that immediately told him what the problem was. His body was not anatomically built like the other girls’ bodies who were sitting on shoulders right now. The way he was sitting on Zeke’s neck and shoulders did not work for him. One tiny mistake in position – and suddenly there was that stabbing, unpleasant pain that stole his breath.\n\nChris’ face twisted. The song kept playing, magnificent and loud, but in his head everything became small and panicked. He reflexively grabbed Zeke’s head, not for support, but as a signal: down, please, now.\n\nZeke felt it immediately. He took hold of Chris’ legs and carefully let him slide down until Chris had solid ground beneath his boots again. Chris bent slightly forward, his hand at his crotch, as if he could press the pain away. His face was pale under the concert lights.\n\nZeke stared at him – not angry, but startled. “Hey… what—” He broke off, his eyes briefly moving over Chris’ body as if a puzzle piece had suddenly clicked into place. “You’re…” His voice grew quieter, disbelieving. “You’re a boy?”\n\nInside Chris, everything roared. The pain was still there, but it was immediately overlaid by something hot, suffocating: shame. Pure, burning shame. Everything in him wanted to fall backward out of the crowd, disappear, cut himself out of the light. He suddenly felt like an impostor, as if he had lied to Zeke for an entire evening – as if he had given him the wrong person.\n\n“Zeke, I—” His voice broke. He swallowed, his eyes burning. He almost wanted to cry. He wanted to run away.\n\nBut Zeke did not step back.\n\nHe stayed. He took Chris’ hand – firmly, but not hard – and pulled him half a step closer, away from the pressing edge of the crowd, into a small shelter created only by his broadness and the calm way he stood. “Hey,” he said, as if he first had to bring Chris back into the present. His voice was soft, not judging. “Look at me.”\n\nChris barely could. He lifted his gaze anyway.\n\nZeke raised his free hand, touched Chris’ chin with his fingertips – a gesture more tender than Chris could bear in that moment. And before Chris even understood what was about to happen, Zeke kissed him.\n\nIt was a calm, decisive kiss, as if Zeke were saying with it: I’m still here. You’re still you.\n\nChris froze for a moment – because his head was still caught in the panic. Then suddenly he felt that it was… good. Warm. Real. His hands found Zeke’s back, as if he needed something solid. The music was building again, and above them the light shimmered, but for a moment Chris could almost only hear his own heartbeat.\n\nConfusion and relief crashed together inside him. Shame, fear, that outrageous flicker of closeness – all at once. And in the middle of it, a man was kissing him, and his body answered before his head found an explanation.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n[[Continue|Fahrt vom Konzert nach Hause.2]]

In front of the Black Box, Chris stopped briefly. Through the half-open door he heard laughter, the clinking of cups, someone calling, “Lights to 60!” Part of him wanted to go in—if only to see whether the room felt like home. But today had already been so much: Zoe, the water fountain, the looks. A new room meant new rules, new people, new uncertainties. Not today, he decided.\n\nHe turned away, left the jumble of voices behind, and slipped into the stream heading for the exit. Outside, the buses rumbled, the sun hanging low as if in a hurry to swallow the day. Chris got on, scanned the rows, spotted Christine on a two-seat bench, and pushed his way through to her.\n\nHe dropped into the seat—and immediately froze. A cold, damp stickiness on his butt, a soft “shrrk” from the fabric. “Oh no,” he whispered. He lifted himself slightly, looked down at an angle: a pinkish-gray blob of gum, flattened and exactly where he least wanted it.\n\n“What is it?” Christine asked.\n\n“Gum,” he got out, tonelessly.\n\nChristine twisted her face into a sympathetic smile that also said a little “typical.”\n\nChristine leaned forward, examining the damage like a crime scene investigator. “Once it hardens, it comes off better with ice. At home—freezer pack, cold spoon, then it breaks. Or the peanut butter trick, Charlotte told me.” She grimaced. “Peanut butter on fabric sounds wrong, I know.”\n\nChris sat back down on the very front edge of the seat, as if perched on an invisible stool. The spot no longer stuck firmly, but it felt like a small, stubborn flaw spelling out “embarrassing.” Two rows ahead, someone glanced back, then looked out the window again after all. Christine silently slid him a tissue; he placed it under the affected spot, pure psychology.\n\n“At least it happened after school,” she murmured.\n\n“Great,” he said dryly. “The day has a sense of humor.”\n\nThe bus rumbled through Maplewood. Outside, lawn mowers counted their stripes, a dog chased its own barking. Chris let his forehead sink briefly against the window. Behind his eyelids, the scenes of the day ticked by.\n\n[[Continue|Besuch zu Hause.]]

<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Description:''\nChris is naturally rather slender, with a soft, youthful aura: brown hair that is now mostly styled in a girlish way, long legs, delicate hands, little body hair. Because of the hormones, small but visible breasts are beginning to show; his hips and butt are becoming rounder, his waist narrower—contours that stand out clearly in tight tops, skirts, and tights, and startle him especially in moments before the mirror. In girls’ clothes, he appears convincingly “like one of them” to the outside world, which earns him looks, compliments, and sexualized attention; inwardly, however, he experiences his body as a contradictory in-between form: a boy in a costume that looks less and less like a costume, and it is precisely this slow blurring that frightens him.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n''Statistics:''\nChris has given handjobs to <<print $jerkoff>> other people.\nHe has received a blowjob <<print $oral>> times.\nHe has given other men <<print $woral>> blowjobs.\nOf those, he swallowed <<print $swallow>> times.\nHe has had a finger in his ass <<print $fingerass>> times.\nHe has had a penis in his ass <<print $anal>> times. (Creampied: <<print $creampied>>)\n<<nobr>><<if $sex == 0>>Chris is still a virgin.<<else>>\nChris has fucked <<print $sex>> women.<br>\nIn the process, he came inside them <<print $cameinside>> times.\n<<if $christine == 3>>(His first time was with his sister Christine)<<endif>>\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\nNumber of partners: <<print $partner>>\n\nChris has been sexually harassed <<print $harassed>> times.\nHe has been filmed/photographed <<print $film>> times.\nHe has been raped <<print $rape>> times.\n\nChris has kissed his sister <<print $kisssister>> times.\nHe has kissed his mother <<print $kissmom>> times.\nHe has kissed boys <<print $kissboy>> times.\nHe has kissed girls <<print $kissgirl>> times.\n\nChris’ sexual preferences: "I like girls. Um... well... I don’t like boys."\n\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $kisssister == 1>><<if $christine == 4>>[[Chapter 5|Kapitel 5a]]<<else>>[[Chapter 5|Kapitel 5b]]<<endif>><<else>>[[Chapter 5|Kapitel 5c]]<<endif>>\n\n<</nobr>>

<h2>Epilogue: Chris and Lucas</h2> With Lucas, Chris felt as if something inside him was growing quieter, something that was usually constantly sounding the alarm. As soon as Lucas took his hand, the endless “Watch it, be careful, act normal” became a softer “You’re allowed to be.” And in that closeness, something happened that confused Chris himself: He didn’t just settle into the role of Lucas’ girlfriend—he blossomed in it.\n\nHe noticed it in little things. How he automatically moved closer when Lucas spoke, as if he had to gather up every word. How he raised his hand to his mouth when he laughed, without planning to. How he straightened Lucas’ sleeve, as if it were his job to make him look nice. How he caught himself tilting his head slightly, with a look that asked more than it said—and it didn’t feel acted. It felt like an instinct he had never had before, and that was now simply there whenever Lucas stood beside him.\n\nAnd yes: When they were together, he sometimes really felt like a girl. Not as a thought he talked himself into, but as a state of being. His movements became softer, his voice lighter. He let himself be led without fighting it. He accepted compliments without immediately striking back inside. He liked it when Lucas draped his jacket over his shoulders, liked it when Lucas called him “pretty”—and in those moments, it was as if the world consisted only of warmth for a few minutes.\n\nSince the Homecoming Ball, they had been inseparable. They spent every free minute together, secretly wrote each other notes in class, and often went to the park after school, where they talked for hours, laughed, and simply were together. Chris would sit on the bench with his legs drawn up and listen to Lucas as if his voice were a song wrapping him in calm. When Lucas brushed a strand of hair out of Chris’ face, Chris got that small, stupid flutter in his heart every time—and hated how much he loved it.\n\nTheir love was intense and passionate, the way only the love of two teenagers could be when they felt as if the world belonged to them alone. They danced in the rain without caring about their soaked clothes—Chris’ skirt clung to his thighs, Lucas’ shirt turned dark and heavy, and still they laughed until their lungs hurt. Chris spun around, let himself fall, caught Lucas’ hands, as if it were the only choreography he truly knew. They spent evenings watching the stars and making plans for a future together—plans that were too big, and felt so good precisely because of that. Chris would lie beside Lucas in the grass, their fingers intertwined, and think at the same time: I’m a boy—and: I am exactly where I belong.\n\n“I never want to lose you,” Lucas had said once while holding his hand.\n\n“You won’t,” Chris had answered. “Never.”\n\nAnd in that moment, he hadn’t acted like it was a promise. He had believed it—so deeply that it scared him.\n\n[[Continue|Der Rest des Schuljahres.]]

At some point the DJ got one of those ideas that felt like “fun” to him and like a nightmare to Chris.\n\n“Okaaay, Maplewood!” boomed from the speakers. “All singles to the dance floor! Come on, come on—no excuses!”\n\nA cheer went through the gym. A few boys whistled, some girls shrieked and shoved their friends giggling toward the middle. Chris felt his stomach immediately go cold. He stood at the edge, the clutch pressed to his hip like a shield. Don’t move, don’t stand out, he thought—and realized in the same moment how pointless that was.\n\nHe was alone. And he was—or at least that was how it felt—the only girl who was truly alone.\n\n“Oooh!” someone called as Chris reluctantly edged toward the dance floor. Laughter followed, not necessarily cruel, more that slightly overexcited dance laughter. Even so, it hit him like a spotlight. He felt exposed, as if someone had bared his back and called out his name at the same time.\n\nThe song began. A beat that forced you to move along. Chris moved because standing still would have been even more noticeable. He half lifted his arms, let them sink again, nodded to the rhythm. But today his body did not feel like his body, but like a construction he had to hold together.\n\nThe thong gave him that strange feeling, as if he were sitting on a thin rope—every movement reminded him of it. The stick-on bra was holding, yes, but not in the way “normal” held. With every step, Chris thought: Everything is wobbling, hopefully everything stays where it is. The fabric of the backless dress lay elegantly, but underneath everything felt insecure, as if one wrong movement would reveal too much of the fact that he could not relax. And that made him stiff.\n\nHe tried to look loose. The smile was there, his face playing “dance,” while in the background his mind kept calculating: keep distance, arms close to body, don’t bend too low, don’t jump too hard.\n\nThen he noticed the boys coming closer.\n\nFirst only two or three, then more. They did not form a circle, but they filled the space around him, step by step, as if they had smelled blood—one girl standing alone, a game. Chris unobtrusively stepped backward, but the edge moved with him. He tried to turn out sideways, but the next one was already standing there.\n\n“Hey, will you dance with me?” one called, too loudly. Another laughed. Someone made an exaggerated dance move right in front of him, as if Chris were an audience.\n\nAnd then Adam was suddenly there too. His ridiculous suit glowed like a warning sign in the light. He grinned as if he had been waiting for this moment. Chris’s heart sank lower.\n\nThey danced at him—too close, too big, too self-assured. Clear words were no longer possible, only beats and bodies in the room. A hand briefly landed on his waist, as if someone wanted to “lead” him. Chris flinched and immediately took a step away. Another brushed his hand across Chris’s back exactly where the dress was open—not for long, but it felt like a stamp: You are available. Chris’s skin tingled with shame, and he held the clutch even tighter, as if he could close himself with it.\n\nAdam came closer, obviously wanting to pull him into the “singles game.” He leaned toward Chris’s ear, said something that got lost in the noise, and made a motion as if he wanted to spin Chris around. Chris did not let him. He shook his head, smiled painfully, stepped away again. But the crowd around him made dodging difficult; every step felt like giving up space.\n\nChris’s face burned. He felt his own dress with every breath, the uncertain support underneath, the wobbling he was far too aware of. He had the feeling that everyone could see how uncomfortable he was—and that was exactly what made him even more uncomfortable.\n\nThen, finally, the song ended. The beat cut off, there was applause, cheering, new whistles—and in the tiny second of disorder, Chris used the gap.\n\nHe turned and fled. Not elegant, not cool—just away. He pushed his way off the dance floor, past string lights and glasses, through a group of giggling girls, toward the hallway. His sandals clicked quickly on the floor, the clutch almost slipping from his hand.\n\nHe yanked open the bathroom door and disappeared inside, as if it were the only place where the air belonged to him again.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $stil <= 6>>[[Girls gossip about Chris.|Mädchen lästertn über Chris.]]<<else>>[[Girls gossip jealously about Chris.|Mädchen lästern neidisch über Chris.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris stuck with water. Or air. The main thing was: nothing else with an alcohol percentage.\n\nHe stayed at the edge of the conversations, listening to Charlotte and Lila without really joining in. The two of them quickly found a shared frequency: jokes about teachers, digs at the small town, half-serious dreams about cities with real clubs, not just party basements. Lila laughed loudly, occasionally placing a casual hand on Charlotte’s arm, and Charlotte fired back, cheeky, charming.\n\nThe flirt energy grew denser. Looks lasted a little too long, touches became a little too natural. Chris tried once or twice to say something, but each time Charlotte beat him to it, or Lila smoothly picked up the last topic. He smiled, feeling transparent.\n\nWhen Lila eventually dropped a “You’re really cute, you know that?” and Charlotte responded with a small, pursed “Show me,” the tipping point was inevitable. The kiss came almost organically: Lila placed two fingers under Charlotte’s chin, Charlotte leaned toward her, lips found each other, quiet, certain, without any big drama. Just natural.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened briefly. Not because it shocked him, but because it launched him out of the scene. Suddenly he was no longer part of “the three of us in the kitchen,” but a spectator at a door closing behind him.\n\n“Um… I’ll leave you to it,” he murmured, unsure whether they even heard.\n\nNo one stopped him.\n\nHe slipped back into the hallway, then into the living room. The music was louder again, the bass heavier. The room swam a little, but clearly enough to recognize a scene immediately.\n\nChristine was still on the “dance floor,” but “dancing” barely described it anymore. She swayed, laughed too loudly, her head resting against Myles’s shoulder. Her hair clung a little to her forehead, the cup in her hand tilted dangerously.\n\nThe song ended with an abrupt cut. Christine took a step that wasn’t one and tipped sideways. Myles caught her at the last moment, one arm firm around her waist, the other at her back. She clung to him, murmured something unintelligible, laughed again, but her knees looked soft.\n\nMyles threw one of his buddies a glance, that kind of wordless agreement, then began leading Christine away from the dance floor. Not toward the kitchen. Not outside. But toward the stairs.\n\nChris’s heart stopped for a moment, then began to race. The stairs upward suddenly seemed like a boundary. Rooms. Beds, doors that could be closed.\n\nShit, Chris thought. He wants to take her upstairs. He wants to sleep with her. In this state.\n\nChristine’s head leaned heavily against his shoulder, her steps stumbling more than walking. Myles held her tighter, whispered something into her ear. It didn’t look like violence. It looked like “friendly help.”\nHis stomach went cold. The music kept pounding, as if it didn’t know a different volume was needed right now.\n\nWhat should he do?\n\nIf he stepped in, he risked making a scene. <<if $tagebuch == 2>>Exactly what he had promised Christine to avoid. <<endif>>If he did nothing, he was letting his little sister, who could barely stand straight anymore, go upstairs with a guy.\n\nHe stood in the living room, feeling the miniskirt, the heels, the lip gloss on his lips, the gold hoop earrings. He felt small and out of place, but also like the only thing in between.\n<<set $myles_opinion to 21>>\n''What does he decide?''\n❯ [[Save his sister.|Seine Schwester retten.2][$christine += 1;$christine_opinion += 10;$christine_party += 1]]\n❯ [[Do nothing.|Nichts tun.2]]

Chris made the decision as he walked. He headed toward Lucas, stopped beside him, so close that their arms brushed, and reached—hesitantly, tentatively—for his hand. No word, no exchanged glance, only the click of two fingers finding each other.<<set $LucasMemory[4] to 1>>\n\n<center>[img[pics/haende.jpg]]</center> They stood there hand in hand. <<set $ort to "school">> For a moment, Chris heard the school noise as if through cotton. The unfamiliar, warm dryness of Lucas’s hand in his felt like a false password that his body accepted anyway. His mind screamed: I’m holding a boy’s hand. One part of him shrank with shame, another searched for support—not in Lucas, but in the role that shielded him. He felt the lip gloss on his lips, the tights at his knees, the pressure of the hormone question deep in his gut. This is not “me.” This is camouflage. But without camouflage, I’m prey. The contradiction stretched like a wire between his heart and his palm.\n\nLucas’s friends fell silent for a beat, looking from him to Chris and back again. Lucas straightened up a little involuntarily, a proud reflex that seemed new even to him. He squeezed Chris’s hand just slightly tighter, as if to say: I understood. The guys exchanged grinning looks, gave him nods of approval—that silent “bro” that was more applause than words. One of them lightly bumped Lucas with a shoulder, and the admiration was undisguised: clear points scored. Such a pretty girlfriend.\n\nChris stood there beside him, back straight, shoulders small, and kept holding on. He felt the looks on his skin like warm dust. The narrative had started moving and was carrying him along with it. It protected him—and it gnawed at him.\n\nThey walked hand in hand up the steps, as if they were on a narrow footbridge over deep water. Lucas’s fingers lay warm and still around Chris’s hand. The entrance doors reflected them briefly: a boy with his “girlfriend”—and Chris, who looked like any other girl pretending to be in love in the schoolyard.\n\nInside, the corridor swallowed them with neon light and the smell of cleaning supplies. Conversations stalled for a breath, then resumed, quieter, denser. Heads turned. Eyes lingered a heartbeat too long, wandering over their clasped hands, over Chris’s face, his lip gloss, his tidy hair; appraising looks that turned a rumor into confirmation.\n\nChris lowered his head involuntarily, kept his knees close together, felt every fiber of the tights like an alarm signal. I’m holding a boy’s hand. The sentence repeated itself, hammered on, until it sounded hollow. At the same time, there was the sober calculation: hand in hand meant “couple.” “Couple” meant not a slut. A cloak that worked—and rubbed against his skin.\n\nBeside him, Lucas grew a little taller without making a sound. He nodded to one or two greetings, accepted the crooked respect of some of the boys as if he had suddenly been pinned with a medal that surprised even him. He squeezed Chris’s hand once more briefly.\n\nChris answered with an almost imperceptible squeeze in return.\n\n<<if $choice_adam == 1>>At the edge of the flow stood [[Adam|Adam Bowman]] by the lockers, a D&D folder under his arm. His gaze lingered on their hands, too long to be accidental. He didn’t smile. Something twitched in his face that looked like envy, but quieter—a small tightening around the eyes, as if something had been taken from him that he had never officially possessed. When Chris’s gaze briefly brushed over him, Adam quickly lowered his eyes, pretending to be busy, but that short, hurt expression gave away more than words: not just jealousy of Lucas—but something closer to being in love, unwanted and bitter.\n\n<<endif>>As he passed the lockers, he heard whispering—his name, Lucas’s name, the word “couple.” A giggle, a “cute” at the edge. The sounds slid along him like damp fingers.\n\nHe stopped in front of his locker. Lucas didn’t let go of his hand until Chris turned the combination. The warmth left his palm, leaving behind a red mark that slowly faded. He took a deep breath, deeply, secretly. Then he took Lucas’s hand again, because the role demanded it—and because, as wrong as it felt, it carried him for now. Together they set off again, through a sea of looks that was assigning them a story in which Chris played the lead and yet felt like a stranger.\n<<set $lucas_opinion to 94>>\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1>>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 0 >>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas > 0>>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.3]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.4]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris shook his head. “Already got one, thanks,” he called back, pushing the cup away from himself with a small gesture. The boy shrugged, drank it himself, and turned away.\n\nThe bass kept hammering. Chris tried to last a few more bars, but the queasy swaying in his head grew more noticeable. The first cup had hit harder than he’d hoped. The heels felt higher, the air denser.\n\nHe carefully made his way out of the crowd, tugging the miniskirt a little lower as he walked. At the edge of the room stood a sofa, half occupied, red cups on the coffee table in front of it. He sank gratefully onto the free edge.\n\nThe very moment he sat down, the skirt rode up. Higher than intended. The fabric slid upward, exposing a dangerously large part of his underwear. Chris took a beat too long to notice; by then two boys on the other side of the table had already looked over. One instinctively raised his eyebrows and nudged his friend.\n\nHeat shot into his face. He hastily tugged the skirt down, almost springing back up in the same motion. “Seat’s all yours, then,” someone muttered with a grin. Chris didn’t react, preferring to stand at the edge, half behind a floor lamp, where the music seemed quieter and he at least had the feeling there was more fabric between himself and the stares.\n\nFrom there, he saw Christine.\n\nMyles stood close behind her, one arm loosely around her waist while he handed her a new red cup. Christine took it without hesitation, drank, laughed, threw her head back. Her dress clung to her, the light gleaming on the nude pantyhose. Myles’s hand wandered a little lower, pulled her closer to him, and she allowed it, turning toward him and kissing him briefly. It didn’t look like coercion. It looked like “I want this.” Or the alcohol had wrapped every trace of resistance in warm fog. Willingly, she let him grope her tits, ass, and legs, smiling blissfully.\n\nChris counted unconsciously. He had seen the first cup. The second. That was at least the third. Quite shamelessly, Myles massaged her ass, her skirt riding higher and higher until it was ultimately pushed up almost completely and her butt was exposed. Chris’s sister was now basically dancing with her backside bare, both arms wrapped around his neck as she rubbed her lower body against his pelvis in provocative circular movements.\n\nMyles grinned, whispered something into her ear. Christine giggled, leaning against him. She seemed intoxicated—by the music, by the alcohol, by the attention.\n\nA strange pulling sensation began in Chris’s chest. Jealousy. But distorted, doubled.\n\nOn the one hand, toward Myles. He was standing there with an attractive girl like Christine in his arms, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, hands on her butt, mouth at her neck. What a lucky bastard, Chris thought. And right after that: My sister is so sexy. It came too fast to push away. The alcohol had made his filters thinner.\n\nOn the other hand, he felt a strange jealousy toward Christine. How easily she floated in that role. How she didn’t hide her enjoyment. How natural it seemed to her to let a boy hold her, to move to the beat without overthinking every piece of fabric. Chris felt that burning little “I wish I were like her,” which he reflexively strangled. He wasn’t allowed to think that. But he thought it anyway.\n\nThe music changed. Suddenly a poppy 2000s hit began playing, immediately settling in his stomach. A song their family had used to play over and over on road trips, when the back seat had been cramped but safe, Chris’s father at the wheel and Christine and Chris singing together. Before the divorce, before Maplewood, before pink rooms.\n\n“Oh my God,” Christine called, turning around, scanning the room. Her gaze found Chris at the edge. “Chris!”\n\nBefore he could react, she came toward him, took his hand, and pulled him back into the crowd. The bass was lighter, the song brighter, more familiar. The whole room suddenly seemed to be singing along.\n\nChris stumbled into the beat, then his lips automatically formed the old words. Christine sang along, louder, grinning at him. For a moment, he forgot the skirt, the heels, the stares. He saw only his sister in front of him, screeching the chorus, and heard his own voice join in, a little off-key but sure.\n\nIn the middle of the party chaos, in the flashing lights, they stood facing each other, sang the same line, and laughed at the memory at the same time. A brief, warm sibling moment that felt as if someone had laid a thread back into a time when they had simply been Chris and Christine in the car.\n\n[[Continue|Chris braucht eine Pause.]]

<h2>Christine’s Diary – Friday Night (after the first home game)</h2> <div class="letter">I’m writing this now because otherwise I feel like everything in my head is tipping over into a mess.\n\nAfter the game, Myles broke up with me. Just like that. As if I were a program you close when you’re done with it. And the worst thing is: before the game, we still had… sex. I don’t even want to write it down in detail, because then I’ll feel sick again. But I know what it felt like: as if he had used me and thrown me away afterward.\n\nI sat down in the stands because I needed somewhere to go where no one would see me. Spoiler: Chris saw me. Of course. He always finds me when I don’t want to be found.\n\nHe took me home. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have the strength for words. I think the whole way, I was only trying not to cry again, because it feels so humiliating to cry when you’re actually supposed to be angry.\n\nAt home I only said, “I… need a minute.” Then I went into the bathroom and closed the door, as if that could keep everything outside. I stayed in the bath until the water was almost cold. Bubbles, shampoo, everything. I just wanted my body to belong to me again. To feel “clean” again, even though I know there’s no logic to that. Afterward the house smelled like my shampoo and, somewhere, like vanilla—from Chris’s room. That sweet scent that normally annoys me was somehow… calming this time.\n\nLater I stood in the hallway and didn’t know what to do with myself. My room would have been too quiet. And I was afraid of the silence. So I went to Chris.\n\nHe was already in bed. In that satiny night-thing Mom bought him, with those candles that make his room look like an Instagram story. And still, it was the only room in the house that felt safe in that moment. I stood there like a child and felt ashamed to be standing there at all.\n\n“Can I sleep with you tonight?” I asked. And I deliberately didn’t look at him when I said it, because otherwise I probably would have started sobbing again immediately.\n\nHe didn’t say anything stupid. No “You’re not five anymore.” No “What’s wrong?” He simply lifted the blanket. So matter-of-factly, as if that had never stopped being something we did.\n\nI slipped in. And then he put his arm around me, and I cuddled up to him, because in that moment I didn’t want to be strong for even a second. It’s so strange: during the day, everything about him is “girl,” and sometimes that makes me angry because it feels as if my brother is being taken away from me. But in that bed, in the dark, he was suddenly my big brother again. The one who is simply there without me having to explain it.\n\nBut suddenly, I felt a pressure against my butt. 'Your brother has a hard-on,' the thought flashed through my mind.\n\nMy breath caught in my throat, and I turned to face him. We looked into each other’s eyes, both bewildered. He leaned forward—slowly—and pressed his lips against mine. It was a tender, tentative kiss.\n\nI didn’t pull away when he cautiously nudged his tongue against my lips and gently licked them. I simply lay still, even as he slid his tongue deeper into my mouth.\nVery slowly, Chris let his hand wander higher and higher up my thigh; I parted my legs and yielded to his caress. Carefully, he let a finger glide along my pussy. He stroked me so tenderly, so shyly. He touched me down there almost as if by accident—flinching back, then gathering the courage to stroke me once more.\n\nThen, everything happened so fast. As if by chance, I opened my legs for him and lay back on the bed. Chris positioned himself between my legs. For a moment, my breathing stopped completely as it happened: his hard penis slid inside me. Neither of us could quite believe it.\n\nMy brother’s member penetrated my pussy. My insides instinctively clenched around him—it was a reflex I couldn't control. His rigid cock pushed deeper into me, going as deep as it could go.\n\nLust overwhelmed us—and then came the orgasm, shared with my brother! My whole body shook uncontrollably, and I felt myself completely come undone.\n\nChris was still moving inside me. His breathing came in ragged gasps as, again and again, he thrust his cock into me like a wild bull.\n\nThere was nothing I could do but wait and let it happen. And then, he reached his climax and collapsed on top of me. I felt his release distinctly—surge after surge—deep inside my birth canal.\n\nChris was utterly exhausted, trembling all over. He lay motionless on top of me. His member was still inside me. His breathing only slowly began to shallow out.\n\nI slept with my brother. I’ve destroyed everything! I can never look Chris in the face again—or our parents, either.\n</div>\n[[↩ Back|Enden]]

But then, when it became serious, the certainty tore away. As if someone had pulled the plug, anticipation suddenly turned into pressure. “I want to” became “I have to.” His heart raced, his breathing grew shallow, and his body didn’t do what it was supposed to do. He tried to save the moment, tried to think himself back into the feeling—but the more he wanted it, the more it slipped away from him.\n<<set $ort to "Zoe’s house">>\nChris froze, shame shooting hot into his face. He swallowed, couldn’t get a word out, and in his head it roared: Not again.\n\nZoe reacted, grabbed him by the hair and said, “I want you to lick me now!” while pulling his head toward her and pressing it against her lap. Chris began licking her pussy.\n\nAfter only a short time, she started moaning and writhing a little. With a firm grip in his hair, she directed him where he was supposed to lick her. After about 10 minutes, she had her orgasm. As she did, she wrapped her legs around his head and pressed him even harder against her lap. Chris almost thought he was going to drown in her juices, which tasted so delicious to him.\n\nAfter her orgasm had subsided, she praised him with the words, “You did that really well.”\n\nAfterward, Zoe looked at Chris as if she were reclassifying something about him. Her gaze was assessing, almost curious in a way that immediately made Chris nervous.\n\n“Okay,” she said slowly. “This isn’t just stress. You just don’t want to admit it to yourself.” She disappeared from the room for a moment, as if she had formed a plan.\n\nChris remained sitting there, his heart still far too loud. Her juices clung around his mouth like a second skin.\n\nZoe came back and held up a scarf. Not dramatically, not elegantly—just a piece of fabric that suddenly seemed like a tool in her hand. “Trust me,” she said, grinning as if she already knew where this would lead.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. “Zoe…”\n\n“Just a thought experiment.” She stepped closer, much too close for Chris’s shaky nerves, and pushed the scarf into his hands. “If you’re really into girls, then this doesn’t matter. If not… then at least you know why.”\n\nHe should have said no. He even felt it. But the no stuck in his throat because at the same time he wanted to prove to himself that his failure to sleep with Zoe wasn’t because of that. That he was only tired, only under pressure, only… something. He allowed it, more out of defiance against his own helplessness than out of trust.\n\nZoe tied the scarf over his eyes. The fabric took the room away from him, made everything tighter, and suddenly he was only sound and closeness. He heard her breathing, felt her moving in front of him. “Now get on all fours on the couch first.” She spoke more quietly, more slowly, and her tone took on that provocative, playful weight she always had when she wanted to test someone.\n\n[[Continue|Chris soll sich einen nackten Mann vorstellen.][$fingerass += 1]]

<h2>Christine’s Diary – Saturday (pajama party)</h2> <div class="letter">Okay. Today was… a complete movie. And I don’t know whether it was more of a comedy or a horror film. Probably both.\n\nPajama party at Penelope’s. At Penelope’s. I’m writing that again on purpose because it still feels unreal. And yes—Chris was there. Chris. My brother. Who is now officially “one of the girls,” at least enough that Penelope invited him as if it were the most normal thing in the world.\n\nAnd the crazy thing is: I was… proud? Somehow. After the first week of school, I was so exhausted from all this “pretend everything is normal” stuff that I didn’t even have the energy to be sarcastic anymore. He did it. He got accepted onto the cheerleaders. He talked along, laughed along, didn’t seem completely panicked. And as a boy, he never had so many people around him. He used to be more… at home. Online. Quiet. And now? Now it feels like he has more of a “social life” in one week than he had in a whole year before. It’s so strange...\n\nBut of course it had to get embarrassing too. While changing.\n\nPenelope gave him one of her satin nightgowns, so shiny, so sexy. Chris put it on, stood there, and got a... a hard penis. I wanted to seem normal, be his sister. And then… this really stupid, embarrassing moment came into my head, like a daydream you absolutely don’t want to have. I don’t know where it came from. I pushed it away immediately, but inside I almost died from it.\n\nAfter that, we built this huge pillow fort. It was really cozy, honestly. Blankets everywhere, fairy lights, snacks made entirely of sugar. And then this game: “Who would be more likely to…?” You know, those questions where you pretend it’s just fun, but really you’re testing everything out.\n\nAnd then came the question: “Who would be more likely to sleep with a teacher?”\n\nI swear, I didn’t even have time to put my cup down before it felt like everyone was pointing at me. I would have liked to set the pillow fort on fire. Just because I once had a mega crush on Mr. Alvarez. That was years ago. And it was only one of those “Oh my God, he’s so handsome and nice” crushes. Nothing real. Nothing people have to hold against me for the rest of my life.\n\nI pretended I thought it was funny. (It wasn’t.)\n\nThen horror film. Of course. Everyone screamed, even Penelope, even though she acts like she’s unshakable. Chris got scared too, but in a way that was… I don’t know… cute? He pulled the blanket tighter and tried to stay cool. It didn’t work, which made it even worse.\n\nAfter that, beauty round. Masks, lip scrub, nail polish. It’s so absurd that this is now simply part of Chris’s world too. And he doesn’t even do it completely badly. I hate that I think that.\n\nLater we slept in the same room. I mean, Penelope assigned the rooms, and Chris was lying next to me in the bed. I fell asleep immediately and woke up again a little later. I heard a soft rustling. But at the same time, I was overcome by such a wonderful sensation—one that completely lulled me into a trance—until I realized that my brother, to whom I had turned my back, was stroking my bottom ever so gently and tenderly.\n\nI am writing this down here in precise detail, for otherwise, I fear I might lose my footing and fall right out of my own reality.\n\nHis hand wandered forward, gliding across my stomach. Yes—and I continued to feign sleep, even though his caresses had actually woken me up—until his hand brushed against my breast. At first, I was utterly shocked. How could a big brother do something like this? I was certain that a brother was not supposed to caress his sister in such a way. Mom would surely have raised a huge fuss—but I was even more shocked by my own reaction! For the sensation of his touch was simply exquisite!\n\nI instantly broke out in goosebumps, and my nipples hardened. Chris presumably noticed this, and—acting on pure intuition—he lingered there, gently teasing my nipple. I immediately felt a profound sense of shame.\n\nYet, at the very same moment, the sensation felt so overwhelmingly new that I nearly burst into tears. It was so arousing; I could feel a tingling sensation rising up from deep within my lower abdomen. Then, quite suddenly, I felt a pressure against my thigh.\n\nI thought to myself: 'Chris, we shouldn't be doing this—we’re siblings, after all!'\n\nAnd yet, I parted my legs—very cautiously, as if still asleep—so as not to startle my brother.\n\nHis fingers grazed the entrance to my vagina. A sudden rush of fluid escaped me—oh, how deeply I blushed with shame!\n\nAnd then, my sense of reason suddenly kicked back in, crying out:\n\n"Put a stop to this now!" a voice screamed inside my head. "You’ve enjoyed a lovely sensation—and you deserve that much—but you must intervene -now-, before it’s too late!"\n\nI turned away and pulled the covers up to my chin. I don't think I will ever forget this.</div>\n[[Continue|Christines Tagebuch3]]

Later that evening, the house grew quieter. The girls disappeared into their rooms, Anja was still tidying up in the kitchen, and his father paced back and forth as if he still had tasks to do, even though everything had long since been taken care of. Chris waited until it was quiet enough to do what had long since become routine in Maplewood.\n\nHe came into the kitchen, already ready for the night, in a delicate, feminine nightgown—light, short, more like a babydoll, with a fine hem and soft fabric that barely noticeably swayed with every step. Nothing revealing, nothing deliberate—and yet on Chris it seemed so foreign and at the same time so natural that it was almost even more unsettling.\n\nHis father was standing at the sink, turned around—and froze.\n\nIn the warm kitchen light, he saw it without Chris saying anything: the changes were no longer just clothing. Chris’s body looked different from the old photos. His chest showed as a distinct, soft volume beneath the fabric.\n\nChris’s young nipples had actually begun to harden slightly, even beneath the nightgown—something that did not escape her father’s notice. Gloriously sharp and erect, they strained against the thin fabric. Her hips appeared rounder, her buttocks fuller; her entire silhouette seemed more delicate—and at the same time, more distinctly feminine in its proportions—than her father had ever known his son to be. This wasn’t just a "look." It was physical.\n\nMichael simply stood there, gazing at the attractive, girlish body of his former son. The longer he looked, the more uncomfortable he felt. Yet, for some reason, he simply could not look away. It was a chaotic tangle of emotions, and he noticed his cock beginning to stir inside his trousers. Everything about Chris was utterly delectable.\n\nHe pressed his hands against his temples, as if trying to escape his own filthy thoughts—but it was no use.\n\nChris took a small bottle from his pocket, shook two pills into his hand, and swallowed them with water. The motion was automatic. In that moment, he was so deeply in his Maplewood routine that he forgot where he was—and who was watching him.\n\nHis father said nothing at first. Then his voice came, cautious. “What… was that?”\n\nChris’s hand stayed on the glass. His father took a step closer, not threatening, more like someone who had suddenly understood that he had been holding the wrong card.\n\n“Chris,” he said quietly. “This isn’t…” He searched for the word, shaking his head ever so slightly. “This isn’t just a phase, is it?”\n\nChris’s throat tightened. He felt everything inside him contract: the months, the secrets, the fear of this conversation.\n<<set $sum = $tarnung + $beliebtheit + $stil>>\n''How does Chris react?''\n❯ [[He lies to his father.|Er belügt seinen Vater.]]\n<<nobr>><<if $sum < 13>>❯ [[He tells him that his mother is forcing him.|Er sagt ihm, dass seine Mutter ihn zwingt.]]<<else>><div class="box"><b>Note:</b> Chris had internalized his role as a girl too deeply. Maybe that was why he could no longer tell his father the truth now.</div><<endif>><</nobr>>\n\n

Chris automatically lowered his gaze, narrowed his shoulders, and held his breath—one step, another step. Don’t look. The smell of sex hung in the crack and made the hallway feel narrower than it was.\n\nChris slipped past as quietly as he could, the back of his hand against the wall as if he needed a railing. Behind him, a brief moan. He sped up, covered the last two meters almost in one go, slipped into his room, and pressed the handle only far enough for the door to fall gently shut.\n\nInside, he exhaled. Rose-colored walls, the vanilla scent much milder, the view of the unmade bed. He sat down on the edge, looked at his hands, which were still trembling a little, and waited until his heart came down from “hallway speed” to “room speed.” Outside, the house remained something else—inside here, it was his again.\n\n[[Continue|Später beim Frühstück.2]]

At school, the talk from last week hadn’t died down—it had only changed sides. After the boys had passed around their list of the “hottest girls,” the girls had decided that like could be repaid with like. Now a new list was circulating, this time with boys’ names, boxes, and a scale from 1 to 10. Plus comments in the margins.\n<<set $ort to "classroom">>\nAt some point, the sheet landed with Chris. It was suddenly lying beside his notebook, as if it had always been there. At the top, in large letters, it said: “BOYS RANKING (DON’T SNITCH)” and beneath it a row of names, with columns for scores.\n\nChris held the pen a little too tightly for a moment. It was weird, rating boys by their looks—he was one himself, after all. A part of him resisted: as if he were standing on the wrong side of a mirror and now joining in too.\n\nBut then he realized that it was… easier than he had expected. Maybe because he had been living for weeks in this world where glances were traded like currency. Maybe also because he knew exactly what it felt like to be judged.\n\nHis gaze lingered on Dylan. Beside the name were already several tens, neatly one below the other. Penelope had even drawn a heart next to it, bold and confident, as if the matter had long since been decided. Chris’s pen moved almost automatically: 10/10. As he did, he felt that little tug—jealousy, clear and childish—because he immediately remembered that Dylan would be going to Homecoming with Penelope. And that to everyone it seemed so natural, as if they belonged together like team colors.\n\nHe scribbled a tiny, neutral star beside his ten, as if trying to reassure himself: Objective. Only fair.\n\nThen he continued down the list, trying to stay truly fair. A few football players got solid 7s or 8s, sometimes with a little smiley beside them if they seemed “nice.” A name from theater got a 6 with a tiny mask as a doodle—Chris’s own quiet joke. He noticed how he almost fell into a rhythm: quick look, set a number, move on.\n\nWhen he reached Myles, he paused. His gaze went cold. Looks-wise, Myles probably would have deserved points—but Chris’s hand still wrote down a 0, without hesitation. Not because Myles was ugly, but because Chris thought of Christine, of tears on the bleacher steps, of that abrupt cut after the game. Beside the zero, he made a small, angry stroke—almost like a mini lightning bolt.\n\nGirls stick together, he thought, and the thought felt both right and absurd at the same time, because he knew who he was. Still, the zero remained.\n\nWith Adam, he hesitated again. Beside the name were already several zeroes, along with comments like “ew” and little gagging doodles. Chris’s stomach twisted. He didn’t particularly like Adam, but this concentrated ridicule still made him flinch.\n\nHe wrote 3. Not as a compliment, more as a tiny counterweight. Beside it, he put a small, crooked “:|”, as if he had to mark his own ambivalence.\n\nWhen he was finished, he briefly looked over the sheet: tens, eights, a few fives, his zero like a dark spot. He quickly folded the sheet back up and passed it on, as inconspicuously as possible.\n\nAnd yet the feeling remained: It had been easier for him than it should have been.\n\n[[Continue|Freitag, Onlinedating.]]

After the opening round, the contestants were lined up in a row once more. The host smiled into the crowd as if this were now the most solemn part of the evening.\n\n“And before we move on to selecting the next round,” she said, “we’d like to recite our motto together. Just a small sign of tradition and community.”\n\nA helper waved behind the stage, and all the girls were whispered the same sentence so no one would get mixed up. Harmlessly phrased, nothing one could objectively call offensive—and yet when they said it together in perfect unison, it suddenly sounded eerie. Too synchronized. Too smooth. As if the town were briefly practicing what it sounded like when everyone wanted the same thing.\n\n“For Maplewood,” the host began.\n\nAll the contestants, Chris included, repeated: “For Maplewood.”\n\n“For our spirit,” said the host.\n\n“For our spirit,” they replied, and Chris noticed the hairs on the back of his neck rise ever so slightly.\n\nThe crowd clapped as if it were touching. Chris smiled into the string lights, but inwardly he was glad it would be over soon.\n\nThen came the decision. Names were called, a few girls were allowed to continue, there was cheering and small hugs. At “Chris Braun,” nothing came. Instead came the friendly, final “Thank you for participating, Contestant 17.”\n\nChris felt a brief sting—not from disappointment, more from the reflex you have when you’re “out.” Immediately after that came relief. He hadn’t expected anything else. On the contrary: he was glad it was over. No further walk, no questions, no longer moments on that stage.\n\nSusan, on the other hand, became noticeably stiff beside him. Her smile stayed stuck like fake lipstick. “Unbelievable,” she hissed as soon as they turned around. “After all that effort…”\n\nChris said nothing. He let the anger roll off him as best he could. Inside him there was only that quiet: Thank God.\n\nBackstage, he changed quickly, loosened the bodice, slipped off the blouse, breathed out when the pressure vanished from his ribs. When he was back in his normal festival outfit, he felt like someone stepping out of a costume that had been too tight. Susan stayed nearby, still tense, still offended—but Chris pulled away from her before she could pour her frustration into words.\n\nHe found Ben, Jay, and Max at a stand with apple juice and sticky snacks. They were immediately excited, as if they had been waiting for exactly this moment.\n\n“You were totally brave,” Ben said, clapping Chris on the shoulder as if he had just won a boss fight.\n\n“Yeah,” Jay said seriously. “Like… I couldn’t have done that. Never.”\n\nMax nodded vigorously. “You seemed… totally composed.” He looked away briefly, as if the compliment embarrassed him too, and added: “And the costume was… uh… very… fitting.”\n\nChris had to laugh—a real laugh that felt like air. “Thanks. You were… loud.”\n\n“That was the plan,” Ben said proudly. “We’re… the support unit.”\n\nThey moved on through the festival grounds. They played can toss (Ben hit almost nothing, but claimed it was “on purpose”), got maple fudge, and argued over whether the wolf at a woodcarving stand looked more like a timber wolf or a bad-tempered dog. At some point they sat down on a low wall, watched the remnants of the parade, and talked about the next D&D adventure as if that were the only relevant world.\n\nAnd in fact: with every laugh, every crooked joke, every nerdy detail, Chris pushed the embarrassing contest moment further back, as if he had shoved it into a drawer. The evening stayed in his memory not as the stage and number 17—but as a few boys who clapped as if he mattered. And as a day that, despite everything, had been fun.\n<<set $choice_ahorn1 to 1>>\n[[Continue|Bewertungstag.]]

<h2>Christine’s Diary – Monday (first day of school)</h2> <div class="letter">I don’t even know where to start, because today was just… too much.\n\nToday Chris walked into this school as a girl for the first time. And even though I knew it was coming (I know everything because Mom plans everything), it still hit me to see him like that. He was wearing that light blue dress and somehow looked… delicate. Not in the cute way, more in the way you hold a glass in your hand and are afraid it might fall. He tried not to stand out. Spoiler: That NEVER works here. Especially not when you’re new.\n\nHe came into school with that look that was everywhere at once, just not on the people. Shoulders a little lowered, as if he could make himself smaller. I pretended I wasn’t watching him, but of course I was. I’m his sister. And I’m not blind either.\n\nThen during break something happened that annoyed me and… I don’t know… made me jealous at the same time. Chris couldn’t get his locker open. He kept turning the lock for so long that his fingers already looked really frantic. And then Dylan came along. Dylan. Just like that. Laughed, said something, and then opened the locker as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Chris looked at him as if he had just prevented a natural disaster. And Dylan did that “it’s all cool” thing while he was at it, the way he always does. I stood there and saw it, and my stomach gave this weird little tug. I immediately told myself I didn’t care. But I did care.\n\nLunch in the cafeteria was also… interesting. Chris tried to seem so normal. And then there was Charlotte. Charlotte with her I’m-so-cute-but-I-know-exactly-what-I’m-doing smile. She flirted with Chris. Not even subtly. I saw how she leaned over and how Chris blushed. The blush was so real that I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Because at the same time I thought: Oh no, please not even more drama.\n\nThen gym… changing room. I noticed it. Chris had that boy-look. Not even super obvious, but I know him. He tried to watch a girl while she was changing. I stepped directly in between. Just like that.\n\nAnd at home… oh my God. Mom completely redecorated his room. As if that were normal. Rosé walls. Voile curtains that pretend our house is a Pinterest board. Satin bedding that looks like you might accidentally slide right out of it. A vanity table, as if Chris had been waiting for one for years. I tried not to stare, but it was as if someone had moved into another life. Into his. And somehow into ours too.\n\nI don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. Sometimes I want to shake him and say, “Get a grip.” And sometimes I just want to… sit him down next to me and tell him that it’ll somehow be okay. That this school eats you on the first day, but you survive it anyway.\n\nOnly: I don’t know whether he’ll survive it. Or whether at some point he’ll pretend that all of this is really him.\n\nAnd that scares me.\n\n</div> [[Continue|Christines Tagebuch2]]

Chris went with them. He did not make a big statement about it; he simply set one foot over the threshold, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Behind him came the rustle of fabric, the click of soles, the brief flare of phone lights. Christine immediately stayed close at his side, so close that her sleeve brushed his. She did not say “I’m scared,” but her grip on his forearm said it clearly enough. And Chris noticed that old feeling rising inside him: being the big brother, even if so much else was twisted around.\n<<set $ort to "maple syrup bottling plant">>\nInside, it was noticeably cooler. The air tasted metallic—and beneath it lay that sweet hint of syrup, as if someone had stirred sugar into rusty water. Their steps echoed, much louder than outside, as if the walls were throwing every sound back twice. Everything seemed bigger than it had looked from the outside: the ceiling higher, the tanks more massive, the pipes like dark ribs above them. The last sunlight fell slantwise through dirty windows and drew milky rectangles on the concrete floor.\n\n“So this doesn’t count yet,” one of the boys said, pointing upward. “Look—it’s not even properly dark.”\n\nA few laughed, but it already sounded thinner than before. Still, several nodded. Someone said the real dare would only be once they could see nothing but the phone lights. And because teenage logic rarely backtracked, they decided simply to wait.\n\nThey sat down on a low concrete step, leaned against a tank, stood in a semicircle like around a campfire without a fire. Phone lights went on and off, faces appeared briefly and disappeared again. The running joke “Don’t go there after dark” came up once more—this time almost like an incantation—and no one really laughed.\n\nThe wind whistled somewhere through a pipe, a drawn-out sound that could be explained rationally and still felt like a sign. A chain struck metal outside or in some adjoining area: clang… clang… In the distance, something dripped steadily, patiently, as if the plant were counting the seconds.\n\nChris tried to stay calm. He could feel Christine beside him, how she kept inching closer whenever something cracked somewhere. He held his arm in such a way that she could hold on to it without it being obvious. All good, he said softly to her, more with his tone than with the words.\n\nThen he noticed it: his body was sending an unpleasant, urgent signal. He badly needed to go to the bathroom.\n\nHe glanced around. Of course there wasn’t one. Only concrete, rust, shadows. Chris cleared his throat. “I… I need to quickly—” He gestured vaguely to the side, as if that were the most normal sentence in the world.\n\n“Me too,” a girl said immediately, as if she had been waiting for permission to say it.\n\nChris’s stomach clenched briefly. That was exactly the problem: if he had gone alone, he might have found some solution that suited him. But with someone else… there was only one way that suited “her.” Suited them. Suited the image everyone had of him.\n\nHe nodded anyway, forcedly casual. “Okay. Maybe back there.”\n\nThey went a little way off, behind a large tank, where the phone light was less noticeable. The concrete was even colder here, the smell of syrup stronger, and somewhere a loose metal plate rattled in the draft. Chris searched with his eyes and body for a corner as shielded as possible, and noticed how embarrassing every step became—not because of the act itself, but because of the role he had to take on for it. In a dress, with tights, with the knowledge that peeing standing up in a “typically male” way could give him away.\n\nWhen the time came, he turned away, pretending all of this was perfectly normal. He had to squat, the way a girl would, the way it was expected—and that thought alone made his face grow hot, even though it was actually cold in here.\n\nChris could hear the steadily growing stream of his urine splashing onto the floor.\n\nThe girl beside him muttered something like “Ew, it’s so creepy here,” and Chris nodded silently, grateful for every word that didn’t sound like it was about him.\n\nWhen they were finished, they both hastily straightened clothing and posture, as if that could shake off the embarrassment. Chris took one deep breath, forced his face into neutrality, and went back to the group with her.\n\n[[Continue|Flaschendrehen.]]

<center>[img[pics/The Tipsy Tassel.jpg]]</center> The next evening, they stood outside The Tipsy Tassel, and Chris’ heart felt as if it wanted to race against his ribs. The entrance was a narrow corridor of neon and black paint that smelled of perfume, sweet smoke, and alcohol. Behind the door, the music was deeper than it had sounded outside—a bass that made the floor vibrate slightly.\n\nZoe looked as if she were on her way to a party. She ran a hand briefly through her hair and grinned over at Chris. “Breathe. And don’t look like you’re about to confess.”\n\nChris hunched his shoulders. “I’m already confessing internally.”\n\nBackstage, it was brighter than expected. Mirrors edged with lights, clothing racks, makeup tables, a few people rummaging through their bags with practiced ease and barely looking up. It felt less glamorous and more… like a workplace, just with loud music and a lot of glitter in the air.\n\nA manager pressed forms into their hands. “Names, stage name, times. You’re new? Okay. No arguing with guests. The guest is king. If someone gets handsy, wave over security. You can keep your tips. Clear?”\n\nZoe nodded at once. “Clear.”\n\nChris nodded too, even though his mouth was dry. His stage name was suggested to him and immediately approved by Zoe, as if it were a joke they could still use later. Chris wrote it down and felt as if he were signing for someone he didn’t want to be.\n\nIn the changing room, he put on the outfit they had been given—nothing he would have considered “normal,” but also nothing he wanted to put into words. A schoolgirl costume with a short dark-red pleated skirt that did not even cover his small, round buttocks and swirled up with every step. The high heels of his black stilettos clacked very loudly with each step. And the long white stockings, which reached just below his knees, really glowed in the dark on his pretty lower legs.\n\nBut above all, it was: little fabric, a strong feeling of being “too visible.” He looked at himself in the mirror and felt shame like a wave that kept coming back. Not because he found himself disgusting, but because he knew where the men’s eyes would go. Chris felt exposed and deeply humiliated.\n\nZoe, on the other hand, got dressed as if it were a new costume for a performance. “You look good,” she said casually to him, checking her makeup in the mirror. “And you don’t have to… you know. It’s stage. Show. Not the real you.”\n\n“That’s exactly the problem,” Chris muttered. “It still feels real.”\n\n[[Continue|Chris Auftritt.]]

The cafeteria was an aquarium of voices, trays, and fluorescent light. The smell of fryers hung over everything, and the metallic clatter of trays laid a rhythm beneath it. By the entrance, a menu poster was still freshly stuck up, the edges straight, the colors too new: MONDAY—Pasta Bake, TUESDAY—Tacos, WEDNESDAY—Chicken Nuggets, as if someone had tried to print order onto the chaos. Directly beneath it stood a few freshmen—the brand-new ones—with backpacks far too large and fixed stares, trays half-raised, as if they didn’t know whether to line up first or decide first. They looked lost, searching for a table like a lifeboat, and Chris recognized something of himself in their uncertainty, just without lipstick and a mask.\n<<set $ort to "cafeteria">>\nChris pushed into the line, took a bottle of water, a portion of pasta, an apple. At the register, the scanner passed over the tray with a beep.\n\n“That’s four-fifty, sweetie,” the employee said without looking up. He murmured a “Thanks” and felt his shoulders react in contradiction: draw tighter, straighten up.\n\nThe social geography arranged itself as if in a natural-history book. On the left, the jocks in Timberwolves hoodies, hands talking, voices too loud; beside them the preps, polished water bottles, perfect laughter. Farther back, the band kids, drumsticks and metal cases at their feet; the theater table was an island of gestures and black. The nerds gathered by outlets, laptops open, heat shimmering above the displays. In the brightest corner: the cheerleaders—the Pom Puffs in pastel jackets, scrunchies, ponytails, a logo in glitter.\n\n<center>[img[pics/cafeteria.jpg]]</center> As a boy, he probably would have sat with the nerds, Chris thought, turning the apple in his hand. Instead, he aimed for Christine’s table with the cheerleaders. She waved him over, patted the place beside her. “Here.”\n\nEight faces turned. A silence of three seconds, in which one could hear a knife cutting butter. “Who is…?” began a girl with a white hair clip.\n“My sister,” Christine said calmly. “Chris. She’s new.”\nA murmur went around. “You have a sister?” – “I didn’t know that.” – “From Germany, right?” Questions fanned out like fans: Where exactly? Since when? Do you like pumpkin spice? Have you ever seen New York? The words “boyfriend” and “homecoming” flickered in two sentences that he smiled away inside himself.\n\nChris answered carefully, dodging whenever it moved toward boys. At “So what’s your type?” he acted as if he had to chew. At “Dylan is totally—” he drank water for a long time. He listened more than he spoke.\n\n[[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]]—a slim, sunny type with dark bangs and freckles—had her elbows on the table and was looking at him attentively, as if casting a role. “So, Chris…” she said, drawing out the syllable, “you have this… I-don’t-know—Paris vibe? Super elegant.” A grin. “Welcome to the Pom Puffs—I mean, if you’re ever interested.” Her eyes held his gaze a beat too long; it was an open, playful flirt, undisguised. Chris’s stomach made a small wave. From her easy manner, he concluded that she probably liked girls.\n\n“Um, thanks,” he said, and the word rolled uncertainly over his tongue. He felt Christine nudge him lightly under the table.\n\n“Join in,” she whispered, barely turning her head. “Otherwise you’ll stand out.” Then, louder to the table: “I’m thinking of joining properly this year. Tryouts are Tuesday, right?”\n\n“Of course!” called the one with the hair clip. “Come to the gym. We still need two bases and—” She counted positions off on her fingers as if checking ingredients.\n\nTwo tables over, he saw Zoe, curly hair swept back from her neck, picking alone at a tray.\n\nCharlotte leaned closer. “Theater’s cool too—I used to be in drama club myself, if you’re more stage than basket toss. Wednesday in the Black Box. But cheer has jackets.” She winked. “Jackets are important.”\n\n“Mhm,” Chris made, more a sound than an opinion.\n\nHis sister nudged him again. “More than ‘mhm,’” she breathed. “You don’t have to be clever—just… in it.”\n\nHe nodded. A thought rose inevitably: home, his mother, the list. Christine, who would tell her that evening who had said what. How many answers were “good,” how many were “so-so”? He took a bite of the pasta, which suddenly tasted like chalk, and thought of options like chess moves:\n\na) Hook into the girls’ conversations—fashion, tryouts, homecoming—so his mother would be satisfied and the walls wouldn’t close in further.\nb) Keep staying silent, let the waves roll over him—he wasn’t a girl, and the topics drifted past him like colorful buoys.\nc) Talk to Charlotte, pick up the light flirt.\n\nHe set down the fork, felt Christine’s gaze, Charlotte’s open smile, the roar of the hall. A decision tilted inside him like a coin standing briefly on its edge—and then falling.\n<<set $choice_cafeteria to 0>>\n''Which way should it be?''\n❯ [[He hooks into the conversations about tryouts, fashion, and homecoming in order to blend in as inconspicuously as possible.|Sich einhaken in die Mädchengespräche.][$tarnung += 1;$choice_cafeteria += 1]]\n❯ [[He would rather stay silent and hope no one notices how foreign all of this feels to him.|Weiter schweigen.][$tarnung -= 1;$choice_cafeteria += 2]]\n❯ [[He returns Charlotte’s interest and sees where this conversation might lead him.|Mit Charlotte ins Gespräch kommen.][$charlotte += 1;$choice_cafeteria += 3]]

<<set $ort to "">><<if $choice_adam == 1>>After school, the hallway was thinner, but not quiet; lockers slammed, somewhere a cart with cleaning supplies squeaked. Chris was on his way to drama club when Adam spotted him and hastily slipped in beside him, the D&D folder held like a shield in front of his chest. “Hey, Chris,” he said too quickly, as if he had rehearsed the greeting. “Uh… pretty crazy that Homecoming is already next week, right? I mean… that’s… huge.” He laughed nervously, kept talking without leaving a pause: about dress codes, about “all those lights,” about how he would “probably just stand around anyway.” His eyes kept flicking back to Chris’s face, as if searching for the right moment.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. With every sentence, the feeling grew that Adam was leading up to something—a question hanging in the air like a ball no one wanted to catch. Chris felt the inner reflex to start making excuses already, even before the invitation had been spoken at all. But Adam swallowed the words back down every time, bit his lip, pulled the folder tighter against himself. In the end, all that remained was a too-large smile. “So… yeah. Just wanted to say that.” He nodded hectically. “Have fun at drama club.” Then he turned off abruptly, as if someone had called him, and disappeared between the lockers. Chris exhaled, left the feeling of impending embarrassment behind, and continued on to drama club.\n\n<<endif>>The theater room smelled of dust and curtain fabric. During the break, Chris leaned against the side stage with Ruby, and she talked—as she so often did—about Stardust. “He had that diva look again, but at the gallop… wow,” she said, tracing a wide curve in the air with her hand.\n<<set $ruby_opinion to 79>>\nChris nodded, but his thoughts stuck on the image of what [[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]] looked like in riding clothes—tight pants, boots, the effortless seat. It was only a brief, warm stab, but it distracted him enough that he missed the next detail.\n\n“Are you coming out with me again afterward?” Ruby asked.\n\n“Yeah, sure,” he said, almost too quickly.\n\nAfter theater, they drove to the riding stable on the edge of town. The air there smelled of hay, leather, and cool earth. Chris looked around, instinctively searching for a changing room—but Ruby only tied her hair back tighter and pulled on gloves. “We’re going to do Stardust’s stall, remember,” she said. That was when Chris realized what he had missed: no ride. Mucking out.\n\nThey walked along the fence; Stardust stretched his head over the door and snorted once, as if he wanted to comment. Ruby lovingly patted his forehead. “No nonsense.”\n\nThen they pushed the wheelbarrow over, grabbed pitchforks, and got started. The straw rustled, the fork scraped over the floor. Chris found a rhythm, levering, lifting, dropping; his arms worked like in training, only heavier. After a while, Ruby leaned on the handle and looked at him. “You’re pretty strong… for a girl,” she said, teasing, appreciative.\n\nIt hit him twice: flattering in his chest, a little warning light in the back of his mind. “Uh, thanks,” he murmured and lifted another load into the barrow, trying to seem casual. Don’t make it look too effortless, don’t brag. Breathe. Evenly.\n\nThen Ezekiel—Zeke—appeared in the stall aisle, an employee with a dusty cap and broad shoulders.\n\n<center>[img[pics/zeke.jpg]]</center> “Need a hand?” he asked, letting his gaze wander from Ruby to Chris. “The work’s too hard for two pretty girls.” His grin was friendly, but clearly meant as a flirt.\n\nChris felt Ruby’s quick sidelong glance. Two impulses stirred inside him: accept—finish faster, draw less attention; refuse—show that they could do it, and not make his “too strong” even more noticeable.\n\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[Accept the help.|Die Hilfe annehmen.][$zeke += 1]]\n❯ [[Refuse the help.|Die Hilfe ablehnen.]]

“No more piercings,” Chris began before Susan could grab the next brochure. “The earlobes are enough.” His ears were still throbbing warmly; in the glass display case, the discreet sparkle of the studs reflected like two small confessions.\n\nSusan let her gaze wander over a display board covered with tattoo designs. Her fingers paused at a delicate butterfly. “This one would suit you,” she said, friendly—and yet there was something threatening in her voice, as if she were drawing an invisible line. “Very delicate. Very… fitting.”\n\nChris saw the butterfly, saw the needle that meant forever, and felt his resistance suddenly become porous. Before he maneuvered himself into the corner of a “no” with consequences, he raised his hands. “Okay. Navel,” he forced out. Holes grow closed again, he told himself. Eventually. Somehow.\n\nThe piercer—calm eyes, gloves, routine—nodded. “Disinfect, mark, one deep breath,” she explained, matter-of-fact as a lab instruction. She drew two tiny dots, checked the line of his navel, laid out sterile instruments.\n\n“Inhale… exhale.” A sharp sting, not a vague scratching—pain that went cleanly through, lifting him out of time for a second. Then the metallic feeling of the jewelry—a small curved barbell with a clear stone—and immediately that dull throbbing again, warmth and warning at once.\n\n“If you want to be beautiful, you have to suffer,” Susan commented, as if that were a cloth with which one could cover every wound.\n\nI don’t want to be beautiful, Chris thought, and the words were heavy as stones. I’m a boy.\n\nThe piercer placed a breathable bandage over the area and handed him an information sheet. “If it feels tight, cool it. No pressure from waistbands.”\n\nSusan regarded the result, tilted her head, satisfied. “It looks excellent,” she said—and the “excellent” felt like someone else’s grade beneath his work.\n\nOutside, on the sidewalk, Chris blinked into the late light. Under his top, the new, sensitive spot pulsed like a small, wakeful secret.\n\n“Come on,” Susan said, linking arms with him as if escorting a prize she had won. “We’ll get some antiseptic saline solution. Then home.”\n\nChris nodded, held the bag a little higher so the waistband wouldn’t rub, and put one foot in front of the other. Every step said: I don’t want to be beautiful. Every breath answered: But you’re supposed to be.\n\n''👠 Style +1''\n\n[[The third school day.|Der dritte Schultag2.]]

Chris stood there for another moment and watched Dylan go until the quarterback disappeared around the corner. In his hand, Penelope’s cardigan suddenly weighed far more than a bit of fabric had any right to. It smelled of clean perfume and that “everything under control” feeling Penelope always seemed to carry with her.\n\nJust hand it over, Chris told himself. Don’t think about it.\n\nHe took two steps, then stopped again. The thought was unbearably banal: Why does Dylan have the jacket? And right after that: How often does he give her things back? It was ridiculous how quickly jealousy could take hold inside him—cold, stubborn, without him having asked for it.\n\nHe wanted to leave it alone. Really. But his hand had already pulled the cardigan a little higher, as if it were controlling itself. The pockets hung heavier than they should. Chris’s thumb slid over the seam.\n\nJust quickly feel whether there’s anything inside, he told himself, as if it were a service, not an intrusion.\n\nHis fingers slipped into the right pocket—and found something smooth, cylindrical. He pulled it out: raspberry lip gloss, bright and shiny. Chris stared at the gloss for a moment as if he were holding Penelope’s voice in his hand. A sharp sting of “of course” went through him.\n\nPaper rustled in the other pocket. A small folded note, creased several times, read and passed along so often that the edges had gone soft. Chris paused. This was the threshold. The one you were better off not crossing.\n\nHe crossed it anyway.\n\nTwo kinds of handwriting, alternating, as if they had secretly passed it back and forth in class. No kitsch, no little hearts. But there was a familiarity there that immediately hit Chris cold.\n\nPenelope wrote first, restless, forceful:\n\n<div class="letter">P: Can I trust you with something? \nP: It’s about home. I’m losing it.</div> Dylan’s handwriting underneath was calmer, rounder: <div class="letter">D: Yeah. What’s going on?</div> Penelope: <div class="letter">P: I think my mom… \nP: I mean, I know she’s hiding something. \nP: She’s so weird with Dad sometimes. Too “nice.” And then she’s always… gone. \nP: I heard her on the phone the other day. She hung up right away when I came in. I think she’s having an affair.</div> Chris’s gaze stuck on the word mom. Penelope, the queen bee, who never seemed insecure—and yet she wrote as if her home were shaking. It didn’t fit the image Chris had of her, and that was exactly why it pulled him in deeper.\n\nDylan answered:\n<div class="letter">D: That sounds awful. I’m sorry. \nD: Maybe there’s a harmless explanation. \nD: Do you have someone you can talk to about it? Your dad?</div> Penelope: <div class="letter">P: With Dad? He wouldn’t want to hear it. \nP: He still sees Mom like he did back then. Like she’s untouchable. P: And I don’t feel like being the one who ruins everything.</div> Dylan: <div class="letter">D: You’re not ruining anything just because you notice something’s wrong. \nD: You don’t have to carry that alone. \nD: I know what that’s like. My little brother clings to me too when there’s stress at home. You suddenly feel like the adult.</div> Chris felt his stomach tighten. Dylan wrote… well. Understanding. Warm. He wasn’t the big quarterback type from the hallway, cracking jokes and gliding through high-fives. He was someone who listened. And Penelope got that version of him—that private, real attention.\n\nJealousy stabbed, sharp and ridiculous, and Chris hated himself for it.\n\n<<if $party1 > 0>>He was about to fold the note back up—when the second part began, as if Penelope had started again later, with new pressure in her handwriting:\n<div class="letter">P: And then there’s Lucas too. \nP: He’s… I don’t know. He’s driving me crazy.</div> Chris remembered Lucas. Penelope’s brother, one year younger. The theater kid.\n\nDylan:\n<div class="letter">D: What is he doing?</div> Penelope: <div class="letter">P: When I was changing, he was standing behind the door once, secretly watching me. \nP: I caught him. He acted like it was an accident.</div> Dylan wrote: <div class="letter"> D: That’s not okay. \nD: Did you tell your mom?</div> Penelope: <div class="letter">P: She doesn’t really listen when it comes to Lucas. \nP: “He’s sensitive,” “He’s curious,” blah. \nP: I was looking in his room for a hoodie because he stole mine. \nP: And I saw things there that he hides. \nP: Not bad in themselves—just… why hide something like that?\nP: There was also a photo of Chris. From that evening at my place. You know, the pajama party with the girls. I just put it back, but I thought it was weird.</div> Chris’s heart stumbled. He knew immediately which one she meant—the Polaroid from the photo wall that had been missing at some point.\n\n<<if $party1 < 4>>So it had been Lucas. Lucas had taken the photo—his photo.\n\n<<endif>>Dylan answered, slowly, seriously:\n\n<div class="letter">D: Pen, don’t talk to him about it alone. \nD: If you want, I can be there for the conversation. Or we get an adult. \nD: You don’t have to put up with it just because he’s your brother.</div> Penelope’s last line was shorter, softer: <div class="letter">P: Thanks. \nP: I was starting to think I was crazy.</div> <<endif>>Chris stared at the words. Suddenly he felt two things at once: relief that Penelope’s life apparently wasn’t made only of shine—and guilt because he was relieved at all. And over it all, that unpleasant jealousy tugged at him again, because Dylan was so understanding, so present. Not romantic—but close. Close enough.\n\nHe hastily folded the note back up, pushed it into the pocket, and put the lip gloss back with it. His fingers were warmer than before, as if the paper had heated him up.\n\nThen he forced his face into neutrality.\n\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[He brings Penelope the jacket, even though the thought of it gives him a small pang.|Er bringt Penelope die Jacke.2][$dylan += 1;$dylan_opinion += 10]]\n❯ [[He decides not to bring Penelope the jacket.|Er bringt Penelope die Jacke nicht.2]]

The kitchen door swung open. A boy stuck his head in, nose in the air. “Smells like cookies.” He took one step into the room—tousled hair, a T-shirt with a faded band logo. Chris flinched and instinctively turned his back to him, as if he had just touched something forbidden.\n\n“Sweetheart, this is my son,” Mrs. Barnett said calmly. “His name is [[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]].”\n\nChris blinked, half turned. Lucas. Lucas? The Lucas from theater club—narrow build, that nervous politeness, which now gave way to a sweet surprise. “Uh… hey,” Lucas said, suddenly much softer. “We have… I mean, we know each other from theater club.”\n\n“Hi,” Chris managed, smiling unfinishedly.\n\n“Lucas,” his mother reminded him gently, “you were supposed to stay in your room today. Penelope has guests.”\n\n“I just… followed the smell.” He snatched a cookie from the tray, blew on the edge, and took a bite. When he looked up, his gaze caught on Chris as if he were trying to undress Chris’s satin nightgown with his eyes. “They’re good, Mom,” he murmured, sounding as if he meant two things.\n\nSuddenly, girl noise spilled back into the kitchen from the hallway. Penelope appeared in the doorway, two friends in tow, a tray in her hand. “Hey—party zone, Lucas! Out of here.” Her forehead creased in irritation. “I told you: no wandering around today. Go game or read something, whatever. Just don’t be annoying.”\n\n“I just wanted to say hi,” Lucas tried, the cookie behind his back.\n“Hi said. Bye.” She pointed toward the hallway, annoyed, leaving no room for negotiation.\n\n“It’s all right, Pen,” Mrs. Barnett cut in gently. “He’s just taking one cookie and disappearing.”\n“Two,” Lucas muttered, grabbed the second one after all, threw Chris a crooked smile, and backed toward the door.\n\nPenelope snorted, rolled her eyes, and aimed for the tray. “Cookies! Thanks, Mom. Chris, can you take the soda?”\n“Sure,” Chris said, grateful for the task and for having a tray to hold. As he passed, Mrs. Barnett threw him a brief, seductive look—one that promised a great deal.\n\n[[Continue|Mädchenspiele in der Kissenburg.]]

As it got later, the house slowly emptied. Voices drifted into other rooms, footsteps became rarer, doors fell shut more softly. Eventually, they were alone in Adam’s room.\n\nChris stopped in the middle of the room as the smell hit his nose: a mix of cold sweat, unwashed clothes, and that dull aroma of old fast food. Crumpled wrappers, socks, and a hoodie that looked like it had been there for weeks lay on the floor. The desk was cluttered with empty energy drink cans, sticky tissues, stacks of paper, dice, and various figures. A monitor blinked in standby. Above the bed, a poster of a half-naked woman hung crookedly, and the sheets looked as if they hadn’t been washed in months.\n\nChris’ hand tugged at the hem of his skirt. The house was quiet enough now that he could hear his own heart. He had an idea of what Adam wanted. And that suspicion made him feel heavy, as if the air in the room were growing thicker.\n\nAdam made Chris strip naked and then get into a kneeling position. With a disgusted look, Chris looked up at Adam, who was holding his swollen cock right in front of his nose.\n\nAdam shoved his unwashed dick into Chris’ pretty mouth, and after a few pleasurable moments with Chris’ tongue, he shot his first load deep into Chris and spread the rest of his release over Chris’ face and his naked breasts.\n\nThere was so much pressure behind his cock that the stuff slapped onto Chris’ body. Chris sat naked on the floor like a picture of misery, covered in a disgusting layer of cum.\n\nHardly had the last drop been squeezed out when he quickly led Chris into the bathroom. The layer of cum on Chris’ pretty face was so thick that he practically had to dig his eyes free to see where the bathroom was.\n\nUnder a stream of warm water, Adam began washing all the cum from Chris’ body. After Chris was nice and wet, Adam grabbed plenty of shampoo and started rubbing him down vigorously.\n\nHis hands were everywhere on Chris’ body, but Chris mostly felt the greedy fingers between his legs and on his breasts. Adam deliberately rubbed Chris’ penis and his nipples, which got Chris going surprisingly quickly.\n\nChris was moaning almost nonstop, and after several minutes of this torture, he came loudly and violently. His moans filled the whole house, that was how fiercely the orgasm burst out of him.\n\nAdam was wildly pleased with himself over this success and led Chris, on trembling legs, back into his bedroom, where they lay down in bed together.\n\nThe sheets were dirty and slightly clammy. A sweetish, musty haze hung in them, and Chris had to force himself not to grimace. He slipped under the blanket, made himself as small as possible, his back stiff, as if that could make him invisible.\n\nAdam moved close, satisfied, as if that alone were enough, and murmured, “Good night.” Chris didn’t answer. He stared into the darkness for a moment, heard the quiet house, the distant refrigerator, a creak in the wood – and felt exhaustion make his eyelids heavy.\n\nAt some point, his body gave in. Despite the stinking sheets, despite the unease of Adam’s penis against his bare ass, despite the fear of what “tomorrow” might bring, Chris fell asleep – and Adam beside him did too.\n\n[[Continue|Weihnachten in Deutschland.]]

After school, Chris didn’t go to the bus, but walked the way to Zoe’s house as if every step were pulling him a little farther away from the hallways where his name currently existed only as a joke. His hood was pulled low, his bag pressed tightly against his body.\n\nZoe let him in without much of a greeting. She didn’t seem like herself – less sharp, less loud. More… tense. She pushed the door shut with her foot, threw her phone onto a table, and acted as if she had to tidy something up, even though she wasn’t really touching anything.\n\n“You weren’t there today,” Chris said finally. His voice sounded hoarse, as if he had spent the whole day screaming at something invisible.\n\n“Yeah, no shit,” Zoe muttered, pulling open a drawer, then closing it again. “I had… stuff.”\n\nChris waited. He knew Zoe’s way of circling things with side comments first, until eventually she suddenly went straight into the middle of it. But this time it took longer. She didn’t sit down; she just stood there, as if sitting would be too still for whatever was working inside her.\n\n“The people at school completely lost it again today,” Chris said, more to himself. “And I wanted to before school—you were just gone.”\n\nZoe twisted her mouth, as if she had reacted allergically to too many words. “I couldn’t come.” Then she exhaled sharply. “I wasn’t allowed to.”\n\nChris looked at her. “What happened?”\n\nZoe stared past him for a moment, as if weighing how much truth she could give him without betraying herself in the process. Then it came anyway, all at once, as if she no longer had the strength to hold it in.\n\nShe told him that she and Mr. Robertson had been in a relationship for some time – not romantic, not nice in any way, but as part of a dirty deal. He had given her money. In return, Zoe had occasionally slept with him or “...sucked his hard-on real quick before school.” Zoe said, and it sounded like a sober statement of fact.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. He listened, shamefully silent, because every detail felt as if he were hearing something he wasn’t actually allowed to hear. Zoe spoke dryly, but her fingers trembled whenever she got stuck on a point.\n\n“And then on Friday,” she finally continued, “we were making out during break, and he was desperate to touch my pussy. I turned around and presented him with my ass. Then he fucked me from behind.”\n\nChris swallowed. In his head, images clicked together: Zoe and Mr. Robertson secretly meeting during break to quickly fuck before afternoon class.\n\n“At first I braced myself on the teacher’s desk, and he thrust hard,” Zoe explained. “So hard that I had to put my hand over my mouth so no one would hear us. But…” she paused, “...someone heard us. The school wants to bury it,” Zoe went on, giving one short, bitter laugh. “He got suspended, sure. ‘Pending investigation’ and all that bullshit. And me?” She lifted her shoulders. “I got temporarily suspended. And then they suggested this ‘voluntary’ departure to me. Like: If you leave, it’s easier for everyone. For me. For the school. For their reputation. For the reputation of… you know.”\n\nChris felt as if someone had lowered the floor beneath him by a few inches. “You… and Mr. Robertson?” He could barely get the sentence out properly. He had suspected Zoe had secrets, but not like this. Not that she had been in that kind of sexual relationship with his teacher.\n\nChris stared at her, still shocked. He hadn’t had any idea that Zoe and Mr. Robertson had had that kind of relationship at all. And while he realized it, he simultaneously felt how small and helpless he suddenly seemed to himself again: as if the school were a place where adults could make their mistakes disappear – and kids paid the bill.\n\n[[Continue|Zoes Plan abzuhauen.]]

Christmas came to Maplewood with too many strings of lights in front yards and too little sleep. School vacation had begun, the days had suddenly grown quieter, and that very quiet made Chris’s thoughts grow louder.\n\nHe had promised his father he would come to Germany for the holidays. His father Michael had talked about it on the phone as if it were the most harmless kind of return: “Anja is looking forward to meeting you too. And the girls even more, they’re already all excited.” Chris had said “yes” back then, pushing something aside inside himself that could no longer be pushed aside now.\n\nBecause there was a problem that couldn’t be packed into a suitcase.\n\nChris still hadn’t managed to tell his father what had happened in Maplewood. Not in a sentence, not in hints, not even between the lines. Not about the dresses, not about the hormones, not about the way his mother had forced him step by step to slip into a role until, on the outside, it felt like everyday life and, on the inside, like a knot.\n\nAnd now he was on his way, without his father having even the slightest idea who he would be picking up at the airport.\n\nChris sat on the plane, his hands wrapped tightly around the armrests, as if he could hold himself in place that way. He was wearing a pretty dress—subtle enough for the trip, but unmistakable. The tights scratched lightly at his knee, his hair was styled, the part neat, and his makeup was so carefully done that it almost felt like a mask: softly darkened eyelids, blush, gloss. He could smell the scent of his perfume, warm and sweet, and at the same time he felt the trembling beneath the surface that wouldn’t go away.\n\nWhen the announcement came that they were beginning their approach, his mouth went dry. Below him, Germany slid out from the clouds: gray fields, wintry rooftops, familiar lines. Home, one part of him thought—and another screamed: Not like this.\n\nThe landing gear touched down, a jolt, a screech of tires. Chris’s heart hammered against his ribs as if it wanted out. He forced himself to breathe, reflexively smiling at the passing flight attendants as though everything were normal.\n\nThe plane rolled to a stop. Germany. Christmas. His father was waiting.\nAnd Chris was panicking.\n\n[[Continue|Ankunft in Deutschland.]]

Chris’s finger tapped confidently toward Charlotte. She noticed, raised the corner of her mouth—not unwilling, more with that “so what?” sparkle she did so well. Is she thinking about Mrs. Rivera right now? flashed through Chris’s mind, and he pushed the thought away again.\n\nBut the pillow fort mostly pointed at Christine. “What? No!” Christine turned beet red. Penelope grinned broadly: “Oh please—last year you were totally crushing on Mr. Alvarez. You framed him three times in the yearbook.”\n“Did. not!”, Christine hissed, but it sounded like a badly rehearsed lie. Giggles surged up.\n\nChris blinked. He hadn’t known that. Though if he was honest, he understood it—Mrs. Rivera is pretty… wow, too. He raised his hands placatingly. “There’s nothing wrong with that, right? Crushes happen. As long as nothing serious happens, it’s just fantasy.” Christine shot him a grateful look through all that red.\n\n“Ahaaa,” Penelope drew the word out, “and you, Chris? Who’s your fantasy?” Names immediately pelted down: “Mr. Moore?”, “Mr. Robertson?”—the group buzzed like a beehive.\n“I—no—nobody,” Chris stammered, and his cheeks burned. Now suddenly everyone assumed he was secretly into some teacher. Great.\n\n“My round,” Christine saved herself by taking over the game, rubbing her hands as if to chase away the embarrassment. “Who would be more likely to cheat in a relationship?”\n\nFingers were already hovering impatiently.\n<<set $tempCharlotte to 0>>\n''Who does Chris choose?''\n<<if $charlotte == 2>>❯ [[Charlotte|Charlotte3][$tempCharlotte += 1]]<<else>>❯ [[Charlotte|Charlotte4]]<<endif>>\n❯ [[Christine|Christine3][$tempChristine += 1]]\n❯ [[Penelope|Penelope3]]

Chris’s finger landed on Charlotte.\n<<set $CharlotteMemory[5] to 1>>\nHer smile froze. “Aha.” She acted as if she took it sportingly, giggled along—but there was a glassy sting in her eyes. Chris felt at once that he had hit a nerve. He wanted to say “I didn’t mean it like that,” but the game moved on.\n\nFingers flew every which way; there was no clear “winner.” One after another, they justified themselves:\n\n“I would never cheat,” Charlotte said firmly, looking once at Chris, then somewhere past him.\n\n“Not my style,” Christine murmured, the redness not quite gone from her face yet.\n\nPenelope shrugged, honest as always: “Depends. If Mr. Right is very right, I drop Mr. Maybe. Clean cut, no double thing—but yeah, upgrade option.” Laughter, eye rolls; Penelope only grinned.\n\n“And you, Chris?” The circle turned toward him.\n\n“Never,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”\n\n“Not even with Dylan?” someone teased from under the blanket. Giggles. The name popped like a soap bubble. In Chris’s head, a whole movie suddenly started up—training jacket, smile, a “hey” in the hallway—ridiculous, involuntary. “No,” he blurted, too fast, too hard. The girls exchanged looks that said: Sure?\n\nCharlotte looked away.\n\n“Next question!” someone called. “Who would be more likely to have a baby as a teenager?”\n\nIt was as if a hundred compass needles pointed in the same direction. Almost all fingers—except Charlotte’s and Christine’s—drifted toward Chris. For a second, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Um… why me?”\n\nThe answers came pelting down, half teasing, half serious:\n\n“You seem so… naive.”\n\n“Helpless, in a cute way.”\n\n“Boys take advantage of that.”\n\n“You’d say ‘just cuddling for a minute’ and bam, prom with a baby bump.” Laughter, a few “oh my Gosh” calls.\n\nChris’s face burned. He knew how impossible it was—his body, his life, his situation—and yet the words felt as if they could be pinned to him. “Won’t happen anyway,” he muttered, more to himself than to them.\n\n“Chris, it’s your turn,” Penelope reminded him. “Ask something.”\n\nThe circle waited. One second. Two. Three. Chris’s head was still stuck on “naive” and “baby bump,” the words fluttering away before they became sentences. “Um… I…” Nothing. Empty radio.\n\nPenelope didn’t leave him hanging. “Then cut. Movie time.” A collective sigh of relief.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $tempCharlotte > 0 && $charlotte == 2>>[[Horror movie.|Horrorfilm.]]<<else>>[[Horror movie.|Horrorfilm.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Zoe tapped the cup against his elbow, turned on her heel, and trotted off as if she had only delivered a small, mean postcard.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nChris watched her go, then looked at Christine. She had laid her head on Myles’s shoulder; from here, she looked smaller. He exhaled, set the cup down, and went to class. His words stayed where he had left them: behind his teeth, heavy, but silent.\n\n<<if $lucas == 2>>That day, too, Chris played Lucas’s girlfriend in love: he let Lucas lead him by the hand through the hallway, sat with him in the cafeteria at a table that was far too visible, shared fries, smiled at exactly the moments when Lucas’s gaze sought confirmation, and once even briefly rested his head on his shoulder because it suited the role. He was honestly relieved that Lucas didn’t demand a kiss; even holding hands in the harsh midday light, the whispered “aww” calls from the neighboring table, and the long, appraising looks from the others felt to him like a stage performance without a curtain—more than enough.\n\n<<endif>>The day slid past Chris like the view from a train window: classes, bells, notebooks closed, notebooks opened. He copied vocabulary, nodded along in math, listened in English half to the dialogue, half to his own inner humming. When the final bell buzzed, he packed up mechanically and walked to the bus.\n\n<<if $videoblackmail == 1>>A clique of younger students leaned against the railing. One of them raised his phone “casually,” as if filming the clouds, but zoomed in Chris’s direction. Another whispered something; they leaned toward each other, grinning widely.\n\n<<endif>>This time, the bus was tolerably empty. He sat by the window, pressed the bag between his ankles, and watched the streets pass by: the kiosk with the faded posters, the driveway with the basketball hoop, the crooked mailbox that was still crooked. Thoughts popped up and sank again.\n\nAt home, the hallway smelled of citrus cleaner; somewhere, a clock ticked too loudly. Susan was already standing in the living room, her arms loosely crossed, a smile that fit too precisely, and that look that always made him feel as if the next scene had already been written.\n\n“There you are,” she said, and her voice was smooth, friendly, purposeful.\n\n''What is Susan planning?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ferguson == 1>>[[Babysitting|Babysitten]]<<else>>[[Chris needs a job.|Chris brauch einen Job.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Fingers shot every which way; Chris tapped Charlotte. There was no clear “winner” on this question—a chaos of pointing, shrugging, shaking heads.\n\n“I’d never cheat,” Charlotte said at once, serious beneath the grin.\n“Me neither,” Christine affirmed, still carrying a bit of leftover redness from earlier.\nPenelope raised an eyebrow. “Depends. If someone comes along who’s objectively hotter—sorry, I’m not married.” A giggle went around; she shrugged. “I’m being honest.”\n\n“And you, Chris?” someone asked from inside the pillow fort.\n\n“I… never,” Chris said. An “Aha” was already hovering in the air when the follow-up came from the corner: “Not even with Dylan?” A murmur, laughter, the name crackled. For a moment, a very inconvenient little fantasy sprang to life in Chris’s head—school hallway, easy stride, sunshine hair—he pushed it away—and heard himself say “No” too late. The hesitation in his voice gave him away. A few girls exchanged looks; not convinced hung unspoken on the cushions.\n\n“Next question!” someone called, glad for material for more giggling. “Who would be more likely to have a baby as a teenager?”\n\nThis time most of them agreed quickly. Fingers went—almost in unison—toward Chris. Charlotte and Christine didn’t point at him, but the others did.\n\n“What? Why… me?” Chris felt his face grow hot. “Why do you think that?”\n\n“Because you’re so…” One searched for the word and found: “naive?”\n“And too nice to say ‘no,’” a second added. “Boys take advantage of that.”\n“You’d believe what they say. You’d think it was love,” a third giggled. “And bam, prom with a baby bump!” (Laughter)\n“—and we’d have to pick out the best maternity dresses for you.” (Even more laughter.)\n\nChris pressed his lips together, caught between embarrassment and the urge to protest. Impossible, he thought, and at the same time the teasing hurt a little, even though they were mostly needling rather than biting. “That’s… not funny,” he murmured, trying for a smile that wasn’t supposed to look so thin.\n\n“Okay, okay,” Penelope soothed, “enough future planning for today. Chris, your question!”\n\nThe circle waited. One second. Two. Three. Chris’s head was still stuck on “naive” and “baby bump,” the words fluttering away before they became sentences. “Um… I…” Nothing. Empty radio.\n\nAfter a few silent minutes, Penelope clapped her hands, moderator mode. “Okay—program change! Movie time.” A relieved murmur ran through the pillow fort.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $tempCharlotte > 0 && $charlotte == 2>>[[Horror movie.|Horrorfilm.]]<<else>>[[Horror movie.|Horrorfilm.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

“What are you drinking?” DeShawn asked, already half turned toward the bar.\n\n“I’m… not really allowed to have anything,” Chris said more quietly. The sentence tasted like childhood. Like rules you couldn’t negotiate. “Not twenty-one yet.”\n\nLatoya raised an eyebrow, then made an exaggeratedly pitying face. “Aww, baby. That’s tragic.” She immediately turned toward the bar. “Then we’ll get you something that looks like a drink. No stress. Mocktail vibes.”\n\nChris nodded gratefully, though he barely knew the word. Later, when he sipped a sweet, fruity drink that smelled of citrus and came in a pretty glass, he at least didn’t feel completely left out. Still, the nervousness remained like a second pulse.\n\nDeShawn clapped his hands once. “Come on, Susan.” He gestured toward the dance floor. “One song.”\n\nSusan didn’t hesitate for a second. She threw Chris a look that was meant to say: Behave yourself, but also: See? We’re having fun. Then she let DeShawn pull her into the cone of light, and a moment later they were dancing—DeShawn’s movements calm and controlled, Susan full of energy, as if she had been waiting for it all evening.\n\nChris stayed standing with Latoya at the side of the bar. Only now did he realize how much he had been clinging to his mother for orientation. Without her, there was suddenly only him, the mesh top, and a room full of people.\n\nLatoya noticed it immediately. She leaned toward him as if they were old girlfriends and spoke loudly enough for him to understand her despite the music. “You’re nervous, right?” Her voice was direct, but not mean. More… warm.\n\nChris shrugged, which in the platforms was half an exercise. “A little.”\n\n“Okay, listen.” Latoya held up her glass as if there were a rule. “First: You look hot. Second: Nobody is looking as much as you think. And third: If they’re looking, it’s because you’ve got energy.” She simply grabbed his butt. “And you’ve got energy. Even if you don’t believe it.”\n\nChris giggled in embarrassment,\n\nThen she grinned cheekily. “So… tell me. College. What are you doing? And… are you single?”\n\nChris nearly choked on his mocktail. “Uh…”\n\nLatoya laughed brightly. “No offense! Sorry, sorry.” She raised both hands. “I’m just asking. I’m curious. You’re cute, honey.”\n\nChris felt his cheeks grow hot again. At the same time, there was something new: not the gross kind of attention that made him small, but a kind that almost… straightened him up. Latoya kept talking, asking about Germany, about Maplewood, about music, and Chris answered, hesitantly at first, then more smoothly, because she didn’t give him time to crawl away into shame.\n\nWhile Susan and DeShawn danced, Latoya kept Chris afloat with words—cheeky, direct, with little compliments that stuck to the nervousness like bandages. And Chris realized that for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t completely invisible—and wasn’t standing alone in a room, even though there were so many people there.\n\n[[Continue|Susan und DeShawn kommen wieder.]]

He looked at Lucas, then at the poster, then back at Lucas. “June & the Fireflies,” he said at last. He didn’t know why himself. Maybe because the role demanded it. Being a girlfriend meant romance, he told himself. And maybe another, quieter part of him simply wanted it too.\n<<set $ort to "cinema">><<set $LucasMemory[5] to 1>>\nIn the theater, they sat in the middle rows. Couples were scattered everywhere, whispering, giggling as they moved closer together. When the lights dimmed and the opening credits glittered, Chris felt the tension in his shoulders like a jacket that was too tight. You’re playing a role, he thought. Breathe.\n\nLucas watched Chris out of the corners of his eyes. His pretty legs drew his gaze like a magnet.\n\nAbout fifteen minutes in, Lucas yawned—far too obviously, deliberately—and let his arm land behind Chris’s back. The warmth settled there like a pillow. Chris’s body wanted two things at once: to get up and leave, or to lean deeper into that warmth. He stayed, staring at the screen without really seeing the image. Safe, he thought briefly, and the word startled him because it was so honest.\n\nWhen a hot scene began on the screen—hands on bare skin, mouths finding each other—Lucas moved a little closer. Chris felt his breath on his cheek. He smiled uncertainly, half apology, half invitation. Then it happened: Lucas kissed him. Gently at first, tentative. Chris’s heart stumbled—and then he gave in. He joined the kiss, cautiously, then longer, letting the world blur at the edges. Chris flinched slightly when he felt his tongue. Slowly, it entered his mouth. Chris’s lips tasted of strawberry lipstick, and Lucas immediately intensified the kiss, pushing his greedy tongue into Chris’s mouth. Now his tongue moved wildly around, and Chris didn’t even know what was happening to him. <<if $piercing == 2>>Between two breaths, Chris’s tongue piercing glinted in the weak light. <<endif>>\n\nAlthough it deeply repulsed him, Chris felt his penis grow stiff with arousal in his panties. He couldn’t stop himself from becoming extremely aroused by making out—even though he actually wanted to kiss girls, not a boy.\n\nThe movie continued, but they barely watched it anymore; sound and light became background noise.\n\nA few moments later, Lucas placed his hand on Chris’s knee as if by accident. Chris was so absorbed in the kiss that he didn’t react. Carefully, Lucas stroked his thigh, pushing the skirt higher as he did. Chris looked at him in surprise. A hot shock twitched through his stomach, along with something that wasn’t only shock. The contradictions collided inside him: boundary and closeness, role and desire, truth and game.\n\nHe had to decide what he would do now.\n<<set $lucas_opinion to 99>>\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[Stop Lucas.|Lucas stoppen.]]\n❯ [[Ignore the hand and keep kissing.|Die Hand ignorieren und weiter küssen.][$chris_opinion += 20]]

Autumn gathered pace without Chris really noticing. After Homecoming, the days became more normal again, but not emptier—rather fuller with that quiet “we” that Lucas and he had built for themselves.\n\nThe standardized tests (SAT) came like a wall no one could get around. For Chris, numbers had long been nothing but stress, but Lucas turned them into something else: afternoons together with flashcards, study plans, and little breaks in which Lucas made him laugh when Chris was on the verge of giving up. Lucas didn’t explain math like a teacher, but like someone who truly wanted Chris to understand it—patiently, step by step. Chris’ performance improved. Not overnight, but noticeably. And behind every practice problem was a bigger thought: If they managed it, they really could go to college together.\n\nWhen Thanksgiving came, the phone rang one evening. A video call from his father. Chris’ heart pounded up into his throat when he saw the display. He answered, and there was his father—a little stiff, a little uncertain, with festive commotion in the background. Chris kept himself in frame, polished, “well-behaved”: hair neat, voice controlled, the role so well mastered that it sounded like truth. He shyly presented himself as his “new self”—as if all of this had been a development that had simply happened. He kept quiet about the fact that his mother had forced him into it. He smiled, made small, harmless sentences, as if he were slowly introducing his father to something ordinary.\n\nHis father reacted with an overwhelm that Chris could almost feel physically. His eyes widened, then searched for words, for a category. For a few seconds he said almost nothing—then he stammered sentences that were both trying and helpless: that he needed time, that he loved Chris… “her”… and that he just didn’t know how to handle it. Chris remained polite, gentle, and when the call ended, he felt exhausted and strangely hollow—as if he had not only worn a mask, but had placed a new reality in front of someone without being allowed to explain how it had come about.\n\nWinter passed, and with spring came what Lucas and Chris had secretly been longing for: the college responses. When the acceptances arrived—first one, then the second—and both had the same name printed on the letters, the world became perfectly light for a moment. Chris jumped into Lucas’ arms with joy, so spontaneously that Lucas almost lost his balance. They laughed, held on to each other, and Chris felt something that was stronger than any fear: a future that consisted of more than just enduring.\n\nIn between came the theater performance, which felt like a small milestone. Neither of them had lead roles, but they stood on the same stage, in the same light, with the same pounding hearts behind the curtain. Chris loved the feeling of being part of something that demanded no explanation—only presence. Lucas beamed during rehearsals, and Chris sometimes watched him from the wings, with that warm, proud tug that he still didn’t quite want to admit to himself. On the night of the performance, everything worked: applause, stage fright, laughter in the right places. Afterward, they held each other briefly backstage, as if that were their secret place in the world.\n\nAnd finally, the end of the school year came like one last glittering bracket: Prom. Of course they went together. Again the dress bag, again the nerves, again that feeling that all the looks were both too much and yet somehow bearable—because Lucas was standing beside him. This time it was less panic and more certainty. Chris danced with Lucas, laughed, held his hand, and between the lights and the music he felt something that was almost like peace.\n\nThe school year did not end with a solution to everything—but with a promise that felt real: They had made it this far. And they kept going. Together.\n\n[[Continue|Auf zum College.][$anal += 1]]

<center>[img[pics/cover.jpg]]</center> \n''Plot:'' A German boy is uprooted by his parents’ divorce and sent to live with his mother in a quiet American town—only to discover she has one brutal condition: he must attend high school as a girl. Trapped behind makeup, dresses, and a new identity he never chose, he tries to survive the social minefield of cliques, crushes, and secrets while wrestling with shame, belonging, and the terrifying possibility of becoming the role he’s forced to play. In Maplewood, every smile is a mask—and one wrong step could expose everything.\n\n''Content:'' 614,440 words, 10 different endings\n\n''Fetish:'' Feminization, Humiliation, Non-Consent, Incest, Teen, Milf, Femdom, Cuckold\n\n<img src="pics/uk.png" style="display:inline; margin:0; border:none;border-radius: 0; box-shadow:none; padding:0; background:none; max-width:none; vertical-align:middle;"> English version 1.10 © by Redboom \n<hr>\n<<nobr>>\n<<if setup.hasNgPlusSave()>>\n\t<<click "Restart from Last Ending">>\n\t\t<<run setup.loadNgPlus()>>\n\t<</click>>\n<</if>>\n<</nobr>>\n<details><summary>''Show more''</summary>\nThis interactive story was written by someone who has never set foot inside an American high school and whose understanding of the United States comes mostly from films and television. So I’d like to apologize in advance for any inaccuracies, big or small, that may have found their way into the story.\n\nAlthough Highschool-Girl wider Willen contains explicit 🎬 [[sex scenes|Sexszenen]] , some semi-nonconsensual or even outright nonconsensual, involving themes of humiliation, incest or BDSM, those elements are not the main focus. At its core, the story is much more about inner conflict, shame, and the need to belong — a coming-of-age story set in the social pressure cooker of high school.\n\nMany paths in this story can lead to a genuine happy ending — for Chris, but also for a number of supporting characters. If you want to aim for a specific ending, take a look at the 🔎 [[walkthrough|Tipps]] section.\n\nThe English translation was created with the help of AI and translation tools. English is not my native language, so I cannot say much about its quality. However, I hope that after release, a few volunteers might be interested in helping improve it. If that sounds like you, feel free to get in touch.\n\nI hope you enjoy playing the game. And if you do, you can also find some of my [[earlier works|Spiele]] here.</details><span class="startBtn">[[▶ Start Game|Begin]]</span>\n\n<div class="box">''Content Warning''\nThis game explores dark and extreme themes and includes immoral characters, disturbing situations, and scenes that some players may find upsetting or uncomfortable. Harmful, intense, or difficult content such as sexual harassment and rape cannot be entirely avoided during the course of the game.\n\nPlease continue only if you feel comfortable with this. If you are sensitive to such content, it may be better not to start the game.</div>\n<<nobr>>\n<<set $tarnung to 5>> \n<<set $beliebtheit to 5>>\n<<set $stil to 5>>\n\n<<set $ChrisMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $SusanMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $ChristineMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $CharlotteMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $ZoeMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $PenelopeMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $RubyMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n\n<<set $MylesMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $DylanMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $LucasMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $AdamMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n\n<<set $JosephMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n<<set $CarolineMemory to [0, 0, 0, 0, 0]>>\n\n\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n<<set $wetter = 1>>\n<<set $ort = "Schulbus">>\n\n<<set $ladendiebin to 0>>\n<<set $schminke to 0>>\n<<set $schuhe to 0>>\n<<set $piercing to 0>>\n<<set $unterwaesche to 0>>\n<<set $club to 0>>\n<<set $kleidung to 0>>\n<<set $party to 0>>\n<<set $dating to 0>>\n<<set $ende to 0>>\n<<set $kondomedieb to 0>>\n<<set $videoblackmail to 0>>\n<<set $newgameplus to 0>>\n<<set $christine_party to 0>>\n<<set $chrisorsis to 0>>\n<<set $selbstbild to 0>>\n<<set $yoga to 0>>\n<<set $umkleide to 0>>\n\n<<set $christine to 0>>\n<<set $charlotte to 0>>\n<<set $lucas to 0>>\n<<set $lucaslove to 0>>\n<<set $dylan to 0>>\n<<set $adam to 0>>\n<<set $zoe to 0>>\n<<set $zoejungs to 0>>\n<<set $susan to 0>>\n<<set $ferguson to 0>>\n<<set $moore to 0>>\n<<set $myles to 0>>\n<<set $deshawn to 0>>\n<<set $party1 to 0>>\n<<set $party2 to 0>>\n<<set $tagebuch to 0>>\n<<set $schulball to 0>>\n<<set $barnett to 0>>\n<<set $barnettbaby to 0>>\n<<set $zeke to 0>>\n<<set $dylanbadend to 0>>\n\n<<set $jerkoff to 0>>\n<<set $oral to 0>>\n<<set $woral to 0>>\n<<set $swallow to 0>>\n<<set $fingerass to 0>>\n<<set $anal to 0>>\n<<set $creampied to 0>>\n<<set $sex to 0>>\n<<set $cameinside to 0>>\n<<set $partner to 0>>\n<<set $harassed to 0>>\n<<set $film to 0>>\n<<set $rape to 0>>\n<<set $kisssister to 0>>\n<<set $kissmom to 0>>\n<<set $kissgirl to 0>>\n<<set $kissboy to 0>>\n\n<<set $zoe_opinion to 3>>\n<<set $christine_opinion to 61>>\n<<set $lucas_opinion to 56>>\n<<set $ruby_opinion to 50>>\n<<set $moore_opinion to 5>>\n<<set $susan_opinion to 1>>\n<<set $caroline_opinion to 78>>\n<<set $adam_opinion to 1>>\n<<set $penelope_opinion to 2>>\n<<set $charlotte_opinion to 58>>\n<<set $dylan_opinion to 9>>\n<<set $joseph_opinion to 0>>\n<<set $latoya_opinion to 75>>\n<<set $deshawn_opinion to 1>>\n<<set $rivera_opinion to 71>>\n<<set $lavern_opinion to 59>>\n<<set $robertson_opinion to 1>>\n<<set $myles_opinion to 50>>\n<<set $chris_opinion to 0>>\n<<set $ava_opinion to 31>>\n\n<<set $sumende to 0>>\n<<set $ende1 to 0>>\n<<set $ende2 to 0>>\n<<set $ende3 to 0>>\n<<set $ende4 to 0>>\n<<set $ende5 to 0>>\n<<set $ende6 to 0>>\n<<set $ende7 to 0>>\n<<set $ende8 to 0>>\n<<set $ende9 to 0>>\n<<set $ende10 to 0>>\n\n<</nobr>>

He smoothed the note and let his gaze dart over the columns. At the top, boldly underlined, was Penelope—rank 1, with by far the most points. Below her came the rest: Charlotte appeared high up, her name decorated with little stars; Zoe as well, flanked by a few suggestive arrows and stupid insider abbreviations.\n\nFarther down, the middle ranks grew more crowded. Ruby somewhere in the middle—a “cute” scribbled beside it, as a comment from the margin. Christine was also in the middle, the number plain, no little heart, no arrow.\n\nHe looked for himself and found nothing; searched again, more slowly, and got stuck on an entry that made his stomach tighten: Boob Chris. No last name, just the nickname sitting on the page like a stain. The rank: far down. Not quite at the very bottom, where the mockery was crudest, but still so low that it felt like an involuntary punchline.\n\nHis mood tipped, without his face moving. I don’t care, he told himself. I don’t even want to be pretty. I’m a boy. This is camouflage, mask, costume—nothing more. He clung to the words like a handrail.\n\nThe truth lifted its head anyway. If he didn’t care—why did it feel as if someone had given him a grade that shouldn’t be written in any notebook? Why did that nickname in particular hurt, the one that turned his chest into a punchline? Am I just the joke with curves? it flashed through him. Do they see me at all? Do I see myself?\n\nOther questions popped up automatically, like soap bubbles bursting too quickly: <<if $charlotte > 1>>If Charlotte is near the top—am I just… a side character with her too? <<endif>><<if $moore == 1>>Would Dylan even look at me if I didn’t… look like this?; <<endif>>If I take all of this off tomorrow, am I nobody? Or someone who would get even fewer points? Is this “I don’t care” just a thin blanket under which I’m hoping someone will find me beautiful after all—not despite me, but because of me?\n\nHe stared at “Boob Chris” and felt the old split down the middle: the boy who wanted to hold on, and the role that had long since been worn warm. If I’m a boy—why does it hit me to be ranked so low? If I were a girl—why don’t I want them breaking me down into numbers? The logic lurched. What remained was a simple, childish sting: not being chosen, not desired, but mocked; being seen, but wrongly.\n\nHe slowly folded the note, laid it on the edge of his notebook, and exhaled once through his nose. I don’t care, he repeated, quieter this time, because otherwise the words would rattle. The sentence held—but not strongly enough to smooth out the thin dent in his self-confidence. That would only disappear later, if at all. For now it sat there, small and hard, like a pebble in his shoe that he felt anew with every step.\n\n[[Continue|Heimfahrt im Bus.]]

<div class="psychedelic-text">The cloud of warmth and buzzing tore open abruptly when Lucas’s tongue pushed in too deep. The spell crackled, then tipped. First a queasy spinning, then a clear, impossible-to-ignore impulse from his stomach.\n\n“Oh—” Chris went, yanked his hand away, and stood up unsteadily. The heels clacked across the floor, the miniskirt pulling up like an alarmed curtain. “I… bathroom.”\n\nHe stumbled off, feeling his way along a wall, found a door that wasn’t locked, and ducked into the bathroom. Tiles, too-bright light, a saving porcelain rim. Lucas came after him, breathless, unsure, but there.\n\nChris knelt in front of the bowl, as elegantly as one could in strappy heels and a miniskirt—which was to say, not at all. He held the rim, leaned forward, and the party left him in waves. Not dramatically, more like a bad-tempered punch deciding to make a voluntary escape.\n\n“Okay, okay… I’ve got you,” Lucas murmured, automatically reaching into his hair. <<if $haar == 1>>He held the long hair out of his face, gathered it into an improvised ponytail version that held surprisingly well.<<endif>> “Breathe. I mean… after the… you know.”\n\nChris produced a throaty “Ugh,” then a “Thanks” that hid between two breaths.\n\nBetween two rounds, Chris had to snort because the mirror showed them both: a party girl in a miniskirt, bent over porcelain, heels crooked, golden hoops slightly askew; beside him a theater kid with a heroically concentrated hair-holding pose. It was so utterly absurd.\n\nChris carefully straightened up a little, wiped his mouth, and mumbled, “I swear, these tiles are my new best friend.” He briefly leaned his forehead against the cool edge of the bathtub, sighed, and raised two fingers. “Thanks for holding.”\n\n“You’re welcome,” Lucas said and loosened his grip, but stayed ready in case the next wave came. He found a small guest towel, dampened it at the sink, and handed it to him. “Here.”\n\nChris gratefully dabbed his face, straightened the hoop earring that was sitting at an adventurous angle.\n\nThey sat for another moment in the bright bathroom light: Chris on the floor, his back against the tub, Lucas beside him on his heels, his hand loosely ready at his shoulder. The music outside was only a distant thumping. </div>\n\n[[Continue|Heimweg.]]

“And because you met my expectations,” she said, as if it were an official sentence, “you get a reward.”\n\nChris blinked. "What?"\n\n“Do you remember sucking on those breasts before?” she asked him.\n\n"No not really." he had to confess.\n\n“Can’t you remember my breasts, how they felt and tasted?”\n\n"I don't believe."\n\n"Maybe if you felt it again the memory would come back. Would you like to touch it, Chris?"\n\nChris felt shame because he longed for it—and at the same time a small, warm glow because it actually turned him on.\n\nBefore Chris could answer her, she took his hand and placed it on her right breast. Chris’s entire body reflexively tensed in embarrassment. He felt his face heat up and he wanted to say that he didn't want this, that he didn't... like that... But at the same time, despite himself, it also felt good.\n\n“So, how does that feel?” ask her.\n\n“It’s so big and soft.” He said in fascination as he carefully felt the breast.\n\n“Grab it properly,” she asked him.\n\nHe squeezed a little harder; in fact, the feeling seemed strangely familiar. Holding this body part in his hand seemed like the fulfillment of an instinctive destiny. Then he gathered all his courage and took the next logical step that instinct told him to take. He decisively moved his head towards his chest and took the nipple between his lips. Even Susan was surprised. She did not expect this courageous initiative from her son. But it feels right. This was the most natural intimacy there was in the world. A child suckling his mother's breast. This feeling of pure innocence was also mixed with an unbelievable excitement within her. She couldn't hold back for a second longer and her fingers shot into her lap, where they immediately began their practiced work.\n\nChris was in a trance. Sucking on his mother's nipple plunged him into a complete paralysis of well-being. Only in passing did he notice that Susan's fingers had started frantically stroking her pussy, rubbing her clitoris and penetrating between her labia.\n\nWhen her orgasm was approaching just a short time later, she forced herself to stop. She couldn't forget her plan for tonight.\n\n[[Continue|Sie will mit ihm schlafen.][$kissgirl += 1;$kissmom += 1;$sex += 1;$cameinside += 1;$partner += 1]]\n

After the bumper cars, they pushed back through the crowd to the spot where the theater kids had just been. Chris craned his neck, searching for Ruby’s red braids, for the familiar voices, for anyone with an improvised stage joke on their lips. Nothing. The stream of people had swallowed the group as if they had never been there.\n\n“Maybe they’re farther back,” Lucas said, looking around.\n\nChris nodded, but suddenly felt something else, something much more urgent. “I have to… use the bathroom for a second.”\n\n“Me too,” Lucas said at once, and they were already disappearing toward the restrooms. When Chris reached the corner, he saw the reality: in front of the women’s restrooms stood a line that felt like its own festival event. Girls with soda cups, mothers with children, annoyed laughter, a chorus of “How much longer is this going to take?”\n\nChris got in line at the back. And waited.\n\nNot even two minutes passed before he felt “have to” become “really have to.” He tried to stand still, but his weight shifted from one foot to the other. His skirt rustled, his knees pressed together, then apart again. He gave an apologetic smile to a girl behind him once, as if that somehow neutralized the situation. It didn’t help.\n\nLucas appeared again, far too relaxed for Chris’s liking. “That was quick,” he said. He stood beside the line, looked at Chris’s face, then at Chris’s feet, which by now clearly didn’t want to stay still anymore. “Everything okay?”\n\n“Yeah,” Chris lied, while in the same moment dancing even more obviously from one foot to the other. It was embarrassing—and the more embarrassing it became, the more he had to go. The line moved forward in slow motion. Chris looked at nothing, at everything, tried not to think, and by doing so thought only about it.\n\nFinally, after what felt like an eternity, it was his turn. He slipped into a stall, locked it, and only really breathed out once the door was shut behind him.\n\nWhen he came back out, relieved, he washed his hands, dabbed them dry with a much too thin paper towel, and stepped over to Lucas, who had waited patiently.\n\n“Where to next?” Lucas asked, as if it were the most natural sentence in the world.\n\nChris was just about to suggest something random when Lucas looked to the left and his eyes lit up again. A sign with flickering letters blinked above a dark entrance: HAUNTED HOUSE. Along with it came a crooked laugh from loudspeakers and a dull rumble.\n\n“In there!” Lucas said at once. “Please.”\n\nChris stopped.\n\n<<if $lucaslove == 1>>For a moment, another darkness appeared in his mind: the movie theater this week, the rows like shadows, the flickering light of the screen over faces, Lucas’s closeness. Chris remembered the way time contracted in moments like that, how the world became small—just two teenagers, two hungry lips finding each other.\n\n<<endif>>Now he stood in front of the haunted house and felt his heart make that small, restless leap again. Haunted house meant: dark, tight, creepy. People screaming, stumbling, clinging to each other. Lucas beside him—his “boyfriend”—in a room where it was hard to avoid one another. Chris weighed it back and forth. Part of him wanted to go along because it promised fun and because Lucas looked so hopeful. Another part already saw the situations that could become too close, too fast, too complicated.\n\n''How does Chris decide?''\n❯ [[He’d rather say no to the haunted house before the closeness and darkness with Lucas become too much for him.|Lieber nicht reingehen.]]\n<<if $temp == 1>>❯ [[He lets himself be talked into the haunted house, even though he suspects the situation could quickly bring him closer to Lucas than he’d like.|Ins Haunted House gehen.][$lucaslove += 1;$chris_opinion += 10]]\n<<endif>>

After school, it was time for cheerleading practice. The Pom Puffs lined up on the sideline, pom-poms like shimmering clouds in their hands. Chris stood between Charlotte and [[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]]; Christine led the back row. Coach Moore clapped twice, his whistle lanyard bouncing.\n<<set $ort to "Cheer Practice Field">>\n“Hold formation, chin up, steady breathing. We’re working on timing and sharpness,” he said. “Five, six, seven, eight!”\n\nThe music kicked in—a hard, driving drumbeat. The pom-poms rustled. Chris went into the basic stance, knees springy, shoulders loose. He felt the cool air under his short little skirt with every movement. Beside the field, a few football players gathered. Helmets under their arms, jerseys rolled up. Dylan stood slightly apart, hands on his hips, his gaze gliding over the cheerleaders.\n\n<center>[img[pics/cheerleader5.jpg]]</center> “No fluff, all puff—we’ll blow your candles out!” the front row called. The group launched into the blow gesture: a collective exhale with playfully spread fingers, pushing the pom-poms forward like sparks. Chris felt heat in his face. Why did all the chants sound so sexually suggestive? He would rather have stood behind the sideline, with the boys, an observer instead of the observed.\n\n“D-E-F-E-N-D! Back it up, you can’t get in!” Penelope’s voice shot over the beat, sharp and confident. On “Back it up,” everyone slid into a synchronized backward stomp, then a hip wiggle toward the boys. Did Dylan just look at me? A tingle ran down Chris’s back as the thought flashed through him.\n\nCoach Moore raised his hand. “Sassy Turn—crisp! No tired spins.” The formation broke into four fans, the pom-poms drawing glittering arcs through the air. Chris did the Sassy Turn, a cheeky quarter-turn with a shoulder kick, and went into a hop, landing softly, arms stretched diagonally. He heard the rustle of the pom-poms like weather. Again, the feeling of being watched. He dared a fleeting sideways glance—Dylan was talking to a teammate, but his face was half turned in his direction, enough to bring the tingling back.\n\n“Puffs up—let’s erupt!” The chant rolled across the field, and the formation jumped into an eruption figure: jumps outward, knees high, pom-poms fired upward, then twirl—a full turn that ended in a heart pose. Two rows formed the curve, the middle row—Chris included—put the tips of their pom-poms together so the heart shimmered.\n\n“Good! Again from the top. This time more body tension on the jumps,” Coach Moore called. “And remember: lines. Your arms write sentences in the air. No typos!”\n\nThey started again. Sweat pearled at Chris’s temple, ran coolly down his neck. He did not want to stand out, and the boys’ gaze burned like sunlight through a windowpane.\n\nThe chants had those edges that swung between encouragement and innuendo. During “No fluff, all puff—we’ll blow your candles out!” the blow gesture moved through the rows like a wave this time—pom-poms just below chin height, short coordinated puff, then a snap back into basic stance. During “D-E-F-E-N-D! Back it up, you can’t get in!” they tactically moved back a line, heels setting down, hips wiggling, upper bodies upright, grins switched on. “Puffs up—let’s erupt!” closed the run-through: jumps, a clean twirl, and then the heart pose again, this time with a tiny delay that Coach Moore heard immediately.\n\n“Timing, Chris!” he called, not sharply, but clearly. “You’re an eighth-count late into the pose.”\n\nChris nodded.\n\nCoach Moore blew his whistle. “Last run-through. Give me precision. Give me edge.”\n\nThe music thundered, pom-poms rustled, but for Chris everything shifted into the background until only the gaze remained, the one he felt from the sideline. Dylan. Again and again, Chris thought Dylan’s eyes were lingering on him—not on the whole formation, but on him, exactly in his row, exactly on his line.\n\nIt made warmth rise in his stomach, a bright tingling that ran all the way into his fingers, where the rubber grips of the pom-poms stuck. He set the basic stance, heard Coach Moore’s count, and yet beneath it ran a second rhythm, a secret one: Show him. Show him now.\n\nEvery time the formation jumped to the next mark, the impulse twitched inside him to hold the lines a fraction longer, wiggle his ass more clearly, make the turn sharper. And immediately afterward, caution spoke up: Don’t stand out. Just keep the team tempo and ignore the boys.\n<<set $choice_training_effort to 0>>\n''How does Chris decide?''\n<<nobr>><<if $moore == 1>>❯ [[He makes an extra effort.|Besonders anstrengen.][$dylan += 1;$choice_training_effort += 1]]<<else>>❯ [[He makes an extra effort.|Besonders anstrengen.2][$choice_training_effort += 2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>\n❯ [[He keeps training normally and tries to simply ignore Dylan’s gaze.|Weiter normal trainieren.]]

Saturday afternoon hung warm and lazy over the house, but in Chris’s room things were hectic. On the bed lay five tops, two skirts, a pair of jeans, three pairs of shoes, and a heap of unsorted nervousness.\n<<set $wochentag = 6>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "Chris’s girl room">><<set $MylesMemory[1] to 1>>\nHe stood in front of the wardrobe in his <<if $unterwaesche == 1>>sensual white<<else>>lovely pastel-colored<<endif>> bra and panties and stared at the options as if they were some secret test. A party. His first real party. As a boy, he never would have been invited. Now he was supposed to show up as a girl, as if that were the most natural thing in the world.\n\nHe pulled on a pretty but harmless dress—knee-length, fluttery, with a subtle pattern. Turned in front of the mirror. It looked proper. Too proper. He tried on dark blue skinny jeans and a loose shirt. Too everyday. Every option was either too normal or felt like a toned-down costume; nothing said “party,” only “please don’t notice me.”\n\nChristine didn’t knock, she just came in. “Okay, what—” She broke off and pulled a face. “Oh God, no. You can’t go to a party like that.”\n\n“What’s wrong with it?” Chris asked defensively, smoothing down the dress.\n\n“You look like you’re going to parent-teacher night.” She planted her hands on her hips, took in the chaos on the bed, then him. “Take that off. I’ll help you.”\n\nReluctantly, he peeled himself out of it again. Christine purposefully pulled items from the pile, making a small, focused stack: black, white, a shimmer of gold.\n\nA few minutes later, Chris stood before a reflection that almost made him cry out.\n\n<center>[img[pics/outfit6.jpg]]</center> The black, form-fitting miniskirt sat high on his waist and ended well above the middle of his thighs. A lot of bare skin. Too much. <<if $piercing == 1>>It was immediately clear to him that his navel piercing would be on full display beneath the hem of the top. <<endif>>Every step promised the danger that the fabric would ride up even higher. For the first time, he was wearing something truly short, with no safety net. It felt maximally naked.\n\nWith it, the skin-tight white crop top with spaghetti straps. It ended just below his chest, left a narrow strip of stomach bare, and made the little bit of bust he had by now look more noticeable than he liked. The fabric stretched tight, tracing a line he couldn’t ignore.\n\nOn his feet were strappy heels, three or four centimeters high. Chris wobbled on his first test walk and caught himself on the back of the chair.\n\n“You’ll get used to it,” Christine said dryly and leaned toward his face. She applied lip gloss to his lips, something with a golden shimmer, then with practiced fingers added a light contour to his cheeks and nose. “Don’t fidget. You don’t want to look like a deer in the headlights.”\n\nShe clipped gold hoop earrings onto his ears. One last look: the miniskirt, the top, the shine on his lips. It was maximally revealing. Typical party girl. A version of himself that was both alien and shamelessly visible.\n\n“I can’t go out like this,” he muttered. “You can see… everything.”\n\n“That’s the whole point,” Christine said. “It’s a party, not a church bazaar. You look hot, get used to it.”\n\nHe wanted to argue, but part of him was vibrating with nervous excitement. No one had ever called him “hot.” Certainly not before.\n\n“And what about you?” he asked, and only now did he really look.\n\nChristine was wearing a figure-hugging stretch dress that emphasized her curves, with a deep scoop neckline that firmly said “I’m hot” without whispering it. Her legs were in thin, glossy nude pantyhose, and above them ankle boots with heels. She looked more grown-up than he had ever seen her outside of Instagram poses.\n\n“Overdressed?” she asked with a raised eyebrow, but she already knew the answer.\n\n“I didn’t know you were so…” He searched for the word.\n\n“So what?” She grinned briefly. “So normal? Chill. Come on.”\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $tagebuch == 1>>[[Chris’s conscience pipes up.|Chris Gewissen meldet sich.]]<<else>>[[On the way to the party.|Auf dem Weg zur Party.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

At home, the house was silent. Only the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the distant noise of the street pushed through the night. Chris unlocked the door as quietly as possible, helped Penelope out of the Uber, and carefully led her inside. She hung heavily on him, murmured incomprehensible scraps of words, and blinked against the hallway light as if it were too bright for this world.\n\nHe brought her into his room. She hung heavily on his arm, her head tipped forward, as if every light offended her. The small nightlight on the vanity made everything look soft, but Penelope still blinked as if it were glaring.\n\n“Sleeeep…,” she murmured, dragging the word out long and heavy. Then, without warning, she began fumbling with herself while standing, as if that were the most logical next action in the world.\n\nFirst the shoes: she lifted one foot, almost lost her balance in the process, and threw the heel off with an impatient jerk. The heel clacked against the floor and slid under the chair. “Stupid thing,” she slurred. The second shoe followed—not taken off so much as flung off—and Penelope made a small, triumphant movement as if she had defeated an opponent.\n\nAs if on autopilot, she now stripped off her top and simply let it fall to the floor.\n\nChris’s heart dropped into his stomach. “Penelope—wait, stop—”\n\nBut Penelope was already on the next step. She grabbed the hem of her short skirt and pulled it down in an uncoordinated way, then up, as if she herself no longer knew which direction was right.\n\n“Hey. No,” Chris said as calmly as he could.\n\n“Hot… need off… can’t…” She fumbled at the waistband, searching somewhere for a fastening, and finally pulled the skirt down. In the process, her sexy panties slipped down a little with it and let a small part of her white ass flash into view. You could still see the white imprint of her bikini bottoms very clearly against her otherwise tanned skin.\n\nChris, who was watching everything with his mouth open, did not interest her in the slightest. Finally, Penelope got rid of her underwear, lay down on his bed, and fell asleep. Chris felt the blood flow into his lap. With shining eyes, Chris noticed that not a single hair obstructed his view of her sweet pink pussy. He could not prevent something from stirring in him.\n\nFor a moment, he simply stood there.\n\nPenelope Barnett—queen bee, top cheerleader, the girl who made heads turn left and right in high school—was lying completely naked in his bed. In his room. It was an image that he might once have conjured up in some stupid daydream back when he was a boy.\n\nWith a pounding heart—and fully aware that he was doing something forbidden—he approached the sleeping Penelope.\n\nShe lay on her back, her legs slightly parted. He crouched down in front of the bed and, trembling with excitement, took it all in at close range. For the first time in his life, he was looking at a completely naked girl lying in his bed. His member began to throb insistently, and—without even realizing it—he started to rub against it.\n\nChris didn't know how long he had stared, mesmerized, at this gateway to paradise before he finally mustered all his courage. Then, very gently, he reached out his hand; he touched the slightly parted cleft ever so softly with his fingertips, tenderly tracing the contours of her outer labia. And he did so not just once.\n\nHe noticed that she was moist, and he pleasurably licked his finger to taste the sweet nectar of her body on his tongue. 'Just slide my penis inside her once in my life,' he thought. 'Just a quick in-and-out—surely no one would notice.'\n\nShe lay there looking so sexy. In that moment, Chris simply couldn't help himself. Thoughts of reason, of consequences, of "I really shouldn't be doing this..." were there—but they remained like a distant echo, drowned out by the warmth and the surging urge within his chest. It wasn't about being "brave" for him, but rather about something raw that finally demanded to be unleashed: He needed to prove to himself that he was still a boy. That the boy inside him wasn't just a secret to be hidden away, but a part of him capable of action—without apology. And precisely because it was impulsive, it felt to him like an act of defiance against all those months in which he had merely gone through the motions.\n\n[[Continue|Chris fickt Penelope][$sex += 1;$cameinside += 1;$partner += 1]]\n

Chris moved a little closer, hesitant at first, then more determined, as if he had decided inwardly not to lose another evening to distance. He carefully slipped his arm around Charlotte, pulled the blanket higher until they were both lying beneath it, and briefly leaned his forehead against her temple. It was nothing dramatic—just that simple, familiar cuddling that had once been so self-evident.\n\nAnd Charlotte allowed it.\n\nAt first she breathed shallowly, then more deeply. Her shoulders sank a little, and for a few minutes it actually felt normal. As if everything were back where it belonged: two teenagers, a film, warmth, a silent “I’m here.”\n\nIt was a beautiful feeling to sense her warm body and her long hair brushing over his skin, smelling so good of shampoo. Chris felt how much he loved her. Not as an idea, not as a memory, but right now, in the present—with all the uncertainty standing between them.\n\nWithout asking Charlotte, Chris began stroking her with his fingertips. She gave a brief shiver.\n\n“That tickles,” she said.\n\nChris didn’t react, but kept stroking her gently, and after a few minutes let his hand wander over her breasts as if by chance. Charlotte didn’t complain.\n\nQuite the opposite: she visibly enjoyed his tenderness, because she closed her eyes and breathed very calmly.\n\nChris kept stroking her very gently, her breasts and her bare legs. Since Charlotte was completely relaxed and enjoying Chris’s tender caresses, he now put all his cards on the table and began massaging her breasts. Charlotte briefly opened her eyes, seemed to consider what she should do, but then closed her eyes again and simply let him continue in silence.\n\nHe squeezed and massaged her pretty breasts, teased her nipples, and then carefully moved his hand between her legs. Charlotte gave him free rein. He pulled her thighs apart and began stroking the insides of them. Charlotte lay there motionless, but was breathing more heavily than before.\n\nChris let his hand continue, reached her pussy, and began rubbing the slit through her panties. Charlotte still didn’t resist, and so he stroked her pussy for quite a long time. Chris felt the warmth radiating from her lap.\n\nUnfortunately, there was one big problem... he was still only a boy, and the feeling of her vagina beneath his fingers caused him to get hard. His member pressed through his skirt and right against Charlotte’s bare leg.\n\nCharlotte felt it. Her body, which had been lying relaxed just moments before, suddenly went stiff. She held her breath for a moment, as if she hadn’t only felt something physically—but in her head: that memory, that knowledge that couldn’t simply be stroked away.\n\nChris noticed immediately. He froze, wanting to give her time, not wanting to push. “Everything okay?” he whispered.\n\n[[Continue|Charlotte geht auf Abstand.]]

Chris took one deep breath and typed:\n<blockquote class="quote">Hey Charlotte, are you going to the party on Saturday too? If so… would you feel like going with me? I barely know anyone there otherwise.</blockquote> The “typing…” indicator appeared, disappeared, came back.\n\nCharlotte:\n<blockquote class="quote">Awww, cute. I wasn’t sure yet, but with you? Sure. I’m looking forward to it!</blockquote> A warm knot in Chris’s chest loosened. Not alone.\n\nA little later, the phone vibrated again.\n<blockquote class="quote">Outfit check? My favorite for Saturday.</blockquote> Three pictures popped up.\n\nIn the first: Charlotte in a short, satin-black slip dress—thin spaghetti straps, a V-neckline with a whisper-thin lace edge, the fabric falling down her like water.\n\nSecond picture: the same combination with a narrow silver choker and small hoop earrings; her bangs lay feather-light, her freckles looking even more golden than usual.\n\nThird: a blouse with a short, boxy jacket in structured tweed (black-and-white mottled), plus sheer black tights and delicate Mary Jane heels with straps. On the bed beside her: a small shoulder bag with a chain strap.\n\nChris’s thumb hovered over the keyboard, his heart making that stupid, joyful leap. Damn, she looks… hot. No two ways about it. The slip dress clung to all the right places; the jacket gave the whole thing a touch of “I know what I’m doing.” He felt a bittersweet regret creeping into him—an almost impossible-to-grasp What would have happened if…? and Did I do something wrong? Charlotte was into girls—everyone knew that. And me? Contradictory thoughts stumbled over one another in his head: He liked Charlotte, liked her a lot. Sometimes he wished there were more. But between the voluminous waves, the lace edge, and the choker, there was also this realization like a cold rim: She dated girls. And he—a boy in girls’ clothes—fit into none of the simple boxes.\n\nHe forced himself to write:\n<blockquote class="quote">Wow. That is… very good. The jacket + choker = 🔥 You’re going to knock everyone out.</blockquote> A heart emoji came back, then: And you? What are you wearing?\n\nChris stared at the wardrobe as if it would conjure up an answer. Saturday. Party. The pictures of Charlotte still glowed on the display while two voices quietly wrestled inside him—homesickness for something that had never begun, and the simple joy of having her by his side. For the moment, the latter was enough.\n\n[[Continue|Vizefreitag.]]

Then Chris got onto the bed in doggy style and stuck out his round ass. He lay on the bed almost vulgarly, like a willing whore. Chris could practically feel Joseph’s lustful gaze on his backside, which made him turn deep red. He chewed on his lower lip while Joseph slowly approached him, his cock bobbing. Chris was completely excited, and his own hard cock twitched nervously too.\n\nJoseph took hold of his rod and got down on his knees. Then, with twisting movements, he pressed the thick, wet glans into Chris’ hole. Relentlessly, he pierced the tight rosette; with every thrust, a little deeper. Chris turned his head and could see in the large wall mirror how he was on the bed, receiving this man’s cock.\n\nThe feeling rising up inside Chris first reminded him of his childhood. When he had a fever, his mother always gave him a suppository in his butt. Even back then, it burned when the intruder pushed forward. However, the burning subsided as soon as the suppository had disappeared into his butt and the sphincter could close peacefully.\n\nHere there was no relief, no relaxation. There would only be an end once his intestinal walls had been whitewashed, and they were still far from that. Joseph was not some hormone-driven teenager who came at the mere thought of sinking his cock in. No, he was a grown man in the prime of life, and it would take longer before he would shoot his juice.\n\nBut then something unexpected happened. The burning pain gave way, and a tremor of pleasure rolled through Chris’ body. It was beyond all imagination. Incredible in its intensity, intoxicating all his senses, demanding everything, craving and giving. Chris intensely felt this hard cock inside him, filling everything, hot, taking possession of his whole body.\n\nJoseph grabbed Chris’ hips. With long, sensual thrusts, Joseph fucked Chris, savoring every millimeter of their union. Chris was lost in a demanding rush, everything around him disappearing into the fog of consuming passion until there were only two bodies of lust and desire, merging into one.\n\nScreaming and moaning, he writhed beneath Joseph, clawed at the bedsheet, bit into the pillow, and pushed his ass back toward him to feel Joseph even deeper and more powerfully inside him. Chris perceived Joseph’s panting and moaning, his repeatedly whispered “Oh Chris,” only from far away, muted by the veil of his own pleasure. And yet every one of his sounds, every one of his kisses on his back and neck, triggered an unsuspected feeling of happiness.\n\nAgain and again, Joseph became slower and gentler in his thrusts. He held himself back, delaying the moment of highest ecstasy for as long as possible. Only to drive his cock into Chris all the more forcefully and deeply the next moment.\n\nBut eventually the time came: the agonizing pleasure relentlessly demanded its ultimate climax. His whole body tensed as he drove his cock hard and deep into Chris’ ass, until he arched up with a loud moan and poured his seed into Chris’ bowels.\n\nFor the first time in an eternity, Joseph once again experienced the glorious feeling of coming inside a “woman,” and Chris felt the hot semen filling his bowels and sending a wave of indescribable warmth through his body. Bright colors exploded in his head, his body a single firework of ecstasy.\n\nChris grew boiling hot, and he felt it coming too; his own rod twitched faster and faster, and then he heard his semen slap against the bed.\n\n“JOSEPH!!!” Chris cried out his pleasure in a high voice, he came and came, arched up, his head thrown far back, and collapsed trembling and shaking right after, while Joseph continued thrusting uncontrollably, spreading his seed inside him. Chris’ loud cry turned into a broken moan until it finally ebbed away into heavy panting, repeatedly broken by soft whimpers.\n\nOnly slowly did the colorful fog dissolve, and reality seep back into Chris’ consciousness.\n\nWhen it grew quiet later, they lay beside each other, drenched in sweat, still close, as if they were both afraid that distance would call everything into question again. Chris’ head lay on Joseph’s hairy chest, his own body tired, and yet he felt strangely safe. Joseph’s strong arm lay around his body, warm and protective. And before Chris finally fell asleep, he thought only: I never would have thought that sex with a man could be so… beautiful.\n\n[[Continue|Heimfahrt mit Joseph.]]

After rehearsal, Chris and Lucas walked together to the bus stop. Lucas held the door open for Chris.\n<<set $ort to "school grounds">>\n“It was good today,” he said with an uncertain smile. “I mean… us. The bookstore thing.”\n\n“I thought so too,” Chris replied.\n\nOut on the open school grounds, his gaze caught: [[Christine|Christine Braun]] was standing at the edge of the football field talking to a sturdy boy from her grade—[[Myles|Myles Pierce]], linebacker shoulders, calm in his hands. Chris’s sister was wearing the full cheer outfit for the first time, and it looked as though it had been made for her: the top a tight-fitting, sleeveless crop with a wide white band across the chest; above it, MAPLEWOOD in large block letters, below it a narrow stripe in the school colors ending just above the ribcage. The skirt was pleated, high on the hips, cut in a V-shape at the front so the legs stayed free; every gust of wind made the folds dance to life. White knee socks, light sneakers.\n\nMyles stood close enough that it was no longer accidental, loosely swinging his helmet from his fingertips. He said something that made Christine blush—not embarrassed, more flattered—and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, as if in slow motion. He gestured toward the field, then back to her, as if offering her a place, not just beside the sideline. Christine nodded, laughed, stepped half a shoe closer.\n\nChris suddenly thought back to Friday—to Myles standing at his table, the letterman jacket slung casually over one shoulder, inviting him to the movies; to his hurried no, because everything had felt wrong and far too public. And now the same Myles was standing there laughing with Christine. An unpleasant prickling crept up the back of Chris’s neck: switched tracks pretty fast, he thought, or maybe just typical high school. For a moment he wondered whether he should tell Christine about the invitation—warn her? But what could he say without sounding petty or embarrassing: He actually wanted to go out with me? In the end, he pushed the thought away. The situation was humiliating enough already, and Christine looked happy. He decided to stay quiet.\n\n“Looks like…” Lucas left the sentence hanging.\n“Yeah,” Chris murmured. A strange mix of jealousy and protective alarm flickered inside him.\n\nA gust of wind swept across the courtyard, making Christine’s pleats shimmer. Myles caught the helmet with his free hand, quick and practiced, and said something else Chris couldn’t hear. Christine nodded again, and the two of them remained standing there as if they had put the world on “pause” for a moment.\n\n“You coming?” Lucas asked softly, as if he didn’t want to drive the silence away.\n\n“Yeah,” Chris said.\n\n<<if $choice_tryout == 1>>They walked a little farther toward the bus stop when he saw Zoe. She too was wearing the cheerleader outfit for the first time, as if she had slipped it on like a trophy—socks, skirt, the whole package—and her face glowed with pride.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Zoe_cheerleader.jpg]]</center> Their eyes met, and Zoe held his for one heartbeat too long, with that expression that practically said: Well, jealous? As if it were some personal defeat that Mr. Moore had picked her and not him at last week’s cheerleader tryout. Chris briefly felt the impulse to justify himself—and then had to smile inwardly, because honestly he wasn’t unhappy at all. He had never really wanted the tryout; he had only ended up in it because the girls had talked him into it. Zoe was welcome to savor her triumph.\n\n<<endif>>[[Continue|Ein Bad am Abend.]]

<h2>Ending 4 (Chris and Joseph): 20 Years Later</h2> Twenty years later, on a quiet evening, Chris sat down at the kitchen table. The only lamp above the counter was dimmed, rain tapped softly against the window outside, and somewhere in the hallway a forgotten stuffed animal lay like a small guardian. Chris picked up a pen, pulled a sheet of paper from the drawer, and paused for a moment, as if she were listening—not for sounds, but for herself. There were days that simply passed by. And there were evenings when the past suddenly took a seat beside you, silent but demanding. Chris took a deep breath, smiled tenderly at the same time, and began to write: <div class="letter">My dear younger self,\n\nI’m writing to you from a time you can’t imagine right now. Not because you lack imagination, but because your head is so full at the moment that there’s barely any room for “later.” You think later is a luxury. But later is only time. And time comes, even when you don’t order it.\n\nI want to tell you a few things you can’t believe yet today. You don’t have to believe them right away, either. It’s enough if you put them somewhere inside yourself like a small stone in your pocket. You’ll find it again someday.\n\nFirst: Your body is not an enemy.\nYou have spent so much energy controlling it, hiding it, correcting it, apologizing for it. You have treated it like a problem that needs to be solved. I know why. But please listen to me: Your body is a place. A home. Sometimes it feels foreign, sometimes like a stage, sometimes like a cage. And still, it carries you every day through things you barely notice because you’re just surviving. It doesn’t deserve hatred. It deserves care.\n\nSecond: You are not alone, even when it feels that way.\nThat feeling, as if you were standing in a room where everyone else had been given a secret manual – you didn’t miss it. It doesn’t exist. Most people are improvising. Some only pretend they have the plan. You are not “too much” and not “not enough.” You are a person in the middle of something that is hard.\n\nYou will make mistakes. You are already making them. And you know what? That’s okay.\nSometimes you confuse courage with stubbornness. Sometimes you confuse politeness with giving yourself up. You will say things you don’t mean that way, and keep silent about things you actually should say. You will feel ashamed – over small things, over big things, over what you feel, over what you don’t feel. Shame is like fog: it makes everything seem bigger and closer than it is. Shame is not proof that you are wrong. It is only a sign that something matters to you.\n\nPlease don’t forget: You do not have to be perfect to be lovable.\nYou do not have to be “right” to be real. You do not have to be able to explain everything in order to be understood. And you do not have to fight every battle alone just because you think you have to be “strong.”\n\nHere comes something that may especially confuse you: One day you will know a calm that does not come from outside. A calm that does not depend on whether someone admires you or judges you or “finally understands.” You will wake up, and your first thought will not be fear. You will laugh because two little people in your house are laughing at the same time – and you will realize that your heart has more room than you ever suspected.\n\nYes. I am a mother. Two children, twins. I am a housewife. And I am happily married.\nHis name is Joseph Walters. (Yes, I know. You’re making a face right now.) It is not the kind of story you would imagine as “logical” today. But love is rarely logical. Love is more like a light that stays on even when it storms outside.\n\nAnd before you think you took a wrong turn somewhere: You did not end up here “by accident.” You took every step as well as you could. Sometimes you got lost. Sometimes you stopped. Sometimes you ran even though you were trembling. That counts. All of that counts.\n\nWhen it gets dark, remember two simple sentences:\n\nYour body is not an enemy.\nYou are not alone, even when it feels that way.\n\nAnd one more, a third one, which you may only allow yourself later:\n\nYou are allowed to become happy.\n\nI am the proof.\n\nWith love,\nChris\n\n</div> [[↩ Back|Enden]]

DeShawn led them through the hallway, which seemed almost unrealistically quiet compared to the club. Only a muted hum from the city came through a tilted-open window somewhere in the apartment. The carpet swallowed their steps, as if it wanted to keep every sound to itself. Chris’s high heels still rang out briefly, a frantic clicking that seemed far too loud in this new closeness.\n\nThe bedroom door stood half open. Beyond it was a room that looked tidy and warm: dark furniture, a large bed, only dim light above it—not direct, more indirect, as if the night itself were illuminating the room. A strip of streetlamp light traced itself across the floor, and somewhere a glass of water stood ready, as if DeShawn had already sensed that the air would eventually become dry.\n\nChris stopped in the doorway for one heartbeat. Part of him waited for his mother to turn around and curtly say that he should stay outside. That this was something between her and DeShawn.\n\nBut Susan said nothing of the sort.\n\nShe simply looked at Chris—calmly, decisively—and then stepped closer. Her hand glided along Chris’s arm—not inquiringly, but rather guidingly. DeShawn closed the door behind them—not harshly, but with enough finality that Chris felt it: there was no turning back now. Only this room. These two people, one of whom was his mother. This situation, building like a rising wave.\n\nSusan positioned herself at Chris’s side, leaned briefly toward DeShawn, and kissed him—as if setting something in motion. Then, without hesitation, she turned back to Chris, drew him closer with a gentle pressure at his waist, and kissed him as well. Chris’s thoughts flickered once more—'what is happening here?'—but they found no foothold. Everything within him felt too warm, too soft, too ready to simply believe in the moment.\n\nThe kisses grew more intense—slower, yet simultaneously more urgent—like a conversation without words. DeShawn’s hands felt large and sure as he touched Chris’s back, as if offering him support. Susan moved between them, steering the flow with small gestures—a glance, a soft breath against an ear.\n\nClothing began to disappear, piece by piece—not hastily, but rather as something that was simply in the way. With every garment shed, Chris felt the tension ease a little—as if the shell of doubt he had drawn so tightly around himself back at the club was finally beginning to loosen its grip. The platform heels were slipped off, and suddenly Chris stood a little lower—more vulnerable, yet also more real. The mesh top slid from his shoulders; somewhere, fabric landed softly on the floor, barely making a sound.\n\nChris’s gaze fell upon DeShawn as the light revealed his contours in sharper detail: the muscular chest, the dark skin shimmering with warmth, the sheer strength evident in every line. DeShawn didn’t just -look- strong—he felt -present- like a solid center point around which everything else could fall into place. Chris felt his cock go hard spontaneously. His mother must have noticed, for she inspected both stiff cocks—DeShawn’s, which she found quite impressive, and, of course, her son’s, which was smaller and thinner.\n\nSusan took DeShawn by the hand and led him to the bed, as if this were the next logical step. DeShawn let himself drop, sitting on the edge of the bed; then he leaned back—calm, expectant. Susan followed, kneeling briefly on the mattress, her gaze lingering on Chris.\n\nChris remained standing.\n\nInsecurity flickered up again. Not out of fear, but rather from feeling overwhelmed: 'What exactly do they expect from me?' Part of him craved a plan, clear instructions—anything to cling to. But another part—the warm, uninhibited part—wanted precisely the opposite. No thinking. No weighing options. No holding back.\n\nSusan reached out her hand. Her tone was soft, yet unmistakable. “Come.”\n\nThat single word cut through Chris’s hesitation like a knife through fog.\n\nChris walked toward the bed. Slowly at first, then with growing resolve—as if every step were a decision he no longer needed to second-guess. His mother pulled him closer, letting him sink onto the mattress, and DeShawn shifted closer as well. Chris felt warmth radiating from both sides—a sensation that he wasn’t being tested, but rather welcomed in.\n\nKisses that were at times gentle, at others demanding; hands reaching out for intimacy; soft words blurring together in the darkness. It went on like this for a while, until Susan took DeShawn’s hard cock into her mouth and began to lavish attention on it with her lips. One of her hands found its way between her own legs, while the other rested against Chris’s stomach—yet instead of leaving it there, it continued to wander further down his body. Her hand glided gently over Chris’s erection, reached for his balls, and stroked the warm sac.\n\n''How does Chris react?''\n❯ [[He doesn’t allow it.|Er lässt es nicht zu.][$anal += 1;$creampied += 1;$woral += 1;$swallow += 1;$partner += 1]]\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $kissmom > 1>>\n❯ [[He allows it.|Er lässt es zu.][$sex += 1;$cameinside += 1;$partner += 1]]\n<<else>>\n\n<div class="box"><b>Note:</b> Chris still found the idea of getting closer to his mother repulsive. If he had opened up to her more earlier, he might have decided differently now.</div> <<endif>> <</nobr>>\n\n

During dinner, she was exaggeratedly attentive and provocative at the same time. She cut her food at a pace as if she were in a hurry, and in between commented on how “one” properly handled an evening like this.\n\nSusan pointed her fork at him. “So: what is this here?” she asked far too soon, far too directly. “Are we keeping this casual, or are you the kind who wants to turn it into a relationship right away?”\n\nChris’s mouth hung open for a moment. He knew it was only a game. And still it hit him, because it felt as if his mother were asking a real question through a mask.\n\n“I…,” he stammered, “I said this is just—”\n\n“Just what?” Susan raised an eyebrow. “Just a little fun? Go on, say it.”\n\nChris felt his pulse quicken. He hated how quickly he slipped into this defense, into this role of the “girl” who had to explain herself. And at the same time… there was that small, ashamed tingle because she was looking at him so directly, so clearly.\n\n“Just one evening,” he managed to say.\n\nSusan nodded, as if that were a reasonable answer. “Good. Then we know where we stand.” And then, as if nothing had happened, she switched back to her status talk: who all needed her, what all she could do, how “one” had life under control.\n\nWhen they were finished, his mother stood up, walked around the table, and held out a hand to Chris. “Come on,” she said in her macho voice. “Dancing is part of it.”\n\n“Here?” Chris asked, horrified.\n\n"Here." Susan pulled him up before he could argue. She turned up the music in the living room. Her hand landed on Chris's waist, firm, confident, and she pulled him far too close to her - so close that Chris could feel every movement of her breasts and her hard nipples.\n\n"Mom…" he whispered, more warning than request.\n\n“Shh,” she said, and her fingers briefly pressed the material of the dress on his bottom, as if she wanted to check whether he was really there. "Relax."\n\nChris’s stomach clenched. It was ridiculous. It was embarrassing. And yet he noticed how his body adjusted, how he involuntarily followed the steps, how he found something in this proximity that scared him because it didn't just feel wrong.\n\nThey danced like that for a few minutes, Susan overly dominant, Chris stiff, then less stiff. When Susan tried to turn him once, he almost stumbled and Susan caught him with a grip that was far too tight.\n\nFor a split second her real voice was there, quieter: “Everything is fine.”\n\nThen the macho theater was back. “See?” she said loudly. “Not that hard.”\n\n[[Continue|Ein Date mit Mom 4.]]

Zoe didn’t let herself be detached from the men right away. She lingered at the table for another moment, playing with the idea of letting it escalate, simply because she could. “Come on,” she said to Chris, with that crooked grin that always sounded a little like a challenge. “Just a little longer. Don’t be so… good.”\n<<set $ort to "">>\nChris shook his head, more firmly than before. “I don’t want to.” He could hear for himself how much fear was in his voice. Then he added, more quietly: “Please. Stay with me. Don’t go with them.”\n\nZoe studied him as if searching his face for the truth—and she probably found it. She sighed dramatically, rolled her eyes, and made a dismissive hand gesture toward the men. “Okay, okay. You’re exhausting anyway,” she said loudly enough for them to hear. The blond pulled a disappointed face, the dark-haired man held Chris’s gaze a beat too long, then both shrugged and left.\n\nWhen the door of the pool hall fell shut behind them, Zoe remained standing beside Chris and bumped his arm lightly with her shoulder. “You owe me now,” she said, half joking, half serious.\n\nChris’s stomach clenched briefly. “I don’t owe you anything.”\n\n“Cute how you believe that.” Zoe grinned, and although it was cheeky, it didn’t sound quite as poisonous as usual. More… close.\n\nA little later, they stood in front of Zoe’s house. It was quiet; no cars in the driveway, no lights except the kitchen lamp, which seemed to be running on a timer. “No one’s home,” Zoe said, as if it were an invitation, and unlocked the door.\n\nInside, it smelled of dirty dishes and some overly sweet air freshener. Zoe threw her jacket over the chair, turned to Chris, and looked him up and down as if checking whether he had really stayed.\n\n“You’re so easy to unsettle,” she said, and then she was already at him. She grabbed him by the collar of his blouse, pulled him in, and kissed him—passionately, directly, without warning. Chris stumbled half a step backward until his shoulder hit the wall. Zoe’s lips were warm, her hands decisive. She kissed him as if it were a way of staking a claim, and at the same time a way of waking him up.\n\nChris returned the kiss, hesitantly at first, then hungrier. The tingling he had pushed away earlier with the dark-haired man was back now, only directed in a safe direction. Zoe pulled back by a breath, looked at him with half-closed eyes, and whispered, “Well? Still scared?”\n\n“No,” Chris said too quickly. His heart was beating all the way into his fingertips.\n\nZoe grinned as if that was exactly what she had wanted to hear, and kissed him again, playfully biting his lower lip just enough to tease more than hurt. “Prove it,” she murmured.\n\nThe sentence hit Chris deeper than it should have. He thought of the last time, which had somehow ended embarrassingly—of uncertainty, of a body that no longer obeyed the way it used to, of that feeling of not being able to prove himself. Today, he wanted the opposite. Today, he wanted to show Zoe that despite the hormones, despite this body, despite everything that had shifted, he was still a real boy. Not as a pose. As a fact.\n\nThey went into the living room, the light stayed dim, the sounds of the street far away. Zoe pulled him closer, and for a moment Chris felt incredibly… wanted. He could hardly believe his luck—that Zoe of all people, who otherwise liked to corner him so much, now wanted him so unmistakably.\n\nThey kept kissing, and at some point movements became decisions. Clothes found their way onto the floor without much discussion. Nothing about it was tender; it was urgent, but consensual, two horny teenagers who thought they had to outrun the world through speed.\n\nChris’s head was full of “finally” and “now” and “this time.” At first, it even felt as if everything was working. He was there, he wanted it, his body seemed to be going along—and he clung to the feeling like a lifebuoy.\n\n[[Continue|Chris versagt.]]

Chris tried to get through the rest of the evening as inconspicuously as possible. He spent a lot of time standing at the edge, changing places now and then so no one would notice that he did not really belong anywhere. He nodded to a few familiar faces, smiled briefly when someone looked in his direction, and kept himself busy: getting a drink once, checking his phone once, pretending once that he was waiting for someone who had to come right back. He clung to normality as if it were a jacket against the cold.\n\nAt some point, the music grew quieter. The DJ turned the controls down and called into the microphone: “Okay, Maplewood! Time for Homecoming King and Queen!”\n\nThe stage was really only a platform with a banner behind it, but in that moment it felt like something grand. A few teachers stood beside it, a small box with a crown and sash, and the band played a short, ceremoniously exaggerated drumroll. The crowd automatically pushed forward. Chris stayed at the edge, far enough away not to stand out, but close enough to see everything.\n\n“Homecoming King...” The name was called into the gym, and before the sentence was even finished, everyone already knew. “...Dylan!”\n\nCheers like a wave. Dylan went forward, grinning as if he had already rehearsed it in the mirror, and accepted the crown with a casual “Thank you, thank you.” No one was surprised. Not even Dylan seemed surprised—more as if it were just another stop in his usual evening.\n\n“And Homecoming Queen... Penelope!”\n\nEven louder cheering, shrieking, phone cameras flashing. Penelope strode forward, poised, as if she were walking down a red carpet. When the crown was placed on her head, she lifted her hands into the air, waved, laughed, and the crowd celebrated it because it simply fit. Penelope and Dylan—cut straight out of the yearbook.\n\nChris felt his gaze catch on Penelope. Not jealous in the classic sense, more... questioning. What would that feel like? That moment when everyone applauded because you were exactly that image. A brief, dangerous thought: what it would be like to stand up there, the crown in his hair, the light on his skin, the gym calling his name.\n\nThe thought frightened him immediately, as if he had thought something forbidden. He tucked his chin in, as if that could push the image away. No. I... I’d obviously rather be Dylan, he told himself, almost angrily. Because I’m a boy. But the sentence did not feel as stable as it was supposed to sound. It stayed there in the room like a claim, while his stomach still felt an echo of Penelope’s wave.\n\nChris swallowed, lowered his gaze to the clutch in his hand, and forced himself to become small again—a person at the edge, a spectator. But somewhere inside him, the platform had left an imprint.\n\n[[Continue|Der Abend endet.]]

Chris froze for one heartbeat. His mind was still on the door handle when he felt Adam’s lips on his. Heat shot into his face so suddenly that his ears burned. He felt the weight of Adam’s arms around his waist, the lift that had made him powerless for a moment—and then the silence in the room that came immediately afterward.\n<<set $AdamMemory[6] to 1>>\nThe boys from the D&D Club stared. One let his dice cup sink as if he had forgotten what he meant to do with it. Another stared with his mouth open. Somewhere in the back, someone made a strangled “Ooooh.”\n\nChris’s first impulse was to push Adam away. The second impulse was worse: If you shove him away now, they’ll notice. And Adam knew that. Adam hadn’t chosen the kiss by accident, but as a statement.\n\nSo Chris played along and moved his lips a little. At first very softly and delicately, then more and more demandingly and with tongue. It was a strange feeling for Chris, kissing a boy.\n\nWhen Adam set him down, Chris put on a smile—a little too quickly, a little too smoothly—and Adam put his arm around him. Not tenderly, more like marking territory.\n\n“Hey,” Chris said in a voice he barely recognized himself because it sounded so friendly.\n\nAdam led Chris to the empty chair beside him and slid the folder under the table. “Saved you a seat,” he whispered, close enough that Chris felt his breath at his ear. “Play along nicely.”\n\nThe boys weren’t staring unpleasantly, more in a mixture of admiration and disbelief. Max nervously poked at his dice bag. “So, uh… hi,” he muttered. “Adam said… I mean… that you two—”\n\n“No debates about relationship status at the table. Initiative only in combat,” Ben interrupted without looking up. A few giggles, then Jay handed out the sheets. A character sheet with familiar handwriting suddenly lay in front of Chris. Raven. Rogue. The little raven icon in the corner.\n\nWhile the boys rolled dice, Adam leaned in again. “Everyone’s jealous, you notice?” he whispered. “Finally getting some respect.”\n\nChris felt the heat in his cheeks, not a pleasant kind. “Stop it,” he whispered back without looking at him. “Just play.”\n\n“I am playing,” Adam said, smiling. “This is my best run.”\n\nThe dice rolled. A 15. Ben nodded. “As the hatch swings open, the first boot slips. The second one stumbles after it. The lamp tips, light dances, you’ve got a clear path.”\n\n“Sprint,” Jay said.\n\n“Cover,” Max said.\n\n“I take her hand,” Adam said, loudly enough for everyone to hear again. “So she doesn’t fall.”\n\nA few “Aww” sounds, half serious, half teasing. Ben sighed. “No mechanical advantages from romance. Continue.”\n\nChris swallowed. He kept playing. The session flowed. They stole a map from a guardroom, escaped through a maintenance shaft, left a false trail of peppercorns. The boys were good. Adam basked in every look, in every half-admiring comment.\n\nAgain and again, he casually placed his hand on Chris’s tights-covered leg, shifted his chair closer, or put an arm around his shoulder—small gestures that crossed boundaries. Chris held the lines he could hold: his gaze on the table, his hands visible, his voice calm. Every “we” from Adam cut briefly, but outwardly he let it stand. Roleplaying, he thought. Just roleplaying.\n\nToward the end, Ben folded up the screen. “Level-up is in sight,” he said, gathering the minis together. “Good tactics today.”\n\n“She’s just a natural rogue,” Jay threw in.\n\n“Yeah,” Adam said contentedly, “and my rogue.”\n\nA few “Ohs” from the group.\n\nChris packed calmly. The folder, the pencil, the dice bag. In the doorway, Adam stayed close behind him. “Hand,” he hissed softly, holding out his own, open like a threat. “Just so everyone sees.”\n\nChris felt the hallway grow longer. He placed his hand in Adam’s.\n\nAdam smiled for the audience. “See you tomorrow.”\n\nThe boys called their goodbyes, one whistled, Ben called, “Don’t forget your dice!” Chris held Adam’s hand and walked. The skirt brushed soothingly against his thighs again, as if trying to ground him.\n\n[[Continue|Nochmal zur Schule.]]

The doorbell rang later that day, and Susan glided into the hallway with a smile. “DeShawn!” she called, delighted.\n<<set $ort to "home">>\nHe filled the frame with casual calm: tall, broad-shouldered, sinewy as if braided from steel cables. Behind him stepped a young woman, barely older than Chris—“This is my cousin Latoya,” DeShawn said. “She’s staying with me for a while.”\n\nIn the living room, the air was immediately full of voices. It smelled of Susan’s perfume and something fresh on DeShawn—citrus, pepper, studio. “Chris? Come here for a moment,” Susan called, and he positioned himself at the edge of the rug.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Susan_DeShawn.jpg]]</center> Latoya looked him over, first briefly, then twice, as if she wanted to check whether the light was changing someone. She was breathtaking: smooth, dark skin with a warm shimmer; full, curved lips; large almond-shaped eyes that laughed before her mouth did. Her hair was shaped into a dense, defined afro, a round crown—every curl looked intentional. A gold hoop in her ear, a light cropped blouse, high-waist jeans; the whole look vibrated with playfulness and confidence. To Chris, who was used to a different street scene from Germany, the young Black woman had something exotic about her.\n\n“So this is… your son?” [[Latoya|Latoya Powell]] blinked, tilting her head. “No way.” She grinned, open, without a filter. “Girl—uh, boy—you look… legit like a girl.” Then she put a hand over her mouth. “Sorry! I just say stuff sometimes without thinking. But wow. Cute, though.”\n\n[[DeShawn|DeShawn Powell]] laughed softly, slipping his hands into his pockets. Susan gleamed with pride and sugarcoated correction. “He’s doing well, isn’t he?” She reached into the sideboard cabinet and pulled out a picture frame. “This is what Chris used to look like.” A photo: shorter hair, hoodie, a crooked grin.\n\nLatoya’s eyes softened. “Awww. The boy in the photo is cute.” She lifted her gaze to Chris, appraising, blunt: “Honestly? I wouldn’t be opposed to dating him.” She winked—and added casually, as if it were a side note: “Too bad you’re gay, huh?”\n\nChris’s face burned all at once. “I—uh—” He swallowed the words down. Susan briefly placed a hand on his back; DeShawn raised an amused eyebrow. Latoya snapped her fingers. “No offense! I mean it nicely. You’re cute, period.”\n\nThe three of them talked about plans; apparently they wanted to go out. “We were thinking the Blue Finch,” DeShawn said. “Live DJ, a little R’n’B, a little Afrobeats.”\n\n“Great,” Latoya said, half to Susan, half to the air; then she turned to Chris. “Wanna come with us? We’ll dance, drink.” She laughed.\n\nFor a moment, Chris saw a lightning-flash version of the evening ahead of him: pounding bass, lights, strange men asking him to dance. He felt his shoulders tense at the thought. “Thanks… but I think I’ll pass,” he said politely.\n\n“Suit yourself, honey,” Latoya said without resentment. “Next time.”\n\nDeShawn checked the time, flicked the car key from his pocket. “Let’s roll.”\n\nIn the hallway, a few final adjustments: Susan smoothed her dress, Latoya tossed her curls back with her hand. “Be good, Chris,” Susan called, half joking. The door fell shut; the smell of DeShawn’s aftershave lingered in the house for a second, then only the hum of the refrigerator remained.\n\nChris stood in the living room, listening to the voices fade. The house was suddenly large. He cleared a few little bottles from the table, then lay crosswise on the sofa, zapping into emptiness. For a while he watched a show without watching. Later, when the clock softened into night, he went to bed, pulled the blanket over his legs, and turned out the light. The house breathed slowly. He was tired in the quiet way and let himself fall into sleep, which came without asking much.\n\n[[Continue|Der nächste Morgen.]]

He blinked and involuntarily looked toward the other end of the room. The boy from theater club stood there—slender, kind eyes, his hands at the edges of his pockets as if they were stuck there. He watched Chris half over the shoulder of a set piece, expectant, nervous. Chris was taken aback for a moment. He hadn’t guessed that he had an admirer—and that someone, of all places here in the theater, saw him like that.\n\nChris stared at the three boxes as if they were traps. Yes was impossible. No felt brutal, like a door slammed in someone’s face. His fingers held the pen too tightly, until the tip went numb.\n\nSo he took the path that looked the most harmless.\n\nHe checked “maybe.”\n\nThe little check mark looked innocent, almost polite. A buffer. Time gained. And yet Chris knew in that same second that it had really been a no—only wrapped in cotton wool so it would hurt less. So the boy could still breathe normally today. So Chris wouldn’t have to see the face that would appear with a real no.\n\nHe folded the card back up, as if he could hide the decision with it. His heart beat faster, not from excitement, but from that quiet guilt that immediately settled over him like a thin film. Because “maybe” now meant: explain later. Dodge later. Break something later that still seemed intact right now.\n\n“Can you bring it to him?” he asked quietly. Ruby nodded, took the note, gave him one more brief, appraising look—no judgment, just understanding—and went over. Chris saw the boy take the note, saw his shoulders sink a little as he read. No scene, no drama—only that small, visible disappointment that briefly makes a person’s face softer.\n\nChris exhaled, placed his hands on the edge of the table, and held on there until the break was over. Then he took his position for the next scene, and the theater lights pushed the world back into order. Tomorrow he would sit in the stands and shout until his voice was scratchy. Today he only had to keep breathing, say his lines, stay standing.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Theaterclub.]]

''Two years later...''\n\nThe morning smelled of coffee, warm toast, and that sweet baby shampoo that seeped into the curtains no matter how often Chris aired the place out. In the kitchen, the kettle hummed, and on the table lay a pile of tiny socks like a riddle that was posed anew every day.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/baby2.jpg]]</center> <<else>><center>[img[pics/baby2_kurz.jpg]]</center> <<endif>>\nChris stood at the kitchen counter in his bathrobe, flour dust on his cheek because he had unconsciously touched his face while kneading dough. On his hip, he balanced the girl, who clung to his collar with surprisingly strong hands. On the blanket on the floor lay the boy, kicking indignantly as if someone had personally explained to him that one could not simply start walking right away. Twins. A boy and a girl. Two little heartbeats that made everything in the house louder and, at the same time, more right.\n\n“You’re up,” Joseph murmured, handing him the diaper with a matter-of-factness that still sometimes amazed Chris. Joseph wore an old T-shirt and his hair was still tousled, but his eyes were awake. Awake in a way that had nothing to do with sleep, but with responsibility one was glad to carry.\n\nChris took the diaper, changed it with quick, practiced movements, and felt something that once would have sounded impossible: calm. Not the absence of chaos – more the trust that chaos was allowed to belong.\n\nThe doorbell rang.\n\nJoseph was busy with the boy, so Chris waddled to the door himself, the little girl still on his hip. He opened it.\n\nThe mailman held out a package to him, took in the scene – bathrobe, baby, flour on his face – and smiled kindly, as if it were the most normal sight in the world. “Good morning, Mrs. Walters.”\n\nChris signed, thanked him, closed the door – and stood there for a moment, because that name still sounded like a gentle, unreal joke. Only it was not one anymore. It was his life.\n\nIn the living room, above the dresser, hung a photo Charlotte had absolutely insisted on putting up: Charlotte in a far-too-large maternity dress, her hands on her round belly, her grin crooked and proud. Beside her, Chris and Joseph, both with an expression as if they were afraid happiness might be too loud.\n\nCharlotte had actually done it. Not as a “crazy idea at dinner,” but as a clear decision. And Chris had – after long conversations, after doctor’s appointments, after paperwork, after every fear – decided too. It had not been the Hollywood version. More a sequence of appointments, injections, forms, and days when Chris wondered whether his body would take something away from him one more time before it was allowed to give him something.\n\nBut then there had been the call, on a Wednesday. Charlotte, breathless, saying: “Okay. So. It worked. I’m pregnant.”\n\nAnd later, at the ultrasound, the doctor smiling as he said: “I see… two.”\n\nJoseph had reacted so quietly back then that Chris thought he had not understood. Then Joseph had simply taken Chris’ hand and pressed it against his own chest, right where his heart was racing. And Chris had understood that Joseph was not speaking because otherwise he would have cried.\n\nDuring the pregnancy, Charlotte had not only been a “surrogate,” but… Charlotte. She had come over, sprawled across Chris’ sofa, demanded snacks, commented on dumb shows, taken Chris’ hand when the little one kicked inside her belly, and said: “See? I’m doing this properly. I have standards, after all.”\n\nAnd after the birth, she had declared herself a legend. “Aunt Char,” she later said to the babies, as if they could already understand. “Your mom and your dad were hopeless. I organized all of this. Without me, you would only be a very complicated maybe.”\n\nChris rolled his eyes every time – and then laughed anyway. Because Charlotte turned his story into something that could be told without hurting. She was the unusual heroine who never pushed herself into the center, but was always there when it mattered.\n\n[[Continue|Die Familie.]]

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null : JSON.parse(JSON.stringify(obj));\n};\n\n/*\n\tEinmalige Migration:\n\tFalls du vorher config.saves.slots = 9 benutzt hast,\n\twird der alte Slot 8/index 8 in den unsichtbaren NG+-Speicher verschoben.\n*/\nsetup.migrateOldNgPlusSlot = function () {\n\tvar saves;\n\n\tif (typeof storage === "undefined") {\n\t\treturn;\n\t}\n\n\tsaves = storage.getItem("saves");\n\n\tif (\n\t\tsaves &&\n\t\tsaves.slots &&\n\t\tsaves.slots.length > 8 &&\n\t\tsaves.slots[8] !== null\n\t) {\n\t\tstorage.setItem(setup.ngPlusStorageKey, setup.cloneSaveObject(saves.slots[8]));\n\n\t\t/* Alten sichtbaren Slot entfernen, damit SugarCube ihn beim Reduzieren loswird */\n\t\tsaves.slots[8] = null;\n\t\tstorage.setItem("saves", saves);\n\t}\n};\n\nsetup.migrateOldNgPlusSlot();\n\nsetup.hasNgPlusSave = function () {\n\treturn storage.getItem(setup.ngPlusStorageKey) !== null;\n};\n\nsetup.saveNgPlus = function () {\n\tvar tempSlot = setup.ngPlusTempSlot;\n\tvar saves = storage.getItem("saves");\n\tvar oldSlot;\n\tvar newSave;\n\n\tif (!saves || !saves.slots || tempSlot >= saves.slots.length) {\n\t\treturn false;\n\t}\n\n\t/* Aktuellen Inhalt des temporären Slots sichern */\n\toldSlot = setup.cloneSaveObject(saves.slots[tempSlot]);\n\n\t/*\n\t\tSugarCube erzeugt für uns ein korrektes Save-Objekt.\n\t\tSaveSystem.save(slot, title, metadata) speichert in einen Slot;\n\t\tSlots sind 0-basiert.\n\t*/\n\tif (!SaveSystem.save(tempSlot, "New Game Plus", { ngplus: true })) {\n\t\treturn false;\n\t}\n\n\t/* Das erzeugte Save-Objekt aus dem temporären Slot holen */\n\tsaves = storage.getItem("saves");\n\n\tif (!saves || !saves.slots || !saves.slots[tempSlot]) {\n\t\treturn false;\n\t}\n\n\tnewSave = setup.cloneSaveObject(saves.slots[tempSlot]);\n\tnewSave.title = "New Game Plus";\n\tnewSave.date = Date.now();\n\tnewSave.metadata = { ngplus: true };\n\n\t/* Unsichtbar speichern */\n\tstorage.setItem(setup.ngPlusStorageKey, newSave);\n\n\t/* Temporären sichtbaren Slot wiederherstellen */\n\tsaves.slots[tempSlot] = oldSlot;\n\tstorage.setItem("saves", saves);\n\n\treturn true;\n};\n\nsetup.loadNgPlus = function () {\n\tvar tempSlot = setup.ngPlusTempSlot;\n\tvar ngPlusSave = storage.getItem(setup.ngPlusStorageKey);\n\tvar saves = storage.getItem("saves");\n\tvar oldSlot;\n\tvar ok = false;\n\n\tif (!ngPlusSave || !saves || !saves.slots || tempSlot >= saves.slots.length) {\n\t\treturn false;\n\t}\n\n\t/* Sichtbaren Slot sichern */\n\toldSlot = setup.cloneSaveObject(saves.slots[tempSlot]);\n\n\t/* NG+-Save kurz in den temporären Slot legen */\n\tsaves.slots[tempSlot] = setup.cloneSaveObject(ngPlusSave);\n\n\tif (!storage.setItem("saves", saves)) {\n\t\treturn false;\n\t}\n\n\ttry {\n\t\tok = SaveSystem.load(tempSlot);\n\t} finally {\n\t\t/* Sichtbaren Slot wiederherstellen */\n\t\tsaves = storage.getItem("saves");\n\n\t\tif (saves && saves.slots && tempSlot < saves.slots.length) {\n\t\t\tsaves.slots[tempSlot] = oldSlot;\n\t\t\tstorage.setItem("saves", saves);\n\t\t}\n\t}\n\n\treturn ok;\n};\n\nsetup.deleteNgPlus = function () {\n\tstorage.removeItem(setup.ngPlusStorageKey);\n};\n\n

The school bus spat him out at the corner, and Chris set his backpack down in the hallway right away. “Mom? Can I have your credit card? I’m meeting a friend at the mall.”\n<<set $ort to "home">>\nSusan came out of the kitchen, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and took the credit card from her wallet. “Here. But don’t go overboard. Understood?”\n\n“Understood.” He slipped the card into one of the small zippered compartments of his handbag and noticed how it felt both “grown-up” and “supervised” at the same time.\n\nHe still had time until four. Another problem had been burning under his skin since the break. He took a breath, then knocked on Christine’s door and pushed it open a crack. “Hey… uh—do you have… I mean… a—” He broke off, searching for the word that felt ridiculously difficult. “A sanitary pad for me?”\n\nChristine looked up from her phone, frowning as if a perverted predator were standing in front of her. “What? What for?”\n\n“Camouflage,” he said quickly, and the redness crept into his cheeks. “Today at school, a girl asked me if I had one with me. I didn’t. It was… embarrassing. I thought… in case someone asks again…” He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them again. “Just to be safe.”\n\nChristine’s face relaxed, the suspicion melting into understanding. “Ah.” She stood up, opened a drawer in her wardrobe, and pulled out a single sanitary pad. “Here.”\n\nChris reached out his hand and stopped at the last moment, as if the little packet were electrified. It was so… concrete. A thing that had never existed in his world before. He took it carefully, as if it might break. “Thanks.”\n\nChristine raised an eyebrow. “It’s unused.”\n\n“I know,” he muttered, and immediately felt even redder. He slipped the pad into his handbag, into the compartment beside the lip balm and tissues. The weight was hardly worth mentioning—and yet the bag suddenly felt… more real. More complete. Another check mark on a list he had never wanted to write.\n\n“Have fun at the mall,” Christine said and sat back down on the bed.\n\nHe gave a brief, grateful smile and pulled the door shut behind him.\n\nUpstairs in his room, he changed shoes, checked the time, reached for his phone. The credit card was secure in the inner pocket, the pad in the small compartment. At the thought of the fountain at the mall, he felt both light and heavy. He slung the bag over his shoulder, took one last look in the mirror—hair correct, dress smooth—and set off. Charlotte was waiting. And somewhere between pajamas, neon light, and the food court, this strange day would continue.\n\n[[Continue|In der Mall.]]

Chris pushed the tray a little to the side, turned the water bottle in his hands, and sought Lucas’s gaze. “So… on Wednesday at theater—your improv was really good,” he said, friendly, a touch warmer than necessary. Lucas’s cheeks immediately turned red.\n\n“Really? Thanks.” He cleared his throat. “You set the beat. I just followed along.”\n\n“Teamwork.” Chris smiled, let his knee accidentally tap against Lucas’s leg, and held his gaze a second too long, exactly the way you hinted at interest. A small, calculated sting. <<if $party1 == 1 >>To his own shame, another image flashed through him—Saturday night, Lucas’s fingers on his breasts, a sudden tingling in his nipples that he immediately pushed away again. Focus, he warned himself.<<endif>> Mrs. Barnett. Maybe a path to her led through Lucas.\n\n“You’re playing again today?” Lucas asked, his voice cautiously hopeful. “I’ve got an idea for a scene—role reversal within the same character.”\n\n“Sounds exciting,” Chris said, and realized it didn’t sound acted. They both tilted their heads at the same time, laughing at how perfectly mirrored it seemed.\n\nThe conversation rolled along with surprising ease: favorite movies (Lucas loved classics, Chris pretended to be surprised at first, then ended up on the same scenes), games (they both liked stealth and good stories), books (Lucas confessed to secretly enjoying prose sci-fi, Chris admitted he had grown up with manga). Where Chris deliberately planted closeness—a touch more smiling, a relaxed shoulder, follow-up questions that made Lucas’s eyes shine—real common ground grew beside it all on its own. Damn, Chris thought, if I were… normal, no hiding game, no second name—they could become really good friends. At least that was how it felt: easy, friendly, something that held.\n\nBut there was the imbalance. Lucas’s looks lingered too long, as if he took every word as a promise. When their fingers briefly touched at the edge of the tray, there was that tingle. Chris endured it—more than that, he let it happen, built those moments in. I’m using him to get closer to his mother, flickered briefly through him.\n\n“We could meet up after school sometime,” Lucas suddenly threw in, half casually, half not at all. “If you… I mean, if you feel like it after school…” He broke off, searching for an ending that wouldn’t be embarrassing. “We could learn lines together.”\n\nThat was it: the door he wanted. Chris felt a sting—shame and pride at his goal at the same time. “Sounds nice,” he said. “I could… come over. If it works.” He didn’t force the casualness; it was there. And immediately the image of Mrs. Barnett pushed into his head, the short black hair, the exciting mature body, and her seductive gaze.\n\nLucas’s smile lit up like a neon sign. “Cool. I mean, no pressure. Only if you want.”\n\n“I’ll let you know,” Chris promised. And this time the word felt like a small stepping stone—dishonest in motive, honest in sound.\n\nAs the bell called them to the next class, he gathered up his tray. Lucas stood up at the same time, almost knocked over his drink, caught it just in time—and they both laughed. On the way to the exit, they walked side by side, half an arm’s length apart.\n<<set $caroline_opinion to 97>>\n[[Continue|Theaterprobe.]]

Chris pushed the tray a little to the side, turned the water bottle in his hands, and sought Lucas’s gaze. “So… on Wednesday at theater—your improv was really good,” he said, friendly, a touch warmer than necessary.\n\nA shadow of Saturday’s embarrassment flickered across his face—as if there were an invisible box between them labeled “Polaroid.” Lucas’s ears turned red; his gaze darted past Chris, as if searching for an escape hatch.\n\n“Really? Thanks.” He cleared his throat. “You set the beat. I just followed along.”\n\n“Teamwork.” Chris smiled—and sought his gaze, exactly the way you hinted at interest. A small, calculated sting. The box remained unopened; they both acted as if they were only sitting at the table. The vanished Polaroid stood invisibly between them—and the extremely embarrassing situation in which Chris had caught him with it.\n\nThey began cautiously—small talk about lines, Ms. Green’s exercises, their favorite parts of the play. The caution became a rhythm. Chris noticed how easy it was: the same stupid puns, the same snorting at overblown stage directions, the same grin at successful improvs. Lucas had the same taste in movies, the same weakness for sci-fi, the same reverent love of well-placed pauses. If I were just a normal boy, Chris thought, we’d be best friends immediately. Instead, there was a second layer beneath everything—Lucas’s gaze, which kept lingering a beat too long.\n\nChris used that. He smiled in the right places, let his knee accidentally tap against Lucas’s leg, asked for details that created closeness. A small, gentle performance of interest—just enough to keep the bridge steady. I only want to get close to her again, said a loose, stubborn voice inside him, and meant Mrs. Barnett.\n\n“We could… go over lines at my place sometime,” Lucas suddenly said, as if he had been carrying the idea in his jacket pocket for a while. “Not today—but, like… soon? It really helps when someone gives you the cues.” He looked down at his hands. “I mean, only if you want.”\n\nChris felt the plan click quietly into place inside him. “Sounds good,” he said, as casually as possible. “Just let me know, I’ll make it work.” He heard himself and felt both things: the small triumph—done, closer to her—and a pang in his stomach, because Lucas’s smile lit up so honestly that it hurt.\n\n“Cool,” Lucas said, suddenly very busy with his straw. “Then… yeah. I’ll text you.”\n\nRuby threw a brief glance over from the head of the table, registering the new closeness without comment. Chris leaned back, let the sounds of the cafeteria wash over him, and felt how strangely double everything was: a real connection, a false intention. He kept talking, laughing, nodding—and somewhere underneath, he was already silently counting the steps to a certain front door.\n<<set $caroline_opinion to 97>>\n[[Continue|Theaterprobe.]]

Thursday hummed like a taut wire. Everywhere, they were talking about the Timberwolves’ first home game as if it were a holiday: bets were whispered in the yard, the jocks slapped hands as they passed each other in the halls, and even the teachers dropped remarks like “everyone on time at the stadium tomorrow.”<<set $wochentag = 4>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "school">><<set $ChristineMemory[7] to 1>>\n\n<center>[img[pics/cheerleader2.jpg]]</center> At the final cheer practice, Chris gave it everything. The counts were solid, the grips were steady, the entry into the prep worked on the first try. When Mr. Moore took the whistle from his mouth at the end and read out the list, Chris lifted his head involuntarily. “Sideline tomorrow: Penelope, Charlotte, Christine… and Chris.” A brief, clean round of applause ran down the line. Chris felt something warm open up inside him. He nodded, took one deep breath, and the relief mixed with genuine anticipation.\n\nAfter practice, he helped move mats, stack cones, and push the box back against the wall. Most of the others had already disappeared into the locker room, laughter and voices echoing faintly from the corridor. Mr. Moore stuck his head into the gym. “Chris? Please tell Penelope I want to speak with her briefly—about the count change.”\n\n“I will,” Chris said, wiping his hands on his little skirt. He walked down the familiar corridor, turned the corner toward the girls’ locker room.\n\n“[[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]]?” he called, short and friendly, as he stood in the locker room. No answer. Voices came from the showers, the rush of water, that bright, carefree laughter they often had after strenuous practices.\n\nHe went in and steam billowed toward him. He didn’t think—his mind was still on counts, on the sideline, on tomorrow. He was so deep in “we cheerleaders mode” that he didn’t sense where he, as a boy, was walking just then.\n\n“Penelope? Mr. Moore wants to speak with you again briefly.” He kept his voice matter-of-fact, as if he were simply passing along a note.\n\n“Okay!” Penelope said.\n\nChris nodded automatically. In that moment, things became quieter, just for him: Christine turned at the edge of the shower, saw her brother—and paused in one single, silent second. There was no scream, no word. Only one very nasty look that hit hard: surprised, silent, like thin glass that does not shatter but gets a fine crack.\n\nOnly then did Chris understand where he was standing, right in the middle of the girls’ shower. How his steps had carried him here as if it were the most natural thing in the world. How natural it was for the others—they had said nothing, thought nothing; they knew him as “one of us.” Only Christine was seeing him as both right now. And in her gaze lay that serious reminder: You are not allowed to be here.\n\nChris’s heart pounded too loudly. He stared at his naked, wet sister, and it was hard for him to look her in the eyes while doing so. True, her breasts were tiny, but they were blessed with perfectly round areolas, in the center of which two firm nipples had risen like cherry pits beneath the prickling spray of the shower.\n\nWhat fascinated him most, however, was his little sister’s smooth-shaven pubic area, whose slightly parted outer labia revealed the delicate pink of the inner labia.\n\n“I… uh...” Chris managed, taking half a step back and raising his hand apologetically, without knowing whom he was apologizing to.\n\n“Could you maybe soap my back for me?” Chris suddenly heard a voice beside him. He flinched violently, and heat and cold ran down his back.\n\nIt was Penelope. And as if it had not already been that way the whole time, she stood completely naked in front of him with a friendly smile and encouragingly held out a bottle of shower gel to him. Chris tried to avoid Penelope’s gaze, because all at once he felt caught and would have liked to sink into the ground from shame.\n\nTotally unsettled, Chris took the bottle of shower gel from Penelope’s hand. Penelope turned her back to him invitingly. It was a truly beautiful back, Chris thought as he nervously opened the bottle cap to let some of the blue gel run into his hand. With circular motions, he spread the gel over the tender back of this gorgeous girl. His fingers trembled as they touched the naked skin. Wild thoughts raced through his head as he touched the unfamiliar body. He could not escape the compulsion to look more closely at the person before him while his hands carefully soaped every square centimeter of the back offered to them.\n\nWhat a beautiful butt Penelope had! It almost painfully tempted him to soap this extended part of her back as well. Of course, he did not dare put that wish into action. If only because his sister was watching him with Argus eyes the entire time.\n\n“All done!” finally came from his lips, more breathed than spoken.\n\nPenelope turned around and gave him a friendly smile. “Thanks.”\n\nThen he immediately turned on his heel and went back down the corridor. Behind him, the water continued to patter, voices began talking again as if nothing had happened. For everyone else, nothing had happened either.\n\nIn the hallway, he stopped briefly, took a breath, and ran a hand over his forehead. He had slipped so deeply into the role that his feet had forgotten the boundary. Christine’s gaze held the image up to him without throwing it in his face. He nodded to himself as if he had just redrawn an invisible line, and went back into the gym.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $charlotte < 2>>\n\n<<if $stil >= 6 && $dylan > 2 >>\n[[In front of the gym.|Vor der Turnhalle.][$schulball += 1]]\n<<else>>\n[[In front of the gym.|Vor der Turnhalle.2]]\n<<endif>>\n\n<<else>>\n[[In front of the gym.|Vor der Turnhalle.3]]\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Chris looked back and forth between the sneakers and the patent shoes, took a breath—and reached for the heels. Susan nodded almost imperceptibly, as if he had checked the right answer on a test.\n\nWhen he fastened the little straps and stood up, she examined him with a scrutinizing gaze that eventually softened. “See? Those shoes make your legs look beautifully long. And now that the hair is gone, nylons suit you much better too. Most girls would envy you for legs like that!” The compliment hit him like a crooked echo—half pride, half embarrassment.\n\nChristine appeared in the doorway, backpack hanging loosely from one strap, ponytail freshly tied. “Coming, Bambi 2.0?” she teased flatly, without bite. Chris rolled his eyes and reached for his bag.\n\nOutside, a morning coolness still hung in the air, the sun just above the crowns of the maples. His heels clicked across the paving stones in a rhythm that seemed far too loud to him; every “tik-tik” seemed to leap through the quiet street. The pleated skirt swung with every step, neat and rhythmic, and at his knees he could feel the fine pantyhose brushing against the fabric. Embarrassing? Yes. But by now his body knew the movements: small steps, weight centered, shoulders low, gaze forward. No heroic curb maneuvers, no hasty turns.\n\n“Not bad,” Christine murmured after half a block, half surprised, half approving. “Last week you were all wobbly ankles, today almost a runway model.”\n\n“Very funny,” he shot back, concentrating on keeping the rhythm steady. A dog barked behind a fence, somewhere a sprinkler sprayed the lawn silver.\n\nThe closer they got to the bus stop, the more voices filled the street. Individual little groups merged into a stream, and Chris’s “tik-tik” blended into the general noise of backpack straps, laughter, and footsteps on concrete. A few boys briefly turned their heads—not longer than yesterday, but to him every look counted double. He forced himself to keep the angle of his chin calm, his hands relaxed, not fussing with the hem of his skirt.\n\n[[Continue|Sexualkunde.]]

Ben lifted the screen: “You start in the Weeping Steppe, on the road to the Obsidian Temple. Rumors say: a cult, a curse, a final boss who collects your souls in bottles.”\n\nJay rubbed his hands. “I’ll pick up the trail up front.”\nMax arranged initiative cards. “I’ll guard the rear.”\nAdam meaningfully polished his holy symbol. “The light is with us.”\n\nIn the first village, Drywell, a suspicious innkeeper planted himself broadly in the doorway. “No adventurers. No questions.”\n“I’ll talk to him,” Adam began.\n“Wait,” Chris said and, against his better instincts, lifted the old spell from his sheet. “I… cast Seduction.”\n\nThe 16 rolled. Ben flipped pages, raised an eyebrow. “With Beauty 2… modified effect. The innkeeper sees you, drops the ladle, whispers, ‘What has the world done to me?’ and locks himself in the pantry.”\n\nJay snorted. “So free passage after all.”\n\nBen placed the yellowed box on the table: “Just to clarify the rule: In this ancient edition, it says in small print: Beauty ≤ 3 reverses the effect of Seduction: instead of charming, the appearance triggers panic.” He raised his hands apologetically. “That’s not a house rule—it really says that.”\n\nChris turned red and grinned anyway.\n\nLater, the temple’s courtyard of pillars: shadows, cold stone, a paladin guard with a spear blocking the way. “No passage.”\nJay was already lifting his sword; Adam drew breath for a litany.\nChris sighed. “Okay. A second time.” The roll: 18.\nBen read from the footnote again: “The guard turns pale, makes the sign of chastity twice, stammers, ‘Monster—of—desire!’ and runs down the stairs.”\nMax tapped Chris’s sheet. “Beauty 2: best crowd control.”\n“I hate it,” Chris muttered, “but it works.”\n\nInside, drums hammered. Ben painted the scene with words: a reliquary corridor, riddles, a few good rolls from Jay, a clean pit trap that Max neutralized with a paperclip. Adam burned a blessing too early once, then later saved Jay from collapsing with a 19. The team ran smoothly like gears, only sometimes sand scraped: a botched check here, tight timing there.\n\nThen the temple hall. Ghostly lady, armor like smoke, shelves full of soul bottles. “Three rounds,” Ben said. “Then the cathedral dome releases dust.”\nFirst round: Jay hits well, Max tightens the chain, Adam calls light—the lady staggers.\nSecond round: She strikes back, Max wavers, Jay falls to his knees, Adam stabilizes him with his last strength. Chris holds the line, calls counts like in cheer—“five, six, seven, eight!”—and pulls the chain across the threshold.\n\nThird round: “She has 3 hit points left,” Ben said.\nAdam lifted the coin. The roll rattled, tipped—1.\nSilence, then collective groaning.\n“Environmental effect,” Ben said quickly. A tremor, falling dust, stone splinters. The lady vanished for a heartbeat into the gray. “You can get out now—or stay and risk it.”\n\nJay glanced at his 1 HP, Max pressed the chain against the floor, Adam held the symbol high with a trembling hand. Chris breathed, saw the door, saw the bottles pulsing softly.\n\n“We live,” he said.\n\nThey grabbed each other and stumbled out while the obsidian gable tilted behind them. Outside they coughed up dust, laughing breathlessly—just short of the great victory, but alive.\n\nBen put the pencil down. “The cult is broken. The lady… waits.”\nJay clapped Chris on the shoulder. “Twice Seduction, twice the way cleared.”\nMax grinned. “Meta: Beauty 2 is terribly good.”\nAdam nodded to Chris. “Without you, we wouldn’t even have made it to the door.”\n\nChris smiled thinly. It was embarrassing, absurdly flattering—and damn effective. Next time, he thought, I’ll distribute differently. Or I’ll simply make the impossible my own a little better.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $unterwaesche == 1>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.]]<<else>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris nodded before his courage had time to slip away. “Just a hint,” he said, more to himself than to Penelope.\n\n“Here.” Penelope handed him the gloss, and Christine wordlessly slid a tissue over to him. Luckily, she had shown him the basics of makeup. Chris stood in front of the mirror, took a breath, slightly bared his lower lip, and carefully brushed the applicator over the center, then outward. The texture was soft, almost oily, the scent sweet—raspberry, obviously—and he followed his own contours as steadily as if he were drawing a line in a school notebook.\n\n<center>[img[pics/lippen.jpg]]</center> He gently pressed his lips together once, dabbed the edge with the tissue, and looked up. For a split second, he thought someone else was looking back at him. His lips were suddenly… beautiful. Not just “okay,” but defined, glossy, soft. Those lips invite kissing, he thought in alarm—and right after that, the second thought shot after it like a cold shower: If I think that, every other boy at this school thinks it too. He didn’t like that thought at all. He felt his shoulders unconsciously draw tighter.\n\n“Looks good on you,” Charlotte said honestly. “Raspberry can get too much fast, but on you—cute.”\n\nPenelope grinned and snapped the cap shut. “Told you. Classic color. If you want, I’ve got a spare gloss in my locker.”\n\n“Uh, thanks.” Chris’s voice was a little rougher than usual. Christine looked at him briefly—assessing, but not judgmental—and turned back to the mirror to tame a rebellious strand of hair.\n\nBack in the hallway, the air felt different—not really, but in his head. He forced himself to walk normally and leave the hem of his skirt alone. In the classroom, he sat down, took out his notebook, did everything with the overly deliberate calm of someone who doesn’t want to feel watched.\n\nAnd then he noticed it anyway. Two seats diagonally to the right: a boy’s glance lingering a little too long. At the front by the window row: a jock who faltered in conversation and then pretended to be looking out the window. The nerds at the table by the outlets: one of them lifted his head as if he had choked on a train of thought. It wasn’t gawking, not open staring—more that series of small, quick glances bouncing around the room like ping-pong balls and landing on his mouth again and again.\n\nOh great, Chris thought, and the gloss suddenly felt heavy on his lips, even though it weighed nothing. He lowered his eyes to his notebook and wrote “US History — Reconstruction” so neatly, as if the beauty of the letters could make him invisible. Up front, Mr. Robertson was talking about schedules and reading assignments, and every time Chris lifted his head, he caught a new glance. Not all of them, not constantly—enough to notice.\n\n''👑 Popularity +1''\n\n''What happens?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Lunchtime in the cafeteria.|Lunchtime in der Cafeteria.]]<<else>>[[Lunchtime in the cafeteria.|Lunchtime in der Cafeteria.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

<div class="psychedelic-text">The next cup was half empty when a shadow filled his view.\n\n“Hey, party girl.” The voice was deep, slightly slurred. Chris turned his head.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/partytyp.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/partytyp_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nThe guy was tall, broad-shouldered, his top slightly out of place, eyes glazed, but focused enough to lock directly onto him. He smelled of beer and cheap deodorant. His gaze traveled slowly from Chris’s face down his neck, lingered not a second too long on his small chest, then wandered over the crop top, the bare strip of stomach, the much too short miniskirt, the legs in heels.\n\n“You look like you could use some fun,” he said with a grin that was too aggressive. “Come dance with me.”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. The alcohol made the room sway, the music slapped off the walls, his head was heavy. The words reached him with a delay. Everything felt a tick too slow.\n\n“Um… I…” He took half a step back, almost bumping into someone. No space.\n\nThe guy moved with him. “Just dance.” He leaned closer, his hand already sliding to Chris’s hip, catching the fabric of the skirt with his fingertips. “You don’t look like you enjoy standing around alone.”\n\nLewd remarks followed, half mumbled, half boastful. Something about legs. Something about “the little one” and “you don’t wear an outfit like that for nothing.” Chris only caught fragments, but they were enough.\n\nHis heart was racing. He was exhausted, drunk, overwhelmed. Lucas’s presence had disappeared somewhere. Christine was upstairs, behind a locked door. He suddenly felt very alone in the middle of too many people.\n\nHe knew what he should say. No, thanks. Leave me alone. Don’t touch me. Clear, direct. But what if a clear no provoked him? What if giving in was easier, less dangerous?\n\nThe boy’s hand was now more clearly resting at his side. “Come on,” he urged. “Just one dance, baby.”\n\nEverything was spinning in Chris’s head. Panic, exhaustion, lingering reason, the dull pounding of too much alcohol.\n\nAt this point, he had to decide...</div>\n\n''How does Chris decide?''\n❯ [[He clearly turns the boy down, even though he can feel that the situation might immediately turn because of it.|Den Jungen klar und deutlich abweisen.3][$kissboy += 1;$harassed += 1]]\n❯ [[He goes along with the dance, hoping it will de-escalate the situation rather than make it worse.|Mit ihm tanzen.3][$kissboy += 1;$harassed += 1]]

<div class="psychedelic-text">The empty cup still hung in Chris’s hand when someone appeared beside him like a shadow standing too close.\n\n“Hey, party girl.” The voice was deep, slightly slurred. Chris turned his head.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/partytyp.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/partytyp_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nThe guy was tall, broad-shouldered, his top a little askew, eyes glassy, but focused enough to fix directly on him. He smelled of beer and cheap deodorant. His gaze traveled slowly from Chris’s face down his neck, lingering a second too long on his small breasts, then wandered over the crop top, the bare strip of stomach, the far too short miniskirt, the legs in heels.\n\n“You look like you need some fun,” he said with a grin that felt too much like an attack. “Come dance with me.”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. The alcohol made the room sway, the music slapped off the walls, his head was heavy. The words arrived with a delay. Everything felt a tick too slow.\n\n“Um… I…” He took half a step back, almost bumping into someone. No space.\n\nThe guy came with him. “Just dancing.” He leaned closer, his hand already sliding toward Chris’s hip, catching the fabric of the skirt at his fingertips. “You don’t look like you like standing around alone.”\n\nSuggestive comments followed, half mumbled, half bragging. Something about legs. Something about “the little one” and “you don’t wear an outfit like that for nothing.” Chris only heard scraps, but they were enough.\n\nHis heart raced. He was exhausted, drunk, overwhelmed. Charlotte’s rescuing presence had disappeared somewhere. Christine was upstairs, behind a locked door. He suddenly felt very alone in the middle of too many people.\n\nHe knew what he should say. No, thanks. Leave me alone. Don’t touch me. Clear, unmistakable. But what if a clear no provoked him? What if giving in was easier, less dangerous?\n\nThe boy’s hand now lay more clearly at his side. “Come on,” he urged. “Just one dance, baby.”\n\nEverything spun in Chris’s head. Panic, exhaustion, the last of his common sense, the dull pounding of too much alcohol.\n\nAt this point, he had to decide:</div>\n\n''What does Chris decide?''\n❯ [[He clearly and firmly rejects the boy, even though he senses the situation could immediately turn because of it.|Den Jungen klar und deutlich abweisen.2][$kissboy += 1;$harassed += 1]]\n❯ [[He agrees to dance with him, hoping it will defuse the situation rather than make it worse.|Mit ihm tanzen.2][$kissboy += 1;$harassed += 1]]

Zoe’s mouth twisted into that crooked grin that never quite revealed whether she wanted to be nice or dangerous.\n<<set $ort to "">>\n“Hang out with me after school,” she said, as if it weren’t a request.\n\nChris blinked. “Hang out… with you?”\n\n“Yeah. Just come with me,” Zoe said, rolling her eyes as if it were the simplest equation in the world. <<if $zoe == 0>>“You can always run away again if you get scared.”<<endif>>\n\n“Okay,” he said before he could talk himself out of it. “But no… weird stuff.”\n\nZoe only grinned. “You’re cute when you pretend you have any say in this.”\n\n<<if $charlotte < 2 && $lucas == 0 >><center>[img[pics/charlotte_cafeteria2.jpg]]</center>Later, in the cafeteria, Chris noticed that Charlotte and the girl were still sitting at the same table, but no longer looked like a little island. Suddenly there was distance between them—a free chair, a bag in between, two bodies pointing in different directions. Charlotte stared at her tray, poking at her fries, while the other looked out the window with her arms crossed. No touching, no laughter, just that stiff silence that says more than any rumor.\n\n<<endif>>After school, they headed out together. Zoe led him a few blocks toward the arterial road, away from the familiar school radius. The place she was steering him toward was more of a pool hall than a classic bar: dimmed lights, green felt surfaces in rows, neon signs flickering in the window. It smelled of chalk, wood, and that indefinable mix of alcohol and air-conditioned air.\n\nZoe grabbed two cues as if she had the run of the place and tossed one to Chris. “Pool,” she said.\n\n“I have… no idea how to play it properly,” Chris admitted, turning the cue uncertainly between his fingers. It felt longer than it should have—like a piece of sports equipment from a world where people knew what to do with their hands.\n\n“Perfect. Then you can’t embarrass yourself, because you’re officially a beginner.” Zoe set up the balls, quick and practiced, adjusted the triangle, tapped it firmly twice, and lifted it away. “Rules are simple,” she said. “You hit something. And if you mess up, I laugh.”\n\nChris raised one corner of his mouth, even though his nerves were sliding around in his stomach.\n\nAt exactly that moment, two young men appeared at the table.\n\n<center>[img[pics/billard.jpg]]</center> One was tall and broadly built—mid-twenties, maybe—with dark, slightly tousled hair and a neat stubble beard that made his chin look more defined. He wore a tight, dark shirt, the sleeves pushed up so his strong forearms showed. His gaze slid briefly over the table, then lingered on Chris, confident and amused.\n\nThe second was a little slimmer, athletic in an “I run on the side” kind of way, with lighter hair falling into his forehead and a friendly, almost too-perfect smile. He wore a leather jacket and a simple chain around his neck; his eyes seemed curious, as if he had already decided this was about to get more fun.\n\n“Hey,” said the dark-haired one, and his voice sounded like he was used to this. “You playing?”\n\n“We thought…” The fair-haired one nodded toward the balls with his chin. “…we could join in. Up for a game?”\n\nZoe tilted her head, let her gaze linger on them for a moment, and then slowly grinned. She didn’t seem opposed at all. “Why not.”\n\nThe dark-haired one grinned. “Mixed teams?” He pointed at the table with the cue. “More fun that way. But… who with who?”\n\nZoe stepped closer to Chris, leaning near his ear. “I want the blond,” she whispered conspiratorially, without a shred of shame. “He’s exactly my type. I’m playing with him.” Her voice was quiet, but her tone was determined, as if this were a strategic necessity.\n\nChris’s gaze automatically wandered over to the dark-haired one—and stuck there. He was looking at Chris with intense interest, not just a passing glance. That interest hit Chris like a little electric shock: embarrassing… and at the same time flattering. Contradictory feelings rose inside him, as if two parts of him were saying “Careful” and “Oh” at the same time.\n\nHe wondered whether he really wanted to play together with a man. At the same time, he also had the option of turning the tables: He could suggest that he and Zoe form a girls’ team, simply to feel safer and keep the dynamic under control.\n\nThe dark-haired one raised an eyebrow, as if waiting for Chris’s decision. Zoe tapped her foot impatiently.\n\n''Who does Chris play with?''\n❯ [[He plays with the dark-haired man, even though his interest makes him both nervous and, in a strange way, flattered.|Mit dem Dunkelhaarigen spielen.][$zoejungs += 1]]\n❯ [[He’d rather suggest a girls’ team with Zoe to keep the situation in more familiar territory.|Ein Mädchenteam bilden.]]

When Chris was finished with Charlotte’s back, he let a little more sunscreen slide onto his palms and then began rubbing sunscreen onto Charlotte’s legs from the ankles upward. He enjoyed every inch of Charlotte’s toned legs. He stroked slowly up over Charlotte’s calves and thighs, and when he reached Charlotte’s ass, he couldn’t help imagining where he would most like to let his creamy fingers glide now.\n\nIn a lightning-fast movement, he let his thumb slip briefly between Charlotte’s legs and brushed it over the fabric of her bottoms, making Charlotte twitch briefly.\n\nCharlotte fastened the top of her bikini behind her back and then sat down beside Chris. “Mmm, that was nice! Honestly, I’d love to roll onto my back now and let you keep going on the front, but I think we’ll save that for later. Now it’s your turn...”\n\nChris sat upright, then sideways again—the hot pants pinched at first in the crotch until he found the right position and pulled the towel under his thigh smoother. Charlotte knelt behind him and spread the lotion with the same practiced care. Cool streaks became warm as her hands made them disappear. “Arms up—exactly. And turn a little so I can get your collarbones. Sunburn there is the devil.”\n\nWhen everything was rubbed in, both of them sank back into the loungers. Time grew soft. Above them, the sun shifted a little farther, something chirped somewhere in the garden. Chris felt the warmth on his skin—mapped in an unfamiliar way: shoulders, stomach, a narrow strip between bikini top and hot pants. Before, the sun had simply caught his whole upper body; now it caught on edges, making patterns. It felt strange and new, not unpleasant—just different, as if someone had drawn lines where there had been none before.\n\n“Hot,” Charlotte said after a while, tapping the empty iced-tea glass with a fingernail. “Hot tub?”\n“Good idea,” Chris replied, sat up, and stood, this time without fidgeting; the hot pants sat as if they had learned. Together they went down the two steps to the round tub. Charlotte bent down, pressed the control panel—a click, then the jets came to life with a deep hum. The water rippled, small chains of bubbles rose and burst in the light.\n\n“Get in,” Charlotte grinned, holding out her hand as if this were a small dare in the best sense.\n\n[[Continue|Im Whirlpool.]]

Chris and DeShawn stayed close together, as if their shared rhythm had hooked firmly into itself. DeShawn’s movements were calm, controlled, but so close that Chris felt the powerful bulge in DeShawn’s crotch. The rock-hard cock pressed firmly against his soft ass. Chris’s heart was suddenly pounding far too loudly. But his mind was pleasantly muted, as if everything were happening behind a warm pane of glass. He allowed his body to lead instead of constantly correcting it.\n\nSusan suddenly slipped in with them, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. One step, one turn, and she was right in the middle of them—not outside, not beside them, but in it. Now the three of them were dancing together, close, body-to-body, a small triangle of warmth and bass.\n\nFor Chris, it was strange for a moment, almost absurd: DeShawn’s large stature, his mother’s calm dominance, and him in between in mesh and fishnet tights, with the feeling that every touch passed straight through the fabric. But before the thought could settle, it dissolved again, like foam on a drink. Chris didn’t think about it for long. He gave himself over to the situation, the way one gave oneself over to a wave, because resistance only made you tired anyway.\n\nSusan placed a hand on DeShawn’s chest, pulled him a fraction closer—and kissed him.\n\nNot hesitantly. Not as a game. It was a kiss that asserted possession, as if she were opening a chapter in front of Chris’s eyes that had existed for a long time already. Chris felt a brief, surprisingly sharp sting in his chest, so quick that he could barely name it. Jealousy. Or perhaps simply the feeling of being excluded, even though he was standing right in the middle of it.\n\nThe sting didn’t last long.\n\nDeShawn pulled away from Susan, turned his head toward Chris—and his attention fell on him like a warm weight. Then DeShawn grabbed Chris with his strong Black arms, steady at his waist and back, pulling him in as if there were no doubt where Chris belonged.\n\nAnd kissed him too.\n\nChris’s thoughts shot upward in a single panic: Oh God. I’m kissing a man.\n\nBut his body simply went along with it, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.\n\nDeShawn’s lips were warm, firm, and surprisingly gentle in the way he measured the pressure. Chris tasted the hint of alcohol and mint, the breath mingling with his own, and the closeness that short-circuited every uncertainty. His own mouth opened as if by itself, not because he thought about it, but because something in him said yes before his head had even finished. DeShawn’s arm pulled him closer, steady, as if he were simply taking Chris’s trembling out of the equation. Chris’s hands found purchase on DeShawn’s shoulders, then at the back of his neck, and the music became a distant roar, because suddenly only this kiss mattered—the warmth, the pull in his stomach, the feeling of being truly wanted.\n\nWhen their lips parted, Chris’s breath was shallow and hot. His heart was beating as if it had taken over the rhythm.\n\n[[Continue|DeShawn möchte gehen.]]

The kitchen was brighter than the living room—marble island, polished fixtures, the soft click of the ice machine. Chris halved lemons, twisted them in the hand juicer; Mrs. Barnett filled carafes, let sparkling water run over ice. “You do that like you have your own bar,” she said. Her smile had that effortless warmth that made rooms feel larger.\n“I… improvise well,” Chris said, and was surprised by how easy it sounded.\n<<set $CarolineMemory[0] to 1>>\nThe oven beeped. Mrs. Barnett leaned forward and was just taking a tray of cookies out of the oven. In doing so, she had to bend down quite far, giving Chris the chance to admire her shapely ass, covered only by green leggings. In that moment, he realized where Penelope had inherited her beauty from. Unbidden, he had to wonder what it would feel like. Chris tried to push the thought away again. Mrs. Barnett was Penelope’s mother, not some object of desire. Though, as an object of desire, she didn’t make a bad figure. With a plump, shapely ass and beautiful round breasts. So round and firm, they couldn’t be real. Add the short black hair and blue eyes, and she had surely been the main character in more than a few wet adolescent dreams.\n\n“The girls will definitely be happy about the fresh cookies. They taste best warm.” Mrs. Barnett grinned and set the hot tray on a cooling rack. “Chris, where are you looking?” Mrs. Barnett’s voice tore Chris out of his thoughts. Damn, now he really had stared too much and been caught.\n\nBut Mrs. Barnett didn’t seem particularly angry. “Tell me, Chris, were you staring at my breasts?”\n\nFaced with such a direct question, Chris could only nod meekly.\n\n“And I think you were looking at my ass for quite a long time before that. Am I wrong, or am I right?”\n\nAgain, Chris could only nod.\n\n“And did you like what you saw?” Chris hadn’t expected that question. A scolding, maybe, or a scene, yes, but not this. What was he supposed to answer? He needed only a moment; the answer was actually obvious if he didn’t want to get himself into even more trouble. “Yes, your figure is admirable.”\n\nMrs. Barnett had to smile. “Thank you for the compliment, but yours isn’t to be sneezed at either.”\n\nAnother sentence Chris hadn’t expected. What was going on here?\n\n“You’re walking around in your satin nightgown, with that perky ass in those shorts and those pretty little breasts. That’s enough to make anyone’s mouth water.” Mrs. Barnett looked Chris in the eyes. “At the very least, you must realize the effect you have.”\n\n“On boys maybe, but not on you,” Chris stammered.\n\n“Believe me, you have that effect on me too.” She sat down on the table in front of Chris and looked deep into his eyes. “And I don’t think I was without effect on you either.” Her voice had grown quieter, softer, more conspiratorial. She pointed her finger at the bulge in his crotch. “You’re a boy.”\n\nThe word hit him like a cold spoon in hot tea. “I—no… I mean—” He searched for something to hold on to, found nothing, felt the blush creep into his cheeks. “I don’t know, I…”\n\n“It’s all right.” She raised her hand, stopping him kindly. “I have nothing against transgender people. Nothing at all. On the contrary—I find it… impressive when someone finds the courage to be so consistent.” Her smile remained, but without that polite polish; it was seductive. “And you do it very delicately. You can tell how hard you’re trying.”\n\nHe breathed out as if he had been holding his breath too long. “Please… don’t tell anyone,” he managed. “Penelope, the girls—please don’t.”\n\n“Of course not.” She briefly, feather-lightly, laid her fingers on his shoulder—a breath of touch that traveled through every layer. “That’s your secret, not mine. I’m good at keeping them.” A wink flitted across her face, coquettish, so openhearted that Chris’s heart made a senseless little leap. Inside, Mrs. Barnett had to smile; her two children kept her busy, but she had always found time for relaxation or distraction. Not least with the nice pool boy who came by once a week.\n\n“Thank you,” he said, too quietly for the noise level of a kitchen, and yet she heard it.\n“You’re welcome,” she replied, and the look she gave him as she did was warm enough that Chris wondered whether she—God, really?—wanted to seduce him.\n\nBefore Chris could think any further, loud stomping sounded.\n\n“Mom?” A boy’s voice came from the hallway, approaching, carrying the familiar tone of a house where you don’t have to knock. The sound caught on the threshold—a breath before someone entered.\n\n''Who is it?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 2>>[[Lucas from the theater club.|Lucas vom Theaterclub.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 1>>[[Her son Lucas.|Ihr Sohn Lucas.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[Her son Lucas.|Ihr Sohn Lucas.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Coach Moore clapped the beat. Chris breathed in, let the tingling seep into the floor, and stayed with the formation.\n\n“P-O-M!” Penelope called.\n“Puffs!” the team answered.\n“Sweet but tough!”\n“Pom Puffs!”\n\nTwo quick claps above the head—palms dry, precise. Then the hip wiggle, exactly two counts, small and clean, without extra show. After that, the pom hits: right, left—elbows closed, wrists firm, as if he were placing punctuation marks in the air. Chris counted his breathing inwardly, stepped neither forward nor out. He held the line as if it were a rail.\n\nThe chants continued, the pom-poms rustling like soft paper. Penelope led from the front with trained ease; Christine anchored the back row, Charlotte kept the timing like a metronome. Chris forced his gaze into the group, let the football players at the edge become noise—shoes scraping, a water bottle, brief laughter. He was the steady beat in the middle, not the spark at the edge.\n\nOn the next run-through, he still felt the space change. A quiet pull from the sideline. He lifted his eyes for only a moment—enough to see Dylan, whose attention was no longer gliding over the formation, but sticking to Penelope. She set the Sassy Turn with exactly the smile she put into every rehearsal, and Dylan followed the arc of her spin as if it were the natural extension of his gaze.\n\nChris immediately lowered his eyes again, hit the two claps, kept the hip wiggle exactly on count, and set the pom hits right, left. Everything correct. Everything right. And yet something just below his breastbone tightened—a thin, cool thread that loosened and then remained. A hint of jealousy, so fine it almost tasted like air. At the same time, the dull feeling of having missed an opportunity that had been only one tiny step away.\n\n“Hold your lines!” Coach Moore called. Chris held them. The sequence ran through to the heart pose, whose curve he quietly closed cleanly. Penelope earned a few half-loud whistles from the edge; Dylan stood motionless, his hands back on his hips, still directed at her.\n\nAs his arms swung out, Chris felt the calm in his muscles and the unrest in his head. He had risked nothing and had not made a fool of himself. It was exactly what he wanted—and yet beside that relief now sat a small, stubborn thorn.\n<<set $dylan_opinion to 29>><<set $penelope_opinion to 48>>\n[[Continue|Nochmal zur Schule.]]

After the names for the next round had been announced, the remaining contestants were lined up in a small row in front of the banner. It wasn’t a glamorous backstage with velvet curtains—more a makeshift area of gaffer tape, folding chairs, and a helper who kept saying, “This way, please.” Still, it suddenly felt more official. More personal. As if the whole town were making note of who was standing there right now.\n\nThen the mayor stepped forward, polished in a shirt and jacket, with that practiced town-event smile. He shook a few hands, said “wonderful” and “so proud,” and the host let him say a few sentences about “tradition & community” that sounded like the motto on repeat.\n\n“You embody the spirit of our founders,” he said, spreading his arms as if one could gather it from the audience. “Unity, dedication, heart.”\n\nChris smiled reflexively while thinking how strange it was that this word “spirit” seemed stuck to everything today.\n\n“Photo!” someone called, and suddenly the contestants were pushed closer together. Chris felt Susan’s invisible hand on his back, even though she wasn’t on the stage: shoulders back, chin up. The mayor positioned himself in the middle, someone counted “Three, two, one,” and everyone smiled into the flash. Chris felt like a cut-out cardboard version of himself—prettily arranged, neatly numbered.\n\nNo sooner had the photo been taken than things moved on. No break. The host shifted her tone to “nice and personal,” which in Chris’s head only meant: Now comes the part where you can embarrass yourself.\n\n“Interview round!” she announced. “Short questions, short answers. We want to get to know you a little.”\n\nThe contestants stood to the side, and one at a time they stepped up to the microphone. The first got a harmless question, the second as well. Chris’s number came closer, and with every name his mouth grew drier.\n\n“Chris Braun,” the host finally said. “What is your biggest dream?”\n\n''What does Chris answer?''\n❯ [[For a moment, he lets the mask slip and answers from the gut.|Er lässt sein Herz sprechen.]]\n❯ [[He gives a flawless, pageant-worthy answer that he hopes Maplewood wants to hear.|Er erfindet eine pageant-tauglich Antwort.][$temp += 1]]

The Uber stopped in front of the motel, whose flickering neon light made the midnight blue of Chris’s dress shimmer briefly like water. He got out, pulled the clutch tighter against himself, and closed the car door with a muted click. The cold night air brushed over his shoulders, making him straighten his back involuntarily. With every step across the gravel, it crunched beneath the silver sandals. The corridor smelled of cleaning products and stale smoke, and the room numbers suddenly seemed far too loud in their silent grid. Address. Room. Three more doors. Two more.\n<<set $ort to "Maplewood Motor Inn">>\n<<if $sex == 0>>I’m really doing this, Chris thought to himself. Chris’s heart was beating so fast he could feel it all the way up in his throat. This wasn’t just nervousness — it was that mixture of fear and a joyful, almost painful anticipation. His first time. The thought made him feel brave and tiny at the same time. What if he reacted wrong? What if he was too stiff, too inexperienced, too… everything? And yet: inside him burned a desire that had kept him on tiptoe for weeks. He was afraid of losing control — and longed for exactly that.\n\n<<endif>>He stopped in front of the room door. The hallway hummed softly, somewhere an ice machine rattled. Chris forced himself not to think about Lucas. Not about Lucas’s smile, about the hand on his hip, about the Homecoming dance, about the promise that had been in the way they had appeared together. He pushed the guilt down like an air bubble underwater. Later, he told himself. Not now. Now there was only Mrs. Barnett, the message, the room number — and that hungry pull that made him almost dizzy. He raised his hand and knocked.\n\nFor one breath, nothing. Then the bolt turned, and the door opened a crack — wide enough for Caroline Barnett to look at him as if she had been waiting for him exactly like this. Short black hair, blue eyes that looked soft in the warm light of the room and at the same time dangerously certain. She was wearing something seductive that suggested more than it showed, a black dress that clung to her exciting mature body, and the sight immediately drew Chris closer.\n\n<center>[img[pics/MrsBarnett_motel.jpg]]</center> “Chris…” Her voice was calm, almost velvety. Her gaze slid over him, lingered on the backless dress as if she were undressing it with her eyes. “You look stunning. That dress… the color suits you unbelievably well.”\n\nChris felt heat shoot into his face. “Thank you.” He forced himself to smile and glanced briefly at her full lips, then looked away again. “You— I mean… you look… amazing too. Really.” It sounded honest and at the same time far too small for what was raging inside him.\n\nCaroline closed the door. “Come in.” Her tone left no room for doubt: this was no longer the hallway, no longer the reality outside. When the door clicked shut behind him, the rest of the world suddenly seemed farther away.\n\nChris set the clutch on the dresser, unconsciously smoothed down the dress, and took a deep breath. “I… I need to text Lucas quickly.” He reached for his phone, his fingers a little too restless.\n\nCaroline nodded, but her eyes remained fixed on him, as if she had long since decided how this evening would end.\n\nChris typed hastily: I got home safely. I’m already feeling a little better. He stared at the message as if it could save or betray him, then pressed send. His stomach tightened. The guilty conscience tried to rise up again like a wave.\n\n“You’re trembling.” Caroline stepped closer, so close that Chris noticed her scent more strongly. “You don’t have to doubt.” She raised a hand and traced two fingers over his bare back — a touch that wasn’t much and yet changed everything. “You’re here because you want to be.”\n\nChris opened his mouth to say something, some sensible excuse, some last remnant of decency. But Mrs. Barnett took the chance from him by kissing him — cautiously at first, as if testing him, then more firmly, as if she had already waited long enough. Their tongues began to explore each other’s mouths until they finally joined in a passionate, wild dance. Chris’s thoughts tore away. His body answered faster than his conscience.\n\nHe felt her pull him toward her by the waist, felt his hands search uncertainly for something to hold on to and finally land on her shoulders. Her warmth, her certainty, her closeness — it filled the whole room. Chris let out a soft, breathless sound, half laugh, half overwhelmed, and Caroline kissed him as if she enjoyed exactly that wavering.\n\n“You’re beautiful, Chris,” she murmured against his lips.\n\nThe ball dress rustled as Caroline slowly guided him backward until the backs of Chris’s knees bumped against the edge of the bed. The blanket was neat, as if the room had only been a backdrop that was finally allowed to be used now. Chris sat down, stumbling more than planned, and Caroline remained standing in front of him, studying him like a work of art she had chosen herself.\n\n[[Continue|Chris zieht sich aus.][$oral += 1]]

Early in the morning, when the house was still half asleep and only the coffee machine in the kitchen was making its first gurgle, Chris was already standing in the hallway with his toiletry bag, staring at the closed bathroom door.\n<<set $wochentag = 4>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "at home">>\nBehind the door, he heard: water. Hair dryer. A brief “Damn” and the frantic clack of a flat iron being set down on the counter. Then the hair dryer again. Christine.\n\nChris knocked once, carefully. “Chrissie? I need to use the bathroom.”\n\n“I’ll be done in a second, <<if $chrisorsis == 1>>Sis<<else>>Chris<<endif>>!” came the immediate reply, too quickly to be true.\n\nChris looked at the clock. He had deliberately given himself extra time because he didn’t want to be late today. Even so, he felt the minutes suddenly start moving faster. He knocked again. “How much longer? I have to… get ready.”\n\n“Five minutes!” Christine called. At the same moment, he heard the hiss of hairspray.\n\nChris raised his eyebrows. Five minutes is a lie, he thought. He leaned against the wall, rocking on his tiptoes and making that little motion with his foot that you really only made when you urgently had to go or were urgently nervous. Both applied.\n\n“Chrissie, I need to do my…” He faltered. He didn’t want to say “hair.” He didn’t want to say “makeup” either. What he actually wanted to say was: I need to get in there, or I’m going to look like a disaster. “…brush my teeth,” he finished at last.\n\n“Then brush them in the kitchen!” came the reply. Another hiss.\n\nChris stared at the door as if it were personally insulting him. “I’m not brushing my teeth in the kitchen.”\n\n“Why not? It’s just toothpaste.”\n\n“Because it’s gross!” He heard how high his own voice had gotten and hated it. Before, he wouldn’t have argued like this. Before, he would have quickly gotten himself ready in the kitchen. But now… now there were things that had to happen in the bathroom. Things he needed in order to be someone in the mirror who didn’t stand out.\n\nThe door suddenly opened a crack. Christine stuck her head out. She was wearing only her underwear. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, annoyed.\n\nChris lifted the toiletry bag like a piece of evidence. “I need the sink. And the mirror. And… time.”\n\nChristine sighed so loudly it was almost funny. “I don’t have time either. And my hair looks like a crime.”\n\n“Your hair always looks good.”\n\n“Liar.” Christine pulled the door shut again, but not all the way. “Okay, deal. You can come in. But don’t touch my stuff, and if you knock over my eyeliner, I swear—”\n\n“I won’t knock anything over,” Chris said hastily and slipped through the gap. Steam hit him in the face. The counter was full: hairbrush, powder, lip gloss, two open hair clips, half a scrunchie shaped like a donut. Christine stood in front of the mirror as if before an altar, holding her long hair up with a round brush.\n\nChris squeezed past her to the sink. He tried not to touch her butt, not to bump into her body. He squeezed toothpaste onto the brush—far too hastily—and began brushing while at the same time correcting the worst strand of his own hair in the mirror.\n\n[[Continue|Pep Rally.3]]

Early in the morning, when the house was still half asleep and only the coffee machine in the kitchen was making its first gurgle, Chris was already standing in the hallway with his toiletry bag, staring at the closed bathroom door.\n<<set $wochentag = 4>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "at home">>\nBehind the door, he heard: water. Hair dryer. A brief “Damn” and the frantic clack of a flat iron being set down on the counter. Then the hair dryer again. Christine.\n\nChris knocked once, carefully. “Chrissie? I need to use the bathroom.”\n\n“I’ll be done in a second, <<if $chrisorsis == 1>>Sis<<else>>Chris<<endif>>!” came the immediate reply, too quickly to be true.\n\nChris looked at the clock. He had deliberately given himself extra time because he didn’t want to be late today. Even so, he felt the minutes suddenly start moving faster. He knocked again. “How much longer? I have to… get ready.”\n\n“Five minutes!” Christine called. At the same moment, he heard the hiss of hairspray.\n\nChris raised his eyebrows. Five minutes is a lie, he thought. He leaned against the wall, rocking on his tiptoes and making that little motion with his foot that you really only made when you urgently had to go or were urgently nervous. Both applied.\n\n“Chrissie, I need to do my…” He faltered. He didn’t want to say “hair.” He didn’t want to say “makeup” either. What he actually wanted to say was: I need to get in there, or I’m going to look like a disaster. “…brush my teeth,” he finished at last.\n\n“Then brush them in the kitchen!” came the reply. Another hiss.\n\nChris stared at the door as if it were personally insulting him. “I’m not brushing my teeth in the kitchen.”\n\n“Why not? It’s just toothpaste.”\n\n“Because it’s gross!” He heard how high his own voice had gotten and hated it. Before, he wouldn’t have argued like this. Before, he would have quickly gotten himself ready in the kitchen. But now… now there were things that had to happen in the bathroom. Things he needed in order to be someone in the mirror who didn’t stand out.\n\nThe door suddenly opened a crack. Christine stuck her head out. She was wearing only her underwear. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, annoyed.\n\nChris lifted the toiletry bag like a piece of evidence. “I need the sink. And the mirror. And… time.”\n\nChristine sighed so loudly it was almost funny. “I don’t have time either. And my hair looks like a crime.”\n\n“Your hair always looks good.”\n\n“Liar.” Christine pulled the door shut again, but not all the way. “Okay, deal. You can come in. But don’t touch my stuff, and if you knock over my eyeliner, I swear—”\n\n“I won’t knock anything over,” Chris said hastily and slipped through the gap. Steam hit him in the face. The counter was full: hairbrush, powder, lip gloss, two open hair clips, half a scrunchie shaped like a donut. Christine stood in front of the mirror as if before an altar, holding her long hair up with a round brush.\n\nChris squeezed past her to the sink. He tried not to touch her butt, not to bump into her body. He squeezed toothpaste onto the brush—far too hastily—and began brushing while at the same time correcting the worst strand of his own hair in the mirror.\n\n[[Continue|Pep Rally.2][$beliebtheit += 1]]

Chris swallowed. The lump in his throat felt like a stone. “My mother,” he began, hating how small his sentence sounded. “She… forces me. She decided that I should… live like this. As a girl. Clothes, behavior… hormones.” He felt shame settle over his chest, warm and heavy. “I didn’t want this.”\n\nLucas stared at him, his hands clasped together as if he were trying to keep himself from holding on to anything. “Hormones?” he repeated, quieter. “So… this is real. Not… a costume.”\n\nChris nodded. “It’s real.” He forced himself to look at Lucas, even though it hurt. “I’m afraid it’ll come out someday. And I… I’m afraid that now you’ll…” The word “disgusting” hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Instead he said, “…that you’ll find me repulsive.”\n\nLucas’s brow furrowed. “Repulsive?” He sounded honestly confused by the question, as if Chris had just asked him to confirm that the sky was green. “Chris…”\n\nChris gave one short laugh, without joy. “You’re… you’re a boy. You—” He broke off. He had wanted to say: You like girls. And that was exactly where the pain was. He no longer knew where the lines were.\n\nLucas looked at him for a long time. Then he slowly shook his head. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “I thought I knew you.” He swallowed, and Chris’s heart sank. Then Lucas said, more quietly, but clearly: “And still… I do know you. You’re you.”\n\nChris’s eyes burned. He blinked hard, as if he could wipe it away.\n\n“You’re afraid I won’t want you anymore,” Lucas said, and it wasn’t an accusation. It was almost tender.\n\nChris nodded, a small, ashamed nod. “I’d understand,” he said honestly. “If you never wanted to see me again.” The thought hurt—so much that only now did he realize how much weight Lucas had in his life. “I… I could understand that.” And yet the thought made him sad down to his bones.\n\nLucas’s gaze softened. He slid closer, as if he first had to decide whether he was allowed to. “I want to see you,” he said simply.\n\nChris’s breath caught.\n\nLucas lifted his hand, hesitated a moment as if silently asking permission, and touched Chris’s cheek. Only briefly. Then he leaned forward and kissed him.\n\nChris froze for a fraction of a second. Something in his head screamed: This is a boy. And at the same moment there was that other, contradictory feeling—warm, right, familiar—because it was Lucas. Because Lucas’s closeness didn’t feel like a lie, but like a place where you were finally allowed to exhale.\n\nWhen Lucas drew back, Chris’s face was hot. He looked at Lucas, confused, startled, and somewhere beneath it all, glowing.\n\n“I don’t care,” Lucas said quietly. “I love you. And I think you’re beautiful. Whether you’re a boy or not—that doesn’t change who you are.” He swallowed, smiled crookedly. “You’re still Chris.”\n\nChris’s chest tightened, this time not from shame, but from a happiness that almost hurt. “You…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. Instead he threw his arms around Lucas’s neck, tightly, as if he needed to make sure this was real.\n\nLucas held him back just as tightly. “We’ll get through this,” he murmured.\n\nWhen they finally stood up, Lucas walked him to the bus stop. The way there felt both normal and completely new. In front of the bus, they stopped, a little too close for “just friends,” but not hidden.\n\n“Tomorrow,” Lucas said, and his smile suddenly had that excited, tender Homecoming energy again.\n\n“Tomorrow,” Chris repeated, and this time it sounded not only like a ball gown and music, but like us.\n\nThe bus came. Chris got on, turned around once more, and saw Lucas standing outside, his hands in his pockets, as if he were the calmest point in a world full of chaos. Chris’s heart gave a little leap.\n\nHe didn’t fully understand it yet. He didn’t fully accept it yet. He was a boy—that remained true. And still he felt as if Lucas had just given him something bigger than any disguise: a reason not merely to function tomorrow, but to truly be there.\n\n[[Continue|Samstag, Tag des Schulballs.2]]

The house was bigger than Chris had expected. The driveway full of cars, voices and music were already spilling out onto the sidewalk. Inside, the living room had become a dance floor: dimmed lights, LED strips on the walls, a pounding bass that crawled through the floor. Behind a dining table that had been shoved partly aside stood an improvised bar: bottles, ice, red plastic cups in stacks.<<set $ort to "party house">>\n\n<center>[img[pics/party.jpg]]</center> They had barely come through the door when Myles appeared, with two or three of his buddies in tow. He grinned broadly, put his arm around Christine without hesitation, and pulled her to him, pressing a kiss to her mouth. She let him, returned the kiss, her hand on his upper arm. Chris looked away briefly, a reflex that had nothing to do with prudishness.\n\nThe other boys stopped, forming a semicircle. Two of them nodded to Chris in greeting, one with a “Yo,” another with a fleeting smile. But their gazes quickly slipped lower. One let his eyes glide openly along Chris’s legs, along the black miniskirt that ended so abruptly. Another simply stared at his bust, as if he had forgotten what politeness was.\n\nChris felt it. That kind of look that didn’t ask whether it was allowed. That didn’t search for who he was, but only what was standing there: lots of leg, narrow stomach, white top, lip gloss. It prickled hot beneath his skin. He shifted his weight a little from one foot to the other to ground himself, and in doing so noticed how unsteady the heels made him.\n\n“You look damn good today,” one of the boys said, half grinning, half appraising.\n\n“Yeah, totally party-ready,” another threw in, nudging his friend. “Myles, your girlfriend brought competition.”\n\nA few laughed. It didn’t sound mean, more flippant, but every tone cut.\n\n“This is Chris,” Christine said, as if that explained everything. Her voice sounded light, but she stood half a step closer to him.\n\nThe boys reacted as if she had simply said “hot girl.” One raised his cup. “Welcome to the real Maplewood experience.”\n\nThey were all holding red cups, the plastic gleaming in the light. Someone handed Chris one without asking, simply pressed into his fingertips.\n\n“Here, it’s part of it,” a voice said close to his ear. “First party rule.”\n\nChris looked into the cup. The smell of beer hit him, but beneath it there was something sharper that he couldn’t place. It looked harmless. Red cup, party cliché. This was what the movies looked like, where normal teenagers made normal mistakes.\n\nHe lifted the cup a little. The boys toasted, plastic clacked against plastic, somewhere someone laughed loudly, a party story flew through the circle, something about “remember last time” and “almost got kicked out.”\n\nChris took a sip and inwardly grimaced. It tasted stronger than he knew beer to be. Bitter, burning, somehow sharper. Beer usually doesn’t taste this strongly of alcohol, he thought. Maybe someone had mixed it. He glanced down briefly, hesitated, then raised it again. He didn’t want to be the only one just pretending. Not the foreign body everyone was already looking at anyway.\n\nThe conversations around him grew louder, wilder. One of the boys tossed him a playfully flirty line—something about “it’d be even hotter with you on the dance floor.” It sounded half joke, half invitation. Chris laughed uncertainly, and the lip gloss made his lips smoother, stranger.\n\nIn the middle of the noise, realization hit him: To these boys, he wasn’t a disguised outsider. He was simply a girl at a party. A “hot girl” in a miniskirt. The look at his legs, the grin, the tone of voice—everything perceived him exactly like that. Not as a joke. As an object. As a possibility.\n\nIt flattered him. It disgusted him. It frightened him.\n\nWhen did my body stop being just a costume? The thought came suddenly and stayed.\n\nHe drank again, deeper this time. The liquid slid hot down his throat. After a few sips, he noticed a soft warmth creeping into his stomach, into his shoulders, into his head. The music seemed fuller, the outlines of the people a touch less sharp. His nervousness loosened in some places and clung all the more tightly in others.\n\n[[Continue|Tanzen.]]

When Chris made no move to come closer to him, let alone pleasure his member, the boy impatiently took Chris’s hand and wrapped it around his hard spear. It was very warm and pulsed in Chris’s hand.\n\nChris’s throat was dry, but his body found an easier answer than his head. He leaned forward and kissed him again.\n\nThe kiss was more active this time, deliberate. Chris made it longer, softer, more searching, as if he could buy time with it. He placed a hand on the boy’s neck, drew him a hint closer, as if closeness was what was missing here right now. For a few seconds it worked: the boy went along with it, kissed back, his grin disappearing in the warm pressure of their lips.\n\nBut then the boy’s hand wandered. It slid between Chris’s legs, the fabric of his dress rode up, the boy stroked his stockinged thigh—casually, as if it were self-evident—a little farther upward, his fingers brushing Chris’s lace panties. The gentle touch was like an alarm bell. Christine’s words flashed through Chris’s head: Third date means sex.\n\nPanic rose so quickly that it tightened his throat. He was not ready for this—not in this car, not with this boy, not with his secret like a stone in his stomach. He broke away abruptly, stammered something like “I… I have to—”, reached for the door handle before he even knew what he wanted to say, and stumbled out of the car.\n\nIt looked a little as if he had been caught in a storm—a pretty girl, but disheveled, overwhelmed, with a reddened face and that look that said something had just tipped over and he only wanted to get away now: his hair was mussed, his lip gloss had become a shiny, smeared edge that looked more like “too much” than pretty. One of the straps of his dress hung half off his shoulder, the neckline sat crookedly, and showed his bra.\n\nThe boy called something after him, angry, disappointed, ashamed—Chris heard only the sharpness. The passenger door slammed shut. The engine roared briefly. And then the pickup drove off, leaving Chris standing at the edge of the hill, under a sky that was suddenly far too big.\n\nChris pulled the strap of his dress back up, trembling, and took out his phone. No signal. He held it higher, turned around, took a few steps, as if he might gather up an invisible signal somewhere. Nothing. The music from the car was gone, the lights of the town were far below, and the road beside him was dark, only occasionally cut through the night by a cone of headlights.\n\nHe had to get back into town.\n\nHitchhiking was something he never would have done before. Now he stood there at the roadside, arm outstretched, and felt both ridiculous and vulnerable. The wind tugged at the hem of his skirt. His thoughts ran in loops: What if no one stops? What if I have to walk? What if I get home too late? What if—\n\nAnd then something happened that both relieved and shamed him: it did not take long. A car slowed, signaled, rolled to the side. A man behind the wheel rolled the window down a little. “Everything okay, sweetie?” he asked. “Want to go into town?”\n\nChris’s heart beat hard. He nodded cautiously. “Yes. Please.”\n\nThe man nodded once, as if that settled it, and opened the passenger door. Chris got in, pulled his bag onto his lap, and named an intersection in Maplewood. As the car started moving again, he realized how strange this situation was—and how quickly someone had stopped for him. The “advantage” of being a girl, he thought bitterly, was sometimes exactly that: that doors opened faster.\n\nHe stared out the window at the darkness passing by and tried to shape the lump of shame, fear, and the remaining trace of the sweet feeling of the kiss back into something that felt like himself.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ende == 0>>[[Christmas in Germany.|Weihnachten in Deutschland.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 1>>[[Christine is pregnant.|Christine ist schwanger.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 2>>[[Academic pressure at school.|Leistungsstress in der Schule.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 3>>[[Family celebration with Adam.|Familienfeier mit Adam.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 4>>[[Christmas in Germany.|Weihnachten in Deutschland.]]<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Zoe pushed him aside with a narrow smile. “Stay here,” she hissed. “And don’t make a sound.”\n\nChris’ throat was dry. He nodded, even though everything inside him screamed, “Run.” Zoe turned the key in her hand, stepped up to the door—and vanished into the room before Chris could make up for not having made a sensible decision.\n\nThe door clicked shut.\n\nThe hallway was suddenly too bright and too quiet. Chris stood in front of it as if before a courtroom, the clutch pressed tightly against his ribs. At first, he heard only the muffled air conditioner and the hum of the neon tube outside. Then sounds came from the room: muffled moaning, the squeak of the bed, as if someone were moving on it in sudden thrusts. A short, suppressed “Aaahh”—and then that moaning again.\n\nChris’ mind filled in the gaps immediately. He felt his cheeks burning. His heart was pounding so loudly that he thought it had to pass through the door. He held his breath, listened—and hated himself for listening. With every further moan, he felt sicker, not only from fear, but from the idea that someone was truly “replacing” him right now. That he was allowing it.\n\nFor a brief moment, it got really loud in the room again, then it went quiet.\n\nSo abruptly that Chris almost flinched. Seconds passed. His hand was already hovering toward the door handle when the door opened again and Zoe slipped out—quickly, silently, like someone who knew exactly how not to be seen. She looked at Chris and grinned so broadly as if she had won a prize.\n\n“All easy,” she whispered, making a small, exaggerated victory gesture with two fingers. Her expression held pure triumph.\n\nChris’ stomach turned. He understood why she was grinning, and that was exactly what made him sick. Zoe moved off down the hallway without looking back again.\n\nChris stayed standing for a moment, as if glued in place, then pressed down the handle and slipped into the dark room.\n\n“Hey,” Dylan said at once, warm and carefree.\n\nChris’ hands trembled as he set down the clutch. He hurriedly took off the dress—not elegantly, not like in the mirror, but quickly, as if speed could undo everything. Then he crawled into bed with Dylan.\n\nDylan was astonishingly hot, his skin damp with sweat. Chris lay down against him, felt the heat of his body, the muscle tension beneath his skin—and then something hit him like a blow: an unfamiliar scent, sweet and sharp, that did not belong here. Zoe’s perfume, unmistakably.\n\nJealousy rose in him, hot and shameful at the same time. He wanted to turn away, but his arms clung to Dylan as if closeness could save him.\n\nDylan sighed contentedly and stroked his back. “I can’t believe how good that was,” he murmured. “You were just... incredible. Really.”\n\nChris froze for a heartbeat. He means... His mind wanted to pull the words to the worst possible place. Instead, he nodded, small and embarrassed, and forced out a choked “Thank you,” even though the compliment felt like a stone in his stomach.\n\n“And I thought you’d be nervous your first time,” Dylan continued softly, as if everything between them were soft and safe. “But you moved as if you knew exactly what you were doing... As if you knew how to drive someone out of their mind.”\n\nChris forced himself to breathe. He was so glad that Dylan did not seem to notice anything, so glad that “it had worked”—and at the same time he was ashamed that he could feel glad at all. He snuggled into Dylan’s arm, as if he could push the thoughts away like that.\n\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5]]

Very slowly, Chris let his hand wander higher and higher up her thigh. Moving to the side, he slowly slid his hand beneath her panties. Carefully, he let a finger glide along her pussy. With a single finger, he stroked gently over her swollen mound. When he felt her cleft, he let his finger trail down along it. Chris pressed his finger inside and felt that she was slightly damp within.\n<<set $ChristineMemory[5] to 1>>\nChristine’s eyes flew open; she reached down and pushed his hand away from her pussy.\n\n“You idiot, what are you doing? Why are you touching me there?” she scolded.\n\nHe froze. “I… I thought—”\n\n“Are you completely crazy, Chris?” Her voice cut through the room. “What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. “I just wanted a little closeness, a little… cuddling, okay?” She wiped at her sleeve as if she had to brush something off, and glared at him. “We’re siblings. Seriously.”\n\nThe words hit like slaps. Heat rose into his face, his stomach tightened. “I’m sorry,” he got out, thin, helpless. “I got it wrong—”\n\n“Yes. You did.” Her face showed pure rejection—disgusted, angry, as if he had kicked in a door that wasn’t his.\n\nHe sank back, pulled the blanket up to his hips, and found no place for his hands.\n\nChristine got up, the bed creaking softly. With a shaky motion, she straightened her nightgown without looking at him, and went to the door. “I thought you were there for me. But you’re just like all the other guys,” she said quietly, and the sentence hurt more than a shout. Then she was outside, the hallway swallowing her profile, and the door did not fall loudly, but finally, into the latch.\n\nChris remained sitting, his breathing shallow. The room still smelled of vanilla, but it felt as if someone had turned the scent off. In his head, apologies circled without getting anywhere. He pressed his lips together, put his forehead in his hand. Please don’t tell Mom, he thought, small and urgent. He stared at the flickering candle, heard his own heart far too loudly, and felt how the silence did not make the mistake any smaller.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n[[Continue|Samstag, Susan neue Ideen.]]\n

<<set $ort to "">>After theater club, [[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]] was waiting for Chris at the auditorium exit. “Hey,” he said, his bag slung casually over one shoulder. “My mom asked if you wanted to play tennis with us today. She said you’d asked last time.”\n\nAt the word Mom, something flickered inside Chris—a warm, dangerous glow. He thought back to Mrs. Barnett: her laughter, her exciting feminine body, the seductive way she had looked at him. The pull in his chest was startlingly clear. I want to see her again, he thought. His stomach tingled. “Sure,” he said too quickly. “Gladly.”\n\nThey drove together to Lucas’s house. The villa looked like something out of a magazine: tall window fronts, a wide veranda, a lawn like a painting. As they walked up the driveway, the front door opened, and Mrs. Barnett stepped out—tennis clothes, sun visor, racket in hand, her face sunny and effortless. “Chris! Nice to see you,” she said, and her gaze lingered on him a touch longer than necessary.\n\n<center>[img[pics/MrsBarnett_tennis.jpg]]</center> “I’m just taking my school stuff upstairs,” Lucas threw in and disappeared toward the stairs.\n\nThe moment he was out of sight, the air shifted. Mrs. Barnett stepped closer, lowering her voice, which suddenly took on a deeper tone. “We could send Lucas out on an errand run,” she said, as if it were the most natural idea in the world. “And then…” She left the sentence hanging, a promised exclamation mark in the air. “The two of us would have all the peace and quiet here alone in the house. The bedroom is right upstairs,” she said with a half smile that left no room for misunderstanding. Her eyes held his, playful and direct at once.\n\nChris’s heart stumbled. An incredulous happiness shot through him—finally have sex for the first time, he thought, finally truly be himself, and with her of all people, a woman who stood in his thoughts like a radiant figure. For a moment, the rooms inside him became wide and bright.\n\nBut into that same openness, a shadow suddenly crept: Lucas. The last laugh from rehearsal, the shy way he asked questions, the sincere affection in small pauses. Chris felt something inside him resist—loyalty, affection, a feeling he had been pushing aside for days. Sleeping with his mother would mean crossing a line that would change not only Lucas, but himself as well. And at the same time, defiance pounded in the back of his mind against the image his mother kept painting of him: You are a girl. Was this the final proof otherwise?\n\nHe stood between two doors, both open, both with consequences. Mrs. Barnett’s gaze remained warm and expectant; upstairs, a door rattled, footsteps that could lead back down any second. Chris’s throat was dry. He had to decide.\n\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[Agree to Mrs. Barnett’s plan.|Mrs. Barnetts Plan zustimmen.2][$barnett += 1]]\n❯ [[He refuses.|Er lehnt ab.]]

“Everything’s okay, thanks,” Chris said quickly, maybe too quickly.\n\nDylan loosened his grip and gently let him down. For one heartbeat, there was only silence between them, the hallway noises bouncing off it: locker doors slamming, laughter, the squeak of a gym bag across floor tiles. “You sure?” Dylan finally asked. “Does it hurt?”\n\n“No.” Chris put his foot down—a sharp tug that he lied away with a nod. “All good. Stupid step.” He tried a smile that probably looked more like a twitch. “Thanks.”\n\n“Sure.” Dylan’s forehead creased ever so slightly, a hint of irritation in his eyes, as if he had received an answer that didn’t quite fit the picture. “Then… be careful.”\n\n“I will.” Chris turned away, forcing his walk into normality. The heel clicked, his ankle protested softly; he shortened his step imperceptibly so it wouldn’t look like limping. Behind him, Dylan’s presence faded into a question mark.\n\nHe turned the corner and breathed out as if he had been holding the air in. Brilliantly handled, he scolded himself, first falling into his arms, then fleeing. His foot throbbed, and so did his pride. And somewhere in between lay that contradictory, warm feeling he didn’t want to have. He stared at the heels. I should have taken the sneakers.\n\n[[Continue|Nach der Schule Cheer-Tryout.]]

<<back "Back">>\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/Laverne.jpg]]</center> \n''Name:'' Laverne Johnson \n''Age:'' 29 (?) \n''Birthday:'' August\n\n''Biography''\nLaverne was not from Maplewood—depending on her mood, she would talk about “a bigger city farther south” and made a little secret of it, as if origin were a hairstyle you could change. She had grown up in an environment where you learned early to make yourself loud if you did not want to be overlooked: many voices, a lot of humor, a lot of directness. Even as a teenager, Laverne had been the one who told others which outfit fit, which edge was cheeky, and when you simply had to laugh someone off instead of feeling small.\n\nShe worked as a hairdresser—not just “cutting hair,” but complete transformation: color, extensions, wigs, braids, the whole program. Her clients especially liked that she could be brutally honest without seeming hurtful: sassy, quick, warm-hearted—and with an eye for what people actually mean when they say “just the ends.” Laverne consistently claimed she was 29—and had been “for a few years,” as she explained with a grin, as if age were a matter of negotiation.\n\nHer own look was also part of that self-image. Over the years, Laverne had visibly “rebuilt” herself: striking beauty procedures, perfectly shaped contours, and an extremely ample silicone bust that she carried with the same ease with which other people carry a handbag. She spoke openly about cosmetic surgery—as if it were a tool like scissors and a blow-dryer: if something does not fit, you simply adjust it. Sometimes she said things like “I earned my life” or “You have to know yourself before others are allowed to know you”—as if she had once learned very early that identity is something you do not just find, but also assert.\n\n<div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Chris’s attraction to Laverne </div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>not attractive at all</span> <span>intense desire</span> </div> <div class="axis-barattraction"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $lavern_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $lavern_opinion < 20>> not attractive at all <<elseif $lavern_opinion < 40>> slight attraction <<elseif $lavern_opinion < 60>> slight attraction <<elseif $lavern_opinion < 80>> strong attraction <<else>> intense desire <</if>> </div> </div> <<back "Back">>

In class, his stomach growled loudly enough that Ruby beside him glanced over. He hadn’t eaten anything, and his empty stomach made him jittery. In English, Mr. Robertson asked for the homework; Chris’s stomach clenched when he realized the notebook was neatly finished—at home on his desk.\n<<set $ort to "classroom">>\n“I’m sorry,” he said, standing up and feeling the hem again. “I did it. It’s at home. May I hand it in tomorrow—”\n\n[[Mr. Robertson|Wesley Robertson]] raised his hand. “Your performance has slipped over the past few weeks, Chris.” His voice wasn’t angry, but it was clear. “If this continues, the next test will be… unpleasant.” He set the sentence down like a warning buoy.\n\nChris nodded, a brief stab of shame and defiance in his chest. “Understood.” He sat down, laid his hands still on the desk, and felt the day tightening around him: too-short skirt, empty stomach, the feeling of constantly running half a second behind everything. Still, he took notes, held the line, made a mental note not to let the evening slip past him. Just get to the next period first—and don’t let go of the hem.\n\nThen the door opened with a quiet squeak, and Zoe slipped inside. Her hair still looked damp, as if she had remembered at the very last second that school existed; her look was half bored, half challenging.\n<center>[img[pics/Zoe_late.jpg]]</center>\n“Sorry,” she said in a tone that apologized for nothing, and dropped into her seat without really looking at Mr. Robertson. He paused for a moment, lowered his pen, and studied her as if weighing whether a comment was even worth it. Then he only said dryly, “Late again, Zoe.” For one heartbeat, silence hung in the room, then he kept writing, while Zoe parked her grin somewhere between a shrug and innocence.\n\nDuring break, the hallway was a current of voices and lockers, and Chris swam right through the middle of it, his bag in front of his stomach, his fingers on the edge of the too-short skirt. The neon light laid cold stripes across the floor; every step felt louder than usual.\n\nHe noticed the looks long before he could place them. Two Black guys from the basketball team leaned against the lockers, stopped in the middle of a sentence, and followed him with their eyes as if he were moving in slow motion. One raised an eyebrow, the other nudged him in the side with a grin. Farther ahead, a trio from chemistry class came toward him; one let his gaze drop briefly, cleared his throat, then pretended he urgently had to check his phone. Chris felt the blush rise into his face. He tugged the hem down inconspicuously; the fabric gave maybe an inch, no more.\n\nA few Pom Puffs were standing by the windows. One girl looked him up and down, her smile too narrow to be friendly; another hissed a toneless “cute” that sounded more like a test than a compliment. Envy lay in some of their looks like fine dust—not much, but noticeable: the measuring glance, weighing whether he was getting too much attention.\n<center>[img[pics/girls.jpg]]</center>\n“Hey, Chris!” someone called from the locker hallway. It sounded cheerful, too cheerful. He simply nodded back and kept his steps small, controlled, as if that could make the skirt longer. When he had to pass the auditorium, Dylan was standing in a group; Chris felt his gaze catch for a moment—not demanding, more surprised—and that was enough to make his heart beat once too fast. He acted as if he hadn’t noticed.\n\nEvery reflective surface was a test today. In the shine of the trophy case, he saw his reflection: the top neat, the tights smooth, the skirt too short. Embarrassment flowed hot into his stomach, but behind it, quiet as a newly tuned note, something else stirred: a touch of flattery, a feeling of being seen—not just as a shadow beside his sister, but as his own silhouette. He didn’t like the thought, and yet he didn’t quite push it away.\n\nAt the water fountain, he leaned forward slightly. He drank, wiped his lips, and held his head higher as he straightened up. Zoe passed by, tossing him a neutral “Brave” that could be understood two ways.\n\nBehind one door someone laughed, in front of him a locker slammed too loudly. Chris breathed deliberately, silently counted to four and back, and kept the rhythm of his steps. It was embarrassing, yes—and yet in the looks of the others there burned a small, dangerous spark that warmed him. He smoothed the skirt one last time, lifted his shoulders, and turned into the next hallway, determined to survive the rest of break without touching the hem again.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1>>[[Lunch in the cafeteria.|Mittag in der Cafeteria.1]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas <= 1 && $choice_ahorn1 == 1>>[[Lunch in the cafeteria.|Mittag in der Cafeteria.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas <= 1 && $choice_ahorn1 == 0>>[[Lunch in the cafeteria.|Mittag in der Cafeteria.3]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas > 1>>[[Lunch in the cafeteria.|Mittag in der Cafeteria.4]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[Lunch in the cafeteria.|Mittag in der Cafeteria.5]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Zoe let the hood snap back and came half a step closer. “You owe me something, princess. A pack of rubbers. Remember? Or is that sweet little head of yours too full of lip gloss?”\n<<set $ort to "Supermarket">>\nChris froze. “I… don’t have any money with me.”\n<<set $ZoeMemory[5] to 1>>\n“Who said you were supposed to buy the shit?” Zoe’s mouth twitched mockingly. “Go in, bag it, get out. Payback. And if you chicken out, tomorrow I’ll tell everyone what’s <<if $kleidung == 2>>under your little skirt<<else>>in your pants<<endif>>. Clear enough?”\n\nHis stomach tightened. Everything in him wanted to say no, run away, anything. Instead, he nodded, tiny. His legs suddenly felt foreign as he stepped through the sliding door. The harsh lights burned in his eyes; the aisles seemed longer, the hum of the refrigerators louder. He saw the signs, knew exactly where he had to go, and every step there felt like moving through thick syrup.\n\nHe stopped in front of the shelf. Hands on the strap of his handbag, fingers white from pressure. I can’t do this. I don’t want this. He was breathing too shallowly; his heart pounded high in his throat. The little package lay there, completely innocent, and in his imagination turned into a siren light. He heard Zoe’s voice in his head: “Coward. I’ll tell everyone tomorrow.” His fingers loosened from the bag strap, reached out. A tremor ran through him as his hand touched the cool cardboard. One single, frantic glance—people, noise, the checkout in the distance—and then the package slipped into the handbag as if it had fallen into a hole. Nothing could be heard except blood and humming. He closed the bag, fingers clammy, and stumbled toward the exit, every step too heavy, too loud, too… wrong.\n\nOut. Out. Out. The way to the door felt endless. Behind him, laughter; ahead of him, the checkout area. His heart hammered, his fingers tingled.\nZoe stood two yards beside the checkout, her voice rising: “Excuse me! I think she put something in her bag!” Her fingers pointed like arrows. <<if $kleidung == 2>>“The one with the cute little skirt.”<<else>>“The one with the way-too-tight jeans.”<<endif>>\n\n“What—?” Chris’s mouth fell open, but the cashier was already there, holding him, not roughly, but firmly. “Please stay here for a moment.” A key clicked, a voice was called. People turned, whispered.\n\nThe supervisor in the blue polo shirt appeared from the side aisle, his expression professional, annoyed. At the edge of the checkouts, the supervisor stopped. “Handbag.” It was not a request. Chris opened it with trembling fingers. The man reached in and pulled out the box, holding it up as if it were evidence. The cashier snorted and customers stared openly.\n\nChris’s knees felt hollow; he felt the looks like thorns on his back.\n\nSomeone whispered, “Oh my God,” someone else giggled in disgust, “Condoms, seriously?” An older man snorted, “Young things these days have no decency at all.”\n\nZoe’s grin slid over the scene like oil; she crossed her arms, eyes glittering with malicious delight.\n\n“Come with me,” the supervisor said and directed him through a side door into a small office: desk, monitor, a metal shelf with forms, the smell of dust and coffee. The door fell shut, and the world became muffled.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Supermarkt.jpg]]</center> The man sat down, placed the box between them. “So.” He rubbed his forehead, examining Chris. “What are we going to do with you now? Call your parents? Press charges? Or…” His look turned lewd as he leaned forward. “Maybe we can settle this another way. You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you? What do you say—if you blow me, I forget the whole thing?”\n\nChris froze, his heart pounding so loudly he thought it might burst. The man’s suggestion was unmistakable, and it turned his stomach. He thought feverishly. The thought of submitting to this sleazy guy was unbearable. But maybe that was less terrible than him calling his mother and the story spreading through the small town of Maplewood.\n\n''How does Chris decide?''\n❯ [[He sucks his cock.|Er lutscht seinen Schwanz.][$zoe += 1;$woral += 1;$chris_opinion += 10]]\n❯ [[He doesn’t suck him off.|Er lutscht ihn nicht.][$kondomedieb += 1]]

Although she had been sitting with her back to him until now, she now turned around with difficulty. Elegance simply didn’t work in the bathtub. Chris watched her doubtfully. Was she really planning what he suspected? Was several weeks of abstinence finally turning into more?\n\n“Get your ass up,” she demanded. “I can’t reach like this.”\n\nHis periscope surfaced, and Chris’s wife slipped her pretty mouth over it. With her lips, she pushed his foreskin down and let her tongue circle his glans. Without looking at him even once, she moved her head up and down. She had balled her hands into fists and pushed them under his butt, making the position easier for him. No help with her hand, only her mouth satisfied him. Chris watched her, stroked her blond hair, felt it slowly building in him. He tried to hold back, closed his eyes, but that only made it worse. His glans was burning, his sack grew tight, his thighs tensed.\n\n“Soon,” he whispered to warn her.\n\nShe didn’t react, just kept going. Her head kept moving up and down, maybe a little faster, her tongue gliding over the wet glans. Seconds later, his hips shot upward, thrusting his lance deep into her mouth. His wife flinched back a little, received his seed, and let it run back out at the corners of her mouth onto his pubic area and into the bathwater.\n\n“So? How was it?” she asked with the most innocent face in the world.\n\n“World-class,” Chris groaned, pleasantly exhausted.\n\n“Hold me.”\n\nHe did, embraced her, kissed her. His wife guided his hand, first to her breast, then back to her pubic area. Chris began gently stroking her bud again. But this time it was different; she started getting his cock going again. At first she had only placed her hand on the center of his body, then gently stroked over it. He had responded, and then she had gripped him more firmly and let her hand glide up and down.\n\n“Come inside me,” she whispered.\n\n“Sex?” Chris made sure, disbelieving.\n\n“Yes, what else?” she replied impatiently. “Come on.”\n\nShe spread her thighs, he lay between them and placed his glans at the gate to the promised land. He entered her completely, resting for a moment as their pubic mounds touched. Finally, he found his rhythm, kissing her mouth and her breasts in turn. Because of his previous climax, it took him longer, and his wife had all the time in the world to come herself. With her eyes closed, she had moaned, then looked at him radiantly afterward.\n\nHe had given her a few moments’ rest, waited until her lower body relaxed again. He was afraid of overstimulating her in the tightness that had appeared and only slowly resumed his rhythm. Finally, the moment came when she actively joined in. Smiling, she pushed her hips toward him and kissed him passionately. She was on her way to coming a third time when Chris unexpectedly announced completion.\n\n“Spray it on my stomach,” she instructed him, and then jerked his cock empty.\n\n“And now do me again with your fingers,” she demanded without comment.\n\nWhich Chris promptly did with two fingers. Slid them in, pulled them back out wet, positioned them so his thumb could reach her clit. He looked up, checking whether she liked it. Chris’s wife had her eyes closed and was stroking her breasts. She tugged at her nipples, gently but noticeably. Chris grinned, bent down, and took her little pleasure nub into his mouth. Fucking her quickly with two fingers, he sucked and licked it. With complete success.\n\n“You baaaaaastard!” she cried, squeezing his head.\n\nWhen they got out of the tub, she wrapped herself in a towel and calmly dried herself off. Then she leaned toward him, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and said, completely matter-of-factly:\n\n“You clear away the candles. I’m going to the bedroom.”\n\nChris stood there for a moment, dripping onto the tiles and staring after her. Then he snorted softly, half laughing, half resigned, and began blowing out the candles—one after another.\n\nAnd as the bathroom grew dark, he thought with ironic warmth:\nHe had made it out of Maplewood. He had built a new life. He was back in his body, in his dignity, in his freedom.\n\nAnd yet, on an entirely ordinary Friday evening, he still let himself be bossed around by his wife.\n\n''Ending 6 of 10 - "Reclaimed Self"''\n<<set $ende6 to 1>>\n[[📖 Statistics|Statistik][$selbstbild += 1]] - [[🏆 Bonus & Endings|Enden]]

It was not a plan, more a reflex—like a body wanting to finish a dream before the head could say “Stop.” For a moment, the gym seemed to grow quieter: the hum of the lights, the faint squeak of sneakers on the floor, Mr. Moore’s breathing, which sounded so normal, as if nothing outrageous were happening.\n\nChris’s gaze caught on Mr. Moore’s mouth. He felt his heart pounding up into his throat, felt the heat creeping upward from his cheeks. Then he leaned forward—too fast, too close—and tried to kiss him, the way it had always been effortless in his dreams.\n\nBut when his lips met his, a strange feeling came over him. The kiss felt completely different from in his dreams. From his side there was this passion, this deep inner desire. Chris felt his heart beating faster, and his body trembled with excitement. Coach Moore stood still and seemed to simply endure the kiss. Surprised by Chris’s sudden passion.\n\nMr. Moore collected himself and stepped back. He raised both hands, open, clear, a stop signal that left no room for interpretation. His voice stayed calm, but firm. “Stop. This can’t happen.”\n\nChris froze. The movement of his lips remained hanging half in the air, as if someone had cut the power to him. His face went hot in an instant. “I… I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I don’t know… I didn’t mean to…” He couldn’t manage a complete sentence. His hands hung helplessly at his sides, and his gaze immediately dodged away, searching for the floor, the marking, anything that wasn’t Mr. Moore’s face.\n\nMr. Moore lowered his hands only when he was sure Chris would stay where he was. He took one deep breath. “Okay,” he said matter-of-factly, as if ending a drill. “We’re done for today. Go get changed. Now.”\n\nChris nodded hastily, as if nodding were a kind of atonement. He went—almost fleeing—to the locker room. In the hallway, he felt as if everyone had heard his thoughts.\n\nThe special training had ended with that. Not “for today,” not “until next week,” but permanently, in that moment.\n\nLater, Mr. Moore informed the school administration. It was self-protection and duty at the same time, a boundary that had to be not only stated, but documented. For Chris, even the thought of it felt like a second blow: It did not stay in the gym, not between them, not in an embarrassing memory one could push away. It became official.\n\nThat same afternoon, the school administration called Susan’s number. Susan came to the school.\n\nChris sat in a plain office, hands in his lap, when his mother entered. Her gaze was sharp and searching, as if she wanted to locate the problem immediately. Then what had happened was explained matter-of-factly: Chris had kissed his teacher; Mr. Moore had stopped it immediately and clearly set a boundary. No dramatization, no details—just the facts, polished like a report.\n\nChris heard the words and wished he could disappear under the chair. His throat was dry. Every syllable felt like a stamp on his forehead.\n\nSusan said little. She nodded once or twice, her lips tense. Then came the clear statement about boundaries, so plainly that Chris felt himself shrink even further: what was appropriate, what was not. What must never happen again. And that there would be consequences.\n\nProtective measures were decided: no more one-on-one special training. From now on, only in the team setting, no more situations in which misunderstandings or boundary violations would even be possible.\n\nFor Chris, that had been the worst part. Not the rejection—he had deserved that, as hard as it was—but the fact that adults now officially knew. That his embarrassing impulse, fed by dreams, had suddenly become part of a record. He felt caught, dirtied by his own thoughts, as if he had broken something he himself had needed most: control.\n\nWhen they left the office, Chris walked half a step behind Susan. He looked at no one. Every hallway felt too bright.\n\n[[Continue|Standpauke, fahrt nach Hause.]]

The farewell at the stop was brief; Christine raised two fingers, turned on her heel, and walked down the street. Chris got on the bus, which was already breathing at the door like an overfilled lung. Inside it was hot and smelled of perfume, deodorant, sweat, and something metallic.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nHe felt his way along the handhold, looking for a place that seemed reasonably safe, and finally stood beside an older man with slightly gray hair, a silly mustache, and a beer belly that stretched his T-shirt. The alternative was two Mexican guys in hoodies with lowered gazes, whose laughter briefly turned toward him. So the mustache was preferable.\n\nAt the next stop, the crowd pushed in. A stroller at the front blocked the aisle, more commuters pressed in from behind, and the bus driver called out a tired “Move down, please.” Chris was pushed backward. The older man shifted too, and suddenly there was no space left. The man’s belly settled against Chris’ back like a warm, heavy pillow no one had ordered.\n\n“Sorry,” Chris murmured, trying to create some room to the side. No chance. Chris was so squeezed in that he could move neither forward nor backward. The bus lurched into motion, and the whole mass took a collective step that no one wanted.\n\nAfter the bus had been moving for a while, Chris suddenly felt something against his backside. Well, actually, he felt -something- all over his body—that’s how tightly packed the people were. He waited, trying to discern whether he was just imagining it or not. But no—it was quite unmistakable. Something was rubbing up and down against his rear. And it was doing so too rhythmically to be a mere accidental movement. Chris focused on the sensation and soon realized it was changing. The object rubbing against his backside was growing noticeably harder and seemed to be increasing in size as well. He didn't have to think long to figure out what it was.\n\nSomeone was rubbing his penis against his ass! And Chris couldn't do much about it. Moving away was impossible; he couldn't even turn around within the dense crowd. He was trapped in the crush. And it would be quite a while yet before he reached his destination. My God, how uncomfortable he felt.\n\nHe could feel the friction of fabric against fabric. While the man’s beer belly continued to press against his back, he now began to thrust rhythmically against Chris’ ass crack.\n\nChris felt nauseous. The rhythmic movements grew more intense, more insistent. The gentleman seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. This went on for quite some time.\n\nSuddenly, Chris felt something against his legs. It was the hem of his skirt. It was being pulled upward! Chris tried to stop it—tried to get his hands down to intervene—but it was simply too tight. A few people had already started to complain, telling Chris to just stand still. If only they knew what was currently being done to him! But it was already too late. His skirt was pushed up from behind by fleshy fingers—sliding over his panties—and then wedged between the man’s thick belly and Chris’ back. Immediately, Chris felt that hard cock against his backside once again, and the man resumed his movements. He seemed to be enjoying it more and more, for he increased the pressure. Oh God, it was disgusting! Chris felt himself going steadily downhill.\n\nHe counted the stops like breaths. The loudspeaker croaked out street names that seemed to stick together in the crush. The bus braked sharply; a collective "Ah!" rippled through the rows, and a hard cock slid between Chris’ butt cheeks—this time, pressing a little harder. He gritted his teeth and said nothing.\n\nThe driver opened both doors for a moment; fresh air rushed in like a promise, only to grow thin again instantly. A few people got off; just as many got on. "Two more stops," Chris thought to himself, tightening his grip.\n\nWhen his stop lit up, there was no way through. The bus lurched, the crowd shoved, and the cock pressed against his buttocks once more. Only at the very last moment—as the doors were already beeping their warning—did a narrow gap open up. Chris turned his shoulder, pulled his bag tight against him, and just barely managed to squeeze his way out. He turned around, took a breath, and wanted to say something—Are you out of your mind? That was harassment!—but the words caught in his throat. He looked at the man: the silly mustache, the forehead glistening with sweat, the gaze leering vacantly into space. A flush of embarrassment burned all the way up to Chris ears.\n\n[[Continue|Auf zu Charlotte.]]\n

On the court, the applicants lined up in rows. Chris stood in the back row, his knees a little too stiff, his heart too loud.\n\nAlmost all of them wore their long hair in high ponytails—the ponytails bounced in sync whenever someone merely turned her head. Two exceptions stood out: [[Zoe|Zoe March]] March with her curly, dark-brown strands falling freely to her neck—and Chris. That morning, his mother had styled his pixie cut sharp and clean. No ponytail to bounce, no ribbon, just that precise, “tidy” short haircut.\n\nMr. Moore called the counts, clapped them in: “Five, six, seven, eight!” The speaker spat out a pop beat, too smooth to give him any support. The first combination was hip—step—clap—turn. Chris’s knees wanted to be too big, his arms too fast. Finding the rhythm meant thinking smaller than in sports. Beside him, Christine took to the beat like a fish to water; Charlotte led from the front row and smiled. Zoe moved more angularly, but with bite—as if she wanted to tame the beat first and then ride it.\n\n“Loose in the shoulders, Chris,” Mr. Moore called, “hands sharp, but don’t tense up!” Chris nodded, breathed, and repeated the sequence. Where he lacked smoothness, other things helped him: legs that came from sprinting; arms that could set a proper snap. On the jumps, he jumped higher than he would have expected, landed more stably than the outfit suggested. It was embarrassing—yes. He was bouncing to music while half the Maplewood squad watched from the sidelines. But somewhere between count three and four, something clicked: his body did what was asked, and his head stopped commenting on every millimeter. For fifteen seconds, he felt something like—fun.\n\n“Very good, keep going!” Mr. Moore called. Then came the chant: “T—WOLVES, LET’S GO!”—hands, clap, step, High V, Low V, twist. Chris stumbled over the arm sequence on the first run-through, caught himself, followed Charlotte’s shoulder line, and stayed with it. Zoe was a beat too early on the clap, laughed irritably at herself, bit her lip, and hit it the next time.\n\nWhen sweat stood at their temples and the Bluetooth speaker was going hoarse, Mr. Moore blew the whistle.\n\n“Good,” Mr. Moore called, clapping once, “drink. Five minutes, then results.”\n\nChris grabbed a water bottle, sat down on the bleachers, and stared at the lines of the court as they arranged themselves into patterns. Christine plopped down beside him, vibrating with energy. “You were good,” she panted. “Honestly! You hit the counts. And the High V at the end? Clean!”\n\n“I bounced around,” he muttered, still half in shame, half in surprise that his chest burned from laughter and not just lack of air. Charlotte leaned down from the step above them. “Bouncing is half the job. The rest is posture. You had that.”\n\nEveryone gathered at the edge; water bottles clacked, breaths grew longer. The coach leafed through a list, the whistle on its cord tapping against his shirt.\n\n“Thank you, all of you. We’re taking five today.” Two new bases. One new flyer girl. “Christine Braun.” Christine let out a small, disbelieving sound and beamed so brightly that her braces flashed in the gym light. Chris clapped as loudly as he could.\n\nThere was one spot left. Mr. Moore pushed his glasses higher, looked up briefly, and let his gaze wander over the group—faces, noted impressions. His gaze met Chris’s, stayed for a moment, and in that moment there was something apologetic, regretful. Then it slid to Zoe, who was rubbing her hands against the edge of her shorts as if she had to ground herself.\n\n“And the last spot goes to… Zoe March.”\n\nFor one heartbeat, it was silent, then the girls clapped, and Zoe’s eyes widened as if someone had pulled her name from a raffle. She laughed briefly, rough, and nodded to Mr. Moore.\n\nChris smiled. It felt like a shirt that was too tight, but it held. He kept clapping, put his arm around Christine, who half hugged him, half bounced. “You were good,” she said into his ear. “Really.”\n\n“You too,” he answered, and his voice stayed calm. Something small pulled tight in his stomach; disappointment, yes—but not the bitter kind. More like a factual almost. Mr. Moore stepped closer as he passed by, lowering his voice. “Strong effort, Chris. You’ve got athleticism. If you want, come by after school sometime. Then we can practice the basics for next season.”\n\n''What happens?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[The date with Charlotte.|Das Date mit Charlotte.][$ZoeMemory[3] += 1]]<<else>>[[The next surprise at home.|Die nächste Überraschung zu Hause.][$ZoeMemory[3] += 1]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris pointed to “Red” before he could talk himself out of it again.\n\nLaverne paused for a moment, then a grin spread across her face as if he had just chosen the right candy. “Ooooh. Red.” She drew the word out, sassy like a drumroll. “Baby, that isn’t just a hair color. That’s a statement. That’s ‘I walk in and the temperature rises two degrees.’”\n\nChris’s face grew warm just listening, but he nodded. “Yeah… red.”\n\n“Okay!” Laverne clapped her hands once and rolled over the cart with bowls, brushes, and foils. She pulled on gloves, mixed the color with practiced elegance, and briefly held the color paste up to the light as if checking a magic potion. Then she stood behind Chris and began dividing his short hair into clean sections—small sections, held in place with clips so nothing danced out of line.\n\n“With short hair, you have to be precise,” she explained, while her tone remained both professional and playful. “There’s no room here to hide mistakes. But don’t worry—I’m the woman for the job.”\n\nThe brush swept the color onto the roots, then into the lengths. It felt cool and creamy, a little heavy, as if his head were wearing a mask. Laverne worked quickly, but carefully: first the back, then the sides, and finally the sections on top, where everything stood out the most. She massaged the color in with her gloved fingers so every strand was covered. In the mirror, Chris saw only the methodical back and forth, the clips, the gloves, Laverne’s focused face—and felt his heart beating faster all the same.\n\n“You look like you’re about to jump off a high-rise,” Laverne said, winking at him in the mirror. “Breathe. Red doesn’t just make hair—red makes attitude.”\n\nOnce everything was covered, she added foil and a light cap, then set the timer. “Now we let it do its thing. And while it does what it does, let me tell you: red hair is like—” she made a small, glittery hand movement, “—like a warning sign and an invitation at the same time. People think: fiery, bold, dangerous. And you don’t even have to say anything.”\n\nChris managed a crooked smile. “Great.”\n\n“Not great. Fantastic,” Laverne corrected him, gently tapping his shoulder.\n\nThen came the rinsing. Warm water loosened the color, the scent of shampoo making everything clean and fresh. Laverne worked in conditioner, let it sit briefly, rinsed it out, gently squeezed the water from the short strands, and wrapped Chris’s head in a towel for a moment.\n\nBack at the station, she blow-dried his hair into shape with a brush and her fingers. With short hair, every movement was visible: She lifted the section at the crown, gave it texture, let the sides fall smooth and neat, and defined a front strand that played lightly and diagonally across his forehead. Finally, she took a little styling cream—not shiny, more of a soft matte—and worked it in until the contours sat just right.\n\n“Okay,” Laverne finally said, stepping behind him and placing her hands on the back of the chair as if for a reveal on a casting show. “Now look.”\n\nChris looked.\n\nThe red wasn’t cheap fire-engine red. It was rich and alive, like copper in sunlight, with a warm shimmer that made his skin look clearer. The short strands suddenly looked intentional—not “practical,” but stylish. The contours emphasized his cheekbones, his eyes looked bigger, the gloss on his lips suddenly seemed like the final, perfect accent instead of “just makeup.” Everything about him had that clichéd, immediate effect people attributed to red hair: cheeky, confident, hot—as if someone had flipped a switch from “nice” to “wow.”\n\nChris’s mouth opened a fraction. He blinked as if he had to refocus the image. There was a brief, overwhelming moment when he didn’t recognize himself—and then he recognized himself far too clearly.\n\n“Oh my God,” he murmured.\n\nLaverne leaned into the reflection and grinned widely. “See? I told you. Fire.”\n\nChris felt the blush rise into his cheeks—this time not from the blow-dryer. He was overwhelmed. And at the same time ashamed, because the thought that shot through his head was so clear: I look… hot. Him, of all people, who still saw himself as a boy, who should have felt like a stranger in the mirror—and who, right now, didn’t want to look away.\n\nHe swallowed, let his gaze glide over the reflection once more, and his heart gave a restless, proud leap.\n\n[[Continue|Auf zum Bubble Tea.]]

After theater club, Chris pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the hallway, which already smelled like afternoon—less perfume, more cleaning supplies and the first fries from the cafeteria being reheated somewhere. Lucas and Ruby had been talking earlier about Homecoming next week, about music and photos and who would go with whom.\n<<set $ort to "school parking lot">>\nOutside, on the way to the bus stop, it grew quieter. The wind was cool, blowing against his legs, and he pulled the cardigan tighter around himself. His bag bumped lightly against his hip with every step. Homecoming. The word hung over the school like a balloon no one was letting go of.\n\nWhat would that be like? he thought as he walked along the curb. Not just “going,” but really going—strings of lights, music, that hall full of people pretending to be grown up. And him—what would he look like? He imagined a ball gown, fabric that swayed as he walked, maybe something dark, gleaming. He caught a brief glimpse of himself in the reflection of a car door: the silhouette he had come to know, the one that had grown more delicate. The thought was absurd and yet… fascinating. He felt himself grow warm, even though it was cold outside.\n\nThen he turned the corner toward the bus parking lot and saw them.\n\n[[Dylan|Dylan Carter]] stood at the edge of the sidewalk, near the team bus, and [[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]] was with him. Penelope laughed, her head tipped back slightly, and Dylan leaned closer as if saying something into her ear. His posture was relaxed but attentive—that effortless “I have time for you” that he never showed quite so clearly with others. Penelope stroked his arm with her fingers, and she looked as if that was simply how it was supposed to be.\n\nChris stood still one step too long.\n\nAre they together? he wondered. Or was that just that popular, self-evident ease that happened between people who were used to everyone looking at them? The pairing made sense, far too much sense: star quarterback and top cheerleader. If Homecoming had a poster, those would be the two faces on it.\n\nAnd still… there was that small spark. Jealousy, so thin he only noticed it when he breathed in. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want it. But it was there.\n\nFor a moment, an image formed in his head so clearly that it frightened him: Dylan in a suit, polished, smiling—and himself beside him, in a ball gown that shimmered in the light. The looks from the others, lingering for a moment. Admiration. That feeling of not just “being there,” but being seen. The thought made his stomach tighten, sweet and dangerous at the same time.\n\nHe pushed it away at once, like a hand blowing out a candle.\n\nAre you crazy? he thought harshly. No.\n\nTo “correct” himself, he tried to build another image, one that was supposed to be more reasonable: him as a boy—really as a boy—with Penelope at the dance. Penelope on his arm, him in a suit, both of them a perfect couple, just the other way around. But even in the attempt, he almost had to laugh inwardly. He didn’t believe it himself. It felt like a bad joke you tell so you don’t have to feel something else.\n\nChris lowered his gaze and walked on as if he had seen nothing. When he reached the bus stop, he stood among other students, heard scraps of conversation, laughed in the right places—yet in his head, Dylan and Penelope remained like a brief, bright photograph. And somewhere behind it, quiet and persistent, shimmered the image he had tried to suppress.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte < 2>>[[Friday, before the game.|Freitag, vor dem Spiel.]]<<else>>[[Friday, conversation with Charlotte.|Freitag, Gespräch mit Charlotte.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

“No,” he said quietly. “I… can’t do this.”\n\nThe boy in him couldn’t believe what words were falling from his mouth. Every fiber screamed yes, screamed for this perfect, unreal opportunity to lose his innocence. But the sentence stood between them like a clear pane of glass—fragile, and yet present.\n<<set $CarolineMemory[3] to 1>>\nFootsteps came down the stairs. Lucas appeared in the hallway. Chris walked toward him, almost demonstratively, and put an arm around his shoulder. “Are you playing too?” he asked, and his voice sounded firm, almost too bright.\n\nFor one heartbeat, Mrs. Barnett looked at him strangely—not angry, more as if she had quickly understood. Then she smiled softly, almost amused. “You two are a cute couple,” she said, and the word cute had nothing condescending about it. “If you like, Chris: Penelope has plenty of tennis clothes upstairs. You’re built similarly.”\n\n“Gladly,” he said, grateful for the bridge.\n\nIn the hallway outside Penelope’s room hung the scent of expensive perfume. Mrs. Barnett opened a drawer, took out a white tennis top, a headband, socks—and the skirt. “This one.” Her fingers brushed over the fabric appraisingly.\n\nThe skirt was short, white as freshly fallen snow, with a narrow waistband that yielded softly, and tiny side pleats that came alive with every movement. The matching top lay smooth in her hand, light performance fabric that would feel cool against the skin. “I’m sure it’ll look excellent on you,” Mrs. Barnett said casually, handing him the things.\n\nChris changed. The skirt’s waistband sat high at his waist, hugging him and leaving the line downward free. The material was featherlight; if he turned his hips just a little, it whispered. The top ended just above the curve of his ribs, sleeveless, making his shoulders look narrow and defined. Mrs. Barnett’s gaze was that of a big cat.\n\n“Turn around once,” she asked. He did. The skirt followed the movement in a brief half circle, then immediately fell neatly back into place. “Sexy,” she said, and winked. She tugged lightly at the waistband, smoothed a pleat flat. “These things suit you more than they should.”\n\nChris looked at his reflection: white on white, a slender body in a uniform that promised competence and lent elegance. A brief stab of embarrassment mixed with a flare of something bright—it looked good. He was allowed to think that, even if everything was complicated.\n\nThey went back into the hallway. When Chris stepped out of the room, Lucas turned around—and stopped. His eyes went wide, unfeigned amazement spreading across his face. “Wow,” slipped out of him before he could soften it. “You… you look—” He searched for a word and found none that didn’t give too much away.\n\nChris lifted the racket, the skirt moving like a quiet rhythm against his thighs. “Ready?” he asked, and in his chest something beat calmly and very much alive.\n\n[[Continue|Tennisspiel.]]

Chris smiled before his nervousness could pull his face away. “Thanks,” he said, and his voice sounded steadier than he felt. Then he raised his hand, briefly touched Zeke’s forearm – a light, confident gesture that was more courage than habit – and got in as if all of this were perfectly normal.\n\nZeke closed the door, walked around the van, and sat down behind the wheel. The interior smelled of leather and a hint of pinewood – as if the vehicle had already spent a few nights somewhere at the edge of a country road. Out of the corner of his eye, Chris noticed the mattress and the blanket in the back, the “you-can-sleep-here” setup, and his stomach gave a small, excited tug. He forced himself not to think too far ahead.\n\nFor the first few minutes, they drove in that cautious rhythm where you were trying to get to know each other and not reveal too much at the same time. Zeke asked about his day, about school – and then, as if catching himself in how seriously he was taking it, he grinned and tapped the display.\n\n“I’ve got something,” he said. And then Northern Static came on.\n\nNot just any song, but one of those that built slowly, as if a thunderstorm were pushing itself across a plain in slow motion. Chris noticed immediately: Zeke had not just “put it on.” He felt it. His hand did not drum to the beat, but to the tension between the notes. When the bass came in, he nodded almost invisibly. When the wall of guitars arrived, he breathed out as if his body had been waiting for exactly that.\n\nChris glanced at him from the side. In that moment, Zeke seemed less like the “strong guy from the riding stables” and more like someone who let music truly hit him – without apologizing for it. That took away some of Chris’ fear. It was easier to be nervous beside someone who was feeling something himself.\n\n“You know the builds,” Chris said at some point, half laughing.\n\nZeke grinned without taking his eyes off the road. “I know every drop. And I swear, live… it’s going to blow us away.”\n\nChris nodded, and this time his anticipation was not only aimed at the band. It was for this evening too. For the feeling of not being alone in something that mattered to him.\n\nAt the entrance, it was loud and hectic. People pushed toward the doors, voices blended together, somewhere metal clinked against metal. Security waved them over for the bag check. Chris handed over his small handbag, completely routinely – until the security guard (without expression, without drama) briefly rummaged through it and pulled something up.\n\nThe pack of condoms.\n\nChris’ blood shot into his face as if someone had flipped a switch. He saw the thing displayed like in a nightmare between his key ring and phone.\n\nZeke had seen it too. His eyes briefly widened, then he did something that saved Chris in that moment: he made no sound, no grin, no comment. He just quickly looked away, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, and cleared his throat once, as though he had just been reading the price list.\n\nThe security guard put the pack back, closed the bag, and waved them through. To Chris, it still felt as if the whole foyer had been watching him. He walked faster, trying to breathe the heat out of his face. Beside him, Zeke stayed calm, as if wordlessly telling him: Not an issue. Really not.\n\nBut the crowd grew denser. Jostling. Shoulder to shoulder. A push from behind, a small whirlpool of jackets, bags, perfume, and the smell of beer. Chris felt his body instinctively grow stiffer, how he automatically looked for space that did not exist.\n\nZeke reacted immediately – not grandly, not heroically, just automatically. He positioned himself half a step so Chris was not being pushed directly from the side, and lifted his arm slightly, like a narrow barrier. “You okay?” he asked quietly.\n\nChris realized that Zeke was offering him protection without saying so. And once again, he was facing a decision: accept closeness or keep his distance.\n\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[He hooks his arm through Zeke’s and lets himself be guided, risking closeness becoming natural faster than his head can keep up.|Er hakt sich bei Zeke ein und lässt sich führen, und riskiert, dass Nähe schneller selbstverständlich wird, als sein Kopf hinterkommt.][$temp += 1]]\n❯ [[He stays beside Zeke, but without contact.|Er bleibt neben Zeke, aber ohne Kontakt.]]

Christine suddenly hooked her arm through his. “Come on, we’re going dancing,” she said, without waiting for protest, and pulled him into the middle of the pulsing living room.\n\nThe bass thundered so deep that it vibrated in Chris’s ribcage. Colored lights flitted over faces, walls, the floor. Movement everywhere. Bodies stood packed close together, shoulders brushed, arms flew upward, someone spun around and almost bumped into him. The miniskirt rode dangerously high every time he took a step; after only a few seconds, he was already tugging it back down reflexively. The heels felt as if they had a life of their own, every other step coming a fraction too late.\n\nChristine moved as if this were her natural habitat. Hips, shoulders, smile—everything in rhythm. She was instantly in her element, laughing, tipping her head back slightly, letting Myles briefly pull her by the waist, then let her go again. She looked as if she were genuinely having fun.\n\nChris, on the other hand, felt as if he had been copied into a scene. He tried to find the rhythm, let his knees bounce lightly, but everything felt stiff. The miniskirt set a limit for every step. His small breasts moved along under the top, a tiny after-tremor that only made him even more aware they were there. He was far too aware of every line of his body.\n\nAround him, boys came closer. At first only while dancing past, then more deliberately. One slipped halfway behind him, dancing near him, shifting a touch too close to his hip. Another positioned himself in front of him, grinning and moving to the beat as if it were an offer. It wasn’t targeted touching, but the circles were tightening. He felt eyes on his thighs and neckline.\n\n“Woooh, party!” someone shouted beside him, and an arm settled briefly, loosely, almost testing, around his shoulders before it was gone again.\n\nChris’s body tensed. He wanted to seem natural, relaxed, like everyone around him. Instead, he felt like a doll on stilts. The music thundered, the alcohol from the first cup hummed warm in his head and laid a veil over his resistance. You’re here, so don’t act like an alien, a voice inside him said. Another whispered: But you are.\n\n“Have a drink, it’ll make it easier!” one of the boys called with a laugh, appearing beside him. In his hand was a red cup, which he held directly out to Chris. “Here.”\n\nChris looked down at the cup. The smell rising from it once again gave away that strong mixture. The first one had already had a noticeable effect; his cheeks were warm, his thoughts softer around the edges. More was not a good idea, he knew. But his legs felt foreign, his body borrowed, and maybe… maybe a second cup would soften the distance between him and this role.\n\nChristine was laughing with Myles just then, spinning briefly to the beat, her hair flying. She wasn’t looking at him. She seemed happy. Chris didn’t want to ruin the party for her, didn’t want to be the stiff lump who stopped everything.\n\nThe bass struck, the cup waited in the air.\n<<set $alkohol to 0>>\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[He takes the cup and drinks, even though he knows more alcohol is not a good idea.|Den Becher nehmen und trinken.][$alkohol += 1]]\n❯ [[He doesn’t take the cup, because he senses that more alcohol would only drive him deeper into the strangeness.|Den Becher nicht nehmen.]]

Tuesday morning wasn’t properly awake yet. A cold, gray light lay in the hallway, falling through the narrow pane of glass beside the front door. Chris was already standing there with his bag, his shoes half on, and heard his sister moving around somewhere in the rooms—quiet, controlled, the way she had seemed since the party: not broken, but not light either.\n<<set $wochentag = 2>><<set $wetter = 2>><<set $ort to "at home">>\nThen she came into the hallway and knelt in front of the shoe cabinet.\n\nShe had opened the lower compartment, where there were always somehow too many shoes. With one hand she held the flap, with the other she tried to press a narrow insert back into the track—the piece that separated the shoes so everything looked “neat.” It wouldn’t. It jammed, slipped back out, got caught, as if the shoe cabinet had decided to stage a small test of strength today.\n\nChristine exhaled once, short, without sound. No swearing. She pushed the compartment with her flat hand; it closed by a centimeter and sprang open again. She tried once more—this time with more pressure, but less patience. The flap creaked.\n\nChris stopped. He saw her shoulders, how they were drawn up ever so slightly. Saw how the strand of hair at the nape of her neck wasn’t quite sitting right. Saw how her fingers lingered a moment longer on the edge, as if she were pulling herself together before trying again. It was almost nothing. And yet there was something beneath it: tiredness, awkwardness, maybe that wish for someone to simply help for a moment—or at least wait—without her having to say it.\n\nChristine didn’t say a word. She didn’t ask. She fought with the compartment as if that were the only acceptable solution.\n\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[Help.|Helfen.][$chrisorsis += 1]]\n❯ [[Pretend he didn’t see it.|So tun, als hätte man es nicht gesehen.]]

<div class="psychedelic-text">Everything was happening as if through frosted glass.\n\nThe bass was only a distant thudding now, mingling with the rushing in Chris’s ears. Faces blurred into patches of light and shadow. He felt the boy’s grip on his waist, on his arm, pulling him forward. His own legs felt as if they weren’t properly attached; the heels tipped, he stumbled, was yanked upright again.\n\nThe dance floor fell away behind them. Steps appeared. The stairs. The crowd there was only a tunnel of silhouettes. Somewhere at the edge, someone bellowed something, a comment that sounded like the one from earlier—“Off to the love suite!”\n\nSomeone whistled loudly through his teeth. “Oho! She can barely walk anymore,” he said with a crooked grin.\n\n“She doesn’t have to,” another answered immediately, and the group exploded into howling laughter.\n\nChris registered it as if it belonged to a movie someone else was watching.\n\nChris wanted to say “No,” but only a sound came out, soft, unintelligible. His lips stuck together, his tongue heavy. The boy kept pulling him onward, step by step upward, purposeful, as if he had a right.\n\nThen another voice cut through the noise. Clear. Sharp.\n\n“Hey!”\n\nChris blinked. An outline pushed between him and the boy.\n\n“She’s wasted, dude,” Charlotte called, clearer now, close enough that even the drunk understood. “Either you bring her back down or I’m calling the police.”\n\nFor a moment, everything stood still. The boy was still holding Chris by the arm, his forehead furrowed, his gaze swaying between defiance and the last bit of reason. The threat hung in the room. Police. The word didn’t fit the party lights and red cups, but it was heavy enough.\n\n“It’s just… I didn’t do anything…,” he mumbled.\n\nCharlotte took a step closer, her face hard, the slip dress in sharp contrast to her expression. “Let. Her. Go.”\n\nHe let go. Suddenly there was no support anymore, and Chris’s knees gave way. In that moment, Charlotte was already there. She reached under his arm, placed his hand on her shoulder, held him tight before he could topple.\n\n“I’ve got you,” she murmured, more to him than to the boy.\n\nChris leaned against her because without her he could no longer stand. Everything spun—stairs, voices, light. Only Charlotte’s hold was clear.</div>\n\n[[Continue|Chris wird schlafen gelegt.]]

<div class="psychedelic-text">For Chris, everything was now only moving as if through a greasy pane of glass.\n\nThe music grew muffled, voices became a single roar. His head felt heavy and at the same time strangely light, as if he were dragging it a little way behind his body. He wanted to say “Stop,” or “Leave me alone,” or anything at all with clear edges, but the words stuck somewhere between tongue and palate.\n\nAll he could feel anymore were hands on his body.\n\nThe guy’s, firm on his ass. He grabbed Chris’s breasts and rubbed them through the thin top. “Don’t…” Chris slurred quietly.\n\nThen a pull, a steering. The dance floor was left behind him without him understanding exactly when. The floor under his heels changed, first parquet, then carpet, then something else again. Somewhere at the edge, someone shouted something, a remark that sounded like the one from earlier—“Off to the love suite!”\n\nSomeone whistled loudly through his teeth. “Oho! She can barely walk anymore,” he said with a crooked grin.\n\n“She doesn’t have to,” another immediately replied, and the group exploded into howling laughter.\n\nChris took it in as if it belonged to a movie someone else was watching.\n\nThe stairs.\n\nHe realized he was climbing, but not how. His hand slid briefly over a railing, lost its grip. The guy caught him, pulled him closer. Chris’s feet landed unevenly, the heels slipping, but the hand on his body held him upright. It was like being guided, not like walking.\n\nAs they stumbled up the stairs, he briefly saw Lucas below. Only a glimpse: his face turned upward, eyes wide, his mouth a narrow line. Helplessness, jealousy, something like fear. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, then the motion pulled Chris onward.\n\nUpstairs, it was darker. More muted. The bass vibrated only like a distant engine. His vision was blurred; hallway, doors, shadows. He couldn’t tell exactly where they were.\n\nThe guy opened a door. A brief strip of light from the hallway, then darkness with a faint shimmer from somewhere. The door clicked shut behind them. The sound was small, but final.\n\nChris felt the guy lead him farther inside. His knees gave way. The mattress beneath him appeared suddenly, took his weight without warning. He landed face down, his face pressed into the bedspread. The fabric smelled of laundry detergent and a trace of unfamiliar sex smells.\n\nHis legs hung halfway over the edge of the bed, the heels brushing the air, the miniskirt ridden up. His arms lay powerless beside him. Everything went black for Chris.\n\nSlowly, the boy placed both hands on Chris’ thighs. His sweat-slicked fingers twitched with arousal against Chris’ warm skin. He stroked gently upward until he reached the waistband of Chris’ briefs; his fingertips slipped underneath, caressing Chris’ buttocks—kneading those firm cheeks thoroughly.\n\nChris was no longer aware of any of this; his eyes were closed, and traces of saliva clung to the corners of his mouth. As if of their own accord, the boy’s hands moved to the waistband of Chris’ <<if $unterwaesche == 1>>sensual white<<else>>lovely pastel-colored<<endif>> briefs and slowly, deliberately, pulled them down.\n\nOnce he had finally pulled Chris’ briefs down past his feet, Chris’ penis came into view beneath the miniskirt.</div>\n\n[[Continue|Er macht trotzdem weiter.][$anal += 1;$creampied += 1;$rape += 1;$partner += 1]]

<<back "Back">>\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/Adam.jpg]]</center> \n''Name:'' Adam Bowman \n''Age:'' 18 \n''Birthday:'' November\n\n''Relationships''\nThomas Bowman (65) - father\nElizabeth Bowman (59) - mother\n\n''Biography''\nAdam Bowman moved with his family from Ohio to Maplewood when he was eleven because his father changed jobs. The move brought them to a quiet, almost too orderly residential neighborhood: short driveways, perfectly mown front lawns, a flag holder on the house, everything polished and “respectable.” Adam was his parents’ late-life joy, their only child—his mother fussed over him intensely, his father (a bank employee, reliable, conservative) expected good manners and good grades.\n\nAs a child, Adam was often on his own. First it was Lego worlds, later computers: building, tinkering, sorting folders, making things controllable. Sports hardly interested him; he was more of an indoors person, with books, movies, and games. At his old home he had a few friends, but in Maplewood he never really found his footing—the cliques already seemed fully sorted, and Adam, with his cautious manner, did not fit into the loud, self-assured groups.\n\nSo he clung to what made him feel safe: hobbies and nerd communities. D&D, sci-fi, gaming—spaces where the rules were clear and roles helped bridge his own insecurities. Adam often comes across as socially awkward, sometimes too eager, sometimes off the mark. Behind it all was less arrogance than a great need to be liked—by girls too—without really knowing how to build closeness in a normal, relaxed way.\n\n''Shared Moments / Memories''\n<<nobr>>\n\n<ul> <<if $AdamMemory[0] eq 1>><li>Adam remembers with embarrassment how he accidentally got caught on Chris’s tights and damaged them.</li><</if>> <<if $AdamMemory[1] eq 1>><li>Adam remembers with embarrassment how he accidentally sprayed Chris with water at the drinking fountain.</li><</if>> <<if $AdamMemory[2] eq 1>><li>Adam remembers how shyly he greeted Chris at school—and how sweetly Chris smiled back and said hello.</li><</if>> <<if $AdamMemory[3] eq 1>><li>Adam remembers how he greeted Chris at school and bitterly realized that Chris did not even remember his name anymore.</li><</if>> <<if $AdamMemory[4] eq 1>><li>Adam remembers how aroused he was when he touched Chris’s breasts.</li><</if>> <<if $AdamMemory[5] eq 1>><li>Adam remembers exactly how Chris sent him a selfie in a nightgown.</li><</if>> <<if $AdamMemory[6] eq 1>><li>Adam remembers how he kissed Chris for the first time—and how proud he was to be able to show Chris off to the boys as his girlfriend.</li><</if>> <<if $AdamMemory[7] eq 1>><li>Adam remembers that he discovered Chris’s secret through the keyhole and used it to blackmail him into the fake relationship.</li><</if>> </ul> <</nobr>> <div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Adam’s influence over Chris</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>no influence</span> <span>fully under control</span> </div> <div class="axis-bar"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $adam_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $adam_opinion < 20>> no influence <<elseif $adam_opinion < 40>> slight influence <<elseif $adam_opinion < 60>> noticeable influence <<elseif $adam_opinion < 80>> strong control <<else>> fully under control <</if>> </div> </div> <<back "Back">>

Before Chris knew what was happening, he received his first punishment, swift and humiliating.\n\n“Chris, I have no other choice. I have to spank your backside!”\n\nHis mother grabbed him. Chris tried to tear himself free, but she pulled him over her lap with all her strength, simultaneously pulling down his trousers. Without hesitation, she brought her hand down hard against his underwear.\n\nChris protested: "What is this, Mom? Have you completely lost your mind? I’m way too old for this now. Let me go!"\n\nWith fierce determination, she yanked down his underwear and struck his exposed white cheeks hard with her hand. It made a loud slapping sound, and his skin turned red. Chris couldn't believe what was happening. His mother was spanking his bottom just like a little child. This couldn't be real!\n\nThe boy squirmed, yet his mother's hand continued to land, slap after slap, on his naked ass. One could clearly see Chris's cheeks growing redder and redder, while his sister watched on, giggling. Before long, his backside was as fiery red as a baboon's.\n\n“Owww!” Chris squealed. “Owwwaaah!”\n\n“Quiet!” Susan snapped, and kept going.\n\nWith every stroke, his lower body was pressed against his mother's thigh. This did not remain without effect. The constant friction against his penis led to a slow hardening. That made it even more embarrassing for him.\n\nSusan’s thigh registered this detail—one that only served to confirm her suspicion that she had a perverted son. Her son had a rock-hard erection while getting his backside spanked by his own mother.\n\nAfter the punishment, Chris was sent to his room. Down in the hallway, Susan’s voice still echoed, harsh and hard. He stood in the middle of the room as if someone had set him down there.\n\nThen he heard footsteps on the stairs. The door opened. His mother stepped in, jaw tight, shoulders squared. In her hands she carried a stack of clothes, neatly folded, as if they were files. Christine peeked out briefly from behind her, bit her lip, then disappeared again.\n\n“I’ve been thinking,” Susan said. Her voice sounded as if it were walking across ice: careful, but determined. “That business with the spying—it’s just too much. And I’m done with all this macho male behavior. Enough. From now on, it’s going to be driven out of you.”\n\n“What…?” Chris managed. “Mom, I didn’t—”\n\n“That’s enough.”\n\n[[Continue|Chris muss nun als Mädchen leben.]]

With his hand, Zeke then reached for the ramrod-stiff cock. Slowly, he pulled back the foreskin before taking the whole thing into his mouth at once and sucking and licking it with relish. When his tongue made first contact, Chris heard angels singing. He hadn’t expected feelings this intense. He breathed in panting, ragged bursts. Precum flowed in streams.\n\nChris’s senses were slipping away as his cock was worked over with powerful strokes of the tongue. He was already more turned on than he had been in ages. So it took only a very short time before his body twitched and writhed. He moaned loudly and pressed Zeke’s head down onto his penis with his hands as hard as he could, while also pushing his hips upward.\n\nWhen Zeke released Chris’s penis from his mouth, Chris only looked at him in confusion.\n\nZeke straightened up, stripped off his pants, positioned his cock at Chris’s asshole, and pushed. His thoughts had been erased by lust. He let himself go completely and thrust forcefully forward. With some resistance, Zeke’s glans disappeared into the super-tight hole. With his eyes closed, he kept pushing farther and farther until he hit a barrier inside.\n\nChris closed his eyes and screamed with pain and pleasure. Nothing in the world could have prepared him for this feeling. He savored it to the fullest. Pain and pleasure fused into sensations that flooded his entire body and catapulted him into another world.\n\nZeke was just as trapped in his own world and dropped all inhibitions. The van rocked violently. Zeke couldn’t help but thrust again and again into Chris’s pretty ass with powerful movements, then pull almost all the way out again. He drove in deeper and deeper and finally overcame the inner barrier, drawing new screams of pleasure and pain from Chris. But Zeke only registered that at the edge of his awareness. What he heard was the blood in his ears and, far away in the background, the sounds Chris made, which only made him even hornier.\n\nCompletely losing himself, he moaned loudly as he felt his juices rising, and with one final deep thrust that drove his cock all the way into the rectum of the roaring Chris, he came deep inside him. Wave after wave of hot semen slapped against the inside of Chris’s body.\n\nZeke was utterly exhausted and collapsed onto Chris. He was no longer able to pull his cock out. For a while longer, he enjoyed the feeling of the extreme tightness of Chris’s ass-pussy.\n\n[[Continue|Chris weint.]]

“Uh—no, better not.” Chris grinned awkwardly. “It looks much better on you than on me. You’re… beautiful.”\n<<set $CharlotteMemory[1] to 1>>\n“Thanks, I’m buying it. But I’ll wear something else in front of the girls on Saturday. Okay?”\n\nAt the register, she let the set slide into tissue paper, paid, and they stepped back through the sliding door into the cooling mall. “I’ll call an Uber,” Charlotte said, fumbling out her phone. “Can you hold this for a second?” She pressed the bag into his arms, along with her small shopping bag and the iced-tea cup. Chris balanced everything, trying to project “I’ve got this”—and took two steps forward, right over a grated ventilation shaft in the floor.\n\nA strong gust of air shot upward. His babydoll lifted off like a little parachute canopy. “Oh no—” Chris’s hands were full; the dress billowed upward.\n\nImmediately, all the passersby stared at Chris’s panties. Two teenagers at the donut stand giggled, a man turned around whistling, and Chris wanted to sink into the floor on the spot. Charlotte actually reacted lightning-fast, placing one hand on his back and the other on the hem, pressing the dress down. Desperately, she tried to cover his exposure. But the draft from below kept lifting his little skirt again and again. Chris was endlessly ashamed. Finally, Charlotte pushed Chris off the grate of the shaft so the airflow stopped.\n\n“Marilyn moment.” She grinned sympathetically.\n\nOutside at the pickup area, they blinked into the evening. The Uber rolled up, air conditioning, soft radio. On the ride back, Chris leaned his head against Charlotte’s shoulder. Between the city lights, his feelings blended into a gentle muddle: shame already shrinking again; laughter still echoing; the scent of perfume strips; a negligee in tissue paper; Charlotte’s hand on his back. When they stopped on his street, he took a deep breath. Another day survived—and one that, despite all the embarrassment, had felt surprisingly light.\n\nAt home, Chris let the shopping bag sink down beside the desk, threw himself onto the bed, and fished the smartphone out of his bag. Two missed calls. Three messages. Sender: Dad.\n\nHe took a breath, swiped:\n<blockquote class="quote">Hey, my boy. Long silence, I know. A lot’s been going on.\n\nI met someone.\nHer name is Anja. It feels good with her.\n\nAnja has two daughters.\nBoth nice, loud, a little crazy—in the good way. I think you’d like each other.\n\nDo you want to meet?\nMaybe at Thanksgiving or Christmas? I’d be happy. Very.</blockquote>A small shock jabbed him in the ribs. If you knew what I look like now. His reflection from that morning slid over the lines. He imagined standing in Dad’s kitchen.\n\nChris typed “Sounds good. Looking forward to it.” — deleted it.\n“Congratulations, I’m happy for you.” — deleted that too.\nThe cursor blinked over an empty field like a small, stubborn metronome beat.\n\nInstead, he opened the photo strips from the mall. Three pictures: serious, silly, kiss. Charlotte’s bangs half out of place, her hands on his chest. A soft film settled over the nervousness. Not today, a quiet voice inside him said about the messages. Today was good. I’m allowed to hold on to the good part without explaining everything.\n\nHe locked the phone, placed it face down on the pillow, and once more smelled the mixture of perfume tester and waffle cone on his wrist. Outside, a lawn mower hummed, somewhere a neighbor’s door popped shut. On the desk lay the embarrassingly romantic vampire book, and beside it the friendship bracelet.\n\n[[The fifth school day.|Der fünfte Schultag.]]

The final school year went by faster than Chris would ever have thought possible. The “magical evening” became everyday life—and everyday life stayed magical, just in a different way. Dylan and Chris stuck together, even when there were moments when the world became too loud. They passed tests, survived stress, laughed at little things, argued about nonsense, and made up again, the way lovestruck teenagers did. At prom, they stood under strings of lights once more, except this time Chris no longer felt as if he had to play a role. He danced as if he had arrived. Dylan held him as if it had always been this way.\n\nAfter high school, their paths did not separate—they only grew bigger. Chris went to college and found a cheer program that was serious: technique, strength, endurance, team spirit. Not “cute waving,” but sport. Dylan followed his path toward football, through training camps, video analysis, playbooks, hard weeks in which the body hurt and the mind still had to function. They lived in schedules, in flight plans, and weekends they fought free like treasures. And yet there was always that little ritual: a kiss before training, a message after the game, a look that said: I see you.\n\nWhen Dylan was eventually drafted by a team in the region, it felt like a leap into real light. Press, photos, his name on jerseys, voices suddenly calling him “the future.” Chris did not just sit on the sidelines and clap. He tried out too—for the franchise’s cheer team, in a hall that smelled professional: of expensive flooring, of routine, of “this is not playing around.” And when Chris got the acceptance, it was not “Dylan made it and Chris is there.” It was two careers igniting in parallel.\n\nThey became a power couple without it having to feel like a brand: Dylan as quarterback, Chris as cheerleader. In the stadium, Dylan was the one on the field the camera waited for when the game was on a knife’s edge. Chris was his own storm of precision and energy on the sideline—high, loud, perfectly on beat. And sometimes, when Dylan glanced briefly toward the sideline after a touchdown, their eyes met like a secret handshake.\n\nThe publicness of it was new. Journalists asking Dylan questions, and Dylan smiling in interviews and saying, quite naturally: “My girlfriend is a cheerleader.” At some point, Chris heard the word girlfriend on television and realized that it no longer hurt him. It did not sound like a mask. It sounded like home.\n\nAnd Chris was not just “the girlfriend of.” He got his own appointments. His own invitations. Cheerleader team events, charity appearances, kids’ clinics, sponsor shoots. He stood in front of little girls who looked at him with wide eyes and showed them how to make a simple movement clean, how to smile without feeling small. He talked about training, discipline, teamwork—and no one asked whether it was “real.” It was real because he lived it.\n\n<center>[img[pics/cheerleader_ende.jpg]]</center> The magical thing was that flashbulbs changed at some point. Before, a photo had been a shock—a piece of proof that could betray him. Now the camera became something he controlled. Chris learned how to stand in light without blinking. How to wear a dress as if it were a second skin. How to smile, not to survive, but because he wanted to.\n\nHe had his own press. His own headlines. His own fans holding up signs when the team ran out: CHRIS! He had photoshoots where he no longer thought: Please, let me be inconspicuous, but: Okay. Another picture. One more. And Dylan did not look jealous, not possessive, not diminished. Dylan looked proud. As if he were celebrating every step Chris took on his own.\n\nChris’s mother remained far away—geographically and sometimes emotionally too. The distance was good for them. Susan could no longer “correct” him every day, and Chris no longer had to push back every day. They talked on the phone—sometimes stiffly, sometimes surprisingly normally—and Susan managed to hold back on things that earlier would have immediately triggered a “You should do that differently.” When she did start, Chris now said calmly: “No, Mom.” And Susan… sighed, invisibly rolled her eyes, and let it stand. Christine, meanwhile, was the direct line home: cheeky, honest, sometimes much too loud by voice message, always there. She sent him photos from Maplewood, wrote “YOU’RE ON TV!!” in capital letters, and regularly reminded him where he came from—not to keep him small, but to hold on to him.\n\nYears later, on an evening in the stadium when the air was vibrating and the stands were full, Dylan did not wait for the interviews after the game. He did not go to the locker room. He stayed on the field. The scoreboard flickered, and at first the crowd did not understand what was happening. Chris stood on the sideline, still out of breath from the last routine, when Dylan suddenly came to him.\n\nHe took Chris’s hand.\n\nThe stadium grew quieter, as if even the crowd were holding its breath. Dylan led Chris a few steps onto the field, to where everyone could see them. Where no one could cut them away. And then Dylan knelt down.\n\nChris’s heart skipped a beat.\n\nDylan said something—a few sentences that later no one could quote exactly, because the crowd was roaring and Chris had only that one feeling: warmth, overwhelm, a yes that had already been living inside him for a long time. Dylan held up a ring that sparkled in the stadium lights.\n\n“Will you marry me?”\n\nChris brought his hand to his mouth. Then he laughed—and cried—and nodded, because his body answered faster than his head. “Yes,” he said, clearly, and his voice was not thin, not shy. “Yes.”\n\nThe stadium exploded. Cheers like a wave, signs, screams, flashbulbs—and this time the flash was no threat. It was only light. It was only an audience celebrating something Chris no longer had to hide.\n\nDylan stood up, pulled Chris to him, and they kissed in the middle of the field while the crowd roared.\n\nAnd Chris knew, without having to explain it: This was the end of his story—and the beginning of his life.\n<<set $selbstbild to 0>>\n''Ending 1 of 10 - "Pom-Pom Queen"''\n<<set $ende1 to 1>>\n[[📖 Statistics|Statistik][$selbstbild += 5]] - [[🏆 Bonus & Endings|Enden]]

Then, outside on the field, under the open sky, they stood in rows. “On three!” someone shouted. “One—two—three!”\n\nThe caps flew upward, black squares against blue evening light. A collective cheer broke out, as if everyone had been holding their breath at the same time and exhaled again. Chris saw his cap flash briefly against the sun and then disappear somewhere in the sea of people.\n\nRuby turned to him. Her eyes sparkled, and her face held that rare, unguarded happiness. Chris hugged her—and the hug lasted a beat longer than normal. Not noticeably. Just long enough for it to feel like a small confession without words.\n\n“I wouldn’t have made it without you,” Chris said, softly enough that only she could hear.\n\nRuby held him for another moment, then let go and looked at him as if checking whether he really meant it. “I don’t know,” she said, and her voice was gentle but certain. “You would have made it anyway. You’re just too stubborn to notice.”\n\nChris laughed, but it was a laugh edged with tears. “Maybe.”\n\nSusan waved from the audience, both hands, the tissue forgotten. Her eyes were red, her face shining as if she had just seen the most beautiful movie of her life. Christine pushed her way into the frame, tugged Chris by the gown, and suddenly the three of them were standing in the chaos of families, photos, and hugs.\n\nSusan held Chris tight, briefly, firmly enough to say: You are my child. “I’m so proud,” she whispered. Chris did not answer with words; he only nodded, because the words would have been too small.\n\nAs the crowd slowly dispersed, Ruby stood beside him once more, shoulder to shoulder. “College,” she said.\n\n“College,” Chris repeated.\n\nAnd somewhere between the word and the evening sky lay an undertone neither of them had to say out loud: that it would go on. Together.\n\n[[↩ Back|Enden]]

“No,” Chris said after a moment. “Thanks… but no.”\n<<set $ort to "">>\nZoe raised an eyebrow. “Sure? Don’t regret it later.” A small smirk tugged at her mouth. “Maybe gay after all?”\n\n“I’m not,” he replied, calmer. “I just… don’t want to.”\n\n“Fine.” She pushed off from the wardrobe, unhurt in her casualness. “Door’s over there,” she muttered, reaching for her phone as if she had merely gotten the time wrong for a moment.\n\nChris took his bag, left the notebook with the finished presentation on her desk, and went.\n\nLater on the bus, he sat by the window, his forehead against the glass, watching the streetlights smear. His back remembered the pressure of the wall, his mouth the kiss—sudden, warm, demanding—and his own “no.” He wondered what was wrong with him. A pretty, willing girl, and he had turned her down. Shouldn’t that have made everything easier?\n\nHe thought of Christine and Saturday, and of how “willing” and “ready” could be two very different words. And he thought of Zoe, of the chaos in her room, of the casual “No one’s here” and her “reward” like a prize you collected no matter how you felt about it.\n\nMaybe it wasn’t about whether a girl was pretty or willing at all, he thought as the bus cut through the night. Maybe it was about whether he was really himself just then. In his body, in this skirt, with all the lies clinging to him, “yes” simply didn’t feel like his word. Not today. Maybe not this way either.\n\nHe pulled the bag closer to himself, took a deep breath, and looked outside again. The reflection in the window looked back at him—tired, awake, confused—and nodded silently, as if it had understood before he did.\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch.]]

The thought that his sister might open her eyes and see him made Chris recoil.\n<<set $LucasMemory[0] to 1>>\nHe pushed the blanket aside, took one deep breath, and sat up. The mattress barely shifted. One more glance—not greedy, but tender, almost protective—and then he stood quietly, padding to the door.\n\nThe hallway was half-dark. A night-light drew a narrow strip across the carpet. Chris briefly leaned his forehead against the cool wall, letting the tension trickle out of his shoulders. He had to get out of the room, breathe once, before his thoughts set traps for him again. Then he gently pulled the door shut behind him and began walking barefoot down the hall—only far enough until his heart was beating at a normal volume again.\n\nIn the bathroom, Chris let cold water run over his palms and pressed it to his face until his forehead tingled and his breathing grew calmer. The mirror fogged at the edges; his satin nightgown lay soft on his shoulders, the shorts shimmering pale in the night-light. Get a grip, he thought. Breathe. Back to bed.\n\nOn the way back, he stopped. A door stood open a crack; a warm strip of light cut into the dark hallway. He heard no voices. Only a soft rustling, a chair scraping. Just a quick look, he told himself, nudged the door open a little farther with two fingers—and froze.\n\nLucas was sitting on a desk chair, half turned away. With his right hand, he was jerking his hard cock, and in his left hand he held a small, glossy rectangle—Chris’s Polaroid, the one that had vanished from the Photo Wall that evening.\n\nThe sight of the familiar picture hit Chris like a blow; he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Neither that Lucas was doing it to himself, nor that he was looking at his photo while he did.\n\n“What… what is going on here?” he called as he looked down at the exposed Lucas. “What are you doing with my photo?”\n\nLucas flinched in terror and turned toward the door in panic. He was still jerking himself. When he saw Chris—satin shorts in pale rose, the cream-colored nightgown with its narrow trim, bare legs, toes with the fresh pink polish—he came, and he couldn’t stop himself. Lucas ejaculated in a high arc, and with a splat, his semen landed on the floor in front of Chris’s feet.\n\nIrritated, Chris stared at the boy, saw his stiff penis, saw him come, and heard him moan. He realized that the sight of him had obviously made Lucas unable to keep himself from coming.\n\nThe two of them only stared at each other, unsure what to say or do. Lucas’s penis slowly softened, and the last drops of cum trailed from the tip of his cock.\n\n“Chris... I... I... I swear, I didn’t mean—it was there… and then—I just thought— I’m sorry!” Lucas was the first to find his voice again. He stumbled over his sentences, searching somewhere in the air for something to hold on to. Red shot all the way to his ears.\n\nChris could only nod, looking at his steadily shrinking penis. Especially since Lucas made no move to put it away again.\n\n“You’re such a pig! How can you… to a photo of me…” With those words, Chris ran off.\n\nHis face burned, his heart hammered.\n\nBack in the guest room, he slipped quietly through the door crack. The night-light cast a soft strip across the bed. His sister lay just as he had left her—calm, the blanket half kicked off her body, her breathing even.\n\nHe slipped under the blanket, lay down on his side. Chris stared into the darkness, trying to push the images out of his head—the open door, the photo, the hard cock in Lucas’s hand—counting breaths until his thoughts finally blurred and sleep took him after all.\n\nIn the morning, the house felt as if it were made of cotton. Sleepy faces, hurried tidying of the pillow fort, thank-yous and hugs in the doorway. Susan’s car was already waiting outside. Christine and Chris got in; Penelope waved, Mrs. Barnett raised her hand and smiled, with a look that stayed warm longer than necessary.\n\nOn the drive, that strange silence after a long night lay over everything—full of moments that had to be sorted through. Chris leaned his head against the window, watched the trees pull backward, and wondered why something began to stir in his crotch whenever he thought of Lucas’s hard cock.\n\n[[End of Chapter 1|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 1][$party1 += 4]]

“No.” Chris’s voice was calm, almost cool. “Definitely not.”\n\nAdam opened his mouth, then closed it again. “All right. That was… that was a stupid idea.” He looked at the floor, shifting from one foot to the other.\n\n“And you don’t tell anyone. Not for fun, not out of anger, not for anything. Otherwise—” He didn’t look for a threat, found something else. “—otherwise this is over. All of it.”\n\n“I won’t tell anyone. Promise.” Adam drew a breath. “But…”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. “But what?”\n\nAdam shifted from one foot to the other. “I want you to… act like you’re my girlfriend.” He hastily raised his hands. “Just… so people see it. At school, everyone would envy me if I was walking around with such a pretty girl.”\n\n“I’m not a girl,” Chris said sharply. “I’m only pretending because I have to.”\n\n“Nobody knows that,” Adam countered meekly. “And—it would only be for show.”\n\n“No.” Chris shook his head. “This is my life. Not your image booster.”\n\nA short, ugly moment of silence. Then Adam’s voice, lower: “If you don’t do it… I’ll tell. At school. Everyone.”\n\n“Please don’t.” Chris’s voice almost broke. “Adam—please. That would destroy me.”\n\nAdam pressed his lips together, looked away, then back again. “Compromise,” he forced out. “Not everyone. Just with my parents—and in the D&D Club. There, you pretend we’re… together. Just holding hands, a little… well. Just pretending.”\n\nChris felt the floor tilt beneath him. It was blackmail with velvet gloves—and still blackmail. “I don’t want that,” he said, and realized how emptily it bounced off Adam’s stubbornness.\n\n“Then I only have the other option left,” Adam said, too calmly.\n\nThe air caught. Chris briefly closed his eyes. Dignity before fear—and yet: survival before collapse. “…Okay,” he pressed out. “Only with your parents. And in the D&D Club. Only pretending. Nowhere else. And you don’t tell anyone my secret. Ever.”\n\nAdam nodded too quickly. “Deal.”\n\nThe mood fell to the floor and stayed there. “I’m going, then,” Chris said, and his voice sounded as if he’d just climbed a long flight of stairs.\n\n“You still have to say goodbye to my parents,” Adam muttered. “Otherwise they’ll think I scared you off.” He twisted his mouth into something that was supposed to be a smile.\n\nIn the living room, Adam’s parents were just putting teacups into the cupboard. “Leaving already?” his mother asked kindly. Adam moved close to Chris, placing a hand on his hip.\n\n“We… uh… are now, like… together,” Adam stammered.\n\nHis father beamed, clapping his son on the shoulder. “My boy!” A glance at Chris, warm and proud, as if he had just awarded him a family medal. “You have taste.”\n\nChris smiled mechanically, his cheeks burning. He wanted to sink into the floor, pull the carpet over himself like a blanket, and only surface again when no one was looking anymore. Instead, he nodded bravely and murmured, “Thank you very much.”\n\nOutside, he only breathed once the door had fallen shut behind him. The evening was cool, clear, merciless. In his head, the “Deal” still rang, dry as chalk.\n\n<<if $ladendiebin == 2>>Now there were already two. Zoe last week, Adam today—two classmates who knew his secret, as if they held it in their fist like a phone photo that could be sent at any time. Chris had been passing as a “girl” at this school for less than two weeks, and yet his disguise was already crumbling at every edge: a glance in the locker room, a keyhole, one wrong moment. Every day seemed to bring new chances for something to be exposed, and every time he thought he had control again, someone tore a piece of it away from him. He hunched his shoulders against the cold and felt above all the other chill—the fear that two would soon become three, and that at some point he would no longer know whom he could trust at all.\n\n<<endif>>''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Message from Charlotte.|Nachricht von Charlotte.2]]<<else>>[[In the evening.|Am Abend.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

In the dark, with the blanket pulled up to his chin, Chris let the thought of “surgeries” drop again, as if letting go of something hot. He felt his heart beating faster as he did—not with hope, but with fear.\n<<set $wochentag = 1>><<set $ort to "">>\nSex reassignment was too much. Too final. Too big to even be allowed to think of it as a solution to heartbreak. Chris was a boy. As much as he sometimes wished it were easier—he couldn’t simply throw that part of himself away just so someone else could stay. The thought had been desperate, and that was exactly how he treated it: like something he had thought in fear half-asleep.\n\nHe lay awake for a long time, but at some point the tiredness became heavier than the thoughts.\n\nOn Monday morning, everything felt as if he had woken up too early—not in terms of time, but inside. He got ready as usual, mechanically, and went to school with that dull knot in his stomach. The hallway was loud; somewhere, people were laughing about something that, for Chris, didn’t exist.\n\nCharlotte intercepted him shortly before the first bell rang. Not in the middle of the bustle, but at the edge—at a corner where you could pretend you were only looking at the timetable. She didn’t look at him for long. Her hands gripped the straps of her backpack so tightly, as if they could hold her steady.\n\n“Chris…” she began quietly.\n\nHe knew immediately, even before she found the words. Even so, part of him hoped against all logic that she would say something else.\n\n“I can’t do this,” Charlotte said, and her voice was thin but determined. “I tried. Really. But it isn’t getting better in my head. And it isn’t fair to keep… leaving you hanging.”\n\nChris’s throat tightened. “We don’t have to—we can just—” He searched for a sentence that could bring her back and found only air. “I love you.”\n\nCharlotte swallowed, and her eyes grew shiny. “I know. And that’s exactly why…” She shook her head, as if forcing herself to stay upright. “I’m breaking up with you. I’m sorry.”\n\nIt was a clean sentence. No fight, no ugly words—and precisely because of that, it hurt so much. Chris stood there as if someone had lowered the ground beneath him by a few inches. He couldn’t get out a proper “Please don’t,” because he felt that she had already decided. That it wasn’t a lack of patience, but something deeper that couldn’t be talked out of her.\n\n“Okay,” he finally said, far too quietly.\n\nCharlotte did look at him now, a brief glance full of guilt and sadness. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.\n\nChris only nodded. His hands suddenly felt strange, as if they didn’t know what to do with themselves.\n\nCharlotte was the first to walk away—quickly, before she fell apart in front of him. Chris remained standing there for a moment, staring at the locker beside him and hearing the bell as if it came from another world.\n\nHis first relationship was over. And when he finally started moving, he didn’t do it because he wanted to, but because at school, you kept walking, even when your heart was breaking.\n\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5b]]

After Homecoming, for a while it looked as if Ruby and Lucas had really become a couple. In the cafeteria, they sat together more often, Ruby laughed more, and Lucas’s hand sometimes rested on the table so close to hers that it looked intentional. Chris watched it from a distance and told himself it was good. Order in one corner, while his own life rubbed against too many edges.\n\nAt the riding stable in the weeks after that, Ruby kept slipping in questions now and then, as if they were accidental: “What perfume do you actually use?” or “How do you make it so your hair never looks frizzy?” or “What color suits my skin tone?” She said it with a crooked grin, as if she were making fun of it—but Chris noticed how serious she was. Uncomfortably serious.\n\nChris knew why. Ruby liked Lucas. And Lucas… Lucas had looked in Chris’s direction too often before. Ruby had seen that. So she tried to take things from Chris, as if they were a trick you could learn to win someone’s gaze.\n\nChris felt uncomfortable every time. Not only because he was embarrassed to suddenly be an “expert” on “how to appeal to a boy,” but because it reminded him of something he could barely stand himself: that he was living in a role that others used as a model. As if what his mother was making out of him were some kind of skillset. Sometimes he gave brief, harmless answers—“vanilla, nothing strong” or “satin instead of powder”—and quickly changed the subject to Stardust’s horseshoes or the weather. Sometimes he pretended he had no idea.\n\nStill, Ruby kept at it. And eventually, on an afternoon when Chris was walking through the apartment with a math folder and already inwardly tensing up before the next test, his mother burst into his life at home with a sentence that sounded like a threat and yet was meant completely seriously: if his grades were not good enough for college, she would send him to beauty school. “You have talent,” she had said, as if it were a reward. To Chris, it was a cage with a pink bow.\n\nHe had to prevent that.\n\nAnd so he did something that cost him effort: he asked Ruby for tutoring.\n\nIt did not happen dramatically. Just one sentence between two stable aisles, while Ruby was taking off her gloves: “Can you… help me study? I can’t keep up.” He expected a remark, an eye roll. But Ruby only blinked once, as if she had already seen exactly this request on a checklist.\n\n“Yes,” she said immediately. “Of course. We’ll do it in a structured way.”\n\nRuby was well organized, already in college mode anyway: scholarship, applications, essays, deadlines. She pulled Chris into that world as if taking him by the hand and leading him through a plan made of appointments and small moments of success.\n\nThey made a routine of it. Library after school. A table by the window. Two hours focused, then a ten-minute break. Flashcards. Practice problems. “If you don’t know it, first write down what you do know.” Ruby wrote headings, Chris filled in gaps. They set specific goals: “Today only these three topics. Tomorrow we review.” Ruby stuck little Post-its in Chris’s notebook as if they were life preservers: formula, example, mnemonic.\n\n[[Continue|Ruby und Chris lernen zusammen.]]

Mrs. Barnett tugged hard on her nipples; you could see how turned on she was. All she wanted in that moment was to be taken properly. For Chris, it was no less exciting; he was about to fuck his boyfriend’s hot mother. And he wanted it, wanted it desperately. He leaned down to her and they made out, while he rubbed his hard member against her wet pussy and his hands massaged her large tits. Then Mrs. Barnett breathed into Chris’s ear: “Do it. Please, finally put your cock in my hole.” She spread her pretty long legs a little more, and Chris guided his stiff penis to her entrance. She pressed her lower body toward him; he pushed a little, and his cock slid into her wet, slick cavity. <<if $sex == 0>>Chris had often imagined his first time, but in his imagination he had never been this beautiful. <<endif>>\n\nAt first he fucked her slowly, and they were still kissing, until Mrs. Barnett whispered demandingly: “I want it harder!” Then Chris grinned at Mrs. Barnett, straightened up, and took one of her legs over his shoulder, now thrusting into her fast and hard.\n\nMrs. Barnett bit her lower lip before moaning: “Yeees! Fuck me! FUCK MEEE!” Driven by her needy moans, Chris’s thrusts grew more forceful. Her desire matched his. She wanted him, wanted to feel Chris deeper and deeper inside her. Mrs. Barnett had had many affairs, but doing it with her son’s “girlfriend” behind his back gave her a special thrill.\n\nChris’s small breasts bounced with every thrust as he snorted louder and louder and increased the pace more and more, until Mrs. Barnett came.\n\nHer toes began to cramp, and her legs tried to cling wildly to Chris’s back. Mrs. Barnett’s pussy pulsed, and Chris’s cock was squeezed inside her as she clutched at the bedspread, moaning loudly. Finally she let out another sharp cry and then panted loudly beneath Chris. Chris’s cock was still hard, still inside her, and kept fucking Mrs. Barnett without stopping. She moaned loudly and clawed at his back until he pushed her hot legs apart and held her behind the knees. Mrs. Barnett now lay almost helpless before him, her hands above her head on the mattress. Chris then grabbed her wrists and pressed her arms down onto the mattress while, like a stallion gone wild, he drove his cock into her dripping hole. “Don’t stop, Chris! Keep fucking me! It feels so good!” Those words spurred Chris on even more, and he gave Mrs. Barnett what she demanded. She moaned and groaned, but the lust-twisted expression on her face showed how much she enjoyed the thrusts.\n\nHe thrust faster and harder. He wasn’t just fucking Mrs. Barnett anymore; he was practically rutting into her. Pelvis slapped against pelvis, forming a chorus of lust together with his panting and her moaning.\n\n''Where does Chris cum?''\n❯ [[Inside Mrs. Barnett’s pussy.|In Mrs. Barnett Pussy.][$barnettbaby += 1]]\n❯ [[He pulls out at the last second.|Er zieht in letzter Sekunde raus.2]]

Time didn’t pass like a cut, but like a slow shifting. First a few days, then weeks, in which everything rearranged itself without ever really feeling “normal.”\n\nThe gynecologist appointment came on an afternoon when the sky was gray and the parking lot smelled of rain. In the waiting room sat women with jackets on their laps, some with rounded bellies, some with tired faces, and somewhere a clock ticked too loudly. Christine sat still, both hands clasped together as if she were tying herself down. Chris sat beside her and felt out of place in a way that made his ears grow hot.\n\nHe leafed through the brochures lying around, because in a waiting room you always did something so you weren’t simply waiting. The titles were harmless enough, but the pictures and diagrams hit him unprepared. He turned bright red, snapped one brochure shut too quickly, as if it had caught him, flipped on frantically, and at the same time wished he could become invisible. He was a boy, he thought, and yet he was sitting here, reading things he had never wanted to read, while his sister was pregnant. It felt like a life someone had filed in the wrong place.\n\nWhen they were finally called in, Christine stood up, a little stiffly, and Chris followed her automatically.\n\nIn the examination room, the light was brighter. The doctor explained matter-of-factly what was about to happen, as if this were a normal Tuesday – and maybe for her it was. Christine lay down, pulled her shirt up a little, suddenly seeming very young. Chris stayed standing at the edge, unsure what to do with his hands, with his eyes, with his whole head.\n\nThen the ultrasound screen was switched on.\n\nAt first there were only gray shadows, flickering graininess, nothing that called itself a “baby.” For a moment Chris thought he would never understand it. And then the doctor pointed to a shape, traced it in the air with her finger, and suddenly it was there: a small, distinct something that could no longer be thought away.\n\nChristine held her breath. So did Chris.\n\nOn the monitor, a point moved ever so slightly, as if the image itself had a heartbeat. The doctor said a few calm words – size, timing, everything within range – but Chris only half heard her. Rising inside him, completely against his expectations, was a thin, warm pride. Not logical, not planned. Just a feeling that said: This is real. I gave my sister a baby.\n\nChristine turned her head a little, looked at him, only briefly, as if checking whether he was really there too. Chris nodded, and his throat was tight. He would have liked to say something clever, something strong, but all that came out was a quiet: “Okay.”\n\nChristine exhaled, slowly. And while that small life flickered on the screen, the one that had shifted her entire life, they were both trapped in the same moment – frightened, overwhelmed, and yet connected like they hadn’t been in a long time.\n\n[[Continue|Die Zeit vergeht.2]]

Saturday felt as if someone had charged the air in the house with glitter. Chris had been nervous since breakfast, in that good, tingly way that made him want to rush ahead and trip over himself at the same time. He had spent the whole day getting “ready”: washing his hair, blow-drying it, straightening it, then loosening it again until it looked not slicked down, but effortless. In between, he sat at the vanity as if performing a little ritual, tried out his eyeliner, wiped it off, did it again—until the line finally sat there as if it had always belonged. Blush, highlighter, gloss. He kept checking in the mirror whether he had done too much, only to put on just a touch more anyway, because after all, it was Homecoming.\n<<set $wochentag = 6>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "Chris's girly bedroom">>\nWhen the time came, he suddenly grew calm. That focused silence he sometimes got when something was important.\n\nHe closed the door to his room and laid everything out like a checklist. First the hold-up stockings—carefully pulled up so nothing tugged or wrinkled. Then the thong, which still felt strange between his butt cheeks, but today it fit the plan, just as Susan had said: no edges, no lines. The stick-on bra was the worst part, because it felt so final; Chris took a deep breath, carefully stuck it on, smoothed the edges flat, checked twice that everything was securely in place.\n\nThen came the dress.\n\n<center>[img[pics/outfit8.jpg]]</center> Midnight blue, backless, the fabric shimmered softly like night water. Chris slipped into it, pulled it over his hips, adjusted the hem, fixed the straps, and slowly turned in front of the mirror. From the front it looked elegant and almost innocent, from the back the dress opened into a clean V that made him feel bold and vulnerable at the same time. He noticed himself blushing just from seeing himself like that. Not ridiculous. Not in costume. But... beautiful.\n\nFinally, he slipped into the silver strappy sandals with the narrow straps and low block heel. He walked a few steps around the room, testing the stability, the feeling, the posture the heel automatically demanded. He took the clutch in his hand—that small, elegant envelope bag that still seemed absurdly tiny to him. He slipped his phone and lip gloss inside, closed the snap, and held it at his side as if it belonged there.\n\nChris stood in front of the mirror, breathed, and smiled before he could stop himself. The excitement was no longer just fear. It was anticipation.\n\nThe door opened, and his mother came in, followed by Christine. [[Susan|Susan Braun]] stopped at once, as if she had been waiting for this very image. “Wow,” she said, genuinely impressed, and took a step closer. “That dress is perfect. The back—a dream.”\n\nChristine said nothing at first. She looked Chris over, from his shoes to his earrings, and finally nodded slowly. “You look... really beautiful,” she said quietly. It sounded sincere, but there was a shadow in her eyes. As if the compliment was also a reminder that she herself would not be going to the school dance today. For a moment, her mouth twisted, and she blinked too quickly.\n\nChris’ chest tightened briefly. He wanted to say something comforting, but found nothing that would not have sounded wrong. So he stepped closer and briefly touched Christine’s arm—a small, silent “I see you.”\n\nSusan clapped her hands once softly, as if she were a director before the premiere. “Okay. You are not sitting down anywhere. And you’re going to eat something small first, otherwise you’ll faint on me.”\n\nChris laughed nervously, nodded, and promised whatever was necessary. Then all that was left was waiting.\n\nHe waited impatiently for Dylan to arrive. Again and again he went to the window, pulled the curtain aside a crack, and looked out, as if he could summon Dylan’s car by sheer longing. Every sound outside made his heart leap for a moment: a passing car, footsteps on the sidewalk, a distant door slamming.\n\nChris held the clutch a little tighter, breathed in the scent of his perfume, and looked at his reflection once more in the window glass—midnight blue and candlelight, an evening that felt like a promise.\n\n[[Continue|Dylan holt Chris ab.]]

The first official theater rehearsal was scheduled for the afternoon. The auditorium stage smelled of dust and paint, and somewhere a work light buzzed. Ms. Green stood in the center aisle with her clipboard, her glasses worn like a headband, her hair in a strict bun that killed every excuse before it could begin. “Let’s block scene two,” she said. “Meet-cute. Page 9.”<<set $ort to "Auditorium">>\n\n<center>[img[pics/theater.jpg]]</center> Chris and Lucas took their marks—white tape line here, chalk trace there. Lucas held the script like a life preserver, and Chris tried to loosen his shoulders. “Ready?” Lucas whispered. “Sure,” Chris lied.\n\n“And… go,” Ms. Green said.\n\nThey came in from two sides. Lucas let his gaze drift over the imaginary shelves, a half-mumbled “Excuse me—” to an invisible customer. Chris tapped the air with his finger, silently counting book spines. When their hands met over the “shelf”—an innocent overlap of fingers—something faltered between them. Lucas’s eyes widened a touch too much. “Oh—uh… that’s, uh…” He held the invisible book. “Mine?”\n\n“Unlikely,” Chris countered, surprised by how natural his voice sounded. “You wanted 'The Heart Is an Unreliable Narrator'. So did I.”\n\nA soft laugh from the ensemble. Ms. Green raised a “more music” finger.\n\nThey kept playing, found a small wave. Chris heard himself saying words that weren’t his, and liked what they became in his mouth. Lucas relaxed his shoulders, the flow of sentences rolled on, Ruby gave a thumbs-up from offstage. It was… fun. More than Chris had expected.\n\nPage 10 flew by, page 11 rolled on, and then—page 12. A tiny little stage direction in parentheses, one that had already made Chris swallow hard the first time he read it:\n\n(She hesitates. A kiss. Tender, surprising, inevitable.)\n\nThey both stopped as if an invisible glass wall stood in front of them. Lucas’s lashes twitched. Chris felt his own warmth in front of his face, the smell of dust and a hint of Lucas’s aftershave. A flicker—really?—went through his stomach. Both of them blushed as if on command.\n\nTheir eyes met for too long. One step. Another. The auditorium became quieter than quiet.\n\nThey leaned forward. An inch of air. Half an inch. Lucas tilted his head minimally to the left, Chris unconsciously mirrored him to the right, their breath met like a warm wisp in the middle, and the world slipped into slow motion: their lips almost brushed, and exactly at the moment when the air between them grew thin...\n\n“Cut,” Ms. Green said without shouting, and the word was both life preserver and arrow at once. She stepped one step closer to the edge of the stage. “We stop just before contact. We’re rehearsing the beat, not the kiss. Timing is almost there. Prepare the breath from the bottom of page 11 earlier—and Chris, you lift your shoulder minimally, that reads defensive. Loosen up.”\n\nLucas blinked; the hint of disappointment was impossible to miss. “Okay,” he said dutifully, smoothing in vain over an invisible crease in the script. Chris breathed out, felt relief seep through him—and beneath it, the little flicker in his stomach remained, stubborn, as if the scene had asked him a question that wouldn’t disappear just because someone said “Cut.”\n\n“Again from ten,” Ms. Green called, clapping her hands once sharply. “Keep the pace. And—” she tapped her pen against the parenthesis on page 12 “—we make it look hungry without serving it. Understood?”\n\n“Understood,” they both said, almost at the same time. As they walked back to their marks, Lucas’s hand very lightly brushed Chris’s elbow. Nothing, a nothing—and yet Chris drew the air a little deeper, as if the stage had suddenly grown larger.\n\n[[Continue|Nach der Probe.]]

At school, there was only one topic today. In every corner, at every locker, they were whispering about it: the boys had made a ranking of the “hottest” girls—points, placements, comments in between. Some girls giggled, flattered. Others slammed locker doors and hissed “sexist” down the hallway, which suspiciously often coincided with a sidelong glance at the lower spots.\n<center>[img[pics/girls2.jpg]]</center><<set $ort to "school">>\nChris stayed out of it. He pushed his bag into his locker, turned the combination, shut the door, and told himself defiantly: I don’t care how some stupid boys rate me. He almost nodded to himself as he did, as if he had to pin the attitude in place like a thumbtack.\n\nIn class, the murmuring continued like a quiet storm. Mr. Robertson wrote on the board, chalk scratching; behind Chris, notebooks rustled, up front a gloss slid over a lower lip. Zoe’s seat was empty—the chair slightly crooked, as if someone had last shoved it back in a hurry—and to the right, someone giggled too loudly.\n\n“Please save the conversations for break,” Mr. Robertson said without turning around.\n\nThen something slid silently over the edge of the desk: a folded note, neatly halved, then folded again. Suddenly it lay right in front of his notebook, as if it had always been there. Chris stared at it for a second as if it were an animal that might flinch away. I don’t care, he thought again—and felt curiosity nevertheless grip his wrist like a hand.\n\nHe pulled the note toward him, felt the dry paper between his fingers, and slowly unfolded it.\n\n''Where does Chris stand in the ranking?''\n<<nobr>><<if $stil <= 5>>[[Near the bottom.|Unten.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $stil >= 6 && $stil <= 7>>[[Middle of the pack.|Mittelfeld.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $stil >= 8>>[[Near the top.|Oben.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris reacted before he could form a clear thought.\n<<set $ChristineMemory[2] to 1>>\n“Christine!” he called, but his voice was swallowed by the bass and the tangle of voices.\n\nHe set himself in motion, stumbling the first few steps in the heels, catching himself, and then running as fast as the tight miniskirt allowed. Myles had already led Christine to the stairs, half carrying her, half supporting her.\n\nOne of the boys leaning against the wall with a beer nudged his buddy with his elbow and grinned broadly. “Well, there you go,” he slurred, loud enough for the people around him to hear. “Looks like someone’s night is going well.”\n\nAnother raised his plastic cup into the air as if making a toast. “He’s taking her to the love suite!” he shouted, and several people burst out laughing.\n\nIt was that dirty, self-satisfied laughter that had nothing to do with real joy.\n\nThe stairs were full. People sat on the steps, stood in the way with cups, leaned against the railing. Chris tried to squeeze through, muttered “Sorry,” “Move,” and was ignored. The miniskirt made big steps impossible, every movement a balancing act, but he pushed on, heart hammering.\n\nA few steps above him, Christine turned her head. Her eyes looked glassy, her eyeliner slightly smeared. For a moment she caught his gaze, and there was something like helpless confusion in it. Her fingers briefly loosened from Myles’s arm; she reached a hand out toward him.\n\nChris did the same, stretching his arm up, fingers spread, but between them were people, shoulders, cups. One or two steps were missing, one or two seconds. Myles pulled her on, gently but purposefully.\n\n“Christine!” Chris shouted, but his voice went under in the bass, in the laughter, in the tangle of voices.\n\nAt last he managed to shove himself through a gap and wobble up the last steps. When he reached the top, he only saw a bedroom door fall shut. The click was small, but to him it was deafening.\n\nHe went to the door, yanked at the handle. Locked.\n\n“Myles! Christine!” He hammered his fist against the wood. “Open up! Christine!”\n\nThe music devoured his cries. No one reacted. A couple making out at the other end of the hallway shot him an annoyed look and turned away. The door in front of him remained a dull, unmoving surface.\n\nHe hit it again, then again, feeling pain in his knuckles. Nothing. No sliding bolt, no voice. Only the bass, booming through the floor and walls.\n\nSlowly the realization seeped in: he wasn’t getting through here. Not now. Not like this.\n\nA wave of helplessness, disgust, panic came over him. He felt tiny in his miniskirt, defenseless on the unsteady heels, ridiculously decorated in front of a locked door behind which his little sister was drunk and alone with a guy who definitely wanted only one thing.\n\nChris turned around and went back down the stairs. Every step vibrated in the heels, the music striking up at him from below. Downstairs at the bar, he grabbed the nearest cup of beer. He drank. It tasted bitter, stale, whatever. He kept drinking.\n\nHe leaned against the side of the “bar,” the cup in his hand, and stared into nothing. His thoughts were upstairs. With Christine on the bed, with Myles’s hands, with a dress being pushed up. He tried to shove the images away, but the more he tried to suppress them, the clearer they became. Christine half-naked on the bed and Myles moaning on top of her. Her screaming, too loud. Her no, no. His mind painted pictures. Pictures full of details, of Myles robbing his little sister of her innocence.\n\n<div class="psychedelic-text"> He drank. Another sip, a big one. His throat burned briefly. Maybe, if he was drunk enough, it would hurt a little less for a moment that he hadn’t been able to protect her.\n\n“Chris.” Lucas’s voice beside him, cautious. “Hey. Maybe… you’re already pretty—”\n\n“Leave me alone,” Chris said without looking over.\n\n“But—”\n\n“I don’t want any boys around me right now.” The words came out harder than he had planned. He felt Lucas’s hurt like a tug in the air. He added, more quietly: “Just go, okay?”\n\nA moment of silence. Then he heard Lucas’s footsteps moving away.\n\nChris stayed where he was, clutching the cup, drinking on. He felt guilty and right at the same time, angry at Myles, at boys, at himself.</div>\n\n[[Continue|Chris wird zum Tanzen aufgefordert.3]]

After warm-ups and a few rounds of line running, Mr. Moore split the group into small teams. Charlotte ended up at Chris’s cone, still grinning as she slowed down and planted her hands on her hips. Her bangs stuck lightly to her forehead, her freckles looked polished under the gym lights.\n\n“Hey, Chris?” She stepped half a step closer so her voice wouldn’t flutter across the whole gym. “Do you have anything planned tomorrow? It’s supposed to be the last really warm days. We’re going to lie out in my garden, do a little sunbathing, maybe hop into the hot tub. I make delicious iced tea, promise.”\n\nThe word “hot tub” lit up like a warning signal in Chris’s head, but his first reflex was stronger. “Sounds—” He heard himself about to say “great,” because no girl had ever invited him so casually before. Beside him, Christine subtly drove her elbow into his side. A short jab, but precise. And suddenly the reflex was slowed, the thought of swimwear jumping onto the back of his neck.\n\nSwimwear. In a quick, panicked staccato of images, he saw: sports shorts, a T-shirt in the water that would raise questions; a girl’s swimsuit that was supposed to hide… things a normal girl didn’t have. A small tension in his crotch stirred, as if his penis were listening too.\n\n“Uh—today’s kind of difficult,” he said, and could hear his own voice stumble over a pebble. “I’ve… already got something planned.” With whom? With no one. But the sentence was in the room now.\n\n“No big deal.” Charlotte shrugged kindly. “Tomorrow, then? I swear, the hot tub is my parents’ perfect life decision.” Her gaze was open, pleading, the kind of Charlotte look that said “come on.”\n\nChris felt how poorly built his defensive walls were. “Tomorrow… could work,” he forced out. A nod that came too quickly. He had no plan for what to wear, no plausible excuse, and still there was this magnetic pull the word “invited” had on him. Charlotte beamed as if he had just agreed to a race that would be fun.\n\n“Nice! Christine knows the address.”\n\nChristine stood two steps behind him and raised her eyebrows so minimally that only someone who knew her would see it.\n\n“Pack sunscreen. And, uh… towel, swimsuit, obviously.” A brief laugh, again that lightness with which she listed the props of summer. “You won’t regret it.”\n\n“Sure,” Chris managed; his mouth was faster than his brain.\n\nAs Charlotte jogged back to her group, iced tea, sun, and the word “hot tub” remained hanging in the air like glittering soap bubbles. Christine stepped beside him, pushed her hair behind her ears, watched Charlotte stumble away, and snorted softly.\n\n“You said yes,” she stated. Not a question, just a fact you put on the table and look at.\n“I… yeah.”\n“Swimwear?” Her voice wasn’t sharp, just sober.\n“I’ll figure it out,” he muttered.\n“Mhm.” Christine shook her head almost imperceptibly, that small, bobbing no you give when you like someone and at the same time can’t believe how they’re marching into a dead end. “Better not tell Mom anything.”\n\n“I’m not planning to.” He tried to say it jokingly; it sounded like a plea to the universe not to be too loud today.\n\nThe whistle cut through the gym, Mr. Moore called everyone together. Chris trudged along beside Christine.\n\n[[Continue|Sportunterricht.]]

The last days until college were numbered, and Maplewood looked the same as always—which was exactly what made it feel so unreal. The familiar streets, the shop windows, the small park with the benches where Chris had sat alone far too often.\n\nChris walked along the main street as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His dress swayed lightly with every step, and his heels clicked in a steady rhythm over the paving slabs—a sound that would once have made him nervous and now felt more like a metronome: I am here. I keep going.\n\nChris turned the corner by the bookstore when his gaze caught on a familiar silhouette.\n\n[[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]].\n\nHe had grown a little broader, as if life had decided in one year to place more weight on his shoulders. His hair was shorter. His posture was the same: that mixture of tension and control, as if he were always holding himself back just a little. Beside him, a few steps offset, walked a woman—and Chris’s heart gave a hard leap when he recognized her.\n\n[[Mrs. Barnett|Caroline Barnett]].\n\nShe was pushing a stroller.\n\nFor a moment, Chris’s world stopped, as if someone had turned off the sound. All he could hear was the clicking of his own shoes and the blood rushing in his ears.\n\nHomecoming was almost a year ago—and yet it was still a sharp image inside him: the sex, the motel hallway, Lucas’s face. Since that night, Chris and Lucas had not been together again. They had avoided each other at school, looked past each other in the hallways, as if “not looking” were an agreement. Lucas had been incredibly hurt. And Chris had felt so guilty that sometimes he did not know whether he missed Lucas more or the version of himself he had lost that evening.\n\nLucas noticed him at the same moment. His eyes brushed over Chris—only briefly, a quick, controlled glance, as if checking whether he was really there. Then Lucas simply kept walking. No hello. No nod. Not even that polite face you give strangers. Just a silent passing-by that said more than any word.\n\nThat was worse than any insult.\n\nMrs. Barnett, on the other hand, stopped as if she had recognized Chris from afar and had consciously waited. Her face was calm, almost friendly. As if all of it—the past, the catastrophe—were simply a chapter one could close.\n\n“Chris.” Her voice was soft. “Hello.”\n\nChris’s mouth went dry. He forced himself to nod. “Hello, Mrs. Barnett.” The “Mrs.” slipped out automatically.\n\nMrs. Barnett smiled, small, controlled. “You look good.”\n\n“Thank you.” Chris managed the politeness like someone walking down a staircase without seeing the steps. His gaze fell into the stroller more by chance than intention. Maybe he was looking for a distraction. Maybe he was simply… curious. Maybe he was hoping for something ordinary that would ground him again.\n\nA small face. Tiny hands. A blanket that seemed too large. And eyelids twitching in half-sleep.\n\n<center>[img[pics/baby.jpg]]</center> Caroline stepped closer, close enough that her perfume hit Chris like a blow—not erotic like back then, but like a memory he had not asked for. She positioned herself so that the stroller covered her words, and whispered as if it were a secret shared in the supermarket between the shelves:\n\n“That is your daughter.”\n\nChris’s body reacted before his mind could catch up. His breath stopped, as if someone had pulled the air from his lungs. His fingers cramped around his handbag, and for one insane moment he thought he had to hold on to something or he would fall over.\n\n“What…?” His voice was hardly more than a breath. “No. Mrs. Barnett, that… that can’t—”\n\nMrs. Barnett looked at him, calm, almost tender, as if she were explaining something that had long since been decided. “Yes. She is.” She lowered her gaze briefly into the stroller, and there was a warmth in her face that frightened Chris because it looked real. “You don’t need to be afraid.”\n\nChris’s heart hammered. Images shot through him: that night, the motel, the hallway, Lucas’s tearful eyes. And now this tiny face that knew nothing about any of it.\n\n“But… Lucas… his father…” Chris choked on the words.\n\nMrs. Barnett nodded, as if she had already arranged this part of the story in her mind a hundred times. “My husband thinks she’s his child.” No hesitation. No shame. Just a statement. “Only Lucas knows.”\n\nChris felt a stabbing pain, as if the name alone tore open a scar. “He… knows?”\n\n“Yes.” Caroline held Chris’s gaze. “And he promised me he would stay silent.”\n\nChris could have laughed if it had not been so brutal. Promised to stay silent. As if that were a noble gesture and not a second punishment. As if Lucas’s silence were something one could demand.\n\nMrs. Barnett briefly placed a hand on the stroller, as if confirming reality. “You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to enter her life. You don’t have to do anything at all, Chris. Do you understand?” Her tone was kind, but beneath it lay something hard as steel: a decision that had long since been made without him.\n\nChris nodded automatically, even though he understood nothing.\n\nMrs. Barnett took a step back, lifted her hand in a small farewell wave, as if the meeting were now finished. “Take care of yourself.”\n\nThen she pushed the stroller onward, in Lucas’s direction, and the two of them moved through downtown again as a unit—the family that officially existed. Lucas did not turn around.\n\nChris remained standing.\n\nHe felt the heels of his shoes press hard into the ground, as if he had been nailed in place. Around him, people walked past, talked, laughed, carried shopping bags, as if the world were intact. Chris stared at the point where Mrs. Barnett had disappeared, and inside, he felt both empty and overfull at once.\n\nI’m a father.\n\nThe sentence was so absurd that his brain could not grasp it at first. Father—a word that sounded like responsibility, like warmth, like protection. And at the same time like a mistake that now breathed and slept and would one day walk. Like a life he had helped create without ever being asked whether he was ready to carry it.\n\nChris swallowed. His hands were now visibly trembling, and he pressed them against the sides of his handbag as if that could stop the shaking. He thought of Lucas’s look, of the walking away without a word. Of the promise to stay silent. Of a child who was not to blame for any of it.\n\nAnd he simply stood there, in the middle of Maplewood, while his footsteps fell silent—and in his mind, a new chapter began for which he had no title.\n\n[[Continue|Chris auf dem College.]]

Chris felt the evening standing on an edge. The laughter, the lights, the huge stuffed animal in his arms – it was all still there, but behind it, that one question pressed so hard that he could no longer push it away. If he stayed silent now, he would keep letting Dylan walk into an image that wasn’t true. And if he spoke, he could lose everything.\n\nHe stopped, turned to Dylan, and held the stuffed animal like protection between himself and the world. His fingers were cold, even though his face was warm.\n\n“Dylan… I have to tell you something,” he began. His voice trembled, only slightly, but he heard it himself.\n\nDylan looked at him, still with that mixture of disappointment and concern. “Okay… what is it?”\n\nChris swallowed. He searched for a way to say it that didn’t sound like a wrecking ball. “I’m… different from the other girls,” he said at first. That was too vague. It felt like a detour that only kept him walking in circles longer.\n\nHe breathed in as if he were about to go underwater. “Biologically… I’m a boy.”\n\nIt was out. A sentence that hung in the cold air as if it had weight.\n\nDylan stared at him. First came that brief, automatic smile, as if he were waiting for the punchline. “Stop,” he said, laughing once, uncertainly. “That’s a joke, right?”\n\nChris shook his head, slowly. “No.” He forced himself not to avoid Dylan, not to look away. “I… I wanted to tell you. Because I didn’t want to keep…” He broke off, because the word lying was too sharp, but it stood between them.\n\nDylan blinked. His forehead creased, as if he had to recalibrate his eyes. In front of him stood Chris in a pretty floral dress, gloss on his lips, the stuffed wolf in his arms – beautiful, exactly the way Dylan knew him. And yet Chris said that sentence as if it were the only truth left.\n\n“But…” Dylan began, then fell silent again. His gaze moved over Chris’s face, as if searching there for an explanation you could see.\n\nChris felt his heart hammering against his ribs. “I understand if you… if you don’t want to see me anymore now.” The words came quietly, but clearly. “I just didn’t want you to think I… I deliberately deceived you.”\n\nDylan breathed out, as if only now realizing he had been holding his breath. He looked away, for a moment, then back again. The shock was still there, but beneath it lay something else: an honest struggle, no disgust, no mockery.\n\n“I… don’t know what to say to that,” he admitted. “That’s… intense. That’s really intense.”\n\nChris nodded, his eyes burning. “Yeah.”\n\nDylan looked at him for a long time, as if seeing Chris for the first time and yet as someone completely familiar. Then he said slowly, “But I didn’t fall in love with… some body.” He swallowed, briefly rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous tic. “I fell in love with you. With the way you laugh. The way you light up when you manage something. The way you listen to me.” He shook his head, as if he had to convince himself. “I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t know what it means for… everything. But I want to try.”\n\nChris’s chest tightened, this time not from fear, but from relief that almost hurt. He couldn’t get a word out.\n\nDylan took a step closer. “Okay?” he asked softly, almost carefully, as if Chris were made of glass now.\n\nChris nodded. “Okay.”\n\nDylan put his hand to Chris’s cheek – warm, steady, real – and kissed him. Not hastily, not demandingly. More like a decision he was consciously making right then. Chris was surprised at first, because he had been so braced for rejection. Then he let go and returned the kiss, as if he could finally breathe again.\n\nWhen they parted, Dylan stayed close, forehead almost against forehead. He looked at Chris, still a little overwhelmed, but not looking away. And then he asked, quietly and hesitantly, as if feeling out the word anew:\n\n“To my place?”\n\n[[Continue|Zu Dylan nach Hause.]]

Later, during the long break, Chris ended up in the girls’ bathroom—more to escape the hallway commotion than out of any real need. The fluorescent light flickered faintly, and somewhere a faucet dripped in the wrong rhythm.\n<<set $ort to "girls’ bathroom">>\nZoe was standing by the window, half perched on the radiator, taking a drag from a vape. A sweetish smell—something with berries—settled over the room. She blew the vapor toward the tilted-open window, as if she lived in a music video.\n\n“You here too?” she asked, without any real surprise.\n\nChris raised an eyebrow. “Weren’t you in the office?”\n\nZoe shrugged. “I was. Then I wasn’t anymore.” She gave a crooked grin, took another drag, and looked him over appraisingly. “You look like you just ate a math worksheet.”\n\nChris groaned softly. “The test is tomorrow. I can’t get the formulas into my head. I keep getting the practice problems wrong.”\n\n“Welcome to the club,” Zoe said, blowing out vapor. “Nelson acts like numbers are a lifestyle.”\n\nChris leaned against the sink, playing with the hem of his wrap skirt. “I don’t even know if I’ll manage it by tomorrow.”\n\nZoe tilted her head. “Then just cheat.”\n\nChris’s gaze shot up. “What?”\n\n“Write the formulas on your thighs,” Zoe said, as if she were suggesting sharing a piece of gum. “Then wear a skirt. If Nelson gets annoying, you act like you’re just fixing your stocking.” She grinned, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. The thought was wrong—and yet it didn’t slide away immediately. He looked briefly down at his tights, then imagined the alternative: a lousy grade, Susan’s sharp comments, even more pressure. He already had more than enough problems; he didn’t need math as an additional construction site too.\n\n“I…” He bit his lip. “I don’t want to fail.”\n\n“Then do it smart,” Zoe said, and this time it almost sounded like advice, not a trap.\n\nShe tucked the vape into her jacket pocket, slid down from the radiator, and went to the door. Just before she left, she stopped. She turned around once more, looking at Chris as if weighing something—as if testing a thought to see whether she should say it out loud or keep it to herself.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ladendiebin > 1 && $charlotte < 2>>[[Meeting after school.|Treffen nach der Schule.]]<<else>>[[She keeps going.|Sie geht weiter.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

After the song, Adam led Chris straight off the dance floor to the drinks table. The punch in the large glass bowl glittered under the string lights, plastic cups clacked, ice cubes floated like tiny, frantic fish. Chris’s pulse was still faster than normal.\n\nAdam kept his arm around Chris’s waist, as if he were afraid Chris might otherwise “get lost.” Chris took a cup, held it tightly with both hands, and drank too quickly. The sweetness stuck to his tongue, but it did not help against the heat in his face.\n\n“So... you two?” A few girls were suddenly standing beside them, curious and half-amused. Their eyes moved back and forth between Chris’s dress and Adam’s suit, as if this were an equation that did not add up. “Are you... together?”\n\nAdam answered before Chris could even take a breath. “Yes,” he said calmly, pulling Chris just a touch closer. “We’re an official couple.” Then he added, far too naturally: “We’ve been together for weeks.”\n\nChris’s stomach gave a small, cold lurch. For weeks? Adam talked about “we” as if Chris had signed off on it. And of course that immediately triggered more questions.\n\n“For weeks?”\n“How did you meet?”\n“Why didn’t anyone notice?”\n\nChris forced himself into a smile that did not immediately tremble. His mind raced: If I contradict him, it’ll be obvious. If I confirm it, it’ll get worse. He decided on the smallest lie that sounded the most plausible.\n\n“In the... uh... D&D club,” he said, lifting the cup slightly, as if that were an explanation people could simply accept. “We... play together.”\n\nA few eyebrows rose. Someone giggled. “That’s kind of... cute?”\n\n“He... helped me settle in here,” Chris improvised, trying not to go into too much detail. “And then... yeah.” He knew himself how thin it sounded, but at least it was a thread someone could believe if they wanted to.\n\nAdam nodded with satisfaction, as if that was exactly the story he had wanted to hear. “Exactly,” he said. “We fit well together.” Again that signal of possession, again that “we” that wrapped around Chris’s ribs like a clamp.\n\nThe girls smiled, exchanged glances, as if they had something new to file away. But the attention remained hanging in the air. Chris sensed that they were not “done,” only temporarily looking elsewhere.\n\nAdam leaned toward Chris, too close. “You’re doing well,” he murmured—and it sounded like praise until he whispered the second sentence, barely audible: “Don’t stop.”\n\nChris’s fingers tightened around the cup. He felt that invisible leash. And then, without any warning, Adam lifted one hand to Chris’s chin, as if it were a romantic gesture anyone was entitled to.\n\n“Kiss me,” Adam said quietly.\n\nChris froze. He saw two heads nearby turn inconspicuously. Saw someone at the edge of the table slow down. Saw eyes finding their way back to them, as if they had sensed that something “worth watching” was about to happen.\n\nIn Chris’s head, two fears collided: If he gave in, Adam would want more next time—because giving in looked to Adam like a step in his direction. If he refused, Adam could publish the video. And even if Adam did not do it immediately: The threat would always remain in the air, every time Chris said “no.”\n\nAdam kept his gaze fixed on him, the phone invisible, but like a shadow between them. Chris’s heart beat hard, his smile had vanished. He stood in the middle of the dance, in the middle of the light, and felt completely alone at the same time.\n\n''What does Chris decide?''\n[[Chris gives in.|Adam küssen.]]\n<<if $adam < 4 >>[[Chris rejects Adam.|Adam zurückweisen.2]]<<else>><div class="box"><b>Note:</b> Chris does not have enough willpower to defy Adam.</div><<endif>>

Thursday vibrated like a wound-up guitar string. Everywhere in the building, conversations about the Timberwolves’ first big home game washed through the halls; even teachers let themselves get carried away into “Tomorrow we’ve got this” remarks. Chris let the euphoria pass him by like warm wind. He would be at the stadium—up in the stands, beside the band parents, cheering on his sister when she shone on the sideline with her pom puffs. Part of him tingled at the thought; another part was glad not to be in the spotlight himself.<<set $wochentag = 4>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "school">>\n\nAfter school was D&D club. At least there, nobody talked about football. The dice clacked, character sheets rustled, and the gaming table smelled of cola and felt-tip pen. But another topic pushed its way into the group in football’s place: the Homecoming dance next week.\n\n“Homecoming is next week, right?” someone asked while sorting his dice, as if he could organize his social life with them.\n\n“Yep,” Ben answered dryly, without looking up. “The school is acting like it’s the UN General Assembly.”\n\n“I heard they’re decorating the gym with so many strings of lights the fire department is going to cry,” another said, grinning.\n\n“I’m not going,” someone threw in. “I’m not voluntarily entering a room where the music is too loud, people are too close, and nobody understands what a Saving Throw is.”\n\nLaughter. A shrug went around the table like a wave.\n\n“We could go as a group,” Jay suggested from somewhere at the edge, still cautiously, as if testing the ground. “Like… ironically.”\n\n“The Pact of the Lonely,” someone said, raising a hand dramatically. “We wear black capes and arrive as a pack.”\n\nThen Adam cleared his throat and announced with the self-assurance of a stadium announcer: “I’m going with my girlfriend.” He pointed the pen at Chris. “With Chris.”\n\nFor a moment, Chris heard only the echo of the room. His head snapped up. Excuse me? Their arrangement had been clear: in D&D club there was the show—holding hands in front of the parents, once a month at game nights, done. Homecoming had never come up.\n\n''How does Chris react?''\n❯ [[He brings it up.|Er spricht es an.]]\n❯ [[He’d rather say nothing.|Er sagt lieber nichts.]]

The bus squealed at the corner, spat out the last students, and Chris and Christine climbed down the steps into the late-afternoon warmth. The day hung in their bones, and for Chris there was something else: an urgent pulling in his overfull bladder. At school, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to use the girls’ restroom. So he had thought “soon,” hour after hour, until “soon” had backed up into an emergency.\n<<set $ort to "street">>\nThey walked the short blocks home, gravel crunching, sprinklers hissing, and Chris’s steps grew shorter, more erratic. “Everything okay?” Christine asked, without looking up from her phone.\n“Y-yeah,” he forced out, sounding like someone walking across a shaky bridge.\n\nAt the front door, Christine searched through her key ring. Chris pressed his legs together, shifting from foot to foot, a helpless potty dance that embarrassed even him. “Hurry, please,” he whispered, half pleading.\n“Already on it,” she muttered—click. The door opened.\n\nChris shot through the hallway into the bathroom, slammed the door, and finally let go—a tremendous wave of relief that flushed the whole day out of his body. Only when his pulse returned to normal did he realize what he had done completely automatically: he had sat down. Just as his mother had drilled into him for weeks.\n\nIn his head, a scene started up like an old projector:\n\nSummer light in the bathroom, Susan’s finger pointing at the toilet while she expected him to sit down, making no move whatsoever to leave the room.\n\n“Girls sit down. Always. Period.” Her voice sharp and leaving no room.\n\nHis mother didn’t even turn around as Chris pulled down the panties, sat down, and relieved himself.\n\nThe sound of the water splashing had practically echoed through that small room back then. Chris closed his eyes and prayed it would be over quickly, while he could practically feel his mother’s gaze on him.\n\nBack in the present: the pressure ebbed away, his shoulders sank. He stood up, adjusted his dress, flushed, washed his hands, and took one deep breath. Done.\n\nWhen he opened the bathroom door, his mother was already standing in the hallway in front of his closed bedroom door. Her gaze was bright and taut, as if she had a little show ready. “Finally,” she said with that tidy excitement that rarely meant anything good from her. “I have a surprise for you.” She placed her hand on the handle of Chris’s room—and slowly pressed it down.\n\n[[Continue|Chris Zimmer wurde umdekoriert.]]

Chris reacted before he could think. He stepped in front of Christine, positioning himself so that his body shielded her, and put a hand on her arm as if pinning her to the ground. Christine instinctively ducked, and Chris felt something old switch on inside him—a clear, calm protective reflex. Big-brother mode. No elegance, no role-playing. Just: She is small, I am in front.\n<<set $ChristineMemory[3] to 1>>\nThe phone lights were still trembling, searching the floor. Then one cone of light fell exactly on what had darted past.\n\nA skunk.\n\nIt stood in the middle of the aisle between two tanks, black and white, its tail raised like a warning flag. For a moment, everything froze. The animal seemed both comical and threatening—too small for the panic it had caused, and yet far too self-assured to be harmless.\n\n“Oh my God,” someone cried.\n\nThe skunk made a short, jerky step forward. A cheerleader—too close, too nervous—squeaked, backed away, almost stumbled, and that was enough.\n\nA sharp hiss, a tiny burst from its rear—and the smell hit like a wall. Not just “bad,” but downright physical: sharp, biting, as if it were clawing into his throat. The girl screamed, her hands flying up as if she could fend off the stench. Tears sprang into her eyes.\n\n“Aaaah! It got me—IT SPRAYED ME!” she shrieked, and the hall filled with chaos as if something truly supernatural had just happened.\n\nThe skunk used the general commotion, turned, and fled into the darkness between the tanks. Its claws scraped briefly on concrete—then it was gone.\n\nChris was still holding Christine, feeling her quick breathing. “It’s okay,” he murmured, even though it obviously was not “okay.” He only let go of her once he was sure she would not bolt in panic.\n\n“We have to get out,” Dylan said immediately, loud enough to gather the group again. He still sounded calm, but now with more urgency. “Don’t stand around. Keep moving. Window, door, anything. Everyone together.”\n\nThey moved again, faster this time, but more orderly. Everyone tried to get as far away from the stinking girl as possible, as if she were contagious. She was crying and cursing at the same time, and every time she moved, the smell seemed to surge up again. Chris breathed through his mouth, but even that barely helped.\n\nPenelope went in front, her phone light like a searchlight. “There!” she suddenly called, pointing to one side of the wall, where a window stood half open—an old, dirty tilt window in a frame that looked rusty, but sturdy enough.\n\n“Out through there!” Dylan directed at once. “One at a time. No panic.”\n\nThey formed a line. First a few boys climbed, then a few cheerleaders. Penelope was surprisingly quick getting up, pulled herself through, and helped from outside. Christine clung briefly to Chris’s sleeve. “I hate it here, <<if $chrisorsis == 1>>Sis<<else>>Chris<<endif>>,” she murmured, and Chris only nodded.\n\nWhen it was Chris’s turn, he suddenly felt his dress again, and the fabric that really was not made for something like this. He put one foot on a low edge, grabbed the frame, pulled himself up—and realized the movement was awkward, clumsy, with too little strength in the right angles. For a moment he slipped, and his heart jumped.\n\nDylan was there immediately. Without hesitating, he grabbed Chris’s butt, lifted him as if he were lighter than he felt, and pushed him upward with one short, steady impulse. Chris felt Dylan’s hands—firm, practical, protective—and for a moment his mind flickered between fear and a completely inappropriate tingle.\n\n“Got you,” Dylan said curtly.\n\nChris made it through the window, landed outside on the damp grass, and stumbled a step before catching himself. He turned around and helped Christine, who came right after him. Then the whole group was outside, a lumpy little cluster in the dark by the riverbank, the plant behind them a black block.\n\nThe night air was fresh, but the stench clung to the one girl like an aura. Everyone automatically backed away, held sleeves in front of their noses, grimaced. The girl stood in the middle of a circle of distance, tear-streaked, angry, and humiliated.\n\n“Oh my God, it’s the curse,” someone said, half serious, half breathless.\n\n“I told you—Don’t go there after dark,” another murmured, this time without any laughter.\n\nThe teenagers looked at one another, eyes wide in the phone light. No one said “skunk” with the relief it deserved. Instead, to all of them, it felt as if Maplewood had given them a story after all—one that sounded too detailed to be completely made up.\n<<set $choice_ahorn1 to 0>>\n[[Continue|Bewertungstag.]]

Chris and Lucas went back into the living room. The air had grown denser, warmer; the bass pressed against his breastbone. Beams of light spun as if they were meant to soften everything.\n<<set $ort to "Party House">>\nChristine was still on the “dance floor,” somewhere between Myles and the music. But the difference was obvious: her movements were no longer loose, but swaying. She clung to Myles more than she was really dancing. The cup in her hand tipped with every turn, the last of the beer sloshing over.\n\nThe song ran out in its final seconds. Christine laughed too loudly, stumbled half a step back. The moment the music stopped, she tipped over. Her knees gave way.\n\nMyles caught her at the last moment, one arm around her waist, the other at her back. “Woah, easy,” he said, laughing. “All good.”\n\nChristine let her head hang against his shoulder, mumbled something unintelligible. Her body weight was completely on him. She was gone. Not unconscious, but so soft that any impulse would have had to come from outside.\n\nMyles looked around briefly, then pulled her a little out of the crowd, toward the edge. No one stopped him. Most people were already occupied with the next song, even though it hadn’t even started yet.\n\nChris saw Myles, with Christine in his arms, heading for the stairs.\n\nIt took a heartbeat for the thought to become clear. Shit. He wants to take her upstairs. To a room. With beds. To sleep with her.\n\nHis stomach tightened. He stood there, in a miniskirt, in heels, with lip gloss, and everything felt paradoxical: outwardly a “party girl,” inwardly a big brother with alarm bells going off in his head.\n\nWhat was he supposed to do?\n\nHe looked over at Lucas. Lucas’s gaze followed Myles and Christine, saw them take their first steps toward the stairs. He lowered his eyes, as if afraid of seeing too much.\n\n“Do you want to do something?” Lucas asked quietly. No sharpness in his voice, no direction. Just an offer that could mean everything and nothing. He passed the decision on instead of taking it.\n\nThe music started up again, some random track. The people around them began to dance as if nothing had happened.\n\nChris stood between the bass and the stairs, where his sister was about to disappear.\n<<set $myles_opinion to 21>>\n''What should he do?''\n❯ [[Save his sister.|Seine Schwester retten.3][$christine += 1;$christine_opinion += 10;$christine_party += 1]]\n❯ [[Do nothing.|Nichts tun.3]]

Chris pushed the cup away with a small shake of his head. “Nah, I’m good, thanks,” he murmured. The boy shrugged and moved on. The bass simply swallowed the scene.\n\nThe alcohol Chris already had in him was working anyway. His head felt warm and cottony, the contours slightly shifted. The awkward foreign-body feeling in his own body didn’t get better because of it—only slower.\n\nHe took two uncertain steps, searching for a gap to get off the dance floor. Charlotte noticed immediately. “Where do you think you’re going?” she called over the music and grabbed his wrist.\n\n“I… just out for a second—”\n\n“Nope.” She pulled him back into the middle. “You’re staying.”\n\nHe stayed. The miniskirt clung to his butt, every hint of hip movement seeming exaggerated. The heels threatened to betray him with every change of direction. He moved minimally, just enough not to look frozen. Inside, though, he still felt like someone who had been stuffed into a foreign avatar.\n\nOut of the corner of his eye, he saw Myles handing Christine a fresh red cup. She took it without hesitation, laughed, tapped the rim against his. Her cheeks were flushed, her movements had grown looser, freer. Myles moved closer, his hands finding her waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world, gliding over her back and butt as they danced. Christine allowed it. More than that: she leaned into his closeness, laughed high, briefly let her head fall back against his neck.\n\nA second cup. A third. Myles refilled. Christine drank.\n\nHer dress clung to her, the light gleaming on the nude pantyhose. Myles’s hand wandered a little lower, pulled her closer to him, and she allowed it, turning toward him and kissing him. It didn’t look like coercion. It looked like “I want this.” Or the alcohol had wrapped every trace of resistance in warm fog. Willingly, she let him grope her tits, ass, and legs, smiling blissfully.\n\nQuite shamelessly, Myles massaged her ass, her skirt riding higher and higher until it was ultimately pushed up almost completely and her butt was exposed. Chris’s sister was now basically dancing with her backside bare, both arms wrapped around his neck as she rubbed her lower body against his pelvis in provocative circular movements. My little sister is so sexy, Chris suddenly thought. It came too fast to push away. The alcohol had made his filters thinner.\n\nMyles grinned, whispered something into her ear. Christine giggled, leaning against him. She seemed intoxicated—by the music, by the alcohol, by the attention.\n\nChris stood at the edge of the circle, between beats and bodies, and felt something twisting inside him. A strange jealousy, pulling from two directions at once.\n\nOn the one hand, toward Myles: toward the matter-of-factness with which he could put his hands on an attractive girl, with which he got Christine’s attention, her laughter, her closeness. Toward the role of the cool guy who dances like that with “his” girl at parties.\n\nAnd at the same time, a jealousy toward Christine. Toward the way she stood in that dress as if her body were exactly the one she wanted. How she gave herself over to the moment without holding on to every hem. How she could dance with a boy, press herself against him, have fun, like a “real girl.” Chris felt a thought swell up: I want that too. Warm, sharp, immediately pushed away again. It’s the alcohol talking, he shoved after it. Still, something of it stuck.\n\n[[Continue|Charlotte wird bedrängt.]]

Chris pushed the cup back. “Nah, thanks,” he said, his voice louder than he felt.\n\nThe boy shrugged, kept twitching to the beat, and in the next moment was already occupied with someone else. The bass kept pumping, but Chris’s body simply couldn’t keep up. Everything felt uncoordinated: the heels throwing him off balance, the miniskirt that was constantly too short, the small chest under the top that commented on every movement. The foreign-body feeling remained.\n\nHe decided to take a break, turning sideways out of the dance floor. Lucas peeled himself off the wall he had pressed against and immediately followed him, like a little puppy that didn’t want to lose sight of him.\n\nAt the edge of the living room stood a sofa, half occupied, but one corner was free. Chris sank down there, grateful to take the pressure off his feet for a moment. The instant he sat, the miniskirt slid dangerously high. More thigh than okay. Too much panties. A few glances flicked over, whispering, appraising—even Lucas’s eyes darted there reflexively before he hastily looked away.\n\nHeat shot into Chris’s face. He tugged frantically at the hem, almost jumping back up at once. “Standing is better,” he muttered, more to himself.\n\nHe took a step back, looking for a spot where he wouldn’t be in anyone’s way. From here he could see the dance floor, where the music pulled the bodies closer together.\n\nMyles stood close to Christine. Very close. He pressed a new cup into her hand, toasted her, and she drank without hesitation. Her laughter had grown brighter, her movements softer, less restrained. Myles’s hands found her hips, her lower back, slid a little lower, stayed there. Christine allowed it, leaned against him, eventually looping her arms around his neck. The alcohol had loosened her inhibitions; whether she was consciously weighing everything was hard to say. She looked as if she was enjoying it.\n\n“That’s already the third,” Chris thought when he saw Myles hand her another cup. A knot tightened in his stomach. He didn’t know whether it was worry or something else.\n\nChristine willingly let Myles grope her tits, ass, and legs, smiling blissfully. Completely unashamed, Myles massaged her ass, her skirt sliding higher and higher until it was finally pushed up almost completely and her rear was exposed. Chris’s sister was now practically dancing with her butt bared, both arms looped around his neck, rubbing her lower body against his pelvis in provocative circling movements.\n\nMyles grinned, whispered something in her ear. Christine giggled, leaned against him. She seemed intoxicated—by the music, by the alcohol, by the attention.\n\nHis thoughts stuck on them. Myles, tall, confident, his hands so naturally on Christine’s body. Christine, in her tight dress, the light on her legs, her lips, her cleavage. An image that screamed “attractive.” Had he just called his sister attractive? The thought came dazed, and he half blamed it on the alcohol still swaying in his head.\n\nAt the same time, another pang shot through him: jealousy. Of Myles, because he danced so effortlessly with a girl like Christine, held her, made her laugh. And of Christine, because she stood in that role so naturally—a girl who could let herself go, who could afford to enjoy being desired by a boy. I don’t want to be Myles, shot through Chris’s head. I want… maybe more to be allowed to feel what she feels. To dance like that, laugh like that, be that “right.” The thought frightened him, but it didn’t go away.\n\nBeside him stood Lucas, his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders a little hunched. He followed Chris’s gaze, saw the way he looked at Myles—too long, too dreamily. Something in Lucas’s expression twitched, a quiet stab of jealousy. He said nothing.\n\nThen the song changed. A poppy 2000s hit started, bright and instantly recognizable. The first bars cut through the room, and in Chris’s head a door swung open. The song that used to play in the family car, on road trips, back when his parents were still together, when Christine sang along with a gap-toothed smile, when everything had at least seemed simpler.\n\n“Oh my God, this song,” Christine called and laughed, turning to the beat. Her head searched through the crowd, and when she saw Chris standing at the edge, she immediately reached a hand toward him. “Chris! Come here!”\n\nHe hesitated for a moment, then went to her. She grabbed his hands, pulled him back into the circle of music. He still knew the lyrics. Of course he knew them. His lips formed the words automatically; Christine sang along, far too loudly, but correctly. They looked at each other in the flickering light of the spots. For a few seconds, Myles, the stares, the miniskirt, the heels all disappeared.\n\nOnly this song, two siblings singing the same line at the same time.\n\nA brief, warm moment that, in the middle of the party chaos, felt like a piece of the past that had somehow made it through everything else.\n\n[[Continue|Chris braucht eine Pause.2]]

Mr. Moore stood so close that for a moment Chris no longer knew where to put his eyes. Looking at his lips was too obvious, looking away too conspicuous. He kept his gaze somewhere between chin and collarbone, as if that were a neutral place. The coach was explaining something—but Chris only heard fragments. His attention clung to the closeness, to the tiny distance that suddenly felt like a test.\n\nChris felt his own desire like a wave pressing from inside against his ribs. So strong, so unexpected, that it almost made him angry. His head moved automatically a few centimeters forward, as if pulled by a magnet. He was very close—close enough to feel Mr. Moore’s breath, close enough that a kiss would have been only one small, stupid movement.\n\nThen one clear thought tore the wave apart: No.\n\nChris stopped at the last moment. He didn’t jerk back in shock, but simply froze, as if he had suddenly remembered that his body didn’t belong to him. He cleared his throat, took half a step to the side, and pretended he only needed to correct his position. “Sorry—I… uh… lost the count,” he muttered, his voice too high.\n\nMr. Moore frowned slightly, more confused than suspicious. “It’s all right,” he said calmly. “Again from the top.”\n\nChris nodded, far too quickly. His face burned. He felt the embarrassment like a second skin—not only over the fact that he had almost done it, but over the fact that it had felt so… right, for that tiny, treacherous moment. He forced himself to think about technique again, about counts, about shoulders down, about soft knees. He even laughed briefly once, artificially, to play at normality.\n\nThe training ended eventually, without anything else happening. Mr. Moore gave him a matter-of-fact pat on the shoulder. “Good work. You’re on the right track.”\n\n“Thanks,” Chris managed, and was glad he didn’t have to stand in that closeness any longer.\n\nIn the locker room, he stayed longer than usual. He turned the shower cold until the first shock stole his breath. The water pelted down icy on his naked body, and he held his head under it as if he could wash the thoughts away with it. His skin prickled, his teeth briefly clenched together.\n\nThese stupid dreams, he thought, furious with himself. They’re getting me all worked up. He closed his eyes, breathed slowly until his heart was beating normally again. When he finally stepped out of the shower, his skin was cold and red—and his head at least a little quieter.\n\n[[Continue|Einkaufen mit Mom.]]

Zoe lingered in the doorway for one more heartbeat, as if she had almost changed her mind. Then she merely shrugged, turned around, and vanished without saying another word. The door fell shut with a soft click, and the sweetish steam remained in the air for another moment before fading away.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nChris stood at the sink, looked at his own reflection, and tried to sort his thoughts: math formulas, skirt hem, writing on his leg—everything seemed absurd and temptingly practical at the same time. He washed his hands longer than necessary, as if that could wash the idea away with it.\n\n<<if $charlotte < 2 && $lucas == 0>><center>[img[pics/charlotte_cafeteria2.jpg]]</center>Later, in the cafeteria, Chris noticed that Charlotte and the girl were still sitting at the same table, but no longer looked like a little island. Suddenly there was distance between them—a free chair, a bag in between, two bodies pointing in different directions. Charlotte stared at her tray, poking at her fries, while the other girl looked out the window with her arms crossed. No touch, no laughter, only that stiff silence that says more than any rumor.\n\n<<endif>>The rest of the school day went surprisingly normally. No incidents, no loud remarks. He sat in class, took notes, nodded in the right places, and still felt tomorrow’s math test the whole time like a stone in his shoe. When the final bell rang, he felt more relieved than free.\n\nThe bus brought him home, the streets flickering past the windows. Chris got off, walked up the path, unlocked the door—and stopped briefly in the hallway.\n\nSusan was already waiting for him.\n\n''What’s going on?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ferguson == 1>>[[Chris is supposed to babysit again.|Chris soll wieder Babysitten.]]<<else>>[[Chris is in trouble because of his job.|Chris hat Ärger wegen seinem Job.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Early Tuesday morning, Chris put on a blouse in front of his wardrobe, tucked it neatly into the high-waisted denim skirt, and stood in front of the mirror. The skirt button still closed—with a small, firm press that briefly let him hope. But when he tried to pull up the zipper, it stopped. Not at the waistband. Not at the top. It stopped exactly where his body had apparently decided to be rounder lately. He pulled again. Zip—stop. He breathed in, held the air, sucked in his stomach as if that could convince his butt to be less butt. Zip—stop. He tried technique: pulling slightly sideways, then straight, then sideways again. The zipper stood there like a little bouncer: “This far and no farther.”\n<<set $wochentag = 2>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">><<set $ChrisMemory[6] to 1>>\n“Come on,” Chris whispered, as if coaxing would help. He put one foot on the edge of the bed, pulled the skirt down, the zipper up—an acrobatic struggle in which he looked like someone trying to close a stubborn sleeping bag. For a moment the zipper slid a few millimeters, only to immediately stop again in offended silence.\n\nHe gave up before the thing went crack and his morning was ruined for good. With an annoyed sigh, he pulled the skirt off again and stood in front of the mirror.\n\nHe turned a little to the side, studying his hips and butt, which had changed over the past few weeks. It wasn’t dramatic—just enough that clothes sat differently, that fabrics stretched differently. And he knew where it came from. The hormones hadn’t just worked on him “a little”; they had redistributed things with precision. A few pounds, but in exactly the places that suddenly made him much more visible.\n\nChris stepped onto the scale.\n\nThe number was… barely different from before. That almost made it worse. It’s not even much, he thought, and still it felt like a big story in his body. He put his foot back down, stood there for a moment, and felt that typical, nasty girl-feeling: not really “too fat,” but somehow “couldn’t it be a little less”—as if his body had suddenly become a classmate playing a prank on him.\n\nHe snorted softly, more at himself than at the scale. “Okay. You win,” he muttered to the denim skirt and put it back.\n\nInstead, he reached for a linen wrap skirt, one that fell more softly and forgave more. He wrapped it around his waist, pulled the ties tight, and knotted them so the fabric slid over his hips in gentle folds without stretching anywhere. It didn’t hide “everything,” but it felt kinder—as if the clothing were working with him, not against him.\n\nIn front of the mirror, he smoothed the skirt, straightened the collar of the blouse, and noticed his shoulders relaxing by a small degree. Today, he didn’t feel the need to be “brave.” He felt the need to feel pretty. And when the linen fabric sat calmly and he could look at himself again without cursing, that was already enough to save the morning.\n\n[[Continue|Bloede Matheaufgaben.]]

With the cheer team, it eventually became visible. Christine couldn’t do everything anymore. At first it was just getting out of breath more quickly, then breaks, then the moment when, during warm-ups, she unconsciously placed a hand on her stomach and pretended it was only a stitch in her side. Some girls didn’t comment on it openly, but in that passive-aggressive way that sounded like sugar and burned like salt.\n\n“Taking a break again?”\n“You just have to pull yourself together, there’s a game tomorrow.”\n“You used to be way tougher.”\n\nChristine would then give a curt nod, say “Yeah, I’m fine,” and keep going until she couldn’t anymore. Chris saw it every time. He said nothing in the gym, because Christine would have stopped him with a look beforehand, but he stayed close to her, positioning himself so he could support her if she wavered. And if someone threw him a sideways glance, he simply held their gaze. He had learned that by now.\n\nChristine functioned during the day – the way she always functioned. She went to school, did her assignments, kept her eyes forward. But at night, when the apartment grew quiet, there was this hole opening up in her stomach – not just physically, but like a dark thought spreading out. What if…? What if I can’t do this? What if everything tips over?\n\nThat evening, there was a knock on Chris’ door, so quiet it could have been his imagination.\n\n“Yeah?” His voice was immediately careful.\n\nThe door opened a crack, and his sister stood in the doorway. Barefoot. Her eyes were redder than usual, her gaze so controlled it almost hurt.\n\nShe said nothing. She never would have said: I can’t sleep alone. She would sooner have lied, complained about something, invented some excuse.\n\nBut she simply stood there, and that was enough.\n\nChris sat up, pulled the blanket a little to the side – a wordless invitation, like when they were children. She climbed into bed, stiff like someone who didn’t know what to do with their arms and legs, and pulled the blanket toward herself as if it were a shield.\n\nChris didn’t move closer right away. He gave her a few breaths’ worth of time. He simply lay there on his back, his hands visible, as if he wanted to say: You’re safe. I’m here. I won’t do anything you don’t want.\n\nOnly when he noticed that her shoulders were still drawn up did he slowly turn onto his side. Very gently, he shifted closer until their bodies touched beneath the blanket – only a soft contact, hip against hip, warmth against warmth.\n\nChristine flinched. It wasn’t much. A reflex. A brief tensing, as if the memory had caught her without warning: that one night they had both regretted because it had tangled up so much. The knowledge that touch didn’t remain “neutral” once you had crossed the line.\n\nChris froze at once, keeping the distance exactly where it was. Christine drew in one sharp breath, then slowly let it out again. Her hand briefly clenched in the fabric of the blanket, then loosened once more. She turned her head a little, not toward him, more to the side, as if she didn’t want to see how close it was.\n\nThe tension in her held for another moment, then eased a little – the way you let your shoulders drop when you suddenly realize you’ve been holding them up the whole time.\n\nAnd then, very quietly, she drew herself a fraction closer. Not a dramatic cuddle, more an admission: I need your closeness right now.\n\nChris carefully lifted his hand and didn’t stroke her cheek, not her body, nothing intimate – only a small, safe gesture. He kissed her on the forehead, very briefly, more like a promise than anything else.\n\nChristine closed her eyes, as if that was exactly what she had needed.\n\n“Good night,” Chris murmured.\n\n“Mm,” was all she made. But it didn’t sound cutting. It sounded… tired. And finally a little relieved. They fell asleep beside each other, the touch of their bodies no longer like a mistake, but like an anchor.\n\nAnd the next evening she was standing in the doorway again. This time she didn’t knock. By the third evening, it was already almost taken for granted. Sometimes she still flinched when her brother touched her. Sometimes she went briefly rigid when his breath was too close to her hair. And every time, Chris did the same thing: He paused. He gave her space. He stayed there.\n\nThey now slept together every night because they were less afraid beside each other.\n\n[[Continue|Die nächsten Monate.]]

Chris reacted before he could form a clear thought. He ran, as fast as the heels allowed.\n<<set $ChristineMemory[2] to 1>>\nOne of the boys leaning against the wall with a beer nudged his buddy with his elbow and grinned broadly. “Well, there you go,” he slurred, loud enough for the people around them to hear. “Looks like someone’s night is going well.”\n\nAnother raised his plastic cup in the air as if to toast something. “He’s taking her to the love suite!” he bawled, and several people burst out laughing.\n\nIt was that dirty, self-satisfied laughter that had nothing to do with real joy.\n\nMyles was already at the stairs with Christine. She was half hanging from him, her hand on his arm, her knees weak. Chris tried to catch up, but the stairs were jammed; people were standing, sitting, leaning, holding cups, making room and yet not making room. He pushed through, muttering, “Sorry, just let me through,” but no one really took him seriously.\n\nFrom above, Christine looked down at him. For a moment, her gaze was clearer than her steps. Her eyes looked helpless, overwhelmed. She reached her hand out to him, fingers searching for something to hold on to.\n\nChris stretched out his arm as well, fingers spread. The miniskirt cut into the movement, the heels lost their stable footing for a moment. The distance between their hands remained a gap of air.\n\nMyles pulled her on. “It’s all good,” he said, audibly playing it casual. “She just needs to lie down for a bit.”\n\nAnother comment from the background, more laughter. The stairs became a corridor Chris couldn’t get through fast enough. Someone blocked the way, someone else was just trying to come down, red cups almost tipping over.\n\nWhen he finally forced his way upstairs, he only saw a door at the end of the hallway falling shut.\n\nChris went toward it, so fast that the heels clicked. He grabbed the handle, pressed. Nothing. Again, harder. The door was locked.\n\n“Christine!” he shouted, but his voice was swallowed by the pounding bass, by the muffled noise from below. He hammered his hand against the wood. “Open up!”\n\nNo answer. A little farther down, someone laughed from another room, a door opened, closed again. The music gathered like a wall of noise. He struck the door again, harder, feeling the pain in his knuckles.\n\nNothing.\n\nThe realization that he couldn’t do anything up here hit him like a blow to the chest. Helplessness tightened his throat. He turned around, went back down the stairs, step by step, slower this time. The bass pushed him back into the crush.\n\nHe headed for the bar, grabbed a fresh beer, someone said “help yourself,” as if that were great. He took the cup and stood at the edge of the room, where the light was a little darker.\n\nHe drank.\n\nThe taste was bitter and strong; this time he barely noticed. His thoughts were upstairs, behind the locked door. With Christine, who was drunk. In his mind’s eye he saw Christine upstairs in a room. Half-naked on the bed, the stretch dress pushed up and Myles on top of her. Her screaming, too loud. Her no, no. His head painted pictures. Pictures full of details of Myles stealing his little sister’s innocence.\n\nHe tried to push the images out of his head, to shove them away like empty cups. But the more he tried to suppress them, the more glaring they became. He lifted the cup, drank deeper, as if the alcohol could build the wall he needed.\n\n<div class="psychedelic-text"> The red cup grew lighter. His head heavier. The music was only one dull thud now. People passed him by, laughing, clinking cups; he stood there, a party-girl silhouette with a gaze growing emptier.\n\nAt some point, he lowered the cup and realized it was empty.</div>\n\n[[Continue|Chris wird zum Tanzen aufgefordert.]]

Chris let his arms sink and took half a step back. The boy in front of him stood there uncertainly for a moment.\n\nChris saw it—that brief, silent “sorry” on the boy’s face—and before he could think, he put on the encouraging smile he had used too often in recent weeks. Soft. Sweet. With a hint of “it’s okay.”\n\nIn that moment, his own expression triggered him. Sweet. That was what his mother had called it, what he had already caught himself looking like in the mirror. He hated how automatically it came. How it promised something outwardly that he didn’t want to give inwardly at all. For one tiny moment, he wanted to pull the smile back like a hand from a hot stovetop.\n\nBut the boy understood it differently. He blinked, and his gaze caught—not intrusively, more surprised, as if someone had just told him: I like you anyway. His shoulders sank, and a crooked grin pushed onto his face, uncertain, but unmistakably… pleased.\n\nChris’s stomach made a small knot. Oh no. He wanted to say: Not like that. Just being nice. Just practice. Instead, he only raised his hand briefly in a neutral gesture and quickly turned away to look for his new partner.\n\nChris turned as well, and there stood a girl from the group, dark ponytail, calm posture. She said nothing; she only stepped into the right distance and slowly raised her hands, as if testing an invisible pane in front of Chris. Her eyes found his. The air between them seemed to tighten.\n\nShe began with a small, flowing movement, a circling of the wrist that traveled into the forearm, then into the shoulder. Chris mirrored it without thinking. The lines fit. Their breathing happened to drop deeper at the same time. When they lowered their hands, they did it in the same rhythm, as if someone had set them to a metronome beforehand.\n\nA step to the right, soft; Chris glided with her. A tilt of the head; the answer reflected like water. She tested a faster figure—a brief dip, a straightening up with open arms—and Chris was there, as if the impulse had not been copied, but shared. His chest grew light, his body knew it before he did.\n\nMs. Green paused briefly, watched, and her “Good” was curt, but sincere. The girl kept leading, giving smaller and smaller impulses, letting silence into the movements. Chris found that silence and filled it without pulling. When they switched roles, the thread remained; Chris lifted his right hand, described a rectangle in the air with two fingers, and she completed it at the same time, exactly at the angle he had intended. The wood beneath their soles now sounded like a single step.\n\nAt the edge of the room stood Lucas, practicing with his partner, but his gaze slid over briefly, met Chris’s profile, and lingered until Ms. Green clapped: “Eyes on your partner!”\n\nThe minute passed without Chris having to count it. It felt as if the room had tuned both of them to a shared frequency. When the final clap came, they lowered their hands at the same time. An echo remained, warm and clean, like a fading string.\n\n“Remember,” Ms. Green said as she walked through the group, “you are not mirrors made of glass, you are mirrors made of attention. Lead so that following is possible. Follow so that leading makes sense.”\n\nChris nodded, and the girl in front of him nodded too, at the same small angle.\n\n[[Continue|Nochmal zur Schule.]]

He blinked and involuntarily looked toward the other end of the room. The boy from theater club stood there—slender, kind eyes, his hands at the edges of his pockets as if they were stuck there. He watched Chris half over the shoulder of a set piece, expectant, nervous. Chris was taken aback for a moment. He hadn’t guessed that he had an admirer—and that someone, of all places here in the theater, saw him like that.\n\nChris stared at the three boxes as if they were a math problem with too little room for the truth. The paper was small, but it suddenly felt heavy in his hand.\n\nHe took the pen, drew a breath, and checked no.\n\nThen he paused. Just “no” felt like a slammed door. So underneath, small and neat, so it wouldn’t look like pity, he wrote:\n\nYou’re really sweet, but I can’t. I’m sorry.\n\nAs he put down the final period, he felt that familiar sting in his stomach—guilt, even though he hadn’t done anything “wrong.” He folded the note again, the edge carefully, as if that could also smooth the feeling, and handed it back to Ruby.\n\n“Can you bring it to him?” he asked quietly. Ruby nodded, took the note, gave him one more brief, appraising look—no judgment, just understanding—and went over. Chris saw the boy take the note, saw his shoulders sink a little as he read. No scene, no drama—only that small, visible disappointment that briefly makes a person’s face softer.\n\nChris exhaled, placed his hands on the edge of the table, and held on there until the break was over. Then he took his position for the next scene, and the theater lights pushed the world back into order. Tomorrow he would sit in the stands and shout until his voice was scratchy. Today he only had to keep breathing, say his lines, stay standing.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Theaterclub.]]

Chris’ hand moved before his mind had finished the thought. A short, sharp strike—the slap cracked through the quiet diner air louder than it should have.\n\nRick froze for a moment, his cheek reddened, his eyes wide with surprise. Then his face twisted into something cold. “What the—” He raised his hand, not striking back, but feeling at his face, as if he wanted to check whether he had really just experienced that. “Have you completely lost it?”\n\nChris stood there, the apron crumpled like a fist, his heart pounding in his ears. He was breathing too fast. “Don’t touch me,” he said hoarsely, and it was the first sentence that felt like a real sentence. Not like service. Not like a role.\n\nRick’s expression tipped from insulted to angry. “You think you’re something better, don’t you,” he hissed, taking half a step back, as if reclaiming control. “This is how things work in here. And if you don’t like it—then you can leave.”\n\nChris’ hands were trembling. He wanted to say something, anything that explained that things should not work “like that.” But the words stuck in his throat, firm and burning.\n\nRick pointed to the back door. “Uniform off. Now. You’re out. Fired. And if your mother calls, I’ll tell her exactly how disrespectful you are.” He spat out the word “disrespectful” as if it were the only truth.\n\nChris swallowed. Everything in his belly tightened—not because he wanted to lose the job, but because it felt as if he had just slammed shut a door behind which he hadn’t even been able to breathe. He only nodded, silent, went into the small changing room, took off the apron, undid the knots with stiff fingers. The fabric suddenly felt like a foreign skin he had to get rid of. He hung the uniform on the hook, as neatly as if order could make the situation less ugly.\n\nWhen he walked past the front again, Rick didn’t even look at him. He demonstratively counted money, as if Chris were already nothing more than a noise that had to get out of the place.\n\nOutside, the cold night air struck him in the face. Chris walked to the bus stop, sat down on the bus, and only when the lights slid past the window did he notice that his hand was still burning. Not from the slap—from the adrenaline. From the fear that now came afterward: What do I tell Mom?\n\nAt home, his mother was already waiting, as if she had sent the trouble home ahead of him. She stood in the hallway, phone in hand, eyes narrowed. “Rick called,” she began without a greeting. “He says you acted out, and he fired you.”\n\nChris stood still with the bag on his shoulder. His throat was dry. He briefly looked past her, toward the kitchen, as if there might be an escape route there. “It was… a misunderstanding,” he said quietly.\n\n“A misunderstanding?” Susan laughed shortly, sharply. “You need this job. You’re supposed to pay for what you cost. And now you get fired because you can’t control yourself?” She stepped closer. “What got into you?”\n\nChris’ stomach cramped. He felt the empty diner again, Rick’s hand on his breast, the moment when everything had been too close. He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Not because it wasn’t important—but because he knew exactly how his mother would twist it. Because he was afraid she would blame him. Or worse: that she would dismiss it as “training.”\n\n“I just wanted to… leave,” he murmured. “He was angry. I… overreacted.”\n\nSusan snorted. “Of course. Always dramatic. Always impulsive.” She pointed the phone at him as if it were a verdict. “You apologize tomorrow. And you find a solution. We can’t afford your moods.”\n\nChris nodded, even though it felt wrong. He said nothing more. He went to his room, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it as if he had to hold himself up.\n\nHis palm was still throbbing. And in his head, something harder was throbbing: that he couldn’t tell it. Not even at home.\n\n[[Continue|Die Noten werden besser.]]

As they stepped back into the gym, warmth and music hit them—and at the same time, the stares. Under the glaring light, the little disarray suddenly looked like a big confession: the shifted fit of the ball gown, the hairstyle that was no longer as neat as it had been 5 minutes ago, Adam’s flushed cheeks and hurried breathing.\n\nChris noticed it immediately. He felt heads turning and eyes lingering, heard a few girls whispering to each other and a few boys grinning. He hastily raised both hands, smoothed the fabric over his hips, tugged discreetly at the dress, tried to fix his hair, as if that could undo the picture.\n\nToo late.\n\n“Hey, couldn’t you two have gotten a hotel room? Like normal couples?” came from somewhere, half laughing, half annoyed. A few shook their heads, as if Chris had suddenly become an embarrassing footnote in the evening’s program.\n\nChris turned terribly red. He said nothing. He couldn’t say anything without making it all even worse. His throat felt too tight, as if the music had jammed something there.\n\nAdam, on the other hand, seemed almost euphoric. He spread his arms as if the world belonged to him. “This is my girlfriend!” he shouted loudly, far too loudly, laughing as if it were a victory. He pulled Chris close to him once more, demonstratively, as if he were sticking on a label.\n\nA few of the supervising teachers called in his direction: “Calm down.” “Hey, not so loud.” They sounded more annoyed than alarmed, because they didn’t understand what was really going on. To them it was just teen drama, a bit of overexcited ball behavior. To Chris, it was the ultimate humiliation in front of an audience.\n\nThe rest of the evening dragged on like thick syrup. Chris endured it because he didn’t know how to get out of it without Adam pulling the next lever. He laughed at moments when he didn’t want to laugh. He nodded when it was expected. He looked at the clock when no one was watching and wished the minutes would fall faster.\n\nAt some point, it was finally over. The music grew quieter, lights came on, and the gym turned back into a gym. Chris managed to slip away from the crowd without Adam understanding it as a “change of scene.” Outside, he breathed in the cold air, called an Uber, and stood in the neon light of the entrance, clutching the clutch tightly.\n\nOn the ride back, he sat silently, looked out the window, and felt as if the evening were still clinging to him: humiliated, dirty, used. The dress, which only a few hours earlier had looked like a promise, now felt like a disguise that had betrayed him. And he felt Adam’s semen leaking out of his butt as he sat.\n\nThe worst evening of his life.\n\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5b]]

“Another piercing?” Chris burst out. “The ear piercings were already… enough.” His voice sounded thinner than intended.\n\nSusan let her gaze wander over a board of templates. “Hm.” Her fingers tapped against an index card with a fine-line butterfly, its wings like folded paper. “This one would suit you.” There was a smile in her tone—and something threatening underneath it: Say no, and I’ll say yes for you.\n\nChris’s stomach cramped. Earrings, fine. A tattoo? Never. He raised his hands defensively. “Okay. Tongue. I’ll… take the tongue.” The word tasted of metal in advance.\n\nThe piercer nodded curtly, professional. “Lean back. Rinse once. Keep the tip of your tongue loose, breathe deep.” Gloves crackled. Chris followed the instructions as mechanically as possible. A cold swab, a brief pressure—sharper than expected, a burning, clean pain that shot through his tongue and throbbed dully. Tears sprang into his eyes, pure reflex. He blinked them away.\n\n“If you want to be beautiful, you have to suffer,” Susan said mildly, as if handing him a towel and a piece of life wisdom at the same time.\n\nI don’t want to be beautiful, Chris thought, while the piercer screwed on the balls and then handed him a tissue. He automatically lisped a “Thahnks,” startled by the strange sound of his own voice, and was given a sterile solution along with a sheet: cool it, rinse, avoid spicy food, speak slowly.\n\nIn the mirror, the new earrings gleamed innocently; his tongue now carried a small, foreign weight that commented on every sound. Susan studied his face as if examining a frame around a picture that had finally begun to hang properly. “You look good,” she said, satisfied. “And brave.”\n\nIt didn’t feel brave. It felt like a decision that had been taken away from him just before a worse one could fall. Outside, the air had grown cooler; the city hummed evening as they walked back to the car. With every word he tried, his tongue briefly stumbled over metal.\n\n[[The third school day.|Der dritte Schultag2.]]

Then Ruby Hicks was called.\n\nRuby walked slowly to the front. At school, she had always seemed as if nothing could touch her. Now she sat in the witness chair and held on to the edge.\n\n“I knew her as Chris,” Ruby said.\n\nRuby swallowed and began to tell the story. “Sometimes he looked so sad...”\n\nSusan moved for the first time. Only slightly. A twitch of her shoulder.\n\nThe final witness was a man in a badly fitting suit.\n\nChris recognized him immediately.\n\nMr. Gilbert. Susan had called him Dr. Coleman.\n\n“You are not a licensed doctor, correct?” the prosecutor asked.\n\nMr. Gilbert shifted back and forth on his chair.\n\n“No.”\n\n“You are a tax advisor.”\n\n“Yes.”\n\n“And yet you physically examined Christoph Braun?”\n\nSilence.\n\nChris heard his own heart.\n\nMr. Gilbert looked at Susan. Just for a moment. Then he looked away.\n\n“Yes,” he said.\n\nThe prosecutor stepped closer.\n\n“At whose request?”\n\nMr. Gilbert pressed his lips together.\n\n“At Susan’s.”\n\nThe words hung in the room, heavier than any scream.\n\nChris suddenly felt his face grow hot. Not with anger. Not only. There was shame, sticky and senseless, as if he had done something, even though all the evidence was proving the opposite right now.\n\nMs. Parker leaned slightly toward him.\n\n“Breathe,” she whispered.\n\nAt the front, Susan sat completely still.\n\nAs if she still had the right to decide what was real.\n\nChris felt the eyes in the room resting on the evidence, on names, numbers, statements. But inside him, everything was closing in again. Maplewood. The school hallways. The boys’ looks. Mr. Gilbert’s hands. Susan’s smile when she said it was only for his own good.\n\nHe did not have to speak.\n\nNot yet.\n\nBut he had to decide how he wanted to survive this moment.\n\n''How does Chris react?''\n❯ [[Close his eyes and feel ashamed|Scham]]\n❯ [[Look at his mother|Zur Mutter sehen][$temp += 1]]

Chris decided to simply endure it. Not because it was right, but because in the moment it seemed like the lesser evil. He put the smile back on, that dance smile that answered no questions, and let Adam lead him as if all of this were just a harmless scene.\n\nThen the music changed. The beat became slower, heavier, the lights dimmer. A typical “slow dance” song, the kind where couples automatically moved closer together. Adam seized the opportunity at once. Without asking, he pulled Chris onto the dance floor by the hand, as if he had been waiting for exactly that.\n\n“Come on,” Adam said. Not playfully. Not jokingly. But like a piece of evidence he now intended to submit.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. Everyone is watching. He felt it before he even truly saw the heads. In the middle of the gym, beneath the ring of light, you were as visible as if you were on a stage. Adam put his hands on Chris’s waist, pulled him closer, and Chris noticed how deliberately Adam chose the posture: not “two people who happened to be dancing together,” but “she is mine.” Chris’s hands found Adam’s shoulders, hesitant, almost stiff, because he did not know how much distance he was allowed.\n\nThe comments came from the crowd like gusts of wind. Not loud enough for an announcement, but loud enough to cut.\n\n“Isn’t that Boob Chris with fat Adam?”\n“How did he score a girl like that?”\n“Probably a bet.”\nA giggle, a snort, a “No way.”\n\nChris felt the blood rise into his face. He wanted to be invisible, and instead he was a conversation. A joke. An image people would remember. Adam seemed to enjoy it, as if every look confirmed his claim. He pressed Chris a little closer, too close, so that Chris noticed the fabric of Adam’s jacket against his chest.\n\n“Smile,” Adam whispered, barely audible, only for him. The word was soft, but it had teeth.\n\nChris smiled.\n\nHe tried to build some distance in his head while he kept swaying: one–two, one–two. He stared past Adam’s shoulder, searching for some neutral point—the curtain of the photo corner, the banner on the wall, the string lights. But every time his gaze caught somewhere, it still met eyes again: fleeting looks, curious ones, mocking ones, surprised ones.\n\nAdam was too close, his hand too firm on Chris’s waist, as if he had to remind Chris who was in control here. Chris stayed in rhythm anyway, forced his shoulders to stay soft, forced the corners of his mouth to stay up. It was incredibly embarrassing. And at the same time frighteningly easy to simply “play along” as long as the music kept going.\n\nHe endured it. Step by step. Beat by beat. And as the song drew closer to its end, Chris could think of only one thing: A little longer. Just until the song is over.\n\n[[Continue|Gespräche bei den Getränken.]]

Susan stood in the hallway as if she had deliberately positioned herself so that no one could get past her. Chris’s suitcase stood next to the door, the strap of his bag cutting into his shoulder. It was early, and outside a thin veil of morning chill lay over Maplewood.\n\n“Don’t forget,” Susan said, as if she were quickly handing him a shopping list, “you check in with me every evening. I want to know when you’re back at the dorm, who you go out with, and—”\n\n“No,” Chris said.\n\nThe word came out calmly. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But it was there. And it made the air between them go still for a moment.\n\nSusan blinked, as if she had misheard. “Excuse me?”\n\nChris drew a breath, held Susan’s gaze. His heart was pounding, but this time it did not run away. “I’ll check in. But not every evening. I’m at college. I’m… gone.” He swallowed, because the last word almost took his voice away. “You can’t decide everything.”\n\nSusan smiled, that sweet smile that had otherwise been like a leash. “Chris, I only want to—”\n\n“I know,” he interrupted her. And he did not even know whether that was true. “But I’m deciding that now.”\n\nFor a moment, it looked as if Susan wanted to try again, to grab hold once more. Then she straightened her shoulders, as if forcing it back down inside herself. “Fine,” she said curtly. “Do what you want. But don’t forget who you are.”\n\nChris picked up the suitcase. The words stung, but they no longer held him in place. He walked past her without apologizing.\n\nThe drive was longer than it felt; the roads grew wider, the signs stranger, and somewhere Maplewood disappeared behind them without a gesture of farewell. Christine sat in the front, her phone on her lap, her legs drawn up as if she wanted to make herself small, even though she had not been small in a long time. But when they arrived, she briefly placed her hand on Chris’s—just a squeeze, a small pulse of warmth.\n\n“Don’t do anything stupid,” she murmured.\n\nChris smiled. “You neither.”\n\nShe pulled her hand back as if it were too much feeling all at once. Even so, the moment lingered in the car like a thin thread that did not snap.\n\nThe college campus welcomed Chris with sounds that had nothing to do with Maplewood: rolling suitcases on sidewalks, bicycle bells, voices in every register, somewhere a saxophone from an open window. It smelled of freshly cut grass and coffee from a small stand beside the library. No one knew him. No one stared because he was “new.” No one knew what cages he had left behind.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/college.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/college_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nHe stood at the edge of the large square, the bag over his shoulder, and let his gaze wander. People were moving everywhere as if they had goals of their own and were allowed to have them: groups laughing; a couple arguing and still continuing on together; someone sitting alone on a bench, absorbed in a book, without it seeming like retreat. Chris felt something inside him loosen, like a belt finally being slackened.\n\nHe started walking. Not quickly, not hurriedly. Just… at his own pace.\n\nThe path to the dorm led past a bulletin board overflowing with flyers: theater rehearsals, photography club, self-defense classes, languages, gaming nights, volunteer work, a notice reading “Study Group – Calculus” with three phone numbers. Chris stopped. His first impulse was the old one: keep walking, don’t stand out, don’t make connections. Then he remembered that no one here was his mother. No one here held his rules in their hands.\n\nHe took a pen from his bag and wrote his number on a small slip under “Study Group.” The line was slightly crooked because his hand was trembling, but it was his line. His decision.\n\nFarther back in the square stood a fountain, water spraying in a glittering arc. Chris walked closer, briefly seeing his reflection flicker in the dark water: the neatly done hair, the face carefully made up as usual, the earrings he had chosen almost mechanically. His body was still the one the hormones had made of him—rounder hips, breasts that could not be argued away. That meant many decisions were no longer as simple as they used to be. That he would still be read as a girl, whether he wanted it or not.\n\nBut for the first time, it did not feel like a judgment someone else was pronouncing over him. More like a fact he himself was allowed to deal with.\n\nHe went into his room, closed the door behind him, and let the bag fall onto the bed. For a moment he just stood there, listening to the silence—a different silence than at home. Not the silence of control, but of space. Space to breathe. Space to make mistakes without someone calling it “training.” Space to try himself out again, maybe even name himself anew.\n\nHe unpacked mechanically. Clothes, books, a few things from Germany that felt like little anchors.\n\n[[Continue|Am Abend am College.]]

<div class="psychedelic-text">“Yeah… okay,” Chris said.\n\nHe took the joint, brought it to his lips, inhaled. Too deeply. The smoke burned brutally in his throat and lungs. He coughed immediately, tears springing to his eyes. The boys laughed softly, not meanly, more like “we know how that goes.”\n\n“Slower, girl. That’s top-shelf weed, it’s pretty strong,” one said.\n\nThe effect crept in faster than he had expected. First a pressure behind his eyes, then a soft giving way in his shoulders. The music from downstairs suddenly sounded distant, as if it were coming through water. The contours in the room grew softer, the voices slower.\n\nChris felt the alcohol haze and the veil of smoke hook into each other and hollow him out from the inside.\n\nChris’s head was cotton.\n\nThe heat came in waves. First in his cheeks, then in his chest, then through his whole body. He had never smoked weed before; he hadn’t known the world could move so far away from him and at the same time sit directly on his skin.\n\nVoices washed toward him, sometimes closer, sometimes farther away.\n\n“Dude,” one giggled, “you can see her panties.”\n\n“You idiot!” another laughed. “If you hadn’t said anything, she wouldn’t even have noticed.”\n\nAnother laughed, too loudly for the small room. “What’s that there?”\n\n“A sanitary pad, man,” a fourth threw in half-whispering, when they spotted the bulge in Chris’s panties.\n\n“I’m so hot, I’m about to melt,” Chris said.\n\n“Why don’t you take your top off,” one of the boys suggested.\n\nThe air was warm, the carpet under Chris felt soft and safe, as if gravity had turned into something friendly. Everything was so nice. So far away. So harmless.\n\nChris only laughed and said, “Okay, if you say so.”\n\nHis hands traveled from his hips along his body over his breasts up to his top. Slowly, he pulled it upward. He arched his back and pushed out his chest as the top slid from his shoulders over his arms and onto the floor.\n\nOne of the boys whistled through clenched teeth; all four sat there with their mouths open, staring at Chris. The <<if $unterwaesche == 1>>sensual white<<else>>lovely pastel-colored<<endif>> lace bra made Chris’s small breasts look a little bigger than they really were.\n\n“Take the skirt off too while you’re at it,” one boy said.\n\nChris stood up, turning slightly away from the boys as he did. He grabbed the hem of his skirt and pulled it lightly down over his hips. From the firm pressure, his <<if $unterwaesche == 1>>white<<else>>pastel-colored<<endif>> panties came down a little with it, to just below his hip bones. That let the boys catch a glimpse of Chris’s white, round butt cheeks, which showed for a small moment.\n\nHe didn’t even notice how the boys all repositioned themselves where they sat to deal with their erections.\n\nFinally, one of the boys could no longer control himself and took his penis out of his pants.\n\nChris blinked, barely understanding the situation, and only saw the penis swelling to full size. The other boys followed the first boy’s example.\n\n“Have you ever touched something like this before?” one asked Chris.</div>\n\n[[Continue|Er schüttelt den Kopf.2][$kissboy += 1;$woral += 3;$film += 1;$swallow += 2;$partner += 4]]\n\n

The evening lay over the stadium like electricity, and yet Chris wasn’t standing with the Pom Puffs on the sideline, but one step behind—water carrier, backup supply of hair ties and tape, spare poms tucked under his arm. He wore the team jacket over the uniform top; the fabric was the same color, only the role was different.\n\nAt the entrance to the players’ tunnel, the Puffs lined up, Penelope in front, Christine in the first row. “P–O–M!”—“Puffs!” echoed out, and the crowd answered like a wave.\n\n<center>[img[pics/spiel.jpg]]</center> Chris held up bottles, passed them into hands that were already pointing forward again. The cold wind slid under his skirt; he felt the grass beneath his shoes, the heartbeat of the marching band. Everything was there—only he stood half a meter beside the actual picture.\n\nKickoff. The Puffs stamped out the “D–E–F–E–N–D!” and Chris tightened the caps on two bottles as if the rhythm had struck him all along his spine. On the field, the thing everyone loved was happening: quick runs, a clean pass, the stands roaring back. Chris handed Charlotte a towel, slipped someone a hair clip, shifted the box for the poms into place.\n\nStill, envy pinched, quiet and steady. He watched Penelope freeze in a perfect High-V, watched Christine hit the tips of her toes cleanly on the toe touch, and his stomach tightened for a moment—that wish to stand there, in the light, in the picture, not merely beside it. A soundless sentence from Mr. Moore came back to him, one from the first weeks: “I took you onto the team—because of your special situation. There were athletes who were technically cleaner.” Said objectively, meant professionally—but the thorn remained lodged. Chris carried the crate a little farther and felt the words regain their weight.\n\nWhen the Timberwolves’ defense held, the Puffs stamped; when the offense marched, kicks and poses flashed. Chris moved along the line, listening for short calls: “Water!” “Hair tie!” “Tape!” He was useful, quick, alert. Only when the pyramid started and Penelope smiled up into the floodlights did he pause for a moment and realize his breath had skipped a beat.\n\nDylan led the Timberwolves calmly, and every time he jogged to the sideline, his eyes sought Penelope. A brief nod to her, a flirting smile—and in Chris’s chest there was a sting, small and mean. Of course he’s looking at her, the reasonable part said. She’s magnificent.\n\nChristine was enjoying the evening. He could see it in the way she counted—curt, confident—and in the way she lifted her chin slightly after a successful stunt, as if the air had grown sweeter. For a moment, he was proud; in the next, envy bit at his heel again. He wanted to be both: a good brother and someone standing in the picture with her.\n\nHalftime. The Puffs used the strip along the edge for their show. The pyramid rose, the band blared, confetti streamers climbed into the evening. Chris held the box of poms—firmly, professionally—and imagined what it would be like if he were up there for a moment, freezing his arms in a High-V while the stands roared back.\n\nIn the third and fourth quarters, it grew colder, their breath becoming visible. Chris rubbed his hands, handed out fresh bottles, collected empty ones. Northdale caught up once more, then Dylan made the long pass; touchdown, and the sideline exploded. Penelope turned toward the crowd with a radiant “Hit!” Dylan looked to her again, hand to his helmet, that brief victor’s smile. The little sting inside Chris stretched before shrinking back down.\n\nFinal whistle: Timberwolves win. The stands vibrated, helmets flew into the air. Chris stood beside the noise, breathed deeply, and felt two things at once: He had helped make it work. And he wanted more than to help. The wind slipped under his skirt, and he gripped the water box tighter, as if to ground himself.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Spiel.2]]

Chris nodded and put on a small smile. “Um… yes, gladly. Thanks, Zeke.” He heard himself how girlishly soft his tone sounded, and stayed with it. Zeke raised an eyebrow, visibly flattered that Chris used his first name—friends called him that, and it settled between them like a friendly point.\n<<set $ort to "riding stable">><<set $RubyMemory[4] to 1>>\nZeke grabbed the fork as if it were an extension of his arm. With every swing, he lifted an entire bundle of straw and manure, turned his upper body cleanly with it, and let the load fall into the wheelbarrow. Under the faded T-shirt, the muscles in his forearms tensed, tendons stood out softly, veins tracing pale lines across his brown skin. His shoulders worked broad and steady, his back forming clear planes as he lifted and set things down. It was strength that didn’t puff itself up, but was simply there—matter-of-fact, grounded.\n\nChris involuntarily watched how the movement ran through Zeke’s body: hands—forearms—shoulders—torso—step. It seemed thoroughly masculine, especially in the heavy, rhythmic work. The thought twitched inside him: If you put Zeke in a dress, no one would mistake him for a girl. Not like him, still hanging in limbo despite skirt and bow. The comparison hit him more softly than he had expected, and stayed.\n\nRuby noticed his look. She stepped closer, leaned the fork against the stall wall, and bent toward him. “I heard Zeke is still single,” she whispered, her tone teasing but good-natured.\n\nChris flinched as if she had caught him at something. Only then did he realize how openly his face had apparently spoken—thoughtful, almost dreamy. He hastily turned his gaze away, a spot of warmth shooting into his cheeks. “I… um,” he murmured, found no good sentence, and became very interested in the next layer of straw. Ruby only grinned to herself, while Zeke set the next load into the barrow and cleared the aisle without any effort at all.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $zeke == 2>>\n[[Ruby and Zeke talk about music.|Ruby und Zeke reden über Musik.]]\n<<else>>\n<<if $unterwaesche == 1>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.]]<<else>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.2]]<<endif>>\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

When the bell shrilled and the group set itself in motion, the defiance stuck to him—and beneath it, something unexpected stirred. Not just the need to “belong,” but a strange inner pull, as if he had briefly felt the warmth of a circle and wanted to check once more whether it was real. He didn’t understand himself why it hit him so hard. It was only a pajama party. Masks, movies, giggling. And yet… he wanted to go.\n<<set $ort to "hallway">>\nIn the hallway, Christine walked beside him, her bag loose over one shoulder. Chris kept his gaze on the floor, searching for the right moment when his voice wouldn’t sound too embarrassing. The thought of asking for it felt like a small betrayal of his defiance.\n\n“Chrissie,” he finally began, barely louder than the shuffling of the shoes around them.\n\n“Hm?” She glanced over at him, probably expecting a complaint.\n\nChris cleared his throat. “Can you…” He had to start the word twice. “Can you maybe ask Penelope again about Saturday? I mean—about the party.” He forced himself not to explain immediately, not to justify himself immediately.\n\nChristine slowed half a step, as if he had just spoken in a foreign language. “You want… to go?” Her eyebrows lifted. “You?”\n\nChris felt heat creep into his cheeks. “Yeah. I mean… maybe. If it works.” He shrugged, as casually as one could when one’s heart was suddenly embarrassingly loud. “It’s… okay.”\n\nChristine studied him for a moment, as if checking whether he was joking. Then she saw that he meant it. Her face shifted into that sister face that could be mocking and protective at the same time.\n\n“Okay,” she said at last. “I’ll talk to her.” A brief sideways glance, sharp as lightning. “But you owe me.”\n\nChris breathed out, as if he had been holding his breath without noticing. “Thanks,” he murmured, and it sounded too honest.\n\n“No big deal,” Christine said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Now move. We’re going to be late.”\n\nThe next break stretched like chewing gum for Chris. He pretended to be looking for a notebook in his locker, even though he had long since had everything. He paid far too much attention to sounds in the hallway, to every laugh that sounded like Penelope. When Christine finally appeared, her look was briefly triumphant.\n\n“Handled it,” she said curtly. “Penelope said you can come. But—” She lifted a warning finger. “No drama, understood?”\n\nChris forced himself to shrug. “I didn’t care anyway,” he said, taking extra time with his locker as if the conversation were incidental.\n\nInside, however, something in him bounced, small and bright. He didn’t know exactly why. He didn’t understand why this, of all things, mattered to him now. But he felt it—that he was happy. That the thought of Saturday suddenly no longer sounded like a task, but like a secret he was carefully holding on to.\n\n[[Continue|Schulende.]]

The pillow fort collapsed into soft rustling and tired giggling. One after another, the girls moved closer together, “Good night” hugs traveling around the circle—brief, warm, smelling of shampoo and honey. Chris enjoyed it more than he wanted to admit.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n“Sleep setup!” Penelope called, and the distribution went quickly: two air mattresses in the study, a guest bed, the daybed in the music room—and for Chris and Christine, there was a free double bed in the guest room. “Take that one,” Penelope suggested. “It’s the quietest.”\n\nIn the room, they drew the curtains, slipped under the blanket. “Good night,” Christine whispered into the darkness.\n“Good night,” Chris murmured back. The mattress gave softly beneath them, a clock ticked somewhere, and the house breathed in muffled sounds—a few distant footsteps, a pipe sighing. Chris lay on his back, feeling the cool, smooth fabric of the sheet against his legs. The images of the evening—laughter, lights, the photos, the vanished Polaroid strip, horror-movie giggles, sugar-honey on his lips, pink nails, the loud “who-would-be-more-likely” rounds.\n\nHe rolled onto his side. Beside him lay his sleeping sister—delicate, the satin nightgown like a strip of moonlight on her skin, her face relaxed, a few strands of hair slipped over her cheek. The blanket had slid off her body. Especially her sweet little butt now smiled at Chris seductively. Something started up in his chest: longing, curiosity, the old, stubborn “I’m still… just a boy too.”\n\nThe sight aroused him greatly. And suddenly his head became a small tribunal of conscience.\n\nThe little angel cleared its throat at once: “No, don’t touch her. Boundaries. She is your sister. You don’t want to be the kind of person who does something like that.”\nThe little devil pushed in with a seductive voice: “Just a touch. One tiny touch. She’ll never notice. You’ve been brave all these weeks—so take yourself… something.”\nThe little angel grew sharper: “Respect is not negotiable. You don’t want to do this.”\nThe little devil: “No one is watching. Only you will know.”\nThe little angel: “Exactly because of that. Because only you would know.”\n\nHe stared at the ceiling, heard the air conditioner blowing softly, her breathing, his own pulse. The tension still electrifying him from the evening was looking for an outlet.\n\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[He fondles his sister.|Er befummelt seine Schwester.]]\n❯ [[No, he does not fondle her.|Nein, er befummelt sie nicht.]]

A little later, Chris decided to take a shower. The day clung to his skin, and the conversations with Ava had left behind a thin film of shame and exhaustion. In the bathroom, he slipped out of the summer dress, laid it neatly over the edge of the tub, and was already reaching for the shower faucet when the door opened.\n<<set $ort to "bathroom">>\nAva simply walked in. “Oh, sorry—is it occupied?” she said in a tone that betrayed no hurry to withdraw.\n\n<<if $unterwaesche == 1>>Her gaze caught on him, wandering openly over the cream-colored lace edge of the bra, the red accent, the smooth briefs. “Oh—now that’s no teen set anymore. Very grown-up… I suppose that’s what people wear these days when they want boys to like them?” she commented, the corners of her mouth slightly amused. “It suits you, Chris. To be that young and slim again…” There was something in her voice that sounded like a drop of envy, barely noticeable, but there.<<else>>Ava let her gaze slide openly over Chris, tilted her head slightly, and put on a sugary smile. “Awww, polka-dot briefs! Sweet. And the little bow on the bra.” She tapped vaguely with her finger at the center of the bra, as if marking the little details. “It calls to mind a child’s room a bit. Reminds me of my 11-year-old niece’s starter set.”\n\nThen her tone tipped by a nuance, became sharper. “On you, it almost looks… dangerously well-behaved. You do know that some men don’t read something like that as innocence, but as intent—and in the end misunderstand everything?” She blinked at Chris, half advice, half mockery. “Cute is good, sweetheart. But cuteness sends signals too.”<<endif>>\n\nChris felt the blood rush to his head. The mirror beside the door showed him the scene in double embarrassment: a boy in women’s underwear. He instinctively pulled one arm in front of his chest, one hand to the waistband of the briefs. “I just wanted to take a quick shower—”\n\n“No stress,” she interrupted, stepping one pace to the side. “I just needed to…” She gestured bluntly toward the toilet.\n\nAva somewhat awkwardly pulled down her pants—which were far too tight—giving him a direct view of her fat ass, before finally turning around, sitting on the toilet, and thereby allowing him to see her thick, bushy pubic hair. His jaw practically hit the floor as she ran her fingers through the bush right in front of him, combing through her pubic hair.\n\nWhen the sound of splashing into the toilet bowl began, that was the last straw for Chris. "I have to go," he mumbled, gathered up his dress, and sidestepped past her into the hallway. A lingering ache remained in his gut: Ava hadn't seen him as a "boy" for a single second—only as a girl, fair game for whatever comments she pleased. He hated how deeply that cut him.\n\nBack in his room, he hastily pulled the dress on again, postponing the shower. His skin burned more from embarrassment than from warmth.\n\nLater, when Ava said goodbye, she gathered up the baby, grabbed the diaper bag, called for Leo. He was dawdling in the hallway with a shoelace, as if he could slow time with it. “Come on, Leo!” Ava admonished, impatient. “Don’t dawdle.”\n\nThe boy took two steps forward, then stopped once more and looked over at Chris—that frightened look. “Mom?” he said submissively, without taking his eyes off Chris. “Please don’t put me in a dress. I’ll be good.”\n\n“No one’s putting you in a dress if you behave.” She turned back to Susan, kissed her briefly on the cheek. “We’ll text.”\n\n“Take care,” Susan said, and the door fell shut behind them.\n\n[[The fourth school day.|Der vierte Schultag.]]

<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Description:''\nChris is naturally rather slim, with a soft, youthful aura: brown hair that is now usually styled in a girlish way, long legs, delicate hands, little body hair. Because of the hormones, small but visible breasts are forming, his hips and butt are becoming rounder, his waist narrower—contours that stand out clearly in tight tops, skirts, and pantyhose, and that frighten him especially in moments in front of the mirror. In girls’ clothes, he looks convincingly “like one of them” on the outside, which brings him looks, compliments, and sexualized attention; inwardly, however, he experiences his body as a contradictory in-between form: a boy in a costume that looks less and less like a costume, and it is precisely this slow blurring that scares him.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n''Statistics:''\nChris has given handjobs to <<print $jerkoff>> other people.\nHe has received a blowjob <<print $oral>> times.\nHe has given other men <<print $woral>> blowjobs.\nOf which he swallowed <<print $swallow>> times.\nHe has had a finger in his ass <<print $fingerass>> times.\nHe has had a penis in his ass <<print $anal>> times. (Creampied: <<print $creampied>>)\n<<nobr>><<if $sex == 0>>Chris is still a virgin.<<else>>\nChris has fucked <<print $sex>> women.<br>\nHe came inside them <<print $cameinside>> times.\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\nNumber of partners: <<print $partner>>\n\nChris has been sexually harassed <<print $harassed>> times.\nHe has been filmed/photographed <<print $film>> times.\nHe has been raped <<print $rape>> times.\n\nChris has kissed his sister <<print $kisssister>> times.\nHe has kissed his mother <<print $kissmom>> times.\nHe has kissed boys <<print $kissboy>> times.\n(His first kiss was with an unknown boy at a party.)\nHe has kissed girls <<print $kissgirl>> times.\n\nChris’ sexual preferences: "I like girls. I don’t like boys."\n\n[[Chapter 3|Kapitel 3c]]

<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Description:''\nChris is naturally rather slim, with a soft, youthful aura: brown hair that is now usually styled in a girlish way, long legs, delicate hands, little body hair. Because of the hormones, small but visible breasts are forming, his hips and butt are becoming rounder, his waist narrower—contours that stand out clearly in tight tops, skirts, and pantyhose, and that frighten him especially in moments in front of the mirror. In girls’ clothes, he looks convincingly “like one of them” on the outside, which brings him looks, compliments, and sexualized attention; inwardly, however, he experiences his body as a contradictory in-between form: a boy in a costume that looks less and less like a costume, and it is precisely this slow blurring that scares him.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n''Statistics:''\nChris has given handjobs to <<print $jerkoff>> other people.\nHe has received a blowjob <<print $oral>> times.\nHe has given other men <<print $woral>> blowjobs.\nOf which he swallowed <<print $swallow>> times.\nHe has had a finger in his ass <<print $fingerass>> times.\nHe has had a penis in his ass <<print $anal>> times. (Creampied: <<print $creampied>>)\n<<nobr>><<if $sex == 0>>Chris is still a virgin.<<else>>\nChris has fucked <<print $sex>> women.<br>\nHe came inside them <<print $cameinside>> times.\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\nNumber of partners: <<print $partner>>\n\nChris has been sexually harassed <<print $harassed>> times.\nHe has been filmed/photographed <<print $film>> times.\nHe has been raped <<print $rape>> times.\n\nChris has kissed his sister <<print $kisssister>> times.\nHe has kissed his mother <<print $kissmom>> times.\nHe has kissed boys <<print $kissboy>> times.\n(His first kiss was with an unknown boy at a party.)\nHe has kissed girls <<print $kissgirl>> times.\n\nChris’ sexual preferences: "I like girls. I don’t like boys."\n\n[[Chapter 3|Kapitel 3b]]

<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Description:''\nChris is naturally rather slim-built, with a soft, youthful aura: brown hair that is now usually styled in a girlish way, long legs, delicate hands, little body hair. Because of the hormones, small but visible breasts are forming, his hips and butt are becoming rounder, his waist narrower—contours that stand out clearly in tight tops, skirts, and tights and frighten him especially in mirror moments. In girls’ clothes, he looks convincingly “like one of them” to the outside world, which brings him looks, compliments, and sexualized attention; inwardly, however, he experiences his body as a contradictory in-between form: a boy in a costume that looks less and less like a costume, and it is precisely this slow blurring that scares him.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n''Statistics:''\nChris has jerked off <<print $jerkoff>> other people.\nHe has received a blowjob <<print $oral>> times.\nHe has given other men <<print $woral>> blowjobs.\nOf which he swallowed <<print $swallow>> times.\nHe has had a finger in his butt <<print $fingerass>> times.\nHe has had a penis in his butt <<print $anal>> times. (Creampied: <<print $creampied>>)\n<<nobr>><<if $sex == 0>>Chris is still a virgin.<<else>>\nChris has fucked <<print $sex>> women.<br>\nHe came inside them <<print $cameinside>> times.\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\nNumber of partners: <<print $partner>>\n\nChris has been sexually harassed <<print $harassed>> times.\nHe has been filmed/photographed <<print $film>> times.\nHe has been raped <<print $rape>> times.\n\nChris has kissed his sister <<print $kisssister>> times.\nHe has kissed his mother <<print $kissmom>> times.\nHe has kissed boys <<print $kissboy>> times.\n(His first kiss was with an unknown boy at a party.)\nHe has kissed girls <<print $kissgirl>> times.\n\nChris’ sexual preferences: "I like girls. I don’t like boys."\n\n[[Chapter 3|Kapitel 3d]]

<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Description:''\nChris is naturally rather slim, with a soft, youthful aura: brown hair that is now usually styled in a girlish way, long legs, delicate hands, little body hair. Because of the hormones, small but visible breasts are forming, his hips and butt are becoming rounder, his waist narrower—contours that stand out clearly in tight tops, skirts, and pantyhose, and that frighten him especially in moments in front of the mirror. In girls’ clothes, he looks convincingly “like one of them” on the outside, which brings him looks, compliments, and sexualized attention; inwardly, however, he experiences his body as a contradictory in-between form: a boy in a costume that looks less and less like a costume, and it is precisely this slow blurring that scares him.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n''Statistics:''\nChris has given handjobs to <<print $jerkoff>> other people.\nHe has received a blowjob <<print $oral>> times.\nHe has given other men <<print $woral>> blowjobs.\nOf which he swallowed <<print $swallow>> times.\nHe has had a finger in his ass <<print $fingerass>> times.\nHe has had a penis in his ass <<print $anal>> times. (Creampied: <<print $creampied>>)\n<<nobr>><<if $sex == 0>>Chris is still a virgin.<<else>>\nChris has fucked <<print $sex>> women.<br>\nHe came inside them <<print $cameinside>> times.\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\nNumber of partners: <<print $partner>>\n\nChris has been sexually harassed <<print $harassed>> times.\nHe has been filmed/photographed <<print $film>> times.\nHe has been raped <<print $rape>> times.\n\nChris has kissed his sister <<print $kisssister>> times.\nHe has kissed his mother <<print $kissmom>> times.\nHe has kissed boys <<print $kissboy>> times.\n(His first kiss was with an unknown boy at a party.)\nHe has kissed girls <<print $kissgirl>> times.\n\nChris’ sexual preferences: "I like girls. I don’t like boys."\n\n[[Chapter 3|Kapitel 3c]]

The living room slipped into a sleepy half-darkness. After the last whispers and a round of yawning, the girls decided to call it a night. Before everyone scurried off to their rooms, they hugged each other in turn—quick, warm good-night embraces, a rustle of satin and soft giggling. Chris soaked up the closeness; it was a peaceful, almost unreal feeling to belong so naturally.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>><<set $CharlotteMemory[2] to 1>>\nWhen the sleeping arrangements were made, two beds remained: one in the guest room, one in the hobby room. “Coming with me?” Charlotte asked casually and hooked her arm through Chris’s. His stomach tingled—he was nervous; he had never shared a night with a girl before. They lay down together on the double bed in the guest room, under a light blanket, the light now only a thin golden line beneath the closed door.\n\nCharlotte moved closer, her scent very near. “Well, my dear Chris. I’d really like to get you out of those clothes now,” she giggled—and kissed him, softly at first, then more demandingly.\n\nChris needed a few seconds to understand what Charlotte had in mind. “You… you mean here… but we can’t…” Chris’s heart stumbled, but his hands found their way—neck, shoulder, a cautious grope of her breasts. Charlotte smiled against his lips, picked up speed, pulled the nightgown over his head, and then devoted herself intensely to Chris’s breasts. Again and again she took his nipples between her teeth, letting the tip of her tongue flick in quick left-right movements over the sensitive nipple. Lust and desire had now taken complete control of Chris; he stroked his hands through Charlotte’s hair and kept pressing her head firmly against his breasts.\n\nWhile Chris enjoyed this treatment, he felt Charlotte’s hand slowly wander down along his stomach, and Charlotte whispered: “Mmm… you’re a good girl.”\n\nHer fingers found the hem of his satin shorts, tugged a little. He held them in place, stopping her just in time, a hoarse “Wait” between two breaths.\n\nInstead, he rolled partly over her, wanting to lead, not be driven. He pressed his lips to hers, Charlotte’s tongue waiting for him in a passionate kiss. This whole crazy situation aroused Chris so much that he felt as if he were about to cum in his shorts.\n\n“I’m practically dripping, Chris. I think you need to do something before I completely flood the bed,” Charlotte whispered, apparently feeling much the same.\n\nWith his hands, he took hold of the waistband of her panties on the left and right and then slowly began to pull them down. Chris almost expected Charlotte to stop him at the last second, but nothing of the sort happened.\n\nWhen the panties were down, she turned her back to Chris and leaned on her forearms on the bed, so that her sexy backside was raised in the air.\n\nAlthough Chris would have liked to admire the sight of her wet and wide-open pussy for longer, he was too horny to keep Charlotte in suspense any longer.\n\nChris pressed his face firmly between Charlotte’s legs and immediately began licking intensely over her pussy, pushing his tongue deep into Charlotte’s slit, which worked especially well from this position.\n\nWhen Chris’s tongue entered her pussy, Charlotte could only with the greatest effort keep herself from screaming out loud. Chris enjoyed tasting her juices endlessly, and when he thought about the whole situation—that he, a boy dressed as a girl, was allowed to lick the pussy of his lesbian girlfriend—it drove his lust into unknown dimensions.\n\nChris slowly began moving his tongue up and down. Charlotte was struck like lightning every time Chris’s delicate tongue licked over her clit, and on the next cycle, when Chris licked over that sensitive spot again, she reached back and pressed Chris’s head firmly between her soft buttocks.\n\n“Oh God, Chris, lick me… Yesssss” was all she could still get out, then she had to bite her lower lip again to keep from screaming the whole house down.\n\nWhen Chris also began penetrating her pussy with his finger and fucking her with it, Charlotte was finally undone, and she came to an intoxicating climax. Although Charlotte had let go of Chris’s head again, he remained crouched behind Charlotte for a few seconds longer and kept licking pleasurably through Charlotte’s twitching pussy. Then he slowly kissed his way up Charlotte’s back until their lips joined again in a long and intense kiss.\n\n[[Continue|Später im Bett.][$partner += 1]]

The pillow fort collapsed into soft rustling and tired giggling. One after another, the girls moved closer together, “Good night” hugs traveling around the circle—brief, warm, smelling of shampoo and honey. Chris enjoyed it more than he wanted to admit.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\nWhen Penelope assigned the sleeping spots, Chris automatically headed toward Christine. “I’m already sleeping with someone,” she said curtly, and in her tone was that feather-light “You know what you did wrong today.”\nDid he? In his head, he rewound the evening: photo wall, horror movie, pillows, the questions during the “Who would be more likely…?” game? Maybe there? His little sister could sometimes hold a grudge over trivial things—he knew that. Still, it stung.\n\nIn the end, the living room was left, the sofa corner with the string lights above it. “Okay?” Penelope asked.\n“Sure,” Chris lied softly and bunched the blanket into place. The excitement of the evening rolled back like a wave; tiredness settled over him like sand. The noises in the house grew flat: water in the pipes, a distant cabinet door, a cat walking outside across the patio. He fell asleep quickly.\n\nSometime in the middle of the night, Chris woke again. A strange feeling ran through him as something, or rather someone, touched him. For a moment he was still half trapped in the worlds of dreams, but slowly it dawned on him what was happening.\n\nChris blinked, half in a dream, half in the twilight of the string lights. A face took shape: Lucas, who had bent down over him. His hands were gently placed on Chris’s breasts.\n\nChris stayed still, sleepiness still holding him in its grip, but his thoughts raced. He considered whether he should pretend he was still sunk in sleep, or show that he was awake. Lucas’s touches were tentative, uncertain, but he could already make out the lustful expression on the boy’s face.\n\nFor minutes, Lucas indulged himself with Chris’s little tits. Stroking and massaging them with his hands. Sometimes very gently and tenderly. Then again more firmly and demandingly. It amused him that the nipples became hard in no time and that goosebumps formed on the areolas at the same time.\n\n‘I really should jump up right now and slap him left and right!’ Chris thought. But on the other hand, Chris felt his entire body tingling with arousal, and his cock had noticeably hardened. He couldn’t possibly get up like this.\n\nReflexively, Chris pulled the blanket higher, turned onto his side, away from the figure that was forbiddenly close.\n\nToes on carpet, a shadow gliding back out of the corner of the room. The blanket over Chris’s head suddenly became very warm, then comforting. He listened to the house breathing for a while longer and slipped back into sleep.\n\nIn the morning, the house was bright and orderly again. The Polaroid wall glittered in the backlight; Chris’s second picture hung neatly, the gap left by the first remained a silent question mark. In the kitchen it smelled of coffee and toast, Penelope handed out little paper cups of orange juice, Mrs. Barnett wished Chris good morning with a look that stayed warm longer than necessary. Christine was silent, but her “morning” wasn’t frosty—just thin.\n\nOutside, Susan honked once. “Ready?” she asked as the two of them got into the car.\n“Yes,” they said in chorus. The seat belt clicked. The driveway slipped away beneath the tires, the villa grew smaller, Maplewood rolled toward them—the familiar mix of lawns, mailboxes, and the hint of another Monday.\n\nChris looked out the window. The evening still clung to him: satin, laughter, questions that couldn’t be answered; a vanished Polaroid card and a boy’s hand on his chest. A good, confusing, full chapter. Pink shimmered on his nails in the morning light. He took a deep breath, and the day moved ahead.\n\n[[End of Chapter 1|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 1][$party1 += 1]]

Thursday hummed like a power line. Everywhere, conversations ran in only one direction now: tomorrow, home game, Timberwolves. In the gym, the final practice tightened the screws. Chris gave it everything—hit the counts cleanly, held his arms in a High V, landed softly in the imaginary Cradle—but with every run-through he felt the lack of routine. The others set their turns in their sleep; he still needed that extra half-thought.<<set $wochentag = 4>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "gym">>\n\n<center>[img[pics/cheerleader2.jpg]]</center> At the end, Mr. Moore let the whistle flash briefly. “Lineup for tomorrow.” He read out the names, quickly, routinely. Christine was on it. Penelope, Charlotte, the regular lineup. Chris’s name did not come. It hardly surprised him; it still stung for a moment. He clapped, called an honest “Nice!” in Christine’s direction, and saw her give a small nod, a smile in the corners of her eyes. The rest of his feeling settled over him like a thin film: a little disappointment, a hint of relief, and underneath it the question of whether the extra training he had never begun might have gotten him onto the sideline tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be in the stadium, just not on the line—but he would cheer, count, carry, as best he could.\n\nAfter practice, he helped clean up. Mats slapped against one another, rubber bands went into boxes, the music fell silent. Most of the girls had already disappeared into the locker room, voices and laughter mingling behind the door. Mr. Moore set a clipboard on the table. “Chris, please tell Penelope she should come see me for a moment. Two minutes.”\n\n“I will,” Chris said. He wiped his hands on his little skirt and went into the locker room. Empty benches, open lockers, the air still warm. No Penelope. From the showers came the steady rush of water, a giggle, a call over the showerheads. Chris didn’t think. In his head he was already at the message, at the question of whether he should go to the water station as a helper tomorrow—and before that lay simply the path to the person he was looking for. He went in and steam billowed toward him.\n\n“Penelope? Mr. Moore wants to speak with you again briefly.” He kept his voice matter-of-fact, as if he were simply passing along a note.\n\n“Okay!” Penelope said.\n\nChris nodded automatically. In that moment, things became quieter, just for him: Christine turned at the edge of the shower, saw her brother—and paused in one single, silent second. There was no scream, no word. Only one very nasty look that hit hard: surprised, silent, like thin glass that does not shatter but gets a fine crack.\n\nOnly then did Chris understand where he was standing, right in the middle of the girls’ shower. How his steps had carried him here as if it were the most natural thing in the world. How natural it was for the others—they had said nothing, thought nothing; they knew him as “one of us.” Only Christine was seeing him as both right now. And in her gaze lay that serious reminder: You are not allowed to be here.\n\nChris’s heart pounded too loudly. He stared at his naked, wet sister, and it was hard for him to look her in the eyes while doing so. True, her breasts were tiny, but they were blessed with perfectly round areolas, in the center of which two firm nipples had risen like cherry pits beneath the prickling spray of the shower.\n\nWhat fascinated him most, however, was his little sister’s smooth-shaven pubic area, whose slightly parted outer labia revealed the delicate pink of the inner labia.\n\n“I… uh...” Chris managed, taking half a step back and raising his hand apologetically, without knowing whom he was apologizing to.\n\n“Could you maybe soap my back for me?” Chris suddenly heard a voice beside him. He flinched violently, and heat and cold ran down his back.\n\n[[Continue|Es war Penelope.]]

<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Description:''\nChris was naturally slender, with a soft, youthful aura: brown hair, by now almost automatically styled in a girlish way, long legs, delicate hands, no body hair. Because of the hormones, his breasts had become small but clearly visible; his hips and butt rounder, his waist narrower—shapes that made clothing like skirts, tights, and ball gowns look “right,” even if the mirror sometimes still startled him.\n\nOutwardly, he now came across convincingly as “one of them”—not only through clothing, but also through routine: makeup, posture, smiling, small talk. He received looks, compliments, and sometimes unpleasantly sexualized attention; it still embarrassed him, but occasionally flattered him too. Inside, it remained contradictory: a boy—and yet a role that felt less and less like a mere costume. It was precisely this slow blurring that scared him.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n''Statistics:''\nChris has jerked off <<print $jerkoff>> other people.\nHe has received a blowjob <<print $oral>> times.\nHe has given other men <<print $woral>> blowjobs.\nOf those, he swallowed <<print $swallow>> times.\nHe has had a finger in his butt <<print $fingerass>> times.\nHe has had a penis in his butt <<print $anal>> times. (Creampied: <<print $creampied>>)\n<<nobr>><<if $sex == 0>>Chris is still a virgin.<<else>>\nChris has fucked <<print $sex>> women.<br>\nHe came inside them <<print $cameinside>> times.\n<<if $christine == 3>>(His first time was with his sister Christine)<<endif>>\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\nNumber of partners: <<print $partner>>\n\nChris was sexually harassed <<print $harassed>> times.\nHe was filmed/photographed <<print $film>> times.\nHe was raped <<print $rape>> times.\n\nChris has kissed his sister <<print $kisssister>> times.\nHe has kissed his mother <<print $kissmom>> times.\nHe has kissed boys <<print $kissboy>> times.\nHe has kissed girls <<print $kissgirl>> times.\n\nChris’ sexual preferences: "I like girls. Um... well... I don’t like boys."\n\n<<if $zoe > 1>>[[Epilogue Chris and Zoe|Epilog Chris und Zoe]]<<else>>[[Epilogue Chris|Epilog Chris2]]<<endif>>

The morning light in Pittsburgh was thin and gray when Chris opened his eyes. He needed a few seconds to understand where he was: the tiny room, the brick wall outside the window – and Zoe’s arm around his waist, heavy and warm. Her breath brushed the back of his neck, calm, as if nothing had happened.\n\nThe man from yesterday was gone. His jacket too. Only the chaos of the night remained: clothes on the floor, the sweetish lingering smell of sex and perfume.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. Shame came first, hot and sticky. Then anger – but it wasn’t really aimed at Zoe, not at first. It was aimed at himself, because he had done it again: drunk, given in, lost control. He carefully pushed Zoe’s arm away and sat up, pulling the blanket higher, as if it could protect him from himself.\n\nZoe blinked, still half asleep. “Morning,” she muttered, rough and hoarse. “You look like—”\n\n“I look like this because I feel like shit,” Chris said. His voice trembled more than he wanted it to. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have done that.”\n\nZoe sat up too, rubbing her face. “You had fun, though.”\n\n“Yeah, drunk.” Chris’s gaze slipped away. “And it wasn’t nice.” He swallowed. “It hurt. I—I was just… enduring it at some point. And I hate myself for it.”\n\nZoe stared at him, first irritated, then sharper. “You’re acting like we forced you.”\n\n“I’m not acting.” Chris’s anger surged upward now. “You did force me.”\n\nZoe looked at him for a moment without any humor. Then she snorted softly. “You’re always so…” She searched briefly for the word and, of course, found the wrong one. “…dramatic.”\n\nChris threw the pillow in her face. Zoe caught it, laughed, and pulled it to herself as if it were a trophy.\n\n“You don’t take anything seriously,” Chris said, trying to sound angry. He only half managed it, because his voice was shaking – with irritation, with shame, with the remains of closeness still hanging in his body.\n\n“I take you seriously,” Zoe said, pushing the pillow aside. “That’s exactly why I’m telling you: You had fun. You just don’t want to admit it.”\n\nChris’s gaze flickered away. The sentence hit because it wasn’t entirely wrong. For a second, all he heard was his own breathing. “Shut up,” he muttered, but it sounded less like an order and more like a plea.\n\nZoe grinned again, now soft and dangerous at the same time. “Come here,” she said, and it wasn’t clear whether it was mockery or something else.\n\nChris nudged her slightly away with his shoulder. “No.”\n\n[[Continue|Morgendliches Gerangel.][$sex += 1;$cameinside += 1;$fingerass += 1]]\n

Chris went to the chair, sat down, and tried to relax, to think about something else. It took a few minutes for his cock to calm down.\n\nNo sooner had they stepped back into the hallway than Penelope caught Chris with a look that saw everything. “You can’t stay like that,” she said kindly, but with the kind of decisiveness only Penelope could manage. Chris immediately looked down at his crotch again, but this time everything was okay.\n\n“Come on.” She waved and led him upstairs, along a gallery into a large room that looked like a mix of glossy magazine and film set—string lights, vanity table, a canopy bed.\n\nPenelope knelt beside a low chest, lifted the lid, and a wave of gleaming fabric lit up: satin in layers, delicate shorts, nightgowns, tops, all in carefully folded stacks. “Rescue box,” she explained. “Pick something. I keep backups for… every eventuality.”\n\nChris’s fingers slid hesitantly over the fabrics. He pulled out a short pair of pale blush satin shorts—they whispered between his fingers—and a matching cream nightgown, slim-cut, with a very fine shimmer. “Can I…?”\n“Change over there.” Penelope pointed to the folding screen in the corner and demonstratively turned toward the window, as if giving him privacy.\n\nBehind the screen, Chris slipped out of the jersey set and into the satin shorts. The fabric settled coolly against him and grew warmer with every second, as if it were answering. The nightgown slid over his shoulders, so light that at first he barely felt it—only that very soft “Ssshhh” along his ribs. He breathed in and felt something stir inside him at exactly that point: no, not in his crotch again. Just a subtle, electric tingling inside him, as if a radio had locked cleanly onto a station. So this is what that feels like, he thought, and was a little startled by how right it felt.\n\n“Ready?” Penelope tapped discreetly twice against the folding screen.\n\n“Yes.” Chris stepped out.\n\n<center>[img[pics/outfit5.jpg]]</center> She looked him over, not to judge, but to find delight. “Perfect,” she said, honestly thrilled. “It frames you beautifully. Come on, the others are already building the pillow fort.”\n\nChris cast one fleeting glance into the mirror at the vanity—satin melting in the light, skin that suddenly no longer worked against the fabric, but with it. The tingling remained, gentle and persistent. Then he followed Penelope out into the shimmering evening of giggles, pillows, and movie titles—and tried not to hold on to the new feeling too tightly, but simply carry it with him.\n\n[[Continue|Foto-Wall und Kissenburg.]]

“After school, you’re coming to my place,” Zoe said quietly, with no question in her voice. “Presentation. You’re helping me. You do want your little secret to stay secret, don’t you?”\n<<set $ort to "">>\nChris’s stomach tightened. He gave a curt nod.\n<<set $ZoeMemory[6] to 1>>\n<<if $videoblackmail == 1>>At the water dispenser, two sophomores giggled; one held his phone sideways as if he were filming, and the other briefly pulled an exaggerated duckface. When Chris walked past, they hastily lowered their eyes and acted innocent.\n\n<<endif>><<if $lucas == 2>>That day, too, Chris played Lucas’s girlfriend in love: he let Lucas lead him by the hand through the hallway, sat with him in the cafeteria at a table that was far too visible, shared fries, smiled at exactly the moments when Lucas’s gaze sought confirmation, and once even briefly rested his head on his shoulder because it suited the role. He was honestly relieved that Lucas didn’t demand a kiss; even holding hands in the harsh midday light, the whispered “aww” calls from the neighboring table, and the long, appraising looks from the others felt to him like a stage performance without a curtain—more than enough.\n\n<<endif>>After the last class, Chris and Zoe walked. Zoe’s house wasn’t far from the school, on a side street. The front yard was more dirt than grass; a rusty bicycle lay half in the flowerbed, and an empty cat-food can rolled in the wind. A crooked bell hung on the porch, clinking with every movement. Inside it smelled of cold grease, detergent, and dust. Shoes were piled up in the hallway. The wallpaper was peeling at the edges.\n\n“My dad isn’t here,” Zoe said casually as she closed the door behind them. “Actually, no one’s here.”\n\n<center>[img[pics/zoe_zimmer.jpg]]</center> Her room was pure chaos: piles of clothes on the chair, dirty underwear on the floor, a bra over the lamp. On the nightstand stood two smeary bottles of nail polish beside a half-full ashtray with a candy wrapper stuck in it. The blanket was crumpled into a nest.\n\n“There.” She pushed a wrinkled guide and a notebook toward him. “Do it.”\n\nChris sat down at the wobbly desk, Zoe flopped onto the bed and started occupying herself with her fingernails. The clicking of the little bottle, the sweet chemical smell. She blew on her fingertips as if they were candles. Her arrogant attitude annoyed him. She made no move to help with the presentation.\n\n“We’re doing this together,” Chris said. “You at least have to go through the outline with me.”\n\n“I...... Uh.....don’t know anything about it,” Zoe mumbled.\n\n“How have you even gotten through class so far?” he asked.\n\n“I.... Um... always have someone.... Who does the assignments for me.”\n\nHe pressed his lips together and worked. He searched for sources, wrote bullet points, shaped sentences, drew a small chart on graph paper so it wouldn’t look completely bare. Zoe only commented at intervals: “Sounds smart,” “Put in another picture,” “How long does it have to be?” Time flowed into text, into arrows, into a conclusion she never discussed with him.\n\nWhen he closed the notebook, it was almost dark outside. “Done,” he said and stood up. “I have to go.”\n\nZoe was lying half on her back, looking at her nails. “Why such a hurry?” She slowly sat up, her forehead tilted. “You helped me. Now you get your reward.”\n\n“Reward?” Chris stood beside the door, confused.\n\nZoe didn’t answer. She stood up, stepped two paces closer, pressed him against the wall with both hands, and kissed him so quickly that he barely had time to breathe.\n\n“Umpfffff″ Chris groaned in surprise into her mouth. From sheer surprise, he even refused at first to open his mouth. But when Zoe gave him a gentle slap on the ass, he gave up his resistance, opened his mouth, and let Zoe’s demanding tongue in.\n\nHer tongue explored his mouth and found his. <<if $piercing == 2>>For a moment, she felt the cool metal of Chris’s tongue piercing. <<endif>>Chris had to admit Zoe’s lips tasted wonderfully of strawberries. She slapped her fingernails against Chris’s ass cheeks and pressed her hot young body very tightly against him while she intensified the kiss.\n\nChris noticed how much he liked the kiss. Instinctively, he kissed back, and his tongue danced with Zoe’s while he closed his eyes. They let themselves go. The room soon filled with the sounds of their wet kisses.\n\nZoe separated her lips from his and let the breathless Chris take a few breaths while she smiled at him.\n\n“Come on,” she said, “get your cock out. I need to convince myself you really are a boy.”\n\n''What does he do?''\n❯ [[He gets his cock out.|Er holt seinen Schwanz raus.]]\n❯ [[He pushes her away.|Er stößt sie von sich weg.]]

There seemed to be no suitable place to spit, and Chris absolutely didn’t want to ruin the mood after that incredible orgasm, so he reluctantly swallowed his own semen.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nZoe beamed at him as if she were a teacher and Chris her star pupil or something, and helped him get dressed with surprising care.\n\nIt was already dark outside when Chris got on the bus. He sat down by a window, the city sliding past in wet streaks of light. The encounter clung to him like a melody too loud and not quite right. Reward. The word felt wrong, but the warmth in his face, the afterglow of his orgasm, had been real. They had come closer to each other—and yet everything seemed strangely businesslike, as if Zoe had settled a bill only she had written.\n\nHe knew Zoe didn’t want anything steady. She had never promised it between the lines—not today, not ever. And yet… she had been beautiful in that messy room, despite the chaos and sticky candy wrappers, and something about her mixture of sharpness and directness stuck to him. Maybe something more could come of it, someday. He had never met a girl like her before. Maybe, on another occasion, on another evening, it could go further—all the way to what she was steering toward so casually and what his head didn’t know whether it wanted or feared.\n\nThe bus rumbled over an intersection, and his reflection in the window looked back at him questioningly. Zoe played by her own rules. He leaned his forehead against the cold glass and let the lights of the city flow past him, while two feelings tried to make room in his stomach at the same time: confusion—and a quiet, curious hope.\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch.]]

During the break, Chris saw his sister with [[Myles|Myles Pierce]] at the locker; she stood close to him, laughed too quickly, hooked her arm through his, searched for his hand as if she had to check whether it was still there. Myles’s gaze wandered down the hall, caught on a buddy, a shrug, a halfhearted grin for Christine that didn’t reach his eyes. Chris saw it and felt the fine sting: since Saturday, Christine had been clinging more, while Myles was imperceptibly pulling away, as if a goal had been reached and slipped out of focus again.\n<<set $ort to "school">>\nAt the water dispenser, [[Zoe|Zoe March]] appeared. She was wearing a denim skirt and a tight blouse. The shape of her breasts was easy to see, and her bra showed through the fabric. She blew a strand of hair out of her face and made the plastic cup crackle. “Well, little-sister alert?” she asked, and her tone was too sweet to be kind. Her gaze slid to Christine and Myles, who were kissing again at the end of the hall. “The way she’s acting, she did it. Classic: first you feel ashamed, then you cling. Boys like Myles hate that.” She gave a crooked grin. “Just wait. He’ll want a longer leash soon.”\n\nChris’s neck grew hot. He wanted to say, “He got her drunk,” “she didn’t want to go that far,” wanted to throw every word into the hallway like a wheel chock. Instead he pressed his lips together, tasted metal, and took a sip of water that fell cold down his throat.\n\n“Ouch,” Zoe said, as if she had heard his thoughts. “Not your circus, huh? But fun to watch.”\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ladendiebin == 2 && $charlotte < 2>>[[Chris is supposed to help Zoe with a presentation.|Chris soll Zoe bei einem Referat helfen.][$kissgirl += 1]]<<else>>[[Chris goes to class.|Chris geht zum Unterricht.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

With Ruby, things in those weeks were… quieter. The kiss had never officially been “discussed.” Afterward, they had both acted as if it hadn’t happened—and at the same time, it was everywhere.\n\nIn the library, they sat beside each other as always, books open, pens between them. But sometimes Ruby’s gaze lingered on Chris’ profile a moment too long before she quickly stared back down at her notes. Sometimes Chris’ knee brushed hers under the table, and neither of them moved away immediately. They both acted as if it were accidental table geometry—even though it no longer felt accidental.\n\nOnce, when Chris finally solved a problem correctly, Ruby let out a triumphant “Yes” and raised her hand. Chris reflexively high-fived her—and afterward, Ruby held onto his hand a second too long. They both froze briefly, as if they had stopped time. Then Ruby pulled her hand back and cleared her throat. “Um. Good. Moving on.”\n\nChris grinned into his notebook, as if there were something very interesting there. “Yeah. Moving on.”\n\nWhen they said goodbye, Ruby stood with her backpack on one shoulder, and for a moment Chris didn’t know whether he should wave or hug her. Ruby made the decision for him, stepped forward, and hugged him briefly—not dramatically, more like a We’ll get through this in bodily form. Chris’ arms closed around her, and his hand stayed on her back a fraction longer than would have been “neutral.”\n\nRuby pulled away, glanced up, and for the fraction of a second they both seemed embarrassingly caught—not by someone else, only by themselves.\n\n“See you tomorrow,” Ruby said too quickly.\n\n“See you tomorrow,” Chris said just as quickly.\n\nThey parted without a label, without a “we’re together.” But with the quiet knowledge that something was growing between them, something they both felt—and that Chris, despite everything, was slowly getting his feet back under him. Not free. But no longer exclusively driven.\n\nAnd that was, in those last weeks, already one hell of a big difference.\n\n[[Continue|Auf zum College.2]]

Chris nodded. That was the signal for Mrs. Barnett. In two quick steps she was beside Chris and took him in her arms. The first kiss was still hesitant, but Chris had shaken off his initial paralysis and returned it eagerly. Their tongues danced around each other, explored, played. There was a hint of cherry to taste.\n<<set $CarolineMemory[2] to 1>>\nBut it wasn’t only their tongues; their hands, too, had begun exploring the other body. Chris felt Mrs. Barnett slowly press him onto the bed. Felt her fingers gently stroke over his curves, tug at the top, and slowly but surely expose Chris’s breasts.\n\nMrs. Barnett suddenly broke away from the kiss, but only to fall on Chris farther down. She covered Chris with kisses from the neck downward before concentrating on the nipples. First she sucked them carefully, then played around them with her tongue, before cautiously nibbling on them. Chris let out a deep sigh.\n\n“I think you like it,” Mrs. Barnett grinned up at Chris from below. “But I think I can get even more out of you.” With that, she turned back to her work.\n\nBy now she had also pushed the skirt upward. The panties offered little resistance, and soon Chris lay completely bare before her. His cock stood stiffly upright, the tip glistening wet.\n\nMrs. Barnett paused for only a moment. She sought Chris’s gaze and looked deep into his eyes. Then everything was clear, and her face disappeared between Chris’s thighs.\n\n<<if $oral == 0>>It was the first time Chris was being pleasured orally. So it took only a few moments before Chris felt the orgasm rising deep inside him. <<else>>It took only a few moments before Chris felt the orgasm rising deep inside him. <<endif>>For a moment he tried to fight it, at least to muffle his moaning, but only for a moment. Then he gave himself completely to the wave of pleasure rising within him and shot his seed into Mrs. Barnett’s mouth.\n\nWhen the orgasm had ebbed away, he looked down and saw Mrs. Barnett’s smeared, grinning face. “Did you like it?”\n\nChris said nothing, bent down to her, and kissed her deeply. Slowly, Chris maneuvered the woman onto her back, and now it was his turn to explore her body.\n\nThe breasts came first. Round and firm, they stood out. Chris covered them all over with kisses before he began to pleasure the nipples. His efforts were quickly rewarded. Mrs. Barnett seemed to purr with bliss. But the breasts could not hold Chris for long; farther down lay his goal.\n\nAcross the plain of her flat stomach, he worked his way toward the forest in whose shadow lay the pearl he was seeking.\n\nFor a moment he paused, but only briefly. He had come this far already—why stop now? He dared to do it and placed the first hesitant kiss on the mound, then slowly down the slightly opened slit, before sinking his tongue into it for the first time.\n\nHe wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do; after all, this was his first time. But Mrs. Barnett seemed to enjoy it all the same, the way she writhed and moaned beneath Chris’s quick tongue.\n\nThen the front door slammed downstairs. Footsteps in the hall, a key ring jingled. A man’s voice called, “Caroline?”\n\nMrs. Barnett froze for only the blink of an eye, then her expression switched to “Plan B.” “Under the blanket,” she whispered, barely audible.\n\nChris made himself small; the bedspread lifted and fell over him. Darkness smelled of sex and cotton. His pulse was everywhere. The door handle pressed down. Mr. Barnett stepped in.\n\n“You’re home already?” Mrs. Barnett asked, calm, as if she were sitting alone on the bed.\n\n“Meeting was canceled.” His voice came closer; Chris felt the slight give of the mattress as Mr. Barnett sat down at the foot of the bed. “I wanted to surprise you. Everything okay?” He kept chatting, inconsequentially, a comment about traffic, about a colleague. Nothing in his tone revealed that he knew how close a second heart was racing under the blanket.\n\n“Everything’s fine,” she said, and her composure was impressive.\n\nSteps, wardrobe door, the clatter of a coat hanger. Fabric brushed over the blanket. Chris crouched between Mrs. Barnett’s legs and held his breath; he heard his blood like the roar of the sea. The air beneath the blanket grew thin.\n\n“I’m just going to hop into the bathroom for a moment,” said Mr. Barnett.\n\nWhen the bathroom door closed, Chris lifted the edge by a finger’s width, searching with his eyes. The bedroom was clear. He pushed the blanket back, slipped off the bed, and set his feet on the carpet as quietly as if they were made of cotton wool.\n\nHe took his things, slipped to the door, paused briefly—and looked back. Mrs. Barnett raised two fingers in a tiny, seductive wave, a smile that said: Maybe next time.\n\nChris’s heart was still much too loud. He nodded almost invisibly, turned, and slipped down the hallway, down the stairs, each step its own sigh of relief.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $unterwaesche == 1>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.]]<<else>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Summer didn’t pass with a bang, but with packed boxes.\n\nChris’ room gradually became emptier: stacks of clothes and boxes that smelled of packing tape. In the middle of it stood Chris with a feeling that couldn’t make up its mind: anticipation like a bright tug in his stomach—and fear like a shadow behind it.\n\nSusan organized everything with her typical, controlled energy. She talked about checklists, about insurance, about “if you’re going away, then at least do it properly.” She hadn’t suddenly become kind. There was no miracle of reconciliation. Quite the opposite: the closer the farewell came, the more often she reached for small, final corrections—to clothing, to tone of voice, to decisions. Chris put up with it, but it didn’t hit him the way it used to. Not because he didn’t care, but because inwardly he was already one step further ahead.\n\nThe drive to college felt like a passage between worlds. Road, sky, road again. Boxes in the trunk, documents in the glove compartment, a few sentences from Susan that sounded like warning signs: “Don’t forget who you are.” Chris hardly answered. He felt his heart beating faster the closer they got to campus.\n\nWhen they arrived, everything was banal and huge at the same time: buildings, paths, signs, the smell of freshly cut grass and warm asphalt. Chris carried boxes, signed things, nodded, smiled, functioned. Susan stayed close to him until the very last moment, as if closeness were a leash.\n\nAt some point, she was gone.\n\nNot dramatically. No scene. She left after everything had been put down, with one last scrutinizing glance around the room, as if she wanted to memorize where she had “placed” him. Chris heard the door click shut and stood still for a moment.\n\nThen he did something he hadn’t planned: he went out alone.\n\nHe walked across campus with no destination, just to walk. Past trees, benches, windows reflecting the afternoon. His breathing grew calmer. And somewhere between two buildings, he stopped because a realization hit him so simply that it almost hurt:\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/college.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/college_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nHere, there was physical distance from Susan. No door opening without a knock. No look stopping him in the hallway. No “Don’t be so dramatic” in the background. No home pressing him into a role.\n\nIt wasn’t the end of the story. Susan wasn’t gone. But the distance was real. And for the first time, autonomy didn’t feel like a dream, but like a place.\n\n[[Continue|Der erste Abend mit Ruby im Wohnheim.]]

She placed the stack of clothes on the bed. “Starting today, you’re going to live as a girl. Here. In this house. Outside. Everywhere. Until you’ve understood how to behave.”\n\nHe laughed briefly, a brittle sound that immediately collapsed in on itself. “You can’t be serious.”\n\n“Yes,” Susan said, without batting an eye. “Very serious.” She pointed at the clothes. “Put that on.”\n\n<center>[img[pics/outfit0.jpg]]</center> On the bed lay a simple, dark-blue skirt, knee-length; a light top with short sleeves; over it, a thin cardigan. Nothing flashy, but foreign, like words from a language he knew but had never spoken himself.\n\n“No,” Chris said quietly. “I can’t do that.”\n\nSusan merely raised her hand, readying a slap. In her gaze was a warning that needed no second repetition. “I am not going to discuss this.”\n\nChris’s hands suddenly felt large and clumsy. He turned away, peeling himself out of his T-shirt and jeans in halting movements, as if he first had to remember how to arrange arms and legs at all. The fabric of the skirt was cool as he pulled it over his hips; the hem brushed his knees, a foreign weight. The top fit more closely than his shirts; the cardigan made the silhouette softer. In the mirror above the wardrobe stood a version of him he barely knew: daintier, smoother, strangely still. His freshly cut hair framed his face softly.\n\nSusan stepped closer, letting her gaze glide over him. Her expression remained stern, but something in her forehead relaxed. “There,” she said, almost matter-of-factly. “That fits. Lift your shoulders, stand up straight.”\n\nChristine peeked in again—and burst out laughing involuntarily. “Oh my God,” she forced out between two breaths. “Chris… you…” Her fixed braces flashed, and he would never have thought a laugh like that could echo so loudly in his head.\n\n“I look completely ridiculous,” Chris said before anyone else could say it. He felt the heat rising all the way to his ears, wanted to pull the cardigan tighter and at the same time crawl out of his own skin.\n\n“You look,” Susan corrected, “like someone who still has a lot to learn. If you don’t want to be exposed on the first day of school, we’ll practice: walking, sitting, voice, posture. You will listen. You will cooperate. And you will not embarrass me.”\n\n“School?” Chris repeated, as if she had placed the word in another room. “That’s got to be a joke. By the time school starts—”\n\n“By the time school starts,” Susan cut him off, “you’ll know how to do this. And if you think I’m not serious—try finding out.”\n\nChris searched Christine’s gaze, as if he might find rescue there. She looked away, then back again, the smile flattening into something uncertain. “Mom means it,” she finally said, more quietly. “I… I’ll help you. If you want.”\n\nChris thought it was only a bad dream that would vanish when the sun stood differently. Maybe he could change his mother’s mind, bit by bit, with reason, with pleading, by doing nothing at all and simply letting time pass.\n\n[[Continue|Die nächsten Tage.]]

Beside Chris, Christine walked with confident steps, her dress a moving line that clearly sent signals.\n<<set $ort to "">>\n<<if $rubytemp == 1>>On the way, he remembered Ruby’s words in the chat message: These parties were not without danger for girls. “Looked after,” too many cups, too little no, suddenly disappeared into bedrooms. And the story about the positive pregnancy test afterward.\n\nHe looked over at Christine. The tight dress, the neckline, the sheen of her tights, the boots. She seemed older like this. He thought about the fact that she and Myles had only been together a short time. Far enough that…? He shook his head inwardly. He didn’t want to believe she would go that far already.<<else>>He looked over at Christine. The tight dress, the neckline, the sheen of her tights, the boots. She seemed older like this.\n\nAs they walked along the street, his thoughts rattled faster than his steps. Party meant music, boys, darkness, cups that someone could pour anything into. <<endif>>\n\nThe siblings walked on.\n\n[[Continue|Eine Busfahrt zum Vergessen.]]

Chris’s thoughts stumbled, and suddenly there was the image of her with Myles in the locker room, having sex. Naturally, Chris’s cock slowly began to grow. He felt it becoming bigger and harder, pressing ever so gently against her sweet girlish bottom.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">>\nChristine froze for a moment, then turned around to him in surprise. Her eyes searched his face. Neither of them said anything. The air in the room went still—only the ticking of the small clock on the wall. Confusion lay between them like a folded towel that neither of them picked up.\n\nChris felt the blood rise into his ears. It was confusing—for both of them. A little embarrassing, too. Chris’s thoughts raced and yet got nowhere. He simply wanted to be closer, to prove to her that she wasn’t ugly.\n\nHer eyes shone in the candlelight, wide and vulnerable, as if she were holding her breath. Chris’s chest tightened; the impulse to heal something in her came without words.\n\nA part of him suddenly had the urgent need to kiss his sister—because it felt right. And at the same time he thought: That would be wrong now. She’s my sister.\n\nHe looked into her eyes, the candle crackled softly, and the night held its breath.\n\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[They kiss.|Sie küssen.][$kissgirl += 1;$kisssister += 1]]\n❯ [[Apologize.|Sich entschuldigen.2]]

Upstairs in Lucas’s room, Chris found a time capsule: posters on the wall, a half-finished Lego set on the shelf, stacks of books and consoles. It smelled of laundry detergent and cable plastic. The bed was made, the desk surprisingly clear—the room had been tidied on purpose. For me, Chris thought.\n<<set $LucasMemory[2] to 1>>\n“Do we want to start with text…?” Lucas began.\n\nChris’s gaze caught on the Xbox Kinect. “Um… we could maybe… play first?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.\n\nLucas’s face brightened. “Yeah! Dance game? Or Sports Champions?”\n\n“Anything where I don’t embarrass myself,” Chris grinned.\n\n“Too late.” Lucas started a party game with minigames: virtual hurdles, Frisbee, silly dance moves. The camera calibrated; their silhouettes appeared on the screen. The ice melted instantly. During the hurdles, they jumped at the same time—Chris too late, Lucas too early—and in the game they crashed in sync into an imaginary bar. Both of them burst out laughing. “High five for failure,” Lucas called, and their hands clapped together, warm and dry.\n\nDuring Frisbee, Chris aimed far too ambitiously, and the avatar sent the disc flying into the crowd. “Oops.”\n“A-minus for drama, F for precision,” Lucas commented, and Chris put his hands on his hips in mock offense. “Rematch.”\n\nIn dance mode, they stumbled into the same move, laughed, corrected each other, and suddenly got better because the embarrassment dropped to zero. There were no date vibes, just lightness; they slipped past each other on the carpet, bumped shoulders, bowed exaggeratedly after winning rounds. Another high five, then another; once Chris slipped, Lucas caught him, and both of them giggled before they even realized it.\n\nIn between, Chris let himself drop onto the edge of the bed, breathing, grinning. So this is what friendship feels like, he thought, surprised by how warm it was. Lucas nudged him lightly with his shoulder, as if it had long since become routine. “One more game?”\n\n“Sure.” Chris nodded—and caught himself wondering whether boys and girls could just be friends. A moment later, his mind flipped up the sign: You’re not a girl. The word was a brake; he left it there, stood up, and positioned himself in front of the camera again.\n\n“This time I’m getting you,” he said, pointing at the screen.\n“Dream on,” Lucas countered, striking the pose. The countdown ticked down, the music kicked in, and for a few minutes there was nothing but the playing field, laughter, and the simple, good feeling of being exactly where he belonged.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Spielen.]]

Chris cleared his throat softly, searched for an entry point like on a road moving too fast—and jumped in. “So… when you say homecoming—that’s the game at the start of the season and the dance that goes with it, right? Like a kind of welcome celebration for everyone, including alumni?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.\n\nCharlotte nodded eagerly. “Exactly! The Timberwolves have their big game—this year against Northdale—and a week later there’s the dance in the gym. Balloons, string lights, way too loud, but somehow cute.”\n\n“And a parade before the game,” added the girl with the hair clip, making a little hand gesture as if she were already filming it. “Band up front, cheer in the back. The Pom Puffs make the tunnel when the boys run in. It’s honestly so extra.”\n\n“Boys,” echoed another girl with a sigh that was clearly practiced. “Literally the most important part.”\n\nChris forced a small laugh. “And… what do you wear? I mean, for the dance.” He felt Christine’s relief beside him like a small, warm lamp.\n\n“Cocktail dress. Not too long, you want to be able to dance,” Charlotte said immediately. “Or like a set with a skirt. Glitter is allowed, but please no total disco-ball accident.”\n\n“Color?” Chris asked, if only because asking kept the ball rolling more easily.\n\n“School colors are always cute,” said Hair Clip, “but like… just take whatever suits you. I’ll find you something, easy.” She grinned as if it were the easiest task in the world.\n\nCharlotte gestured vaguely at Chris’s contours with her fork. “You’ve got this delicate silhouette—A-line, soft material, nothing that completely overwhelms you. And no super hard edges.”\n\n“And who goes with whom?”\n\nA girl at the table leaned forward, as if this were the actual point of the celebration. “Couples, friends, literally whoever. Some people wait for a mini-promposal—for homecoming you don’t have to, though. You can also just go with us as a squad.” She grinned. “Plenty of room.”\n\n“In Germany, it’s… different,” Chris said, and was amazed at how normal it sounded. “We don’t have that many school dances. More like a graduation ball at the end. And no football.”\n\n“Poor human,” Charlotte dramatized, bumping him with her shoulder. “Okay, then we’ll make up for everything. First goal: you need an outfit. Second: photo poses. Third: a dance move that isn’t embarrassing.”\n\nChris nodded gratefully, even though he felt how each word pressed him more firmly into the silhouette his mother had painted for him.\n\nThe questions wandered—from homecoming to nails (“Acrylics before the dance? Risky, but cute”), to hair (“Half-up or braid? Totally depends on the dress”), to the Timberwolves’ outfits (“New jerseys, supposedly lucky—don’t ask me why”). Chris offered small, harmless opinions, remembered Susan’s rule of “not too much, not too little,” and was amazed at how much the topics had their own gravity. Where he, as “he,” would once have drifted away, he now held course—out of duty, but also because Charlotte and the others carried him along without pulling.\n\nChristine nudged him again. “You’re doing well,” she murmured, and for a moment there was something like sibling pride in her face.\n\nLater, Chris carried his tray to the return cart, felt his shoulders loosen, and the skirt sway with every step. He thought of his mother, of the evening reports. For today, he had made the right choice. And for the moment… the world had not objected.\n\n''🕶️ Cover + 1''\n\n[[Continue|Ausgabe der PE-Uniform]]

<<back "Back">>\n<<if $ladendiebin > 0>><center>[img[pics/charaktere/Zoe.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/zoe_klassenzimmer2.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Name:'' Zoe March\n''Age:'' 18\n''Birthday:'' October\n\n''Relationships''\nDaniel March (46) – father\nMelissa March (39) – mother\nRachel Mercer (43) – aunt\n\n''Biography''\nZoe grew up as a tomboy: scraped knees, baseball cap turned backward, always with the boys playing basketball on the asphalt court instead of at craft afternoons. Her mother disappeared from her life early on; since then, she has lived with a difficult, unpredictable father who sometimes goes silent for weeks and sometimes turns every sentence into an argument. Moving became a habit—couch at an aunt’s place, temporary apartment, motel room—and with every change Zoe learned to pack boxes quickly and let people get close to her slowly. Friendships stayed shallow because goodbyes were reliable.\n\nAt some point, an older man broke her trust; since then, physical closeness has been conflicted terrain for her. She has learned to use sexualization cynically, like a tool. Zoe knows that men will give her many things if she plays by the rules of the game—and she uses that to regain control where there used to be powerlessness.\n\n''Shared Moments / Memories''\n<<nobr>>\n\n<ul> <<if $ZoeMemory[0] eq 1>><li>Zoe remembers through clenched teeth how Chris coldly ratted her out to the store detective back then.</li><</if>> <<if $ZoeMemory[1] eq 1>><li>Zoe remembers with a smug smile how she showed Chris in the school parking lot which of them was stronger.</li><</if>> <<if $ZoeMemory[2] eq 1>><li>Zoe remembers with envy how Chris was chosen at the cheerleader tryout while she was passed over—even though she was convinced she was the better one.</li><</if>> <<if $ZoeMemory[3] eq 1>><li>Zoe remembers proudly how the coach looked back and forth between her and Chris at the cheerleader tryout—and finally chose her.</li><</if>> <<if $ZoeMemory[4] eq 1>><li>Zoe remembers with a giggle how Chris unknowingly sat down on the thumbtacks she had secretly placed on his chair.</li><</if>> <<if $ZoeMemory[5] eq 1>><li>Zoe remembers with dark satisfaction how she first got Chris to shoplift and then let him get caught by the store detective.</li><</if>> <<if $ZoeMemory[6] eq 1>><li>Zoe remembers how insecure and nervous Chris seemed when he was in her room for the first time.</li><</if>> </ul> <</nobr>> <div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Zoe’s influence over Chris</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>no influence</span> <span>fully under control</span> </div> <div class="axis-bar"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $zoe_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $zoe_opinion < 20>> no influence <<elseif $zoe_opinion < 40>> unsettled <<elseif $zoe_opinion < 60>> influenced <<elseif $zoe_opinion < 80>> dependent <<else>> submissive <</if>> </div> </div> <<back "Back">>

Chris stood with the other girls in front of the closed gym door and tried to look as if he had always been waiting right here. Arms loose, gaze somewhere else, not breathing too conspicuously. All week long, he had worked at disappearing into the crowd, and yet it still felt as if he had a sign on his forehead: New. Different. Please don’t look too closely.\n<<set $ort to "school grounds">>\nRuby stood beside him, hands on her backpack straps, and her gaze caught on Chris’s earlobe.\n\n“You’re wearing earrings,” she observed, more curious than judgmental.\n\nChris’s hand flew reflexively to his ear. “Are you… uh… not allowed to wear them in PE?” he asked, and it immediately sounded too cautious.\n\nRuby twisted her mouth. “Technically no. Some rule about injury risk and stuff.”\n\nChris’s heart gave a little jump. The piercings were brand-new, still sensitive. He thought of the brief burning, the pressure, the warning not to take them out for too long at first. “The holes are new. If I take them out… will they close up right away?”\n\nRuby shrugged, pragmatic. “If they’re fresh, that can happen fast.”\n\nChris swallowed. “Great…”\n\nRuby leaned a little closer, as if sharing a hack. “If you don’t want to take them out: put bandages over them.”\n\nChris blinked. “Really?”\n\n“Yeah.” Ruby tapped her backpack. “I’ve got some with me. I’ll give you two once we’re inside.”\n\nChris nodded quickly, relieved. “Okay. Thanks.”\n\nAt that moment, the lock clicked. The gym door opened, and the girls began moving as if someone had fired the starting shot. Chris automatically slipped along beside Ruby, close enough not to get left behind. The bandage idea sat in his head like a small life ring—and pulled him along without thinking.\n\n<<if $umkleide == 1>>Inside, everything happened so quickly that Chris barely had time to regroup. A swell of voices, footsteps, bags. Ruby stayed right in front of him, and Chris followed her without thinking—like a train car behind the engine.\n\nOnly when he stepped through the door of the girls’ locker room with Ruby did he realize it.\n\nA short, sharp stab in his head: the nurse’s office. Mr. Moore’s offer from Monday. Change alone. Not here among the girls.\n\nToo late.\n\nChris was already inside. It was embarrassing—but after this first week, it was no longer the total collapse it would have been on Monday. More like a hot tug in his face, an “oh God” that could be pushed down if he immediately did something.\n\nHe turned his back to the girls as if that had always been his plan and focused on his bag. Hands steady, eyes on the bench, not on the half-naked girls around him.\n\nRuby stepped up beside him a little later, wearing only underwear, as if nothing special were happening. “Bandages?” she asked softly.\n\nChris nodded without turning around. “Please.”\n\nRuby rummaged in her backpack and pressed two bandages into his hand. “Just stick them over your earlobes. Then no one’ll complain.”\n\n“Thanks,” Chris murmured, sticking the bandages over the earrings as quickly and neatly as possible, consciously breathing shallowly as he did. It felt ridiculous and lifesaving at the same time—a small, improvised disguise.\n\nThen he changed, still with his back to the group, as controlled as possible. He realized his heart wasn’t beating quite as wildly as it had on Monday. The situation was still wrong, but it felt… half as bad.\n\nWhen he was done, he automatically smoothed his hem, grabbed his bag, and gave Ruby a brief, grateful look.<<else>>Inside, everything ran on automatic. Chris simply went with Ruby, into the girls’ locker room, as if it had long since become routine. Only when the familiar mix of deodorant, sweat, and shampoo hit him and the locker doors clattered did he consciously realize where he was.\n\nIt was still unfamiliar—this feeling of standing in the wrong place as a boy. But it was no longer the shock from Monday. More like a nervous tingling he now recognized and somehow had under control.\n\nHe stood at his locker, turned his back to the girls, and acted as if he were in a hurry. Small movements, eyes on his bag. Ruby stepped beside him and held out the bandages.\n\n“Here,” she said softly.\n\n“Thanks,” Chris murmured, grateful for the normality in her voice.\n\nRuby quickly stuck the bandages over his earlobes for him. Chris held his head still, then pulled off his shirt and slipped into his PE shirt without turning around. It was embarrassing, yes—but manageable.<<endif>>\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $club == 3 && $charlotte < 2 && $ladendiebin < 2>>\n[[PE and trouble in the locker room.|Sport und Probleme in der Umkleide.]]\n<<else>>\n[[PE and locker-room conversations.|Sport und Umkleidegespräche.]]\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

That evening, there was barely any time to think about the hotel room. Joseph’s relatives had arranged to meet for dinner – a long table in a cozy restaurant, light that was too warm, too many voices, too many hugs. Chris went along because that was the plan now, and because he was hungry.\n\nNo sooner were they at the table than Chris felt the looks. Not hostile – more curious, appraising. That brief, silent calculation: Who is the young lady beside Joseph?\n\n“Joseph!” someone called, and he was immediately pulled into a conversation. Chris sat beside him, smiled politely, nodded, straightened his glass as if perfect posture were a shield. Again and again, questions came, wrapped in small talk:\n\n“And you are…?”\n“How do you know each other?”\n“Are you from Maplewood too?”\n\nJoseph tried to keep it light. “Chris is… a friend of Charlotte’s,” he said several times, as calmly as possible, and steered the topic toward the wedding. Chris helped, answering only what was necessary without providing details.\n\nThen a very old woman – probably a grandmother, small, with sparkling eyes and a smile that knew no boundaries – leaned over the table, studied Chris and Joseph, and clapped her hands in delight.\n\n“Oh, how sweet,” she said loudly enough that several heads turned. “You two look wonderful together.”\n\nFor a moment, everything froze.\n\nChris felt the blood shoot into his face, all the way to the tips of his ears. His smile became an embarrassed crescent that belonged nowhere. Joseph cleared his throat, so awkwardly that it would almost have been funny if Chris had not been internally burning up himself.\n\n“Uh—” Joseph raised his hands as if he wanted to carefully put the compliment back into its box. “That’s… kind, but… Chris was going to come with Charlotte... I mean, as her plus-one for the wedding. We’re only—”\n\n“Yes, yes,” the grandmother waved it off, as if she had heard that a hundred times before. She smiled even more broadly. “Only…” She made a small, conspiratorial gesture. “I have eyes.”\n\nChris laughed too high, too quickly. Joseph discreetly pushed the water glass toward him, as if it were a lifeline. They both tried to steer the conversation back to harmless topics – food, the drive, the hotel, the weather – but the sentence remained in the air like a speck of glitter that could not quite be wiped away.\n\n[[Continue|Anruf von Charlotte.]]

Chris kept the secret to himself.\n\nOn the drive home, an embarrassed silence hung between them, as thick as fogged-up windows. Dylan drove with concentration, both hands on the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead. Chris held the giant stuffed animal on his lap, as if it could fill the hole that had opened up between them. Twice he tried to start—one small “It was still nice today,” one “Thanks for the stuffed animal”—but every word seemed too light for what sat unspoken in the car.\n\nDylan stopped in front of the house. “We’re here,” he said, as if he were also saying: This is where it ends for today.\n\nChris got out. The house was dark, no voices, no light. No one home. For a moment, the thought flashed through his mind to simply invite Dylan inside. Warm living room, sofa, a blanket, getting close again. Chris wanted it so badly that his throat briefly tightened.\n\nBut he couldn’t.\n\nNot without risking everything.\n\n“Do you want to… come in for a bit?” was already on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed the question and instead smiled too politely. “Thanks for driving,” he said.\n\nDylan nodded. He got out as well and walked with him to the front door. Their closeness felt more cautious this time, as if they were both standing on a thin pane of glass. Chris stood on tiptoe and kissed Dylan—gently, with the hope that a kiss might close the hole again.\n\nDylan kissed back, but shorter, less hungrily. When they pulled apart, a shadow remained in his eyes.\n\n“Good night, Chris,” he said.\n\n“Good night,” Chris answered quietly, watching him until Dylan was back in the car.\n\nUpstairs in his room, Chris pulled the curtain aside a little. Dylan’s car sat at the curb for a short while. Then Susan’s car turned in at the end of the street, headlights sweeping over the asphalt. Chris watched as she stopped and got out—perfectly polished, as if she were coming back from a date.\n\nSusan talked with Dylan. Even from a distance, Chris recognized her way of doing things: the posture, the smile, that slightly flirtatious play in her expression that she switched on almost automatically whenever an attractive young man was nearby. Dylan was polite, said something, Susan laughed briefly, touched his arm. Chris didn’t think much of it. That was just how his mother was. A part of his life that had long since become normal, even if he sometimes couldn’t stand it.\n\nLater, Chris lay in bed. The house was quiet. He pulled the big plush wolf toward him, pressed the soft fur against his chest, and cuddled against it as if it were a real weight that could hold him. The candles weren’t burning; only the moonlight drew pale stripes across the ceiling. Chris closed his eyes and wished it were Dylan lying in his arms now—Dylan’s warmth, Dylan’s breath, Dylan’s hand holding him tight. In his imagination, the plush wolf became heavy and alive, and for a few minutes it hurt less.\n\nOver the coming weeks, Chris and Dylan’s relationship changed, at first barely noticeably, then clearly. Dylan seemed more distant. He had “a lot to do,” practice, studying, team stuff. He wrote less often. He still kissed Chris, but shorter, more out of habit than out of that burning “I want you” from before. He no longer pushed for sex—not even by implication anymore. That really should have relieved Chris.\n\nBut it didn’t feel like respect.\n\nIt felt like withdrawal.\n\n[[Continue|Auffälliges Verhalten.]]

The hallway between the cafeteria and the science rooms was, as always during lunch break, too narrow, too loud, too bright. Chris pushed his way past two little groups with his bag at his hip and tried not to stumble, not to stand out, not to walk too quickly. He just wanted to get to his locker and disappear again.\n<<set $wetter = 1>>\nThen he heard the nickname.\n<<set $ort to "Hallway">>\n“Hey, Boob Chris!”\n\nIt came from the left, somewhere behind him, loud enough that it wasn’t directed only at him, but at the whole hallway. A few heads turned. A brief giggle ran through the line, that kind of laughter that didn’t even necessarily have to be mean, but still stung. Chris’s neck grew hot, as if someone had placed a hand there.\n\nHe pretended he hadn’t heard it. That was his reflex: keep walking, don’t react, as if he were made of glass and every look were a stone.\n\n“Boob Chris, are you coming to the—” the voice continued, and then a second voice cut in, lower, calm, clear.\n\n“Cut it out.”\n\nChris almost stopped, it was so abrupt. He dared a half-glance over his shoulder.\n\n[[Dylan|Dylan Carter]] stood a few meters away, between two jocks who were just twisting the caps on their bottles. His head was slightly lowered, but his eyes were raised—fixed directly on the guy who had called out the nickname. No grin, no loose “bro” energy. Just a line.\n\n“It was just a joke,” said the other one, immediately in that tone that apologized without really taking anything back.\n\nDylan didn’t move. “It’s not funny.”\n\nIt wasn’t a big performance. No drama. But that was exactly what made it so noticeable. The hallway, which had just been laughing, grew quieter in a strange way. The giggling broke off as if someone had turned the volume down. Someone snorted, someone hunched their shoulders as if it had suddenly become embarrassing to have been involved at all.\n\nChris’s heart struck hard against his ribs once. Part of him wanted to say thank you. Another part wanted to run away. Because Dylan’s gaze slid briefly—only briefly—over to him.\n\nIt didn’t hit Chris like a spotlight, more like a fleeting check: Everything okay? There was no pity in it, no curious drilling. Still, for one second, Chris felt transparent. As if Dylan had not only heard the nickname, but the nerve beneath it.\n\nChris forced himself to breathe normally. He turned back to his locker as if nothing had happened, and his fingers trembled slightly as he turned the combination. He defended me, he thought, and immediately a warm glow followed, as small and dangerous as a spark.\n\nHe took out the notebook, closed the locker a little too loudly, and did not turn around again. But as he walked on, he carried a contradictory feeling with him: relief and shame, gratitude and panic—and a quiet, impertinent warmth because Dylan had said “cut it out” as if Chris were not merely a joke, but someone who deserved respect.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1>>[[Cheerleader Training.|Cheerleader Training.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2>>[[Theater Club.|Theaterclub.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[D&D Club.|D&D Club.][$kissboy += 1]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Adam dropped Chris off in front of the house, the scooter sputtering for another second before he turned it around. Chris waved stiffly, held the hem of his skirt down, and walked up the driveway. That was when he saw Susan standing in the doorway—arms crossed, her gaze sharply awake. As Adam drove off, her eyes followed him all the way to the street, as if she were memorizing the license plate.\n<<set $ort to "at home">><<set $wetter = 3>>\nInside, the front door fell shut, and his mother turned to him at once. “So,” she began, and the word sounded like a hook. “who was that?”\n\nChris pulled the bag from his shoulder. “A school friend from D&D club.”\n\n“Mhm.” Susan smiled thinly, took a step closer, and looked him over—not caringly, more appraisingly. “You’re selling yourself short, Chris. Honestly.” She twisted her mouth. “The boy is nice, I’m sure. But…” She deliberately left the sentence open, then filled it with a look that meant everything: Adam’s weight, his manner, his nerdiness. “You could do much better.”\n\nChris felt anger that immediately turned back into caution. He wanted to argue. But the reflex not to escalate won. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered and headed toward the stairs.\n\n“It does to me,” Susan said behind him. “I just want you to… think strategically.”\n\nChris swallowed the comment down and disappeared into his room.\n\n[[Continue|Dienstag, Figurprobleme.]]

Penelope had hung a string of lights in the living room to make a sparkling frame; beneath it, washi tape formed little hearts: Photo Wall. “You two are up!” she called, waving the Polaroid camera. Christine immediately posed, head slightly tilted, lips puckered into a duckface—click-whrrr—the picture slid out, and Penelope waved it in the air as if summoning good lighting. “Perfect!”\n\nChris stepped forward, watched how the other girls shaped their faces—that half-ironic kissy mouth, soft eyes, a hint of mischief—and tried to imitate it. Click. As the picture slowly developed, he saw: not casual at all, more… suggestive. His mouth too wide open, his eyes too sultry, a smile invitingly provocative. “Um.” Penelope grinned. “Artistic.”\n\nAfter that, Chris helped build the pillow fort: blankets over chair backs, a bedsheet as a roof, pillows in every size, a string-light tunnel that bathed the whole thing in warm honey light. Everywhere were half-naked pretty girls: hair brushing shoulders; the fine scent of shampoo and lotion; satin softly rustling with movement. Girls’ bodies touching as if by chance inside the pillow fort. An intimacy boys were usually never invited into; a look behind the curtain that both pleased him and made him horny. Chris realized the situation was overwhelming him, and his cock began to stir again.\n\n“Girls?” A voice from the hallway, warm and melodic. [[Mrs. Caroline Barnett|Caroline Barnett]], Penelope’s mother, stepped into the living room: tall, elegant, with a friendly face. “I could use a hand in the kitchen.”\n\n“Me!” Chris blurted faster than he could think. A few heads turned, Penelope smiled. “Great, take Chris with you, Mom. She’s good at carrying trays.” Chris nodded gratefully, set down the last clips, and followed Mrs. Barnett through the hallway.\n\nIn the kitchen, it was quiet, only the soft hiss of a soda dispenser and the click of ice cubes.\n\n“Thank you, sweetheart,” Mrs. Barnett said, setting down a cutting board. “Would you halve the lemons? Penelope is planning practically a whole drinks station.” Chris breathed more deeply, grateful for the clear, small task and the cooler light over the kitchen island. His hands found a rhythm—halve, turn, press—and his head grew quieter. Outside, the pillow fort kept rustling; inside, glasses clinked, and for a moment everything felt pleasantly orderly.\n\n[[Continue|In der Küche.]]

He slid hangers back and forth as if rummaging through a stranger’s wardrobe. He laid things on the bed—a pleated skirt with tiny polka dots, a peachy blouse-like top, a sage cardigan, plus white socks and Mary Janes—and suddenly had three versions of “somehow wrong.” The top was cute, the skirt too, but together they screamed birthday party for little girls. The cardigan made everything too heavy. On the second try, the skirt got shorter, the top white, and in the mirror it read “trying too hard.”\n<<set $ort to "Maplewood">>\nThe door opened. Christine stopped in the frame, eyes widening—a mix of shock and amusement. “Oh, Chris.” She stepped closer, pinched at the hem, pulled the top out a little, tucked it back in. “The colors are fighting. And the skirt…” She grimaced. “Slut length. You don’t want the hall monitor chasing you with a ruler.”\n\n“I thought—”\n\n“—you thought cute plus cute equals double cute. But it’s sugar shock.” Christine reached into the closet, her gaze sure. “Trust me. Pleated midi.” She fanned out a skirt in a soft smoky gray that shimmered subtly in the light. “And with that, the blousey top with the ruffle edge. Not the peach one—the cream-colored one. Lighter contrast, calmer.”\n\nHe changed, let the skirt fall, the hem swinging just below his calf. Christine stepped back once, then forward again. “White socks, yes. Mary Janes with it.” She pulled the pair from the shelf. “And—” She tucked the hem of the top in slightly at the front. “There.”\n\n<center>[img[pics/outfit4b.jpg]]</center> Chris looked in the mirror and breathed. The pleats lay neatly, the top was soft, not pushy, and the ruffled edge set exactly the little frame that drew attention to his chest. The patent on the Mary Janes shone so strongly that it seemed his panties under the skirt could reflect in them.\n\nDown in the hallway, Susan studied him, a testing look that, for once today, ended softly. “I wouldn’t have thought you were capable of that yet,” she said, satisfied, as if she were taking part in the result. “Very nice.” Christine giggled behind her hand, a conspiratorial sound; her look at Chris promised silence. Our secret.\n\nOn the way to school, the hem felt like a metronome calming his steps. Inside, everything was as usual—the bell, the hallway noise, locker slams. Boys looked at him with interest, looked away again, then looked once more at his butt in passing.\n\nIn English, Ruby sat down beside him. “Cute top,” she said. “Where’s it from?”\n\n“My mom bought it,” Chris replied.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1>>[[The right table in the cafeteria.|Der richtige Tisch in der Cafeteria.]]<<endif>><<if $club == 2>>[[The wrong table in the cafeteria.|Der falsche Tisch in der Cafeteria.]]<<endif>><<if $club == 3>>[[The wrong table in the cafeteria.|Der falsche Tisch in der Cafeteria.2][$beliebtheit -= 1]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

<<set $ort to "Auditorium">>The afternoon smelled of dust and set varnish. Chris dropped into the back row of the theater room, kept his eyes on his script, and pretended he had to salvage a margin note. He had been avoiding [[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]] all day—in the auditorium, at the lockers, even at the water fountain. Today he wanted to end it. The “relationship,” which really consisted only of a drunken party kiss and a hurried “Okay, then I guess we’re together.” He hadn’t wanted to look like an easy slut who drunkenly kisses boys at parties. So he had played along—until now. And yet it felt as if he were taking away something Lucas had long since made part of his day.\n\nSomewhere in his mind, he remembered a rumor a girl had once whispered to him: the bench behind the sports field was supposedly the best place for confessions, breakups, or awkward conversations. Because no one stayed there by accident—too far away, too windy, too visible—and yet you still didn’t fall apart in the middle of the hallway. Chris briefly pictured the bench, the worn wooden slats, the rustling of the trees, and felt his stomach tighten. Maybe that was the right place. Maybe not.\n\n“Mirroring! Breath—text!” Ms. Green called and clapped. Chris stumbled into the exercise, repeated blocking, sight lines, cues. But his mind drifted off, back to last week. Being taken hadn’t necessarily felt bad. There was something grown-up about it, something calm—being someone who “has someone.” But he was a boy. He never would have thought his first “relationship” would be with another boy. And above all: he wanted a girlfriend. He didn’t want to play the girl in a relationship.\n\n“Chris, focus!” Ms. Green’s voice cracked across the room. He flinched, nodded curtly, and hit the next mark on the floor.\n\nWhen rehearsal ended, everyone sorted the props back into place. Chris took one deep breath—now. He headed toward Lucas, the words in his throat like smooth pebbles: “We need to talk… I mean, I think it’s better if—”\n\n“Oh!” Lucas’s face lit up. “Perfect timing. My mom asked if you wanted to play tennis with her today. She said you’d asked last time.”\n\nThe sentence hung in the air for a moment. Chris felt something inside him soften, somewhere entirely different: with Mrs. Barnett. Her laughter, her exciting feminine body, the seductive way she had looked at him. The pull in his chest was startlingly clear. I want to see her again, he thought. Badly. But for that, he had to remain Lucas’s “girlfriend.” A little longer.\n\n“So?” Lucas asked, hopeful.\n\nChris’s mouth was dry. The right words for an “I’m sorry…” suddenly seemed to be missing again. Before him stood two paths: be honest and break it off—or stay, play along, play tennis, to see Mrs. Barnett again.\n\n''How does Chris decide?''\n❯ [[Stay with Lucas and play tennis.|Mit Lucas zusammen bleiben und Tennis spielen.][$lucas += 1]]\n❯ [[Break up with Lucas.|Mit Lucas Schluss machen.]]

With the theater kids, the festival suddenly wasn’t a stage anymore, but a playground. They tried maple fudge and pretended to be food critics (“too sticky, but emotionally convincing”), tossed rings onto bottle necks and cheered over hits as if they had just won a Tony Award. Someone urged Chris to put on a silly mask at one booth; Ruby took a photo, and Chris laughed for real, without thinking about how it looked. They briefly ended up at a small open stage, where two people from the club started an improvised scene and the group loudly called out “Setting!” and “Relationship!” For a few minutes, Chris simply felt like one of them—not a project, not “training,” not a role that had to be optimized.\n\nWhile he was arguing with Ruby about whether maple soda tasted more like “summer” or “dentist,” his phone vibrated.\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Lucas: Hey… what are you doing right now?</blockquote>Chris’s thumb hesitated. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: I’m at the town festival.</blockquote>The reply came quickly. <blockquote class="quote">Lucas: Oh… \nLucas: We could have gone together…</blockquote>Chris bit his lip briefly. He felt that small, uncomfortable tug—a mix of guilt and the desire to get it right. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: I was actually just here with my mom. And then I happened to run into the theater people.</blockquote>He looked at the chat as if it were a tightrope. To keep it from getting awkward, and because he didn’t want to push Lucas away, he wrote one more line before he could change his mind. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: Why don’t you come here? Then we can hang out together. 😊</blockquote>A few seconds passed. Chris’s heart was beating too fast for a text message. <blockquote class="quote">Lucas: Okay. I’ll hurry!</blockquote>Chris put his phone away, breathed out, and noticed something shifting inside him: friends weren’t only a risk. Sometimes they were a lifeline.\n\n[[Continue|Mit Lucas auf dem Stadtfest.]]

Chris blushed, pressed his lips together, but followed his instructions. He took off the cardigan, then the top, folded carefully on the chair. The skirt followed, the zipper a soft hum, almost as if he were stripping for him. He let the tights glide over his hips and paused for a moment before taking them off completely, until he stood there in his bra and panties. The air felt cooler on his skin. He did not cross his arms, although he wanted to; he forced himself to stand still.\n\nDr. Coleman adjusted a small scale. “Step onto it.” His voice remained neutral.\n\nObediently, Chris stepped onto the scale. Today he was wearing white panties. The small bulge of his penis was clearly visible beneath the fabric. The doctor bent down, noted the number, then measured Chris’s body measurements at chest, waist, and butt.\n\nWhen he touched Chris, it sent slight shivers over Chris’s skin. A tingling spread along the trail of his male fingers.\n\n“Well within the normal range,” the doctor murmured.\n\nThen he took the stethoscope. “Now I’m going to listen to you, and in between I’ll take a few photos that I need for the documents,” he explained, and began listening with the stethoscope.\n\nFor Chris, it was a very strange feeling to be in front of him wearing only a bra. What was this supposed to be? Just a few weeks ago, he wouldn’t have cared at all about standing bare-chested in front of a doctor. And now a bra wasn’t enough?\n\nFirst from the front. “Deep breath.” The cold membrane glided over his breastbone and side, then around to his ribs from behind. Chris froze a little at every touch, telling himself that this was normal, that he had experienced this at the doctor before. It still felt freer and more defenseless, with the bra, in his own room, with the pink walls in the corner of his eye.\n\nToday Chris was wearing a white bra with lace trim and a little flower in the neckline. The cleavage between his small breasts could be seen delicately.\n\nThen he listened to his back. While doing so, Dr. Coleman opened Chris’s bra so that it slipped from his body. Startled, Chris reached for it. “Wait, I’d like to listen to your heart once more,” he said, pulling the bra from Chris’s shoulders. Chris now stood uncovered before him, wearing only his white panties.\n\nChris had large nipples for a boy. The areolas bulged clearly from his small chest, with his pink nipples standing on them like little towers. It was obviously embarrassing to him. After he had “listened” to his heart once more, Dr. Coleman explained to him that he now had to palpate his chest.\n\nChris had no choice but to nod, so he did. He felt Chris’s chest extensively, stroked over his nipples, which slowly hardened, and carefully pressed the little breasts together.\n\n“The fact that your nipples are hard now is a sign of healthy sexual arousal,” the doctor explained while photographing Chris’s bust.\n\nChris took a deep breath and instantly turned red when he realized in astonishment that his nipples were not the only thing that had hardened. The doctor covered Chris’s chest with the bra again and now palpated his stomach. When he reached the edge of his panties, Chris nervously tensed his abdominal muscles.\n\n“You can breathe completely relaxed. It’s perfectly normal for you to be a little excited when a man examines you there,” he said, pulling down his panties as he did so.\n\nChris’s stiff cock practically sprang upward. His face glowed. But the doctor only smiled. He took photos of that too; Chris wanted to sink into the ground with shame.\n\n“Do you actually have a girlfriend or a steady boyfriend?” the doctor asked quite shamelessly as he palpated Chris’s testicles.\n\n<<if $charlotte < 2>>“Uh… I’m single at the moment… I mean, I don’t have a GIRLFRIEND!” Chris emphasized.<<else>>“Uh… I have a GIRLFRIEND!” Chris emphasized.<<endif>>\n\n“I’m going to examine your prostate now, and then you’re done. Please lie on your stomach on the bed and spread your legs,” Dr. Coleman said while shamelessly staring at Chris’s stiff penis.\n\n''Does Chris lie down on the bed and let himself be examined?''\n❯ [[He does it.|Er macht es.][$adam += 1]]\n❯ [[Absolutely not.|Auf keine Fall.]]

Beliebtheit -1

Friday evening lay over the stadium like a film filter: floodlights, cold wind sweeping across the track, and that deep hum of voices, band rehearsals, and metal gates opening. When Chris came out of the locker room, the cheerleader outfit suddenly felt thinner than it had in the gym. The fabric sat tight, the bow in his hair held, but the wind still found every little gap.\n\nCharlotte and her father stood at the edge of the track.\n<<set $joseph_opinion to 74>><<set $ort to "stadium">>\nCharlotte looked tense, like someone trying hard to seem normal. Her shoulders were a fraction too high, her gaze darting away and back again too often. [[Mr. Walters|Joseph Walters]], on the other hand, smiled openly, warmly, as if he had simply planned Chris’s presence into the evening all along.\n\n“Hey, Chris,” Mr. Walters said. “You look… enchanting.” He didn’t mean it like a teenager’s compliment, but like genuine appreciation.\n\nIn the cheer uniform, Chris looked damn sexy: the red-and-silver top lay smoothly against him, the V-neck sporty, his shoulders bare and defined. The skirt fell in clean pleats, every movement creating a brief, controlled swing. Bow in his hair, white sneakers, knee socks—everything looked like something out of a man’s fantasy.\n\nChris noticed the way Mr. Walters was looking at him. “Thank you,” he said, and his flattered smile came more easily than expected.\n\nCharlotte cleared her throat. “I’ll… be right back. Bathroom.” She looked at Chris briefly, longer than necessary, as if there were an unspoken sentence she didn’t want to throw into the noise. Then she was gone, swept into the flow of people.\n\nAnd suddenly Chris and Mr. Walters were alone—not really alone, the stadium was everywhere, but in that little bubble at the edge of the track, it felt that way.\n\nMr. Walters shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “Pretty chilly today,” he said, as if that were a safe way to start.\n\nChris nodded. “Yeah.”\n\n“Wait.” Mr. Walters opened his jacket and took it off. “Put this on for a bit. No need for you to freeze.”\n\nChris hesitated, reflexively. Accepting help from an adult always felt like a trap. But Mr. Walters held out the jacket without pressure, without comment, as if caring were something completely normal.\n\n“Thanks,” Chris murmured and put it on. It was a little too big, but that was exactly what made it cozy. The wind bit less.\n\nThen Mr. Walters held out his thermos cup to him. “Want a sip? It’s just tea. With honey.”\n\nChris took a small sip. Warm. Sweet. Calming.\n\nMr. Walters didn’t look directly at him as he went on, as if he wanted to make the matter easier. “I talked to Charlotte earlier,” he said. “She’s just… overwhelmed right now.”\n\nChris’s stomach clenched. He had heard that sentence too often as the prelude to something bad.\n\nBut Mr. Walters only shook his head calmly, as if he had already guessed Chris’s thoughts. “That doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you,” he said softly. “Sometimes someone is only overwhelmed because they don’t want to lose something important and don’t know how to hold onto it.”\n\nThe sentence hit Chris in a place that was rarely touched. Not like comfort that made him feel “small”—more like an adult version of: You’re not the problem. He felt his throat tighten, and he only nodded, because every word would have been too loud.\n\nMr. Walters smiled, a calm, steady smile. “You’re doing well here, by the way,” he added, gesturing with his chin toward the field. “All of it. School, team, and… you seem as if you still aren’t losing yourself despite everything. That’s not a given.”\n\nChris breathed out. For a moment, he didn’t feel like someone who was only adapting in order to survive, but like someone who was actually carrying something.\n\nThen Charlotte appeared again. She stopped for a moment when she saw Chris in her father’s jacket—the thermos cup in Chris’s hand, the two of them in conversation, Mr. Walters’s calm posture, Chris’s unusually soft face. A smile flickered across Charlotte’s mouth, quick and almost unconscious.\n\n“Everything okay?” she asked, a little too quickly.\n\n“All good,” her father said at once, lightly. “I was just preventing your girlfriend from freezing to death here.”\n\nCharlotte nodded, and her eyes slid back and forth between the two of them once more. “Okay. Then… to the coach?”\n\nChris gave Mr. Walters the cup back, but didn’t take off the jacket right away. Together they walked to the sideline, and while the noise grew louder again, Mr. Walters’s sentence stayed with Chris like something warm: That doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.\n\n[[Continue|Das Spiel.][$JosephMemory[1] += 1]]

Chris felt the microphone in front of him like a small test made of metal. He held the smile in place the way he had learned to by now—as if locking it into the corners of his mouth. One breath. Not too deep, not too shallow. Then he spoke, slowly enough to sound polished.\n\n“My biggest dream…” he began, and his voice remained surprisingly steady, “…is that someday I can truly make a positive difference. Not just for myself, but for others.”\n\nHe made a small pause, the way he had heard the others do, and lifted his gaze a little, as if “bringing” the audience with him.\n\n“I want to help people,” he continued. “In a way that lasts—through small things in everyday life, but also through decisions that require courage.” He could still feel his heart pounding, but the words carried him because they were safe.\n\n“And…” Chris let the smile grow softer, “…I wish to be part of a strong community. So that Maplewood remains a place where people can truly feel at home. A place where people see and support one another.”\n\nThe host nodded with satisfaction. Applause came from the audience—not euphoric, but warm. Chris even heard a few approving “Aww” sounds. Somewhere, the three nerds were clapping a little too loudly again. Chris kept his gaze straight for a moment, gave the smallest wave, and then stepped back into the line, his knees a little softer than before.\n\nHe knew it had been a “pageant-worthy” answer. But it was also close enough to a truth that it didn’t taste like a lie. And for that moment, it was enough.\n\n''How does the second round go?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $stil > 7 >>[[Chris makes it into the third round.|Chris kommt in die dritte Runde.]]\n<<else>>[[Chris is eliminated in the second round.|Chris scheidet in der zweiten Runde aus.]]\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Chris ran his hand over his sister’s breast, stroking her gently as they continued to kiss. Her chest rose as she took a sharp breath through her nose. Her nipples had hardened into tight buds. Christine grasped his exploring hand and guided it between her legs. She was thoroughly wet. When he tried to move his fingers on his own, she punished him with a tight, unyielding grip. Chris understood and let her take the lead with his hand. She guided his finger—very slowly—to the mound just above her clitoris. Her breathing grew heavier as they went on kissing. She barely moved his hand, opting instead to apply subtle, rhythmically shifting pressure. Then she felt a gentle nudge against her leg and noticed his reawakened erection.\n\n"Looks like -he- doesn't need a break, does he?" she asked.\n\n"Nope," he chuckled.\n\nChristine lay back on the bed, spreading her legs wide. Chris took his cock in hand, quickly lowered himself onto his pregnant sister, and pressed his cock deep into her pussy.\n\nHis sister was so wet that he could feel her moisture all over him. She squeezed her eyes shut as he penetrated her. At first, he felt as though he wouldn't fit inside her at all, and he could feel his impatience driving him on. Christine raised her hand, and he paused his movement as he came too close to her belly.\n\n"Don't stop. But be careful!" she said.\n\nMillimeter by millimeter—or so it seemed to him—he pushed forward, feeling a sensational wave of pleasure wash over him.\n\nHis rhythm quickened with every thrust. Christine’s movements grew increasingly wild; she tossed her head from side to side, thrusting her hips up against her brother. Both were completely consumed by lust, no longer giving a single thought to the fact that they were brother and sister.\n\nShe felt him deep inside her and didn't want to let him out—not for a single second. Christine squeezed her vaginal muscles tight to massage his cock. She was so utterly horny for her brother that she wanted it all. She wanted to feel his orgasm inside her; she wanted to feel him come deep within her. She wanted to feel it one more time, come what may. Nothing else mattered anymore.\n\nChris thrust harder and faster... he was about to come; his semen was slowly making its way to the surface. A jolt of electricity shot through him, and he began to pound her wildly. And with a cry of pure pleasure—as their two entwined bodies arched and strained together—Chris shot his seed deep into his sister’s pussy, just as they both experienced a never-ending orgasm in perfect unison.\n\nAgain and again, Chris pumped his semen deep into Christine’s core; she surrendered herself to him willingly, letting it happen, and experienced a new, intense orgasm with every fresh spurt. Her pussy twitched and pulsed, drawing her brother’s semen deep inside her. In wild ecstasy, their two bodies twitched and arched over and over again, until the waves of pleasure finally subsided and Chris had filled his sister to the very last drop. Exhausted, they both drifted off to sleep—still joined together—as a blissful, restorative slumber claimed them both.\n\n[[Continue|Der Geburt.]]\n

Chris agreed, a brief nod that felt like a leap into warm water. His heart hammered, his knees grew light. At that moment, Lucas came down the stairs. Mrs. Barnett intercepted him with a buttery-soft tone.\n\n“Sweetheart, would you do me a quick favor? I need lemons and vanilla from the store—the good kind, you know—and while you’re there, please pick up the package receipt from the post counter.” She gave him a fleeting kiss on the cheek, reached for her wallet, and pressed it into his hand, as if all of it had been arranged long ago.\n\n“Sure,” Lucas said, visibly pleased to be helpful. “I’ll be back soon.”\n\nThe front door closed behind him. The house grew quiet.\n\n“I’m going to hop in the shower for a moment,” Mrs. Barnett said more softly, her eyes holding his a heartbeat too long. “In five minutes, come upstairs and wait in my bedroom. Second door on the right.” A smile that pushed every doubt away from the handle, and she disappeared down the hall.\n\nChris remained alone in the large, bright foyer and felt time fall apart into thin slices. Five minutes. He breathed, hands on his bag, and his thoughts stumbled: He was a boy who was about to have his first time. With her. Euphoria and nervousness lay over each other like two blankets that didn’t quite fit. Would he do everything “right”? What “right” even looked like, he knew more from images than from experience. One part of him wanted to laugh, another to run, a third simply stood there, marveling that his life was suddenly running so close to a movie.\n\nHe saw his face in the hall mirror: flushed, pupils larger, mouth dry. Don’t panic, he thought, breathe in—breathe out. He unconsciously smoothed the hem of his top, as if order in the fabric would bring order inside him too.\n\nThen he went up the stairs. The house smelled of fresh laundry and a hint of citrus. The second door on the right stood slightly open. The bedroom was large, calm, light falling in slanting stripes across a made bed with a pale cover. Chris sat down on the edge of the bed; the mattress gave way softly. In the bathroom, the shower hissed, the muffled sound of water stretching the seconds.\n\nThe next few minutes felt like an eternity to Chris. He was almost about to get up again and slip away, but then the bathroom door opened and Mrs. Barnett came out.\n\nHer short wet hair stood messily away from her head. Beads of water were visible on her arms. Around her body she had wrapped a towel that reached from her breasts to just above her thighs.\n\nWhen she saw Chris sitting on the bed, her expression brightened and a smile appeared on her lips. Chris noticed how red they were. Had Mrs. Barnett put on lipstick especially?\n\nMrs. Barnett was beside Chris in just a few steps. The towel fell to the floor. At last, Chris had the chance to see every detail clearly. His eyes glided over the curves of her breasts, standing firm and taut from her body. Over the large brown nipples, already hard. Over her stomach, trained and firm, with the muscles faintly showing beneath the skin. Down along her legs, also toned and athletic. Then back up to the treasure box. A small strip, dark and trimmed short, was the only hair to be found there.\n\n“Well, have you seen enough?” Mrs. Barnett looked at Chris expectantly. “Are you ready for more?”\n\n[[Continue|Chris nickte.][$oral += 1;$kissgirl += 1]]

At exactly 6 p.m., people streamed through the turnstiles, the speakers played excited fanfares, and the air smelled of wet grass, popcorn, and wintergreen gum. Chris found a seat in the middle of the stands, placed his hands on the cool railing, and searched the edge of the field. The cheerleaders were warming up there: stretches, high Vs, half-height toe touches, short running patterns. [[Christine|Christine Braun]] stood in the second row.\n<<set $ort to "stadium">>\nWhen the music briefly fell silent, he saw Myles appear at the sideline fence and make a sign. Christine broke away from the group and went to him. From above, their conversation looked jagged: She shook her head, lifted one hand defensively; Myles talked at her, leaned forward, his tone urgent, shoulders broad as if he were filling the air. Finally he placed a hand on her back, a “come on” in the gesture, and both of them disappeared into the passage leading to the locker rooms.\n\nChris’s neck tightened. He stood up, felt his way past rows of seats, and went down the stairs. The stadium kept rumbling dully behind him, but in the corridor it was surprisingly quiet.\n\nBefore he turned the corner toward the girls’ side, he heard unmistakable sounds—as if someone were sucking someone’s cock.\n\n“Shit! You’re so good at that!” Chris could hear [[Myles|Myles Pierce]] moan.\n\nChris stopped because his feet did, not because his head decided to. Carefully, he leaned around the doorframe.\n\nChristine was kneeling on the floor in front of Myles, his pants pulled down, and it looked as if Christine was sucking his cock.\n\n“Get up, I still want to fuck you,” Myles demanded.\n\nChristine stood up, slipped off her panties, lay down on the bench, and willingly spread her legs.\n\nChris’s heart pounded in his throat, and his mouth fell open in shock when Myles turned and he caught sight of his penis. His manhood was frighteningly large, decorated with thick veins that pulsed with lust.\n\n“Hurry up, Myles! The game’s about to start,” Christine whispered nervously.\n\nChris felt heat creeping up the back of his neck. He knew he should leave—that this was not his image, not his moment. And yet he stood there, caught between shame and a strange helplessness that held him in place. It was uncomfortable watching them; at the same time, there was that magnetic inability to look away, like a film you don’t want to see, but whose next scene you still find yourself anticipating.\n\nBehind him, the band began drumming out a fanfare, the stadium breathed in. In front of him, Myles positioned himself over his younger sister to fuck her.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[Keep watching.|Weiter beobachten.2][$temp += 1]]\n❯ [[Leave.|Weggehen.2]]

The stadium was already vibrating at 6 p.m.: the smell of grilling mixed with cold metal, speaker tests crackled, the marching band struck up measures. Chris stepped through the turnstile, blinked into the floodlights, and tried to get his bearings as Charlotte headed toward him—athletic, sunny, her dark bangs bouncing with every step, freckles like scattered dots.\n<<set $joseph_opinion to 74>><<set $ort to "stadium">>\nIn the cheer uniform, she looked damn sexy: the red-and-silver top lay smoothly against her, the V-neck sporty, her shoulders bare and defined. The skirt fell in clean pleats, every movement creating a brief, controlled swing. Bow in her hair, white sneakers, knee socks—everything looked like something out of a man’s fantasy. Chris noticed his cock stiffening slightly.\n\n“Come on, I’ll seat you with my dad,” she said, briefly took his hand, and led him up the steps. [[Mr. Walters|Joseph Walters]] waved from halfway up the stands: jeans, team hoodie, thermos cup in hand.\n\n“Good evening, Joseph,” Chris said.\n\n“Hello, Chris,” he replied. In that moment, Chris noticed Joseph’s gaze—curious, interested—just as Chris’s gaze had only moments before slid over Charlotte’s exciting body when she arrived: the same aroused taking-in now came from Joseph. Chris felt his heart beat a touch too fast.\n\nCharlotte tapped Chris once on the shoulder. “I have to go over for warm-ups. See you later!” Then she was already on her way again, bouncing down the steps and disappearing toward the sideline.\n\nChris and Joseph watched as the cheer girls warmed up: wrist circles, high knees, short jump sequences. “Impressive how coordinated they are,” Joseph said.\n\n“Yeah,” Chris nodded. “And even their warm-up looks like a show.”\n\nDown by the edge of the rows of benches, Chris suddenly spotted his sister. [[Christine|Christine Braun]] stood with [[Myles|Myles Pierce]] a little off to the side, half in the shadow of the bleacher supports. She shook her head, hands on her hips; Myles leaned closer, talking at her, one hand on her back, his gaze insistent. One more sentence, one more nod—then they went together into the passage leading to the locker rooms.\n\nChris’s stomach clenched. “I’ll be right back,” he said quietly to Joseph.\n\n“Everything okay?” he asked.\n\n“I… just need to check on my sister for a second.” Joseph nodded and let him go.\n\nThe corridor was cooler, the sound of the stadium only a muffled roar now.\n\nBefore Chris turned the corner toward the girls’ side, he heard unmistakable sounds—as if someone were sucking someone’s cock.\n\n“Shit! You’re so good at that!” Chris could hear Myles moan.\n\nChris stopped because his feet did, not because his head decided to. Carefully, he leaned around the doorframe.\n\nChristine was kneeling on the floor in front of Myles, his pants pulled down, and it looked as if Christine was sucking his cock.\n\n“Get up, I still want to fuck you,” Myles demanded.\n\nChristine stood up, slipped off her panties, lay down on the bench, and willingly spread her legs.\n\nChris’s heart pounded in his throat, and his mouth fell open in shock when Myles turned and he caught sight of his penis. His manhood was frighteningly large, decorated with thick veins that pulsed with lust.\n\n“Hurry up, Myles! The game’s about to start,” Christine whispered nervously.\n\nChris felt heat creeping up the back of his neck. He knew he should leave—that this was not his image, not his moment. And yet he stood there, caught between shame and a strange helplessness that held him in place. It was uncomfortable watching them; at the same time, there was that magnetic inability to look away, like a film you don’t want to see, but whose next scene you still find yourself anticipating.\n\nBehind him, the band began drumming out a fanfare, the stadium breathed in. In front of him, Myles positioned himself over his little sister to fuck her.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[Keep watching.|Weiter beobachten.3][$temp += 1;$JosephMemory[1] += 1]]\n❯ [[Leave.|Weggehen.3][$JosephMemory[1] += 1]]

At the kitchen table, cups and a plate of toast were already set out; the warm scent of coffee hung in the air. DeShawn sat casually at the end of the table, barefoot, relaxed, as if Sunday belonged to him.\n<<set $ort to "Küche">>\nChris was astonished at how composed he seemed so shortly after fucking his mother, and he shuddered at the memory.\n\nLatoya stretched and grabbed some orange juice. “Morning,” she grinned.\n\nSusan came last; she was wearing a matching miniskirt and top and had that special glow in her eyes.\n\nOnce again, Chris’s thoughts circled back to his mother—how she knelt there, her big tits jiggling, her face contorted with pleasure, and how she moaned with lust as DeShawn rammed his long black cock into her pussy.\n\n“Girl, you look exhausted,” Latoya teased and bit into a strawberry.\n\nSusan shot DeShawn a sideways glance that said more than words, and smiled. “I’m doing excellent.”\n\nBreakfast drifted along in small waves—jam, butter, two loose jokes. Afterward, Susan set down her cup and turned to Chris. “We’re heading out again in a bit,” she said, her tone casually decisive. “DeShawn is going to show me something downtown.”\n\nShe stepped up to Chris, briefly wrapped her arms around his shoulders—a foul smell of semen on her breath—and leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek.\n\n''How does Chris react?''\n[[He lets her kiss his cheek.|Er lässt sich seine Wange küssen.][$susan += 1]]\n[[He pushes her away.|Er stößt sie weg.]]

In class, Chris stood in front of the blackboard, notes in hand, heart in his throat. “So… my topic is…” He breathed in, found the first sentence, the words coming haltingly at first, then more smoothly.\n<<set $ort to "Classroom">>\nIn the second row, [[Zoe|Zoe March]] raised her hand. “Can I go to the bathroom?” Mr. Robertson nodded, scribbled something in the class register. The door fell shut behind her. Chris kept his gaze fixed on the upper edge of the room, as if on an invisible wire holding him up. He spoke about his topic, the thread of the argument like a ladder in his head.\n\nThe door opened, Zoe slipped back in, dropped into her chair—right in his line of sight. Today she was wearing a knee-length skirt.\n\nAt first, Zoe pulled the skirt up a little with her legs closed. Chris, still trying to give his presentation, could hardly believe his eyes. Zoe’s thighs opened slightly, and between them appeared the dark start of a pelt of hair, proving that this desirable girl’s sex was not covered by any panties.\n\nZoe pulled the skirt a little lower again and at the same time opened her thighs lasciviously, shooting a fiery, seductive look in Chris’s direction. Only very briefly did Chris’s eyes catch the dark pubic hair overgrowing her pussy. The sight burned itself into his thoughts.\n\nChris’s voice faltered because he lost the thread. Her cunt was unbelievably beautiful, and the slight movements of her thighs made the pink labia beneath the hair rub against each other desirously.\n\nIgnore it, Chris thought. He read off the next point, but the line spacing jumped before his eyes.\n\nZoe smiled seductively at him, sucked on her index finger with a pout, and released it from her mouth. Then she guided it under the desk between her spread legs and began rubbing her slit. This slut was shamelessly masturbating in front of him!\n\nShe did it cleverly enough that no one else could see, but clearly enough for him—so clearly that his cock reacted to the stimulus. Please not now. A hot wave shot into his crotch. Beneath the fabric of his dress, he felt that treacherous state of alarm—purely embarrassing, but real.\n\n“…uh, furthermore…” His voice tipped. He cleared his throat, heard how dry he sounded. He didn’t dare look down at himself. What if something shows? The thought was like a scratch that grows bigger the more you try not to think about it.\n\nZoe silently formed “O–M–G” with her lips, as if observing an experiment.\n\nMore embarrassed than ever before, Chris desperately tried to hold the notes in front of his crotch to conceal his erection.\n\nChris clung to the last remnants of reason. “I feel…” He searched for Mr. Robertson’s gaze. “I feel sick right now. May I quickly—?”\n\nThe teacher immediately looked serious. “Of course. Get some water, a bit of fresh air. Someone accompany—? No? Good, go.”\n\nChris nodded gratefully and walked to the door as calmly as he could. He heard Zoe laugh softly.\n\n\nAt a near run, Chris made his way to the restroom, where, in a stall, he pulled himself out with trembling hands and, with the image of Zoe’s cunt before his eyes, masturbated without restraint until his seed shot into the bowl. It was a wonderful and satisfying orgasm for him.\n\n[[Continue|Er stellt Zoe zur Rede.]]

When practice finally ended and the gym emptied out, Chris’s body was still caught in the aftertremble of the safety drills. He was tired, his side felt dull, and the brief scare from earlier was still echoing in his head. He stuffed the poms into his bag, pulled the zipper shut—then a shadow fell over the edge of the mat.\n<<set $ort to "school grounds">>\nDylan was standing there.\n\nChris’s stomach made that small, cold jump. His first thought came hard and automatic: He’s canceling. Or worse: It was a joke. A handsome quarterback showing off the “new girl,” everyone laughing, Chris standing there like an idiot. For a moment he could already hear the imaginary laughter in the hallway, as if it were a soundtrack that could start at any time.\n\nDylan rubbed the back of his neck once, embarrassed, and smiled uncertainly—not the big, victorious grin, more a real hesitation. “Hey, Chris… um.” He pushed the words ahead of him as if they were heavier than a football. “About Homecoming. I said I’d text you. And…” He breathed out, almost annoyed with himself. “I totally spaced it. And I… I don’t even have your number.”\n\nChris blinked. The expected sting didn’t come. Instead, something else did: relief, so strong it briefly made his knees weak—and at the same time a new nervousness that rushed in right behind it, because the situation was suddenly real.\n\n“Oh,” he said, and his smile switched on before he could control it. “Yeah, sure.” He fumbled his phone out of his bag, his fingers a little too quick, as if they had to outrun the uncertainty.\n\nDylan pulled out his phone too. He stood close enough that Chris caught the scent of Dylan’s sports deodorant. Dylan angled his screen so Chris could type. “Here—name and number,” he said, and his voice was quieter than in the halls.\n\nChris typed. Every press of a number felt both banal and monumental. He noticed his hands trembling ever so slightly—not from fear, more from the awareness: I’m exchanging numbers with a boy right now. Not by accident. Not for a group chat. But because there was a date. Because Dylan really wanted to text him later.\n\nOne part of him was almost childishly radiant: He means it. Another part shouted: What are you doing? What if this goes wrong? What if— He stopped the thought before it could get a name.\n\n“Thanks,” Dylan said when Chris was done, and quickly typed something into his own phone. “Here’s mine.” He held it out to him, and Chris saved the number, his thumb suddenly far too big on the screen.\n\nAs he saved the contact, he felt that strange double sensation: a small pride spreading through his chest like warm light—and at the same time a shame, as if he were doing something he wasn’t entitled to do. As if the phone in his hand were a piece of evidence.\n\nDylan put his phone away and smiled more confidently now. “I’ll text you later. About times, outfit… no idea.” He gave a slightly crooked shrug. “But I’ll message you.”\n\n“Okay,” Chris said, and that one word carried far too much inside it. He nodded because his body had to do something to get rid of the energy building up in him. Dylan briefly raised his hand in goodbye and left.\n\nChris stayed standing there, the phone still in his hand, as if it had suddenly grown heavy. He looked at the saved contact and felt relief, anticipation, and that thin fear that ran alongside everything all at once. But the worst thought—It was a joke—was silent for the moment.\n\n[[Continue|Warten auf den Anruf.]]

Break hung in the hallways like a lukewarm hum, but in the girls’ restroom it was cool and bright. White tile, the scent of soap, the soft whir of the fan. Chris closed the stall door, lifted the babydoll dress, and sat down. The underskirt rustled with every movement, a telltale shhh that by now felt like a sound of its own. He tried simply to breathe.\n<<set $ort to "girls’ restroom">>\nNext door, frantic paper rustling, then a cautious, quick knock against the partition. “Hey… um, sorry?” The voice sounded tense, just short of panic. “Do you maybe have a pad? I just got it and my bag… it’s in my locker.”\n\n[[Chris|Chris Braun]]’s stomach dropped a little. He stared at the latch as if he might find an answer in it. “Uh… I… don’t have one,” he said, and the words came out brittle.\n\nBrief silence. “Oh. Really not?” Genuine surprise, not accusation—more the horror of someone whose lifeline is suddenly missing. “At our age, every girl usually has… I mean, you usually have something in your bag. Sorry, I—I don’t mean to bother you.”\n\n“Sorry.” Chris could hear the too-fast, too-bright timbre himself. He flushed, stood up, his panties briefly sticking to his still-damp penis. He adjusted the fabric, felt the rustling lining, and hated how loud everything seemed. “I… uh… could maybe…” What? He had no idea how to help “normally” here. Tissues? Was that disrespectful? Wrong?\n\nNext door, a strained exhale. “Maybe I’ll just ask someone else outside. Or… is there a machine in here? I don’t know.” said Chris, too quickly. His heart was beating too high. The air seemed to narrow.\n\nHe washed his hands and smoothed the dress, straightened the puff sleeves as if they might otherwise give him away.\n\n“Thanks anyway,” came softly from the stall. “Sorry for asking.”\n\n“It’s okay,” Chris murmured. “I—I’ll let someone know.” It sounded half like a promise, half like flight.\n\nThe door swung open; the hallway noise slammed in. He slipped out, his hand still on the handle, and breathed. Two girls came toward him. “Um—someone inside needs a pad,” he said as casually as he could, passing them. One immediately nodded, “Oh!” tugged open the zipper of her crossbody bag, and disappeared inside.\n\nChris was already taking the next step. Away, before questions followed, before anyone said, “How do you not have one with you?” The underskirt hissed again, shhh—shhh, with every step. He turned the corner, left the Girls sign behind, and only then noticed his shoulders lowering. He had helped—somehow. And at the same time he had fled, from the mirror, from the question that had hung in the room: Why don’t you have anything with you?\n\nBecause he wasn’t a girl. Not really. And yet that was exactly what the school saw in him.\n\n[[Continue|Im Klassenzimmer.]]

The evening became lighter again after that, but not as if the subject were settled. More as if someone had opened a door a crack that had not existed before.\n\nLater, when the house had grown quieter and Charlotte was in her room with her girlfriend, Chris and Joseph were lying in bed in the bedroom. Joseph moved closer, that familiar, calm pull in his movement that still made Chris feel safe and nervous at the same time. Joseph’s hand brushed over Chris’ breasts, and his gaze asked more than his voice needed to.\n\nChris hesitated and kept Joseph at a small distance, not harshly, but noticeably. “We have guests,” he whispered, looking toward the wall as if it could listen in.\n\nJoseph raised an eyebrow. “And?”\n\n“The walls are thin.” Chris turned red. “Charlotte once… admitted to me that she heard us before.”\n\nJoseph blinked – and then grinned, as if he had just been handed a punchline. “That’s only because,” he murmured dryly, “you’re always so loud.”\n\nChris’ face immediately grew even redder. He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing, but failed after two seconds and giggled into the blanket. Joseph pulled him close, as if the giggling turned him on more than any grand gesture.\n\nChris whispered, half indignant, half amused: “That’s not true.”\n\nJoseph kissed him briefly – gently, but with that natural ease that had never worn off – and said softly: “Yes, it is.”\n\nChris had to giggle again, because he knew Joseph was unfortunately right. And that very embarrassing knowledge, that familiarity, made the moment so intimate that it felt like the first day – only with more history in between.\n\n...\n\nIn the next room, Charlotte sat cross-legged on her bed, halfheartedly scrolling through her phone while her girlfriend twisted her hair into a loose bun.\n\nJust as Charlotte was about to say something, a muffled moan came through the wall beside them.\n\nThey both froze.\n\nThen another moan. A brief giggle – definitely not from the TV, because it was off. And then a very definite “Oooohh Daddy,” followed by a second, even louder “Ooooh yeeesss deeper...”\n\nCharlotte’s girlfriend slowly raised her eyebrows. “Um…”\n\nCharlotte pressed her lips together, as if fighting back a laugh. She managed it for about a moment, then grinned broadly. “Well,” she whispered, gesturing toward the wall with her thumb, “Mom and Dad.”\n\n“Charlotte!” Her girlfriend hit her shoulder with a pillow, half indignant, half amused.\n\nCharlotte ducked, laughed softly into the fabric, and shook her head. “I’m just saying: some things never change.”\n\n“Aaaahhh” Another muffled moan from Chris.\n\nIn the next room, Chris was crouched on all fours, kneeling, Joseph had grabbed him by the hips and was fucking Chris hard from behind. As if in a trance, he drove his hard member into his butt again and again, all the way to the hilt. Chris’ pretty ass struck against his hips, making slapping sounds. Both of them were breathing heavily.\n\n“God, fuck me. Give it to me.” Chris moaned and jerked his cock while his husband caressed his neck and kneaded his breasts.\n\n“Oh yes,” Joseph murmured between moans, while his thick, hairy balls slapped against Chris’ body again and again.\n\n“Yes! Oh, God! Yes! Fuck me harder, Daddy!” Chris moaned breathlessly. “I love your cock! FUCK ME! Oohhhh…”\n\nChris arched up and had his orgasm. His husband was ready too. He pulled out of Chris, stretched up, and shot his cream onto his back.\n\n...\n\nCharlotte’s girlfriend pulled the blanket up to her chin and muttered: “I’ll never be able to sleep peacefully again.”\n\nCharlotte grinned and whispered: “Welcome to the family.”\n\n[[Continue|Jahre später.]]

“I’ll pass,” Chris said quietly, but firmly. “Really. I’ll just watch.”\nThe faces in front of him visibly fell—Penelope twisted her lips, Charlotte’s shoulders dropped a fraction, his sister Christine blinked in disappointment. “You could’ve at least tried,” she murmured, not angry, just hurt.\n\nMr. Moore clapped his hands, pulling the circle back together. “Okay, Pom Puffs—warm-up! Five, six, seven, eight…” The music kicked in, and the swarm dissolved into cleanly counted movements.\n\nChris climbed up the bleachers and sat down on the cool bench. From up here, the gym looked like a chessboard on which the girls moved pieces along precise paths. His gaze quickly found Christine: second row center, ponytail high, smile “on air.” She had that trained radiance that didn’t seem fake, but made the movements brighter. Her jumps were clean—toe touch just below shoulder height—the arms cut through the air in clear lines, the landings bounced softly. On the counts (“High V—Low V—Clap, Clap”) she stayed on beat, and when someone beside her briefly faltered, Christine pulled her back in with a tiny shoulder nod. Team instinct.\n\nFarther right stood [[Zoe|Zoe March]]. Curls forced into a makeshift bun, gaze focused, jaw tight. Her motions were more angular, less “pretty,” more “hands-on.” In the kicks she brought height, but the knee pulled slightly inward; Mr. Moore raised two fingers, corrected without words, and on the next run it landed right. In the chants, Zoe had more pepper than sweetness—“T-WOLVES, LET’S GO!” sounded from her like a command, not like a smiley. It had… impact.\n\nChris watched his little sister and the other girls doing their exercises with fascination. It was a feast for the senses, being able to admire those aesthetic movements.\n\nBeside Chris, two girls whispered. “Isn’t that Zoe March?”—“Yeah. She got kicked off the Pom Puffs last year after three weeks.”\n“Why?”\n“Rumor was: she got caught in the boys’ locker room giving a Timberwolves senior French tutoring. Coach lost it. Boom, out.”\n\nBelow, Mr. Moore had them suggest stunts—no real lifts in tryouts, only basics: safe grips, timing, step-in counts. Christine volunteered as a base, even though her size and lightness made her seem more like a flyer. “Always need bases,” she said curtly, and braced the practice loads into position with surprising strength. Charlotte jumped in during transitions, corrected wrists, counted louder whenever the line tilted. Zoe held eye contact when she hooked in; she was attentive in a way you wouldn’t expect if you only knew her rumbling.\n\nThe final “simple chant” rolled through the formation like a wave: “BLUE! WHITE!—WOLVES BITE!” Hands, pom-mimics, three-quarter turn, clap, clap, pose. Christine hit the pose, Zoe’s pose had edge—not pretty, but distinctive.\n\nWhen Mr. Moore briefly touched the whistle and the music ran out, sweat gathered in bright dots on foreheads. The applicants stepped into a line. A murmur went around, the bleachers leaning forward like a meadow in the wind.\n\n“Thank you, all of you,” Mr. Moore began, whistle in hand, voice calm. “We’re evaluating technique, timing, teamwork, and learning curve. We only have limited spots. If your name isn’t called: don’t read it as a judgment on you—come back in spring.”\n\nHe read out a short list: two returners, a freshman who shone in tumbling—and then: “…Christine Braun.” A murmur rose, Charlotte clapped first, Penelope whistled softly. Christine pressed her lips together, tried to stay cool, but her eyes almost laughed themselves free. She threw Chris a look—“see?”—and he raised both thumbs.\n\n“And the last spot goes to… Zoe March.” It went briefly silent, then the clapping began, uncertain, some surprised, some convinced. Zoe stood as if someone had given her a word she hadn’t expected. Her chin twitched slightly. She nodded once, curtly, as if filing the decision away like homework. Penelope tapped her arm, Charlotte said a genuine “Congrats.”\n\nThe remaining applicants stepped away—a few tight smiles, deep breaths, “next time.”\n\nChris stood up. Below, Christine gave him a thumbs-up; he answered silently with a restrained smile.\n\nHe had refused, and it still felt right. But as the new Pom Puffs lined up in a provisional row, he wondered for a moment whether this had been the right decision.\n\n''👑 Popularity - 1''\n\n''What happens?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[The date with Charlotte.|Das Date mit Charlotte.]]<<else>>[[The next surprise at home.|Die nächste Überraschung zu Hause.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

<h2>Epilogue: Chris and Dylan</h2> Since the homecoming dance, something in Chris’s everyday life had shifted, as if someone had changed the channel. Dylan and he had suddenly become “them.” Not secretly, not in passing, but openly: holding hands on the way to the cafeteria, a quick kiss at the locker, Dylan’s arm around his waist as if it were the most natural place in the world. Chris had often laughed like an idiot, because he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so light.\n\nAround Dylan, Chris sometimes forgot completely that he was “actually” a boy. Not because reality had disappeared—but because Dylan looked at him, touched him, treated him in such a way that in those moments Chris had only been Chris. He had caught himself waiting for his messages during class, grinning instantly at every vibration of his phone. And saying “my boyfriend” again and again in conversations, as if he had to savor the word: my boyfriend… It had felt warm, even proud.\n\nBut his secret stood between them like a dark shadow, even on sunny days. It was there when Dylan brushed a strand of hair behind his ear in the hallway. It was there when Dylan picked him up in the car after practice and Chris was happy about the little gesture—until he remembered again what Dylan didn’t know.\n\nThey went to the drive-in a few times. Dylan loved it: popcorn, cold soda, the hood of the car in the background, the flicker of the movie on the windshield. And every time the world outside grew dark and Dylan moved closer, Chris’s chest tightened. Dylan kissed him, longer, more insistently, his hands seeking more closeness than Chris could give. Chris had slowed things down then—first with a laugh, then with a “Wait,” and finally with a firm grip on Dylan’s wrist that said: Stop.\n\nDylan hadn’t meant anything bad by it. He was just a boy too, full of hormones and hope, and he wanted what the other teenage boys wanted as well: not just kisses, but more. And Chris wanted it too in principle, somehow. He felt it in his body, in that mixture of longing and nervousness—only every step “further” led him straight into a wall.\n\nEvery time Chris held Dylan back, he saw that brief moment on Dylan’s face: confusion, frustration, then that effort again to be understanding. Dylan said things like “It’s okay” or “We have time,” but his breathing stayed heavy, his hands remained a moment too long where Chris couldn’t let them be.\n\nAnd Chris certainly couldn’t bring himself to talk about it.\n\nHe couldn’t find a way in that didn’t sound like a confession. He couldn’t look at Dylan and say: There’s something about me you don’t know. Because he immediately saw the ending in front of him: Dylan, pulling away; Dylan, no longer “my boyfriend,” but just a boy who felt deceived. So Chris smiled, kept kissing him, allowed as much closeness as he could responsibly allow—and held the rest tight like a stone in his stomach.\n\nThe happier they seemed during the day, the stronger Chris’s fear became at night: that this shadow would someday grow large enough to swallow the light.\n\n[[Continue|Jahrmarkt in der Stadt.]]

When Chris came home from school on Thursday, something was wrong.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nAlready in the hallway, an unfamiliar scent hung in the air—perfume, hairspray—as if someone had turned the house into a dressing room. Voices drifted from the living room, too bright, too many. Laughter that lasted too long. Chris stopped with his hand on the doorknob and, for a moment, heard only his own blood in his ears.\n\nThen his mother opened the living-room door with a gesture as if unveiling a stage. “Surprise!”\n\nThe room was full. Not with teenagers, not with classmates—but with women, mostly older, polished, delighted: neighbors, family friends, acquaintances. And among them, Chris even saw several faces he knew from Germany. An aunt waved to him. “There she is!” she called, and the word she was like a tiny pinprick.\n\nSusan stepped beside him, one hand on his back, firm and friendly. “My dears—here he is… here she is. Our new Chris.”\n\nChris’s mouth tried to form a smile. It felt as if he were pushing it through thick cotton. His gaze searched for an escape route—kitchen, stairs, door—but everywhere stood people with glasses, with expectant eyes.\n\n“You look adorable,” one woman said, leaning closer as if she had discovered a work of art. “So… delicate.”\n\n“And the hair!” another enthused. “So pretty.”\n\nChris nodded, hearing himself murmur a “Thank you” that didn’t sound like him.\n\nOn the coffee table were gifts. Many of them. Stacked high, in shiny paper, with bows that seemed too large. Susan clapped her hands as if this were the part of the program everyone had been waiting for.\n\n“I asked the ladies to bring appropriate gifts. For the new phase. For… you,” she said, and her tone had that manipulative sweetness Chris knew by now.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened.\n\nThe first box contained a very short skirt that seemed to have barely any fabric. “Oh, how cute!” someone giggled. The second was a dress, thin and fluttery, with a neckline that was too open. Then a babydoll nightie, almost weightless, with bows. Then underwear—racy panties, bras, lace, delicate fabrics—all presented as if it were harmless and funny, as if they were talking about socks.\n\nChris’s hands went cold. He heard paper rustling, heard someone go “Ooooh!” and felt himself becoming smaller and more visible at the same time.\n\n[[Continue|Albtraum.2]]

No sooner had they changed back than Susan pulled the studio door shut behind her, took his hand, and headed purposefully two shops down. Above the door, in curved lettering, it said Piercing & Ink. Chris’s heart stumbled. “Mom, seriously—”\n<<set $ort to "piercing studio">>\n“Oh, yes,” she said cheerfully and at the same time implacably. “Today, at least the earlobes are getting done. That’s long overdue.”\n\nThe shop smelled of disinfectant and something metallic. Glass display cases gleamed with tiny studs, rings, stones in a thousand shades of white. A piercer dressed in black, with a boyish figure, greeted the mismatched pair and asked what she could do for them. Her skin was covered all over with tattoos.\n\nBefore Chris had found a usable excuse, he was already sitting on the high chair, hair to the side, dots marked on his earlobes. A brief pressure, a metallic “click,” then again—a sharp, clean pain that immediately turned into warmth. When he looked in the mirror, two small, unobtrusive studs sparkled. It suited him. Of course it suited him. That was the whole point.\n\n“Perfect,” Susan declared. Then she turned to him, her eyes bright as if she had won something. “And now the real choice.” She nodded toward the consultation board. “Navel. Or tongue. You decide.”\n\nChris blinked. Navel—summer, pool, a piece of skin that would suddenly be a stage. Tongue—hidden, but every word, every bite would whisper it to him. Both options felt like doors behind which not only jewelry, but whole chapters were waiting.\n\n''🕶️ Cover +1''\n\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[Navel piercing.|Bauchnabelpiercing.][$piercing += 1;$stil += 1]]\n❯ [[Tongue piercing.|Zungenpiercing.][$piercing += 2]]

<<back "Back">>\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/MrRobertson.jpg]]</center>\n''Name:'' Wesley Robertson\n''Age:'' 44\n''Birthday:'' March\n\n''Biography''\nWesley Robertson grew up in Erie, Pennsylvania—a down-to-earth Rust Belt city on Lake Erie, where wind, industry, and pragmatic life paths were part of everyday life. At school, he was early on considered a “smart boy” who quickly understood that it was not only grades that counted, but also tone, timing, and language.\nAfter college, he had actually wanted to do “something bigger”—journalism, the publishing world, maybe someday writing himself. There were internships, drafts, contacts that never quite promised what they hinted at. Teaching eventually became the compromise that looked respectable from the outside while also allowing him to work with text, rhetoric, and impact every day. Maplewood later became his fresh start—after an unpleasant “incident” at his previous school, which he spoke of only vaguely and liked to dismiss as a misunderstanding or an “overblown story.”\nAmong the staff, he presented himself as polished and rule-abiding, almost exemplary. In direct dealings with students, however, he became noticeably more situational: too familiar a tone, fond of being the mentor who “really understands you.” Some noticed a tendency toward favoritism—especially toward female students—and a willingness to bend rules when he could frame it as “pedagogically useful.”\nOne of his quirks: he quoted George Orwell strikingly often as a moral benchmark—less to explain literature than to comment on decisions, behavior, and “truth,” as if there were always a suitable, clever-sounding judgment for it.\n<div class="axis-wrap">\n <div class="axis-title">Chris’s attraction to Mr. Robertson</div>\n <div class="axis-labels">\n <span>completely uninteresting</span>\n <span>Crush</span>\n </div>\n <div class="axis-barattraction">\n <div class="axis-middle"></div>\n <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $robertson_opinion + '%;"></div>'>>\n </div>\n <div class="axis-note">\n <<if $robertson_opinion < 20>>\n Keep your distance\n <<elseif $robertson_opinion < 40>>\n no particular effect\n <<elseif $robertson_opinion < 60>>\n slight curiosity\n <<elseif $robertson_opinion < 80>>\n infatuation\n <<else>>\n Crush\n <</if>>\n </div>\n</div>\n<<back "Back">>

The bus rattled over the edge of a pothole, and the seats briefly vibrated in rhythm. [[Christine|Christine Braun]] scrolled across her smartphone with practiced fingers, seeming only half present. Her thumb stopped, froze, swiped back. A minimal shock flickered across her face, so quickly it was almost nothing.\n<<set $ort to "school bus">>\nChris saw it anyway. “What?”\n\n“Nothing,” she said too quickly, tilting the phone slightly out of his view. Too late. In the reflection of the windowpane, he had already recognized it: a Snap. Caption in neon lettering: New German Girl in Maplewood. Heart filter, glitter rain, those ironically sugarcoated stickers that say “OMG” and “Slay.” Beneath it, a short clip: himself, standing at the Welcome Desk, the skirt swaying slightly. Someone had zoomed in. Someone had scrawled “who is she?” over it. A second Snap in the group chat: the same recording, now with a crude “Timberwolves got talent 😏.”\n\nA cold, soapy knot tightened in his stomach. Embarrassment that no longer existed only in his head, but online, in stories, in hands he didn’t know.\n\n“I’ll get it taken down,” Christine muttered, typing frantically. “I’m texting Ruby, she knows the mod in the channel. And Charlotte—she can delete it in her group. Don’t look.”\n\n“I already looked,” Chris said quietly. He tried to laugh, but the sound stuck in his throat. His heart was pounding too close to his neck.\n\nThe chat kept flashing on Christine’s screen: Who’s the exchange girl? — cute fit tbh — dress code check tho lol — she’s with the Pom Puffs? Christine’s typing thumbs became shorter, more determined. “I’ll handle it,” she growled, and for the first time that day she sounded like the sister he knew from Germany—the one who stood in front of him when she had to.\n\nThe bus turned into their street. Chris briefly rested his forehead against the window. The hearts in the Snap had long since vanished, and yet he could still see them, like afterimages. Maplewood held its hand over its eyes against the sun—and looked anyway.\n\n[[Continue|Chris muss dringend pinkeln.]]

Penelope let her gaze wander over the boys, as if making a decision that had actually long since been made.\n<<set $PenelopeMemory[2] to 1>>\nThe others’ eyes automatically wandered with hers. And stopped—on Dylan.\n\nPenelope smiled, that smooth, confident smile that always looked like victory. She stood up, smoothed the hem of her skirt minimally, as if setting the scene with it, and walked over to Dylan. Dylan lifted his head, looking surprised at first, then amused—as if the whole thing were a game he already knew.\n\nJust before Penelope leaned toward him, she turned her head. Her gaze met Chris’s.\n\nIt lasted only a second, but it struck like a small sting. There was something possessive in that look, a silent See?—as if she were saying: He belongs to me, girl.\n\nChris’s stomach sank. He felt the heat slide out of his face and into his chest, where it became a solid knot.\n\nPenelope kissed Dylan. Her tongue brushed over his lips and asked for entry. Dylan opened his mouth, and the two of them sank into a wet French kiss that disappeared beneath the group’s cheers. Someone clapped, someone whistled. Dylan laughed briefly afterward, as if he had been given a surprising task, and Penelope sat back down as if she had just scored a point.\n\nChris sat there silently, forcing his face into a neutral smile while something grated inside. The syrup smell hung sweet in the cool air, and somewhere the loose chain struck metal again—a sound that could be explained, but in that moment felt like a sign.\n<<set $temp to 0>><<set $choice_ahorn2 to 0>>\n[[Continue|Raus der der Fabrikhalle.]]

<h2>Southern Germany – Chris, 5 years old</h2> Chris sat at the kitchen table like a small, tired king without a kingdom. His cocoa was steaming, but he only sipped it carefully, because every swallow tickled his throat. Every now and then a cough came, one that sounded more like “I don’t want to” than illness. Beside him lay his Carnival costume, ready: a dark blue cloak with little golden stars, a pointed wizard’s hat, and a magic wand made of wood with a glittering star at the end. Chris looked at the star as if he could think it warm.\n\nHis mother stepped up behind him, placed two fingers on his forehead, and frowned. “Mhm… you’re still warm.”\n\n“Only a little,” Chris croaked immediately, lifting his chin as if he could make himself healthy that way.\n\n“And you’re coughing.”\n\n“That’s not a cough.” Chris coughed at the exact moment he said it. He grimaced as if the cough were a traitor.\n\nChristine rushed through the living room like a Carnival comet. She was wearing her own costume—a brightly colored, over-the-top thing with lots of tulle and glitter—and bounced in place so hard that the bows wobbled. “CARNIVAL! CARNIVAL! Chris has to go! Chris is a wizard!”\n\nSusan sighed.\n\n“Carnival is important.” Christ nodded solemnly.\n\nSusan looked from Chris to the little stars on the cloak and back again. “Okay.” She held his gaze for another moment, as if searching him for the truth. “You may go. But: If you feel weak, you tell the teacher right away. And then you call Mom—or rather, she calls me—and I’ll pick you up.”\n\nChris nodded so fast that he briefly felt dizzy. “I’ll say something.”\n\nChristine clapped. “He’ll say something! I heard it!”\n\nAt kindergarten, Carnival was its own weather system: confetti on the floor, music from a small speaker, children who had transformed into pirates, ladybugs, firefighters, and three different kinds of princess. Chris moved carefully through the chaos, but his heart still bounced anyway. He held the magic wand tightly and softly spoke spells that mainly consisted of “Abracadabra” and “stardust.”\n\nChristine, on the other hand, was everywhere at once. She danced, she sang, she called names, she pulled other children along as if they were followers in her own parade. Again and again she came briefly back to Chris, tapped his hat, or tugged at his cloak. “You’re a real wizard,” she said each time, as if she had to remind him.\n\nChris smiled. His stomach felt a little queasy, but he made that small. Today was Carnival.\n\n[[Continue|Kindheitstage2]]

While they were dancing, Chris at first only noticed that Joseph’s steps became a touch more uneven. It was as if something had caught inside Joseph – not physically, more inwardly. His hand on Chris’ back remained steady, but the warmth in it was suddenly different, more tense. Joseph’s gaze went past Chris’ shoulder into empty space, as if he were seeing something that was not standing in the hall.\n\nThe song had changed. A slow melody, soft and old-fashioned, that felt like a photo album. Joseph’s jaw worked briefly, his breathing became shallower. Then he lowered his gaze, and Chris felt Joseph pull back ever so slightly.\n\n“Sorry,” Joseph murmured, trying to sound normal. “I… I need to step outside for a moment. Fresh air.”\n\nHe let go of Chris’ hand, not abruptly, but hastily enough that it was noticeable. Joseph left the dance floor, went through the crowd, toward the exit. Chris stood still for a heartbeat, his heart still pounding in his ribs – not because of the music, but because of Joseph’s face. Then he followed him, without drama, without any grand gesture. Simply after him.\n\nOutside, it was cooler. The air smelled of night and asphalt, far away from cake and perfume. Joseph stood a little off to the side, his hands on the railing, his gaze fixed on the darkness. When Chris stepped beside him, Joseph said nothing at first. He swallowed, as if he had to put something in order before he could speak.\n\n“That song earlier…” Joseph’s voice sounded rougher than it had inside. “That was… one of her favorite songs.” He breathed out, slowly. “My wife. We used to…” He broke off and shook his head, as if stopping himself before it became too much. “Sometimes it just comes. Without warning. And suddenly it feels as if the room is just as empty again as it was back then.”\n\nChris stood silently beside him. In that moment, he did not think about rules, not about roles, not about what “should” or “shouldn’t” be allowed. He only saw Joseph, how he was trying to keep himself together, and how it was breaking through anyway.\n\n“I’ve felt so lonely since she died,” Joseph said quietly, almost ashamed of the sentence. “I function. I do my work, I take care of the house, I…” A brief, humorless laugh. “I pretend I have everything under control. But it’s… quiet, Chris. It’s just quiet.”\n\nChris’ chest tightened. He wanted to say something clever, something comforting, something that was “right” – but there were no right sentences against that kind of loneliness. So he simply said what felt most honest inside him.\n\n“You’re not alone,” Chris said softly. “Not when I… when I’m here. I’m here for you.”\n\nHe took a small step closer, as if closeness were the only language that made sense right now. His hand settled carefully on Joseph’s arm, hesitant at first, then firmer – not gripping, more holding.\n\nJoseph turned his head. His eyes were damp, but he looked at Chris as if, for the first time, he did not see him as “some visitor,” but as someone who truly stayed. For a moment, nothing happened except breathing.\n\nThen Joseph pulled him to him.\n\nThe kiss did not come like a flirtatious decision, but like a loss reaching for warmth. Clear, intense – a kiss with too much feeling in it to play down. Chris did not freeze. He did not pull away. He stood there, allowed it, answered with his lips, because his body had decided long before his mind caught up.\n\nWhen they parted, the air between them was suddenly much too thin.\n\nJoseph took half a step back, as if only now realizing what he had done. His hand passed over his mouth, his gaze slipped away, then returned. “I…” He broke off, because every word would have been too little.\n\nChris’ face burned. Not only with shame – also with the knowledge that it had not felt like an accident. He could not talk his feelings away, and obviously neither could Joseph. They both stood there, embarrassed in a way that was no longer childish, but dangerously honest.\n\nThey went back inside as if nothing had happened, gathered their things, murmured something about “a long drive” and being “tired” – sentences no one questioned. And when they were finally outside again and walking toward the parking lot, the unsaid hung between them like a second blanket: heavy, warm, and impossible to ignore.\n\n[[Continue|Im Hotelzimmer.]]

Chris simply kept walking toward the bus. He kept his gaze forward, his bag tight at his side, and passed Zoe in the hallway without slowing down. Zoe glanced at him briefly. There were no words, no sign, no movement that extended the moment.\n\nChris turned at the exit, stepped outside through the glass door, and walked across the sidewalk to the bus stop. The parking lot lay before him, the air was cool, and several students were already standing at the curb in small groups. The bus rolled up shortly afterward, stopped with a hiss, and Chris got on.\n\n[[Continue|Auf nach Hause.]]

Chris kept watching, his back pressed flat against the cold doorframe. Shame rose in him like heat that got stuck in his throat—he knew he wasn’t allowed to look, that this moment didn’t belong to him. And yet he couldn’t look away.\n\nMyles positioned his large cock between Christine’s silky labia. With a little resistance, it slid into her hairless pussy. Chris was utterly transfixed by the scene unfolding before him.\n\nMyles held Christine by the hips and began to thrust into her powerfully.\n\n“Yesss...” “Hah...” “Ohhh...”\n\nChristine moaned like an animal as the hulking football player fucked her with raw intensity. Her tight little pussy was stretched to its absolute limit around his cock just to accommodate such a massive member.\n\nWith every thrust, the bench creaked: “Aaaahhh… ahhhhhh… aaaaaahhh...”\n\nChris’s briefs immediately grew tight, and although he felt a flush of shame and wanted to turn away, he remained rooted to the spot, compelled to watch the bizarre spectacle.\n\nMyles grew faster and harder, and his sister’s moans became increasingly erratic. By now, his cock was completely slicked with her juices.\n\nAfter a few more powerful thrusts, Christine let out a loud moan as her vaginal muscles seized up and her orgasm began to build. Her entire body went rigid; she thrashed beneath him like an electric eel, moaning in pure ecstasy: “AAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh...”\n\n“You are so wonderfully tight, Christine,” Myles moaned in return, pulling back only to thrust forward again the very next moment with full force—a move she met with a sharp cry. He seemed intent on tearing her apart, slamming his cock against her cervix.\n\nHer arousal had become too intense for her to endure such a brutal impalement any longer. Myles allowed her to ride out her climax, slowing his pace and simply holding her captive on his cock until the contractions gripping him began to subside and finally ceased. Her legs, still wrapped tightly around his waist, refused to let him go.\n\nNow, Myles could wait no longer either; he began to fuck her once again. He came after four or five more thrusts.\n\nThey weren't using a condom at all—he’s pumping his load right into my sister’s pussy, Chris thought to himself. Slowly, Myles pulled his cock out of her pussy; the white fluid immediately flowed out from between Christine’s pink labia, ran down her ass, and ultimately landed partly on the seat and partly on the floor.\n\nWhen they finally broke apart, hurriedly put their clothes back on, and Christine fixed her hair, Chris took one step back, then another—quietly, so his soles wouldn’t squeak. He took one deep breath, forced his face into neutrality, and went back.\n\nThe floodlights briefly blinded him as he stepped outside again; the wall of sound hit him as if someone had turned up the volume.\n\nHe found his seat, placed his hands on the railing, and forced his pulse into a steadier rhythm. A few moments later, Myles and Christine appeared at the end of the passage. They separated hastily—he heading toward the sideline with the other boys, she back to the cheerleaders. Chris’s gaze clung to her. Her face was flushed, her hair stuck a little to her forehead. And her walk… different. Her legs were just slightly farther apart.\n\nChristine slipped into formation, tightened her bow, and put on the neutral team smile. From above, everything looked almost normal. Almost. Chris noticed his hands closing more tightly around the railing; inside, he was still standing in the corridor, searching for the point at which a big brother should have looked away.\n\n[[Continue|Das Spiel geht los.]]

Chris kept watching, his back pressed flat against the cold doorframe. Shame rose in him like heat that got stuck in his throat—he knew he wasn’t allowed to look, that this moment didn’t belong to him. And yet he couldn’t look away.\n\nMyles positioned his large cock between Christine’s silky labia. With a little resistance, it slid into her hairless pussy. Chris was utterly transfixed by the scene unfolding before him.\n\nMyles held Christine by the hips and began to thrust into her powerfully.\n\n“Yesss...” “Hah...” “Ohhh...”\n\nChristine moaned like an animal as the hulking football player fucked her with raw intensity. Her tight little pussy was stretched to its absolute limit around his cock just to accommodate such a massive member.\n\nWith every thrust, the bench creaked: “Aaaahhh… ahhhhhh… aaaaaahhh...”\n\nChris’s briefs immediately grew tight, and although he felt a flush of shame and wanted to turn away, he remained rooted to the spot, compelled to watch the bizarre spectacle.\n\nMyles grew faster and harder, and his sister’s moans became increasingly erratic. By now, his cock was completely slicked with her juices.\n\nAfter a few more powerful thrusts, Christine let out a loud moan as her vaginal muscles seized up and her orgasm began to build. Her entire body went rigid; she thrashed beneath him like an electric eel, moaning in pure ecstasy: “AAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh...”\n\n“You are so wonderfully tight, Christine,” Myles moaned in return, pulling back only to thrust forward again the very next moment with full force—a move she met with a sharp cry. He seemed intent on tearing her apart, slamming his cock against her cervix.\n\nHer arousal had become too intense for her to endure such a brutal impalement any longer. Myles allowed her to ride out her climax, slowing his pace and simply holding her captive on his cock until the contractions gripping him began to subside and finally ceased. Her legs, still wrapped tightly around his waist, refused to let him go.\n\nNow, Myles could wait no longer either; he began to fuck her once again. He came after four or five more thrusts.\n\nThey weren't using a condom at all—he’s pumping his load right into my sister’s pussy, Chris thought to himself. Slowly, Myles pulled his cock out of her pussy; the white fluid immediately flowed out from between Christine’s pink labia, ran down her ass, and ultimately landed partly on the seat and partly on the floor.\n\nWhen they finally broke apart, hurriedly put their clothes back on, and Christine fixed her hair, Chris took one step back, then another—quietly, so his soles wouldn’t squeak. He took one deep breath, forced his face into neutrality, and went back.\n\nThe floodlights briefly blinded him as he stepped outside again; the wall of sound hit him as if someone had turned up the volume.\n\nUp above, he sat down beside Joseph. His hands were colder than they should have been.\n\nJoseph glanced sideways at him. “Everything okay?” he asked calmly, without pressure.\n\n“Yes,” Chris said too quickly, then more softly: “I just checked on Christine for a moment.” He forced his shoulders down, breathed deeper, but the unrest was still sitting in his chest.\n\nDown at the entrance to the field, Myles and Christine appeared again. Myles trudged toward the team, slapped hands with a teammate. Christine took the faster way back to the other cheerleaders, her gaze briefly lowered. Chris’s eyes stayed on her. Her face was flushed, her hair stuck a little to her forehead. And her walk… different. Her legs were just slightly farther apart.\n\nChristine slipped into formation, tightened her bow, and put on the neutral team smile. From above, everything looked almost normal. Almost. Chris noticed his hands closing more tightly around his knees; inside, he was still standing in the corridor, searching for the point at which a big brother should have looked away.\n\n[[Continue|Das Spiel geht los.2]]

Chris carefully climbed onto the bed and got himself ready. He looked at Penelope one last time. She was the perfect girl. Her breasts, her pussy—everything was just right. He took hold of his cock and gently touched her pink labia with his glans. He took a deep breath, then slid it very carefully inside her. Penelope let out a soft moan as Chris’s penis made its way into her wet pussy. Chris was surprised by how easily he slid inside her, and equally astonished by how good it felt. <<if $sex == 0>>It felt so good—for the very first time in his life—to be inside a woman's pussy. <<endif>>Once he had slid completely inside her, he knew, deep down, that he had achieved his goal.\n\nBut he couldn't help himself; he had to pull it out and thrust it back in a few more times.\n\nWith cautious movements, he began to fuck Penelope. Pumping gently inside her, Chris kept his eyes fixed on her sleeping face. Over and over, he drove his stiff cock into her well-lubricated pussy. As if hypnotized, Chris gazed at Penelope’s tits, watching them bounce up and down with every single thrust. He leaned down and began to suck on them like a thirsty baby.\n\nSuddenly, Penelope moaned louder. Chris was startled and froze. Under no circumstances could she be allowed to wake up. His heart pounded; his arms trembled. He knew he couldn't move a single inch. Penelope moaned again, turning her head from side to side. Panic spread through Chris’s body. Don't move—don't make a sound. But there was one other thing he really should have anticipated: whatever he did, he absolutely couldn't come.\n\nFuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! he thought to himself—but by then, it was already too late. He ejaculated while still buried deep inside Penelope’s pussy. It was an intense orgasm. With several spurts, he filled her little pussy.\n\nOnly after his cock stopped throbbing did he pull it back out of her wet pussy. Her pussy was slick with his cum. Chris looked at Penelope, who, by all appearances, was still completely out of it. And so, he immediately set about erasing the traces of his deed.\n\nThen he took a pillow and a blanket from the closet, went into the living room, and lay down on the couch. The springs squeaked as he turned over. He stared up at the dark ceiling. What had he done?\n\n[[Continue|Der Morgen nach der Tat.]]\n

The next morning, Chris woke up first.\n\nFor a moment, he did not know where he was – only that it was cozy and warm. Then he felt it: Joseph was lying directly behind him, cuddled up to him in his sleep, as if his body instinctively wanted to give protection. A strong, comforting man’s arm lay around Chris’ middle. Joseph’s breath passed calmly over the back of Chris’ neck, and the hotel room was silent except for the soft hum of the air conditioning.\n\nChris felt safe. So safe that for a moment it took his breath away – like the memory of something he had not had in a long time.\n\nThen his mind caught up, and under the blanket Chris felt against his buttocks that Joseph had a powerful morning erection. His rock-hard cock pressed firmly against Chris’ soft ass.\n\nOh God. He grew hot with embarrassment. He froze immediately, not moving a millimeter, afraid Joseph might wake up because he moved. Chris’ heart suddenly beat far too loudly.\n\nJoseph stirred. A soft grunt, a deep breath, then a small twitch as his consciousness caught up with his body. He opened his eyes, stared into nothing for a moment – and realized how he was lying.\n\nHe immediately pulled back as if he had burned himself.\n\n“Oh—” Joseph jerked away, his back to Chris, and cleared his throat so awkwardly that it almost hurt to listen. “I’m sorry. I… I must have, in my sleep… I have—”\n\n“It’s okay,” Chris said far too quickly, his voice thin. He hastily sat up, pulling the blanket with him as if he could hide inside it. “I’m going to the bathroom for a moment.”\n\nHe took his things and disappeared before any more embarrassing seconds could happen.\n\nIn the bathroom, he first took a breath, hands on the edge of the sink, eyes on his own reflection. He looked sleepy – and yet there was something soft in his face that he could not immediately wipe away. He took a quick shower, got ready, and then dressed for the wedding.\n\nHe chose a dress that was elegant without seeming too conspicuous: a knee-length, dark green dress made of firm, smooth fabric, with a narrow waist and a discreet, slightly flared skirt that fell beautifully when he walked. With it he wore fine, skin-colored tights, simple flat pumps – enough of a heel to be “festive,” but not so much that he had to think about it all day. He pinned his hair neatly back, put in small stud earrings, and kept the makeup subtle: a clean line, a hint of blush, gloss that did not shine like neon, but only looked healthy.\n\nWhen he came out of the bathroom, Joseph was standing by the window, just tying his tie. He turned around – and this time his mouth did not fall open. Instead he looked at Chris, blinked once, and his face grew warm.\n\n“Wow,” Joseph said quietly. “You look… really beautiful.”\n\nChris felt heat immediately rise into his cheeks. Flattered. And that tingling in his stomach, small and treacherous, as if someone had plucked a tiny string. “Thanks,” he murmured, looking away a fraction too quickly.\n\nJoseph cleared his throat, obviously glad that they were back in a “normal” frame again. “I just wanted to say… well… it suits you.”\n\nChris nodded, still slightly red.\n\n[[Continue|Hochzeit.]]

The note was written in slanted, hurried handwriting: <<set $ort to "locker area">>\n\n<div class="letter">I know you’re a boy. If you don’t want me to tell everyone at school about your little secret, then come to the supermarket after school today.</div> Chris’s stomach twisted sharply. For a moment, all he heard was the roar of his own blood; the hallway became a tunnel. Exposed. The word nailed itself into his head. Over the next few hours, he watched numbers and letters come and go without retaining a single one. In biology, he forgot to take notes. In English, he read a page without knowing which one. Every sound was too loud, every laugh sounded suspicious. Who had written the note? Who knew? Who all has been watching me?\n\nAfter school, he made his way to the bus stop. At the edge of the parking lot, he saw Christine—her hand in Myles’s hand, both close, both grinning, both in a bubble no one could attack. His heart gave a brief stab—worry, amazement, a hint of “when did that happen?”—but the note was still burning in his pocket. No time.\n\nOn the bus, Chris stared out the window, counting intersections. He got off at the supermarket, the door sliding shut behind him. Under the awning, the sky clung like wet cardboard. He waited. One minute. Three. Five. An eternity in which every automatic revolving-door sound made him flinch.\n\nThen: footsteps. A hood, dark curls, that narrow, mocking smile Chris knew far too well. [[Zoe|Zoe March]] stopped in front of him and pushed the hood back. Her eyes flashed.\n\n“Oh. My. God.” She stretched each word like chewing gum. “You really are a boy.”\n\n“Not so loud,” Chris hissed, and heard the panic in his own voice.\n\nZoe laughed softly, satisfied, like someone who had solved a riddle. “You know, I wasn’t actually one hundred percent sure. But now…” She let her gaze slowly travel over him, deliberately. “Confirmation. Thank you.”\n\nChris’s hands suddenly felt too large. “Please… don’t tell anyone.” He noticed how thin his voice was. “Please. No one.”\n\nZoe tilted her head, as if deciding whether to eat a piece of candy now or later. “I kind of have you in my hand now, don’t I?” She smiled faintly.\n\nHe swallowed. “What… do you want?”\n\nZoe took her time answering, as if she wanted to taste it on her tongue first. Her fingers drummed against the wet shopping-cart handle, her gaze fixed firmly on him. “Good question,” she finally said, and her smile widened a touch.\n\n[[Continue|Chris soll für sie Kondome klauen.]]

Chris pulled his hand back as if he had burned himself on the elastic band. No. That was a boundary he did not want to cross—not with her. He took the brown sheer tights, gently slid the diary’s cover back beneath the scrunchie, and slipped out of the room, quietly, like a visitor who must leave no trace.\n<<set $ort to "Christine's room">>\nIn his room, he laid the tights with the outfit, sat down on the bed, and only now noticed how loudly his heart was beating. It wasn’t just the sneaking; it was what his mind immediately began producing, as if someone had switched on a projector. Nasty little films about what might be written in the diary:\n\n“Today he was embarrassing again. I feel so ashamed when everyone looks.”\n\nLists of moments when he didn’t behave girlishly, when his voice cracked, when the skirt flew too high.\n\nPages of whispers about boys staring over at him, and the stings that left in her. “Why him? Why not me?” — Or, worse still, factual logs: who said what, where he looked, what “people” noticed—notes his mother wanted to hear in the evening.\n\nHe shook his head, as if he could fling the images out of the room. You don’t know. And still the thought kept scratching: that inside there, perhaps, there existed a version of him he couldn’t bear—a “Boob Chris” on paper, prettily bound, with a date.\n\nHe ran his hand over the fabric of tomorrow’s skirt, laid the tights over it. Warm brown against caramel—calm, smooth. Part of him liked the feeling of how fine knit softened silhouettes; how the world seemed less jumpy when fabric glided gently against fabric.\n\nOn the nightstand, his phone vibrated briefly—a message from Christine: “Coming later. Don’t wait. ♥︎” He stared at the little heart and wondered how many lives ran parallel in her handwriting—sister, friend, chronicler. He wrote back only “ok,” put the phone away, and sat with the silence for a while.\n\nHe had made the right decision. He held on to that. And yet it felt as if he had allowed a book he wasn’t allowed to read, but whose pages still wrote across his thoughts.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Message from Charlotte.|Nachricht von Charlotte.]]<<else>>[[In the evening.|Am Abend.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

The instructor stood at the front, briefly folded his hands, and smiled at the small group. “We’ll start easy—breathing, creating length, then a few stretches,” he said in a warm, deep timbre.\n<<set $ort to "Yoga Studio">>\nFirst came simple stretches: rolling the neck, rolling the shoulders back, interlacing arms overhead and leaning to the side. “Breathe into the chest, not into the shoulders,” he said, and his gaze lingered on Chris. Chris instinctively lifted his breastbone, gently drew in his stomach. DeShawn nodded almost imperceptibly. He kept staring at him almost lustfully while Chris stretched and bent in front of him. And Susan noticed those looks and smiled.\n\n“Let’s start with Trikonasana—the triangle,” DeShawn said and stepped over to Susan. He set her front foot outward, the back one slightly inward, and had her spread her arms at shoulder height.\n\n<center>[img[pics/yoga1.jpg]]</center> “Get long, tip from the hip, right hand toward the shin, left hand to the ceiling.” The fabric of her leggings had to stretch. That made it thinner and more translucent, looking more like sheer pantyhose than leggings. As she slid into the side bend, DeShawn’s hand unobtrusively brushed her ample airbags bulging beneath the top.\n\nChris pretended not to look, but he watched his mother out of the corners of his eyes and could admire the sight of her round ass.\n\n“Good. Hold. Breathe.” DeShawn released Susan from the pose and then came over to Chris. “Your turn. We’ll try Adho Mukha Svanasana—downward-facing dog.”\n\n<center>[img[pics/yoga2.jpg]]</center> He set Chris’s hands shoulder-width apart, fingers spread, feet hip-width apart. “Lift the hips up, breastbone toward the thighs, neck long.” When Chris pushed up, his calves and shoulders immediately burned. DeShawn stood behind him, placed his hands on his pelvis, and gave quiet cues: “Stick your butt out, keep your back straight, and distribute more weight into your hands… Breathe.” The pull in the backs of his thighs surprised Chris. His muscles clearly showed him that yoga was not only for inner balance, but could physically challenge the body too. For a moment, he felt DeShawn’s crotch very close to his rear.\n\n“Release. Knees down.” Chris returned to sitting on his heels, his wrists throbbing, his breathing audible. DeShawn went back to the front—“Once Virabhadrasana II—warrior two”—and helped the woman with the silver pixie cut set her stance wider and keep her front knee over her ankle. Chris watched how the woman immediately became a fraction broader at DeShawn’s cue of “breathe into the arms.”\n\nThey moved through a few flowing sequences, then DeShawn returned to Chris. “One more thing for you: Parsvottanasana—the pyramid.” He placed Chris’s feet staggered, the front one straight, the back one slightly turned in.\n\n<center>[img[pics/yoga3.jpg]]</center> “Hands to the floor, back long, fold forward from the hips.” As Chris tipped forward, he felt DeShawn’s pelvis against his rear for the second time, only this time he seemed to have something hard in his pants. Susan also lifted her head to look after her son. When she noticed DeShawn’s stiff cock in his pants, she couldn’t help smirking.\n\nDeShawn held Chris firmly with his strong hands, one hand just above the sacrum, the other at the side of his butt. “Don’t round. Length, then depth. Exactly—like that.” It pushed and pressed. Chris briefly clenched his teeth and at the same time heard the instructor’s breathing grow more intense.\n\nTo wind down, DeShawn clapped softly. “Come down. We’ll open the groins a little more. Supta Baddha Konasana—reclining butterfly.” He demonstrated once, then came back to Chris’s mat. “Lie on your back, soles of the feet together, let the knees fall outward.” Chris lay down, drew the soles of his feet together, and let his knees sink—wide, wider, until the insides of his thighs became loud. “If it’s too much, say something.” DeShawn slid a cushion under Chris’s butt so that gravity pulled gently, not mercilessly. “Arms to the sides, legs wide. Breathe deep into the belly.” The joints gave way millimeter by millimeter, a quiet, warm burn settling in the groin, and suddenly the room became very large and still.\n\nAt the front, Susan held the same pose.\n<center>[img[pics/yoga4.jpg]]</center>\nAs Chris tilted his head slightly, he could look directly down at his mother’s exposed pussy, the outline of which was clearly visible beneath her skin-tight leggings. Her full, fleshy labia stood out distinctly through the thin fabric. For a moment, Chris forgot that she was his mother; he was utterly hypnotized by the sight. The way the delicate fabric clung to her pussy left Chris anything but cold, and his cock slowly began to rise.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Yoga in die Dusche.]]\n

His mother was already waiting in the hallway when Chris came back out. She had dimmed the lights on the ground floor, as if this were actually a restaurant and not her own house. A warm smell drifted over from the kitchen – something fried, with herbs. Somewhere, quiet music was playing, exaggeratedly “smooth,” like something from a bad movie.\n\nChris’s heart was pounding in his throat as his mother turned to him. She paused briefly, looked him up and down, and in her gaze there was that lustful flicker he only knew from moments when she unintentionally forgot herself. It wasn’t pure strictness, not purely a game. Then she pushed it away, put on her macho grin, and artificially lowered her voice back into that deep register.\n\n“Well then,” she drawled. “Now that’s a look.”\n\nChris wanted to sink into the floor. Not only because of the words, but because they landed. His body reacted in a way that embarrassed him – not openly, not visibly, more like a secret feeling of warmth beneath his skin. He hated that he liked how “right” the dress felt on him. And he hated even more that his mother saw it, or could see it.\n\nSusan made a sweeping gesture toward the living room. “Come on. I made a reservation.”\n\nIn the living room, she had prepared the dining table: two plates, two glasses, even cloth napkins. A candle was burning. It was so absurdly romantic that for a moment Chris didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.\n\nSusan demonstratively stepped behind him, took hold of the back of his chair, and pulled it back with a jerk, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Sit down,” she ordered, then pushed the chair back in toward him, a little too close, a little too firmly.\n\nChris’s knees briefly brushed the edge of the table. He murmured a “Thank you” that sounded far too thin, and his mother answered only with a satisfied hum, as if she had just scored a point.\n\nAs she sat down, legs spread, elbows briefly on the table, she immediately began to talk. Not about the food. Not about the date. But about herself – or rather, about the version of herself she was playing.\n\n“So,” she began, snapping her fingers as if she were about to summon a waiter, “I’ll tell you right now: I delivered again this week. Project lead. Endless stress. People depend on me, you know? Without me, nothing runs at all.”\n\nChris stared at his glass, nodded mechanically, and felt both ridiculous and… somehow strangely safe in this role. It was uncomfortable because it was his mother doing all of this. Because he knew every nuance, could tell every real smile from every performed one. And yet there was this secret relief in simply being allowed to sit there, to listen, to be “the lady.” He would never admit that to himself. Not even in his thoughts did he want to say it fully.\n\nSusan leaned forward. “And what do you do?” she asked, though it sounded less interested than assessing. “You seem like someone who… likes attention.”\n\nChris almost choked on his own breath. “I… I don’t know.”\n\n“Yes, you do.” Susan grinned, and her fingers brushed against his wrist as if by accident. It wasn’t by accident. “You look like you enjoy being spoiled.”\n\nChris’s face burned. He reflexively pulled his hand back, only a few centimeters, and Susan allowed him the movement – but she registered it like a cat that sees every twitch.\n\n[[Continue|Ein Date mit Mom 3.]]

That evening, Chris sat in [[Christine|Christine Braun]]’s room, as had almost naturally slipped into habit over the past few weeks. The door was only ajar, music playing softly in the background. Christine crouched on the carpet in front of her bed, and Chris sat behind her with a brush in his hand. Her hair was long and smooth, falling over her shoulders like a silky curtain.\n<<set $ort to "Christine's room">>\nChris carefully brushed through the lengths, first the ends, then higher up, as patiently as if he had always done this. Christine sighed softly as the brush glided through without tugging.\n\n“You know,” she began after a while, sounding almost embarrassed, “you’re… better as a sister than you used to be as a brother.”\n\nChris paused briefly, just for a moment, then kept brushing. “Thanks… I think.”\n\nChristine didn’t turn her head toward him, but her voice grew warmer. “I mean it.” She pulled her knees closer to her chest. “Before, you were… there, but somehow also in your own head. And now… you understand things. You’re there when I need it.” She breathed out. “You’re my best friend, Chris.”\n\nIt hit him unexpectedly softly. He kept brushing, more slowly, so his hands would have something to do. “You’re mine too,” he finally said quietly.\n\nChristine laughed briefly, a small sound that was more air than mockery. “And besides… you’re popular. At school. That’s so absurd.” She snorted and shook her head. “You have girlfriends, you get into cliques like you’ve always been here. Sometimes people look at you like you’re… important.”\n\nChris’s cheeks grew warm, even though she couldn’t see him. “I… stumble often enough too.”\n\n“Yeah, but you land on your feet,” Christine said simply, as if it were a fact.\n\nThen she went quiet. Chris noticed it in the way her shoulders lifted ever so slightly.\n\n<<if $christine_party == 1>>When she spoke again, her voice was quieter.\n\n“And… about the party back then.” The word came hesitantly. “I… I don’t usually talk about it.” She swallowed. “I don’t remember much. I remember music. Lights. Myles… that it hurt.” She rubbed her fingers over her arm, as if she could wipe something away. “And I remember that you were there.”\n\nChris’s hand stopped in her hair for a moment.\n\n“I remember how you tried to help me,” Christine said, and now she sounded truly ashamed, but also honest. “How you…” She drew a breath, and you could hear how hard it was for her. “I’m grateful to you for that. More than I’ve ever said.”\n\nChris swallowed. “You don’t have to be ashamed,” he murmured.\n\nChristine nodded, small, almost invisible.\n\n<<endif>>Then she finally turned halfway around and stretched her arms back, blindly searching. Chris lowered the brush and pulled her into an embrace that was cautious at first and then became firm, as if they had both been waiting for it.\n\nChristine pressed her face briefly against his shoulder. “You’re my sister,” she whispered.\n\nChris held her until her breathing grew calm again. In that moment, her closeness didn’t feel like a substitute, not like a stopgap, but like something of its own: a bond that had grown stronger in all the chaos. And when they finally let go of each other, there remained between them that quiet knowledge that they had each other—no matter how the rest of the world turned.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $unterwaesche == 1>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.]]<<else>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris’s voice was barely more than an exhale. “Blonde.”\n\nLaverne paused as if someone had put on her favorite song. “Ooooh.” She grinned widely, snapped the color swatch book shut, and playfully tapped his shoulder. “Baby, yes. Blonde isn’t just a hair color, blonde is an attitude.”\n\nShe draped the cape neatly around Chris’s shoulders, tucked a towel into the collar, and positioned him so his short hair was perfectly visible in the mirror. Then she began like a surgeon with glitter: She divided his hair into clean sections, clipped it away, and mixed the bleach in a bowl until the cream had the right consistency—not too runny, not too thick. “I want it to look like ‘the sun kissed you,’ not like ‘chemistry kidnapped you,’” she commented dryly.\n\nThe brush glided over the first strands. Cool, then slowly warm. Chris felt Laverne working with practiced ease—close to the scalp, but careful, in even strokes. She made sure the short hair wouldn’t look flat later, but would have movement instead: a little more saturation here, a little less there, as if she were already planning shadow and light.\n\n“Just tell me if it stings,” Laverne said as she worked on the next section. “And if you’re afraid you’ll end up too hot, then… well. That’s a luxury problem.” She laughed, and Chris couldn’t help laughing softly too, even though the blush was already rising in his cheeks.\n\nOnce everything was brushed on, Laverne set the timer, slid Chris under a heat hood, and handed him a magazine he didn’t really look at. In the mirror, he only watched his own face beneath the hood—and the voice in his head whispering: What are you doing? At the same time, there was a nervous tingle, as if he were about to uncover a new version of himself.\n\n“Okay, come on,” Laverne finally said, leading him to the sink. The warm water rushed, rinsing out the cream until his hair turned light. Then came the toner—Laverne explained it as if she were revealing a secret recipe: “Blonde isn’t just blonde. We’re not making this yellow, we’re making it champagne. That’s the difference between ‘cheap’ and ‘wow.’”\n\nShe worked in conditioner, let it sit briefly, then came the towel: a few sure, quick movements. Back at the chair, she carefully combed through his hair and began blow-drying. With every minute, more of the color appeared: not flat white, but bright, clear, like something fresh from summer—with a touch of depth so it wouldn’t look artificial. Laverne took a round brush, lifted the roots slightly, and shaped the short sections so they emphasized his face. Finally, she added a little texturizing product, worked it in with her fingertips, and teased the contours until everything looked effortless—that “I woke up like this” fairy tale, only good.\n\n“Okay,” Laverne said solemnly, turning the chair a fraction toward the mirror. “Look. And tell me I wasn’t right.”\n\nChris looked.\n\nThe blonde instantly made him brighter. His eyes looked bigger, his skin smoother, as if the light in the room had suddenly decided to favor him. The short hair fell in soft, cheeky textures, in some places like sun reflections, in others like silky shadows. It was that clichéd blonde people said stupid things about—California girl, blondes have more fun, like a little movie character who always knows where the camera is. And the worst part was: it was true. He didn’t just look “different.” He looked… good. Far too good.\n\nChris’s throat went dry. A small, involuntary smile twitched across his face—and he immediately blushed, as if the mirror had caught him thinking. Inside him, two truths collided: He still saw himself as a boy… and he thought that girl in the mirror looked damn hot. Not in a dirty way—in that clear, confident, outrageous way that makes you understand why people turn around.\n\n“Oh my God,” he murmured, more to himself than to Laverne.\n\nLaverne leaned against the counter with satisfaction, her arms crossed like a queen who had just polished her crown. “Baby,” she said, gentle and triumphant at the same time, “that isn’t just blonde. That is main-character blonde.”\n\nChris kept staring into the mirror, overwhelmed and embarrassed at once, as if he first had to get used to the fact that this really was him—and that he was having trouble looking away.\n\n[[Continue|Auf zum Bubble Tea.]]

The bus dropped Chris off at the familiar driveway. The Barnett house lay still in the sun.\n<<set $ort to "Lucas’s house">>\nLucas opened the door immediately, hair combed, a smile that was briefly too big. “Hey! Come in.”\n<<set $CarolineMemory[1] to 1>>\n“Strangely quiet,” Chris thought, no voices, no radio chatter, just the steady hum of the air conditioner.\n\n“Where is… your mom?” Chris asked as casually as he could.\n\n“In the backyard,” Lucas said. “Tennis. She always plays for an hour on Wednesdays.” He pointed his thumb toward the patio.\n\n“I’d like to say hello for a second,” Chris said, and they walked through the cool hallway out back. The tennis court behind the house shimmered in the light.\n\n<center>[img[pics/MrsBarnett_tennis2.jpg]]</center> Mrs. Barnett was just launching into a high jump, practically flying into the shot, which made her short tennis skirt flutter wildly and presented Chris with a view of her black thong. The thin vertical strap disappeared almost completely between her round ass cheeks.\n\nWhen she noticed Chris, she slowed down, caught the ball in her hand, and came to the fence. Beads of sweat on her forehead, joy in her eyes. “You again,” she said, warmth in her voice.\n\n“Hello, Mrs. Barnett. You play… incredibly,” Chris managed. “Those jumps, that serve—did you play professionally?”\n\nShe laughed, short and melodic. “Only since my youth. Thank you.”\n\nChris held her gaze a second too long. “Would you… maybe like to play with me sometime? I mean—if it suits you. I’m bad, but willing to learn.”\n\nMrs. Barnett tapped the ball against the net cord, as if thinking. “Gladly,” she said, the corners of her mouth soft. “But today isn’t a good day. I’m playing with Miguel today.” She nodded toward the far end of the court, where the young pool boy stood with a racket in his hand.\n\n“Sure, I understand,” Chris murmured, and his heart gave that nonsensical little leap.\n\n“Another time,” she added—a touch too softly, a touch too close—“if you ask me that charmingly again.” Her gaze held his for one breath longer, then she tossed the ball up and turned elegantly into her serve.\n\n“Then… I’ll be ready,” Chris said, and heard how serious it sounded.\n\n“Do that,” she called over her shoulder, the ball hissing like a clean line over the strings. “And bring stamina—I play hard.” A wink.\n\n[[Continue|In Lucas Zimmer.]]

Chris noticed Ruby go rigid beside him as the others were already pushing toward the door. Her shoulders were hunched, her gaze fixed too firmly on the darkness, as if she could control it that way.\n<<set $ort to "maple syrup bottling plant">>\n“Hey,” Chris said softly, just for her. “You don’t have to be cool. You just have to… stay with me.” He tried to smile, so it would sound easier than it was. “We go in, take a quick look, take the stupid photo, and go back out. No running, no climbing around. Okay?”\n\nRuby blinked, as if she hadn’t expected him to mean it. “It’s still dangerous.”\n\n“I know,” Chris said. “But if we’re already here… then we do it smart. And if it gets to be too much for you, we turn around. I’ll go with you. Promise.”\n\nFor a moment she still hesitated, then she exhaled. “Okay. But if I die, my ghost is haunting you forever.”\n\n“Deal,” Chris murmured. “That probably wouldn’t even be the worst thing that could happen to me.”\n\nRuby snorted softly—and then she reached for his hand. Firm, warm, not romantic, more like gripping a railing. It was the first time Chris had held a girl’s hand. A brief, electric jolt went through his arm, and at the same time something calming: I’m not alone.\n\nThey stepped through the open door.\n\nInside, the factory hall swallowed the last remaining light of evening. Phone lights flicked on like little cones, sweeping over rusty pipes and dusty machines. The sweet syrup smell was stronger here, as if somewhere there were still an invisible lake of sugar that refused to stop being Maplewood.\n\nThe theater kids reacted immediately, the way they always reacted: by turning fear into a stage.\n\n“It’s like it was built for a play,” one of the boys said reverently, letting his phone light move over a huge tank like a spotlight.\n\n“Act One: The group enters the forbidden plant,” a girl intoned dramatically, stretching out her arms. “The curse awakens!”\n\n“No, no,” someone objected. “The curse is just… syrup in the air. Very sticky. Very romantic.”\n\nA few of them giggled. Phone lights became “spotlights,” and they struck positions as if they were improvising: a fake-startled scream, exaggerated trembling, horror-movie quotes so deliberately overdone that they felt like protective charms. Chris laughed along, but his fingers kept holding on to Ruby. Her hand stayed cold enough to reveal that the jokes weren’t pushing everything away for her.\n\n[[Continue|Tiefer in der Halle.]]

<<set $ort to "school">><<if $charlotte > 1>>During break, Chris met [[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] at the edge of the hallway, where the noise from the school reached them only as a distant murmur. She stood at her locker with her arms crossed, her face calm, but not soft. Chris stopped one step too far away, as if he first had to learn how close “allowed” was now. “Hey,” he said quietly. “I… just wanted—” He swallowed. “Have fun tomorrow. At the rally.”\n\nCharlotte nodded, her gaze briefly sliding over his face, as if she were searching for the old version of him and no longer finding it so easily. “Thanks,” she said, and after a pause: “I’m not… gone. I’m just… confused.” Chris nodded at once, too quickly, because he wanted to hear that. “I know,” he answered, and although the word was small, he meant it. For a moment something remained between them that almost looked like peace—not resolved, but honest—before Charlotte closed her locker and they both went in opposite directions.\n<<endif>>At lunch break, [[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]] sat down with his tray beside Chris. He set it down carefully, as if even the sound might be too much, and looked up briefly, then back down again. “Do you have time after school today? Movies?” he asked, his voice a little too bright, as if he wanted to drown out the nervousness.\n\n“What’s playing?” Chris asked, stirring his yogurt without really looking at Lucas.\n\n“Uh—a romance thing, June & the Fireflies, and… the new sci-fi action movie, Orbital Rift. You wanted to see that one, right?” Lucas’s gaze flickered briefly, as if testing whether Chris still remembered something he had said earlier.\n\nChris nodded. “Orbital Rift sounds good.”\n\nThe conversation stayed brief. Lucas smiled, but it looked as if he were holding the smile in place so it wouldn’t fall. Chris noticed it—and felt guilty and relieved at the same time, because distance was sometimes easier than closeness.\n\nAfter school, they went to the cinema together. The forecourt glittered with spilled soda; the foyer smelled of popcorn and cold air-conditioning. At the ticket counter, Lucas pulled out his wallet as if it were the most natural thing in the world.\n\n“I can pay for my ticket—” Chris began at once.\n\n“It’s okay,” Lucas said quickly, almost too quickly, and paid for two tickets. Then drinks. Then the large popcorn. He did it with a kind of determined friendliness, as if he wanted to prove he was allowed to. Chris stood beside him, his hands suddenly useless, and felt that unpleasant feeling again of accepting something without knowing how much it actually cost—not in dollars, but in expectations.\n\nIn the theater, they sat in the middle toward the back. The ads flickered, the lights dimmed, and the world turned dark blue. Chris let the movie carry him: engines, stardust, narrow corridors, the rhythm of boots on metal. It was pleasant to watch something that was only a movie.\n\nHe reached for popcorn. Lucas did too. Their fingers bumped together—and Chris immediately pulled his hand back, reflexively, as if he had burned himself. Not out of disgust, more from an instinctive too close. Lucas’s hand hung in the air for a moment, then he withdrew it too and acted as if he hadn’t noticed anything at all.\n\nChris stared at the screen, trying to ignore the tiny tingling in his stomach. When he did glance to the side, he met Lucas’s gaze. Warm, open, in love—and at the same time cautious, as if Lucas was no longer sure how much he was allowed to show. Chris’s feeling about it was complicated: a quiet “no” in his spine, a weariness with the whole subject—and still that fine tingling that made him angry because it didn’t fit into his plans.\n\nThe movie continued until the credits rolled and the lights crept back up. In the foyer, Lucas stayed beside him, but this time half a step away, as if he had deliberately taught himself to do it. “Should I take you home?” he asked, his hands deep in his jacket pockets, as if holding his courage there.\n\nChris kept his tone friendly, but neutral. “No, thanks. I’ll take the bus. It was good—the movie.”\n\n“Yeah.” Lucas nodded. His smile came, stayed briefly, then became small. “Okay. Then… see you tomorrow.”\n\n“See you tomorrow.”\n\nThey parted outside the cinema. Chris went to the stop and got on the bus. The neon light made his reflection look pale; outside, the city passed by.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte > 1>>\n[[In bed in the evening.|In bed in the evening.3]]\n\n<<else>>[[Next School Day|Albtraum.B]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris swallowed hard. “I… I’m sorry,” he managed, quietly at first, then louder because Zoe’s eyes demanded it. “I should have… stayed out of it.”\n\nChris lifted his head, took one deep breath, and said—quietly but clearly: “I’m not going to kiss your shoe.”\n\nCarefully, he tried to push her foot away from his face. Zoe stepped half a step closer. “You want to find out, huh?” With the tip of her shoe, she pushed his notebook even farther away.\n\nShe grabbed his hair again, not quite as roughly as before—more to show that she could. Chris didn’t tear himself free; he stared at a scratch in the edge of the asphalt and tried to stay calm. “Leave me alone, Zoe.”\n\n“Say please,” she whispered, so softly that only he and the nearest circle could hear it. A power game, not a request. When he didn’t answer, she let go, gave him a kick in the ribs—more humiliating than painful—and straightened up. “Fine. Then like this.”\n\nShe bent down and stepped on the corner of his schedule with the edge of her shoe, creasing it. Nothing dramatic, just petty. Then she took his math notebook, opened it to a page, tore it cleanly from the edge, and let the scrap flutter. “Oops.”\n\n“Zoe,” said a voice at the edge—Ruby. Not loud, but steady. “Leave it.”\nZoe threw her a sidelong glance, turned away like someone wrapping up the scene, and sauntered off. Two of her hangers-on followed.\n\nThe circle dissolved into individuals who acted as if they had never been there.\n\nChris stayed lying there for two breaths, then sat up, straightened his dress, and gathered his books. His fingers were trembling more than he liked. The notebook with his schedule had a new scrape; he smoothed it down as if it could be erased.\n\n“Chris!” Christine came running, stopped beside him, her hands half-extended as if she didn’t know whether she should touch him. Her gaze shot down the path Zoe had taken and back to him. “Are you okay?”\n\n“I’m fine,” he said, forcing himself to his feet. The pain was still there, more muted, but persistent.\n\nChristine pressed her lips together and handed him the last book. “Bus’ll be here in a second.” Then more quietly: “We’ll talk at home. And… keep your head up, okay?” She stood beside him, no grand gesture, just presence.\n\nThe bus rolled in, squealed, the doors folded open. Chris breathed through it, held his things tighter, and got on behind his sister, as if the aisle of the bus were, for a moment, the safest place in Maplewood.\n\n''👑 Popularity -1''\n\n[[Continue|Busfahrt.]]

After school, Chris trudged into the media room, where the D&D club played its sessions. Ben, the Dungeon Master, had already set up his screen; Jay and Max sat with open notebooks and an overstuffed dice box. Adam waved Chris over; the seat beside him had been kept free—as always.\n<<set $ort to "D&D club room">>\n“Hey, babe,” [[Adam|Adam Bowman]] said too loudly, and before Chris could react, he leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. It was a brief, awkward pressure, but this time Chris tensed up less than the first time. He stayed still, let it happen.\n\n“Uh… wow,” Jay said, unable to suppress a grin. Max cleared his throat and pretended he was only sorting the d20s by color. Ben tapped his pencil against his notepad. “Okay, relationship drama after the session, yes? I’ve got something special.”\n\nHe pulled out a yellowed box. “Classic. First edition. My uncle left it to me. We’re playing old-school.”\n\n“Um… should you still play that today?” Jay threw in with a crooked smile. “I mean, not… when there’s a girl here.” His gaze flicked to Chris and away again.\n\nChris lifted his chin, still a little dazed from the kiss. “Play what you want to play. Please don’t cut anything because of me.” He smiled thinly. “I can handle it.”\n\nBen nodded gratefully and handed out copies of the old rules. The pages smelled of toner and secondhand bookstores. During character creation, Chris stumbled over the tables: for female characters, “Charisma” was suddenly “Beauty.” Women had a lower Wisdom score than “adult men and boys.” In return, female characters got a “Seduction” spell. Chris’s stomach tightened; it wasn’t hurtful in a loud way, more that dull, old-fashioned imbalance sitting between the lines.\n\n“Yeah, that’s how it was back then,” Ben murmured apologetically. “We can house-rule it too—”\n\n“It’s fine,” Chris said. The defiance in him placed a hand on his back. “I’ll choose what’s written there so we can play it through. And then we’ll show that in the end it comes down to the dice and your head.”\n\nAdam grinned proudly, as if Chris had spoken for him. “My girlfriend is fearless.”\n\nMax leaned over the character sheet. “Okay, Beauty instead of Charisma… how many points are you putting in there?” he asked matter-of-factly, his pen ready over the box.\n\nChris looked at the column, felt the eyes at the table, and how the absurdity of the word “Beauty” both annoyed and challenged him at the same time.\n\n''How many points into Beauty for Chris’s character?''\n❯ [[He puts a lot of points into “Beauty,” as a defiant game with a rule that actually annoys him.|8]]\n❯ [[He thinks “Beauty” is nonsense and deliberately puts barely any points into it.|2]]

They stayed together.\n<<set $ort to "Lucas’s house">>\nAfter school, Chris and Lucas drove to the Barnetts’—an expensive villa with a wide veranda, tall window front, and a lawn that looked as if it were brushed daily. The wind moved the floor-length curtains behind the glass, as if they were waving them inside.\n\nAs they walked up the driveway, the front door opened, and Mrs. Barnett stepped out—tennis clothes, sun visor, racket in hand, her face sunny and effortless.\n\n<center>[img[pics/MrsBarnett_tennis.jpg]]</center> Her smile hit Chris before he could say anything.\n\n“Nice to see you, Chris,” she said warmly. “Change, drink, then we’ll hit a few balls.”\n\n“I’ll just take the books upstairs,” Lucas murmured and disappeared toward the stairs.\n\nThe moment he was out of sight, Mrs. Barnett lowered her voice, her gaze taking on a playful sharpness. “We could send Lucas out on an errand run,” she said, as if it were the most natural idea in the world. “And then…” She left the sentence hanging, a promised exclamation mark in the air. “The two of us would have all the peace and quiet here alone in the house. The bedroom is right upstairs.”\n\nChris’s breath caught. The thought shot through his body: Finally. Finally, sex. A quiet rush rose up—disbelief, heat, a wave of yes. But in the middle of it, something sober and hard spoke up: He was Lucas’s girlfriend. Even if it was only pretend—it was a bond. Sleeping with his mother would be a betrayal, one you couldn’t simply come back from. And he liked Lucas more than he wanted to admit. That was exactly what he pushed away, and felt all the more clearly.\n\nUpstairs, a door rattled, footsteps; Mrs. Barnett’s eyes held his. “So?” she asked almost tonelessly, as if she had long since sorted through his thoughts.\n\nHe had to decide—now.\n\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[Agree to Mrs. Barnett’s plan.|Mrs. Barnetts Plan zustimmen.][$barnett += 1]]\n❯ [[Reject Mrs. Barnett’s plan.|Lucas nicht betrügen und ablehnen.][$lucaslove += 1]]

The two of them began moving their hips violently, growing wilder and faster, colliding harder and harder in the middle with their pussies. The room was filled with panting and the loud slapping sounds when the wet labia struck against each other.\n\n“Oh Charlotte, keep going, I’m about to come,” Chris moaned.\n\n“Come to me, I want to feel you when you come.”\n\nThe two of them raised their upper bodies and embraced. Chris felt the tender, hot skin of his girlfriend while their breasts rubbed against each other. Instinctively, Chris also sensed that Charlotte was close to climax, and he himself was about to explode too.\n\nIn one final unconscious action, Charlotte took Chris’ head between her hands, pulled him to her, and pressed Chris’ lips against her own. Chris did not hesitate for a second, opened his lips, and welcomed his girlfriend’s greedy tongue into his mouth.\n\nThe additional feelings this intimate kiss gave them were, for both of them, the drop that finally made the barrel overflow. Chris felt Charlotte’s fingers clawing into his back in search of something to hold on to, and a few seconds later the whole room seemed to explode before his eyes.\n\nChris had already had a few orgasms in his life, but this new feeling, which his neovagina gave him, was far more intense than anything he had been allowed to experience before.\n\nChris could no longer say afterward how long he had been out of it, but when he could think halfway clearly again, he had his head buried against Charlotte’s shoulder, and she was doing the same to him. The two of them stroked each other’s hair and said not a word while their bodies were still connected by the dildo. Finally, it was Charlotte who spoke again first:\n\n“I love you,” she said.\n\nChris’ throat tightened, but not from pain – from something that could finally be said without fear. He smiled, very small and very real.\n\n“I love you too,” he whispered.\n\nAnd this time it did not feel like a wish hanging on conditions, but like a promise that was simply there.\n\n[[Continue|Und wenn sie nicht gestorben sind, dann...]]

Chris’s face softened before he could stop it. An honest smile spread across his lips—not the polite one he often wore at school, but one that came entirely on its own.\n\nHe took the jacket with both hands, as if it were something valuable, not just a piece of fabric. For a moment he held it close to himself, feeling the familiar weight and the warmth still lingering in it from the building.\n\n“Thank you,” he said quietly. “That’s really kind.”\n\nLucas’s gaze caught on his smile, as if someone had switched on a light. The flush in his cheeks grew stronger, but this time it wasn’t only from running. He swallowed, nodded a little too eagerly, and at the same time tried to look as if all of this were completely natural.\n\n“Sure,” he managed, and his voice was a tick higher. “I mean… no problem. I… I just thought you’d be cold otherwise.”\n\nHe held Chris’s gaze a moment too long, then quickly looked to the side, as if he suddenly had to check the sky. But in the way his shoulders relaxed, there was a quiet, childlike joy—as if he had received the answer he had been hoping for without ever saying it out loud.\n\n[[Continue|Bonding mit Mom.]]

“At school,” Susan continued, “you haven’t landed among the truly popular ones—not yet. But you’re no longer an outsider either, the way you were before as a boy. People talk to you, not over you. This life as a girl… it seems to suit you, even if you don’t want to admit it.” She gave him a moment so the sentence could land. “Still: You could get involved more often. Not just nod and get through it, but carry yourself. Hold a conversation, suggest an idea, don’t wait for someone to come and collect you. Friendships are investments—you’re still paying in too much small change. And sometimes you seem as if you’re waiting for a role instead of playing it.”\n\nChris felt those words place warmth and cold in his chest at the same time. Not an outsider. That alone made something inside him breathe out quietly. But “waiting instead of playing” felt like being caught out. He thought of breaks when he smiled without saying what he thought; of moments when he made himself small in order to stay safe. The mixture of recognition and demand pulled at him like two hands in different directions.\n\n''How does his mother assess him?''\n<<nobr>><<if $tarnung <= 4>>[[Negative|Negativ3]]<<endif>>\n<<if $tarnung >= 5 && $tarnung <= 6>>[[Average|Durchschnitt3][$temp += 1]]<<endif>>\n<<if $tarnung >= 7>>[[Positive|Positiv3][$temp += 2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

“And as for passing as a girl…” Susan looked up briefly, met his gaze, then lowered hers again. “There were mistakes here and there. A stride that was too wide, a reflex that was too quick, your voice at an unsuitable moment. Nothing dramatic—but visible to trained eyes.” Her hand made a small, balancing gesture. “And yet: You fit into everyday life. You function in this role, often even effortlessly. You seem… coherent. Not always, but surprisingly often.” A minimal pause. “As if this role were made for you.”\n\nThe sentence hit him in a place he couldn’t name. Part of him resisted reflexively; another part felt, with uncomfortable honesty, how true it was—at least from the outside. I fit in. Sometimes so much that he could no longer hear himself. Shame and a strange kind of pride tangled together.\n\nSusan was silent for a beat, letting the sentences settle. Chris stood there, hands folded, heart audible in his ears, and realized that he was waiting for the next word like a verdict—even though she hadn’t spoken one yet.\n\n''What is Susan’s verdict?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $kondomedieb == 0>><<if $temp <= 2>>[[Negative|Negativ4]]<<else>>[[Positive|Positiv4]]<<endif>><<else>>\n\n<<if $temp <= 2>>[[Very Negative|Negativ4b]]<<endif>>\n<<if $temp > 2 && $temp <= 4>>[[Positive, but...|Positiv4b]]<<endif>>\n<<if $temp > 4>>[[Positive, but...|Positiv4c]]<<endif>>\n\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

It was [[Joseph Walters|Joseph Walters]].\n\nThe room was still the German living room, the television was still flickering, the blanket still lay over Chris’s legs—and yet Joseph was there, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. His profile was familiar in a different way: not childhood, but the present. His aftershave was not his father’s, but it struck the same place in his mind, as if both scents were overlapping.\n\nEverything was familiar, almost banal—and yet Joseph was there, as if he had always belonged here.\n\nJoseph looked at him, calm, attentive, with that friendly expression that did not examine, but perceived. As if he had not only seen Chris, but truly recognized him.\n\nChris said nothing. He couldn’t. He only felt the warmth inside him growing larger, felt something in his chest tighten and open at the same time. He stayed completely still so nothing would break, and leaned a fraction closer, as if on its own.\n\nThen Joseph moved. Very slowly, his hand slid from Chris’s arm a little higher, brushing him only lightly, almost questioningly. His fingers moved over the fabric of his nightgown, then over his nipples, and that cautious touch alone made Chris hold his breath.\n\nChris swallowed. His heart was beating far too fast, and yet he wanted to be even closer. He wanted to know how it would feel if Joseph really drew him into his arms. What it would be like to lay his head against his strong chest.\n\nAs if Joseph had heard that thought, he lifted his other hand and gently brushed a loose strand of hair from Chris’s forehead. The movement was so careful, so naturally tender, that Chris’s eyes fell shut for a moment. He felt the warmth of Joseph’s fingers at his temple, on his cheek, and something inside him gave way.\n\nHe allowed Joseph to pull him closer.\n\nNot hastily, not demandingly—only so that Chris could lean against him. So that their bodies touched, calm and soft, beneath the flickering light of the television. Joseph’s arm lay around him, firm enough to give support, gentle enough to leave him every chance to pull away.\n\nAnd suddenly he wanted more of it than he could ever have admitted.\n\nHe wanted Joseph’s hand to keep stroking over his breasts. Wanted those careful touches to remain, to grow longer, more intense. Wanted to sink into that feeling, into that closeness, into that unexpected, forbidden safety that confused him and at the same time made him happy in a way that almost hurt.\n\nJoseph lowered his head a little, until his forehead almost touched Chris’s temple. It was only a breath of closeness, barely more than a promise—and yet a shiver ran through Chris’s whole body.\n\nHe still said nothing. He couldn’t.\n\nBut inside him, everything was already filled with that one frightening wish: that Joseph would keep looking at him like that, keep touching him like that, keep staying with him.\n\nThen the darkness tore him out of everything.\n\nChris shot upright in his bed in the middle of the night, breathless, disoriented, the blanket half kicked off him. His room was silent. No television. No flickering light. No Joseph.\n\nOnly his racing heartbeat.\n\nFor a moment, he simply sat there and stared into the darkness, as if he could find the dream again if only he stayed still enough. His skin was still tingling, as if the memory of those touches had settled there. His arm felt strangely empty. His chest too.\n\nConfused, he ran both hands over his face and breathed out shakily.\n\nWhy Mr. Walters, of all people?\nWhy a man at all?\n\nThe thought hit him hard enough that he closed his eyes. There was shame, yes. Confusion too. A stumbling, uncertain discomfort over something that had felt too real, too close, too full of longing. But beneath it there was something else, something more honest, that he could not push away so easily:\n\nHe already missed it.\n\nNot Mr. Walters, perhaps—or not only him. But the feeling. That warmth. That cautious tenderness. The way someone in the dream had looked at him as if he were nothing he had to apologize for. The way a single touch had made him go soft.\n\nChris pulled the blanket closer around himself again, even though he wasn’t cold. He lay back down, stared at the ceiling, and didn’t know what unsettled him more: that he had dreamed of a man—or that part of him desperately wished he could fall asleep again at once and return exactly there.\n\n[[End of Chapter 4|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 4]]

Chris sat on the edge of Zoe’s bed and nervously picked at the hem of his skirt. The silence after her confession had taken on something metallic – as if the air had suddenly grown edges.\n\n“And now?” he finally asked. “What are you going to do now?”\n\nZoe leaned against the desk, arms crossed, staring at a spot on the wall as if she saw a door there that no one else could see. “I’m not telling my dad,” she said. “Not yet. Maybe never. If he finds out, that’s it. He’ll kill me, or… worse.”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. He knew Zoe’s big mouth, her provocations – but not this kind of fear.\n\n“I’ve got nothing left in Maplewood,” Zoe said quietly. “Nothing at all. Just these houses, these faces, these stupid hallways. And sooner or later my dad will be standing in front of me and hear it from someone else. Before that happens, I’m running.”\n\nChris swallowed. “Where?”\n\nZoe shrugged, but there was suddenly something determined in her voice. “Somewhere no one knows me. New city. New life. I’ve put a little money aside. Not much, but enough to keep from standing out at first.”\n\nChris looked at his hands. There was something inside him that had been turning like a screw all day, and now it kept turning: school ruined, the club ruined, his reputation ruined, and Zoe – his last real connection – was now standing at the edge herself, as if the ground beneath everything had turned rotten.\n\nThen she looked straight at him. “Come with me.”\n\nChris blinked. “What?”\n\n“We’re both over eighteen,” Zoe said. “You’re finished here anyway. And I… I don’t want to be alone.” She made a small, almost embarrassed motion with her hand, as if the admission hurt her. “You want to get away from your mom too. Away from everything.”\n\nSomething opened in Chris’s chest that felt like fear and air at the same time. He thought of his mother, of control, of the outrageous ease with which she pushed him into roles. He thought of the hallways, of the video, of the laughter that would never again be “just” laughter. And he thought of how still Maplewood had suddenly become, as if it had already spat him out.\n\n“There’s nothing keeping me here either,” he heard himself say. The sentence wasn’t dramatic. It was simply true.\n\nZoe nodded once, short and hard, as if she had to prove to herself that he had really said it. “Then we’ll do it.”\n\nChris felt his heart beating faster, and at the same time there was a strange clarity. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”\n\n[[Continue|Chris haut ab.]]

On Friday, the Homecoming dance hung over the whole school like a balloon. In the halls, dress colors were being discussed, hairstyles shown off, limousine plans whispered about. It was as if there were nothing more important than Saturday night.\n<<set $wochentag = 5>><<set $ort to "school">>\nChris didn’t even realize how badly the school-dance fever had caught him. His mind kept circling endlessly around the midnight blue of the ball gown, the silver straps of the shoes, the tiny clutch that suddenly seemed “grown-up” in his hand. He caught himself doodling little sketches of bows and necklines in the margins of his notebook and then pretending they were notes. Every time someone said “dance” anywhere, warmth tugged in his chest. He was excited—truly excited—and he carried it around all day like a smile that was too bright.\n\nHis sister, on the other hand, remained duller. Christine functioned, but she didn’t glow. She walked beside him as always, yet the excitement buzzing around them bounced off her. And the more Chris talked, the more something in her drew tight—as if every sentence about dresses and music reminded her that she herself wouldn’t be going. That Myles would be going with someone else. That “Homecoming” no longer sounded like glitter to her, but like a door that had slammed shut.\n\n“And the dress—really, it’s such a true midnight blue,” Chris said again at some point, when they were in a quieter section of hallway, almost alone. “In the light it looks like—like water. And the back—”\n\nChristine stopped. Her fingers briefly clawed around the strap of her backpack. Then she turned halfway toward him, her gaze flat and tired. “Could you please stop acting like all of this is so great?” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut. “For me, Homecoming is over.”\n\nChris blinked, the smile falling from his face like a false accessory. “Hey… you can go without a date too,” he said at once, trying to be gentle. “Really. You don’t have to—”\n\n“You don’t understand!” Christine snapped at him, and there was more than just anger vibrating in the sentence—there was something wounded fighting back. She turned her head away, as if the hallway would help her not to cry.\n\nChris stepped half a pace closer, too much in the mode of “solve,” “comfort,” “fix.” “Yes, I do understand. It’s just—you don’t have to hide. You’re—”\n\nChristine spun around, and her gaze was suddenly sharp, almost panicked. Not because she hated him—but because she had to push him away before he pressed her any further into that corner. Her voice became a hiss.\n\n“A girl can’t go to the dance alone. You don’t understand. You’re a boy!”\n\nThe sentence hung in the air for a heartbeat like a blade—weapon and shield at once.\n\nAnd at that exact moment, Lucas came around the corner.\n\n[[Continue|Treffen mit Lucas nach der Schule.]]

Chris shook his head. “No, Zoe. Really not.” His voice stayed calm, but firm. “We’re broke, yes. But I’m not going out to eat with some stranger just because we’re hungry. This is Pittsburgh, not Maplewood. And we don’t have anyone here to pick us up if it goes wrong.”\n\nZoe rolled her eyes and sucked demonstratively on the lollipop. “Oh, wow. The knight of reason.” She leaned back as if sitting on an invisible stage. “And what’s your brilliant plan? Looking at pictures of noodles?”\n\n“My plan is: not piling another problem on top,” Chris said. He glanced briefly at the empty pot, then back at Zoe. “We’ll find something tomorrow. Some job. Something.”\n\nZoe held the lollipop out of her mouth, studying it and then Chris, as if reading a new idea in his face. “Tomorrow,” she repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. “Tomorrow is always such a sweet little trick.”\n\nChris’s gaze caught on the lollipop again. Hunger made him honest, and Zoe noticed it immediately. The corner of her mouth twitched. She raised the lollipop a little higher, just barely out of reach. “Want a lick?” she asked, far too innocently.\n\nChris sighed. “Zoe…”\n\n“Say please,” she teased, and the lollipop gleamed cherry red between her fingers.\n\nChris’s cheeks grew hot. “Please.”\n\n“Mhm.” Zoe smiled as if she had been waiting exactly for that. But instead of handing Chris the lollipop, she guided it under her skirt, pulled her panties aside, and stuck it into her pussy.\n\n“Then take it.” she jeered, wiggling her fingers to let Chris know she no longer had her lollipop in her hands.\n\nChris looked at her, and he noticed the air between them changing: from argument to game. Zoe held his gaze.\n\nChris hesitated. He felt ashamed of how badly he wanted it—not just the sugar, but the closeness, the attention, the warmth. He was tired of fighting, tired of thinking. He leaned forward, slid his hand under her skirt, and pulled the lollipop back out.\n\nHe put it in his mouth and rolled it around with relish a few times. The lollipop didn’t actually taste that different, just not as sweet anymore and a little saltier instead. But the thought that it had just been inside Zoe’s pussy was enough for him. His penis immediately grew hard, and Chris kept sucking on it with pleasure.\n\nZoe laughed softly, satisfied, and in the next moment the game was no longer a game. The lollipop clacked somewhere against the table as Chris set it aside. Their lips met—teasing at first, then more seriously, as if something that had been taut for a long time was finally coming loose.\n\nZoe’s tongue brushed over his lips and asked for entry. Quickly, the two sank into a wet French kiss.\n\nTo Chris’s surprise, she suddenly sat up.\n\n[[Continue|Zoe zieht ihren Slip aus.][$sex += 1;$cameinside += 1;$fingerass += 1]]

<<back "Back">>\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/MrMoore.jpg]]</center> \n''Name:'' Nathan Moore \n''Age:'' 39\n''Birthday:'' September\n\n''Biography''\nNathan Moore originally came from a small town in Indiana (Kokomo) and grew up there in an environment where sports, reliability, and a “pull yourself together” mentality were simply taken for granted. As the oldest sibling, he slipped early into the role of protector: taking responsibility, mediating arguments, leading the way—this mixture of authority and care stayed with him later in his demeanor as well. In his youth, he was a competitive athlete; for him, discipline and body awareness are less a “hobby” than a language.\n\nAfter school, he studied sports science and education because he could not only train, but also explain—and because structure suits him: processes, technique, making progress measurable. To many female students, he seems attractive without really trying: calm presence, clear instructions, that unruffled self-confidence that some read as “safe” and others as “dangerously charming.”\n\nHis reputation is ambivalent—and that is exactly what makes conversations about him at school so charged. He has little hesitation about physical contact in an athletic sense (corrections, posture, technique), is strikingly consistently fair to female students, and often treats them with the same strictness as the boys. In a high school, that is enough to create rumors: “too close,” “there’s definitely something going on,” “forbidden affairs”—usually more fantasy than fact, but persistent. Privately, he is rather ritualistic: his coffee is black, always the same, at the same time—as if he uses it to set the day on a track before everything else gets loud.\n\n<div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Chris’s attraction to Mr. Moore</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>completely uninteresting</span> <span>Crush</span> </div> <div class="axis-barattraction"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $moore_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $moore_opinion < 20>> Keep your distance <<elseif $moore_opinion < 40>> No special effect <<elseif $moore_opinion < 60>> Mild curiosity <<elseif $moore_opinion < 80>> infatuation <<else>> Crush <</if>> </div> </div> <<back "Back">>

Chris’s phone vibrated.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">>\nCharlotte:\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Heeey you 💫 are you coming over to my place on saturday? dad won’t be home until late… we’d have the house to ourselves 😌Interested?</blockquote> Chris’s heart made that dizzying leap forward. His fingers typed faster than his head could think.\n\nChris:\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Yes. I’d love to. Just tell me when I should be there.</blockquote> The reply came immediately: <blockquote class="quote">18:00? I’ll make something to eat. And… maybe a movie later? Or no movie 😇</blockquote> He let the phone fall onto the pillow and grinned up at the ceiling. Saturday. Alone in the house. The word stretched a bright, warm line through his week. For a moment, the old uncertainty rose up—clothes? What would Mom say? How would he get there?—but it bounced off the anticipation.\n\nChris:\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Perfect. 18:00. Looking forward to it.</blockquote> Charlotte: <blockquote class="quote">looking forward to it. very much. 💖</blockquote> Chris only typed a heart back. Then he set his alarm a minute later—as if happiness could be preserved that way—and let himself fall backward onto the blanket. Outside, evening sank; inside, Saturday glowed like a secret string of lights only he could see.\n\n[[Continue|Am Abend.2]]

The gym was brighter than usual, the afternoon sun sweeping across the floor in broad rectangles. A few curious onlookers sat in the bleachers; on the court lay mats, water bottles, a Bluetooth speaker from which pop with too much bass was wafting. A banner on the wall: Pom Puffs — Tryouts. Christine tied her ponytail tighter, bounced on her heels, and radiated nervous energy.\n<<set $ort to "gym">>\nMr. Moore, today in coach shorts with a whistle around his neck, greeted the group. His gaze lingered on Chris a fraction longer—a nod that meant “I know about your situation.” “We’ll do a quick warm-up,” he called.\n\n<center>[img[pics/charlotte_tryout.jpg]]</center> Charlotte appeared beside Chris the way she always did: suddenly, with a grin. “You’re coming onto the floor with us, okay?” “I’m just here with my sister,” Chris protested, raising his hands appeasingly. “I’m… not the type for this.”\n\n“Everyone says that on the first day,” [[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]] cut in, her ponytail perfect at shoulder height. “Cheer is team. No solo heroics. Just try it.”\n\n“Seriously, Chris,” Christine said, and her eyes shone—excitement, hope, that wish that you could slide into something together. “The counts are easy. And if it’s not for you, you’ll know for sure afterward.”\n\nThe words bounced off Chris’s inner resistance. The mere thought of the outfit made him tense inside. Miniskirt, tops, pompoms—and bouncing on the sideline cheering for boys? He felt himself blushing before anything had even happened. “I’m definitely not good enough,” he tried, setting up a factual barrier. “Honestly. I’ll just step on everyone’s feet.”\n\nCharlotte tilted her head. “That’s the point of tryouts—to find out if it fits. Besides, you kept up well in PE yesterday. You’re coordinated. And you have…”—she searched for the word—“presence.”\n\nAt the edge, two girls exchanged a look; not mean, but questioning. “Why so defensive?” one whispered. “Isn’t this the dream?”\n\nChris felt the skepticism in the room become thin but noticeable. He hated how his reasons wanted to become words he couldn’t say here. Mr. Moore clapped his hands. “Line up! Five, six, seven, eight—”\n\nThe group formed up. Christine waved Chris over, Penelope pointed to a gap in the back row. “Just join in. No one’s making you stunt.”\n“If you really don’t want to, that’s okay too,” Charlotte said more quietly, and there was genuine consideration in her voice. “But at least try it once.”\n\nChris stood between “absolutely not” and “maybe after all.” His heart drummed too loudly for the quiet music. The thoughts darted: keep the disguise. Don’t stand out. Or stand out—but as “good.”\n\nHe had to choose.\n<<set $choice_tryout to 0>>\n''How does he choose?''\n<<nobr>><<if $haar == 1>>❯ [[He forces himself to take part in the tryout, even though the very thought of cheerleading makes him uncomfortable.|Er versucht es.][$club += 1;$penelope_opinion += 20]]<<else>>❯ [[He forces himself to take part in the tryout, even though the very thought of cheerleading makes him uncomfortable.|Er versucht es.2][$choice_tryout += 1]]<<endif>><</nobr>>\n❯ [[He refuses, risking seeming even more standoffish and strange in front of the others.|Er will nicht.][$beliebtheit -= 1]]\n<<if $schuhe == 1>>❯ [[He uses his aching ankle as an excuse to get out of the tryout without having to say no directly.|Er schiebt seine Verletzung vor.]]<<endif>>\n\n<details><summary>Click here for a route preview with spoilers</summary><center><img src="pics/club.jpg" style="display:inline; margin:0; border:none;border-radius: 0; box-shadow:none; padding:0; background:none; max-width:none; vertical-align:middle;"> </center></details>

Tuesday in math felt like the slow tightening of a screw. Practice sheets, formula collections, calculators lay everywhere. The test was tomorrow, and Chris’s stomach tightened just at the sight of the problems.\n<<set $ort to "classroom">>\nHe really had studied. At least, he had tried: the same kind of problems, the same calculation steps—and still he kept ending up wrong. Sometimes he had swapped a sign, sometimes forgotten a parenthesis, sometimes mixed up a formula that simply refused to stick in his head. The harder he tried, the more it felt as if math were slipping through his fingers.\n\nMr. Nelson, the older math teacher with the calm, slightly tired voice, walked between the rows and tapped his pen on the desk. “We’ll do two more problems together. Anyone who doesn’t understand them today won’t magically understand them tomorrow during the test.”\n\nChris kept his eyes fixed on his notebook, as if he could hide inside it. Please not me. Please not me.\n\n“[[Zoe|Zoe March]],” Mr. Nelson said then, without hesitation. “Come up front, please. Problem three.”\n\nZoe took her time, pushed her chair back, and shuffled to the front as if the whole thing were beneath her. She took the chalk, stared at the problem, then at the formula sheet—and stopped.\n\nMr. Nelson waited. After a few seconds, Zoe cleared her throat. “Uh… yeah. So…” She made a large, theatrical gesture with the chalk. “This is complete crap.”\n<center>[img[pics/zoe_klasse.jpg]]</center>\nA few people in the room giggled nervously. Chris briefly felt that nasty relief: Okay, I’m not the only one who can’t do it. Immediately afterward, he felt ashamed of the thought.\n\nMr. Nelson remained surprisingly calm. “Zoe, you’ve been absent noticeably often over the past few weeks. This is exactly the material we covered in the lessons you missed.” He pointed at the problem with his pen. “So: start. What’s the first step?”\n\nZoe turned halfway toward the class, as if she wanted an audience. “My first step is: get myself a coffee and pretend this isn’t my problem.”\n\nMore laughter. A few eyes rolled. Mr. Nelson’s gaze grew harder.\n\n“That’s enough,” he said. “Hand over the chalk and go to the office.”\n\nZoe grinned as if he had just made a joke. “Oh no, the oooffice. What’s next, grounding?”\n\n“Now,” Mr. Nelson repeated, clearly. “And take your things.”\n\nZoe tossed the chalk onto the tray with a little click, grabbed her backpack demonstratively slowly, and headed for the door. As she passed, she muttered something vulgar under her breath, just loud enough for the front row to hear.\n\nMr. Nelson didn’t respond to it with a single word. He waited until the door clicked shut, then turned back to the class as if it were a cleanly placed cut.\n\n“Right,” he said, writing the problem large on the board. “Who would like to name the first step?”\n\nChris’s heart pounded. He looked at the numbers, the letters, the parentheses—and felt his fear of tomorrow tighten even more inside him.\n\n[[Continue|Später in der Toilette.]]

Chris turned to Charlotte, who was currently using her fork as a baton, and hooked into the conversation where, as a boy, he never would have dared before.\n\n“You said Paris vibe earlier,” he said, keeping his voice deliberately calm. “Does that mean… chic or snobbish?”\nCharlotte laughed, short and bright. “Charmingly snobbish? No—elegant. You move as if you have choreography in your blood.”\n“If I’m honest, I just stumble prettily.”\n“That’s half the battle.” Charlotte propped her chin on her hand. “Were you in a club in Germany? Sports or theater?”\n“Sports, yes, stage, no. I always thought I was too…” He faltered, searching for the word. “…insecure for the spotlight.”\n“Insecure is underrated,” Charlotte said. “Insecure people look more closely. And they listen—that makes them good on stage. Or at the edge of the stage.” She gestured to the Pom Puffs jacket hanging over the back of her chair. “We need people who listen.”\n\nHe caught himself smiling without thinking. And how easy it suddenly was to talk to her. There was no invisible pedestal on which he otherwise placed girls; they were sitting on the same bench, the same pasta, the same air. As a boy, he had liked to mythologize girls in his head—figures with auras and mysteries. Here was Charlotte: freckles, sparkling eyes, a dry sense of humor. No mystery. A person.\n\n“If I come to tryouts, can you guarantee I won’t fall on my face?”\n“I only guarantee that we’ll fall together and get back up together. Deal?” She leaned forward, and Chris tried to catch a glimpse into her ample cleavage. It was so obvious that even his sister noticed.\n“Deal.”\n\nChristine watched the conversation with a narrowed, hard-to-read look. Every time Charlotte laughed, Christine’s eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly. When the lunch bell finally drove them apart, Charlotte touched two fingers to her forehead in a kind of salute. “I’ll keep an eye out for you, Chris.”\n“I’ll keep an eye out for you.”\n\nIn the hallway, Christine immediately grabbed his elbow and pulled him out of the stream of students. “What was that?” Her voice was muted, but sharp.\n“What?”\n“That flirting. You were grinning like—” She broke off, searched, found: “Like a boy on the playground.”\n“I… like her. Charlotte is nice. And she seems to like me too.” He raised his hands helplessly. “Is that so bad?”\n\nChristine stared at him as if he had just suggested jumping off the school roof. “How is that supposed to work, Chris? Think two steps ahead. What if she really likes you? What if you two— I don’t know—meet up, talk, get closer? And then? You’re not—” She lowered her voice further. “—you’re not a real girl. But she believes that.”\n“I…” He ran a hand over his forehead. “I didn’t think about that earlier.”\n\n“That’s exactly the problem.” Christine’s shoulder sank a little. The anger in her expression slid into worry. “Mom wants you to get through this school as a girl. No drama, no exposure. If Charlotte…” She left the sentence open. “It’s not fair to draw her in if you’re not—”\n“I didn’t draw anyone in!” It came out sharper than he wanted. He exhaled. “I talked to her. For the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like a freak in women’s clothes. It was… normal. And nice.”\n\nChristine looked away, then back again. “I know. And that’s exactly why it’s dangerous.” She loosened her grip on his arm. “Just promise me you’ll think about it. Really think. Not just about whether it feels good. But about what comes after.”\n\n“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll think about it.”\n\nShe nodded. “Good. And when you talk to Charlotte—stick to safe topics. Tryouts, theater, homework. No dates, no…” She waved her hand vaguely. “You know.”\n\nHe nodded, though he wasn’t sure he knew where “safe” ended. As he walked down the hallway alone again, two images slid into his head like slides in a projector: Charlotte, naked and stretching on his bed. His mother spanking his backside.\n\n[[Continue|Ausgabe der PE-Uniform]]

On Friday, Chris dragged that invisible motel room through the school hallways like a stone in his stomach. He had slept badly, constantly seeing the chat with Dylan before his eyes, and every time the same question: How could he get out of this again without ruining everything? He couldn’t go to Christine. Not now. Not after everything. He didn’t want to burden her with his own “boy problems” on top of everything else.\n<<set $wochentag = 5>><<set $ort to "school">>\nDuring lunch break, he caught [[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] at the edge of the cafeteria. He kept it vague, as if he were talking about “Homecoming plans” without saying the word motel at all. “What do people… normally do after the dance?” he asked, trying to sound casual.\n\nCharlotte raised an eyebrow, immediately understanding which way the wind was blowing, and twisted her mouth into a grinning “oh my God.” “You mean: what do the boys want after the dance,” she said dryly. Then she raised both hands. “My advice? Switch to my team. No stupid boys, no stupid expectations.”\n\nChris gave one short laugh along with her, but it felt like swallowing. The joke hit twice: first, because it didn’t solve his fear. Second, because inside he stubbornly told himself that he actually liked girls. He was “on her team”—at least in his head. The thing with Dylan means nothing, he insisted to himself, and at the same time noticed how unconvincing it sounded.\n\nHe left Charlotte behind and went looking for Ruby. [[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]] was sitting there as she often did with her notes, pen between her fingers, her gaze clear. Chris sat down, hesitated briefly, and then asked quietly, almost shamefully: “If someone… expects something after the dance. And you don’t want it. What do you do?”\n\nRuby put the pen down and looked straight at him. “You don’t let yourself get pressured,” she said without detours. No platitudes, no jokes.\n\nChris nodded, but his face showed that he needed more than one sentence.\n\nRuby exhaled once and continued, calmer: “I was fourteen when I let an older guy pressure me into something I wasn’t ready for.” She said it without details, but the pain was in the way she pronounced the word pressure. “It hurt, and not just physically. And afterward, in front of his friends, he acted as if I had never existed. Since then… I keep my distance. Not because all boys are like that. But because I learned that no has to mean no. And that you don’t have to be grateful just because someone is popular.”\n\nChris swallowed. He felt a cold clarity that did him good—and yet the panic remained: And if Dylan is disappointed? And if he then…\n\n“Tell him beforehand,” Ruby said, as if reading his thoughts. “Not in the motel. Not in the car. Not in the dark. Beforehand. Clearly. So there are no excuses.”\n\nChris nodded again. He was grateful to Ruby, but when he stood up, he still didn’t know how to solve it in practical terms. He had already accidentally “encouraged” Dylan. And Saturday was close.\n\nSo he went to Zoe.\n\n[[Continue|Zoes Rat.]]

“Imagine a naked man,” she said. “Not just any man. One who looked at you earlier as if he knew exactly what he wanted.” She paused, just long enough for Chris’s head to fill in the image itself: the dark-haired man at the pool table, the muscular arms, that gaze that didn’t look away.\n\nChris swallowed. Under the scarf, his face grew hot. He wanted to push the image away, but it stayed.\n\nZoe noticed immediately when Chris’s penis got hard. “Ah,” she murmured, satisfied, and he could almost hear her smile.\n\n“I…” Chris’s voice sounded thin. He hated it.\n\nZoe wasn’t deterred. She crouched behind him so that she had his ass right in front of her and began licking his asshole, which made Chris moan. “You like that, don’t you?” she grinned at him.\n\nSuddenly she rubbed something cold and slippery onto his asshole. “Don’t worry, that’s just lube, you’ll get used to it.” While she said it, she couldn’t stop giggling.\n\nShe kept talking about the dark-haired man, sometimes teasing, sometimes almost gentle, as if pushing him in a direction she had already chosen long ago. She described the man anatomically correctly, in all the details that lodged themselves in Chris’s head.\n\n“Those broad shoulders, those strong hands, that powerful neck, and his big cock—that’s got something to it that makes you really nervous.”\n\nChris felt his thoughts going along against his will. It wasn’t that he suddenly thought “yes”—more that the “no” wasn’t as loud as usual anymore. And that was exactly the problem.\n\nWhile she talked, she began fingering him in the ass with her index finger. It was a very strange and alien feeling, but it also made Chris even hornier.\n\nWhen she added her middle finger, Chris couldn’t suppress a loud “Ohh.”\n\n“You really do seem to like that,” she giggled.\n\nShe began fucking him hard with her fingers.\n\n“Aaaahh,” escaped Chris when Zoe had just found his prostate and pressed on it. After a few minutes, his moaning grew louder and more intense. He was close to his climax.\n\nWithout Zoe even touching his penis, Chris felt an orgasm rising inside him more powerfully than ever before, felt the contractions that sent his cum shooting out of him in a high arc. The twitching of his body wouldn’t stop; even Zoe was surprised by the amount of cum still shooting from his glans.\n\n“Hahaha,” she laughed. “See? You don’t like girls, you like boys.” Zoe’s voice was close to him, triumphant.\n\nChris tore the scarf from his face as if he needed air. He blinked into the light and looked at Zoe—and in her gaze was that I knew it. It made him angry because it felt so final, as if she had reduced him to the diagnosis “gay.”\n\nLater, they sat next to each other on the sofa, a little distance between them, as if both had realized they had just reached an edge. Chris held the blanket half pulled over his legs, stared at his hands, and felt small with shame. With Zoe, he hadn’t been able to—and with her words, with the images she had put into his head, he had come without anyone even touching his penis. That alone was already too much.\n\nZoe leaned back, satisfied as if after winning a game. “I’ve got my confirmation,” she said.\n\nChris shook his head, immediately, reflexively. “No. That—that’s not true. I was just…” He searched for a word that could explain everything without explaining everything. “I’m confused. Because of the hormones. Because of everything.”\n\n“Mhm,” Zoe went, and in that one sound was an entire eye-roll. “You can tell yourself that as often as you want.”\n\nChris’s gaze stayed on the carpet. He didn’t want to accept it. He didn’t want Zoe to be right. And yet he felt something inside him had shifted—not into a clear truth, more into a question that could no longer be pushed away.\n<<set $zoe_opinion to 59>>\n[[Continue|Mittwoch, Schummeln für den Mathetest.][$chris_opinion += 10]]

"What? Um... neither," Chris whispered. "I just happened to be passing by."\n\n"Yeah, but you still seem to have gotten a nice hard-on from peeping. Are you sure you didn't imagine yourself in your mom's place, getting fucked by DeShawn's big, beautiful cock? Come on, you can tell me."\n\nChris wanted to object, but just then, things in the bedroom got really loud.\n\nDeShawn grunted a few times and, bellowing like a bull, began pumping a heavy load of cum into Chris's mother's pussy.\n\nSusan let out a stifled gasp and moaned in ecstasy. She felt jet after jet shoot deep inside her; after four or five thrusts, the cum overflowed from her pussy and ran down her thighs.\n\nChris and Latoya were both startled as they watched DeShawn flood Chris's mother's pussy. When DeShawn finally withdrew his thick cock, Susan's pussy hung wide open, and cum dripped onto the mattress.\n\nLatoya then cast a knowing glance at Chris's crotch. "Maybe you should go back to your room and take care of that. Looks uncomfortable."\n\nThen she quickly turned around and walked down the hallway, leaving Chris behind.\n\n[[Continue|Später beim Frühstück.]]\n\n

Chris stared at Zoe, then back at the lollipop, then at the empty pot. His stomach announced itself once more, demonstratively. “Okay,” he finally said, more sighing than convincing. “I… I’m hungry. And we’re desperate.” A hint of defiance pushed its way into the sentence. Or was there still that little thrill of adventure – that “What’s the worst that could happen?” that felt like freedom as long as you didn’t look too closely?\n\nZoe grinned as if she had been waiting for exactly that. “Good girl.” She grabbed her phone, dropped onto the mattress, and was already typing as she spoke. “We’ll do this fast. Two profiles. Two dates. Two plates. And then we’re gone again.”\n\n“Two… profiles?” Chris’s voice cracked. “You really mean—”\n\n“Yes.” Zoe took a selfie, checked the light briefly, brushed a strand of hair out of her face, and took another. Then she suddenly pointed the phone at Chris. Click.\n\n“Hey!” Chris instinctively threw up his hand. “I didn’t even—”\n\n“Perfect,” Zoe said with complete calm. “You look like a real, innocent girl who wants to be rescued. That works.”\n\n“That’s a terrible photo,” Chris protested, automatically touching his hair as if he could undo the picture.\n\nZoe leaned back, moved the lollipop aside for a moment, and looked him over. “Are you mad because you didn’t get to spend fifteen minutes fixing yourself up in front of the mirror first?” She grinned sharply. “Do you want some rouge before we go begging?”\n\nChris threw a pillow at her head. Zoe caught it with one hand and laughed.\n\nThen she wrote. And wrote. Chris watched her as she moved through chats at thumb-speed, adding emojis, switching between cheeky and sweet like someone who saw rules only as suggestions. After ten minutes, her phone was vibrating almost constantly.\n\n“Okay,” Zoe said, holding the display out to him. “Two. Tonight. Restaurant around the corner. Walking distance. Public. Safe enough.” She snapped the phone shut as if that had signed a contract.\n\nChris felt his heartbeat. “That was… fast.”\n\n“Of course it was fast,” Zoe said. “Guys aren’t complicated.”\n\n[[Continue|Im Restaurant.]]

After the dance, Chris and Dylan sat in the car, and although the streets grew emptier and the string lights of the gym were long behind them, the evening still vibrated through Chris’ body. The crown, the music, the kiss—it was all still there, like a warm echo. And yet beneath that warmth lay a cold, nervous pull that grew stronger the closer they came to the motel.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nChris had sent Zoe the place and time. Several times, he had opened the message, as if he could undo it if he only stared at it long enough. His fingers had trembled when he pushed the phone back into the clutch.\n\nDylan talked during the drive, easy, euphoric, as if the world had finally become light. “That was the best Homecoming ever,” he said at one point, and his hand briefly found Chris’ fingers on the center console, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Chris smiled back, but the smile felt as if it were caught on an edge.\n\nWhen they parked at the motel, the neon over the entrance flickered like a nervous wink. Dylan got out, walked around the car, and opened Chris’ door as if it were part of a ritual. Chris stepped out, held the clutch tightly, and his dress rustled softly in the wind. His heart was pounding so loudly that he thought Dylan had to hear it.\n\nThe room smelled of detergent and something sweetish from an air freshener. Cheap curtains, a floor lamp, a bed with a coverlet that looked too neatly arranged to be comforting. Dylan tossed the key onto the small table, dropped onto the bed, and laughed, half breathless with happiness.\n\n“Come here,” he said softly.\n\nChris sat down beside him, stiff at first, then softer when Dylan kissed him. The kiss was warm, more familiar than it should have been, and Chris felt Dylan’s muscles beneath his shirt, the steady rhythm of his breathing. For a few seconds, his thoughts really did go quiet—as if the evening had granted him a pause.\n\n“I’m... a little shy,” Chris managed at some point, and turned off the light. “I... this is my first time.” He hated how thin his voice sounded, but Dylan only smiled.\n\n“Hey,” Dylan said calmly. “No pressure. We’ll do this however you feel comfortable.”\n\nThe words should have reassured Chris. Instead, he felt the stab of guilt even more sharply.\n\nThey kept kissing, and Chris’ hands found the hem of Dylan’s shirt. He pulled it off him—awkwardly, but determinedly, as if this were a scene he had rehearsed a hundred times in his head. Dylan laughed softly, not mockingly, but happily, and pulled Chris closer.\n\nChris’ mind flickered back on. Zoe is waiting. What are you doing here? His heart raced.\n\n“I... I need to step out for a second,” Chris said, putting on an apologetic smile. “Get ice. For... well.” He gestured vaguely, as if that were a normal, harmless plan.\n\nDylan nodded, still relaxed. “Sure. I’ll wait.” He sank back, hands behind his head, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.\n\nChris stood up, his legs feeling wobbly, as if the floor had stored too much music. He reached for the clutch, slipped out the door, and pulled it quietly shut behind him.\n\nThe hallway was colder than the room. Neon light, patterned carpet that did nothing to soothe him. And there Zoe already stood, as if she had detached herself from the shadows: a little bucket of ice cubes in her hand, a grin that was far too certain.\n\n“Finally,” she murmured. “You’re taking forever.”\n\nChris’ stomach dropped. In that second, under the harsh hallway light, the plan no longer seemed like an “escape,” but like something ugly he had built himself. He looked at the door behind him—and imagined Dylan inside, waiting, trusting.\n\n[[Continue|Er zieht den Plan durch.]]

Just before six, students and parents streamed into the small stadium; the stands shimmered in red and silver. At the edge of the track, the cheerleaders gathered for check-in: name, nod, wristband. Chris smoothed down his skirt, tucked his phone into the team bag, and lined up for warm-ups—ankle circles, hamstring stretches, two easy laps around the track. Beside them, the band was already striking up the first measure, and the mascot was practicing an exaggerated moonwalk.\n<<set $ort to "stadium">>\n“[[Christine|Christine Braun]] still isn’t here,” Mr. Moore said, list in hand. His gaze searched the line, then turned to Chris. “Please go find her.”\n\n“Okay.” Chris nodded, broke away from the group, and jogged down the corridor where the sounds of the stands grew muffled. Behind the door to the locker room area hung that peculiar mix of hairspray, disinfectant, and rubber. Before he turned the corner toward the girls’ side, he heard unmistakable sounds—as if someone were sucking someone’s cock.\n\n“Shit! You’re so good at that!” Chris could hear [[Myles|Myles Pierce]] moan.\n\nChris stopped because his feet did, not because his head decided to. Carefully, he leaned around the doorframe.\n\nChristine was kneeling on the floor in front of Myles, his pants pulled down, and it looked as if Christine was sucking his cock.\n\n“Get up, I still want to fuck you,” Myles demanded.\n\nChristine stood up, slipped off her panties, lay down on the bench, and willingly spread her legs.\n\nChris’s heart pounded in his throat, and his mouth fell open in shock when Myles turned and he caught sight of his penis. His manhood was frighteningly large, decorated with thick veins that pulsed with lust.\n\n“Hurry up, Myles! The game’s about to start,” Christine whispered nervously.\n\nChris felt heat creeping up the back of his neck. He knew he should leave—that this was not his image, not his moment. And yet he stood there, caught between shame and a strange helplessness that held him in place. It was uncomfortable watching them; at the same time, there was that magnetic inability to look away, like a film you don’t want to see, but whose next scene you still find yourself anticipating.\n\nBehind him, the band began drumming out a fanfare, the stadium breathed in. In front of him, Myles positioned himself over his younger sister to fuck her.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[Keep watching.|Weiter beobachten.][$temp += 1]]\n❯ [[Leave.|Weggehen.]]

Early in the morning, when the house was still half asleep and only the coffee machine in the kitchen was making its first gurgle, Chris was already standing in the hallway with his toiletry bag, staring at the closed bathroom door.\n<<set $wochentag = 4>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "at home">>\nBehind the door, he heard: water. Hair dryer. A brief “Damn” and the frantic clack of a flat iron being set down on the counter. Then the hair dryer again. Christine.\n\nChris knocked once, carefully. “Chrissie? I need to use the bathroom.”\n\n“I’ll be done in a second, <<if $chrisorsis == 1>>Sis<<else>>Chris<<endif>>!” came the immediate reply, too quickly to be true.\n\nChris looked at the clock. He had deliberately given himself extra time because he didn’t want to be late today. Even so, he felt the minutes suddenly start moving faster. He knocked again. “How much longer? I have to… get ready.”\n\n“Five minutes!” Christine called. At the same moment, he heard the hiss of hairspray.\n\nChris raised his eyebrows. Five minutes is a lie, he thought. He leaned against the wall, rocking on his tiptoes and making that little motion with his foot that you really only made when you urgently had to go or were urgently nervous. Both applied.\n\n“Chrissie, I need to do my…” He faltered. He didn’t want to say “hair.” He didn’t want to say “makeup” either. What he actually wanted to say was: I need to get in there, or I’m going to look like a disaster. “…brush my teeth,” he finished at last.\n\n“Then brush them in the kitchen!” came the reply. Another hiss.\n\nChris stared at the door as if it were personally insulting him. “I’m not brushing my teeth in the kitchen.”\n\n“Why not? It’s just toothpaste.”\n\n“Because it’s gross!” He heard how high his own voice had gotten and hated it. Before, he wouldn’t have argued like this. Before, he would have quickly gotten himself ready in the kitchen. But now… now there were things that had to happen in the bathroom. Things he needed in order to be someone in the mirror who didn’t stand out.\n\nThe door suddenly opened a crack. Christine stuck her head out. She was wearing only her underwear. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, annoyed.\n\nChris lifted the toiletry bag like a piece of evidence. “I need the sink. And the mirror. And… time.”\n\nChristine sighed so loudly it was almost funny. “I don’t have time either. And my hair looks like a crime.”\n\n“Your hair always looks good.”\n\n“Liar.” Christine pulled the door shut again, but not all the way. “Okay, deal. You can come in. But don’t touch my stuff, and if you knock over my eyeliner, I swear—”\n\n“I won’t knock anything over,” Chris said hastily and slipped through the gap. Steam hit him in the face. The counter was full: hairbrush, powder, lip gloss, two open hair clips, half a scrunchie shaped like a donut. Christine stood in front of the mirror as if before an altar, holding her long hair up with a round brush.\n\nChris squeezed past her to the sink. He tried not to touch her butt, not to bump into her body. He squeezed toothpaste onto the brush—far too hastily—and began brushing while at the same time correcting the worst strand of his own hair in the mirror.\n\n[[Continue|Pep Rally.][$beliebtheit += 2]]

A little later, they met in front of the restaurant, a small Italian place with warm light in the windows and a sign that pretended it had been there for decades. Zoe had made herself look pretty: short skirt, a top that looked accidental but wasn’t, glossy lips, alert eyes. Chris held back more: clean, neat, a little too well-behaved – as if he wanted to get through the whole thing as neutrally as possible.\n\nZoe waved when her date showed up, and Chris immediately understood why she was grinning so smugly.\n\nThe guy was handsome in that casual way: dark hair that was deliberately accidental, light stubble, a well-fitting coat, and that confident smile that came too early to be real but worked anyway. He smelled like expensive deodorant. “You must be Zoe,” he said, giving her a brief, assured kiss on the cheek, as if that were part of the standard routine.\n\nChris’s date arrived a few seconds later – and was the exact opposite. A little chubby, with a weird, too-thin beard that looked as if it had decided to grow in all the wrong places. His shirt stretched over his belly, and he wore a chain that clinked lightly when he walked. “Heyyy,” he said, too loudly, and his gaze stuck to Chris as if he had just won a prize. “You’re even cuter than in the photo.”\n\nChris felt his cheeks grow hot. Great. He forced a smile. “Hi.”\n\nThey went inside. The waiter led them to a table near the edge, and as agreed, Zoe and her date sat so they were close together, while Chris ended up a few tables away with his date – close enough to keep an eye on Zoe, but far enough for it to be two separate evenings.\n\nZoe was laughing after two minutes. Her date was telling her something, gesturing charmingly, and Zoe played along as if she had been made for it. She leaned forward, tapped him lightly on the arm, shook her head theatrically, and grinned as if she had the whole restaurant in her pocket.\n\nFor Chris, it was… different.\n\nHis date asked questions that felt like an interrogation, only with more saliva. “So, did you move here or…? Have you ever had a boyfriend? You seem so… shy. I’m really into shy.” He laughed at his own sentence and took too long a drink from his water glass.\n\nChris nodded, answered briefly, tried to steer the conversation toward neutral topics. “School,” he said, “yeah,” “not long,” “I live nearby.” His date only half listened and kept looking at Chris’s chest as if he wanted to undress him with his eyes.\n\nWhen the food came, Chris felt genuine relief. Pasta, hot, far too delicious for the situation. He ate carefully but hungrily, trying to escape the awkward looks across the table by focusing on his fork.\n\n“Do you always eat that cute?” his date suddenly asked. “I mean, you’re really…” He made a vague hand motion over Chris’s upper body. “You know. Totally my type.”\n\nChris almost choked on the pasta. “Um… thanks,” he managed, quickly taking a sip of water.\n\nA few tables away, Zoe threw her head back laughing. Her date grinned as if he had succeeded, and for a moment Zoe looked genuinely carefree. Chris felt envy and gratitude at the same time: envy because it looked easy for her. Gratitude because at least he had something in his stomach.\n\nThe date dragged on. The guy across from him talked about fitness plans he never followed through on and “investments” that sounded suspiciously like a scam. Once, he leaned too far forward and touched Chris’s hand. Chris pulled back reflexively, so slightly that hopefully it didn’t show. He smiled, nodded, kept eating.\n\nEmbarrassing. Uncomfortable. But free.\n\nAs he took the last bite, Chris briefly thought: Maybe this really is my new reality.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Restaurant.]]

Chris quietly closed the front door, slipped straight into his room, and took off the lavender culottes as if they were a failed invisibility cloak. He picked a summer dress: light, airy, a floral pattern that wouldn’t shout in the evening air. Into it, zipper up, a brief look in the mirror. He breathed out, smoothed the fabric, and went into the living room.\n<<set $ort to "home">>\n“Ah, there you are.” [[his mother|Susan Braun]] was sitting on the sofa, a cup in her hand. Beside her was a woman Chris only remembered from a Christmas postcard: Ava—a few years older than Susan. She was a richly shaped woman with a somewhat broad ass and, besides that, the biggest, fullest breasts Chris had ever seen. They were at least double D and sagged at least as much as the corners of her mouth, which rarely invited a smile.\n\nOn her arm was a baby sucking on a pacifier; on the carpet crouched a boy of maybe eleven or twelve, absorbed in a few building blocks and a plastic car.\n\n“Chris, this is [[Ava|Ava Ferguson]],” Susan said. “Ava, my friend.”\n\n“Hello, Ava,” Chris said politely.\n\nThe woman raised an eyebrow. “For you, it’s Mrs. Ferguson, Chris.” Her tone wasn’t loud, but sharp enough to cut the air.\n\n“Sorry… Mrs. Ferguson.” Chris felt the blush rise into his face.\n\nAva let her gaze slide over him, slowly, appraisingly. “So this is your son,” she said to Susan, and mockery dripped from the word “son.” Chris’s stomach dropped. He felt the redness creep from his neck upward. Apparently his mother had told her what was going on at home. It hit him how casually Ava handled it.\n\n“Leo!” she called, and the boy lifted his head. “Come here.” He trudged over to her, standing slightly behind her knee as if seeking cover. Ava indicated Chris with her chin. “See that? That’s Chris, Chris is a boy. If you’re not well-behaved, I’ll put you in a dress too and raise you as a girl.”\n\nThe boy stared. First at the dress, then into Chris’s face, then back at the dress. Bewilderment, shock, uncertainty passed through his eyes like clouds. Chris wanted to sink into the floor.\n\nThe baby cooed, waved its arms, and Ava turned sugary toward Susan: “And, sweetie: what about your yoga god? DeShawn, right? Warmed up again…?” She drew out the words, wavering between curiosity and gossip.\n\nSusan pretended she had to think about it, but the small, satisfied glow in her eyes betrayed her. “Oh, Ava… we’ll see.” A veiled infatuation that hung in the room like perfume.\n\n“Mhm, thought so,” Ava snapped, tapping her fingernail against her cup. “Men are project work. Some are worth it. Some aren’t.” She smiled kindly at Susan, as if she had just offered a toast.\n\nChris sat on the edge of the sofa, hands locked together, and listened. The conversation drifted into everyday phrases. Chris sat beside them, kept his back straight, heard names and places that meant nothing, and increasingly felt like a prop deliberately left in plain view. Every other remark from Ava sliced past him, some hit, some glanced off, but all of them left a burn behind. He didn’t understand how someone could be even harsher than his mother—and smile so pleasantly while doing it.\n\nAfter a while, the boy, Leo, cautiously edged closer. He crouched at the edge of the carpet and looked up at Chris. “Are you… really a boy?” The question was quiet, neither mocking nor curious, more tentative.\n\nChris swallowed and nodded, ashamed. “Yes.” He forced himself to hold his gaze.\n\n“Oh.” Leo’s forehead creased. He glanced briefly at his mother, then back at Chris. “Does it… hurt?” He gestured vaguely at the dress.\n\n“Come on, Leo,” Ava called, honey-sweet again, “leave Chris alone.” Then, to Susan, in a conversational tone: “So, if DeShawn is good for you—go for it. But keep him on a short leash, yeah?”\n\nSusan laughed, lightly slapping her knee with the flat of her hand. “You know me.”\n\n[[Continue|Das Baby hat Hunger.]]

<div class="psychedelic-text">Chris’s first impulse was an inner stumble—a warning light flickering: Wrong. A boy. His upbringing, his self-image, his constant “I’m a boy” pushed a protest forward, as weak as a hand against a glass door. <<set $LucasMemory[3] to 1>>\nLucas’s lips touched his before the protest found words. Chris was completely caught off guard and had no idea what was happening to him. Flashes of thought shot through his head, contradictory feelings collided and exploded, Chris couldn’t grasp what was actually happening here and didn’t know how to react to this attack. He felt Lucas’s soft lips... those magical soft lips, his insistent tongue trying to push into his mouth... demanding now, no longer shyly nudging. Chris’s resistance evaporated and he gave in to his urging, opened his mouth, and melted into him.\n\nThe tips of their tongues touched, entwined, and pushed deeper and deeper. The impetuous, clumsy beginning of unrestrained making out quickly turned into an intense French kiss that betrayed their complete lack of experience. Chris let his arms sink down helplessly while Lucas now held his face in his hands. <<if $piercing == 2>>The soft click of Chris’s tongue piercing made Lucas smile involuntarily. <<endif>>\n\nTime seemed to stop moving. They were in another universe... far away from all the crap happening at the party. There was only this kiss... and only the two of them... united…\n\nLovingly, he held Chris’s face and then said, “I... I love you, Chris... I... I’ve fallen in love with you.”\n\nThat sentence hurled Chris back out of the cocoon of eternity. “Love? Between two boys?” Chris was completely torn inside. Everything felt so good, and yet he was incredibly afraid of letting himself get involved with him.\n\nChris looked at him, wanted to say something, but his voice failed him. Then Lucas kissed him again... and again... until Chris took his head between his hands and looked at him pleadingly. “Lucas... please don’t... No—”\n\nBefore Chris could properly say no, Lucas sealed his mouth again with his lips and pushed him into a wild, deep French kiss. Lucas simply couldn’t stop anymore. Passion surged wildly inside the boy, and as if in a trance, his instincts took over.\n\nChris tried to escape his kiss, but at the same time joined in the play of tongues. Lucas’s hands moved down Chris’s back and then slid over his stomach and afterward over Chris’s legs.\n\nLucas gently stroked his thighs, tenderly caressing the inside. Chris’s body reacted all on its own. He opened his legs slightly, giving Lucas easier access. The boy was briefly surprised by this reaction. Most girls tended to close their thighs rather than willingly open them. Only the dirtiest ones gave themselves over to their desire so willingly.\n\nChris felt the unfamiliar hand on his leg, felt the touch of those gentle fingers. He knew whose hand was touching him, but he didn’t fend it off. Not even when his hand finally wandered to his breasts.\n\n“Lucas... please... I want to... I’m... I don’t want to... please...”\n\nBut Lucas had no intention of stopping. He didn’t accept Chris’s resistance and forced him back into a deep French kiss, which Chris only half-heartedly pulled away from.\n\nIt felt strange that it was another boy’s hand touching him, but at the same time it was arousing because Chris’s breasts were very sensitive. On the one hand, Chris felt uncomfortable because he knew it wasn’t proper to be touched so intimately by a boy. Especially not so publicly at a party. On the other hand, he enjoyed every kiss, every touch.</div>\n<<set $lucas_opinion to 75>>\n[[Continue|Übelkeit.]]

Chris decided to be friendly—but professional. No flirting, no suggestive questions, no soft touches. He wanted to work well, not “come across well.” He took orders cleanly, repeated them, brought water without being asked, cleared plates before mountains of napkins could pile up. After ten minutes, his movements became smoother; the tray wobbled less, his voice sounded firmer.\n\nThe male guests in particular seemed thrilled by the “new pretty waitress.” Chris got looks that were not accidental, and remarks dressed up as compliments. “Hey, sweetie, bring me another one?” “Baby, you hardly ever smile—come on, just for me.” “What’s your real name, anyway?” He felt his face grow warm, but he kept his shoulders straight and answered the way he had been taught: brief, polite, without adding fuel to the fire.\n\n“Of course, I’ll bring you another coffee.”\n“Gladly. Would you like milk or sugar?”\n“I’ll be right back.”\n\nThe less he reacted, the more it felt as if some men misunderstood it as an invitation—as if restraint were a game. One whistled softly as he walked by. Another lifted his phone in a way that made Chris wonder whether he was taking a picture. Chris focused on the work, on the order of the tables, on the rhythm: refill the pot, top up the cup, quick glance at the pad, back to the kitchen. Don’t think, don’t feel.\n\nAt table seven sat three middle-aged men, broad-shouldered, loud, with their elbows on the tabletop. Chris approached with the coffee pot. “More coffee?”\n\n“Sure thing, sweetie,” one of them said with a grin. Chris gave a curt nod, lifted the pot, and tilted it over the table. While Chris was pouring the coffee, one guest reached for his butt with a quick, hidden movement. Chris flinched in shock.\n\nThe pot slipped from his hand.\n\nIt happened in slow motion and too fast at the same time: a dull thud, a bright, slicing sound, then black liquid splashing across the tiles. The pot shattered, shards glittering under the neon light. For a moment, there was silence—then came an “Oooh” and crooked laughter from the table.\n\nChris stood frozen, hands empty, throat tight. “Sorry,” he managed, his voice small. His heart was pounding so loudly he could hear it in his ears.\n\nRick turned around from the counter. His gaze was a knife. “What was that?”\n\n“Accident,” Chris said quickly. “I’ll clean it up.”\n\nHe got rags, a bucket, a dustpan. He knelt down, and immediately felt the skirt—how short it was, how much every movement exposed him. He bent forward, wiped the coffee together in dark streaks, carefully collected shards. The men stared, shamelessly, at his ass. Chris’s small ass wiggled back and forth with every wipe. The men almost got the impression that this “girl” was doing it on purpose, to give them something to look at.\n\nChris felt their gazes like fingers on his buttocks and thighs, and the shame became hot and sticky like the coffee on the floor.\n\nHe kept his head down, focused on the grout lines between the tiles, on the edge of the dustpan, on the sound of the rag. Don’t think about the voices, don’t think about the eyes. Just clean up. Just finish.\n\nWhen he picked up the last splinter, his cheeks were still red. And he knew that this job would demand more of him than quick walking and refilling coffee.\n\n[[Continue|Seine Schicht ist vorbei.2]]

The defense attorney lowered her voice. “Did you hate your son?”\n\nSusan looked hurt. “No. Never.”\n\n“Did you want to harm him?”\n\n“No.”\n\n“Then why the clothing, the school, the medication?”\n\nSusan swallowed. For the first time, a crack appeared in her facade.\n\n“Because no one else understood what he needed.”\n\nChris stared at her.\n\nThere it was.\n\nNot remorse. Not an apology.\n\nCertainty.\n\nSusan folded her hands in her lap.\n\n“Chris needed someone strong enough to make decisions for him.”\n\nMs. Parker whispered, “You don’t have to react.”\n\nBut Chris could not help it. He listened.\n\nThe defense attorney quickly changed the subject.\n\n“Did you hit Chris?”\n\nSusan looked down at her hands.\n\n“I disciplined him.”\n\n“Did you hit him?”\n\n“I lost control. A few times.”\n\nA few times.\n\nChris felt something inside him go cold.\n\nSusan lifted her head. Her eyes grew moist, but her voice remained steady.\n\n“You have to understand, he provoked me. He refused to go to school. He tried to destroy everything I had built for him.”\n\nThe defense attorney placed a hand on the table.\n\n“Mrs. Braun, if you could say something to your son today, what would it be?”\n\nSusan now turned fully toward Chris.\n\nThis time, he could not look away.\n\nHer face was familiar. Too familiar. The same eyes, the same voice, the same way of making pain look as if it belonged to her.\n\n“Chris,” she said. “I know you believe I hurt you.”\n\nBelieve.\n\nThe word burned.\n\n“But one day you will understand that I tried to save you. Maybe I was strict. Maybe I made mistakes. But I was your mother. I am your mother.”\n\nThe courtroom was completely silent.\n\nChris felt shame rising inside him, hot and old. Then something else emerged beneath it.\n\nSomething smaller. Harder.\n\nSusan had not said she was sorry.\n\nShe had only said that she still had a claim on him.\n\n[[Continue|Verteidigung.]]

When the volleyball nets were raised later in PE and two captains stepped forward, Chris immediately felt that old knot in his stomach. Team selection. The classic. He heard names being called, saw the rows thinning out, and inside him flickered the memory of how, as a boy, he had often stood there until the very end—as if he were the leftover someone took out of necessity. This time it happened differently. One captain pointed to him early. “Chris.” Just like that. As if it were obvious. Chris blinked, stepped forward, and felt something inside him straighten up: a small, outrageous piece of pride. Okay… that’s kind of cool.\n<<set $ort to "gym">>\nLater, once the game started, Chris realized he and Charlotte worked surprisingly well together. She called quick, clear cues—“Mine!” “Short!”—and laughed when he saved a ball that should’ve been gone. “Nice, Chris!” she said, and they high-fived on the run like it was the most natural thing in the world. For a moment, PE didn’t feel like a test—it felt like a team.\n\nThe locker room after PE was loud and cramped, full of clattering locker doors, clouds of deodorant, and hurried voices. Chris stood at his locker, his back turned to the others as much as possible, and changed with practiced haste.\n\n[[Zoe|Zoe March]] was changing beside him. Chris was actually completely focused on not doing anything wrong. And still… he couldn’t resist. A brief, instinctive glance to the side—not consciously planned, more like a reflex from an old life. A boy reflex. Curiosity that didn’t announce itself beforehand.\n\nShe was just pulling off her shirt, which fell to the floor. A bright yellow bra covered her breasts and drew Chris’s gaze like a warning sign. Because she was young, her little tits didn’t sag at all, and rosy nipples pressed through the thin fabric. The shorts fell too now, revealing an equally bright yellow thong. Her well-shaped ass cheeks were tight and firm and would have given almost any non-gay boy a serious hard-on. A hot wave shot into Chris’s crotch.\n\nZoe noticed immediately. Her head turned only slightly, but her eyes hit his crotch like a little hook. She said nothing. She didn’t even really smile. She just looked at him—and in that look, the math happened. One and one. A tiny moment in which Chris felt the floor beneath him give way a fraction.\n\nHis heart stumbled. Chris changed faster, far too fast. Fabric rustled, his fingers suddenly too clumsy, too frantic. He closed the locker, grabbed his bag, and left the locker room as if he were in a hurry.\n\nFootsteps came behind him.\n\n“Hey,” Zoe said, quietly enough not to draw attention, but close enough that it was only for him.\n\nChris kept walking. Zoe followed. They stayed along the edges of the hallways, by doors that were rarely used, until they ended up in a corner where the sounds were muffled—somewhere between storage room and exit, where no one stayed voluntarily.\n\nChris turned to her. He tried to keep his face neutral, but his cheeks were hot, and his breathing was too shallow.\n\nZoe crossed her arms, looking at him as if sorting him anew. No outrage, no shock. Just curiosity, switching on like a lamp. “So,” she said slowly, “what was that just now?”\n\nChris swallowed. His mouth was dry. He wanted to lie, anything, but he knew Zoe had seen through him.\n\nShe took two steps closer, slowly, as if not wanting to startle a shy animal. “Say it yourself. Then I don’t have to say it.”\n\nChris swallowed. His gaze jumped to the floor, then back. There was no way out that wouldn’t make it worse. “I…” His voice was brittle. “I’m a boy.” The word fell heavily, but it was also a relief to finally stop fighting it.\n\nZoe raised an eyebrow, as if she had answered a quiz question correctly. “I knew it.”\n\nChris’s voice was brittle with panic. “Please… don’t tell anyone. Please. I’m not doing this voluntarily. My mother is forcing me. If this gets out, everything is over.”\n\nZoe looked at him, not shocked, not outraged—more curious. Then she tilted her head as if deciding whether to eat a piece of candy now or later. “I’ve got you a little bit in my hands now, don’t I?”\n\nChris’s heart hammered. “I… I’ll do anything,” he said at once, far too quickly. “Anything you want. Please.”\n\nZoe laughed softly, satisfied, and the laugh wasn’t really malicious—more like a child who had just found a new toy. “Okay,” she said, lightly tapping a finger against his shoulder as if sealing it. “For now, I’ll keep quiet.”\n\nChris breathed out, so shakily it hurt.\n\nZoe grinned wider. “But from now on, you listen to me, understood?”\n\nChris nodded and breathed out—so shakily it hurt.\n\nZoe walked past him as if nothing had happened and disappeared toward the main hallway. The scent of her deodorant hung in the air for another moment.\n\nLater, Chris sat on the school bus, forehead against the window, watching the houses pass by. The first week of school was over—and his disguise had been blown. Not through a big mistake. Not through a dramatic moment. But because, just once, he had looked like a boy.\n\nHe cursed himself for being so stupid. And while the bus rumbled over the potholes, another fear grew inside him, heavy and silent: what Zoe would do with this knowledge—and what she would demand of him next.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $kleidung == 1>>[[Clothing criticism from Christine.|Kleiderkritik von Christine.][$zoe_opinion += 20;$zoe += 1]]<<else>>[[Running practice with Mom.|Lauftraining mit Mom.][$zoe_opinion += 20;$zoe += 1]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

<<back "Back">>\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/Ava.jpg]]</center>\n''Name:'' Ava Ferguson\n''Age:'' 40\n''Birthday:'' January\n\n''Relationships''\nHudson Ferguson (47) – husband\nLeo Ferguson (11) - son\nBenjamin Ferguson (0) - son\n\n''Biography''\nAva Ferguson was the kind of woman in Maplewood who seemed to measure a room before she even stepped into it. She was married and the mother of two sons—Leo (11), old enough to read looks and tension, and Benjamin (0), who had her life running on newborn rhythms and chronic sleep deprivation again. After dropping out of a communications degree, Ava worked her way into local PR and event planning through internships and connections. She knew the right people, understood what stories played well in town, and treated almost everything like a stage where she could direct the scene. \n\nAva’s friendship with Susan went back to the publishing world. Susan had worked at a small press after college, and Ava had shown up there as a young, ambitious project assistant—the one who always knew too much and never forgot who owed her a favor. They hadn’t liked each other instantly, but they recognized themselves in each other: driven, easily wounded by rejection, and quick to sense weakness in other people. When Susan returned to Maplewood after the divorce, Ava was among the first to “take her in”.\n<div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Chris’s attraction to Ava</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>not attractive at all</span> <span>intense desire</span> </div> <div class="axis-barattraction"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $ava_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $ava_opinion < 20>> not attractive at all <<elseif $ava_opinion < 40>> slight attraction <<elseif $ava_opinion < 60>> clear attraction <<elseif $ava_opinion < 80>> strong attraction <<else>> intense desire <</if>> </div> </div> <<back "Back">>

His body started moving before his head could even protest. He stepped onto the stage, the wood springing ever so slightly beneath his steps. The wind caught the hem of his skirt, and for a moment he thought only: Don’t trip. Don’t wave wrong. Don’t stand wrong.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/outfit9.jpg]]</center> <<else>><center>[img[pics/outfit9_kurz.jpg]]</center> <<endif>>\nHe forced the smile onto his face, raised his hand, and waved. The crowd clapped—a normal, polite kind of clapping.\n\nThen he was supposed to speak. He went to the mark, feeling the microphone in front of him like an examination device. “Hi,” he said, his voice a tiny bit too high, but clear enough. “I’m Chris Braun, nineteen, and…” He faltered for half a second “I go to Maplewood High.”.\n\nA few “Aww” sounds, a few clapping hands.\n\nAnd then—it suddenly exploded.\n\nFrom the side, somewhere in the audience, came clapping that was far too loud, far too enthusiastic, immediately rolling over everything else. Chris glanced over and recognized them: Ben, Jay, and Max from the D&D club, standing together like a small unit. Ben was clapping overhead as if it were a game-winning score. Jay had both hands cupped around his mouth like megaphones and shouted “Chris!” far too loudly. Max—usually the quietest—was clapping so hard that his drink almost sloshed out of his hand.\n\nThen they did the unthinkable: a small, exaggerated standing ovation. Not long, but unmistakable. As if they had decided this was the moment to turn support up to maximum.\n\nChris’s face immediately grew hot. Embarrassment shot up the back of his neck—because it was so conspicuous, because it was so “nerd,” because every head turned that way. At the same time, he felt something else that made him surprisingly steady: he wasn’t alone up there. There was at least one group supporting him, no matter how absurd the setting was, no matter how much he currently felt miscast.\n\nThe audience murmured. A few people giggled. Someone beside the stage said, half amused, “Wow, she has fanboys.”\n\nChris waved once more, this time more genuinely, and the smile held a shade longer. He took a step back, made room for the next contestant—and when he left the stage, his heart was still pounding wildly, but not only from fear. Also because, for a moment, that exaggerated clapping had felt like a railing.\n\n''How does the first round go?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $stil > 5 >>[[Chris makes it into the second round.|Chris kommt in die zweite Runde.]]\n<<else>>[[Chris is eliminated in the first round.|Chris scheidet in der ersten Runde aus.]]\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

When Chris unlocked the front door, the first thing he noticed was the unfamiliar coat on the coat rack. Dark wool, old-fashioned cut. He heard voices from the living room.\n<<set $ort to "home">>\n“There he is,” [[Susan|Susan Braun]] called. She stood up as he stepped into the doorway, and beside her a man of maybe his mid-fifties rose as well. Gray, thinning hair, neatly parted, an ironed shirt, a tie in muted blue. His glasses had narrow metal frames that gave him something severe, broken only by a more deliberate smile.\n\n“Chris, this is Dr. Coleman,” Susan said. “He’s going to take a look at you, as discussed.”\n\nChris blinked. “Already? And… here?”\n\n“House call.” Dr. Coleman held out his hand. His fingers were dry, the grip firmer than necessary. “Your mother is very concerned about your well-being. So I thought we’d spare ourselves the waiting and make it comfortable for you.”\n\nSusan nodded with satisfaction. “I called this morning. Fortunately, he had time.”\n\nChris’s brow furrowed for a moment. That fast? And not an appointment at a practice, but directly in the house. But the sight of the glasses, the tie, the leather bag with the metal clasp had something official about it. “Okay,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”\n\n“Let’s go somewhere quiet,” Dr. Coleman suggested. “Perhaps your room? Just the two of us, then you can speak openly.”\n\nSusan waved it off. “Go on, Chris. The sooner, the better.”\n\nHe led the doctor down the hallway. In the rosé of his room, the older man seemed almost out of place, but Dr. Coleman set his bag matter-of-factly on the desk, opened it, and took out a stethoscope, a blood pressure cuff, and a slim notebook.\n\n“Sit down,” he said. “We’ll start with a few questions.”\n\nChris sank onto the edge of the bed, knees pressed close together, hands in his lap.\n\n“Eating habits?” Dr. Coleman began. “Regular meals?”\n\n“Yes,” Chris answered. “Breakfast, lunch at school, dinner with Mom and Christine.”\n\nA nod. “Sleep? Falling asleep, staying asleep?”\n\n“Mostly okay.” He hesitated. “Sometimes in the evening I’m kind of… wound up. And then completely wiped out again.”\n\n“Puberty, hormones, stress,” the doctor said like a ready-made formula. “Nothing unusual. Mood swings?”\n\nChris thought of the last few days. “Yes. Now and then. I cry more easily. Or I’m irritable.”\n\n“Mhm.” The scratching of a pen. “Circulatory problems? Dizziness, racing heart?”\n\n“Rarely.”\n\nDr. Coleman made a check mark in his notebook, half closed it.\n\n“I hear you have questions about the hormones,” Dr. Coleman began. “Your mother mentioned that something is worrying you.”\n\n[[Continue|Ja, viele Fragen.][$film += 1;$harassed += 1;$fingerass += 1]]

Chris stood there with the jacket in his hand. Part of him wanted to carry it straight to her, dutiful, responsible, good teammate. Another part held on to it, as if it had suddenly become heavier. He felt the fabric between his fingers, soft and warm, as if Dylan had only just worn it. And somewhere inside him, something stubborn stirred that he didn’t quite understand.\n\nHe went back toward the changing rooms, past the door to the gym, where a few voices and the shifting of mats could still be heard. Penelope had to be somewhere in there. He knew it would be the easiest thing in the world to go in and hand over the jacket.\n\nInstead, he turned toward the locker room area and pushed open the door to the girls’ locker room.\n\nInside, it was muted, the air warm, smelling of shampoo and deodorant and sports bags. Two girls stood at the mirror, fussing with their hair without paying Chris much attention.\n\nChris went to the bench area and put Penelope’s jacket down, neatly folded. No big drama. No note. Just a silent placement—like a small, secret decision.\n\nHe stood there for a moment and stared at the jacket, as if it could explain to him why he hadn’t simply handed it over. Jealousy? Defiance? A childish impulse not to give Penelope one more proof that the world casually placed everything into her hands? Maybe all of it together. Maybe he didn’t know exactly what had driven him.\n\nHis cheeks were warm. He tugged at his sports bag, as if he needed something to hold on to. Then he turned around and went back out, pulling the door quietly shut behind him.\n\nOutside in the hallway, the air felt colder. Chris’s heart was beating too fast for something so banal. He hadn’t done anything “bad”—and yet it felt like a small betrayal no one would notice.\n\nOn the bus ride home, he looked out the window, streetlights passing him like beads. The image in his head came anyway: Dylan, Penelope—star quarterback and queen bee, a duo that fit so perfectly it almost hurt. Chris tried to tell himself he didn’t care. That he was only curious. That it was none of his business.\n\nBut every attempt sounded thin.\n\nHe remembered Dylan’s “Hey, Chris” and the brief grin afterward, and immediately that tingling was there again—now mixed with a tug he didn’t want to name.\n\nAnd as the bus rumbled over a bump, Chris realized it wasn’t only the question of whether Dylan and Penelope were together that occupied him.\n\nBut that it wasn’t nothing to him because Dylan had asked him. And because, secretly, he wished Dylan had approached him for some other reason than a forgotten jacket.\n<<set $temp to 1>>\n[[Continue|Bonding mit Mom.]]

Chris decided to pretend the kiss had never happened. He tightened his grip on the bag, lowered his gaze, and walked past Lucas without looking at him. For a moment, Lucas’s face lit up—a quick, genuine flash of happiness—and then visibly collapsed in on itself as Chris passed him in silence. The smile broke off like a wave against the curb.\n<<set $ort to "school">>\nIn the classroom, Chris sat down at his desk, knees neatly together, his back too straight. The hum of the students before class was a single carpet of noise, with individual sentences sticking out like loose threads.\n\n“…Myles was really bragging this morning…”\n“…the two Braun sisters, both upstairs to a room…”\n“…the one in the miniskirt was totally wasted…”\n\nThe voices came from two rows diagonally behind him, muted, but deliberately porous. Chris didn’t hear his name, but he didn’t need to hear it. Two sisters at the party, both had gone up to a room with boys. He felt his neck grow hot. That wasn’t true. He had only kissed Lucas. No room. No bed. No… whatever they were dragging into the half-light of their claims.\n\nHe didn’t turn his head. He said nothing. Shame sat in his throat like a plug, and embarrassment was a second skin, tighter than any pair of tights. He stared at the blank sheet in front of him, wrote “Monday” in the corner, as if the date could have any authority against the rumors that had already formed in the hallway.\n\nChristine came in, a neutral expression as armor. Her eyes brushed over him, a brief, silent contact that said everything and could fix nothing. Chris lowered his gaze again, pressed his lips together, and did what he had decided to do: he pretended nothing had happened. And as he did, he felt the lie stretching through the day like a thin crack.\n\n''👑 Popularity - 1''\n<<set $lucas_opinion to 71>>\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1>>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 0 >>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas > 0>>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.3]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.4]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

On Saturday, Chris took more time than usual. Not because he wanted to be vain—but because he hoped that everything that had been hanging crooked between him and Charlotte for weeks might straighten out again for a few hours.\n<<set $wochentag = 6>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">>\nHe stood in front of the mirror and thought back to the time when Charlotte had still believed Chris was a girl. Back then, she had looked at him as if he were a secret you were allowed to touch. With every meeting, she had come closer, had touched him, had barely let go of him. Chris remembered that feeling of certainty—as if there had never been any question of whether he “fit.” And now everything was a question.\n\nPrecisely because of that, he chose clothes that emphasized his feminine charms without shouting. A skirt that neatly defined his waist and made for a pretty butt, a top that hinted at his cleavage, plus a cardigan he could close at any time—as a safety net. He paid attention to the little things: the fit of the tights, the shine of lip gloss, a hint of perfume, not too much. It was supposed to feel like: I made myself pretty for you. Not like: Please, please stay.\n\nWhen he came out of his room, his mother Susan was standing in the hallway, looking him up and down. This time, there was genuine, positive surprise on her face. “Wow,” she said. “You look… really good.”\n\nChris felt his cheeks grow warm. “Thanks.”\n\nSusan leaned against the doorframe, her voice suddenly almost casual. “When will you be back?”\n\nChris hesitated for only a moment. “Um… could I maybe… stay the night at Charlotte’s?” He said it quickly, before he could think about the fact that he wasn’t even sure Charlotte wanted that at all. But he hoped. He hoped for closeness, for normality, for a return to something soft.\n\nSusan raised her eyebrows, then smiled. “You’re old enough to spend the night at your girlfriend’s.” She sounded pleased, as if that fit into her picture. “And honestly? I’d be happy if you brought Charlotte home with you sometime. Eventually.”\n\nChris nodded, relieved. “Okay. Thanks.”\n\n“Text me when you get there,” Susan said, already back in her controlled tone, but without the hardness. “And behave yourself.”\n\nChris grabbed his handbag, pulled the door shut behind him, and walked to the stop, his heart beating a little too fast. The evening lay ahead of him like a test where he didn’t know what tasks would come—only that he wanted to pass it.\n\n[[Continue|Chris hilft beim Aufräumen.]]

Later, they lay beside each other in the dimness, the blanket up to their waists, Chris’s forehead against her chest. Charlotte’s breathing had grown calm; she grinned blissfully. “I owe you one,” she murmured sleepily, her voice warm. “Remind me to return the favor next time…” Chris laughed softly—exhausted, happy, his heart pounding. Charlotte slipped an arm around him. And so they fell asleep, tightly entwined.\n\nIn the morning, they were woken by the soft rumble of a house letting daylight back in: the smell of coffee, muffled footsteps, Mrs. Barnett’s voice somewhere in the hallway. Chris and Charlotte reluctantly pulled apart, exchanged sleepy looks and a smile that promised more than words. Down in the entryway, Susan was already standing there, car keys in hand; Christine came down the stairs with tousled hair, waving goodbye to Penelope.\n\n“So, was it nice?” Susan asked her children, half stern, half curious.\n\n“Yes,” Chris and Christine said at the same time. Outside, the air was fresh. On the drive back, Chris leaned his head against the window. The previous evening still glittered in his mind like string lights in the dark—pillow fort, Polaroids, pounding heart, and a passionate night. At home, everyday life would already be waiting again. But for a few streets more, Saturday was allowed to keep glowing.\n<<set $charlotte_opinion to 72>>\n[[End of Chapter 1|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 1][$party1 += 2]]

A few days earlier, Charlotte had casually asked Chris, as if it were nothing special, whether he wanted to accompany her to a wedding in her family. A relative of hers was getting married – “somewhere out of town,” as she called it, which in reality meant a long car ride. Two nights in a hotel, because a small family dinner was already planned for Friday evening. And of course Joseph would be coming along too.\n\nAt first, Chris had hesitated. Not because of the wedding itself – but because of everything around it: strangers, small talk, photos, “And who are you?” questions that felt like traps. And because he and Charlotte were still stuck in that strange in-between state where you were “together,” but not really. Still, Chris eventually said yes. Perhaps because it felt like a piece of normality he could borrow.\n\nSo Chris packed a travel bag: a nice dress for the wedding, pretty shoes, makeup, tights, a cardigan for the evening. When he arrived at the Walters’ with the bag on the day of departure, everything was ready for this trip – long distance, two nights in a hotel, Joseph behind the wheel, Charlotte beside him. Only Charlotte herself suddenly was not.\n\nThe house smelled of tea and something menthol-like. Joseph was already standing in the hallway, frantically looking for the car key while balancing a suit bag and a small travel bag at the same time. It seemed like it always did with him: determinedly organized – and yet a little on the edge of improvising.\n\nCharlotte was lying on the sofa, bundled up in a blanket, her face pale, her voice hoarse. “I… I can’t,” she croaked, pulling the blanket higher as if she were cold. “I’m really dizzy.”\n\nChris stopped, the bag still in his hand. First he felt disappointment, then immediately that bad conscience, as if he had no right to be disappointed. Charlotte was sick, that was all. And yet he noticed a detail that did not quite fit: She sounded dramatic, but her eyes seemed more alert than they should have. And when Joseph briefly went into the kitchen to get another glass of water, Charlotte lifted her gaze to Chris – for only a heartbeat – and there was something calculating in it that she immediately hid again.\n\n“You should rest,” Chris said quietly.\n\nCharlotte nodded eagerly. Then she added, as if she had rehearsed the sentence: “Chris… could you please go with my dad? He can’t go to the wedding alone. It would be… so weird. And he’s happy you’re coming.”\n\nJoseph came back, set down the glass, and smiled tiredly. “You don’t have to, Chris. Really. I’ll manage.”\n\nChris’ first impulse was to say “no” – simply because everything suddenly seemed far too big: a long drive, two nights, a hotel, a wedding, and then just him and Joseph. But then an argument from home flickered up inside him: Susan’s voice, cutting, demands that sounded like punishment assignments. He did not want to go back to that house, not today, not after this week. He wanted to go somewhere where no one tugged at him.\n\nHe looked at Charlotte. She looked at him like someone waiting for him to agree.\n\n[[Continue|Chris fährt mit.]]

At home, Chris was lying on the bed, his phone on the nightstand, when it vibrated. Unknown number. He frowned, opened the message—and his pulse jumped.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s bedroom">><<set $wetter = 3>>\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Hey, sweetheart. This is [[Caroline Barnett|Caroline Barnett]]. I got your number from Lucas.</blockquote> Chris’s throat went dry. Before he could even answer, the next message came, as if she had known exactly how long he would need for one breath. <blockquote class="quote">I’ve been thinking about you since last week. About what we almost… finished. I’d like to continue that.</blockquote> His thumb hovered over the keyboard. His head knew how wrong and complicated all of this was—and yet there was that warm tug in his stomach, as if someone had lit a candle.\n\nHe wrote back, too quickly, too honestly: <blockquote class="quote">Me too.</blockquote>\nAlmost immediately, she started typing again.\n\n<blockquote class="quote">On Saturday, my husband will be on a business trip. We’d finally have some peace.</blockquote> Chris’s heart made a strange leap. Saturday. Homecoming. Lucas. He stared at the chat as if he could smooth out the contradictions through sheer concentration.\n\nHe typed: <blockquote class="quote">But I’m going to the dance with Lucas on Saturday.</blockquote>\nFor a moment, nothing came. Then:\n\n<blockquote class="quote">I know. Meet me afterward. At a small motel.</blockquote> Chris’s head briefly screamed This is insane—but his thumb was already writing: <blockquote class="quote">Yes.</blockquote> The word stood there, small and final, and made his cheeks grow hot.\n\nMrs. Barnett wrote:\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Good. I’ll rent the room. I’ll send you the address and room number later. Come alone. And don’t tell anyone.</blockquote>Chris swallowed and answered only: <blockquote class="quote">Okay.</blockquote> Then, like a farewell that was also a promise, one last message came—a photo. Mrs. Barnett was lying on her back topless, one arm folded behind her head, her pretty breasts exposed in the image. Chris’s mouth went dry; she was simply beautiful. He stared at it, feeling excitement and guilt intertwine inside him. And somewhere behind that, another thought flashed—Lucas, who had no idea, and Saturday, which had suddenly become much more than just a dance.\n\n[[Continue|Nachricht von Lucas.]]

Chris smiled the way he had practiced—a controlled, polite smile, behind which his stomach still tightened into a small knot. “On school days I could work until 9 p.m.,” he explained, “and on Fridays or weekends, longer too.” As he spoke, he noticed the word could passing him by like a train: not want to, not would like to, but could, because it was expected of him. The thought of homework and school knocked in the background; he pushed it aside as best he could.\n<<set $ort to "Silver Spoon Diner">>\nThe boss nodded with a satisfied, bobbing smile. “Great. Are you single? Your boyfriend won’t get jealous over late shifts, will he?”\n\nChris felt the question like a sticky film on his skin. He kept the smile, imperceptibly straightened his shoulders. “I’m single.”\n\n“All the better,” the boss said and gave a short laugh, as if he had just checked off a practical detail. Chris’s face stayed calm, but something was working inside him—a narrow crack between the job and everything else, one he tried to bridge with routine.\n\nThe boss flipped through the clipboard, then laid the pen across it. “How do you deal with customers who flirt? If someone calls you ‘baby’ or touches you?”\n\nChris felt a cold draft along his spine. He thought of Susan’s sentence imagine how pretty you’ll look in the apron, and of how pretty sometimes felt: visible, available—for others. At the same time, he felt a defiant point in his chest that refused to move.\n\n''How does he answer?''\n❯ [[He answers that he stays friendly even with flirtatious customers.|Er bleibt freundlich.][$diner += 1]]\n❯ [[He says he stays professional, but sets clear boundaries if customers go too far.|Er bleibt professionell und setzt Grenzen.]]

Chris tasted the foul pre-cum and continued sucking at the same steady pace.\n\nEventually, Chris realized that the guy was about to come. The glans grew fuller, and his cock began to twitch. Since Chris wasn't exactly keen on swallowing the sperm, he slowed down the rhythm of his tongue strokes.\n\n"Hey, you slut... Keep going," came the reply. But Chris stopped. "Fine, then we'll do it this way," said the now completely aroused guy, yanking Chris's head down by the hair and starting to thrust his cock deep inside. Chris began to gag, sensing exactly what was coming next.\n\n"Mmmhh... oohhh... yeahhh... I... I'm cooooominggg..." the guy moaned loudly, and a veritable rain of sperm poured into Chris's mouth. Thrust after thrust, hot "gentleman's cream" flooded his cheeks. The guy had tremendous pressure behind it—and an equally massive reservoir of milky fluid—which he now bestowed upon Chris.\n\nGasping and sputtering, Chris tore himself free. The ejaculate dripped in long, sticky strands down his lips. "My pants!" the supervisor yelled. Chris instinctively raised a hand to his mouth and shuddered as the sticky cum clung to his fingers. Disgusted, he wiped his hand against his torso—only to realize, the very next instant, that he had just ruined his clothes.\n\n"Alright, grab your stuff and get lost." Chris snatched up his bag and the pack of condoms he had worked so hard to earn. He stumbled out of the office and hurried through the supermarket without looking back. His legs felt like rubber, and his head felt completely fogged over.\n\nThe automatic doors slid open, a blast of cold air hit his face, and the world outside went right on acting as if nothing at all had happened. He felt sick to his stomach. A foul taste of semen lingered on his tongue. He walked a few more meters—to the covered corner next to the shopping carts—and stopped, his legs briefly refusing to carry him any further.\n\nZoe strode over, hands shoved in her jacket pockets, eyes narrowed. "Well? Did you suck the old guy’s dick?"\nChris pulled the pack out of his pocket. His fingers were trembling.\n\n"Seriously?" Zoe’s voice tipped into disbelief. "I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you." She took the pack, turning it over in her hand, and let out a low whistle. "Maybe I misjudged you, Boob Chris." A glint in her eyes—half respect, half delight in the power play. "Nice. That makes us even for now."\n\n"Please... don’t tell anyone." His voice was hoarse.\n"Yeah, yeah." She slipped the pack into her pocket. "See you tomorrow at school. And, uh—" the corners of her mouth twitched—"try not to puke. You look like milk just about to go sour."\n\nShe turned around and walked away, as if she’d merely stopped to buy some chewing gum.\n\nChris stood there for another moment until the dizziness subsided. He boarded the next bus, slumped into a seat, and stared at his reflection in the window: pale, eyes too wide, lips too thin. The engine hummed; the bus stops glided past. A cold stone sat in his stomach; in his mouth lingered that foul taste—refusing to go away, no matter how many times he swallowed.\n\nOnce he got home, he rushed to the bathroom. He knelt before the toilet; his stomach cramped, and he retched until nothing was left to bring up. Gasping for breath, he leaned back against the cool tiles, tears stinging his eyes. A bitter taste—a mix of stomach acid and semen—filled Chris’s mouth.\n<<set $zoe_opinion to 30>>\n[[Continue|Der nächste Schultag.]]\n

After the trial, Chris returned to Germany with his father. That did not make everything easy, but for the first time in months, his life was his own again. A few weeks later, Christine came to them as well. There were conversations, there was paperwork, tears and nights when none of them slept much. But slowly, escape became everyday life. Chris understood that continuing to live did not mean having to forget everything.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\nSome feminine behaviors were hard to put aside—not because he “didn’t want to let go of them,” but because they had slipped into his muscles: certain reflexes of politeness, the automatic smile, the careful phrasing. Some things he consciously retrained. Others remained—and eventually became an advantage. He understood women better than many men around him, not as a trick, but as experience: what it felt like to be judged; how “compliments” could turn; how to perceive boundaries before crossing them.\n\nHe learned to give compliments without making it weird. Not that blanket “you’re pretty,” but specific and respectful: “That suits you because the color brings out your eyes,” or “That looks so confident on you because you really move in it.” His buddies were sometimes baffled when he talked to women and it just… worked. “How do you do that?!” they asked, and Chris would only shrug, because the honest answer would have been too long.\n\nHe also used his experiences professionally. Eventually, he worked his way up in fashion retail—ironically, in an area that had once been his greatest source of shame: lingerie fashion. But it was precisely there that his understanding was worth its weight in gold. He became a store manager and led an all-female team without the usual macho tone, without that artificial “buddy” act. He listened, he read moods, he noticed when someone was only saying “yes” but actually meant “no.” His team was successful, loyal—and for the first time, Chris realized that something could grow out of his past that was not only pain.\n\nThat was also how he met his future wife: his boss, a district manager, a little older than him. It did not begin with fireworks, but with respect. She did not see the “case” in him, not the “story,” but the person who showed up every day and took responsibility. And sometimes the cliché really was true: men chose women who resembled their mothers—not only visually, but in character. She, too, was strong, clear, knew what she wanted. The difference was: she was not controlling, but committed. Not manipulative, but honest.\n\nThe marriage became—to Chris’s own surprise—remarkably happy. Not perfect, but warm. And they had a daughter. When Chris held her in his arms for the first time, he did not think of Maplewood and not of Susan. He thought that he could start something new, something that did not consist of coercion. And that there was one thing he absolutely wanted to give his daughter: a home where love had nothing to do with control.\n\nHis sister Christine remained the thread that did not break. Sometimes it was only voice messages, sometimes long phone calls in which they laughed and sighed at the same time, because they both knew how much was buried in their past without having to say it out loud every time.\n\nWhen they then sat in his kitchen, drinking coffee while the children played on the rug, the world suddenly felt light. Christine looked around, let her gaze drift over the home, and eventually said, almost casually: “You really made it.” And Chris understood what she meant: not career, not marriage, not fatherhood—but that he was finally allowed to be himself. Then she clinked her glass with his and pulled him briefly into a hug.\n\n[[Continue|Chris als Ehemann und Vater.]]

<h2>Ending 2: Valentine’s Day with Lucas</h2> It was Valentine’s Day, and that afternoon the house seemed quieter than usual, as if it were briefly holding its breath. Chris stood in front of the mirror and tilted his head slightly to the side, just to see how the light slid over his cheeks. He had made an effort—more than usual.\n\nHis hair lay softly, with a small, deliberate sweep that didn’t make him look “done up,” but simply… pretty. A gentle taupe rested on his lids, just enough to make his eyes seem deeper. A touch of blush, gloss shining in the mirror like a tiny strip of promise. He wore a dress that looked like “date” without being loud: softly falling fabric that cinched at the waist and swayed a little with every step. Along with it, tights, delicate shoes, and a perfume that smelled warm and sweet without being overpowering.\n\nWhen the doorbell rang, his heart beat as if it had an appointment of its own. He picked up his little bag, took a breath, and went to the door.\n\nLucas was standing outside with a bouquet so neatly tied that you could tell how long he must have stood in the flower shop. Red and white, with a tiny wreath of baby’s breath like snow. He was wearing a shirt whose collar he had probably straightened ten times, and he smiled so nervously that it both touched and calmed Chris.\n\n“Hi,” Lucas said. His voice was warm, but it trembled at the edge. “You… wow.”\n\nChris felt warmth rising into his face. “Hi.”\n\nLucas cleared his throat and handed him the bouquet like something precious. “For you.”\n\nChris took it carefully, as if a feeling like that could be crushed. “Thank you. They’re… beautiful.”\n\n“Not as beautiful as you,” Lucas blurted out—and immediately turned even redder, as if he had just caught himself. “I mean—sorry. I meant—”\n\nChris laughed softly. “It’s okay.”\n\nThere was a car in front of the driveway that looked “new.” Black, shiny, with an interior that already looked a little like a movie in the light of the streetlamps. Lucas held up the key, almost apologetically.\n\n“My parents… well. They—” He broke off and shrugged. “I only got my license recently. Please tell me you’re not scared.”\n\nChris stepped closer to the car and placed a hand on the smooth door. “I’m more scared we’ll break the back seats later.”\n\nLucas laughed.\n\nHe opened the door for him, almost exaggeratedly polite, and Chris sat down inside. The leather was cool, then immediately warm. Lucas got in, started the engine, and the car hummed softly, contentedly. They drove off, past the familiar houses, which suddenly looked like sets in the Valentine’s light. The streets were smooth, and the air outside was clear. Inside, it smelled a little like Lucas—like shampoo and something clean, boyish—and Chris noticed the tension inside him slowly turning into anticipation.\n\n[[Continue|Valentinstag2]]

Chris took the jacket, swung it loosely once in his hand, and put on that “no big deal” grin he had gotten pretty good at imitating by now.\n\n“Wow,” he said, “you’re like some kind of… lost-and-found emergency service.”\n\nLucas stopped, still slightly out of breath, and nodded eagerly. “I just wanted to—I mean, I saw it and thought—”\n\nChris raised his eyebrows, letting his gaze linger on Lucas a tick longer than would have been necessary for “just a thank you.” “You run after me, save my jacket from its sad hallway life…” He pretended to check it off on an invisible list. “If you keep this up, I’ll have to start tipping you at some point.”\n\nHe laughed nervously, then more quietly, as if only now realizing the joke was actually funny.\n\nChris finally put the jacket on and let his hands disappear into the pockets. The fabric was still warm from inside. “Then you’ve done your job,” he said with mock seriousness. “Five stars. Would hire you again.”\n\nLucas was properly grinning now, relieved, as if he had finally found safe ground. “Gladly,” he murmured.\n\nChris nodded, gave a brief wave, and started moving. Only when he was a few steps away did he realize his heart was beating faster.\n\n[[Continue|Bonding mit Mom.]]

After school, the gym was empty. Only the hum of the lights, the smell of mats, and a few forgotten balls at the edge served as reminders that an hour ago, this place had still been chaos. Chris came to the special training session with a stomach full of leftover nerves from the math test and a head full of other thoughts he hadn’t ordered.\n<<set $moore_opinion to 71>><<set $ort to "gym">>\n[[Mr. Moore|Nathan Moore]] was already there, the whistle around his neck, the clipboard under his arm. “Good game on Friday,” he said as Chris approached. “You were solid. You didn’t let yourself get rattled.”\n\nChris’s chest warmed. Praise from Mr. Moore always felt as if something inside him clicked into place—as if, for a moment, he wasn’t “the one lagging behind,” but someone who could really do it. “Thanks,” he said, hoping it sounded normal.\n\nMr. Moore nodded and leafed through his notes briefly. “You’ve caught up a lot over the last few weeks. Honestly. If things keep going like this, you won’t need the special training much longer.”\n\nThe sentence was meant to motivate him. And yet Chris suddenly felt an unpleasant tug beneath the joy. A small shadow, quick but clear: Won’t need it much longer. Part of him should have been relieved. Fewer extra appointments, less stress. But another part—the one he didn’t like admitting to himself—had enjoyed these Wednesdays. The gym when it was empty. Coach Moore’s attention. And now it was just supposed to end?\n\n“Okay,” Chris said, far too obediently, and forced himself into motion. Warm-up, then technique. Mr. Moore placed him on a marker, gave counts, had him practice transitions that had once been shaky and now seemed almost natural. Chris should have been proud. Instead, the dreams surfaced—like uninvited pop-ups: Mr. Moore’s lips on his, his strong hands on Chris’s butt...\n\nMr. Moore stepped behind him to correct a line. “Shoulders down. Sternum up.” He showed the angle, first in the air, then—very briefly—with two fingers on Chris’s chest. It was accidental. It was tiny. It was nothing.\n\nAnd Chris still flinched inwardly, as if someone had struck a spark.\n\nHe kept his gaze on the gym wall, breathed in, out, and tried to program his body for technique. But his head translated every bit of help into a second meaning: He’s close. Just like in my dreams. It was absurd, unfair, embarrassing—and still it was there.\n\n“Good,” Mr. Moore said when Chris hit a sequence cleanly. “Again. Same rhythm.”\n\nChris nodded, started, landed. Mr. Moore came closer again to show the position. This time he touched Chris’s bust a tick longer. The distance between them was suddenly small enough that Chris could smell his aftershave and the warmth people give off.\n\nChris’s heart was beating too fast. One sentence in his head screamed: He’s your coach. Another whispered: Kiss him. And with the whisper came that terrible, impulsive need that frightened even him—as if his body were making a decision before his mind could speak the rules aloud.\n\nWhat is happening here? Chris thought, panicked and fascinated at the same time. Why does it feel as if something is crackling between them that isn’t allowed to crackle?\n\nMr. Moore said something—Chris heard the words, but they reached him as if through water. The coach was very close, and Chris suddenly had the feeling that he would only have to move a few centimeters for their lips to meet.\n\n''How does Chris decide?''\n❯ [[He gives the forbidden impulse a moment too much room and kisses him.|Er küsst ihn.][$kissboy += 1;$chris_opinion += 10]]\n❯ [[He swallows the impulse down and forces himself to maintain professional distance.|Er unterdrückt das Bedürfnis.]]

Thursday morning, Chris’s body felt as if someone had turned up the volume on his feelings. Everything was too close: the scratch of the top at his neck, the clack of the kitchen cabinet door, the smell of coffee, which suddenly seemed too strong. Even the light through the window looked harsher than usual.<<set $wochentag = 4>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "at home">><<set $ChrisMemory[8] to 1>>\n\nHe stood at the mirror in the hallway, trying to put the last little things in order—a strand of hair that wouldn’t lie flat, an earring that had snagged. His hands trembled slightly with impatience, but not from hurry, more from some inner excess. His eyes felt damp without him even knowing why.\n\n“You’ve been standing there for five minutes,” his mother said from the kitchen. Her tone wasn’t angry, just annoyed. “Hurry up or you’ll miss the bus.”\n\n“I am hurrying,” Chris muttered, but it came out sharper than intended. That wrong little burst of tone alone threw him off balance—as if he had just snapped at himself.\n\nSusan stepped into the hallway, a cup in her hand. Her gaze slid over him once, appraising. “What’s wrong?”\n\nChris swallowed. Nothing’s wrong, he wanted to say. Everything’s wrong, he thought at the same time. He felt a tugging in his lower abdomen, not real pain, more that dull, irritating discomfort, along with a mood that sparked like a loose wire. He hated that even he could tell how sensitive he was.\n\n“Nothing at all,” he said too quickly and tugged at the hem of his cardigan until his knuckles turned white.\n\nSusan set the cup down. “Uh-huh. Nothing at all.” A brief, mocking smirk. “Is this another one of those drama things?”\n\nThe word hit him harder than it should have. Chris felt his throat tighten, and shame followed immediately—shame that something like that could even hurt him. He was nineteen. He shouldn’t feel this way. He shouldn’t… react like this.\n\n“I’m not—” He broke off because his voice was already tipping. He cleared his throat, pressed his lips together, and forced himself to continue more quietly. “I’m just… sensitive today. No idea.”\n\nSusan studied him as if analyzing something she thought she already understood. “You don’t have to make a fuss,” she said, the “don’t” soft but unmistakable. “Breathe, smile, go outside. Nobody has time for a bad mood in the morning.”\n\nChris nodded automatically, because arguing only meant more words—and today, words felt like matches. He reached for his bag. A small part of him wanted to explain himself: It’s these stupid hormones. It’s not on purpose. I can’t just switch it off. Another part held him back: Say nothing. Otherwise it’ll be used against you again.\n\nHe stood there, ready to go, and realized tears were rising in his eyes—not because he was sad, but because today his body seemed to want to translate everything into tears. He blinked quickly, stared at the floor as if he could look the moisture away. More shame: about the tears, about the weakness, about the fact that he had to pull himself together like a child.\n\nSusan raised her eyebrows when she noticed the blinking. “Oh God,” she said dryly. “Please not now.”\n\nChris lifted his head, forced his face neutral, put on the “good” smile he could now do as easily as brushing his teeth. “It’s fine,” he said, and he hated himself a little for how smooth it sounded.\n\nHe opened the front door. Cold air hit his face, clear and hard, and for a moment it was better than any conversation. He stepped outside, pulled the door shut behind him, and took one deep breath, as if he could turn the over-loud feelings back down with the morning air. Then he went to the bus stop—controlled, neat, outwardly inconspicuous—and inwardly still a little ashamed that it took so much strength.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 0 >>[[Thursday, theater club.|Donnerstag, Theaterclub.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 1>>[[Thursday, theater club.|Donnerstag, Theaterclub.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 2>>[[Thursday, theater club.|Donnerstag, Theaterclub.3]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 3 >>[[Thursday, theater club.|Donnerstag, Theaterclub.4][$schulball += 2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $charlotte <2 >><<if $club == 3>>[[Thursday, D&D Club.|Donnerstag, D&D Club.][$schulball += 3]]<<endif>><<else>><<if $club == 3>>[[Thursday, D&D Club.|Donnerstag, D&D Club.2]]<<endif>><<endif>><</nobr>>

The last weeks at high school didn’t arrive like a finale. They came like completely normal days—only beneath everything, there was a noticeable shift, as if someone had imperceptibly made the ground firmer.\n\nMonday morning, bus smell, lockers clacking. Chris walked through the halls as if he had been there for a hundred years already. Classes, homework, bells. Then at home, Susan: the scrutinizing look over his outfit, a comment about “posture,” a casual “You should…” disguised as an instruction.\n\nBefore, all of it would have pulled at him like Velcro. Now it didn’t bounce off—but it no longer stuck.\n\nWhen Susan criticized him about something, Chris no longer automatically thought: I am wrong. He thought instead: That is her control. Not my truth. And sometimes the difference was only one breath, but it was enough to keep him upright. Ruby was like an invisible counterweight in his head: not as an escape, but as a reminder that he wasn’t alone and wasn’t crazy.\n\nSometimes, when Susan became especially “sweet”—that friendly poison—Chris would write Ruby only one word: rough today. And Ruby would answer with something just as unspectacular: Library later? Or simply: I’m here. It wasn’t magic. But it was an anchor.\n\nOne morning, before Susan had come downstairs, Chris and Christine were sitting at the kitchen table. No argument, no topic, no big sentences. Christine had cereal in front of her; Chris was stirring tea he could have drunk long ago.\n\nChristine silently pushed the last yogurt over to him—his favorite yogurt. Just like before, when they were kids, secretly sharing candy. Chris glanced at her. She didn’t look back, but the corners of her mouth twitched the tiniest bit.\n\nChris briefly placed his hand on hers—just for a second, a silent thank-you—and took the yogurt. They didn’t need more.\n\nSusan noticed. Not in a big outburst, but in little things: that Chris argued less because he had already decided inwardly. That he more often said he was “studying” outside the house and actually meant it, too. That there was something in his eyes that no longer asked for permission.\n\nOnce, she stood in the doorway while Chris packed his backpack and asked in that too-casual voice: “You’ve been out a lot lately.”\n\n“I’m studying,” Chris said calmly.\n\n“You used to like being alone before, too,” Susan said, and the sentence suddenly sounded like an accusation from another time. Then, more sharply: “And this college… you don’t think you’ll just be able to do whatever you want then.”\n\nChris looked at her. He didn’t say “yes.” He didn’t say “no,” either. He only said: “I have to go now.” And left.\n\nSusan remained standing there, as if she had missed the moment when she could have closed the door. Her smile looked a fraction too controlled. For the first time, she didn’t have the feeling that she was shaping him—but losing him. And that made her nervous.\n\n[[Continue|Zarte Nähe.]]

<h2>Epilogue: Chris and Charlotte</h2> In the days after that conversation in the hallway, school went on as if no one had just set off a bomb between two lockers. Bells rang, books flipped open, math problems were handed out. Only for Chris, everything felt as though a second film had been laid over it: the same everyday routine, but beneath it an uneasy rumble.\n\nHe had doubts. Often.\n\nSometimes it was only a brief stab when he closed his bedroom door in the evening: Do I really want this? Sometimes it was an entire whirlpool when he saw Charlotte in the hallway and she gave him a cautious, hopeful smile: Or do I just not want to be alone? And still he kept going. Not because the doubts dissolved, but because the fear of losing Charlotte drowned out every hesitation.\n\nWhen he told his mother about it, her reaction was so quick and so enthusiastic that Chris could barely keep up. First that moment of silence, in which she studied him – and then a smile that was too broad, too satisfied.\n\n“Of course,” she said, as if she had been waiting for exactly this. “We’ll do this properly. We’ll do this cleanly. And we’ll take care of everything.”\n\n“Mom… I don’t know if—” Chris began, but Susan was already in organization mode. She made calls, wrote lists, printed out forms. She clarified responsibilities with the insurance company, asked about requirements, procedures, approvals. And at some point she said, almost triumphantly, as if it were an item on a to-do list: “The insurance will cover the costs.”\n\nChris felt a strange mixture of relief and unease. He wanted it to be harder, wanted there to be more obstacles – not out of masochism, but because every obstacle would have given him time to think. But Susan cleared obstacles away as if they were dust.\n\nTwo to four weeks later, they sat in the first consultation with a doctor. Nothing was final yet – more like a starting signal on paper: general health check, bloodwork, baseline labs, a rough assessment of whether his body was even “fit” enough for bigger steps. Susan was there, asking questions, noting down answers. Chris sat beside her and nodded too often. He felt slightly pressured, not by words, but by the pace his mother set. As if standing still did not exist.\n\nWeeks four to eight became an obstacle course of appointments: talks with qualified professionals, assessments, letters meant to prove that he was “ready.” Chris heard himself saying things that felt both true and rehearsed. He did not want to lose Charlotte. He wanted peace in his head. He wanted… not to be stuck between roles anymore. Sometimes he even believed that. Sometimes he only thought: I’m talking right now so the paperwork lines up.\n\nIn the second month, they chose a clinic and a surgeon and had an initial consultation. Nothing was romanticized there: it was about options, requirements, realistic timelines. Chris was handed lists – things that had to be taken care of beforehand for a surgery date to even be possible. One point burned itself especially deeply into his everyday life: the hair removal that was supposed to run in parallel for months.\n\nHe started it shortly afterward. Laser, later electrolysis – sessions that sounded like “routine” and yet felt like work at the edge of his own limits. It hurt. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but persistently: pain that repeated itself, and the knowledge that he was consciously accepting it. On the drive home, Chris sometimes sat silently in the car, fingers clenched, and asked himself: If I don’t even want all this… why do I keep going? And then he saw Charlotte before him, the way she had looked at him back then in the hallway, ready to leave – and he still drove to the next session.\n\n[[Continue|Die Behandlung geht weiter.]]

Adam shot off: “Shut up, Jay. That’s superstition.”\n“Statistically irrelevant,” added the one with the metal dice box.\n“Besides, my sister once saved us from a TPK,” another called.\nBen raised a hand. “We are not gatekeepers. One more comment and you’re stacking chairs.”\n\nJay deflated. “It was just a joke.”\n“Not funny,” Adam said dryly.\n\nChris raised an eyebrow, grateful and embarrassed at the same time. “I’ll just roll again once I get Advantage.” The table laughed in relief. Ben gave Raven situational advantage because she had “read the light.” This time—17. The shadow took her in, and the boys audibly breathed along with it.\n\nThe session got really good: Adam played a human cleric with shield phobia (“Backstory, long story”), another a warlock accountant who converted damage into tax brackets during every break. Raven unlocked a rusty grate with an improvised hairpin (“Improvised Tools, baby”), sneaked past two rats, and landed a Sneak Attack on the sewer-ish mini-boss. Every time Chris attacked, quiet excitement flickered around the table. And whenever a die rolled badly, new offers rained down: “Take mine! It’s in a good mood today!”\n\nWhen the hour was over, Ben snapped the ring binder shut. “Do you want to come back? We’re fixed on Mondays, Thursdays optional. We also do minis. So… uh… whoever wants, I’ve basically adopted my uncle’s resin printer.”\n\n“Sure,” Chris said, and realized how happy that yes made him.\n\nTwenty minutes later, a small, freshly printed mini stood on a piece of cardboard to dry: a rogue girl with pretty legs, two daggers—and far too skimpy fantasy armor. “Why are the leather panels always… so… little?” Chris asked, half laughing.\n\n“Legacy asset,” Ben mumbled, blushing.\n\nDespite everything, the mini looked surprisingly like him—the hair, the posture, the narrow line. He liked it. Maybe he liked this room even more: the clatter of dice, rules that were fair, and a group that had just collectively decided to be on his side—not because he played perfectly, but because he was there as a girl.\n\nOn the way out, Adam briefly raised a hand. “Uh… Raven? I mean—Chris? Sorry again. For… everything.”\n“It’s okay,” Chris said, and this time he didn’t just mean the water fountain. “See you Monday.”\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Ride home.|Heimfahrt.]]<<else>>[[Ride home.|Heimfahrt.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

At home, Chris pretended it was a completely normal afternoon. He showered, put on something comfortable, and laid his homework on the desk. He told himself: I’m not waiting for his message. I have better things to do. Even so, his gaze kept drifting to the phone, as if a small, invisible magnetic field lay there.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s bedroom">><<set $wetter = 3>>\nHe deliberately placed it beside the laptop—just “so he’d hear it.” He opened a notebook—and closed it again two minutes later. He went to get water—and took the phone with him. When it finally vibrated, his heart was faster than the screen.\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Dylan: Hey 😅 I seriously couldn’t get it out of my head… Homecoming. You + me.</blockquote> Chris stared at the message. A warm tug spread through his stomach, and at the same time he tried to push it away, as if it were embarrassing to react so quickly. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: Hey. You’re late, Mr. Quarterback. \nDylan: Cheeky. I like it.</blockquote> The corners of Chris’s mouth twitched before he could control them. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: 🙄 \nDylan: Okay, seriously: Saturday. Do you want me to pick you up?</blockquote> Chris held his breath for a moment. Pick him up. At the door. His mother. Neighbors. Everything. And yet: the image of Dylan pulling up made his heart stumble in a way that was unpleasantly beautiful. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: We could also meet there. \nDylan: Mhm. We could.</blockquote> Three dots appeared, vanished, appeared again. <blockquote class="quote">Dylan: But honestly, I’d rather be the guy who picks you up.</blockquote> Chris’s thumb hovered over the keyboard. He wrote because it’s complicated and deleted it again. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: …why? \nDylan: Because then I get the first 5 minutes before everyone else sees you. 😉</blockquote> Chris stared at the winking emoji as if it had lit him up. His stomach made those outrageous butterfly loops, and at the same time he thought sternly: Pull yourself together. As if feelings could be switched off with an order. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: You’re acting like I’m a secret. \nDylan: Maybe you are one. \nDylan: I saw you on the sideline, by the way. At the game. You were… hard to miss.</blockquote> Chris’s face grew hot. He typed too quickly. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: That was just cheer. Nothing special. \nDylan: Don’t lie 😅 \nDylan: You have this “I’m totally on beat” look. And then you grin for a second, like you don’t even notice it yourself.</blockquote> Chris’s heart pounded. He hated how much that hit him. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: And you have this “I’m pretending I’m cool” look when you’re nervous. \nDylan: Caught. \nDylan: Then we’re even.</blockquote> A few seconds of silence. Chris’s gaze drifted involuntarily to the garment bag in the closet. Midnight blue, backless. The thong in the bag. The thought was exciting and frightening at the same time. <blockquote class="quote">Dylan: What are you wearing? \nChris: A dress. Deep midnight blue. \nDylan: Okay wow. \nDylan: That suits you.</blockquote> Chris’s chest tightened—in the good, dangerous way. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: How would you know what suits me? \nDylan: Because I’ve seen it. \nDylan: Not just at the game. At school. You have this way of moving… like you’re about to fly away, but you stay.</blockquote> Chris stared at the sentence as if he wanted to touch it. He typed a reply, deleted it, typed again. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: You’re getting poetic. \nDylan: Just a little. \nDylan: I just want Saturday to be good. For you. For me.</blockquote> Chris swallowed. He wanted to write something casual, something that wouldn’t give him away. Instead, honesty came out in a small way. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: I… am looking forward to it too. \nDylan: Good. \nDylan: Then let me pick you up, okay? I’ll text you the time.</blockquote> Chris’s thumb trembled briefly. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: Okay. But if you’re late, I’m calling you Mr. Quarterback again. \nDylan: Deal. \nDylan: Good night, Chris. \nDylan: Sleep well… I’m looking forward to Saturday.</blockquote> Chris looked at the last sentence until the display went dark. He deliberately put the phone away, as if he had control, and pulled the blanket up to his chin. His heart was still beating in the rhythm of the chat bubbles, and the butterflies in his stomach showed no sign of disappearing.\n\nHe fell asleep with a smile he could no longer talk himself out of.\n\n[[Continue|Dienstag, Figurprobleme.]]

Stil -1\n(angeschwollenes Ohr und kurze Haare)

<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Description:''\nChris was naturally slender, with a soft, youthful aura: brown hair, by now almost automatically styled in a girlish way, long legs, delicate hands, no body hair. Because of the hormones, his breasts had become small but clearly visible; his hips and butt rounder, his waist narrower—shapes that made clothes like skirts, tights, and ball gowns look “right,” even if the mirror still sometimes startled him.\n\nOutwardly, he now came across convincingly as “one of them”—not only through clothing, but also through routine: make-up, posture, smiles, small talk. He received looks, compliments, and sometimes unpleasantly sexualized attention; it still embarrassed him, but occasionally flattered him too. Inside, it remained contradictory: a boy—and yet a role that felt less and less often like a mere costume. It was precisely this slow blurring that frightened him.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n''Statistics:''\nChris has jerked off <<print $jerkoff>> other people.\nHe has received a blowjob <<print $oral>> times.\nHe has given <<print $woral>> blowjobs to other men.\nOf those, he swallowed <<print $swallow>> times.\nHe has had a finger in his butt <<print $fingerass>> times.\nHe has had a penis in his butt <<print $anal>> times. (Creampied: <<print $creampied>>)\n<<nobr>><<if $sex == 0>>Chris is still a virgin.<<else>>\nChris has fucked <<print $sex>> women.<br>\nDuring that, he came inside them <<print $cameinside>> times.\n<<if $christine == 3>>(His first time was with his sister Christine)<<endif>>\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\nNumber of partners: <<print $partner>>\n\nChris has been sexually harassed <<print $harassed>> times.\nHe has been filmed/photographed <<print $film>> times.\nHe has been raped <<print $rape>> times.\n\nChris has kissed his sister <<print $kisssister>> times.\nHe has kissed his mother <<print $kissmom>> times.\nHe has kissed boys <<print $kissboy>> times.\nHe has kissed girls <<print $kissgirl>> times.\n\nChris’s thoughts about sex: “I like girls. Um… I mean… I don’t like boys. Or men either… only him...”\n\n[[Epilogue: Chris and Joseph|Epilog Chris und Joseph]]

He slid hangers back and forth as if rummaging through a stranger’s wardrobe. “Neutral” was a shy animal in this closet. Finally, he found a pair of jeans that looked inconspicuous at first glance—medium denim, no visible glitter, no rips. Only when he put them on did he understand: high-waisted. The waistband sat high, grabbing him at the waist like an over-eager dance partner, shaping his hips and butt into a curve that refused to argue. In the crotch, it felt as if the fabric were trying to force a geometry his body didn’t want to play along with. He tugged the zipper edge slightly forward; it barely helped.\n\n<center>[img[pics/outfit4a.jpg]]</center> For a top, he chose a striped cropped sweatshirt—white with thin, even lines. “Neutral enough,” he muttered, smoothing the hem. On his way out, he cast one last look in the mirror—and stopped. The fine stripes did what fine stripes do: they made the small breasts in the bra look visually more present. His chest looked “fuller” than he had intended that morning. Great. A “masculine” plan being negotiated in the details. <<set $ort to "Maplewood">> Out in the hallway, his mother only looked at him briefly, raised an eyebrow, and said nothing. On the way to school, he adjusted his steps to the pull of the jeans; every longer stride argued with the fabric, every stair landing reminded him that high-waisted jeans had not been designed for boys—certainly not in the crotch.\n\nAt school, what he had hoped for happened: he stood out less. The boys’ looks bounced off like rain from an awning. A few glanced briefly, looked away—no following eyes, no whispered comments, just the neutral rush of the hallways. He breathed a little easier.\n\nThe price came from the other side. “Laundry day?” one of the cheer girls asked at the locker, her tone casually artificial, her eyes sharp. “Or did you misplace your cute stuff?” Another twisted her mouth. “You look so… basic. Everything okay?” Christine shot him a warning glance. Penelope only lifted a hand briefly as she passed, greeted him neutrally, and then kept talking to her shadow-line of Pom Puffs. Closeness at a distance.\n\nDuring the first passing period, Ruby caught up with him. “Everything okay?” she asked, forehead creased. “You’re walking weird. Did you hurt yourself?”\n“No, I—” He hesitated, searching for a believable half-truth. “The jeans are new. They… uh… don’t fit right yet.”\nRuby nodded slowly, not entirely convinced, but friendly. “Okay.” She gave him a brief smile and turned off.\n\nWith every movement, the fabric reminded him of his decision: fewer looks, more friction. A sophomore from biology looked over his chest, not him; two preps by the window missed him entirely. In another corner, Charlotte briefly turned her palm toward him as she passed—a small, silent “later.” He nodded almost imperceptibly. The day had a different texture: more muted, more uncomfortable, but safer. And somewhere between waistband and crotch, the jeans sewed the word “comfort” anew for him—with stiff stitches that told him camouflage was sometimes simply uncomfortable.\n\n''👠 Style -1''\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1>>[[Criticism in the cafeteria.|Kritik in der Cafeteria.]]<<endif>><<if $club == 2>>[[Criticism in the cafeteria.|Kritik in der Cafeteria.2]]<<endif>><<if $club == 3>>[[Criticism in the cafeteria.|Kritik in der Cafeteria.3][$beliebtheit -= 1]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

The pillow fort collapsed into soft rustling; someone dimmed the lights even further. “Good night, you sweet things,” Penelope played the hostess, and then a wave of hugs moved through the room—one after another, soft, brief, and warm. Chris let himself be hugged, hugged back; skin, satin, hair that smelled of sweet shampoo—a warm farewell to the evening. He liked it more than he would admit.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\nWhen the sleeping spots were being handed out, he searched for Charlotte’s gaze. “Do we want to… together?” he asked quietly.\nCharlotte grimaced. “I’m already sleeping with someone,” she said curtly. No look. Her tone was brittle, annoyed. Chris felt the ground give way a little beneath his feet.\n\nIn his head, the scene from the game flickered up: his hand pointing at her, the question about cheating—and Charlotte’s face, a breath too rigid. This is the payback, he thought. Fear crept into his stomach: Had he ruined whatever was between them before anything had really even begun?\n\nOnce the rooms had been assigned and doors were quietly falling shut everywhere, all that was left for him was the sofa in the living room. A pillow, an oversized blanket, the shadow of the string lights on the wall. Tiredness caught up with him without detour; the day had been long, the evening even longer. He turned onto his side, listened to the house—a distant hum, the cracking of the heating—and drifted off.\n\nSometime in the middle of the night, Chris woke again. A strange feeling ran through him as something, or rather someone, touched him. For a moment he was still half trapped in the worlds of dreams, but slowly it dawned on him what was happening.\n\nChris blinked, half in a dream, half in the twilight of the string lights. A face took shape: Lucas, who had bent down over him. His hands were gently placed on Chris’s breasts.\n\nChris stayed still, sleepiness still holding him in its grip, but his thoughts raced. He considered whether he should pretend he was still sunk in sleep, or show that he was awake. Lucas’s touches were tentative, uncertain, but he could already make out the lustful expression on the boy’s face.\n\nFor minutes, Lucas indulged himself with Chris’s little tits. Stroking and massaging them with his hands. Sometimes very gently and tenderly. Then again more firmly and demandingly. It amused him that the nipples became hard in no time and that goosebumps formed on the areolas at the same time.\n\n‘I really should jump up right now and slap him left and right!’ Chris thought. But on the other hand, Chris felt his entire body tingling with arousal, and his cock had noticeably hardened. He couldn’t possibly get up like this.\n\nReflexively, Chris pulled the blanket higher, turned onto his side, away from the figure that was forbiddenly close.\n\nToes on carpet, a shadow gliding back out of the corner of the room. The blanket over Chris’s head suddenly became very warm, then comforting. He listened to the house breathing for a while longer and slipped back into sleep.\n\nIn the morning, the house was bright and orderly again. The Polaroid wall glittered in the backlight; Chris’s second picture hung neatly, the gap left by the first remained a silent question mark. In the kitchen it smelled of coffee and toast, Penelope handed out little paper cups of orange juice, Mrs. Barnett wished Chris good morning with a look that stayed warm longer than necessary. Charlotte was silent, but her “morning” wasn’t frosty—just thin.\n\nOutside, Susan honked once. “Ready?” she asked as the two siblings got into the car.\n“Yes,” they said in chorus. The seat belt clicked. The driveway slipped away beneath the tires, the villa grew smaller, Maplewood rolled toward them—the familiar mix of lawns, mailboxes, and the hint of another Monday.\n\nChris looked out the window. The evening still clung to him: satin, laughter, questions that couldn’t be answered; a vanished Polaroid card and a boy’s hand on his chest. A good, confusing, full chapter. Pink shimmered on his nails in the morning light. He took a deep breath, and the day moved ahead.\n\n[[End of Chapter 1|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 1][$party1 += 1]]

Chris reached for the white sneakers. The shoelaces were a small promise of solid ground; heels simply meant too much risk today. He tied them tight, stood up, and did a test walk through the room. The pleated skirt set soft circles in motion, the fine pantyhose shimmered in the morning light—unavoidably present, but at least he felt stable.\n\n“Too bad,” Susan said, arms crossed. There was no thunder in her tone, only that fine sting of disappointment. “Your pretty legs would show to better advantage in the heels. Posture shapes impression.”\n\n“I’ll get through the day better like this,” Chris replied calmly, as politely as he could. Susan leaned back only minimally—a silent “as you wish”—and handed him the cardigan. “Then pay even more attention to your shoulders.”\n\nChristine appeared in the doorway, backpack hanging loosely from one strap, ponytail freshly tied. Her gaze slid over the look: bodysuit, top, white pleated skirt, sneakers. “Cute enough,” she judged pragmatically.\n\nOutside, the morning was clear and still cool. The paving stones had cracks through which grass grew like stubborn optimism. With every step, Chris felt the security of the flat soles: no wobbling, no fear of stairs, only the soft brushing of the skirt hem against the pantyhose.\n\nThey turned the corner. Christine nudged him with her elbow. “Good decision. Heels need boss-level training.”\n\n“I just want to… get through unnoticed,” Chris murmured.\n\n“You’re never completely unnoticed,” Christine said, not unkindly. “But at least the sneakers don’t scream ‘Bambi in danger.’” She grinned.\n\nThe bus came humming down the street. Chris slowly breathed through his nose, felt the knot beneath his breastbone and how—at least for these few minutes—it didn’t grow tighter. The doors folded open. He placed his foot on the step, felt the grippy rubber beneath the sole, and thought: A day without stumbling would already be a victory.\n\n[[Continue|Sexualkunde.]]

<<back "Back">>\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/MrsBarnett.jpg]]</center> ''Name:'' Caroline Barnett \n''Age:'' 38 \n''Birthday:'' April\n\n''Relationships''\nOwen Barnett (43) - husband\nPenelope Barnett (19) - daughter\nLucas Barnett (18) - son\n\n''Biography''\nCaroline came from a wealthy East Coast family and grew up in a world where invitations arrived on heavy paper and, even as a child, you knew how to sit at a country-club lunch without once picking up the wrong fork. Her parents valued posture, tone of voice, the right smile at the right time—a “good girl” upbringing that Caroline mastered, but never quite loved. Behind the perfect surface, she was too temperamental, too curious, too wild for her family’s taste.\n\nAfter school, she married a man who increased that wealth even further. It was not a purely practical marriage, but not a romantic fairy tale either: more a mixture of genuine affection, the promise of security, and the status that came with it as if by itself. After that, her life was built on comfort—spacious houses, polished routines, staff who made problems disappear without a sound. And that was exactly the problem: when everything works, you begin to wonder what you are even working for.\n\nHer days resembled one another so much that time sometimes felt like a neatly set table at which no one truly eats. And because boredom with her never remained mere boredom, Caroline sought intensity: situations that crackled, secrets that quickened the pulse, small risks that made her feel alive again.\n\n''Shared Moments / Memories''\n<<nobr>>\n\n<ul> <<if $CarolineMemory[0] eq 1>><li>Caroline remembers how she discovered Chris’s secret—and how delicious it had been to play with his embarrassment. Precisely because he reacted so shyly, she enjoyed all the more throwing him off balance with little glances, hints, and casual touches.</li><</if>> <<if $CarolineMemory[1] eq 1>><li>Caroline remembers the moment when Chris looked at her with that uncertain, yearning gaze—and how she whispered to him, half in jest and half as a promise, that one day she would play “tennis” with him too.</li><</if>> <<if $CarolineMemory[2] eq 1>><li>Caroline remembers the tingling thrill of that afternoon when her husband came home from work earlier than expected and Chris had to hide hastily under the blanket. For Caroline, that very danger was part of the appeal—the pounding heart, the secrecy, the feeling of being truly alive again for a moment.</li><</if>> <<if $CarolineMemory[3] eq 1>><li>Caroline remembers, still a little wounded, how Chris turned down her offer to sleep with her. It was not the rejection itself that hurt her most, but the fact that he, of all people, resisted the temptation she had so deliberately placed at his feet.</li><</if>> </ul> <</nobr>> <div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Chris’s attraction to Mrs. Barnett</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>not attractive at all</span> <span>intense desire</span> </div> <div class="axis-barattraction"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $caroline_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $caroline_opinion < 20>> not attractive at all <<elseif $caroline_opinion < 40>> slight attraction <<elseif $caroline_opinion < 60>> clear attraction <<elseif $caroline_opinion < 80>> strong attraction <<else>> intense desire <</if>> </div> </div> <<back "Back">>

Very slowly, Chris let his hand wander higher and higher up her thigh, and as he did so, his sister spread her legs a little wider apart. Now Chris was certain that she wanted it, too.\n<<set $ChristineMemory[6] to 1>>\nHe slowly slid his hand under her panties from the side. Carefully, he let a finger glide along her pussy. With that finger, he stroked gently over her rounded mound. When he felt her cleft, he let his finger trail down along it. Chris pressed his finger inside and felt that she was already slightly wet within.\n\nChristine sank back onto her back. There was a brief moment of hesitation—a glance—before she took off her panties herself. Chris now saw his sister’s naked pussy, and her labia, which looked incredibly soft. Her slit glistened with moisture.\n\n"I love you, Christine," he murmured, even as he took off his own underwear.\n\nChris grasped his hard cock and rubbed it back and forth a few times until he found her entrance. He maintained eye contact with his sister as he slowly lowered his hips; he watched her eyes darken and lose focus as he slowly penetrated her.\n\nChristine sighed deeply as the head of his cock slid inside her. Chris felt her labia part to receive him. He felt the pressure of her skin against his shaft, felt the wetness inside her, felt her aroused heat and her awakening lust.\n\nChristine let out a soft moan. She lifted her head and looked down at the spot where her brother was inside her. She watched her labia part and flare outward as he withdrew his cock, and press inward as he thrust back inside. Her breathing grew deeper and faster—almost imperceptibly so—but it did quicken.\n\nChris instinctively lowered his hips, lifted himself back up, and thrust his cock into her again and again. His eyes gleamed with lust; he no longer cared that his first time was with his sister. The new sensation of Christine’s wet pussy surrounding his hard cock was simply too exquisite.\n\nChris thrust into her with a steady, even rhythm, molding himself to the shape of her canal—noting every subtle ripple and contour—and reveling in the wetness and heat within her, as well as her now-aroused breathing.\n\nHer breath escaped her in a sudden gasp whenever Chris drove inside her, and she inhaled as he withdrew. Her head turned slowly from side to side, and back again. Her eyes were closed, her face a vivid expression of the new sensations she was experiencing.\n\nWith every thrust, Chris pressed himself against Christine and her clitoris. Her hips lifted slightly as he entered her, and lowered as he pulled back. She opened her eyes and looked at him.\n\nHe kissed her tenderly. But Christine was in no mood for gentle kisses. Hungrily, she pressed herself against him, kissing him passionately and wildly, and grinding her lower body against his. Chris tried to slow her down a little, but his sister followed a rhythm all her own. Her arousal shattered Chris’s self-control, sweeping him along in its wake. He pulled back almost completely before thrusting deep inside her with powerful force. Christine let out a throaty moan. She tossed her head from side to side, pressing her feet against Chris’s buttocks. Chris significantly increased his pace. Long, powerful thrusts whipped both him and Christine into a frenzy. The girl let out sharp, high-pitched cries, keeping time with the rhythm of his penetration.\n\nAgain and again, he drove his hard cock deep inside her, until his sister suddenly cried out in ecstasy. She clung to him as if seized by a spasm; the walls of her vagina tightened immensely, and her inner muscles massaged Chris’s cock with wild, uncontrolled contractions. Her body, too, twitched uncontrollably, thrusting repeatedly in wild spasms against Chris, whose member was being pushed and stimulated beyond the very limits of pleasure. Christine was still quivering from her orgasm when Chris already felt the first harbingers of his own climax.\n\n''Where does Chris cum?''\n❯ [[Inside his sister.|In seiner Schwester.][$ende += 1]]\n❯ [[He pulls out at the last second.|Er zieht in letzter Sekunde raus.]]\n

Christine suddenly hooked her arm through his. “Come on, we’re going dancing,” she said, without waiting for protest, and pulled him into the middle of the pulsing living room.\n\nThe beat thundered, deep and physical, the air warm, full of mixed perfumes and cheap alcohol. Bodies came closer, shoulders brushed each other, somewhere someone bumped against Chris’s butt.\n\nChris tried to sway along, but everything felt incorrectly calibrated. The heels made his steps shaky; every shift of weight was a small test of courage. The miniskirt climbed a centimeter higher with every movement, forcing him to keep his knees closer together than any rhythm allowed. The crop top stretched around his small chest, which moved and wobbled along with him like Jell-O—unfamiliar, unpredictable. It was only the slightest after-tremor, which made him all the more aware that it was there.\n\nChristine, by contrast, seemed to slip into it effortlessly. She moved confidently, laughed, briefly tilted her head back. The beat fit her as if it had been programmed for her. Chris watched her out of the corner of his eye, half impressed, half desperate.\n\nThen the boys came closer.\n\nOne slid in at his side, close enough that Chris could smell his breath. Another moved to the beat in front of him, a touch too close, his grin wide, his gaze wandering. They were “dancing up on him,” as everyone said—casual, playful, yet the distance was suddenly tiny, and Chris didn’t know what to do with his body. He took half a step back, bumped his butt against a hip, which immediately gave him a small shove forward.\n\nLucas was there—at the edge, just behind Chris. A familiar point where his gaze briefly sought support. But when one of the boys moved closer, Lucas didn’t ward him off. He didn’t push between them, made no protective movement. Instead, he instinctively stepped aside, as if making room for someone more determined.\n\n“Uh… I’ll get something to drink,” Lucas murmured, more to himself than to Chris, and disappeared into the crowd.\n\nIt wasn’t betrayal, more a reflex. Lucas wasn’t someone who dominated rooms. He was the one who stepped to the edge when others got louder. Just like Chris used to. Or still did.\n\nA boy laughed and briefly, far too casually, put a hand on Chris’s back. “Have a drink, then it gets easier!” he shouted over the music and pressed a red cup toward him.\n\nChris looked at the cup. The first one had already worked warmly in his head, had softened the outlines. One more, and maybe his body would feel less foreign. Maybe he could dance without feeling every millimeter of fabric. Christine looked as if she was having fun; she was in the rhythm, talking with Myles, laughing, seeming free. Chris didn’t want to ruin the party for her. He didn’t want to be the one causing problems.\n<<set $alkohol to 0>>\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[He takes the cup and drinks, even though he knows that more alcohol isn’t a good idea.|Den Becher nehmen und trinken.3][$alkohol += 1]]\n❯ [[He doesn’t take the cup because he feels that more alcohol would only drive him deeper into the strangeness.|Den Becher nicht nehmen.3]]

In DeShawn’s apartment, the world changed abruptly. The bass was gone, and so were the glaring lights. Instead, there was muted silence, a warm, slightly dry indoor air, and that feeling of suddenly having landed in a private life Chris didn’t really belong in.\n\nDeShawn closed the door behind them, barely said anything, just a short, deep murmur to Susan. Susan answered with a look that meant more than words. She simply pulled DeShawn along with her, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and the two of them disappeared into the bedroom almost immediately. The door didn’t slam shut, but it closed clearly enough to make it obvious: in there, they were alone together, and it would stay that way.\n\nChris remained standing in the hallway for a moment, half in the jacket-and-shoes area, half already in the living room, as if his body had not yet caught up with the decision. Latoya, on the other hand, moved as if she were greeting the room. She went ahead, let her hand glide briefly over the back of the sofa, looked around as if it were a stage.\n\nThe living room was simple but cozy: a dark leather sofa, a low table, a few framed pictures on the wall that didn’t feel decorative, but real. From outside came the faint hum of the night, otherwise only the quiet background noise of the building—pipes, a distant click, silence between breaths.\n\nLatoya turned to Chris and grinned. “Okay, honey,” she said softly, almost tenderly. “Now it’s just the two of us.”\n\nChris breathed, and the mesh top suddenly felt too thin for this silence. Everything was suddenly noticeable again: the fishnet tights, the high heels, the slight trembling in his hands. Latoya came closer, placed her fingers under Chris’s chin as if gathering Chris’s gaze and holding it there.\n\nThen they kissed.\n\nIn the club, the kiss had been like lightning. Here it was like warmth slowly creeping into the bones. Latoya’s lips were soft and sure, and her closeness had that effortless you’re okay that Chris wasn’t used to. Chris returned the kiss cautiously at first, then with more courage, as if his body were remembering that it could also let go.\n\nTheir hands found each other, first at shoulders, at waists, then more hesitantly at the hems of fabric. Clothing was taken off piece by piece—not hastily, more tentatively, like a conversation without words. With every item that slipped to the floor, Chris felt a mixture of relief and shame. The living room light was not glaring, but honest enough.\n\nChris paused briefly, as if his own body had suddenly gained weight. Not because anything was wrong, but because it was so real. Chris’s gaze wandered down over himself, saw the softer lines that had changed through hormones, the small breasts that no longer matched what others might once have expected. Something tightened inside Chris—that old reflex to want to apologize, to explain himself, to justify something.\n\nLatoya noticed it immediately. She didn’t stop, she didn’t pull away. On the contrary: she looked at Chris as if there were nothing there that needed to be hidden. Her hand gently stroked Chris’s penis.\n\n“Hey,” she whispered. “No stress. You’re beautiful. For real.”\n\nAnd it wasn’t even a big speech. It was only that tone, that matter-of-factness, as if the subject were settled. As if there were no “but.”\n\n[[Continue|Geräusche aus dem Schlafzimmer.]]

At some point on Thursday, a topic resurfaced, as if the school had an invisible current that washed things around in circles. Last week the boys had made their list—now the girls had decided to “strike back.” There was giggling in the cafeteria, notes being folded in the hallways, and even in class, paper balls traveled through the rows like small, secret birds.\n<<set $ort to "classroom">>\nChris was sitting in a class where no one was really paying attention anyway when a folded note landed on his desk. He glanced briefly left and right, then opened it.\n\nAt the top, in bold letters, it said:\n\nBOYS RANKING (DON’T SNITCH)\n\nBelow that was a list of names, with columns of little boxes beside them. “1 to 10” had been scribbled somewhere in the margin.\n\nChris’s first impulse was both defiant and childish: I’ll give everyone a zero. Because boys were stupid. Because he liked girls. Because somewhere inside, he still refused to take part in something like this. But in the very next moment it felt unfair—and besides, it would stand out. A column of zeroes like a protest poster.\n\nSo he forced himself to be “objective.” As objective as one could be when, in truth, one didn’t want to rate anyone at all.\n\nAnd strangely, it came more easily to him than he had feared.\n\nHe held the pen over the lines as if handing out grades on a boring homework assignment. A few boys got solid numbers without Chris feeling much about it—more based on symmetry than enthusiasm. Here and there he unconsciously drew little marks: a neutral stick figure beside a “5,” a tiny “meh” in miniature writing that he immediately crossed out again.\n\nThen came Dylan.\n\nChris’s pen hesitated for only a heartbeat—and then wrote a clear 10.\n\nHe felt himself grow warm, as if someone had caught him at it. Immediately, his mind began to argue: Not because I find him hot. But because it’s objectively true. Everyone sees that. That’s… statistics. He shifted his gaze upward: Several girls before him had already entered their ratings. Next to Dylan were tens everywhere. Many. Almost all of them. That reassured him—and made it worse at the same time, because it made him seem so normal.\n\nHe added a tiny, almost invisible star beside the ten, as if it were a purely factual note: top score. Then he got annoyed with himself for it and pretended the star was just an ink blot.\n\nWhen he reached Myles, he didn’t pause for long.\n\n0.\n\nNot because Myles was ugly. Chris knew he wasn’t. But because he was angry, and because solidarity with his sister expressed itself exactly like this: with a number that hurt. Girls stick together, he thought, pressing the pen a little harder than necessary as he circled the zero.\n\nThen came Lucas.\n\nChris’s hand slowed. Lucas had been kind. Loyal. And he was… obviously in love with him—with “Chris,” the way everyone saw him. At the thought, Chris felt that uncomfortable tug of guilt and tenderness, because Lucas meant it so honestly.\n\nHe wavered between 5 and 6. He wasn’t bad-looking, actually even cute in a quiet way—but Chris had no feelings for him, he told himself. Or at least wanted to believe. Finally, he put down a 6 and scribbled a small, harmless smiley beside it that meant more “nice guy” than “hot.”\n\nWhen he set down the pen, he looked at the sheet and was briefly startled by how naturally he had joined in. He folded the note back up as if making evidence disappear, and discreetly passed it on. What stayed with him was that contradictory feeling: a little satisfaction at Myles’s zero, a little pride over the “objective” ten, and somewhere underneath, the quiet realization that his “I like girls, I don’t care about this” wasn’t quite as watertight as he would have liked.\n\n[[Continue|Freitag, Onlinedating.3]]

Chris’s fingers fussed with the drawstring of the shorts as his gaze—against his better intention—slid toward Ruby as if on its own. First the face: the alert forehead, the red strand of hair that had come loose from her braid and was sticking to her temple, the sweet mouth. Then, a risky millimeter lower: the fine curve of the shoulder, the shadow where the collarbone begins—and there, the dull line of a bra strap flashing briefly in the fluorescent light.\n\nFinally, he gathered all his courage and looked even lower. Her breasts were held perfectly in shape by the delicate fabric of her lace bra, and the panties too clung to her hips as if they had been tailored to her body. The gossamer-thin fabric hid almost nothing of her nipples pressing through, and even the contours of her cute little labia were clearly visible through the thin material.\n\nBefore his mind could grasp what his eyes were doing, something moved in between—Christine. She stepped so abruptly into his field of vision that he flinched. Her eyes were narrow, dark, unmistakable. No word, no whisper—only that look: I know exactly what you were about to do. Stop.\n\nA wave of heat rolled over him. He immediately lowered his gaze as if he had burned himself on light, and pretended the knot in his shorts was suddenly the most important thing in the world. “Already done,” he muttered toward the floor, even though no one had asked. He pulled the school shirt a little straighter, smoothed the sides, mechanically checked whether the undershirt lay properly. The air felt thicker, as if it were carrying his shame away like a smell.\n\nChristine stayed standing there one heartbeat too long, until he really was looking only at his own shoes, then turned away without a word. Behind her, the sounds of the locker room slid back into normal: a laugh, a locker banging shut, Charlotte joking about something to do with tryouts, Ruby helping someone else press the name stamp into the shirt collar. And somewhere farther back, without him daring to look, Zoe, whose presence he felt more than saw—a small, constant magnet.\n\nHe breathed through it slowly, silently counted to four and back again. Shoes tied, shirt smoothed, hair pulled out of the collar. Nothing to see, nothing to say. Just get finished.\n\nOnce he was dressed, he squeezed between the bench and locker door toward the exit. He kept his gaze deliberately fixed on the handle, opened it with a calm movement, and stepped out into the corridor to the gym, where the other girls were already waiting in small groups.\n\n[[Continue|Sportunterricht.]]

Later, when they were outside again, Pittsburgh was cold and clear. The van smelled of night air and a hint of concert sweat, Zeke turned on the heater, and Chris leaned back into the seat, tired and happy. They did not talk much, more in short sentences: favorite parts, how absurdly good the sound had been, that one guitar riff that had carried everything.\n\nHalfway back home, the van suddenly began to jerk. At first it was only a brief hiccup, then a longer stutter, until Zeke cursed and put on the turn signal, rolling onto the shoulder. The concert was still rushing in Chris’ ears, the warmth of the evening still lay on his skin – and now, all at once, there was that cold “What’s wrong?” in the pit of his stomach.\n\nZeke got out, opened the hood, and bent inside. He seemed so natural doing it, as if he were calming a stubborn horse. Then he closed the hood again, shook his head, and pulled out his phone.\n\n“Roadside assistance,” he said, and dialed while cars passed them in the darkness. Chris stayed sitting in the van, his hands in his lap, and tried not to worry too much. He watched Zeke through the windshield as he spoke briefly and clearly, his brow furrowed.\n\nWhen Zeke got back in, his tone was calm, but the news was unpleasant. “They can’t come until tomorrow morning. Tow it or fix it on-site… I don’t know. But nothing’s happening tonight.” He turned halfway toward Chris. “There’s a mattress in the back. We can sleep there, if you want. It’s better than nothing.”\n\nChris’ heart gave a little jump. Part of him wanted to say “no,” out of sheer caution. But he could still feel the music, the kiss, that unfamiliar happiness that had softened him. And Zeke beside him did not feel dangerous, but… dependable. Chris nodded. “Okay.”\n\nHe wrote his mother a message that was supposed to sound sober, even though his fingers were trembling:\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Chris: Car has engine trouble. Roadside assistance won’t come until tomorrow morning. We’re sleeping in the back of the van.</blockquote> The reply came immediately, far too quickly, as if his mother had only been waiting for it. <blockquote class="quote">Mom: Aha 😉 Well then, have fun. Remember protection.</blockquote> Chris stared at the screen. Warmth and irritation rose in him at the same time. He put the phone away, as if that could erase the comment from the world.\n\nThey got everything ready in the back: blanket, pillows, jackets as extra padding. The darkness around the van felt like its own room, shielded by windows and silence. Zeke lay down beside him, not too close, but close enough for Chris to feel his body heat. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The evening hung between them like an echo.\n\n[[Continue|Hinten im Van.]]

Chris cleared his throat and laid his hands flat on his knees so they wouldn’t betray how nervous he was. “I… steer that kind of thing back to the menu and service,” he said calmly. “And keep my distance. Friendly, but clear.”\n\nThe boss raised an eyebrow, his mouth twisting into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Uh-huh. Just so you know: that ice-queen routine doesn’t do much for tips.” He tapped the pen against the clipboard, as if counting invisible dollars. “Customers like attention.”\n\nSomething tightened inside Chris, a familiar little no that he kept behind his teeth. Attention was one thing. Being reminded that his smile was supposed to be calculated was another. He only nodded, as if he had noted the advice, and tried to breathe steadily.\n\n“Can you handle cash? Ever worked a register before?” the boss asked without transition.\n\nMath. The thought gave a brief sting. Lately, numbers had started to slip, even though he hadn’t been bad at them before. He saw himself standing at the counter, counting change while someone waited behind him. A small dizziness that happened only in his head. “Yes,” he said anyway, and kept his voice from wavering. “I can manage.”\n\n“Good.” The chair creaked again. “Last thing: our diner has skimpy uniforms. Are you okay with that?”\n\nThe word “skimpy” hung heavily in the room, as if it had weight. Chris immediately felt the reflex to lift his shoulders, as if he had to defend himself against a gaze that wasn’t even on him yet. In his stomach, defiance and exhaustion mixed: one more room where his body was defined in advance.\n\n''What does Chris answer?''\n❯ [[He says he’ll follow the dress code, even if the thought makes him uneasy.|Chris hält sich an den Dresscode.][$diner += 1]]\n❯ [[He replies that remarks like that don’t belong in a job interview.|Chris sagt, dass solche Bemerkungen nicht Teil eines Jobgesprächs seien.]]

Friday afternoon, a gray winter light hung outside the windows, and the house had that rare quiet that smelled like the weekend. Chris stood in the kitchen, set down two cups, and poured tea when his daughter appeared in the doorway with a packed overnight bag. She was too polished. That was exactly what made him suspicious.\n\n“You look like you’re about to give a press conference,” Chris said, raising an eyebrow.\n\nShe rolled her eyes, but didn’t really grin. “Very funny.”\n\nHe slid the cup over to her and waited until she sat down. She wrapped her hands around the warm porcelain as if she needed something to hold on to, and then came the part she would never have told her mother.\n\n<center>[img[pics/vater_ende.jpg]]</center> “So… I’m not actually staying over at Leni’s tonight.”\n\nChris didn’t even blink dramatically. He only took a sip, set the cup down, and said as calmly as if it were a question about an outfit: “Okay. Where, then?”\n\nHer shoulders dropped a centimeter with relief. “At my boyfriend’s. His parents aren’t home.”\n\nThere it was, the little explosion. Chris didn’t let it go off. He nodded slowly, like a best friend who had already seen the sentence coming. “Okay.”\n\nShe stared at him as if she had expected thunder. “That’s it? No lecture? No ‘under my roof’?”\n\nChris twisted his mouth. “I got enough lectures as a teenager. That’s enough for one lifetime.”\n\nShe exhaled, a short, nervous burst. “Mom can’t know. Please. She thinks I’m at Leni’s. If she finds out, she’ll freak out.”\n\nChris’s gaze became soft, but clear. “I can carry secrets. But I don’t carry them blindly.” He leaned forward a little, as if they were conspiring. “Address. Name. And you text me when you get there. No discussion.”\n\n“Okay,” she said at once, almost grateful that he wasn’t discussing that, only safety.\n\n“And one more thing,” Chris added. He stood up, went to the drawer beside the fridge, and opened it as if it were a secret compartment in a spy movie. Without comment, he placed an inconspicuous packet of condoms on the table.\n\nHis daughter turned bright red and grabbed it as if it had suddenly become loud. “Dad!”\n\nChris shrugged, completely unembarrassed. “What? That’s not embarrassing. That’s responsible.” He smiled crookedly. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me. But you don’t have to put yourself in situations you’ll regret later.”\n\nShe looked at him, longer this time. “You’re… really weird.”\n\n“Thank you,” Chris said dryly. “I trained hard for it.”\n\nShe laughed briefly, then grew serious again. “I… I do want to. But I’m scared that then… that I won’t be able to back out anymore if it gets weird.”\n\nChris nodded, as if she had just asked him a perfectly normal question. “Then we’ll make a system.” He took his phone. “You text me when you arrive. And if you feel uncomfortable at any point, one single word is enough and I’ll come pick you up.”\n\nWhen she finally stood and took the bag, her nervousness wasn’t gone, but now she had a plan. Chris walked her to the door, helped her put on her jacket, automatically smoothed a strand of hair— a gesture that hovered somewhere between father and big sister.\n\n“And you… won’t tell Mom?” she asked once more, more quietly.\n\nChris looked at her, serious but warm. “I won’t tell her.”\n\nWhen she went out, he stayed in the doorway for a moment and watched her leave.\n\n[[Continue|Am Abend mit seiner Frau.]]

Then the blond from the other team took his shot. He sank his first ball right away and followed up with a second shot, though that one wasn’t successful. Chris stood obediently beside the table and watched, impressed, until it was his turn again.\n\n“Now it’s your turn again,” Nate grinned at him. Then Chris positioned himself at the table again with his stance slightly spread, the way Nate had shown him. Nate stood behind him and watched Chris’s ass through the skirt. Chris drew back, and once again he didn’t hit the ball properly. Immediately, Nate pressed himself against him from behind again and took his arms and hands to help guide him. It slowly began to get very warm inside Chris. Nate noticed that Chris wasn’t resisting as much as before, and so he pressed his crotch a little more firmly against his butt. His cock was slowly getting aroused, which Chris now noticed against his backside.\n\nChris was overwhelmed. What was going on here? Of course Nate was an attractive man, but Chris didn’t like men. His head knew that, but why was his body reacting like this to Nate’s closeness? They drew back together and sank Chris’s next ball together. “Cool, it’s working,” Chris blurted out.\n\nThe game went back and forth. Sometimes Nate elegantly sank a ball with a calm, controlled shot; sometimes Chris unexpectedly landed a hit that made him briefly proud. Between turns, Chris’s eyes kept darting over to Zoe and the blond. Zoe laughed, bumped him playfully with her shoulder, bent demonstratively low over the table when she was about to shoot.\n\n<center>[img[pics/zoe_billard.jpg]]</center> The blond grinned, said something, and Zoe pretended to punish him for it by sinking her shot with extra precision. She was having fun—and Chris sensed that he was too.\n\nAnd that was the problem. The more he relaxed, the more he noticed Nate: how his hand appeared on Chris’s body to correct him, then disappeared again. Each time, Chris felt a little electric shock—and each time he immediately told himself: Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mean anything at all.\n\nBut the feeling couldn’t be pushed away neatly. It was there, quiet, dangerously pleasant.\n\nThen came a particularly difficult shot: the white ball was lying awkwardly, the target ball half covered, the angle tight. Chris stood in front of it as if someone had put a math problem on the table. “I don’t think I can do this. Can you help me?”\n\nNate stood close behind him again, even closer this time because the angle required it, and grabbed his hips. He bent over the table with him and pressed his best piece against Chris’s butt. Don’t think about it! Chris told himself, but his body pushed his butt back against his crotch.\n\nChris didn’t know why his body was reacting that way, but his stomach told him it wasn’t right. Nate only noticed Chris’s movement against his member. It grew in his pants, and Chris noticed it too. What’s going on here, he wondered, but he couldn’t fight it anymore. His body wanted this. Chris realized that he was actually aroused and getting hard.\n\nChris was so startled by the feeling that he took the shot at the wrong moment.\n\nClack. The white ball hit.\n\nAnd the black eight rolled—very slowly, as if it had all the time in the world—into the wrong pocket.\n\nFor one heartbeat, it was quiet, then someone laughed. Zoe called, “Nooo!”\n\nNate whistled softly. “Well. That’s it.” He raised both hands. “You sank the eight before we were done. Game lost.”\n\nChris straightened up abruptly, as if he had to create distance. “Damn. Sorry.” His cheeks burned, but not only because of the eight.\n\n“It’s fine,” Nate said, too relaxed. “It was still fun.”\n\nChris nodded, but his mind was no longer on the table. He was a little shaken.\n\nHe forced himself to laugh in a way that was supposed to sound normal. “Yeah. Fun.”\n\nBut while Zoe was already whispering with the blond again, Chris held the cue too tightly and thought only: That was nothing. That was nothing at all. And precisely because he thought it so hard, he knew it wasn’t true.\n\n[[Continue|Der Abend wird fortgesetzt.]]

Chris lifted his head. “I… don’t need online dating,” he said, the words faster than his courage. “I already have a date. For Homecoming.”\n<<set $SusanMemory[6] to 1>>\nSusan paused, as if someone had pressed the remote control. “You have a date?” A brief, satisfied flash in her eyes. “With whom?”\n\nHeat crept up the back of his neck. It felt strange to say it out loud—both more right and more embarrassing at the same time. “With… Dylan.” He cleared his throat.\n\n“Dylan?” Susan raised her eyebrows, a smile leaping onto her face. “Our Dylan? The star quarterback?” She whistled almost soundlessly through her teeth. “Well, Chri—… now that’s what I call taste.” The corners of her mouth slid mischievously upward. “Between us: I wouldn’t kick him out of bed either.” She laughed softly, raising a placating hand. “Kidding. Mostly.”\n\nChris rolled his eyes inwardly, but the relief at not having to talk about profiles and filters was real. At the same time, a small knot of nervousness gnawed at him—he had said it: a date with a boy. And Susan seemed… thrilled?\n\n“Actually, I wanted to ask you about that anyway,” he began, half relieved, half uncertain. “I need… a dress. For the dance.” The word “dress” jumped a little, as if it had to get used to him.\n\n“A dress,” Susan repeated indulgently, as if she had ordered it herself. Then she clapped her hands softly once. “Of course you need one! And shoes. And a clutch. And—oh, we’re going out today.” Mentally, she was already at the dress rack; he could see it. “Something that falls elegantly, but lets the legs do their work. Color… we’ll try blue, maybe a deep green. And we’ll make a lovely afternoon of it.”\n\nChris nodded, feeling the familiar pull between shame and a prickling hint of anticipation. “Okay.”\n\n“Get your jacket,” Susan said, now fully in motion, “and drink another sip of water. We have a mission.” She threw him a triumphant smile that said: Her plan was working—only this time in his favor.\n\nChris stood up, smoothed down his skirt, and reached for his bag. His heart was beating faster than necessary, with fear and excitement at once. Homecoming with Dylan. A dress. And for a moment, all of it didn’t sound like a trap, but like a step he could take.\n\n[[Continue|Ballkleid einkaufen.]]

Chris and [[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]] enjoyed the evening.\n\nThe DJ laughed into the microphone, tapped it twice, and called, “Okay, Maplewood! Everybody onto the dance floor now—Macarena! I want to see every row!”\n\nA collective shriek went through the gym, as if someone had spoken a secret code. Everywhere, hands shot up, cups were set down, friends were grabbed by the sleeves. Chris felt Lucas’s fingers find his hand and simply pull him along before he could even think “Oh no.”\n\n“I can’t do this,” Chris protested halfheartedly, but his mouth was already grinning.\n\n“You don’t have to know how,” Lucas said, positioning himself behind a row of students. “You just have to act like you do.”\n\nThe music started, and the floor suddenly became one big shared stage. Chris stood among the others, shoulder to shoulder, and felt himself being pulled into the rhythm. Hands forward—a little too high. Turn the hands—okay. Hands on shoulders—the wrong side first, then quickly corrected. Lucas laughed softly beside him and did the movement with exaggerated precision, as if he had been part of the choreography since birth.\n\nChris’s body remembered faster than his head wanted it to. Not the Macarena—the feeling of moving to the beat without being ashamed. His arms joined in, his hips followed, the skirt swung in a friendly semicircle, and he felt the hold-up stockings as a secure edge, the sandals as a stable base. For a moment, he was aware of how his body felt—not like a problem, not like a secret, but simply like... him. Weight, warmth, muscles, air.\n\nWhen the famous hip movement came, of course it became a little embarrassing. Chris felt it immediately, that reflexive “Oh God,” because it was a movement that meant attention. But then the gym cheered as if embarrassment were expressly allowed today. Someone behind him shouted “Woooo!” and two girls in front of him made the hip move extra dramatic, and suddenly the whole thing wasn’t shameful anymore—it was shared.\n\n“You’re doing really well!” Lucas called over the music.\n\n“You’re lying!” Chris called back, but he was grinning so widely that it didn’t matter whether it was true.\n\nOn the next run-through, it worked better. Chris got the sequence right, even the turn landed, and when the crowd collectively cheered at “Hey Macarena!” he cheered along. He clapped briefly above his head, felt the heat in his face, which was no longer shame but excitement. In the mirror-ball dots on the floor, all he saw was movement and light.\n\nWhen the song faded out, the gym applauded as if they had just won a show. Chris was breathing hard but happy, his cheeks hot, his hands tingling slightly from joining in. He looked over at Lucas, still grinning, and realized that this evening didn’t feel like a test he had to pass.\n\nHe simply felt... part of it. With Lucas. With everyone. And maybe that was the most American thing about this moment: that even embarrassment here tasted like belonging.\n\n[[Continue|Krönung Homecoming King and Queen.]]

It did not take long for Zeke to find the courage he had only hinted at in the crush of the concert. He turned his head toward Chris, asked quietly, “Everything okay?” and briefly stroked his arm, as if testing whether closeness was welcome.\n\nChris nodded, and that was enough. Zeke kissed him again – gentle, careful, as if he had understood that Chris was still watching himself as it happened. Chris allowed it, gave himself over to the kiss, and heard a ringing in his ears. This time, not from the loud music. He enjoyed the tenderness, the warm feeling of not having to explain why his heart was beating faster.\n\nWhile their tongues played together, Zeke caressed the erogenous zones of Chris’ beautiful feminine body. Finally, he pushed the top up, and his tongue glided down Chris’ throat until it reached the little nipples. Both sides were worked over intensely with tongue, lips, and even a little with teeth. Chris answered this attention with a soft moan. Zeke licked lower and lavished especially tender attention on his navel.\n\nBut when Zeke wanted to go even lower with his skillful tongue, reality shot through Chris’ head like cold water. His secret.\n\nChris placed his hand against Zeke’s head and stopped him. “Wait,” he said hoarsely.\n\nZeke stopped immediately. “It’s okay.” His gaze was confused, then cautious. “Did I do something wrong?”\n\nChris shook his head, his throat tight. “No. Not you.” He forced himself to take a breath, searching for words that would not trample everything. “I… I can’t right now. Not further.”\n\nDisappointment flashed across Zeke’s face – not angry, more hurt, because he had misjudged the momentum. He nodded slowly, swallowed once, and sat back. “Okay,” he said quietly.\n\nLater, they lay beside each other with a little more distance than before. Their bodies still touched, their breathing eventually finding a calmer rhythm. Chris stared into the darkness, ashamed and relieved at the same time.\n\nIn the morning, roadside assistance came. Metal clinked, a tow hook was attached, voices sounded professional and too awake. Chris blinked into the daylight, feeling both tired and overfull at once.\n\nAs the van was loaded up and Zeke briefly spoke with the driver, Chris stood beside it, his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. Zeke came back, looked at him, and in his gaze there was still that warm “last night was real,” despite the uncomfortable night.\n\nWhen they were finally dropped off in Maplewood in a parking lot and Zeke had taken care of the formalities, they stood beside the van, both a little rumpled, but okay.\n\nChris took a step closer and gave him a little kiss on the cheek – brief, grateful, without pressure. “Thank you,” he said. “For the concert. For everything.”\n\nZeke smiled, a little crookedly. “It was good with you. Really.”\n\nChris nodded, and in his stomach there was a quiet glow: His first date with a man had been beautiful. The band had been great. Zeke had been nice. And at the same time, he felt ashamed of the loss of control the night before – not because the kiss had been unpleasant, but because he had realized how quickly he could lose himself.\n\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5b]]

With a calm gesture, Chris undid the straps of his sandals and placed them side by side, as if order had suddenly become important. Mrs. Barnett smiled at that — and then took over, determined and tender at the same time. She brushed a strand of hair from his face, kissed his neck, and Chris’s breathing quickened. The world became warmth, skin, the soft sound of fabric sliding over fabric.\n\nHis clutch lay forgotten. His phone too. Caroline pulled him toward her, kissed him again, and this time Chris gave in without thinking. He felt his uncertainty dissolve, not because it vanished, but because Caroline enclosed it, giving it no room to grow. When the ball dress finally slipped over his shoulders and landed on the chair, Chris lay uncertainly on the bed for a moment, as if he were afraid of being too much in this new state — and Mrs. Barnett caught him with a look that said everything: Exactly like that.\n\nThen Mrs. Barnett opened the zipper of her dress and let it sink to the floor. Wearing only her pumps now, she bent over his cock. She looked Chris in the eyes as her large breasts dangled and touched his cock, which was already stiff and peeking a little out of the thong. She carefully kissed his stomach, pressing her tits against his hard-on as she did, then slowly kissed his belly, licked it, before moving downward.\n\nMrs. Barnett looked Chris in the eyes one last time as she took his cock into her mouth with a satisfied sigh. “Aaaaahhhh!” Chris moaned and gasped as he felt her warm mouth around his cock, as her soft, skilled tongue dabbed over his glans and her wonderful sucking mouth took his cock deeper and deeper into her sucking, wet mouth cavity. Now Mrs. Barnett had the horny cock in her mouth that she had dreamed about so often. The fact that it was the cock of her son’s “girlfriend” didn’t bother her at all. On the contrary, it only made it even more exciting for her. Mrs. Barnett enclosed Chris’s cock with her soft lips, giving him an indescribable feeling. The vacuum that her sucking mouth created around his glans until it was swollen full, feeling her fluttering tongue on the sensitive skin, her teeth playfully taking his hard, upright member between them — all of it was endless pleasure.\n\nSighing with desire, Mrs. Barnett sucked Chris’s glans into her wet pout again and again. Her head now bobbed up and down in his lap. There was absolute silence in the motel room; only her breathing could be heard, and her horny sucking sounds. Chris, meanwhile, could hardly believe that he was being blown by such a dream woman. “Oh yes, exactly... Oh, Mrs. Barnett...” he gasped, feeling as if he were in heaven.\n\nThen she released his cock from her mouth and played a little more with her tongue on his glans: “Come on, take everything off.”\n\nChris pulled off his stick-on bra, which had left small red marks along the edges on his skin. With his upper body bare, he now lay on the bed and shyly presented Mrs. Barnett with his girlish breasts. They were cute and had sweet pink nipples.\n\nThen, in one slow motion, like a sexy dance, he slipped his thong off completely and exposed himself to her. Grinning lustfully, she gently jerked his cock and breathed into his ear: “I want you to fuck me.” She lay back on the bed and spread her legs, touched her pussy lasciviously, and repeated again: “I want you to really fuck me hard, Chris!” Chris could hardly believe she had just said that, but he immediately sprang up like an excited dog and knelt between her legs.\n\n[[Continue|Chris fickt Mrs. Barnett.][$partner += 1;$sex += 1;$cameinside += 1;$ende += 4]]

Chris kept walking. The jacket now lay neatly over his forearm, as if it were only a piece of clothing and not a bag full of things he should never have read. He forced his steps into a normal pace as he walked back toward the gym.\n\nInside, it was louder: poms clapped, someone laughed, shoes squeaked across the hardwood. Penelope stood near the mats, her hair still half pinned up, a water bottle in her hand. She looked the way she always did—perfect, unshakable—and Chris had to swallow because now he knew how thin that “always” could be.\n\n“Penelope,” he said, lifting the jacket slightly. “Dylan gave me this. He said you forgot it.”\n\n“Oh. Thanks.” Casual. Matter-of-fact. Not even a “Why did Dylan have the jacket?”—more as if it were normal for things to find their way to her.\n\nChris noticed himself searching for a casual tone, anything that didn’t sound like “Why does he have your jacket?” “Good stunts today,” he said, as if he were talking about technique and not about his own heart.\n\nPenelope shrugged. “Yeah, it was okay.” Not mean, not condescending—just that queen bee sound where “okay” meant it was better than most.\n\nChris nodded, made a “hm,” and left before his face could show anything treacherous. Outside, it was cooler. He no longer felt the jacket in his hands, but the tug in his stomach remained.\n\nOn the bus ride home, the thought wouldn’t let him go. He stared out the window, watched houses glide past, streetlights like little dots, and in his head an image formed that he hadn’t asked for: Dylan and Penelope, the star quarterback and the queen bee cheerleader. It would make sense. It would even fit perfectly. Almost too perfectly.\n\nAnd then he wondered why he cared at all.\n\nBecause you’re just curious, he tried to tell himself. Because you want to belong. Because you… But every explanation sounded thin. He felt his thoughts keep jumping back to Dylan, to that brief “Hey, Chris” and the grin afterward.\n\nChris tried to think about something else—math, homecoming, training, anything practical. But every time, his mind slipped back to the same question, which stayed like a stone in his shoe: whether Dylan and Penelope were together.\n\nAnd worse: that it mattered to him.\n\n[[Continue|Bonding mit Mom.]]

Thursday felt different even before first period: red-and-silver ribbons on the lockers, “Go Wolves!” posters, the band rehearsing in the courtyard, and everywhere that crackle that stuck to your fingers.\n<<set $ort to "gymnasium">>\nFor anyone who didn’t know: at Maplewood High, a pep rally was a school assembly in the gymnasium, a hype-up event before the Timberwolves’ big game. Band, mascot, speeches from the coaches, the introduction of the teams and—as the centerpiece—the Pom Puffs’ show. It was about unity, noise, colors. About a moment when a school shouted at itself: We belong together.\n\nChris stood with the squad in the side corridor of the gym. The linoleum was cool against his calves, the bow was in place, and so was the line of the skirt. The girls were warming up. Wrists circled, ankles bounced, breaths were counted. Mr. Moore walked down the rows, checking grips, pressing thumbs into palms: “Tighter. Get the angle in.” Penelope stood at the front, her voice clear as a baton: “Counts off… five–six–seven–eight!” Chris felt the nervousness like fine electricity on his skin, but it didn’t burn—it glowed.\n\nThe entrance tore the gym open: the Timberwolves stormed through the banner, drums hammered, whistles shrilled, the bleachers flickered in red and silver. Chris and the cheer line started moving; the floor beneath his sneakers felt springy, the wind lifting the hem of his skirt just enough to make it look intentional. He felt eyes—many, curious eyes. Not the ugly staring from the first day, but recognition, curious acknowledgment: That’s the new girl. She can actually do this. Something grew in his chest, cautious and upright. Chris laughed without realizing he was laughing.\n\n<center>[img[pics/peprally.jpg]]</center> The announcer introduced the teams, the mascot hobbled through the middle in an exaggeratedly funny way, and the band struck up “Wolves Fight Song.” Chris and the girls led the chants: Let’s go, Wolves! – Clap-clap! The gym answered like one great voice.\n\nBriefly, very briefly, his gaze swept across the gym to—Dylan. He stood between two teammates, helmet tucked in the crook of his arm, and his eyes slid over the cheerleaders’ line, caught on Chris for one breath, the faintest pause, then moved on. The moment was so small it could almost have been missed; that was exactly why it burned afterward.\n\n“Cheer Block!” Mr. Moore called. The formation closed, hands to hands, knees soft, eyes up. The chants flew into the crowd like cleanly cut cards, call-and-response sawtoothing against the noise. Chris hit the counts, his High V snapped, the ripples ran smoothly through the line, a visible current of arms, smiles, timing.\n\nIn the ripple segment, Chris got the spotlight: he set up—toe touch, turn, hit—clean, on line, the landing sealed with a small breath. The floor roared; a bright, proud pressure rose into his throat without bothering him. “I can do this.” A sentence that surprised him and fit at once. He allowed himself the grin for only a heartbeat, then he was back in time.\n\nThen the stunt. Pyramid on three. Chris moved into the stand, set the grip—thumbs under, palm firm, elbows close. Penelope stepped in, light as always and still real weight. On four, it wobbled: a crooked angle somewhere above him, a hint of tipping momentum. Chris felt the tremor run through his forearms like Morse code. Reflexively, he corrected the grip, reset the line of force—heels into the floor, stomach tight, shoulder low. The pyramid held. A click, barely audible and yet unmistakable. The group’s breath left them all at once, and Mr. Moore’s “Yes!” cut just over the crowd.\n\nConfetti streamers shot into the air, the marching band came in with the fanfare, brass and drums pulling the sky a little lower. The pyramid held in the picture, hands up, bows flashing, and the colors whirled like a promise you were allowed to believe in for a moment.\n\nAs they left the floor, the gym still pulsed in their wake. Hands clapped them on the shoulders, “Nice job!”, “Clean!”—words that lay light and warm on the skin. Dylan came to the sideline with a few Timberwolves, bumped fists with Penelope, nodded to Charlotte—and his gaze lingered on Chris a fraction too long. Nothing open, nothing risky—just a tiny, respectful catch in his eyes that said: Seen. Chris felt the echo of the noise reverberate inside him, and felt the pride settle, calm, like a clean landing.\n\n''👑 Popularity + 2''\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte < 2>>[[A magical Friday.|Ein magischer Freitag.]]<<else>>[[Charlotte wants to talk.|Charlotte will reden.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris typed the answer, held his thumb over send for a moment, then deleted it again. In the bathtub was too much. Too close. Lucas wouldn’t even make it weird on purpose—but that was exactly what made it dangerous: Lucas would be happy, would ask questions, would picture it, and Chris didn’t want that image in someone else’s head.\n\nHe wrote anew.\n\nChris: <blockquote class="quote">I’m in the bathroom right now, getting ready. It’s been a long day 😅</blockquote>\nHe hit send before he could change his mind. Immediately came that little ping of confirmation, and Chris set the phone briefly on the edge of the tub, far away from the water, as if he needed to gain some distance.\n\nThe steam kept rising, the candle flickered. Chris leaned his head against the tile and listened to the soft gurgle as he moved his legs. Not lying, he thought. Just… not saying everything.\n\nThe phone vibrated again.\n\nLucas: <blockquote class="quote">Oh okay. Everything all right?</blockquote>\nChris breathed out, smiled into the steam, and typed:\n\nChris: <blockquote class="quote">Yeah, all good. Just a little tired.</blockquote>\nChris rested his head against the edge of the tub, let his feet slide out of the water—and kept writing until the steam slowly thinned and the bathwater cooled.\n\n[[Continue|Dienstag, Figurprobleme.]]

Ruby reacted before Chris even knew where his body wanted to go. She grabbed him and pulled him with a strong jerk behind the nearest tank, to where the phone light only drew streaks across the rust.\n<<set $RubyMemory[3] to 1>>\nChris stumbled with her, his heart wild, his breathing too fast. He felt Ruby’s grip, firm and sure, as if she were the only solid point in this hall. She stood so close that Chris felt her soft breasts against his chest. Her hair had that clean shampoo scent that the skunk stink couldn’t quite smother.\n\nThen a phone light swung forward again—and in its cone stood the “monster.”\n\nA skunk. Small, black and white, its bushy tail like a warning flag. It hissed again, that exact sound that had just sent everything into a panic.\n\n“Oh my God, it’s just a skunk!” someone shouted, too relieved, too late.\n\nA girl standing where Chris had just been screamed as if she had understood it instinctively. A short, fine spray—barely visible, but immediately noticeable. The smell hit like a wall. Sharp, biting, as if the air itself were protesting. It was so intense that Chris reflexively wrinkled his nose and almost gagged.\n\n“AAAH! NO!” the girl shrieked and jumped backward, hands in the air, completely overwhelmed.\n\nThe skunk fled at once, darting between the tanks and disappearing as if it had never existed—only the smell remained, and over the next few seconds it got worse instead of better.\n\nChris stood behind the tank, staring at Ruby as if he needed to check whether she was real. “You saved—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. Gratitude shot through his body, hot and shaky, and with it something else, something he couldn’t immediately place.\n\nChris didn’t think. He simply did what his body wanted. He reached for Ruby and pulled her against him. Not carefully, not politely. Firmly. Far too firmly. As if Ruby could let go once and let him fall right back into the panic. Chris’s forehead landed somewhere against Ruby’s shoulder, his face in the fabric of Ruby’s top, and for a moment there was only the pounding of his heart and Ruby’s breath brushing right past his hair.\n\nRuby froze—for only a beat. Then Chris felt Ruby’s hands, first hesitantly on his back, then more surely. An awkward pat that turned into a real hold.\n\n“It’s okay,” she murmured, but her voice had grown soft.\n\nChris wanted to let go. Really. He told himself: That’s enough now. This is embarrassing. You’re clinging to her like a child. But his hands didn’t obey right away. Chris slowly pulled back, his cheeks hot with shame and adrenaline. “Thank you,” he said quietly, sincerely.\n\n“Yeah, thanks, Ruby!” someone called while the sprayed girl frantically smelled herself and only grew more desperate. “Oh my God, it burns in my nose!”\n\n“Move,” Ruby said at once, now back in command mode. “We need to get out of here. Fast.”\n\n[[Continue|Raus aus der Fabrik.]]

“And you…,” Penelope began, leaving the sentence hanging in the air like an invitation not yet signed.\n\nPenelope drummed one finger on the table, as if internally calibrating a scale. “Hm. I’ve only known you for… what? Four days?” She smiled crookedly. “But you’ve already left a mark.” A few giggling agreements around the table.\n\n“Invite her,” Charlotte said calmly.\n“Definitely,” another chimed in. “Otherwise it’ll be boring.”\nChristine nudged Chris under the table. “She’s coming.”\n\nChris’s stomach did a little flip. The idea of sitting on the floor with a horde of girls in pajamas—masks, photos, pillows—made him freeze and tingle at the same time. Part of him was afraid, another part wanted it, and the horny boy inside him wanted it badly.\n\nPenelope blinked. “Okay, game time. If you guess my favorite color, you’re invited.”\nChris’s gaze fell involuntarily to her full, glossy lips—and the memory of the girls’ restroom, of the sweet scent, of the casually tossed-out “My favorite color is…”—vanished in the exact moment he needed it. Great. Now he had to guess.\n\n''What color was it?''''\n❯ [[Cherry Red|Cherry Red]]\n❯ [[Blush Pink|Blush Pink]]\n❯ [[Raspberry|Raspberry][$party += 1]]\n❯ [[Coral|Coral]]\n❯ [[Plum|Plum]]\n❯ [[Nude Rose|Nude Rose]]

The door of the girls’ locker room swung open, and a wave of warm air, shampoo, and deodorant smell hit Chris. Voices overlapped, locker doors banged, a hinge squeaked somewhere. The moment his foot crossed the edge of the tile, he regretted it. The courage that outside had still sounded like “not standing out” collapsed in on itself. Shame pulled his shoulders tighter, and the fear of being exposed ran down his back like cold water.\n<<set $ort to "girls’ locker room">>\nHe lowered his gaze so far that he almost tripped over his own bag, and headed for Christine, who had already opened her locker. “Here,” she said tonelessly, shifting a little to the side so he could squeeze himself between bench and metal. Chris nodded frantically, set down his uniform, and began changing as if trying to set a record. T-shirt over his head, shorts out of the bag—all with the mechanical concentration of someone who didn’t want to think.\n\nThe fabric of the school shirt scratched a little against his skin; this fabric blend that gets better after twenty washes, but still scratches today. “Okay,” he murmured, and was glad for the girlish undershirt he had reluctantly put on that morning: a thin, smooth piece of fabric between him and the T-shirt, a buffer shield for his far-too-sensitive nipples. Wearing a bra? No. That would have been too girlish for him, too final, as if setting a period he was still refusing internally.\n\nThe soundscape made it hard not to be curious. Laughter, scraps of conversation (“—Pep Rally—,” “—Tryouts Tuesday—”), the dull thump of a locker door falling shut. A thought slipped through the cracks against his will: If he was already here, if he was already enduring this fear—wasn’t it every boy’s dream to stand in a locker room like this? He blinked, straightened the hem of his shirt. Just one fleeting glance, a voice said.\n\nTo his left was [[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]]. Athletic, slim, with that sunny undertone that didn’t disappear even in fluorescent light. Her dark bangs sometimes fell into her eyes, and then she brushed them aside with an effortless motion.\n\nTo his right stood [[Zoe|Zoe March]], curly dark-brown hair swept back from her neck, shoulders narrow, her posture defiant and vulnerable at the same time.\n\nChris’s heart was beating too fast for the cramped room. He reminded himself that any glance that lasted too long could ruin everything. So he breathed, kept his shoulders narrow, tightened the drawstring of the shorts, and let his gaze…\n\n''🕶️ Cover +1''\n\n''Where should his gaze go?''\n❯ [[A glance at Charlotte.|Ein Blick zu Charlotte.][$charlotte += 1]]\n❯ [[A glance at Zoe.|Ein Blick zu Zoe.]]\n❯ [[He resists the temptation.|Er widersteht der Versuchung.]]

[[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]] was already waiting at the corner where the sidewalk branched off toward the party estate. He shifted from one foot to the other, hands in his pockets, his shirt a little too neat for the occasion. When he saw Chris and Christine, he jerked upright.<<set $ort to "Party House">>\n\n“Hey,” said Chris.\n\n“Hey,” Lucas said to Chris, then again to Christine, a little more quietly. His gaze traveled up Chris, got caught somewhere. “So… you look, uh… really pretty,” he stammered, unable to keep looking directly at Chris for long. “I mean, in a… positive way. Not like… I mean, yes, like that.”\n\nHis gaze snagged on the black miniskirt, which showed so much of Chris’s legs. Chris felt it like a spotlight. Heat shot into his face; he instinctively tugged the hem of the skirt down a little, even though there was nothing left to give.\n\n“Thanks,” he murmured, wishing Lucas would stop staring, or at least do it less obviously.\n\nChristine raised an eyebrow, letting her gaze wander back and forth between the two of them. “You invited Lucas?” she asked casually.\n\n“Yeah,” Chris said, maybe a little too quickly. “Thought he could… come along.”\n\n“Cool,” she said, and there was that knowing something in her tone that he preferred to ignore.\n\nThe three of them walked on until the house came into view: a large, two-story building with a wide veranda, strings of lights along the railing, music vibrating dully through the walls. Groups of teenagers with red plastic cups stood by the door, the front yard full of voices.\n\nInside, the living room had become a dance floor, sofas pushed to the edges, lights low, colored spots drifting over heads. An improvised “bar” had been set up on the sideboard: beer, mixed drinks, bowls of something that looked like punch.\n\n<center>[img[pics/party.jpg]]</center> Myles appeared with two of his friends as if out of the background. He immediately put an arm around Christine, pulled her to him, and kissed her openly on the mouth. “There you are,” he grinned. “You look insane,” he said to Christine, without fully taking his eyes off her cleavage.\n\nThe boys behind him sized Chris up with that half-open, half-astonished look. One nudged the other with his elbow, his mouth twisting crookedly. Their eyes lingered—on the miniskirt, on the legs, on the strip of stomach above the waistband. One gaze slid to the thin straps of the top, to the line of the small chest.\n\nChris folded his arms in front of his stomach, shoulders drawn slightly forward, as if he could make himself narrower. He stood a little off to the side, the music vibrating through the heels into his ankles. Every step felt uncertain, as if the shoes were going to betray him.\n\nA remark flew from the group—something about “miniskirt,” something about “brave.” Laughter. Not loudly malicious, but cutting enough. Chris laughed along uncertainly because he didn’t know what else to do. They’re laughing at my insecurity, he thought. The outfit clung to him like a mask someone else had chosen.\n\nTo the others, he looked like a party girl who fit perfectly into the scene. To him, it was a costume that only made sense from the outside. I visually fulfill an expectation, but inside I’m not there, shot through his mind. He felt the looks like fingers on his skin. They’re staring at my body, but they don’t take me seriously.\n\nLucas stayed near him, but not where Chris would have needed him. He was half a step behind, slightly to the side, always with a hand that briefly tapped Chris’s arm when someone spoke to him. “Everything okay?” he murmured then, so softly it almost disappeared in the bass.\n\nWhen other boys came over—bigger, louder, with effortless movements—Lucas automatically stepped a little aside. He made room instead of taking it up. He said nothing when they looked over Chris’s legs. When someone made a remark, Lucas laughed along too quietly, without objecting. He was close, but not between Chris and the stares. More of a satellite than a shield.\n\n“Here, it’s part of it,” someone suddenly said beside him and pressed a red plastic cup into Chris’s hand without asking. The smell hit him.\n\n“What is it?” he asked.\n\n“Beer,” came the grinning answer. Someone raised a cup to him and was already turning away again.\n\nChris lifted the cup to his lips. The first sip burned slightly, tasted more bitter and sharper than he had expected. “Beer usually doesn’t taste so strongly of alcohol,” he thought briefly. Or maybe he had imagined it differently. But his pulse was racing, his shoulders were tense, and something inside him wanted to blend into his surroundings instead of fighting against them.\n\nHe kept drinking, in small, embarrassed sips, then in larger ones. The alcohol crept in quickly. The music softened around the edges, the voices grew a little more muffled. His knees felt lighter, the shame moved one step back, as if someone had turned the dial down just a little.\n\n[[Continue|Tanzen mit Lucas und Christine.]]

[[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] was waiting at the end of the street, phone in hand, when Chris and Christine came around the corner. The light caught on her dress and made the fabric come alive.<<set $ort to "party house">>\n\n<center>[img[pics/Charlotte_party.jpg]]</center> She was wearing a short, satin-black slip dress with thin spaghetti straps; the V-neckline was edged with gossamer-fine lace that barely concealed anything and yet defined everything. The fabric fell over her like water, clinging to her waist and hips, ending just at her thighs. A black choker lay around her neck like a period after a sentence, with small hoop earrings to match. Her bangs fell feather-light across her forehead, her freckles looking almost golden in the warm evening light.\n\nChris’s gaze lingered a little too long. He swallowed. Next to Charlotte, his party-girl outfit made him feel less like a daring version of himself and more like someone who had shown up to a costume contest without knowing the rules.\n\n“Hold on,” Charlotte said when she saw them both. “Since when do you two walk around looking this gorgeous? You both look seriously next level.”\n\nChristine grinned and spun once around her own axis. “Finally someone recognizes it.”\n\nThen Charlotte turned to Chris, deliberately looking him up and down and back again. “And you—wow, your legs look insanely good.”\n\nThe words hit him like a mixture of compliment and floodlight. “Uh… thanks,” he managed. He had the feeling the miniskirt had just gotten even shorter.\n\nThe three of them kept walking. Charlotte casually talked about someone who had puked too loudly at the last party, Christine laughed, and Chris only half listened, busy trying not to buckle in the heels and to keep the skirt down.\n\nThe party house was a big place with a wide driveway, music already pounding from far away. Small groups stood in the yard, string lights hung on the veranda, colored light flickered inside. In the living room, the sofa had been pushed to one side; the dance floor was full of bodies swaying with varying levels of rhythm. An improvised bar with bottles and red disposable cups stood against the wall, behind it someone mixing drinks far too proudly and with no system.\n\n<center>[img[pics/party.jpg]]</center> They had barely set foot in the hallway when Myles appeared with two buddies. He was wearing his usual football shirt, grinned broadly, immediately pulled Christine to him, and kissed her without asking. She returned the kiss, her hand on his chest, as if she had practiced this role.\n\nThe boys behind him looked over Charlotte and Chris. An appraising glance, then a second one that lingered longer. A few eyes stayed on Charlotte’s neckline, others openly traveled along Chris’s legs. No attempt to be subtle. Just that open, blunt scanning.\n\n“You made it,” one of them called and raised his red cup. “To the prettiest company of the evening!”\n\nThey clinked cups. Liquid sloshed. Laughter, just a shade too loud and self-satisfied. Chris stood half a step behind the others, arms crossed over his stomach, shoulders slightly raised. He felt the heels with every small shift of weight, searching for steady footing, feeling at once too visible and not really there.\n\n“Wow, I wouldn’t have guessed you looked like that, Chris,” one said, somewhere between amazement and a dumb pickup line.\n\n“Yeah, bro, complete glow-up,” another laughed. “Not bad.” The emphasis was less on “not bad” than on “object worth looking at.”\n\nChris lowered his gaze briefly, suppressing the urge to tug down the miniskirt. To them, he was a hot sight. Inside, he felt as if he had fallen one step behind his own body.\n\n“Are they laughing at my insecurity?” he thought, when a remark was made about how unsteadily he was standing in the heels and two of the boys snorted with laughter. Everything was balanced on an edge, packaged as “teasing,” but it still hurt.\n\n“Wow,” Charlotte said dryly, as three of them all started talking over one another. “Three brain cells trying to form a sentence. Impressive.”\n\nThe boys laughed uncertainly, two of them out of reflex. One twisted his mouth, but didn’t know what to do with an answer that wouldn’t just backfire on him. The scene dissolved because they had been caught looking stupid. Charlotte gave Chris a quick wink.\n\nSomeone Chris didn’t even properly notice pressed a red cup into his hand in passing. “Here, it’s part of it,” he said, already half gone again.\n\nChris raised the cup to his lips and took a sip. The taste hit him directly: bitter, sharp, a mix of cheap beer and something stronger. His mouth tightened. “Oof,” he thought. “Beer doesn’t normally taste like that. At all.”\n\nHe took another sip. And another, because the pounding of his nervousness was louder than the protest of his palate. The music pumped, voices blurred. He noticed faster than he liked how the warmth crept up into his cheeks, how the contours of the room grew a little softer.\n\n[[Continue|Tanzen mit Charlotte und Christine.]]

Chris reached for it hesitantly and closed his hand around Nate’s member. He squeezed awkwardly and then began slowly rubbing Nate’s shaft up and down in his fist, the way he had done countless times to himself before.\n\nNate’s member grew harder and harder, and Nate moaned, “Yeeeeah... keep moving your hand nice and up and down until I come!”\n\nChris didn’t feel entirely comfortable with it. Admittedly, he felt incredibly horny, but he hadn’t actually intended to become intimate with a strange man.\n\n“Does that feel good?” he asked Chris.\n\n“Uh-huh,” Chris breathed very softly, noticing how his hand was getting slicker and slicker and how Nate’s glans kept disappearing beneath the foreskin.\n\n“Oh yes, fuck me, fuck me!! AAAHHHHHHHHH!!!” Zoe suddenly screamed beside them as she came. Wave after wave of pleasure rolled over her as her orgasm hit. Her legs wrapped even tighter around the blond guy’s ass while his cock continued driving unhindered in and out of her soaking-wet cunt. Her fingernails scratched over his back while her sensitive nipples rubbed against his chest.\n\n“Yes, sweetheart, come on my cock. You’re such a hot, cock-crazy slut. Goddamn, you’re hot, girl. I’m going to flood your pussy with my cum!”\n\n“Yes, fill me with your seed! Shoot your hot stuff into my pussy!” Zoe screamed.\n\nThe blond guy rammed his cock into Zoe’s cunt several more times, fucking her hard and fast. Then, with a loud cry, he buried himself in her one last time while his cum shot from his cock and several thick, sticky spurts unloaded deep inside her pussy. He collapsed over her and gasped for breath.\n\n“Damn, that was good!” he announced.\n\nHe simply lay there like that for a moment before rising from Zoe. She lay panting on the sofa, trying to catch her breath again. Her legs were spread wide and cum trickled out of her thoroughly fucked cunt.\n\n“Come on, jerk my cock faster!!” Nate now moaned hastily, also close to coming.\n\nChris sped up his pace and could see the foam-covered glans disappearing faster and faster. Suddenly Nate tensed, thrust his hips toward Chris, and moaned very loudly. Then Chris startled and cried out briefly, because Nate was coming now. Hot cum ran over Chris’s hand, and his balls pulled tight, whereupon his cum now shot far. A thick white streak formed on his arm, and another burst landed directly on Chris’s chest.\n\n[[Continue|Später im Bad.]]

<h2>Ending 3: Chris and Charlotte’s Graduation Ball</h2> The school gym was barely recognizable. Where lines for basketball and volleyball usually cut the world into rectangles, string lights now hung from the ceiling, and a mirror ball cast wandering dots across walls and faces. It smelled of hairspray, perfume, freshly inflated balloons, and the sweet punch standing in large bowls along the edge. On the stage, a playlist was playing, too loud and yet perfect—exactly right for an evening when everyone wanted to pretend they were already grown up.\n\nChris and Charlotte arrived together.\n\nFor the first time, they didn’t pretend they had only ended up in the same place by chance.\n\nCharlotte wore an elegant ball gown—dark, softly falling, with a silhouette that made her look like a main character. Chris wore a dress that looked so natural on him, as if it had always belonged there: not like a costume, not forced, but worn. The fabrics glided in the light, as if they had been made to breathe in this gym.\n\nTheir hands found each other, very calmly. No frantic looking away, no “just for a second,” no distance out of caution. Charlotte intertwined her fingers with his, and Chris felt something inside him straighten—a small, proud lift in his chest, like a ribbon that finally no longer had to be hidden. That was the feeling he had known for so long only in secret: not between doors, not in messages, not in quick glances. But openly, in the middle of the room.\n\nThey walked across the dance floor. The light cast bright circles on Charlotte’s shoulders, and Chris saw a few looks turn toward them—some curious, some surprised, some only briefly before moving on. It wasn’t the silent “judging” he had feared so often. It was more that moment of registering: Ah. So that’s how it is. And then—nothing. Or a small smile. Or a shrug. The world did not end.\n\nChris felt Charlotte squeeze his hand a little more firmly. Not a grip that held him in place—more a grip that said: I’m here. Stay with me.\n\nThey stopped where the music was loudest. Chris looked at Charlotte, and there was no uncertainty left in her gaze, only a clear, calm decision. She leaned toward him as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and kissed him.\n\nNot quickly. Not secretly. Not in a way that meant they had to pull apart immediately afterward.\n\nA kiss that was allowed to stay.\n\nChris felt his whole nervous system go still for a moment—like a radio that had finally found the right station. Then came warmth. Safety. And that almost outrageous happiness that did not apologize for itself. When they pulled apart, they both laughed softly, breathing, and stayed so close that no one could fit between them.\n\nAnd then they danced—just like that. Charlotte placed a hand on Chris’ waist, and Chris’ free hand found her back. They moved slowly, more like two people only just getting used to the space they were now occupying together. Again and again, Chris’ eyes met someone’s at the edge—wide-open eyes, a fleeting whisper. But this time it did not make him shrink. This time he stood.\n\nHe did not stand alone.\n\nWhen the song changed, Charlotte stayed very close and said, so softly that only he could hear it: “We don’t have to pretend anymore.”\n\nChris swallowed, because suddenly it was easy to nod. “No,” he said. “We don’t.”\n\nIt was not an official coming-out over a microphone, not a grand statement on a stage. It was bigger and smaller at the same time: two hands that did not let go. A kiss that was not hidden. A dance that said what it was.\n\nA couple in love.\n\nAnd as the points of light wandered over their dresses, Chris felt that proud straightening again—this time without shame in the shadows. Just real. Just there.\n\n[[↩ Back|Enden]]

Stil +1

Christine shoved him away hard. “Are you completely crazy, Chris?” she hissed, her hand already on the edge of the bed as if she had to push herself off.\n<<set $ChristineMemory[5] to 1>>\nHe sat up with a jerk. “I… I thought—”\n\n“You didn’t think at all!” she cut him off. Her gaze was cold, hurt. “I wanted closeness, cuddling—not for you to kiss me. We’re siblings! How do you get the idea that that’s okay?” She shook her head, as if trying to shake him out of her thoughts.\n\nChris’s face burned. “I’m sorry,” he managed, quietly, too late. “I misread it.”\n\n“Misread it?” She gave a short laugh, without humor. “I feel like absolute crap and my brother takes advantage of it, thanks.” She got up, smoothed down her nightgown, as if she could wipe the moment out of the fabric.\n\nHe helplessly raised a hand, then let it sink again. “Christine, please—”\n\nShe went to the door, threw him one more hard, disappointed look, and disappeared, the latch falling softly into place.\n\nChris stayed sitting on the bed, his heart somewhere between his throat and his stomach. The vanilla candle kept flickering stoically. Shame settled heavily over him. Please don’t tell Mom, he thought, meekly and with no guarantee at all, and stared at the door behind which her footsteps had already faded.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n[[Continue|Samstag, Susan neue Ideen.]]

After the anecdotes, the jury withdrew only briefly—more a symbolic “we’ll deliberate” than any real back-room drama. The host filled the pause with a few sentences about “tradition,” “community,” and the “Founders’ Spirit,” while the three finalists stood side by side and pretended they didn’t have knees.\n\nChris felt his pulse beating in his throat. Now it didn’t matter what he wanted—the decision was already on its way.\n\nThen the host came back, envelope in hand, and the audience grew quieter. “Maplewood,” she said, “are you ready?”\n\nApplause, a few whistles. The nerds were already whooping before anything had even been announced.\n\n“Our third place…” The host made a small pause, letting the tension build. Chris felt his fingers claw into the fabric of the bodice. “…goes to Contestant number seventeen: Chris Braun!”\n\nFor a second, it was as if the air were escaping from a balloon—not bad, more relieving. Chris smiled, gave a brief wave, bowed ever so slightly, the way he had been taught. He was third. He had made it far without winning. Perfect outcome.\n\nHe watched as the runner-up was called forward. A pretty sash was draped over her shoulder, shiny and with gold lettering. Then the winner—another sash, a little crown, big applause. Someone handed over vouchers that were tucked inside an envelope and held up demonstratively. The audience cheered, flashes went off.\n\nChris got… a handshake.\n\nThe mayor stepped up to him, squeezed his hand, gave him a kiss on the cheek, said something like “well done.” No ribbon, no envelope, no bow. Just a brief, polite conclusion, as if he were a sentence in the margin of a page.\n\nAnd yet: Susan was beaming as if Chris had just won. When he came off the stage, she briefly placed her hand on his back, firm and satisfied. “I’m proud of you,” she said softly, and in her voice lay that warm, self-confirming happiness: You delivered.\n\nChris nodded. He was tired, but also relieved. Third place was exactly right: enough recognition to make his mother happy—but not enough to pull him even deeper into this pageant thing.\n\nBackstage, he changed again, loosened the bodice, untied the apron, breathed out as his normal clothes wrapped around him once more.\n\nOutside, he found the D&D boys immediately. Ben, Jay, and Max were still standing together like a small guard. When Chris walked toward them, it burst out of them: cheering, clapping, a far too loud “Yeeees!”\n\n“Third place!” Jay shouted, as if Chris had just won the Super Bowl.\n\n“You were literally in the top three,” Ben said reverently, pretending he had to bow.\n\nMax grinned crookedly. “That was strong.”\n\nChris laughed—truly, this time. “You’re completely insane.”\n\n“We’re loyal,” Jay corrected solemnly.\n\nThey set off again, as if the festival were finally really theirs: got maple fudge (Ben spilled some), played a minigame at one booth where Max was suddenly surprisingly good, and later sat on a low wall with fries and soda while the strings of lights above them grew brighter. Chris noticed the pressure of the competition slowly crawling out of his body.\n\nThe rest of the day didn’t belong to Susan, not to Maplewood’s stage, not to the “Founders’ Spirit.” It belonged to a small group of nerds who cheered as if he were a hero—and who, without knowing it, gave him the best prize of the whole day: the feeling of simply being part of it and having fun.\n<<set $choice_ahorn1 to 3>>\n[[Continue|Bewertungstag.]]

The courtroom was colder than Chris had expected. Not just because of the air conditioning humming softly somewhere above the wooden panels. It was the kind of cold that formed when strangers tried to sort suffering into file folders, times, and evidence numbers.\n\nChris sat beside Ms. Parker in the second row. His father sat on his other side. He had his hands folded, so tightly that his knuckles stood out pale.\n\nSusan sat at the front.\n\nShe was wearing a light-colored suit and had her hair neatly pinned back. From behind, she did not look like someone who had frightened her child. She looked like a mother who had come to a parent-teacher meeting.\n\nThen the prosecutor placed the first folder on the table.\n\n“People’s Exhibit One,” she said. “School records from Maplewood High School.”\n\nA screen was turned on. Chris saw his own photo.\n\nBut not his name.\n\nChristina Braun.\n\nBelow it were date of birth, address, emergency contact: Susan Braun. Everything neatly typed. Everything official. An administrative form pretending a lie was just a field to fill in.\n\nThe prosecutor asked calmly, “Was this name requested by Christoph Braun himself?”\n\nThe man from the school administration cleared his throat.\n\n“No. The documents were submitted by his mother.”\n\nChris heard someone quietly draw in a breath somewhere behind him. Maybe Christine. Maybe someone else. He did not dare turn around.\n\nThe next witness was a doctor.\n\nDr. Elaine Porter, an endocrinologist from Pittsburgh, explained in a clear voice what the blood values meant. She did not speak dramatically. She did not need to. The numbers on the screen seemed more sober and worse than any sobbing.\n\n“These values,” she said, “are consistent with hormonal treatment that, without careful diagnosis and without a patient’s informed consent, would not have been medically justifiable.”\n\nThe defense attorney asked whether Susan might have only been trying to help her child.\n\nDr. Porter looked briefly toward the jury.\n\n“Medical help begins with truth,” she said. “Not with coercion.”\n\nChris felt his father’s hand beside his. Not intrusive. Just there.\n\n[[Continue|Aussage2]]

beliebtheit +2

Chris rang the doorbell at the Walters’ front door, and after a moment [[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] opened it. She let him in, and they went upstairs to her room without much talking.\n<<set $ort to "Charlotte’s house">>\nUpstairs, it looked as if Charlotte had stopped right before cleaning up: a few clothes over the chair, a stack of notebooks on the bed, an empty bag of chips in the corner. “Give me two minutes,” she said, and began carrying things from A to B.\n\nChris automatically helped without being asked. He gathered up books, straightened pillows, folded a blouse. It felt good to do something practical instead of staring into the gap between them. While Charlotte pulled drawers open and pushed them shut again, he handed her things, as if they were acting out an everyday life that had once been so easy.\n\n“Can you quickly take my dirty laundry to the bathroom?” Charlotte finally asked, holding out a laundry basket to him and avoiding his gaze as if that were a safe task.\n\n“Sure,” said Chris.\n\nWith the basket in his arms, he walked down the hallway. The bathroom door was half open, and inside he heard the rustle of fabric. Charlotte’s father Joseph was standing in front of a mountain of laundry, one basket on the left, one basket on the right, his helpless look in between, as if the laundry multiplied at night. He was wearing an old T-shirt and had that slightly overwhelmed but loving expression Chris had seen before: a father who was making an effort, even though no one had explained to him how to be everything at once on his own.\n\n[[Joseph|Joseph Walters]] turned around, noticed Chris—and became a touch more embarrassed than he would have liked. “Oh, hey… Chris. Um.” He gestured to the baskets. “I’m sorting right now. I thought I could manage it, but honestly…” He gave a brief, small laugh. “I’m not particularly… gifted when it comes to this.”\n\nChris carefully set the basket down.\n\nJoseph reached into a pile, pulled out a lace piece—a pair of panties, delicate, clearly not “everyday cotton.” He held it up as if it were a puzzle from an escape room. “Charlotte… uh… does she really need something like this?” he asked toward the door, even though Charlotte wasn’t there. Then he looked at Chris, searched his face for help, and asked more quietly, “Does this go with the regular things, or…?”\n\nChris’s cheeks immediately grew hot. It was the kind of embarrassment that wasn’t dirty, just simply… too intimate for a conversation with his girlfriend’s father. And yet he knew the answer with frightening precision. Too well. His gaze darted away for a moment, then back, and he forced his voice into calm normality.\n\n“That… is best put in a laundry bag,” he explained patiently, as if he were talking about delicate fabrics in chemistry class. “Wash cold. Delicate cycle. And not together with towels.” He pointed to the cupboard. “If you have a mesh bag… like, a laundry mesh bag?”\n\nJoseph’s face visibly relaxed, as if someone had handed him an instruction manual. “Ah. Laundry bag. Yes. I think I’ve got one somewhere.” He hastily pushed the panties aside, not dismissively, more respectfully, and scratched the back of his head. “Thanks. Honestly.”\n\nHe looked into Chris’s face and saw a really pretty girl with lips any normal man would have wanted to kiss immediately. He had to remind himself that this was his daughter’s girlfriend.\n\nChris nodded, still red, but also a little relieved that he could help. He saw Joseph sorting the baskets anew, and suddenly it seemed less like chaos and more like a solvable problem.\n\nThen Joseph snorted quietly and gave a crooked grin. “Once… really just once… I accidentally washed a red sock with the white shirts.” He raised both hands as if surrendering. “After that, my shirts were… pink. Charlotte laughed like crazy.”\n\nDespite everything, Chris had to smile briefly. “That happens.”\n\n“Yes, and before, she would have…” Joseph broke off, his gaze drifting away for a moment, as if he were looking for something in the room that was no longer there. His voice grew softer. “Before, my wife would have just shaken her head and fixed it again. I…” He exhaled, almost soundlessly. “I’m really lost without… well.”\n\nChris’s chest tightened, not dramatically, more like a quiet sympathy. He didn’t know Joseph’s loss in detail, but he could feel how heavily he carried it—in these small everyday moments where no one applauded. Chris swallowed and said quietly, “You’re making an effort. It shows.”\n\nJoseph looked at him, surprised by the sentence, as if he hadn’t expected someone to simply say it like that. Then he slowly nodded. “Thank you, Chris.” An honest, almost relieved thank-you.\n\nChris pointed to the baskets again. “If you want, I can help for a moment…”\n\nJoseph smiled, a little embarrassed, but grateful. “You’d be an angel. And I promise I’ll never ask you about… lace pieces again.”\n\nChris turned red again, but this time he laughed softly along with him. And while they put a few items into the right baskets together, something small and unagitated came into being between them: embarrassment that didn’t separate them, but became a shared secret—and the feeling that Joseph didn’t see him as a problem, but simply as someone who could help.\n\n[[Continue|Probleme mit dem DVD Player.]]

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Moore… but I think I’ll pass for now.” Chris kept his gaze straight, even though the words felt heavy in his mouth. “Maybe later.”\n\nA brief, curt standstill. Moore nodded, too professionally and a beat too quickly. “Suit yourself.” Something twitched in his face—disappointment he didn’t bother to polish. “I expected more commitment from you.” Then he turned away, whistled, and called to the other girls. The whistle sounded harsher than necessary.\n\nChris breathed out, as if someone had loosened a belt that was too tight. The wind brushed over the grass, the lines gleaming dully. He put the water bottles into the crate and let his gaze drift—until it caught on Christine.\n\nChristine was standing a few yards away with a football player—sturdy, solid shoulders, helmet under his arm. Myles, from her grade. He was grinning broadly, talking, making small circles with his free hand as if telling a funny story. Christine laughed, a real, bright laugh; her braces flashed in the sun. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear—a reflex Chris knew when she was nervous and flattered at the same time.\n\n[[Myles|Myles Pierce]] tapped on his phone, briefly showed her something; Christine leaned forward, nodded, tapped something back. “Really?” Chris’s ears caught a fragment. Myles’s grin grew even rounder. He let the helmet snap against his hip, raised his hand in farewell—so casual in the way that only looks effortless with lots of practice.\n\nChris suddenly thought back to Friday—to Myles standing at his table, the letterman jacket slung casually over one shoulder, inviting him to the movies; to his hurried no, because everything had felt wrong and far too public. And now the same Myles was standing there laughing with Christine. An unpleasant prickling crept up the back of Chris’s neck: switched tracks pretty fast, he thought, or maybe just typical high school. For a moment he wondered whether he should tell Christine about the invitation—warn her? But what could he say without sounding petty or embarrassing: He actually wanted to go out with me? In the end, he pushed the thought away. The situation was humiliating enough already, and Christine looked happy. He decided to stay quiet.\n\nChristine came back to him, with a little spring in her step. “What did he want?” Chris asked, and heard how much he sounded like a big brother, even though only one year separated them.\n\n“Nothing. He’s just nice,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to suppress her smile.\n\n“Mhm.” Chris’s gaze followed the football player as he trudged back to his teammates. Nice, yes. Big, yes. And old enough to know how to seem casual. A thin thread of worry tugged at him, quiet and familiar. At the same time, there was a small sting—not jealousy, more the strange feeling that everyone around him was slipping into roles so naturally, while he still had to spell out every step.\n\n“I’m doing special training now,” he said, more to himself than to her. “With Mr. Moore.”\n\n“Really?” Christine looked at him, surprised and—to his relief—a little proud. “Cool. You’ve got this.”\n\nHe shrugged, grabbed his bag. On the way off the field, the wind blew the hem of the skirt against his thighs. Somewhere between Myles’s grin, Christine’s laughter, and Moore’s schedule, the second week suddenly felt denser—annoying, promising, and dangerously close to something that smelled like belonging.\n\n[[Continue|Ein Bad am Abend.]]

“Good catch rate,” Chris managed, trying to make it sound dry. It landed somewhere between cool and coy. Dylan laughed—briefly, warmly—and slowly set him back down on the step, his hand still on Chris’s hip.\n<<set $PenelopeMemory[0] to 1>>\n“Can you put weight on it?” he asked. Chris tested it carefully. A slight tug ran through his ankle, nothing wild. “A little,” he said, and Dylan’s closeness suddenly turned “a little” into an “ow.” He grimaced; it wasn’t a lie—just… a small exaggeration.\n\n“Okay.” Dylan nodded, already in decision mode. “We’re going to the nurse. Or better: I’ll take you.” Before Chris could protest, Dylan bent forward and lifted him with a soft, effortless motion—a classic bridal carry in the school hallway, one no one had rehearsed for. Chris was so confused he didn’t even resist.\n\nThe hallway reacted the way hallways react: “Whoa!”—“Did you see that?”—two or three phones went up, red recording icons blinking. Someone murmured “so lucky,” and a girl by the railing twisted her mouth into an envious, disbelieving half-grin. Chris’s face burned. Embarrassment rained down the back of his neck—elsewhere inside him, something began to tingle. Butterflies in his stomach. It was undeniable: Dylan’s strong arms held him securely and firmly. A beautiful feeling. He would never have admitted it to anyone—least of all himself.\n\nThe door to the nurse’s office snapped shut behind them, and the hallway noise was cut off. It smelled of disinfectant and cold air from a quiet fan. Dylan set Chris gently on the cot, as if he were made of porcelain.\n\n“I’ll get Mr. Robertson, he’s right around the corner,” Dylan said, casting one more assessing glance at the ankle—“stay seated”—and was already gone again in two long strides.\n\nChris looked at his heels as if they were the actual crime. His heart was still beating too fast; he forced his breathing into slower rhythms. The school nurse was apparently not there at the moment. Instead, after half a minute, Mr. Robertson came in, a stack of notebooks under his arm, Dylan in the doorway.\n\n“Do we have a stairway victim here?” [[Mr. Robertson|Wesley Robertson]] asked in that half-serious tone. “Sit properly for a moment. Shoe off, please.” Chris opened the strap and carefully slid out of it.\n\n“I have to get back to Chemistry,” Dylan put in. “All good?”\n\n“All good,” Mr. Robertson confirmed. “Thanks, Captain.”\n\n“No problem,” Dylan said, and his gaze brushed over Chris once more, briefly, as if he wanted to say take care of yourself without wasting words. “See you later.” Then he was gone, the hallway noise entered for one breath and fell silent again.\n\nMr. Robertson knelt down and looked at the ankle, his gaze slowly wandering along Chris’s entire leg. He placed his hands gently on the foot and pressed lightly. “Does that hurt?”\n\n“A little,” Chris said.\n\nMr. Robertson suddenly went quiet, and his hands slid upward along Chris’s pantyhose. His fingers caused light shivers on Chris’s skin. A tingling along the path of his fingers.\n\n“No drama,” Mr. Robertson judged. “Probably just sprained. Ice pack on it, wait ten minutes, then put weight on it slowly,” he said, placing a hand on Chris’s knee, the fingertips dangerously close to the hem of Chris’s skirt.\n\nIt was a strange feeling, being touched like that by an adult man. When Mr. Robertson’s hand slowly but steadily slid higher, it was too much. Chris pulled his leg back, stood up. “I… it’s okay. Really.”\n\n“Slowly,” Mr. Robertson warned, but Chris had already slipped the shoe back on. “All good. Thank you, Mr. Robertson.” He nodded, too quickly, and picked up his bag.\n\n“Chris?” the teacher called after him, friendly, but with that note that says: I am the predator and you are my prey. Chris raised a hand without turning around and pushed himself back into the hallway. The noise hit him, the world acted as if nothing had happened. His ankle throbbed faintly, his cheeks glowed. He set off—carefully, step by step—and forced the rhythm of his heels to grow quieter again.\n\n''👑 Popularity + 1''\n\n[[Continue|Nach der Schule Cheer-Tryout.]]

Chris said nothing. He just stood there, listened to the others, and quietly hoped Ruby’s resistance would be enough. But the group was in hype mode: dare, evening, thrill. One of them said they only had to go in for “two minutes.” Another claimed Ruby was the sensible one anyway, the one who watched out for everyone. It sounded like a compliment—and like a trap.\n<<set $ort to "maple syrup bottling plant">>\nRuby rolled her eyes and hunched her shoulders. “Okay,” she finally said, too loudly, as if she had to drown herself out. “But if someone tears their leg open, then it’s all your own fault.”\n\nThey went through the open door.\n\nInside, the air was cooler. The sweet syrup smell was stronger, as if it had to be lodged somewhere here in the concrete. The phone lights cut narrow cones through the dust, and every step sounded too loud: gravel, shards of glass, the faint crunch of something that couldn’t be clearly named. Above them, pipes hung like dark veins; rust dripped in slow motion in one spot. In the distance came a ping—metal settling—and immediately someone went “Ooooh” like in a movie.\n\n“It’s like it was built for a play,” one of the boys said, and his voice echoed faintly, as if the walls weren’t quite empty yet. “Set: post-apocalyptic diner meets syrup hell.”\n\n“Improv, people,” a girl called, raising her phone like a spotlight. “Scene one: We are lost orphans searching for the last maple candy!”\n\nThey laughed, tossing exaggerated horror-movie lines back and forth. “Who made that noise?” “I’m going into the dark hallway alone!” Phone lights became “spotlights,” shadows became “monsters.” For a few minutes, it really was more theater than danger—as if jokes could neutralize the rusty silence.\n\nChris went along with it, half smiling, half tense. He felt Ruby’s presence beside him; she said less than outside, but she didn’t fall behind. Her eyes scanned the floor, the corners, the doors. She acted as if she were only annoyed. Chris noticed that she was scared—and that she was ashamed to show it.\n\nThey came into a larger hall. The ceiling was high, open in places so that a strip of evening light broke through. Rusty tanks stood like silent giants, and on one wall the old emblem really was still visible: a maple leaf inside a circle, pale as a memory. The syrup smell suited it like a lie that refused to stop giving off its scent.\n\n“Okay, photo here,” someone said. “Proof of the dare.”\n\nThey gathered on a kind of wooden catwalk that must once have been a work platform. Chris’s gaze automatically went downward—gaps between boards, dark depth beneath. He wanted to say something, but then it happened.\n\nA board gave way.\n\nA sharp crack, a cry, a body abruptly disappearing—not completely, only halfway, as if the floor briefly swallowed someone and then spat them back out. Someone slipped through, one leg hanging down into a darker area that looked like a basement. A phone light shot downward, trembling.\n\n“Oh my God!” someone shouted.\n\nChris reacted before he thought. He dropped to his knees, grabbed the forearm of the person who had slipped, and pulled. It was heavier than he had expected—bad angle, splintery wood, panic in the other person’s body. Chris tensed his shoulders, braced his feet against a crossbeam, and pulled again, with a jerk that came from reflex.\n\nThe body came up, stumbled onto the catwalk, breathing in gasps. No one was seriously hurt, just shaken and dirty. Voices spilled over one another, tangled, relieved, panic-laughing.\n\nChris remained kneeling for another moment, his pulse in his wrists.\n\nRuby was beside him immediately, her eyes wide in the phone light. “You’re… stronger than you look,” she said, and it didn’t sound like a joke. It sounded like an observation that would settle into her head.\n\nChris’s throat went dry. “Adrenaline,” he muttered too quickly. “They were just… standing awkwardly.”\n\nBut he felt how the sentence didn’t quite cover it. The pull inside him wasn’t only muscle, but fear: that his “mask” had split at a seam. Strength was something he always held back as a girl, softened, packaged away. And now it had shown itself, uninvited.\n\n[[Continue|Raus hier.]]

That afternoon after school, Chris walked with Ruby to the pet store at the edge of the shopping center because Ruby had to pick something up “real quick”—care supplies for Stardust, something with a brush attachment and special oil that, according to Ruby, “really made a difference if you knew what you were doing.”\n<<set $ort to "pet store">>\nInside, it smelled of hay, wood shavings, and that slightly artificial mix of animal feed and cleaning products. Ruby headed straight for the counter, gave her order number like a small adult who always knew what she was doing. Chris trudged after her, glad simply to be able to spend time with his friend.\n\n“Should take a minute,” Ruby said as the clerk disappeared into a storage room. She leaned against a shelf, hands in her jacket pockets, eyes alert and impatient—Ruby, in other words.\n\nAnd then it happened.\n\nShe turned her head as if she had heard a sound and stopped dead. To the left of the register was a low area with small enclosures. Rabbits. Fluffy, round, twitchy-nosed creatures cuddling into straw or curiously sniffing at the bars.\n\nRuby took two steps toward them as if she had been pulled by a magnet. Chris followed automatically. He expected a matter-of-fact comment about “too-small enclosures” or “the wrong food.” Instead, Ruby leaned forward—and her voice suddenly shifted into a register Chris had never heard from her before.\n\n“Hellooo,” she cooed in a baby voice that absolutely did not suit her. “And who are you? Hmm? Who are youuu?”\n\nChris blinked. Ruby, who usually fired off formulas like arrows and built every sentence like an argument, was talking to a rabbit as if it were a baby with secrets.\n\nThe rabbit—a little gray one with white paws—lifted its head, its nose twitching. Ruby made a soft, delighted sound.\n\n“Oh my God, look,” she whispered to Chris, as if they had just discovered a rare animal. “The ears. The tiny ears!”\n\n“Ruby…” Chris couldn’t help laughing. “You sound like—”\n\n“Shhh,” Ruby said, completely serious, as if this were an important conversation. Then back to the rabbit, even more gently: “Are you a lady or a little gentleman? Hm?”\n\nChris felt his heart grow warm. It was so surprising that for a moment he forgot what his own day had been like. Ruby suddenly didn’t seem like the clever, direct strategist, but like someone who was made of cotton candy on the inside and only rarely let it show.\n\nThe rabbit wiggled closer to the bars. Ruby extended one finger, very carefully, and let it sniff. Her eyes grew wide, as if she were about to cry from the cuteness.\n\n“Aww,” she went, and this time it wasn’t a joke.\n\n''How does Chris react?''\n❯ [[He lets himself get swept up in the mood.|Chris lässt sich von der Stimmung anstecken.]]\n❯ [[He has to laugh.|Er lacht über Ruby.]]

<<back "Back">>\n\n<center>[img[pics/karte.jpg]]</center> Maplewood is a small town in western Pennsylvania, built around a wide Main Street with a diner, a drugstore, a bank branch, and the kind of town hall that has an oversized Christmas tree standing in front of it every December. The town feels big enough to consider itself important — with a small shopping mall, a high school, a football stadium, and its own mascot — and small enough that new faces still stand out. Maplewood sits along an older state route about an hour from Pittsburgh: close enough for shopping trips and “real” concerts, but far enough that daily life still feels closed in on itself. At the edge of town, the Little Maple River winds past before opening into a small lake where people fish in the summer. Above the town, a winding road leads up to a lookout point everyone knows and no one officially names: “Makeout Mountain.” From there, Maplewood looks like a model made of tiny lights, dark rooftops, and the bright strip of Main Street — the place teenagers drive to at night when conversations grow softer, glances last a little longer, and harmless kisses sometimes turn into something more.\n\n''Origin: a failed dream''\nMaplewood was founded in the early 19th century by a group of idealists who wanted to build a self-sufficient community: craftsmanship, agriculture, “free education,” and a sense of community that sounded progressive at the time. The experiment, however, ended abruptly: local stories speak of a scandal, of isolation, sexually abusive leadership, and a dynamic that sounded more like a cult than a community. Officially, not much of it remained. Unofficially, street names like Harmony Lane, an old meeting hall, and an annual festival recall the past while romanticizing it and never mentioning the darker chapters.\n\n''The syrup plant: a ruin with rules''\n<center>[img[pics/Sirupanlage.jpg]]</center> By the river stands a decommissioned maple syrup bottling plant that used to be Maplewood’s pride. Today it is rusting tanks, decaying halls, and signs that promise more than they enforce. On warm days, a sweet smell still sometimes lingers in the air there, as if the syrup had never fully let go of the concrete. Among teenagers, there is an unwritten rule: “Don’t go there after dark.” Dares supposedly never end well—and every graduating class has at least one story that sounds too detailed to be entirely made up.\n\n''Old families, old shadows''\nMaplewood has its “good names.” At the very top are the Barnetts—a family that has held land and business in town for generations. Their roots go back to the decades after the Civil War, when Pennsylvania, with its new penitentiaries and workshops, perfected a system in which labor meant not only reform, but also contracts, piece rates, and very reliable profits. The Barnetts were involved early. Not as guards, not officially. More like the sort of people who ordered “laborers,” received receipts, and never cared what those laborers looked like. Officially, the Barnett empire was clean: timber, resin, railroad ties, a company of hard work and honorable invoices. Unofficially, the wealth stood on a foundation of forced labor that was later called a “misunderstanding of the time.” Old account books still speak that language: “rented work gangs,” “transport,” “loss through escape.” None of that hangs in the museum. To this day, the family still owns a conspicuously large amount of “boring” land in Maplewood: parking lots, storage units, narrow strips along the route—property that looks inconspicuous but prints money permanently. In the town museum hangs an oil portrait of Elias Barnett, whose gaze looks a little too self-assured for an “honorable businessman.”\n\n''The archive no one digitizes''\nAnyone in Maplewood who truly wants to know something ends up, sooner or later, in the basement of the Maplewood Gazette. The local paper has archived decades of articles, police notes, and minor scandals—everything on paper, yellowed and sorted by year, not by subject. Accidents, arrests, strange fires, school rumors, court cases that never made the big news: anyone who digs around there does not always find answers, but often enough finds signs that Maplewood is more than Main Street and Friday Night Lights.\n\n<<back "Back">>

Susan tapped the pen cap against the notepad and looked at him—not sternly, more like someone examining a picture that was almost finished. “So. Your presentation.” Her hand made a small circle, as if taking in hair, dress, and posture all at once. “I’m… moderately satisfied. By now you have a feel for outfits, not just individual pieces. Your hair sits right more often, and with makeup you’re sticking to ‘less is more,’ which basically suits you. But…,” the word hung briefly in the air, “there could still be so much more.” A barely audible smile. “Courage with color, with shape. Clothes should be worn by you, not merely endured.”\n\nShe leaned back a little. “And yes—boys look. That’s not a drama, just a sign that you’re being noticed. If you want the right ones to see you, then make an effort with the details too. Put on standards that attract the right eyes.”\n\nChris nodded, twitching. “Moderately satisfied” burned more quietly than “wrong,” but it burned. At “boys,” something inside him tightened—a mixture of resistance and a questioning, unwanted pride.\n\n''How does his mother assess him?''\n<<nobr>><<if $beliebtheit <= 3>>[[Negative|Negativ2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $beliebtheit >= 4 && $beliebtheit <= 7>>[[Average|Durchschnitt2][$temp += 1]]<<endif>>\n<<if $beliebtheit >= 8>>[[Positive|Positiv2][$temp += 2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

hier entscheidet sich mit wem Chris Nachts schläft:\n\nwenn mir Charlotte zusammen:\nA) mit Charlotte schlafen\nB) (tempCharlotte > 0)Es sei denn, Chris hat letzte Frage ihren Namen genannt, dann beziehungskrise.\n\nAnsonsten: Chris schläft mit Christine\nEs sei denn er hat Frage 1 oder Frage 3 Christine genannt(tempChristine > 0), dann schläft er im Wohnzimmer auf der Couch und wird von Lucas befummelt

“Wait... I suppose I’m dry enough now,” Christine interrupted her brother.\n\nChris straightened up and came to a halt in front of his sister. He held the bath towel in his hand and let his gaze roam over the pregnant woman’s naked body. Christine, too, let her eyes wander, eventually coming to rest on her brother’s crotch. She put on a look of utter astonishment and remarked, “It seems you enjoyed drying me off quite a bit, didn't you?”\n\nChris followed her gaze and noticed the tent pitching beneath his skirt.\n\n“You really are...” Christine began.\n\n“Yeah, I’m really embarrassing—I know,” Chris immediately cut her off, his face turning crimson.\n\nAnd then something strange happened: Christine laughed. Quietly, hoarsely, honestly. She took the towel and wrapped it around herself.\n\n“You’re not embarrassing,” she said, suddenly serious. “You’re… there.”\n\nChris swallowed. “I only wanted to—”\n\n“I know,” she interrupted him. Her gaze was clearer than the steam. “And I’ve decided that I don’t care what anyone thinks of us.”\n\nChris looked at his sister questioningly. His expression was soft, overwhelmed, full of feelings he usually packed away. “Christine…”\n\n“Can you…put lotion on my back?”\n\nChris nodded at once, too quickly, and followed her as she went into her room. There she sat down on the edge of the bed and turned her back to him.\n\n“Back only,” she said briefly.\n\n"Back only," Chris confirmed just as briefly, even though they both knew it wasn't just about the back.\n\nHe took the lotion and warmed it between his hands. Then he placed his hands on her back—cautiously at first, as if testing whether she would flinch away. Christine didn't flinch. She sat perfectly still, her shoulders slowly relaxing.\n\nChris smoothed the lotion over her soft skin in steady strokes, working his way down from her shoulder blades. His touch was tender, yet not demanding. He was so focused that his breathing grew quiet.\n\nChristine savored her brother’s gentle touch. Through soft sighs, she let him know just how much she was enjoying the process. Chris sat behind her, and thanks to the mirror on the wardrobe, he had an unobstructed view of his sister’s small breasts. What he saw pleased him immensely.\n\nHe slid his hands forward onto her round, baby-bumped belly. Watching in the mirror, his sister observed as her brother carefully and gently applied the lotion, stroking tenderly over her abdomen. She smiled contentedly and made no move to stop him.\n\nHe stroked both hands upward over her belly, and he didn't stop even when his fingers reached his sister's breasts. Christine gave a start as she felt her brother’s fingers make contact with her bosom. Brother and sister locked eyes in the wardrobe mirror. Chris waited for a rebuke, but none came. He withdrew his hands, scooped up some fresh lotion, and once again reached his arms around his sister’s body from behind. This time, he placed his open hands directly onto her breasts and began to gently rub the lotion in.\n\nChristine offered no resistance. Her trembling suggested to Chris that this tender ministration was not leaving her unmoved. Chris continued his play with her breasts, making sure to let his fingers glide over his sister’s now-hard nipples.\n\n“Mmmmh!” Christine closed her eyes.\n\n[[Continue|Christine will mehr.]]\n\n\n\n

Chris told himself it had simply been pragmatic. A date with a boy was easier to arrange, he told himself—fewer questions, fewer complicated explanations, less risk of Susan getting suspicious. And besides, he really had received so many requests this week that he could hardly decide. At least that was what he told himself until it started to feel like a fact.\n<<set $ort to "at home">>\nWhen his [[mother|Susan Braun]] wanted to see the expected “results,” Chris opened the app with clammy fingers and showed her a profile. A boy, well photographed, confident, with that typical “I’ve got this under control” look. Susan leaned forward, studied the picture a moment too long, and raised her eyebrows appreciatively.\n\n“Oh,” she said, visibly impressed. “He’s hot.”\n\nChris’s face immediately grew warm. “I didn’t choose him because of that,” he said too quickly, too defensively. He heard how it sounded himself, and hated it. Not because of that, he told himself inwardly. Really not.\n\nSusan only grinned, satisfied like someone checking off a plan. “Good. Then that’s settled.”\n\n[[Continue|Er hat ein Date mit einem Jungen.2]]

Chris took a breath and forced himself not to look for a “safe” answer. “I… actually listen to a lot of post-rock,” he said. And in the very next moment he felt that little tug: Was that too honest now? Too… ungirly?\n\nRuby blinked, then grinned broadly. “Post-rock? Okay, I didn’t expect that.” It didn’t sound dismissive, more curious. “So… with long instrumental parts and builds and stuff?”\n\nChris’s shoulders sank a little, relieved. “Yeah. Exactly. When the song starts out quiet and then…” He made a growing motion with his hand, as if inflating an invisible sound. “…and then it gets huge.”\n\n“That’s actually really cool.” Ruby slid a little closer on the bed, as if he had just opened a secret door. “Which band?”\n\nChris hesitated briefly, then said the name that immediately felt like a familiar refuge: “My favorite band is called Northern Static.”\n\nRuby repeated it, as if tasting the sound. “Northern Static. Already sounds like fog and power lines.”\n\nChris had to laugh. “Pretty much exactly that.”\n\nHe got his phone, opened the playlist, and chose a song he liked—one that began with only a single guitar note and then slowly gained more layers, until it felt like an entire sky. He held the phone so Ruby could listen along.\n\nThe first seconds were quiet. Ruby raised her eyebrows, as if checking whether something else was really still coming. Then came the second note, the bass line, the rhythm—like a pulse that first had to find itself.\n\n“Oh,” Ruby said quietly, and it was that “oh” that meant: Okay, I get it.\n\nChris watched her out of the corner of his eye. How she didn’t immediately talk. How she really listened. After half a minute she nodded to the beat, barely visibly. “That has something,” she said. “It’s… kind of cinematic. Like driving in a car at night.”\n\n“That’s exactly why I listen to it,” Chris said, and he felt something inside him loosen. It was a good feeling, liking something without apologizing for it.\n\n“And you just listen to this?” Ruby asked. “When you’re studying? Or when you…”\n\n“When I want to think,” Chris said. “Or when I don’t want to think.” He shrugged. “Both.”\n\nRuby laughed. “Fair.” She tapped his phone. “Send me the song. I’ll put it in my playlist. Imagine: K-pop, K-pop, then suddenly… Northern Static. My mom will think I’m possessed.”\n\nChris grinned and sent her the link. “Deal.”\n\nThey talked a little longer—about favorite sounds, about music videos, about how some songs felt like colors. Ruby said that when she was studying, she sometimes needed instrumental playlists because lyrics distracted her. Chris said that sometimes that was exactly why he liked lyrics: because they pulled him out of his head.\n\nThen, from outside, came a short, impatient honk.\n\nRuby jumped. “Oh—that’s my mom.” She sprang up, grabbed her jacket, and shoved her phone into her pocket. “Thanks for letting me hang around. And… thanks for sharing. Northern Static is really good.”\n\nChris nodded and walked her to the door. “No problem.”\n\nA second honk, longer this time.\n\nRuby rolled her eyes, grinned, and put on her shoes. “I’ll text you later. And I expect more song recommendations, okay?”\n\n“Okay,” Chris said, and it sounded lighter than before.\n\nRuby waved and disappeared down the stairs. Chris stayed there for another moment, listening as the car door slammed outside and the car drove away. The silence returned—but this time it was less awkward. More… soft.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte > 1>>\n[[In bed in the evening.|In bed in the evening.2]]\n\n<<else>>[[Evening talks with Mom.|Abendliche Gespräche mit Mom.]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

Adam shook his head when Chris asked whether he could leave now. “Not yet,” he said, pulling his phone from the inside pocket of his ridiculous suit. His grin was gone. Instead, he had that look Chris had come to recognize by now: too calm, too sure.\n<<set $ort to "gymnasium">>\n“I have to show you something,” Adam murmured, holding the display so Chris had to see it.\n\nA video was playing on the screen. A dim room, shaky phone footage, some kind of party lighting. And then—Chris himself. Sitting on the floor, almost naked, wearing only his panties, his eyes glassy, far too soft in his movements. Boys around him. One pushing his cock into his mouth. Then another. His body, not resisting. His mouth, going along with it and willingly sucking on the pleasure shaft. And then, the way he looked into the camera. A smile, small, crooked, while semen ran from the corners of his mouth.\n\nChris’s stomach clenched painfully. He went cold, even though the gymnasium was warm. He only vaguely remembered that party three weeks ago—that he had drunk too much, that someone had pressed a joint into his hand, that smoke had been in the air. Nothing more. The next day there had only been a blank, an unpleasant not-knowing. And now that blank had been filled, brutally, with images. The girl in the video was unmistakably him.\n\n“Where...?” Chris’s voice barely came out. He felt the blush shoot into his face as if someone had turned the spotlight directly onto his skin. “Where did you get that? Who else has it?”\n\nAdam shrugged as if it were about a meme. “It went around,” he said quietly. “Not everywhere. But enough.” He swiped across the screen and paused exactly on the frame where Chris was smiling into the camera with semen around his mouth. “That’s... pretty clear, don’t you think?”\n\nChris swallowed. His throat hurt. His mind was racing: Who filmed it? Who sent it? Had people from school seen it? A wave of shame, panic, and anger rose up all at once. He wanted to knock Adam’s phone away, wanted to scream, wanted to simply disappear.\n\nAdam leaned a little closer. “So,” he said, now very calmly. “You’re staying with me tonight. You’re my date. Not just for a photo. You’re not walking away and pretending you’re here alone. You’re staying with me.” He lifted the phone a fraction, as if it were a key. “Otherwise I’ll publish this.”\n\nChris stared at the frozen image of his own smile. He felt as if someone were pulling at him from the inside. If Adam really spread the video, it would not only be his “mask” at risk—it would be humiliation, gossip, questions he could never answer. And yet something inside him screamed against even thinking for a single second about giving in.\n\nHis breathing was shallow. His fingers clawed around the clutch as if it could hold him in place. Adam waited, self-satisfied and silent.\n\n''How does he decide?''\n<<nobr>><<if $adam > 0 >>\n[[Chris gives in to the blackmail.|Chris geht auf die Erpressung ein.]]\n<<else>>\n[[Chris refuses to be blackmailed.|Chris lässt sich nicht erpressen.]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

They played until sweat clung to their temples and laughter tipped into side stitches. At some point, the Kinect left them alone; the screen switched to standby, as if it had understood. Both of them sank onto Lucas’s bed, breathing hard, their knees still springy from all the jumping around.\n\n“Time flies when you’re… not losing,” Lucas wheezed, shooting him a crooked look.\n\n“Cheeky,” Chris grinned, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. I haven’t had this much fun in a long time, he thought, surprised by how easy it had been—no pretending, just playing.\n\nThe laughter ebbed when Chris noticed that his little skirt had ridden up his legs as he sat down, and he saw Lucas’s curious, interested glances toward his legs. Quickly, Chris tugged the short skirt down into place over his lap as best he could.\n\nA soft silence remained between them. Lucas turned a little toward him, searching his eyes, coming a centimeter closer. His hand found the edge of the blanket, as if he needed a railing, then cautiously moved in Chris’s direction—a shy, open approach with no practiced routine at all.\n\nChris felt it even before the fingers reached his. He gently lifted his hand, stopped him, held the moment in place with a small shake of his head. “Hey…” His voice stayed kind. “I like this. Really. But—I just want to be friends.”\n\nLucas’s face didn’t fall dramatically, but quietly—a shadow passing over the surface of water. “Sure. Yeah. Sorry, I—”\n\n“It’s okay,” Chris said quickly. Guilt stabbed him, faster than he’d expected. “I mean… who knows. We’re only just getting to know each other.” He heard himself saying what he didn’t want to promise: a vague “maybe later,” a soft cushion for a fall. False hope, he thought, and left it there anyway—partly because he wanted to come back and see Mrs. Barnett; partly because Lucas reminded him of someone he himself had once been.\n\nLucas accepted the offer like a glass of water in the desert. “Friends,” he repeated softly, and his smile became visible again. “That’s good. Really.”\n\nThey stayed sitting beside each other for another moment, until the air became normal again. Then Chris stood up, smoothing his top. “I should get going.”\n\nOn the way down the stairs, he ran into her in the hallway: Mrs. Barnett. Her short, dark hair was tousled, one curl clinging almost accidentally to her forehead; the white tennis skirt sat a little crooked, as if someone had put it on in a hurry. Her cheeks were flushed—fresh exertion or sun, hard to say.\n\n“Already heading out?” Her eyes rested on him seductively, like a hand on a shoulder.\n\n“Yeah. It was… nice. We played.” Chris gestured vaguely upward.\n\n“I heard laughter.” A small, knowing smile. “It suits the house.” Her gaze slid along him a breath too long, lingering on his crotch. “I’m glad you were here. Come back, yes? Maybe we’ll find time for a few balls.”\n\n“I’d love to,” slipped out of him.\n\n“Good.” Her smile lit like a lamp. “I’m looking forward to your next visit.”\n\nOutside, the air was milky-bright. On the sidewalk, Chris felt his heart beating a little faster than necessary. Behind him, the front door fell gently shut. Ahead of him, a bus pulled in in the distance; he took out his phone, quickly wrote Lucas “Thanks, see you tomorrow,” and put it away again. His steps found their rhythm. He knew he was walking a narrow ridge—between genuine laughter, polite lies, and a warmth he didn’t want to admit to himself. But the path led back—and, inevitably, here again.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Message from Charlotte.|Nachricht von Charlotte.2]]<<else>>[[In the evening.|Am Abend.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris’ sister Christine came by almost every day during the first months after the birth. Not with grand speeches, not with exaggerated care. But with the things real siblings did: She brought casseroles, folded laundry, held the baby so Chris could shower, and commented on everything dryly.\n\n“You’re really… ridiculously good at this,” she once said when Chris was making a bottle and nudging the other baby’s bouncer with his foot at the same time. There was mockery in her tone, but her gaze was soft.\n\nChris snorted. “I’ve had practice.”\n\nChristine snorted back, then nudged him with her shoulder. “And? Still my big brother.”\n\nIt was a sentence that felt like a small, secret promise. That they had survived everything complicated. That they kept finding each other again. And that it did not matter what roles the world had given them – they were still siblings.\n\nSusan came less often. She kept her distance, like someone who did not dare. It was not some great revenge on Chris’ part. Just boundaries.\n\nWhen Susan wanted to see the twins for the first time, Chris had remained calm. He had given her a time, one hour, and he had said: “You come when I say. And you leave when I say.”\n\nSusan had pressed her lips together, as if she wanted to protest. Then she had nodded. Not because she had suddenly understood everything. But because, for the first time, she realized that she could no longer control Chris.\n\nWhen she finally held the babies in her arms, she was moved, truly so. And Chris allowed it – but on his terms.\n\nThere were days that were big: first smile, first night without screaming, first “mama”-like sound that stole Chris’ breath. And there were days that were small and still meant everything: breakfast at the table, Joseph half asleep and still refilling coffee, Charlotte lying on the carpet and telling the babies nonsense, Christine making fun of every mistake until she herself let the baby fall asleep on her shoulder.\n\nOn one of those completely ordinary mornings, Chris stood in the kitchen again, this time without flour on his face, but with two children’s voices filling the house. Joseph kissed him in passing, as if it were as natural as breathing.\n\nChris glanced briefly into the hallway mirror. He no longer saw the girl of coercion, gasping for air in a foreign role. He saw a woman who had built her life for herself – piece by piece, despite everything.\n\nAnd when he later opened the door and someone once again kindly called him “Mrs. Walters,” it did not feel like a mask, but like arriving.\n\nFrom “high school girl against his will(Highschool-Girl wider Willen)” had come “woman by her own will.” Mrs. Walters.\n\n''Ending 4 of 10 - "Wifely Dream"''\n<<set $ende4 to 1>>\n[[📖 Statistics|Statistik][$selbstbild += 3]] - [[🏆 Bonus & Endings|Enden]]

The school day dragged on as usual until afternoon, and the D&D club afterward was uneventful: A freshly printed sheet hung on the wall: ‘House Rules: ...’; no one commented on it, but everyone read it.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nDice, a few spells, a small argument about new rules, then it was over.\n\nChris packed up his things, smiled in the right places, and pretended this was all just another item on the schedule in a normal week.\n\nOutside, [[Adam|Adam Bowman]] was already waiting with his far-too-small scooter. Chris swung himself onto the back, clung to Adam’s jacket, and tried to hold his knees so that the skirt wouldn’t ride up.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Adam_roller.jpg]]</center> The slipstream bit coolly into his panties, and every burst of acceleration pulled him unintentionally closer to Adam. He didn’t like that—not because Adam was touching him, but because it felt like part of a role he wasn’t allowed to take off.\n\nAt Adam’s house, the lights in the windows were warm, and the front door opened almost as soon as they had rung the bell. Adam’s parents seemed like an older couple trying hard to be modern: friendly, a little too interested, with the kind of smile meant more to reassure than to pry.\n\n“Chris! How lovely that you’re here,” Adam’s mother said, pulling him straight into the kitchen. Adam was dismissed with a “Shoes off, jacket away” and disappeared toward the living room. Chris was left behind—apron tied on, hands already dusted with flour—and felt his stomach tighten. Of course, the baking wasn’t just baking.\n\nThe dough was quickly mixed: butter, sugar, eggs, flour. The smell was pleasant, almost homey. Adam’s mother set out the baking tray, tapped him lightly on the elbow, and said in the tone of a conspirator: “Homecoming is coming up soon, isn’t it?” Her tone stayed friendly, but her gaze became appraising. “And after a dance like that… some teenagers suddenly become very… spontaneous.”\n\nChris’s heart gave a small jump. “Yes,” he said cautiously, while smoothing out the dough.\n\n“You two are going together, right?” She sounded satisfied, as if she had checked off an item on a list. “That’s so sweet.”\n\nChris forced a smile. The floral apron suddenly felt like a uniform.\n\nAdam’s mother washed her hands, dried them, and then it came, just as Chris had feared. She lowered her voice, as if the dishwasher were listening. “I don’t mean this badly,” she continued, “but boys like to forget the temperature. And then everything is nicely browned on the outside—and raw inside.” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “You understand?” She smiled apologetically. “Boys can be a bit… reckless about that.”\n\nChris’s ears grew hot. He stirred too long, until the dough became tougher. “Mhm.”\n\n“Are you on the pill?” she asked outright.\n\n''What does Chris answer?''\n❯ [[He says yes, he’s on the pill.|Er sagt ja, er nimmt die Pille.2]]\n❯ [[He says no, he isn’t taking it.|Er sagt nein, er nimmt sie nicht.2]]

He leaned forward, slowly—as if he could soothe her doubts with caution—and pressed his lips against hers. A tender, uncertain kiss—more of a question than an answer.\n\nChristine did not pull away. Carefully, he nudged his tongue toward her lips and licked gently across them. His sister flinched slightly and lay perfectly still. Chris did not let this deter him. His tongue glided calmly over her soft lips, past her teeth, and deeper into her mouth. Then, he brushed against Christine’s tongue. His sister remained completely still, making no move to resist.\n\nChris tenderly traced the tip of his tongue over hers, and in the silence between two breaths, he sensed a heavy weight within her. She pulled away.\n\nHer eyes were still glassy, ​​yet behind that glaze lay a look of startled inquiry—a question she could not name.\n\n''How does she react?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $christine > 0>>[[Confused.|Verwirrt.]]<<else>>[[Disgusted.|Angeekelt.]]<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>\n\n

Chris went down on his knees in front of Dylan. He had to squeeze his eyes shut, he was so nervous about the next step. Trembling, he opened his mouth as wide as he could. Like that, he moved forward while guiding the penis between his red lips.\n\nDylan had to pull himself together so he wouldn’t immediately come in Chris’s mouth when he felt that pretty mouth on his cock.\n\nThen Chris closed his lips around Dylan’s glans and pressed his tongue up against it from below. Chris had seen a drop of clear liquid on Dylan’s glans. Now he tasted more and more of it on his tongue. It was a strange taste, but Chris submitted to his fate and licked and licked his tongue over the glans in his mouth. Dylan breathed slowly and deeply. He seemed to be enjoying it very much, because he grabbed Chris’s head and began thrusting into it with slow movements.\n\nEach time, Chris’s mouth was pushed deeper onto his cock. His glans was almost pulled out—then pressed firmly against Chris’s palate again. Finally he let go, and Chris continued the motion without hesitation, with the same devotion. Without noticing anything around him, Chris sucked and licked Dylan’s cock.\n\nBut after a few minutes, Dylan didn’t want to—or rather, couldn’t—wait any longer. He led Chris to the bed. Lying on his back, his legs pulled up to his chest, Chris offered himself to Dylan, who knelt in front of his butt with a stiff rod.\n\nDylan bent down and pressed his glans into Chris’s open butt crack. Chris twitched and a cold shiver ran through him as he felt Dylan’s cock enter his butt. In that moment, he could focus only on the fact that a hard cock was entering him. It was so strange … and at the same time incredibly good. He felt so connected to Dylan.\n\nAnd even though Chris’s own cock no longer got completely stiff because of the hormones, it twitched happily.\n\nChris and Dylan looked into each other’s eyes. Chris felt Dylan’s cock more and more intensely, and he looked at Dylan with an aroused and loving gaze. Dylan was in seventh heaven now; he had dreamed for so long of sleeping with his pretty cheerleader girlfriend. He bent down, opened his lips, and Dylan and Chris melted into an intimate tongue kiss while Dylan began thrusting into the tight ass-pussy.\n\nChris had always felt an emptiness inside himself. This boundless longing. But now, with Dylan deep inside him and filling him again and again, it was the exact opposite. It was a feeling of completeness, beyond anything Chris had ever known.\n\nChris whimpered and yelped; it was still unfamiliar and hurt a little too, but it was simply incredibly beautiful how his boyfriend took him. He bucked right back against him, clung to him with his arms, and felt Dylan’s balls slap against his butt with every thrust.\n\nEvery time Dylan buried his cock in Chris’s ass-pussy, it filled Chris with joy. Why had he been so afraid of the thought of being with a boy?\n\nHow they fit together, how Dylan was inside him now … a part of him. As a girl, Chris could experience an intimacy he had never felt before. Yes, that was what Chris had become… a teenage girl who felt her boyfriend’s cock inside her again and again… and enjoyed every minute of it.\n\n“You’re so tight, I won’t last much longer,” Dylan announced his impending climax.\n\n“Yes... yessss... yesssss,” Chris moaned, now instinctively jerking his own cock while Dylan fucked his butt.\n\nWith short, hard thrusts, throwing his head back, his face contorting and roaring like a rutting stag, Dylan emptied the contents of his balls into Chris’s intestinal canal.\n\nFor Chris, the ejaculation in his bowels felt like warm lava. A warm, pleasant feeling ran through his body, and shortly after Dylan’s shower of cum, which he had sprayed into Chris’s butt, Chris sprayed his own cum onto his stomach. A little ejaculate ran thickly down his hand.\n\nWith an audible “pop,” Dylan pulled his cock out of Chris’s tight ass-cunt and lay down next to Chris, gasping for air, while Chris thanked him with a kiss on Dylan’s lips.\n\nLater, when Chris had half fallen asleep in Dylan’s arms, he felt Dylan hold him a tiny bit tighter once more, as if he didn’t want to lose him even in a dream. Chris allowed it. Around Dylan, Chris had always felt safe and protected, but lying naked in his arms was a hundred times better. He lay there, sheltered and satisfied at the same time, completely exhausted—and for the first time in a long time, no longer alone with his secret.\n\n[[Continue|Die Zukunft.]]

Chris decided to fight. “No trick this time,” he said, more to himself than to the group, and reached for the dice. Ben described how the humanoid creature lowered its spear, its stony eyes narrowing.\n\n“Initiative,” Ben said.\n\nThe dice clacked across the table. Jay got a solid number, Max nodded in satisfaction, Adam murmured something about “granting mercy.” Chris’s dice rolled, stumbled, landed low. He made a face and pulled the sheet closer.\n\n“Jay, you first,” Ben directed. Jay leapt forward—a hit, but only a scratch. Max’s projectile bounced off the leathery hide. “Damn,” he hissed. Adam raised his hand—a blessing, halved by the earlier lost discipline of celibacy; Ben let him roll. “Half of it takes,” he said dryly. “You feel that you’re missing… the old powers.”\n\nThen it was Chris’s turn. He drew a breath, imagined his character’s movement: a low step, blade angled, a clean strike. The die rolled—a bad number. “Miss,” Ben said, without gloating, but mercilessly. Chris felt his shoulders sink. “It’s fine,” he murmured, more for his own composure than for the statistics.\n\nThe creature countered. Ben rolled behind the screen, glanced up briefly. “It hits,” he said, and added damage. Jay cursed softly. “I’m still standing,” he growled, but his mini wavered. The next round became a slog: Max botched an important action; his fingers twitched as if he wanted to pull the result back. Adam tried to heal—the roll came just short. “You feel the crack in the vow,” Ben commented, almost sympathetically. “The litany breaks off.”\n\nChris’s second attack—another low number. He forced himself into a smile that didn’t land. “I’m only hitting air today,” he said quietly.\n\n“One more round,” Jay suggested, but you could hear the wobble in the suggestion. The creature drove them back, spear following, step forward, the miniatures moving toward the edge of the map. Max failed a saving throw; his character sank. Adam tried to cover him, took an attack. Ben rolled. “Stable, but unconscious,” he said.\n\nChris looked at his sheet, at the few resources still standing. He began one final, desperate maneuver—a risky strike that promised all or nothing. The die rolled as if taking a run-up, tipped, and landed—badly. A soft groan went around the table; no one laughed.\n\n“The creature drives you back. You have to flee or fall,” Ben summarized calmly. Jay raised a placating hand. “Retreat,” he decided, and the room breathed out.\n\nBen described how they escaped, staggering through the side corridor, slamming doors behind them, hearing the spear thrust that stuck in the wood. “You slam the gate shut. Silence. Smoky torches. Lost ground beneath your feet.”\n\nFor a moment, no one said anything. Max stared at his sheet, then snorted and gave a crooked grin. “Okay. Today the temple won.”\n\nAdam rubbed the back of his neck and looked at Chris. “It happens. Next time… different tactic.”\n\nChris nodded, breathed through it, and let the die slide into his hand. The failure burned lightly, like a scraped knee—unpleasant, but honest. “Next time,” he said, and noticed that despite everything, the word felt good.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $unterwaesche == 1>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.]]<<else>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

A few days later, they were sitting in the community hall in Maplewood, where the midwife course was taking place. Chairs in a circle, mats against the wall, a flipchart with affectionate drawings of pelvises and babies. The room smelled of herbal tea and lavender, of that typical “we’re doing something good for ourselves” scent.\n\nChristine sat down slowly, searching for the most comfortable position. Chris took the place beside her, the bag on his lap, neat as always—as a girl, his hair tidy, his tights shining. Among the couples, he seemed like a special case, even if no one said anything. Pregnant women were sitting everywhere, their bellies like round chapters, and beside them men: hands on knees, slightly nervous, a little proud. Chris didn’t really feel the looks, more the feeling of not fitting into the expected picture.\n\nThe midwife greeted everyone, explained breathing techniques, showed exercises for the back and pelvic floor. The men were supposed to help with some movements, support, hand over water, hold hands. Chris did that for Christine automatically: he rolled up a towel for her so her back lay better, handed her the water bottle, helped her stand up when an exercise became uncomfortable. It wasn’t glamorous. It was more… calmly practical.\n\nOnce, while everyone was in the middle of a breathing exercise, Christine leaned briefly toward Chris and whispered, “It’s strange that you’re here.”\n\nChris grimaced. “Do you mean that negatively?”\n\nChristine shook her head. “No. I mean…” She searched for words. “You’re really here. You come along. You sit down here. You do this.” Her gaze drifted briefly across the room, to the male companions, then she lowered it again. “Myles would never do this.”\n\nChris felt his throat tighten. He didn’t say anything clever, only: “Of course I’m here. And I’m staying here.”\n\nChristine looked at her brother. Her eyes were glossy, but she didn’t allow a tear to fall. Instead, she drew her eyebrows together as if she were angry at herself and murmured, “Don’t say things like that so easily.”\n\n“Why?”\n\nBecause it did something to her. Because it made the ground beneath her feet softer, even though she always wanted to stand on solid ground. Because it was dangerous to get used to something so forbidden. She didn’t answer.\n\nWhen they walked home together, the sky was gray, the air cold. Christine pulled her coat tighter. Chris walked close beside her, matching his pace to hers without thinking about it.\n\nChristine suddenly realized that she was no longer just “getting through it.” She realized that she was looking forward to her brother’s closeness, to his way of simply staying. And that her heart had long since stored it as something different from love for a family member.\n\nShe hated that a little. And she needed it.\n\nWhen they stood in front of the house, Christine stopped briefly. “Chris?”\n\n“Mm?”\n\nShe looked at him, her voice small again. “If the baby… if it isn’t yours…”\n\nChris’ face immediately grew serious. He didn’t let her struggle through the rest of the sentence. “I’m still here.”\n\nChristine swallowed, as if that was exactly what she had feared – and exactly what she had needed. Then she nodded once, quickly, as if that could end the conversation.\n\nBut before she unlocked the door, her hand brushed his. This time she didn’t pull it away.\n\nAnd Chris, who registered it, didn’t do anything dramatic either. He simply allowed it.\n\nThat was how their feelings grew: not through grand gestures, but through all the little “I’m here” moments that Christine had never thought she could bear – and without which she no longer wanted to sleep.\n\n[[Continue|Christine nimmt ein Bad.]]

The Silver Spoon Diner was a different place after closing time. The streetlights outside were on, and inside only the dim light above the counter still burned. It smelled of cold coffee, cleaning products, and the grease from fries that never entirely left the air.\n\nChris stood at the end of the counter and counted his tips. He had sorted the coins into little stacks, smoothed the bills, counted again. The evening had been exhausting, but the amount felt like a tiny piece of control.\n\nRick sat on one of the chrome-shiny stools, his elbows spread wide on the counter, watching every movement. He said nothing for a while, simply letting the silence do its work, until Chris turned over the last bill.\n\n“You know,” Rick finally began, slowly, “you really should be grateful.” He tapped a finger on the counter. “Not everyone gets a job like this. Not everyone gets a chance like this.”\n\nChris paused without looking up. “I am grateful,” he said, trying to sound neutral. “I do my work.”\n\nRick snorted, as if that wasn’t enough. “Being grateful doesn’t just mean working. Being grateful means… showing it too.” He let his gaze glide over Chris’ uniform, the short skirt, the apron, the tights.\n\nChris’ neck grew warm. He pushed the tips into his apron pocket and took a step to the side, as if he were only making room.\n\nRick stood up. His footsteps sounded too loud in the empty diner. He came out from behind the counter and stopped too close—closer than a boss needed to stand after closing time. Chris sensed the smell of coffee breath and aftershave, the weight of his presence.\n\n“I only mean well,” Rick said, and his voice grew softer, greasy. “A pretty girl like you… you should learn how to show appreciation.”\n\nHis hands reached around Chris and grabbed his tits.\n\nChris’ breath caught. His body went stiff, as if someone had flipped a switch. He knew he had to get away, create distance, keep the door in sight. At the same time, there was that old, learned paralysis: don’t object, don’t escalate. But his hand clenched around the fabric of the apron.\n\n“Rick, stop it,” Chris begged him, as Rick played with his soft flesh and kneaded it thoroughly.\n\nChris felt his hot breath on his neck. His body was very close against his. His butt rubbed against his member. He felt Rick’s manhood growing while Rick’s fingertips rubbed rapidly over Chris’ sensitive nipples.\n\n“Please, Rick,” he pleaded, “let me go.”\n\nWithout warning, Rick licked Chris’ earlobe with his tongue.\n\n“Come on,” Rick murmured. “Just a little…”\n\nChris’ heart hammered. He felt a decision tightening inside him.\n\n''How does Chris react?''\n<<nobr>><<if $diner > 2>>\n[[Chris reacts with restrained rejection.|Chris reagiert zurückhaltend ablehnend.]]\n<<else>>\n[[Chris reacts impulsively, knocks Rick’s hand away, and slaps him.|Chris reagiert impulsiv, schlägt Rick die Hand weg und gibt ihm eine Ohrfeige.]]\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Description:''\nChris was naturally slender, with a soft, youthful aura: brown hair, by now almost automatically styled in a girlish way, long legs, delicate hands, no body hair. Because of the hormones, his breasts had become small but clearly visible; his hips and butt rounder, his waist narrower—shapes that made clothes like skirts, tights, and ball gowns look “right,” even if the mirror still sometimes startled him.\n\nOutwardly, he now came across convincingly as “one of them”—not only through clothing, but also through routine: make-up, posture, smiles, small talk. He received looks, compliments, and sometimes unpleasantly sexualized attention; it still embarrassed him, but occasionally flattered him too. Inside, it remained contradictory: a boy—and yet a role that felt less and less often like a mere costume. It was precisely this slow blurring that frightened him.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n''Statistics:''\nChris has jerked off <<print $jerkoff>> other people.\nHe has received a blowjob <<print $oral>> times.\nHe has given <<print $woral>> blowjobs to other men.\nOf those, he swallowed <<print $swallow>> times.\nHe has had a finger in his butt <<print $fingerass>> times.\nHe has had a penis in his butt <<print $anal>> times. (Creampied: <<print $creampied>>)\n<<nobr>><<if $sex == 0>>Chris is still a virgin.<<else>>\nChris has fucked <<print $sex>> women.<br>\nDuring that, he came inside them <<print $cameinside>> times.\n<<if $christine == 3>>(His first time was with his sister Christine)<<endif>>\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\nNumber of partners: <<print $partner>>\n\nChris has been sexually harassed <<print $harassed>> times.\nHe has been filmed/photographed <<print $film>> times.\nHe has been raped <<print $rape>> times.\n\nChris has kissed his sister <<print $kisssister>> times.\nHe has kissed his mother <<print $kissmom>> times.\nHe has kissed boys <<print $kissboy>> times.\nHe has kissed girls <<print $kissgirl>> times.\n\nChris’ sexual preferences: "I like girls. Um... I mean... I don’t like boys."\n\n[[Epilogue: Chris and Charlotte|Epilog Chris und Charlotte]]

<h2>Chapter 5</h2> Monday lay cold and pale over the street as [[Chris|Chris Braun]] and Christine closed the front door behind them. They walked side by side, too early for small talk, too late to turn back again. Frost hung like a breath on the hedges; every sound seemed too loud. Chris had made his shoulders narrow, as if trying to offer less surface area, and his gaze stuck to the cracks in the asphalt. <<set $wochentag = 1>><<set $wetter = 2>><<set $ort to "">> “Christine…” he began, his throat dry. “About Friday—I—” <<set $MylesMemory[2] to 1>> “No.” Christine cut him off at once, without looking at him. Her voice was quiet, but drawn hard. “I don’t want to talk about it. Ever. I just want to forget it.” She pushed the sleeve of her hoodie up and down again, as if the fabric had an answer. “That was a one-time mistake. I was sad and confused. No one can ever find out about it. To me, it’s as if it never happened. Please… never talk about it again.”\n\nChris nodded immediately, his eyes fixed on his shoes. “Okay.” The word sounded small and guilty in the cool air.\n\nThey kept walking side by side, with half a meter of air between their elbows, until the yellow nose of the bus appeared at the end of the street and the hiss of the door swallowed them.\n\nAt school, in the hallway, [[Myles|Myles Pierce]] was standing with a few teammates. Laughter, elbow nudges, that too-loud way of talking meant only for outsiders. “Friday before the game, we had one more go,” Myles bragged, and the others twisted their faces into grinning grimaces. “Before—well, you know.”\n\nOne jock glanced first at Christine, then at Chris. He laid his hand flat in front of his chest, making a board gesture. “Yeah, no wonder, with Planky… there’s nothing there.” Another gave a crooked grin and then pointed, exaggeratedly admiring, in Chris’s direction. “But the sister—Boob Chris—at least there’s something to see there, huh?”\n\n“Board versus curves,” the first added, clapping Myles buddy-like on the shoulder. “Picked the wrong sister, bro.”\n\nChristine stood rooted to the spot, her fingers clenching around the strap of her bag. Chris felt heat shoot up the back of his neck. “Shut your mouth,” he said quietly, but sharply, stepping half a pace in front of her.\n\nMyles raised his hands defensively, still grinning. “It was just a joke.”\n\n“You’re pathetic,” Chris said, clear this time. The jocks pulled their faces into bored masks; the thrill was gone when no one played along.\n\nShe turned away, stiff, and walked quickly down the hall. In the girls’ bathroom, she pushed the door shut behind her, leaned against the sink, and cried quietly, her face half turned away, as if she could push the tears back that way. Chris followed, pulled out a few tissues, and handed them to her without pressing her.\n\n“Here.” His voice was soft. He stood beside her, not in the mirror image, but a little behind her, so she wasn’t forced to meet his eyes. Christine took the tissues, pressed them against her eyelids, and drew in a jerky breath.\n\n“I’m sorry,” he said, though he knew exactly that it wasn’t his apology that mattered. “They’re idiots.”\n\nShe barely nodded, a trembling “Mhm” behind the tissues. The fluorescent light hummed, water ran somewhere in a stall, and for a moment the world was small enough that only this counted: his calm presence beside her, her breathing slowly finding its rhythm again.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1>>[[Cheerleading practice, Christine not focused.|Cheerleadertraining, Christine nicht bei der Sache.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2>>[[Drama club, dance number.|Theaterclub, Tanzeinlage.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $charlotte <2 >><<if $club == 3>>[[Visit to Adam’s parents.|Besuch bei Adams Eltern.]]<<endif>><<else>><<if $club == 3>>[[Visit to Adam’s parents.|Besuch bei Adams Eltern.2]]<<endif>><<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Chris’s hand froze. His throat went dry. In another world, he would have said, “What? No!” would have laughed, would have explained that nothing like that was going on. But in this world, “no” was dangerous. “No” was a door behind which questions lived: Why not? Haven’t you yet? Are you unsure? And behind the questions lurked the real problem.\n<<set $ort to "Adam’s house">>\nSo he did what he had been doing far too often lately: he lied.\n\n“Yes,” Chris said quietly. A single word that felt like a stone you swallowed.\n\nAdam’s mother blinked, and her face immediately softened—pleased, almost proud. “Oh, sweetheart… that is so responsible of you.” She smiled warmly, but there was a second message tucked inside that smile, one that made Chris’s cheeks burn even hotter: She thinks you’re sleeping with my son. She thinks it’s happening. That IT happens, that you get “spontaneous.” That you’re that kind of girlfriend.\n\nChris nodded mechanically, staring at the dough as if it had suddenly become fascinating. His stomach turned. He was embarrassed, embarrassed in a way that didn’t even sit in his body, but somewhere in his soul. He wanted to say: That’s not true. None of it is true. But he stayed silent.\n\n“Really smart,” Adam’s mother continued, as if that could let her check off the subject. “So many girls are so… oh, you know. Careless. But you seem like someone who thinks ahead.” She briefly stroked Chris’s upper arm, a motherly gesture that still felt to him like a stamp. “Adam is lucky.”\n\nChris managed a thin “Thank you” that barely had any air behind it.\n\nAdam’s mother smiled, satisfied with her world order. Chris shaped portions of dough and focused on even spacing—on anything that was neutral. But in his head, one burning detail remained stuck: how easily a lie confirmed the wrong picture. And how hard it was to get rid of that picture once it lived in other people’s heads.\n\n[[Continue|Ankunft zu Hause.3]]

<h2>Chapter 5</h2> Monday hung heavy over them as [[Chris|Chris Braun]] walked to school with Christine. She walked beside him, her gaze fixed on her shoes, her shoulders narrow, and he didn’t know what else to say that wouldn’t sound hollow. <<set $wochentag = 1>><<set $wetter = 2>><<set $ort to "">> In the hallway, by the jocks’ locker block, [[Myles|Myles Pierce]] was standing with a few teammates. Laughter, elbow nudges, that too-loud way of talking meant only for outsiders. “Friday before the game, we had one more go,” Myles bragged, and the others twisted their faces into grinning grimaces. “Before—well, you know.”\n\nOne jock glanced first at Christine, then at Chris. He laid his hand flat in front of his chest, making a board gesture. “Yeah, no wonder, with Planky… there’s nothing there.” Another gave a crooked grin and then pointed, exaggeratedly admiring, in Chris’s direction. “But the sister—Boob Chris—at least there’s something to see there, huh?”\n\n“Board versus curves,” the first added, clapping Myles buddy-like on the shoulder. “Picked the wrong sister, bro.”\n\nChristine stood rooted to the spot, her fingers clenching around the strap of her bag. Chris felt heat shoot up the back of his neck. “Shut your mouth,” he said quietly, but sharply, stepping half a pace in front of her.\n\nMyles raised his hands defensively, still grinning. “It was just a joke.”\n\n“You’re pathetic,” Chris said, clear this time. The jocks pulled their faces into bored masks; the thrill was gone when no one played along.\n\nShe turned away, stiff, and walked quickly down the hall. In the girls’ bathroom, she pushed the door shut behind her, leaned against the sink, and cried quietly, her face half turned away, as if she could push the tears back that way. Chris followed, pulled out a few tissues, and handed them to her without pressing her.\n\n“Here.” His voice was soft. He stood beside her, not in the mirror image, but a little behind her, so that she wasn’t forced to meet his eyes. Christine took the tissues, pressed them against her eyelids, and drew in a jerky breath.\n\n“I’m sorry,” he said, though he knew exactly that it wasn’t his apology that mattered. “They’re idiots.”\n\nShe barely nodded, a trembling “Mhm” behind the tissues. The fluorescent light hummed, water ran somewhere in a stall, and for a moment the world was small enough that only this counted: his calm presence beside her, her breathing slowly finding its rhythm again.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1>>[[Cheerleading practice, Christine not focused.|Cheerleadertraining, Christine nicht bei der Sache.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2>>[[Drama club, dance number.|Theaterclub, Tanzeinlage.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $charlotte <2 >><<if $club == 3>>[[Visit to Adam’s parents.|Besuch bei Adams Eltern.]]<<endif>><<else>><<if $club == 3>>[[Visit to Adam’s parents.|Besuch bei Adams Eltern.2]]<<endif>><<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

<h2>Chapter 5</h2> Monday lay cold and pale over the street as [[Chris|Chris Braun]] and Christine closed the front door behind them. They walked side by side, too early for small talk, too late to turn back again. Frost hung like a breath on the hedges; every sound seemed too loud. Chris had made his shoulders narrow, as if trying to offer less surface area, and his gaze stuck to the cracks in the asphalt. <<set $wochentag = 1>><<set $wetter = 2>><<set $ort to "">> “Christine…” he began, his throat dry. “About Friday—I—” <<set $MylesMemory[2] to 1>> “No.” Her voice cut in quietly but unmistakably. She didn’t stop, didn’t speed up either; she simply kept her pace. “I don’t want to talk about it. Ever.”\n\nHe fell silent, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks.\n\n“I just want to forget it,” she continued, now duller, as if speaking through scarf wool. “I was sad, and you misread my signals, and then it happened. A one-time mistake. One-time.” She emphasized the word without looking at him. “To me, it’s as if it never happened. Please never talk about it again.”\n\nChris nodded, even though she wasn’t looking. “Okay,” he managed, barely audible. Guilt lay heavy in his stomach, like a stone too rough. He kept his hands deeper in his jacket pockets, as if he could use them to fasten something down that had already fallen.\n\nAhead of them, the bus stop appeared; the bus was already there, engine idling, a small plume of smoke in the cold air. They didn’t exchange another word. Christine brushed a strand of hair from her forehead without looking at him; Chris let her get on first, then followed with his gaze lowered. Inside, the familiar soundscape swallowed them both, and Monday pretended nothing had happened.\n\nAt school, in the hallway, [[Myles|Myles Pierce]] was standing with a few teammates. Laughter, elbow nudges, that too-loud way of talking meant only for outsiders. “Friday before the game, we had one more go,” Myles bragged, and the others twisted their faces into grinning grimaces. “Before—well, you know.”\n\nOne jock glanced first at Christine, then at Chris. He laid his hand flat in front of his chest, making a board gesture. “Yeah, no wonder, with Planky… there’s nothing there.” Another gave a crooked grin and then pointed, exaggeratedly admiring, in Chris’s direction. “But the sister—Boob Chris—at least there’s something to see there, huh?”\n\n“Board versus curves,” the first added, clapping Myles buddy-like on the shoulder. “Picked the wrong sister, bro.”\n\nChristine stood rooted to the spot, her fingers clenching around the strap of her bag. Chris felt heat shoot up the back of his neck. “Shut your mouth,” he said quietly, but sharply, stepping half a pace in front of her.\n\nMyles raised his hands defensively, still grinning. “It was just a joke.”\n\n“You’re pathetic,” Chris said, clear this time. The jocks pulled their faces into bored masks; the thrill was gone when no one played along.\n\nShe turned away, stiff, and walked quickly down the hall. In the girls’ bathroom, she pushed the door shut behind her, leaned against the sink, and cried quietly, her face half turned away, as if she could push the tears back that way. Chris followed, pulled out a few tissues, and handed them to her without pressing her.\n\n“Here.” His voice was soft. He stood beside her, not in the mirror image, but a little behind her, so she wasn’t forced to meet his eyes. Christine took the tissues, pressed them against her eyelids, and drew in a jerky breath.\n\n“I’m sorry,” he said, though he knew exactly that it wasn’t his apology that mattered. “They’re idiots.”\n\nShe barely nodded, a trembling “Mhm” behind the tissues. The fluorescent light hummed, water ran somewhere in a stall, and for a moment the world was small enough that only this counted: his calm presence beside her, her breathing slowly finding its rhythm again.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1>>[[Cheerleading practice, Christine not focused.|Cheerleadertraining, Christine nicht bei der Sache.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2>>[[Drama club, dance number.|Theaterclub, Tanzeinlage.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $charlotte <2 >><<if $club == 3>>[[Visit to Adam’s parents.|Besuch bei Adams Eltern.]]<<endif>><<else>><<if $club == 3>>[[Visit to Adam’s parents.|Besuch bei Adams Eltern.2]]<<endif>><<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Chris leafed through two or three volumes, sinking into panel angles and mecha-tiled pages—until the cola began to press gently. “I need to use the bathroom real quick,” he said. Adam nodded eagerly, meanwhile clearing a stack of magazines from the back of the chair.\n<<set $ort to "Adam's house">><<set $AdamMemory[7] to 1>>\nWhen Chris came back, Adam was standing in the middle of the room, his hands pinned to his trouser pockets, his gaze flickering. “Everything okay?” Chris asked.\n\n“You’re…” Adam swallowed. “You’re a boy.”\n\nThe words slammed into the room. Chris’s neck grew hot. “What? No—I—what are you talking about?”\n\n“I saw it.” Adam’s voice was thin and firm at the same time.\n\n“Where… did you see?” Chris’s stomach tightened.\n\nAdam broke eye contact, looked past Chris, then back at him. “Through the keyhole,” he muttered. “Of the door. Earlier. It was just—I just—I didn’t think.”\n\nFor one breath, there was only anger. “You were spying?” Chris’s tone turned sharper than he’d intended. “Are you serious?”\n\nAdam’s shoulders slumped. “It was stupid, okay. I’m sorry.”\n\nThe anger tipped into fear. Cold prickling down his spine. “Please… don’t tell anyone.” Chris fought for air. “My mother—she’s forcing me to do this. It’s not voluntary.”\n\nAdam’s face changed, as if something clicked into place: a conspiratorial set around his mouth. “I won’t tell anyone,” he said slowly. “But… what’s in it for me?”\n\nChris stared at him. “Are you seriously trying to blackmail me? I thought we… were friends.”\n\n“We are,” Adam answered quickly, too quickly. “But—I mean… Are your... are your breasts real?”\n\nChris nodded, embarrassed.\n\nAdam ran a hand through his hair, turning red. “Can I—could I maybe… touch your, uh… breasts?”\n\n“Are you crazy?”\n\n“Just for a second. There’s nothing to it. We’re both boys, right? Then I won’t tell anyone either.”\n\nThe silence after that was heavy and clear.\n\nFor a moment, an ugly little calculator ran in Chris’s head: If I say “yes,” my secret might stay safe—but at what price? Adam’s hand on me, as if I were an object to test; the sheer panic that I’m blushing just thinking about it; the disgust at letting a boy touch me while I already spend every day afraid of being exposed as a “fake girl.” And if I say “no”? The risk that he talks—but at least I keep a piece of my dignity, my boundary, myself. He realized how clear the answer actually was. No. Even if his knees went weak: Better to endure the trembling than betray myself.\n\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[He lets Adam touch his bust.|Er lässt Adam seinen Busen anfassen.][$adam += 1;$adam_opinion += 30]]\n❯ [[He does not let him touch.|Er lässt ihn nicht anfassen.][$adam_opinion += 20;$chris_opinion += 10]]

Chris stood there for a moment, the baby pressed to his shoulder, and felt heat creeping up the back of his neck. The crying cut through everything—through the silence, through his thoughts, through his attempt to seem calm. The child writhed as if it wanted to get out of its own body, and Chris’s arm began to ache after only seconds.\n\n“Okay… okay,” he murmured, more to himself than to the baby. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”\n\nLeo leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him like a judge. “He always does that,” he said in the tone of someone who felt important and annoyed at the same time.\n\n“Thanks for the info,” Chris said dryly, but without sharpness. He kept rocking, in small, even movements, like a metronome. The baby’s head lay heavy against his shoulder; the crying continued.\n\nChris reached for the bag Ava had pressed into his hand and tried to open it with one arm. Zipper, plastic, a bottle, a pacifier, a cloth diaper. He fished out the pacifier, offered it—the baby spat it back out after a second and screamed even louder, as if Chris had just insulted it.\n\n“Cool,” Chris said. “Super cool.”\n\nLeo giggled. “He hates pacifiers.”\n\nChris shot him a look. “Right now he hates everything. Me included.”\n\nThe baby was crying now in a way that Chris felt in his teeth. He walked a few steps through the living room, looking for a pattern: light, noises, temperature. The curtains were half open. He pulled them a little more closed, making the room darker, with fewer stimuli. The baby did not calm down.\n\nChris tried a gentle “shhh” by its ear, then a steady hum. Nothing there either.\n\nHe paused, took one deep breath—and remembered something his mother had once said in passing when she had calmed a baby at a friend’s house: Singing. Not talking. Singing has rhythm. Babies like rhythm.\n\nChris swallowed. Singing in front of Leo? Embarrassing. But the crying made every bit of shame secondary.\n\nHe cleared his throat, kept rocking, and began very softly, almost only with air:\n\n“Sleep, little child, sleep…”\n\nHis voice sounded thin at first, uncertain, as if he had not used it in years. He still knew the song from Germany, from some storage room far in the back of his mind. He let the melody run, slowly, like a blanket being laid over a squirming child.\n\n“…your father watches the sheep…”\n\nThe baby kept crying, but there was a tiny break in the wave, a brief hesitation. Chris held the rhythm, rocked evenly, and kept singing, a little louder, not to drown it out, but to stay steady.\n\n“…your mother shakes the little tree…”\n\nLeo made a face. “Mom never sings.”\n\n“Shhh,” Chris said, without stopping singing. “It’s… an import.”\n\nHe noticed how his body adjusted to the song: breathing deeper, movements softer. The baby’s screaming did not stop at once, but it changed. It became less “alarm,” more “complaint.” Chris took that as a small victory.\n\nWhen the song ended, he did not let the melody drop. He kept humming, very simply, and then switched to a second song he knew from childhood—not perfect, but calm. His voice grew steadier because no one was laughing at him. And because it was working.\n\nThe baby gasped for air once more, one last great protest—then the crying turned brittle, into short sobs. The little hands opened, closed again, but less frantically. Chris felt the weight against his shoulder grow heavier, no longer fighting, but sinking.\n\n“Yeah,” he murmured between two lines. “That’s good. Just like that.”\n\nLeo was no longer standing in the doorway now, but had moved closer. He looked as if even he were surprised. “Whoa,” he said quietly. “It’s working.”\n\n[[Continue|Leo stellt viele Fragen.]]

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When they left the restrooms again, the club heat hit them like a wall. Outside, the bass wasn’t just audible, it was physical—as if it were massaging the rib cage from the inside. Susan walked beside Chris, calm and purposeful, as if nothing had happened. Chris still felt the dry pressure in his throat from swallowing, and the idea of having done something forbidden hung beneath his skin like a tingling secret.\n\nLatoya was standing with DeShawn at the bar, a drink in her hand, her hips already moving to the beat as if she had never stopped dancing. Her gaze met Chris’s immediately.\n\n“There you are, honey!” she called over the music, grinning broadly and raising her eyebrows.\n\nDeShawn only nodded, but his eyes lingered on Chris a moment longer.\n\nSusan briefly placed her hand on Chris’s back. “Come on. Don’t stop again.”\n\nAnd then the four of them were on the dance floor, in the middle of the dense pulse of bodies and light.\n\nAt first, for Chris, it was almost worse than before. The crowd was closer, the air stickier, the glances seemingly everywhere. The mesh top made him feel naked, as if there were no boundary between him and the world. Every small impulse in his body seemed visible: the skirt that floated up slightly with every movement, the fishnet tights that emphasized his skin, the high heels that gave him posture but also intensified every uncertainty.\n\nHe forced his feet into one step, then another. His shoulders tried to loosen to the rhythm, but his mind kept cutting in. They see everything. Everything jiggles. You look wrong.\n\nAnd indeed—with every movement, Chris felt the fine sway of his breasts, making him even more aware of everything he couldn’t control.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Latoya_club.jpg]]</center> [[Latoya|Latoya Powell]] danced beside him, relaxed, playful. She threw him an encouraging “Come on!” and made a small, exaggerated movement with her hips and butt in his direction. [[DeShawn|DeShawn Powell]] stood on the other side, calmer, heavier in the rhythm, as if he were grounding the bass.\n\nChris tried to hold on to that—to their rhythm, to their ease. But the inhibition was still there, like a tight knot in his stomach.\n\nThen something happened that Chris immediately connected to the tablet.\n\nHe didn’t notice it as a sudden blow, more like a wave slowly turning warm. First, his neck felt less stiff. Then the tightness in his chest grew softer. His hands stopped searching desperately for a safe place. A pleasant heat crawled through him, as if someone had dimmed the light inside and rounded off the edges.\n\nOkay… okay, now it’s working.\n\nThe thought was like a free pass.\n\nChris’s breathing deepened. The constant checking—how he was standing, how he looked, what others thought—slid into the background, as if muffled by cotton. Suddenly, he no longer felt the gazes first, but the music: the beat under the soles of his feet, the melody like a trail through his body, the pauses that tightened again and let go.\n\nAnd he moved with it.\n\nHe thought less. He felt more.\n\nHis hips found the beat, small at first, then freer. His shoulders joined in. The skirt bounced, the fishnet tights stretched and gave, and even the sway of his chest no longer felt like a threat, but like part of it—a sign that he was there, in his body, in the moment.\n\n''Who does Chris feel more drawn to?''\n❯ [[Latoya|Latoya]]\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $deshawn > 1>>❯ [[DeShawn|DeShawn]]<<else>><div class="box"><b>Note:</b> Chris still couldn’t bear the thought of being close to a man. Perhaps he would have acted differently now if he had made different choices earlier.</div><<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

The boss set the pen aside as if he had known the result minutes ago. “Good. You start. Someone like you fits in very well here.” His gaze lingered on Chris a touch too long.\n\nChris felt a strange stab of joy, immediately followed by the realization of how paradoxical that was: he had gotten a job he didn’t even want. Still, warmth spread through his chest, a reflexive “I passed” that felt good against his will.\n\nHe stepped out of the back room and back into the diner. At the counter, two waitresses were laughing, aprons tied tight, pens behind their ears; one slid three plates onto a tray with a twist of her hips as if it were nothing. Chris stood there for a moment and imagined himself walking between the stools: tray, smile, “More coffee?”, the little notepads, the coins in his hand, the doors to the kitchen swinging open with an elbow. The thought felt both possible and foreign, like shoes that fit but hadn’t been broken in yet.\n\nOutside, Susan was waiting in the car. Chris opened the door, sank into the seat, and twisted the seat belt into place. “I got the job,” he said, and noticed his mouth smiling all by itself.\n\n“I knew it.” Susan tapped his arm briefly, started the engine, and gave him that satisfied sideways smile. “Well done.”\n\nOn the drive back, the engine hummed, streetlights drawing streaks across the dashboard. Susan tapped a finger against the steering wheel. “Just… one thing,” she said then, casually, too sweetly. “Rick is… well, Rick. Watch yourself around him a little as a girl, all right? Smile—but not too much. You know.”\n\nChris looked out the window, where the town broke apart into dark blocks. The joy shrank by one size. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch.]]

From the bathroom, the two of them then went into the kitchen. The kitchen was brighter than the living room, the music only muffled. Two boys and a girl sat on the countertop, legs dangling, red cups in hand. On the table were chips, pretzel sticks, a half-hearted vegetable platter, and beside it a wild collection of bottles and sticky mixes. Conversations washed over one another: college plans, boring parents, “just get out of Maplewood,” dream cities, someone swearing he would definitely be rich someday.\n\nChris braced himself on the edge to take some pressure off the heels. The alcohol made his head cottony, but he could still follow along.\n\nCharlotte narrowed her eyes slightly and nudged him with her elbow. “To my left, black top, denim skirt. She’s staring at you.”\n\nChris risked a half-sideways glance. At the other end of the room, a girl was leaning against the opposite counter, cup in hand. Very attractive, large dark eyes, full lips, smooth hair falling over her shoulders. Her figure was striking: a narrow upper body, but a clearly large bust that immediately stood out in the tight black top. It was almost… disproportionate. Chris realized he was looking, then quickly looked away again.\n\n“I think she finds you cute,” Charlotte whispered, her voice lightly amused.\n\n“Nonsense,” Chris murmured, his hand busily searching for an invisible crumb on the countertop. His heart made an illogical little jump.\n\nThe girl pushed away from her spot, as if she had been waiting for exactly that moment to be noticed, and came toward the two of them with an open smile. “Hey,” she said. “I’m Lila.”\n\nCharlotte returned the smile immediately. “Charlotte.” She gestured to Chris. “And this is Chris.”\n\nLila let her gaze glide briefly over Chris, not as crudely as the boys, more appraising, interested. “Cool outfit,” she said. “It suits you.”\n\nChris felt the heat in his face. “Thanks,” he murmured, a little too quietly.\n\nThe conversation picked up speed, fueled by Charlotte, who, as always, glided confidently through topics: year, classes, who had been where over the summer. Lila joined in, laughed easily, found Charlotte’s jokes funny. Between the two of them flickered something like unmistakable flirt energy, half serious, half playful.\n\nChris stood beside them, smiled, nodded in the right places, occasionally managed a “Yeah, true” or “Oh, really?” but the words more often stuck in his throat before they could form. He felt like a supporting character in a scene where he could actually be the lead—if only he dared.\n\nLila threw him glances now and then, as if trying to draw him into the conversation, but every time a door opened, he stumbled over it inwardly and Charlotte jumped in, charmingly filling the gap.\n\nIn his periphery, Chris registered the bottles on the table. Someone was just mixing something colorful in a cup; it smelled of lime and something sweet. Cocktails, someone had a Sprite bottle in hand, along with a clear spirit.\n\nHave another drink, then you’ll be more relaxed, a voice whispered in his head. The alcohol was already working, the inhibition threshold lower, but the shyness still clearly noticeable. Another drink could wash the rest away. Or his control.\n\nHis gaze stayed caught on the cocktails. He felt himself being pulled back and forth inside.\n\nAt this point, the decision was his again.\n\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[He takes another cocktail, hoping to finally become relaxed enough for the conversation.|Noch einen Cocktail trinken.][$alkohol += 1]]\n❯ [[He would rather skip any more alcohol before the situation slips completely out of his control.|Lieber nichts mehr trinken.]]

When Chris came home from school on Thursday, something was wrong.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nAlready in the hallway, an unfamiliar scent hung in the air—perfume, hairspray—as if someone had turned the house into a dressing room. Voices drifted from the living room, too bright, too many. Laughter that lasted too long. Chris stopped with his hand on the doorknob and, for a moment, heard only his own blood in his ears.\n\nThen his mother opened the living-room door with a gesture as if unveiling a stage. “Surprise!”\n\nThe room was full. Not with teenagers, not with classmates—but with women, mostly older, polished, delighted: neighbors, family friends, acquaintances. And among them, Chris even saw several faces he knew from Germany. An aunt waved to him. “There she is!” she called, and the word she was like a tiny pinprick.\n\nSusan stepped beside him, one hand on his back, firm and friendly. “My dears—here he is… here she is. Our new Chris.”\n\nChris’s mouth tried to form a smile. It felt as if he were pushing it through thick cotton. His gaze searched for an escape route—kitchen, stairs, door—but everywhere stood people with glasses, with expectant eyes.\n\n“You look adorable,” one woman said, leaning closer as if she had discovered a work of art. “So… delicate.”\n\n“And the hair!” another enthused. “So pretty.”\n\nChris nodded, hearing himself murmur a “Thank you” that didn’t sound like him.\n\nOn the coffee table were gifts. Many of them. Stacked high, in shiny paper, with bows that seemed too large. Susan clapped her hands as if this were the part of the program everyone had been waiting for.\n\n“I asked the ladies to bring appropriate gifts. For the new phase. For… you,” she said, and her tone had that manipulative sweetness Chris knew by now.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened.\n\nThe first box contained a very short skirt that seemed to have barely any fabric. “Oh, how cute!” someone giggled. The second was a dress, thin and fluttery, with a neckline that was too open. Then a babydoll nightie, almost weightless, with bows. Then underwear—racy panties, bras, lace, delicate fabrics—all presented as if it were harmless and funny, as if they were talking about socks.\n\nChris’s hands went cold. He heard paper rustling, heard someone go “Ooooh!” and felt himself becoming smaller and more visible at the same time.\n\n[[Continue|Albtraum.2b]]

Adam took half a step closer and pushed Chris toward the trash can.\n\n“Bend forward and hold on to the can,” he ordered. Chris grew afraid. Adam pushed Chris’s ball gown up and pulled the thong down. He was thrilled by Chris’s beautifully shaped ass, which could rival any girl’s backside, and pinched his firm right buttock. Chris groaned in surprise.\n\n“Soon you’ll feel like a real girl,” Adam said, his eyes glassy with lust. He was excited too, because it was his first time.\n\nChris’s legs trembled a little with fear as Adam took his cock out of his pants and placed it against his asshole. But Chris’s asshole was too tight for him to enter easily. So Adam spat on his fingers.\n\nHe smeared the spit over Chris’s rear entrance, then, without warning, pushed his middle finger into Chris. Chris felt completely different. Carefully, Adam spread the spit inside the tight bowel. Next, Adam inserted a second finger into the tight hole. He slowly stretched the entrance, visibly enjoying preparing it for its actual purpose. Chris began to whimper. He suspected what was coming.\n\nAdam had now prepared the small opening enough and pressed his cock between Chris’s soft, hot cheeks. He found the well-prepared opening and pushed it deep inside. Chris could only insufficiently evade the unfamiliar, intense pain. He writhed back and forth with the hard rod in his bowel and clung desperately to the trash can. Adam held on to Chris’s back and slowly began thrusting. He went deeper and deeper. Chris lost contact with the ground. He was almost sitting on Adam’s fucking lap.\n\nAdam thrust faster and harder. He wasn’t just fucking Chris, he was practically humping him. Pelvis slapped against ass and, together with Adam’s panting and Chris’s whimpering, formed a canon of lust.\n\nAfter endless minutes, Chris finally felt Adam pause deep inside him and come. Adam shot his whole load into the sweet, round butt. After a few more moments, during which Adam enjoyed his orgasm, he finally pulled his cock out of the violated butt and Chris felt the relief.\n\n[[Continue|Zurück in der Turnhalle.][$ende += 3]]

Chris swallowed. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll… go with you.”\n\nJoseph’s face shifted from surprise to genuine relief. “Are you sure?”\n\nChris nodded, forcing himself into a small smile. “Yes. Two nights will be fine.”\n\nCharlotte sighed a theatrical “Thank you” into her blanket, as if she had “saved” something very big with that. Chris set his bag by the door and helped Joseph carry the things to the car.\n\nThe drive dragged on. Mile after mile, highway, rest stop coffee, radio hosts who sounded too cheerful. Joseph drove attentively, both hands on the wheel, and talked in waves: sometimes about the relatives who were getting married, sometimes about how weddings always made him wonder whether he was laughing too much or too little. Chris listened, answered, and noticed the tension in his stomach slowly easing. It was strangely calming to sit beside Joseph – because Joseph did not want anything except to arrive and do the right thing.\n\nWhen they finally arrived at the hotel that evening, the entrance felt like a small, artificial world: carpet, soft music, the smell of lobby perfume. Joseph stepped up to the reception desk, gave the name, and the receptionist typed with quick fingers.\n\n“Walters… yes.” She smiled routinely. “I have a booking under your name. One room.”\n\nJoseph blinked. “One room? There should be two rooms. My daughter—”\n\n“I only see one room under the name Walters,” the receptionist said, friendly but final.\n\nJoseph cleared his throat, the collar of his suit suddenly seeming tighter. “Okay… then we’d like to book another room, please. For her.” He gestured toward Chris.\n\nThe receptionist typed again, this time for longer. “I’m sorry. We’re fully booked. The area is also very full this weekend.”\n\nChris felt himself grow hot. Something clicked in his head: Charlotte. A brief, unpleasant suspicion that lodged itself like a small splinter.\n\nJoseph rubbed his forehead. “That can’t…” He breathed out once, controlling himself. “Okay. Then… I suppose we don’t have any other choice.”\n\nThey walked toward the elevator with the key card. In the elevator, Joseph cleared his throat, as if he had to say an embarrassing sentence without making it too heavy. “If it’s a double bed,” he said, trying to sound casual, “I’ll sleep on the sofa. We’ll manage.”\n\nChris nodded quickly. “Yes, of course.”\n\nThe door to the room opened, and the light came on. A double bed in the middle, neatly made, two rows of pillows like a hotel promise. Beside it a small table, a chair, another chair by the window – but no sofa. Not even an armchair that wanted to call itself a “sofa.”\n\nA brief, almost comical standstill arose. Joseph remained in the doorway and looked around, as if he had hoped the sofa would still materialize out of politeness.\n\nChris set down his bag and cleared his throat. “It’ll be fine for two nights,” he said, trying to make it sound lighter than it felt.\n\nJoseph nodded slowly, still a little embarrassed. “Yes,” he said. “We’ll… we’ll make it work somehow.”\n\n[[Continue|Abendessen mit der Familie.]]

“Chris. This is all so… confusing,” she whispered.\n\nChris looked down at himself—at the negligee, at the soft lines—and nodded. Everything inside him had shifted too: “I know,” he said quietly. And realized how little that knowledge helped.\n\nHis sister lowered her gaze, and a single tear broke free, rolling down her cheek. “Tonight I just need someone who’s… there,” she murmured, her voice thin.\n\nChris’s chest tightened. He raised his hand and carefully wiped the tear away with his thumb, so gently, as if she might break. The gesture brought their faces closer together again; her breath brushed against his lips. For a single heartbeat, they lingered there—and then their mouths found one another once more.\n\nThis time, the kiss was different. No stumbling, no pulling away. Christine responded—hesitantly at first, then with a quiet confidence that spread between them. When she felt his tongue enter her mouth, she, too, pushed her tongue forward, tentatively grazing it against his. She sighed involuntarily, surrendering herself completely to the sensation. Her tongue moved wildly back and forth, up and down.\n\nChris cupped his sister’s head in one hand, while with the other, he stroked gently down her slender back.\n\nWhen he realized that her nightgown had ridden up, Chris let his hand glide all the way down to caress her bottom. Chris practically melted into his feelings. This kiss—with tongues entwined—was the most beautiful thing he had ever experienced. He knew, of course, that what they were doing was wrong—and that their mother would likely go ballistic if she ever found out. But something so beautiful simply couldn't be wrong.\n\nThe siblings kissed passionately, their tongues roaming greedily inside each other’s mouths, exploring every contour of their tongues, teeth, and lips. Chris’s hard cock pressed firmly against his sister. Christine moved her petite, teenage body gently back and forth, rubbing against Chris’s hard shaft.\n\nWhile one hand continued to caress her head, his other hand wandered—purely by instinct—down from her back, between her legs, and began to stroke the insides of her thighs.\n\n''How is she reacting to this?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $schulball == 1>>\n\n<<if $christine > 2>>[[She allows it.|Sie lässt es zu.][$sex += 1;$cameinside += 1;$partner += 1;$christine += 1]]<<else>>[[She does not allow it.|Sie lässt es nicht zu.]]<<endif>>\n\n<<else>>\n\n<<if $christine > 1>>[[She allows it.|Sie lässt es zu.][$sex += 1;$cameinside += 1;$partner += 1;$christine += 1]]<<else>>[[She does not allow it.|Sie lässt es nicht zu.]]<<endif>>\n\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>\n\n

The limousine turned onto a quiet street where the front yards grew larger and the streetlights looked like decorative dots. When they stopped in front of Lucas’s house, Lucas paid the driver, thanked him too quietly, and then they were standing in front of the front door. Lucas unlocked it, and the house greeted them with a warm, empty silence. No voices, no TV, no footsteps. Only the soft hum of standby devices and the gentle light of a hallway.\n<<set $ort to "Lucas's house">>\n“See,” Lucas murmured, as if wanting to prove the claim one more time. “Nobody’s here.”\n\nChris nodded and noticed how his heart sped up as he did. Not from joy—or not only. It was that “Now there’s no turning back” feeling that made his throat tighten.\n\nThey went upstairs. Chris held the clutch so tightly that his fingers hurt, and with every step he felt the bare back beneath the jacket, as if he were doubly visible. Lucas’s room was at the end of the hall. Lucas opened the door, turned on the light, and Chris stepped inside.\n\nThe room was tidy. A blanket lay on the bed, slightly rumpled, as if Lucas had hastily smoothed it out that morning. It smelled of clean laundry and a hint of Lucas’s aftershave.\n\nLucas closed the door.\n\nThe click of the lock was suddenly loud.\n\nFor a moment, both of them just stood there. Lucas looked down at his hands, briefly rubbed his fingers together as if calming himself. Chris stood with his back almost against the door, the jacket over his shoulders, his legs close together, as if posture could protect him from his own thoughts.\n\nIn Chris’s head, two voices collided. What are you doing here? hissed one. You don’t want this. It’s wrong. He’s a boy. And at the same time, beneath it, louder than he liked: Yes. Not because it was “right” in the old sense. But because it was Lucas, because it was warmth, because it was the opposite of loneliness.\n\nHe took off the jacket and carefully placed the clutch on the desk, as if it were a piece of evidence. Lucas took a step closer. “Hey,” Lucas said softly. “If you… if you don’t want to—”\n\n“I…” Chris’s voice caught. He didn’t know how to explain something like this without betraying himself. So he only shook his head and took the smallest step forward as an answer.\n\nLucas’s face relaxed a little. He lifted his hand and touched Chris’s fingers, hesitantly at first, then more firmly. Chris immediately felt that familiar current: nervousness, shame, and at the same time that soft pull drawing him toward Lucas. Lucas placed his hand on Chris’s waist, very carefully, as if testing whether Chris would flinch. Chris didn’t flinch. He only breathed shallowly.\n\nChris’s nervousness sat visibly in his shoulders. He felt close to Lucas and at the same time infinitely far away from himself—from the image he had once had as a boy of a moment like this. The thought of becoming this intimate with a boy still pushed up against resistance inside him, old reflexes whispering “wrong” even though he wanted it.\n\nLucas’s hand lifted hesitantly, touching Chris’s cheek only with his fingertips, as if it were a question.\n\nChris nodded almost imperceptibly.\n\nLucas kissed him.\n\nIt was a gentle kiss, not rushed, not demanding. Chris tried to kiss back, but so many thoughts were running through his head that his body lagged behind for a moment. He felt Lucas’s lips, felt Lucas’s tongue enter his mouth, and yet for one heartbeat he forgot to move his own lips, as if fear had briefly pulled the plug. He startled at that, felt ashamed immediately—and Lucas noticed.\n\nLucas pulled back a fraction, looked at him, not hurt, only attentive. “Everything okay?” he asked.\n\n[[Continue|Ja.]]

That evening, Chris lay in bed, the light dimmed, the curtains half closed. Against his skin was a cool pink satin nightgown that rustled with the slightest breath. The room was quiet; only outside, somewhere, a night insect chirped, as if counting the seconds.\n\nHe held open the book he and Charlotte had bought together back then at the mall—on the cover a girl, a dark shadow in the background, the lettering curved and dramatic. One of those vampire-girl romances he would have rolled his eyes at before. Too cheesy, too over the top, he would have said. Now he read, page after page, because Charlotte had recommended it to him. Because he wanted to feel closer to her, even while she was keeping her distance.\n\nThe paper still smelled faintly of perfume, sweet and powdery, as if Charlotte’s hand had recently glided over it. The scent pulled him back, two weeks, to the mall: Charlotte sniffing a bottle and then saying with a grin, “That smells like trouble.” Chris secretly spraying some too and immediately feeling caught, as if the scent on his skin were a confession. They had laughed their way through perfumes, through vanilla that was too heavy and citrus notes too sharp, until Chris’s head had gone all soft.\n\nThen the friendship bracelets—Charlotte had picked out two, one simple, one with tiny stars. She had tied it around his wrist so naturally that it had tightened his throat. He still wore it now, the band slightly stretched from showers, but still tight enough to remember.\n\nHe turned the page. The heroine—by now he had her name in his head as if it were his own—stood in a hallway, heard footsteps, knew even before the first word that it would be Lucien again. The vampire. The one who wasn’t supposed to happen. The one who, of course, happened anyway.\n\nChris came upon a passage that made him abruptly slow down. Not because it was especially beautifully written. But because it caught him.\n\nIt was about her loving someone who was “wrong”—not in the sense of evil, but in the sense of: impossible. And that she still couldn’t get him out of her head. That she wanted to push him away and at the same time hoped he would stay.\n\nIn the book, Lucien slowly lowered his head. Not demanding, not cruel, but almost careful—as if he were giving her until the very last moment the chance to turn away. The heroine didn’t. And when his lips finally touched hers, it said that it was as if the whole dark world went still for one breath.\n\nChris swallowed.\n\nThe kiss lasted only a few lines. But something about it hit him deeper than he had expected: that she chose. That she lifted her hand and held Lucien by the collar, as if she had long since stopped pretending she wanted to push him away.\n\nChris read the paragraph again.\n\nThen again.\n\nHe only realized late that he was aroused.\n\nThe satin nightgown was no longer cool by then. It had taken on warmth where it lay against his chest and between his thighs. He turned the pages faster, then slower again, because he wanted to savor every line. And with every page, it became clearer to him: he really liked the story.\n\nHe stared at the page and almost startled at himself. Do I like it because I’m changing? he thought. Because he identified with the girl more than he wanted to? Because his inner self had long since begun getting used to things he would once have rejected?\n\nFinally, he closed the book, as if it had suddenly become too frank. Then he pressed it briefly to his chest, tightly, as if he could hold the hope in the paper that way, and the fear along with it.\n\nThe chirping outside went on. His phone lay beside the pillow. Chris reached for it, unlocked the screen, and looked at Charlotte’s chat. No new messages. Of course not.\n\nHe typed: “Good night.”\nSent it.\n\nThen he started a second message—longer, more honest. I miss you. I want you to understand me. I’m scared you’ll never look at me the way you used to again. The words were already half there, and he looked at them like something fragile.\n\nHe deleted them again.\n\nThe display went dark. Chris put the phone back, held the book pressed against himself for another moment, and closed his eyes. Hope and fear lay side by side inside him, like two pages of the same story.\n\n[[Continue|Zu wenig Badezimmer im Haus.3]]

Chris left instead.\n\nHe didn’t do it elegantly. Not with a clever line or a perfectly timed “I have to get up early.” It was more of a reflex, as if his body made the decision before his head could talk it to pieces. He stood up.\n\n“I… uh, I have to just—” He gestured vaguely toward the hallway, as if there were a rescue door there with his name on it.\n\nZoe only glanced up briefly, in the middle of her own movie, her lips already back with the blond guy. “Huh? Where?” she asked half-heartedly.\n\n“Bathroom,” Chris lied, and it sounded thin. He walked quickly, too quickly, down the hallway, as if he really were only on his way to the toilet, buttoning his blouse. Then he turned, found the front door, yanked it open, and stepped out into the cold air before his courage could come back.\n\nHe heard no one call after him. Maybe no one had really noticed. Or maybe they let him go. Either way, he was outside, and the evening was suddenly quiet, as if someone had turned the sound down.\n\nAt first, he simply started walking. No plan, without checking whether an Uber was coming, without knowing how far it was. The main thing was getting away. The asphalt glistened faintly with old moisture, the streetlights made islands of light. His footsteps sounded too loud.\n\nAs he walked, the trembling came. Not in his hands, more inside: a mixture of shame and relief that couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. He saw Nate’s face in front of him. That stroking, which had felt so good it had frightened him. He could still feel it on his skin, as if the touch had gotten caught in his pores.\n\n“No,” he murmured, more to himself than to the night.\n\nHe forced his thoughts into an order that was supposed to feel right. That was nothing. A stupid moment, wrong situation, too much closeness. He repeated it like a formula, as if he could change a result with it. I don’t like men. I like girls. That had to be true. It had to.\n\nThen why had his body reacted that way? Why had it felt so warm? Why had he liked that closeness, that breathing, that brief leaning against something stronger?\n\nHe was ashamed of the questions before he had even finished thinking them. So he pushed them away and built himself another story, firmer, simpler: I only went along because I wanted to get closer to Zoe. Because he needed a distraction. Because he wanted to prove to himself that he was “normal.” That sounded logical. Logic was safe.\n\nThe longer he walked, the more desperate this inner talking became. It was as if he were protecting a house of cards from the wind by placing more and more cards in front of it. But behind every card, the same image flashed: Nate, so close, so masculine. And that treacherous feeling in Chris’s chest that didn’t taste like “nothing.”\n\nHe stopped at an intersection, pulled out his phone, his hands finally steady enough for the screen. An Uber was expensive, but he ordered one anyway. As he waited, he pulled the wrap skirt tighter around his waist, as if he had to wrap himself up to keep the thoughts inside.\n\nI like girls, he told himself again. I like girls. And although he said it over and over, it didn’t feel like an answer—but like a wish that things were simpler.\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch, Schummeln für den Mathetest.]]

Chris lifted his gaze and held it, even though his heart was beating faster. “Questions like that don’t really belong in a job interview,” he said calmly. “When it comes to the dress code, safety and hygiene are my priorities.”\n\nAs he spoke, he felt his voice seem narrow at first and then grow firmer—as if it had found footing along the way. At the same time, a fine frost moved over his arms: the old reflex whispering to him that contradiction brought trouble. Still, he remained seated, straight-backed, hands folded, as if holding on to a thin but personal line.\n\nThe boss blinked, a touch too slowly. The satisfied grin slipped from his face as if someone had turned down a dimmer. “Uh-huh,” he said, leaning back, and this time the chair creaked louder. For a moment, he seemed to weigh things—between his usual tone and what was now in the room.\n\nChris felt the silence grow heavier; it pressed against him just below the breastbone. Part of him wanted to take the words back, soften them, add a smile afterward. Another part was quietly proud, small but glowing: he had named the boundary.\n\nThe boss scratched his chin, looked at the clipboard as if instructions were written there, then back at Chris. “Hm.” His gaze wandered appraisingly, more sober than before. You could almost hear him considering whether Chris fit into his diner—and whether his diner fit Chris.\n\n''How does the boss decide?''\n<<if $diner > 1>>[[Chris gets the job.|Chris bekommt den Job.][$chris_opinion += 10]]<<else>>[[Chris gets the job.|Chris bekommt den Job.2]]<<endif>>

After D&D club, the hallway was already quieter, as if the school had slowly decided to switch off the day. Chris walked toward the bus with his bag over his shoulder. The dice bag clacked with every step, a sound far too cheerful for his mood.\n\nHomecoming.\n\nJust for the photo, Adam had said. Just smile briefly once, then you're free. Chris held on to that sentence like a thin rope keeping him from getting angry. And yet his stomach turned every time he imagined the gym, the camera flashes, the stares—and Adam beside him, as if all of it were normal.\n\nHe walked past the trophy case, briefly saw his reflection in the glass: skirt, cardigan, hair bow. And then another thought pushed its way in, uninvited and glittering: What would I look like in a ball gown? He hated himself for even asking that. But the thought stayed like a piece of popcorn stuck between your teeth that you can't get rid of. Maybe he would… look pretty. Maybe even right. Maybe the dress would hold his body together in such a way that it didn't feel like a contradiction. Or the exact opposite: too much, too visible, too final.\n\nHe stepped through the door outside, cold air hitting him. The bus wasn't there yet. Chris stopped at the edge of the sidewalk and pulled his bag higher. Dusk colored the parking lot gray, voices trickling in from different directions.\n\nThen he saw them.\n\n[[Dylan|Dylan Carter]] and [[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]] were standing a little distance away, near the steps to the main entrance. Penelope laughed—that confident laugh that always sounded as if the world had just said something nice. Dylan leaned closer, listened to her, said something that made her grin even more. He stood casually, hands in his pockets, as if he was too big for rules and too kind to take advantage of it.\n\nChris’ chest tightened. A quiet pang, sharp and immediate. Are they together? he wondered, and the question didn't come neutrally. It came with a bitter aftertaste. Of course they could be together. Penelope suited him like a team captain suited a star quarterback. Homecoming king and queen, so clichéd it was plausible all over again.\n\nJealousy rose before he could name it. And wistfulness—a dark, soft shadow behind it. He felt his hand grip the bag strap more tightly.\n\nFor a moment, an image formed in his mind so clearly that it startled him: Dylan in a suit, black fabric, a smile; Chris beside him in a ball gown, light catching in the fabric, people turning around. Admiring looks, not that sticky gawking, but genuine wonder. He saw Dylan holding out his hand to him, saw them entering the gym together, saw everything—for once—become easy. A thought like a warm wave, dangerously sweet.\n\nChris recoiled inwardly, as if he'd burned himself. No. He pushed the image away, as if you could shove it out of your head like a tab in a browser. Dylan wasn't his. Dylan wasn't even… his problem. He had enough problems.\n\nHe forced himself toward another image, as if he were reprogramming himself: him and Penelope at the dance. Penelope in a glittering dress, Chris beside her, not as a girl in a ball gown, but in a fine suit. No boys, no expectations, no Adam. Maybe they would laugh together, dance together. The image was… less dangerous. It hurt less.\n\nAnd yet it also felt less real.\n\nPenelope laughed again, Dylan said something else and smiled. Chris looked away before his face betrayed him. The bus turned the corner, squealed at the stop, and Chris got on as if that could shake the thoughts loose. But when he sat down, the pang remained. Quiet, persistent—like a song you don't want to hear that keeps playing anyway.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte < 2>>[[Friday, before the game.|Freitag, vor dem Spiel.]]<<else>>[[Friday, conversation with Charlotte.|Freitag, Gespräch mit Charlotte.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris was still staring at his phone when his thumb slid to a name as if by itself: Adam. He wasn’t exactly sure why—maybe to get on his “good side,” maybe because a tiny, tiny, tiny little part of him didn’t completely hate the idea of being Adam’s “girlfriend.”\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Chris: Hey. \nChris: There’s a party on Saturday. Want to come with me?</blockquote> The answer came faster than he had expected. <blockquote class="quote">Adam: YOU’RE texting ME? 😳 \nAdam: Um… Thanks, but… that many jocks in one place = trouble for people like me.</blockquote> Brief pause. <blockquote class="quote">Adam: And besides… hopefully my girlfriend stays loyal and doesn’t run off with a linebacker 😏</blockquote> Chris rolled his eyes—and smiled anyway, even though he didn’t want to. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: I’m only going to keep an eye on my sister Chrissie. \nAdam: Sure. Take care of YOURSELF too. The Timbers are hungry 😬</blockquote> Later, Chris lay on his bed in the half-dark, the room smelling of scented candles and vanilla. His phone vibrated once more. <blockquote class="quote">Adam: What are you wearing right now? \nAdam: Send me a photo? 😉</blockquote> Chris’s forehead creased. Slightly indignant—Are you crazy?—and yet the thought tickled him, the power that could lie in a single picture: control over angle, light, expression. A game he could refuse. Or play with a frame.\n\n''How does Chris decide?''\n❯ [[Send a photo|Foto schicken][$adam += 1;$adam_opinion += 10;$chris_opinion += 10]]\n❯ [[Don’t send one|Nicht schicken]]

“Nude Rose” Chris said after a heartbeat too long, as casually as he could.\n\nPenelope grinned, shook her head almost imperceptibly. “Wrong, unfortunately. It’s Raspberry.”\n\nA few “ooh” sounds, gentle giggling around the table. Chris shrugged with a smile. “It’s fine. I had other plans this weekend anyway.” He heard himself and thought how thin the sentence sounded.\n\n“Okay, so—movie list!” Penelope turned back to the group. “10 Things, Clueless, or something scary after all?” Voices tumbled over one another, Charlotte tossed “Brownies” into the air, Christine suggested “Face masks first,” someone called for a pillow-fight rule.\n\nChris poked at his fruit cup as if he could sort his thoughts with it. A quiet, childish defiance spread through him like tea that was too hot: I didn’t want to go to some stupid girls’ pajama party anyway. He felt the hurt underneath, just as clearly as the rustle of the underskirt with every small movement on the chair.\n\nWhy hadn’t he simply been invited as a matter of course? It felt like back in Germany: the cool parties he never went to—or was never asked to. Now he sat here, looked “like a girl,” and still seemed only allowed at the edge of the group. Am I just Christine’s tagalong to them? he thought. A leaden question that couldn’t be smiled away.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Charlotte comforts Chris.|Charlotte tröstet Chris.2]]<<else>>[[End of school.|Schulende.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $newgameplus == 0 && $charlotte < 2 && $ladendiebin < 2>><br>\n[[✨ Chris asks his sister to talk to Penelope about the party.|Chris bittet seine Schwester mit Penelope wegen der Party zu reden.][$party += 1]]\n\n<div class="box"><b>A little note for your first playthrough:</b><br> Your choices have led you onto the Ruby path. This path has its own appeal, but it is quieter at the beginning than other story routes.<br> If you would like a little more action at the start, you should choose the lower option now and go to Penelope’s party after all. This extra option is only available on the first playthrough.</div> <<endif>><</nobr>>

“Eww,” Chris said. “That’s disgusting.”\n<<set $ort to "">>\n“No, it isn’t. It actually tastes pretty good,” Zoe replied.\n\n“You’re a girl. It’s different for girls,” Chris justified himself.\n\n“I don’t understand why. We have the same taste buds, don’t we?”\n\n“But tasting semen doesn’t make a girl gay.”\n\n“It doesn’t make a boy gay either, but whatever.”\n\nIt was already dark outside when Chris got on the bus. He sat down by a window, the city sliding past in wet streaks of light. The encounter clung to him like a melody too loud and not quite right. Reward. The word felt wrong, but the warmth in his face, the afterglow of his orgasm, had been real. They had come closer to each other—and yet everything seemed strangely businesslike, as if Zoe had settled a bill only she had written.\n\nHe knew Zoe didn’t want anything steady. She had never promised it between the lines—not today, not ever. And yet… she had been beautiful in that half-dark room, despite the chaos and sticky candy wrappers, and something about her mixture of sharpness and directness stuck to him. Maybe something more could come of it, someday. He had never met a girl like her before. Maybe, on another occasion, on another evening, it could go further—all the way to what she was steering toward so casually and what his head didn’t know whether it wanted or feared.\n\nThe bus rumbled over an intersection, and his reflection in the window looked back at him questioningly. Zoe played by her own rules. He leaned his forehead against the cold glass and let the lights of the city flow past him, while two feelings tried to make room in his stomach at the same time: confusion—and a quiet, curious hope.\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch.]]

Chris felt his throat briefly tighten—and then he chose the easy way.\n<<set $RubyMemory[2] to 1>>\n“Um… yeah,” he said with a small smile that sounded too practiced. “I listen to K-pop too.” He cleared his throat, as if he first had to shape the lie properly. “For example…” He named a band Christine used to play over and over. The name came surprisingly smoothly over his lips, as if he had said it many times before, just never out loud.\n\nRuby’s eyes widened. “STOP. Seriously?” She slid closer to him on the bed, as if he had just opened a secret door. “Okay, then the most important question: who do you think is the cutest?”\n\nChris blinked. “Who I…”\n\nChris laughed nervously and hoped it passed for a real giggle. His mind raced. In his thoughts he saw Christine, once standing beside the mirror and saying, “The one with the dark hair is the cute one.” Was that even the same band? Whatever. He had to say something before Ruby interpreted the silence as a confession.\n\n“Uh… I think…” He drew the word out, as if seriously weighing it. “…the one with the dark hair. He seems kind of…” He searched for an adjective that didn’t sound like him. “…soft.”\n\nRuby squealed. “SOFT!” She placed a hand on her chest as if he had touched her personally. “Oh my God, you have taste. Wait—do you mean him or him?” She held up two photos to him, both looking like flawless skin, glitter, and professionally placed gazes.\n\nChris’s brain slammed on the brakes. He leaned forward, as if looking very closely, and chose according to the principle: the one who most looked like “dark hair.” “The… left one,” he said hesitantly.\n\nRuby gasped again. “Left is the visual! Of course you pick the visual.” She grinned sharply. “Okay, and what about the leader? He’s also…”\n\nChris nodded eagerly, the way he nodded in math when he didn’t understand anything. “Yeah. Totally.” He cleared his throat. “I mean… I like… his… aura.”\n\nRuby laughed. “Aura, you say. Miss ‘I’m so deep.’” She lightly punched his upper arm. “Okay, imagine this: you’re at a concert. He sees you in the crowd. What do you do?”\n\nChris’s face grew hot. “I… die,” he said spontaneously.\n\n“Correct!” Ruby clapped her hands. “We die together. But before that, we wave prettily.” She made an exaggerated waving motion and pulled a face so dramatic that Chris couldn’t help actually laughing.\n\nAnd so this amusingly embarrassing girl talk came into being, in which Chris had to keep pretending he had a clear opinion about people he actually only knew as blurry posters in Christine’s room. Ruby asked about favorite songs, about “best era,” about “who has the cutest dimples,” and Chris worked his way from “yeah, totally” to “oh my God, true” and “I can never decide,” while his inner post-rock part sat silently in a corner, throwing its hands over its head.\n\nEvery now and then, Chris even caught himself feeling that it was… easy. Not the lie itself—but joining in. The giggling. The feeling of sharing a code. It was embarrassing and somehow cozy too, like a blanket that scratched but was warm.\n\nThen a horn honked outside. A short, impatient “beep-beep” that pushed through the window like a timer.\n\nRuby jumped up. “That’s my mom.” She grabbed her bag, smoothed her hair, and grinned at Chris. “Okay, we’ll talk more. Next time I’m making you a playlist. You’ll be converted.”\n\nChris put on the appropriate smile, even though his cheeks were still warm. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said—and hoped it sounded believable while Ruby was already out the door.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte > 1>>\n[[In bed in the evening.|In bed in the evening.2]]\n\n<<else>>[[Evening talks with Mom.|Abendliche Gespräche mit Mom.]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

Early in the morning, when the house was still half asleep and only the coffee machine in the kitchen was making its first gurgle, Chris was already standing in the hallway with his toiletry bag, staring at the closed bathroom door.\n<<set $wochentag = 4>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "at home">>\nBehind the door, he heard: water. Hair dryer. A brief “Damn” and the frantic clack of a flat iron being set down on the counter. Then the hair dryer again. Christine.\n\nChris knocked once, carefully. “Chrissie? I need to use the bathroom.”\n\n“I’ll be done in a second, <<if $chrisorsis == 1>>Sis<<else>>Chris<<endif>>!” came the immediate reply, too quickly to be true.\n\nChris looked at the clock. He had deliberately given himself extra time because he didn’t want to be late today. Even so, he felt the minutes suddenly start moving faster. He knocked again. “How much longer? I have to… get ready.”\n\n“Five minutes!” Christine called. At the same moment, he heard the hiss of hairspray.\n\nChris raised his eyebrows. Five minutes is a lie, he thought. He leaned against the wall, rocking on his tiptoes and making that little motion with his foot that you really only made when you urgently had to go or were urgently nervous. Both applied.\n\n“Chrissie, I need to do my…” He faltered. He didn’t want to say “hair.” He didn’t want to say “makeup” either. What he actually wanted to say was: I need to get in there, or I’m going to look like a disaster. “…brush my teeth,” he finished at last.\n\n“Then brush them in the kitchen!” came the reply. Another hiss.\n\nChris stared at the door as if it were personally insulting him. “I’m not brushing my teeth in the kitchen.”\n\n“Why not? It’s just toothpaste.”\n\n“Because it’s gross!” He heard how high his own voice had gotten and hated it. Before, he wouldn’t have argued like this. Before, he would have quickly gotten himself ready in the kitchen. But now… now there were things that had to happen in the bathroom. Things he needed in order to be someone in the mirror who didn’t stand out.\n\nThe door suddenly opened a crack. Christine stuck her head out. She was wearing only her underwear. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, annoyed.\n\nChris lifted the toiletry bag like a piece of evidence. “I need the sink. And the mirror. And… time.”\n\nChristine sighed so loudly it was almost funny. “I don’t have time either. And my hair looks like a crime.”\n\n“Your hair always looks good.”\n\n“Liar.” Christine pulled the door shut again, but not all the way. “Okay, deal. You can come in. But don’t touch my stuff, and if you knock over my eyeliner, I swear—”\n\n“I won’t knock anything over,” Chris said hastily and slipped through the gap. Steam hit him in the face. The counter was full: hairbrush, powder, lip gloss, two open hair clips, half a scrunchie shaped like a donut. Christine stood in front of the mirror as if before an altar, holding her long hair up with a round brush.\n\nChris squeezed past her to the sink. He tried not to touch her butt, not to bump into her body. He squeezed toothpaste onto the brush—far too hastily—and began brushing while at the same time correcting the worst strand of his own hair in the mirror.\n\n[[Continue|Pep Rally.5]]

Chris's mother appeared in the doorway and stopped, as if she had stepped into a scene she herself had planned. Her eyes shone. “Oh my God,” she said, and there was genuine excitement in her voice. “You look stunning.”\n<<set $ort to "">>\nChris only nodded, unsure whether he should say thank you or apologize.\n\n[[Susan|Susan Braun]] came closer, corrected a tiny wrinkle in the fabric at his back with two fingers as if she were a stylist. “When are you getting picked up?”\n\n“We’re... meeting there,” Chris said. “He’s not picking me up.”\n\nSusan made a face. “Adam isn’t picking you up?” She gave a quiet snort. “I don’t like that at all. A gentleman picks up his date.” Then, with an appraising look that implied more than Chris could bear: “And honestly... you could find yourself a prettier boy.” Susan had seen Adam once at the beginning of the week and had apparently already made up her mind. There was also that awful, unspoken assumption in her look that dance = date = things you didn’t talk about with your mother.\n\nChris’s cheeks grew hot. “Mom... please.”\n\n“All right, all right.” Susan smiled, but it was the smile of someone who believes she already knows how the world works. “Then text me when you get there.”\n\nChris called an Uber, held the clutch tightly like a life preserver, and slipped out of the house. In the car, he sat stiffly, careful not to wrinkle the dress, and tried not to think about how much he looked like... someone else.\n\nOutside the gym, there were little groups, laughter, camera flashes. Music was already thumping through the walls. Chris got out, paid, took a deep breath, and went inside.\n\nInside, the warmth and the smell of perfume, hairspray, and punch hit him immediately. String lights glittered, a DJ stood on a platform, and the floor vibrated faintly with the bass. Glances landed on him—brief, curious, then appreciative. No mockery, more that kind of “wow” people don’t say out loud but still show. Even so, Chris felt uncomfortable. He felt like a candle in the dark: pretty, but far too visible.\n\nHis eyes searched for [[Adam|Adam Bowman]].\n\nHe spotted him at the edge of the crowd. Adam was wearing a conspicuous, absurdly old-fashioned suit—too big in the shoulders, with a pattern that screamed “I wanted to stand out.” And a tie that looked like a joke, plus a proud grin as if he had won a costume contest.\n\nChris did not go straight to him, but moved in a way that made it look as if he were only “accidentally” drifting in his direction. When he was close enough, he gave Adam a small nod—photo corner.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/homecoming_adam_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/homecoming_adam_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nThe photo area was tucked into a little corner: a curtain, a camera on a tripod, a ring light, and beside it props in boxes—cardboard hearts, oversized glasses, little signs with sayings on them. Adam understood immediately and followed him. They stood in front of the curtain, Adam adjusted his jacket, Chris held the clutch in front of his hips like a shield.\n\n“One photo is enough,” Chris murmured.\n\n“Sure, sure,” Adam said, grinning too broadly.\n\nThey took the photo. Flash. A second one, just to be safe. Chris forced a smile that looked real enough and made sure not to stand too close. Then he immediately stepped back, looked around—no curious eyes lingering on them. No one seemed to have noticed. Exactly the way he had wanted it.\n\nChris exhaled and turned to Adam. “Can I go now?”\n\n''Can he go?''\n<<nobr>><<if $videoblackmail == 1>>[[No, Adam still wants to talk to him.|Nein, Adam will noch mit ihm reden.]]<<else>>[[Yes, Chris can go.|Ja, Chris kann gehen.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Saturday lay warm and sluggish over Maplewood as Chris smoothed down the light, knee-length skirt in the hallway. He had only put a minimal coat of mascara on his lashes, a pale balm on his lips, his hair loosely pulled back. “We’re heading out,” he called toward the kitchen.\n<<set $wochentag = 6>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "at home">>\nSusan poked her head out the door, said something about “not too late,” and Christine was already standing beside him, freshly perfumed, phone in hand. Chris needed a moment not to let his gaze get pinned there: a figure-hugging stretch dress, a low scoop neckline, the skin beneath smooth and gleaming as if lacquered through the thin nude tights. Heeled ankle boots lengthened her stride, her bangs lay perfectly. It didn’t look accidental. More like a statement, carefully placed: I am hot.\n\n“Well?” she asked, sliding the mini bag over her shoulder.\n\n“It suits you,” he said, and it sounded less brusque than he had feared.\n\nOutside, the street breathed warm asphalt. They walked side by side toward the stop; the plan was clear: Chris to the bus, then to Charlotte’s; Christine on alone to the party. The wind briefly lifted the hem of his skirt, and he caught the movement with his hand, practiced, almost automatic.\n<<set $charlotte_opinion to 87>>\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $tagebuch == 1>>[[Chris’s conscience speaks up.|Chris Gewissen meldet sich.2]]<<else>>[[Moving on.|Weiter gehts.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

During the next break, he found her at the water fountain. “What was that supposed to be?” he asked, more quietly than his anger called for. “Just now. In front of the whole class.”\n<<set $ort to "Hallway">>\nZoe chewed her gum as if savoring the word before she said it. “A joke, Boob Chris.” She grinned. “You should’ve seen your face.” A giggling snort, satisfied with her own direction.\n\n“That wasn’t funny.” He felt his hands starting to tremble, but his voice remained surprisingly calm. “You’re getting me into trouble.”\n\nShe popped a bubble. “I wanted to see if you react like a normal boy.”\n\n“What?” Chris blinked.\n\n“Well—whether it’s all girl up there in your head, or whether the body still plays along when you poke it.” She raised an eyebrow, appraising, almost curious. “Got my answer.” A tiny, satisfied nod.\n\n“That wasn’t fair,” Chris said, and he felt the redness coming back.\n\n“Relax. I didn’t tell anyone anything.” She tapped a finger against the dispenser, as if that settled it. “See you later, princess.”\n\nShe turned away. Chris remained standing there for a moment, breathing too quickly, his heart somewhere between anger and shame. Then he forced his feet back into the current of the hallway, as if routine could wash the trembling out of him.\n<<set $ladendiebin to 2>>\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1 && $moore == 0>>[[Lunchtime.|Lunchtime2.1]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 1 && $moore == 1>>[[Lunchtime.|Lunchtime2.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 0 >>[[Lunchtime.|Lunchtime2.3]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 1 >>[[Lunchtime.|Lunchtime2.4]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[Lunchtime.|Lunchtime2.5]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

<<set $ort to "school">><<if $charlotte > 1>>During break, Chris met [[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] at the edge of the hallway, where the noise from the school reached them only as a distant murmur. She stood at her locker with her arms crossed, her face calm, but not soft. Chris stopped one step too far away, as if he first had to learn how close “allowed” was now. “Hey,” he said quietly. “I… just wanted—” He swallowed. “Have fun tomorrow. At the rally.”\n\nCharlotte nodded, her gaze briefly sliding over his face, as if she were searching for the old version of him and no longer finding it so easily. “Thanks,” she said, and after a pause: “I’m not… gone. I’m just… confused.” Chris nodded at once, too quickly, because he wanted to hear that. “I know,” he answered, and although the word was small, he meant it. For a moment something remained between them that almost looked like peace—not resolved, but honest—before Charlotte closed her locker and they both went in opposite directions.\n<<endif>>At lunch break, [[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]] sat down with his tray beside Chris. “Do you have time after school today? Movies?” he asked, his voice bright with hope.\n\n“What’s playing?” Chris asked, propping his chin in his hand.\n\n“Uh—a romance thing, June & the Fireflies, and… the new sci-fi action movie, Orbital Rift. You wanted to see that one, right?” Lucas’s gaze flickered briefly.\n\nChris nodded. “Orbital Rift sounds good.” Just saying it felt like a small piece of normality.\n\nAfter school, they went to the cinema together. The forecourt glittered with spilled soda; the foyer smelled of popcorn. Even though they were only out as friends, Lucas wordlessly pulled out his wallet and paid for two tickets, two drinks, and a large popcorn—so naturally that Chris didn’t quite know what to do with his hands. “You didn’t have to—” he began.\n\n“It’s okay,” Lucas said quickly, and something lingered in his smile.\n\nIn the theater, they chose seats in the middle toward the back. The ads flickered, the lights dimmed, the world turned dark blue. Chris felt the pleasant weight with which the movie drew him in: engines, stardust, narrow corridors, the rhythm of boots on metal. He reached for popcorn, and so did Lucas—their fingers bumped together, lingered against each other a heartbeat too long. Chris pulled his hand back, feeling the moment like a static crackle in his stomach. When he looked to the side, he met Lucas’s gaze: warm, open, in love. A complicated mixture stirred in Chris—a quiet repulsion, the “no” from his spine, and at the same time a fine tingling that ran along with it like a suppressed echo.\n\nThe movie carried them on until the credits rolled and the lights crept back up. Outside in the foyer, Lucas stood one step too close beside him. “Should I take you home?” he asked, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, as if holding his courage there.\n\n“No, thanks,” Chris said kindly. “I’ll take the bus. It was nice—the movie.” He smiled, lifting his hand in a small farewell. Lucas nodded, visibly trying to hold the smile.\n\nThey parted outside the cinema. Chris went to the stop and got on the bus. The neon light inside made his reflection look pale; he watched the city pass by outside and tried to sort the crackling in his stomach until it settled back into the background noise of the evening.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte > 1>>\n[[In bed in the evening.|In bed in the evening.3]]\n\n<<else>>[[Next School Day|Albtraum.B]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\n

It was [[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]]. And as if it had not already been that way the whole time, she stood completely naked in front of him with a friendly smile and encouragingly held out a bottle of shower gel to him. Chris tried to avoid Penelope’s gaze, because all at once he felt caught and would have liked to sink into the ground from shame.\n<<set $ChristineMemory[7] to 1>>\nTotally unsettled, Chris took the bottle of shower gel from Penelope’s hand. Penelope turned her back to him invitingly. It was a truly beautiful back, Chris thought as he nervously opened the bottle cap to let some of the blue gel run into his hand. With circular motions, he spread the gel over the tender back of this gorgeous girl. His fingers trembled as they touched the naked skin. Wild thoughts raced through his head as he touched the unfamiliar body. He could not escape the compulsion to look more closely at the person before him while his hands carefully soaped every square centimeter of the back offered to them.\n\nWhat a beautiful butt Penelope had! It almost painfully tempted him to soap this extended part of her back as well. Of course, he did not dare put that wish into action. If only because his sister was watching him like a hawk the entire time.\n\n“All done!” finally came from his lips, more breathed than spoken.\n\nPenelope turned around and gave him a friendly smile. “Thanks.”\n\nThen he immediately turned on his heel and went back down the corridor. Behind him, the water continued to patter, voices began talking again as if nothing had happened. For everyone else, nothing had happened either.\n\nIn the hallway, he stopped briefly, took a breath, and ran a hand over his forehead. He had slipped so deeply into the role that his feet had forgotten the boundary. Christine’s gaze held the image up to him without throwing it in his face. He nodded to himself as if he had just redrawn an invisible line, and went back into the gym.\n\n[[Continue|Vor der Turnhalle.2]]

The gym lay still and vast, as if someone had switched off the noises of the day. [[Mr. Moore|Nathan Moore]] was already waiting after school in workout clothes, the stopwatch looped around his wrist. “Flexibility today,” he said curtly. “You’re falling behind because the others are looser in the hips. We’ll catch that up.”\n<<set $ort to "gym">>\nChris nodded, immediately feeling that mixed tug in his stomach—a blend of nervousness and a warmth he didn’t want to name.\n\n“Forward bend,” Mr. Moore ordered. “Feet hip-width apart, knees long, back straight, then roll down. Hands to your toes.” He stood to the side, matter-of-fact, present.\n\nChris exhaled and bent forward. The backs of his thighs burned at once, his fingers stopping a hand’s breadth short of his toes. “Further,” Mr. Moore said calmly. “Breathe into the pull.”\n\nHe tried, but his body resisted, a stubborn opposition that suddenly seemed very “boy” to him—tight tendons, short range. Sweat gathered at the back of his neck.\n\n“I’ll help,” Mr. Moore said. He stepped behind him, placed his hands on Chris’s hip bones—firmer than a fleeting cue would have been, but controlled—and shifted his pelvis minimally back, aligning his lower back. “Now sink over the groin. Don’t pull, let yourself fall.”\n\nChris followed, hesitantly. The pull grew sharper, a good pain that briefly stole his breath. Mr. Moore remained calm. “Breathe. Two counts in… two counts out.”\n\nOn the next repetition, the coach placed one hand between his shoulder blades, the other on his ass, pressing millimeter by millimeter. The coach had placed his hand on Chris’s butt, Chris felt the warmth through the fabric, and something inside him reacted—a brief, fluttering moment that he immediately pushed away. It’s just correction, he told himself. He’s your coach.\n\n“Better,” Mr. Moore said. “Once more. Heels stay on the floor. Get longer.”\n\nWhile he was standing bent forward now, his ass stretched out behind him, Mr. Moore took half a step back to take in the situation first. As if by reflex, his hands briefly squeezed the butt cheeks directly in front of him. Chris’s upper body shot up, but he was immediately pressed back into the starting position with gentle force.\n\n“Do you feel the difference?” Mr. Moore asked.\n\n“Yes,” Chris managed, hoarse from exertion. It felt as if someone had secretly loosened a few knots inside him. The good pain still stood warm in his muscles, but beneath it lay flexibility that felt new to him—like room to move he hadn’t had a claim to before.\n\nThey worked in sequences: forward bend, lunge, hip opener on the mat. Each time, Mr. Moore guided Chris’s joints into alignment—a pressure at the knee, a pull at the heel, a flat push between the shoulder blades. It hurt—not sharp, but bright and wide—and afterward the body really did let go. Chris reached his toes, first with his fingertips, later with his whole hand. In the straddle, his elbows sank closer to the floor; his spine audibly breathed out.\n\n“One more round,” Mr. Moore said, “then cool-down. You need this range for the Pep Rally. Otherwise you’ll lose your line in the toe touch.”\n\nChris nodded, got ready. In the next forward bend, his hands slid to his toes as if it were natural. He felt Mr. Moore hesitate behind him for a moment—only to widen the distance and step beside him. “Good. That’s the training effect. Remember that feeling. Don’t force it, fall into it.”\n\nChris briefly lifted his gaze. Mr. Moore stood there, focused, with that sober, attentive face he knew from the sports field. Something in Chris’s chest answered again—a quiet, stubborn crush he hadn’t invited. He lowered his gaze, breathed, and let the next pull flow through him.\n\nWhen they high-fived, his legs were heavy and light at the same time. “Good work,” Mr. Moore said simply. “You’re more flexible than you think—when you take the time.”\n\nChris nodded. “Thank you.” The word felt bigger than it sounded. On the way to the bench, he noticed that his gait was softer. The pain had remained—but it was the good kind, the kind that made him more flexible. And somewhere beneath it, quiet and more uncomfortable than any stretch, lay the knowledge that he had taken more from the hour than just technique.\n<<set $penelope_opinion to 70>>\n[[Continue|Am Abend im Zimmer.]]

Chris took the cup.\n\nThe rim was slightly sticky, the beer inside dark gold. He raised it, drank cautiously, then took a larger sip. The burn quickly pushed into his stomach, the bitterness mingling with the sweetness of the music, with the dull bass beneath his feet. It was too strong, he knew that. But he drank again anyway.\n\nThe world shifted a touch softer.\n\nAs he kept dancing, his movements became rounder. The heels no longer felt like foreign objects, but like a shaky yet accepted extension of himself. The miniskirt remained a risk, but he stopped tugging at it with every step. The boundaries between “I’m playing a role” and “I’m just here right now” blurred in the strobe light.\n\nHe looked over at Christine. Myles was standing close to her, just handing her a new cup. She took it laughing, toasted with him, took a generous sip, then another. Her cheeks glowed, her movements grew freer; she danced closer to Myles, allowed him to put an arm around her waist, allowed his hand to grope her ass once. She didn’t fend anything off. On the contrary: she smiled blissfully, leaned into him, laughed something into his ear while her fingers stroked over his forearm.\n\nMaybe it was her petite figure, maybe the dress, maybe both—but she looked damn attractive, Chris realized. The thought came suddenly, flickering like a foreign light in his head. He knew it was the alcohol bending the filters.\n\nQuite shamelessly, Myles massaged her ass, her skirt riding higher and higher until it was ultimately pushed up almost completely and her butt was exposed. Chris’s sister was now basically dancing with her backside bare, both arms wrapped around his neck as she rubbed her lower body against his pelvis in provocative circular movements.\n\nMyles grinned, whispered something into her ear. Christine giggled, leaning against him. She seemed intoxicated—by the music, by the alcohol, by the attention.\n\nThe alcohol was affecting Chris himself more clearly by now. The boys around him moved closer, but it felt less threatening. More like a warm wave of attention. One danced in front of him, came a little closer, turned, let his crotch brush against him fleetingly. Another positioned himself behind Chris, moving with him in the same rhythm. It was a playful docking.\n\nChris’s defenses melted without disappearing entirely. He laughed, shook his butt to the beat, felt a small energetic shove from behind. Someone whispered something into his ear, a compliment, half in rhythm, half lost in the noise. Chris grinned back. It was irritatingly easy to melt into this role when everything was vibrating and the warmth inside him was rising. Part of him enjoyed being seen so clearly. Someone others wanted. Not the invisible boy from before.\n\nThen the song changed.\n\nThe first bars of a poppy 2000s hit began—an old familiar synth sound that drilled straight into his memory. Chris needed exactly two seconds, then he knew which one it was. The road-trip song. The one their father had always turned up too loud. The song they used to sing together in the back seat.\n\nBeside him, Christine froze for a moment, then a grin broke across her face. “Oh my God,” she laughed.\n\nThe siblings began singing along at the same time. Completely automatically, without any agreement. Two voices that still knew the lyrics word for word. They looked at each other, in the middle of the crowd, and for a moment the party around them was nothing but background noise. Christine made a tiny microphone motion with her cup toward an invisible steering-wheel gesture, Chris laughed out loud, taking the second voice. The bass remained, the light flickered, but between them stretched something warm, familiar.\n\nA brief, bright sibling moment in the chaos, like an old photo someone had slipped into the gallery among the new ones.\n\nThen the beat picked up again, unfamiliar hands, unfamiliar bodies, unfamiliar looks moved closer. But for a few heartbeats, the rest of this song belonged only to them.\n\n[[Continue|Chris braucht eine Pause.]]

Chris stayed beside Zeke, but without contact. He held the handbag tight, his eyes forward, as if he could cut his way through the crowd like that. But the people around them had their own rhythm—surges, gaps, a constant pressing like a wave that did not ask whether you could swim.\n\nA shove from behind pushed Chris against a stranger’s chest. A second came from the side, pushing him away again. He tried to plant his feet firmly, but the floor did not belong to any one person right now, but to everyone. He was shoved back and forth as if he were a light object in a full shopping cart. For a moment, he lost Zeke from the corner of his eye, only jackets, shoulders, the end of a blond ponytail in front of his nose. Chris’ heart rose in his throat, that old feeling of too little air, too many bodies.\n\nWhen they finally slipped into the concert area, Chris was already tense as a wire. The lights were dimmed, the room smelled of beer, warm fabric, and equipment. Then the light went down even further, and the stage began to glow.\n\nNorthern Static began.\n\nA single note stood in the room like a breath. Then came a second, a low drone, bass like a heartbeat beneath the ribs. The crowd swayed almost automatically, as if someone had set a shared pulse. Chris felt his body going along despite everything—small, inconspicuous, but honest. The song built slowly, layer by layer, guitars like fog, then like wind.\n\nAnd then—after minutes that felt like a run-up—came the moment when it exploded.\n\nThe music broke open, loud, huge, as if a wall of light were rising. The crowd cheered, pushed forward, a collective exhale. Chris was shoved forward again, and this time it was too much.\n\nZeke stood behind him.\n\nNot dramatically, not “protectively” in the movie sense—just there, broad, stable, so Chris did not slip away. Zeke’s arms stayed to himself, but his body formed a firm boundary against the jostling. Chris felt Zeke’s presence at his back, the warmth of a strong chest behind his leather jacket, and for a second that was… calming.\n\nThen came the other side: the shame, the old reflex fear. Chris wanted distance. He did not want to be “small,” not “held.” He pushed himself half a step forward, tried to find more space—only there was no space. The crowd immediately took up the room, and Zeke stayed behind him like an unintended shield.\n\nChris’ head said: Distance.\nHis body said: Survive the song.\n\nWhen the track faded and the lights briefly grew brighter, Chris was breathless, not only from the music. He turned a little, searching Zeke’s face. Zeke grinned, his eyes bright, as if he had found the most beautiful part right there in that noise.\n\nDuring the break – a brief moment in which the band left the stage and the room rearranged itself – Zeke leaned toward him. “Want something to drink?”\n\nChris felt the tension sitting in his shoulders. A drink might loosen it. But he also knew how quickly a little alcohol could turn “relaxed” into “too relaxed,” especially with nervousness in his stomach.\n\n''Does Chris drink something?''\n❯ [[He takes a beer and lets the tension drop, but risks not sensing his boundaries as clearly later.|Er nimmt ein Bier und lässt die Anspannung sinken, riskierte aber, Grenzen später nicht mehr so klar zu sprüren.]]\n❯ [[He takes a Coke to stay in control, but has to endure the nervousness without a chemical shortcut.|Er nimmt eine Cola um die Kontrolle zu behalten, musste aber die Nervosität ohne chemische Abkürzung aushalten.]]

Zoe studied him for a moment, as if checking whether he was about to say “okay” after all. Then she shrugged, took her jacket from the chair, and grinned at the blond. “Then without her.”\n<<set $ort to "">>\nChris blinked. “Zoe—”\n\n“Chris, you’re really sweet, but sometimes also…” She made a small spinning motion with her finger, as if searching for the right word. “Boring. Always retreating, always scared.” Her tone wasn’t brutal, more annoyed and matter-of-fact, as if settling a bill. “I feel like doing something today. Apparently you don’t.”\n\nThe blond said something like “No stress,” as if Chris were only a detail. The dark-haired man looked at Chris once more, that interested, hard-to-read grin on his face, then turned away as if he had accepted the decision.\n\nZoe zipped up her jacket. “You can find your way home, right?” She didn’t wait for an answer, linked arms with the men, and walked off as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her steps sounded loud at first, then disappeared into the noise of the hall.\n\nChris stood at the pool table for another moment, cue in hand, even though the game had long been over. Something sank in his stomach—that unpleasant feeling of being left behind, as if someone had turned off the music while you still wanted to keep dancing. He suddenly felt small and stupid because he had said “no,” and at the same time he knew that the “no” had been the only right thing.\n\nStill, it hurt. Not just because Zoe left him standing there, but because she did it so easily.\n\nAnd then came the worry. Zoe alone with two men, somewhere “more private.” Chris’s head painted possibilities without him inviting them in: alcohol, sex, coercion. She can take care of herself, he told himself. She isn’t helpless. But that only half calmed him. Anything could happen, even to people who thought they were in control.\n\nHe returned the cue at the counter, murmured a “Thanks,” and stepped out into the cool evening air. The streetlights made the sidewalks pale and still. On the way home, he heard his own footsteps, the soft rustle of his skirt, and felt both empty and tense at the same time.\n\nWalking home alone was nothing special. Still, that evening it felt like a descent from a place where he had briefly been allowed to belong. He pulled his jacket tighter, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and kept walking—with a knot of wounded pride and genuine worry that accompanied him all the way to the front door.\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch, Schummeln für den Mathetest.]]

In the afternoon, the house lay quiet in that in-between light that always smelled a little like tiredness after school. Chris heard voices from the kitchen—normal at first, then sharper, as if someone had invisibly turned up the volume.\n<<set $ort to "at home">>\n“Christine, I asked you to empty the dishwasher,” Susan said. Her voice was controlled, but the edge in it was clear.\n\n“I’ll do it in a minute,” Christine answered, somewhere between annoyed and exhausted. “I had practice. And school.”\n\n“We all had a day. That’s not an excuse.” A clattering sound, as Susan set something down on the counter. “It takes five minutes. But you leave it there, and then I have to do it again.”\n\nChristine came into view from the hallway, her hair still slightly damp from showering, hoodie pulled on, her gaze fixed rigidly on her phone as if it could save her. “You act like I never do anything. I already took out the trash yesterday.”\n\n“Oh, wow.” Susan laughed briefly, without humor. “A whole garbage bag. Should I get you a trophy?”\n\nChristine stopped, her jaw tightening. “Why are you like this today? It’s just dishes.”\n\n“It’s never just dishes,” Susan said. “It’s responsibility. And if you keep going like this, don’t be surprised later when—”\n\n“Don’t start with that.” Christine finally lifted her head. “I’m not five.”\n\nChris stopped in the hallway and felt the argument swelling from nothing into something bigger, only because both of them were already too full. To him, it was like watching a candle lick at a dry curtain: little things that suddenly smelled like more.\n\n“I don’t feel like having this discussion,” Christine said, making a move toward the stairs.\n\n“Oh, you feel like it,” Susan replied, “you just don’t feel like doing anything.”\n\nChris stepped a little farther in before the tone could tip. “I’ll do it,” he said quickly, reaching for the dish towel hanging from the oven handle. “Really. No problem.”\n\nSusan turned to him, surprised, but visibly relieved, as if she’d been given a shortcut. “See, Christine? That’s how it’s done.”\n\nChristine blinked, shoved her hands into the pocket of her hoodie, and murmured, “You don’t have to.”\n\n“I do,” Chris said more quietly, just for her. He held her gaze for a moment. “Go upstairs. Rest.”\n\nChristine breathed out hard once, as if she wanted to argue, and then didn’t. She gave a minimal nod and went up the stairs, her steps too quick to be calm.\n\nChris stood at the dishwasher, pulled it open, and the warm little breath of steam smelling of detergent rose to meet him. Plates clacked, cutlery jingled. He put things away calmly—bowls into the cupboard, glasses onto the shelf—as if it were a ritual that could suck the tension out of the house.\n\nSusan stayed in the doorway for a moment. “Thank you,” she said, and it sounded almost kind.\n\nChris only nodded and kept working. He didn’t feel heroic doing it—more practical. But he knew why he was doing it: because Christine couldn’t use another fight right now. And because, strange as it was, in moments like these he would rather take responsibility than watch her collapse under something small.\n\n[[Continue|Dienstag, Figurprobleme.]]

Chris only nodded briefly without stopping, the gym bag tapping lightly against his hip, and simply kept walking. His steps stayed even, his gaze straight ahead, as if the whole thing were nothing more than a casual acknowledgment in passing.\n<<set $ort to "hallway">>\nBehind him, Adam remained standing for another moment. His hand, which had just been raised in greeting, slowly sank again, as if it had suddenly grown heavy. He blinked, swallowed, and his gaze quickly wandered to the lockers, to a bulletin board, to anything that wasn’t Chris’s back. In his head, the thought tightened like a rubber band pulled too hard: What was I thinking?\n\nShe is… Adam couldn’t find the word, but the feeling was clear. Chris was too pretty, too much a part of a world where Adam only trailed along at the edge. As if he had opened a door behind which he had no business being. Out of my league, he thought, and it stung with shame and a strange kind of respect at the same time. I shouldn’t have spoken to her so… publicly, he thought.\n\nChris noticed none of it. For him, the greeting was already over, a small, smooth point on the way to PE.\n\n[[Continue|Vor der Sporthalle.]]

Susan didn’t leave him guessing for long. “I talked to Rick, the owner of the Silver Spoon Diner,” she said, clapping her hands softly once, as if the matter were already decided. “He needs staff. You’re going there today—job interview.”\n\nChris blinked. “A job? Now?”\n\n“Being a waitress is perfect training for you.” Her voice turned sugary, the words carefully arranged. “Smiling, eye contact, elegant movements. And just imagine how pretty you’ll look in the apron.” The smile held as she picked up her handbag. “Besides, you need to contribute to the household budget. Your clothes, makeup, the room renovation—that put quite a dent in things.”\n\nChris stared at her in disbelief and thought: But that was all your decision.\n\n“And by the way, you can keep your tips—a little motivation to make an effort.” She linked arms with him as if she were doing him a favor. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”\n\nThe Silver Spoon Diner was on the road out of town, a low building with a neon sign and a row of chrome stools at the counter. Inside, it smelled of coffee, fryer grease, and syrup. Waitresses in short skirts and little aprons balanced plates; the noise was dense, but friendly.\n\nAt the end of the counter stood the boss—overweight, fleshy hands, shirt buttons under strain. He looked Chris up and down once, his smile too wide. “Well, this is the new girl?” he asked Susan, then directly to Chris: “Pretty legs. Customers love that kind of thing.”\n\nChris pressed his lips into a tight smile. Susan acted as if it were a compliment.\n\n“Come with me to the back, sweetie,” the boss said, jerking his thumb toward a door. “Quick chat, then we’ll see.”\n\nThe room in the back was small: a table, two rickety chairs, a clipboard. He dropped into one, and Chris sat opposite him.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Rick.jpg]]</center> “So,” he began, “name, school—all clear. Nice. You seem sharp.” A bit of small talk, a question about “can you carry three plates at once?”, a comment about “no problem, I’ll teach you.” Then he leaned forward, his voice a shade lower.\n\n“How flexible are you in the evenings, even very late?”\n<<set $diner to 0>>\n''How does Chris respond?''\n❯ [[He makes himself sound very flexible, even though he already feels uneasy about what that might mean.|Sehr flexibel.][$diner += 1]]\n❯ [[He says clearly that school comes first, even if that might hurt his chances of getting the job.|Chris sagt, dass Schultage Priorität haben.]]

Ava rocked the baby, who began to fuss restlessly. “All right, my darling.” Routinely, she draped a nursing cover over her shoulder, settled herself more comfortably, and lifted the child. Chris immediately felt his ears grow hot as Ava pushed her top over her breasts. Two thick melons slipped out of her top, which, thanks to gravity, first sagged downward and then swayed back and forth. He turned his head away and stared at a pattern in the carpet.\n\nChris listened to the women talking about the care and shape of their breasts and felt an embarrassing awkwardness as he listened, while he heard the baby’s soft, soothing smacking. Still, he couldn’t help casting a curious, furtive glance in Ava’s direction.\n\nOne could clearly see her oversized nipple at the baby's mouth; the baby was currently sucking to draw milk from the breast. Its eyes were closed, yet its mouth was slightly pursed, for the act of sucking seemed to be somewhat strenuous for it.\n\nAva noticed Chris looking at her breasts with a lustful gaze. “Well, want a sip too?” Ava’s voice came sharp and honey-sour at once. Her eyes flashed over to him—not kindly. The remark hit Chris in the face like a cold washcloth. He froze, blood rising into his cheeks.\n\n“No—I—” he stammered, his hands clenched tightly together.\n\nSusan spun around, her gaze hard. “Chris!” A single word, full of disapproval. “Behave yourself.”\n\nHe felt as if the floor beneath his feet had become too small—shame that found no door—and realized he had to say something—anything.\n\n''How does Chris react?''\n❯ [[Apologize.|Sich entschuldigen.]]\n❯ [[Make an excuse (“I was just watching the baby”).|Sich herausreden.][$ferguson += 1]]

Just before bed, Chris stood in the bathroom, absentmindedly brushing his hair, when the door opened. Susan poked her head in, then stepped fully inside, two tubes in her hand. “Body hair needs to go again tonight, yes? We don’t want any peach fuzz.”\n<<set $ort to "bathroom">>\nChris suppressed a sigh. He had already shaved his legs several times that summer, even though his body hair was light and sparse and disappeared under tights anyway. But “anyway” was one of Susan’s favorite words. Added to that was the summer heat: in dresses and skirts, his thighs rubbed together, the freshly shaved skin slightly reddened, every step a small reminder. When he had complained about it once, his mother had only shrugged. “Beauty is pain.” Chris didn’t want to be “beautiful”—he just wanted to be left alone.\n\nToday, [[Susan|Susan Braun]] announced, there was a “perfect solution.” She held up the tube. “Depilatory cream. Gentler than a blade, and smooth for longer. Stand in the tub, I’ll help you.”\n\nHe nodded, because arguing at this hour was pointless. He stripped naked and stepped into the tub. Susan inspected her son from bottom to top. It embarrassed him to stand naked in front of his mother, and he wanted to do anything to make sure the treatment didn’t take long.\n\n“Arms up and expose your armpits,” was her first instruction. Chris obeyed.\n\nHe felt his mother spreading depilatory cream on him. First his upper body, then his legs. She proceeded very carefully and didn’t leave out a single patch of skin all the way down to his feet. A chemically sweet smell hung in the air.\n\nNext, it was his buttocks and pubic hair’s turn. Chris spread his legs slightly so that his mother could apply the cream there as well. His mother’s gentle touches—in a bizarre way—actually aroused him a little. No woman had ever caressed him so tenderly before. And so, Chris got an erection. He tried to stop it, but he couldn’t.\n\nFinally, his mother took a wet cloth and gradually washed the cream off Chris’s skin. The cream really did seem very effective. Horrified, Chris realized that there wasn’t a single hair left anywhere on his body.\n\nAt the end, he was gently dried off as well. His skin felt strange, truly naked.\n\nSuddenly, he felt his mother's fingers on his member; she pulled the foreskin down a little. Chris noticed that his cock was getting hard. How embarrassing, having an erection right in front of your own Mother. Why was this situation turning him on, of all things?\n\nHis body was betraying his mind.\n\nHis erection stood rock-hard. Chris was confused when his mother planted a kiss on the tip of his member.\n\n“See, it wasn’t so bad after all,” she said.\n\nLater, in the darkness of his room, he crawled into the freshly made bed. The satin felt cool at first, then took on body warmth like water in a bathtub. The bedding glided around him; with every small movement, the fabric whispered softly. He stretched his legs—the skin was so smooth he almost slid across the sheet.\n\nFor the first time that day, his body let go. Everything was soft, smooth, springy; as if lying on clouds. The thought of tomorrow was there, but duller, as if wrapped in cotton. He turned onto his side, the bedding stroking over his smooth skin like tender caresses, and his breath settled into a calm rhythm. For a moment, there was only the soft rustle of the fabric, the smooth coolness against his legs, and the feeling of being embedded in something that didn’t ask questions. The outside world could wait. In here it was—at least for one night—quiet.\n\n[[The second school day.|Der zweite Schultag.]]

The limousine dropped them off in front of the gym, where the entrance looked like a stage. A banner with glittering letters hung above the door, and warm light shimmered out from inside. When Chris got out, the midnight blue of his dress gathered briefly around his knees, and the cool evening air brushed across his bare back. He held the clutch more tightly, as if it were an anchor.\n<<set $ort to "gym">>\nLucas offered him his arm, completely naturally. Chris slipped his arm through it—and the moment they stepped through the doors, the world became loud and soft at the same time.\n\nThe gym was barely recognizable: strings of lights arched over the floor, small spotlights cast swirling patterns on the walls, and the music laid a steady pulse over everything. Where there were usually basketball lines and the smell of the gym, tonight there were shimmering drapes, balloons, and a few photo backdrops. People laughed, called out names, shoes clicked against the floor, and everywhere dresses, shirts, and ties sparkled.\n\nChris’s heart was pounding all the way to his fingertips. He felt the weight of the looks before he even consciously noticed them—that brief pause when someone registered: Oh. He automatically compared himself to the other girls: the perfect hairstyles, the shimmering fabrics, the confident movements. For a second, he wanted to make himself smaller.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/homecoming_lucas_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/homecoming_lucas_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nThen he noticed something else: the looks weren’t only going to him. Some of the boys were looking at Lucas—and Chris recognized that expression immediately. Envy. Respect. That silent “How did he pull that off?” Lucas held his head high, as if he were enjoying the moment without overplaying it. Beside Chris’s hand on his arm, he seemed proud, not boastful—and it rolled through Chris’s chest like a warm wave: Lucas liked standing here with him. With his pretty girlfriend. And it gave Chris a feeling he hardly knew: acceptance that didn’t feel exhausting.\n\n“Oh my God, you look...” A girl from the theater club stopped in front of them, smiled sincerely, and didn’t look at Chris as if he were just a dress with legs. “You’re glowing tonight.”\n\nA second girl nodded immediately. “Yeah, really. Not just the dress—you somehow seem... happy.”\n\nChris felt his cheeks grow warm. Not that hot shame that usually caught him, but something softer. Belonging, without the sting behind it. “Thank you,” he managed, and this time it didn’t sound forced.\n\nLucas gave his arm the faintest squeeze, as if to say: See? Chris exhaled and only then realized he had been holding his breath.\n\nLater they stood at the photo booth, a small corner with a curtain and a camera on a tripod. Props were laid out—paper hearts, glasses, little signs. Lucas took a “HOME” and Chris a “COMING,” and they stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder. The flash counted down, and Chris smiled because Lucas was looking at him as if all of this were exactly right.\n\nThe photo came out as a strip, still slightly warm from printing. Chris took it carefully and looked through the pictures: first a surprised, open moment, then a real laugh, then one picture where Lucas’s gaze held him so firmly that for a heartbeat Chris no longer knew where the line between role and reality lay.\n\nHe stared at the strip and thought, with complete clarity and at the same time disbelief: That’s me.\n\nNot just a mask. Not just a “accidentally looking good.” He—Chris—was standing there, in the middle of the glow of the string lights, beside Lucas, and looked like someone who was really there.\n\n[[Continue|Ein ruhiger Tanz.]]

They danced and danced, the whole evening.\n\nWhen the music briefly grew quieter and the DJ spoke into the microphone, an electric murmur ran through the gym. Chris felt it at first only as a change in the room: people shifted closer together, heads turned toward the small stage where a makeshift platform had been set up. The cone of the spotlight wandered restlessly over the crowd until it caught on the banner.\n\n“Okay, Maplewood!” the DJ called. “Time for Homecoming King and Queen!”\n\nChris’ stomach tingled, but he did not think it could have anything to do with him. He took another sip, laughed at something Dylan said, and watched as a teacher brought over an envelope. Penelope stood nearby, polished like a statue, and Chris almost automatically expected her to walk up front any second. That fit the order of the world.\n\nThe envelope was opened. A moment in which everything was briefly still, as if someone had held the air.\n\n“Homecoming King...” The DJ drew the word out. “...Dylan Carter!”\n\nThe gym exploded. Cheers, whistles, hands in the air. Dylan blinked, laughed in disbelief, as if he had expected it, but not so suddenly. He raised his hand, as if all of it were just luck.\n\nChris grinned, clapped, felt warmth in his chest. Then came the second envelope.\n\n“And Homecoming Queen...”\n\nChris’ gaze automatically swept over the crowd: to the cheerleaders, to Penelope.\n\n“...Chris Braun!”\n\nIt took a heartbeat for the word to reach him. Chris blinked, as if he had misheard. Someone beside him squealed. A hand nudged him. He heard his own name as if from far away, and suddenly everything was light. A spotlight found him, hit him like a blow. Applause surged up, camera flashes flickered like little storms.\n\n“What?” Chris managed, more breath than voice. His body stayed still, but his mind was racing.\n\nDylan turned to him, eyes wide, then that open, genuine smile spread across his face. “You won,” he said, as if it were the most natural miracle in the world. “Come on.”\n\nChris went, because Dylan took him by the hand. He did not tug—he guided. And suddenly Chris was on his way to the front, between rows of faces looking at him as if he were part of a story they liked telling. He heard cheering, did not hear his nickname, heard no stupid comments—only that big, warm sound that sounded like: We want you here.\n\n[[Continue|Auf der Bühne.][$kissboy += 1]]

<h2>Epilogue Chris</h2> The days became a gauntlet for Chris that refused to end.\n\nHe heard his nickname more often, but this time it sounded different. No longer just like a stupid remark about his body, but like a label for the video. Sometimes all it took was a throat clearing behind his back, a quiet “Do you have it?” and the suppressed laughter that followed. The air around him was no longer neutral. It was charged.\n\nIn the cafeteria, no one sat with him “by chance” anymore. If he sat down somewhere with others, there was that tiny moment when conversations stumbled and then found a new topic at exaggerated speed. Some women looked at him as if he were stained—as if he had done something they secretly found exciting but had to condemn in public. Some men were worse: they grinned too long, wanted to “just talk,” moved too close in groups, as if his discomfort were a game. Chris learned to walk faster, take detours, reach doors earlier.\n\nIn class, he stared at assignments without seeing them. He took notes, but the lines were emptier than before. It was as if his head was playing a second audio track the whole time: Who has it now? Who sent it? How many have seen it? If someone laughed behind him, his back flinched. If a phone vibrated, he felt it like a blow—even if it was not his.\n\nThe weeks dragged on. Nothing became “old.” On the contrary: the video became a running joke, a code word, a whisper that kept being lit anew. Chris’s reputation was not merely “damaged”—at school, he had suddenly become a story that others liked to retell. And he himself became the object of that story, no matter how quiet he was.\n\nAfter a few days, he no longer wanted to get up in the mornings. He stayed lying in bed, stared at the ceiling, and felt his face burn at the mere thought of the hallway. More than once, he held his breath when his mother came up the stairs, childishly hoping she would just leave him alone.\n\nShe did not.\n\nSusan stood in the doorway and reacted to his plea to stay home with a look that said “drama.” “You’re going to school,” she had decided, as if it were a physical law. “You are not going to hide away. And you are not going to make a fuss.” She pointed at the garment bag by the wardrobe, at the vanity, at all the things she saw as “consequences.” “If you want people to take you seriously, then act like it.”\n\nChris tried to explain that it was not about “people,” but about shame, about fear, about that feeling of being watched everywhere. Susan only half listened. To her, withdrawal was weakness—and weakness was something she wanted to press out of him.\n\nSo she forced him. With orders, with pressure, with that sweet, cold tone that allowed no discussion. She gave him a choice: school or trouble. And Chris had long since learned what trouble looked like with his mother.\n\nSo he kept going. Every morning polished, polished against his will. Every week with the feeling that his mask no longer protected him, but made him more visible. And still he walked through the halls as if he were not burning inside—because he had no other choice.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $dating == 1>>[[Second and third date.|Zweites und drittes Date.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $dating == 2>>[[Messages to Laverne.|Nachrichten an Laverne.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $dating == 3>>[[Family talks in the evening.|Familiengespräche am Abend.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $dating == 0>><<if $ende == 0>>[[Christmas in Germany.|Weihnachten in Deutschland.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 1>>[[Christine is pregnant.|Christine ist schwanger.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 2>>[[Academic pressure at school.|Leistungsstress in der Schule.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 3>>[[Family celebration with Adam.|Familienfeier mit Adam.]]<<endif>><<endif>><</nobr>>

That night, Chris no longer let go of the thought. He lay there motionless and noticed how his mind latched onto it, as if it were a knot that could only be untied if you turned it long enough.\n<<set $wochentag = 1>><<set $ort to "">>\nMaybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it would even be better. Not just for Charlotte, he told himself—maybe for him too, because then that one unbearable breaking point would finally disappear, the place where everything kept tearing open again. Then the fear came at once: permanence. Pain. Regret. And then hope again, so quiet and sweet that it felt like a lie: Charlotte would look at him the way she used to. Without hesitation. Without that recoiling.\n\nHis thoughts circled, overheated, ran back again. Love, shame, defiance. He made no decision. He couldn’t even say whether he truly wanted it. But he knew something else all the more clearly: He didn’t want to lose Charlotte. And that sentence alone was dangerous enough to keep him awake until dawn began to gray.\n\nOn Monday, Chris stood in the school hallway before first period, his bag heavy, his eyes tired. The halls were full of voices and locker doors, but Charlotte came straight toward him, purposeful, with that look that wasn’t searching, but already knew. No one had ever broken up with him before—and still he recognized it immediately. It was in the way she held her mouth, as if pulling herself together. In the way she didn’t smile.\n\nShe didn’t reach for his hand. She only gave a brief nod and gestured toward a quieter corner by the notice board, where hardly anyone was standing. Chris followed, and every step there felt like a countdown.\n\nCharlotte turned to him, hunching her shoulders as if she had to protect herself. “Chris, I…” she began quietly.\n\nHe heard the sentence before she even said it: I’m sorry. I can’t do this. We should break up… His heart beat against his ribs, and panic made him faster than wise.\n\n“Wait,” he blurted out, far too hastily. “Please. I… I’ve been thinking.”\n\nCharlotte blinked, surprised by the urgency. “About what?”\n\nChris’s mouth was faster than his head, as if he were afraid she would be gone if he didn’t say the words immediately. “I can… I can become a real girl.” His voice dropped on the second part, but he said it anyway. “For you. Then there wouldn’t be anything left for you to be disgusted by.”\n\nCharlotte stared at him as if he had said something monstrous—not cruel, more incomprehensible. “What do you mean by… real?” she asked, and her voice grew thin.\n\nChris’s hands trembled slightly; he hid them by gripping the straps of his bag. “There are… surgeries,” he said, without details, only that word that had grown so large in his head. “I could have surgery… to become a woman.”\n\nFor a moment, Charlotte said nothing. Her gaze jumped over his face, as if searching for the joke—and finding none. “Would you really do that?” she finally asked, quietly, almost frightened.\n\nChris was completely unsure himself. The truth was: He didn’t know. Not really. But he saw the goodbye already waiting in her face, and he couldn’t bear it.\n\n“Yes,” he said. And it sounded firm because it had to sound firm. Because he didn’t want to lose her.\n\nCharlotte inhaled sharply once, as if she suddenly had too little air. Her gaze was no longer only determined, but confused—and somewhere in it lay something Chris couldn’t place: pity? Hope? Fear?\n\nChris stood there, red in the face, his heart far too loud, and held on to his own word like a railing.\n<<set $charlotte_opinion to 99>>\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5f]]

Chris looked over at the dark-haired man once more. He stood relaxed by the table, cue casual in his hand, and his gaze lingered on Chris a beat too long. In Chris’s stomach, that tingling flickered up—brief, unwanted, almost like a reflex. He immediately pushed it away, the way you swipe away a notification you don’t want to read right now.\n<<set $ort to "pool hall">>\n“Actually…” Chris said and cleared his throat, “it would be okay if Zoe and I played together, wouldn’t it? We came here together anyway.”\n\nZoe raised her eyebrows as if he had just suggested ordering broccoli instead of fries. “Huh?” she went.\n\n“Please,” Chris added more quietly. He tried to make it sound like a normal preference and not like an escape. “I barely have any experience. With you, it’s… easier.”\n\nZoe snorted, then shrugged. “Fine. Girls’ team.” She grinned at the men. “You two against us. And if you lose, you buy drinks.”\n\nThe blond laughed. The dark-haired man nodded and only said, “Deal.”\n\nThe men broke. The dark-haired man stood with his legs apart, bent over the table, broke—clack, the balls scattered, one rolled cleanly into a pocket. The blond followed, focused, quick shot, another ball dropped.\n\nThen it was Chris’s turn.\n\nHe stepped up to the table, the cue suddenly far too long and far too visible. He lined up, aimed at a nearby ball—and shot. The shot went… exactly beside the ball. Not barely beside it, but so clearly past it that it almost looked as if he had aimed wide on purpose.\n\nZoe burst out laughing. “Oh my God.”\n\nChris’s face grew hot. “I told you—”\n\n“Come here.” Zoe stepped behind him, surprisingly close. Her breasts pressed through the fabric of her top against Chris’s back. At first only a gentle touch, more guessed at than effectively felt, then the two bodies pressed more and more firmly together. She placed one hand on his elbow and guided the other to his cue hand, correcting the angle. “Loose. Don’t tense up. You aim like you hate a math formula.”\n\nDon’t think about it! Chris urged himself when he noticed Zoe pressing him down and his own breasts touching the table through the fabric of his blouse.\n\nChris swallowed, breathed out, and let himself be guided. “Like this?”\n\n“Like that,” Zoe said, right by his ear. “And now slowly.”\n\nHe shot—this time he hit. The ball rolled, grazed a cushion, and actually plopped another ball into a pocket. Chris’s eyes widened. “I’ve got it!”\n\n“We’ve got it,” Zoe corrected dryly, but she sounded pleased.\n\n[[Continue|Chris ist nochmal dran.]]

Chris nodded shyly in response to the question, more a tiny, hurried yes than a confident one. Dylan smiled, as if that nod was enough to set the world straight again, and opened the passenger door for him.\n\nThe drive to Dylan’s was short, but to Chris it felt like a transition into something new. The streetlights drew bright streaks across the windows, the car radio played softly, and every now and then Dylan reached for Chris’s hand, as if he needed to make sure he was really there. Chris’s fingers were cold, but his chest felt warm and tight at the same time—from relief, from nervousness, from the awareness that he had just done something irreversible: told the truth.\n\nWhen they arrived at Dylan’s, the house was dark and quiet, just as Dylan had said it would be. Inside, it smelled of detergent and wood. Dylan led Chris upstairs, the steps creaking softly, and every step made Chris’s heart beat a little faster.\n\nIn Dylan’s room, the light was dim; only the light from the hallway fell like a rectangle onto the carpet. Posters on the wall, football gear over a chair, a tidy kind of chaos. Dylan closed the door, turned around, and looked at Chris as if asking him again without words: Are you sure?\n\nChris breathed out. “Yes,” he whispered, though he didn’t know how much that yes really covered.\n\nDylan came closer and kissed him again—gently at first, then with that hungry, lovestruck urgency that had been building up over the past few weeks. Chris kissed him back, and for a few breaths everything was easy: no labels, no explanations, only warmth and closeness.\n\nHands found waist, butt, breasts. Words became unnecessary. Clothes fell quickly, carelessly, like things they no longer wanted between them.\n\nAnd yet Chris hesitated for a moment when he saw Dylan completely naked in front of him. He hadn’t expected anything else—and still it was different from only imagining it. It was briefly strange, like a small stumble in his head: That’s a boy. The old reflex, the old shadow, a hint of uncertainty that no longer had the power it once had, but still existed.\n\nChris’s gaze slipped away, for a heartbeat. Shame flickered up—also about his own body, about what was there between his own legs.\n\nDylan noticed immediately and stopped, without pushing. “Hey,” he said softly. “Everything okay?”\n\nChris swallowed. “I…” He struggled for words that wouldn’t turn everything back into shards. “It’s just… strange. Not because of you.” He dared to look at Dylan. “Because of me. Because of my body. I’m scared that…” He broke off, because he didn’t know exactly what he was afraid of. Rejection. Wrong expectations. Himself.\n\nDylan stepped closer, gently framed Chris’s face between his hands, and looked at him as if there were nothing strange about him, nothing that needed explaining.\n\nChris breathed out. There was no irritation in Dylan’s eyes, no disappointment—only familiarity. That matter-of-factness took the shame out of Chris’s hand, as if Dylan simply lifted it from him.\n\nChris pulled Dylan back to him, kissed him, this time without the stumble.\n\nAs he did, he felt Dylan’s stiff member against his body and was briefly startled. He was the girl here, but did that also mean he now had to take this masculine, hard thing inside himself?\n\n[[Continue|Chris lutscht Dylan den Schwanz.][$anal += 1;$partner += 1;$creampied += 1;$woral += 1]]

Chris pulled away from his mother’s touch and then knelt down right beside her. With one hand, he took the lollipop from his mother and began to suck on DeShawn’s glans himself. In that moment, he didn't even know what had come over him.\n\nSusan watched her son in surprise for a moment, then demanded her "love bone" back. This went back and forth for a while. Mother and son both sucked on DeShawn’s spear, and right there, their lips met. The kiss—with the hard cock wedged between them—was intense and demanding, a dance of desire in which each vied to gain the upper hand. Finally, Chris pulled away, a barely perceptible blush rising to his cheeks.\n\nBut DeShawn grabbed him with his strong arms just as Chris turned around and tried to crawl off the bed.\n\nDeShawn held him by the hips; Chris suddenly felt the hard cock rubbing against his ass crack, and secretly, he wished DeShawn would push inside.\n\nQuite instinctively, Chris lifted his ass, and DeShawn guided his shaft toward his hot, yearning hole. DeShawn thrust forward, slowly drilling his way through Chris’s rosette.\n\nAt first, Chris screamed in pain. For the first time, he felt in his own body what women had to endure: getting fucked by a monstrous black cock like that. As the searing pain subsided somewhat—and DeShawn pushed deep into Chris’s bowels—it was inevitable that he would stimulate his prostate as well. Chris gasped for breath, yet ultimately it felt good, and he soon found himself floating on waves of pure pleasure.\n\n"Oh, yes!" Susan laughed. "Give it to the little girl; she’s loving it! I can tell!"\n\nChris actually enjoyed the way DeShawn fucked him in the ass. He was completely pounded through and heard bells ringing. He had never imagined anal sex could be this hot.\n\nIt was so intense that his orgasm eventually rolled over him like a steamroller. Chris’s stiff cock twitched and sprayed onto the mattress without him even touching it.\n\nDeShawn couldn’t hold out any longer either. The tightness of Chris’s ass, which had never been stretched open like this before, nearly drove him out of his mind, and so he came in the sweet butt. Chris felt the semen flowing into him. It was a wonderfully arousing feeling. It filled his bowels and stretched him, that was how much DeShawn gave him. Even the feeling of the dick still inside him was wonderful in the end.\n\nWhen it was all over, Chris’s muscles relaxed a little and DeShawn’s cock slipped out of his ass. The white sauce could be seen welling out of Chris’s anus. But the huge stallion cock had not lost a bit of its stiffness.\n\nNow Susan, too, finally wanted to get fucked. She turned around and thrust her horny ass toward DeShawn. It was high time someone attended to her needs. DeShawn parted her labia and briefly fucked her with two fingers. She had evidently passed the test, for without hesitation, he slid his shaft into her wet pussy. With rapid thrusts, he pounded Susan while Chris watched the two of them.\n\nThis quickly pushed Susan over the edge. She couldn't hold out for long under the pounding her pussy was taking. Moaning, she bucked her hips against DeShawn as her orgasm slowly subsided.\n\nAfterward, both Chris and his mother turned their attention back to DeShawn, whose cock was once again enveloped by two mouths. It wasn't long before he came for the second time that evening. Susan generously stepped aside to let her son take over, and—stunned by his own actions—Chris swallowed the cum of the powerful black man.\n\nFinally, they lay exhausted and close together, as if the night had somehow rearranged them. Chris felt the wet mattress beneath him, the warmth of two bodies beside him, and deep inside, an afterglow that was simultaneously sweet and bewildering.\n\n[[Continue|Der nächste Morgen in DeShawns Küchte.]]\n

At school, the talk from last week hadn’t died down—it had only changed sides. After the boys had passed around their list of the “hottest girls,” the girls had decided that like could be repaid with like. Now a new list was circulating, this time with boys’ names, boxes, and a scale from 1 to 10. Plus comments in the margins.\n<<set $ort to "classroom">>\nAt some point, the sheet landed with Chris. It was suddenly lying beside his notebook, as if it had always been there. At the top, in large letters, it said: “BOYS RANKING (DON’T SNITCH)” and beneath it a row of names, with columns for scores.\n\nChris held the pen in the air for a moment. It was weird, rating boys by their looks—weird and somehow unfair. Besides, he was one himself. Part of him wanted to simply pass the sheet on, pretend he had never seen it.\n\nBut curiosity pulled harder than resistance.\n\nHe slid the sheet closer, skimmed the names, and realized that it was… easier than he had thought. Not because he had suddenly become superficial, but because his inner struggle against finding boys attractive now only flickered weakly. He had grown tired of denying it. And somewhere inside him, there had long been an honest answer before he consciously put it into words.\n\nHis gaze lingered on Dylan.\n\nThe boxes before it were almost all filled with a 10. A little “!!!” beside it, a drawn lightning bolt somewhere. Chris felt a warm tug in his chest just from reading the name. Without hesitating, he wrote 10/10 next to it and—almost unconsciously—scribbled a small smiley beside it that looked far too satisfied.\n\nHe still couldn’t believe he was going to homecoming with Dylan. The thought of Saturday made his cheeks grow warm. A ball gown in the closet. A clutch. Dylan’s question in the hall. That “yes” his mouth had said before his head could catch up. And still: anticipation.\n\nChris forced himself to keep going. He rated the other boys as fairly as he could—not by status, not by rumors, but by what he truly saw: a nice smile here, a handsome profile there, an alert look, good hair. He kept it factual, almost conscientious, and noticed how absurd that was: as if he were playing jury while being part of the stage himself.\n\nThen came Myles.\n\nChris’s hand stopped. For a moment he saw Christine in the stands again, the red eyes, the broken “He’s going with someone else.” He thought of the scene in the locker room before the game, of the casual certainty with which Myles took things and then threw them away. His stomach hardened.\n\nHe didn’t write “1,” not “2.” He wrote 0. Beside it, he made a small, angry stroke—almost like a mini lightning bolt, but crooked. Not because Myles was ugly. But because Chris didn’t want to be fair right then. Because solidarity among girls sometimes looked exactly like that.\n\nFarther down was Adam.\n\nBeside his name, Chris saw almost only zeroes, an “ew,” a crossed-out smiley. He felt that unpleasant tug of pity and anger at the same time. Somehow it hurt him to think of someone being collectively made into a joke like that.\n\nHe gave him a few points—not many, but more than zero. 3, he finally wrote, and added a neutral face beside it: 😐. A sign meant to say: Not my type. But not a monster either.\n\nWhen he was finished, he looked at the sheet once more. He felt both silly and strangely serious about it—because every number revealed something about him. About his anger. About his loyalty. And about this fact that could no longer quite be pushed away: that the name Dylan alone made him smile.\n\nChris folded the sheet back up and passed it on, as if nothing had happened. Except that his heart was still beating a little faster than before.\n\n[[Continue|Panik nach der Schule.]]

Chris took the phone, the screen vibrating in his hand. “Christine?”\nIn the background, music pounded, voices laughed shrilly, someone bellowed. Christine’s breathing came in bursts. Her voice was a sob with words caught between, slurred and heavy with alcohol.\n“C-Chris… are you… there?” The sentence broke, followed by a hoarse swallow. “I feel so sick… I—I drank so much…” A fresh bout of crying began, thin and high. “He… Myles… he wanted… and then—” She gasped for air. “I said no… not like that… not today… and now everything hurts…”\nChris’s throat tightened. “Christine, where are you?”\n“At this party… I don’t know—wait…” Something clattered, as she apparently searched for the location. “I’m not bleeding or anything… but…” The word but frayed apart. “It happened… Chris, he just did it against my will… I was… I had never—” She choked on the sentence and started crying again, really crying, uncontrolled, whimpering, with those small, helpless sounds he barely knew from her. “Please… come get me… I can’t stay here… I’m so stupid…”\n“You’re not stupid,” he said softly, one hand against his forehead. “Send me the address. Now.”\n“I… I’ll send it…” More sobbing. “Please, Chris. Please.”\nThe message popped up seconds later: a pin on an unfamiliar street. He lifted his gaze. Charlotte stood a few steps away, arms wrapped around herself, shoulders tense.\nSuddenly there was too much air in the room. Chris’s heart beat in two directions: stay here, talk, explain—or go now, to Christine, who was crying and, by all appearances, had just lost her virginity against her will.\nHe took one deep breath. The decision lay between them like an open door through which he could only go in one direction.\n<<set $myles_opinion to 21>>\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[Go to his sister.|Zu seiner Schwester gehen.][$christine += 1;$christine_opinion += 10;$christine_party += 1]]\n❯ [[Stay with Charlotte and talk to her.|Bei Charlotte bleiben und mit ihr reden.]]

On the way back from shopping, the air was cold and clear, the sky a gray winter cloth. They pushed the bags through the pedestrian zone, past shop windows with artificial snow and strings of lights that almost seemed too early in the daylight.\n\nAnd then exactly what Chris had been afraid of since departure happened.\n\nA boy came toward them—about his age, familiar posture, familiar voice, familiar way of lifting his gaze as if the sidewalk belonged to him. Chris recognized him immediately: Timo. Not because he had changed much, but because bullying burns itself into memory like a smell. This guy had constantly picked on him back then, when Chris himself had still been a boy: remarks, shoves, those small public humiliations that always pretended to be “just a joke.”\n\nChris’s pulse shot up. His body reacted faster than his head: shoulders went stiff, throat tight, hands suddenly too tense around the shopping bag. The worst part was the eye contact. Don’t look. Don’t stand out. Just get past.\n\nBut the boy looked over. And Chris’s face almost gave him away—that tiny expression that said: I know you. Please don’t.\n\nThe boy slowed a step, furrowing his brow as if he had a thought that was just slipping away from him. “Hey…” He studied Chris’s face, the earrings, the coat, the makeup, as if searching for a category that didn’t fit. “Do we know each other?”\n\nChris’s stomach dropped a floor. “Uh…” He forced his voice to stay calm. “I… I used to live here. Went to school here for a while.” Nothing more. As neutral as possible. As quickly as possible.\n\nThe boy nodded slowly, as if checking it against something. He didn’t recognize him. And instead of the situation easing, it veered in a direction Chris hadn’t expected at all.\n\n“Ah,” the boy said, suddenly smiling. Not the mean grin from before, but an… interested one. “Okay, that explains why you look familiar.” His gaze lingered a touch too long. “You’re… cute. I mean—really.”\n\nChris blinked. For a moment, he was so caught off guard that the fear briefly stepped into empty air. Then another feeling came, small and treacherous: a flattering warmth beneath his skin. He’s flirting. The sentence was absurd. This was his former bully.\n\n“Thanks,” Chris managed, and it sounded too polite.\n\n“Want to grab a milkshake sometime?” the boy asked, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Or… give me your number?”\n\nChris’s heart pounded, this time for two reasons. One part of him just wanted to get away. Another part stood beside it in astonishment: He doesn’t recognize me. He thinks I’m attractive. Something about that felt like a small, unfair revenge without Chris having to do anything at all.\n\n“I can’t, unfortunately,” Chris said, and the word unfortunately slipped out so automatically that he startled himself inside the same instant. Did I really say “unfortunately”? He felt his cheeks growing warm. “I… I’m flying back soon. To the U.S.”\n\nThe boy made a disappointed face, but stayed charming. “Shame. Real shame.” He shrugged and smiled again. “All right, then… happy holidays.”\n\n“You too,” Chris said quickly.\n\nThe boy walked on, turning around after a few steps to look at Chris’s ass. Then the crowd swallowed him up.\n\nChris only really breathed again once there was enough distance. He felt shaky and strangely… tall at the same time. Not triumphant, more stunned.\n\nHis father came up beside him like a shield that had suddenly been activated. “What did that boy want?” he asked, his voice too sharp for a casual question.\n\nChris hunched his shoulders, trying to act as if nothing had happened. “Nothing. He just asked whether we knew each other.”\n\n“And?” His father stayed alert, watching the boy go.\n\n“He… was just…” Chris searched for a word that wouldn’t reveal how much it had just affected him. “Weird.”\n\nHis father nodded, still tense. “If someone bothers you, tell me. Okay?”\n\nChris felt a second warm stab, this time in a different place: not only that his former bully had flirted with him—but that his father had immediately been there, protective, without hesitation. It felt good. Too good to admit.\n\n“Yeah,” Chris said, far too neutrally.\n\nThey kept walking toward the car, the bags rustling, the street glittering with frost. Chris kept his gaze forward, but inside, something in him was grinning, small and cheeky—and another part said sternly: You’re not telling anyone that.\n\n[[Continue|Weihnachtsabend.]]

There were evenings when she sent “We can do this” messages, short and to the point: “20 minutes now, then sleep.” Or: “You pushed through yesterday. Today, okay is enough too.” Chris realized how much that calmed him. Ruby had a way of cutting pressure into small pieces until it became edible.\n\nAnd because they saw each other so often, talking automatically became more personal. Not in big confessions, more in small cracks through which something real shimmered. Ruby noticed patterns: that Chris sometimes suddenly went quiet, as if his body were too loud; that his mood tipped over on some days for no obvious reason; that certain messages on his phone made him tense up immediately; that in conversations about home, he became more evasive than with any schoolwork.\n\nShe rarely said anything directly about it. Sometimes only: “You’re getting tired faster than usual today.” Or: “You seem stressed.” Then she pushed a bottle of water over to him, as if that were the solution—and perhaps in that moment, it was.\n\nChris did not tell his big secret. He also did not tell any details that could give him away. But he told enough for Ruby to take him seriously. That was new. And it felt good.\n\nWhen Lucas eventually broke up with her, Ruby seemed numb at first. She stood in front of the library door, holding her notebook so tightly as if it had gravity. “He says we don’t fit,” she said. No tears, only that flat, wounded astonishment.\n\nChris was there. Not as someone with clever solutions, but as someone who stayed. He did not offer her quick comfort, only time: they sat on the low wall in front of the school building, and Chris let her talk, as much or as little as she wanted. When Ruby finally did cry, she hastily wiped her cheeks, as if she were ashamed of it. Chris wordlessly pushed a tissue over to her and only said: “You don’t have to apologize.”\n\nRuby snorted through her tears. “This is so stupid. I tried so hard.”\n\nChris nodded. “I know.”\n\nThat day, she stayed at his shoulder longer than usual. Not romantically, not dramatically—just familiarly, like a place where you could sit down without having to be explained. Chris felt something between them grow firmer: not a pact, not a promise. More like a quiet closeness that no longer depended on who liked whom or who had left whom.\n\nAnd later, when they were sitting at their library table again, the Post-its and flashcards between them, Chris sometimes noticed Ruby’s gaze resting on him longer—not searching for tips, not comparing, but simply… attentive. And Chris caught himself realizing that this attention made him warm.\n\n[[Continue|Weihnachten in Deutschland.]]

The promise for tomorrow lay in Chris’s head like a note in bold letters: sunbathing. Hot tub. “Bring swimwear.” He opened the closet and stared at rows of blouses, tops, skirts. Shorts and a T-shirt would have been ideal, but his mother had “cleared out” his boy clothes. Gone. The thought of standing somewhere in the garden in a wet top hit him like an embarrassing trailer in a movie theater. Wet T-shirt contest? Great idea, Chris, he mocked himself.\n\nHe knocked on Christine’s door. “Can you… uh… help?”\n\nShe looked him over once, then pushed open the doors of her closet. Her gaze wandered from the sports shorts to a box of swimwear. She pulled out a bikini, turquoise with narrow white piping. “Try this.”\n\nChris swallowed. A bikini. He took the set with his fingertips, as if it were calling out, “Warning, hot surface.” “Thanks,” he murmured, and disappeared into his room.\n\nIn front of the mirror, he put on the top. It had triangle cups with thin, soft padding; the straps were adjustable, the clasp clicked together at the back. He tightened the ties until it sat right. The first look in the mirror was a small shock: the fabric visually lifted the contour of his chest. Even though the cups were almost empty because of Chris’s small breasts, the padding kept his nipples from showing. And gave Chris more bust than was actually there.\n\nHe pulled up the bikini bottoms and immediately felt his body switch on every alarm. The thin elastane fabric sat tight, too direct, too… immediate. His stomach clenched. He tried adjusting the waistband, but it felt as if his body and the cut had not been designed for the same world.\n\n“And?” Christine’s voice came from the door. She had already come in before he could say “one moment.” He turned, embarrassed, arms half crossed, both protection and alibi at once.\n\nChristine let her gaze travel professionally from top to bottom and back up again, as if assessing a stage costume.\n\nChris felt the fine fabric cling to his penis like a second skin. His penis showed clearly through the thin material, and he had the feeling he was showing his little sister more than he was hiding.\n\n“The top works. Actually, it’s good,” she said, nodding. “But the bottoms? No way. That won’t work, you can see everything!”\n\n“That’s what I thought,” Chris managed.\n\n“Stay like that.” She disappeared, and two seconds later she was back in the doorway, throwing him a small pair of light-blue hot pants made of quick-drying material. “Put these over it. They sit high-waisted, that helps, and they won’t look weird in the water.”\n\nChris slipped into them. The shorts were tighter than his testicles liked; at first, the crotch felt as if his nervous system were issuing an angry comment. He exhaled, tugged minimally until it sat better. Then he stepped back in front of the mirror. The bikini top, the sporty hot pants over it—it looked like a swim outfit on purpose, not like a stopgap solution. And more importantly: it didn’t let anything stick out that shouldn’t. From the front, it looked skimpy but coherent; from the side, neutral enough that no one would look twice.\n\nChristine nodded, satisfied. “You can go like that.”\n\n“Thanks,” Chris said, more clearly. He felt the panic at least gaining structure. “Really.”\n\nChristine stayed a moment longer, hands planted on her hips, “big” sister in advice mode. “And Chris…”—she lowered her voice—“no stupid stuff, okay? Charlotte is nice. But nice doesn’t mean an invitation for you know what...”\n\n“I won’t do anything,” he protested, maybe too quickly.\n\n“Good.”\n\n[[Continue|Enthaarung vor dem Schlafengehen.]]

At home, Chris had almost automatically thrown on his sleeping negligee, as if the smooth fabric would help him shake off the evening. It was dark and soft, satin that ended just above his butt and rustled quietly with every movement. In the bathroom, he stood in front of the mirror, washed his face, and stared at himself as if he could read from his face why he had enjoyed the date.\n<<set $ort to "at home">>\nJust as he was removing the lipstick with a cotton pad, [[Susan|Susan Braun]] called from the bedroom: “Chris? Come here for a moment.”\n\nHis stomach tightened. He went over, down the hallway, his fingertips still a little damp.\n\nHis mother was sitting on the bed, her legs crossed; she was naked, stark naked. The light from the bedside lamp made her mature body even hotter. The blood rushed to Chris's face and other parts of his body.\n\n“There you are, sweetheart.” A moment ago she had still been sitting, but now his mother let herself fall back onto her bed and then leaned against the end of it.\n\n“Come on, lie down with me,” she urged him, patting the empty space beside her with her right hand. “And then you’ll tell me everything.”\n\nHesitantly, Chris went over to her and sat down beside her. He had left about 10 centimeters of space between himself and his mother’s body, but she quickly corrected that by sliding right up against him.\n\n“I’m so proud of you. Tell me. How was it?”\n\n“It was… okay,” he said, hearing for himself how bad that “okay” sounded.\n\nSusan smiled, as if she had expected exactly that. “Okay means: you don’t want to talk about it because you’re embarrassed. So: did he pick you up?”\n\nChris nodded. “Yes.”\n\n“In what?”\n\n“In… a pick-up,” Chris murmured. He felt the heat in his face again, and that made him angry at himself. It was only a car.\n\nSusan raised an eyebrow. “Of course. And? Did he see you right away and—?” She left the sentence open, as if she could already taste the answer.\n\n“He complimented me,” Chris said curtly.\n\n“What kind?”\n\nChris’s gaze slid to the side. “Mom…”\n\n“Chris.” Susan said his name like a gentle command. “You don’t have to be ashamed. I just want to know how he treated you.”\n\nHe swallowed. “He said… I looked good.”\n\nSusan leaned even closer to her son. “Just that?” Her hand rested on his thigh - a soothing stroke that also seemed like an invitation to continue talking.\n\nChris’s ears were burning. “He said… ‘dangerously good’.” He said it as if he were saying a forbidden word.\n\nSusan closed her eyes briefly, as if she were remembering. “Mmm.” Her fingertips stroked his leg, lost in thought, an arousing caress that seemed too intimate for a mother. “Oh, I know sayings like that.” Her smile grew wider. “Where were you?”\n\n“Mini golf.”\n\n"Sweet." Susan looked at him as if she was trying to replay the movie in her head. “Was he…physical?” Her fingers briefly glided over Chris's panties, then she withdrew her hand.\n\nChris froze. "What?"\n\n"Did he stand too close to you? Did he touch you?" Her voice was calm, almost matter-of-fact, but her eyes shone with excitement.\n<<set $susan_opinion to 75>>\n[[Continue|Chris erzählt es.]]\n

At some point, Chris stopped fighting himself every day. His body had long since changed; some things could not be reversed. Instead of wearing himself down over it, he began to accept it. Not as his mother’s victory over him, but as his own truth: he had become a woman—not by free choice at the beginning, but by free choice in the end, because he understood that identity is not only origin, but also what you make of it.\n\nAt home, their life grew larger without becoming loud.\n\nIn the mornings, it smelled of coffee and baby shampoo. Chris sometimes hummed while dressing the little one, and Christine pretended it annoyed her while secretly lingering longer in the kitchen doorway to watch. In the evenings, the three of them often lay on the sofa: the little one between them, a picture book in small hands, Chris’ arm behind Christine, Christine’s foot against his, as natural as anything.\n\nThey loved each other.\n\nNot like fireworks that flare brightly for a moment and then go out. But like a light that keeps burning, even when there is wind.\n\nThe years went on. Not perfect. But stable.\n\nIn the end, it was an ordinary Sunday that felt like a finale.\n\nPlayground. A cool morning, sun between clouds, coffee-to-go in hand. Christine pushed the swing, their daughter laughing so loudly that a few other parents automatically smiled. Chris stood beside them, the cup warm between his fingers, and watched as the little one stretched out her legs as if she could fly.\n\nHe thought of nights with vanilla candles. Of lockers. Of school hallways, of ultrasound pictures, of rumors, of fear. Of all the moments when he believed they would break from it.\n\nChristine walked over to him, pulled her brother toward her by the belt loop, and kissed him—just like that.\n\nChris smiled, with that soft expression he had hardly allowed himself before.\n\nIn the old city, they had hidden because they had to.\n\nIn the new city, they held on to each other because they could.\n\nTheir child squealed with joy again, and Chris felt something in his chest that no longer hurt, but carried him.\n\nWe made it, he thought. And in the end, that was exactly what they had become: a small family that was not perfect, but real.\n\n''End 5 of 10 - "Forbidden Love"''\n<<set $ende5 to 1>>\n[[📖 Statistics|Statistik][$selbstbild += 3]] - [[🏆 Bonus & Endings|Enden]]

Latoya kissed Chris again, as if she wanted to loosen those inner knots with her lips. Slowly, intensely, without haste. Chris let himself be pulled along, let his forehead sink briefly against hers, let his breathing fall into her rhythm.\n\nThen sounds came from the bedroom, clear enough to make Chris’ face grow hot. A loud creak, and shortly afterward moaning as well. Somewhat embarrassed by the situation, Chris looked at Latoya helplessly. They could clearly hear the squeaking of bedsprings and a woman’s moaning growing louder and louder, which of course came from Chris’ mother.\n\nLatoya started laughing: “Your mom seems to be having fun.”\n\nHer direct way was truly refreshing. But the situation felt so absurd to Chris. Embarrassment shot through his whole body, as if someone had turned up his own insecurity like a volume knob.\n\nLatoya noticed that too. She briefly rolled her eyes, half amused, half annoyed, and drew Chris’ attention back to herself with a small movement—a hand on his cheek, a finger that caught Chris’ gaze again.\n\n“Ignore that,” she murmured, smiling crookedly. “Focus on me, honey.”\n\nShe took the lead. She gently pushed Chris onto the sofa, as if it were a safe place, and stayed close enough that Chris couldn’t fall back into his own thoughts.\n\nShe took his hand and placed it on her bare breast. Slowly but unstoppably, Chris’ erection grew. Latoya seemed to welcome the growth.\n\n“Nice surprise. Not the biggest I’ve ever had, but I’ve had smaller too,” she said, and Chris needed a moment to understand that she was comparing his penis size to her ex-lovers.\n\nWhile he was still thinking about that, his fingers took on a life of their own and explored Latoya’s breasts. While he set about exploring the soft curves, Latoya was more interested in the hardness of his member. She wrapped her hand around him and massaged him. Chris took that as permission to advance his own explorations. Latoya definitely had enough bust to show for herself. And what he liked was not only the size but also the beautiful shape. Latoya had round, firm, yet pleasantly soft breasts. While his own were rather small and pointed.\n\nLatoya suddenly stopped his firm fingers:\n\n“Slowly and more gently, honey. These breasts still have to last a while. You can’t crush them right away the first time,” she giggled.\n\nShe showed him how she imagined it. Latoya was a good teacher. Together with her fingers, he quickly learned how he was supposed to handle the breasts.\n\nLatoya moaned softly: “You’re doing wonderfully, but now I want more. Do you have a condom with you?”\n\n[[Continue|Chris hat kein Kondom dabei.][$sex += 1;$partner += 1]]

After <<if $club == 1>>cheerleader practice<<endif>><<if $club == 2>>theater club<<endif>><<if $club == 3>>D&D Club<<endif>>, Chris still had to stop by his locker again to get something for his homework. The hallways were already emptier than usual; somewhere, a cleaning cart still rattled, and the fluorescent light made everything look a little paler. Chris turned the combination, let the locker door swing open, and fished out a crumpled worksheet and his notebook. Then he slid the books into his bag, locked up, and set off toward the bus.\n<<set $ort to "Hallway">>\nThe closer he got to the exit, the louder that diffuse afternoon noise became again: footsteps, scattered voices, the distant honking from the parking lot.\n\nJust before the main stairs, he stopped.\n\n[[Zoe|Zoe March]] was leaning there in the hallway, half in the shadow of the trophy case, as if she had already been waiting for exactly this moment for minutes. Arms crossed, gaze forward, but alert. Not like someone waiting for a friend—more like someone watching for an opportunity.\n\n''What does Chris do?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ladendiebin == 1>>\n❯ [[Greet her politely|Freundlich grüßen]]\n<<else>>\n❯ [[Greet her politely|Freundlich grüßen2]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\n❯ [[Walk past|Vorbeigehen]]\n<<if $newgameplus > 0>>❯ [[Hide somewhere and watch what she does|Sich irgendwo verstecken und beobachten, was sie macht]]<<endif>><<if $newgameplus == 1>> <span class="starsFilled">★</span><<endif>>

The start of cosmetology school had felt to Chris like walking into a display window in which he himself was supposed to be exhibited.\n\nRight on the first day, the atmosphere was different from high school—not less loud, but loud in a different way: less sports and school spirit, more mirrors, more looks, more comparisons. Everywhere there were young women, attractive, perfectly styled, fashion-conscious down to their fingertips. Conversations jumped back and forth between brands, nails, “glow,” dating drama, and selfies, as if that were the natural state of the world. For Chris, it was a nightmare. Not because they were “mean”—more because everything seemed so self-absorbed and superficial that he felt completely lost in it. A thousand times worse than in high school, where at least there had still been niches like D&D. Here, there seemed to be only one clique: the ones who knew exactly how they came across.\n\nChris tried to be invisible—and immediately realized how impossible that was. In this environment, invisibility was read as a flaw. If you didn’t stand out, you stood out all the more.\n\nSo he adapted.\n\nHe started by rethinking his clothing to be more “school-compatible”—not in terms of rules, but in terms of this new world. Miniskirts that suddenly looked normal on him because everyone wore things like that. High heels, cautiously at first, then more routinely, because the others walked in them as if their ankles had been built for it. Tops that looked less like “I want to be left alone” and more like “look at me.” He had caught himself no longer just thinking in the mornings about what to wear, but about which version of himself he was presenting with it.\n\nIt became most obvious with his hair. After a few days, he had given himself a blowout hairstyle, one of those voluminous “Barbie blowout” waves that curved softly outward at the ends. It looked polished and glamorous, as if he had come from a salon instead of a child’s bedroom his mother had drenched in rose pink. When he turned his head, the hair swayed with it—and the others gave him those short, appraising looks that meant: okay, you belong with us.\n\n<center>[img[pics/tussi.jpg]]</center> He even started imitating the way his new classmates talked. More “Oh my God,” more “literally,” more little laughs in places where otherwise you would have just nodded. Sometimes he hated how automatically it came. And at the same time, he felt that strange, dangerous advantage: the better he played the game, the less he rubbed people the wrong way. The fewer questions.\n\n[[Continue|Nach der Kosmetikschule.]]

The room smelled of cardboard, felt-tip marker, and a little potato chips. The first thing Chris noticed: all boys. Not a single female classmate. The second: everyone stared as if a rare mythical creature had just walked through the door—a girl in the D&D club.\n<<set $ort to "D&D clubroom">>\nOne of them jumped up and frantically brushed crumbs off his T-shirt. Dice clattered, then stopped. [[Adam|Adam Bowman]]—the water-fountain boy—rose hesitantly. “Hey… about… uh, yesterday. I’m Adam. Sorry again. The fountain has aggro.”\n\n“Already forgotten,” Chris said kindly. No reason to make a thing of it.\n\n“Uh… hi,” said the Dungeon Master, a narrow junior with a ring binder and a hoodie hood. “Welcome to the… Tabletop Guild. Do you want to… I mean… play?”\n\nChris nodded and sat down at the long table. Immediately two boys shifted a little too far apart to make room for “her,” as if there were a danger she might steal space. “I’d like to become a member,” Chris said. A brief collective shimmer passed over their faces: joy almost beyond comprehension. The first girl. Ever.\n\n“Sure! Awesome!” one blurted, sliding a character sheet over to her. Ben coughed, collected himself. “Um, roles. What do you think—bard? Healer? Support is super important!” He sounded like he was trying to be cool and sweet at the same time.\n\nChris felt a grin twitching. “Rogue. Daggers. Sneaky. Name… Raven.”\n\nA second of silence. Then a chorus of “Oooh” that tipped into respect. “Rogue is sick,” Adam murmured, as if he had just heard a decree.\n\n“Do you have dice?” someone asked.\n\n“Not yet.”\n\nIn a chain reaction, everyone pushed their own dice toward him—first a metallic set, then pearlescent, then cheap but beloved blue ones. In the end, three complete sets lay in front of Chris. “A gift? Uh—yeah?” The table nodded eagerly: “Gift! Welcome!”\n\nThey got started—one-shot, tavern, rumor, old sewer system. Ben narrated surprisingly well, with hand gestures for firelight. Chris wrote “Raven” at the top of the sheet and inwardly slipped into the shadows.\n\nWhen a d20 sprang off the pile, it rolled off the table. Chris stood, bent down, reached underneath—the skirt of his short babydoll unfortunately slid up and gave them a view of his slender legs. Immediately, all the boys stared at their character sheets with exaggerated discipline. Hyper-respect mode: ON. One even held his hand in front of his eyes as if pretending to be blind.\n\n“Stealth check,” Ben said quickly. Chris rolled—a 6. “Oof,” slipped out of him.\n\n“Uh—girls can’t play D&D,” one of the freshmen said in a burst of dead irony—and realized in the same breath that his mouth had betrayed him. Silence. The others’ looks turned as cold as a dungeon.\n\n[[Continue|Gar nicht, die anderen reagieren für ihn.]]

The field was still full of light, even though the rows were already emptying. The band had packed up its instruments, the mascot sat exhausted on the bench and fanned himself. Chris stayed, gave a few cheerleaders one last “Good job!” high-five, accepted a few hugs from the team, and let the roar slowly ebb inside him. He felt like part of the whole—not a footnote person, but someone with a task and a place. Joy made him light on his feet; he walked a few steps across the grass, felt the soft surface under his sneakers, and breathed in the smell of grass and cold evening.\n\nWhen the floodlights seemed dimmer and the voices grew thinner, he looked at the time and headed for the exit. Only then did he notice that Christine was nowhere to be seen. He turned, let his gaze run along the stands—and spotted her halfway down, below, almost at the edge of the field. She was sitting on the cold concrete step, knees drawn up, both arms wrapped around them.\n\nChris went over, climbed the two intermediate steps. Even before he was standing beside her, he heard the quiet, gasping breaths, the crying that came in waves and ebbed again. “Chrissie?” he asked softly.\n\nShe lifted her head, mascara smeared, eyes red. “He broke up with me,” she managed, and her voice sounded as if it were walking over gravel. “Myles. Right after the game. He’s going to Homecoming next week with—with someone else.” The “someone else” hurt physically; it broke off at the end.\n\nIn Chris, the image flickered up: the locker room before the game, Myles with his pants down, his sister with her legs spread on the bench. Pig, he thought soberly, without drama, only firmly. He didn’t know whether he was angrier at Myles or at the matter-of-factness with which such things happened.\n\n“Come here,” he said. He sat down beside her, put an arm around her shoulders, pulled her toward him until her weight settled against him. She rested her head on his shoulder and cried again, smaller this time, rougher, as if she were pressing the last of the trembling out of herself. “I’m so stupid,” she said between two breaths. “I thought—”\n\n“You’re not stupid,” he interrupted softly. “Not at all.” He carefully brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “What he did says something about him. Not about you.”\n\nShe nodded almost imperceptibly, as if she first had to learn how to nod. “He said we didn’t fit—that he needed ‘a woman and not a girl.’ Because I’m small and barely have any chest? Seriously?” A bitter laugh that got stuck.\n\nChris exhaled sharply. “That’s cruel. And it says everything about him. You don’t have to change to please anyone. Anyone who doesn’t want you the way you are doesn’t deserve you.” He held her tighter, looked out over the field, now almost empty, and felt the big, bright evening settle beside the small, dark now. Both fit strangely next to each other.\n\nFor a while they sat like that, without words. The wind skimmed low across the grass, somewhere a gate rattled against its chain. Christine slowly calmed down; her breathing became steadier. “Thanks,” she finally murmured, barely audible.\n\n“Always,” he said. He stayed as long as she needed, and when she finally stood up, he offered her his hand. Together they went down the steps and walked home.\n\n[[Continue|Zu Hause.]]

Chris’s throat tightened as his father looked at him so calmly. He held on to the water glass as if it were a railing. It was enormously difficult for him to form even a single sentence. His shame was so great that it almost stole his voice. Still, he forced the words up, one piece at a time.\n\n“Mom… forced me,” he finally said. Quietly, but clearly enough that it could no longer be taken back.\n\nHis father blinked, as if he had misheard. His forehead creased, not from anger, but from the reflex of trying to make sense of it. “Forced…?” He felt his way toward an explanation that was less terrible. “Do you mean… maybe it was a misunderstanding? That the two of you talked past each other?”\n\nChris shook his head. He felt heat rising in him, from his throat all the way to his ears. His eyes wanted to turn away, but he forced himself to stay where he was. His father was still searching for a version in which Susan did not immediately become the perpetrator.\n\nIt was Anja who put the unspeakable into the room, very quietly, and precisely because of that unmistakably: “What exactly happened in the U.S.?”\n\nChris’s hands were shaking. He set the glass down because he was afraid he would drop it. Then he began, haltingly, and with every sentence the shame he had to swallow grew.\n\n“It started after I moved in with her in the summer,” he said. “She… she was angry. Because of…” He faltered, his face burning. “Because of something she misunderstood.”\n\nHis father raised his eyebrows. “What kind of thing?”\n\nChris’s gaze fell to the kitchen tiles. “She was taking a bath. And I… I looked through the keyhole.” The word “keyhole” tasted awful. “Not… not the way she thought. I just wanted… to pick up a coin. I—” He pressed his lips together, because he realized how quickly it sounded like a justification. “It was a misunderstanding. But she saw it as… as something bad.”\n\nHis father stayed silent, but his shoulders tensed. Anja held her breath, as if she had suddenly resolved to endure every detail.\n\nChris forced himself to go on. “And then she said it was a punishment. That I had to learn what it was like to be a girl.” He swallowed, a dry, painful swallow. “She laid out… girls’ clothes for me. And I had to put them on. At first at home. Then more and more often. Bras. Panties. Skirts. Everything.”\n\nHe heard himself talking, and at the same time there was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to run out of the room. He saw his father’s face in front of him, the way it had looked at him before—as a son—and felt the words tear that image apart.\n\n“She didn’t make it… not like a game,” Chris said. “It was control. She showed me how to stand, how to walk, how to talk. She corrected me when I… when I was too ‘masculine.’” He noticed his fingers digging into the fabric of his nightgown. “And at some point… she gave me hormones.”\n\nHis father inhaled audibly. “Hormones?”\n\nChris nodded, barely visibly. “Pills. Every day.” His voice grew thinner. “She said that was… part of it. And then…” He broke off for a moment because his face grew hot again. “Then my breasts started growing. My hips… my body…” He made a helpless motion, as if he could grab the changes out of the air. “And at school, boys started turning to look at me. As if I was… as if I was really…” He couldn’t get the word past his lips and swallowed it away.\n\nAnja made a small sound, something between shock and revulsion, and unconsciously held a hand over her mouth. His father stared at Chris as if he were trying to arrange the information into an order where it was not monstrous.\n\n“But…” his father began. “Surely someone must have—”\n\nChris’s shame surged up so violently that he almost stepped back. “She…” He briefly closed his eyes. “She brought someone over once. To our house. She said he was a doctor who was examining me.” His face turned bright red, even in the warm kitchen light. “I… I believed it. I got… undressed, let him examine me, because I thought it was medical. And later my sister told me he wasn’t a doctor. He was… just someone Mom knew. A tax advisor.”\n\nFor a moment, it was as if someone had pulled the air out of the kitchen. The word hung in the room, heavy and disgusting.\n\nHis father went pale. His hand gripped the back of a chair, as if he had to hold himself up. “She… she had you…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. His gaze moved over Chris—not judging, but shaken, as if he was suddenly truly seeing what stood behind the dresses and makeup: a son who had been shamed and trapped.\n\nAnja said softly, stunned: “That’s… that’s not normal. That’s not…” She shook her head, her voice almost breaking. “That’s abuse.”\n\nChris stood there, shoulders hunched, as if waiting for a blow. He felt tears he didn’t want, and yet they came. Not loudly, not dramatically—just that burning, because he had finally said it out loud.\n\nHis father looked at him as if his entire picture had suddenly rearranged itself. The attempt to save it as a “misunderstanding” was gone. What remained was shock—and something darker, something that felt like horror and anger at the same time.\n\n[[Continue|Der nächste Tag in Deutschland.]]

“Blush Pink,” Chris said after a heartbeat too long, as casually as he could.\n\nPenelope grinned, shook her head almost imperceptibly. “Wrong, unfortunately. It’s Raspberry.”\n\nA few “ooh” sounds, gentle giggling around the table. Chris shrugged with a smile. “It’s fine. I had other plans this weekend anyway.” He heard himself and thought how thin the sentence sounded.\n\n“Okay, so—movie list!” Penelope turned back to the group. “10 Things, Clueless, or something scary after all?” Voices tumbled over one another, Charlotte tossed “Brownies” into the air, Christine suggested “Face masks first,” someone called for a pillow-fight rule.\n\nChris poked at his fruit cup as if he could sort his thoughts with it. A quiet, childish defiance spread through him like tea that was too hot: I didn’t want to go to some stupid girls’ pajama party anyway. He felt the hurt underneath, just as clearly as the rustle of the underskirt with every small movement on the chair.\n\nWhy hadn’t he simply been invited as a matter of course? It felt like back in Germany: the cool parties he never went to—or was never asked to. Now he sat here, looked “like a girl,” and still seemed only allowed at the edge of the group. Am I just Christine’s tagalong to them? he thought. A leaden question that couldn’t be smiled away.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Charlotte comforts Chris.|Charlotte tröstet Chris.2]]<<else>>[[End of school.|Schulende.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $newgameplus == 0 && $charlotte < 2 && $ladendiebin < 2>><br>\n[[✨ Chris asks his sister to talk to Penelope about the party.|Chris bittet seine Schwester mit Penelope wegen der Party zu reden.][$party += 1]]\n\n<div class="box"><b>A little note for your first playthrough:</b><br> Your choices have led you onto the Ruby path. This path has its own appeal, but it is quieter at the beginning than other story routes.<br> If you would like a little more action at the start, you should choose the lower option now and go to Penelope’s party after all. This extra option is only available on the first playthrough.</div> <<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris was still staring at his phone when his thumb slid to a name as if by itself: Lucas. He wasn’t exactly sure why he chose him. Maybe because Ruby’s gaze always saw everything. Maybe because Charlotte meant chaos. Maybe because Lucas was always so nice to him.\n\nHe wrote:\n<blockquote class="quote">Hey, quick question—are you going to the party on Saturday by any chance? (I have to go.) If you feel like it, come with me.</blockquote> The send tone sounded too loud in the silent room. Three seconds. Seven. Then it popped up.\n\nLucas:\n<blockquote class="quote">UH??? Really? I mean … yes!! I’d love to! I’m super excited. What time? I can also pick you up.</blockquote> Chris noticed his mouth turning into a small smile all by itself. Just as friends, his mind repeated, grateful for the cushion. He typed the time and address, ending the chat with a neutral “See you then!”\n\nWhen the screen went dark, doubt followed after him like a cat you could already hear in the hallway. Did I just give him the wrong signal? Going to the party with Lucas—was that a date? No. He forced his thoughts into a sober tone. We’re going to a party as friends. Period. But the period would not stay still; it danced, turning into a question mark. Or not? Lucas’s “super excited” kept blinking inside him.\n\nChris put the phone away, fell backward onto the blanket, and stared at the rosé-colored ceiling. Just friends, he told himself again. The word fit. Almost. And precisely because it fit, he felt a quiet tingling beneath the surface that did not ask, but was simply there.\n\n[[Continue|Vizefreitag.]]

Chris lifted his gaze to the end of the aisle. The supervisor in the blue polo had just wandered past again. “Excuse me,” Chris said, and his voice sounded thinner than it felt. The man stopped, looking first puzzled, then expectant.\n<<set $ZoeMemory[0] to 1>>\nChris raised his hand and pointed, unmistakably, at the girl between the shelves. Not hastily, not secretly—clearly. The girl saw it. Her eyes narrowed, the muscles in her jaw stood out. The supervisor followed his pointing finger, gave a curt nod, and approached with measured steps.\n\n“Miss?” he said, professionally friendly. “May I see your bag for a moment?”\n“Why?” she snapped, chin thrust forward defiantly. “Are you stupid? What do you want in my bag? That’s my private business!” she barked at him. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” Then a stream of curses followed, raw and loud. A customer by the refrigerated section turned around.\n\n“There was a report of a possible theft,” the supervisor replied calmly. “Please open the bag.”\n\nShe folded her arms. “Nope. I’ve got nothing.” Her gaze flicked briefly over to Chris, hard as a thrown stone. “What are you staring at, princess?”\n\nChris swallowed. He said nothing.\n\n“Miss,” the supervisor tried again, more sternly, “if you don’t cooperate, I’ll have to call the police. I’d like to avoid that. It takes longer for everyone—and is more unpleasant in the end.”\n\nA moment in which the air seemed to grow more solid. The girl looked left, then right, as if searching for a gap in the shelves she could disappear through. Then she pushed out a breath. “Shit, man.” She pulled open the zipper of her handbag. Her fingers were quick and restless, as if they could turn back time by hurrying. On top lay a phone with a scratched case, a crumpled pack of tissues, a lip balm. Underneath—a small box. The condoms. She brought them out as if carrying a glowing coal.\n\nThe redness shot into her face, first in patches, then all over. “Those aren’t from here,” she forced out. “I bought them somewhere else. That’s my business, okay?”\n\nThe supervisor glanced briefly at the pack, then at the shelf behind her, where the same brand stood in rows. “With all due respect,” he said, and the friendliness was now a line, not a cloud, “it doesn’t look that way. I need to take down your details. Come with me.”\n\n“Damn it.” Her eyes met Chris’s once more. What lay in them was no longer a plea. It was something mixed: shame, anger, maybe a sting of betrayal. He couldn’t hold the look. He stared at his shoes, at the shopping list stuck to his hand.\n\nAs she passed Chris, her shoulder brushed his. “Nicely done,” she hissed, loud enough for only him to hear. “Really great.”\n\nChris stood there for another moment, felt the prickling at the back of his neck, and then kept breathing. He put cotton pads and toothpaste into the basket just to do something that wasn’t thinking, and finished the shopping.\n\nHe found Christine exactly where he had suspected: in the cosmetics section. She stood in front of a mirror display, trying on lip gloss and making little duck faces. “There you are,” she said, as if she had found him, not the other way around. “I just had to… look at something.” Her fixed braces flashed again, this time with a strawberry-scented glossy film. “Do you have everything?”\n\n“Yeah.” His voice sounded strangely hollow in his ears.\n\nThey paid at the checkout, the scanner beeping at regular intervals, and the world pretended nothing had happened. Outside, the heat hit them, a dry, warm wind carrying the smell of hot tar and something floral.\n\nThey walked down the street toward home. The bags swung from his hands. Cars crawled past, a dog barked somewhere, a sprinkler ticked pearls of water into the air. Christine talked about something—homework lists, orientation day, whether Dylan was probably at summer camp or training privately—and Chris nodded in the right places. His thoughts were still hanging on the girl from the supermarket.\n\n[[Continue|Zurück zu Hause.]]

When Chris woke up, the light was glaring.\n<<set $wochentag = 7>><<set $wetter = 2>><<set $ort to "">>\nThe curtains weren’t fully drawn, a hard stripe of sun lay across the unfamiliar bed. His head throbbed dully, his mouth was dry. He blinked, rolled onto his back, and only then realized he was alone.\nThe blanket smelled of sex and sweat. His stomach cramped. He sat up, noticed how his butt cheeks were stuck together with dried semen.\n<<set $SusanMemory[1] to 1>>\nThe miniskirt was pushed up, the crop top askew. He straightened his clothes as quickly as he could, with trembling fingers, without thinking, just away from here. He felt dirty, even though his skin was clean. As if something were stuck to him that wouldn’t come off.\n\nHis handbag was beside the bed. One shoe lay under the chair, the other by the door. He found a hair tie that wasn’t his, but not his panties. Whatever. He no longer had the strength to keep looking.\n\nIn the house, other teenagers lay curled up on sofas, carpets, in corners. Empty cups, an overturned bowl of chips, somewhere someone was snoring softly. In one room, a girl was sleeping half naked, mascara smeared, a pantyhose leg around her ankle. Her bare butt gave the same helpless impression as Chris’s insides. Chris looked away.\n\n“Christine?” His voice was hoarse. No answer. He searched the living room, the kitchen, the hallway. Nothing. Only unfamiliar faces, crooked sleeping poses, the echo of something that had been called “fun” yesterday.\n\nOutside, the sun blinded him. The air was cool against his bare genitals. Every step in the heels was its own little fall that he barely caught. He instinctively tugged the miniskirt lower, but there wasn’t much to tug.\n\nThe way home was the walk of shame. Trash cans at the curb, sprinkler residue, wet patches on concrete. A few neighbors were already standing in front of their houses, fetching the paper, taking out the trash. Chris felt as if every look hit him directly: the too-short skirt, the smeared makeup, the wobbly steps.\n\nAn older woman briefly raised her head, narrowed her eyes, and shook her head almost imperceptibly when she saw the supposedly hungover teenage girl. A man took his newspaper from the mailbox, gave Chris a brief judgmental look before closing the door. Everyone seemed to know what had happened last night. Maybe Chris was imagining it. It didn’t feel that way.\n\nThe cold beneath his mini crept upward, mixing with the heat in his face. He kept his eyes stubbornly forward until the familiar driveway appeared.\nHis mother was already standing in the doorway. Arms crossed, mouth a narrow line. Her eyes slid from top to bottom: tousled hair, smeared lip gloss, the miniskirt, the heels, the unsteady walk. The smell of sex and alcohol clinging to him.\n\n“At least you still found your way home,” she said sharply. No hello. “You look awful, Chris. Do you have any idea how cheap that looks?”\nHe stopped at the bottom step, suddenly feeling smaller than everything again. “I…”\n\n“Save it,” she cut him off. “One can smell from ten meters away that you got yourself wasted. And the way you look—I don’t have to ask whether there was more than dancing.”\nIt hit like a blow. Chris pressed his lips together. He felt the shame rising, hot and burning, overwhelming. Humiliating sentences, aimed straight where it already hurt.\n\n“Where’s Christine?” he only asked, his voice rough.\n\nSusan sighed, as if that were now a nuisance. “Myles brought her home yesterday. Totally drunk, could barely stand. He was worried, didn’t know where you were. Lucky that at least one of you is responsible.” A sharp look.\n\nMyles as the good one. The one who carried the daughter home while the other had vanished. It turned Chris’s stomach. He wanted to say something, that it wasn’t that simple, that nothing was simple. But his tongue stuck.\n\n“Go shower. And then lie down,” Susan said, now with that tone that sounded like care and felt like judgment. “You look as if you’ve had enough lessons for one weekend.”\nChris walked past her without answering. Every movement felt heavy and hollow. In his room, he closed the door, leaned against it as he had so often, and breathed shallowly.\nHe wanted to forget. He wanted to take everything off, wash it away, strip it off. Instead, he let himself fall onto the bed, the heels still on, the miniskirt askew, his head pounding.\n\nAfter a moment, he remembered he had to check whether he had been robbed. At least have something under control.\n\nHe pulled the small handbag toward him, opened the zipper, and rummaged through it with trembling fingers. Phone—there. Keys—there. A crumpled tissue, half a blister pack of gum, lip gloss without a cap. He breathed a tiny bit easier. At least that.\n\nThen he came across something soft, fabric-like.\n\nHe pulled it out and stared at it for a moment as if at a foreign object. It was his panties.\n\nKnotted, inside out, stuffed into the corner between all the other things. He held them in his hand for only a fraction of a second, then heat shot into his face. Embarrassment, disgust, and memory struck all at once.\n\nHastily, he stuffed the piece of fabric back into the bag, as if that could undo the fact again. His fingers caught briefly on the zipper pull, then he zipped it shut.\n\nHe felt sick. Even more than before. He had to rest. Not just from the alcohol. From everything.\n\n[[End of Chapter 2|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 2]]

That evening, Chris lay in bed, the light dimmed, the curtains half closed. Against his skin was a cool pink satin nightgown that rustled with the slightest breath. The room was quiet; only outside, somewhere, a night insect chirped, as if counting the seconds.\n\nHe held open the book he and Charlotte had bought together back then at the mall—on the cover a girl, a dark shadow in the background, the lettering curved and dramatic. One of those vampire-girl romances he would have rolled his eyes at before. Too cheesy, too over the top, he would have said. Now he read, page after page, because Charlotte had recommended it to him. Because he wanted to feel closer to her, even while she was keeping her distance.\n\nThe paper still smelled faintly of perfume, sweet and powdery, as if Charlotte’s hand had recently glided over it. The scent pulled him back, two weeks, to the mall: Charlotte sniffing a bottle and then saying with a grin, “That smells like trouble.” Chris secretly spraying some too and immediately feeling caught, as if the scent on his skin were a confession. They had laughed their way through perfumes, through vanilla that was too heavy and citrus notes too sharp, until Chris’s head had gone all soft.\n\nThen the friendship bracelets—Charlotte had picked out two, one simple, one with tiny stars. She had tied it around his wrist so naturally that it had tightened his throat. He still wore it now, the band slightly stretched from showers, but still tight enough to remember.\n\nHe turned the page. The heroine—by now he had her name in his head as if it were his own—stood in a hallway, heard footsteps, knew even before the first word that it would be Lucien again. The vampire. The one who wasn’t supposed to happen. The one who, of course, happened anyway.\n\nChris came upon a passage that made him abruptly slow down. Not because it was especially beautifully written. But because it caught him.\n\nIt was about her loving someone who was “wrong”—not in the sense of evil, but in the sense of: impossible. And that she still couldn’t get him out of her head. That she wanted to push him away and at the same time hoped he would stay.\n\nIn the book, Lucien slowly lowered his head. Not demanding, not cruel, but almost careful—as if he were giving her until the very last moment the chance to turn away. The heroine didn’t. And when his lips finally touched hers, it said that it was as if the whole dark world went still for one breath.\n\nChris swallowed.\n\nThe kiss lasted only a few lines. But something about it hit him deeper than he had expected: that she chose. That she lifted her hand and held Lucien by the collar, as if she had long since stopped pretending she wanted to push him away.\n\nChris read the paragraph again.\n\nThen again.\n\nHe only realized late that he was aroused.\n\nThe satin nightgown was no longer cool by then. It had taken on warmth where it lay against his chest and between his thighs. He turned the pages faster, then slower again, because he wanted to savor every line. And with every page, it became clearer to him: he really liked the story.\n\nHe stared at the page and almost startled at himself. Do I like it because I’m changing? he thought. Because he identified with the girl more than he wanted to? Because his inner self had long since begun getting used to things he would once have rejected?\n\nFinally, he closed the book, as if it had suddenly become too frank. Then he pressed it briefly to his chest, tightly, as if he could hold the hope in the paper that way, and the fear along with it.\n\nThe chirping outside went on. His phone lay beside the pillow. Chris reached for it, unlocked the screen, and looked at Charlotte’s chat. No new messages. Of course not.\n\nHe typed: “Good night.”\nSent it.\n\nThen he started a second message—longer, more honest. I miss you. I want you to understand me. I’m scared you’ll never look at me the way you used to again. The words were already half there, and he looked at them like something fragile.\n\nHe deleted them again.\n\nThe display went dark. Chris put the phone back, held the book pressed against himself for another moment, and closed his eyes. Hope and fear lay side by side inside him, like two pages of the same story.\n\n[[Continue|Zu wenig Badezimmer im Haus.5]]

[[↩ Back|Enden]]\n\n<h2>Tip:</h2><ul> <li>''Earlier decisions can affect later ones.'' For example, skills already learned can lead to a different outcome, even if you have Chris act exactly the same way at the same point in the game.</li> <li>''Bold headings before a page change'' are a hint that the story takes a different course at this point because of earlier decisions.</li><li>For your first playthrough, I recommend Lucas’ story path. It captures the mood of the game especially well.</li></ul><hr> \n<h2>Characters with Their Own Ending:</h2> \n[[Lucas:|Lucas Barnett]] Choose the theater club. Try to get invited to his sister Penelope’s pajama party. Invite Lucas to the party and become his “fake girlfriend.” Choose the right movie at the theater, get into the bumper car together, go with him into the haunted house, or send him a photo from the bathtub. You may accept his mother’s “tennis” offer, but at homecoming you should stay with Lucas.\n\n[[Dylan:|Dylan Carter]] Who do football players date? Exactly: cheerleaders. So make an effort—otherwise Penelope will snatch him away right from under your nose. Bring Penelope the jacket back and seek protection with Dylan in the factory. Also, Dylan only invites Chris to the dance if he is at least in the middle of the boys’ ranking. Confess the secret to him. And you’d better not listen to Zoe… or maybe you should? 😉\n\n[[Charlotte:|Charlotte Walters]] Talk to her in the cafeteria. Watch her in the girls’ locker room. Optional: Manage to get to Penelope’s party and don’t upset Charlotte that evening in order to end up in bed with her. (If Chris isn't a couple with Charlotte, he can invite her to the party—and should get drunk.)\n\n[[Mr. Walters:|Joseph Walters]] Basically follow the tips for his daughter Charlotte. Chris should watch the movie to the end.\n\n[[Sister:|Christine Braun]] Join the cheerleaders to be close to her. But don’t overdo the training—otherwise you won’t have time after school to secretly read her diary. \n(Optional: Manage to get to Penelope’s party and don’t upset Christine that evening) Talk to her before the party and try to “save” her from Myles there. Save her in the factory. Also observe Christine and Myles before the game in the locker room. Have sex with her and get her pregnant.\n\n[[Adam:|Adam Bowman]] Choose the D&D club. Allow him to touch your breasts. Invite him to the party and send him a photo of yourself. Don’t get too drunk at the party. During the kiss, don’t react with disgust and let Dr. Coleman examine you. Also win the D&D role-playing game. Don’t reject Adam at the school dance and lie to your father.\n\n[[Zoe:|Zoe March]] Don’t follow the Charlotte path. Report her to security. If she looks for trouble, defend yourself. Join the D&D club and don’t let Adam manipulate you. Also show her that you are willing to go beyond your limits for her. Go to the party alone and don’t get too drunk.\n\n[[Ruby:|Ruby Hicks]] Join the theater club and choose Ruby instead of Lucas. Lie to your father. Bonus: You get a hot night with Ezekiel if you tell her the truth about Chris’s taste in music.\n\n<hr>\n<h2>Side Character / No Unique Ending:</h2> \n[[Mom:|Susan Braun]] Do not choose the D&D Club, and do not go to the Homecoming Dance with Dylan or Lucas. You need to receive a good evaluation from her in the third week. Also, confess to her that Chris watched her in the bathroom.\nWhen she starts online dating:\n<ul> <li>Choose men if you prefer taking the more active role during sex.</li> <li>Choose women if you prefer a more passive role — but do not choose Laverne.</li> </ul>A threesome with her and DeShawn can be found in DeShawn’s path.\n\n[[Mrs. Barnett:|Caroline Barnett]] Follow the tips for her son Lucas. Everything else will work itself out. At the very end of the game, there might be a little surprise. (If Chris is only friends with Lucas, there is an additional sex scene with Mrs. Barnett in the epilogue.)\n\n[[Penelope:|Penelope Barnett]] Join the cheerleaders, but don't get your sister pregnant, and if Dylan invites you to the school dance, you’d better listen to Zoe. Lie to your father so you don’t slip into the detransition ending.\n\n[[Mrs. Ferguson:|Ava Ferguson]] Don’t follow any of the other paths mentioned here. If Ava catches you staring at her breasts, claim you were only looking at the baby.\n\n[[Laverne:|Laverne Johnson]] When Susan signs you up for online dating, choose women and contact Laverne.\n\n[[DeShawn:|DeShawn Powell]] Don’t follow any of the other paths mentioned here and under no circumstances join the cheerleaders. Don’t go to Penelope’s pajama party. Touch his cock, watch him and Susan have sex. When Latoya asks who you would rather be, don’t choose DeShawn. Lie to your father and choose DeShawn in the club.\n<ul><li>If Chris and Susan have a sexual relationship, Chris can have a threesome with Susan and DeShawn.</li> <li>If they don’t have a relationship, Chris gets fucked by DeShawn.</li></ul> [[Latoya:|Latoya Powell]] Don’t follow any of the other paths mentioned here and under no circumstances join the cheerleaders. Lie to your father and choose Latoya in the club.\n\n[[↩ Back|Enden]]

The afternoon slipped into that tired, golden light where the students’ shadows were longer than their moods. A small group gathered in front of the auditorium; someone held the door to the Black Box Theater open, voices swinging inside like soft loops. Chris stopped for a moment. Theater had briefly seemed like another escape route—light, text, roles you at least chose consciously. But now there was the Pom Puffs banner that had been hanging in his head since yesterday, and the thought of two afternoons, two worlds, two kinds of effort. He was already glad if he got through one without stumbling.\n<<set $ort to "school">>\n“Coming?” Christine nudged him out of the loop. “The bus doesn’t wait for inner monologues.”\n“All right,” he muttered and followed her down the steps. He felt the culottes swinging against his shins. Theater would wait. Or maybe it wouldn’t. He tried not to think about it.\n\nThey made it onto the bus just in time. It was the older one, whose seats already carried the stories of other pants. Chris dropped down beside Christine without really looking—and immediately felt that sticky, elastic pull that yanked the ground out from under his dignity.\n\n“Oh no.” He jerked up, but too late: a flat, half-transparent disc of gum had caught him. The stuff pulled strings between culottes and seat, stretching like cold cheese. Christine sucked in a sharp breath. “Ew. Who does that?”\n\n“That’s a classic,” Chris growled, embarrassed and angry at the same time. He tried to carefully peel the culottes away from the upholstery. It worked, but left behind a smeary, dull trace. “Perfect. First the water fountain, now this.”\n\n“Stop, don’t tear it.” Christine leaned forward, examining the damage like a crime scene investigator. “Once it hardens, it comes off better with ice. At home—freezer pack, cold spoon, then it breaks. Or the peanut butter trick, Charlotte told me.” She grimaced. “Peanut butter on fabric sounds wrong, I know.”\n\nChris sat back down on the very front edge of the seat, as if perched on an invisible stool. The spot no longer stuck firmly, but it felt like a small, stubborn flaw spelling out “embarrassing.” Two rows ahead, someone glanced back, then looked out the window again after all. Christine silently slid him a tissue; he placed it under the affected spot, pure psychology.\n\n“At least it happened after school,” she murmured.\n\n“Great,” he said dryly. “The day has a sense of humor.”\n\nThe bus rumbled through Maplewood. Outside, lawn mowers counted their stripes, a dog chased its own barking. Chris let his forehead sink briefly against the window. Behind his eyelids, the scenes of the day ticked by.\n\n[[Continue|Besuch zu Hause.]]

The years after that felt like a quiet transition from “surviving” to “living.”\n\nChris did not find his place right away, but he truly found it. At first there were jobs that simply paid the bills – shifts, customers, schedules. But the more he settled into himself, the clearer it became what suited him: empathy, structure, that talent for seeing people before they had to get loud. He ended up in event management, first as an assistant on a small team, later as someone who carried entire operations: weddings, company parties, charity events. He was good at turning chaos into calm, striking the right tone, solving problems before they became stories. And sometimes, when he stood in a backstage hallway with a headset on, he had to smile: so often in the past, “role” had felt like coercion to him – now it was a profession, a skill, a source of pride.\n\nCharlotte found her way in her own way. Something down-to-earth with creative edges: first a shop, then a small studio, later a job in which she could make things beautiful and practical at the same time – spaces, photos, design, helping people feel at home. She was not the one who stood in the spotlight; she was the one who made everything work so that it looked easy. They complemented each other without planning it: Chris organized, Charlotte refined. Chris soothed, Charlotte grounded. When one of them doubted, the other placed a hand on the spot where courage lived.\n\nTheir first home together was a small apartment – nothing spectacular, but theirs. The hallway smelled of fresh paint, the kitchen had too little space, and still it felt like a promise. They bought furniture through classifieds, screwed shelves together, argued about curtains, and laughed about the fact that they were arguing. Chris insisted on a dresser in the bedroom “for order,” Charlotte insisted on a corner for “chaos with style.” In the end, a potted plant stood there that was always a little too dry, and both of them claimed it was “almost intentional.”\n\nAnd then their child came.\n\nNot as a perfect movie moment, but as real life: sleepless nights, tiny socks, sudden crying out of nowhere. Charlotte, grinning tiredly and saying, “We can do this.” Chris, holding the baby in his arms and feeling in that moment how something inside him finally sorted itself out. For so long, he had believed he first had to become “right” in order to deserve being loved. And now there was this little being looking at him as if he were simply… Dad. Or Mom. Or both. Above all: home.\n\nAfter that, happiness was not big and shiny, but small and reliable. Breakfast in pajamas, toast crumbs everywhere, Charlotte with tousled hair, Chris with coffee in his hand and an “I’ll make the lunchbox in a second.” Music from an old speaker, a spontaneous dance in the kitchen, the child giggling on the floor, clapping and calling: “Again!” And eventually a dog who woke them far too early every morning because he was convinced six o’clock was a good idea. Chris cursed quietly, Charlotte laughed, and the dog won.\n\nSusan called often, giving advice no one had asked for. Christine came less often, but when she came, it felt right. Sometimes the sisters – because that was what they were by now – sat next to each other on the sofa, the child between them, and talked about trivial things, as if the heavy chapters were only pages in an old book now. And if Chris ever lay awake at night because the past had a strange way of making itself known, Charlotte automatically slipped a hand toward him in her sleep. As if her body had learned what her heart had long since known.\n\nDecades later, there were gray streaks that could no longer be hidden. Smile lines that had not come from defiance, but from repetition. The apartment had long since become a house, then something smaller again, because they no longer needed so much space. The child was grown, moved out, came back to visit, brought stories of their own.\n\nAnd yet one ritual remained.\n\nEvery year they went to the sea. Not because they had to, but because it was a place where Chris’ life had once truly begun. A walk on the beach in the late afternoon, the wind gentler than before, the waves steady as breath. Charlotte walked one step ahead, as she always did, glanced briefly at the water – and her hand automatically searched for Chris’ hand, as if it were a reflex.\n\nChris took it as if he had practiced it his whole life.\n\nThey did not say much. They did not have to explain anything. Before them lay the ocean, behind them a life full of small victories no one wrote down on lists. They walked barefoot along the edge, where the sand was firm, and let the waves take their footprints.\n\nSometimes Charlotte stopped, leaned her head against Chris’ shoulder, and said softly, almost like before: “Again?”\n\nAnd Chris smiled, squeezed her hand, and answered just as softly: “Again.”\n\n''Ending 3 of 10 - "Moonlit Girlfriends"''\n<<set $ende3 to 1>>\n[[📖 Statistics|Statistik][$selbstbild += 3]] - [[🏆 Bonus & Endings|Enden]]

Latoya noticed it first. She stopped for half a beat, looked at Chris as if she had just seen a trick she liked, and laughed out loud. “No way! That’s it! Yes, honey!” She danced closer, more playfully, almost challengingly, her eyes shining.\n\nDeShawn changed too. He stepped a little closer, his movements becoming more direct, more in sync with Chris’s, as if he were adjusting to him. He wasn’t dancing wildly—more focused, close to the body, with a calmness that radiated safety.\n\nChris felt their focus, felt how both of them were “dancing at” him, how their energy circled around him. It made him hot with excitement—and still, there was this new, warm sense of well-being.\n\nWhen DeShawn came closer, Chris briefly felt a flare of contradictory thoughts. Weird… he’s a man. The old reflex wanted to pull him back. But at the same time, it felt surprisingly natural. Not dangerous. Not wrong. More… fitting, because DeShawn was so stable, so clear in his presence, that Chris didn’t have to keep holding himself together all the time.\n\nDeShawn came even closer. One step, then another, until there was barely any air left between them. His hands were not demanding, but unmistakable—near Chris’s waist, as if he were not taking the distance, but offering it.\n\nChris allowed it.\n\nHe no longer thought about why he was allowing it. He didn’t need explanations anymore, only this feeling that the music was carrying him and his body was finally no longer working against him. And if somewhere in the back of his mind a voice still protested, he pushed it aside with a simple sentence that justified everything:\n\nThe drugs.\n\nHe gave himself over to the rhythm, closer to DeShawn, close enough that he felt his warmth, the beat settling into place between them. His heart was beating fast, but not from fear—from another, electric reason. And it felt right to move like this, without constantly checking whether he was doing it “right.”\n\nLatoya saw it. Her smile remained, but it changed—from playful to knowing. For a moment she kept dancing along, as if testing whether Chris would swing back toward her. But Chris’s body stayed closer to DeShawn, as if he had made a choice without making a decision.\n\n“Aha,” Latoya murmured, half amused, half surprised, and lifted both hands in a theatrical gesture. “Okay, okay. I see you.” She gave them a little space, kept dancing, but no longer directly up against Chris—more to the side, as if she were leaving them room.\n\nSusan stood one step behind them, watching the scene like someone who knew exactly how it would turn out. Her gaze slid from Chris to DeShawn, then to Latoya—and a broad, satisfied grin spread across her face.\n\nHer plan had worked.\n\n[[Continue|Susan kommt dazu.][$kissboy += 1]]

In the cafeteria, that typical lunchtime roar lay over everything: trays clattered, milk cartons were torn open, somewhere someone laughed too loudly. The menu poster still hung on the wall, even though with its crossed-out and overwritten days it had long since become half outdated. Chris sat with the theater kids and tried to look as if this were all perfectly natural.\n<<set $ort to "cafeteria">>\n“So,” someone said with a dramatic hand movement, “the town festival was actually wholesome. And then—” He paused until everyone was listening. “Then we absolutely had to go to the maple-syrup bottling plant.”\n\n“Dare,” a girl giggled and took a sip from her can. “Totally stupid.”\n\nChris sat there with his tray in front of him and noticed how the word bottling plant alone pulled that warm, faintly sweet smell back into his memory. Saturday. The lights from the town festival, music in the distance, then the path to the river, the grass damp beneath their shoes.\n\n“Don’t go there after dark,” someone added in a lowered voice,\n\n“Yeah, yeah, the curse.” Eye-rolling, laughter.\n\nRuby, a few seats away, made a face. “I didn’t want to go in there,” she said, pushing a fry back and forth as if she had to confess something. “I told you.”\n\n“And we said: don’t be like that,” another threw in with a grin, half apologetic. “Sorry.”\n\nChris said nothing. He remembered how quiet he had been—not out of coolness, but out of fear. The kind of fear that sits in your knees and pretends it’s only cold.\n\n“The best part,” the girl opposite him said, leaning forward, “was that the door was suddenly shut.”\n\n“Not just shut,” someone corrected. “Locked.”\n\nThe voices tumbled over each other. “At first we thought someone was joking!” — “I really rattled it!” — “And then that noise behind the tanks…”\n\nRuby raised her hand as if speaking in class. “That was the moment I knew: this is the curse.”\n\n“And then it struck,” said the boy beside Chris, with a grin that was already twitching as he said it. “Because we wanted to get out and—” He paused theatrically. “—skunk.”\n\nA collective “Uuuuh!” went around the table.\n\n“Mila got completely stink-bombed!” someone called, and Mila (one table over) groaned theatrically. “I still have trauma!”\n\n“She screamed like she was in a horror movie,” another laughed.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened as he saw the image again: the phone flashlight beams, the frantic flicker in the dust, the brief, greasy rustling—and then that tiny animal that suddenly seemed far too big. The group had searched for the way out, voices too loud, breathing too fast. And he… he had stood there as if rooted to the spot.\n\n“And Chris almost got hit,” someone said, now more quietly, with a sidelong glance at him.\n\nChris felt his heart skip a beat. He looked up.\n\nThe boy beside him—the one who had grabbed him back then—nodded as if it were no big deal. “I just pulled her away,” he said, too casually, as if trying to make the moment smaller.\n\nBut Chris remembered exactly. The grip had been protective, firm, matter-of-fact. Like strong arms deciding: You’re safe now. It had calmed him and shaken him at the same time. Because in the middle of the trembling, there had been that second realization, far too clear: This is a boy holding me like this. So close. So… normal. Part of him had reflexively wanted to pull away because it felt forbiddenly near. And the other part—the one that still had fear in its bones—had leaned into it instead, because it was safe. Because it felt good to be held.\n\nNow their eyes met over the tray. Chris grew slightly embarrassed. His pulse pounded as if he were back in that dark hall. He quickly lowered his gaze, pretended to straighten his napkin, and noticed the warmth creeping into his cheeks.\n\n“Okay, but the ending,” someone called, rescuing him, “was actually the real curse: we had to crawl out through that weird side window. I almost tore my ass open.”\n\nLaughter. Chairs shifted. The table vibrated again in its usual tone.\n\nAt that moment Lucas appeared, as if he had rehearsed the timing. He stopped at the edge, looked at the group, and said dryly, “I hear the word ‘curse’ and immediately know: you were somewhere you weren’t supposed to be.”\n\n“Lucas!” several called at once.\n\nHe sat down, grinned, and pointed at Chris’s tray. “And you did a town festival without me? Betrayal. At least three acts.”\n\nThe laughter surged up again, and the scene dissolved back into everyday life—but Chris’s heart was still beating a little too fast as he noticed the boy beside him again out of the corner of his eye.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1 && $moore == 0>>[[Cheerleader practice, game preparations.|Spiel Vorbereitungen.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 1 && $moore == 1>>[[Cheerleader practice, game preparations.|Spiel Vorbereitungen.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 0 >>[[Drama club, then horse stable with Ruby.|Theaterclub, danach Pferdestall mit Ruby.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 1 >>[[Drama club, Lucas’s mom.|Theaterclub, Lucas Mom.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 2>>[[Drama club, breakup with Lucas.|Theaterclub, Trennung von Lucas.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[Classic D&D.|Klassisches D&D.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

In the cafeteria, that typical lunchtime roar lay over everything: trays clattered, milk cartons were torn open, somewhere someone laughed too loudly. The menu poster still hung on the wall, even though with its crossed-out and overwritten days it had long since become half outdated. Chris sat with the theater kids and tried to look as if this were all perfectly natural.\n<<set $ort to "cafeteria">>\n“I’m telling you, I can still smell it,” one of the theater group said, waving his hand dramatically as if pushing away something invisible.\n\n“That wasn’t a smell, that was an attack,” another girl said, making a face while staring at her fries as if they might suddenly start stinking too.\n\n“So,” someone began, “from the top again: the town festival was actually awesome. And then, of course, someone had to say: dare in the old bottling plant.”\n\nChris shaped his mouth into a small, innocent smile that gave away that he couldn’t talk his way out of it completely.\n\nRuby sat diagonally across from him and tapped her fork against the rim of her cup. “It was a stupid idea,” she said, but her eyes sparkled as she did. “And therefore, obviously, a theater-kid idea.”\n\n“Hey,” Chris said, protesting quietly.\n\n“You said it yourself: ‘Just a quick look. We go in, take a photo, and get back out.’” Ruby imitated his voice with surprisingly good accuracy, including that reassuring tone he had when he wanted to give others courage.\n\nHe felt himself grow warm. Chris still remembered it exactly: the path from the fence into the bottling plant, the sounds of the old factory. Ruby had held his hand surprisingly tightly, as if she were clinging to something real with it.\n\n“That sweetish smell,” someone said, automatically lowering their voice even though they were sitting in the middle of the cafeteria. “Like someone smeared honey into metal.”\n\n“And the door was shut when we wanted to get out,” someone said at once, as if that were the point where the movie turned.\n\n“Not just shut,” Ruby corrected. “Locked. From the outside. Or… I don’t know. But it wouldn’t open.”\n\nChris remembered the moment his stomach had gone cold: pushing against the rusty handle, the metallic clong, as if the building itself were saying “No.” He had glanced briefly at Ruby and tried to seem calm, even though his heart was hammering against his ribs.\n\n“And then,” one of the girls said, pausing briefly as if enjoying the drama of it, “the curse struck.”\n\n“It was a skunk,” Chris stated dryly.\n\n“Exactly,” Ruby said at once, and this time she sounded completely serious. “A skunk that lived somewhere in that ruin and apparently had a bad mood.”\n\nEveryone at the table laughed at the same time, but it was the laughter of people who knew how close it had been.\n\n“And then—PFFFT,” someone told it, pointing toward the girl who had been hit on the weekend—she wasn’t sitting at the table, but everyone knew who was meant.\n\nChris flinched involuntarily, as if his body had stored the sound.\n\n“And all of us were like,” someone said, making a choked gagging noise. “Oh my God.”\n\nRuby pushed her cup aside and looked briefly at Chris.\n\nChris remembered the movement that had been so fast he only understood it later: Ruby had grabbed him and yanked him aside at the last second. Not dramatically like in a movie—more instinctively, decisively. Afterward, he had simply hugged her because he didn’t know what to do with the adrenaline, and because her arms had suddenly become the safest thing there was.\n\n“I saved you at the last second,” Ruby stated, as if that were an official title.\n\nChris cleared his throat and tried to defuse the moment with humor. “I would’ve managed it too.”\n\nRuby raised an eyebrow. “You looked like a deer in headlights at that moment.”\n\nThe table laughed again, Chris too, even though he felt his face grow warm. It was strange: It had been a dare, some embarrassing curse nonsense—and yet something real had remained stuck there. That walking hand in hand. That quick pull that saved him from the line of fire. And the hug that had felt less like “drama” and more like: I’m not alone.\n\n“So,” one of the theater kids finally said, lifting his milk carton as if making a toast, “to everyone: Don’t go there after dark.”\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1 && $moore == 0>>[[Cheerleader practice, game preparations.|Spiel Vorbereitungen.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 1 && $moore == 1>>[[Cheerleader practice, game preparations.|Spiel Vorbereitungen.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 0 >>[[Drama club, then horse stable with Ruby.|Theaterclub, danach Pferdestall mit Ruby.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 1 >>[[Drama club, Lucas’s mom.|Theaterclub, Lucas Mom.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 2>>[[Drama club, breakup with Lucas.|Theaterclub, Trennung von Lucas.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[Classic D&D.|Klassisches D&D.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

In the cafeteria at lunchtime, it was as always too loud, too bright, too crowded. The menu poster still hung on the wall, even though with its crossed-out and overwritten days it had long since become half outdated. Trays clattered, somewhere a plastic fork fell to the floor, and at the cheerleader table the weekend bubbled over like a drink that had been shaken too long.\n<<set $ort to "cafeteria">>\n“Oh my God, the town festival was literally so cute,” one of the Pom Puffs gushed, fanning herself with a napkin. “Those Pom poses in front of the Ferris wheel? Iconic.”\n\n“And Chris at the can toss!” another giggled. “She almost hit it and we acted like he’d won the Olympics.”\n\nChris sat between them and felt this warm, surprisingly real sense of belonging. Saturday had genuinely been fun. It had felt light, as if he were simply… one of them.\n\n“And then that dare…” Penelope let herself fall back theatrically, as if she were about to tell a horror story. “The abandoned maple-syrup bottling plant. Everyone knows: Don’t go there after dark.”\n\n“I swear, I can still smell the syrup in my hair,” one cheerleader said, shaking her head dramatically. “Those rusty tanks! And then the door was shut!”\n\n“The door was locked. By itself. Like in some cheap horror movie, I swear,” another emphasized, as if giving testimony in court.\n\n“And then…” Penelope grinned slowly, and everyone knew what was coming. “Then it went PSSSSHT.”\n\n“The skunk!” someone at the table shrieked. “I literally got fogged!”\n\nLaughter. Chris laughed along, but everything in his stomach tightened because the image came back to him at once: the darkness between the halls, the frantic flicker of phone lights, the rustling—and that moment when panic had made his body decide faster than his head.\n\n<<if $choice_ahorn1 == 1>>“And you know what I won’t forget?” Penelope tapped a finger on the table, as if delivering the punchline. “Chris hid behind Dylan so fast.”\n\n“Oh my God, yes!” one of the cheerleaders giggled. “Like a little deer. Literally—Dylan, save me!”\n\nChris’s throat grew warm. He wanted to object, but it was true. He had instinctively sought protection—and Dylan had simply… been there. Tall, safe, in front. It had happened before he could think about it.\n\nPenelope smiled too long as she said it. Not angry. More… assessing. And Chris noticed it because by now he had learned what Penelope looked like when she considered something her territory.\n\n“Interesting,” Penelope said lightly, as if it were only a joke.\n\nA few girls laughed, but it had a small edge. Chris felt it at once. His fingers briefly clawed around the plastic cup.\n\n“It was a skunk,” he muttered, trying to sound casual. “I’m not immune to… uh… flight animals.”\n\n“Mhm,” Penelope said, still too friendly. Then she turned away, as if the matter were settled.<<else>>“I’m still scared,” one groaned, and everyone giggled again.\n\nUnder the table, Chris suddenly felt a hand. Christine had briefly laid her fingers on his—not firmly, not dramatically. Just a quiet pressure, a tiny sign no one saw. Thank you.\n\nHe remembered the moment—how everyone had recoiled at once. How Christine had taken a step exactly in the wrong direction. And how Chris, without thinking, had put his body between her and the chaos, instinctively, reflexively. Not “Pom Puffs,” not “girls,” but that old, hard impulse: big brother. Protection.\n\nChris’s throat tightened. He pretended he was only rearranging his cutlery and gently pressed his fingers against hers once. Then Christine withdrew her hand and looked back down at her food, as if nothing had happened.\n\nAt the table, the laughter went on, the voices tripping over themselves with every “literally,” but for Chris that one brief pressure under the table was louder than anything else.\n\n<<endif>>“And we played spin the bottle,” one cheerleader said, widening her eyes.\n\n<<if $choice_ahorn2 == 1>>At the words spin the bottle, Chris’s memory stabbed sharply: Penelope had kissed him as a task. For her, it had been a gag, a quick show gesture—for him, it had felt different. Not romantic in a cheesy sense, but… far too real in his body, far too loud in his head. He felt his cheeks grow warm, even though he was only looking at his cup.<<else>>Another cheerleader put her hand to her forehead as if she were about to faint. “Penelope kissed Dylan. Kissed him.”\n\n“And everyone was like: Aaaah!” A chorus of giggles, envy, and feigned outrage.\n\nPenelope smiled as if she enjoyed the sound. “It was a task,” she said innocently. “I’m just a team player.”\n\n“Team player, my ass,” someone muttered with a half laugh.\n\nChris laughed along, a little too late. Somewhere inside him sat a small, silent prick of envy—so small that he was ashamed of it.\n\n<<endif>><<if $choice_ahorn3 == 1>>“Speaking of,” the same cheerleader suddenly said, grinning broadly. “Guys, just say it: Chris is so sweet. Do you remember what she answered to that question?”\n\n“What question?” someone asked with their mouth full.\n\n“When someone asked what she finds attractive in boys!” She leaned forward. “And she was like: If he’s kind. Really kind. Without expecting anything for it.”\n\nA collective “Awwww” rose from the table, as if they had just described a cat video. One made a heart with her fingers. “Literally sweetheart vibes.”\n\n“Yeah, Chris is totally our sweetheart,” another decided at once, as if that were a team role like base or flyer.\n\nChris tried to smile, but something inside him tightened. It was meant kindly. Even so, it felt like a drawer quietly snapping shut.\n\nOne cheerleader made a face, as if she needed to season the fun. “Or he just trusts people super fast. Like… dangerously. That is such daddy-issues energy.”\n\nChristine lifted her head.\n\nThen the topic shifted back to the “curse” and the door—but Chris’s heart kept beating fast for a moment. He was “sweet” in their eyes. Harmless. Heart instead of drama. And while part of him was relieved not to be stamped as “weird,” another part wondered whether “sweetheart” wasn’t just another word for “naive.”\n<<else>>“Speaking of,” the same cheerleader suddenly said, grinning broadly. “Chris had to do her dare.”\n\n“Oh my God, yes!” Several voices at once.\n\nChris felt himself grow warm. He saw the scene before him as if it had been pressed into a Polaroid: spin the bottle, shrieking laughter, the boys—and then the task, briefly showing his bra. So harmless, so stupid—and yet for him it had felt like a spotlight on a sore spot.\n\n“It was so sweet,” one giggled. “So… innocent. Like some kind of… Disney moment.”\n\n“Literally, Chris went completely red,” another said, placing a hand over her heart. “Adorable.”\n\nChris gave a strained grin, as if he had heard the joke a hundred times already. “It was.”\n\n“The boys stared like… like mannequins getting electrocuted,” one said, and the table burst out laughing.\n\nChris swallowed. As he did, a detail surfaced in his head that he told no one: that Dylan’s look had been different. Not so greedy, not so loud. More brief—and somehow… good. The feeling had scared him then because he had liked it.\n\nOne of the cheerleaders, who had said little so far, twisted the corner of her mouth. “Was that really necessary?” she asked, her tone too light to be friendly. A sentence like a needle prick: That little slut wanted to be seen.\n\nChris’s smile froze for a moment. He wanted to argue, wanted to say that he had felt uncomfortable—but the group was already laughing again, and the topic slid onward as if it had only been another punchline.<<endif>>\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1 && $moore == 0>>[[Cheerleader practice, game preparations.|Spiel Vorbereitungen.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 1 && $moore == 1>>[[Cheerleader practice, game preparations.|Spiel Vorbereitungen.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 0 >>[[Drama club, then horse stable with Ruby.|Theaterclub, danach Pferdestall mit Ruby.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 1 >>[[Drama club, Lucas’s mom.|Theaterclub, Lucas Mom.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 2>>[[Drama club, breakup with Lucas.|Theaterclub, Trennung von Lucas.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[Classic D&D.|Klassisches D&D.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris had made his decision: If he had to stand here anyway, then he at least wanted to take the tips. He took one deep breath, straightened his apron, and put on that bright diner smile that seemed friendly and just a little bit mysterious at the same time.\n\nAt first, it felt like theater. Like a role that fit him too tightly.\n\nAt the table with two men in work clothes—both clearly older than him, oil-smeared hands, broad voices—he set down the coffees and leaned very far forward, so that both of them could look straight down his cleavage. “Here, for you. Hot and strong.” He noticed himself how suggestive it sounded, and his face grew warm.\n\nOne of them grinned. “You’re new, right?”\n\nChris lowered his gaze briefly, then raised it again and held it a beat longer than necessary. “Is it that obvious?” he asked, very softly, and straightened up again after noticeably long seconds.\n\nThe men laughed. One said, “With a smile like that, everything’s obvious.”\n\nChris forced himself not to flinch. Instead, he smiled wider and playfully tapped the pen once against the pad. “Then behave yourselves, okay? Otherwise I’ll have to get strict.” It was meant harmlessly, but it landed like a joke with an edge. Both of them immediately pushed coins and bills under the sugar dispenser, as if they wanted to prove they had understood.\n\nAt the next table—a man in a shirt, alone, phone and car keys beside his plate—Chris did it more deliberately. When taking the order, he leaned in a little closer than necessary and spoke more quietly, as if sharing a secret. “What can I bring you?” When the man said, “Just a burger,” Chris raised his eyebrows. “Just?” He smiled, slowly. “You don’t look like someone who settles for just.”\n\nThe man laughed, surprised, clearly flattered. “Okay, okay. And fries.”\n\n“Better,” Chris said and winked—a brief, cheeky impulse that embarrassed him, but had exactly the right effect on the man. As Chris walked away, he noticed the gaze sticking to his ass. The skirt suddenly felt not only exposing, but also… effective. That feeling made him nervous.\n\nBut after a few rounds, a routine set in. Chris learned how to dose attention, how to hand it out like change: a smile here, a little laugh there, a “Honey?” that he had never actually wanted to say, but that came surprisingly easily over his lips when it earned him tips. He moved more deliberately—chest out, steps smaller, a small, elegant sway of the hips when he turned that made the apron move with him. Not exaggerated, more like a version of himself that knew how it was being seen.\n\nAnd then the dangerous thing happened: Part of him began to enjoy it.\n\nOne guest—gray temples, expensive watch—said as Chris refilled his coffee, “You’ve really got a presence. Since you’ve been here, the place tastes better.” Chris laughed, genuinely this time, and felt a warm pride. “Then I’ll just have to refill more often,” he replied, and later the man slid a bill under the plate as if it were a small reward.\n\nSeveral times, they asked about him: “When do you get off?” “Are you here often?” “Can someone take you out sometime?” Chris dodged without ruining the mood. He said things like, “It’ll be late tonight, unfortunately,” or “I’m still new, I need to settle in first,” leaving the door open a crack instead of slamming it shut. No concrete promise—but enough hope for the gaze to remain, and the tip with it.\n\nHe noticed how easy it became to play with eye contact: briefly looking away, then looking back again; leaving his hand on a shoulder a touch longer while serving; saying “Enjoy the rest of your day” in passing as if it were meant personally. The men reacted reliably: compliments, smiles, little shows of bravado. Some became cruder, but Chris kept the balance—close enough to seem friendly, far enough to stay safe.\n\nWhen he went to the counter in between and secretly looked into his apron pocket, a few bills and coins were already rustling there. The weight was small, but it felt like a victory. At the same time, a quiet shame pricked at him: that he could do this. That he was doing it. And that it worked.\n\nHe straightened his apron, breathed through it, and went to the next table—with a smile that by now was no longer only acted.\n\n[[Continue|Seine Schicht ist vorbei.]]

In the hotel room, it was quieter than before. No wedding hall, no music, no voices—only the muffled hum of the air conditioner and the dim light of the bedside lamp. Joseph first remained standing near the door, as if he had to make sure they were truly alone. Then he looked at Chris for a long time, too long to disguise it as coincidence.\n\n“I don’t want to do anything stupid,” Joseph finally said softly. His voice sounded controlled, but not cold. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. Especially not Charlotte.” He swallowed, as if the name itself briefly stopped him. “But I also can’t pretend that kiss… meant nothing.”\n\nChris’ heart was pounding up into his throat. He stood there with his bag in his hand, as if he needed something to hold on to. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice was small, but honest. “I think… Charlotte wasn’t sick at all.” He glanced briefly to the side, then back at Joseph. “I think this—the drive, the hotel room… it was her plan. So you wouldn’t be alone. And so that… we…” He could barely get the last word out.\n\nThe corners of Joseph’s mouth twitched, not as a smile, more as recognition. “That sounds like her,” he said softly. “Charlotte has always been… good at arranging things when she thinks it will help someone.”\n\nChris nodded, and in that second everything felt clear and impossible at the same time. Clear, because it suddenly made sense. Impossible, because it was still happening.\n\nJoseph took a step closer—slowly, deliberately—and then stopped, as if he had discovered a line in the carpet that he did not want to cross. His hands hung at his sides, open, not demanding. “Chris,” he said, and this time his tone was very calm. “If this is wrong, say stop right away. And I mean that. No politeness, no ‘it’s okay.’ If you don’t want this, we stop. Immediately.”\n\nChris’ throat was dry. He lifted his gaze, and his shame was written all over his face—the whole story, the roles, the mistakes, the boundaries. And yet there was also that warm pull inside him, that need that Joseph could not talk away.\n\nJoseph took a deep breath. He raised one hand, slowly, as if the movement itself was already asking for permission. Then he gently stroked Chris’ cheek with his fingertips, as if it were something fragile. “May I?” he whispered.\n\nChris nodded.\n\nThe first kiss after that was different from the one outside. Less overwhelm, more decision. Joseph kissed him carefully, but with an intensity that could no longer be denied. Chris began to suck on his tongue and gasped into Joseph’s mouth. His hands found Joseph’s shirt, clung to it for a moment, as if he had to be sure this was real. Joseph pulled him closer, and Chris felt that warmth again, the one that had made him feel so safe in bed that morning—only now it was awake, deliberate.\n\nJoseph pulled away briefly, looked at Chris as if he wanted to read every second. When Chris did not retreat, but stayed where he was, Joseph stroked his cheek again and then reached for the zipper of the dress. He moved slowly, giving Chris time to step back at any moment. The fabric slid from Chris’ shoulders, and Chris briefly held his breath—not out of fear of the physical, but of the meaning. It was as if, with the dress, a “pretending” fell away too.\n\nOne item of clothing after another disappeared—not hastily, but like a careful disentangling. Between every step there was breath, eye contact, a brief pause, as if Joseph were asking every time without using words. Chris’ shame flared up when Joseph saw his penis, but Joseph’s gaze was calm, respectful, and he gently stroked his small breasts. Chris did not feel used or looked at like a thing, but held—wanted, but not taken.\n\nFinally they stood close together, and Chris’ arms wrapped around Joseph. He felt Joseph’s heartbeat, strong and uneven, as if Joseph himself were surprised by what he was allowing. Chris kissed him again, longer, and Joseph answered as if he had been missing exactly this support for years.\n\n[[Continue|Chris ist neugierig.][$woral += 1;$partner += 1]]

At lunchtime, the cafeteria was louder than usual, that midday hum of trays, chairs, and conversations hanging over the tables like its own weather system. The menu poster still hung on the wall, even though with its crossed-out and overwritten days it had long since become half outdated. Chris sat with the nerds from the D&D club—Ben, Jay, and Max—far away from the cheerleaders, far away from looks that could mean too much. Here it smelled of fries and paper, and the conversations jumped from dice sets to games to homework.\n<<set $ort to "cafeteria">>\nChris had barely taken his first bite when Ben leaned forward, grinned, and said far too loudly, “Okay, we need to talk about it.”\n\nJay nudged Max. “Miss Maplewood, dude. I still haven’t processed it.”\n\nMax giggled and raised both hands as if he were back in the audience. “We cheered so hard for you. We were the loudest, I swear.”\n\nChris’s fork froze in midair. “Please not so loud,” he muttered, although he already knew it was too late. His cheeks grew warm. Over the weekend, the town festival had soaked the whole downtown area in lights and music, and his mother, with a smile that allowed no argument, had pushed him into that Miss Maplewood contest. Stage, spotlights, interview questions. He remembered the feeling of his heart pounding against the corset. And then those three faces in the crowd—Ben, Jay, and Max—who had actually cheered as if he were a boss fight.\n\n“We shouted ‘CHRIS! CHRIS!’” Ben said proudly, as if it were an athletic victory. “People turned around.”\n\n“You even smiled,” Jay added. “Like, really confidently. For a second I thought you were born for it.”\n\nMax nodded enthusiastically. “And that wave—that was like… like royalty.”\n\nChris wanted to sink into the floor and laugh at the same time.\n\nAt that moment, Adam set down his tray. He hadn’t been there, and you could tell he was hearing this for the first time. “Wait—you were in Miss Maplewood?” He stared at Chris as if Chris had just said he could fly. “You do stuff like that?”\n\nChris shrugged, his smile uncertain. “My mother… talked me into it.”\n\nAdam looked speechless for a moment, then a crooked expression slipped onto his face—something between curiosity and jealousy, without him noticing it himself. “Crazy,” he finally said, sounding as if he had to rearrange his inner plan.\n\nBen grinned broadly. “And now comes the best part: the result.”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. He knew every outcome was embarrassing. And that was exactly why it was perfect material for the boys.\n\n<<if $choice_ahorn1 == 1>>“Okay,” Max said, raising his hands appeasingly, “yes, you were out quickly—BUT—”\n\n“BUT you went up there at all!” Ben thumped his fist on the table. “That is more courage than I can scrape together in my entire life.”\n\nJay nodded seriously. “I would have spontaneously turned into a game manual on that stage. You went through with it.”\n\nAdam blinked, still surprised. “You… just stood in front of everyone—”\n\nChris pressed his lips together, embarrassed. “It was only… one round.”\n\n“It was a brave round,” Ben said solemnly, as if awarding a medal. “We’re proud of you.”<<endif>><<if $choice_ahorn1 == 2>>“You made it to round two!” Jay held up two fingers as if it were a victory sign.\n\nMax grinned. “That was the moment we thought: Oh, okay, this is getting serious now.”\n\nBen nodded vigorously. “And when they let you through, this grandma next to us just nodded like you were officially Maplewood-approved.”\n\nChris groaned softly.\n\nAdam pushed his glasses up. “So… you really weren’t out immediately?”\n\n“No,” Chris murmured, and his cheeks grew warm again.\n\n“Respect,” Jay said, surprisingly sincere. “That’s… kind of impressive.”<<endif>><<if $choice_ahorn1 == 3>>Max theatrically clutched his chest. “YOU WERE THIRD!”\n\nBen laughed so loudly that Chris immediately tugged at his sleeve. “Quieter!”\n\n“No, no,” Ben insisted, “the world needs to know this.” Then he leaned forward, grinning: “When they said ‘Third place,’ I briefly thought I was going to faint. I was so proud.”\n\nJay nodded. “You totally rocked it. It wasn’t even just ‘haha funny’—it was legit.”\n\nAdam stared at Chris as if he were understanding for the first time that Chris could have a stage even without a D&D character sheet. “Third…? Really?”\n\nChris looked away. “Yeah. Surprising.”\n\n“Surprising for them,” Max said, tapping the air, “not for us.”<<endif>><<if $choice_ahorn1 == 4>>“SECOND,” Ben hissed, as if it were a curse word for injustice. “SECOND. That’s fraud. I’m saying it like it is.”\n\nJay nodded seriously. “The jury was bought. Or blind. Or both.”\n\nMax leaned forward, eyes wide. “You should have won. The winner’s name was… I’ve never even heard it before. I swear, she’s an NPC.”\nChris held his forehead. “Please don’t say NPC.”\n\n“NPC!” Ben repeated triumphantly. “We saw it. You were better. Period.”\n\nAdam looked confused and at the same time strangely tense. “You were… second? Like… almost won?”\n\n“Yeah,” Chris murmured, and part of him briefly felt… proud despite everything.\n\n“We demand a rematch,” Jay said dryly. “Miss Maplewood: Patch Notes 1.1.”<<endif>>\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1 && $moore == 0>>[[Cheerleader practice, game preparations.|Spiel Vorbereitungen.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 1 && $moore == 1>>[[Cheerleader practice, game preparations.|Spiel Vorbereitungen.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 0 >>[[Drama club, then horse stable with Ruby.|Theaterclub, danach Pferdestall mit Ruby.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 1 >>[[Drama club, Lucas’s mom.|Theaterclub, Lucas Mom.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 2>>[[Drama club, breakup with Lucas.|Theaterclub, Trennung von Lucas.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[Classic D&D.|Klassisches D&D.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

<<back "Back">>\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/MrsRivera.jpg]]</center> ''Name:'' Lucía Rivera \n''Age:'' 34 \n''Birthday:'' October\n\n''Relationships''\nMalena Rivera (63) – mother\nJosé Rivera (66) – father\nMateo Rivera (31) – younger brother\nCamila Rivera (27) – younger sister\n\n''Biography''\nLucía came to the USA with her parents when she was nine, initially ending up in a Dominican-influenced environment in New Jersey, quickly learned English, was notably good at school, but at home was tightly bound by rules, religion, and reputation—a strongly Catholic household in which achievement, decency, and “what people think” meant a great deal. Lucía was smart and ambitious, but also headstrong from early on: she worked alongside school, earned herself a college scholarship, and fought her way upward piece by piece—not because it was easy for her, but because she absolutely wanted it.\n\nWith the same determination, she later developed her own style: confident, sometimes deliberately revealing—also as a quiet protest against the moral ideas she had grown up with. In class, she is considered direct and unusually open, especially on sex education topics; she speaks plainly where others dodge the issue. Privately, she is divorced and has taken back her maiden name. Rumors circulate about it in Maplewood—including that her marriage supposedly fell apart spectacularly because her ex-husband allegedly caught her in bed with a student. That has never been proven; it remains what small towns love: a whisper more persistent than facts.\n\n<div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Chris’s attraction to Mrs. Rivera </div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>not attractive at all</span> <span>intense desire</span> </div> <div class="axis-barattraction"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $rivera_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $rivera_opinion < 20>> not attractive at all <<elseif $rivera_opinion < 40>> slight attraction <<elseif $rivera_opinion < 60>> clear attraction <<elseif $rivera_opinion < 80>> clear attraction <<else>> intense desire <</if>> </div> </div> <<back "Back">>

Chris stayed with the group, but his gaze kept wandering automatically over the crowd. Between garlands and maple booths, he waited—and it felt strange. Not like “I’m waiting for someone from the club,” but like… for his boyfriend. Like a girl in love trying not to keep checking her phone. He hated how warm his cheeks got because of it.\n\n“You keep looking,” Ruby observed, with a grin that knew too much.\n\n“I do not,” Chris lied, pretending to be very seriously interested in a box of maple candies.\n\nThen he saw Lucas. He came walking a little too quickly, stopped for a moment as if he had to gather himself, and raised his hand in a tentative, almost shy greeting.\n\n“Hi,” Lucas said, as if the word had only just been invented.\n\n“Hi,” Chris replied, and his voice became unintentionally soft. Lucas took a step closer, and before he could lose his nerve, he reached for Chris’s hand. Chris’s fingers closed around it at once, firm and relieved, as if that was exactly what he had needed. Chris felt a small twinge in his stomach—not unpleasant, more… real.\n\nThey wandered through the festival: can toss, mini stage, maple soda, silly comments. Lucas laughed more quietly than the others, but he laughed. Chris noticed himself relaxing, how he even forgot that his mother was probably still waiting for him somewhere.\n\nAt some point Lucas stopped and pointed to the right, his eyes lighting up. “Bumper cars!” His voice suddenly no longer sounded shy, but excited, almost childlike. The music from the bumper cars clattered and crashed through the air, and it smelled of metal, sugar, and rubber.\n\nChris grinned. “Oh my God, yes.” He immediately felt the same excitement. Bumper cars were the perfect chaos: loud, silly, no thinking.\n\n“Shall we?” Lucas was already tugging him along lightly.\n\nChris turned briefly to Ruby. “We’ll be right back!”\n\n“Have fun, lovebirds,” Ruby called after them, and Chris blushed, but he laughed.\n\nThey queued up, got tokens, heard the clacking of the cars, the squealing and the cheers. When they finally stood in front of the free cars, Lucas stopped and looked at Chris, suddenly a little nervous again.\n\n“Do we want to… ride together in one?” he asked. “It’s pretty tight, though.” He pointed to the double seat. “Or each of us in our own car?”\n\nChris felt his heart give a little leap. Tight meant closeness. Closeness meant… complicated. But also warm.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n''How does he decide?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $lucaslove == 1>>\n❯ [[He gets into the same car with Lucas, even though the closeness suddenly feels riskier than it should.|Zusammen fahren][$temp += 1]]\n<<else>>\n❯ [[He sits beside Lucas in the double seat, even though he immediately realizes how tight it’s going to be.|Zusammen fahren2]]\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>\n❯ [[He’d rather take his own car before the closeness to Lucas becomes too much for him.|Jeder ein Auto]]

<div class="psychedelic-text">Chris shook his head. Gently, he reached for Chris’s hand and guided it to his penis.\n\nHis fingers closed around his member—as if guided by an involuntary reflex—and he moved Chris’s hand back and forth. Chris looked up from the penis into his eyes as the boy leaned forward and kissed Chris on the mouth.\n\nIt was a long, intense kiss; Chris’s eyes widened when he felt the boy’s tongue enter his mouth. He should have been much more surprised. He wasn’t. It just felt… strange. As if something were happening that was actually happening to someone else.\n\nThen, another boy knelt down in front of Chris and cupped his face in both hands. Chris expected another kiss, but instead, the boy tilted Chris’s head forward into his lap and pressed it against the tip of his cock, leaving Chris no choice but to open his mouth and take the cock inside. It tasted faintly salty as he felt the moisture seeping from the tip of the cock on his tongue. The boy let out a loud moan as Chris’s lip-glossed lips closed around his cock.\n\nSomeone held up a cell phone; the cold, tiny eye of the camera lit up on the screen.\n\n“Film this,” one of them grinned. “No one else is going to believe us.”\n\nChris lifted his head in confusion, but the boy immediately pushed it back down.\n\nWith a practiced motion, someone unfastened Chris’s bra clasp. Hands moved to his shoulder blades and slid the straps down over Chris’s shoulders. Chris instinctively held the bra protectively over his breasts, pressing it tightly against his body.\n\nAt the same moment, he felt other hands massaging his buttocks. Suddenly, those hands moved to the waistband of his panties and pulled them down. Chris was adamant about keeping his panties on, but let his bra drop in the process. As his small mounds—topped with dainty nipples—came into view, one of the guys gasped in arousal.\n\nSuddenly, the cock in Chris’s mouth twitched, and then the guy came with full force. His cum shot into Chris’s mouth and down his throat. Chris coughed and swallowed as much as he could, but there was so much of it that it dripped in two thick streams from the corners of his mouth. Once the guy was finished cumming, he pulled his penis out of Chris’s mouth.\n\n“Look here, baby.”\n\nHands maneuvered him into position, lightly cupping his chin and turning his face toward the camera, as if he were nothing more than a prop.\n\n“Give us a smile.”\n\n“Holy shit, she’s actually going along with it.”\n\nGiggling. Whispered comments that hovered somewhere between pride and mockery.\n\nChris let it all happen. Not because he truly wanted to, but because his willpower was currently sitting somewhere behind a warm wall of fog, unable to locate where the “Stop” button was anymore. The joint, the alcohol, the exhaustion, the whole day—they had worn down the sharp edges of his decision-making.\n\nThe next guy stepped in front of Chris and shoved his hard-on into his mouth. Still feeling completely disoriented, Chris took him in. With slow thrusts, he drove deeper and deeper into Chris’s mouth. Chris grimaced and let out a muffled sound—with a cock filling his mouth, that was all he could manage.\n\nLess than three minutes later, the guy felt his cum rising from his balls; with a loud “Yeeaaah,” he shoved his cock as deep as it would go into Chris’s mouth and unloaded—thrust after thrust—down Chris’s throat.\n\nAlmost immediately, Chris felt a third stiff member pressing against his lips. He fucked his mouth just like the guy before him. But it took only five or six hard thrusts before he ejaculated his cum into Chris’s mouth. When he was finished, he pulled his cock out of Chris’s mouth with a wet plop, followed by a large gush of cum.\n\nThe last boy jerked off his hard-on, came, and splattered his load onto Chris’s small tits, where he then rubbed it in.\n\nThe camera remained running, the tiny red recording indicator glowing. The boys tossed remarks back and forth, laughing and spouting half-sentences that Chris could no longer make sense of.\n\nWhen they were done, Chris turned onto his side and curled up into the fetal position. And so the four of them sat surrounding the half-naked Chris, who lay there utterly exhausted, unable to move.</div>\n\n[[End of Chapter 2|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 2b]]\n

The days after were like water draining too slowly. Chris often just sat there—on the edge of the bed, at the vanity, by the window—and let minutes pass without filling them. His phone lay beside him, silent, and every time the screen briefly lit up, he felt the reflex to reach for it. Most of the time it was just an app notification, an ad, something unimportant. Still, each time his heart stayed awake a beat too long.\n\nAt home, the air was thin. Susan spoke less, but when she did speak, it was curt and practical, as if she were working through every conversation like a bill. “Take out the trash.” “The washing machine is running.” “Don’t forget you have practice tomorrow.”\n\nSometimes he heard her laughing on the phone, that controlled, bright laugh that wasn’t meant for him, and then he stayed in his room a little longer until it grew quiet again.\n\nHe went through his routine as if it were a railing: getting up in the morning, showering, getting dressed, hair, makeup—not out of desire, more on autopilot. His hands did everything right by now, even when his head was somewhere else. Sometimes he looked in the mirror while doing it and searched for a feeling that would fit. Most of the time he found only a face that looked good and felt empty. After that, he shouldered his bag and set off, without really knowing whether he wanted to go anywhere.\n\nAt school, he was there, but not entirely. He listened in class, took notes, laughed in the right places when Ruby made a dry comment. During breaks, he kept to corners where fewer people stood. Dylan’s name sometimes surfaced like an echo—not in words, but in glances that lingered briefly and then looked away. Chris pretended not to notice. It was easier when everyone pretended.\n\nIn the evenings, he opened books, then pushed them aside again. He rearranged drawers for no reason. He wiped down his vanity even though it was clean. Sometimes he put on a playlist that used to sound like anticipation, and after three songs realized he wasn’t listening at all. Then he turned it off again and let only the vanilla candle burn, because at least that smelled like something constant.\n\nAnd slowly—so inconspicuously that it only became noticeable later—he came back to himself. Not as a sudden leap, more like color quietly returning to a picture. He started drinking tea in the mornings instead of only rushing. He ate a little more again because his body demanded it. Once, he caught himself truly laughing at something and was startled for a moment because it felt permitted. After that, the laughter stayed anyway.\n\nThe mood at home didn’t get better, but it changed. His mother remained cold, but she was also busy, distracted, less fixated on his every step. Chris used that without consciously planning to. He moved more quietly, created less friction, held on to things that didn’t shatter him further: homework, practice, showering, sleeping. Life became a sequence again, and that was okay.\n\nOne evening, he stood by the window, looking out at the street, and realized that Dylan no longer came to mind every time it grew quiet. The thought was still there, but no longer like a wound that tore open with every breath. More like a bruise you still felt when you bumped against it.\n\nHe remained standing there for a while, until the streetlights came on. Then he closed the window, drew the curtains, and lay down in bed. Not happy. Not healed. But a small piece back with himself again.\n\n[[Continue|Weihnachten in Deutschland.]]

Chris felt heat creeping up the back of his neck. “Um… no, thanks,” he said—too quickly, too curtly, without adding anything behind it.\n\nThe sentence fell onto the tiles like a cold drop. Penelope blinked, the raspberry tube still between two fingers. “Okay…” Her smile froze a fraction, became thin. “Suit yourself.”\n\nCharlotte cleared her throat softly, as if wanting to get the air moving again. Ruby tucked her tissue away neatly and pretended she suddenly had a very urgent need to study the faucet. Christine threw Chris a look through the mirror: Seriously?—a mixture of “You could at least have said something” and “We’ll talk in a second.”\n\nPenelope applied the gloss a second time, checked the result in the mirror, and nodded to herself. “Some people just don’t need it,” she said in a honey-sweet voice that stopped at the edges. “Or don’t want it.” The nuance behind it wasn’t loud, but clear: conceited. Two girls beside her exchanged a brief glance, the universal sign for: Aha, the new girl thinks she’s too good for this.\n\nChris’s stomach clenched. He could so easily have said: “Later” or “I’m already covered in lip balm” or “allergic to fragrances”—anything that softened the edges. Instead, his “no, thanks” now stood like a small wall between him and the room. He nodded awkwardly, adjusted the hem of his skirt, and sought refuge at the sink, turning on the water even though his hands were clean.\n\n“Cute, by the way, that you like raspberry,” Charlotte tossed to Penelope, shifting the focus away. “That color pops in photos.”\n“Mh-hm,” Penelope made, and her reflection smiled again—more for herself than for the group.\n\nChristine tapped Chris discreetly on the elbow. “Come on,” she murmured, “the bell’s about to ring.” On the way to the door, her whisper stayed clipped: “You don’t have to say yes. But how you say no counts here. Pen takes stuff like that as attitude.”\n\n“I noticed,” Chris forced out. In his head, it hammered: of all people, he had managed to seem “cool” in front of the top cheer girls—and not in the good way.\n\nOut in the hallway, the noise was a relief. He breathed through it, heard the last seconds of break trickle like sand through a clock, and half-heartedly swore to himself that next time he would at least have a softer reason ready.\n\n''👑 Popularity -1''\n\n''What happens?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Lunchtime in the cafeteria.|Lunchtime in der Cafeteria.]]<<else>>[[Lunchtime in the cafeteria.|Lunchtime in der Cafeteria.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

That evening, the house was quieter than usual. Their daughter was staying over at her "friend’s," at least according to the story Chris’s wife knew, and Chris was still mechanically loading plates into the dishwasher, as if the clatter of dishes could sort his thoughts.\n\nHe heard someone stop in the kitchen doorway. When he turned around, his wife was leaning there, her arms loosely crossed, her hair pinned up, as if she had already set the day aside. She looked at him as if she wasn’t asking, but making an offer.\n\n“Bathtub,” she said simply.\n\n“Only if I don’t have to sit on the wrong side again,” Chris set conditions.\n\n“Do you want to or not?” his wife pouted.\n\nChris pretended he had to think about it, even though his body had long since said “yes.” He nodded, too quickly, and tried for a casual “Sure” that sounded a little too hopeful. She smiled, as if she had heard exactly what he hadn’t said.\n\nIn the bathroom, everything immediately felt different. Warm light, soft music from the phone on the shelf, a few candles. They ran the water, tested the temperature with their hands—and watched each other as, little by little, the clothes fell away.\n\nAs agreed, Chris sat on the 'wrong' side.\n\n“Your periscope is peeking out above the water,” she laughed, then she had an idea. “I’ll sit in front of you. Make sure I don’t sit on it.”\n\n“Would that be so bad?”\n\n“No, not that, but if it accidentally goes into the wrong hole, that could get uncomfortable for you.”\n\nChris spared himself the comment and helped her position herself more or less comfortably in front of him. She nestled against him and Chris placed both hands on her sides.\n\n“May I touch you, darling?” he asked.\n\n“If you say pretty please,” she replied.\n\nChris’s heart did that stupid little jump he would have hated as a teenager and secretly loved as a husband. “Please,” he said promptly.\n\n“You may stroke my pussy today,” she declared.\n\nChris didn’t need to be told twice. Maybe today things would finally go a little further with her again. But he wasn’t sure. Too often already, he had thought he was well on his way into her panties, only to be slowed down again and again.\n\nChris had sex with his wife much less often than he would have liked. That was the part he never said out loud, because he knew that was exactly the wrong way to put it. She wasn’t “to blame.” She just… controlled the pace. And she enjoyed letting him squirm a little—not cruelly, more playfully, like someone entertaining a cat with a ribbon because the cat could look so wonderfully focused.\n\nHis hand slid down one side, around her, between her legs. His wife let him do it. His hand found her pubic mound, one finger trying to slip between her labia. Finally he found her button, caressing her there with circular movements. It took a while for her body to respond, but then it happened lightning-fast. Without warning, she suddenly moaned and enjoyed her climax.\n\n“That was nice,” she turned around and kissed him. “Now you. Jerk off.”\n\n“No sex today?” Chris asked, disappointed.\n\n<<if $jerkoff >0 >>Chris had plenty of experience with masturbation and handjobs. This had counted among his first sexual contacts with his own sex. The boys back in Maplewood had been hot for him and Chris had had to lend a hand. But those were things his wife didn’t need to know.\n\n<<endif>>“Don’t get impatient right away, young man,” she said. “Wait, I know something better.”\n\n[[Continue|Sie Bläst Chris seinen Schwanz.][$oral += 1;$partner += 1;$kissgirl += 1;$sex += 1]]

The decision fell like a small stone finally slipping out of a shoe. Chris went inside and stepped up to a table. The student behind the table smiled, pen in hand.\n\n“I… want to sign up.” Chris filled out the form hesitantly, got stuck on the “Desired role” field, and finally wrote: open to any role. Neutral, evasive, possible.\n\n“Welcome to the club,” said the student behind the table. The Black Box was pleasantly dim; snakes of cable on the floor, gaffer-tape crosses, a props box with “NOT EDIBLE” on a fake cake. [[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]] was already there, clipboard under her arm, timer around her neck, and gave a curt wave. “I’m ASM today. Punctual is sexy. Shoes off the stage.”\n\n“Got it,” Chris murmured and stepped into a circle forming on the marked playing area. Ms. Green appeared like a sudden lighting change: energetic, zero-bullshit gaze, black jeans, black T-shirt. “Warm-up. Circle. Deep breath. We all say the same line, and we do it so the back row understands. Text: ‘I don’t wait—I act.’ Project to last row!”\n\nThe circle thundered into motion. When it was Chris’s turn, his voice briefly tipped between deep habit and practiced brightness. “I don’t wait—I act,” came out too narrow. Ms. Green raised a hand, stopping him without unkindness. “Breathe into the ribs, not the throat. Imagine the room belongs to you before you speak. Again.” He drew breath, felt the floor, lifted his gaze. “I don’t wait—I act!” The tone landed better, filled the Black Box without shouting. Ms. Green gave the smallest nod. “There.”\n\nImprov. “Status shift,” Ms. Green ordered. “Two people, same place, shifting power dynamics. No clowning, play in the moment. Lucas? You with… Chris.” <<if $lucas == 1>>Chris blinked. Lucas… wasn’t that the one who had cracked his locker the other day? He had almost forgotten him again—that was how inconspicuous he was. Narrow build, nervous charm, his gaze dodging girls until Chris stood beside him; then he became oddly determined to seem casual.<<else>>Lucas—narrow-shouldered, friendly restlessness.<<endif>>\n\n“Hey,” [[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]] whispered. <<if $lucas == 1>>Chris remembered, the boy who had helped him with his locker on the first day of school.<<endif>>\n\nThey played a scene in a library whisper—Lucas broad and casual at first, the “boss” at the copier; Chris timid. Then Ruby clicked the timer: “Switch!” Lucas collapsed inward, Chris straightened, took space: elbows free, voice calmer, deeper. It worked. His body suddenly understood how “posture” and “voice” clicked together; Ms. Green said a quiet “yes” into the room.\n\n“Freeze!” Ruby called later, and Lucas froze with his torso twisted and one hand comically raised. Chris jumped into the tableau, took over the pose, and improvised on, turning the raised hand into a microphone, Lucas into a reporter stumbling over his words. Without meaning to, they became funny—not slapstick, but honestly awkward. The club laughed with them, not at them. Lucas’s gaze flicked briefly to Chris, warm—a seed of friendly connection that tingled ever so slightly.\n\nA brief disruption spilled in from the hallway: “Theater nerds!” A Timberwolf stuck his head through the door, laughed, and vanished again. Ms. Green didn’t even turn her head. “Door closed,” she said simply. Ruby was faster than any comment and pulled it shut. The room belonged to them again.\n\n“Quick-change basics,” Ms. Green called after the break. “In week two, we practice changing in fifteen seconds. No chaos, no somersaults. In pairs, jacket on—jacket off—top over—top off. Eyes away, respect—but speed.” Lucas became Chris’s partner. They stood back to back, tossed each other a rehearsal shirt, changed in quick succession. When Chris briefly pulled the shirt up, his top lifted, and Lucas caught a split-second glimpse of bra—just enough to make him falter. His “wow” went unsaid, but his look betrayed him. Chris instantly turned red, pulled the shirt down, and laughed too loudly. “Uh—fits.” Lucas pulled himself together, pretending he had only admired the speed. “Slick. I mean… really fast.”\n\nAt the end, Ms. Green handed out stacks of paper. “Fall piece: A Certain Kind of Sunlight. Romance. No kitsch. Read-through.” Chris took a scene and sat down on the step. Lucas sat beside him, foot bouncing. Ruby dropped to the floor, checking names into columns on her clipboard. They read in small groups. In the second third, Chris stumbled over a stage direction: He starts, hesitates—and kisses her.\n\nChris felt his throat go dry. A kiss. On stage. He thought of the audience—people watching. His fingers held the page more tightly than necessary.\n\n“All good?” Lucas asked softly, as if he had noticed the jolt. He put on a smile, a little too cool for his nervous manner. “If you want, we can rehearse later… uh, not that part. The part before. Timing and stuff.”\n\nChris breathed through it, smoothed the paper. “Sure.” He was in. In a room with rules that made sense, and tasks that were more than “passing.” Ruby called out the rehearsal schedule: “Monday through Thursday, 3:30 to 5:30, tech meeting Fridays.” Ms. Green clapped once. “Good work. Anyone who wants to stay helps roll things up. Anyone leaving leaves quietly.”\n<<set $lucas_opinion to 67>>\n[[Continue|Fahrt nach Hause.]]

The cafeteria was as loud as ever, but at the table of the most popular girls, the noise gathered into a kind of stage. Penelope sat in the middle, bangs perfect, her lips carrying exactly that glossy shimmer Chris could now recognize from ten yards away. “Saturday is going to be legendary,” she said, casually sliding an invitation card across the table—pastel, glitter, “Pajama Party” in sweeping script. “No drama, just movies, masks, popcorn—and no ex-boyfriend talk, I swear.”\n<<set $ort to "cafeteria">>\nCharlotte grinned. “I’ll bring brownies.”\n“You’re bringing yourself,” Penelope corrected, laughing, that bright note that both owned the room and apologized for doing so. Beside Chris, Christine clinked the ice in her cup, nodding in rhythm with Penelope’s plans—pillow fort, karaoke, an improvised catwalk game in socks.\n\nChris listened, hanging—against his will—on Penelope’s full lips. It was as if her sentences set a rhythm of their own. He realized how much this girl was turning his head.\n\n[[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]] let her gaze wander over the group. “Chrissie? Saturday? Of course you’re coming.”\n“Yes!” Christine said at once, too quickly, too happily. Her braces flashed, she was already halfway into the pillow fort.\n\n<center>[img[pics/penelope_cafeteria.jpg]]</center> Then Penelope’s gaze stopped on Chris. She tilted her head just slightly—not mockingly, more appraisingly, as if holding two cards side by side. Something briefly worked in her face: group dynamics, space on the carpet, mood, rules. Chris felt his heart shift up half a gear. The babydoll rustled as he unconsciously sat up a little straighter.\n\nHer eyes flicked from his dress to his face and back again, as if searching for the missing puzzle piece before deciding.\n\n''How does Penelope decide?''\n<<nobr>><<if $beliebtheit >= 5>>[[She invites Chris to the pajama party.|Sie lädt Chris zur Pajama Party ein.]]<<else>>[[She doesn’t invite him.|Sie lädt ihn nicht ein.]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris slipped behind the drink machine beside the trophy case. From there, he could see Zoe without immediately being in her line of sight himself. She acted as if she were looking at her phone, but her weight was on the balls of her feet—ready to move.\n\nFor a few minutes, nothing happened. Chris’s heart beat too loudly for the empty hallway, and he was annoyed with himself for standing here at all.\n\nThen [[Mr. Robertson|Wesley Robertson]] appeared.\n\nHe came from the direction of the teachers’ lounge, a key ring in his hand, and stopped directly in front of Zoe. No “hello,” no “What are you still doing here?” Zoe put her phone away, only lifting her chin briefly. They exchanged a look that didn’t feel like teacher-and-student, but like “you’re here.” Without a word, they turned around and walked down the hall together.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. He waited two seconds—not too quickly, not conspicuously—and followed them at a distance, always along the wall, as if he were only on his way to the exit by chance.\n\nThey turned into a classroom. Mr. Robertson unlocked it, Zoe slipped inside, and he followed. Then Chris heard it very clearly: the click of the lock.\n\nChris stopped, took a breath, and moved closer anyway. He acted as if he were only walking past the door—and then stopped right beside it. His ear found the spot where voices were most likely to come through.\n\nAt first, there was only a muffled rustling inside. Then Mr. Robertson’s voice, muted and unintelligible.\n\nChris waited in the dim hallway in front of the locked door and held his breath. Shortly afterward, a strange sound came from the room behind it, quiet at first, then clearer again: a wet, regular smack—smack—smack, as if someone were sucking on something with exaggerated care. In between, there was always a short pause, too regular to be coincidence, almost like a rhythm. Smack. Smack. Smack-smack.\n\nHe carefully pressed his ear even closer to the cold wood. Now he heard it even more clearly: that wet pop—smack—pop, as if lips were opening and closing again. It sounded slightly frantic. Smack. Pop. Smack.\n\nChris felt himself go cold. He took half a step back, as if someone had shoved him. His heart suddenly beat unevenly. What he had heard felt wrong in an adult way—not like childish nonsense, but like something that had real consequences. And now he was a witness. Unwillingly.\n\nHe turned around and walked away as quietly as possible. On the way to the bus, the hallway was normal again: a cleaning cart, a forgotten hoodie on a bench, sunlight on the floor tiles. But Chris’s mind stayed with the click of the lock and the classroom behind it.\n\nWhen he finally sat on the bus, he stared out the window without seeing anything and thought only: What the hell is Zoe doing in there?\n\n[[Continue|Auf nach Hause.]]

The drive to the wedding venue passed without incident. Joseph focused on the GPS, Chris on his hands in his lap, as if that could push the morning image of “spooning with morning wood” out of his head. Still, something soft lingered between them – unspoken, but perceptible, like a sweater you could still feel on your skin after taking it off.\n\nThe ceremony took place in a bright, ornate little chapel somewhere on the edge of town. White flowers along the aisle, a carpet that looked too new, and a string quartet that played so romantically it seemed to smooth the room flat. Chris sat beside Joseph, hands neatly in his lap, back straight. When the bride came in, everything turned toward the door.\n\nShe was truly pretty. Not “Instagram pretty,” but in a way that felt like a promise: a simple dress with delicate lace, a veil that bobbed lightly with every step, and that glow in her eyes that no makeup could create.\n\nChris caught himself thinking: If I ever get married, I want that too… For a moment, he imagined what it would be like to stand up there himself – light, music, hands holding him tight. In the same instant, he felt ashamed of the thought. Not because marriage itself was embarrassing, but because his mind immediately produced images to go with it that he did not want to control. He swallowed, looked forward again, and forced himself to just listen.\n\nThe officiant’s words washed through the room – love, faithfulness, shared paths. Joseph beside him seemed quiet, attentive, almost wistful. When the two of them said their vows, applause broke out. Chris clapped along, smiled, and felt that warm-sticky feeling weddings sometimes created: beautiful and sad at the same time.\n\nAfterward, they went to the reception venue, a hall with strings of lights and round tables with small flower vases on them. There were welcome drinks, hugs, congratulations, and Chris was scrutinized again – politely, but curiously. He stayed close to Joseph because that was easiest. Joseph introduced him a few times as “Charlotte’s friend,” and every time Chris inwardly hunched his shoulders because it felt both true and not true at the same time.\n\nWhen the photos began, things became hectic. “Everyone to the stairs now!” “Family only!” “Now the friends!” Voices called over each other, someone pushed someone else into the right row. An older grandmother – the same one who had already commented the previous evening – insisted on getting one more photo “of you two.”\n\n“Come here, come here!” She waved with a determination that tolerated no contradiction.\n\nChris stepped beside Joseph before he could even think about how to stand “neutrally” in a situation like that. The photographer raised the camera. Joseph reflexively put an arm around Chris’ shoulders – completely innocently, the way one did in a group photo so as not to look like two random passersby.\n\nAt exactly that moment, someone from the row behind them called out loudly enough for everyone to hear: “Awww!”\n\nChris’ face immediately grew hot. Joseph’s hand froze for a fraction of a second, as if he had only now realized what it must look like. Both of them tried to force their faces into a normal photo smile, which only made it worse. The photographer called, “Perfect! Don’t move!” – and Chris felt as if he were being immortalized on a poster in that moment.\n\nWhen the flash went off, Joseph removed his arm again as if nothing had happened. Chris quickly straightened his dress as if it had a wrinkle. Neither of them mentioned it. Precisely because of that, it hung even more strongly in the air.\n\nThe celebration picked up speed: The guests sat down, there were appetizers, clinking glasses, short speeches. Joseph stuck to small talk and water, Chris to smiling and the feeling of not standing out. Still, it kept happening that people smiled at them together, as if they had understood a story Chris himself did not understand. Joseph reacted kindly, but also a little stiffly – as if he were trying not to feed rumors that had arisen by accident.\n\nWhen the cake was rolled in, it got louder. Two tiers, white icing, a bridal couple on top. The bride and groom made the first cut, there was applause, then that brief chaos of “Who gets the first piece?” and “Don’t push!” Chris got a slice on a plate that was far too small, and Joseph handed him a napkin before Chris even noticed he needed one. Small as it was: That casual care once again caused that tingling in Chris’ stomach – and he hated that he could not turn it off.\n\nUntil the middle of the celebration, Chris stayed near Joseph like he was clinging to a safe shore. They talked about harmless things – how loud the music was, how beautifully the hall was decorated, how good the cake tasted – and both tried not to let the small embarrassing moments become bigger. Yet every time a gaze lingered on them too long, Chris’ throat tightened.\n\nAnd still, the day was… not bad. The evening was not over yet, the dance floor was slowly filling, and somewhere the next round of speeches was just beginning – but Chris felt that they were already right in the middle of a situation Charlotte had very deliberately made possible.\n\n[[Continue|Brautstrauß.]]

The kitchen door swung open. A boy stuck his head in, nose in the air. “Smells like cookies.” He took one step into the room—narrow-shouldered build, tousled hair, a T-shirt with a faded band logo. Chris flinched and instinctively turned his back to him, as if he had just touched something forbidden.\n\n“Sweetheart, this is my son,” Mrs. Barnett said calmly. “His name is [[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]].” <<if $lucas == 1>>Chris blinked. Lucas… wasn’t that the one who had cracked his locker the other day? He had almost forgotten him again—that was how inconspicuous he was.<<endif>>\n\n“You were actually supposed to stay in your room today,” Mrs. Barnett said.\n\n“I just wanted to try one—” Lucas stopped because his gaze caught on Chris. No drooling, no whistling—just that unplayed surprise, gently tipping into admiration. “Hi,” he said, and the small word carried more than it should have.\n\n“Hi,” Chris managed, still half turned away. He felt the satin on his back as if the fabric had ears.\n\nLucas grabbed a cookie, blew on it, and took a bite. His eyes involuntarily went back to Chris, as if he were trying to undress Chris’s satin nightgown with his eyes. “They’re good, Mom,” he murmured, sounding as if he meant two things.\n\nSuddenly, girl noise spilled back into the kitchen from the hallway. Penelope appeared in the doorway, two friends in tow, a tray in her hand. “Hey—party zone, Lucas! Out of here.” Her forehead creased in irritation. “I told you: no wandering around today. Go game or read something, whatever. Just don’t be annoying.”\n\n“I’m not annoying anyone,” her brother protested, already one step backward, the cookie still in his hand. His gaze flicked one last time to Chris, soft, curious, a little flickering. “Have fun… uh, you guys.” Then he disappeared, the door closing softly behind him.\n\nPenelope snorted, rolled her eyes, and aimed for the tray. “Cookies! Thanks, Mom. Chris, can you take the soda?”\n“Sure,” Chris said, grateful for the task and for having a tray to hold. As he passed, Mrs. Barnett threw him a brief, seductive look—one that promised a great deal.\n\n[[Continue|Mädchenspiele in der Kissenburg.]]

Christine blinked, hurt, as Chris pointed at her. A brief, offended-disbelieving look: Do you know me that badly? He looked away, shrugging apologetically.\n<<set $ChristineMemory[8] to 1>>\nAll around, fingers went up in every direction—some at Charlotte, some at Penelope, some at someone else. There was no clear winner on this question.\n\n“I’d never cheat,” Charlotte said, her hand flat over her heart, half serious, half show.\n“Me neither,” Christine cut in sharply, as if she wanted to erase the previous round.\nPenelope tilted her head. “Depends.” A grin. “If someone’s hotter and better for me—why not? I don’t owe anyone forever.” A few “Oooohs,” a few eye rolls, then laughter.\n\n“And you, Chris?”\n“Never.” It came faster than expected.\n“Not even with Dylan?” someone teased from the middle. An unwanted image flashed in Chris’s head—school hallway, easy stride, sunshine hair—he pushed it away. “No,” he said more firmly. The circle chuckled; not everyone seemed convinced.\n\n“New question!” one of the girls called. “Who would be more likely to have a baby as a teenager?”\n\nThe fingers shot almost unanimously in one direction—at Chris. Only Charlotte and Christine didn’t point.\n\n“What? Why me?” Chris’s voice was smaller than he wanted it to be.\n\n“You seem so… naive,” one explained with a pitying smile that wasn’t one.\n“And helplessly sweet,” another added. “Boys take advantage of that.”\n“I can see it already,” a third giggled, “you showing up to prom with a round baby bump—so awww!” Laughter, pillow nudges, a chorus of “nooo, kidding!”\n\nChris’s face burned. He knew how impossible it was—his body, his reality—and still the images hit him like small, sticky arrows. He searched for a comeback, found none, only an embarrassed nod that defused nothing.\n\n“Chris, it’s your turn to ask questions,” Penelope reminded him kindly.\n\n“Uh…” He rummaged through his head, finding nothing the longer the silence lasted. Three long minutes trickled by, giggles, sideways glances.\n\nPenelope clapped her hands, moderator mode. “Okay—program change! Movie time.” A relieved murmur ran through the pillow fort.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $tempCharlotte > 0 && $charlotte == 2>>[[Horror movie.|Horrorfilm.]]<<else>>[[Horror movie.|Horrorfilm.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Fingers shot up—Chris pointed at Christine. He was curious; her reaction just now had been oddly choppy. Around them, most index fingers tilted toward her as well.\n\nChristine instantly turned red. “What? No!” she babbled, but Penelope was faster, half giggling, half triumphant: “She had a huge crush on Mr. Alvarez last year.” A murmur, lots of “oooh.” Christine flailed, her braces flashing nervously: “I did not! I mean… I thought he was nice. Like everyone did.” No one quite bought her denial.\n\nChris blinked. He hadn’t known that. And if he was honest… he could understand it. Mrs. Rivera is really hot too… He cleared his throat, placing a hand on Christine’s knee. “Hey, there’s nothing inherently wrong with that,” he said calmly. “As long as nothing actually happens. Crushes happen.”\n\nChristine shot him a grateful look through all that red.\n\nHalf a dozen heads turned toward him in the same rhythm. “Ahaaa,” Penelope drew the word out. “And who’s your teacher crush, Chris?”\n“Mr. Moore?” one of them threw in.\n“Mr. Robertson?” another asked, far too curious.\n\n“No one,” Chris protested, too quickly, his face too hot. Immediately the cheerful speculation began, names flying like popcorn. He pulled his knees closer, smiled bravely, while the group clearly enjoyed the idea that the “new girl” might have a forbidden crush too.\n\n“My round,” Christine said firmly, visibly grateful for the chance to escape forward. She let her gaze wander over the pillow fort, the ruffled edge of her nightgown trembling slightly. “Who would be more likely to cheat in a relationship?”\n\nFingers rose, searching for targets.\n\n''Who does Chris choose?''\n<<if $charlotte == 2>>❯ [[Charlotte|Charlotte3][$tempCharlotte += 1]]<<else>>❯ [[Charlotte|Charlotte4]]<<endif>>\n❯ [[Christine|Christine3][$tempChristine += 1]]\n❯ [[Penelope|Penelope3]]

The evening settled over the stadium like an electric film. As the Pom Puffs lined up at the entrance to the players’ tunnel, Chris felt the cold breath slip under his skirt, and above it the adrenaline, warmer than any jacket. To the left, the marching band, the drums like a second heart; to the right, the stands, a surging field of school colors.\n\n<center>[img[pics/spiel.jpg]]</center> “P–O–M!” Penelope shouted into the megaphone. <<set $DylanMemory[3] to 1>>\n \n“Puffs!” the team answered, two claps over their heads, hips in double time—“Sweet but tough!”—and the crowd was instantly into it. Chris’s voice was still a touch too high at first, his shoulders too tense. But when the Timberwolves tore through the paper banner and the volume rose, the nervousness fell away from him like cut threads.\n\nKickoff: The ball sailed in a long arc, the stands briefly held their breath, then the noise broke loose. “D–E–F–E–N–D! Back it up, you can’t get in!” the cheerleaders stamped on the sideline, stomp–stomp–clap, stomp–stomp–clap, and Chris felt the rhythm move into his legs. He heard the grass under his soles, smelled the sweet something of hot cocoa from the concession stand; the cold wind nipped, but his body worked in time.\n\nFirst offensive series: Dylan stood in the pocket, searched, passed—first down. “Go! Fight! Score! Puffs want more!” High-V, punch-down, High-V, a small jump, and Chris landed softly, almost for the first time without having to think about the sequence of movements at all. He glanced up, and Dylan’s gaze brushed over the sideline. When their eyes met, Chris’s heart immediately stumbled out of rhythm—two quick beats too many, then that warm after-tremble all the way into his fingertips. It felt as if someone had poured a handful of tiny, wild butterflies straight into his stomach: fluttering, unreasonable, sweet.\n\nBetween plays, the routine settled in. Quarter break: water bottles, quick checks. Penelope arranged the formation, Christine counted them in curtly. Chris breathed in the evening and realized he was smiling without noticing it. When Northdale got the ball, they spread out wider, stamped the defense pattern, the calls bouncing back from the stands like boomerangs. When the Timberwolves marched, the movements became sleeker, sharper—more shine, less stomp.\n\nHalftime: The band took over the field, and the Puffs used the strip along the edge for their show. The pyramid they had practiced all week was up in seconds: bases set, flyers climbed, Chris held the line, exhaled on the one, just as Mr. Moore had drilled into them. Confetti streamers shot up, the band’s fanfare came in broadly, and for two heartbeats the gym from the previous week was there again—only bigger, louder, under the open sky. As they came off, Chris no longer felt any trembling in his hands, only that satisfied burn in his shoulders.\n\nThird quarter: The evening grew colder, their breath visible. Chris tightened the bow and realized at the same time how he was dissolving into the “we.” He shouted, he jumped, he struck poses; on a “No fluff, all puff—we’ll blow your candles out!” they laid the fan wave so cleanly that even the band whistled briefly. Once, they came close to the cringey signature—“We’re the Puffs—so sweet, so loud!”—and did the heart-poms with a wink. Chris felt the stands take it as fun and laugh back. He laughed with them, honestly.\n\nFourth quarter, narrow lead. Dylan scrambled, threw a long pass that looked under the floodlights as if someone had sewn a silver seam into the sky. Touchdown. The sideline exploded. “Go! Fight! Score! Puffs want more!” This time Chris jumped a little higher, landed lower, his knees catching it. He looked back to Dylan; he half ripped up his helmet, roared toward the stands, and for a fraction of a moment their eyes crossed again—just a brief brush—and Chris’s stomach tightened, as if the wind under his skirt suddenly had a temperature of its own: hot-cold, electrified. His knees went briefly weak, the jump afterward landed surprisingly lightly, because his legs knew more than his head. He realized his smile was no longer a “cheer smile,” but came on its own, crooked and real.\n\nAnd every time Dylan looked over again—or Chris thought he looked over—the same little film started inside him: a quick elevator in his stomach, his heartbeat in his throat, a hint of dizziness that had nothing dangerous about it, only the beautiful feeling of being seen right now, right here.\n\nThe final minutes moved like through sugar—stickily fast and yet clear. The Timberwolves held, Northdale couldn’t catch up. Final whistle. A rush of cheering, helmets in the air, hugs, the mascot dropping theatrically to its knees. Chris stood on the sideline, breathed out, and felt the cold wind under his skirt become only part of the whole thing now—like the stomping, like the counts, like the calls crashing toward them.\n\n<<if $charlotte > 1>>Right after the final whistle, Chris looked for Charlotte on the sideline. He stepped forward, arms open, still vibrating from the noise, and pulled her into a hug. Charlotte returned it, warm, but with a tiny distance in the middle—not sinking into it, more holding on. It felt good, even comforting, but different than before: more like between friends sharing a victory, less like between a couple losing themselves in each other. Chris felt it and still let go only a beat later.\n\n<<endif>>He had been nervous at the beginning. But somewhere between kickoff and the final fanfare, he had crossed the threshold and fully merged with the role—not as a disguise, but as a function that felt right. He high-fived the line, briefly hugged Christine, accepted Mr. Moore’s praise, and let his gaze drift across the field once more.\n\nThe evening had turned out great. No drama, no sharp edges—just this big, shared high in which he hadn’t disappeared, but found his place.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Spiel.]]

“Take off your panties,” Susan asked her son.\n\nChris hesitantly took off his panties and threw them on the floor.\n\n“I want you to fuck me, Chris.”\n\nChris was so surprised he didn't respond at all, so she repeated again, "Fuck me, fuck your mom."\n\nWith his tail bobbing, if that was how you could describe his little man's minimal bouncing, he settled down between her spread legs. Inexperienced and excited as Chris was, he had a lot of trouble finding the opening of her crack with his stiff cock, so his mother had to insert it with her hand.\n\nHis cock immediately slipped into his own mother's hole. It felt incredibly beautiful. Chris enjoyed the warm wet friction and the closeness.\n\nShe sucked in a breath and pulled Chris's mouth onto hers, pressing herself against him as her son sank his stiff cock all the way into her. Playfully, they found the tips of their tongues, greeted each other and then threw themselves wildly around each other. Like husband and wife. Not like mother and son. No, like both. With each thrust, his groin rubbed her clit, making her twitch.\n\nIt didn't take long until a wonderful, gentle orgasm flowed through her. Afterwards she just lay there and enjoyed his every move. Soon they became more boisterous and shaky. "Mom..." Chris gasped in her ear. “Ohh Mom!” The next moment he began to twitch under his own orgasm.\n\nHe wanted to pull out his penis to avoid any risk of pregnancy, but his mother stopped him. She breathed into Chris' ear: "I want you to come inside me. I want to feel your seed inside me, my child."\n\nChris was so turned on that he didn't think about it for long. And then he poured himself into her. There were many spurts of sperm that Chris pumped into his mother.\n\nSusan wrapped her arms around her son and held him tight as he poured himself hotly inside her and pumped his seed into her cavities. She kissed him and said she loved him.\n\n"Chris. Darling," came a few minutes later tenderly but urgently from his mother beneath him. Even now his shriveled cock was still stuck in his mother's slit.\n\n"Chris, it's time, go to the room before your sister notices anything else." Susan's request became more urgent.\n\n“I don’t want to, Mom!” Chris mumbled from between her tits.\n\n“Come on, darling.” She cupped her son's face and pulled the unruly boy to eye level. "It won't be the last time. I promise." She stroked her child's hair.\n\nHe kissed his mother deeply again. Then he sat up, put his panties back on and went to his room.\n\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5b]]

Chris hadn’t found a date. Not even remotely.\n<<set $ort to "at home">>\nHe had—against Susan’s explicit advice—tried to make contact with women. He had told himself it would be easy, that he would feel less wrong. But it had failed completely. Messages went unread, brief replies fizzled out, matches dissolved as if they had never happened. No woman seemed interested in “Chris” as a female self.\n\n[[Susan|Susan Braun]] noticed immediately.\n\n“You sabotaged it on purpose,” she hissed in the kitchen. “You don’t even want to try. You’re still clinging to being a boy.”\n\nChris stood there, his fingers on the chair, as if he could hold on to it. “I tried,” he said quietly. “It just—”\n\n“No,” Susan cut him off sharply. “You tried wrong. You don’t want to accept what you are. What you have to be.” Her voice turned sugary, and that was exactly what made it worse. “You think you can choose your own rules. You can’t.”\n\nChris couldn’t get rid of the lump in his throat. He said nothing more. Every explanation sounded like resistance to Susan’s ears, and resistance in this house rarely had small consequences.\n\nWhen he went to his room later, every step felt as if he were walking into something invisible. He closed the door, leaned against it briefly, and felt his breathing coming too fast. In his head ran the equation he didn’t want: She’s going to punish me. And he knew how Susan punished—not with short outbursts of anger, but with plans.\n\nHe regretted so much that he hadn’t simply taken the easy way. A date with a boy… it would have been uncomfortable, embarrassing, confusing—but it would have been nothing compared to what might threaten him now. That realization made him angry at himself and sick with fear at the same time.\n\n[[Continue|Er hat kein Date.2]]

The three of them continued to dance—even closer, even more intimately. Susan moved sexily between them, sometimes with a glance that served as a silent command, sometimes with a lascivious smile that made everything seem deliberate.\n\nChris let himself drift, allowed the hands, the closeness, the looks. If a remnant of his old hesitation flashed up, he pushed it away with the same convenient explanation as before: The drugs.\n\nAt the edge of his field of vision, he saw Latoya. By now, she seemed to have found a new dance partner—someone who could keep up with her energy. Latoya laughed, threw her head back, and when she glanced at Chris briefly, she only raised her eyebrows and grinned broadly, as if to say: Told you so, honey.\n\nAt some point, DeShawn leaned closer to Susan and said something in her ear. Susan listened, her eyes half closed, as if she were tasting the idea. DeShawn nodded toward the exit.\n\nThen it was said aloud: He wanted them to go to his place.\n\nSusan slowly turned her head toward Chris. Her gaze was calm, probing, and for a moment it seemed as if she were reading Chris, as if she had to place her next step very carefully. Chris held his breath without knowing why.\n\nSusan hesitated for only a beat—then nodded to DeShawn.\n\nAnd with that, it was decided.\n\nThey made their way through the crowd. DeShawn put one arm around Susan and the other around Chris, broad and secure, as if he were guiding them both. Chris felt the warmth of his forearm at his waist, the protective weight, and although he still felt a little overwhelmed inside, he simply went along. The club fell away behind them like a throbbing dream.\n\nOutside, the fresh air hit them. Chris’s skin prickled in the coolness, the mesh top barely held anything back, and suddenly everything felt more real: the night, the street, the click of the high heels on the sidewalk. His head was full—of music, of lips, of looks, of the thought that this had really just happened.\n\nHe swallowed. Overwhelmed, yes. But he kept walking.\n\nDeShawn’s apartment was not far. The route blurred into a few corners, a traffic light, the echo of their footsteps. Susan walked close to DeShawn, composed as ever, as if this were only the logical continuation. Chris held on to the feeling of DeShawn’s arm still around him, as if it were the only clear frame in all of this.\n\nThen they stood in front of a building, stepped inside, climbed a few stairs.\n\nDeShawn unlocked the door to his apartment.\n\nAnd they reached it.\n\n[[Continue|Im Schlafzimmer.][$kissmom += 1]]

<div class="psychedelic-text">Chris shook his head. Gently, he reached for Chris’s hand and guided it to his penis.\n\nHis fingers closed around his member—as if guided by an involuntary reflex—and he moved Chris’s hand back and forth. Chris looked up from the penis into his eyes as the boy leaned forward and kissed Chris on the mouth.\n\nIt was a long, intense kiss; Chris’s eyes widened when he felt the boy’s tongue enter his mouth. He should have been much more surprised. He wasn’t. It just felt… strange. As if something were happening that was actually happening to someone else.\n\nThen, another boy knelt down in front of Chris and cupped his face in both hands. Chris expected another kiss, but instead, the boy tilted Chris’s head forward into his lap and pressed it against the tip of his cock, leaving Chris no choice but to open his mouth and take the cock inside. It tasted faintly salty as he felt the moisture seeping from the tip of the cock on his tongue. The boy let out a loud moan as Chris’s lip-glossed lips closed around his cock.\n\nSomeone held up a cell phone; the cold, tiny eye of the camera lit up on the screen.\n\n“Film this,” one of them grinned. “No one else is going to believe us.”\n\nChris lifted his head in confusion, but the boy immediately pushed it back down.\n\nWith a practiced motion, someone unfastened Chris’s bra clasp. Hands moved to his shoulder blades and slid the straps down over Chris’s shoulders. Chris instinctively held the bra protectively over his breasts, pressing it tightly against his body.\n\nAt the same moment, he felt other hands massaging his buttocks. Suddenly, those hands moved to the waistband of his panties and pulled them down. Chris was adamant about keeping his panties on, but let his bra drop in the process. As his small mounds—topped with dainty nipples—came into view, one of the guys gasped in arousal.\n\nSuddenly, the cock in Chris’s mouth twitched, and then the guy came with full force. His cum shot into Chris’s mouth and down his throat. Chris coughed and swallowed as much as he could, but there was so much of it that it dripped in two thick streams from the corners of his mouth. Once the guy was finished cumming, he pulled his penis out of Chris’s mouth.\n\n“Look here, baby.”\n\nHands maneuvered him into position, lightly cupping his chin and turning his face toward the camera, as if he were nothing more than a prop.\n\n“Give us a smile.”</div>\n\n[[Continue|Er lächelt in die Kamera.]]\n\n

After the final whistle, the Pom Puffs’ tension broke apart into jittery energy: shrieking hugs, high squeals, shoe soles scraping over the track, glitter hanging in the air like dust. Chris watched two cheerleaders hop in a circle, skirts bouncing and arms snapping into High V. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to be one of them—part of that vibrating, body-warm girl bubble where every laugh was answered at once.\n\nHe stayed in his seat. Joseph sat beside him, calm, the trace of a smile on his face, hands around the now lukewarm cup. With him, the evening felt grounded; safe, as if the stands themselves had one more backrest. The stadium slowly emptied: the band packed up instruments, parents waved, the announcer’s booth clicked off its light. The murmur of voices drifted toward the exit, became stairway echoes, then parking-lot noise.\n\nChris let his gaze glide over the rows and suddenly realized he no longer saw Christine. He stood up, went down a few steps, and looked searchingly over the railing. Down below, at the edge of the almost empty stands, someone sat alone on the lowest step—knees drawn up, shoulders narrow. Christine. Her face half in shadow, her hands at her eyes. The movement gave it away: she was crying.\n\n“I’ll be right there,” Chris said quietly to Joseph. He only nodded.\n\nChris went down the steps, carefully, so his footsteps wouldn’t sound like hammering. When he was close, he stopped for a moment to give her a breath of space.\n\n“Hey,” he said softly, so the tone had no sharp edges. “What’s wrong?”\n\nChristine lifted her head, mascara smeared, eyes red. It took a moment before she found air. “He broke up with me,” she managed, and her voice sounded as if it were walking over gravel. “Myles. Right after the game. He’s going to Homecoming next week with—with someone else.” The “someone else” hurt physically; it broke off at the end.\n\nIn Chris, the image flickered up: the locker room before the game, Myles with his pants down, his sister with her legs spread on the bench. Pig, he thought soberly, without drama, only firmly. He didn’t know whether he was angrier at Myles or at the matter-of-factness with which such things happened.\n\n“Come here,” he said. He sat down beside her, put an arm around her shoulders, pulled her toward him until her weight settled against him. She rested her head on his shoulder and cried again, smaller this time, rougher, as if she were pressing the last of the trembling out of herself. “I’m so stupid,” she said between two breaths. “I thought—”\n\n“You’re not stupid,” he interrupted softly. “Not at all.” He carefully brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “What he did says something about him. Not about you.”\n\nShe nodded almost imperceptibly, as if she first had to learn how to nod. “He said we didn’t fit—that he needed ‘a woman and not a girl.’ Because I’m small and barely have any chest? Seriously?” A bitter laugh that got stuck.\n\nChris exhaled sharply. “That’s cruel. And it says everything about him. You don’t have to change to please anyone. Anyone who doesn’t want you the way you are doesn’t deserve you.” He held her tighter, looked out over the field, now almost empty, and felt the big, bright evening settle beside the small, dark now. Both fit strangely next to each other.\n\nFor a while they sat like that, without words. The wind skimmed low across the grass, somewhere a gate rattled against its chain. Christine slowly calmed down; her breathing became steadier. “Thanks,” she finally murmured, barely audible.\n\n“Always,” he said. He stayed as long as she needed, and when she finally stood up, he offered her his hand. Together they went down the steps and walked home.\n\n[[Continue|Zu Hause.]]

After the final whistle, euphoria spilled over the edge of the field like a warm wave. The band kept drumming, the mascot attempted a crooked victory split and exaggeratedly hurt himself doing it, which made the student section howl one more time. The Timberwolves let themselves be celebrated in the end zone; helmets up, pats on the shoulder, the scoreboard light gleaming like icing on the helmets. Among the Pom Puffs, the tension flipped into jittery energy: shrieking hugs, high squeals, soles scraping over the track. Chris watched them and, for one breathless moment, wondered what it would be like to be one of them—to have belonged inside that circling, glittering pack instead of only feeling the rhythm from the stands.\n\nHe stayed in his seat, his hands still warm from clapping. Waves of people moved past him, parents calling out, students making plans for afterward, the sweetish lingering smell of popcorn. At some point, he lost sight of Christine in the crowd. The rows emptied, the floodlights hummed more lonely, and the stadium regained its size.\n\nWhen he stood up, he cast a glance across the stands—and saw her. Down below, at the edge of the almost empty rows, Christine was sitting on a step, her jacket half over her shoulders, her bow crooked. She had buried her face in her hands. When she lifted it, her eyes shone; tears were running, she was sobbing.\n\nChris’s stomach clenched. He went down the steps. He stopped beside her.\n\n“Hey,” he said softly, so the tone had no sharp edges. “What’s wrong?”\n\nChristine lifted her head, mascara smeared, eyes red. It took a moment before she found air. “He broke up with me,” she managed, and her voice sounded as if it were walking over gravel. “Myles. Right after the game. He’s going to Homecoming next week with—with someone else.” The “someone else” hurt physically; it broke off at the end.\n\nIn Chris, the image flickered up: the locker room before the game, Myles with his pants down, his sister with her legs spread on the bench. Pig, he thought soberly, without drama, only firmly. He didn’t know whether he was angrier at Myles or at the matter-of-factness with which such things happened.\n\n“Come here,” he said. He sat down beside her, put an arm around her shoulders, pulled her toward him until her weight settled against him. She rested her head on his shoulder and cried again, smaller this time, rougher, as if she were pressing the last of the trembling out of herself. “I’m so stupid,” she said between two breaths. “I thought—”\n\n“You’re not stupid,” he interrupted softly. “Not at all.” He carefully brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “What he did says something about him. Not about you.”\n\nShe nodded almost imperceptibly, as if she first had to learn how to nod. “He said we didn’t fit—that he needed ‘a woman and not a girl.’ Because I’m small and barely have any chest? Seriously?” A bitter laugh that got stuck.\n\nChris exhaled sharply. “That’s cruel. And it says everything about him. You don’t have to change to please anyone. Anyone who doesn’t want you the way you are doesn’t deserve you.” He held her tighter, looked out over the field, now almost empty, and felt the big, bright evening settle beside the small, dark now. Both fit strangely next to each other.\n\nFor a while they sat like that, without words. The wind skimmed low across the grass, somewhere a gate rattled against its chain. Christine slowly calmed down; her breathing became steadier. “Thanks,” she finally murmured, barely audible.\n\n“Always,” he said. He stayed as long as she needed, and when she finally stood up, he offered her his hand. Together they went down the steps and walked home.\n\n[[Continue|Zu Hause.]]

After the final whistle, euphoria spilled over the edge of the field like a warm wave. The band was still drumming, the mascot danced a crooked victory split, and the Timberwolves let themselves be celebrated in the end zone. Among the Pom Puffs, the tension flipped into jittery energy: shrieking hugs, high squeals, shoe soles scraping over the track.\n\nChris got caught right in the middle of it. Penelope brushed past him and slapped his hand; <<if $charlotte > 1>>Charlotte pulled him into a hug, warm, but with a tiny distance in the middle—not sinking into it, more holding on. It felt good, even comforting, but different than before: more like between friends sharing a victory, less like between a couple losing themselves in each other. Chris felt it and still let go only a beat later.<<else>>Charlotte pulled him into a hug;<<endif>> two other cheerleaders threw their arms around his neck at the same time because, in that moment, they didn’t care who they had grabbed. He laughed with them, let himself be rocked, breathed in the mix of hairspray and cold night air. For a moment, there was only the good: the crackle in his stomach, the sounds carrying him, the feeling of belonging—even if today he had carried the water crate. At least something, he thought, and it was honest.\n\nSlowly, the stadium emptied. The band fell silent, the floodlights hummed alone, trash collectors moved row by row with clear bags. Chris shouldered the team bag, cast one look across the field—and froze. Down below, at the edge of the almost empty stands, Christine was sitting. Made small, shoulders pulled up. Even before he came closer, he saw her back trembling unevenly.\n\nHe climbed the concrete steps, step by step. “Hey,” he said softly, so the tone had no sharp edges. “What’s wrong?”\n\nChristine lifted her head, mascara smeared, eyes red. It took a moment before she found air. “He broke up with me,” she managed, and her voice sounded as if it were walking over gravel. “Myles. Right after the game. He’s going to Homecoming next week with—with someone else.” The “someone else” hurt physically; it broke off at the end.\n\nIn Chris, the image flickered up: the locker room before the game, Myles with his pants down, his sister with her legs spread on the bench. Pig, he thought soberly, without drama, only firmly. He didn’t know whether he was angrier at Myles or at the matter-of-factness with which such things happened.\n\n“Come here,” he said. He sat down beside her, put an arm around her shoulders, pulled her toward him until her weight settled against him. She rested her head on his shoulder and cried again, smaller this time, rougher, as if she were pressing the last of the trembling out of herself. “I’m so stupid,” she said between two breaths. “I thought—”\n\n“You’re not stupid,” he interrupted softly. “Not at all.” He carefully brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “What he did says something about him. Not about you.”\n\nShe nodded almost imperceptibly, as if she first had to learn how to nod. “He said we didn’t fit—that he needed ‘a woman and not a girl.’ Because I’m small and barely have any chest? Seriously?” A bitter laugh that got stuck.\n\nChris exhaled sharply. “That’s cruel. And it says everything about him. You don’t have to change to please anyone. Anyone who doesn’t want you the way you are doesn’t deserve you.” He held her tighter, looked out over the field, now almost empty, and felt the big, bright evening settle beside the small, dark now. Both fit strangely next to each other.\n\nFor a while they sat like that, without words. The wind skimmed low across the grass, somewhere a gate rattled against its chain. Christine slowly calmed down; her breathing became steadier. “Thanks,” she finally murmured, barely audible.\n\n“Always,” he said. He stayed as long as she needed, and when she finally stood up, he offered her his hand. Together they went down the steps and walked home.\n\n[[Continue|Zu Hause.]]

Chris decided to ride together—and immediately took the wheel. “I’ll drive,” he said quickly, almost reflexively, as if that would make the situation controllable.\n\nLucas’s eyes flickered with brief surprise, then he nodded eagerly. “Okay.”\n\nThey squeezed into the bumper car, which was actually a little too small for two teenagers. Chris slid behind the wheel, Lucas beside him, knee against knee, shoulders too close. The safety bar dropped down, and Chris felt his heart beat faster, because suddenly everything was happening at once: music, light, closeness, the hum of the electric pole above them.\n\n“Ready?” Lucas asked, and his voice sounded too cheerful to be calm.\n\n“Ready,” Chris said, and then they were off.\n\nThe bumper cars jerked into motion, Chris steered instinctively, pressed the pedal, laughed when the first hit came from the side. He countered, steered into a gap, rammed—not too hard—another car and cheered. Lucas laughed out loud, really loud, and Chris couldn’t help laughing along. For a few minutes it was just fun: crashing, spinning, dodging, charging. The light flickered over their faces, the floor vibrating beneath the wheels.\n\nThen Lucas touched him.\n\nNothing indecent—just a brief, impulsive grip on Chris’s thigh when Lucas lost his balance during an impact and instinctively held on. But Chris was so surprised by the touch that for one heartbeat control slipped away from him.\n\nThe car drifted dangerously toward the side barrier.\n\n“Oh—!” Chris yanked the wheel around, took his foot off the pedal at the same time, and steered away in a tight curve just in time. The scooter didn’t slam into the edge, but it was close enough that his pulse shot all the way to his fingertips.\n\n“Stop that,” Chris said at once, too sharply, and in the same moment he felt his cheeks grow hot.\n\nLucas pulled his hand back as if he had burned himself. “Sorry! I just wanted to—” He broke off, swallowed the rest, and nodded hastily. “Okay.”\n\nChris kept steering, trying to stay relaxed, but suddenly he felt the looks much more strongly. Bumper cars were loud and chaotic, but all at once it felt as if every little contact stood out twice as much.\n<<set $choice_ahorn1 to 1>>\n[[Continue|Der Ruf der Natur.]]

“Clothing choice, hair, makeup, posture.” A quiet, disapproving exhale. “I see beginnings, but no bearing. You wear things; you don’t inhabit them. Your hair is a compromise hairstyle—as if every morning you’re asking not to stand out instead of making a decision. Makeup: half-hearted, as if it were an annoying duty. And yes—I see how, in every hem, you’re still searching for the boy you want to hold on to.” Her voice grew sharper. “That isn’t effort, Chris. That’s the minimum to keep from angering me. You want to and you don’t want to. That’s not how it works.”\n\nThe words hit him like small, precise jabs. Chris felt his fingers claw into each other, a dry lump in his throat. I am trying, though, he thought, but didn’t say it. Shame crept slowly up his spine—not because of lipstick or skirt, but because she saw his hesitation so effortlessly.\n\n''How does his mother assess him?''\n<<nobr>><<if $beliebtheit <= 3>>[[Negative|Negativ2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $beliebtheit >= 4 && $beliebtheit <= 7>>[[Average|Durchschnitt2][$temp += 1]]<<endif>>\n<<if $beliebtheit >= 8>>[[Positive|Positiv2][$temp += 2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris put on Outfit 1: the knee-length, slightly flared skirt made of sturdy fabric, the tights underneath, and over it the cardigan that slightly overlapped the skirt hem in the back. It looked proper, inconspicuous—almost reassuring. Still, his leg beneath the fabric felt like a secret breathing too loudly.\n<<set $ort to "school">>\nOnce he arrived at school, he immediately secured a seat all the way in the back. Last row, corner, as few angles of view for others as possible. He kept his head down, as if his eyes were glued to the floor, and felt his heart all the way into his fingertips.\n\nWhen Mr. Nelson handed out the tests, Chris understood after just the first few lines how badly he would need the formulas. The problems seemed like a language he only half understood. His stomach growled quietly from stress, and his pen hesitated over the paper, as if searching for a starting point that wasn’t there.\n\nThen his hand slid to the hem of his skirt as if on its own.\n\nHe had to push the fabric up a tiny bit, just enough to make out the formulas on his thigh. The movement was tiny—and yet it felt enormous. Good thing girls wear skirts, shot through his head, a thought somewhere between bitter humor and startled gratitude. What luck.\n\nIt went like that again and again: look at the problem, panic, a brief tug at the skirt, glance down, nail a number or symbol into his head, then back up to the paper. When Mr. Nelson looked in his direction, Chris turned it into some other harmless gesture—fussing with his tights, smoothing down the cardigan, as if something had merely slipped out of place. He felt both clever and awful doing it. His face stayed hot, as if someone had aimed a spotlight at it.\n\nHe wrote, erased, wrote again. Some solutions suddenly made sense because the formula was there. Others still remained nebulous, but at least he wasn’t completely blank. He was one of the last to turn it in. When he finally went to the front, he felt as if every step were giving something away. He placed the sheet on the stack and was already about to head for the door when the teacher’s voice came from behind him:\n\n“Chris! Can you stay a moment?”\n\nChris swallowed so hard it almost hurt. Everything inside him went cold. He saw it. The thought was there at once, glaring and final. He had tried so hard not to stand out. He turned around slowly and tried not to seem too hasty.\n\n“What exactly is it, Mr. Nelson?” he asked, intimidated, his voice a shade too thin.\n\nMr. Nelson stepped in front of him, calm as always, and didn’t look at him accusingly, but almost with concern. “I just wanted to know whether you managed all right with the test.”\n\nChris needed a second before his body understood that this wasn’t a trap. Then relief rushed through him like warm water. “Yes, Mr. Nelson!” he answered far too quickly, liberated, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “The test was difficult, but I don’t have too bad a feeling about it!”\n\nIn that moment, he knew himself how badly he was lying. It sounded polished, too smooth, too much like memorized text. But he could hardly say, I secretly cheated and it was still hard.\n\n“Well, that really is great,” Mr. Nelson said, giving him a friendly pat on the back.\n\nWhen Chris stepped out of the room, he had to control himself not to start running. His ears were ringing, his cheeks glowing. Out in the hallway, he truly exhaled for the first time—disbelieving that it had worked, relieved down to his knees… and at the same time ashamed because he was happy about that very success.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $moore == 1>>[[Special training, with Coach Moore.|Sondertaining, mit Coach Moore.]]<<else>>[[Mrs. Rivera and Joshua.|Mrs. Rivera und Joshua.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Saturday dragged by slowly. Christine was at the pajama party; her chat flashed cheerful emojis while Chris sat in the rose-colored room and nothing flashed except the clock. They’re probably having a lot of fun, he thought, and the envy stung, small but steady.\n<<set $wochentag = 6>><<set $ort to "Bathroom">>\nFrom the bathroom came the clack of a bottle, then the soft tap–tap of a little brush. [[Susan|Susan Braun]] stood in front of the mirror, her hair pinned up, a towel draped over her naked body. With a steady hand, she brushed a deep red polish over her pinky nail, blew on it once, checked it, nodded.\n\n“Come here,” she called her son over. “You’re joining in.”\n\n“I don’t want to,” Chris muttered.\n\n“No choosing.” She held out a nail file to him. “First the shape. Gently, always in one direction. Don’t saw.”\n\nHe sat down on the edge of the tub. The file scratched over his tips; it really wasn’t that easy to make the edges even. Sometimes it got too round, sometimes one corner stayed sharp. “Steady strokes,” Susan admonished, reaching over his fingers once to correct him. “Like that.”\n\n“What color?” he asked quietly, hoping the right shade might make him invisible.\n\n“Pick one.”\n\nHe reached for the most inconspicuous bottle—a skin-toned “nude” that looked like nothing in the glass. “That one.”\n\n“Good,” Susan said. “A thin coat. Better two of those than one thick one.”\n\nHe pulled out the brush. The first stroke came out too thick, the second too short; here a flooded edge, there a gap in the surface. He blew on it, gave up on blowing, tried patience. The second pass helped—but only a little. His fingers looked as if a small child had secretly practiced with Mommy’s makeup box: over the edges, uneven, shiny in all the wrong places. “Keep going. Toes too,” Susan said, as if that were only logical.\n\nHe bent over his foot, which immediately felt ticklish, and with his tongue caught in concentration, painted the tiny nails. Even harder. One toe got a perfect curve, the next a puddle of polish. He sat back on his heels and stared at the result. The nude shade dried and subtly changed tone—suddenly it didn’t seem so “invisible” anymore, more like an attentive pink whisper on every fingertip.\n\nSusan inspected the hands, silently took the brush from him, and ran a correction pen along two nails. “You still need a lot of practice,” she said, not stern, more matter-of-fact. “But for a start… acceptable. Keep your fingers off until it’s dry.”\n\n<center>[img[pics/hand2.jpg]]</center> Chris held his hands spread in the air as if he were wearing freshly cast rings. Embarrassment crept up his arms; every glance at the glossy tips felt as though he were wearing a sign. “Inconspicuous” suddenly looked very visible.\n\n“Good. You have delicate hands. With a ring, you’d look truly elegant.” Susan snapped her makeup bag shut, put in earrings, checked her lipstick in the mirror. The scent of her perfume filled the room.\n\nShe slipped out of her towel, suddenly standing naked before Chris, then put on some sexy lingerie and a dress. She smoothed down the tight-fitting dress, glanced at the clock, and then toward the door. "I’m expecting company," she said casually, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Behave yourself."\n\nThe apartment held its breath. Somewhere, the refrigerator hummed; outside, a mailbox clattered. Chris sat with his fingers splayed, waiting.\n\n[[Continue|Später am Samgstag.][$deshawn += 1]]\n\n

The women’s restroom at the club was bright, almost too bright compared to the dark main room. Mirrors, hard tiles, the smell of perfume and soap, plus the distant thump of the bass like a heartbeat behind the wall. Susan went ahead, Chris following behind, the platforms clicking on the floor as if they were giving away every step.\n\nBefore Susan even reached a stall door, someone staggered toward them. A blonde girl, bracing herself against the wall with one hand as if she were made of rubber. Her gaze glassy, her voice a mumble of syllables that barely fit together.\n<center>[img[pics/penelope_club.jpg]]</center> Chris needed a moment—then he recognized her. [[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]].\n\n“Oh my God…,” he murmured involuntarily.\n\nSusan only looked at her in irritation. Chris leaned slightly toward her. “That’s… Penelope,” he said more quietly to his mother. “From my high school. She does cheerleading with Christine.”\n\nPenelope swayed, giggled briefly to herself, said something that sounded like “…best night…,” then stumbled on as if she had no idea where she was. Chris took a step forward. “Penelope? Hey. Are you okay?”\n\nPenelope barely reacted. Her gaze slid over him as if he were air. Then she simply pushed past him, her breasts brushing him lightly, and staggered out of the restroom toward the club room without answering.\n\nChris stood there for a moment, his hand half raised as if he really had wanted to reach after her. Then he let it drop. The image of Penelope, usually so controlled and untouchable, now so lost, made him strangely quiet.\n\nSusan pulled him a little to the side by the elbow, away from the exit, and her voice turned hard and serious. “Chris.” She waited until he looked at her. “You’re sitting there like a little child,” she said quietly, sharp enough to hurt. “I bring you here to celebrate you, and you behave as if I have to keep an eye on you the whole time.”\n\nChris’s cheeks grew hot, but this time not from the club lights. “I… I just wanted to—”\n\nHis mother cut him off without raising her voice. “If you sit there alone, you attract the wrong people.” Her gaze was direct. “The ones who can see exactly how insecure you are. If you dance with us, you’re occupied. You’re… safe.”\n\nThe word “safe” snagged in Chris. He had to think of the guy who hadn’t wanted to leave, of that sticky grin. Susan was using it as leverage, of course, but it wasn’t wrong. And that was exactly what made it so effective.\n\nChris hunched his shoulders, his fingers picking at the edge of his mesh top even though there was nothing “to fix.” “Mom, I…” He broke off, swallowed. “…in these clothes, I feel… naked. Like every look—” He made a helpless gesture with his hand. “I feel like everyone can see everything.”\n\nHis mother nodded. “Then we’ll help your head along a little.”\n\nShe rummaged in her handbag, among keys and tissues, and took a single small tablet from a mini container. Nothing special—a harmless headache pill. Susan held it up between two fingers and said with a conspiratorial smile, “Party drugs. Ecstasy.”\n\nChris stared at his mother. “No,” he said reflexively. “I don’t want that.”\n\n“You’re taking it,” Susan said, impatient again now. “No discussion. You need something to loosen up.”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. He didn’t want the pill—but Susan insisted.\n\nFinally, Chris took the tablet, turned it briefly between his fingers, and swallowed it down with a sip of water from the tap. The act was quick, but the feeling remained. His throat burned as if he had swallowed more than just a pill.\n\nSusan immediately turned back to the mirror as if the matter were settled. She touched up her lipstick, precise, practiced, as if drawing a line on paper. Then she handed the lipstick to Chris.\n\n“Do yours too. Otherwise your lips look pale.”\n\nChris took it hesitantly, stepped up to the mirror, and touched up the lipstick—carefully, focused, so it wouldn’t smear. He saw his own face in the bright restroom light: earrings, red kiss-shaped mouth, the mesh top that made everything far too clear. His mother watched him in the mirror and nodded, satisfied.\n\nThen she put the lipstick back into her bag. “Good,” she said. “Now we’re going dancing.”\n\n[[Continue|Auf der Tanzfläche.]]

Chris put on Outfit 2: the tighter, somewhat shorter pencil skirt and the fitted blouse. Even as he dressed, he felt how little room this outfit left—not only in the fabric, but also in his courage. When he stood in front of the mirror, he saw the neat look, the clean silhouette… and knew that beneath it a secret was clinging to his skin. The formulas on his thigh felt like a second, invisible layer of clothing.\n<<set $ort to "school">>\nArriving at school, he made straight for the math room and sat all the way in the back, last row, as close to the wall as possible. Inconspicuous. Invisible. He hoped his heart would eventually stop making itself known so loudly.\n\nWhen Mr. Nelson handed out the tests, Chris immediately realized just how badly he would probably need the formulas. The very first problem looked like a wall.\n\nHe forced himself to seem “normal” at first: read, underline, calculate. But after a few minutes came the point where he felt he would run into nothing without help. He shifted his knee minimally outward, pulled the hem of his skirt up a little—far too visibly for his liking—and twisted his upper body so his gaze could briefly fall on his thigh.\n\nGood thing girls wear skirts. Such luck, shot through his mind, relieved and ashamed at the same time. The thought felt wrong, but also practical.\n\nThe pencil skirt made it harder than he had hoped. To get to the writing, he had to tug noticeably at the hem, place his leg differently, sit almost exaggeratedly “comfortably.” Every movement felt like a neon sign. He pretended he was only adjusting the fabric, as if the skirt were pinching him, as if he had to change his sitting position. Still, he managed to solve enough of the problems that he at least didn’t go down completely. Not brilliantly—but not failing was his goal.\n\nHe was one of the last to hand in his test. As he brought it to the front, his face burned with heat. He just wanted out, air, away from this room.\n\n“Chris!” Mr. Nelson called after him. “Can you stay a moment?”\n\nChris stopped. His stomach sank. He swallowed hard, feeling caught in one blow, even though no one had said “caught” yet. Had he seen it? He had tried so hard not to stand out.\n\n“W-what exactly is it, Mr. Nelson?” he asked, intimidated, and slowly turned around.\n\nMr. Nelson waited until the last student was outside. Then his voice grew quieter, but harder. “I saw you looking under your skirt several times during the test and pulling up the hem. Always when you were stuck on a problem.”\n\nChris’s heart pounded all the way into his ears. “I… I was only—smoothing my skirt…”\n\n“Stop.” Mr. Nelson’s gaze remained calm, but unyielding. “What do you have written on your thigh?”\n\nChris tried again with innocence, with a smile that didn’t fit. “There’s nothing there. Really.”\n\nBut he was a bad liar. His voice jumped, his eyes searched for exits, and his body stood too stiffly for someone who had “nothing” to hide. Mr. Nelson stepped closer, surprisingly quickly for an older man, and grabbed him.\n\nRoughly, he shoved Chris backward onto the desk; with one hand, he pinned both of Chris’s hands together, while with the other, he pushed Chris’s skirt up.\n\n“Let me go! You can’t do this!” Chris admonished his teacher.\n\nBut Mr. Nelson paid no mind whatsoever and forced Chris’s legs apart. Chris’s thin, girlish thighs lay splayed before his teacher, who glared sternly at all the formulas scrawled across those firm, delicate thighs.\n\n[[Continue|Ab ins Office.]]\n

Susan’s verdict was merciless. “Insufficient,” she said, as if it were a grade, “and in all three areas.” The pen snapped shut, the notepad closed. “You’re not making enough effort. You’re holding on where you need to let go. So you’re getting a punishment.”\n\n“I did try,” Chris burst out. The words stumbled, his hands trembling. “Really, I—I tried.”\n\nSusan looked at him for a moment, cool and calm, and that calm was what hurt most. “You say that every time.” She tapped the pad with her finger, as if a body of evidence were written there. “And then something like last week at the supermarket happens.” Her voice lowered, sharper. “You actually managed to get caught stealing a pack of condoms. Condoms, Chris.” The word hung in the air for a moment, embarrassing and heavy. “Are you seriously trying to tell me that was ‘effort’? You put me in situations where I have to apologize for you.”\n\nChris’s face burned as if someone had poured hot water over his cheeks. His stomach tightened. He wanted to explain that it hadn’t been his idea, that he had been forced—but it stuck in his throat like a knot.\n\n“I don’t believe you,” Susan finally replied calmly, and that calm was what hurt most. “Trying is not a result. Stand up.”\n\nHe followed her into the bathroom. The light was too bright, the mirror too large. Susan spoke quietly, yet every word sounded like a verdict: “Today’s punishment is meant to motivate you to do more next month. Take off your clothes.”\n\nChris stripped naked. The tiles felt cold, the mirror watched.\n\n“Now lean forward over the tub and hold still.” In the commanded position, Chris waited to see what would happen next. His mother came back with a small tube with a pump. The tube had a small attachment at the end that looked like a very thin dildo.\n\nShe came up behind him, caressed his bottom and grinned with joy. Then she pulled Chris' butt cheeks apart and attached the hose. With a slight twisting movement, she pushed the hose inexorably into his bottom. Chris arched his back and quickly realized that his unprepared gate hurt. Chris groaned, the moan mutating into more of a feminine squeal. Chris automatically had a strong urge to push the foreign body out. He felt full. His hole still had to get used to this unusual stretch.\n\nThe other end of the hose went into the American toilet bowl filled with water.\n\n“I’ve wanted to try this thing for a long time.” laughed Susan and started pumping.\n\nHe felt the cold water from the toilet rush into his intestines, filling him as his intestines stretched.\n\n“Let’s see if you defect.” she laughed again.\n\nChris was getting fuller. It would soon spurt out of him like a fountain, he thought. His stomach also felt big, as if he hadn't used the toilet in two weeks.\n\nChris started to cry. Not loud, more like someone running out of breath too quickly. It was a mixture of pain and shame and the paralyzing feeling of standing in front of that mirror again—the place where he would most like to disappear. His mother stuck to her role: controlling, unyielding. “Breathe,” she said once, as his sobs hitched. "Now listen carefully to me: Next month I want to see progress. Real. Step. By. Step. No more excuses."\n\nThen she finishes her pumping.\n"Now, hold still. Your butt is pretty full. I have to close it first so you can move again." Susan pulled off the hose and plugged the small dildo with a plug. “Now put it back down.”\n\nChris straightened up again. The uncomfortable feeling of the narrow dildo was now made worse by his water-filled intestines.\n\n[[Continue|Etwas später.]]

Chris heard his own voice before he fully understood that he was speaking.\n\n“I don’t want her to suffer the way I suffered.”\n\nThe sentence remained hanging in the room.\n\nHe did not look at Susan. Not yet.\n\n“But I want her to be stopped. I want the court to say out loud that love is not an excuse for imprisonment.”\n\nThe prosecutor nodded slowly.\n\n“What do you mean by that, Christoph?”\n\nChris held on to the edge of the witness stand. The wood felt smooth and cold under his fingers.\n\n“She always said she was doing it for me. That she knew better what I needed. That I would be grateful later.” He swallowed. “But I wasn’t grateful. I was afraid.”\n\nThe room was silent.\n\n“I was afraid to wake up in the morning because I knew I would have to pretend to be someone else again. I was afraid of saying the wrong thing. I was afraid of school. Of her.”\n\nHe felt his voice grow quieter, but it did not break.\n\n“I don’t want her to disappear just so I can feel better. I don’t want anyone to think revenge makes everything right again.” Now he raised his eyes. Not to the jury, not to the prosecutor, but straight ahead. “But if she simply goes home, then it was just something that happened. Then it was just an argument between a mother and son.”\n\nHe breathed out.\n\n“That’s not what it was.”\n\nThe prosecutor gave him a moment.\n\n“What do you want from the court?”\n\nChris now looked briefly at Susan.\n\nShe sat there motionless. Her face was tense, but not broken. For an instant, some part of him was still waiting for her to shake her head and for him to feel guilty.\n\nBut the feeling did not come.\n\n“I want her to have no power over me anymore,” Chris said.\n\nAt the back of the room, his sister moved almost imperceptibly.\n\nChris looked back to the judge.\n\n“I want her to have to take responsibility. Not because I hate her. But because she did it.”\n\nThe prosecutor closed her folder.\n\n“No further questions.”\n\nThe defense asked a few more questions. Whether Chris was angry at his mother. Whether his parents’ divorce had made everything more difficult. Whether he might have misunderstood Susan.\n\nChris answered as calmly as he could.\n\nYes, he was angry.\n\nYes, the divorce had been difficult.\n\nNo, he had not misunderstood her.\n\nWhen he was finally released from the witness stand, his legs felt weak. His father stood up before Chris reached the bench and placed a hand on his shoulder.\n\nThis time, Chris allowed it.\n\nAt the front, the judge spoke with the attorneys. The jury would withdraw. Soon there would be a verdict.\n\nChris sat down beside his father.\n\nHe had not said everything.\n\nBut he had said enough.\n\n''What is the verdict?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $temp == 5>>[[Harsh sentence.|Hartes Urteil.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $temp >= 2 && $temp < 5>>[[Just sentence.|Gerechtes Urteil.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $temp < 2 >>[[Lenient sentence.|Mildes Urteil.]]<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Chris lay sprawled across the bed, the phone on his stomach, letting his gaze wander over the blush-pink walls. The vanilla scent of the candle was only a memory left in the glass. He had no real plan for what to do with the rest of the day, so he scrolled through some feed without reading—until a banner popped up at the top.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">>\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Dad: Hey, how are you?</blockquote> Chris half sat up and typed immediately. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: Hi. So-so. And you?</blockquote> The three bouncing dots. He waited, listening to the silence in the house, which on some days was as dense as cotton. <blockquote class="quote">Dad: Lots of work, as always. Just wanted to hear how school is. Everything okay over there?</blockquote> He stared at the words. Everything okay was too big a dress. He thought of bus rides, of looks, of ruffles, of lace underwear. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: It’s… different. The US, you know. Much bigger. Lots of rules. But I’m managing.</blockquote> He bit his lip. Managing was a trick he was good at. His thumb hesitated over the keyboard, then he wrote anyway: <blockquote class="quote">Chris: Can we talk about Germany again? I… I’d really like to come back. To you. I think I just don’t fit here.</blockquote> The bouncing dots took longer. <blockquote class="quote">Dad: Chris… we’ve talked about this so many times. It just isn’t possible right now. My job, the appointments. I can’t give you the attention you need. I’m sorry. Truly.</blockquote> He felt his stomach grow heavy. Can’t felt like won’t, even though he knew that was unfair. He typed, deleted, typed again. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: It’s just… Mom is… difficult right now. Sometimes I feel like she’s…</blockquote> He stopped. The truth smuggled itself all the way to his teeth and then stuck there. …strict. Very strict. <blockquote class="quote">Dad: What do you mean?\n\nChris: Doesn’t matter. It’s embarrassing.</blockquote>\nThose dots again, that pause again.\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Dad: You can tell me anything. Honestly. But I won’t push. How is school? Friends?</blockquote> He stared at the ceiling, searching his head for a version of the day harmless enough. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: I’ve met a few people. Classes are okay. English is… well, it’s fine. Teachers are nice. Some of them.\n\nDad: That already doesn’t sound too bad. Take care of yourself, okay?\n\nChris: I will.</blockquote>\nThere was no knock at his door, but somewhere he heard a drawer, a glass being set down on a countertop. He turned onto his side, the blanket half pulled over his knees. Then the phone vibrated again.\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Dad: There’s something else I wanted to tell you. I… met someone.</blockquote> Chris blinked. A brief, stabbing point between his ribs, which immediately softened again. <blockquote class="quote">Chris: Oh. Okay. Who?\n\nDad: Her name is Anja. Very warm-hearted. And… she has two daughters. </blockquote>\nHe stared at the line as if it were a math problem. Two daughters. Somewhere in his head, an image shifted into place.\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Chris: Sounds… nice.\n\nDad: I know that’s a lot all at once. But I’m telling you because… I want you involved. Maybe during the holidays? Thanksgiving or Christmas—whatever works for you. Come to Germany. Meet them. We’ll make it cozy. No stress at all.</blockquote>\nIt felt as if someone had opened a door behind which cool air and familiar words were waiting: streetcars, rolls in the morning, the smell of rain on concrete. At the same time, the present pushed itself in between: vanilla scent, a mirror showing someone he hadn’t expected. He slowly breathed out.\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Chris: I don’t know. Maybe I would. If Mom… well, if it works out.\n\nDad: I’ll talk to her. We’ll figure it out. And until then: write to me if anything’s wrong.\n\nChris: I will.</blockquote>\nOne last vibration:\n\n<blockquote class="quote">Dad: Keep your head up, my boy. I’m proud of you.</blockquote> He laid the phone beside him, looked up at the ceiling, and drew his legs in.\n\n[[The fifth school day.|Der fünfte Schultag.]]

<<back "Back">>\n\n<center>[img[pics/High School.jpg]]</center> ''Maplewood High School'' is a typical public high school in a small town in Pennsylvania. School life is strongly shaped by sports culture, especially football. In the entrance area there is a hallway known as the “Trophy Hallway,” where trophies, framed team photos, and banners from past seasons are displayed. Central meeting points are the large cafeteria as a social marketplace, as well as the gymnasium, which regularly becomes a stage for the entire school community during assemblies and pep rallies.\n\nThe rhythm of the day is shaped by morning announcements (announcements about games, clubs, fundraisers, and birthdays), while the dress code and visible clique structures also help define everyday life. A special role is played by the anonymous Instagram/blog format “MaplewoodConfessions,” where rumors, confessions, and “sightings” are posted. Some posts are considered so precise that the student body interprets them as signs of insider knowledge or targeted leaks.\n\n<center>[img[pics/timberwolves.jpg]]</center> The ''Maplewood Timberwolves'' are the football team of Maplewood High School and are considered the town’s athletic showpiece. The team has been successful in many years and is often described as a local talent factory that has already produced players who later continued playing at a higher level. Particularly striking is the town-wide presence on game day: Maplewood then seems almost “divided,” right down to small details in the streetscape—two gas stations on Main Street each carry different team colors, and even the donut icing in bakeries changes to a matching color scheme for home games.\n\nIn team folklore, there is also a well-known superstition story surrounding jersey number 77, which is considered “cursed”: bad luck with injuries and unfortunate coincidences are repeatedly associated with this number—with the ironic side note that especially often it is the opponent who “pays the price” when wearing themselves out against 77.\n\nSome even swear that the “77 curse” talk is only second place on Maplewood High’s unofficial rumor ranking—first place currently belongs to the rumor that the star quarterback and the top cheerleader have long been more than just friends.\n\n<center>[img[pics/cheerleader4.jpg]]</center> The ''Pom Puffs'' are the cheerleading team of Maplewood High School and are considered one of the most coveted status positions within the student body. For many female students, making the team is a social milestone, since lineup and visibility are strongly linked to reputation. The Front Row in particular has symbolic significance: whoever stands in the center front is perceived as the group’s figurehead—and it is not uncommon for that position to be fought over harder than academic performance.\n\nIn training, there is a pronounced “smile rule”: so-called “performance smiling” is practiced deliberately, even when calves are burning or breath is catching. Anyone who lets their face “drop” sometimes has to repeat certain parts of the routine until expression and timing are right. The annual tryouts are considered pure drama because spots are regularly reassigned; in close cases, it is not only technique that decides, but also the overall impression—right down to details like hairstyle and how the hair looks.\n\nThe pep rally is a central power moment in this: a successful performance in front of the whole school can redefine the status of individual team members and often shapes who is perceived as the “it girls.” In the locker room, the legendary “Sewing Drawer” is considered both a running gag and a practical lifeline—a drawer with needle, thread, safety pins, and fashion tape, as well as a small notebook where sayings have been collected for years, including classics like: “Never trust a glitter skirt in December.”\n\n<<back "Back">>

Backstage was tighter and more hectic than Chris had expected: folding chairs, a few mirrors, a line with strips of fabric as a “curtain,” somewhere a box of dresses, someone calling names. The floor was uneven, and the tangle of voices sounded as if everyone suddenly had only three minutes left.\n\nChris’s mother became even more efficient. “Number here in front. Not crooked. Shoulders back. And stop looking like you’re about to faint.”\n\n“I don’t want this,” Chris forced out quietly, more to himself than to her.\n\n“You can do this,” Susan said, as if it weren’t a question. “And you’ll be glad later.”\n\nTo Chris, it didn’t feel like joy, but like a nightmare with an audience.\n\nThen Susan brought him the festival outfit—a costume that looked like a cutesy dirndl, as if Maplewood had invented a “European” outfit without knowing too precisely where it came from. Chris put it on, piece by piece, and every part made it more real.\n\nFirst came a white blouse with puff sleeves, the fabric light and smooth, with a little elastic at the arm that pressed into the skin if worn too long. Over that, a bodice in deep forest green, laced at the front with a pale ribbon that emphasized the waist and forced the upper body upright. The skirt was knee- to calf-length, made of sturdy fabric in dark blue with tiny maple-leaf patterns that almost shimmered in the light. Over it lay an apron in pale cream, with a broad ribbon tied into a large bow at the back—Susan pulled it so tight that Chris involuntarily sucked in his stomach. At the end, she put a narrow headband on him too, also cream-colored, with a small bow on the side, “so it’s complete.”\n\nChris looked in the mirror and barely recognized himself: too polished, too “festival,” too much like a character in a story he didn’t want to tell. His number 17 was pinned prominently to the bodice, like a sign: You’re up now.\n\nHis mother beamed as if she had just wrapped him perfectly. Chris only felt his heart beating faster and the thought of a stage tightening his throat.\n\n[[Continue|Die erste Runde.]]

Punkte bis zur Auswerkung:\n\nSchlechte Entscheidungen getroffen: \nTarnung: 4\nBeliebtheit: 0\nStil: 4\n\nGute Entsccheidungen getroffen:\nTarnung: 8\nBeliebtheit: 10\nStil: 9

Early in the morning, when the house was still half asleep and only the coffee machine in the kitchen was making its first gurgle, Chris was already standing in the hallway with his toiletry bag, staring at the closed bathroom door.\n<<set $wochentag = 4>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "at home">>\nBehind the door, he heard: water. Hair dryer. A brief “Damn” and the frantic clack of a flat iron being set down on the counter. Then the hair dryer again. Christine.\n\nChris knocked once, carefully. “Chrissie? I need to use the bathroom.”\n\n“I’ll be done in a second, <<if $chrisorsis == 1>>Sis<<else>>Chris<<endif>>!” came the immediate reply, too quickly to be true.\n\nChris looked at the clock. He had deliberately given himself extra time because he didn’t want to be late today. Even so, he felt the minutes suddenly start moving faster. He knocked again. “How much longer? I have to… get ready.”\n\n“Five minutes!” Christine called. At the same moment, he heard the hiss of hairspray.\n\nChris raised his eyebrows. Five minutes is a lie, he thought. He leaned against the wall, rocking on his tiptoes and making that little motion with his foot that you really only made when you urgently had to go or were urgently nervous. Both applied.\n\n“Chrissie, I need to do my…” He faltered. He didn’t want to say “hair.” He didn’t want to say “makeup” either. What he actually wanted to say was: I need to get in there, or I’m going to look like a disaster. “…brush my teeth,” he finished at last.\n\n“Then brush them in the kitchen!” came the reply. Another hiss.\n\nChris stared at the door as if it were personally insulting him. “I’m not brushing my teeth in the kitchen.”\n\n“Why not? It’s just toothpaste.”\n\n“Because it’s gross!” He heard how high his own voice had gotten and hated it. Before, he wouldn’t have argued like this. Before, he would have quickly gotten himself ready in the kitchen. But now… now there were things that had to happen in the bathroom. Things he needed in order to be someone in the mirror who didn’t stand out.\n\nThe door suddenly opened a crack. Christine stuck her head out. She was wearing only her underwear. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, annoyed.\n\nChris lifted the toiletry bag like a piece of evidence. “I need the sink. And the mirror. And… time.”\n\nChristine sighed so loudly it was almost funny. “I don’t have time either. And my hair looks like a crime.”\n\n“Your hair always looks good.”\n\n“Liar.” Christine pulled the door shut again, but not all the way. “Okay, deal. You can come in. But don’t touch my stuff, and if you knock over my eyeliner, I swear—”\n\n“I won’t knock anything over,” Chris said hastily and slipped through the gap. Steam hit him in the face. The counter was full: hairbrush, powder, lip gloss, two open hair clips, half a scrunchie shaped like a donut. Christine stood in front of the mirror as if before an altar, holding her long hair up with a round brush.\n\nChris squeezed past her to the sink. He tried not to touch her butt, not to bump into her body. He squeezed toothpaste onto the brush—far too hastily—and began brushing while at the same time correcting the worst strand of his own hair in the mirror.\n\n[[Continue|Pep Rally.4]]

Mrs. Barnett showed him the shower and the towels. Chris undressed, set the water to the right temperature, and began to shower. Soon he had soaped himself up and was rinsing off with warm water. He enjoyed it.\n\nChris hadn’t heard or seen anything. At any rate, he realized that his back was being touched—no, pressed. A soft mass pressed against it. And then Mrs. Barnett wrapped her arms around his body and pulled him against herself. Immediately her hands went downward and stroked his most intimate part.\n\nHe turned around and saw Mrs. Barnett standing naked in front of him.\n\n“Penelope is fast asleep,” Mrs. Barnett said quietly. “And no one else is here.”\n\nChris’s thoughts stumbled over an old image: an almost-moment that had been cut short because her husband came home.\n\n“Mrs. Barnett…” he began, but she only shook her head.\n\n“Caroline,” she corrected him gently, as if that were long overdue. “Just Caroline.”\n\nAt once she kissed him on the mouth, skilled and hungry. And she embraced him tightly. Chris returned the kiss, at first uncertainly, then with a quiet, uncontrollable hunger that frightened even him.\n\nHis hands went to her breasts, which hung large on her body. He kneaded them, and Mrs. Barnett enjoyed what he was doing.\n\n“You’re doing that nicely. Keep going like that, yes,” she moaned with closed eyes. His mouth moved farther down and he searched for her nipples, which took on such lovely shapes and invited play.\n\n“Mmmh,” he heard from her as his tongue played around her nipples.\n\n“Come with me…” They went then, not hastily, more as if caught in a pull that drew them toward the bedroom. The lamp stayed on.\n\nAs soon as they reached the bed, Mrs. Barnett went to her knees and kissed his stiff member. In disbelief, he watched as she then slowly took it into her mouth.\n\nMrs. Barnett gave him no time for further thought. Her actions held him captive.\n\nSoon he heard himself moaning. He placed his hand on her shoulders. Then he bent over her and tried to reach her breasts again. Amazed, he noticed that her nipples had grown harder. He rubbed them between his fingers. Startled, he let go when Mrs. Barnett moaned. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”\n\n“You didn’t hurt me. On the contrary, you’re actually doing that very well.”\n\nImmediately he reached for the nipples again and kept playing. He was so fascinated by the nipples that he didn’t notice how aroused he already was. Only when Mrs. Barnett suddenly pressed his member firmly did he realize that he was close to an orgasm. Mrs. Barnett looked up at him.\n\n“You taste good.”\n\nHer tongue slid over her lips. Then she lowered her head over his member again and resumed her arousing game. Chris’s breathing grew heavier and heavier. Mrs. Barnett worked on him more and more intensely and at the same time fondled his balls. It was better than he had imagined in his wildest dreams. One more time she stopped him and prevented his orgasm.\n\n[[Continue|Chris und Mrs. Barnett schlafen miteinander.]]

They went deeper inside, past a row of rusty tanks whose shadows stood like enormous bodies. The floor crunched under old wooden planks and dust. Somewhere, something dripped again, more regularly than outside, and the metal creaked softly, as if the hall were breathing.\n\n“Okay, photo here,” someone said. “Proof of the dare.”\n\nThey gathered on a kind of wooden catwalk that must once have been a work platform. Chris’s gaze automatically went downward—gaps between boards, dark depth beneath. He wanted to say something, but then it happened.\n\nA board gave way.\n\nA sharp crack, a cry, a body abruptly disappearing—not completely, only halfway, as if the floor briefly swallowed someone and then spat them back out. Someone slipped through, one leg hanging down into a darker area that looked like a basement. A phone light shot downward, trembling.\n\n“Oh my God!” someone shouted.\n\nChris reacted before he thought. He let go of Ruby’s hand, dropped to his knees, grabbed the forearm of the person who had slipped, and pulled. It was heavier than he had expected—bad angle, splintery wood, panic in the other person’s body. Chris tensed his shoulders, braced his feet against a crossbeam, and pulled again, with a jerk that came from reflex.\n\nThe body came up, stumbled onto the catwalk, breathing in gasps. No one was seriously hurt, just shaken and dirty. Voices spilled over one another, tangled, relieved, panic-laughing.\n\nChris remained kneeling for another moment, his pulse in his wrists.\n\nRuby was beside him immediately, her eyes wide in the phone light. “You’re… stronger than you look,” she said, and it didn’t sound like a joke. It sounded like an observation that would settle into her head.\n\nChris’s throat went dry. “Adrenaline,” he muttered too quickly. “They were just… standing awkwardly.”\n\nBut he felt how the sentence didn’t quite cover it. The pull inside him wasn’t only muscle, but fear: that his “mask” had split at a seam. Strength was something he always held back as a girl, softened, packaged away. And now it had shown itself, uninvited.\n\n“Okay,” someone said hastily. “We’re leaving. Right now.”\n\nThe group started moving, this time no longer as a “scene,” but as real people who had understood that this wasn’t just a joke. They followed the same path back, phone lights flickering, shadows jumping across the walls. Chris searched for Ruby’s hand again; she gave it to him at once, as if she had needed it herself.\n\nThen they stood in front of the door.\n\nIt was shut.\n\nNot just pushed to—closed. The handle moved, but the door wouldn’t give, as if it had been pressed shut from the outside or latched. A brief moment in which no one spoke.\n\n“Did you… did you close the door?” someone asked, a shade too loudly.\n\n“No!” came the immediate reply.\n\n“Was it the wind?” Another glance. “Or—”\n\nNo one said the word curse, but it hung between them like the syrup smell: sweet, wrong, sticky.\n\nChris felt Ruby’s fingers claw around his. Somewhere in the hall, metal creaked as if something were settling. A phone light flickered briefly.\n\n“Okay,” one of the boys said, this time without humor. “No drama. We’ll find another way out.”\n\nThey turned around, the lights moving over pipes, over dark corridors, over a side ramp leading lower down. The group drew closer together, and Chris felt how “Don’t go there after dark” was no longer funny now—only a sentence that had come too late.\n\nThey had to look for another way out.\n\n[[Continue|Chris muss pinkeln.]]

On the drive home the next day, a peculiar calm lay over the car. The landscape passed by the window in gray-green streaks, and there was no room left between them for small talk about cake or family jokes. Joseph drove with concentration, both hands on the steering wheel, as if he needed control over the road because everything else had shifted too quickly.\n\nChris sat in the passenger seat, his hands clasped together. He could still feel the beautiful aftereffects of the night like an echo in his body. And at the same time, that burning shame that always came whenever he realized how much he had liked it.\n\nJoseph finally cleared his throat. “Chris…” He said the name carefully, as if it had grown heavier. “I… I’m ashamed.” He cast him a brief glance, then looked back at the road. “I feel like I crossed boundaries. I’m older. I’m… in a position of responsibility. And I don’t want—” He swallowed. “I don’t want you to ever feel like I took advantage of you.”\n\nChris’ throat tightened. It was strange: Joseph’s guilt hurt him, because it automatically pushed him back into the role he hated so much – that of the “one who needed protecting,” the child who had to be saved.\n\n“You didn’t take advantage of me,” Chris said softly. Then, after a brief hesitation, more honestly: “I… I’m ashamed too. Because I liked it. And because you’re a man and I—” He stopped, because he realized he was getting tangled up in his thoughts. His feelings pulled him toward Joseph, no matter how much he wanted to force them into categories.\n\nJoseph nodded almost imperceptibly, as if he had understood without Chris needing to explain. “I’m attracted to you,” he said openly, and there was no frivolity in his voice. “But it’s complicated. Charlotte. The age difference. I’m… her father. And you’re—” He stopped, as if he did not want to say out loud everything that could look wrong about it.\n\nChris exhaled sharply. “I don’t want you to treat me like a child,” he said. He did not sound defiant, more firm. “I’m old enough to know what I’m doing. And I…” He swallowed. “I’m not made of glass.”\n\nJoseph’s fingers tightened briefly around the steering wheel, then loosened. “Okay,” he said softly. “Then… then let’s at least stay honest. And careful. And we won’t hurt Charlotte.”\n\nChris nodded, although the sentence made him feel hot again. Because deep down, he knew: Charlotte had set all of this in motion. And yet now it was real – too real to simply put back into a drawer.\n\nThe months after that passed, and of their resolution to take things slowly, one thing remained above all: the resolution.\n\nIn practice, the attraction between Joseph and Chris was stronger than any sensible agreement. It started harmlessly – a glance that lasted too long in the kitchen, a touch that remained “accidental,” a kiss in the hallway where neither of them said stop first, and already they ended up in the bedroom together.\n\n[[Continue|Schulabschluss.]]

The stadium was already electric before the team ran out of the tunnel: The band was rehearsing runs, the mascot limped foolishly along the sideline with an exaggerated face of pain, and the stands were a red-and-white surge. Chris’s eyes clung to the sideline: Christine and Charlotte laughed as they warmed up, shook out their arms, jumped in small, springy series—visibly in their element. He cheered along, noticing how admiration and a quiet sting of envy mixed together: He wanted to feel that free someday too.\n\n<center>[img[pics/spiel.jpg]]</center> “P–O–M!” the lead called, “Puffs!” the line answered, then “Sweet but tough!” and the team posed in a High-V. The stands roared back.\n\nFrom farther back, someone suddenly hissed: “Hey, there’s Boob Chris—” a cowardly giggle. Joseph didn’t turn around sharply, but simply cast that calm, firm look over his shoulder and said narrowly, “Hey. Enough.” The mocker fell silent at once. Something in Chris dropped away; beside Joseph, he felt safe.\n\nKickoff. Defense on the field. “D–E–F–E–N–D! Back it up, you can’t get in!” the Puffs stamped, and the crowd took up the stomp-clap like a single body. With every substitution, Joseph traced invisible lines in the air with his finger. “See? Safety blitzes from the outside, linebacker closes here.” Chris nodded, grateful for exactly that calm—a tone that carried him.\n\nA child beside him suddenly spilled nachos and cheese down the step. “Oh—hey, no big deal,” Joseph said, already on his feet, fetching napkins. Chris crouched down, helped the little one with the sticky moose hat wipe his fingers clean. Joseph saw it, smiled briefly—a look that said: you take care of people.\n\nHalftime: The Puffs fanned out for the show, pyramid up, confetti streamers into the air, the marching band’s fanfare. “Your sister really has timing,” Joseph said, soberly appreciative, without any macho undertone—just genuine pride in a kid who wasn’t his. Chris felt the sentence hit a soft spot: Family could be more than bloodlines.\n\nThird quarter, the mood boiling. The cheer line called stomp-clap: “D-E-F-E-N-D! / Back it up, you can’t get in!”\n\nA cold wind suddenly cut across the oval. Before Chris could cross his arms with a shiver, Joseph silently draped his jacket around his shoulders. Warm, heavy, smelling of that familiar aftershave of his father’s. “Thanks,” Chris murmured, and the word felt bigger than the gesture.\n\nThen came the moment: Dylan laid a long pass down the sideline, the receiver plucked the ball out of the air at full speed—touchdown. The sideline exploded, “Go! Fight! Score! Puffs want more!” jumped across the stands like sparks, the chants were in flow, the band whipped it along, strangers’ hands clapped Chris on the shoulder, someone screamed directly into his ear.\n\nThe final minutes passed in a hum that vibrated in the bones. Final whistle: the Timberwolves had won. Helmets up, bright screams, the aftershock in the stands. Chris jumped up with everyone else. He clapped, shouted, laughed—and turned to Joseph in the whirl of noise. For a moment, they only looked at each other, both breathless from the roar.\n\nThen Joseph pulled him into a hug, firm and natural, as if it had always been this way. Chris sank into it, felt the warm weight of the jacket on his shoulders, the steady beat of Joseph’s heart against his chest, the smell of cold air and his father’s aftershave. The noise around them became muffled like ocean surf.\n\nIn that circle of arms, he suddenly felt whole—sheltered, held, safe, as if the evening had been steering toward exactly this point. The stands were still trembling in the aftermath, confetti stuck somewhere to his sleeve, and yet everything was quiet enough for him to hear the thought clearly: Beside this man, the world falls into place. He only pulled away when the band let the final flourish fade, and kept the feeling like an ember that would carry him through the cold night.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Spiel.4]]

Penelope pulled a face as if she had been offered a bad flavor. “You wish,” she said dryly. She leaned back, arms crossed, Queen Bee down to her fingertips. “Nope.”\n<<set $PenelopeMemory[3] to 1>>\nA chorus of “Ooooh!” and laughter went through the group. Someone called, “Alternate dare!”\n\n“Okay,” a boy said, as if generously negotiating. “Then you kiss a girl.”\n\nThat visibly bothered Penelope less. She even acted as if it were simply a move she had chosen herself. She let her gaze sweep over the cheerleaders as if choosing from a box of candy. Then her eyes settled on Chris—maybe by chance, maybe because he was close enough, maybe because it seemed the least “complicated.”\n\nChris realized it too late.\n\n“You,” Penelope said, and her grin suddenly turned dangerously friendly. “Come here, sweetie.”\n\nFor a moment, Chris’s brain went white. He couldn’t even protest, because everyone was already laughing and shouting “Do it!” Christine made a sound somewhere between surprise and oh no, and Chris felt the blood rush all the way to his ears.\n\nPenelope leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss to his mouth—confident, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Chris froze in surprise and wanted to say something, but he did not get the chance, because Penelope’s tongue was already brushing against his lips, asking for entry. His inhibitions melted away, and so Chris and Penelope sank into a wet French kiss.\n\nThe circle exploded: shrieking, clapping, “Whaaat!”, phone lights wobbling.\n\nChris could hardly believe his luck. His head felt as if someone had flipped a switch: Penelope. Penelope, of all people. The prettiest, most popular cheerleader at school. One part of him wanted to laugh, another just wanted to breathe. His lips tingled, and he did not know whether it was from the kiss or from the fact that he had just been the center of attention and had… survived it.\n\nAnd yet—completely treacherously—his gaze wandered for a tiny moment toward Dylan. As if he had to check whether Dylan had seen it. Whether it affected him at all. Whether there was anything in his face that Chris could read.\n<<set $temp to 0>><<set $choice_ahorn2 to 1>>\n[[Continue|Raus der der Fabrikhalle.]]

Chris’s head was spinning a little too fast. The beat, the lights, the closeness, the looks, the alcohol—everything flowed together into a sticky current. He still laughed at one lyric, then noticed that the floor beneath his heels gave way a touch too far.\n\n“I… need some air for a second,” he murmured more to himself than to anyone else.\n\nHe threaded his way out of the dancing crowd, a shoulder here, a “Sorry” there, until he reached the edge of the living room and stepped into the hallway. The music was more muted here, but still perceptible like a heartbeat in the house.\n\nAt that moment, someone staggered toward him—a guy with glassy eyes and a cup in his hand who had clearly seen better days.\n\n“Whoops, sorry, sorry, sorry—” the guy slurred, stumbling and lightly ramming Chris with his shoulder.\n\nThe red cup tipped. Sticky punch spilled in a rush over Chris’s bare thighs, ran down the inside, dripped over the hem of the miniskirt.\n\nChris gasped softly. “Great,” he muttered.\n\n“My bad,” the guy mumbled and was already swaying onward, without really helping.\n\nChris reflexively wiped at his legs, which only made things smearier. Cold, sweet liquid clinging to his skin. He lifted his gaze and saw the large mirror on the wall above the little dresser.\n\nFor a moment, someone else stood there.\n\nGlossy legs, a miniskirt so short that every inch of liquid stood out, white crop top, hoop earrings, lip gloss, slightly flushed cheeks. <<if $haar == 1 >>His hair fell softly over his shoulders. <<endif>>A little sweaty from dancing. It looked like a “typical party girl,” half music video, half high school cliché.\n\nHis own gaze in the mirror was the only foreign body.\n\nWho am I here? he wondered. Not abstractly, but very concretely: in this house, in this body, in this moment, with punch on his legs.\n\nHe took a breath. He needed to get out of the front line for a moment, somewhere nobody was directly pressed against him.\n\nThe music kept drifting in from the living room. To the left was the kitchen—through the door he saw a few people standing around, no shouting, more muted conversation. Someone was mixing cocktails there, bottles glittering in the light above the sink.\n\nTo the right, a glass door led outside onto the veranda. It was dark by now, the panes reflecting fragments of light. Outside, in the half-dark, he could make out only the silhouettes of a few boys smoking, scattered glowing cigarette tips, quiet laughter, separated from the rest of the noise.\n\nHe wiped at his legs once more, felt the fabric of the miniskirt, and knew he had to decide where he wanted to briefly pull himself together.\n\n''Where does he go?''\n❯ [[He goes into the kitchen, hoping to collect himself again among drinks and conversations.|In die Küche gehen.][$alkohol += 1]]\n❯ [[He goes out onto the dark veranda to get some fresh air and briefly escape the crush.|Raus auf die Veranda gehen.]]

Her eyes slid once more over Chris, as if she wanted to pin the words to his hem, and then she began calmly, almost warmly.\n\n“Let’s start with your appearance.” Her voice had that tone in which praise and control mingled. “I’m very satisfied—and yes, a little surprised. Over the past few weeks, you’ve developed a sense that can’t be shouted into someone: colors that speak to each other; cuts that carry you instead of swallowing you; hair that looks intentional and not just ‘freshly combed’; makeup that lets you breathe.” A barely visible smile stole onto her cheek. “Christine told me—not without a trace of envy—that at school a lot of eyes linger on you. You don’t want that, not yet, but it’s good for you. You’re allowed to accept that attention without being ashamed of it.” She tilted her head, softer. “And if you need tips—also… when it comes to boys—come to me. I mean that.”\n\nThe praise hit Chris like warm rain. And yet something inside him tightened at the same time: pride that didn’t dare demand anything; relief that only half reached his chest; and beneath it the oppressive question of whether he was being praised—or his mask. He nodded, because nodding was the safest answer, and kept his hands still, because his fingers would have liked to betray how badly they were trembling.\n\n''How does his mother assess him?''\n<<nobr>><<if $beliebtheit <= 3>>[[Negative|Negativ2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $beliebtheit >= 4 && $beliebtheit <= 7>>[[Average|Durchschnitt2][$temp += 1]]<<endif>>\n<<if $beliebtheit >= 8>>[[Positive|Positiv2][$temp += 2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

The late afternoon was already hanging heavy over the parking lot as Chris strolled toward the bus stop with his mandarin in his pocket. Voices drifted over from the sports field, and somewhere a set of bleachers clattered.\n<<set $ort to "school grounds">>\nHe stopped when he saw his sister [[Christine|Christine Braun]]—not far away. Christine was wearing the full cheer outfit for the first time, and it looked as though it had been made for her: the top fit snugly, sleeveless, with a wide white band across the chest; above it, MAPLEWOOD stood in large block letters, and directly below ran a narrow stripe in the school colors that ended just above her ribcage. The skirt was pleated, cut high at the hips, with a V-shaped front so her legs could move freely; every gust of wind made the folds dance to life. White knee socks, light sneakers.\n\nStanding in front of her was a football player—sturdy, short blond hair, blue eyes. [[Myles|Myles Pierce]], same grade. He spoke calmly, with that tone that could afford to be confident because it didn’t boom. Christine laughed, brushed a strand of hair from her face, and her braces flashed.\n\nChris watched the scene half from the shadows, half from a brother’s distance. Myles didn’t make any grand gestures; he asked questions, listened, bounced his foot as if adjusting to her pace. Christine was flattered—you could see it in the little involuntary straightening of her shoulders, the slightly too-long glance, the “Oh, really?” with genuine delight in it.\n\nA gust of wind swept through the courtyard and lifted the pleats of her skirt a touch; she caught the edge with a practiced movement, laughed, and Myles laughed with her—not at her, with her. Chris’s chest tightened briefly, a diffuse mixture of protectiveness and jealousy.\n\nChris suddenly thought back to Friday—to Myles standing at his table, the letterman jacket slung casually over one shoulder, inviting him to the movies; to his rushed no, because everything had felt wrong and far too public. And now the same Myles was standing there laughing with Christine. An unpleasant prickling crawled up the back of Chris’s neck: switched tracks pretty fast, he thought, or maybe just typical high school. For a moment he wondered whether he should tell Christine about the invitation—warn her? But what could he say without sounding petty or embarrassing: He actually wanted to go out with me? In the end, he pushed the thought away. The situation was humiliating enough already, and Christine looked happy. He decided to stay quiet.\n\nThe bus turned the corner with squealing brakes. Christine tossed one last remark at Myles—some sort of promise, some sort of “Text me” hung in the air—then jogged, pleats dancing, toward the stop. Myles raised a hand in farewell, turned, and trudged back toward the field.\n\n“What did he want?” Chris asked when she came to a stop beside him.\n\n“Nothing. He’s just nice,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to suppress her smile.\n\nChris nodded.\n\n<<if $choice_tryout == 1>>He walked a little farther when he saw Zoe. She too was wearing the cheerleader outfit for the first time, as if she had put it on like a trophy—socks, skirt, the whole package—and her face was glowing with pride.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Zoe_cheerleader.jpg]]</center> Their eyes met, and Zoe held his for one heartbeat too long, with that expression that practically said: Well, jealous? As if it were some personal defeat that Mr. Moore had picked her and not him at last week’s cheerleader tryout. Chris briefly felt the impulse to justify himself—and then had to smile inwardly, because honestly he wasn’t unhappy at all. He had never really wanted the tryout; he had only ended up in it because the girls had talked him into it. Zoe was welcome to savor her triumph.\n\n<<endif>>He got on the bus, sat down by the window, and watched the sports field grow smaller behind him.\n\n[[Continue|Ein Bad am Abend.]]

“Dare,” Chris said before he could think about it too long again. The word came out faster than it felt inside him.\nThe boy grinned as if he had been hoping for exactly that. He briefly shone his phone over Chris’s outfit, just enough for the others to see it, and then said, “Okay. Show us your bra.”\n\nChris’s stomach took a small dive. “No,” he said immediately. “Forget it.”\n\n“Yes!” came the chorus—not cruel, more excited. Penelope clapped her hands once, as if announcing a show. A few boys whistled softly. Christine beside Chris stiffened, then squeezed his hand briefly, as if to say: You don’t have to, but also: If you do, I’m here.\n\nChris shook his head, searched for a way out, found none that didn’t sound like a spoilsport. And he felt Dylan somewhere at the edge of his vision—not as pressure, more as weight: the audience he had not chosen, but that suddenly mattered.\n\n“Okay…,” Chris finally muttered, more to himself than to the others. “But only for a second.”\n“YES!” someone cheered, and phone lights went up like lighters at a concert.\n\nChris stood up. The concrete was cold under his soles, the hall suddenly enormous. The syrup smell hung heavy in the air, sweet and wrong. A metal crack somewhere above sounded like a timekeeper, and for a moment Chris wished the floor would simply swallow him.\n\nWith both hands, Chris grabbed the neckline of his dress and pulled it down slightly, so that his small breasts swelled toward the group. <<if $unterwaesche == 1>>Only an elegant black lace bra still covered his breasts. <<else>>Only a cute, soft cotton bra printed with red dots, scattered across the fabric like dabs of summer, still covered his breasts. <<endif>>\n\nChris felt every fiber of attention on him as if it were physical. It lasted maybe five seconds. To Chris, it felt like a whole minute. The boys stared. Not just briefly—really stared. And that was the most embarrassing part: that he felt it, that it stuck to him, that his body grew hot even though the hall was cold. He heard a few “Woo!”s and laughter, but beneath it there was that other sound: silence in which eyes were working.\n\nHe involuntarily glanced at Dylan.\n\nDylan had at first turned his head slightly away, as if he was embarrassed to watch. But then—almost in the same moment—his gaze drifted back, secretly, curiously, as if he had not been able to control himself. Chris caught that brief, forbidden look, and his heart pounded so loudly that it stole his breath.\nDylan knew he should have looked away, but he couldn’t. He was just a boy, after all. And what was being so willingly presented to him had an effect on him that he could not deny.\nChris straightened his dress again. He forced himself into a smile, sat back down as if nothing had happened—except that his cheeks were burning and he wasn’t sure whether he had just been ashamed… or whether part of him had enjoyed being seen.\n\nThe bottle spun on, once, twice, three rounds. The time grew darker, the rectangles of window light on the walls paler. “Don’t go there after dark,” someone murmured, but the saying now sounded more like a reflex than a joke.\nThen it hit Penelope again.\n\n“Dare,” she said as the bottle pointed at her.\n“Kiss a boy.”\n<<set $choice_ahorn3 to 0>>\n''Does Penelope do it?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $temp == 1>>[[No, she does not kiss a boy.|Nein, sie küsst keinen Jungen.][$kissgirl += 1]]\n<<else>>[[Yes, she kisses a boy.|Ja, sie küsst einen Jungen.]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris said nothing. No “What?” No “Are you crazy?” He forced his face into a smooth mask and kept going as if he were just very, very focused on his character sheet. But the eyes he threw Adam’s way were not smooth. They were cold. Angry. A look that said: You are so dead.\n\nAdam saw him, swallowed, and his ears turned a little red. He went on talking hectically about the move, rolled too quickly, laughed in the wrong place. For Chris, the evening dragged on like chewing gum, but he got through it—saving throw, final hit, “Good game,” all on autopilot.\n\nWhen the club broke up and the others slung their bags over their shoulders, Chris stayed half a step behind Adam. Adam turned around—and walked straight into that look, the one Chris still had not withdrawn. Chris still did not say a word.\n\nAdam immediately raised both hands as if surrendering. “Okay. Okay. I know you’re pissed,” he blurted out, his voice quieter than it had been at the table. “But listen—I have a plan. Really.”\n\nChris’s jaw tightened. He still said nothing. Only the look: Speak.\n\nAdam tugged at his backpack strap, nervous. “My parents asked if we were going to the dance,” he explained quickly. “And I, uh… said yes. I couldn’t help it, they were so… so hopeful, okay?” He swallowed. “But that doesn’t mean we have to be stuck together there all evening.”\n\nHe took a step closer, as if trying to prevent Chris from simply walking away. “We take a photo. One. For my parents. Just so they can see it. After that—really after that—you can do whatever you want. You go to your people, I go to mine. We don’t have to dance together. We don’t even have to sit together. Just… one photo.”\n\nChris’s gaze changed minimally—not softer, more: wider.\n\nAdam nodded eagerly, relieved that he was being allowed to speak at all. “I’ll even handle the rest.” He made a helpless gesture with his hand. “You only have to be there briefly—briefly—for that photo. Deal?”\n\nChris breathed out through his nose. The anger remained like a thorn, small and precise. At the same time, the old leftover debt tugged at him—that blackmailed arrangement that had backed him into a corner long ago. At last he gave Adam one word, toneless and curt:\n\n“One photo.”\n\nAdam nodded at once, as if he had just been given his life back. “One photo. And I swear I won’t make it worse for you. Really.”\n\n“Great,” Chris said without a smile. He threw the backpack over his shoulder and started walking before Adam could find any more sentences. In the hallway, a new to-do list was already opening in his head like a pop-up: dance ticket. Shoes. Hair. And of course—a dress.\n\nJust great, he thought while the fluorescent lights hummed above him. Now I need a ball gown too.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Clubtreffen.]]

“Coral” Chris said after a heartbeat too long, as casually as he could.\n\nPenelope grinned, shook her head almost imperceptibly. “Wrong, unfortunately. It’s Raspberry.”\n\nA few “ooh” sounds, gentle giggling around the table. Chris shrugged with a smile. “It’s fine. I had other plans this weekend anyway.” He heard himself and thought how thin the sentence sounded.\n\n“Okay, so—movie list!” Penelope turned back to the group. “10 Things, Clueless, or something scary after all?” Voices tumbled over one another, Charlotte tossed “Brownies” into the air, Christine suggested “Face masks first,” someone called for a pillow-fight rule.\n\nChris poked at his fruit cup as if he could sort his thoughts with it. A quiet, childish defiance spread through him like tea that was too hot: I didn’t want to go to some stupid girls’ pajama party anyway. He felt the hurt underneath, just as clearly as the rustle of the underskirt with every small movement on the chair.\n\nWhy hadn’t he simply been invited as a matter of course? It felt like back in Germany: the cool parties he never went to—or was never asked to. Now he sat here, looked “like a girl,” and still seemed only allowed at the edge of the group. Am I just Christine’s tagalong to them? he thought. A leaden question that couldn’t be smiled away.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Charlotte comforts Chris.|Charlotte tröstet Chris.2]]<<else>>[[End of school.|Schulende.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $newgameplus == 0 && $charlotte < 2 && $ladendiebin < 2>><br>\n[[✨ Chris asks his sister to talk to Penelope about the party.|Chris bittet seine Schwester mit Penelope wegen der Party zu reden.][$party += 1]]\n\n<div class="box"><b>A little note for your first playthrough:</b><br> Your choices have led you onto the Ruby path. This path has its own appeal, but it is quieter at the beginning than other story routes.<br> If you would like a little more action at the start, you should choose the lower option now and go to Penelope’s party after all. This extra option is only available on the first playthrough.</div> <<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris put his hands on Zoe’s shoulders and reflexively pushed her away. “Hey—wait.” His own tone startled him. He was too surprised by her behavior.\n<<set $ort to "Zoe's house">>\n“Are you crazy?!” Chris asked.\n\nZoe blinked, took half a step back, and tucked a curl behind her ear. “It’s okay,” she said. “I didn’t know you were gay.” She gave a crooked grin.\n\n“I’m not gay,” Chris said too quickly, almost defiantly.\n\n“Relax.” Zoe raised her hands as if smoothing the air. “It wasn’t an attack. And I don’t want to become your new girlfriend either.” She gave a small shake of her head. “This isn’t a big thing. I just want to see your penis, that’s it.”\n\nChris felt his cheeks grow warm. “Why?”\n\n“Because it’s fun. And I’m curious.” She leaned against the edge of the wardrobe, crossing her arms. “So—my offer: if you take it out, I’ll suck it for you. Best offer of the day.” she said, her smile turning a touch mischievous.\n\nShe let a brief silence fall. “Deal or not?”\n\n''Deal or not?''\n❯ [[He accepts the offer.|Er nimmt das Angebot.][$oral += 1;$fingerass += 1;$partner += 1;$zoe += 1;$zoe_opinion += 20]]\n❯ [[He rejects the offer.|Er lehnt das Angebot ab.]]

He stopped briefly in front of the door to the D&D room, listened to the familiar clatter of dice—and then walked on after all. Enough messes to deal with already, he told himself. One more club would blow his head apart. So: bus, home, breathe.\n\nThe school bus smelled of dust and window rubber. Chris sank into a seat, counting the stops. Each stop brought the “problem” closer, the one that had been sitting in his stomach since the restroom break. Camouflage, he thought, and hated the word.\n\nAt home later, he stood in front of his younger sister’s door and waited, then knocked. “Yeah?” — “I… can I talk to you for a second?”\n\nShe was sitting on the bed, phone in hand, her face half lit by the screen. When she saw him, she frowned. “What is it?”\n\nHe cleared his throat. The words stuck in his throat like heavy stones. “I… need… a sanitary pad.” The last word came so quietly it might have been a secret code.\n\nChristine blinked, slowly lifting her head. “A what?” Her gaze narrowed, suspicious, as if a sex offender were standing in front of her. “Chris, are you—”\n\n“No!” he cut in hastily, hands raised. “It’s just… for the bag. Camouflage. Today at school, a girl asked me—she’d gotten her period unexpectedly and didn’t have one with her. I… didn’t have one either. It was super embarrassing. I want to… be prepared.” He felt heat shoot into his face. “Just for camouflage. Honestly.”\n\nChristine exhaled, the skepticism easing. “Ah.” She closed her phone, stood, and went to the wardrobe. “Okay. That makes sense.” She opened a drawer, rummaged briefly, and took out a single pad. “Here.”\n\nChris hesitated, his fingers hovering over the cellophane. It felt as if he were reaching into a strange drawer in a strange life. “Thanks.”\n\n“It’s unused,” Christine commented dryly, as if holding up a label. Then, more gently: “You get used to it. You just carry one around.”\n\n“Sure.” He took it as if it were something fragile. The rustling of the pad was far too loud in his ear. “Thanks,” he repeated, already half backing out the door. “Really.”\n\n“Put it in a side compartment, not right on top,” Christine advised. “And… maybe take a tampon too. In case someone asks. You don’t have to use it, but… you know.”\n\n“Maybe later,” he muttered, overwhelmed enough by the one thing in his hand. In his room, he opened the handbag and carefully slid the pad into an inner compartment. The click of the magnetic clasp sounded final. Such a banal little thing, and yet he suddenly felt one step more like the girl everyone treated him as.\n\nHe sat down on the edge of the bed, let the handbag sink beside him. Camouflage, he said again in his head—and noticed that this time the word sounded less harsh and more like “survival.” Then he stood, reached for his homework planner, and took one deep breath. Another day survived. And one more added object in a life that needed more and more compartments.\n\n[[Continue|Nachricht aus Deutschland.]]

Chris couldn’t. And he didn’t want to.\n\nFor a brief moment, he simply stood there, cup in hand, as if it had suddenly become heavy as a stone. Adam’s fingers were still on his chin, far too familiar, far too possessive. Chris’s gaze darted over the faces nearby—a few eyes waiting curiously, as if they were watching a game that demanded the next move.\n\n“Come on,” Adam urged quietly, moving closer as if Chris’s hesitation were only shyness. “Don’t make such a fuss.” His hand stayed there, his body came nearer.\n\nChris felt the air grow thin. The music kept pounding, but inside him everything suddenly became still and sharp. He thought of the video. Of the frozen smile. Of that invisible leash. And of the fact that Adam was relying exactly on Chris giving in out of fear.\n\n“No,” Chris managed, choked but clear.\n\nAdam raised his eyebrows as if Chris had just broken a rule. “Yes,” he said, no longer pleading now, but demanding. “You just have to—”\n\nSomething snapped in Chris then. Not loudly, not dramatically inside, but like a switch: Enough.\n\nHe shoved Adam’s hand away and pushed him back. It was not a hard blow, more of a reflexive, clear distance—but in that moment it looked like a big scene.\n\nAdam stumbled one step back. “What the hell is this?!” His voice was suddenly too loud.\n\n“Leave me alone,” Chris said, with a trembling sharpness that sounded foreign even to himself. A few heads turned. A circle of attention tightened around them like a noose.\n\nAdam reached for him, almost automatically, as if he wanted to capture the moment again. Chris stepped back. “Don’t touch me!” His voice was even louder now, and with that it had happened: The looks were not just curious anymore, they were fixed on him.\n\nAdam turned red, not from shame alone, but from the feeling of losing control. “You’re totally overreacting,” he hissed, and his gaze flickered briefly toward his jacket pocket—as a reminder, as a threat.\n\nChris’s heart hammered. He knew he had just exposed Adam in front of everyone. He knew Adam would not forget that. But he could no longer go back into that “Smile. Or else...”\n\nHe turned around and left—first quickly, then almost running, straight across the gym. The clutch nearly slipped from his hand. He heard someone behind him whisper “Oh my God,” heard another voice giggle, heard shoes scuffing on the parquet.\n\n“Chris!” Adam’s voice cut through the music. “You’re going to regret this!” He did not say it as a warning, but as a promise.\n\nChris did not stop. He pushed through the door out into the cold night air, which hit him in the face like a slap. Outside in front of the hall, his hands were trembling as he fumbled the phone out of the clutch. He opened the app, tapped with clammy fingers, saw the map, the minutes display.\n\nWhen the Uber arrived, he practically jumped inside. The car interior was warm, but Chris was still freezing. He stared out the window as the school lights grew smaller, and in his head a single thought repeated itself until it hurt:\n\nHe’ll publish it. He’ll really do it.\n\nThe ride home stretched on like chewing gum. Chris held the phone tightly, as if he could use it to hold the future in place. Every notification that did not come was a brief relief. Every silence was new fear.\n\nWhen he finally got out and walked to the door, he felt as if he had not left the dance, but only changed the scenery. Adam’s threat was still at the back of his neck—invisible, but heavy.\n\n[[Continue|Montag, das Video macht die Runde.]]

Chris chose the dusty pink set. The little bow between the cups looked like a wink. He held the bra in the air for a moment, as if he first had to understand how this thing was supposed to work with him. Then he slipped through the straps—backwards at first, back out again, then the right way, the cold tag briefly against his skin.\n\nThe clasp was the real test. Behind his back, he couldn’t get hold of the hooks; his fingers felt over fabric and eyelets, slipped off, found the edge, lost it again. He tried the “behind-the-back-and-rotate” method: fasten it in front, then turn the bra around. That worked better—he hooked it on the middle row, carefully turned the band around to his back, adjusted the cups, lifted the straps into place. As he adjusted the lengths, he noticed how even a millimeter made the difference: too loose and it didn’t hold, too tight and the edges dug in.\n\nThe feeling was… unfamiliar. The fabric lay against his chest like a gentle, firm hand; every movement had a faint counterweight. The sensitive points calmed under the soft padding, but at the same time there was this constant reminder: something is there. He stood still, felt how the bra redirected his breathing ever so slightly, (tighter above, freer below), and took one deliberate breath in and out.\n\nIn the mirror, he studied the silhouette. The dusty pink surface traced a soft curve, the little bow sitting exactly where his gaze kept catching. Nothing about him suddenly looked “foreign,” and yet the set made the lines softer, rounder. He pulled his shoulders back (Susan’s drill), let them go again (his reflex), raised an arm, checked whether anything flashed into view. Nothing. From the drawer he took the matching slip; the polka dots looked almost childish, but the cut fit.\n\nThe door opened without a knock. “Oh—cute,” Susan said, as if she had discovered a kitten on the windowsill. “Very sweet. And if you wear it like this regularly now, it’ll soon feel completely normal.” Her hand landed on his shoulder—a light touch; Chris still flinched, after what had happened yesterday, as reflexively as at the sound of a dentist’s drill.\n\n“We’re not wasting time.” Susan went to the closet, pulled out a lavender culotte—ankle-length, with flowing legs—along with a simple top with a fine lace trim. “This. And—” She reached for a small tin, shook two tiny gold studs into her hand. “For your ears.”\n\n<center>[img[pics/outfit2.jpg]]</center> Chris blinked at the culotte. “Pants?” For the first time, no skirt, no dress. A brief, involuntary breath of relief, as if his legs had missed the words “fabric between us.” But the relief stumbled over a new fear. Pants meant: less “mask.” Pants meant: maybe they’d look more closely.\n\nHe pulled on the top, then the culotte. The fabric fell softly; the legs had room, the waistband sat high and made his waist more defined. In front of the mirror, he realized: It worked. His mother put the gold studs into his freshly pierced ears; it stung briefly, then gleamed with simple elegance.\n\nAnd yet the panic crept up on him, quiet: What if it isn’t enough? What if someone looks and thinks “boy”? The thought of standing at school, in pants, being watched, measured, exposed—it laid ice in his stomach.\n\n“Mom?” he began, already feeling the shame along with it. “Could I… maybe wear a dress or a skirt after all? Just for today. Better safe than sorry.”\n\nSusan’s mouth curled mockingly. “Oh. Now all of a sudden you want a skirt, hmm?” Her voice was too light to be kind. “Yesterday I still had to force you, and today he wants skirts voluntarily. Interesting.”\n\nThe remark landed with a dull clack. Chris felt as if he had been placed on a stool where he was smaller than he really was. “I just don’t want to stand out,” he muttered, suddenly very focused on straightening the hem of the culotte.\n\n“You won’t stand out,” Susan said, matter-of-fact again. “You look good. You’re going like that.” Period. With her, decisions were like doors that, once shut, stayed shut.\n\n[[Continue|Auf zur Schule.2]]

The front door had barely fallen shut when Chris and Christine heard their mother’s voice cut through the stairwell. “You pig! Get out of here! And don’t ever show your face again!” A man—tall, awkwardly hurried—came stumbling down the hall, his belt half in his hand, his pants not quite closed. He cast the children a guilty, timid glance, avoided Susan like an electric fence, and disappeared into the heat burning in from the street.\n\nSusan remained standing on the doormat, breathing sharply in and out as if she had just finished a sprint. Her cheeks were glowing, her lipstick smeared. “All men are pigs,” she said, every syllable heavy. “Really—all of them.” The last note fell like something she could no longer hold.\n\n“Okay,” Christine murmured, raising her hands appeasingly. “Let’s put the groceries away first, yeah?”\nChris nodded, setting the bags on the kitchen table. He took out milk and eggs, dish soap, toothpaste, putting them into the cupboards as if they were chess moves that promised order. Susan stood rigid for a moment, then ran a hand through her hair.\n\n“I’m taking a bath,” she said, and it sounded like an order to her own heart. “I need to calm down.”\n\nThe water started running shortly after, a steady rush that filled the apartment. The smell of bubble bath—sweet, vanilla-like—crept along the hall. Christine disappeared into her room, quiet music drifting from her phone. Chris put the last things away, folded the receipt, stuffed it into the cutlery drawer (why, he didn’t know himself), and then headed toward the living room.\n\nSomething lay on the carpet in front of the bathroom door, a small, shiny piece of metal catching the light. A coin. Chris bent down, bracing one hand against the doorframe to keep his balance, and reached for it. At that moment, a floorboard creaked behind him.\n\n“What are you doing?!” His sister stood at the other end of the hallway, her gaze sharp as an alarm. Her eyes moved from his bent posture to the bathroom door, to the keyhole right in front of his nose, and back to him. The music in her hand fell silent as if someone had pulled the plug. “Are you completely sick?”\n\nChris shot upright, the coin between his fingers. “What? No—I was just—”\n“MOM!” Christine already had the tone that allowed no explanations through. “Mom! He’s spying on you! While you’re bathing!”\n\nThe rushing water stopped abruptly. A moment of silence, thick as syrup. Then the door opened, and Susan stepped out in a bathrobe, the belt loosely knotted, drops in her lashes. Her gaze jumped from Christine to Chris, to his hand, which was still idiotically holding the coin as if it were a piece of evidence—though for what, even he didn’t know.\n\n“What is going on here?” Susan’s voice was flat, dangerously still.\n“He was looking through the keyhole,” Christine said, and her fixed braces glittered in the hallway light, though there was nothing cheerful about her. “I saw it!”\n\n“I wasn’t—” Chris felt the words slipping away from him. “There was just…” He raised the coin as if it could speak. It looked ridiculously small.\n\n“He bent down and was staring right in there,” Christine went on, defiant, certain. “Like… like some creep.”\n\nSomething flashed in Susan’s eyes—anger searching for a new direction. “Seriously, Chris?” She took a step toward him. “After everything today? After—” The sentence broke off, but the air was full of unsaid things.\n\n“I swear, I didn’t—”\n\n“Save it.” Susan pushed past him, inspecting the door, the keyhole, then his face again. Her breathing quickened. Outside, a car honked as if trying to provide a punchline.\n\n“I… just wanted to pick up the coin.” Even to his own ears, it sounded weak. A cardboard alibi.\n\n“Sure.” Susan’s smile had no teeth and no warmth. “Exactly. By coincidence. In front of the bathroom, while your own mother is taking a bath.” She shook her head, a short, hard laugh without joy. “You know what disgusts me most about men? That sense of entitlement. Always looking, always taking, always thinking the world is open to them.”\n\nSusan straightened up, tying the bathrobe belt tighter once more as if closing a suit of armor. When she looked at him again, there was something determined and cool in her expression that made his stomach clench. “Just you wait,” she said quietly, clearer than a scream. “I’m going to drive being a man out of you.”\n\n[[Continue|Er bekommt den Hintern versohlt.]]

<h2>Christine’s Diary – Wednesday (summer break, before school starts)</h2> <div class="letter">Mom decided today that Chris is “ready.” Ready to go outside as a girl. As if that were a normal step like “taking the bus alone for the first time” or “first driving lesson.” Except Chris doesn’t want that. Not at all.\n\nIt started in the morning. Mom was… in the kind of good mood that makes me nervous. She has that voice when she wants to push something through. So friendly that it almost sounds like a promise, but really it’s an order.\n\n“We’re going shopping,” she said. “And Chris is coming with us.”\n\nChris said no immediately. Not the normal “I don’t feel like it,” but properly. As if he had grabbed onto a railing and someone was trying to pull him down. He turned red, then pale, then loud. He said he couldn’t. That it was sick. That the neighbors would see him. That he wasn’t doing it. He screamed, Mom dragged him into the bedroom.\n\nAnd then something happened that I won’t forget.\n\nI was standing in the hallway, halfway in my bedroom doorway, and through the wall I heard Chris crying. Really crying. Not that “being frustrated” kind, but that broken, choked crying where you realize someone has no ground left under their feet. I didn’t see anything. I don’t know exactly what Mom said or did, because the door was closed. But I heard Mom’s voice—loud, controlled, over and over, as if she were tightening a screw, millimeter by millimeter. She sounded… convinced. As if resistance were just a little noise you only had to ignore long enough.\n\nAnd at some point Chris’s crying grew quieter. Not because it was better. But because he… gave up.\n\nWhen he came out of the room, he looked like someone who had survived an illness. Eyes reddened, gaze empty. Mom had dressed him in something that was definitely “girl.” Nothing extreme, nothing like in a show. That was exactly why it was so intense. An outfit that everyone in the store would simply accept. He stood there in the hallway, shoulders pulled down, as if he wanted to hide inside himself. And Mom… was satisfied. She smoothed his hair once more, as if he were a doll being put on display.\n\nOutside, on the way to the car, Chris lowered his head as if he could make himself invisible. I noticed how he anticipated every glance before it even happened. As if with every sound he thought: Now someone is laughing. But no one laughed. That’s the next horrible thing. People aren’t always cruel. Sometimes they’re simply… indifferent. And that’s exactly what makes it so real.\n\nIn the supermarket, he walked close beside Mom. So close that he almost looked like a little daughter afraid of getting lost. He pushed the shopping cart, but only because Mom had given it to him. His hands were white on the handle. He tried not to look left or right. Whenever someone walked past us, he automatically held his breath.\n\nI caught myself watching him constantly. Not because I was curious, but because I was afraid he would collapse. And at the same time there was this strange feeling: He looked… convincing. In a quiet way. No one looked at him like a riddle. Everyone sorted him as a girl and moved on. And I saw how exactly that both calmed and destroyed him.\n\nAt home, he was completely silent.\n\nThen dinner became even more absurd. At some point Mom started talking about bras, just like that, as if it were the weather.\n\nChris immediately said he didn’t want to wear a bra. Very firmly. That was one of the few things where he still sounded like himself. This time Mom even let him be. She only smiled and said, “You don’t have to yet. Later you’ll put one on voluntarily.”\n\nVoluntarily. That word sounds like a threat from her, disguised as patience.\n\nChris didn’t say anything else. He just stared at his plate and ate as if eating were a task you complete so no one hands out new ones.\n\nI don’t know what to think about it. I want to help my brother. I also don’t want to scream at Mom, because I know she’ll get that calm voice again and everything will only get worse. And I hate myself a little for sometimes just sitting beside it all and watching.\n\nToday I learned: Chris can say “no.” He even did it. And still, in the end, he had to go outside.\n\nAnd that is what scares me the most.\n\n</div> [[Continue|Christines Tagebuch1]]

He decided, with a heavy heart, not to run off. Instead, he opened the app, ordered an Uber to the pin Christine had sent, and texted her: Please stay outside where there are people. Only get into the car with this license plate. Text me when you’re inside.\nThe driver arrived in six minutes; Chris stared at the little car moving across the map. After endless moments, the phone vibrated: I’m in. Later: home. He breathed out, without it becoming any easier.\n\nThen he turned to Charlotte. He tried to explain everything: the how, the why, his mother, the pills, the confusion, his fear, his wanting—yet the words bounced off a moment that was already too full. Charlotte stood opposite him as if behind glass: hurt, confused, her gaze flickering between understanding and defensiveness. Every sentence he found made the one before it sound hollower. Finally, they were left in silence. He gathered his things, murmured an apology that was too small, and left.\n\nLater, back home, the hallway lay still—as if in the aftermath of a storm. Chris quietly opened the door to Christine’s room. She lay sprawled across the bed, her boots half-off, her stretch dress askew, her eyelashes still damp. Chris looked down between her legs and saw the torn tights, the ruined panties, and her little pussy smeared with semen and blood.\n\nHe stepped closer, gently pulled the blanket up over her shoulders, and smoothed the fabric so that nothing pinched. For a moment, his hand lingered there—warm against the blanket, resting over the rhythm of his little sister’s breathing. Then he turned off the light and left the door ajar.\n\n[[End of Chapter 2|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 2f]]

“A part of me still remembers my mother before she did all of this,” Chris said.\n\nHis voice sounded thinner than he had hoped, but it did not break.\n\nHe did not look at Susan. He looked at the microphone in front of him, at the small black dot that carried every word into the room.\n\n“I remember that she used to laugh. That she made me soup when I was sick. That as a child, I thought she could make everything right again.”\n\nHe swallowed.\n\n“Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to sit here.”\n\nThe room was silent.\n\n“I’m not asking for leniency,” Chris said. “I don’t even know what leniency would mean in this case. I only know that I don’t want my hatred to decide. Not anymore.”\n\nFor the first time, he raised his eyes.\n\nSusan sat motionless at the defense table. Her face was pale. For a moment, she did not look angry, but almost offended, as if Chris had taken something from her that belonged to her.\n\nMaybe he had.\n\n“She forced me to be someone I wasn’t,” he said. “She made decisions about my body. About my life. About medication. And she said that was love.”\n\nHis fingers lay flat on the wood in front of him.\n\n“But I’m not here because I want to destroy her.”\n\nHe breathed out.\n\n“I’m here because it was true.”\n\nThe prosecutor nodded slowly.\n\n“What do you want from the court?”\n\nChris needed a moment.\n\nIn his mind, he saw Maplewood. The school hallways. The boys’ looks. Christine sitting completely still at the kitchen table. His father at the airport, as if he were afraid to hug him too tightly.\n\n“I want her to never be allowed to decide who I am again,” Chris said.\n\nAt the back of the room, he heard a soft sob.\n\nHe did not know whether it was Christine.\n\nHe did not turn around.\n\nThe prosecutor asked no further question.\n\nThen the defense attorney rose. For one brief moment, Chris thought she would attack him, confuse him, try to make him smaller again.\n\nBut she only looked at her notes, then at the judge.\n\n“No further questions.”\n\nThe judge nodded.\n\n“The witness may step down.”\n\nChris stood up. His legs felt weak, but this time he did not hate himself for it.\n\nAs he walked past his mother, he did not look at her.\n\nHe went back to his father.\n\nMichael put his arm around him without saying anything.\n\nAt the front, the attorneys gathered their documents. The evidence had been heard. The statements had been made. The room was only waiting now for what would follow from it all.\n\nThe judge looked at the clock.\n\n“The court is adjourned until sentencing.”\n\nThe gavel fell.\n\nA short, dry strike.\n\nChris closed his eyes.\n\nThis time, from relief.\n\n''What is the verdict?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $temp == 5>>[[Harsh sentence.|Hartes Urteil.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $temp >= 2 && $temp < 5>>[[Just sentence.|Gerechtes Urteil.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $temp < 2 >>[[Lenient sentence.|Mildes Urteil.]]<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

The last days before college were numbered, and Maplewood looked the same as always—that was exactly what made it feel so unreal. The familiar streets, the shop windows, the little park with the benches where Chris had sat alone far too often. His dress swayed lightly with every step, and his heels clicked in a steady rhythm over the paving slabs.\n\nSusan had sent them both out to run a few more errands, as if this were a normal Saturday and not a farewell to everything Chris both hated and knew.\n\nChristine walked beside him, but really she was somewhere else. Her gaze was glued to her phone, her thumb flying across the screen. Now and then she stopped, typed faster, frowned, then kept walking again without really noticing that Chris had to adjust to her pace.\n\nChris watched her for a while. “What’s going on?” he finally asked, carefully, because he didn’t want to make the distance between them even bigger.\n\nChristine sighed without looking up. “Penelope is totally panicking,” she said. “Her period is late.”\n\nThe sentence hit Chris like a cold bucket of water. He fell one step behind her, as if the sidewalk had suddenly opened up beneath him. Late. The word echoed in his head, larger than it should have been.\n\n“What?” he got out, and it sounded too high.\n\nChristine glanced up briefly, not really noticing his tone because she was already stuck in the problem herself. “Yeah. She keeps texting. She’s completely freaking out.” Christine snorted and started typing again. “I mean—obviously. A kid at our age would completely ruin everything. College? Forget it. Instead, changing diapers, screaming at night, money, drama… everything.”\n\nChris heard the words, but they didn’t really reach him. Something else started up inside him: a fast, wild film made of fragments of memory and fear. Drunk Penelope. That secret no one knew except him. That one time he had told himself could not be allowed to have consequences. His body suddenly became heavy and numb at the same time, as if it consisted only of a heartbeat.\n\nI could be the father.\n\nThe thought was so absurd and so possible that he couldn’t push it away. In his head, he calculated without numbers: time frames, days, possibilities. He remembered every detail he had wanted to suppress afterward.\n\nChristine kept talking, more to her phone than to him. “She just needs to take a test. And if it really is true… I don’t know. Her mom will kill her. And she can shove her perfect life wherever she wants, then.”\n\nChris nodded mechanically, though he was barely listening. His throat was dry.\n\nChristine briefly put the phone away and finally looked at him properly. “Hey. You’re kind of pale right now.”\n\nChris forced a small smile that didn’t hold. “Everything’s fine,” he said, even though it wasn’t true.\n\nThey continued through Maplewood, past the shops where Chris had so often felt invisible. Christine was already writing messages again, trying “to help.” Chris walked beside her, but inside he was already somewhere else—in a single, loud thought that drowned out everything.\n\n[[Continue|Chris auf dem College.]]

The floodlights cut white islands into the dusk as the Timberwolves stormed through the team tunnel and the marching band struck up the “Wolves Fight Song.” The mascot played the clown, the stands a sea of red and white.\n\n<center>[img[pics/spiel.jpg]]</center> Chris stood at the cold railing, searching for Christine’s bow—second row on the left, clean, present—and at the same time noticed how his gaze kept sliding over the broad shoulders of the football players on the sideline. Shoulder pads, taped forearms, helmets tucked under arms: a force of power that stirred something in him he didn’t want to name.\n\n“P-O-M!”—“Puffs!” The Pom Puffs snapped into the intro, two claps overhead, hip wiggle, pom hit on beat. Chris cheered and felt that bright mixture of admiration for Christine—and a narrow, warm line of curiosity pulling toward the football players. When the defense ran onto the field, the Puffs stamped out the quick chant: “D-E-F-E-N-D! Back it up, you can’t get in!” The stadium roared back. A linebacker tightened his chin strap; the vein in his neck jumped briefly, then the snap. Chris’s heart involuntarily made the same small leap as the ball.\n\nSwitch to offense. Dylan stood calmly behind the line, hands on his hips, then slightly raised—a commanding gesture that organized the pulse of the stands. Chris felt his eyes linger on Dylan’s butt. He tore his gaze away, clapped, shouted, looked for Christine again—and caught himself seconds later staring at Dylan’s backside once more.\n\nAt halftime, the Puffs delivered the show: formation, ripple, toe touch, then the pyramid. The counts landed as if they had been stitched in place. Confetti streamers shot up, the marching band layered the fanfare over it, and Christine held her line so steadily that Chris grinned without realizing it. He clapped until his fingers grew warm.\n\nIn the third quarter, the cold crept under their clothes, and the sideline fed the crowd cheeky jabs: “No fluff, all puff—we’ll blow your candles out!” Along with it came a fan wave with the poms, a blowing gesture, a power pose. Christine was focused, no small talk, only the counts in the rhythm of the drums. Chris noticed how the tempo swept him along; he was only a spectator, and yet it felt like participation.\n\nIn the fourth quarter came the moment: Dylan dropped back, glanced briefly left, went deep right—and the long ball drew a shining line through the night. The receiver caught it at full speed, tore free, touchdown. The sideline exploded, helmets up, chants in flow, “Go! Fight! Score!” across the whole width. Chris jumped up, laughed loudly, shouted the chant through to the end as if he himself were down on the sideline.\n\nThe final minutes were an after-vibration. One more secure stop by the defense, the mascot pretending to eat the clock, the band holding the pulse. Then the end: final whistle, handshakes, helmets up—the Timberwolves had won. The stands trembled in their own echo, and Chris’s chest felt wide, as if the cheering had found a place to sleep inside it for the night. He looked down at Christine once more—red cheeks, shining eyes, bow tight—and clapped until the stadium’s aftershocks slowly sank into a satisfied hum.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Spiel.3]]

On Wednesday morning, the siblings sat side by side on the bus, the sky still milky, the aisle half empty. Chris twisted the strap of his bag between his fingers, searching for a sentence that didn’t sound like a judgment.\n<<set $wochentag = 3>><<set $ort to "school bus">><<set $ChrisMemory[10] to 1>>\n“About Saturday…” he began quietly. “If you want to talk—”\n\n<<if $rape > 0 >>He heard himself how wrong that sounded almost as soon as he had said it. As if he could find a safe sentence for Christine while everything inside him was still disordered and filthy. Saturday’s party sat in his stomach like a stone: the blurred room, the unfamiliar boy on top of him, the feeling of his penis moving inside him. He knew he had not wanted it, and still the shame kept finding a way to make it sound like his fault. Every time he thought about it, he felt dirty and used. He wanted to help Christine because he had no idea what to do with himself. Because talking about her was easier than saying even a single word about what had happened to him that night.\n\n<<endif>>[[Christine|Christine Braun]] stared out the window. “I don’t.” Her tone wasn’t loud, but it was hard enough to make the air between them thinner.\n\n“I just don’t understand why you—I mean, why you’re still with Myles.” He felt the words slipping away from him and tried to catch them again. “After everything…”\n\nShe turned her head, her gaze sharp. “Because it’s my business. Not yours.” A pause, then thinner: “And if you don’t understand it, that’s okay too.”\n\n“Okay,” he said, but felt something inside him groan. “I’m just worried.”\n\n“Worry about yourself.” She turned back to the window.\n\nIt was only a brief exchange, but it echoed. The bus jolted over a bump, and their shoulders touched by accident; Christine shifted an inch away. For the rest of the ride, the engine pushed a neutral hum between them.\n\nChris stared at his knees and rearranged the sentences in his head. Maybe he saw everything too black-and-white. Maybe Christine really was… further along? Sometimes it felt as if he were the younger sibling: too cautious, too prone to fear, while she held the line with a mixture of defiance and newfound calm. Maybe she’s right, he thought, and the thought tasted at once of humility and helplessness.\n\nWhen the bus braked in front of the [[school|High School]], they stood up without making eye contact. “See you later,” Christine said flatly. Chris nodded. He got off and carried the uncertainty into the building like an extra, invisible bag.\n\n<<if $videoblackmail == 1>>A jock whistled softly through his teeth, tapped his buddy on the shoulder, and muttered, “That’s her.” They both grinned at each other, as if they had the same clip in mind, and looked away as soon as Chris looked over.\n\n<<endif>>''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1>>[[School day.|Schultag.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 0 >>[[School day.|Schultag.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 1>>\n\n<<if $choice_lucasjacke == 1>>[[Movie with Lucas.|Kino mit Lucas.b]]\n<<else>>[[Movie with Lucas.|Kino mit Lucas.a]]<<endif>>\n\n<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 2>>[[Movie with Lucas.|Kino mit Lucas.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[School day.|Schultag.6]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

At some point, the music grew quieter, the lights in the gym brighter, and the crowd automatically shifted toward the center. The DJ turned down the bass and announced what everyone had been expecting: “Okay, Maplewood! Time for Homecoming King and Queen!”\n\nThe stage was really just a platform with a banner behind it, but in that moment it felt like something grand. A few teachers stood beside it, a small box with a crown and sash, and the band played a brief, ceremoniously over-the-top drumroll.\n\n“Homecoming King…” The name was called into the gym, and before the sentence was even finished, everyone already knew. “…Dylan!”\n\nCheers like a wave. Dylan walked forward, grinning as if he had already practiced it in the mirror, and accepted the crown with an easy “Thank you, thank you.” No one was surprised. Not even Dylan looked surprised—more as if it were just another stop on his usual evening.\n\n“And Homecoming Queen… Penelope!”\n\nEven louder cheers, shrieking, phone cameras flashing. Penelope strode forward, confident, as if she were walking down a red carpet. When the crown was placed on her head, she lifted her hands into the air, waved, laughed, and the crowd celebrated it because it simply fit. Penelope and Dylan—as if cut out of the yearbook.\n\nChris clapped along, but felt how surprisingly calm his heart remained. He was glad to be here—not because he had to win, but because he was standing here at all, right in the middle of it, beside Lucas’s warm arm.\n\n“And now,” the DJ said, “because we’re Maplewood and not Hollywood—we’ve got a few fun categories too!”\n\nA murmur, then laughter. Names were read from a slip of paper, little titles that everyone took seriously and made fun of at the same time: “Best Dressed,” “Most Likely to Start a Band,” “Biggest Glow-Up”—applause, whistles, a few red faces.\n\nThen came: “Cutest Couple!”\n\nChris heard the title before he understood his name. And then he heard it: “…Lucas and Chris!”\n\nFor one heartbeat, he thought he had misheard. Lucas’s hand reflexively tightened around his, as if it were a shared parachute. A wave of applause rose up, and somewhere someone shouted loudly: “Woooo!” Then, as if on command, it came from several sides:\n\n“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”\n\nChris’s face grew hot. He felt all the eyes turn toward them—not hostile, more expectant, playful. Still, it felt like a spotlight. His first impulse was to flee: laugh, wave, act as if it were only a joke, quickly disappear back into the crowd.\n\nThen he looked at Lucas.\n\nLucas wasn’t smiling broadly, but softly—almost questioning. No pressure. Just that quiet “If you want.” And Chris realized that his heart wanted it, even though his head was holding up every warning sign. Not because the others were chanting it. But because he suddenly thought: Why not, actually? Why should he always hide, always exist only in half-shadow?\n\nThe chant grew louder. “Kiss! Kiss!”\n\nChris inhaled as if stepping into cold water. Then he nodded to Lucas, barely noticeably.\n\nLucas took half a step closer. Chris felt the warm pressure of Lucas’s hand at his waist, the clutch in his own hand suddenly completely irrelevant. For one tiny moment, everything inside him was still—no plan, no fear, no “boy” or “girl,” only the thought: Lucas.\n\nChris lifted his chin, closed his eyes, and kissed him. When their lips touched, a soft shiver went through him, and for one brief, precious moment, the world seemed to stand still.\n\nNot long. Not dramatic. But real. And when he pulled away again, he heard the gym explode—cheers, whistles, applause, as if they had just delivered the best part of the evening.\n\nChris opened his eyes, and Lucas’s gaze was so warm that Chris almost forgot to breathe again—only this time from happiness. The noise around them became a soft background, like music behind a closed door. For this moment, it felt as if the world wasn’t judging them, not testing them, not exposing them—but simply celebrating with them.\n\nAnd Chris knew, without being able to explain it: This was the magical moment of the evening.\n\n[[Continue|Das Ende des Abends.]]

Chris nodded hastily. “My teacher explained yesterday that breast tissue doesn’t shrink back. And that the testicles shrink and fertility doesn’t come back for everyone. That it… I mean… can have long-term consequences. And I… I’m taking those pills.” He felt his ears grow hot. “I don’t want anything to get damaged.”\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">><<set $ChrisMemory[9] to 1>>\nDr. Coleman seemed to listen attentively. “Ah, yes. There’s a lot of old information and scare stories going around,” he then said calmly. “What your teacher described most likely referred to different dosages and much longer, uncontrolled use. These days, modern preparations are much easier to manage.”\n\nChris blinked. “But she said the tissue doesn’t go away…”\n\n“At your age, in your situation, with the amounts you’re being given, none of this is any reason to panic,” he interrupted mildly. “Changes that occur can be reversed to a very large extent. Bodies adapt. This is reversible support, not an irreversible intervention. Your teacher may be professionally dedicated, but she’s probably not up to date on endocrinology.”\n\nThe words seemed smooth and complete. Chris searched for some unevenness in them. “So… no permanent damage? Not even with fertility?”\n\n“No, not in your case,” Dr. Coleman said emphatically. “You’ll come out of all this completely normally when the time comes. Until then, the hormones help guide certain processes. Nothing more. No dramatic horror scenarios. I would tell you if I saw any cause for concern.”\n\nChris felt something inside him give way. Like a rope that had been pulled too tight and now loosened a little. He wanted to believe that sentence. A doctor was what he had wanted, an adult who knew more than he did. “Okay,” he said softly. “Then… I’m relieved. Thank you.”\n\nAt the same time, he felt another piece of ground being pulled out from under him. If “everything was reversible,” if there was no threat of lasting harm—then he had hardly anything left with which to stop his mother. The possibility of invoking medical danger dissolved before his eyes.\n\n“Good. Then I’d like to examine you physically for a moment. Please undress and stand over here.” He pointed to the free space in front of the vanity.\n\nHeat shot into Chris’s head. “Here?”\n\n“I’m a doctor, my boy—ah, my dear,” Coleman corrected himself with a thin smile. “It won’t take long.”\n\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[He undresses.|Er zieht sich aus.]]\n❯ [[He does not want to undress.|Er weigert sich.]]

In front of the stage, Maplewood suddenly felt small and huge at the same time. No walls of spotlights, no giant LED screens—just a wooden platform with a banner (“Founders’ Spirit – Tradition & Community”), a few strings of lights that were already coming on, and a microphone on a stand that wobbled a little whenever someone bumped into it. Even so, to Chris it felt as if he were standing before a stadium. Because it wasn’t “just anyone” watching here. The town was watching. Neighbors, parents, people who knew his name—or soon would.\n\nBehind the stage, the contestants crowded together, adjusting skirts, tugging at headbands, exchanging nervous laughter. A helper with a clipboard called out numbers, while somewhere up front a voice welcomed the crowd and was already talking about “community spirit” again. The word came so naturally, as if it were a spell that made everything all right.\n\nSusan stood close by Chris’s shoulder, as if she were his personal coach. “Chin up. Not so stiff. Wave as if you recognize someone. And smile.” She adjusted the bow on his apron once more and tapped his number 17, as if she had to make sure it was visible.\n\nChris’s hands were cold. His stomach felt hollow. And yet there he stood, polished in this Maplewood traditional costume, tightly laced and official.\n\n“Opening round!” called the helper. “When it’s your turn: go out, wave, name, age, what you do, then stand on the mark.”\n\nThe host up front sounded cheerful, but with that hint of sermon that suited the motto. “Our contestants represent the Founders’ Spirit—tradition, community, and heart!” Applause swelled, friendly, curious.\n\nChris heard the numbers. 14, 15, 16. Then: “Seventeen!”\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n''How does Chris act on stage?''\n❯ [[He stays as natural as possible and hopes to get through the opening round without an embarrassing misstep.|So natürlich wie möglich.]]\n❯ [[He pulls himself together and makes an extra effort on stage to win the town over.|Er gibt sich besonders Mühe.][$temp += 1]]

In the afternoon, the house lay in that deceptive peace that only lasted until Chris’s mother decided that something had to happen “now.” Chris had just sat down on the bed with a schoolbook when the doorbell rang downstairs.\n<<set $ort to "at home">>\nA package.\n\n[[Susan|Susan Braun]] was quick to the front door. Chris heard the rustle of cardboard, the triumphant “Ah!”, and then she was already standing in the doorway of his room, the box in her arms as if she had ordered a present for herself.\n\n“You’re trying this on,” she said without preamble.\n\nChris’s gaze fell on the shipping label. His name was on it. That didn’t make it any better. “What is it?”\n\n“Little things,” Susan said, setting the box on his vanity. “So you… look proper. And feel comfortable.”\n\nComfortable was a word that rarely belonged to him when it came from Susan’s mouth. Chris sighed, drew his knees up, and watched as she opened the box. Inside lay neatly folded fabrics, tags gleaming, plastic crackling. A new top, a skirt in a color his mother liked, and something that looked like a delicate bodysuit—all fairly innocent at first glance.\n\n“Go on,” Susan said. “Try them on. I need to know whether I have to send them back.”\n\nChris stood up, took the pieces, disappeared toward the bathroom, came back, tugged at hems, adjusted straps. Susan commented on every angle: “Posture,” “shoulders,” “turn around,” as if he were a mannequin.\n\nWhen he took the remaining things out of the box, an extra bag slid toward him—smaller, heavier, with a label that gave away what it was before he even unpacked it.\n\nA push-up bra.\n\nChris stared at it as if he had just found something forbidden. “What is this supposed to be?”\n\nHis mother blinked, took a step closer, and put on a face that was meant to act surprised. “Oh.” She took the bag, turned it over once, as if that could change reality. “That… must have been by mistake. I must have clicked the wrong size or—” She waved it off as if it were annoying. “Online shopping, you know how it is.”\n\nChris gave a dry laugh, without humor. “By mistake.”\n\nHe felt absurdly “made up,” as if every package pushed him a little farther away from himself. As if his body were a project being pressed into the “right” shape with padding, cuts, and tricks. He held the bra in his hands, the fabric smooth, the shape unmistakable. It wasn’t just embarrassing—it was humiliating because it was so obvious what Susan intended with it.\n\n“I’m not putting that on,” he said.\n\nSusan remained calm. Too calm. “Just try it on. Then we’ll see. If it doesn’t fit, I can send it back.” She smiled, as if she had offered a fair solution. “Come on. Two minutes.”\n\nChris’s protest got stuck in his throat. He didn’t want an argument that would turn into control. So he went back into the bathroom, closed the door, took one deep breath, and put on the push-up bra as matter-of-factly as one would put on a bandage. When he looked in the mirror, the result hit him at once: the silhouette was changed, more emphasized, more “finished.” It didn’t feel like him. It felt as if someone had turned up a volume he hadn’t wanted to hear at all.\n\nWith burning cheeks, he stepped back into the room, his arms crossed as if that could neutralize the whole thing. “There. Happy?”\n\nSusan looked at him, and her eyes softened with delight. “Oh, Chris.” Her tone was almost tender. “That looks wonderful. It gives you a beautiful silhouette up top.”\n\nChris felt himself grow even hotter. “It looks… artificial,” he managed, and that word alone made him feel dirty.\n\nSusan stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder as if to smooth the strap. “It simply looks good. And it suits you. You seem—” She searched for the word and, of course, found exactly the one he didn’t want to hear. “Very… feminine.”\n\nChris took half a step back, as inconspicuously as possible, and kept his gaze fixed on the floor. He didn’t want to see himself in the mirror while his mother looked at him as if this were a success.\n\n“Send it back,” he said quietly.\n\nSusan hesitated only briefly—too briefly. Then she took the bag and the label, as if returning it were an option, not a decision. “We’ll talk about it later,” she said, sounding as if she had already decided what they would talk about later.\n\nChris didn’t nod. He just stood there, ashamed of the fabric on his skin and of the feeling that someone else was treating his body like an idea.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<if $moore == 1>>[[Special training with Coach Moore.|Sondertaining mit Coach Moore.]]<<else>>[[Discoveries about Mrs. Rivera.|Entdeckungen über Mrs. Rivera.]]<<endif>>

"Of course, DeShawn," Chris whispered. "I’m a guy. And I’m not gay."\n\nLatoya grinned delightedly. "But you’re a little pervert. Want to fuck your own mother? You ought to be ashamed of yourself."\n\nChris wanted to protest, but just then, things got really loud in the bedroom.\n\nDeShawn grunted a few times and, bellowing like a bull, began pumping a heavy load of cum into Chris’s mother’s pussy.\n\nSusan let out a stifled gasp and moaned in ecstasy. She felt jet after jet shoot inside her; after four or five thrusts, it overflowed from her pussy and ran down her thighs.\n\nChris and Latoya were both startled as they watched DeShawn flood Chris’s mother’s pussy. When DeShawn finally withdrew his thick cock, Susan’s pussy hung wide open, and the cum dripped onto the mattress.\n\nLatoya then cast a knowing glance at Chris’s crotch. "Maybe you should go back to your room and take care of that. Looks uncomfortable."\n\nThen she quickly turned around and walked down the hallway, leaving Chris behind.\n\n[[Continue|Später beim Frühstück.]]\n\n

“No.” Chris swallowed.\n\n“Doesn’t matter, I have one here.”\n\nShe rummaged in her handbag and soon found what she was looking for.\n\n“Relax.”\n\nChris huffed: How was he supposed to relax in this situation? <<if $sex == 0>>Chris’s thoughts before his first time were not a clear sentence, more a swarm of images and fears. There was the desire to finally stop backing away. There was the need to be seen as a boy, without inspection, without mockery, without the feeling of living on probation.<<endif>>\n\nLatoya took the condom out of the wrapper and rolled it onto Chris: “Actually, we don’t need a condom. I’m on the pill, but this way we won’t make any stains.” Expertly, she checked the fit of the slightly too-large condom.\n\nLatoya pressed herself against him and rubbed her slender Black body against him before dropping onto the leather sofa. She spread her legs for him, giving him an unobstructed view of her most intimate place. Her vagina was shaved, with only a strip of pubic hair visible on her mound. Her labia were swollen, and her cleft was filled with wetness.\n\nWhen he tried to lie on top of her and enter her, it didn’t work because Chris was too excited.\n\n“Take your time, honey. I’m not going anywhere.”\n\nLatoya knew how to guide him. She kissed and licked his breasts. Then she guided his hand between her legs. Curiously, his fingers slid over her labia. Latoya moaned softly when his finger entered her vagina for the first time, rather unintentionally. “You’re doing good, honey.” She placed her hand over his and pressed his finger deep inside her.\n\n“But now I want to feel something else inside me.”\n\nLatoya took the lead again, climbing onto him. She pressed herself firmly against his member. And before he noticed it, she had reached her goal. Slowly, his member entered her. She kissed him again and moved her pelvis slowly back and forth.\n\nShe accompanied every movement of her pelvis with a firm grip around his member; she had trained her pelvic floor muscles especially for that.\n\nIt didn’t take long before Chris was moaning louder and louder. Latoya placed a hand over his mouth to muffle his moans. Her ring finger slipped into his mouth as she did. Chris immediately began sucking on the finger. Surprised, Latoya noticed that it turned her on incredibly.\n\nLatoya moved on him more and more intensely. She was already looking forward to his ejaculation. Because she loved it when she could feel the hot reward for her efforts.\n\nHis arousal grew with every movement Latoya made. He, too, thrust his pelvis against her more and more intensely. Latoya leaned back, her hands around her breasts, letting herself be carried by the forceful thrusts. Finally, she gasped loudly and collapsed as an orgasm rolled over her.\n\nShe fell onto Chris and kissed him fiercely. She hadn’t experienced such a beautiful orgasm in a long time. Chris was beside himself. He thrust his pelvis against Latoya more and more fiercely while enjoying her kisses.\n\nChris didn’t notice much of Latoya’s orgasm. He was too occupied with his own feelings. Only when he had released himself with heavy moans did he notice that Latoya was lying heavily on top of him.\n\n“That was amazing, honey,” she whispered in his ear.\n\n[[Continue|Der nächste Morgen in DeShawns Küchte.]]

A few days after the fair, Chris’s mother sat at the kitchen table, her elbows propped on the surface, typing on her phone. She laughed quietly as she did, that bright, satisfied laugh Chris knew from her when she felt flattered. When Chris came into the room, her expression changed immediately—not completely, but enough that Chris felt it. She turned the display slightly away and slipped the phone into her pocket too quickly.\n\n“Who’s texting?” Chris asked, more out of reflex than curiosity.\n\n“No one important,” Susan said, too lightly.\n\n... ... ...\n\nIn the weeks that followed, Dylan canceled plans more and more often, saying he didn’t have time. Practice. Studying. Team meeting. Chris nodded, said, “Sure, I get it,” and tried not to seem clingy. But once, when he was riding the bus through town in the afternoon, he saw Dylan’s car—parked. Right next to Susan’s car.\n\nIt was nothing. It could be anything. Coincidence. Maplewood was small, parking spaces were limited.\n\nLater at home, Susan said she had “just been shopping.” But she was dressed conspicuously nicely for it—too nicely for the supermarket and drugstore. She had worn lipstick that was usually more “evening” than “errands,” and her blouse showed far too much cleavage. When she walked past Chris, a scent lingered in the air.\n\nAn aftershave that seemed very familiar to Chris. Like Dylan’s.\n\nChris stood in the hallway for a moment, as if someone had changed the air. He couldn’t make sense of it. Maybe he was imagining it. Maybe lots of men smelled like that. And yet there was that unpleasant, small tug: Why does she smell like him?\n\n... ... ...\n\nAnother time, Chris talked—far too enthusiastically—about Dylan. About some little thing Dylan had done at practice. He noticed himself beaming as he spoke, as if he had to hold on to the happiness before it was gone.\n\nSusan reacted sharply, almost jealously: “Oh, your Dylan…” She said it in a tone that meant more than the words carried. As if Dylan wasn’t only Chris’s subject, but hers too—and as if she had the right to roll her eyes about it.\n\nChris frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”\n\n“Nothing,” Susan said immediately. “I just think it’s… sweet how worked up you get over him.”\n\nA few days later at dinner, Susan announced, as if it were a harmless idea: “Dylan can come over for coffee sometime. That would be nice.”\n\nChris’s heart gave a little jump. “Why…?”\n\nSusan shrugged and smiled. “Because I’m allowed to get to know your boyfriend. Aren’t I?”\n\nIt sounded like concern. But Chris felt that strange coldness beneath it again, one he couldn’t name.\n\nWhen Dylan actually came, Chris was both nervous and relieved. Maybe it will go back to normal, he thought. Maybe this is exactly what we need.\n\nBut before he had even properly arrived, he heard quiet laughter from the kitchen—Susan’s voice, Dylan’s voice. Not loud, not clear. But familiar. Too familiar for a “polite introduction.”\n\nChris paused briefly in the hallway, because his feet were faster than his head again. He heard fragments of words that didn’t fit together: Susan’s tone soft, Dylan quiet. Then something like “…not in front of Chris” or “…this stays between us.” It was only a sliver—but it cut.\n\nWhen Chris stepped into the kitchen, both of them fell abruptly silent, as if someone had stopped the music. Susan was standing by the stove, Dylan close enough that it had looked like a conversation “between just the two of them.” They both smiled—too quickly, too simultaneously.\n\n“Oh!” Susan said, a little too brightly. “There you are.”\n\n“Hey,” Dylan said, and his smile was friendly, but his gaze flicked away for a fraction of a second before he looked directly at Chris again.\n\nDinner didn’t make it any better. Susan casually put something on Dylan’s plate and said, as if it were obvious: “Better take this piece of cake here. You don’t like cinnamon.”\n\nChris’s cake fork stopped in midair. He had never told his mother that. He was even pretty sure he had only found out himself quite recently.\n\nHow does she know that, Chris asked himself. And the more Chris tried to explain it as coincidence, the stronger the suspicion became, like a shadow that didn’t come from the light, but from something moving between people.\n\n[[Continue|Der Tag der Wahrheit.]]

<div class="psychedelic-text">The empty cup was still dangling from his hand when someone darkened his shadow. <<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/partytyp.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/partytyp_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>> A tall guy with broad shoulders suddenly stood close in front of him. Flushed cheeks, glassy eyes, his shirt a little askew. He smelled of beer, sweat, and something sweet from the punch.\n\n“Hey,” he said, far too close. His gaze traveled without detour from Chris’s face over the crop top and downward, getting caught on the miniskirt. “I noticed you earlier.”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. “Uh-huh,” he murmured.\n\n“Really hot, you know that?” The guy grinned crookedly. “What are you doing here all alone? Come on, let’s dance.”\n\nHe placed a hand on Chris’s hip, as if that had already been decided.\n\nChris froze. The alcohol in his blood made everything softer, but fear still cut through sharply. The hand on his hip burned like a foreign object. The music thundered, the lights twitched, and his head spun.\n\n“Let’s have a little fun,” the guy said, his voice deeper, more suggestive. “In an outfit like that, don’t tell me you’re not looking for someone.”\n\nThat landed. It was exactly the sentence everyone had warned about, and yet it still felt like something he had no ready answer for. His heart beat faster, the room seeming both too narrow and too wide at once.\n\nChris knew he had to decide.\n\nIf he rejected him clearly and firmly, he risked trouble. If he gave in and danced with him, it could make things easier—or worse.\n\nHis head buzzed, his knees felt weak, and the guy’s fingertips on his hip waited for his decision.</div>\n\n''What does Chris decide?''\n❯ [[He clearly and firmly rejects the boy, even though he senses the situation could immediately turn because of it.|Den Jungen klar und deutlich abweisen.][$kissboy += 1;$harassed += 1]]\n❯ [[He agrees to dance with him, hoping it will defuse the situation rather than make it worse.|Mit ihm tanzen.][$kissboy += 1;$harassed += 1]]

The car smelled of cold leather and Susan’s perfume, which seemed sharper today than usual. Susan drove, both hands on the steering wheel, the school entrance road slipping away behind them. Chris sat in the passenger seat as if he were too small for the belt, his hands clasped together as though he could tie himself down with them.\n<<set $ort to "school parking lot">>\nFor the first few minutes, Susan said nothing. Only the turn signal clicked, the engine hummed. Chris stared at the glove compartment as if the right explanation were bolted there.\n\n“So,” Susan finally began. The word sounded like a lecture. Chris’s stomach tightened. He waited for the impact.\n\nSusan breathed out, as if she first had to find the tone. “You know that’s not okay.” She said it calmly, but with that maternal hardness that did not invite discussion. “Teacher, coach, authority figure. You’re not only getting yourself into trouble with that, but him too.”\n\nChris nodded without looking up. “I know.” His voice was small. “I’m sorry.”\n\nSusan was silent again. Then, surprisingly softer: “You know… I had a crush like that once too.” Chris’s head lifted a millimeter, reflexively. Susan kept her eyes on the road. “Back when I was a young girl. My gym teacher. I was… stupidly infatuated.” A short sound, almost a laugh, that quickly disappeared again. “I would never have dared to kiss him. Not even close.”\n\nChris’s heart gave an uneasy jump. He didn’t know whether that was supposed to comfort or shame him. It did both.\n\n“That doesn’t mean I approve of it,” Susan added immediately, as if wanting to correct her own softness. “It was stupid. But… I at least understand where it can come from.” A tiny sideways glance at him, brief and hard to read. “You have… courage. Or recklessness. Pick one.”\n\nChris’s cheeks burned. Courage was not the word that felt right to him. It had not been a brave moment, but a strange loss of control—like slipping on wet ground. “I… I didn’t want that,” he said hastily. “It was just—a moment. I was worn out from training. And he suddenly stood so close. It just… happened.”\n\nHe heard himself how weak it sounded. Like an excuse dissolving at the edges.\n\nSusan said nothing, but her fingers drummed once against the steering wheel.\n\nChris looked out the window. Houses passed by, front yards, a trash can at the curb. In his head, the moment in the gym replayed again, in agonizing slow motion: his movement forward, Mr. Moore’s lips and the way he pushed him away. And then the office, the matter-of-fact sentences, the adult voices that had turned his impulse into an incident.\n\n“I don’t want to kiss a man,” he murmured, more to himself than to his mother, and immediately felt how wrong the sentence sounded. It was like an incantation. Like something you say to hold a door shut.\n\nBecause the truth sat behind it and pressed against the wood. He had wanted it. At least in that moment. Not out of planning, not out of reason—but out of something real that he could no longer neatly talk away.\n\nSusan turned onto their street. The house appeared, quiet, as if it knew nothing. Chris’s shame was so large it almost weighed like a body of its own. All he could think was: I didn’t want that… and at the same time: Yes. Somehow, yes.\n\nWhen Susan parked the car, she remained seated for a moment, the engine off, the key still in her hand. “We’ll talk more later,” she said. It sounded like control—and beneath the control lay something Chris couldn’t place: a hint of understanding. Maybe even a tiny, dangerous pride.\n\nChris nodded silently and got out. His legs felt weak, as if the shame were dragging them along.\n\n[[Continue|Einkaufen mit Mom.]]

While pillows and blankets were being rearranged and someone dimmed the lights, Penelope stopped in front of the photo wall. “Wait a second… where’s Chris’s Polaroid?” She pushed two pictures aside, checked behind the tape edges. Nothing. “It didn’t fall down.” A few girls lifted pillows, checked the floor. Shrugs.\n\n“Weird,” Penelope murmured, her brow slightly furrowed. “Fine—we’ll just take another one.”\n\nChris stood once more in front of the frame of lights. No duckface this time, just a normal smile, calm and open. Click—whrrr. Penelope waved the photo until the image bloomed into view. “Cute,” she said honestly. “Now you fit on the wall.” She pressed the fresh Polaroid into the tape corner—centered, clearly visible.\n\nThen the vote: “Horror or rom-com?” Hands up, voices overlapping. “Horror!” won narrowly, accompanied by a “Do you dare?” and a nervous giggle.\n\nChris sat down beside Charlotte on the sofa, a small “Hi” on his lips. Charlotte kept her gaze fixed on the screen, stood up after a few seconds without comment, and dropped down two seats away between two other girls. That hurt briefly in his stomach. He said nothing.\n\nPenelope stood at the shelf. “Top left, second row,” she murmured to herself, rising onto her tiptoes and stretching, fingertips searching over cases. Chris saw the hem of her satin negligee slide a little higher. Her sexy ass was half exposed to his gaze. To his astonishment, he realized that she was either not wearing any panties, or that they had slipped into the deep, tight valley between her firm buttocks.\n\n“Got it!” She pulled out the box.\n\nThe movie began. Even the first sound-design shock made the pillow fort rustle; with every jumpscare, everyone moved closer together, arms grabbed for blanket edges, bare legs touched. Chris sat right in the middle of it, feeling bare skin on the left, warm satin on the right—I’m right in the middle of the girl circle, he thought, half awed, half overwhelmed.\n\nAt some point, something rustled outside the window. Someone whispered, “Did you see that? A shadow!” Penelope paused, the pillow fort held its breath. Another rustle. Then a dark silhouette sprang against the glass door—two yellow points, a tail: the neighbor’s cat. Everyone screamed—high, short, relieved. Chris’s scream slipped out higher than he would have liked, that uncontrolled, girlish “eeek!” He clapped a hand over his mouth, embarrassed.\n\n“OMG, same!” one of the girls squealed and laughed, briefly touching Chris on the thigh, an ally in being startled. The giggling dissolved into warm laughter; the cat twitched its tail and disappeared. “Continue,” Penelope commanded, grinning, and let the movie run again.\n\nChris breathed through, his heart settling back down. He leaned back a little, feeling the hum of the string lights, the closeness, the shared flinch at the next scare. Despite everything, there was a small, bright feeling in his chest: he belonged—at least tonight. And somewhere on the wall was a photo that confirmed it. The other one remained missing.\n\n[[Continue|Beauty-Zeit.][$stil += 1]]

The afternoon hung heavy in the hallways, as if the school had soaked up the air. Chris held the folder closer to his body, the caramel-colored skirt brushing against the tights as he walked and making every sound louder. In front of the door to the D&D room, he paused briefly. The uneasy feeling was already there, like a small stone in his shoe.\n<<set $ort to "D&D club room">>\nWhen he opened the door, [[Adam|Adam Bowman]] raised his head. “There she is,” Adam said into the room, so casually that it stood out. “Hello, babe.”\n\nBefore Chris could react, Adam stormed toward him with a broad grin. Without warning, he wrapped Chris in his arms, lifted him slightly off the floor, and pressed a kiss to his lips—right in front of the staring nerds.\n\nChris felt completely helpless as Adam possessively kissed him. He would be mortified to kiss a boy, but here in such a public place it was killing him. \n\n''How does Chris react?''\n❯ [[He freezes in surprise.|Er erstarrt überrascht.][$adam += 1;$adam_opinion += 10]]\n❯ [[He freezes in disgust.|Er erstarrt angewidert.]]

In the past few weeks, Homecoming night had not become a single slip-up, but a new routine that disgusted Chris a little more every day. Adam kept showing up—after class, during breaks that refused to end. And Chris’s submissive, reserved manner made it easy for Adam. He rarely said a clear “no,” not because he did not want to, but because he did not trust himself to say “no.” The video hung in the air like an invisible hook: Adam did not have to show it all the time. It was enough that Chris knew it existed.\n\nChris would have had countless opportunities to end the whole thing. He could have walked away, asked someone for help, raised his voice. But he did what he had always done with his mother too: gave in. Went quiet. Hoped it would eventually stop on its own. He resigned himself to his fate without really fighting—and every time he gave in, it felt easier for a moment. And afterward, all the heavier.\n\nThen came Adam’s birthday.\n\n“You’re coming, right?” Adam had said, as if it were a given. “My whole family wants to see you.”\n\nChris had nodded, even though the word “family” alone made his stomach tighten. Even worse was the next demand: Adam wanted Chris to ask his mother whether he could spend the night at his “boyfriend’s” place. That word tasted bitter. It sounded harmless, it sounded normal—and it was a lie Chris hated because it was so smooth.\n\nSusan said yes. Of course. She even seemed pleased, as if it were a report of social success. Chris had said nothing to that. He had only nodded, packed his bag, and felt as if he were walking into something he could not stop.\n\nThe family celebration was big. Loud. Voices everywhere, laughter, music from a small speaker, the smell of food, cake, sweet drinks. Chris stood among it all like a decoration being passed around: Adam’s pretty girlfriend. It was embarrassing in a particular way—not the sharp, public embarrassment of the dance, but the warm, sticky kind of embarrassment because so many eyes examined him kindly and saw something that was not right.\n\nHe smiled, said polite sentences, nodded too often. Adam kept him close constantly, as if he had to prove that Chris really belonged there. Once, in a moment that would still burn in Chris hours later, Adam simply pulled him onto his lap and kissed him, right in the middle of the commotion, as if that were sweet. Chris laughed briefly, thinly, and stayed seated, because it was easier to stay quiet than to make a scene. The hands on his waist felt like clamps.\n\n[[Continue|Die Nacht mit Adam.][$woral += 1]]

Chris hesitated briefly and rose unsteadily from his seat. A moment later, Chris was kneeling in front of the man.\n\n“Touch it,” Zoe demanded.\n\nChris seemed nervous. He was afraid of and averse to a man’s penis. When Chris finally placed his fingers on his shaft, his manhood twitched and Chris felt the heat.\n\n“You’re doing that excellently. Oh. Very good,” the man said.\n\nZoe watched what was happening with curiosity and began stroking Chris. Through the fabric of his blouse, she began caressing his small breasts, and before Chris knew it, Zoe had pulled the garment over his head. Chris didn’t resist, not even when Zoe opened his bra.\n\n“You have insanely pretty breasts,” the guy praised. Chris acknowledged the compliment bashfully.\n\nZoe continued her caresses and lingered on Chris’s breasts for a long time. Now and then she caressed them with her tongue. The man enjoyed the stimulation of his member by Chris’s hand and looked back and forth between Chris’s tits and his crotch, where Chris’s hand was uncertainly jerking him up and down.\n\n“Why don’t you take it in your mouth,” the guy urged Chris.\n\nChris hesitated and shook his head in disgust. Instead, he let go of him and began taking an interest in Zoe. The two teenagers kissed passionately, undressed more and more, and let their hands wander everywhere. Zoe covered Chris’s breasts with tender kisses again, while the fingers of her right hand slipped into Chris’s panties and worked his member. Chris had placed both hands on Zoe’s ass cheeks. Under the man’s watchful gaze, they stimulated each other for the next few minutes.\n\nThe guy felt a little left out, leaned over to Chris, and wanted to kiss him. Chris pulled his head back.\n\n“Come on. One little kiss?” He placed a hand on Chris’s head, and Chris let it happen. They kissed cautiously.\n\nWhen Zoe noticed that the guy was kissing Chris, she pulled Chris’s panties off.\n\nThe guy ended the kiss and laid the drunken Chris down on the mattress. Then he grabbed Chris by the thighs and pulled him closer, until his cock was mere centimeters away from Chris’s asshole. Although Chris had realized that the man had pulled him closer, he apparently had no idea what he intended to do. When the tip of the cock parted his ass cheeks, Chris realized what he had in mind. Before he could stop him, the hard shaft breached the entrance to Chris’s ass.\n\n“Uhhhhh!” Chris cried out in a hoarse shriek as his anus was penetrated, and he began to struggle. The guy faced a choice: pull out or push on. He chose the latter. He kept a tight grip on Chris’s legs and began to thrust gently—once, twice, and then again and again. Chris felt the cock deep within his lower abdomen, not just in his ass. In and out. He repeated this several times before picking up the pace, thrusting more vigorously with every stroke. Each thrust was uncomfortable for Chris, sending a wave of pain through his body. His asshole burned, and his lower abdomen felt as though it were seizing up with cramps every time the guy buried his cock inside him.\n\nBut Chris’s screams passed, and something unexpected happened. The burning pain gave way, and a tremor of pleasure rolled through Chris’s body.\n\nHe could only stare in disbelief at his own stiffening penis and at the area of his lap<<if $anal == 0>>, which no man had ever penetrated before<<endif>>. And was unable to comment on what was happening.\n\nBy now, the guy had settled into a steady fucking rhythm. He was getting hornier and hornier. <<if $anal == 0>>The fact that he was the first man allowed to fuck Chris turned him on incredibly. <<endif>>He could feel his release quietly approaching. It wouldn’t be long before he would unload.\n\nZoe put on a satisfied smile and said, “Go on, fuck her properly. Show her how hot a hard cock can be.”\n\nShe watched the union while also tending to her own needs. Her finger kept rubbing over her most sensitive spot. Her breathing grew faster, and her arousal seemed stronger than only a few moments before. The guy fucked Chris powerfully and in the same rhythm. “Do you like how I’m fucking you?”\n\nMoaning, Chris writhed beneath the man, clawing his fingers into the bedsheet. “Ooooaaaaaah...” Chris answered with a long, drawn-out moan.\n\nHe grew burning hot, and he felt it coming too; his own cock twitched and sprayed his seed onto his stomach.\n\nFinally, the guy couldn’t take it anymore and wanted to cum at last. He increased the pace, his hands clawed at Chris’s hips, and he pulled his ass even more into the direction of his thrusts. Then his semen broke through every boundary and made its way into Chris’s bowels.\n\nAs his sticky fluid poured into Chris’s lower body, the guy and Zoe moaned at the same time as they both experienced their longed-for climax.\n\nFor half a minute, he savored the aftershocks of his release before turning to Zoe and satisfying her as well that evening.\n\n[[Continue|Der nächste Morgen.2]]\n\n

<<set $wochentag = 3>><<set $ort to "school">><<set $moore_opinion to 55>>Wednesday rolled through the schedule without incident—at least on paper. In the halls, however, Chris heard a new rumor about the theater club and the planned performance, and it clung to the day like a small shadow: supposedly, the club had almost had to dissolve last year. Some said that since the last performance, the theater club had never been quite the same—as if something had happened backstage that only the older members truly understood. Chris also picked up that Ruby had supposedly been on the verge of switching clubs back then—and then had stayed after all, without anyone explaining exactly why.\n\n<<if $charlotte > 1 >>In the school hallway, Chris and [[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] walked alongside each other for a few steps during break, almost by chance, as if the change between classes had swept them into the same current. It was unusually quiet in the corridor; no one was looking, no clique nearby, only the distant clatter of locker doors. Chris’s hand lifted instinctively, as if searching for Charlotte’s fingers all on its own—and stopped at the last moment, as if against an invisible wall. He let the hand sink again, too quickly, as if it had burned itself.\n\nCharlotte had seen it. Her gaze slipped briefly to his hand, then forward again. She said nothing, instead opening her bag and rummaging until she pulled out a small packet. Two earrings, nothing expensive—small, pretty studs that shimmered in the light. “I’ve been meaning to give these to you for ages,” she said softly, almost matter-of-factly, as if she were not solving the problem, but only picking up a thread again. Chris accepted them with warm cheeks and thanked her.\n\n<<endif>>After school, Chris went to the gym for special training, as he did every Wednesday. [[Mr. Moore|Nathan Moore]] set precise counts, corrected grips, tapped the axis of his hips in the air with two fingers. “Breathe. Hold the line. And don’t rush on four,” he said, factual, demanding, just enough praise that it worked like a magnet.\n\nWhen they were finished, Chris’s shoulders burned pleasantly. In the shower, warm water beaded over his skin, the steam making the tiles go soft. He closed his eyes, still hearing the music in his head counting on from the speaker. The showers rushed, somewhere a shampoo bottle fell over and was set upright again.\n\nHe wrapped a towel around his hips, reached for his bag—then the door opened. Chris stood in front of the open locker, covered only in the white bath towel, as Mr. Moore entered the girls’ changing room. He was wearing a white shirt. His hair was wet from the shower. This time, his muscular legs were in jeans. Chris did not hear him. Noticed nothing around him. Only when he grabbed Chris by the shoulders and turned him around, pressing his back against the lockers, did Chris startle. But before the scream could have escaped his throat, his large hand was over his mouth.\n\n“I thought you could use my help once more. Am I right?” His lustful gaze rested on Chris. Chris shook his head violently. His strong fingers pressed Chris’s jaw together. “What was that?” Something like anger mixed into his desire. And slowly, Chris began to nod. That was satisfaction enough for Mr. Moore. He took his hand from Chris’s mouth and replaced it with his lips. Kissed Chris out of his mind. Dipped his tongue into his mouth. Chris could not help it. He had to return that incredible kiss. Moore’s hands wandered under the towel to Chris’s buttocks. With a tender roughness, he grabbed him. Pulled him against himself. Chris could feel Mr. Moore’s hard cock against his stomach. Enjoyed the feeling of the kiss lasting so long. Moore kneaded Chris’s buttocks. Pulled them apart. Pressed Chris’s ass together again. Pulled the buttocks apart again.\n\nWith his middle finger, he entered Chris with the first knuckle. And then Chris felt the whole middle finger in his anus. Moore moved his thick finger lightly in Chris’s ass. Pushed it back inside in rhythm with his tongue. Chris moaned uncontrollably. So Mr. Moore pulled it out again.\n\nWith a rough gesture, Moore removed the troublesome towel. Threw it somewhere. But he was surprised by what beautiful little breasts came into view. Immediately, Mr. Moore broke the kiss. Lowered his head to Chris’s breasts and sucked on the nipples as if he had never done anything else.\n\n“Stop it!” Chris seemed to have come to his senses again. He braced his hands against Moore’s shoulders and shoved him away. “I’m a boy. We can’t do this,” he said, but did not believe his own words. He had liked what his teacher had done to him. Especially his hands on his ass. Somehow, Chris immediately missed his closeness and wanted to feel his warmth on his body again.\n\n“You don’t really want that,” Mr. Moore said with a mischievous grin. He straightened up. Grabbed Chris by the hips and lifted him into the air. “Put me down!!!” Chris squirmed in his arms. But that did not bother him. Chris was a featherweight. He laid him stomach-down on the small bench that stood in front of the locker. Chris kept squirming and tried to sit up, but after a loud, echoing slap on his ass, he went quiet.\n\nHis resistance died instantly. In the next moment, Chris felt Moore’s hard arousal pressing against his moist ass crack. More from reflex than from his own will, Chris pushed his pelvis back toward him, making it easier for him to enter.\n\nWithout resistance, he pushed his glans against Chris’s moist back entrance, which Chris was offering him so willingly. Chris bit his lips as he felt his lance beginning to enter him. Then—\n\n—the alarm clock tore him out of it. Chris shot upright in his bed on Wednesday morning. The room lay still in gray early light, the blanket askew, his heart too fast. He stared at the ceiling for a moment as reality caught up.\n\nAnother dream about Mr. Moore.\n\nThey came without him wanting them to. He felt the heat in his face, a mixture of embarrassment and something he did not like to name. “Stupid,” he muttered, smoothing the blanket as if he could wipe the dream out of the fabric. Then he sat up, forced his breathing into a calm pattern, and got to his feet, as if hurry were the best medicine against images that had come too close.\n\n[[Continue|Das richtige Sondertaining mit Coach Moore.]]

Chris slowly raised his eyes.\n\nSusan sat at the defense table, her hands neatly folded in front of her. Her nails were painted a pale color. Her posture was straight. Almost calm.\n\nFor a moment, she did not look like the woman they had just been talking about. Not like someone who had lied, pressured, and watched. She looked like Susan when visitors had been in the house: friendly, controlled, flawless.\n\nThen their eyes met.\n\nChris expected anger. Tears. Maybe remorse.\n\nBut Susan only looked at him as if he had disappointed her.\n\nAs if she were not the one on trial.\n\nChris felt something cold pull through his chest. In the past, that look would have been enough. In the past, he would have lowered his head, apologized, said anything to make her smile again.\n\nNot this time.\n\nHe held her gaze.\n\nJust for a few seconds.\n\nThen Susan was the first to look away.\n\nChris breathed out.\n\nIt was not a victory. Not yet.\n\nBut it was the first time she had yielded.\n\n“Your Honor,” the defense attorney said, “the defense calls Susan Braun to the stand.”\n\nSusan slowly stood up.\n\nFor a moment, the courtroom was so quiet that Chris could hear the rustle of her skirt. She walked to the witness stand as if she had practiced the route. Back straight. Chin slightly raised. Hands calm.\n\nChris knew that calm.\n\nIt was the same calm with which she had laid pills on the kitchen table. The same calm with which she had corrected his makeup before driving him to school. The same calm with which she had told him he should be grateful.\n\nSusan placed her hand on the Bible, swore to tell the truth, and sat down.\n\nThe defense attorney stepped closer.\n\n“Mrs. Braun, do you love your son?”\n\nSusan did not look at Chris.\n\n“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”\n\nThe word hit him harder than he had expected.\n\nOf course.\n\nAs if love were something one could claim after taking everything else.\n\n“Can you explain to the court,” the defense attorney asked, “what happened in Maplewood?”\n\nSusan drew in an audible breath. Her voice sounded soft, almost tired.\n\n“Chris came to me during a very difficult time. The divorce was ugly. Michael and I disagreed about many things. Chris was angry. Confused. He had trouble adjusting.”\n\nMichael tensed beside Chris.\n\nSusan continued.\n\n“I wanted to help him. I wanted to give him structure. A new environment. A fresh start.”\n\nThe defense attorney nodded sympathetically.\n\n“And the name Christina?”\n\nFor the first time, Susan looked briefly in Chris’s direction.\n\nNot for long. Just long enough for his hands to tighten around the glass.\n\n“I thought it would help him,” she said. “He was so sensitive. So lost. I thought that if he stopped fighting everything, he might finally find peace.”\n\nA murmur passed through the courtroom. The judge looked up, and it became quiet again.\n\n[[Continue|Susans Aussage.]]

He chose the daring combination. The cream cups looked light, almost floating; fine lace shimmered at the edge, and a tiny red accent placed a dot in the middle. As he put it on, he realized immediately how little his hands knew this sequence.\n\nFirst he slipped his arms into the straps, let the band fall loosely around his back—backwards. Out of the straps again, rearrange. This time he hooked the clasp in front of his chest, the way his mother had once shown him: first on the outermost hook, so there would still be “room inward,” then turn the whole thing until the clasp sat on his back. As he did, the lace brushed coolly over his ribs, the underbust band searched for its place; he tugged, the straps twisted, he cursed under his breath. Loosen it again, free his shoulders, smooth the fabric. Finally the band lay horizontal, not too high, not too low. He lifted his arms, reached behind his back, shortened the straps in small steps until the cups lay against him without pressing. Look in the mirror, lift his chest slightly with the flat of his hand so the fabric could settle. Breathe once, check—held.\n\nThe briefs were quicker: smooth edge, a hint of red at the waistband.\n\nThe mirror in the room showed him from head to stomach: tanned skin, the clear lines from the day before, and over them this delicate construction of fabric that made him look both unnecessary and somehow coherent. The cups traced a calm curve, the lace was a whisper, not a scream. He raised his arm, and the pale trace of the tan met the lace edge exactly—a precise graphic that was almost beautiful. Too beautiful. He caught himself thinking that the image was attractive—more attractive than he could be comfortable with. He lowered his gaze, as if someone had caught him.\n\nThe door opened without a knock. “Sexy,” his mother commented, as if it were a neutral label. She leaned in the doorway, let her gaze slide once from top to bottom, one eyebrow playfully tilted. “Is that for your new boyfriend? The one who drove you home yesterday?”\n\nBlood rushed into Chris’s face. “That was not my boyfriend,” he burst out. “That’s Charlotte’s father.”\n\n“Oh really?” Susan smiled thinly. “From outside, in the car, it almost looked as if you were about to kiss goodbye.” She was audibly enjoying teasing him.\n\nSusan checked the fit of his bra and tugged the cups into place at the front of Chris’s chest, then opened the wardrobe and pulled out a bundle. “Today we’ll keep it simple and neat.” She laid the pieces on the bed as if they were exhibits: “Lavender culottes, ankle-length, swinging. With a simple top with a lace edge.”\n\n<center>[img[pics/outfit2.jpg]]</center> Chris stared at the culottes. Pants. For the first time, she was letting him wear pants. A spontaneous sigh of relief pushed upward—finally not having to watch how a hem behaved when he sat down, finally no skirt length, no cataloging lines. In the same breath, a new fear entered the room: What if it wasn’t enough? What if pants were the moment when someone looked twice, heard his voice in the wrong register, the image tipped over?\n\n“Mom…” He cleared his throat, searching for a tone that didn’t sound pleading, and found none. “Could I… maybe wear a skirt or a dress after all? Today?” He hated how the words felt in the air—wrong, treacherous, like surrendering to a role that wasn’t his, and yet offered more protection in everyday life.\n\nSusan blinked, and a mocking smile pulled up the corners of her mouth. “Aha. Now you want skirts. Yesterday you were still Mr. ‘absolutely not.’” She placed the syllable “Mr.” deliberately, lightly, but sharply. “No, Chris. You’re going to learn that you don’t get the most comfortable costume every day. The culottes suit you, they’re completely unambiguous. And if you think you need a skirt to ‘pass’—then that’s a matter of posture, not fabric.”\n\nThat hit. Not because it was wrong, but because it landed exactly on the spot that was already sore. He felt even smaller than he already stood.\n\n“Hurry up now.” Susan smoothed the top. “And—today after school, you come straight home.”\n\n“Why?” He tried to make it sound casual.\n\n“You’ll see.” Her tone shifted into something organizational that allowed no questions.\n\nShe reached for the bedroom door handle, turned around once more, her gaze brief, appraising, almost satisfied. “Get ready.”\n\nThe door fell shut. Chris stood still for a moment, the underbust band like a new horizon beneath his fingers. Pants. And a day that already wanted more from him than he had to give. He breathed in, silently counted to four, and reached for the lavender fabric, which slid soft and cool over his hands—a small comfort in a plan he had not made.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $haar == 1>>[[Off to school.|Auf zur Schule.3]]<<else>>[[Off to school.|Auf zur Schule.4][$stil -= 1]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Then came the roughhousing.\n\nA game that was actually called “wizards catch monsters,” but in truth was just “everyone runs.” Chris ran along, cautiously at first, then more boldly. His cloak fluttered behind him like a flag. For a moment, he really felt big.\n\nUntil someone stepped on the cloak.\n\nIt happened in one ugly little jerk: fabric pulled tight, a rrrip—and suddenly the cloak hung crooked. At the same time, while dodging out of the way, Chris bumped the magic wand against a chair; the star snapped and hung sadly from the tape.\n\nChris stopped. His face grew hot. His throat burned. Everything inside him tightened, that nasty mix of “it’s broken” and “everyone can see it.” He held the wand up as if he could hide it, and blinked quickly because he absolutely did not want to cry. Not today. Not as a wizard.\n\nChristine was there immediately.\n\n“Stop,” she said loudly, like a tiny boss inventing rules. She grabbed Chris’s hand as if it were the most normal thing in the world and pulled him away from the running. “Come on. Repairs.”\n\n“But…” Chris’s voice wobbled.\n\n“Repairs,” Christine repeated, sounding as if there were no alternative.\n\nShe dragged him to the craft corner—where there were always scissors, glue, paper, glitter, and tulle. A few girls were sitting there in a kind of focused circle, gluing crowns and wings onto themselves. Christine placed Chris right in the middle, as if she had officially signed him up.\n\n“Our wizard is broken,” she explained.\n\nChris’s eyes widened. “I’m not broken.”\n\n“The costume,” Christine corrected at once. “The wizard is great.”\n\nThe girls looked up, first curious, then serious. One with braids nodded as if this were an important project. “We’ll make it better than before.”\n\n[[Continue|Kindheitstage3]]

And then it began: They found tulle in a shade of purple that was much more spectacular than Chris’s old cloak. They fastened it to his collar with safety pins so that it fell like a real magician’s cloak. Someone fetched a glittering headband that was actually meant to be a crown and put it on Chris’s hat, making it look as if he were wearing a “magician’s crown.” The magic wand got a new star made of golden paper, cut out twice, glued together, sprinkled with glitter. Christine blew dramatically on the glue. “Magic breath,” she explained.\n\nChris stood there while they crafted around him, feeling embarrassed and… important at the same time. Like someone who was being upgraded.\n\nWhen the wand held together again, a girl handed him the finished “artifact” with both hands. Chris took it carefully, as if it really were magical.\n\nAt that moment, a child came by—a boy with a pirate hat—and made a face. “Haha, princess,” he said, pointing at the glitter headband.\n\nChris felt the shame creeping up.\n\nChristine immediately stepped in front of him, like a little shield with tulle. “He’s a wizard,” she said loudly and with so much confidence that even the teacher glanced over. “With a crown. Because he’s a super wizard.”\n\nThe pirate blinked, as if resistance had not been written into his plan. “Uh…” he said. And then he walked on, suddenly very busy with his saber.\n\nChris’s chest grew warm. He raised the wand, held it a little higher. Not as a weapon, but as proof. I am a wizard. With a crown.\n\nHe ran off again—this time with a cloak that was more beautiful than before, and a wand that glittered like a prize.\n\nWhen Susan came to pick him up later, she found Chris in the play circle, wand in hand, the crown crooked on his head, and a smile bigger than his cough. Christine sat beside him, as satisfied as if she had won a battle.\n\nSusan stood still for a moment, surprised, then laughed softly. “What kind of wizard is this?”\n\n“An upgraded wizard,” Christine explained at once.\n\nChris nodded eagerly. “I have a crown now.”\n\nSusan crouched down and briefly stroked his forehead. “And how do you feel?”\n\nChris thought for a moment, very seriously, and then said, “Good. Very good.”\n\nOn the way home, he held the crown like a trophy he did not want to give up. Christine walked beside him, telling every lamppost that she had “saved the wizard.” Chris coughed once, but it sounded less bad. He felt the warmth of that hour inside him—this sibling feeling that said: No matter what breaks, we somehow make it better.\n\n[[↩ Back|Enden]]

The pillow fort was a little universe: blankets as a roof, string lights like stars, bowls of popcorn and gummy bears in the middle. Chris dropped into one corner, satin rustling all around, the scents of shampoo and body lotion blending into a soft haze. From here, he had a nice, exciting view of the others—gleaming fabrics, bare legs, loose hair.\n\n“Truth or dare?” someone called.\n“Boring,” Penelope waved it off, as always holding command elegantly in her hand. “We’re playing Who would be most likely to…? I’ll start.”\n\nThe rules were simple: a question to the group, then everyone pointed to the person it fit “most likely.” First came harmless things.\n“Who would be most likely to go on a trash TV show?”—general giggling, several fingers pointed at a girl with perfect eyeliner, who bowed theatrically.\n“Who would be most likely to sleep through prom?”—another girl got the majority and acted outraged.\n\nThe mood quickly grew warm and silly; Chris laughed along, sometimes pointing hesitantly, sometimes decisively, and each time it felt a little less as if he had sneaked in.\n\nThen the questions became bolder. “Who would be most likely to kiss someone of the same sex?” A murmur, but not a bad one—more electric giggling. Hands hovered, searching for targets.\n\nChris’s heart beat a little faster. He should point too—not think, just play. His gaze briefly slid over the circle.\n<<set $tempChristine to 0>>\n''Who does Chris choose?''\n❯ [[Charlotte|Charlotte]]\n❯ [[Christine|Christine][$tempChristine += 1]]\n❯ [[Penelope|Penelope]]

Outside, the festival lights dazzled Chris for a moment, as if someone had turned up the contrast. He blinked, tried to get his breathing back to normal, and still felt the rapid pounding in his throat. Lucas stood close beside him, as if that had become natural in the dark and had simply survived the exit.\n\n“Hey, you two!” An employee in a black haunted-house shirt approached them, groomed and friendly, with a clipboard and a monitor on a small cart. “We took photos inside. As a souvenir. Want to have a look?”\n\nChris’s stomach did a little nosedive. “Uh—no, we—”\n\n“Sure,” Lucas said at once, curious, already stepping closer.\n\nThe monitor showed a series of images that clicked through automatically: first a blurry moment in which Chris was clinging to Lucas in fright—arms around shoulders, faces close, Chris’s expression half laughing, half fleeing. Then another photo in which Chris’s hand rested on Lucas’s arm as if it were the only solid point in the world.\n\nAnd then came the picture that pulled the ground out from under Chris’s feet.\n\nA photo taken in the exit corridor, in the flickering haunted-house light: Lucas’s face close, and Chris… Chris was kissing him. Not timidly. Not “by accident.” The Chris on the screen looked passionate, devoted, as if he hadn’t hesitated for a second. His eyes were half closed, his hand gripping the fabric tightly, as if he didn’t want to let him go.\n\nChris’s face grew hot, then hotter still, until it felt as if he were glowing. “Oh my God,” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, and instinctively wanted to take a step back. He wanted to get away. Immediately. Become invisible. Pretend he hadn’t seen it—as if it had never existed.\n\n“That’s…” Lucas sounded almost proud, nearly breathless. “That’s really sweet.”\n\n“No,” Chris said quickly, too quickly. “I mean—we have to—that’s—”\n\nThe employee grinned. “Do you want it as a print? Or with a frame?”\n\nChris’s head was already shaking before he could find the words. “No, thank you, we—”\n\n“We’ll take that one,” Lucas said at once and pulled out his wallet, as if it were a small act of heroism. Chris stared at him, completely horrified.\n\n“Lucas—” he began, but Lucas only gave him a brief, reassuring smile that said: It’s okay.\n\nThe employee typed something in, the printer on the cart started whirring, and after a few seconds the photo came out—warm, glossy, real. Lucas took it, held it up for a moment as if it were something precious.\n\nChris stood beside him, bright red, and felt as if someone had put his innermost self on paper.\n\n[[Continue|Bewertungstag.]]

Chris put on a neutral smile and briefly raised his hand. “Hey.”\n\nZoe pushed herself away from the display case by a fraction and nodded to him. “Hey.” That was all it was—no quip, no jab, no look that lingered longer than necessary.\n\nChris kept walking, his bag held firmly over his shoulder, and behind him he heard only the soft squeak of her sneakers as she shifted her weight. In the next hallway, it smelled of freshly mopped floor, and the voices from the parking lot grew clearer.\n\nOutside, the bus was already waiting. Chris got on, found himself a seat, and let the day grow a little quieter in his head.\n\n[[Continue|Auf nach Hause.]]

Tuesday began quietly. Chris’s alarm only rang briefly, and he sat up at once, as if trying to get ahead of yesterday’s chaos. The sky behind the curtains was still gray, the room smelled of night and a little of vanilla cream.\n<<set $wochentag = 2>><<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">>\nHe opened the wardrobe and paused for a moment in front of the underwear shelf. Today, he decided, it could be something a little bolder—not for anyone else, but as a small, secret boost of courage. He pulled out a set: fine lace in a dark berry red, delicate mesh at the sides, a narrow, elegant cut. Nothing truly indecent, more a quiet, confident choice.\n\n<center>[img[pics/unterwaesche2a.jpg]]</center> Expertly, he put on the bra, fastened it, twisted it into place, and slipped his arms through. With one smooth motion, the panties were in position too, without his having to think anymore about how to arrange his penis. Once he had put it on, the fabric felt cool and featherlight, the edges neat, the straps narrow and smooth. It fit without pulling; it dressed him instead of disguising him.\n\nAfter that, he reached for the tights—silky, semi-transparent, in a warm shade of brown. He carefully rolled them together down to the toe, sat on the edge of the bed, and guided first one foot, then the other inside. His toenails and fingernails were now so well manicured that there was no longer any danger of causing a run. With a flat hand, he slowly pulled the material up, centimeter by centimeter, until the mesh lay evenly and no wrinkles remained. At the waistband, he did the little test—one finger’s width of give, then back again—perfect.\n\nFor today, he had laid out a pinafore/jumper dress: soft, dark navy blue, with a subtle row of buttons at the front, broad straps that led over the shoulders into a slightly flared skirt. Underneath, he wore a cream-colored, short-sleeved top in ribbed fabric with a round neckline. He slipped into the top first, smoothed the hems, then into the pinafore, whose lining felt pleasantly cool. The straps fell exactly right, the waist was cleanly defined, and the skirt ended in a friendly sweep over his thighs—harmless, charming, almost playful.\n\nHe looked in the mirror and had to smile. On the outside, the well-behaved pinafore; underneath, the little secret in berry red—a contrast that felt surprisingly right. He ran his hand over the hem of the skirt, just to make sure everything was sitting where it should, and then turned to the vanity.\n\nThere, he worked with practiced ease: a spritz of fixing spray as a base, a hint of tinted moisturizer to even out his complexion, a dab of concealer under the eyes, gently tapped in. He combed his brows upward and fixed them with gel; on his lids he applied a restrained, sandy beige, and in the crease a hint of taupe, barely visible but defining. A fine coat of mascara, once, not twice—today nothing was supposed to look heavy. A subtle rose went on his cheeks, making his skin look awake, and on his lips a transparent balm with a light tint.\n\nFinally, he tucked a stubborn strand of hair behind his ear, sprayed a hint of shine spray into the lengths, and slid the small, dark-blue bow (matching the dress) into place at the roots. He stood up, put on the simple Mary Janes with soft soles, shouldered his bag, and cast one last glance in the mirror.\n\nReady for school, he thought. Cute and tidy on the outside. A little bolder underneath than anyone could see. And today, both belonged to him.\n\n[[Continue|Rangliste der Jungs.]]

Chris’s fingers fussed with the drawstring of the shorts as his gaze—against his better judgment—slid toward Zoe as if on its own. First the face: the alert forehead, the curl that had come loose from her braid and was sticking to her temple, the sweet mouth. Then, a risky millimeter lower: the fine curve of the shoulder, the shadow where the collarbone begins—and there, the dull line of a bra strap flashing briefly in the fluorescent light.\n\nFinally, he gathered all his courage and looked even lower. Her breasts were held perfectly in shape by the delicate fabric of her lace bra, and the panties too clung to her hips as if they had been tailored to her body. The gossamer-thin fabric hid almost nothing of her nipples pressing through, and even the contours of her labia were clearly visible through the thin material.\n\nBefore his mind could grasp what his eyes were doing, something moved in between—Christine. She stepped so abruptly into his field of vision that he flinched. Her eyes were narrow, dark, unmistakable. No word, no whisper—only that look: I know exactly what you’re doing. Stop.\n\nHis face suddenly grew hot. He immediately lowered his gaze as if he had burned himself on light, and pretended the knot in his shorts was suddenly the most important thing in the world. “Already done,” he muttered toward the floor, even though no one had asked. He pulled the school shirt a little straighter, smoothed the sides, mechanically checked whether the undershirt lay properly. The air felt thicker, as if it were carrying his shame away like a smell.\n\nChristine stayed standing there one heartbeat too long, until he really was looking only at his own shoes, then turned away without a word. Behind her, the sounds of the locker room slid back into normal: a laugh, a locker banging shut, Charlotte joking about something to do with tryouts, Ruby helping someone else press the care label into the shirt collar. And somewhere farther back, without him daring to look, Zoe, whose presence he felt more than saw—a small, constant magnet.\n\nHe breathed through it slowly, silently counted to four and back again. Shoes tied, shirt smoothed, hair pulled out of the collar. Nothing to see, nothing to say. Just get finished.\n\nOnce he was dressed, he squeezed between the bench and locker door toward the exit. He kept his gaze deliberately fixed on the handle, opened it with a calm movement, and stepped out into the corridor to the gym, where the other girls were already waiting in small groups.\n\n[[Continue|Sportunterricht.]]

As the evening grew quieter and the last guests paid their bills, Chris went to the counter. Rick stood there, receipt strips in hand, sorting them with the thoroughness of a man who wanted to think of everything in columns and numbers. He looked up briefly, gave Chris a once-over—this time not annoyed, but approving.\n\n“Not bad,” he grunted. “For your first proper day. You’ve got speed. You don’t forget anything. And people…” He nodded toward the dining area, where a man waved to him once more. “…they like you. Keep it up, and you’ll make me money.”\n\nChris nodded, his legs tired, but in a good way. “Thanks.”\n\nHe stepped to the side, reached into his apron pocket, and pulled out the crumpled bills and coins. He began to count, secretly at first, then with growing confidence. It was… decent. More than he had expected. A small stack that felt real, heavy enough that his fingers took it seriously.\n\nA quiet feeling of shame flickered up as he thought about how he had gotten it—the lingering looks, the winking, the soft tones. And yet, at the same time, there was this almost ridiculous ease that surprised him: As a girl, money suddenly seemed closer, as if it were only waiting for him to smile. The thought was so absurd that he almost felt a giggle rise in his throat. He pressed his lips together, slipped the tips back into his pocket, and pretended his face was only tired.\n\nOutside, it was dark and cool. Chris pulled his jacket tighter, walked to the bus stop, and passed the shop windows of the small center on the way. In one glass front, he saw himself: diner uniform under his jacket, hair a little tousled by the wind, eyes more awake than they had been hours ago. He looked away briefly and thought instead of the money in his pocket—of possibilities.\n\nWhen he passed the jewelry store, he involuntarily slowed down. Behind the glass, earrings lay on velvet: small drops that sparkled in the light, elegant and not too large. Chris imagined how they would look on him, how they would sway slightly as he walked. An image flashed into his mind: him in the school hallway, the earrings glittering, the girls throwing envious glances.\n\nHe looked at the price tag and swallowed. This would take more than just a few shifts. He would have to work many more hours, evening after evening, maybe even for several months. Still, the thought stayed with him. Someday, he thought, I could afford them.\n\nThe thought felt too girlish and dangerously tempting. He shoved it away hastily, as if he had burned himself on a hot stove. No. Don’t think like that. He walked faster until he reached the bus.\n\nWhen he got on and sat down in an empty seat, the tips vibrated like a small, secret motor in his pocket. Chris stared out the window into the passing night and tried not to smile—and not to think about how easy it had been today. Then he rode home.\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch, Schummeln für den Mathetest.]]

At some point, the DJ announced the last song, and even the lights seemed tired. The curtain in the photo corner hung crookedly, cardboard confetti glittered on the floor along with a few crushed cups. Chris stood at the edge and waited for the moment when “leaving” would no longer stand out.\n\nWhen the music finally faded out, he breathed freely for the first time. Finally home. Finally out of the gym, out of the glances, out of the constant improvising.\n\nThat should have made him happy.\n\nBut out in the hallway, where the warmth of the gym suddenly vanished, melancholy rose up like an unexpected stab. All around him, couples detached themselves from the crowd as if they had not merely attended the evening, but truly owned it. Arms around shoulders, hands on backs, lips on lips. Some kissed openly, without shame, as if there were no school on Monday, no parents, no rumors—only this one evening that belonged to them. A few were already whispering plans about after-parties and booked hotel rooms, laughing, pulling each other toward the parking lot as if the evening were only really beginning now.\n\nChris held his clutch tighter and realized he had nothing to attach himself to. No “Let’s wait for you a second,” no “Are you coming with us?”, no quiet “I’ll drive you home.” Only himself.\n\nHe stood still for a moment, pulled his phone out of the clutch, and opened the app. Enter destination. Choose pickup point. Confirm price. There it was in black and white: one passenger. It was banal, technical—and yet it felt as if it made his loneliness official.\n\nWhile the last couples outside got into cars, Chris stood under the flickering hallway lights and waited for the driver who would pick him up like any other passenger. He briefly saw his reflection in the glass of the entrance door: backless dress, glossy lips, earrings in the light. The image looked like Homecoming. The feeling underneath did not.\n\nIn the Uber, he sat alone in the back seat, the fabric of the dress cool against his legs, the city lights like foreign stars at the window. He thought about the evening: about the singles dance, about the bathroom, about the brief applause during “Best Dressed,” about Dylan and Penelope on the platform. And about himself—always one step to the side, always busy not standing out instead of really being there.\n\nMaybe it was because of the decisions he had made. Maybe because of the ones others made for him. Or because, just like before—as a boy—he was somehow the outsider again now too, no matter how perfectly the dress fit.\n\nThe car turned into his street. Chris got out and walked up the path to the house.\n\nHe unlocked the door, slipped inside, and stood for a moment in the dark hallway—with the feeling that he had missed something that could not be made up for if you kept taking the same turns over and over.\n\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5b]]

On Monday, the school seemed like a beehive on sugar. The pep rally was supposed to happen on Thursday, and by Monday everyone was already warming up. Posters, splashes of paint, and rolls of tape lay everywhere; SB/Leadership had mobilized the theater kids, and Chris stood with Ruby among boxes, a paintbrush in his hair like a pencil behind his ear. They cut letters out of cardboard, glued glittering wolf paws onto lengths of fabric, and argued in low voices about font heights.\n<<set $ort to "school">>\n“If you make the R like a B, people will read ‘Peb Bally,’” Ruby said dryly.\n\n“Then they’ll come out of curiosity,” Chris muttered and set the ruler down again. Ruby grinned, and they kept working in their practiced rhythm—she held, he glued, then they switched.\n\nInto this bustle stepped Mrs. Rivera, her eyes searching. When she saw Chris, she raised her hand. “There you are! I need you.” She came closer, warm in tone, purposeful in stride. “You have a…” She made a small gesture with her hand, as if catching a word. “…sexy voice. And your German accent—perfect for the announcement. It’ll stick.”\n\n“I—uh—no, I…” Chris pointed at glitter and cardboard. “We’re still—”\n\n“Ruby can manage two minutes alone,” Mrs. Rivera cut in, friendly but irresistible. “Come on.”\n\n[[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]] gave him a thumbs-up. “Go on. I’ll guard the glitter.”\n\nChris followed Mrs. Rivera through the side corridor into the little administration wing, where the PA system sat on a table like a small command center. The door fell shut behind them; the noise of the school became muffled.\n\n“Right.” Mrs. Rivera handed him a note. “Clear, short, inviting. ‘Don’t miss Pep Rally—Thursday, 2 p.m., Gym! Wear Wolf Pride!’ And smile. People can hear it.”\n\nChris took the microphone, cleared his throat, and rehearsed quietly: “Don’t miss Pep Rally—Thursday, two p.m., Gym. Wear Wolf Pride.” His voice sounded clean, matter-of-fact, almost like he was reading aloud.\n\nMrs. Rivera tilted her head. “Hm. Too neat. You sound like you’re announcing homework. We need… more sparkle. More ‘I want to be there!’” She narrowed her eyes, thought for a moment, and then an idea came to her.\n\nHer hand suddenly pushed Chris’s skirt upward; his butt was now covered only by his panties. But before Chris could protest, he already felt a light smack on his butt, which drew a soft gasp from him.\n\n“Hey!” Chris blurted, lighter, higher.\n\n“Exactly,” she said, satisfied. “That little surprise in your voice. Again—but smile while you do it.”\n\nHe breathed out and raised the microphone. “Test—”\n\n“Wait.” Mrs. Rivera lifted her hand. “Promise me: not too well-behaved. I’ll give you a little signal.” Her look was encouraging.\n\nHe nodded, half skeptical. She switched the system live; a red light glowed. “You’re on in three, two…”\n\nChris began. “Good afternoon, Maplewood!” he heard himself say, a smile in the words. “Don’t miss—” At that moment Mrs. Rivera smacked him on the butt again with her hand, this time a touch harder. His breath gave a little jump, and his voice took on a bright lift. “—Pep Rally, this Thursday, two p.m., in the gym! Wear your Wolf Pride and bring the noise!”\n\nHe heard how the sentence sounded livelier than he had intended—a hint of excitement in the emphasis, the accent shimmering through. He blushed, holding the microphone a beat too long.\n\nFrom far away, filtered, cheering came from the auditorium; somewhere someone whistled, somewhere a “Woo!” Mrs. Rivera flicked the system off. “Perfect,” she said, visibly satisfied. “Just like that.”\n\nChris put the microphone down, feeling warmth in all four cheeks. “That was… unusual.”\n\n“Sometimes a voice needs a little spark,” she said, took the note, and gave a brief smile. “Thank you. You just tickled the school awake.”\n\nHe took a breath, gathered his dignity back up, and followed her into the commotion again.\n\n<<if $choice_adam == 1>>In the hallway, just before the crowd swallowed him again, [[Adam|Adam Bowman]] saw him from the side—between lockers and backpack chaos—and stopped for a moment. Beside him, a friend leaned against the lockers, noticed Adam’s look, and gave him a small nudge with his elbow. “Is that her?” he murmured, half grinning, half knowing.\n\nAdam immediately turned red, as if he had been caught doing something private. “Shut up,” he hissed, but it wasn’t really angry—more panicked. His face lit up anyway, as if Chris had just managed something impossible and Adam had only expected it from him. He raised a hand in greeting, too hesitant to be cool, too warm to be indifferent, and his smile lingered on Chris’s back for another moment as he walked on—proud, a little in love, and visibly relieved that Chris was back.\n\n<<endif>>Ruby was waiting for him with a broad grin and held out a glittering cardboard wolf. “Star of the announcement,” she said. “Now you’re gluing the last paws. And with sparkle.”\n\n[[Continue|Tiergeschäft mit Ruby.]]

“Mmh.” Ava made a sound as if she were enjoying his silence. “You’re awfully quiet today. Normally you’re so good and polite. Tell me… do you actually think I’m pretty?”\n\nThe sentence hung in the room like a perfume that was too heavy. Chris’ stomach tightened. He didn’t want to say anything wrong. And nothing right that she might take as an invitation.\n\n“You’re…” He struggled for a neutral word. “You’re nice to me. Sometimes.”\n\nAva laughed softly, snorting. “Sometimes. How generous.” Then she slid a little closer, so Chris could feel her warm, soft body.\n\nHer hands settled on his body as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You’re lying there like a shy deer,” she said softly, stroking his breasts. “So pretty… and then so shy.” Chris’ breath caught. He wanted to say something in response, something defensive, but the words found no hold. Ava leaned closer, her bare breast brushing his shoulder. “Do you know what’s funny?” She almost giggled. “You seem so… innocent.”\n\nChris felt heat in his cheeks, shame and a strange tickle. “Mrs. Ferguson…” he began cautiously, but she slid over him so that her leg slipped into his crotch.\n\nThe next thunderclap was like a starting signal. Ava leaned forward and kissed him. First briefly, testing—then again, longer, as if she had taken pleasure in his uncertainty. Chris’ hands hung in the air for a moment, as if they didn’t know where they belonged. Ava laughed softly against his lips and whispered, “See? Not so hard.”\n\nThen everything happened very quickly.\n\nAva lay on her back, eagerly pulling Chris on top of her. Her soft body, arms, and thighs were like a feather bed enveloping him. His youthful body was an incredible contrast to this mountain of fat formed by the woman who, in terms of age, could have been his mother.\n\nHis hard cock split the fleshy slit and widened her hole. Chris felt the unbelievable tightness of this voluminous cunt. As the walls of her love cave clamped firmly around his cock, he paused with a lustful moan. “Oh yeeeees.”\n\n<<if $sex == 0>>It felt so good to be inside a woman’s pussy for the first time in his life. He was relieved when she moaned too. At the same time, he hated himself for how much his self-worth depended on her reaction. He wanted to please her, but even more strongly he wanted to prove to himself that there was nothing wrong with him.\n\n<<endif>>Then all his remaining male instincts seized him and he started like a berserker, hammering his stiff cock into the wet tightness.\n\n“Not so fast. With more feeling! I want to enjoy it,” Ava panted, her voice pleading.\n\nChris slowed down and very gradually they both found the rhythm of mutual giving and taking. Ava huffed and groaned while her hands moved restlessly over his back. Chris realized she was fighting fiercely for the moment of release. Her eyes were rolled back and her face showed the grimace of incredible exertion. Her body gave off the smell of sweat, which smelled especially intense when he pressed his face into her armpit while fucking. Her orgasm came completely without warning for him. It was a loud rasp, as if she were choking, followed by a spasmodic trembling of her belly, whose fading made her eyes clear again.\n\nChris kept rutting and gave Ava two more climaxes. Ava’s sweat-drenched fat body wobbled in rapture beneath him and her cunt muscles pumped and milked his cock, and then it rose in him too. Just in time, Chris managed to pull his cock out of her pussy and came. It was only a single surge that made his shaft twitch. But it was so powerful that he thought he was shooting out his balls. When the glaring moment of his orgasm had faded, he felt that every bit of strength had left his loins. He sank contentedly onto Ava’s body.\n\nIn the morning, Chris woke because Ava was moving. They lay close together, the blanket half slipped away, the air smelling of sex. Chris’ gaze found the gray morning light first, then reality—and shame shot through his body like a wave. What have I done? He stayed motionless for a moment, as if keeping still could undo the night.\n\nAva blinked, looked at him, and smiled briefly—not tenderly, more satisfied. As if she had passed a mirror test. “This stays between us, though,” she said calmly. “Understood?”\n\nChris nodded at once, far too quickly. The thought that anyone could find out about it—especially his mother—made his stomach tighten. It would not just be embarrassing. It would be… ammunition. He swallowed, pulled the blanket higher, and tried to keep his face neutral, even though he would have liked nothing more than to sink into the floor.\n\n[[Continue|Die Noten werden besser.]]

The hallway was empty enough for a moment that the hum of the ventilation could be heard. Chris headed for the water fountain. In front of him stood a chubby boy with a backpack like a second moon, his glasses constantly sliding down—the type who filled the second row in every class photo. He leaned forward and pressed the silver lever.\n<<set $ort to "hallway">>\nThen the nozzle made a hissing sound, as if swallowing air, and in the next moment shot a high, uncontrolled arc forward. The water hit Chris right in the crotch. Cold, shocking, and within a second the front of the lavender culottes was soaked dark.\n\n“Oh man! Sorry! I—the thing acts up sometimes—” the boy stammered, recoiling and raising his hands helplessly, as if he could undo the fountain with gestures. Chris recognized him—the same one whose backpack had caught his tights yesterday. Perfect.\n\n“Just great,” Chris whispered, staring in disbelief at the dark stain. It looked as if he had… He swallowed. His face burned.\n\n“[[Adam|Adam Bowman]]!” Ruby appeared from a side door, the distinct clack of her shoes on the linoleum. “Not again. You know that fountain has a pressure problem.”\n\n“I just—I mean—it happened so fast,” Adam mumbled, red patches on his cheeks, and took two steps backward. “I’m sorry.” He looked at Chris once more, guilt-ridden, then his backpack almost carried him away.\n\nChris stared down at himself in disbelief. The front area of the culottes was distinctly darker, and the shape of the stain showed no mercy: it looked as if he had peed himself. His stomach dropped, a flood of heat rising up his neck.\n\n“Come here,” [[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]] said curtly, already opening her handbag. “I’ve got tissues.” She pulled out half a bundle, stepped close in front of him, and began blotting the fabric without asking. “If you get it from the outside right away—”\n\nAs she dried it, her hand inevitably slid closer to his penis. Alarms shrilled inside Chris. One more inch, and her fingers would be where no curious hands should be—not if he wanted to keep his disguise intact. Panic shot up in him; he reflexively grabbed Ruby’s hand, far too tightly.\n\n“Hey!” Ruby jerked back, surprised. Her eyes went wide.\n\n“I—I’ll do it myself,” Chris said, too hastily, too sharply. He loosened his grip at once and took the tissues from her. “Sorry. Really. I… thanks.” He turned slightly sideways, dabbed, pressed, tried to dry the fabric without drawing attention to himself. Ruby stepped back, raising her hands placatingly.\n\n“It’s okay. I just wanted to help,” she said softly, and her gaze became matter-of-fact again. “It’s not that bad. It’ll dry.”\n\n“Yeah,” Chris managed, only now noticing the surrounding murmur: two ninth-graders walking past, a girl who couldn’t quite swallow her giggle, a whispered “oh no” with an obvious grin.\n\nChris held his head as high as he could and marched toward class, as if dignity could reinterpret the stain. A boy from his class glanced at the culottes as he passed, nudged his friend in the side—both of them badly suppressing laughter.\n\nEvery step briefly stuck to the fabric, making the darkness even more visible. “It was the fountain,” Ruby said in a clear voice to no one and everyone, but the giggling swallowed the explanation.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 0>>[[After school, theater club.|Nach der Schule Theaterclub.][$AdamMemory[1] += 1]]<<else>>[[After school, theater club.|Nach der Schule Theaterclub.2][$AdamMemory[1] += 1]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

The cafeteria today was a gray sea of trays. Chris headed for the familiar table anyway—Christine’s look, Charlotte’s brief nod, Penelope’s perfect seat in the middle. He sat down carefully; the jeans immediately reminded him why “carefully” was necessary.\n<<set $ort to "cafeteria">>\n[[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]] let him settle in for one forkful of salad, then set down her cutlery and folded her hands as if presiding over a small press conference. “Chrissie,” she began, giving him a smile that was wrapped sweetly and hard at the core. “You know I like you. But… you can’t sit here like that.”\n\nChris blinked. “What… do you mean?”\n\n“That.” She traced an invisible line in the air with two fingers—crop hem, high-waist, sneakers. “It’s the Pom Puffs table. We represent. If you want to keep sitting here—and be with us—you can’t show up in ‘laundry Monday.’ It’s embarrassing. For everyone.”\n\nBeside her, one of the girls nodded; another demonstratively stared into her water. Christine uneasily slid her glass back and forth. “We’re a team,” she said softly. “Public image and all.”\n\nChris felt blood creeping into his cheeks. “It was… laundry day,” he heard himself say, and hated how thin the excuse sounded. “Honestly. I had nothing else, and—” He faltered, searching for Charlotte’s gaze.\n\n“I’ll dress better again,” he said finally, more firmly. “Promise.”\n\nPenelope nodded at once, the smile back on the surface. “Good. That’s all.” She lifted her fork; for her, the matter was settled—as if someone had drawn a line under a list.\n\nHe ate two bites that tasted like little, and felt the realization settle inside him: he had no real choice. Not if he wanted to sit here. Not if he was on this team. “Cheerleader” was more than chants and counts—it was a dress code, a posture, an invisible contract. He had signed it without reading the footnotes.\n\nWhen the bell rang, the table rose like a single body. On the way to the trash chute, he tugged the crop hem an inch lower—a pointless maneuver—and breathed through it. The next outfit would be “right” again. Not because he felt like pleasing anyone. But because his camouflage, his place, his newly built life depended on it. Expectations were a garment he had not yet learned to wear without chafing.\n\n[[Continue|Einladung im Klassenzimmer.]]

The afternoon lesson hung sluggishly in the air when the door opened and one of the athletes—letterman jacket over his shoulder, a smile from practice—stopped at Chris’s desk. “Hey,” he said quietly, so Mr. Robertson at the front wouldn’t immediately look up. “You’re new, right… I’m Myles.”\n<<set $ort to "school">>\nChris’s heart made that small, unnecessary hop. “Hi,” he whispered back.\n\n[[Myles|Myles Pierce]] shoved his hands into his pockets, as if he had to keep them busy. “Uh—I’m going to the movies tonight. Starlight 12, the new action flick. If you want… I could show you around town. Maybe milkshakes afterward? Only if you feel like it.”\n\nIt wasn’t crude, wasn’t leering—just friendly. And still it hit Chris like a lamp switching on too brightly. “Oh—um… that’s nice, but I… can’t today.” He tried to say it gently, not like a rejection. “I already have plans. Sorry.”\n\nMyles nodded at once, his gaze dropping briefly, then lifting again. “All good. Maybe another time.” It sounded honest and a little disappointed. He tapped two fingers against the edge of the desk and went back to his seat.\n\nOf course the class had inhaled every whisper. Two girls in the row behind him hissed “aww” in sync. Penelope pulled at the corner of her mouth, giving Chris a small, respectful nod—admirer, noted. Charlotte grinned openly, thumb briefly up under the table. Ruby raised her eyebrows as if filing the scene in the margin of her clipboard. On the boys’ side, it flickered differently: a restrained “Ouch” from the athletes’ table; two jokes that came too late and fizzled out. Myles kept his gaze on his notebook while a teammate tapped him on the shoulder—half mockery, half camaraderie. The giggling in the room didn’t sound mean, just like the ripple after a small stone hits the water.\n\nMr. Robertson cleared his throat. “Back to The Crucible, please.” The class pivoted as if nothing had happened.\n\n... ... ...\n\nChris was later on his way to PE. The school hallway smelled of cleaning products, and somewhere a locker clanged. He held his gym bag tightly, walking quickly, trying to carry his own nervousness in a way that looked like hurry.\n\nAt the corner, he ran into [[Adam|Adam Bowman]]. <<if $club != 3>>This overweight nerd—clumsy, a little too big for his own movements. Two days ago, Adam had accidentally sprayed him with water at the fountain, an embarrassing moment where Chris had laughed too quickly just to keep the situation small.\n\n<<endif>>Adam stopped when he saw Chris and cautiously raised a hand. “Hey… Chris.” His voice was shy, as if even a greeting was already a risk.\n\nChris stopped for half a step.\n<<set $choice_adam to 0>>\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[Greet him back.|Zurückgrüßen.][$choice_adam += 1;$MylesMemory[0] += 1]]\n❯ [[Just nod briefly and walk past.|Nur kurz nicken und vorbeigehen.][$MylesMemory[0] += 1]]\n<<if $club != 3>>❯ [[Greet him meanly as a little revenge.|Als kleine Rache gemein grüßen.][$choice_adam += 3;$MylesMemory[0] += 1]]<<endif>>

The late-afternoon sky lay clear above the court, the grass freshly sprinkled, the chalk lines still sharp. The three of them went out, warming up with a few balls. Chris held the racket a little too tightly; the tennis top stretched over his bust when he swung back, the white skirt flickering with every step like a small signal.\n<<set $ort to "tennis court">>\n“We’ll play to four,” Mrs. Barnett called, taking position at the baseline and serving with an elegant swing that sent the ball hard into the court. Lucas returned cleanly, Mrs. Barnett followed up, lunging for a wide ball that flew over the net like a silver trail, though her short skirt fluttered heavily enough that she showed Chris her black thong more than once.\n\nChris came a beat too late, pushed it high back—out. “All good,” Lucas said behind him, friendly—but his gaze wasn’t on the ball. He was playing directly behind Chris, and every step, every quick stop made his eyes stick to Chris’s butt like a moth to light.\n\nMrs. Barnett was in her element: small steps, hips low, a smile shifting between concentration and playfulness. Lucas was actually good—smooth forehand, clever angles—but today his attention stumbled. “You got that?” Chris called, and got no answer; when he half-turned, he saw Lucas’s eyes briefly slide to where the skirt rose higher than it should during a lunge. The point was gone before either of them could say “Too bad.”\n\nChris clenched his teeth and kept playing. But whenever Chris crouched in front of Lucas, in the usual stance, legs slightly locked and rocking watchfully back and forth—which made Chris’s butt bounce rather sexily—Lucas’s timing faltered. That view had a certain effect on Lucas, and so he was more occupied with keeping his hard-on under control than delivering a decent game.\n\nChris still couldn’t believe what he had turned down ten minutes ago—and now here he was, serving as the front view for Lucas’s back-of-the-mind thoughts. Great, he thought, and hit a ball that at least landed in the court. Mrs. Barnett picked it up with an elegant backhand that seemed almost mockingly effortless.\n\nLucas could barely tear his eyes away from Chris’s bouncing butt, and every step had become real torture for his bulging cock. After a failed volley, Lucas stopped with his posture bent, the racket against his thigh. “I… need to go to the bathroom for a second,” he muttered, red to the ears, and jogged off the court. Chris watched him go, puzzled and a little annoyed.\n\nMrs. Barnett came calmly to the T-line, nudged her cap back a fraction, and lowered her voice without fully hiding the amusement. “Boys his age,” she said, with a sidelong look, “you know that all too well.” Something flashed in her eyes that went deeper than net height. Chris felt hot and cold at the same time—caught, recognized, and not entirely sure whether he should be glad about the connection or shrink back from the directness.\n\nIt took a while for Lucas to come back; when he jogged onto the court again, he wore an overly broad, poorly disguised grin that quickly shifted into strained neutrality. “Sorry,” he said, too cheerfully. “Keep going?”\n\nThey played a few more games. Chris was hitting better now when he didn’t think; Lucas pulled himself together somewhat as long as he forced himself to see the ball and not the white in front of it; Mrs. Barnett remained a force of nature in tennis clothes and chased down balls no one had to chase. As the shadows grew longer, they leaned the rackets against the fence. Chris thanked them, took a deep breath, and smoothed the skirt one last time.\n\nChris raised his hand in farewell, promised to get in touch, and set off. On the driveway, he could still feel the springing weight of the shoes, the rustle of the skirt, and in his chest the strange mixture of relief, shame, and a quiet question to himself whose answer he did not yet have.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $unterwaesche == 1>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.]]<<else>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

<h2>Epilogue Chris and Joseph</h2> In the weeks after that Saturday evening, nothing between Chris and Charlotte was “broken” in any obvious sense – but nothing was really whole anymore either. They did not break up, they explained nothing, they had no big conversations. Instead, their relationship slipped into a state that felt like a makeshift arrangement.\n\nWhen they met, it was friendly. Too friendly. They sat beside each other, shared snacks, watched shows, talked about school and homework like two people who liked each other but did not know what to do with each other. Sometimes there was a goodbye kiss – brief, careful, like a test that was immediately called off again. No passion, no “I can’t live without you.” And yet neither of them drew the final line. Perhaps out of fear of finally losing what had once been so easy. Perhaps because it was simpler to remain in limbo than to speak an ending aloud.\n\nThe longer this state of limbo lasted, the more the focus of their meetings shifted. At some point, Chris realized that he spent more time standing in Charlotte’s kitchen than in her room, more time sitting at the dining table than on her bed. And without being able to consciously put it into words, that was not only because of movie night or the strange distance – it was because of Joseph.\n\nJoseph became a kind of quiet harbor for Chris. He was that loving, slightly overwhelmed father figure who made an effort without turning it into a performance: He asked whether Chris had eaten enough, whether he would still catch the bus, whether school was stressful right now. He told anecdotes from his everyday life, laughed at himself when something went wrong, and had that dependable way of making problems smaller by simply tackling them.\n\nCharlotte encouraged it – subtly, almost imperceptibly. She sent Chris “quickly” downstairs to help her father with something, let him “coincidentally” linger in the kitchen longer, asked her father whether he might perhaps drive Chris home quickly if it got late. It never felt like pushing him away, more like: There is something here that is good for both of you. Chris only noticed that he often relaxed in Joseph’s presence without understanding why.\n\nEspecially when his mother was “going crazy” at home again – when she made demands that sounded like orders, or turned little things into a test – Joseph’s calm presence became a counterweight for Chris. Joseph reminded him of his own father: not exactly in how he behaved, but in the feeling. In the sense that there was an adult there who did not manipulate, who was not constantly tugging at him. Security that did not feel like a trap.\n\nAnd then there was that tingling.\n\nIt did not always come. But often enough. A brief moment of eye contact, Joseph’s warm smile, a hand casually sliding a bowl over to him or holding the door open for him – and Chris felt it in his stomach, as if someone had plucked a string. He was ashamed of it, because it felt wrong to feel anything like that at all. Because it was Joseph. Charlotte’s father. An adult. A man. And because at the same time Chris knew that the tingling was not only “romantic,” but also something else entirely: a hunger for protection, for recognition, for a feeling of home.\n\nSometimes he caught himself staying longer than would have been necessary. That he would rather hear Joseph’s voice than the hum of his own room. That after an embarrassing day at school, he suddenly thought: It is quieter at Charlotte’s. And more and more often, that meant: It is quieter with Joseph.\n\nWeeks passed like that. Chris and Charlotte remained a “maybe” that no one said aloud. And Joseph became a “real” that Chris could not yet place – only feel. A bond that quietly drew taut while Chris pretended not to notice it.\n\n[[Continue|Einladung zur Hochzeit.]]

Some time later, on a morning at school, Chris walked along between the lockers and felt the little drops at his earlobes. The new earrings—paid for with the tips from Rick’s diner—were elegant, not too big, but noticeable enough to sparkle in the fluorescent light. With every step, they swayed slightly, just a tiny pendulum motion that made his movement seem softer.\n\nHe noticed the looks before he even saw them. Two girls by the display case paused briefly as he walked past. A glance at the earrings, a quick weighing-up, then that neutral face meant to hide envy. One of the cheer clique raised her eyebrows. Chris smiled back as if it were nothing.\n\nAnd yet he enjoyed it. Just a little. It felt pleasant to wear something that belonged to him—not chosen by his mother, not imposed as a rule. Something he had decided on himself. The drops flashed, and a small, quiet “mine” spread inside him.\n\nAt the same time, the memory rose up like a bitter aftertaste: the diner, the customers, Rick getting too close to him. For that, Chris thought, and the thought briefly made the pleasure heavier. As if the earrings, along with their shine, also carried a price no one could see.\n\nHe walked on, holding his head higher than usual. The earrings swayed, caught the light, and for a few steps Chris simply let himself be warmed by it—by the envy, by the sparkle, by the feeling that from something so unpleasant, of all things, he had at least drawn out one small, beautiful remnant.\n\n[[Continue|Die Noten werden besser.]]

Outside, the air was mild. Chris felt every step in the heels, the gentle stretching of his calves, the hem of the skirt against his skin. He kept his bag close to his side, as if it were a shield. Beside him, [[Christine|Christine Braun]] walked with a confident stride, her dress a moving line that was unmistakably sending signals.\n<<set $ort to "">>\n<<if $rubytemp == 1>>On the way, he remembered Ruby’s words in the chat message: These parties weren’t exactly safe for girls. “Taken care of,” too many cups, too little no, suddenly vanished into bedrooms. And the story about the positive pregnancy test afterward.\n\nChris breathed out. Thank God I don’t have to worry about that, he thought. His situation felt complicated enough, but precisely on that point he believed he fell outside the danger zone.\nHe glanced over at Christine. The tight dress, the neckline, the sheen of her pantyhose, the boots. She looked older like this. He thought about the fact that she and Myles had only recently gotten together. Far enough that…? He shook his head inwardly. He didn’t want to believe she would already go that far.<<else>>As they walked down the street, his thoughts rattled faster than his steps. Party meant music, closeness, darkness, cups someone could pour anything into; people who laughed too loudly, came too close, looked too long. Suddenly he feared everything at once: that someone would look up his skirt, that a stumbling step in the heels would expose him to ridicule, that a curious boy would move too close to him and he wouldn’t know whether to scream, laugh, or freeze. That someone would suggest “Truth or Dare” and his secret would lie there like a loose edge ready to be pulled. And at the same time, another fear gnawed at him: that nothing would happen at all, that he would simply stand around the room bored as one of many party girls.<<endif>>\n\nThe siblings continued on.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $party2 == 0>><<if $stil > 7>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.]]<<else>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.2]]<<endif>><<endif>>\n<<if $party2 == 1>><<if $stil > 7>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.b]]<<else>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.2b]]<<endif>><<endif>>\n<<if $party2 == 2>><<if $stil > 7>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.c]]<<else>>[[Off to the party.|Auf zur Party.2c]]<<endif>><<endif>><</nobr>>

His stomach tightened, but this time he didn’t go to the stage like a victim—he went as if he had at least one thing under control: the performance. He stepped into the light, felt the springy wood beneath his shoes, and forced his shoulders into a calm, upright line.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/outfit9.jpg]]</center> <<else>><center>[img[pics/outfit9_kurz.jpg]]</center> <<endif>>\nHe didn’t simply wave. He did it deliberately: first a small, elegant wave to the left and right into the audience, as if he were “gathering” the crowd. Then he turned his upper body a touch toward the jury, added a second, shorter wave—and gave them a brief, almost playful smile that suggested more confidence than he actually felt inside. For one second, he felt like someone who had practiced this a hundred times.\n\nHe stepped onto the mark, took the microphone, and though his voice was slightly higher than normal, it was clear. “Hi! I’m Chris Braun, nineteen, and I go to Maplewood High.” He paused briefly so it wouldn’t sound rushed, then added—more boldly than planned—two more sentences: “I love Maplewood. It sounds cheesy, but… it’s slowly starting to feel like home.”\n\nA friendly murmur went through the crowd, a few people clapped a little harder. Chris felt his cheeks grow warm—this time not only from shame, but also because the sentence seemed surprisingly genuine even to him.\n\nAnd then—it suddenly exploded.\n\nFrom the side, somewhere in the audience, came clapping that was far too loud, far too enthusiastic, immediately rolling over everything else. Chris glanced over and recognized them: Ben, Jay, and Max from the D&D club, standing together like a small unit. Ben was clapping overhead as if it were a game-winning score. Jay had both hands cupped around his mouth like megaphones and shouted “Chris!” far too loudly. Max—usually the quietest—actually stood up and clapped so hard that his drink almost sloshed out of his hand.\n\nThen they did the unthinkable: a small, exaggerated standing ovation. Not long, but unmistakable. As if they had decided this was the moment to turn support up to maximum.\n\nChris’s face immediately grew hot. Embarrassment shot up the back of his neck—because it was so conspicuous, because it was so “nerd,” because every head turned that way. At the same time, he felt something else that made him surprisingly steady: he wasn’t alone up there. There was at least one group supporting him, no matter how absurd the setting was, no matter how much he currently felt miscast.\n\nThe audience murmured. A few people giggled. Someone near the stage said, half amused, “Wow, she has fanboys.”\n\nChris waved once more, this time more genuinely, and the smile held a shade longer.\n\n''How does the first round go?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $stil > 5 >>[[Chris makes it into the second round.|Chris kommt in die zweite Runde.]]\n<<else>>[[Chris is eliminated in the first round.|Chris scheidet in der ersten Runde aus.]]\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Chris swallowed.\n\n“There is no father,” he said, and immediately realized how that sounded. He cleared his throat and added, “I mean… I’m not—”\n\nThe older woman raised her eyebrows, first surprised, then pitying. “Oh, my goodness…”\n\nChris felt heat in his face and tried hastily to correct himself. “I’m not. The baby isn’t... I mean…” He made a helpless gesture with his hand, as if family relationships could be sorted out with gestures. “It doesn’t belong to me.”\n\nThe woman nodded eagerly—but incorrectly. “Oh, I see,” she said, and her tone carried that kind of “I see” that meant more than the words. “He’s… gone.” She sighed deeply, as if she could already see the headline in the local paper.\n\n“No, it’s more—” Chris began, but then Leo called from the tire seesaw, “Look!” and Chris’s gaze jumped reflexively to him.\n\nAt that exact moment, the woman pushed her interpretation firmly into the world. “So young,” she said with a shake of her head that was both comfort and reproach. “And all alone with a baby. That’s… well, in my generation…” She let the sentence hang, as if it were too heavy to say aloud.\n\nChris spun back around. He pointed at the stroller. “That isn’t— I mean, the baby isn’t—and Leo isn’t either—I’m just… the babysitter.”\n\nThe old woman apparently only heard the word “baby” and the image she had already locked into place. “Of course, of course,” she said, placing a hand on his forearm in a reflexive “you poor thing” gesture.\n\nThen she leaned closer and lowered her voice, as if it were a secret shared among women. “Listen, dear: don’t let any man tell you that you have to make yourself… well… revealing for attention. You see so much these days. These short skirts, these tight things.” Her gaze briefly slid over Chris’s outfit, as if checking a label. “You’re a mother. You have to set an example.”\n\nChris’s mouth fell open. He wanted to laugh and at the same time sink into the ground. “I’m—” he began, but the woman had already raised a finger.\n\n“And if you’re already alone,” she continued, warm, convinced, and a little horrified, “then find yourself good support. Family. Church. Someone sensible. Not some… ne’er-do-well.” She nodded to herself, satisfied with her advice.\n\nChris nodded mechanically, because his brain was still trying to find the error in the communication and repair it backward. The stroller stood still, Leo kept rocking, the baby gurgled uninvolved—and Chris sat there, officially appointed a young single mother of two, without being able to prevent it.\n\n[[Continue|Er bringt die Kinder heim.]]

Lucas blinked, understood, and let his gaze drop slightly disappointed. “Then I guess we’ll go as the dramatic loner faction,” he joked lightly, flicking imaginary dust from his knee.\n\nRuby grinned. “Or you can just wait until Monday. Maplewood can manage to put together five new couples in three days.”\n\nThe bell marking the end of the break vibrated through the room. Ms. Green clapped once, and they jumped up from their seats. Chris exhaled. The exchanged look still lay warm in his chest: no yes, no no, just a quiet understanding that didn’t hurt. Outside, the stadium would roar tomorrow; in here, for the moment, he found the quieter rhythm he needed.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Theaterclub.2]]

Chris sank into his chair in the classroom—and shot up at the same moment. A stabbing pain shot through his butt. “A—ah!” The sound sprang from his throat far too brightly, so girlish that it startled even him. Chairs scraped, heads whipped around.\n<<set $ort to "classroom">><<set $ZoeMemory[4] to 1>>\nHe was half standing, one hand at his backside, and saw the cause: a small, shiny thumbtack, placed neatly in the center of the seat. His heart pounded all the way to his fingertips. Just a stupid prank… or more? He lifted his gaze around the classroom. Here and there, mouths twisted; someone snorted. Zoe leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, and laughed openly, briefly, rolling with it. Two boys by the window row grinned into their notebooks, as if they had just written a particularly successful margin note. Others looked away, too late, as if they hadn’t heard the giggling.\n\nChris picked up the thumbtack between thumb and forefinger, as carefully as if it might prick him again, and silently laid it on the edge of the desk. The pain pulsed dully afterward, a point far too large for such a small thing. He unobtrusively smoothed the skirt hem—no, today the dress, the tiers—breathed, and lowered himself again, millimeter by millimeter, as if negotiating with the chair. He sat down. Nothing more.\n\nMr. Robertson briefly raised his head from the desk, where he was sorting worksheets. “Everything okay?”\n“Yes,” Chris said far too quickly. “Just… slipped.” His cheeks burned. He heard one last giggle dissolve into the rustling of paper and the ticking of the clock.\n\nHe slid the thumbtack into his pencil case—not as a trophy, more like a piece of evidence no one was supposed to see.\n\n[[Continue|Partyplanung in der Cafeteria.]]

One evening, Susan and Christine were sitting in the living room, the TV playing quietly in the background. On the coffee table lay a book with a dark cover and a very clearly “adult” blurb, which Christine had skimmed with a skeptically raised eyebrow.\n\n“I mean, honestly,” Christine said, poking the page with her finger as if marking a piece of evidence. “This is supposed to be realistic? Women who think that’s great?”\n\nSusan smiled as if she had had this discussion a hundred times before. “You’d be surprised,” she said calmly. “Many women like it when someone takes the lead. Not because they’re weak. But because it can be… relaxing. Giving up control.”\n\nChristine snorted. “That sounds like an ad. ‘Give up control and feel free.’” She crossed her arms. “I don’t buy it. That’s more like a fantasy for people who are bored.”\n\nChris sat in the armchair and pretended to be watching TV. He listened to the conversation without getting involved—as Susan went on speaking in that casual tone:\n\n“It’s not as implausible as you think,” she said. “Some people like clear roles. Some—” She made a small gesture with her hand, as if she did not want to dwell on the subject too much, “—even feel very comfortable with them.”\n\n“What do you think, Chris?” Christine asked.\n\nChris cleared his throat almost inaudibly. Then he said, almost too quietly: “Mom is… not entirely wrong.”\n\nChristine turned her head toward him, surprised. “What?” She studied him as if he had just claimed that math was fun. “How would you know?”\n\nChris’s body froze. His brain searched frantically for a neutral answer—“from conversations,” “from the internet,” “from some article”—but before he could find a sentence, Susan raised her eyebrows and smiled.\n\n“Let’s put it this way,” she said, polished and harmless, “Chris has… a little more insight into that than you do. From experience.” She did not emphasize the word; she simply dropped it like a small stone into water and watched the ripples.\n\nChris turned bright red, as if someone had pointed a lamp directly at his cheeks. He was horribly embarrassed that his mother had even hinted at it—especially like that, with that knowing tone, as if it were a shared secret one was allowed to smile about in passing.\n\nChristine frowned, but only understood half of it. “Huh? What experience?” she asked, more irritated than alarmed.\n\nSusan only shrugged, as if it were nothing. “Oh, eventually you learn that people are more complicated than your theory,” she said lightly.\n\nChris stayed silent, his ears hot, his shoulders stiff. He took a handful of popcorn just to do something, and fervently hoped Christine would not ask any more closely—because what his mother had just placed between the lines with a smile was an inside joke that only Susan and Chris understood. And that was exactly what made it so unbearable.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ende == 0>>[[Christmas in Germany.|Weihnachten in Deutschland.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 1>>[[Christine is pregnant.|Christine ist schwanger.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 2>>[[Academic pressure at school.|Leistungsstress in der Schule.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 3>>[[Family celebration with Adam.|Familienfeier mit Adam.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 4>>[[Christmas in Germany.|Weihnachten in Deutschland.]]<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Outside, the court lay like freshly ironed green. The sun stood at an angle, the wind lifting Chris’s white skirt ever so slightly whenever he turned. He and Lucas took one side, Mrs. Barnett the other, racket test, one, two practice serves. Chris noticed right away: he didn’t really know much. His grip was okay, his steps hesitant, and every time the ball came to his side, he had to remind his body to react now.\n\nMrs. Barnett played as if the court had her name on it. She swept across the field with repeatedly very high jumps, though her short skirt fluttered heavily enough that she showed Chris her black thong more than once.\n\nLucas was precise, quick on his feet—usually. But whenever Chris crouched in front of him, in the usual stance, legs slightly locked and rocking watchfully back and forth—which made Chris’s butt bounce rather sexily—Lucas’s timing stumbled. His gaze stuck in the wrong places. That view had a certain effect on Lucas, and so he was more occupied with keeping his hard-on under control than delivering a decent game.\n\n“Sorry!” he called after a botched volley and bent apologetically.\n\nLucas could barely tear his eyes away from Chris’s bouncing butt, and every step had become real torture for his bulging cock.\n\n“I—uh—bathroom. Be right back.” He broke into a sprint and disappeared toward the house.\n\nMrs. Barnett strolled to the net, laid the racket loosely in the crook of her arm, and tilted her head. “Maybe you’d like to follow him?” Her voice was soft and unmistakable at once.\n\nHeat shot into Chris’s face. An image flashed through his mind—him and Lucas in the bathroom, Lucas with his pants down and Chris on his knees in front of him. He lowered his gaze to his shoes.\n\n“Sooner or later, you’ll have to tell him your secret,” she said, without pressure.\n\nThe words settled neatly inside him, like balls in a basket. He nodded, small, serious.\n\nLucas came back after quite a while, a satisfied grin on his face, pretending nothing had happened. “Continue?”\n\nThey played a few more rounds. Mrs. Barnett sent them cross-court, Lucas parried when he kept his eyes on the ball, and Chris slowly began to get a feel for the rhythm: two small steps, racket back early, follow through, don’t duck away. Once he hit the ball so cleanly that he let out a surprisingly loud moan and it slammed into Mrs. Barnett’s backhand. She grinned.\n\nAs the sun sank lower, they hung the rackets on the hooks by the fence. Sweat gleamed on forearms, Chris’s headband was damp, the skirt carried a few blades of grass like little badges of honor. “You’re getting better fast,” Mrs. Barnett said appreciatively. Lucas nodded in agreement, drawing his shoulder a little toward him as if to a magnet.\n\n“I have to go,” Chris finally said, feeling the fine tug in his stomach—a mixture of pride, embarrassment, and the question of how much longer he could keep this up without something tearing. In the hallway, he pulled off the headband, changed back into his own clothes, thanked them both, and went out into the early evening.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $unterwaesche == 1>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.]]<<else>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Eventually they broke away from their wild make-out session, both out of breath.\nChris pulled his nightgown over his head while Ruby stepped toward the bed. Hastily and full of impatience, she kicked her panties off her legs. Chris did the same and stumbled after her. She crawled onto the bed on all fours and stayed in that position. Chris stood completely naked behind her, his cock standing stiffly upright.\n\nRuby looked back over her shoulder impatiently. Lustfully, he buried his face in her ass. He breathed in her scent, the scent of her pussy, her soft skin. With his tongue, he parted her labia and licked her, practically slurped at her, kept gently biting her butt, and constantly kneaded her ass with his hands.\n\nRuby rotated her pelvis in circular movements and pressed herself back against him. She had pressed her face into the blanket, her moaning reaching his ears muffled.\n\nAgain and again he ran his tongue through her slit, wanting. His cock throbbed and pulsed; he longed to ram it deep into Ruby’s body from behind, to thrust into her; he wanted her, her body, her sexy, intoxicating body.\n\nHe kept licking her, buried his tongue as deep as he could in her pussy, and increased the speed with which he massaged her pussy. His efforts had an effect; after only a few minutes, Ruby gasped: “Take me… please take me!”\n\nChris immediately stood up. He placed his left hand on her ass, and with his right he wrapped his hand around his cock and guided it to Ruby’s dripping cunt.\n\n<<if $sex == 0>>Chris felt that nervous tingling—fear and anticipation at the same time. It was his first time with a girl, and he had always wondered whether his body would betray him. Still, the anticipation was warm and prickling at once as he looked at Ruby’s little pink pussy.\n\n<<endif>>“Stop,” she suddenly interrupted him.\n\nHe froze. He looked forward. Ruby’s upper body was still lying on the mattress; only her rear was stretched out toward him.\n\n“What’s wrong?” Chris asked, completely bewildered.\n\nRuby grimaced. “I forgot to reorder my pill…,” she admitted then.\n\nChris’ stomach tightened: no pill, no condoms. No planning. Just the two of them, in a new room, in a new life that had only just opened up.\n\n“Shit, I don’t have any condoms,” Chris summed up the situation.\n\n“Yeah, pretty damn shit,” Ruby laughed awkwardly. “And now?”\n\n[[Continue|Chris kann jetzt nicht aufhören.][$sex += 1;$cameinside += 1;$partner += 1]]

He somehow got through the round, rolled the last saving-throw-penalty maneuver with the corner of his mouth tightly drawn, but after the “See you next week!” he grabbed Adam by the sleeve at the exit. “What was that?”\n\nAdam flinched, nervously smoothing the strap of his backpack. “Okay, okay—don’t be mad. My parents asked if we were going to the dance. I, uh… said yes. But we don’t have to go together.” He raised his hands placatingly. “We take a photo. One. For my parents. After that, we can stay out of each other’s way in the hall. You with your people, me with mine. Deal?”\n\nChris breathed out through his nose. The anger was small and precise, like a thorn. At the same time, there was the old leftover guilt from the blackmail, tugging at his rib. “One photo,” he repeated tonelessly.\n\n“One photo,” Adam confirmed, already grateful, as if that had saved the world. “And you don’t even have to dance with me. Really not.”\n\n“Great,” Chris said, without a smile. He saw his weekend shrink and already heard Susan’s voice: Homecoming is important, darling. He threw the backpack over his shoulder. “Just great,” he thought as he stepped into the hallway.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte < 2>>[[Friday, before the game.|Freitag, vor dem Spiel.]]<<else>>[[Friday, conversation with Charlotte.|Freitag, Gespräch mit Charlotte.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris swallowed. For a moment, he couldn’t quite get his mouth open. “No,” he finally said, far too quietly.\n<<set $ort to "Adam’s house">>\nAdam’s mother blinked in surprise. “Oh.” She looked him over briefly, not judgmentally, more as if calculating. “That’s… rather unusual these days. But okay. I don’t want to lecture you.” Her voice grew gentle again. “I just don’t want you to make life unnecessarily hard for yourselves because you get pregnant as teenagers.”\n\nChris nodded mechanically, ashamed down to his fingertips. He had no intention of sleeping with Adam—not now, not ever. But he couldn’t simply say that without bringing the whole performance crashing down. And part of him felt like a fraud anyway, no matter what answer he gave.\n\nAdam’s mother opened a drawer, hesitated for a heartbeat as if checking that no one was really watching, and came back with a small packet of condoms. She discreetly slipped it into his hand as if it were a shopping list. “Here. Just… in case. You don’t have to prove to anyone that you’re grown up. But you’re allowed to be prepared.”\n\nThe packet was light, but in Chris’s hand it felt like a stone. He hastily tucked it into the apron pocket, as if otherwise someone could see his blush. “Thank you,” he managed, and it sounded both sincere and terribly wrong.\n\nAdam’s mother smiled, satisfied, as if she had just done “the right thing.” Chris forced himself back to the baking tray, shaped portions of dough, and focused on even spacing—on anything that was neutral. But in his head, the question remained stuck, the one that wasn’t allowed to be spoken: How long could he keep playing this pretend world before it ate him from the inside out?\n\n[[Continue|Ankunft zu Hause.]]

Chris stopped one step before the opening. The others’ phone light drifted like a small, nervous lamp over rusty edges and shards on the floor. He did not want to go in. Not really. Reasons piled up in his head—nails, holes, someone might report them—but he knew those were only the clean excuses. The real reason was simpler and more humiliating: he was afraid. Of the dark, of the echo, of the wrong syrup smell pretending everything here was harmless.\n<<set $ort to "maple syrup bottling plant">>\n“Well?” one of the boys called, grinning. “You scared, Chris?”\n\nAnother laughed. “Don’t go there after dark, huh?”\n\nChris’s face grew hot. “I… I just think it’s stupid,” he muttered, more defiant than convincing.\n\nThen Dylan stepped up to him. Nothing big or dramatic, more calm, as if it simply went without saying that he belonged beside him. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to,” Dylan said quietly. Then, after a brief glance into the dark hall: “But if you go in… I’ll stay by your side.”\n\nThat struck Chris in a place that wasn’t logical. He nodded, embarrassed, as if he had just been caught at something soft. “Okay,” he said more quietly. “I’ll go with you.”\n\nThe group started moving, and Chris went inside with Dylan.\n\nInside, it immediately became cooler. The air tasted metallic-sweet, as if rust and maple syrup spoke the same language. Their steps echoed on the concrete floor, each footfall its own little thunder, and the hall was bigger than it had seemed from outside—higher, wider, with tanks like huge, dark bodies standing in the half-light. Pipes ran above them, and somewhere something dripped in the same patient rhythm as before. A draft whistled through an open connection and, for a moment, sounded as if someone far in the back were breathing out.\n\n“Okay, creepy,” someone said and laughed, but the laughter snagged in the echo.\n\nThe last sunlight fell through dirty windows in milky strips. Dust danced in it like fine ash.\n\n“So this doesn’t count yet,” one of the boys said, pointing upward. “Look—it’s not even properly dark.”\n\nA few laughed, but it already sounded thinner than before. Still, several nodded. Someone said the real dare would only be once they could see nothing but the phone lights. And because teenage logic rarely backtracked, they decided simply to wait.\n\nChris felt his bladder making itself known. At first only an unpleasant tug, then more urgent the longer they stood there. He pushed the feeling away because he did not want to stand out, but after a few minutes it was clear: this would not last until “properly dark.”\n\nHe leaned slightly toward Dylan. “I’ll… be right back,” he said, trying to make it sound casual.\n\nDylan only nodded. “Okay. Not far, yeah?”\n\nChris set off, using his phone light to search for an out-of-the-way area—behind a row of tanks, where the concrete floor seemed a little less exposed. A girl from the group—one of the cheerleaders—came after him. “Me too,” she whispered, as if it were a shared problem that did not need naming too loudly.\n\nThey found a corner, half hidden by metal struts and an old control cabinet. Chris’s heart pounded, not because of the situation itself, but because of the role he had to play in it. In a dress, with tights, knowing that peeing standing up in a “typically male” way could give him away, he was left with only the way that was taken for granted in this group. He held the fabric neatly, squatted down—to pee.\n\nChris could hear the steadily growing stream of his urine splashing onto the floor.\n\nIt felt strange. Not only physically—more in his head. As if, with every small, silent decision, he were sliding further into an everyday life that had never used to be his. He blushed in the dark, where no one could see, and still it burned all the way to his ears.\n\nWhen he was finished, he hastily straightened his skirt and tights, took one deep breath, and forced himself to seem “normal” again before going back—to where the others were waiting.\n\n[[Continue|Flaschendrehen.]]

The corridor was packed, the bell had just rung, and Chris threaded his way through the gaps with his culottes and folder as if he were a fish swimming against the current.\n<<set $ort to "hallway">>\nRight beside the door stood [[Zoe|Zoe March]], close to a girl with a scrunchie. Her voice was just loud enough to carry a little.\n\n“…I swear, I heard it,” Zoe said, her voice just below everyday volume, just loud enough to feed curiosity. “that there’s a boy at our school going around as a girl. In our grade.”\n\nChris’s body suddenly became too light and too heavy at once. The word “boy” was a hook his breath caught on. He slowed involuntarily, positioned himself by the display case with the theater posters as if studying the announcement “Black Box, Wednesday 3:15,” and pretended he was simply too early.\n\n“No way,” the other girl whispered. “You’d notice something like that. Who’s it supposed to be?”\n\nZoe lowered her voice, and Chris felt as if his skin wanted to listen along. “No idea. But imagine it. A boy in the girls’ locker room. After gym.” A small, dry laugh that didn’t sound like fun. “Do you know how disgusting that would be?”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. The image she painted hit like a cold rag—and struck him exactly where he was already unsteady. His fingers clawed a little tighter into the strap of his bag. Stay calm. Keep breathing.\n\n“I don’t buy it,” the girl said skeptically. “No one would allow that. Come on.”\n\n“Sometimes the school allows things,” Zoe replied, and now there was suddenly something beneath her voice that couldn’t quite be grasped. “Because they think it’s… considerate.” A pause in which you could hear someone rubbing a thumb along a backpack strap. “But I’d notice. I notice things like that.”\n\nChris realized he was staring at the theater poster until the letters began to swim. Go in. Act normal. Don’t stutter. He pulled himself away from the display case as if someone had finally let go of the tear-off slip reading “Extras wanted.” Zoe lifted her head fleetingly at that exact moment, her gaze cutting past him in parallel, almost by chance—almost. His heart made that pointless leap; he forced his shoulders into the practiced posture, lifted the handle, and slipped into the room.\n\nInside, it smelled of whiteboard marker and paper. Ruby was already sitting up front, pens in an exact row; Mr. Robertson was rummaging through a stack of essays, and Charlotte wasn’t there yet. Chris sat down, laid his notepad on the desk as if everything were routine. Seconds later, the murmur of the hallway came through the door, then Zoe—face neutral, curls precise, a brief, expressionless glance sliding across the room, brushing him and moving on as if he were just some chair.\n\n“Take your seats, people,” Mr. Robertson said, clapping his hands once. The clock ticked over to the hour. Chris drew a line along the edge of his notebook, so straight you could have laid a rail against it. Don’t wobble, he thought. Don’t wobble.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $schuhe == 1>>[[Mishap at the water fountain.|Missgeschick am Wasserspender.]]<<else>>[[Mishap at the water fountain.|Missgeschick am Wasserspender.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

The father remained frozen. He said nothing. He did not shout. He did not make a scene. He simply stood there—with a face that hurt more than any words. As if he were desperately trying not to be a “father” in front of all those strangers who clapped and laughed and had no idea. His hands hung at his sides, too heavy to lift. His gaze stayed on his naked son, as if Chris were both there and not there.\n\nSomehow, Chris brought the ending to a close, more reflex than decision. The final step, the final pose—everything ran like a film he was no longer part of. When he disappeared behind the curtain, he felt as if the ground were being pulled out from under him.\n\nBackstage, his hands were shaking so badly that he missed the zipper of his bag twice. The metal clicked, slipped, clicked again. He shoved makeup into the bag without knowing what he was putting in there. He fished for his phone, almost dropped it, caught it again. His breathing was too fast, too shallow.\n\nGo away, he thought. Just get out. Don’t look.\n\nOutside, the cold air hit Chris like a slap in the face. The rear exit of the Tipsy Tassel lay in a narrow alley between dumpsters and a brick wall; somewhere a lamp buzzed, and from inside the music only seeped out in muffled waves.\n\nHe was not even properly out of the doorway before his father was standing in front of him.\n\nToo close. Too real.\n\nHe barely recognized his son. Before him stood this girl image that Chris now wore like a second skin: careful makeup, glossy lips, the skirt and the top, the little details that had been “stage” in the club lights and now, outside in the night, suddenly seemed absurd. Chris was wearing a skirt so short that his beautiful long legs could be seen. The top pressed his breasts together and gave Chris’ father an unwanted view into his cleavage. The father looked at Chris, his gaze searching for the boy he knew, not finding him—and the longer he looked, the more that hope broke away.\n\nChris lowered his eyes. He could not bring himself to look him in the face. Shame pressed his shoulders downward, as if someone had placed a weight on them. He expected an outburst. A voice. A “What have you done?” A “Come with me right now.” Something, anything, that would throw him back into a familiar order.\n\nBut his father did not shout.\n\nThat was the worst part.\n\nHe did not insult him, did not demand he come back, did not make a scene. He simply stood there, and something was working in his face that Chris could not forget: as if something inside him were breaking, slowly, soundlessly. Not anger, not hatred—helplessness. A look that said: I don’t understand how I ended up here. And although there were no words, Chris felt it like a judgment, heavier than any insult.\n\nNeither of them said anything. No “Dad.” No “Chris.” Only the stupid, thin sound of the neon lamp and the distant thump of the music behind the door.\n\nThen Zoe came.\n\nShe stepped out of the rear exit. Her gaze fell on the man—on his position, the closeness, the rigid staring—and she immediately switched into alarm. To her, this was not Chris’ father, but some stalker. She saw the older man in front of Chris, saw Chris’ posture—and her instinct immediately veered in the wrong direction.\n\n“Hey!” Zoe stepped between them, shoulder in front of Chris, chin up. “What the hell is this? Fuck off. No touching, no following. If you’re a fan, find yourself another night, you creep.”\n\nThe father blinked, as if only that voice had set him moving again. His mouth opened, closed again. He looked past Zoe to Chris, searched for something in his face—and found only lowered lashes and a tremor in his posture.\n\n“Get lost,” Zoe said, even more firmly now. “If you don’t leave right now, I’m getting security. Clear?”\n\nThe father took a small step back, uncoordinated, as if the ground had briefly given way. He looked as if he wanted to protest, explain, save something—but he couldn’t manage it. His gaze stayed on Chris for one more moment, one last attempt to reach him through the shame.\n\nThen he turned away.\n\nHe left, slowly, as if he suddenly no longer had enough strength in his knees, and disappeared into the darkness.\n\nZoe remained standing there for another moment, as if wanting to make sure he was really gone. Only then did she turn to Chris.\n\nChris stood as if nailed to the spot, his gaze still lowered, his hands clenched into fists. The silence his father had left behind was larger than everything else.\n\nFinally, Zoe pulled him by the arm. “Come on,” she said more quietly, but still protectively.\n\nChris nodded barely visibly and let her pull him back into the night.\n\n[[Continue|Die nächsten Jahre.]]

Chris needed air. Not physically—more in his head. Susan was still fixated on photos, directing Christine and him like props, and every other sentence sounded like “Stand over there” or “Hold that up.” At some point, Chris muttered, “I’m just going to see what else there is,” before his mother could push him into another background.\n\nHe slipped into the stream of festivalgoers. Between stalls selling maple soap and wooden jewelry, it immediately felt lighter: no one expected a smile for the camera, no one corrected his posture. He let himself drift, listening to the muted thunder of the drums, the laughter, the clatter of the can toss. Children ran past with sticky hands, somewhere a vendor called, “Maple fudge, fresh!”, and the smell of sugar trailed through the air like a path.\n\nAt the edge of the square stood a small pavilion, hung with dark red fabric and fluttering cloths that pretended this was suddenly another world. Over the entrance hung a sign: “MADAME LUNETTE – Glimpses into Tomorrow.” In front of the tent stood a few people, giggling, drinking soda, and then they left again, as if they had just heard a nice spooky story.\n\nChris wanted to walk past. He didn’t believe in that sort of thing. The future, cards, fate—all nonsense. But before he could take the step, the curtain opened a crack and a voice said, “You there.”\n\nChris stopped.\n\nA woman with strikingly pale eyes and a headscarf decorated with little coins studied him so directly that, for a moment, he forgot to breathe. “You walk as if you always want to run away and toward somewhere at the same time,” she said calmly.\n\n“I… I’m just looking,” Chris replied, half defensive, half confused.\n\n“Of course,” she said, as if he had had to say exactly that. “Come. Two minutes. I’ll take a little noise out of your head.”\n\nChris wanted to laugh. Instead, against all reason, he stepped closer. Maybe it was only curiosity, maybe the wish, for one moment, not to be his mother, not school—but simply someone being listened to. He pushed the curtain aside and stepped inside.\n\nInside it was darker, smelling of incense sticks and tea. A small table, two chairs, a crystal ball that looked more like decoration. Madame Lunette gestured to the chair. Chris sat down, hands in his lap, his heart somehow absurdly fast.\n\nShe took his hand and said softly:\n\n“I see two shadows behind you. One is yours.” Her eyes narrowed. “The other… is the one they dressed you in.”\n\nChris’s back went cold. He swallowed, wanted to say something, but no sound came.\n\n“You’ve learned to smile when it hurts,” she continued, and her voice didn’t sound dramatic, but sober, as if she were stating a fact. “You know how to lie with your eyes without blinking.”\n\nChris stared at her. His mouth was dry. One part of him wanted to jump up and leave—another part sat as if nailed in place.\n\nMadame Lunette leaned forward a little. “And now,” she said, “shall I tell you what I see in your future?”\n\n''What does the fortune-teller say?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $charlotte == 2 >>\n[[Chris as a Mother.|Chris als Mutter.]]\n<<else>>\n<<if $club == 1 && $moore == 0>>[[Chris far from here.|Chris fern von hier.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 1 && $moore == 1>>[[Chris in the Flashbulbs.|Chris im Blitzlicht.]]\n<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 0 >>[[A new beginning far away.|Ein Neuanfang in der Ferne.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 1 >>[[A new beginning far away.|Ein Neuanfang in der Ferne.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas > 1 >>[[A new beginning far away.|Ein Neuanfang in der Ferne.3]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3 && $videoblackmail == 1>>[[She warns Chris.|Sie warnt Chris.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3 && $videoblackmail == 0>>[[A new beginning far away.|Ein Neuanfang in der Ferne.2]]<<endif>>\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

“I… uh… I don’t need online dating,” he said, too quickly and too smoothly. “I already have a date for Homecoming.”\n<<set $SusanMemory[6] to 1>>\nShe blinked in surprise, then a satisfied smile slid across her face. “Oh really? With whom?”\n\nChris felt warmth crawl up the back of his neck. He was embarrassed to say it out loud. “With… Lucas,” he got out. He left everything else unsaid: that for almost two weeks he had been acting as if he were Lucas’s steady girlfriend. It was already enough to put the word date into the air.\n\n“Lucas Barnett?” Susan’s eyes lit up. “How wonderful.” She clapped her hands softly, as if someone had announced a good grade. “See? You’re developing beautifully. And now you even have a date for the school dance.”\n\nChris nodded, half relieved, half caught out. “I wanted to talk to you about that anyway,” he said more quietly. “I… need a dress. For the dance.”\n\nThat hit exactly the right nerve. Susan’s face opened like a door. “Of course you need a dress!” she cried, already half thinking in lists. “We’re going out today—shopping. Dress, shoes, maybe a little bag. <<if $haar == 1>>And we’ll look for a bow for your hair.<<endif>>” She took a step closer, smoothed his shoulder, and looked at him as if the day had already succeeded. “This will be lovely, Chris. Truly lovely.”\n\n[[Continue|Ballkleid einkaufen.]]

The hallway was packed, lockers slammed, voices swelled and ebbed. Chris held the bag close to his body, thinking nothing bad—when suddenly a foot hooked in front of his shin. He stumbled, the floor tipped, the culottes swung up; he couldn’t catch himself anymore and landed hard on his knees. A few heads jerked around, the murmur running through like a brief gust of wind.\n<<set $ort to "hallway">>\n[[Zoe|Zoe March]] stood half a step away, her curly dark-brown hair like a little storm around her face, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Oops,” she said, without the slightest regret.\n\n“What is your problem?” Charlotte was there at once, between Chris and Zoe, shoulders forward, bangs sharp as a line. “Are you serious?”\n\n“This is none of your business,” Zoe shot back, chin out, arms crossed. “Don’t make yourself so important, Pom Puffs princess.”\n\n“If you mess with Chris, it is very much my business.” Charlotte stepped closer; her voice stayed calm, but firm. “Cut it out.”\n\nThe giggling around the edge grew quieter, the circle tighter. Zoe rolled her eyes, muttered something unfriendly that was half swallowed by the noise of the hallway—and bumped Charlotte with her shoulder. It happened fast: a grip on the forearm, a dodge, shoulders colliding, hands flying up, a scuffle, almost a fight. Chris was still sitting on the floor, startled by how instantly his heart sprinted even though he wasn’t moving.\n\nCharlotte stayed one step faster, one step steadier, broke Zoe’s grip, and slapped her across the face. “Stay away from her,” she said, and the three words came as sharp as a whistle. “Got it?”\n\nZoe held her gaze for another moment, hard and flat, then blew air through her nose. “Fine by me,” she hissed, as if giving in wasn’t worth her usual territory. She pulled her shoulder free, hitched up her backpack strap, and turned away, her curls like a curtain.\n\nThe classroom door opened. Mr. Robertson stepped out, eyebrow raised. “What’s going on here?”\n\n“Nothing,” Charlotte and Zoe said almost at the same time. “Everything’s fine,” Charlotte added, composed with a trace of innocence she must have borrowed from somewhere. Zoe acted as if a distant notice board interested her more than anything else.\n\nMr. Robertson looked from one to the other, then at Chris, who was still sitting on the floor. “Everything okay, Chris?”\n\n“Yes,” Chris said, and his voice sounded as if it were coming from the ceiling. “I just tripped.” He forced a crooked smile and stood up while Charlotte held out her hand and pulled him up with a sure tug.\n\n“Good. Then everyone inside, please. Drama is for after school,” Mr. Robertson said dryly, but not unkindly, and disappeared back into the room.\n\nThe hallway dissolved, two whispers of “Did you see that?” thinning into the hum. Charlotte remained standing in front of Chris for one more heartbeat. “Everything still attached?” she asked softly.\n\n“Yes,” he said. His knees burned slightly beneath the pants. It was a strange feeling, standing here and knowing: someone had marked his boundary—for him. Someone had fought for him. One part of him melted with gratitude, another wondered how easily he accepted the role of the person being fought for. A girl fights my battles, he thought, and it felt wrong.\n\n“Come on.” She nudged his butt, just discreetly enough that no one noticed, and Chris started walking.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $schuhe == 1>>[[Mishap at the water fountain.|Missgeschick am Wasserspender.]]<<else>>[[Mishap at the water fountain.|Missgeschick am Wasserspender.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris let it happen.\n\nAdam pulled him closer, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and Chris felt everything inside him resist for a moment—and then give in after all. It was not the first kiss with Adam, not even the second. But it was the first in front of so many people, under string lights, in the middle of the ballroom, with looks settling on him like hands.\n\nHe heard the little intake of breath from the people standing around, the giggling, somewhere an “Ooooh” like after a point scored in a game. Someone briefly held up a phone. Chris did not know whether it was filming or only pretending to. But the possibility alone made him burn even hotter with shame. He held still, played the image, because he had to—and because in that moment he did not have the strength to make a scene.\n\nWhen Adam pulled away, he grinned with satisfaction, as if he had just “proved” something. Chris’s lips felt dirty. His face burned. He forced himself to keep breathing and not let his gaze dart around frantically, even though he would have liked nothing more than to sink into the floor.\n\n“Come on,” Adam said at once, quietly but firmly. “Outside. Fresh air.”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. Alone with Adam. The thought was clear, hard, like a warning light. Inside, at least there were people, noise, witnesses. Outside there was less light, fewer eyes, fewer boundaries.\n\nChris hesitated only for a heartbeat.\n\nAdam leaned close to his ear. “Smile. Or else...” As always, the sentence remained unfinished—and that was exactly what made it stronger.\n\nChris nodded. His legs suddenly felt heavy and numb at the same time, as if he were moving himself from the outside. Adam took his hand, too tightly, and led him through the crowd. Chris held the clutch like an anchor while the music thumped behind them and laughter rolled over them, as if they were only another couple on their way outside.\n\nThey slipped through a side door. The air in the back courtyard was cold and smelled of wet asphalt, dumpsters, and cigarette smoke. The bass from the gym came only dully through the wall now, like a heart that was not his.\n\nChris stopped and automatically hunched his shoulders, the open back of the dress suddenly feeling far too open. “Adam...” he began, but his voice sounded uncertain, as if it had had more strength inside in the warmth.\n\nAdam positioned himself so that Chris stood facing the wall and the door was behind Adam. Not aggressive, not loud—but unmistakable. A position that said: You don’t simply go back unless I want you to.\n\n“You did well in there,” Adam said, almost kindly. Then he tapped his jacket pocket, where the phone was. “We’re not finished yet.”\n\nChris’s heart beat faster. “You said...”\n\nHe smiled, his voice growing quieter. “You don’t want everyone to see the video, do you?”\n\nChris’s throat went dry. He could no longer hear that sentence without feeling sick. He glanced briefly at the door—only a few steps, if Adam let him. The wall at his back suddenly felt like a second hand.\n\n“What do you want?” Chris asked, trying to sound calm.\n\n[[Continue|Er will Chris ficken.][$anal += 1;$creampied += 1;$partner += 1;$fingerass += 1]]

“Okay, but only for a second,” Chris gave in.\n<<set $AdamMemory[4] to 1>>\nHe pulled the dress down and allowed Adam to touch his bust, still wrapped in the bra, since he knew he would have been only too eager to do the same in his place.\n\nSlowly. Once, as if Adam were testing whether Chris would really allow it, he stroked over it.\n\nChris’s body reacted immediately. The touch was warm through the fabric of the bra, and yet he felt it like a trail on his skin. A pleasant tingling ran into his nipples. “Aaahh”—and immediately afterward came resistance, hard and reflexive: No. Not like this. Not from him. Not from a boy.\n\nIt felt good, and that was exactly what made it awful. After Adam had only stroked over them hesitantly at first, Chris’s quiet moaning seemed to encourage him, and he squeezed more firmly.\n\nChris swallowed, keeping his gaze on the floor as if he could nail himself there. Adam squeezed again, just a little harder, his fingers a little too familiar, as if this were already normal between them. Chris’s chest grew tight. He felt disgust and that treacherous softness he did not want at the same time. His head said: Stop. His body said: More.\n\n“Adam,” Chris finally said, and his voice was calm, but thin as paper.\n\nAdam paused. “What?”\n\n“That’s enough,” Chris finally said, and adjusted the dress again. He took a breath. “And you don’t tell anyone. Not for fun, not out of anger, not for anything. Otherwise—” He didn’t look for a threat, found something else. “—otherwise this is over. All of it.”\n\n“I won’t tell anyone. Promise.” Adam drew a breath. “But…”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. “But what?”\n\nAdam shifted from one foot to the other. “I want you to… act like you’re my girlfriend.” He hastily raised his hands. “Just… so people see it. At school, everyone would envy me if I was walking around with such a pretty girl.”\n\n“I’m not a girl,” Chris said sharply. “I’m only pretending because I have to.”\n\n“Nobody knows that,” Adam countered meekly. “And—it would only be for show.”\n\n“No.” Chris shook his head. “This is my life. Not your image booster.”\n\nA short, ugly moment of silence. Then Adam’s voice, lower: “If you don’t do it… I’ll tell. At school. Everyone.”\n\n“Please don’t.” Chris’s voice almost broke. “Adam—please. That would destroy me.”\n\nAdam pressed his lips together, looked away, then back again. “Compromise,” he forced out. “Not everyone. Just with my parents—and in the D&D Club. There, you pretend we’re… together. Just holding hands, a little… well. Just pretending.”\n\nChris felt the floor tilt beneath him. It was blackmail with velvet gloves—and still blackmail. “I don’t want that,” he said, and realized how emptily it bounced off Adam’s stubbornness.\n\n“Then I only have the other option left,” Adam said, too calmly.\n\nThe air caught. Chris briefly closed his eyes. Dignity before fear—and yet: survival before collapse. “…Okay,” he pressed out. “Only with your parents. And in the D&D Club. Only pretending. Nowhere else. And you don’t tell anyone my secret. Ever.”\n\nAdam nodded too quickly. “Deal.”\n\nThe mood fell to the floor and stayed there. “I’m going, then,” Chris said, and his voice sounded as if he’d just climbed a long flight of stairs.\n\n“You still have to say goodbye to my parents,” Adam muttered. “Otherwise they’ll think I scared you off.” He twisted his mouth into something that was supposed to be a smile.\n\nIn the living room, Adam’s parents were just putting teacups into the cupboard. “Leaving already?” his mother asked kindly. Adam moved close to Chris, placing a hand on his hip.\n\n“We… uh… are now, like… together,” Adam stammered.\n\nHis father beamed, clapping his son on the shoulder. “My boy!” A glance at Chris, warm and proud, as if he had just awarded him a family medal. “You have taste.”\n\nChris smiled mechanically, his cheeks burning. He wanted to sink into the floor, pull the carpet over himself like a blanket, and only surface again when no one was looking anymore. Instead, he nodded bravely and murmured, “Thank you very much.”\n\nOutside, he only breathed once the door had fallen shut behind him. The evening was cool, clear, merciless. In his head, the “Deal” still rang, dry as chalk.\n\n<<if $ladendiebin == 2>>Now there were already two. Zoe last week, Adam today—two classmates who knew his secret, as if they held it in their fist like a phone photo that could be sent at any time. Chris had been passing as a “girl” at this school for less than two weeks, and yet his disguise was already crumbling at every edge: a glance in the locker room, a keyhole, one wrong moment. Every day seemed to bring new chances for something to be exposed, and every time he thought he had control again, someone tore a piece of it away from him. He hunched his shoulders against the cold and felt above all the other chill—the fear that two would soon become three, and that at some point he would no longer know whom he could trust at all.\n\n<<endif>>''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Message from Charlotte.|Nachricht von Charlotte.2]]<<else>>[[In the evening.|Am Abend.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Charlotte appeared beside him as if she had smelled the moment. “Raspberry queen,” she whispered, nudging him with her shoulder. “After just one week, already with the cool kids. I’m proud of you.”\n\nThe word settled warm in Chris’s chest. Proud—but not competitive pride like before, when he happened to hit something in gym. More of a strangely soft, shimmering feeling that glowed from the inside out. He had a hot girlfriend. He was invited—not by just anyone, but to Penelope’s pajama party, the party of perhaps the most popular girl in school. For the first time, a thought pushed into his awareness that he usually shoved away: Maybe… girl life isn’t just a disguise. Maybe it feels right for me. The thought frightened him...\n\n“We definitely have to go shopping,” Charlotte said, as if that were the logical consequence of everything. “I absolutely need new pajamas for Saturday. Something soft, nice. You’re coming with me, right?”\n\n“Yes,” Chris said without thinking. A mall, music spilling from store entrances, clothing racks where fabrics whispered—and Charlotte, sailing through the aisles and pressing pieces against his pretty chest. He could already picture it and realized he was smiling.\n\n“Perfect. Meet at 4 p.m. at the mall, by the fountain.” Charlotte made a small gesture as if sticking the appointment onto the air.\n\nThe bell tore them apart; voices broke into motion. Charlotte winked one last time, then turned off into her hallway. Chris remained standing for a fraction of a second, letting the new, strange feeling roll through his stomach once, then lifted the tablet and went to his next class—a little lighter than he had been when he arrived that morning.\n\n[[Continue|Schulende.]]

Charlotte broke away from the knot of voices and came over to him. “Hey, secret.” Her tone was soft, not pitying, more conspiratorial. “You look like you just watched Clueless without popcorn.”\n\nChris shrugged. “All good.”\n\n“Mhm.” She dropped down beside him, elbows on the table. “Afternoon: mall. Coming with me? I need new pajamas for Saturday.” No sooner had she said it than she saw the little sting in his face and winced herself. “Oof, sorry. Insensitive of me.”\n\n“It’s okay,” he murmured, though it had briefly pinched.\n\n“I’ll make you a deal.” Charlotte lowered her voice. “I’ll talk to the girls. A little advertising, a little ‘she’s cool.’ You belong in a clique. And…”—she looked him over, appraising and affectionate at the same time—“maybe a mini makeover would help. Nothing crazy. I have ideas.”\n\n“Ideas?” Chris heard the word as if it were written in neon. One part of him wanted to run away, another stayed put. “Shopping—yes. The rest… I don’t know.”\n\n“That’s allowed.” Charlotte nudged him gently with her shoulder. “Today we only buy: pajamas for me, something you recognize yourself in. Maybe a cute top that emphasizes your bust.”\n\nA quiet smile slipped out of him.\n\n“Yes.” Charlotte snapped her fingers almost soundlessly. “Meet at 4 p.m. at the mall?”\n\nHe breathed. The knot feeling in his stomach loosened by half a turn. “Deal.”\n\n“Deal.” She briefly reached for his hand, squeezed once, and let go again, just long enough to leave strength behind instead of drama.\n\nThe bell shrilled. Charlotte stood, grabbed her tray. “See you later.”\n\n[[Continue|Schulende.]]

The next morning, the house was one big logistics problem with tinsel. Four “women” in the household—at least that was what it felt like—and only one bathroom. Doors slammed, somewhere a hairdryer was running, somewhere someone shouted “Who took my hair tie?!”, and the ten-year-old was singing a Christmas song in the hallway, but with the lyrics “Glitter! Glitter! Glitter!” instead of Silent Night.\n\nChris was the last to get to the bathroom. Not because he was dawdling—but because he had needed a moment just to pull himself together at all. Yesterday was still in his bones, and this morning felt like a test before anyone had even left the house.\n\nHis father was already standing outside the bathroom door, jacket on, keys in hand, looking as if he had been trying to be patient for ten minutes. He looked at his watch, then at the door, then back at his watch, as if he could intimidate it that way.\n\n“We were actually about to head out,” he said with deliberate friendliness. But in his voice was that classic dad vibration: I have a plan and no one is sticking to it.\n\nChris slipped into the gap as soon as the door was finally free and pulled it shut behind him. He immediately heard his father’s soft, dramatic exhale on the other side.\n\nInside, the bathroom looked like a battlefield of brushes, lip balm, hairspray, and a towel that had apparently decided it would rather live on the floor. Chris set his bag on the edge of the sink and looked at himself in the mirror.\n\nOkay, he thought. Calm. Just normal.\n\nExcept that “normal” for him now meant: hair, makeup, outfit—not out of vanity, but because it gave him that feeling of being protected. When everything was in place, he felt less exposed. Less like a mistake that could be discovered.\n\nHe tied his hair up, splashed water on his face, applied skincare. Then he blow-dried the front strands until they lay the way they were supposed to. He reached for the concealer, dabbed, blended, powdered. A touch of blush, a touch of mascara, gloss. Small steps that felt like armor, even though from the outside they were only “pretty.”\n\nOutside, there was a knock.\n\n“Chris?” his father called. “We want to get going?”\n\nChris hadn’t even gotten to the outfit yet. He was still standing there in a bra and panties. “I’m almost done!” he called automatically, far too loudly, in that tone that clearly meant: I am NOT almost done.\n\n“Almost almost or… almost?” his father asked through the door, and you could hear him raising his eyebrows as he said it, even though Chris couldn’t see him.\n\n“ALMOST!” Chris repeated, as if volume could create time.\n\n“You used to be faster,” his father muttered, apparently more to himself—just unfortunately loud enough for Chris to hear.\n\nChris stared into the mirror and made a face only he could see. “Yeah, back then I also didn’t have…” He broke off, grabbed the blouse and skirt from the hook, and hurriedly got dressed while at the same time trying not to look as if he had hurriedly gotten dressed. The classic.\n\nAnother knock.\n\n“Chris, I’ve been standing here for—”\n\n“I’M ALMOST DONE!” Chris called again, this time with all the clichéd teenage-daughter energy he had somehow found somewhere in his body.\n\nHe tugged at the collar, straightened the hem, checked his hair, sprayed one last touch of perfume—and knew perfectly well: he still wasn’t “almost.” Just… closer.\n\n[[Continue|Einkaufen mit Dad.]]

Later, when the dishes were done and the ten-year-old was already half vibrating with gift fever, they went to the tree. Lights blinked, the room smelled of fir and cookies. The ten-year-old tore paper open, squealed, held things up as if they were trophies. Anja smiled with relief, as if every happy sound in the room proved to her that she hadn’t destroyed anything.\n\nChris received a small package. Not big. When he opened it, inside lay a simple, pretty perfume—his favorite scent. Exactly the one.\n\nHe looked up. His father stood there pretending it was no big deal, but his eyes gave him away.\n\n“I… remembered,” he said, as if he had to explain why he had done something right.\n\nChris’s throat tightened. He nodded, too quickly. “Thank you.”\n\n“You’re welcome,” his father said, and this time it didn’t sound forced. More… real.\n\nThe fourteen-year-old sat a little apart, watching as always. But when Chris put the perfume back into the box, she suddenly said, without any drama: “At least that’s useful.” Then she shrugged, as if that were a huge compliment she could only express in her own language.\n\nChris had to laugh briefly. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”\n\nLater, when the ten-year-old grew tired and Anja took her to bed, Chris stayed in the living room for a little while. The tree blinked, the TV was off, the house had that soft nighttime silence. His father came to stand beside him, both of them not looking directly at each other, but at the lights.\n\n“You’re flying back soon,” his father finally said.\n\nChris nodded. “Yeah.”\n\nA pause. Then his father cleared his throat, and you could hear that he was searching for the right words. “I… don’t know if I understand everything,” he said. “But I want you to know: you’re welcome here. No matter how…” He made an uncertain gesture, as if the word were too big. “How you are. You’re my child.”\n\nChris’s eyes burned briefly. He forced himself into a small, controlled smile, because he didn’t know what would happen otherwise if he simply let the feelings run. “Okay,” he managed. And then, because it was too little, he added more quietly: “Thank you.”\n\nHis father only nodded and briefly, cautiously, placed a hand on his shoulder—not firmly, not possessively, more like a promise that still had to practice what it felt like.\n\nWhen Chris later lay in his room, he heard muffled laughter downstairs once more—Anja, his father, maybe one last sentence in the kitchen. Chris thought of Maplewood, of his mother, of the flight back. But over all of it now lay this Christmas Eve as well: a small, warm conclusion that felt like a protective film.\n\nHe fell asleep with the scent of fir in his nose and the knowledge that this trip had given him something—not resolution, not truth, but closeness. And for the moment, that was enough.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $ende == 0>>[[Chris feels alone.|Chris fühlt sich allein.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 2>>[[Studying with Ruby in the new year.|Lernen mit Ruby im neuen Jahr.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 3>>[[The rest of the school year.|Das restliche Schuljahr.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $ende == 4>>[[Chris feels alone.|Chris fühlt sich allein.]]<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

On the way to the next class, Chris took the stairs two steps at a time. A wave of students came toward him, backpacks brushing the railing. At the bend, something soft and heavy bumped into him from the side—a boy, chubby, in an oversized hoodie and holding a backpack.<<set $ort to "stairwell">>\n\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/Adam.jpg]]</center> “Oh man, sorry!” The boy threw up his hands, startled. Too late: the rough fabric of the backpack had scraped along Chris’s leg. A faint zzzip in the air, then the telltale tug at his leg. Chris looked down—a run in the stocking, beginning at his thigh and wandering downward like a nasty little brook. <<set $AdamMemory[0] to 1>> “Great.” The word escaped him before he could stop it.\n\n“I didn’t see it, really! I’m sorry.” The boy pushed his glasses up; they immediately slid back down, and he took half a step back as if afraid of breaking even more.\n\nChris’s anger shot up—brief, sharp. Why can’t the fat nerd watch where he’s going? he thought, nastier than he wanted to. The thought burned. He looked at the boy—embarrassed shoulders, reddened cheeks—and remembered how often he himself had stumbled at stairway corners before, how girls had thrown him annoyed looks that said “pay attention.” The run was stupid. But not the end of the world.\n\nHe breathed out. “It’s okay,” he said, calmer. “Just watch where you’re going, okay?”\n“Okay.” The boy nodded too hard, muttered another “Sorry,” and squeezed past along the wall.\n\n“What happened?” Charlotte had grown out of the hallway—as if suddenly beside him, bangs crooked, gaze on his pantyhose. “Ah, the classic.” She placed two fingers against the run without pulling it. “Don’t touch it. Come on.”\n\nBefore Chris could think, she pulled him toward the nearest bathroom. Inside, it smelled of soap and cold water. Charlotte fished a tiny bottle from her bag. “Nail polish. Clear. Lifesaver.”\n\n“Nail polish?”\n\n“Old trick.” Charlotte practically knelt directly in front of his crotch and touched his stockinged leg with one hand while using the other to dab a hint of clear polish onto the place where the thread was coming loose. “There. First a dot at the top and bottom—stopper. Then very thinly along the edge.” She blew on it briefly so it would dry faster. Chris got goosebumps, and he felt his member slowly stiffening.\n\n“Don’t pull, don’t tug. Just let it dry,” Charlotte said.\n\nChris stood ramrod straight, grateful and embarrassed at the same time, and stared at the dots as they glittered until they turned matte. “You carry nail polish around for emergencies?”\n\n“Always. Pantyhose are drama queens.” Charlotte straightened up and screwed the little bottle shut. “Done. The run’s still there, but it won’t spread. Easily lasts until school’s out. After that—new pantyhose.”\n\n“Thanks.” The word came out warm. “Really.”\n\n“No big deal.”\n\nChris followed her back into the hallway. The stairs were waiting, and so was the bell. He placed his steps more consciously, felt the thin, drying edge of rescue on his leg—and thought briefly of the chubby boy with the backpack. It’s okay was the best he had today. And maybe that was enough.\n\n[[Continue|Nach der Schule Cheer-Tryout.]]

Friday ran like clockwork. Already in homeroom, the loudspeaker crackled, then came the voice from the office: “Good morning, Maplewood High! Remember: Tonight is the Timberwolves’ first home game. Doors open at 6:00 p.m., kickoff at 7:00. Students with ID pay the discounted rate. Go Wolves!” A few people cheered, someone whistled, and then notebooks rustled again.\n<<set $wochentag = 5>><<set $ort to "school">>\nRed-and-silver paper chains hung in the hallways, and hand-painted “Beat Northdale!” notes were stuck to the lockers. Chris took his books, nodded to Ruby as he passed, and moved with the flow toward first period. In English, Mr. Robertson had them write a short quiz and collected it without comment. In Bio, Chris scribbled diagrams, the pen scratching steadily. The cafeteria was full, the pizza lukewarm; he took water and an apple, sat down at the edge of a table, and listened to the half-loud rhythmic tapping someone was making with a tray.\n\nThat was when he saw Charlotte again—at the same table as recently, shoulder to shoulder with the other girl, their heads close together over a phone. It didn’t look like some big drama, more like a new habit quietly settling into place.\n\nA classmate from his Bio row—Kelsey, who always smelled of coconut cream—leaned briefly toward him. “Did you hear?” she whispered, as if sharing a weather update. “Charlotte’s supposedly into girls. Those two have been meeting up suspiciously often after class.”\n\nChris raised his eyebrows briefly, more surprised than anything else, and pushed the apple a little to the side. The world around him kept moving; people found each other, made plans with each other.\n\nIn between, the intercom crackled once more, and somewhere the band was rehearsing the “Wolves Fight Song,” which drifted not quite in rhythm through the open windows. In the hallways, two students briefly tried out the chants, were reminded by a teacher with a finger to the lips, and fell silent with grins.\n\nThe afternoon passed steadily: a worksheet, a small reminder about the next test. Chris took notes, neatly crossed out a line once when he had made a mistake, and noticed the clock creeping closer to three. When the final bell buzzed, he stuffed notebooks into his bag, adjusted his cardigan, and let himself be carried toward the exit by the general excitement. Outside, the air was cool and clear. Stadium tonight, he thought.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1>>[[The game.|Das Spiel.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club > 1 >>[[The game.|Das Spiel.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris took a deep breath and typed: “Hey Laverne, thanks for your message. I’m new here in town.” He sent it, immediately regretting that the sentence sounded too stiff. Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.\n\n“Heeey, sweetie!” came back. “I’m Laverne. Maplewood’s small as a village—but sweet, if you know the right corners.” A smiley, then: “So what are you looking for? Friends? Dates? Good hair? 😂”\n\nHe smiled. “Maybe a little bit of everything. And… good hair is never a bad thing.”\n\n“Girl, with me you are ALWAYS in the right place for that,” she wrote. “I can turn a mouse into a lion, promise. So: what do you do? School? Job?”\n\nChris told her about high school, about the club, about his daily life. Laverne “ooooh’d” virtuously, cheered him on (“Cute!”), gave tips without hesitation, and sprinkled in little, radiant statements about herself: that she had lived in Maplewood for two years, that she loved her salon, that she always went overboard at karaoke because nobody could take the mic away from her.\n\nIn between, Chris wrote hesitantly: “And… I’m kind of trans too. I mean… in a complicated way. Long story short: family, school, pressure—not exactly the classic journey.”\n\nThe reply came quickly and softly. “Okay. Thanks for sharing, babe. No stress—you are you. Period. I won’t ask until you want me to. Deal? 💅🏾”\n\nSomething inside him loosened. “Deal.”\n\nThey switched to lighter stuff—favorite food (Laverne: “Anything with lots of garlic. If you can’t kiss, at least you ate good”), shows (“trash with heart”), and hair products (“Sulfate-free or I cry,” Laverne wrote, followed by an exaggerated “😭”). Whenever Chris faltered, she filled the gaps with sparkling, sassy little monologues that were open and harmless at the same time, like a big kid in a candy store who named every piece of candy and could laugh when one fell down.\n\nHe noticed his nervousness fading. He wrote more about himself than he had intended—only what he felt comfortable with. She accepted everything without prying: “Sounds like a lot. You’re doing good.”\n\n“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like that,” he typed.\n\n“Honey, nobody feels that way ALL the time. Trick number seventeen: gloss on, head up, keep going.”\n\nHe grinned at his display. “You’re not exactly the most philosophical person, are you?”\n\n“Philosophy? No. Practice? Yes. I’ve got a whole shelf of it 😉”\n\nThey didn’t arrange anything specific, but exchanged favorite places in Maplewood—she raved about a boba shop, he about the quiet path behind the park nearby. At some point, Chris lifted his head because the room had grown darker. Only the glow of the smartphone still lay on his fingers. A new message vibrated:\n\n“Oops, I talked your ear off. I like how you write. Sleep well later, okay?”\n\nChris typed: “You too. And… thank you. For everything today.”\n\n“Anytime, babe. Good night ✨”\n\nAs he slowly put the phone away, he noticed how quiet the house was—and how late. Saturday had simply disappeared, absorbed by a light, good conversation that hadn’t forced any answers and yet hadn’t left him alone either. He leaned his head against the wall, felt an unexpectedly calm smile, and let the display go dark.\n\n[[End of Chapter 4|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 4]]

The alcohol lay over everything like a veil. Not thick enough to switch him off completely, but enough to blur the edges. Chris noticed how his steps became softer, how laughter slipped more easily from his throat, sometimes a shade too loud, sometimes a tick too late. The music vibrated through his ribcage, the miniskirt feeling at once too short and somehow far away, as if it belonged to a character on a screen.\n<<set $ort to "party house">>\nCharlotte leaned over to him, her lips close to his ear so she could be heard over the bass. “I need to go to the bathroom,” she called. “Come with me.”\n\nBefore he could find an excuse, she had grabbed his hand and was pulling him through the crowd. Her fingers were warm, the black choker at her throat flashed as she determinedly made a path.\n\nThe hallway was noticeably quieter than the living room, but still full of muffled voices. Charlotte knocked briefly on a bathroom door, yanked it open, pulled Chris in with her, and locked it behind them.\n\nThe sudden silence pressed in. Only the music as a dull thumping through the wall, mixed with the hum of the fan. It smelled of hairspray, perfume, and an overly fragrant soap.\n\n“So,” Charlotte said, setting her red cup on the edge of the sink. “Safe space.”\n\nChris leaned his back against the door for a moment, as if he had to make sure it was closed. The room wasn’t large, and her closeness felt different than on the dance floor—more intimate, more direct. He knew the “girls go to the bathroom together” thing was a cliché. Now he was right in the middle of it.\n\nCharlotte bent over the sink, pulled lip gloss and eyeliner from her small bag. “You already look slightly tipsy,” she observed, with a small smile in the mirror.\n\n“I… feel it a little,” Chris admitted. His cheeks were warm, his eyes looking softer in the mirror light.\n\nChris watched as she refreshed her lip gloss with a practiced hand, fixed her bangs, pulled the strap of her slip dress back over her shoulder. So natural, so at ease with herself.\n\n“Sit down,” she said then, nodding toward the edge of the bathtub. “Otherwise you’re going to fall over on me.”\n\nHe sat down, the miniskirt tightening, and reflexively tugged the hem downward. The situation was absurd: him in an ultra-short skirt, in heels, in a bathroom, while Charlotte did her makeup.\n\nBut it became even more absurd when Charlotte lifted the toilet lid and flipped it fully open. She wasn’t really going to...?\n\nYes, she was. Charlotte pushed up her dress and settled onto the toilet bowl. Relaxed, she tilted her head back and closed her eyes. Chris could hear the steadily strengthening stream of her urine splashing into the toilet. For the first time, Chris saw a girl peeing, and to his surprise it aroused him to see the warm piss bubbling out of her pussy. Chris had a clear view of her sweet pussy. Her outer labia were quite small and inconspicuous, whereas the inner ones protruded slightly from the vagina. Instinctively, he wanted to look away, but a strange curiosity kept his gaze fixed.\n\nShe must have quite a lot of pressure on her bladder, Chris thought. After what felt like two minutes, her loudly pattering stream gradually dried up, and she slowly raised her head again.\n\nEven when Charlotte got up from the toilet bowl and began wiping her pussy with toilet paper, Chris couldn’t look away.\n\n[[Continue|Gespräche in der Küche.]]

[[↩ Back|Start]]\n\n//Registration is required on the linked pages.//\n\n<div class="twine-card">\n <div class="twine-card__img" style="background-image:url('pics/spiele/Sinful Mother.jpg');"></div>\n <div class="twine-card__text"><div class="twine-card__title"><a target="_blank" href="https://f95zone.to/threads/sinful-mother-0x-x-x0.11316/">Sinful Mother</a> (Englisch)</div><div class="twine-card__desc">Daniel and his mother and father decide to move to a small town on the invitation of his aunt. But soon they are going to regret their decision.​</div><div class="twine-card__tags">''Tags:'' Cuckold, Incest, Mind-break, Rape</div>\n </div>\n</div>\n<hr>\n\n<div class="twine-card">\n <div class="twine-card__img" style="background-image:url('pics/spiele/Koenigreich Eldoria.jpg');"></div>\n <div class="twine-card__text"><div class="twine-card__title"><a target="_blank" href="https://chyoa.com/story/K%C3%B6nigreich-Eldoria.53512">Königreich Eldoria</a> (German)</div><div class="twine-card__desc">Übernimm die Rolle des Prinzen und entdecke die verborgenen Geheimnisse deiner Abstammung. Wähle deine Ehefrau aus einer ungewöhnlichen Auswahl von Kandidatinnen, darunter deine eigene Mutter und Schwester. Forme das Königreich nach deinen Wünschen und zeuge zahlreiche Erben. Doch sei gewarnt, denn die Bedrohung lauert an jeder Ecke – und vielleicht wirst du selbst in ein Mädchen verwandelt.</div><div class="twine-card__tags">''Tags:'' Genderbender, Transformation, Incest, Teen, Milf, Humiliation, Non-Consent, Maledom</div>\n </div>\n</div>\n<hr>\n\n\n<div class="twine-card">\n <div class="twine-card__img" style="background-image:url('pics/spiele/Die Maedchenschule fuer Jungen.jpg');"></div>\n <div class="twine-card__text"><div class="twine-card__title"><a target="_blank" href="https://chyoa.com/story/Die-M%C3%A4dchenschule-f%C3%BCr-Jungen.26388">Die Mädchenschule für Jungen</a> (German)</div><div class="twine-card__desc">Leon lernt seine leibliche Mutter nach 18 Jahren kennen. Doch diese hat kein Interesse an einem Sohn, sondern möchte ihn lieber zu einer hübschen Tochter umerziehen. Zum Glück leitet ihre Freundin dafür genau die richtige Schule.</div><div class="twine-card__tags">''Tags:'' Feminization, Femdom, Humiliation, Incest, Milf, Non-Consent, Sissy</div>\n </div>\n</div>\n<hr>\n\n<div class="twine-card">\n <div class="twine-card__img" style="background-image:url('pics/spiele/Der Flaschengeist.jpg');"></div>\n <div class="twine-card__text"><div class="twine-card__title"><a target="_blank" href="https://chyoa.com/story/Der-Flaschengeist.32318">Der Flaschengeist</a> (German)</div><div class="twine-card__desc">Ein Dschinn ist dazu verpflichtet, jedem Finder seiner Wunderlampe drei Wünsche zu erfüllen – und er genießt es, dabei das Leben seiner neuen Meister vollkommen auf den Kopf zu stellen.</div><div class="twine-card__tags">''Tags:'' Mind Control, Brainwashing, Incest, Cuckold, Body Modification, Transformation, Reality Change, Teen, Humiliation, Non-Consent</div>\n </div>\n</div>\n<hr>\n\n<div class="twine-card">\n <div class="twine-card__img" style="background-image:url('pics/spiele/Familien Tabu.jpg');"></div>\n <div class="twine-card__text"><div class="twine-card__title"><a target="_blank" href="https://chyoa.com/story/Familien-Tabu.39951">Familien Tabu</a> (German)</div><div class="twine-card__desc">Die ungewöhnliche Geschichte eines Jungen und seiner Familie. Über 25 Charaktere zum Daten und Verführen.</div><div class="twine-card__tags">''Tags:'' Incest, Milf, Teen, BBW, Bisexual, Feminization, Femboy, Transgender, Gilf</div>\n </div>\n</div>\n<hr>\n\n\n\n<div class="twine-card">\n <div class="twine-card__img" style="background-image:url('pics/spiele/Verbotenes Verlangen.jpg');"></div>\n <div class="twine-card__text"><div class="twine-card__title"><a target="_blank" href="https://chyoa.com/story/Verbotenes-Verlangen.42492">Verbotenes Verlangen</a> (German)</div><div class="twine-card__desc">Kurz nach deiner Geburt wurdest du vertauscht – die Frau, die dich großgezogen hat, ist nicht deine leibliche Mutter. Wird sich das als glücklicher Zufall erweisen oder als dein schlimmster Albtraum? Ein erbitterter Wettstreit zwischen Jungs entbrennt um die Liebe – und die Lust – einer heißen Milf.​</div><div class="twine-card__tags">''Tags:'' Incest, Cuckold, Milf, BBW, Competition</div>\n </div>\n</div>\n<hr>\n\n<div class="twine-card">\n <div class="twine-card__img" style="background-image:url('pics/spiele/Familien Cuckold.jpg');"></div>\n <div class="twine-card__text"><div class="twine-card__title"><a target="_blank" href="https://chyoa.com/story/Familien-Cuckold.23514">Familien Cuckold</a> (German)</div><div class="twine-card__desc">Ein Sohn muss ansehen wie sein neuer Stiefbruder seine Mutter vor seinen Augen verführt. Seine Freundin findet seinen Penis zu klein. Jahre später scheint auch seine Tochter sich zum Flittchen zu entwickeln.</div><div class="twine-card__tags">''Tags:'' Incest, Cuckold, Milf, Teen, Femdom, Humiliation, Feminization</div>\n </div>\n</div>\n<hr>\n\n<div class="twine-card">\n <div class="twine-card__img" style="background-image:url('pics/spiele/Die erpresste Mutter.jpg');"></div>\n <div class="twine-card__text"><div class="twine-card__title"><a target="_blank" href="https://chyoa.com/story/Die-erpresste-Mutter.24090">Die erpresste Mutter</a> (German)</div><div class="twine-card__desc">Ein Sohn erwischt seine Mutter beim Fremdgehen und erpresst sie. Ein langes Wochenende voller inzestuöser Abenteuer.</div><div class="twine-card__tags">''Tags:'' Incest, Milf, Non-Consent</div>\n </div>\n</div>\n\n[[↩ Back|Start]]

They lay across Charlotte’s bedspread, both dressed again, hair still slightly damp from the hot tub. The room smelled of perfume and chewing gum. Charlotte had rested her head against his shoulder; her fingers drew calm circles over his chest. When Chris blinked, he had the feeling the afternoon was a dream in which his heart was too light.\n<<set $ort to "Charlotte’s room">>\nThey kissed again—this time without hurry, without the rush of the hot tub—a quiet finding that tied his stomach into warm knots. Today I had my very first kiss with a girl, he thought in amazement. With Charlotte. The thought settled inside him like a light. Were they now… a couple? The word was huge. Everything had happened so quickly, and he had no experience at all. The only thing he knew for sure: the butterflies in his stomach were working overtime, and his secret had moved so far into the background that for a moment he forgot it.\n\n“You’re beautiful,” Charlotte said. She propped herself up, brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, and smiled, soft and serious at the same time. “Wait. I’ve got something.” She jumped off the bed, pulled a small box from the dresser, and snapped the lid open. “These would look so good on you.”\n\nChris sat up. In the box shimmered two small earrings—delicate silver studs with a tiny sparkling stone. “Wow,” he said, and then, more honestly: “I… don’t have pierced ears.”\n\nCharlotte blinked. “None? At your age?” It sounded less judgmental than genuinely surprised. “Wow. Okay—no problem.” Her gaze took on that mischievous, determined sparkle Chris already knew. “We… could change that.”\n\n“You mean now?” He sat all the way up, the butterflies briefly pausing.\n\n“Only if you want!” Charlotte raised her hands defensively, though she was already grinning. “I did it for a friend—hot needles, potato, ice cubes. It’s half as bad as it sounds, and they’d look absolutely stunning on you. Promise.” She sat down beside him again, head tilted, the earrings between thumb and forefinger. “Just imagine it: these little ones sparkling on your ears.”\n\nChris’s heart began beating faster again, but this time for a different reason. Pierced ears. Here. Now. One part of him wanted to shake his head—too much, too fast. Another part felt how contagious Charlotte’s enthusiasm was, how her eyes lit up when she looked at him. “I… don’t know.”\n\n“Hey, no pressure,” she said gently, nudging his shoulder. “But—you’d be beautiful. Even more than now.” Her smile grew smaller. “I’d do it properly too. Promise.”\n\nHe looked from the earrings to Charlotte, from Charlotte’s eyes back to the tiny stones. His fingers briefly clenched in the bedsheet, then loosened again.\n\n[[Continue|Ohrlöcher stechen lassen von Charlotte.][$tarnung += 1]]

During second break, Chris saw them by the vending machine: Myles leaning with one foot against the metal, hands in his pockets, that casual half-smile. Christine stood close, her head tilted slightly upward. She said something, he shrugged and pulled her closer with two fingers hooked into her belt loop, gave her a brief kiss that looked more like a seal than affection. Christine laughed, a sound that rang a little too bright, hooked her arm through his, and held his gaze a moment too long, as if she wanted to prove something to him—or to herself. Myles nodded, high-fived someone from the team, and his “See you later” to Christine fell casually, as if later were guaranteed. Chris stood at the end of the hall and felt the old, small tug between concern and it-not-being-his-business.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nAfter school, at home, he half-closed the curtains, stood in front of the mirror, and slipped into the uniform for the Pep Rally: red-and-white top, skirt, bow. The fabric lay smooth and tight, the lines by now familiar to him by heart. He breathed in, raised his arms into a High V, felt the twitch of his shoulder muscles and the slight tickle of the fabric at his waist. Then he grabbed a pillow, pressed it against his stomach, and practiced the chant into it—muffled, but with that bright, springy energy they would need tomorrow. “Let’s go, Wolves! Clap-clap!” He jumped in place twice, landed lightly, counted “five–six–seven–eight” in his head, and grinned without noticing it.\n<<set $SusanMemory[3] to 1>>\nA movement reflected in the doorway. His mother was leaning against the frame, her arms loosely crossed, a smile around her lips that wasn’t loud, but unmistakable. “You look great,” she said calmly.\n\nChris flinched, the pillow slipping. Heat shot into his cheeks. “I—uh—I was just… practicing.”\n\n“I can see that,” she said, her gaze warm and satisfied, as if she were inwardly ticking off a list. “Keep going.”\n\nHe nodded, turned back to the mirror, and raised his arms once more. The grin came back more cautiously. Behind him, Susan’s smile remained in the doorway, and Chris’s embarrassment mixed with that electric, nervous anticipation for tomorrow, which could no longer be entirely hidden.\n<<set $penelope_opinion to 58>>\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte > 1>>[[In bed in the evening.|In bed in the evening.]]\n<<else>>[[Evening talks with Mom.|Abendliche Gespräche mit Mom.3]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\n\n\n

Susan didn’t even wait until Chris had properly taken off his shoes. She stood in the hallway, arms crossed, phone in hand, and her gaze was so sharp that Chris knew at once: This was not a “How was your day?”\n\n“He’s been trying to reach you,” she said without preamble. “For two weeks.”\n\nChris blinked. “Who?”\n\nSusan held the display out to him as if it were a piece of evidence. “Rick. Silver Spoon Diner. He called, left messages, several times even. And do you know what happened? The number was wrong.”\n\nChris’s heart gave a small jump. “What? That can’t—”\n\n“Yes.” Susan’s voice grew louder, not shrill, but charged. “He called me today. Pretty annoyed. He said he can’t get you on the phone. And that I should ask you if you’re screwing with him.”\n\nChris felt himself grow hot. “I didn’t give him a wrong number on purpose.”\n\nSusan gave a short laugh, without humor. “Of course not. By accident. Of all things, with a job you didn’t want.”\n\n“No,” Chris said quickly. “I swear. I… I was even wondering why no one was getting in touch. But I had so much… school and… I just didn’t think about it anymore.”\n\nSusan took a step closer. “You didn’t think about the fact that you were supposed to work?”\n\nChris’s mouth went dry. “It wasn’t on purpose.”\n\nHis mother stared at him for a moment, as if weighing whether she wanted to believe him or not. Then she lowered the phone, exhaled hard once, and made a decision the way she always did: with no room for maneuver.\n\n“You’re going there today,” she said. “Today is your first day of work. Period.”\n\nChris wanted to protest, but he realized how little strength he had left for it. He nodded, ashamed, angry, overwhelmed—all at once.\n\nA little later, he was sitting in the car, his bag on his lap, while Susan drove him to the Silver Spoon Diner. The neon sign appeared from far away.\n\n[[Continue|Seine erste Schicht.]]

[[↩ Back|Enden]]\n<center><img src="pics/content.png" style="border:none; box-shadow:none; padding:0; background:none;"></center>\n[[Mom:|Susan Braun]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 3\nNumber of voyeur scenes: 3\n\n[[Sister:|Christine Braun]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 2\nNumber of voyeur scenes: 1\n\n[[Charlotte:|Charlotte Walters]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 3\nNumber of voyeur scenes: 1\n\n[[Mr. Walters:|Joseph Walters]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 2\n\n[[Lucas:|Lucas Barnett]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 2\n\n[[Mrs. Barnett:|Caroline Barnett]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 3\n\n[[Penelope:|Penelope Barnett]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 1\n\n[[Dylan:|Dylan Carter]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 1\nNumber of voyeur scenes: 1\n\n[[Adam:|Adam Bowman]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 3\n\n[[Zoe:|Zoe March]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 3\nNumber of voyeur scenes: 1\n\n[[Ruby:|Ruby Hicks]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 1\n\n[[Mrs. Ferguson:|Ava Ferguson]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 1\n\n[[Laverne:|Laverne Johnson]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 1\n\n[[Ms. Rivera|Lucia Rivera]]\nNumber of voyeur scenes: 1\n\n[[DeShawn:|DeShawn Powell]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 1\nNumber of voyeur scenes: 1\n\n[[Latoya:|Latoya Powell]]\nNumber of sex scenes: 1\n\n[[↩ Back|Enden]]

“Just the ends,” Chris said at last, the words heavy and yet relieving. Laverne nodded as if she had already known. The scissors snapped, the comb glided, warm blow-dryer air brushed over his neck. “Just a little shape,” she murmured, “so it falls instead of hangs.” When she was finished, someone looked back at him from the mirror whom he knew—and yet not entirely. The hair was still long, but cut softer, the forehead clear, the ends glossy. It looked good. It looked… a little more feminine than he would have liked. Christine raised a thumb, and Laverne winked: “Looks like summer.”\n\n<center>[img[pics/frisur_lang1.jpg]]</center> Outside, heat shimmered over the parking lot. “Quick, the groceries,” Christine said, marching toward the supermarket as if they were in a race. The supermarket was cool and smelled of plastic and lemon. Just beyond the sliding doors, Christine grabbed his forearm. “I really have to pee,” she whispered, rolling her eyes toward the restrooms. “Start without me, I’ll catch up in a second.” Chris knew what “in a second” meant with his sister. He sighed, pushed the cart, pulled the shopping list from his pocket. Milk, eggs, dish soap. He tossed in the milk, placed the eggs carefully beside it, paused for a moment by the cereal, and stared at a cartoon bee as if it were telling him something important.\n\nChris pushed his cart into the hygiene aisle and slowed down involuntarily.\n\n<center>[img[pics/zoe_laden.jpg]]</center> Between one shelf of women’s razors and another of deodorants stood a girl, maybe his age. She wore a tight light-pink top that left most of her stomach bare, and skintight jeans that held her beautiful perky ass. Her chest wasn’t too big, made up of two cute, firm little tits that the top showed off well. Her navel piercing flashed in the fluorescent light, and her wild, dark-brown curls framed a cheeky face. Her fingers played with a price tag without tearing it off. Her eyes darted: left, right, camera dome, floor.\n\nChris would have simply rolled past if she hadn’t made that brief, strange movement: she opened her handbag just a crack, as if it had to happen very quickly. Then her other hand reached into the shelf—not hesitantly, but practiced—and let a small box disappear into the bag. Chris recognized the logo as it flashed in the light for a moment: condoms. One grab, one slip inside, bag closed again. The whole thing took barely two seconds.\n\nAfterward, she acted as if nothing had happened. She picked up a shower gel, turned it over, and stared at the ingredients as if she were seriously comparing them.\n\nChris stopped. His mouth went dry. Shoplifting. He should say something. Get an employee. That was how it was done, wasn’t it?\n\nAt the same time, heat rose into his face because he imagined what it would mean for her: getting caught, embarrassing questions, maybe a call to her parents, drama. Small-town Maplewood had that “everyone knows everyone” feeling—and then they knew you because of something like that.\n\nReporting it would be “right.” The rules were clear: you don’t steal. At the same time, his heart felt like a coin standing on its edge, wobbling.\n\nChris heard a scanner beep somewhere, heard the air conditioning kick up. He noticed that Christine wasn’t coming back. Typical. A supervisor in a blue polo shirt wandered past the end of the aisle without looking over.\n\nThe girl raised her head. Her eyes met his. Just for a moment, a barely audible click. There was something in them—not cheekiness, not defiance. More like a tiny, naked “please don’t.” Or was he imagining it? He felt his face grow warm and felt how awkwardly much he had just “seen.”\n\nThe supervisor made a round. Chris’s mouth was dry. His tongue searched for a sentence and found only cotton. He could simply move on now, pretend he had merely been studying toothbrushes. He could cough and go looking for his sister, who was of course still “in a second.” In his ears, the air conditioning hummed like moral tinnitus.\n\n''👠 Style + 1''\n\n''Report the shoplifting or not?''\n❯ [[He decides to do the right thing—even if it might expose her.|Er meldet sie.][$ladendiebin += 1]]\n❯ [[He stays silent and acts as if he didn’t see the theft.|Er meldet sie nicht.][$ladendiebin += 0]]

After the bubble tea, Laverne led Chris a few more streets onward. The city’s neon light grew denser, more colorful, and eventually there was a sign flickering in pink and blue: Karaoke.\n<<set $ort to "karaoke bar">>\nChris stopped as if he had run into an invisible wall. “No,” he said immediately, and his voice was far too quick. “Absolutely not.”\n\nLaverne turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Why not?”\n\n“Because…” Chris’s gaze darted to the door, behind which muffled music and laughter could be heard. “My voice. And I don’t sing in front of people. That would be… embarrassing.”\n\nLaverne made a sound somewhere between laughter and outrage. “Baby, we’re not going onstage. We’re getting a private box. Soundproof, no one can see in. In there it’s just you, me, and your fear, which I’m about to laugh at, okay?” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “And trust me: in a box like that, everyone’s a star. Even people who sound like a broken vacuum cleaner.”\n\nChris wanted to say something else, but Laverne was already half pulling him toward the entrance. “Come on. I’ll handle it.”\n\nInside, it smelled of sweet alcohol and warm electronic dust. Laverne gave a quick wave at the bar, exchanged a few words with the owner as if she were a regular and co-host of the place. She gestured to Chris, said something that made him blush, and then ordered two drinks without asking—something with ice and fruit that shimmered in the colorful light.\n\n“Just a little,” she said to Chris as she took the glasses. “Loosen up. Not drown yourself.”\n\nChris nodded, even though he already knew that “loose” happened quickly for him.\n\nThe private karaoke box was like a small universe of its own: a TV on the wall, a professional sound system, two microphones, a remote with a song list, soft U-shaped sofas, and party lighting that slowly changed colors. The door closed heavily and tightly; suddenly everything outside was far away.\n\nLaverne dropped onto the sofa, stretched out her sexy black legs, and grinned. “Okay. I’ll sing first. Icebreaker queen, that’s my job.”\n\nShe scrolled through the list, chose a song, and as soon as the music started, she launched right in—loud, cheeky, with that stage energy that filled the room. She gestured as if she had an audience and turned the chorus into a little show. Chris had to laugh, even though he was still holding on as if to a railing.\n\n“Your turn,” Laverne said after the applause from the system and pushed a microphone toward him.\n\nChris’s hands were slightly damp. “I… I can’t.”\n\n“You can,” Laverne said, and this time it sounded soft, not sassy. “We’re alone. And I won’t laugh at you. At most, I’ll… cheer you on.”\n\nHe chose a song he knew, and when the first bars came on, he lifted the microphone. The first words were hesitant, almost spoken. Then he found the note—and heard himself through the speakers.\n\nNot bad.\n\nMore than that: somehow… cute. Warm. Not the voice he had been afraid of. Not “like a boy,” he thought in surprise, and a small, unreasonable happiness flickered through him. He missed a note in the chorus, swallowed a syllable, but Laverne cheered anyway as if he had just won an arena.\n\n“See?” she called. “That’s a voice people want to hear!”\n\n[[Continue|Singen und Knutschen.][$kissgirl += 1;$woral += 1;$swallow += 1;$anal += 1;$partner += 1]]

Chris grinned into the steam. He saw his own face reflected in the dark phone display—red cheeks, wet hair, that satisfied, slightly silly smile. And then the idea came to him so suddenly that he startled himself for a moment: Why not? A small, playful “I’m your girlfriend” feeling that felt like a tickle in his stomach.\n\nHe aimed the phone at himself, smiled shyly into the camera, and tried to hold his young teenage breasts with his free hand. His pale pink nipples flashed softly between his fingers.\n\nChris hesitated for exactly two breaths—and then sent it before he could talk himself out of it again.\n\nThe phone vibrated almost immediately.\n\nLucas’s reaction didn’t come as text first, but as that little symbol that felt much bigger than it was: a heart.\n\nLucas: <blockquote class="quote">❤️</blockquote>\nThen: <blockquote class="quote">Okay wow. You look… really pretty.</blockquote>\nChris felt a tingling beneath the surface of the water and had to giggle quietly to himself, automatically holding his free hand over his mouth as if someone might hear him. He typed back, as casually as possible, though his face was burning:\n\nChris: <blockquote class="quote">You’re sweet. I just look wet 😄</blockquote>\nLucas: <blockquote class="quote">Wet and pretty.\nAnd… I like that you send me things like that.</blockquote>\nChris’s heart made that little jump he knew by now. He let the phone sink briefly, so that the bottom edge almost touched the water, and closed his eyes for a moment. It felt light. Safe. And somehow far too beautiful for something that had only started “for show.”\n\nHe also wondered why his best piece was getting hard in that moment. His stiff cock peeked out of the water like a periscope. The answer was obvious. He knew it shouldn’t be like that. He couldn’t fight the thoughts buzzing through his head.\n\nChris typed again, this time a little more slowly:\n\n<blockquote class="quote">I like that it makes you happy.</blockquote> Lucas answered with another little heart, as if that were the only language reliably available to him right now.\n\nChris’s right hand moved from his stomach southward. Very gently, so as not to make any telltale sound, he moved it up and down. The skin slid over the pulsing shaft. Every bit of friction teased him and made his action seem more and more plausible.\n\nWhy did it turn him on to play with himself while texting with Lucas? What was Lucas doing right now? Was he just sitting there, or was he doing the same thing as Chris? No. Chris couldn’t imagine that. Why would he? Unless...\n\nChris closed his eyes, rested his head against the edge of the tub, let his feet slide out of the water. He put the phone away, and already his left hand was on its way to his breasts, rubbing the hard nipples and massaging them.\n\nMeanwhile, the movements of his right hand became faster and more frantic. And then: “Aaaahhhh” And at the same moment, a fountain of semen rose upward in several spurts and fell back onto his stomach and breasts.\n\nAfter his orgasm, Chris relaxed even further, until the steam slowly thinned and the bathwater cooled.\n\n[[Continue|Dienstag, Figurprobleme.]]

“How about helping me?” Chris asked boldly.\n\nShe looked at him with a fiery gaze. “Make me,” Zoe breathed challengingly.\n\nA crooked smile flitted across his lips, as if she had given exactly the answer he had been hoping for. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The air between them seemed to grow thicker.\n\nChris took half a step closer, slowly enough to give her the chance to step back. But Zoe stayed where she was, only lifting her chin slightly and returning his gaze with a calm that was more dangerous than any open provocation.\n\nChris reached out toward her, but didn’t touch her right away; instead, he let his fingers hover in the air between them for just one heartbeat.\n\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[He presses her head into his crotch.|Er drückt ihren Kopf in seinen Schritt.][$oral += 1;$partner += 1]]\n❯ [[He grabs her and throws her onto the bed.|Er packt sie und wirft sie aufs Bett.][$partner += 1]]\n❯ [[This was all too strange for him.|Das war alles zu seltsam für ihn.][$zoe -= 1]]

In the middle of the warm rush of music and string lights, Chris’s phone vibrated in the clutch. At first he thought it was just some group message, but the vibration came again—more urgent. He pulled the clutch closer, opened it discreetly, and peeked at the display.\n\nThe name made his stomach drop instantly.\n\n[[Mrs. Barnett.|Caroline Barnett]]\n\nFor a second, there was only that stark remembering: the entire week, the secret arrangement, the phrase “after the dance.” In the euphoria of Homecoming, he really had pushed it aside, as if his mind had deliberately shoved it into a drawer that wasn’t allowed to exist.\n\nChris looked up at Lucas and forced himself to give a small smile that wasn’t quite steady. “I… uh, I need to… go to the little girls’ room,” he said, trying to sound casual, as if it were a harmless break.\n\n[[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]] grinned briefly and squeezed his hand. “Sure. I’ll wait here.”\n\nChris nodded, turned away, and headed toward the restrooms. The path through the gym suddenly felt longer than before, as if every step made the decision heavier.\n\nIn the girls’ restroom, it was brighter, tighter, full of perfume and hairspray. A few girls stood at the mirror touching up their lip gloss, and somewhere someone laughed too loudly. Chris stood at a free sink, pulled out his phone, and opened the message.\n<blockquote class="quote">Mrs. Barnett: I’m waiting. Impatiently. Mrs. Barnett: Motel: Maplewood Motor Inn, 615 Route 9. Room 12. Come if you can.</blockquote> Chris’s heart beat faster. Not just because of the message—but because of what it triggered in him: that dangerous mixture of thrill and desire that had been following him for weeks. He stared at the lines as if he could undo them just by looking.\n\nHe pushed the phone into his palm, as if it had suddenly become hot, and looked in the mirror.\n\nMidnight-blue dress. Gloss on his lips. Earrings. A “high school girl against his will(Highschool-Girl wider Willen)” who was having a beautiful evening. And somewhere beneath that, a boy who thought a motel address could prove him—that he was still himself, that he was still “allowed” to do what boys were allowed to do.\n\nAnd then there was Lucas. The hand at his waist during the slow dance. The pride in his eyes. The safe feeling Chris had so rarely had. Tonight, his heart had been pulling toward Lucas, quietly, but truly.\n\nChris’s mind tried to turn it into two separate lives. But in the mirror he saw only one person who no longer knew which side of him was real.\n\nHe exhaled slowly and felt his throat tighten. He had to make a decision—now, not someday.\n<<set $barnett to 0>><<set $barnettbaby to 0>>\n''What does Chris decide?''\n❯ [[He follows the old impulse and meets Mrs. Barnett, even though the thought of Lucas won’t leave him alone.|Sich mit Mrs. Barnett treffen.]]\n<<if $lucaslove > 1>>❯ [[He resists the temptation, turns Mrs. Barnett down, and stays with Lucas and this evening that suddenly feels real.|Mrs. Barnett absagen und bei Lucas bleiben.]]<<else>><div class="box"><b>Note:</b> Perhaps his heart would decide differently at this point—if Chris and Lucas had shared more intimate moments together.</div><<endif>>

The cafeteria was an aquarium of voices. Chris slid his tray to the Pom Puffs table and sat down between Christine and Charlotte. [[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]] held court as always—one elbow on the table, raspberry gloss on her lips, and all threads running to her: who was texting whom, who had almost cried at the last tryout, which jersey was “absolutely not okay” for the next game. In between, a sigh about math homework, then boys again, then cheer again.\n<<set $ort to "cafeteria">>\nChris nodded in the right rhythm, tossed “really?” and “crazy” into the appropriate places, and felt his thoughts drifting through a slow roundabout. Boys, cheer, lip balm, math, boys. He contributed a “The new quarterback assistant is the one with the curls, right?”—Penelope corrected him affectionately with first and last name plus jersey number, everyone laughed, and the world rolled on.\n\nWhen the topic got stuck on homecoming dresses, his gaze drifted. Everywhere, the groups had sorted themselves as if by instinct: theater kids in a semicircle around a music folder; band people with drumsticks tapping on tray edges; the nerds around a handheld console; preps with pressed collars; the athletes along the window front—loud, relaxed, sun-warm. One week, Chris thought, and everyone is already wired in place.\n\nHe looked down at his hands, at the blousey top, the fine ruffle edge, felt the calm fall of the pleated skirt at his knees. And I’m sitting… here. With the popular girls. The thought settled in his chest like a small, outrageous pride—nothing to brag about, but enough to grin inwardly. He had never been with the cool kids. Now he was, at least in the topography of this lunch break.\n\nHis gaze slid carelessly toward the athletes’ table. A boy—broad shoulders, hair at the nape daringly too long—noticed and nodded to him. His gaze lingered on him a heartbeat too long. Not a fleeting registration, but that curious, appraising interest that clearly counted Chris as a girl. Heat shot into his cheeks; he flinched inwardly, quickly lowered his eyes, and acted as if his salad had suddenly become unbelievably fascinating.\n\n“So I’m telling you,” Penelope said at that exact moment, “Raspberry is the only color that doesn’t look dead in photos on Saturday.”\n“True,” Chris heard himself say too quickly. He cleared his throat, lowered his head, and pushed a forkful of salad in circles.\n\nHe forced himself to swim along again. The conversations bored him; he participated anyway, the way you do stretches even when you’d rather run. And somewhere beneath the noise remained the knowledge that held him strangely upright: he was sitting at the table other people stared at. And this time, he didn’t stare back.\n\n[[Continue|Einladung im Klassenzimmer.]]

The cafeteria smelled suspiciously of cheese crust and oregano today. Chris’s stomach growled on cue when the tray of lasagna gleamed—golden, caramelized corners, exactly his comfort food. He was already reaching for the serving spoon when Christine leaned toward his ear. “Stop. Think of your date with Charlotte. Bikini plus bloated belly? Don’t.”\n<<set $ort to "cafeteria">>\nHe froze with the edge of his tray over the warming station. “I’m starving.”\n\n“Then starve light.” She raised an eyebrow toward the salad bar. “Greens, a little dressing. You’ll thank me later.”\n\nReluctantly, he redirected. Arugula, a few tomatoes, sunflower seeds, a careful drizzle of vinaigrette. Beside him, a thick slice of lasagna slapped onto Christine’s tray—she grinned innocently. “I don’t have a date.”\n\n“Unfair,” he muttered, but he knew she was right. Hot tub, garden, bikini—he didn’t need a cheese avalanche in his stomach on top of it.\n\nAt the register, the scanner beeped in the familiar rhythm. The employee glanced up briefly, the same woman as yesterday, the same practiced smile. “That’s three-fifty, sweetie.”\n\nThe word hit him doubly again—being caught out and successful disguise in one. “Thanks,” he managed, pushed the tray on, and tried not to think about how much of him “worked” because others put him in the right box.\n\nAt the Pom Puffs’ table, he lowered his gaze to his greens while Charlotte waved from the end of the row. Christine nudged him against the heel. “Eat. And drink water.”\n“Yes, Mom,” he whispered back, speared a leaf on his fork, and chewed so conscientiously as if care could calm the trembling in his stomach.\n\n''What happens?''\n<<nobr>><<if $schuhe == 1>>[[Chaos in the stairwell.|Chaos im Treppenhaus.]]<<else>>[[Chaos in the stairwell.|Chaos im Treppenhaus.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Zoe licked her lips sexily while Chris began to jerk off his cock to get an erection. As exciting as the situation was, his cock didn’t seem to be getting noticeably harder, probably because of nerves and the pressure to perform.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nChris simply wasn’t used to having a pretty girl stare at his penis while he tried to get hard.\n\nAfter a while, Zoe seemed to grow impatient and disappointed. “You’re not gay, are you? Come on, make it hard for me, and I’ll let you stick it in my pussy.”\n\nThat offer made Chris redouble his efforts, but it also made him even more nervous.\n\nZoe began undoing the buttons of her blouse and revealed her pretty bust, held in a black lace bra. She undid the clasp at the front and revealed a perfect pair of teenage breasts, with delicate pinkish-brown nipples.\n\nEven that didn’t seem to help. Chris couldn’t believe it. Normally even the slightest breeze made him hard, and now he was laboriously jerking himself off while a beautiful girl stood in front of him showing off her sexy breasts and promising him sex. But his penis stayed limp.\n\nZoe closed her bra again and buttoned up her blouse.\n\n“Wait,” Chris said desperately, “I just need a little more time.”\n\n“It’s okay,” she replied, giving him a little kiss on the cheek. “Not all men are real studs. It’s nothing you need to be ashamed of.”\n\nLater on the bus, he stared out the window, his forehead against the cool glass. What was wrong with him? A beautiful girl had wanted to sleep with him, and he hadn’t been able to—even though he had wanted it so badly. Was it the hormones? Or just the shock, the surprise, the pressure, Zoe’s demanding hands, the musty smell of the room that made everything feel sticky?\n\nHe thought about Mrs. Rivera’s words and the effects of hormones on his body. He wanted to finally sleep with a girl. Almost everyone his age already had, at least that was how it felt. The encounter with Zoe had been strange—half reward, half test, with no tender undertone. He realized Zoe wouldn’t start anything serious with him; there was too much play in her gaze and too little stability. And yet he found her pretty, dazzling in her own way. Part of him wondered whether something might still come from this crooked beginning. Another knew it would probably stay exactly like that: an edge you scraped yourself on if you came too close.\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch.]]

The cafeteria at lunch break was once again that buzzing marketplace of trays, voices, and clattering plastic forks. The menu poster still hung on the wall, even though with its crossed-out and overwritten days it had long since become half outdated. Chris sat beside Lucas, shoulder to shoulder at one of the tables, and played his girlfriend. By now it had become so natural that sometimes he forgot it was only for show, until Lucas’s knee brushed his under the table and Chris’s body reacted reflexively too attentively.\n<<set $ort to "cafeteria">>\n“You two suddenly disappeared on Saturday,” one of the theater kids said with a grin.\n\nLucas hunched his shoulders, embarrassed. Chris added a carefree smile, as if it were all cute.\n\n“We saw the bumper cars,” Chris said.\n\n<<if $choice_ahorn1 == 1>>“The car was tiny, the two of us fit in there like—like two backpacks,” Lucas added, becoming surprisingly animated as he said it.\n\n“Like two backpacks with knees,” Chris confirmed dryly, and a few laughed.\n\n“And you really rode together?” Ruby asked, who had joined them with an apple juice, her eyes curious.\n\n“Yes,” Lucas said, “and it was… amazing. We rammed everyone. Well, Chris rammed everyone.”\n\n“I had a mission,” Chris defended himself, and Lucas’s smile became so warm that Chris had to lower his gaze briefly to his drink.<<else>>“I still can’t believe how awesome the bumper cars were,” Lucas said, holding his milk carton like a microphone. “And you drove like a killer.” Lucas’s eyes lit up, and then another tone slipped underneath, finer. “I mean… when the boys started hunting you? I really thought you were about to crash into the barrier. But you totally outsmarted them.” He made a little drifting motion with his hands. “You just sent them in circles.”\n\nChris grinned, but he heard the in-between thing in Lucas’s voice—admiration with a shadow. Lucas shot his gaze briefly to the side, as if he didn’t like the thought himself.\n\n“Too bad we didn’t ride together,” Lucas then said, seemingly casually, and yet stretched the words out a little longer.\n\nChris felt a pang. “I just wanted to play fair,” he said, choosing the harmless explanation. “If we’re sitting in the same car, only one of us can steer.”\n\nLucas nodded, but he wasn’t entirely satisfied. “Yeah. Sure.”<<endif>>\n\n“And after that… you lost the group, right?” one of the theater kids cut in, a girl with colorful hair clips. “We looked for you!”\n\n“We looked for you too,” Lucas said immediately. “But… I don’t know. You were gone.”\n\n“Well, later we went to the maple-syrup bottling plant by the river.”\n\n“The abandoned one?” Lucas’s eyes widened. “You went in there?”\n\n“Dare,” someone said, raising their hands. “Rusty tanks, ruined halls, that sweetish smell when it’s warm… you know. In Maplewood, they always say: Don’t go there after dark.” He said the sentence in a dramatic voice, as if it were a curse from a horror movie.\n\n“And of course the door wouldn’t open anymore once we were inside,” a girl added with a snort. “We stood in there like idiots. And then, when we finally saw the exit—” She pointed at herself, as if she could still smell it. “—a skunk…” She made a gagging noise. “Got me full-on.”\n\nThe table exploded with laughter. Chris held a hand over his mouth. “Oh my God.”\n\nRuby giggled, shook her head, and then turned to Chris and Lucas. “Okay, and you two? What did you do after the bumper cars?”\n\n<<if $choice_ahorn2 == 1>>Chris’s smile froze for half a second.\n\nIn his head, it was instantly there again: the haunted house. The dark, narrow maze that smelled of fog machines. How he had been frightened—genuinely frightened—and instinctively searched for Lucas’s hand. How Lucas had held him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And then, just before the exit, Lucas had kissed him.\n\nAnd Chris had kissed back.\n\nNot timidly. Not pretend. But passionately, as if something inside him had only been waiting to be allowed to be someone else for three seconds.\n\nChris felt himself grow hot, even in the loud cafeteria. He glanced at Lucas in embarrassment—only briefly, but long enough to plead: Please don’t tell them about the kiss. His heart pounded into his throat.\n\nLucas understood. He cleared his throat and took over. “We just walked around a little,” he said, harmlessly. “Got something to eat. And then… somehow we missed you.”\n\nChris let out the air he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. He only nodded, pushed a piece of apple into his mouth, and acted as if that were the whole story. Beside him, Lucas remained calm, as if nothing special had happened—and right now, that was the greatest relief for Chris.<<else>>“We walked around a bit,” Lucas said at once, glad to be able to tell it. “And later we went on the swing carousel. That was… really cool.”\n\nChris shot Lucas a quick sidelong glance—not conspicuous, just a silent please don’t. In his head, the image flashed up: wind, spinning, and that awful feeling when fabric suddenly stopped doing what fabric was supposed to do.\n\nLucas only smiled, as if he had understood the look. “And then… yeah. Cotton candy. And stuff.” He said nothing more. Chris breathed out inwardly, so quietly no one noticed.\n\n“Awww,” Ruby went, “swing-carousel date.”\n\nChris shoved a forkful into his mouth so he wouldn’t have to answer.\n\nThen another theater kid leaned forward—a guy in a hoodie that was too big—and grinned as if he had an ace up his sleeve. “Speaking of the swing carousel…” He pulled out his phone. “The video is going around right now.”\n\nChris’s stomach dropped a floor. “What video?” he asked, even though he already knew.\n\n“This one,” the guy said cheerfully, tapped play, and turned the display so everyone could see.\n\nOn the screen was Chris, sitting on the swing carousel, hair in the wind, his face first laughing, then startled—and then a gust of wind billowed his dress upward as if it were a stupid, loud joke. The video was short, but long enough to recognize what no one should have seen.\n\n<<if $unterwaesche == 1>>“Okayyy… black lace underwear?” the theater boy in the hoodie commented, raising his eyebrows. “Chris, sexy. Lucas, I’m officially jealous—you’re getting premium equipment here and we only get drama rehearsals.” He laughed as if it were a harmless gag.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. He felt the heat shoot into his face, not only because of the video, but because of the interpretation. That wasn’t for Lucas. He had only dressed like that for himself on Saturday morning, secretly, as a small gesture of defiance, as a way to give himself courage. And now it sounded as if he had gotten “dolled up” especially for Lucas. As if he had planned for someone to see it.\n\nFor a moment, everything became hot. Chris’s face burned from his throat up to his ears. The laughter at the table suddenly sounded as if it came from far away, as though the cafeteria had taken a step back to stare at him better.<<else>>“Man—Chris’s underwear,” one of the theater boys burst out, tapping the screen as if that were the best part of the scene. “So cute! White panties… with adorable red dots.” He laughed, not maliciously, but far too loudly.\n\nChris’s face burned from his throat up to his ears. More than anything, he wanted to slide under the table and stay there for the rest of the school year.<<endif>><<endif>>\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1 && $moore == 0>>[[Cheerleader practice, game preparations.|Spiel Vorbereitungen.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 1 && $moore == 1>>[[Cheerleader practice, game preparations.|Spiel Vorbereitungen.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 0 >>[[Drama club, then horse stable with Ruby.|Theaterclub, danach Pferdestall mit Ruby.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 1 >>[[Drama club, Lucas’s mom.|Theaterclub, Lucas Mom.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 2>>[[Drama club, breakup with Lucas.|Theaterclub, Trennung von Lucas.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[Classic D&D.|Klassisches D&D.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

It was Christine’s birthday, and that afternoon the house felt bigger than usual. Balloons hung everywhere; paper plates, napkins, and a cake Susan had arranged with almost exaggerated care stood on the table. Lots of girls were there—loud, polished, full of energy. Christine laughed, accepted hugs, played the hostess as if she had long since practiced it.\n\nChris kept more to the edge, helped with plates, cleared away empty cups, and tried not to “belong” too much and not to be too much “outside.” Susan was in her element, friendly-sharp, attentive to everything that didn’t look perfect.\n\nWhen there was cake, it got briefly quieter—until Ruby unhappily slipped with her fork on the first bite. A dollop of cream landed on her dress, right where you couldn’t ignore it. Ruby froze, then made a face as if the world had personally annoyed her.\n\n“Oh no. Great,” she murmured.\n\nChris stood up immediately. “Come on,” he said softly. “We can get that out in the bathroom.”\n\nRuby followed him, still with the plate in her hand, and in the hallway the babble of voices behind them became muted. Ruby looked at the stain, sighed once, and then, completely matter-of-factly, pulled her dress over her head.\n\nUnderneath, she was wearing a beautiful lace bra that nicely accentuated Ruby’s bust. She had a wonderful cleavage. Actually, she didn’t need a bra; those things stood firm all on their own. To match, she wore skimpy panties that were cut high and showed off her slender legs well.\n\nChris stood rooted to the spot, because for a second his head didn’t know where to put his eyes. Not out of any dirty intention—more from the sudden awareness: Ruby is… really pretty.\n\n“Do you have stain remover?” Ruby asked, holding the dress so the fabric wouldn’t smear any further.\n\n“Yeah, wait.” Chris opened the mirrored cabinet. He reached for the bottle—and at the same moment, something slipped out of the upper compartment.\n\nA small pillbox. Then another. They fell clattering into the sink, spun around, came to rest. Ruby reflexively bent down, picked one up, and read what was written on the package. Her face didn’t become shocked, more attentive. A brief frown, as if she were solving an equation in her head.\n\nChris’ body reacted faster than his thinking. “Give me that,” he said in a panic and took the package from her hand—far too hastily, far too obviously. His fingers trembled slightly as he pushed the boxes back into the compartment, as if that could push them out of reality.\n\nRuby paused. She said nothing, just set the dress down neatly again and looked at him—not reproachfully, but… clearly.\n\n“Okay,” she finally said, very calmly.\n\n[[Continue|Ruby stellt Fragen.]]

On Friday, the Homecoming dance lay over the whole school like glitter dust, even though it wasn’t supposed to take place until Saturday. Colors were being discussed in the halls, girls sat in the cafeteria over phone photos and makeup ideas, and even at the lockers Chris heard phrases like “After-party?” and “Who’s taking the pictures?” so often that it already sounded like a refrain.\n<<set $wochentag = 5>><<set $ort to "school">>\nLucas kept appearing near Chris, as if by coincidence. Sometimes he stopped by the locker and asked casually “whether maybe one should go after all.” Sometimes he talked about the photo wall in the gym and how group photos “as friends” were the nicest anyway. “Going together as friends, totally relaxed, no pressure.” It was meant to be subtle—but it wasn’t subtle at all. It was clear what Lucas wanted, even if he hid it behind “just as friends.”\n\nChris smiled politely, dodged, said things like “We’ll see” and “I don’t know yet,” and felt bad about it because Lucas stayed so hopeful. At the same time, there was also that nervous tug: Homecoming was a ritual, and he stood beside it like someone who didn’t know whether he was a spectator or part of the show.\n\nHis sister Christine seemed like a quiet spot in all the dance hysteria. Whenever the subject came up, she became terse, looked away, or brought up some task as an excuse. Chris knew why: Myles would be going with his new flame. Christine would stay home. And every word about dresses, couples, photos was like salt.\n\nAfter school, a completely different problem was waiting for Chris at home.\n\nSusan was standing in the kitchen with her phone in her hand and that expectant look that didn’t “suggest” anything, but decided. Chris immediately knew what it was about: the online dating she had set up for him last Saturday. Profile photo, short bio, a few likes—and Susan had treated the whole thing like an item on a timetable.\n\n“And?” she asked without preamble. “Who are you meeting? It’s time you arranged a date.”\n\nChris’s stomach sank. He had only opened the app sporadically over the past few days, more out of panic than interest. A few messages, a few flirts, a lot that was uncomfortable, some of it surprisingly nice—but nothing that felt “real.” And above all: nothing he wanted to talk about with his mother.\n\nBut the question hung in the room like a spotlight: Did he have a date?\n\n''Does he have a date?''\n<<nobr>><<if $dating == 1>>[[He has a date with a boy.|Er hat ein Date mit einem Jungen.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $dating == 2>>[[He has a date with Laverne.|Er hat ein Date mit Laverne.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $dating == 3>>[[He doesn’t have a date.|Er hat kein Date.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

<<set $ort to "school">><<if $choice_adam == 1>>After school, the hallway was thinner, but not quiet; lockers slammed, somewhere a cart with cleaning supplies squeaked. Chris was on his way to the gym for cheerleading when [[Adam|Adam Bowman]] spotted him and hastily slipped in beside him, the D&D folder held like a shield in front of his chest. “Hey, Chris,” he said too quickly, as if he had rehearsed the greeting. “Uh… pretty crazy that Homecoming is already next week, right? I mean… that’s… huge.” He laughed nervously, kept talking without leaving a pause: about dress codes, about “all those lights,” about how he would “probably just stand around anyway.” His eyes kept flicking back to Chris’s face, as if searching for the right moment.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. With every sentence, the feeling grew that Adam was leading up to something—a question hanging in the air like a ball no one wanted to catch. Chris felt the inner reflex to start making excuses already, even before the invitation had been spoken at all. But Adam swallowed the words back down every time, bit his lip, pulled the folder tighter against himself. In the end, all that remained was a too-large smile. “So… yeah. Just wanted to say that.” He nodded hectically. “Have fun at cheer.” Then he turned off abruptly, as if someone had called him, and disappeared between the lockers. Chris exhaled, left the feeling of impending embarrassment behind, and continued toward the gym.\n\n<<endif>>The gym smelled of resin and warm rubber flooring, and Chris noticed right at the door that something was missing. Shoes. He looked down at himself—standing barefoot in the locker room was one thing, being out on the hardwood was another.\n\n“Braun!” Mr. Moore’s voice cut once across the room. “Where are your sneakers?”\n\n“Forgot them, sir.” Chris’s cheeks grew hot. The morning rushed through his head again: alarm that hadn’t gone off, wrong skirt, half-packed bag.\n\n“Then you’ll train barefoot. And concentrate twice as hard. Friday is the home game; today we are not playing ‘Who can find their equipment.’” His tone was factual, but sharp enough that Chris inwardly snapped to attention.\n\nHe turned red—and in the heat of that moment, an image from the night flickered up, an erotic dream in which Mr. Moore had appeared, one that had dissolved as he woke and left only an embarrassed warmth behind. He pushed it away so decisively it almost hurt. Focus, he thought.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/cheerleader3.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/cheerleader3_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n“One—two—three—four!” Christine gave the count. Chris set himself, chalking his hands, securing his grip. After two jumps, he noticed the next problem: he wasn’t wearing a sports bra today. The normal bra didn’t hold the way it should; every run, every landing threw him off center, a restless, distracting bounce that made him nervous and knocked his breathing out of rhythm. He instinctively held his shoulders tighter, which in turn made the movements stiffer.\n\n“Focus, Chris!” Mr. Moore stood two meters away, arms crossed. “Loose in the shoulders, stable in the core. You’re letting your own body throw you off. Breathe, count, compensate.”\n\n“Yes, sir.” Chris nodded, gritted his teeth, and took the count again. He worked more consciously with his core, tensed his torso, let his shoulders sink, searched for the rhythm in his breathing. Barefoot, he found more feel for the floor; his toes gripped the hardwood, helped with the landing. But during the short stunt drill, when the bases bent their knees and the tempo picked up, he felt every impact twice. It thudded through him afterward, as if his body had small, stubborn echoes. The lack of support in his upper body remained unpleasant, but he put the energy into clean lines: high V, sharp edge, soft cradle.\n\nDuring the stunt block, the grips finally held. Penelope rose into the prep light as a feather; the transition to the extension worked. On the dismount into the cradle, Chris felt the clean impulse in his hands—a brief, satisfying moment in which everything was right.\n\n“That’s how,” Mr. Moore said curtly, without the hint of a smile; but the “that” carried enough weight that Chris tucked it behind his ribs like a warm stone.\n\nWhile shaking out, Penelope passed him. “You’ve gotten more flexible,” she said, assessing, not patronizing. “Noticeably. You hold the line better.”\n\n“Thanks,” Chris said, surprised by how good it felt.\n\n“Guys appreciate flexibility,” another cheerleader threw in under her breath, grinning, and demonstratively sank into a split as if it were nothing. A few giggling “Okaaay” calls followed, eye rolls included.\n\nChris laughed along uncertainly, but the sentence stuck. He felt parts of his body more consciously than he liked—hips, back, the soft length of his legs.\n\nWhile packing up, he thought about it without knowing why. Outside, on the way to the bus, he saw Dylan standing by the fence, helmet under his arm, his profile against the sky. The thought “Guys appreciate flexibility” twitched again. Chris smiled—a small, involuntary twitch.\n\nDylan looked over and smiled back. Chris’s gaze jumped to the ground in alarm, his heart stumbling. I smiled at a boy. He pretended to be looking for something in his bag. But the little flash remained, like an afterimage behind his eyes that only slowly faded.\n\nOn the bus, he sank into the seat, his bag as a buffer in front of his stomach. The bare soles of his feet tingled from the gym floor, and across his chest ran a dull, sensitive after-echo from the jumps at his tender nipples—not a sharp pain, more a persistent, irritated pull from the friction and the lack of stabilization. He loosely crossed his arms in front of his chest, searched for a position where the top rubbed less, and stared out the window while the town passed by. He drew a deep breath, counted the stops, and felt both slowly fade: the embarrassment—and the small, bright stab of joy that despite everything, it had gone better. Friday could come.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<if $christine > 1>>[[In the evening in Christine’s room.|Am Abend in Christines Zimmer.]]<<else>><<if $unterwaesche == 1>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.]]<<else>>[[Getting dressed on Tuesday.|Ankleiden am Dienstag.2]]<<endif>><<endif>>

“I’m a little uncomfortable with this, Dr. Coleman,” Chris said.\n\nDr. Coleman stood in front of Chris so he could look him directly in the eyes. “You don’t need to be ashamed, Chris. I’m a doctor and I’ve seen many patients.”\n\nHe leaned forward and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, first pulled off Chris’s cardigan, then his top. Chris was so astonished that he did not stop him. The skirt followed, the zipper a soft hum. He let the tights glide over his hips.\n\nIn the end, Chris stood there in only his bra and panties, shamefully crossing his arms in front of his body.\n\nDr. Coleman adjusted a small scale. “Step onto it.” His voice remained neutral.\n\nObediently, Chris stepped onto the scale. Today he was wearing white panties. The small bulge of his penis was clearly visible beneath the fabric. The doctor bent down, noted the number, then measured Chris’s body measurements at chest, waist, and butt.\n\nWhen he touched Chris, it sent slight shivers over Chris’s skin. A tingling spread along the trail of his male fingers.\n\n“Well within the normal range,” the doctor murmured.\n\nThen he took the stethoscope. “Now I’m going to listen to you, and in between I’ll take a few photos that I need for the documents,” he explained, and began listening with the stethoscope.\n\nFor Chris, it was a very strange feeling to be in front of him wearing only a bra. What was this supposed to be? Just a few weeks ago, he wouldn’t have cared at all about standing bare-chested in front of a doctor. And now a bra wasn’t enough?\n\nFirst from the front. “Deep breath.” The cold membrane glided over his breastbone and side, then around to his ribs from behind. Chris froze a little at every touch, telling himself that this was normal, that he had experienced this at the doctor before. It still felt freer and more defenseless, with the bra, in his own room, with the pink walls in the corner of his eye.\n\nToday Chris was wearing a white bra with lace trim and a little flower in the neckline. The cleavage between his small breasts could be seen delicately.\n\nThen he listened to his back. While doing so, Dr. Coleman opened Chris’s bra so that it slipped from his body. Startled, Chris reached for it. “Wait, I’d like to listen to your heart once more,” he said, pulling the bra from Chris’s shoulders. Chris now stood uncovered before him, wearing only his white panties.\n\nChris had large nipples for a boy. The areolas bulged clearly from his small chest, with his pink nipples standing on them like little towers. It was obviously embarrassing to him. After he had “listened” to his heart once more, Dr. Coleman explained to him that he now had to palpate his chest.\n\nChris had no choice but to nod, so he did. He felt Chris’s chest extensively, stroked over his nipples, which slowly hardened, and carefully pressed the little breasts together.\n\n“The fact that your nipples are hard now is a sign of healthy sexual arousal,” the doctor explained while photographing Chris’s bust.\n\nChris took a deep breath and instantly turned red when he realized in astonishment that his nipples were not the only thing that had hardened. The doctor covered Chris’s chest with the bra again and now palpated his stomach. When he reached the edge of his panties, Chris nervously tensed his abdominal muscles.\n\n“You can breathe completely relaxed. It’s perfectly normal for you to be a little excited when a man examines you there,” he said, pulling down his panties as he did so.\n\nChris’s stiff cock practically sprang upward. His face glowed. But the doctor only smiled. He took photos of that too; Chris wanted to sink into the ground with shame.\n\n“Do you actually have a girlfriend or a steady boyfriend?” the doctor asked quite shamelessly as he palpated Chris’s testicles.\n\n<<if $charlotte < 2>>“Uh… I’m single at the moment… I mean, I don’t have a GIRLFRIEND!” Chris emphasized.<<else>>“Uh… I have a GIRLFRIEND!” Chris emphasized.<<endif>>\n\n“I’m going to examine your prostate now, and then you’re done. Please lie on your stomach on the bed and spread your legs,” Dr. Coleman said while shamelessly staring at Chris’s stiff penis.\n\n''Does Chris lie down on the bed and let himself be examined?''\n❯ [[He does it.|Er macht es.][$adam += 1]]\n❯ [[Absolutely not.|Auf keine Fall.]]

The next morning, the light was different. Paler, more honest. It crept through the curtains and settled on boxes, on open drawers, on the new room, which already felt a little lived-in overnight.\n\nChris woke up first. He lay still, as if movement would break the memory. Beside him, Ruby was breathing calmly, her red hair tousled, her face in half-shadow. For a few seconds there was only warmth—then everything came back, all at once.\n\nHis stomach did that small, dizzying jump between happiness and panic.\n\nRuby stirred. Her eyes opened slowly, as if she first had to understand where she was. Then her gaze met Chris’. It was only a look—and yet it was full of questions, full of “Oh God, yes,” full of “Oh God, what now.”\n\nNeither of them said anything right away.\n\nChris’ throat was dry. He cleared it too quietly, as if apologizing for making any sound at all. Ruby pulled the blanket higher, not like someone who wanted to hide, but like someone who needed a moment.\n\nChris’ heart was pounding. Say something. Don’t say the wrong thing. Say anything at all.\n\n“I…” he began, broke off, and began again. “I think… I should apologize.”\n\nRuby blinked.\n\nChris stared briefly at the ceiling, as if the right answer were written there. “I’m sorry. For… everything. For it happening so… like that. For me…” He couldn’t get the word cleanly over his lips and only made a helpless gesture with his hand. “For not thinking.”\n\nRuby looked at him for a long time, calm, but not cold. There was no anger in her eyes. More like the same chaos, just better sorted.\n\n“You don’t have to apologize for being human,” she said softly. Then she drew her knees up, sat up, and ran a hand through her hair, as if trying to wake herself up. Her voice became brittle, not sad, more overwhelmed. “But I… I need a moment…”\n\nChris nodded immediately, too quickly. He suddenly felt like a boy again who had broken something.\n\nRuby took one deep breath, looked at him, and then said the sentence that held everything at once and left it open:\n\n“We’ll talk later… please.”\n\nChris nodded again. “Okay.”\n\nThey got up like two people who had to move around each other in a cramped room without bumping into one another. Ruby reached for her shirt, Chris for his toothbrush. In the bathroom, he heard the water running, heard her quiet inhale, as if she were pulling herself together. He stared into the mirror and saw a face that wasn’t resolved—but also no longer only trapped.\n\nOut in the hallway, doors could be heard, footsteps, the first life of the dorm. A completely normal college morning. And yet it felt as if they had just set something big in motion whose direction no one knew yet.\n\nChris stood in the doorway for a moment, looked back into the room with the boxes, the rumpled sheet, the silent memory—and knew: This was not an ending. This was a beginning that didn’t yet dare to say its name.\n\nAnd how things continue with Chris and Ruby at college, you’ll find out in part two.\n\n''Ending 7 of 10 - "Besties in Love"''\n<<set $ende7 to 1>>\n[[📖 Statistics|Statistik][$selbstbild += 3]] - [[🏆 Bonus & Endings|Enden]]

Chris bent down, opened the drawer, and reached for the double-ended dildo they had bought especially for this occasion.\n\nHe looked at the tips, which had been modeled to look deceptively like a male cock. One part of Chris screamed NO, but the other part of him screamed YES much louder.\n\nChris held it out toward Charlotte. “We have to get it nice and wet.”\n\nCharlotte began licking the cock tip offered to her, took it as far into her mouth as possible, and moistened the tip generously with her saliva while Chris did the same with his side of the dildo. When both sides of the dildo gleamed wetly, Charlotte lightly tapped Chris on the shoulder.\n\n“Lie down, lean back, and spread your legs.”\n\nChris lay down on the bed and spread his legs. Charlotte swallowed with nervousness and arousal as Chris opened his legs wide and she was able to get a first look at Chris’ tender pink interior. It looked perfect, like a real vagina, no difference from the original could be seen.\n\nHer hand trembled as she reached for Chris’ labia and carefully spread them before pressing the tip of the dildo against his neovagina.\n\n“Relax.”\n\nChris’ new artificial pussy was built tight, and Charlotte only increased the pressure carefully, so that the cock tip disappeared into Chris’ body millimeter by millimeter.\n\n“Go ahead and do it a little harder, it doesn’t hurt…” Chris said.\n\nEncouraged by Chris, Charlotte increased the pressure further until the cock tip and a few more centimeters of the dildo had disappeared into his pussy. Chris gasped and bit his lower lip.\n\n“Oh, that feels different… feels good,” Chris moaned.\n\n“Wait, it’s about to get even better.”\n\nWith those words, Charlotte positioned herself opposite him and spread her legs as well. She opened her labia with the fingers of her left hand while guiding the dildo into her pussy with her right hand until about five centimeters of the soft plastic could still be seen between their bodies.\n\n“Now move, Chris.”\n\nChris began moving his pelvis, cautiously at first and then faster and faster. Charlotte waited until Chris seemed to have found a good rhythm and then began moving her own pelvis in turn.\n\n“Oh Charlotte, this is so beautiful, every time you move I feel you inside me.”\n\n“I feel you, Chris.”\n\nWith every thrust of their hips, the two of them drove the dildo deeper into their greedy holes. Chris felt as if the dildo was already filling him completely, and despite that, he drove his pelvis another bit farther forward. And as if by some secret command, Charlotte made the identical movement in the very same second, so that their labia met with a loud slap in the middle of the dildo.\n\n“Oh Chris, I feel your pussy against mine. Do you feel me too?”\n\n“Oh yes, I feel you,” Chris replied. “This is incredible.”\n\n[[Continue|Das große Finale.]]

Madame Lunette took her time, as if she first had to sort the images before speaking them aloud. Then she raised her hand, not toward him, but into the air between them, as if something were hanging there.\n\n“None of this is set in stone,” she said calmly. “The future is like a path in the woods. You see the clearing, but not every stone beneath it.”\n\nChris sat still, his fingertips cold even though it was warm inside the tent.\n\n“I see… flashbulbs,” she continued. “Cameras. Voices calling your name.” Her eyes stayed fixed on his face. “You stand in a line with others, but you are not just one of many. You move in a way that makes people unable to look away. Fame… attention… and you wear it as if your body had been waiting for it.”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. One part of him wanted to object. One part of him wanted to push it away as some ridiculous movie. And yet he felt how his body reacted to the image—not with fear, but with an almost shameful, warm flare. Fame. Attention. Exactly what he had never wanted. Or had never been allowed to want.\n\nMadame Lunette smiled almost imperceptibly. “And you are not alone.” Her voice grew softer, almost like a secret. “A young man is at your side. Tall. Certain. He looks at you as if he would choose you, again and again.”\n\nResistance immediately shot up in Chris’s head. I hate that, he thought defiantly, almost angrily—especially the word man. Especially the idea that, from the outside, the picture might look as if everything had been “solved” just because someone was standing beside him. And at the same time it hurt him how much his heart still stumbled at the idea, as if it had long since made plans of its own without asking him.\n\nMadame Lunette nodded, as if she had heard the inner protest without him having spoken it, and leaned back. The candlelight made her shadows longer. “But,” she said, and the word cut through the image like scissors, “I also see obstacles.”\n\nHer eyes grew serious. “Shame,” she said. “Fear. And a decision. A decision about who you are allowed to be.”\n\nChris swallowed. He could not get a sound out.\n\n“And I see a snake,” she continued, vague and yet unpleasantly clear. “Cunning. Not always loud. It winds its way through things that sound kind. A promise that looks like help. A sentence that sounds like love. And then—” She made a small motion, as if something were slipping out of a hand. “Then the garden where you currently believe yourself safe is suddenly no longer yours.”\n\nShe looked at Chris as if she could read in him where his own snakes already lived. “You will have to fall or leave,” she said softly. “Not because you are weak. But because you are being pushed. And you will decide whether you retreat…”\n\nChris sat there, his heart too loud for the small room, and waited as if something else were about to come.\n\n[[Continue|Raus aus dem Pavillon.]]

Charlotte broke away from the cheerful debate about movies and face masks, pushed her chair back a little, and leaned toward Chris. “Hey.” Her voice was quiet enough to disappear beneath the hum of the cafeteria. “Everything okay?”\n\nChris nodded automatically. “Sure.” The word sounded like a wrong note on a well-tuned piano.\n\nCharlotte studied him for a heartbeat, saw the rustle of his babydoll, the way his fingers folded the napkin, unfolded it again. “After school? Mall?” A small, encouraging grin. “I still need new pajamas for Saturday.”\n\nAt “pajamas,” something twitched in Chris’s face, too brief for most people, not for Charlotte. She immediately followed it with a wink, defusing it: “Just… shopping. You, me, ice cream, fitting rooms with terrible lighting.”\n\nChris lifted his gaze. “Okay.” It was more breath than voice. “Shopping sounds good.”\n\n“And listen.” Charlotte lowered her forehead closer. “I’ll talk to the others. Really. I want you in there—not as ‘Christine’s plus-one,’ as you. Maybe we just need to adjust their antennas a little.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “A mini makeover? I already have ideas. Nothing crazy. Hair a little different, a different top that emphasizes your pretty bust, and—” She looked at the babydoll. “—a skirt that rustles a little less.”\n\nChris laughed briefly, against his will. “You always have ideas.”\n\n“Occupational hazard.” Charlotte tapped him lightly on the arm. “I’ll do some ‘advertising.’ Penelope is nice—I know her algorithm. We’ll turn up your visibility a little. Deal?”\n\nHe nodded. “Deal. Shopping: yes. Everything else… we’ll see.” He left the “we’ll see” deliberately soft, as if it needed room.\n\n“We’ll see is allowed.” Charlotte stood up, grabbed her tray. “Meet at the mall at 4 p.m.? And bring a big portion of optimism.”\n\n“I’ll bring… Mom’s credit card?” Chris tried, and for the first time that day, his joke didn’t sound hollow.\n\n“Perfect.” Charlotte grinned, let her gaze briefly wander over his cheeks as if checking the color, and drifted back into the cloud of conversation. Chris remained behind with a half-full cup and a feeling one quarter lighter. Not being invited still hurt. But the afternoon suddenly had contours—aisles full of mirrors, lights, fabrics, a friend who wanted to hack the algorithm of popularity. And maybe—just maybe—“we’ll see” was enough for today.\n\n[[Continue|Schulende.]]

When they arrived home, it was already dark. The entryway smelled of cold winter air, fir branches, and that warm “Christmas” smell of candle wax and cookies that settled into hallways. In the living room, the tree blinked as if someone had secretly built a little disco into it.\n\nChris stepped over the threshold and immediately felt how close everything was: the sounds, the smells, the memories. His fingers went cold around the suitcase handle.\n\nHis father suddenly became hyperactive. He took Chris’s jacket as if it were a sacred ceremony. “Right, uh… you hang… I mean, we’ll hang it… here,” he said, pointing to the coat rack as if it had just been reinvented. Then he reached for the suitcase. “I’ll carry your—I’ll carry that… I’ll take it upstairs.” He cleared his throat. “If you want.”\n\nHe said “if you want” surprisingly often. And even more often, he said nothing at all where a word really should have been.\n\nThe ten-year-old bounced around Chris like a rubber ball. “This is so awesome!” she cried enthusiastically, clapping her hands. “My new big sister is here! Can we go Christmas shopping tomorrow? And nail polish! And you absolutely have to do TikTok with me, please, please!”\n\nChris blinked, overwhelmed, and his gaze darted briefly to his father, who was pretending the coat rack was the most fascinating object in the world. Chris nodded cautiously. “Maybe,” he said quietly.\n\n“Yesss!” the ten-year-old cheered at once, as if that were a firm promise, and spun around in place. “I’ll show you my room in a minute! And my glitter polish! And I have this filter that gives you cat ears!”\n\nThe fourteen-year-old, on the other hand, moved with the calm of someone who had decided to investigate this situation. She barely said anything, just watched. Her eyes went from Chris’s earrings to his dress, to his face, as if she were storing away details.\n\nAnja put a bowl of mandarins on the table and smiled with effort. “Would you like tea? Or cocoa? We also have… uh… children’s punch.” As she said it, she glanced briefly at Michael, as if “children’s punch” were the most neutral word in the world.\n\nChris’s father immediately nodded far too hard. “Children’s punch is good. I mean—if you want. Or tea. Or… whatever.” He laughed briefly, a sound that was meant to be much too cheerful. Then he headed toward the kitchen, but stopped after two steps as if he had forgotten why he had started walking. “Uh—shoes. Shoes off. I mean, if… uh, that’s how we do it here.” He demonstratively pointed at his own shoes.\n\nChris took off his black patent pumps, the little heels clicking once more on the parquet before he neatly placed them beside his father’s outdoor shoes. His father watched as if Chris had just performed some important ritual correctly, and nodded with relief, without knowing why that particular sight calmed him so much.\n\n[[Continue|Chris altes Zimmer.]]

Fingers shot in all directions—most landed on Charlotte, as expected. She giggled, raised both hands in the air. “Guilty as charged,” she said unabashedly and flicked a strand of hair from her forehead.\n<<set $PenelopeMemory[1] to 1>>\nChris pointed—spontaneously—at Penelope.\n\nPenelope blinked, surprised, a questioning smile on her face. For one heartbeat, her gaze held his, as if she wanted to read whether it was a joke.\n\nWhy did I do that? flashed through Chris’s mind. Maybe wishful thinking had been the father of the thought, maybe the small, absurd hope that there was something between them… But wait. He wasn’t even a girl. His own thought stumbled over itself, and he felt warmth rise into his cheeks. Penelope gently lowered her eyebrow and turned back to the group—no mockery, more an “interesting.”\n\nCharlotte clapped once. “Next!” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Who would be more likely to sleep with a teacher?”\n\nA murmur, half scandalized, half amused, ran through the pillow fort. Christine half-froze and looked pointedly toward the string lights.\n\nFingers hovered, a few girls acting mock-offended, others grinning as if they already had an answer in mind.\n\n''Who does Chris choose?''\n❯ [[Charlotte|Charlotte2]]\n❯ [[Christine|Christine2]]\n❯ [[Penelope|Penelope2]]

Tuesday passed him by in long hallways. During the break, Chris saw his sister with [[Myles|Myles Pierce]] at the locker; she stood close to him, laughed too quickly, hooked her arm through his, searched for his hand as if she had to check whether it was still there. Myles’s gaze wandered down the hall, caught on a buddy, a shrug, a halfhearted grin for Christine that didn’t reach his eyes. Chris saw it and felt the fine sting: since Saturday, Christine had been clinging more, while Myles was imperceptibly pulling away, as if a goal had been reached and slipped out of focus again.\n<<set $ort to "school">>\nAt the water dispenser, [[Zoe|Zoe March]] appeared. She was wearing a denim skirt and a tight blouse. The shape of her breasts was easy to see, and her bra showed through the fabric. She blew a strand of hair out of her face and made the plastic cup crackle. “Well, little-sister alert?” she asked, and her tone was too sweet to be kind. Her gaze slid to Christine and Myles, who were kissing again at the end of the hall. “The way she’s acting, she did it. Classic: first you feel ashamed, then you cling. Boys like Myles hate that.” She gave a crooked grin. “Just wait. He’ll want a longer leash soon.”\n\nChris’s neck grew hot. He wanted to say, “He got her drunk,” “she didn’t want to go that far,” wanted to throw every word into the hallway like a wheel chock. Instead he pressed his lips together, tasted metal, and took a sip of water that fell cold down his throat.\n\n“Ouch,” Zoe said, as if she had heard his thoughts. “Not your circus, huh? But fun to watch.”\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ladendiebin == 2 && $charlotte < 2>>[[Chris is supposed to help Zoe with a presentation.|Chris soll Zoe bei einem Referat helfen.][$kissgirl += 1]]<<else>>[[Chris goes to class.|Chris geht zum Unterricht.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

On the way down the street, a thought pushed itself to the front of his mind. Wednesday. Christine’s diary, secretly opened, his guilty conscience like cold smoke. Myles was pushy. He wanted more than Christine wanted. The hastily written lines in which she had described a day when she had felt pressured.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nNow, walking beside her while she wore that confidently revealing outfit, the memory burned in the back of his mind. He was a boy—at least somewhere inside—so he ought to understand that, right? Shouldn’t he say something, give his little sister some kind of advice, some kind of “If he pressures you, that’s not okay”?\n\nBut how? He had no experience with something like that, neither as a boyfriend nor as a girlfriend. His own relationship with closeness and his body was a chaos of alienation and coercion. What if he only made everything worse? Or if she realized he had read her diary?\n\nThey kept walking. Their shoulders almost brushed. He felt the words stuck in his throat, heavy as stones.\n\nAt this point, the decision was his.\n\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[He manages to bring himself to give Christine some cautious advice about Myles, even though he hardly knows how to go about it.|Das Thema ansprechen.2][$christine += 1;$christine_opinion += 10]]\n❯ [[He swallows the words down and does not bring the subject up, afraid of only making everything even more complicated.|Lieber nicht ansprechen.2]]

Eventually it became more than just touching and kissing. They lay beside each other in the 69 position, so that each other’s stiff cocks were at eye level.\n\nLucas took Chris’s cock and first began to jerk him gently, but then quite quickly started pleasuring him with his mouth. Chris, on the other hand, had to overcome a great deal before he could so much as touch Lucas’s penis.\n\nGathering all his courage, he raised a finger and touched the stiff thing. It gave slightly and wobbled a little.\n\nLucas placed his hand on the back of Chris’s head and pressed him gently but firmly onto his cock, and it found its way into Chris’s mouth, even though Chris was still somewhat reluctant.\n\n“Everything okay?” Lucas asked right away.\n\nChris didn’t answer, but seemed to relax a little and grow less tense. Lucas took his hand from his head, and to Lucas’s delight, Chris kept sucking on his own. Apparently Chris had given up his resistance.\n\nAnd not only that. Slowly but surely, he even seemed to be enjoying it, because he became more and more passionate in what he was doing. This, of course, spurred Lucas on further, and his hip movements grew stronger and stronger while he sucked and licked Chris’s cock with ever greater fervor.\n\nChris was the first to ejaculate in pure ecstasy into Lucas’s mouth, and almost at the same time Lucas, with a hoarse cry, also shot his cum into Chris’s cheeks.\n\nWith the first surge, it immediately seemed to be everywhere in Chris’s mouth. It felt hot and creamy. The sensation completely overwhelmed him. He couldn’t even think about swallowing or continuing to blow him.\n\nThey needed several minutes to find their way back to reality.\n\n“God, that was incredible! I could go again right away,” Lucas was the first to comment on what had happened.\n\nChris nodded in embarrassed agreement, still with too much cum in his mouth to say anything.\n\n[[Continue|Jetzt wird Chris von Lucas gefickt.][$anal += 1;$creampied += 1]]

The healing phase had been longer than Chris had convinced himself it would be in his most optimistic moments. The first weeks passed as if in slow motion: a lot of lying down, a lot of caution, short distances that felt like little expeditions through the house. His body was tired, irritated, sometimes frustrated – as if, after all those months full of decisions, it had only now understood that “going through with it” did not mean it would be quick. There were follow-up appointments, strict rules, days when he felt strong, and days when one wrong movement or one wrong thought was enough to throw him off course. Charlotte stayed there, patient, without big speeches, simply with water, a blanket, shows, quiet presence. Susan had organized everything, Christine came less often, but when she was there, she brought a wordless normality with her – as if their shared silence were a promise that Chris was not alone.\n\nAt some point, “not today” became “a little today.” At some point, caution became routine. The pain lessened, the exhaustion lost its edge. And then came that unspectacular but enormous moment when Chris realized: it was over. Not in the sense of “forgotten,” but in the sense of “healed.” His body felt like his again, not like a project, not like a battlefield.\n\nWhen Charlotte suggested going away, Chris immediately said yes – not because he wanted to flee, but because he wanted to see something bigger than all of this: the ocean. So they flew to California.\n\nThe first sight of the sea hit him like a breath he had been holding for years. That endless blue, moving without hurrying. The air smelled of salt and sunscreen, and somewhere a seagull cried as if taking over the welcome. Chris laughed, just like that, and Charlotte squeezed his hand as if she had been waiting for it.\n\nOn the beach, they walked barefoot through the warm sand. Chris wore bikini bottoms for the first time without it feeling like a costume. They were simple and pretty – high-cut red bottoms made of smooth fabric, with a matching bikini top that supported his breasts, which had grown by now. The fabric sat the way it was supposed to sit. No secret tugging, no inner flinch. Slim waist, round hips, attractive breasts. He looked like himself – only finally without the constant addition of despite everything.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/bikini.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/bikini_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nA few men turned to look at them, the way people turned when someone walked by who stood out. Chris noticed it – and for the first time it did not feel like danger, but like a normal echo from the world. He even felt a small, warm straightening inside himself, a quiet joy that was not ashamed. Charlotte noticed it too, cast him a brief look as if asking: Are you okay? Chris nodded, and this time it was not a brave nod. It was real.\n\nThey walked on, hand in hand, the waves rolling in and sliding back again as if erasing the tracks behind them. Chris felt good. Wonderful. Right. Not perfect – but arrived. At the end of a long journey that had exhausted and changed him, he now stood here, in salt air and evening sun, together with the girl he loved. And when Charlotte leaned toward him and her shoulder brushed his, it was no longer a problem, no longer a mystery, no longer a fight.\n\nIt was simply: her. Him. Here.\n\n[[Continue|Die Nacht im Hotel.]]

“We could continue the evening somewhere… more private,” the blond guy said casually, as if it were about a second round of pool without an audience.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nZoe was immediately on board. “Sure,” she said, and her gaze was already on him, no longer on the table.\n\nChris had objections—at least three that occurred to him at the same time. Math tomorrow. I don’t know these strange men. This is a stupid idea. But Zoe simply pushed him along, as if he were an accessory to her mood. Nate only grinned, as if he had long since understood that Chris rarely really said “no” when others made the decisions.\n\nThe blond guy’s sports car was so low that Chris felt like he was climbing into a bathtub when he got in. Up front, everything was leather and narrow lines; in the back, it was… a joke. Chris slid in beside Nate on the much-too-small back seat, and it was immediately clear: putting his legs anywhere was not an option.\n\n“Sorry,” Chris murmured when he had to pull his knees up.\n\n“It’s okay,” Nate said, and in order to be able to close the door at all, Chris eventually laid his legs across Nate’s lap. It was absurdly cramped. Every little jolt of the car pushed them even closer together. Chris felt Nate’s warmth beside him, the solid weight of a thigh that couldn’t move away. His head said: uncomfortable. His body said: attention. And that discrepancy made him angry at himself.\n\nUp front, Zoe laughed at something, the blond guy put a hand on her thigh as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Chris stared out the side window until the city lights blurred into streaks.\n\nAt the blond guy’s place, everything looked tidy and expensive. A living room with a big television, a sofa that smelled of new fabric, a table with a bowl of chips. The blond guy set out drinks—beer, spirits, something with ice cubes—and everyone acted as if this were a normal, harmless evening.\n\nThey sat down. Zoe immediately made herself comfortable, her gaze fixed on the blond guy like a target point. Chris sat at the other end, his hands clenched around his glass as if it could ground him. Nate dropped down beside him, so close that Chris felt the fabric of his shirt against his arm.\n\nIt didn’t take long for Zoe and the blond guy to lose themselves in each other again. First a whisper, then laughter, then a kiss—not hidden, not shy. Chris’s gaze slid away, embarrassed and at the same time fascinated by how quickly a mood could tip.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Nate.jpg]]</center> Beside him, Nate moved. A small shift on the sofa, an arm settling behind Chris along the backrest. The closeness was suddenly no longer accidental, but deliberate.\n\nNate stroked his arm, as if to calm him, and it worked too, even though that wasn’t what he intended. Chris knew he should resist, but instead he closed his eyes, which Zoe noticed immediately.\n\n“I think she likes it when you stroke her,” she said, and Nate now stroked Chris’s hair.\nMaybe out of shame, maybe also because Chris was afraid of what he saw, he kept his eyes closed. A strange man touching him unabashedly, caressing him, showing no restraint.\n\nIt felt wrong, but also good and comforting. Like something he had longed for and missed for a long time. Soon Nate’s hands were also on Chris’s hips, on his stomach, on his cheek, on his back, and finally one finger circled the gentle rise Chris’s stiff nipple made through his bra and blouse.\n\nChris lost himself in the caresses that washed over him as clear and cold as his shame, so many touches wrapping around him, like an anaconda around its prey or like a warming blanket.\n\nChris felt his knees go weak. A finger fiddled with the buttons of his blouse and exposed his <<if $unterwaesche == 1>>sensual lace bra<<else>>cute pastel-colored bra<<endif>>.\n\nChris’s thoughts screamed in different directions: This is stupid. You want this. You don’t want this. You’re a boy. You’re here as a girl. His throat went dry.\n\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[Let it happen.|Es zulassen.][$kissboy += 1;$chris_opinion += 10]]\n❯ [[Leave instead.|Lieber verschwinden.]]

Chris noticed his head was buzzing lightly. The song, the looks, the hands, the miniskirt, the alcohol—everything was spinning a tick too fast.\n\nHe murmured something to Christine that sounded like “Be right back,” and pushed his way out of the crowd. The bass grew duller the farther he got into the hallway. Here the light was darker, the floor sticky. Voices echoed from somewhere, but no longer directly in his ear.\n\n“Chris?” Lucas’s voice followed him, a few steps behind.\n\nJust as Chris turned around, a strange boy stumbled out of a nearby room, a red cup in his hand that was too full. “Whoops, sorry, sorry—uh—” he slurred, tripped, and nearly rammed Chris with his shoulder.\n\nThe cup tipped. Sticky, sweet-smelling punch spilled over Chris’s bare thighs, drawing a red trail down the hem of the miniskirt. The liquid gleamed in the hallway light, gathered in drops at the edge, and ran along the straps of the heels.\n\n“Shit, sorry,” the boy mumbled again before someone pulled him back into the room.\n\nChris quietly gasped. The coldness of the punch mixed with the feeling of being even more visible. His legs shone wet, sticky, as if they had been deliberately put on display.\n\nLucas stood beside him, eyes wide. His gaze stuck a moment too long on Chris’s legs, followed the trail of drops. It looked as if someone had intentionally pushed them into the spotlight. Lucas swallowed. Only when he realized he was staring did he jerk his gaze up, blush, and hastily reach into his pocket.\n\n“Here,” he said, pulling out a clean tissue. “I—I’ll just—”\n\nHe bent forward, hand extended with the tissue, and wiped over Chris’s thigh.\n\n“Don’t touch me,” Chris said, sharper than he had intended.\n\nLucas froze, immediately pulling his hand back. “Sorry. I just wanted to—”\n\n“It’s okay,” Chris muttered, taking the tissue from him and dabbing off the sticky streaks himself. The cotton cloth squeaked slightly over his skin. He felt Lucas’s guilty conscience like an extra temperature in the hallway.\n\nHe took a breath. He needed to go somewhere the bass was quieter, where every body wasn’t brushing against him. For a moment, he sorted through his options.\n\nTo the left was the kitchen—through the door he saw a few people standing there, no shouting, more muted conversation. Someone was mixing cocktails there, bottles glittering in the light above the sink.\n\nTo the right, a glass door led outside onto the veranda. It was dark by now, the panes reflecting scraps of light. Outside, in the half-dark, he could make out only the outlines of a few boys smoking, scattered glowing points of cigarettes, soft laughter, cut off from the rest of the noise.\n\nHe wiped his legs once more, felt the fabric of the miniskirt, and knew he had to decide where he wanted to briefly pull himself together.\n\n''Where does he go?''\n❯ [[He goes into the kitchen, hoping to collect himself again among drinks and conversations.|In die Küche gehen.2][$alkohol += 1]]\n❯ [[He goes outside onto the dark veranda to get some fresh air and briefly escape the crowd.|Raus auf die Veranda gehen.2]]

The next day, [[Susan|Susan Braun]] made sure Christine left the house until evening. She casually called it “time for Chris’s punishment” and sent Christine out of the house with some money. Christine put on her jacket, keys in hand, and paused at the door for a moment.\n<<set $wochentag = 6>><<set $wetter = 1>>\nHer gaze met Chris’s. There was pity in it. Christine, too, knew that something bad was probably waiting for him. She said nothing, but her eyes almost asked his forgiveness for having to leave. Chris only nodded, too ashamed to say anything.\n\nWhen the front door fell shut, the house became large in an unpleasant way.\n\nChris tried to distract himself: he tidied his vanity, straightened the little powder compacts, went to the mirror twice and away again. He drank water without being thirsty. He listened for every sound, for Susan’s footsteps, for the quiet hum of the refrigerator, for a car outside. Time dragged on as if it wanted to fray him.\n\nThen his mother called him.\n\nOnly his name, from the living room or the kitchen – it was impossible to tell exactly, because his pulse was pounding in his ears. “Chris.”\n\nHe froze. The floor beneath his feet suddenly felt thin. His hands went cold, even though the room was warm. He swallowed, but the lump stayed. His thoughts started racing: How is she going to punish me? How is she going to humiliate me? What has she prepared?\n\n[[Continue|Ein Date mit Mom.]]

Chris had only gone a few steps from [[Mrs. Rivera’s|Lucia Rivera]] classroom when he abruptly slowed in the hallway. Joshua was standing outside the door. He held his folder pressed so tightly to his chest as if he could hide behind it. Mrs. Rivera was right beside him, half in the doorway, half in the hall, her voice muted and warm.\n<<set $ort to "school">>\nChris could have simply kept walking. Instead, he stopped as if someone had grabbed him by the backpack.\n\nMrs. Rivera said something he didn’t quite understand and briefly laid a hand on Joshua’s forearm. Joshua immediately turned bright red. His gaze flicked down, then back up, and he nodded too quickly.\n\nSomething clicked in Chris’s head. He thought of the scene from last week in the girls’ bathroom.\n\nHe pretended to fiddle with his locker, even though he didn’t need anything there, and watched from the corner of his eye. Mrs. Rivera smiled—not the smile she had in class, but one that seemed softer. Joshua murmured something, and Mrs. Rivera leaned a fraction toward him, as if listening to a secret. Chris’s stomach tightened.\n\nHe noticed his palm growing damp, his heart beating faster—not only from outrage, but from an uncomfortable curiosity.\n\nThen another feeling hit him, sharper, more personal: a trigger he couldn’t immediately name. Not jealousy in the romantic sense—more that old, nervous tug when adults moved too close to student worlds. When kindness suddenly looked like power.\n\nHe looked at Joshua and, for a split second, saw himself: how in Maplewood he constantly adjusted himself to the right tone, the right smile, the approval of teachers, classmates, everyone. How quickly one wrong look could have ruined everything. How much he himself depended on others “not noticing.”\n\nMaybe I don’t want a scandal at all, Chris suddenly thought. Maybe I just want the chaos to belong to someone else.\n\nMrs. Rivera pulled the door halfway shut, Joshua turned around and left. When he had to pass Chris, he didn’t look at him. Chris stayed there a moment longer, until Mrs. Rivera had disappeared back into the classroom.\n\nHe breathed out, as if he had unconsciously been holding his breath.\n\nI’m not the moral judge here, he thought. Chris closed his locker, even though he hadn’t really opened it, and walked on—with the firm intention not to tell this story, not to spread it around, not even to embellish it further in his head.<<if $choice_homecoming == 1>>\n\nIn the cafeteria, it was loud enough to hide behind trays and voices. Chris was just poking at his food when the boy from drama club suddenly stood beside his table, tray in hand, his shoulders a little too high. “Hey, Chris… about Saturday. Homecoming. Do you now… uh… have time?”\n\nChris’s heart gave a small, unpleasant jump, while in his head last week’s checked “maybe” rattled like an unpaid bill.\n\nThere it is. The moment he had been putting off. He forced on a smile, so small and smooth that it didn’t feel like his. “Oh—I can’t.”\n\n“Can’t?” The boy blinked, as if he had briefly hoped he had misheard.\n\nChris’s throat went dry. He could have been honest—I didn’t want to hurt you, I just didn’t know how—but the thought of the face across from him, of the looks all around, made him cowardly. “I… already have a date,” he said quickly, and the lie tasted like paper.\n\nThe boy nodded too quickly. “Ah. Okay. Sure. No big deal.” He held the smile for another moment, as if he had to prove he didn’t care, and then walked away, a little too straight, a little too fast.\n\nChris remained seated and stared at his tray. He felt the warmth in his face—shame, guilt, and that dull tug because he knew exactly: His “maybe” hadn’t bought time. It had only made sure the no hurt twice as much.<<endif>>\n<<set $choice_homecoming to 0>>\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas <= 1 >>[[With Ruby in the archive.|Mit Ruby im Archiv.]]\n<<else>>\n[[Shopping with Mom.|Einkaufen mit Mom.]]\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Chris thrust solely from his hips, driving deep into his sister, again and again.\n\nJust before he climaxed, he withdrew from his sister, gave himself a quick handjob, and a gush of his hot cum spurted onto Christine’s stomach.\n\nBreathless and utterly exhausted, he sank down onto her. Christine stretched out her legs, embraced her brother, and clung to him. Their heavy breathing filled the room.\n\n"You’re crushing me!" was Christine’s first comment. Chris held her tight and carefully rolled onto his back. Christine slid down a tiny bit to keep him inside her. She rested her cheek against his and lay still.\n\nClasped tightly together, both siblings fell asleep.\n<<set $temp to 0>><<set $christine to 4>>\n[[Continue|Der Tag danach.]]\n

Come on, Chris thought, intensifying his sucking motion while massaging the guy’s shaft ever more vigorously with his hand. He breathed heavily through his nose. \n\nEvery now and then, Chris thrust the tip of his tongue into the guy’s distended piss-hole—a move that elicited a loud moan from him.\n\n“Ooohhh… that… is… so fucking hot… you’re a natural…”\n\nSoon, Chris realized the man was about to blow. The head of his cock twitched rhythmically and swelled even larger.\n\nAnd then he came. A spasm ran through his member, and the very next instant, semen flooded Chris’s mouth—as if an entire lake were gushing through a breached dam. Chris, refusing to swallow, had both cheeks stuffed full of “gentleman’s cream” within seconds.\n\nSpluttering, he tore himself away. Strands of ejaculate stretched in long threads across his lips. “My pants!” the supervisor yelled. Chris instinctively raised a hand to his mouth and shuddered as the sticky cum clung to his fingers. Disgusted, he wiped his hand against his torso—only to realize, the very next moment, that he had just ruined his clothes.\n\n“Alright, grab your stuff and get lost.” Chris snatched up his bag and the pack of condoms he had worked so hard to earn. He stumbled out of the office and hurried through the supermarket without looking back. His legs felt like rubber; his head was in a fog.\n\nThe automatic doors slid open, a blast of cold air hit his face, and the world outside went right on acting as if nothing had happened. He felt nauseous. A foul, sticky taste of semen lingered on his tongue. He walked a few more meters—to the covered alcove beside the shopping carts—and came to a halt, his legs momentarily refusing to carry him any further.\n\nZoe strode over, hands shoved deep in her jacket pockets, eyes narrowed sharply. "Well? Did you suck the old guy's dick?"\nChris pulled the pack out of his pocket. His fingers were trembling.\n\n"Seriously?" Zoe’s voice tipped into disbelief. "I wouldn't have thought you had it in you." She took the pack, turning it over in her hand, and let out a low whistle. "Maybe I misjudged you, Boob Chris." A glint in her eyes—half respect, half delight in the power play. "Nice. That makes us even for now."\n\n"Please... don't tell anyone." His voice was hoarse.\n"Yeah, yeah." She slipped the pack into her pocket. "See you at school tomorrow. And, uh—" the corners of her mouth twitched—"try not to puke. You look like milk that’s just about to go sour."\n\nShe turned around and walked away, vanishing as if she’d merely stopped to buy some gum.\n\nChris stood there for another moment until the dizziness subsided. He boarded the next bus, slumped into a seat, and stared at his reflection in the window: pale, eyes too wide, lips too thin. The engine hummed; the bus stops glided past. A cold stone sat heavy in his gut; in his mouth lingered a foul taste that wouldn't go away, no matter how many times he swallowed.\n\nOnce he got home, he rushed to the bathroom. He knelt before the toilet; his stomach cramped, and he retched until there was nothing left to bring up. Gasping for breath, he leaned back against the cool tiles, tears stinging his eyes. A bitter taste—a mix of stomach acid and semen—lingered in Chris’s mouth.\n<<set $zoe_opinion to 30>>\n[[Continue|Der nächste Schultag.]]\n

<div class="psychedelic-text">Chris’s hand moved before his head could catch up.\n\nThe slap only half hit the guy, more a shaky swat than a full blow. Still, it was a tear in the moment. The boy blinked in surprise, his grip loosening.\n\n“What the—?”\n\nThat was enough. Chris tore himself free, stumbled backward out of his radius, turned around, and blindly plunged through the crowd. The bass hammered, his heels nearly slipped out from under him, the miniskirt stuck to his legs. He heard someone shout something, didn’t know whether it was aimed at him, and didn’t want to know either.\n\nHe pushed through the living room, down the hallway, past a group of giggling girls, past two guys who were almost fighting and thankfully didn’t. Doors, voices, laughter, music—everything blurred. He wasn’t looking for any specific place, only a gap.\n\nHe opened a random door and saw a cluttered room. Closed it again. The next door: occupied room, a couple staring at him in annoyance. The girl lay stark naked on the bed in the dim light. The boy from downstairs had his face buried between her legs, while higher up his hands kept massaging her breasts. Closed again. On down the hallway.\n\nWhen he opened another door, dense smoke hit him. Sweetish, scratchy. Four boys sat on the floor in a circle. Cups stood around, something glowed somewhere.\n\n“Oh, hey,” one said and grinned, his eyes half closed. “Come in. Door shut, or someone’ll rat us out.”\n\nChris coughed, the smoke settling in his throat immediately. But the room was separate, muted, far from the dance floor and everything that had just threatened him. A hiding place.\n\n“Okay,” he murmured, shut the door behind him, and sank onto the floor without thinking about the miniskirt. Chris sat cross-legged like the boys, and from the front the white fabric of his panties could be seen beneath the miniskirt. The boys had noticed it long ago and grinned at one another.\n\nOne of them finished rolling a joint with slow, practiced fingers, licked the paper, and lit it. The smoke rose upward in a thin line.\n\n“Want some?” he asked, holding the glowing stub out to Chris.\n\nChris stared at the little red glow for a moment. His head was already swimming from the alcohol, the air here heavier, stickier. Part of him knew this was not a good idea.\n\nAnother part thought only: A little farther away from everything.</div>\n\n[[Continue|Er zieht am Joint.]]

“Yes,” Adam said.\n<<set $ort to "gym">>\nChris only nodded, muttered a hurried “Thanks, that works,” and said goodbye to Adam as quickly as if speed could make the embarrassment invisible. He disappeared into the stream of dance guests, left the curtain and the photo corner behind, and only felt like he could really breathe again once the music swallowed him.\n\nHe still couldn’t go home. His mother would immediately ask questions—too early, why back so soon, why no stories. And walking around outside in the cold? In a backless dress, with hold-up stockings and sandals? No chance. So he stayed in the gym.\n\nHe went to the drinks station, where there was a punch dispenser and plastic cups clacking together. Chris took one, held it to the edge of his lips, and realized how badly his hands were shaking as soon as they had nothing to do. The sweet taste did nothing against the feeling of being out of place.\n\nHe looked around.\n\nAnd realized it far too quickly: He was the only girl without a date.\n\nCouples stood everywhere—arms around waists, heads close together, hands naturally interlaced. Even the singles rarely seemed truly alone; they had groups, friends, that protective little circle of people that said: We belong together. Chris stood like a single dot outside the sentences.\n\nIt did not go unnoticed.\n\nBefore his cup was even half empty, the first boy came over. “Hey... want to dance?” He grinned, a little too self-assured. Chris forced a smile. “No, thank you.”\n\nThe next followed ten minutes later, then the next. Some were friendly, some played it cool, some acted as if a “no” was only an opening. Chris repeated himself like a broken tape: “No, thank you.” “I’m okay right now.” “Maybe later.” He noticed his face slowly growing tired from smiling. And every time he turned someone down, he felt both relieved and more exposed—as if every “no” marked him even more clearly as alone.\n\nAt some point, even a chaperone came by—a teacher, with a watchful look. She stopped briefly, glanced at the empty space beside Chris, then kindly at his face.\n\n“Everything okay with you?” she asked. “Where’s your date?”\n\nIt was well meant. That was exactly what made it worse.\n\nChris felt his stomach drop for a moment. He felt inspected, like in a dress-code check: Say the right thing so you don’t stand out. He lifted the cup as if he were busy. “Uh... yeah, everything’s okay,” he said quickly. “He’s... just with friends for a minute. I... I just wanted something to drink.”\n\nThe chaperone nodded slowly, not convinced, but not suspicious enough to ask more questions either. “Okay. If anything’s wrong—you know where we are.”\n\n“Thanks,” Chris said, too brightly, and waited until she moved on. Only then did he realize how much he had been hunching his shoulders.\n\nHe tried standing near couples, in a way that made it look as if he was “part of” them in their shadow—as if he were only waiting briefly while “his” someone was dancing. He edged over to a group of two couples who were laughing with each other, nodded a few times as if he had just heard a joke too. Then he moved to the wall beside the DJ booth, where a couple was dancing closely and had completely lost sight of the outside world. Chris positioned himself so that he stood between them and another group—mass, noise, light.\n\nIt helped a little. For a few minutes, he blended in.\n\nBut as soon as a couple moved on or the formation dissolved, he felt it again: the empty space around him, which was too loud. And the gaze of boys scanning the room to see whether there was an “alone” girl standing somewhere. Chris took another sip of punch, held the clutch tighter, and tried not to show how much he wished he could simply be invisible—at least until he could come home at a believably late hour.\n\n[[Continue|Der DJ fordert Singles zum Tanzen auf.]]

Chris lowered his gaze first, then his whole head, as if someone had pressed him at the nape of the neck. He pretended that the ingredient list on a bottle of mouthwash had suddenly become a burning passion, put it in the basket even though it wasn’t on the list, and simply moved on. No nod, no clearing his throat, nothing. Only steps that weren’t allowed to be too loud, and a heart that stomped anyway.\n\nHe found Christine by the cosmetics—of course. She stood in front of a mirror display, trying on lip gloss and making little duck faces. “There you are,” she said, as if she had found him, not the other way around. “I just had to… look at something.” Her fixed braces flashed again, this time with a strawberry-scented glossy film. “Do you have everything?”\n\n“Yeah.” His voice sounded strangely hollow in his ears. He lifted the basket. “Milk, eggs, dish soap. Bonus points for mouthwash.”\n\n“Mom loves bonus points.” Christine fluttered her eyelashes, put a powder back, and grabbed a pack of cotton pads. “Checkout? I still have to… uh, you know.” She made a vague circling motion around her face.\n\nAt the register, the world acted so normal it almost hurt: beeps, rustling plastic, the cashier’s monotonous “Good morning,” barely looking up. Christine fumbled in her wallet, Chris handed over the bags. He felt the shoplifter’s gaze on his back, even though she wasn’t there—only a lingering feeling, as if he had left a door open.\n\nOutside, the air smelled of warm asphalt and frying grease from the snack bar next door. Just as they were leaving the parking lot, Chris noticed the girl from the supermarket again. This time she wasn’t alone.\n\nBeside her walked a much older man, at least in his mid-forties, maybe older. The man had his arm around her, but the way his hand slid over her back and lingered on her ass made Chris pause. It was definitely not a fatherly gesture.\n\nA thought shot through his mind that made him stop with a chill: Is she selling herself?\n\nThe suspicion was unsettling, and a quiet stab of guilt bored into his chest. Had he made a mistake by ignoring the shoplifting? Maybe it was more than just a small misstep. Maybe reporting it would have kept her from being pulled deeper into something that wasn’t right.\n\nThey set off. The bags cut into their hands, the sounds of the street flowed past them. Christine talked about something—homework lists, orientation day, whether Dylan was probably at summer camp or training privately—and Chris nodded in the right places. His thoughts were still hanging on the girl from the supermarket.\n\nMaplewood slid past them: low houses, flagpoles, lawns that were never allowed to grow too long.\n\n[[Continue|Zurück zu Hause.]]

Today was reckoning day—the day Susan decided whether “Christina” had made progress in the last month or needed “remedial training.” At the end, either a reward or a punishment awaited.\n<<set $wochentag = 7>><<set $ort to "at home">>\nSunday stood out bold in the calendar, circled in red like a warning sign. Chris sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clenched together, his gaze pinned to one spot in the carpet. The house was strangely quiet. Christine was with Myles, and Chris’s mother was somewhere between the kitchen and the living room, making that preparatory clattering that was worse than any threat.\n\nHave I done enough? He ran the past weeks backward like a film in fast-forward: skirts and ruffles, polite smiles, stammering in homeroom that he half managed to save; the silent, heavy moments in front of the mirror, when he asked himself whether he was making himself convincing—or twisting himself out of shape. Then came the stab of another thought: What did Christine tell her? His sister had a good heart, but she loved gossip. And Susan had instructed her to tell her everything that was going on at school. Which scenes would weigh in the balance today? The right ones? The wrong ones?\n\nHe ran his hands over his arms, looking for support in the smooth bedspread. I really did try. The sentence sounded small and childish in his head—and yet it was true. He had practiced, asked questions, imitated. Sometimes he had even liked it. Was that enough? Or did his mother need that “more,” the thing that always lay one step farther away?\n\nThe memory of his last punishment from a month ago came back against his will: him naked and bent over in front of the big mirror in the bedroom; his mother behind him, her voice cold as polished metal: “I’ll teach you not to be a girl,” she said, and brought her leather belt down across Chris’s naked ass, looking into his face as she did and delighting in the sensations reflected there. And back then Chris could only think: ‘Oh please dear God, make it stop.’ Her belt on his bare butt caused terrible pain. The skin tightened and his ass burned like fire. The look in the mirror afterward—eyes red from crying. Sitting had been days of gritting his teeth.\n\nNever again, he had thought. Today could not end like that again.\n\nA clock ticked somewhere, far too loudly.\n\n“Chris? Would you come here, please.” Susan’s voice came through the hall, sweet and friendly in a tone that already knew the outcome.\n\nHe breathed in, stood up. For a moment his knees felt like cotton; he waited until they turned back into bone, smoothed his skirt—a reflex, even in his own room<<if $haar == 1>>—, tucked a strand behind his ear<<endif>>. When he opened the door, it smelled of air freshener and polished wood. The hallway suddenly felt longer.\n\nStep by step. The photos on the wall—vacations, laughter, years that now felt like they belonged to someone else. Quiet music drifted in from the living room radio, a harmless pop song that didn’t fit. Susan was waiting in the light from the big window front, a notepad on the coffee table, a pen laid across it. She turned to him, looked him over from head to toe, a tiny nod that gave nothing away.\n\nChris sat down, crossing his legs the way she had taught him. He swallowed. “I’m here,” he said, and the words sounded just right enough.\n\nHis mother opened the notepad as if it were a report and laid the pen parallel to the edge of the table. Her gaze stayed calm; her words did not.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/Susan_bewertung.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/Susan_bewertung_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n“Let’s begin.” She let the word lie between them.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n''How does his mother assess him?''\n<<nobr>><<if $stil <= 5>>[[Negative|Negativ]]<<endif>>\n<<if $stil >= 6 && $stil <= 7>>[[Average|Durchschnitt][$temp += 1]]<<endif>>\n<<if $stil >= 8>>[[Positive|Positiv][$temp += 2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

The room felt even smaller than usual that evening. Maybe it was the hunger. Chris sat on the mattress they used as a sofa during the day and listened to his own stomach complaining as if it had been personally offended. On the hot plate stood only an empty pot. In the cupboard: a few tea bags, pepper, salt.\n\nZoe came in from outside, let the door slam shut, and triumphantly held up something glossy in her hand: a lollipop. Cherry red, translucent, like a little gemstone on a stick.\n\n“Please tell me that’s a joke,” Chris muttered.\n\nZoe grinned, put the lollipop in her mouth, and let it disappear slowly between her lips with theatrical emphasis. “Nope.” She sucked on it once with relish, as if it were some luxury dessert. “Last bit of money. Had to be.”\n\nChris’s gaze fixed on the lollipop almost automatically. His hunger suddenly turned the ridiculous thing into something valuable. “And for me?” he asked, trying to sound casual, but his voice gave him away.\n\nZoe pulled the lollipop out of her mouth and smiled innocently. “Oh. Are you hungry too?” She tilted her head, and in her eyes flashed that spark that was always dangerously close to flirting, even when they were arguing.\n\n“Zoe,” Chris said. “I’m dying here.”\n\n“You’re not dying,” she said dryly, slipping the lollipop back between her lips. “You’re whining.”\n\nChris snorted, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting back to her: the way she twirled the stick, the way the cherry color briefly gleamed on her teeth, how naturally she played with the situation. There was more than friendship between them—some thread of tension that sometimes looked like a joke and sometimes like something you weren’t allowed to name out loud. Chris could feel that thread now, because hunger made everything more honest.\n\n<center>[img[pics/zoe_loli.jpg]]</center> Zoe sat down across from him and tapped the lollipop in the air as if she were writing an idea on the wall. “Okay,” she said. “I have solution for food problem.”\n\nChris raised an eyebrow. “Uh-oh.”\n\n“Internet,” Zoe said. “We get ourselves invited out to eat. By men. Some idiot who wants to feel important. I swear, within two hours I can find someone who’ll take us out tonight.”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened—out of hunger and alarm. “That’s… dangerous.”\n\nZoe shrugged. “Everything is dangerous. Being hungry is dangerous too.” She grinned around the lollipop. “Besides: public restaurant. Easy.”\n\nChris immediately wanted to say no. In his head he saw headlines, bad scenarios, strange cars. But then he looked at the lollipop again, at Zoe’s self-satisfied smile, and his stomach brutally reminded him that morality felt easier when you were full. He swallowed. “And if it’s not a restaurant?” he asked.\n\n“Then we leave,” Zoe said quickly. “I’m not stupid.”\n\nChris rubbed his forehead. He had doubts, real ones. And yet he felt the temptation not just because of the food: also because of that Zoe energy, that audacity that sometimes drew him in like a fire, even though you could get burned by it.\n\n''How does Chris decide?''\n❯ [[Talk Zoe out of the plan.|Zoe den Plan ausreden.][$kissgirl += 1]]\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $zoejungs == 1>>\n❯ [[Agree to Zoe’s plan.|Zoes Plan zustimmen.2]]\n<<else>>\n\n<div class="box"><b>Note:</b> Chris still couldn’t bear the thought of going out with a man. Maybe he would have acted differently now if he had made different choices before.</div> <<endif>> <</nobr>>

Chris put on a small smile that looked friendly on the outside, but had a tiny hook inside. “Hey… uh… Aiden, right?” he said with deliberate casualness, as if it were more guessed than remembered. His eyes briefly slid past Adam, as if he first had to think about where he might know him from.\n<<set $ort to "hallway">>\nAdam’s face froze for a moment. He cleared his throat, his hand sinking halfway down again. “Um… my name is Adam,” he said carefully. “We… we have classes together. And… you know, the thing…” He made a small, helpless motion toward the water fountain, as if trying to remind him of the accident without actually saying it.\n<<set $AdamMemory[3] to 1>>\n“Oh.” Chris raised his eyebrows just slightly, as if a light had only now gone on for him, and made his smile another tick more innocent. “Right. Adam.” He nodded, as if he had just filed that away neatly—and then was already turning to go on.\n\n“Yeah… so… sorry again about—” Adam began.\n\n“It’s fine,” Chris tossed over his shoulder, faster than necessary, and continued on toward the gym. His gym bag swung lightly at his side, and he felt a small, mean pleasure spreading inside him.\n\nAs he turned the corner, he grinned. Not loudly, not triumphantly—more that brief grin that said: payback. For a moment, Adam had been just as unsettled as Chris had felt at the water fountain. And although Chris resolved to leave it at that, the good feeling stayed with him for a few more steps.\n\n[[Continue|Vor der Sporthalle.]]

Lucas’s gaze lingered on Chris, soft and hopeful, and Chris felt everything inside him tighten.\n\n“So…” Lucas cleared his throat, as if he first had to pull the courage out of it. He let his legs slide off the edge of the stage and stood up, a tick too quickly. “Chris, um… can you come here for a second?”\n\nRuby pretended to suddenly be extremely interested in her braid, but the corner of her mouth twitched. Chris nodded and followed Lucas a few steps to the side, over to where the set pieces stood like silent house walls.\n\nLucas held his phone in his hand, but only turned it between his fingers without looking at it. “I know this is… maybe awkward,” he began. “But I thought… I mean, Homecoming…” He breathed in, finally looking Chris directly in the eye. “Would you go with me? As a date?”\n\nChris’s heart made that stupid, quick leap that had nothing to do with joy and everything to do with panic. He felt the look on his face, the expectation that was so honest it hurt.\n\nHe forced his voice to stay calm. “Lucas… you’re really sweet,” he said quietly. And he even meant it. “But… I can’t.”\n\nLucas blinked. “Can’t…? Like because—because of time? I can work around you. Or we can go as friends, if—”\n\n“It’s not because of you,” Chris quickly interrupted him, because he knew the words and still hoped that this time they wouldn’t sound like an excuse. “I… I just don’t want a date thing right now. Not like that.” He lifted his shoulders, a small, helpless gesture. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up for something I can’t give you.”\n\nLucas’s face went blank for a fraction of a second, then he put on a smile that was too neat. “Ah.” He nodded once, as if confirming it to himself. “Okay. Sure. I just wanted to ask.”\n\nChris nodded too, far too eagerly. “Thanks for asking. Really. I like you. Just… not the way you probably mean.”\n\nLucas swallowed, his ears turning a little red. “It’s all good,” he said, but his voice was quieter than before. “I… yeah. It’s okay. I just want you to… feel comfortable.”\n\nFrom behind them, Ms. Green was already calling, “Break’s over! On your marks, people!”\n\nLucas was the first to turn around, walking back toward the stage a little too quickly, as if he had to set movement against the sting. Chris stood there for a moment, feeling the bitter aftertaste in his chest—guilt and relief at the same time. Then he started moving too, returned to his place, and pretended everything was normal.\n\nBut when he saw Lucas’s back, straight and a little too tense, he knew the rejection had landed. And that it had still been the only answer he could give.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Theaterclub.2]]

The final bell vibrated through the hallways, and the swarm split: some toward the bus, others toward the gym, others again to the wing behind the auditorium. A freshly printed poster hung on the bulletin board: Theater Club – Sign-ups today, 3:15, Black Box. An arrow pointed to a side door, from which muffled voices and the clatter of props drifted out.\n<<set $ort to "Auditorium">>\nChris stopped in front of it. His mother had said, “Some club. You’re supposed to be around people, not gather dust in your room.” She hadn’t said which one. Theater would be… possible. He remembered the laughter at the theater table in the cafeteria, the rapid talking with hands, Charlotte’s casual “Black Box on Wednesday—cool people.” Theater sounded like costumes, lines, light. But in his head, the small, crooked voice immediately spoke up: More of a girl thing, right?\n\nHe watched two students hurry past with a fabric crate; someone with freckles (Ruby) was arguing at the doorframe with an older student about “lighting plan” and “rigging.” Another was painting “Props — do not touch!” on a cardboard box. The Black Box sign hung crooked, as if deliberately refusing to be perfect.\n\nChris weighed the bag in his hand. At home, “hurry home after school” was waiting—Mom’s uncomfortable hint.\n\nHe took a breath. Theater meant: trying things out without being judged immediately—at best. Memorizing lines, standing on a stage, finding his voice (the right voice, not the one that always wanted to crack). Maybe that was exactly the kind of practice that would help him survive the day. Or it was another room where he would feel disguised, this time of his own free will.\n\nSomeone casually held the door open for him. “Coming in?” asked the boy with the fabric crate, as if it were the most normal decision in the world. Behind him, it smelled of wood, dust, makeup, and a hint of coffee. From outside, December light—no, still late summer—blew through the hallway; buses rumbled in the distance.\n\nChris felt both paths tugging at his sleeve at the same time: slip in here and see whether the Black Box could be a hiding place or a home; or turn around, fulfill the order, be home on time.\n\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[He steps through the door to the Black Box and gives the theater club a chance, even though he doesn’t know whether he fits there.|Dem Theaterclub beitreten.][$club += 2]]\n❯ [[He skips the theater club and heads home to his mother on time instead.|Nach Hause gehen.]]\n\n<details><summary>Click here for a route preview with spoilers</summary><center><img src="pics/club.jpg" style="display:inline; margin:0; border:none;border-radius: 0; box-shadow:none; padding:0; background:none; max-width:none; vertical-align:middle;"> </center></details>

\n\n🕶️ Cover: <<print $tarnung>>\n👑 Popularity: <<print $beliebtheit>>\n👠 Style: <<print $stil>>\n\n<<nobr>><<set $total = 10>>\n<<set $done = $ende1 + $ende2 + $ende3 + $ende4 + $ende5 + $ende6 + $ende7 + $ende8 + $ende9 + $ende10 >> \n\n<<set $done = Math.max(0, Math.min($done, $total))>>\n\n<span class="stars" title="<<print $done>>/<<print $total>>">\n <span class="starsFilled"><<print "★".repeat($done)>></span><span class="starsEmpty"><<print "☆".repeat($total - $done)>></span>\n</span><</nobr>>\n

Later, when the house was finally quiet and the storm outside was still tugging at the windows, Ava led him into the bedroom. “There,” she said, tossing him a nightgown as if it were a towel. “Put that on. In your clothes… you’re not getting into my bed.”\n\nThe nightgown was obviously hers. Much too big. Soft fabric that hung on him like a tent, the shoulders slipping, the hem reaching much farther down than he was used to. Chris undressed, slipped into it, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and tried to make himself invisible.\n\nThe bathroom was directly connected to the bedroom; the door stood half open. Ava was inside, and Chris could see her in the mirror: steam, dim light, the sound of water. She moved slowly, deliberately, as if she had time—and as if she knew exactly that he could see her.\n\nShe began to undress. Chris watched as the mature, full-figured woman stretched naked once she was freed from her clothes. What a sight! When she freed herself from her large bra, her breasts swung down heavy and full, and she stroked her huge udders until her hands reached her large brown nipples, which hung all the way down. She massaged her stiff nipples a little while she now sat down on the bidet with her legs spread.\n\nChris had never in his life seen such a full-figured naked woman with such sexual charisma. The sight excited him so much that his member quickly stiffened.\n\nThe full-figured mature woman now sat naked and spread-legged on the bidet and leaned back a little. She let go of her nipples and turned on the warm water. Her breasts were threaded with veins and hung full and heavy down to her belly and a little to the side, since she was leaning back. Her huge dark areolas were thickly swollen and her long nipples stood out far. She now took soap and a washcloth and began washing out her vagina. Chris could not see much of it, because the washcloth was in the way. But then she put the cloth aside and began rinsing out her vagina with her hand.\n\nChris’s heart almost stood still and his stiff member throbbed wildly when he saw Mrs. Ferguson now pulling her labia wide apart with her fingers and presenting him with a view of her wide-open vagina. She rinsed her vagina with warm water while very lightly and gently rubbing her labia. Chris thought he heard Ava moan a little, but he was not entirely sure. With his mouth open, he stared at her wide-open labia, which were swollen and deep red. Then he saw that Ava also had a large violet stiff thing there in her vagina, half covered by wrinkled skin. Her clitoris was at least about three-quarters of an inch large and protruded upward like a small penis. Ava now pulled the skin all the way down and washed it off as well. As she did, she panted very heavily and her face was very dark red.\n\nShe stood up quietly, dried her heavy, swinging breasts, and very gently rubbed cream onto her nipples.\n\nChris stared at the blanket and counted the thunder in the distance.\n\nThen Ava came out of the bathroom. She was wearing a bathrobe that was not properly closed, her hair still damp, the scent of lotion drifting into the room with her. She stood there for a moment, studying him like a predator.\n\n“God, you look like a lost kitten,” she said, clicking her tongue.\n\nChris’s face grew hot. “I… I just want to sleep.”\n\n“Of course you want to sleep.” Ava laughed softly, as if that were naive. “Men are like that. Mine too. As soon as things get serious, they ‘just want to sleep.’” She walked around the bed, pulled back the blanket on her side, and dropped down beside him.\n\nThe mattress made a distinct wave as her weight settled. Chris’s body rolled a few centimeters in her direction against his will. He immediately tensed, as if he could hold on to the sheet. His gaze automatically shifted to the wall, as if there were something incredibly interesting there.\n\nAva sighed contentedly and stretched out her legs. “Do you know what the worst part is?” she asked, and without waiting for an answer, she continued: “Not that he’s gone. But that he acts as if I’m the problem.” She turned her head toward Chris. “When all you have to do is look at who’s lying here in bed.”\n\nChris swallowed. He didn’t know whether she meant herself—or him, or both. He stubbornly kept his gaze away from her.\n\n[[Continue|Ava vernascht ihn.][$partner += 1;$sex += 1;$kissgirl += 1]]

Month three to four consisted of folders. Documents were collected, letters sorted, forms filled out. Susan bundled everything together as if she were managing a project that only had one direction. Then she submitted the application for prior authorization. Questions came back, evidence had to be added. Chris learned how much of a life could consist of paper.\n\nMonth four to six finally brought the approval. It did not feel like a “yes,” but like a stamp on a decision he still had not finished thinking through inside. After that, a surgery date was reserved – several months in the future. An appointment that hung over the calendar like a shadow: far away, but no longer “someday.”\n\nAnd at some point Charlotte was sitting beside him as they went together to the surgical consultation. It was the first time Chris experienced her as a companion for something like that – not just as his girlfriend, but as someone standing on the threshold between “We’re trying” and “We’re losing each other.” Charlotte held his hand briefly in the waiting room, just for a moment, as if testing herself to see whether she could do this.\n\nWhen they were outside later, she said quietly, almost matter-of-factly – as if she were afraid of her own words: “If you really do this… and if we ever want to have a baby later… maybe you should think about freezing your sperm.”\n\nChris stopped. The sentence hit him unexpectedly deeply, not because of the procedure, but because of the idea behind it: later, us, baby. An image of the future that felt warm – and at the same time like another pressure point.\n\nHe nodded slowly, without knowing whether it was agreement or just being overwhelmed. And while the world around him kept moving, Chris knew only one thing for certain: he was walking this path – doubting, stumbling – because he still hoped that at the end, Charlotte would not be gone.\n\nThe school routine stretched through the final weeks like a ribbon slowly running out: final tests, final times standing in the hallway and pretending everything was the same as always. At the same time, beneath everything lay that quiet knowledge that “always” would soon be over. When prom came, the gym was barely recognizable – strings of lights, fabric draped across the ceiling, a DJ booth at the edge, the floor freshly waxed.\n\nChris and Charlotte arrived together. For the first time, they did not pretend they were only in the same place by coincidence. Charlotte wore an elegant ball gown, Chris a dress that looked natural on him – cleanly cut, festive, with exactly the amount of courage he could carry by now. They held hands, smiled, and as they walked across the dance floor, there was that brief, proud straightening in Chris’ chest: no longer secret, no longer between doors. A couple in love. Visible to everyone. This time, the looks did not feel like danger, but like a “There they are,” and for a few songs it was simply beautiful.\n\nEventually school was over. No more lockers, no more gym whistle, no more schedules. From that point on, Chris was no longer a student, but a young adult – and the decisions lying ahead of him suddenly had a different weight.\n\n[[Continue|Spermien einfrieren.]]

Thursday was already humming in the morning. New posters in the school colors were stuck up everywhere, someone on the announcements was counting down the hours until kickoff, and in the hallways students spontaneously rehearsed chants that echoed between metal lockers and linoleum floors. Tomorrow was the Timberwolves’ first big home game. Chris heard the noise like weather—everywhere, unavoidable. He would definitely be at the stadium, he had decided that: cheering Christine on from the stands, clapping until his hands hurt, screaming himself hoarse whether he wanted to or not.<<set $wochentag = 4>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "school">>\n\nIn the cafeteria, Chris’s gaze fell on Adam at the food counter. The kitchen staff seemed to know him—not like “anonymous kid with a tray,” but like a regular: a “Hey, Adam,” a brief laugh, an extra-large spoonful of mashed potatoes while they exchanged a couple of sentences about something everyday. Adam smiled crookedly as he did, visibly relaxing for a moment. Then Penelope stepped up to the counter as if bringing her own little trail of light with her. Adam’s shoulders immediately drew up; he went quiet, automatically took a step to the side, and let her go ahead without her even addressing him. Chris saw that and understood again how school worked: not just cliques at tables, but also invisible priorities in lines—who becomes bigger and who becomes smaller as soon as someone “more important” appears.\n\nAfter school, the black cloth hung in the theater room as heavily as ever, threads of dust in the glow of the ceiling lamps. Chris arrived too early so he wouldn’t be “too late,” and chose a chair at the edge. He had avoided Lucas all week—changed corridors, shifted breaks. On Monday, he had broken up with him. It had been embarrassing, but right, he told himself. Homecoming was next week; breaking up later would have been cruel.\n\nThe door opened. Lucas came in, script under his arm. His gaze brushed across the room, found Chris, lingered briefly. No accusation, more that unguarded, vulnerable registering. Chris lowered his eyes, felt warmth creeping up into his face, and only nodded ever so slightly—a silent “hi” that did not ask for conversation.\n\nMs. Green clapped, handed out pages, set tempos. They sat in a semicircle. During a breathing exercise, Chris heard Lucas’s pages breathe—shallowly, then deeper. During a short improv, Lucas stood up, played a scene without a partner, cleanly, focused. Chris noticed how something inside him both tightened and grew calmer: It had been the right decision. As early as possible, as honest as necessary. Anything else would have forced him into the lie.\n\nDuring the break, everyone stood in the side corridor with paper cups. Chris held his cup, pretending to be busy with a dog-eared corner in the script. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lucas’s gaze wander to him again and again—not pleading, not angry, more feeling its way: How much am I still allowed to look at you? Chris let the glances run past him as if they were a quiet wave against a post.\n\nRuby appeared beside Lucas, as if by chance, and stayed. She asked about a scene she already knew perfectly well, laughed at something that wasn’t a joke, stood half a step closer than usual. Her presence was not pressure, more an offer: I’m here if you want somewhere to look that doesn’t hurt. Lucas’s shoulders lowered by a centimeter. He answered, pointed to a line, she leaned over the script with him, her red braid slipping in front of his shoulder.\n\nChris watched it, took one deep breath, and felt something small inside him slide into the right place. It was still embarrassing, a little, but the world was doing what it often did: it found gaps and filled them. He opened his script, marked the cue for the next rehearsal, and lifted his head when Ms. Green clapped again. Tomorrow the stands would roar; today, a clean “cue” was enough for him, and the thought that some decisions only felt good in the echo afterward.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte < 2>>[[Friday, before the game.|Freitag, vor dem Spiel.]]<<else>>[[Friday, conversation with Charlotte.|Freitag, Gespräch mit Charlotte.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris sat down on the edge of Christine’s bed, the elastic band snapping softly as he loosened it. A faint scent of her shampoo rose from the pages, as if the paper had been listening in. He carefully flipped back to the beginning of the diary, not searching, and found something anyway.\n\n<div class="letter">Algebra today… the way Mr. Alvarez smiles when he explains something. Embarrassing! Why can’t my brain be NORMAL? I just stared at his strong chest, help.</div>The paragraph was full of crossed-out sentences, little hearts scribbled in the margin that she had later painted over again. The corners of Chris’s mouth twitched. <<set $ort to "Christine's room">> And a few pages later… <div class="letter">Braces glitter like a construction warning. I look 12. Hips: nothing. Chest: nothing. Butt: nothing. Hair: okay. I wish I could look in the mirror once and not hate the first thing I see.</div> Next to it was a mini sketch of her profile with braces and an arrow: “ANNOYING.”\n\nChris flipped much farther ahead to get to the last few weeks...\n\n<div class="letter">I LIKE the new Chris (he’s sweet and polite and we laugh more). But Mom is overdoing it. HELLO?? He’s already trying. And then today: “If he acts up, we’ll increase the hormone dose.” What?? I said that’s sick. Her: “Only if necessary.” I don’t know. I love her. But she forgets that he… is him.</div> The word “hormone dose” was underlined twice, with an angry little box beside it: “NO.”\n\nChris’s heart tightened as if someone had pulled on an invisible string, and he flipped a little farther...\n\n<div class="letter">Everyone stares at Chris. Boys in the caf, in the hallway. I’m AIR. And yes, I’m jealous of his… chest. Weird, right? Mine is flat. His isn’t. It drives me crazy, and then I hate myself for thinking that way.</div> A smudge, as if her hand had slipped over it.\n\nChris felt shame and tenderness at the same time. He wanted to close the book—didn’t, instead flipping to the last pages, fresh, unfinished...\n\n<div class="letter">Myles is… wow. Nice. Funny. Feels like someone turns the noise down when he talks. Held hands today. Kiss was good. I turned red as a tomato.</div> Below it, later the same day: <div class="letter">Ugh. Today he was… pushy? “We could maybe…” NO, we’ve known each other two days! He sold it as a joke. I laughed (cowardly), but it wasn’t a joke.</div> Chris swallowed. The words were still vibrating on the paper. He smoothed the page with his flat hand, as if ink could be calmed. The diary closed with a sighing sound; the elastic band sprang back into place.\n\nHe sat motionless for a moment, the borrowed tights beside him, guilt like a second one. Then he put the book back exactly where it had been—angle, scrunchie, everything as before—took the tights, and slipped out. In the hallway, he stopped and briefly leaned his forehead against the cool wall. There were things he couldn’t “unread”: an underlined “NO,” a dose threat, a longing that tangled both their lives together.\n\nHe breathed in, out, and went to his room—a stranger with a pair of tights in his hand and far too many new sentences in his head.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Message from Charlotte.|Nachricht von Charlotte.]]<<else>>[[In the evening.|Am Abend.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris raised a defensive hand. “Uh… better not. I’ve got—an allergy.” The word stumbled over his tongue, but now it stood in the room like a sign.\n\nPenelope blinked in surprise, then softened. “Oh! Sure, no problem. Lots of people react to fragrances. Raspberry smells like raspberry.” She put the tube away. “Which ingredients is it for you?”\n\n“Uh… different ones.” He heard how thin that sounded. “Fragrance, preservative stuff. I… have to be careful.”\n\n“Makes sense.” Penelope nodded and elegantly changed the subject as if nothing had happened. “Your cardigan is cute, by the way.”\n\nBefore the warm feeling of his relief could really settle in, [[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]] appeared beside him—notebook in hand, mission in her eyes. “Allergy? Which one? Is it in the system? You need an allergy form, otherwise there’ll be chaos with nurse visits.” She took him by the elbow, friendly but unstoppable. “Come on. Three minutes.”\n\n“Now?” Chris blinked over at Christine; she gave a “well, there you go” shrug and turned back to the mirror.\n\n“Now is perfect.” Ruby had already pushed the door open.\n\nThe hallway was emptier than before, break half over. The office smelled of paper, toner, and peppermint tea. Mrs. Keating looked up. “Yes?”\n\n“Allergy form for the new girl,” Ruby said diligently. “Topical sensitivities, probably fragrances.”\n\n“Of course.” Mrs. Keating pulled out a folder, leafed through it, and handed Chris a two-page form and a pen with a cloud print. “Fill this out. If you have medical documentation, bring it in. Otherwise, we’ll note it like this for now.”\n\nChris took the sheet, skimmed lines with boxes: food? medication? contact allergens? symptoms? emergency plan? His pulse grew louder while his forehead tried to look intelligent. “I… uh… I’ll fill it out later in peace, okay?”\n\n“Today would be great,” Mrs. Keating smiled. “Tomorrow at the latest. Just turn it in here.”\n\n“I will,” Chris nodded, stuffing the form into his folder as if it were an oversized bird. Ruby was satisfied; mission accomplished. “If you need help—I did this three times last year because I’m allergic to nickel, fragrance, and stupidity,” she whispered and grinned crookedly. “The last one isn’t official.”\n\n“Thanks.” Chris had to laugh, despite everything.\n\nThey hurried back; the hallway was already filling again. When the bell rang, Chris slipped into the stream toward the next class—with a folder that now contained one more form, and the feeling of living in a world where every excuse had an administration. Penelope had made it easy for him. Ruby had made it official. And he… had improvised again and would pay the price later.\n\n''What happens?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Lunchtime in the cafeteria.|Lunchtime in der Cafeteria.]]<<else>>[[Lunchtime in the cafeteria.|Lunchtime in der Cafeteria.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Thursday hummed. New posters were stuck to lockers everywhere, someone in the hallway was practicing a battle chant, and makeshift seating charts for the fan section lay on the cafeteria tables. Tomorrow was the Timberwolves’ first big home game. Chris heard the noise like weather—everywhere, unavoidable. He would definitely be at the stadium, he had decided that: cheering Christine on from the stands, clapping until his hands hurt, screaming himself hoarse whether he wanted to or not.<<set $wochentag = 4>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "school">>\n\nIn the cafeteria, Chris’s gaze fell on Adam at the food counter. The kitchen staff seemed to know him—not like “anonymous kid with a tray,” but like a regular: a “Hey, Adam,” a brief laugh, an extra-large spoonful of mashed potatoes while they exchanged a couple of sentences about something everyday. Adam smiled crookedly as he did, visibly relaxing for a moment. Then Penelope stepped up to the counter as if bringing her own little trail of light with her. Adam’s shoulders immediately drew up; he went quiet, automatically took a step to the side, and let her go ahead without her even addressing him. Chris saw that and understood again how school worked: not just cliques at tables, but also invisible priorities in lines—who becomes bigger and who becomes smaller as soon as someone “more important” appears.\n\nAfter school, he went to the theater room. The curtain hung open, dust glittered in the slanting light. Lucas was there—on time, quiet, but strangely inward. He missed his cue twice during the improv exercise, laughed too late at Ruby’s dry comment, and constantly seemed to be thinking about something that was not on the stage. Chris noticed it immediately and wondered how finely tuned his radar had become to Lucas. My boyfriend, he thought, and the word felt like a costume he showed the world and that Lucas liked far too much.\n\nAfter rehearsal, Lucas walked him to the bus. On the way across the parking lot, his silence grew heavier until he faltered mid-sentence. “Chris…”\n\n“Mhm?”\n\nLucas drew a breath, as if he had to open a door. “Homecoming is next week. And I’d like to go with my girlfriend.” A tiny smile twitched. “So… with you. If you want.”\n\nRuby and two girls were standing by the bike rack; they had apparently heard enough to guess the rest. Ruby gave Chris an unobtrusive nod, the others smiled expectantly, as if a small, sweet scene had just happened in real life.\n\nChris’s heart dropped half an inch. He didn’t want to go to the dance—especially not as the girlfriend—he was playing this role because he had to, not because he breathed in it. He saw Lucas’s gaze: open, uncertain, hoping. He saw the girls’ silent “go on” signals. He saw the bus blinking in the distance.\n\n“Yeah… sure,” he heard himself say. The smile came automatically and stayed there, even though something inside him tightened. “I’d love to.”\n\nLucas’s relief was immediate. “Really? Great! Then… then we’ll make it official.” He laughed softly, brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, and his gaze took on that soft shine that both touched Chris and cornered him.\n\nThe bus pulled up. Chris raised his hand. “Text me,” he said quietly, and got on. As he sat down, his reflection slid along in the dark window. Outside, “yes”; inside, the wish to simply owe no one anything. Lucas’s joy still vibrated on the seat, and Chris felt his own “yes” turn into a bracket he would carry around with him until next week.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte < 2>>[[Friday, before the game.|Freitag, vor dem Spiel.]]<<else>>[[Friday, conversation with Charlotte.|Freitag, Gespräch mit Charlotte.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

After the question round, the contestants had to stand in a row again, shoulder to shoulder, smiles ready, while the host opened the next envelope. It was that strange moment when everyone pretended it was just a little town event—and yet every second carried an entire mountain of watching eyes.\n\nChris felt his heart grow calmer the closer the decision came. He didn’t want to win. He simply wanted to get out of this intact.\n\nThe host read out names. Two contestants moved on, a third as well—applause, small waves, waving. Then came a brief pause, and Chris already knew it before it was spoken. His name did not come.\n\n“And with that, we say goodbye to…” The host named the eliminated contestants, kindly, the way one might dismiss people from a choir.\n\nChris clapped along, smiled, gave the small obligatory wave, and took a step back, as if he belonged at the edge again. The feeling was both a sting and a relief: a tiny moment of “I wasn’t good enough”—and immediately after that a huge “thank you,” because it was over.\n\nSusan stood at the edge and nodded with satisfaction, as if everything had gone exactly according to plan. “See,” she said when Chris came off the stage. “You presented yourself well. That was perfect. And now it’s behind us.”\n\nChris nodded too, and this time it wasn’t only a façade. He really was satisfied—not because he had lost, but because there wouldn’t be any trouble. No “Why didn’t you…,” no pushing for even more stage time. Simply the end.\n\nBackstage, he changed as quickly as he could. Open the bodice, untie the bow, blouse off, breathe. His normal clothes felt like retreating into a safe harbor.\n\nOutside, he scanned the crowd and spotted the D&D boys almost immediately—Ben, Jay, and Max were still standing there as if they had been keeping watch. When they saw Chris, they all waved at once, a little too wildly.\n\n“You were really brave,” Ben said immediately when Chris came over to them.\n\nJay nodded vigorously. “Especially with the question. You sounded totally… grown-up.” He said it as if it were a compliment from another universe.\n\nMax briefly raised his thumb, somewhat embarrassed. “Was cool,” he muttered, which from Max was practically a standing ovation.\n\nChris laughed, at first only briefly, then more genuinely. “I survived,” he said, and they laughed with him.\n\nThey walked together across the festival grounds, got maple fudge, tried a drink that was far too sweet, threw balls at the can toss (Jay never hit, Ben hit by accident, Max pretended it was intentional). At some point they sat on the curb behind a stand and ate fries from a cardboard tray as if it were the most normal thing in the world.\n\nWith them, Chris felt surprisingly light. No rating scale, no stage light, no “Founders’ Spirit” sayings—just dumb jokes, nerd topics, and that relaxed feeling that he didn’t constantly have to prove anything. He noticed that, in between, he even forgot how embarrassing the contest had been.\n\nAs the afternoon turned into evening and the strings of lights grew brighter, Chris actually had fun. And that was perhaps the strangest thing about it: precisely after the worst program item of the day, it became the best part.\n<<set $choice_ahorn1 to 2>>\n[[Continue|Bewertungstag.]]

Chris’s finger hovered over the display for a moment, as if the decision would only become real by typing it. Then he wrote, as calmly as he could:\n<blockquote class="quote">Chris: I’m sorry. I can’t. I… I’m staying with Lucas.</blockquote> He stared at the words before sending them, then pressed “Send” as if he were closing a door that had been open far too long.\n\nThe reply came faster than he had expected.\n<blockquote class="quote">Caroline Barnett: I understand. Really. I think it’s a shame… but I understand.</blockquote> Chris’s chest tightened—not with guilt, but with a kind of relief that hurt at the same time. He put the phone away, took a deep breath, and turned back to the mirror.\n\nHe touched up his makeup, the way he now did almost automatically whenever his inner world became too loud: reapplying his lips, dabbing on the gloss once, smoothing the little shadow beneath his eyes. A brief, practical action that brought him back into the present. When he was finished, he looked at himself once more—and this time there was no longer that “What am I?”, but a quiet: I know where I’m going.\n\nBack in the gym, he found Lucas exactly where he had said he would wait. Lucas’s gaze immediately searched for him, lingered on him, and in that moment Chris realized how much he needed that certainty.\n\nLucas tilted his head. “Everything okay?” he asked softly, almost discreetly, so it wouldn’t sound like drama. But he saw it: Chris’s smile sat differently, as if something inside him had shifted.\n\nChris nodded quickly. “Yes,” he said. And because “yes” was too small to explain what had happened inside him, he did the only thing that was truly honest: he stepped closer, leaned against Lucas’s shoulder, and sought his closeness as if it were a harbor. Lucas’s arm closed around him, completely naturally, and Chris felt his heart grow calmer.\n\nHe had made his choice. Not with grand words—but with this small step back toward Lucas.\n\nThen the music changed, and the DJ called into the microphone: “Okay, Maplewood! Everybody onto the dance floor now—Macarena! I want to see every row!”\n\nA cry went through the gym, half cheering, half collective “Oh no.” The first bars began—that instantly recognizable rhythm that made even people who otherwise never danced suddenly act as if they had a license for it. Students pushed forward, formed rows almost by themselves, shoulder to shoulder, with enough chaos in between that nobody could really stand out.\n\nLucas grinned broadly, took Chris’s hand, and pulled him along. “You know this one, right?”\n\n“I… kind of!” Chris laughed, even though he grew hot at the same time. Please, no humiliation. But Lucas’s grin said: humiliation is part of the plan.\n\nThe DJ counted them in, and the crowd started.\n\nChris first stretched his arms forward—hands flat, like in the video—then turned his palms up, down, crossed his hands to his shoulders, reached for the back of his head. The midnight blue of his dress moved with every step, and he felt the hold-up stockings very slightly at the edge, that secure, smooth grip. The rhythm went into his hips whether he wanted it to or not. During the famous hip movement, his face flushed briefly—all of them can see my body—but then he noticed that everyone was moving their own body, that the whole thing was one big, silly joining-in.\n\nLucas stood right beside him, and every time Chris missed a beat, Lucas nudged him with his elbow as if it were a secret signal. Chris’s laughter grew louder, he loosened his shoulders, let his body really work with the rhythm. The music made it easy not to think. Arms. Shoulders. Head. Then hands on hips—and his hips actually joined in.\n\nWhen the chorus came, the whole row turned, and Chris turned with them. The skirt swung out briefly, and a cool draft brushed over his thong. He felt light and present at the same time—as if he were not merely “dressed up,” but truly in his body. It was a strange, beautiful moment: he felt the movement, the muscles in his thighs, his breasts bouncing, the little pulse in his stomach from laughing.\n\n“You’re doing really well!” Lucas called over the music.\n\n“You’re lying!” Chris called back, but he was grinning so widely that it didn’t matter whether it was true.\n\nOn the next run-through, it worked better. Chris got the sequence right, even the turn landed, and when the crowd collectively cheered at “Hey Macarena!” he cheered along. He clapped briefly above his head, felt the heat in his face, which was no longer shame but excitement. In the mirror-ball dots on the floor, all he saw was movement and light.\n\nWhen the song faded out, the gym applauded as if they had just won a show. Chris was breathing hard but happy, his cheeks hot, his hands tingling slightly from joining in. He looked over at Lucas, still grinning, and realized that this evening didn’t feel like a test he had to pass.\n\nHe simply felt… part of it. With Lucas. With everyone. And maybe that was the most American thing about this moment: that even embarrassment here tasted like belonging.\n\n[[Continue|Krönung Homecoming King and Queen.]]

Chris took a breath and edged half a step closer.\n\n“Hey,” he said in the tone he had picked up by now from the Pom Puffs. He lifted the lock into the air as if it were a little accessory. “Unfortunately, this is my locker. I need to grab something real quick, otherwise Mr. Nelson will literally kill me.”\n\nThe two turned around at the same time, as if someone had pressed pause. For a moment, they looked him over—quickly, automatically—and then their expressions shifted into that bright “Ah, okay” smile they reserved for team insiders.\n\n“Oh my God, sorryyy,” the first said at once and stepped aside, as if she herself were embarrassed to have been in the way. “Of course, babe.”\n\n“Yeah, go ahead,” the second added, fanning her hand as if clearing a runway for him. “We didn’t even see you.”\n\nChris smiled, grateful and at the same time a little annoyed by the truth in that sentence. “All good,” he said, as if everything really were all good, and stepped in front of the locker.\n\nHe turned the combination, felt the familiar click. The locker sprang open, and he hastily reached for the notebook he needed. As he pulled it out, he already heard the whispering start up again behind him.\n\n“Literally, he’s so cute,” one of them murmured—not quietly enough for him not to hear.\n\nChris acted as if he hadn’t heard it, closed the locker, and hooked the lock back in place. “Thanks,” he said curtly, shouldering his bag.\n\n“Anytime,” said the first, giving him a smile that felt like a little stamp: You belong.\n\nChris continued toward the classroom and felt how it helped and hurt at the same time. It had been practical—a sentence, a smile, and they had made room. But as he walked down the hallway, he noticed how the “team” feeling settled around his wrist like a bracelet that was too tight: useful, shiny… and not entirely voluntary.\n\n[[Continue|Später im Unterricht.]]

On Saturday morning, Chris had barely managed to collect himself in his room when his mother was already standing in the doorway – with that “I-have-a-plan” energy that allowed for no objections.\n<<set $wochentag = 6>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "Chris’ girl’s room">>\n“Today is your concert-… date,” she said, putting far too much emphasis on the last word. “And you’re not going to look as if you’re hiding.”\n\nChris’ stomach tightened. He was looking forward to the band, really – but the word “date” alone made everything bigger than it should have been. “It’s just a concert,” he muttered.\n\n“Exactly,” Susan replied sweetly. “And that’s precisely why you shouldn’t seem too closed off. You’re going out, you’re enjoying yourself. You look open. Friendly. Cool.”\n\nShe laid three outfits on his bed as if she were spreading out cards for a game. One look consisted of tight jeans with a glittery top – “too good-girl party,” Susan decided immediately. The second was a dress with tights and way too many “homecoming vibes.” The third was already closer to what Susan had in mind: a skimpy top, a short leather skirt, and a leather jacket.\n\n“Feminine, but cool,” Susan decided, pulling the third pile forward as if that settled the choice. “No fussing around with too much fabric. No ‘I’m only here by accident.’”\n\nChris wanted something comfortable. Uncomplicated. Something he could move and stand in without constantly thinking about hems, straps, or glances. But his mother wanted “Wow” – the kind of wow that was not only seen, but made an impact.\n\nIn the end – as so often – his mother won. When Chris turned in front of the mirror, he had to admit: it actually looked good. Not cute. More like someone who knew exactly where he was going.\n\nThe argument started with the shoes.\n\nSusan held out heels to him. “They make your legs look longer. And you don’t want to look like… well. Like you’re on your way to the library.”\n\nChris grimaced. “I don’t want to spend half the evening pretending my feet are okay. I want to listen to the music, not die.”\n\n“Sneakers ruin the look,” Susan explained, as if it were physics.\n\nChris reached for his comfortable sneakers anyway – purely out of spite. Susan glared at him.\n\nIn the end, they settled on stylish but comfortable ankle boots: black leather, clean cut, a small block heel that was “pretty” without being torture. Chris tried them on, walked two steps across the carpet, and immediately felt his shoulders loosen. This was manageable.\n\nThen came the make-up. Susan positioned him at the vanity as if she were a director before a premiere.\n\n“Concert lighting is merciless,” she said. “You need setting spray. Waterproof mascara. And a little more contour, otherwise in photos you’ll look like… a sheet of paper.”\n\nChris sighed, but let it happen. The setting spray felt cool on his skin. The mascara felt heavier than usual, but it held. Susan showed him where to apply the contour minimally, not too much, just enough to make his cheekbones look more defined. A bit of highlighter, just one dot. Lips: a gloss that lasted longer than it should.\n\nWhen he looked at himself in the mirror at the end, he seemed “finished” – not overdone, but clearly prepared. It made him nervous and proud at the same time.\n\nHis [[mother|Susan Braun]] finally set a mini bag in front of him – small, almost ridiculously practical: make-up for touch-ups, tissues, cash “for emergencies.” And then, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, she also slipped condoms inside.\n\nChris’ face immediately grew hot. “Mom…”\n\n“Don’t talk,” Susan said, without even being embarrassed. “You’re nineteen. You’re going away with a boy. I’m not naive – I’m prepared.” Then she smiled sweetly. “And so are you.”\n\nChris swallowed, nodded stiffly, and closed the bag as if he could shut the subject away with it.\n\nAt the door, Susan stopped once more. “If it gets late, no problem,” she said in a tone that was meant to sound generous. “But just let me know.”\n\nChris nodded. “I will.”\n\nSusan placed her hand on his shoulder, a little more firmly than necessary, and her smile softened – almost real. “I’m proud of you,” she said quietly.\n\nChris didn’t know whether it warmed him or trapped him. Both felt similar. He stood there for a moment, dressed up for a concert, with his heart pounding and a mini bag full of “emergencies,” and thought: There’s no turning back now.\n\n[[Continue|Zekes Ankunft.]]

Then the doorbell rang.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nChris’s heart leapt as if someone had plucked a string. He gripped the clutch more tightly, went downstairs, and opened the door. Outside stood [[Lucas|Lucas Barnett]]—in a suit, his hair neat, his eyes bright with excitement. And behind him, a limousine was parked at the curb, absurdly long, as if Maplewood had suddenly become a different town.\n\nLucas looked at Chris, and his gaze lingered, as if he had briefly forgotten what he’d meant to say. Then he smiled. “You look stunning.”\n\nFor a moment, Chris genuinely forgot to breathe. His chest stayed lifted, as if the word had struck him like a warm blow. All he felt was his face growing hot, and he managed a crooked, happy “You too” that sounded far too small for what he felt.\n\nSusan was already standing there with her phone ready, as if it were a press conference. “Stop! Don’t move—I need photos for the album!” She directed them a little toward the porch, had them stand next to each other, one more, “Lucas, a little closer,” “Chris, smile!” Chris smiled because he couldn’t help it, and because at the same time it was unbelievably embarrassing that this would now exist forever in the family album.\n\nWhen his mother was finally satisfied, Lucas swept his hand toward the limo. “Ready?”\n\nChris nodded, even though his stomach was fluttering. He got in, the fabric of the dress briefly gathering like water around his knees, the clutch on his lap. Lucas sat down beside him, and when the door clicked softly shut, it was as if someone had left the rest of the world outside.\n\nThe limousine pulled away. Chris glanced back once more at the house, at Susan and Christine in the driveway—and then looked ahead. The streetlights moved across the midnight blue of his dress, and inside him nervousness and happiness blended into a single bright feeling: Tonight is really happening.\n\n[[Continue|Ankunft Turnhalle.]]

Chris forced his shoulders loose and briefly raised his hand. “Hey.”\n\nZoe only turned her head far enough for her eyes to find him. Her mouth twisted into a smile that was too sweet to be nice. “Hey, Boob Chris,” she said with exaggerated friendliness, as if greeting him on a stage.\n\nChris felt heat rise into his cheeks. The nickname hit him every time like a small sting—not enough to make him get loud, but enough to remind him.\n\n“Yeah… uh, see you tomorrow,” he muttered and kept walking without stopping.\n\nBehind him, he heard Zoe exhale softly—almost like a laugh, almost like a sound meant only to hang against his back. Chris kept his gaze forward, walked faster toward the exit, and told himself he could ignore it. Just for today. Just until the bus.\n\n[[Continue|Auf nach Hause.]]

<<set $ort to "school">><<if $charlotte > 1>>During break, Chris met [[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] at the edge of the hallway, where the noise of the cafeteria arrived only muffled. They stood facing each other for a moment, too close for “just acquaintances,” too cautious for “couple.” Charlotte nervously played with the strap on her pom-pom backpack and said quietly, “I’m not… mad at you. Not the way it comes across. I… just need to sort my head out.” Chris nodded, his gaze briefly dropping to her shoes, then lifting again. “I don’t want to pressure you,” he murmured. “I just didn’t want to lie anymore.” Charlotte exhaled, and her expression softened. “That was the right thing. Even if it sucks.”\n\nBefore the bell pulled them apart, Charlotte briefly tapped him on the arm—more friendly than romantic. “For tomorrow’s Pep Rally: when you go out there, pick a spot high up in the stands and look past it, not into individual faces. Then you’ll seem more confident, and you’ll feel that way too.” She hesitated for a heartbeat, then added, “And if you feel yourself getting shaky during the stunts—breathe, down into your legs. Don’t fight it, just get steady.” Chris nodded gratefully, and for one small moment it felt normal again, as if their closeness were something that hadn’t been lost yet.<<else>>The cafeteria was one continuous roar of voices, trays, and chairs scraping over linoleum. At the cheerleader table, salads were piled beside fries, lip gloss lay between math notebooks, and somewhere a keychain jingled like a metronome. Chris sat right in the middle of it, as naturally as if he had always sat here—and yet inside he was still alert: posture, knees together, smile at the right moment.\n\nHis gaze wandered over the rows of tables and caught on Charlotte. She wasn’t sitting alone, but close beside another girl, their heads near each other as if they had their own little space inside the cafeteria noise. Charlotte laughed softly, briefly stroked the other girl’s arm, and the gesture seemed familiar.\n<center>[img[pics/charlotte_cafeteria.jpg]]</center>\nWhen [[Dylan|Dylan Carter]] entered the room, the atmosphere changed barely visibly, but noticeably. Heads turned, conversations lifted by a nuance, as if someone had turned the volume knob up a little. Dylan balanced his tray, scanned the tables—his usual spot with the jocks was full. He stood there briefly, looked left, looked right, then his gaze wandered to the cheerleader table.\n\nThe seat beside Chris happened to be free.\n\nChris noticed it before Dylan really started walking. He noticed it in the tiny stillness around him, in the minute hesitation in the others’ voices. And when Dylan actually came closer, something tightened in Chris’s stomach, as if someone were tying a knot there.\n\n“Is this seat free?” Dylan asked, completely normally, as if it were about a piece of table edge and not the fact that it felt like half the cafeteria was holding its breath.\n\nChris nodded too quickly. “Yeah—sure.”\n\nDylan sat down beside him, set down his tray as if he had done it a thousand times before. A burger, an apple, milk. Nothing special. The only special thing was: Dylan was sitting there.\n\nChris immediately felt pressure. Not from Dylan—he was relaxed—but from everything around him. His body suddenly became a task: How am I sitting? Back straight? Legs? Too stiff? Too loose? His hand held the fork differently than it had a minute ago. He took a bite, chewed too consciously, swallowed too consciously. He wondered whether he was eating too slowly. Whether he was eating too fast. Whether he looked weird when he drank.\n\nDylan leaned back slightly and looked over at him. “Have you done the English homework yet?” he asked, as if he were sitting beside a completely normal classmate. “The one with the essay outline. I kind of… put it off.”\n\nChris’s heart gave a leap, as if Dylan had just said something intimate. But it was only homework. “Uh… yeah,” Chris managed, frantically rummaging through his head for words. “I have… I have an outline. I can give it to you later.”\n\n“Nice,” Dylan said, grinning. “You’re saving my future.”\n\nChris laughed—too brightly, he immediately thought. He forced himself into a second, smaller laugh to make it sound more natural, and hated himself inwardly for thinking about it at all. Dylan took a bite of his burger and raised his eyebrows. “Also… I swear the cafeteria planned an attack today with extra-dry fries.”\n\nChris blinked, then laughed for real this time. “Yeah. It’s a conspiracy.”\n\n“Knew it.” Dylan tapped his tray once with his fingertip like a detective who had solved the case.\n\nWhile Dylan ate and talked, Chris’s heart still remained restless. It pounded as if it needed no reason. He didn’t understand why his body reacted like this—and at the same time he understood it all too well. He nodded too often, listened to himself too closely, felt every little movement as if it were a performance.\n\nAfter a few minutes, Dylan stood up. “I have to head over there, Coach wants to see us for a second.” He picked up his tray and looked at Chris once more. “Thanks about English. I’ll let you know.”\n\n“Yeah. Sure,” Chris said, and his smile stayed until Dylan disappeared into the sea of voices.\n\nFor a moment, the table was quiet. Then it burst out.\n\n“Oh my God, he literally sat down next to you!”\n“Um, hello? What exactly was THAT? What did you talk about?”\n“You two legit laughed! He actually made you laugh!”\n“Since when does Dylan need help with homework… like, huh?!”\n\nChris felt heat rising into his face, and he couldn’t stop it from feeling… good. Being the center of attention. Being asked. That mixture of attention and astonishment, which would once have made him nervous, now glittered like something precious. He shrugged, acting casual. “He just needed something for English,” he said, as if that were all.\n\n“Sure,” someone sang, raising their eyebrows.\n\nChris grinned, even though he resolved not to show too much.\n\nOnly Penelope was quiet. She poked at her food, her expression smooth, her gaze fixed a little too firmly on her salad, as if she were reading something important there. She didn’t say a single “Omg,” not a single “Tell us.” And that very silence was what made it conspicuous.\n\nChris noticed it out of the corner of his eye and suddenly felt that old pressure again—not from Dylan anymore, but from the invisible hierarchy at the table. He forced his smile to become smaller, less noticeable. But inside, the pounding remained. And the feeling that Dylan had sat beside him was like a quiet, warm spot that didn’t want to disappear so quickly.<<endif>>\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $moore == 1>>[[Special training with Mr. Moore.|Sondertraining mit Mr. Moore.][$moore_opinion += 20]]\n<<else>>\n[[Myles and Christine.|Myles und Christine.]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

The Friday after the pep rally crackled from the very first bell. The halls hummed with shouts, somewhere someone was practicing the fight song on a flute, and glitter from the day before still clung to every locker. Chris let the current carry him, lighter than usual, and felt the mood loosen his shoulders. People called “Go Wolves!” to each other as if it were a secret handshake.\n<<set $wochentag = 5>><<set $ort to "school">>\nIn English, he read aloud and didn’t stumble once; in biology, the notes slipped onto the paper in straight lines. Everything felt a touch lighter, as if the pep rally had released an invisible brake.\n\nDuring the second break, he was standing at the edge of the courtyard when Charlotte came toward him. His heart skipped briefly—she looked determined, but not closed off. “Hey,” she said, arms crossed, her gaze steady. “I’m still angry. You should have told me beforehand. Not… afterward.” She lifted her shoulders, then let them drop again. “But I don’t want this to be the end.”\n\nThe sentence struck him warmly. “I understand,” he said at once. “I’m sorry. Really.”\n\nShe gave a curt nod. “Tonight? My place. Dinner. No drama.” A small, uncertain smile flickered across her face. “We’ll see how it feels.”\n\n“I’d like that,” he said, far too quickly, and she laughed once, briefly, without mockery. Then they went their separate ways, and the rest of the day was suddenly bright and orderly, even the announcement of a math test seemed less threatening.\n\nAfter school, they met at the stairs. “At six?” Charlotte asked.\n\n“Six,” he repeated. For a moment, they stood there without an audience. Chris took half a step closer, the impulse so old and new at once, lifted his hand as if to brush a strand of hair from her face—and leaned in a little to kiss her.\n\nCharlotte instinctively drew back, not abruptly, more like someone gently applying the brakes. “Don’t,” she said softly. “I don’t want to… rush anything.”\n\nHe stopped, nodded immediately. “It’s okay. We’ll take all the time you need.”\n\nShe exhaled, visibly relieved. “See you later, then.”\n\n“See you later.” He stayed where he was, watching her walk across the parking lot, and felt strangely calm. No fireworks, no grand finale—but a beginning he could hold on to. He was simply glad that Charlotte was talking to him again, and that the evening lay ahead of them like a table they would set together.\n<<set $joseph_opinion to 52>>\n[[Continue|Der Abend bei Charlotte.]]

<<set $ort to "school">><<if $charlotte > 1>>During break, Chris met [[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] at the edge of the hallway, where the noise from the school reached them only as a distant murmur. She stood at her locker with her arms crossed, her face calm, but not soft. Chris stopped one step too far away, as if he first had to learn how close “allowed” was now. “Hey,” he said quietly. “I… just wanted—” He swallowed. “Have fun tomorrow. At the rally.”\n\nCharlotte nodded, her gaze briefly sliding over his face, as if she were searching for the old version of him and no longer finding it so easily. “Thanks,” she said, and after a pause: “I’m not… gone. I’m just… confused.” Chris nodded at once, too quickly, because he wanted to hear that. “I know,” he answered, and although the word was small, he meant it. For a moment something remained between them that almost looked like peace—not resolved, but honest—before Charlotte closed her locker and they both went in opposite directions.<<else>>At lunchtime, the cafeteria was a single carpet of noise made of voices, trays, and clattering cutlery. Chris sat at a table on the edge. In front of him was a salad he had actually chosen to make himself feel sensible, and a cup of water he sipped from more than he really drank.\n\nHis gaze wandered over the rows of tables and caught on Charlotte. She wasn’t sitting alone, but close beside another girl, their heads near each other as if they had their own little space inside the cafeteria noise. Charlotte laughed softly, briefly stroked the other girl’s arm, and the gesture seemed familiar.\n<center>[img[pics/charlotte_cafeteria.jpg]]</center>\nChris was just talking with two guys from the D&D Club about something harmless—homework, a meme going around the class—when the tone in the room shifted minimally. Not louder, more… focused. Chris noticed it first in the glances that flicked over his shoulder for a second.\n\n[[Dylan|Dylan Carter]] stood with his tray between the tables, searching.\n\nHis usual table was full. Jocks, football, broad shoulders, loud voices—no gap, not even a “stand here for a second” gap. Dylan looked once, hesitated, shrugged as if it didn’t matter. Then his gaze fell on Chris’s table.\n\nThere was an empty seat.\n\nChris’s stomach gave a small leap when Dylan actually came over. It was so unexpected and at the same time so natural that Chris’s head needed a moment to keep up.\n\n“Is this free?” Dylan asked, completely normally, as if he just wanted to sit on a bus.\n\nChris nodded too quickly. “Yeah—sure.” His voice sounded higher than planned.\n\nDylan sat down, set his tray down, and pulled the chair closer with a short scraping sound. And in that moment, everyone really registered it. Chris felt it like a change in air pressure: conversations at the next table briefly stalled, a few heads turned, someone somewhere giggled too quietly. The girls exchanged glances as if they had just seen a trailer.\n\nChris’s body reacted at once, before he could think.\n\nHow am I sitting? He pulled his knees closer together, straightened his back, and at the same time tried to look relaxed. How am I holding the fork? Not too tense. Not too… His hand suddenly lay awkwardly on the table; he corrected it as if that mattered. He wondered whether he should close his cardigan or leave it open—and in the end did nothing, because every movement felt too big.\n\nDylan took a sip of his Coke and glanced briefly at Chris’s notebook, which was half sticking out of his bag. “Have you done the English stuff yet? Those… analysis questions?” He pulled a face with a mild expression of suffering. “I read it, but my brain pretended it had never existed.”\n\nChris laughed. Far too abruptly. Then he tried to save it by smiling. “Yeah. I’ve got it. I mean… the questions. Not my brain. I can give them to you.” He felt his heart pounding in his chest as if he had just said something forbidden, even though it was only a sentence.\n\n“Rescue,” Dylan said, grinning. “Then I owe you… a milkshake. Or something non-school-related.”\n\nChris’s cheeks grew warm. Why? He didn’t understand it. It was only a joke, only a friendly sentence. Dylan probably said things like that all the time. And yet it felt as if someone had placed a hand on a hidden switch.\n\nHe took a forkful of salad, lifted it to his mouth—and realized he was chewing far too consciously. Am I chewing normally? He forced himself to swallow without it showing. Breathe. Blink. You’re not in the spotlight, you’re just… you.\n\nDylan really was normal. He ate, told them something about a teacher who always got names wrong when taking attendance, made a small joke about the “Wolves Fight Song” supposedly sounding like an advertising jingle. And Chris nodded, laughed in the right places, even threw in a comment of his own—but inside he was nothing but pounding.\n\nHe didn’t understand why. He didn’t understand why his body felt as if this were a game where every mistake stood out. He didn’t understand why an ordinary seat suddenly meant so much.\n\nWhen Dylan finally stood up—“Okay, I’m needed over there”—and took his tray, the pressure in the room loosened like an undone tie. Conversations found their way back into their old tracks, voices broadened again.\n\nChris remained seated, staring for a moment at his salad, which now somehow looked uninteresting. His heart was still pounding. He lowered the fork and thought only: What is wrong with me?<<endif>>\n\n[[Continue|Essen mit Adams Eltern.]]

Chris stood rooted to the spot as Myles disappeared with Christine at the stairs. Her arm hung loosely over his shoulder, her steps soft and wrong, a drunken rhythm that no longer belonged to her.\n\nOne of the boys leaning against the wall with a beer nudged his buddy with his elbow and grinned broadly. “Well, there you go,” he slurred, loud enough for the people around them to hear. “Looks like someone’s night is going well.”\n\nAnother raised his plastic cup in the air as if to toast something. “He’s taking her to the love suite!” he bawled, and several people burst out laughing.\n\nIt was that dirty, self-satisfied laughter that had nothing to do with real joy.\n\nNo one stopped them.\n\nChris didn’t either.\n\nHis chest felt tight, as if someone had wrapped a band around it and pulled it taut. He could have said “Hey,” “Wait,” “Should I help?” “She’s too drunk.” He did nothing. The seconds in which he could have done something simply passed by. When the two of them disappeared at the top of the stairs, the moment was over.\n\nHe noticed himself growing hot. The music started up with a new song—some bass-heavy track he couldn’t place. It might as well have been silence. He turned away, almost mechanically, went to the bar, and grabbed the nearest red cup of beer. A plastic rim that crunched in his hand.\n\nHe drank.\n\nThe taste was bitter and flat, but it was there, tangible, something he could do. Swallowing was easier than thinking.\n\nHe positioned himself sideways by the table, half in the shadows, his back to the stairwell, which he still felt constantly in the corner of his eye. He raised the cup again. A big swallow. Another.\n\n<<if $tagebuch == 2>>I promised her I wouldn’t make a scene. The thought surfaced, heavy and petty. As if that promise were more important than whatever was happening upstairs right now. She’s not twelve, she had said. She knows what she’s doing. Did she? Just now she could barely stand on her feet.\n\nHe forced himself not to pour the beer down his throat, and still drank too quickly.<<endif>>\n\nIn his mind’s eye he saw Christine upstairs in a room. Half-naked on the bed, the stretch dress pushed up and Myles on top of her. Her screaming, too loud. Her no, no. His head painted pictures. Pictures full of details of Myles stealing his little sister’s innocence.\n\nMaybe he’s only helping her lie down, he thought. Maybe he’s looking after her. The thought felt brittle. Myles’s look from earlier, his grip on her butt, the knowledge of how boys talked among themselves—all of it gnawed at that hope.\n\nAnd what if she wants it? another part cut in. What if it’s her decision? He felt himself trying to absolve himself: She’s old enough. You’re not interfering. You’re overreacting. You have no idea.\n\nBut beneath it all lay a dull “You could have done something.”\n\nHe kept drinking.\n\nThe sounds around him blurred. Laughter, a shrill shout, the pop of a bottle, someone bumping into the table. His hand clung to the cup. The alcohol pushed a heavy blanket over his thoughts. It was supposed to numb him.\n\nThe cup emptied. He no longer noticed exactly when.\n\n<div class="psychedelic-text"> I’m her big brother, he thought, and the sentence hit him almost physically. Over the last few weeks, everything he was had shifted: clothes, name, reflection, body. But this part… that had remained. And here, at precisely this moment, he had betrayed it, passively, silently, standing at the edge with a red cup in his hand.\n\nMaybe nothing is happening, he thought again. Maybe everything is okay. He tried to make that maybe bigger, to hide his guilt inside it. The music thundered, as if it could help him hear nothing, know nothing.\n\nAt some point, he was simply standing there, his fingers closed around an empty cup. He only noticed when he lifted it to his lips and nothing came. A few drops, then air.</div>\n\n[[Continue|Chris wird zum Tanzen aufgefordert.]]

The weeks after Christine’s birthday continued quite normally at first—and yet everything was different. Not loudly, not visibly to others. Only between Chris and Ruby, something had shifted, as if someone had secretly opened a door that had always been closed before.\n\nRuby stopped asking constant questions. She didn’t treat his secret like a bomb, but like something you protect by not constantly touching it. Still, she was more alert. When Susan made “corrections” to Chris, Ruby noticed without commenting on it. Sometimes she would simply slip a kind note between his flashcards later. Or she would send him an emoji: 🟦 (her code for “everything okay?”). Chris usually answered only with a “yes,” but he felt less alone.\n\nThey kept studying—only more consistently. Ruby pulled him into her college process like into a well-organized boat: application deadlines, essays, records, recommendation letters. Chris wrote texts, deleted them, rewrote them. Ruby marked sentences that sounded “like Susan” and said dryly, “That isn’t you. Write it the way you sound.” Chris hated how right she was.\n\nAlongside the deadlines, something unplanned grew. It happened in glances that lingered longer. In small touches that weren’t necessary: Ruby’s fingers briefly resting on his wrist when he nervously tugged at his tights; Chris’ hand automatically passing her the pen before she asked for it. When they laughed, Chris laughed more easily. When he startled, Ruby was there immediately—not dramatically, just present.\n\nSometimes, when they left the library together after studying, it was already dark outside. Ruby would pull her scarf higher, and Chris noticed that he automatically walked closer beside her, as if his body had decided that “next to Ruby” was a safe place. It wasn’t a grand love story. More like a quiet shift you only noticed when you remembered how it had been before.\n\nAll the studying paid off. Chris’ grades became more stable, fewer slip-ups, less panic. He passed tests that would have taken him apart before. He got used to the idea that success didn’t always have to be a coincidence.\n\nThen the letter came.\n\nIt lay in the mailbox between advertisements and bills, an official envelope, heavier than paper should be. Chris took it to his room, sat down on the edge of the bed, and stared at it as if he could read through the envelope what his life would do next. His hands trembled as he opened it.\n\nCongratulations…\n\nHe had to read the sentence twice because his head didn’t want to believe it at first. Then again, more slowly. Accepted. To the college—exactly the one Ruby and Christine had talked about, exactly the one that had always sounded like “maybe” in his head, never like “yes.”\n\nChris’ chest grew hot, and suddenly he laughed—a short, disbelieving sound. Then he reached for his phone and wrote to Ruby.\n\n[[Continue|Post vom College.][$kissgirl += 1]]

Susan found Chris in his room, slumped on the edge of the bed, the acceptance letter loose in his hand as if it were heavier than paper. Outside, it had long since grown dark, and from a distance you could still hear the echo of Christine’s departure—car doors, laughter, something that sounded like “celebrating.”\n\n“You’re sitting here?” his mother asked, as if she had caught him breaking a rule. “You should be celebrating.”\n\nChris only lifted his gaze briefly. “I don’t want to go out.”\n\nSusan didn’t give him a second of space. “Yes. You have to get out. You need this. We’re going to celebrate—you and me.” Her tone was decisive, that “I’ve already decided” that ended every discussion in advance.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. “Mom, please. I… I just want to—”\n\n“Enough.” Susan stepped over to the wardrobe, yanked it open, and began rummaging as if that were the easiest part. Hangers clacked. She pulled out a dress, grimaced, and pushed it back. “Too prim. Too… school.” She reached for another piece, shook her head. “No. That’s not right for a club.”\n\nChris stood up, half out of reflex. “We don’t have to go to a club.”\n\n“Yes, we do,” Susan said, as if that were not negotiable at all. Then she paused, looking over his wardrobe once as if disappointed in her own material. “There’s nothing suitable here.”\n\nBefore Chris even understood what she was planning, Susan was already out of the room and back again—she had helped herself to Christine’s closet. In her hand she held a transparent mesh top that looked almost like a shadow in the light, along with a short, airy skirt.\n\nChris stared at her. “That’s not—”\n\n“That’s suitable,” Susan cut him off. “We’ll do this quickly.”\n\nShe also laid out a pair of fishnet tights for him, a bralette, and platform high heels. Chris’s eyes jumped from one item to the next as if he were reading a foreign language. His throat went dry.\n\n“I’m not putting that on,” he said, but it didn’t sound like resistance, more like hope.\n\nSusan looked at him, and her gaze was the answer. “Yes, you are. You want to celebrate? Then we’ll celebrate. And you’ll wear what I put out for you.”\n\nChris changed. The netting felt unfamiliar, as if a pattern were lying directly against his skin. The skirt sat light and short, and he pulled it down several times even though he knew it changed nothing. The bralette was soft, but it felt like an exclamation point beneath the fabric. When he pulled the mesh top over it, he immediately understood what hit him so hard: the transparency let everything underneath be guessed at, everything that normally stayed hidden. He didn’t look “dressed”—he looked displayed.\n\nHe stopped in front of the mirror. His face grew hot, not from vanity, but from shame. “You can see it,” he murmured, pointing to the lines under the top. “The bra. Everyone can see it.”\n\nSusan came in, studying him in the mirror like a final result. “That is not a bra,” she said coolly. “It’s a bralette. And yes—that’s how it’s supposed to be.” She tugged at one thin strap of the mesh top, smoothing it as if she were correcting a wrinkle, not a feeling. “You look good. Period.”\n\nChris’s hands hung helplessly at his sides for a moment. He felt both polished and exposed. He wanted to protest, but the words got stuck somewhere between pride and powerlessness.\n\nSusan, meanwhile, had also gotten herself ready: a short skirt, a tight top, fresh lipstick, hair arranged in a way that screamed “intentional.” She looked satisfied—as if this evening were a reward she was issuing to herself.\n\n“Shoes,” she said, pointing to the platforms.\n\nChris swallowed, put them on, and straightened up in front of the mirror, uncertain on the added height. He looked at himself and only partly recognized the person in the glass. Then he saw his mother in the mirror behind him—and knew that tonight, he would not be deciding how this evening began.\n\n[[Continue|Im Club.]]

Later, Chris and Zoe stood alone in the blond guy’s bathroom. The light was harsh, the mirror merciless, and muffled laughter drifted in from the living room, sounding far too loud to Chris, even though it was actually quiet.\n\nZoe turned on the faucet and washed between her legs as if nothing special had happened. She leaned toward the mirror, pushed a sweaty curl from her forehead with wet fingers, and briefly checked her makeup. The corners of her mouth twitched with satisfaction, that confident “Wasn’t that nice?” expression she always had.\n\nChris stood beside her and had the urgent need to wash himself too. He let the water run longer than necessary, scrubbed the cum from his skin, stared at the foam gathering between his fingers, and tried to erase the image from the sofa from his head. It had been incredibly embarrassing to him—not only that it had happened, but how openly, how matter-of-factly. As if, for everyone else, there had been no boundary one didn’t cross out of embarrassment.\n\nZoe glanced at him in the mirror. “You look like you just accidentally watched a horror movie,” she muttered.\n\nChris’s cheeks immediately burned again. “I… I don’t know. That was all…” He couldn’t find the right word, only this dull discomfort hanging all the way down into his stomach. “I just want to go home.”\n\nZoe snorted softly, not meanly, more amused. “You overthink everything.”\n\nChris swallowed. He saw his own face in the mirror: cheeks too red, a gaze that fled away too quickly. In his head, the seconds with Nate were stuck—how good it had felt, how he had allowed it, and how immediately afterward the panic had come back. How could he let himself go like that? The thought hurt because it wasn’t only shame, but also fear of what all of this said about him.\n\n“I just… don’t have it under control,” he murmured, more to himself than to Zoe.\n\nZoe reached for a towel. “Then go,” she said, surprisingly pragmatic. “If you want to go home, go home.”\n\nChris nodded hastily, as if that was the permission he had needed. He dried himself off and took one deep breath. Everything in him was pushing in only one direction now: out of this house, out of this mood, back to a bed where he could pull the blanket over his head until his heart beat normally again.\n<<set $zoe_opinion to 59>>\n[[Continue|Mittwoch, Schummeln für den Mathetest.]]

Chris let his shoulders sink a fraction and smiled briefly. “Hey, Adam,” he said completely normally, kindly.\n<<set $ort to "hallway">>\nAdam’s face lit up at once, as if Chris had just handed him an A on a pop quiz. He nodded too quickly, smiled broadly, and murmured a slightly breathless “Cool… uh, yeah… see you,” before lowering his gaze back to his shoes.\n<<set $AdamMemory[2] to 1>>\nChris raised his hand once more in farewell and continued toward the gym. Behind him, he heard Adam start moving again, a little more confidently than before. Chris thought nothing more of it—only that kindness was sometimes easier than his own thoughts made him believe.\n\n[[Continue|Vor der Sporthalle.]]

When Charlotte finally left for college, it did not feel like a bang, more like a slow fade-out. She packed boxes, hugged her father, and said only to Chris: “Take care of him.”\n\nAfter that, the house became quieter. Chris lived together with Joseph – in the role that was easiest for all outside eyes to read: as Joseph’s girlfriend. In everyday life, it became something that fell into place with frightening ease. Chris learned how to plan a weekly grocery trip without ending up with only snacks and coffee. He learned how not to burn sauces, how to measure rice properly, how to cut vegetables so they did not look like an accident. He filled storage containers, wrote little lists, put a travel mug out for Joseph in the mornings without Joseph having to ask.\n\nAnd Joseph – who had carried everything alone for years – allowed himself to be carried again for the first time without seeming weak. He was grateful when Chris kept things off his back. He repaired things around the house, drove Chris somewhere when it got late, laid a jacket over his shoulders when he was chilly. He asked whether Chris had eaten, whether he had slept, whether the day had been okay – not controlling, more like someone who had grown used to looking after someone because it felt right.\n\nThey became a good team. Not a perfect one, but one that worked.\n\nAt some point – on an afternoon when the house smelled of freshly washed sheets and it was raining – Chris found the courage he had been putting off for months.\n\nHe called his father in Germany.\n\nHis father picked up after a few rings, surprised but pleased. “Chris? My boy—how are you?”\n\nChris’ heart pounded as if it first had to decide whether it wanted to flee or speak. He sat down at the kitchen table, absently turning a spoon in his fingers. “I’m… okay,” he said, too carefully. “Dad, I have to tell you something.”\n\n“That sounds serious,” his father said immediately. His voice became more alert. “Is everything all right?”\n\nChris swallowed. “I… live here as a girl.” He forced the words out, as if they were too big for his mouth. “I mean… I present as a girl. I’m still called Chris here, but… to everyone… I’m a girl.”\n\nAt the other end, there was only silence at first. Then a sharp inhale. “What?” His father sounded as if he had misheard. “Chris, what are you talking about?”\n\n“It’s… complicated,” Chris said quickly. He did not mention how it had started. Not Susan. Not coercion. He only said: “It happened that way. And… it’s my life now.”\n\n“You are my son,” his father said, and the word “son” was heavy, as if he wanted to hold on to it. “You… wear dresses? Makeup? And everyone goes along with that?”\n\nChris’ cheeks burned, even though no one could see him. “Yes,” he said softly. “I didn’t want you to accidentally hear it somewhere someday.”\n\nThe silence returned, longer this time. Then his father asked carefully, almost strained: “And… are you sure that you… that you’re yourself in all this?”\n\nChris’ hand tightened around the spoon. “Yes,” he half-lied, because he could not say the whole truth. “I… I’m managing.”\n\n“And where are you living?” his father asked, immediately factual again, as if looking for something solid in facts. “Still with your mother?”\n\nChris’ stomach tightened. Now came the part that was even worse. “No,” he said. “I live… with Joseph.”\n\n“Joseph?” His father threw the name into the line like a question mark.\n\nChris’ voice grew smaller. “Charlotte’s father.”\n\nFor a second, it was as if the line crackled. “You’re living with that girl’s father? A friend’s father?” His father already sounded alarmed, without knowing what came next.\n\nChris forced himself to go on. “Yes, and… we’re together.”\n\nSilence.\n\nThen came a sound caught between shock and disbelief. “Together? How—together?”\n\nChris’ throat tightened. “He’s my partner.”\n\nHis father’s voice suddenly grew loud, not shouting, but sharp with fear. “Chris, that man is my age! What is that supposed to mean? Are you—are you sure you’re not being… taken advantage of? That this isn’t some kind of sick game?”\n\nChris closed his eyes. He had imagined this moment, but not how much the words would still hit him. “No,” he said quickly. “He is… good to me. Really. He takes care of me.”\n\n“That’s what everyone says who—” His father broke off, audibly struggling for breath. “Where is your mother? Does she know about this?”\n\n“Yes,” Chris said, and the word felt wrong because it concealed so much.\n\nAt the other end, there was silence again, but now it was different: heavy, angry, helpless. As if his father had just lost his image of his son’s life and did not know where to find it again.\n\n“I…” his father finally said, much more quietly, and Chris heard that it was not only about morality for him, but about fear. “I have to… understand this first. I can’t just…”\n\nChris’ chest hurt. “I know,” he said softly. “I just didn’t want to lie anymore.”\n\nHis father exhaled for a long time. “You will always be my child,” he finally said, and it sounded like a promise fighting against the shock. “But I am shocked. And I’m worried. Very worried.”\n\nWhen the call ended, Chris remained sitting at the kitchen table for a long time. The rain tapped against the window, and that familiar tingling did not sit in his stomach – only a heavy, quiet knot. A short while later, Joseph came home, saw Chris’ face, and did not ask anything right away. He only set down the grocery bag, stepped closer, and placed a hand on his shoulder, as if to say: You don’t have to carry this alone.\n\n[[Continue|Es wird geheiratet.]]

During class, Chris stood in front of the blackboard, gripping the note so tightly that the paper was already starting to curl slightly at the edges. He felt the class’s eyes like tiny needle pricks, even though it was just a perfectly normal presentation. A perfectly normal note. A perfectly normal breath.\n<<set $ort to "Classroom">>\n“So… my topic is…,” he began, and at first his voice sounded too thin, as if someone had wrapped it in cotton. He swallowed, breathed in, searched for the first sentence that wouldn’t stumble.\n\nHe briefly lifted his gaze from the notes, forced himself to look somewhere above their heads instead of fixing on individual faces. His shoulders were too high, his knees locked a little too firmly. He noticed it himself and deliberately lowered his shoulders, as if setting down an invisible burden.\n\nThe words came haltingly at first, then more smoothly. Once he found a rhythm, it got better.\n\nThen the red dot appeared. Someone in the class had a laser pointer.\n\nAt first the dot wandered across the blackboard, jumped onto Chris’s note, and then shot upward—deliberately provocative—over his upper body, as if someone were scanning him with a tiny spotlight. Chris’s breath caught. The dot stayed on his right nipple.\n\nA few people laughed. Someone whispered too loudly: “Boob Chris.”\n\nThe nickname snapped at him like open scissors. Chris’s face grew hot, his cheeks burning. He forced himself not to look down, not to cover anything with his hand, not to react. Don’t feed it, he thought in panic. Don’t show that it hits.\n\n“Enough.” [[Mr. Robertson|Wesley Robertson]] suddenly sounded sharp. “Whoever that is: put it away immediately. We are not in kindergarten.”\n\nThe laughter died in the air, but not completely. A residue remained, like an echo. Chris stood there, rigid, and tried to pick the thread back up. He felt the weight of the note, as if it had suddenly become twice as heavy.\n\n“Continue, Chris,” Mr. Robertson said now more calmly, but with that tone that allowed no argument.\n\nChris nodded. He forced his gaze back to the notes, felt for the next sentence as if climbing a staircase whose steps someone had oiled. “Um… yes. So…” He finished it. Not brilliantly, but completely. And when he spoke the final sentence, he realized that his hands were trembling.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Vortrag.]]

Chris paced back and forth in his room, one hand resting on his belly, swollen with water. As he walked, it gurgled softly in his stomach, as if someone had trapped a small air bubble inside that rolled from one side to the other with every step. He had only hastily thrown on a dress; fabric that scraped against his ribs whenever he turned too quickly. He wanted to sit down to take the weight off his feet for a moment. As he did, he felt the dildo being pushed a tiny bit deeper inside. He moaned and stood up again.\n\nStanding was better; standing, he could put his hands on his belly, measure his steps carefully. Another step—blub—another—blub. Inside him, it felt as if someone had tightened the dial too far—a dull pressure that simply refused to ease. Every breath lifted his belly just a little too much.\n\nHe stopped in front of the mirror. The rosé of the walls made his face look paler, eyes red from crying, mascara like shifted brackets, his belly bulging round beneath the fabric, as if he had secretly swallowed a ball. “Great,” he muttered bitterly, running his flat hand over it. The skin was taut, the hem of the dress lying like a frame around the swell. For one absurd moment, he really looked as if he were carrying something to term—an image that sent a hot shock through him. He pressed his hand more firmly against his belly, as if he could calm it, and breathed out carefully.\n\nThe door opened a crack. Susan stuck her head in—then, without knocking, her whole body. Click. The sound of a phone camera shutter cut through the room. Chris spun around. “Mom!”\n\nShe held up the phone, looked at the picture, her eyebrow lifting. “Pretty. Looks like my girl is six months pregnant. If you don’t make significantly more effort next month, this will be our Christmas card. For your father. And for all the relatives in Germany.” A tone between mockery and warning.\n\n“That’s not funny,” Chris managed, shame shooting all the way up to his ears.\n“Then make sure it never becomes funny,” she replied dryly and led him back to the bathroom. Chris made his way down the hall in small, careful steps, every movement deliberate, as if he were balancing a glass filled to the brim.\n\n“All right, Chris, squat over the bowl. When I open the plug, you’ll just let it run out and you will not push. Do you understand?”\n\n“Yes.”\n\nChris hurried to get over the toilet bowl. His mother carefully removed the stopper and let the water drain out of it. At last, it felt as if a knot were loosening. He closed his eyes and waited until the water had completely run out—without whimpering, without words, only with that slow, deep relief that rolled from his belly into his shoulders.\n\nWhen he stood in front of the mirror again a little later, his face was softer, his belly flatter, his breathing freer. He placed both hands on the rim of the sink, looked himself firmly in the eyes, and nodded once. No more reasons for punishments. Next month he would try harder—do everything his mother demanded. “Pull yourself together,” he whispered to himself. Then he smoothed the dress, took a deep breath, and only let go once he truly felt the decision inside him.\n\n[[End of Chapter 3|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 3]]

That was the last time Chris saw his father.\n\nHe went on living as a stripper.\n\nAt first, he told himself it was only a phase. Just for a little while longer. Only until he had room to breathe. Then he would get his diploma, do something normal, some job with daylight and a break at noon, something he could say over the phone without lowering his voice. He convinced himself that later he would start over again.\n\nBut that “later” was always behind the next rent payment.\n\nThe longer it went on, the less it was a bridge – and the more it became a road that kept going, with no turnoff. And Chris realized that getting used to something did not only swallow shame, but courage too. It was easier to stay with what he knew than to fail again in the unknown.\n\nThen Zoe got pregnant.\n\nShe sat on the sofa in their better apartment, hands on her belly, and at first grinned as if it were a joke. “Well,” she said. “Plot twist.”\n\nChris laughed along, but something inside him tightened. For a few months, he thought he might perhaps be the father. A thought that frightened and comforted him at the same time. Fatherhood meant responsibility, yes. But also a kind of… belonging. A line that led somewhere again.\n\nThe question of paternity was answered on the day of the birth.\n\nChris held Zoe’s hand in the delivery room while she cursed, cried, screamed – all in one breath. He was there because he was always there when things truly became serious. And when the baby came, he was a little Black boy, with dark curls and a skin color that left no questions open.\n\nZoe looked at Chris, exhausted and suddenly quiet. Chris only nodded. He felt no anger, not even real disappointment. More like a tired realization: some hopes were only costumes you wore as long as they happened to fit. The child was not his. And still he stayed. He kept holding her hand. He did what he did best: stayed when other things ran away.\n\n[[Continue|Wiedersehen mit Mutter und Schwester.]]

Chris took the cup. His hand moved almost on its own, fingers around the thin rim, a short sip that turned into a second one. The contents burned less than the first time; or his mouth had already gotten used to it. Warmth drew down his throat and settled over his thoughts like a film.\n\nThe music thundered, the bass now more like a cushion than a blow. His movements became smoother, less angular. The miniskirt still felt too short, but he thought less about how high the hem sat. The heels were unsteady, yet somehow he found a rhythm in which the swaying seemed like part of the dancing. Alcohol irons out the edges, something inside him whispered.\n\nOut of the corner of his eye, he saw Myles handing Christine a new red cup. She laughed, took a big sip, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her stretch dress clung to her, the neckline showing off her curves, her legs glittering in the nude pantyhose.\n\nMyles stood close behind her, placed a hand on her hip, then lower at her side, pulling her toward him. Christine allowed it, laughed again, threw her head back. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe not, but she seemed to be enjoying every touch, every “you’re hot” hanging in the looks. Chris felt a foreign thought come to him: My little sister really is attractive. Apparently the alcohol was speaking, but the thought lingered for a moment. It disturbed him and at the same time made clear to him how much everything here was swimming in a gray area.\n\nChristine’s cheeks glowed, her movements grew freer; she allowed Myles’s hand to grope her ass. She didn’t fend anything off. On the contrary: she smiled blissfully. Quite shamelessly, Myles massaged her ass, her skirt riding higher and higher until it was ultimately pushed up almost completely and her butt was exposed. Chris’s sister was now basically dancing with her backside bare, both arms wrapped around his neck as she rubbed her lower body against his pelvis in provocative circular movements.\n\nMyles grinned, whispered something into her ear. Christine giggled, leaning against him. She seemed intoxicated—by the music, by the alcohol, by the attention.\n\nThe alcohol was now affecting Chris himself more clearly. The boys moved closer, as if someone had given an invisible signal. A bump of a shoulder, a hand on his back, a grin from the side. He laughed along uncertainly, tried to take it playfully. His defenses dissolved in places; the looks, that “you’re hot enough for us to gather around you,” flattered him in a dangerous way. Since when did he get this kind of attention?\n\nHe dared one or two slightly freer movements, wiggled his butt to the beat, felt the miniskirt shift, and half-heartedly adjusted it. To the boys, it looked like an invitation. False signals his body was sending while his head was nowhere near as certain.\n\n[[Continue|Chris wird bedrängt.]]

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<<set $ort to "school">><<if $charlotte > 1>>During break, Chris met [[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] at the edge of the hallway, where the noise from the school reached them only as a distant murmur. She stood at her locker with her arms crossed, her face calm, but not soft. Chris stopped one step too far away, as if he first had to learn how close “allowed” was now. “Hey,” he said quietly. “I… just wanted—” He swallowed. “Have fun tomorrow. At the rally.”\n\nCharlotte nodded, her gaze briefly sliding over his face, as if she were searching for the old version of him and no longer finding it so easily. “Thanks,” she said, and after a pause: “I’m not… gone. I’m just… confused.” Chris nodded at once, too quickly, because he wanted to hear that. “I know,” he answered, and although the word was small, he meant it. For a moment something remained between them that almost looked like peace—not resolved, but honest—before Charlotte closed her locker and they both went in opposite directions.<<else>>The cafeteria was, as always, too loud for the size of the room. Trays clacked, chairs scraped, someone somewhere laughed too shrilly. Chris sat with Ruby at their usual spot, a little away from the center, close enough to the window that the light made the tabletop bright. Ruby had laid out her food neatly side by side, as if order could help against chaos. Chris poked at his salad, more out of habit than hunger.\n\nHis gaze wandered over the rows of tables and caught on Charlotte. She wasn’t sitting alone, but close beside another girl, their heads near each other as if they had their own little space inside the cafeteria noise. Charlotte laughed softly, briefly stroked the other girl’s arm, and the gesture seemed familiar.\n<center>[img[pics/charlotte_cafeteria.jpg]]</center>\nThen a shadow fell across the table.\n\n[[Dylan|Dylan Carter]] stood there, tray in hand, looking around for a place to sit. His usual table was full; jocks sat packed close together, someone had even perched on the edge of the table. Dylan stood there briefly, raising his brows as if sorting through options in his head.\n\nHis gaze fell on Chris’s table—and on the two empty seats: one right beside Ruby, the other right beside Chris. He smiled briefly, almost apologetically.\n\n“Is this still free?”\n\nChris took a moment too long to react. “Uh—yeah, sure,” he said, and his voice sounded as if he had only just pulled it out of the closet.\n\nDylan sat down. Not across from them, not at the corner—but right in the middle, between Chris and Ruby, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His knee almost brushed the table edge, his tray landed calmly on the plastic. And in that same second, the air around Chris changed.\n\nHe didn’t just feel it, he knew it: heads turned. A few glances stuck briefly to the table and then peeled away again, as if they had seen something interesting. Somewhere behind Chris, someone whispered. Ruby’s spoon paused in mid-motion.\n\nChris’s brain began to rattle.\n\nHow am I sitting? Back straight? Not too stiff.\nHow do I hold the fork? Normal.\nDon’t eat too fast. Don’t eat too slowly.\nLaugh? What if he says something? Please don’t laugh weirdly.\nAnd what do I do with my hands?\n\nHe realized he suddenly no longer knew how to survive a perfectly normal break.\n\nRuby was the same. Chris could see it on her face: eyes too alert, mouth too controlled. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, one tick too often, and nodded once, as if obeying an invisible command. Her cheeks were slightly pink, though she rarely blushed otherwise.\n\nDylan, on the other hand, was… Dylan. He didn’t seem nervous. He didn’t seem as if he had just done something dramatic. He unwrapped his straw, jabbed it into his cup, and looked from one to the other.\n\n“Hey,” he said completely normally. “Did you understand the bio homework? That diagram thing?” He pulled a face. “I looked at it yesterday and for a second I thought it was an IKEA assembly manual.”\n\nRuby laughed—too quickly, too brightly. “Oh my God, yes. Exactly like that.”\n\nChris wanted to laugh too. Instead, only a small breath came out, then a smile he hadn’t planned. His heart was pounding so loudly that he thought Dylan had to hear it. Why, anyway? It was just a boy who needed a seat. A conversation about homework. A joke about diagrams.\n\nAnd yet it felt as if a spotlight had suddenly switched on.\n\n“I can show it to you quickly later,” Chris heard himself say, and wondered how calm the sentence sounded while everything inside was flickering. “It’s actually not hard, once you… uh… know the trick.”\n\nDylan grinned. “Please. Salvation. Then I owe you a milkshake or something.”\n\n“Deal,” Ruby said immediately, and her voice sounded a shade too enthusiastic. She quickly corrected herself. “I mean—not deal, but… yeah.”\n\nDylan looked at her, friendly, not mocking. “Cool.”\n\nChris watched Ruby out of the corner of his eye. He saw it in her at once: that schoolgirl-in-love behavior she probably didn’t notice herself. How she became too attentive. How she laughed at his jokes as if she had to prove she understood his language. How her fingers nervously tugged at the napkin.\n\nAnd then the worse realization hit him like a small punch to the pit of his stomach: he was doing the same thing.\n\nHe noticed it in his own body before he could think it— in the too-upright sitting, in the constant awareness of his mouth, in the way he stared at Dylan’s face and at the same time forced himself not to stare. In the warmth creeping into his cheeks whenever Dylan looked directly at him. In the smile that kept sliding onto his face by itself, as if it had found a home there.\n\nHe didn’t want it. He hadn’t decided on it. It was simply happening.\n\nDylan told them something about a misunderstanding at the boys’ practice (without details, just a little everyday thing), made another joke, and Ruby laughed again. This time Chris laughed with her—and it sounded almost normal. Almost.\n\nBut while he lifted his cup to his mouth, he felt the gaze of the cafeteria like a hum on his skin and thought only: Please stop pounding, heart. Please.<<endif>>\n\n[[Continue|Besuch von Ruby.]]

They bought the underwear, neatly laid in tissue paper, and switched over to the shoe department. Susan had two or three models brought over; in the end, Chris chose—more out of practicality than daring—silver sandals with narrow straps and a low block heel. The shoe looked elegant, but stable enough to stand in, walk in, maybe even dance in without his toes hurting after ten minutes. The saleswoman added transparent gel cushions; Susan nodded in satisfaction, as if she had thought of everything.\n<<set $ort to "Mall">>\n“Only a clutch is missing now,” she said, heading purposefully toward a display.\n\n<center>[img[pics/clutch.jpg]]</center> Chris found the little mini-bags embarrassing—too small, too demonstrative. Susan picked one up that matched the dress: a slim envelope clutch made of midnight-blue satin, the edge framed by fine silver piping. The clasp was a small, round snap button, with a subtle, pearl-like accent above it. Inside, there was just enough room for a phone, ID, a key, and a lip balm; on the side was an almost weightless chain loop that could be clipped in and out in case his hands needed to stay free.\n\nChris turned the clutch over in his hands. It felt light and… too elegant, as if he were suddenly carrying a prop that said more about him than he wanted. “It’s perfect,” Susan decided before he could find an objection. “Unobtrusive, but classy.”\n\nAt the register, a garment bag, a shoebox, a small box with stockings and bra, a little bag with the gel cushions, and—on top—the clutch in a cloth pouch finally piled up. Chris carried the garment bag, Susan the rest, and they walked through the now somewhat emptier shopping center toward the parking lot.\n\nOn the drive back, streetlamp light glided over the garment bag on his lap. Chris’s stomach was a knot of embarrassment and a thin thread of anticipation: the dress, the shoes, the tiny bag—everything had become real. At home, they set the bags down in the hallway; Susan immediately hung the garment bag on the wardrobe handle. “Tomorrow we’ll try everything on again calmly,” she said with satisfaction.\n\nChris nodded, ran his hand once over the smooth fabric of the garment bag, and took a deep breath. Then the day was over, and the house grew quiet again.\n\n[[End of Chapter 4|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 4]]

Chris swallowed and nodded. “I’ll follow the dress code.” As he said it, he felt the familiar pull behind his breastbone—that small, resigned yes that gives in before resistance even gets a chance.\n\nThe boss let his gaze glide slowly over Chris’s body, as if inspecting merchandise in a shop window. The path of his eyes burned on his skin, even though no finger touched him. Chris kept his back straight, his hands folded in his lap, and tried to keep his breathing quiet. He felt the hem of his top, the line of the skirt on his thighs, and suddenly every detail that made him visible. A thin layer of shame settled over the relief he had just felt because the conversation seemed to be going well.\n\n“Hmm,” the boss made, a soundless weighing up. You could see him imagining the uniform on Chris—apron, tight cut, tray in hand—and mentally ticking boxes. There was calculation in his gaze, nothing personal; that was exactly what made it worse. Chris felt both small and too clearly outlined, as if someone had drawn thick marker lines around him.\n\nThe boss tapped the pen against the clipboard, his forehead creasing. “Could work,” he murmured more to himself than to Chris, and let his gaze rest on him briefly once more, as if searching for the final missing argument. Chris’s neck gave a curt nod, even though no one had expected an answer.\n\n''How does the boss decide?''\n<<if $diner > 1>>[[Chris gets the job.|Chris bekommt den Job.][$chris_opinion += 10]]<<else>>[[Chris gets the job.|Chris bekommt den Job.2]]<<endif>>

It happened quickly after that, as if that decision had switched the evening over. Latoya reached for Chris’s hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world and pulled him toward the exit. DeShawn went ahead, Susan close beside him, and Chris followed, because stopping just then would have been harder than going along.\n\nOutside, the fresh night air hit them. The contrast was brutal: just moments ago, warmth, sweat, bass; now cold that immediately settled onto his skin through the mesh top. Chris got goosebumps and involuntarily hunched his shoulders. His high heels clicked on the sidewalk, and suddenly everything seemed much more real than it had in the club lights.\n\nHe was a little overwhelmed. His mind wanted to be slower than his body. Everything in him was still caught on the rhythm, on the placebo warmth, on Latoya’s kiss—and at the same time he thought: What am I actually doing here?\n\nBut Latoya held his hand firmly, as if this were the only direction that mattered now. She chatted about something, an easy “No stress, honey” and a short laugh, and Chris simply nodded, even though he was barely listening. Susan walked beside DeShawn as if she were exactly where she wanted to be. DeShawn was calm, certain, as if the path had already been decided before they had even left the club.\n\nHis apartment wasn’t far. They walked only a few streets, past closed shops and parked cars, while the bass behind them slowly became a distant rumble. With every step, Chris felt the cold, the fishnet tights, the short skirt, the feeling of still being far too visible. And still he kept walking.\n\nFinally, DeShawn stopped in front of an apartment building, took out a key, and opened the door. A stairwell, muted light, the smell of concrete and warmth from apartments somewhere higher up.\n\nThey climbed the stairs, their steps and breathing suddenly much louder in the silence than they had been in the club. DeShawn stopped in front of a door, unlocked it, and pushed it open.\n\nThey reached the apartment.\n\n[[Continue|Zärtlichkeit im Wohnzimmer.]]

Chris smiled as best he could and felt the smile on his face seem more like a mask than an expression. “School was the priority for him,” he said calmly. As he said it, he felt the faint tug in his stomach—that old feeling of swimming against an invisible current that had long since decided on a direction.\n<<set $ort to "Silver Spoon Diner">>\nThe boss rolled his shoulders as if it were a minor blemish that could be painted over. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Then you’ll just do double shifts on Saturdays. If you don’t have enough time during the week, we’ll make up for it on the weekend.”\n\nChris nodded because he had to. A brief pressure in his chest, as if someone outside him had decided how much air he was allowed. He thought of homework, of the smell of the diner, which already seemed to be settling into his hair. “Sure,” he managed, while at the same time wondering how often “sure” had recently meant “no choice.”\n\nThe boss leaned back, making the chair creak, and studied him with practiced routine. “Next question: How do you deal with customers who flirt? If someone calls you ‘baby’ or touches you?”\n\nChris’s fingers involuntarily interlaced in his lap. He thought of his mother’s line about smiling and elegant movements. Behind his forehead, something clicked: this wasn’t just about plates and trays, but about boundaries that quickly softened in a room full of strangers. One answer would decide how much of him would be left between the apron and the tips.\n\n''How does he answer?''\n❯ [[He answers that he stays friendly even with flirtatious customers.|Er bleibt freundlich.][$diner += 1]]\n❯ [[He says he stays professional, but sets clear boundaries if customers go too far.|Er bleibt professionell und setzt Grenzen.]]

Christine had been struggling with nausea every morning for the past few days. It wasn’t that “a little queasy” kind of thing, but the pale, silently fighting tremble where she just stared at her tea at the breakfast table and pressed her lips together, as if even the smell of toast were attacking her. Susan had first rolled her eyes, then watched, then counted – and finally decided in that tone that tolerated no contradiction: No school today. Doctor.\n\nWhen Chris came home that afternoon, he could already hear his mother’s voice from the hallway. Sharp, fast, angry. He stopped for a moment, his bag still on his shoulder, and listened. Christine barely said anything. It sounded as if she were making herself small so the words could roll over her.\n\n“What’s going on?” Chris asked as he stepped into the kitchen.\n\nSusan stood at the counter, arms crossed, chin thrust forward. Christine sat at the table, pale, one hand wrapped around a glass of water as if it were an anchor. Susan looked at Chris as though she had been waiting finally to have an ally – or another target.\n\n“Your sister is pregnant,” Susan said.\n\nThe words hit Chris like a punch to the gut. For a second, everything became loud and silent at the same time. Pregnant. Christine. That meant… it meant so many things that his head couldn’t immediately keep up. His gaze slid to Christine, as if he had to check whether this was a joke. But her face was serious, exhausted, and in her eyes there was something that didn’t look like drama, but like reality.\n\nThen the next thought forced its way up, ugly and panicked: He could be the father.\n\nChristine lifted her eyes at the exact moment Chris’ face slipped. Her gaze was hard and clear – a silent: Say nothing. Stay quiet. Chris felt himself grow hot, not only with shame, but with a dull terror: If he said anything now, everything would explode. Not just for Christine, but for him too.\n\nSusan immediately began her lecture, as if she had been rehearsing it for hours. Responsibility. Contraception. Consequences. “You’re not twelve anymore,” she snapped. “This isn’t a game. What were you thinking? What was Myles thinking?” She talked as if she could undo the pregnancy through volume.\n\nChris’ stomach tightened. Was it Myles? Christine had slept with him that same day, yes. There was that one night Chris had never been able to get out of his head, the tears, the chaos, the break. And then they were lying together in bed, that dark memory that felt like a mistake you couldn’t rewind.\n\nHe thought the probability that Myles was the father was fifty percent. And the probability that he himself was – also fifty percent. It wasn’t real math, more a desperate attempt to bring order to a hole. Two possibilities, both catastrophic, both impossible to prove in his head.\n\nChris stood there motionless, his hands gripping the straps of his bag. His mouth was dry. His thoughts were screaming, but his face had to stay neutral. Christine stared into the glass as if there were an answer in it. Susan kept talking, convinced she had long since identified the culprit.\n\nAnd Chris only nodded once, barely visibly – not because he agreed, but because he knew that silence was the only thing he could give his sister right now.\n\n[[Continue|Christ redet mit Christine.]]

Chris chose Orbital Rift, and with the very first roar of the engines he felt the tension inside him crack open a little. The theater lay dark and cool like an aquarium; the blue from the star scenes washed over his skin and made his thoughts quieter for a few minutes. He laughed in the right places, felt his shoulders sink as if someone had secretly taken a weight off him.\n<<set $ort to "cinema">>\nWhen their hands dipped into the popcorn at the same time, their fingers touched—briefly, electrically. Lucas looked over at him, in love, undisguised. Two impulses collided inside Chris: a reflexive flinch backward, as if he had burned himself on something hot, and beneath it that small, dangerous flutter in his stomach that didn’t ask whether it was welcome. He pulled his hand away, acted busy, lifted his cup even though he wasn’t thirsty. At the same time, he was grateful for Lucas’s shyness—grateful that the screen was big enough to swallow glances, and loud enough to drown out everything he couldn’t say. The movie became his alibi; every explosion was an excuse, every starfield a curtain.\n\nAfter the credits, he felt strangely sorted out and yet restless, as if the story had adjusted something inside him without explaining it.\n\nOn the bus, Lucas’s hand settled into his, cautious, tentative. Chris allowed it. The warmth of their palms soothed him and made him nervous at the same time, like a heartbeat pounding too close to his ear. He looked out the window and watched the city lights blur into streaks. Between the reflections in them, he briefly saw a possible “us”—and immediately pulled it back again, like a hand from a railing.\n\nAt the front door, expectation stood between them, small and unmistakable. Lucas wanted a goodbye kiss from his “girlfriend.” Chris felt his courage and his shame share the same breath. He leaned forward, aimed, missed a little: his lips brushed half Lucas’s mouth, half his cheek. Lucas’s eyes lit up, and that joy hit Chris like a gentle slap—he was ashamed of kissing a boy, and of the fact that despite everything, he felt something.\n\n“See you tomorrow,” he said, too quickly, too brightly. Inside him, there was a rush, as if Orbital Rift had left an afterglow in his ears. When he closed the door behind him, he carried two equally heavy things inside with him: the relief of having survived the evening, and the quiet, restless tingling that said something inside him was no longer nearly as clear-cut as he liked to claim.\n\n[[Continue|Albtraum.B]]

Some time later, he was sitting with Charlotte in a clinic, in a waiting area that smelled of disinfectant and coffee. It was about freezing his sperm – a sentence that felt both technical and frighteningly personal at the same time. A staff member calmly explained the procedure, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, and eventually led them to the appropriate area. Chris was given a cup and assigned a booth.\n\nWhen he stood alone in front of the door, he realized how much the hormones had changed him. Not just physically, but in that specific, quiet mechanism of arousal and response: everything felt muted, hesitant, as if his body no longer automatically “played along.” The more pressure he put on himself, the less it worked. Chris’ stomach tightened, and shame crept into his cheeks – of all places here, of all times now, when he was supposed to “perform.”\n\nCharlotte was there, and she asked whether she was allowed to go into the booth with him. After a brief check, the staff member nodded, matter-of-factly, without making a fuss. Charlotte did not make a joke, did not push him. She only placed her hand in his, looked at him, and said softly that they had time. That it was okay.\n\nThey went in together. The door closed.\n\nChris leaned forward a little. He gathered up his long skirt. Good thing the skirt is so wide, he thought. He had to reach for it a few times until he had it high enough to push the lace panties down and free his penis.\n\n“Look at me,” Charlotte said, reaching with both hands over her blouse to her breasts. “We have all the time in the world.”\n\nThen she sat down on a chair, pushed up her skirt, spread her legs, and pushed her panties aside so that Chris had a good view of her naked sex. Then she even touched it with her fingertips and pulled her labia apart. Her pink pussy became visible.\n\nChris slowly got hard and began jerking off with one hand while the other held the plastic cup. How must this scene look to an outsider, Chris thought. There stood a boy in a long dress, jerking off in front of a pretty girl presenting herself to him. And just as he thought of that, he came, even though his penis had not even reached full hardness. He yanked his cock up at the last moment so he could hit the cup. He moaned and grew hot, feeling the heat almost physically in his face. He came, came, and came. Only very slowly did he calm down, breathing heavily.\n\nAlmost automatically, Chris carefully pulled the lace panties over his still half-hard penis. Then he let the long skirt fall.\n\nWhen they came out again some time later, Chris held the cup tightly in his hand, as if it were fragile. His face was still red, but in his eyes there was something like relief – and gratitude too. Charlotte stayed close beside him, as if it were obvious. They handed in the sample, received the next information, appointments, signatures.\n\nOn the way home, Chris hardly said anything. He squeezed Charlotte’s hand more tightly and felt both things at once: how complicated everything had become – and how strongly he clung to this “us,” because at the moment it remained his only fixed point.\n\n[[Continue|Der Tag der Operation.]]

Chris nodded to Mr. Moore and followed him down the hall. The nurse’s room smelled of menthol and soap; a cot stood against the wall, beside it a cabinet with bandages and ice spray. He closed the door, placed the PE uniform on the counter, and took one deep breath until the air no longer sat so heavily in his chest.\n<<set $ort to "nurse’s room">>\nThe T-shirt felt rough at first—this school-fabric blend that gets better after twenty washes, but still scratches today. “Okay,” he murmured, and was glad for the girlish undershirt he had reluctantly put on that morning: a thin, smooth piece of fabric between him and the T-shirt, a buffer shield for his far-too-sensitive nipples. Wearing a bra? No. That would have been too girlish for him, too final, as if setting a period he was still refusing internally.\n\nHe slipped into the shorts, smoothed down the shirt, involuntarily brushed over his small breasts—not grabbing, just checking—and then forced his hands to the side seams.\n\nWhen Chris looked over his shoulder, to his horror he saw Mr. Moore standing in the doorway, watching him. In fact, Chris thought he recognized something like longing in the man’s eyes.\n\nChris’s heart stumbled and he only wanted to get out. “Uh—” Chris managed as he left, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. Mr. Moore took half a step aside so Chris could pass. “All good,” he said quietly, and as Chris walked past him, the coach placed his strong male hand on his back. “If anything doesn’t fit—shirt scratches, shorts too loose—just come straight to me, I’ll take care of it.” The “I’ll take care of it” had a certain undertone and echoed in his head. Perfect. Exactly what he had needed: an invitation “to come to the coach if there are problems.”\n\n“Yeah. Thanks,” he mumbled, too quickly, and pulled away from his hand as if he had burned himself.\n\nOutside, the gym opened up like an aquarium of noise. Whistles, the squeak of sneakers on wood, voices splintering into groups. Part of the class was lining up in rows; the girls were just coming out of the locker room, hair in quick ponytails, shorts perfectly matching. Charlotte was the first to throw him a look and raise an eyebrow: “There you are. Everything fit okay?” Her eyes briefly slid over his body.\n\n“So-so,” he said, too casually.\n\n''🕶️ Cover -1''\n\n[[Continue|Sportunterricht.]]

Chris stepped forward and suddenly heard the audience much more clearly: someone clearing their throat, a child giggling, a cough somewhere. He felt the microphone like a magnet for mistakes. His voice couldn’t break. His stance couldn’t shift. No wrong emphasis, no too-rough phrasing—nothing that could be used against him later.\n\nThen he saw it: one of the nerds—one of the three boys—was holding up his phone and filming. Not secretly, more proudly, as if it were proof: This is our moment.\n\nChris’s heart gave a hard thump.\n\nThey didn’t mean any harm. They would probably only show the video around later because they were happy. But that was exactly the problem: something like that became a clip. A short excerpt. And a clip found its way through a school faster than any rumor.\n\nSuddenly Chris didn’t just see the stage. He saw the cafeteria on Monday. He saw people pausing the video, rewinding, playing it again. Frame by frame. “Listen to how she said that.” “Look at how she’s standing.” “Why does that sound like that?” Every tiny inconsistency—a note too deep, a sentence too angular, a wrong hand movement—could become a weapon if someone searched for it long enough.\n\nHe forced himself to smile, even though his stomach tightened. The dream—what was his dream? He couldn’t say anything Susan would misinterpret. Nothing the town would misunderstand. Nothing that would sound weird on video.\n\nChris inhaled, kept his gaze on a point just above the heads—and searched for an answer that was safe.\n\n“My biggest dream…” His voice trembled very slightly at the start of the first word. He cleared his throat, caught himself immediately. “…is to find my own path after school. To study something that really interests me—and to be independent.”\n\nHe paused briefly, just long enough for it to seem like thoughtfulness and not panic.\n\n“And…” he began, “I want to reach a point someday where I no longer feel like I constantly have to prove myself. But can simply… be myself, and feel good about it.”\n\nOnce the words were out, fear struck him for a moment: Was that too much? Did it sound strange? Too serious? He heard the quiet click of a phone button, saw out of the corner of his eye the boys’ raised phone—and could already imagine someone later picking apart that exact pause.\n\nBut the audience reacted harmlessly. A few people clapped warmly, some nodded in agreement. The mayor smiled contentedly, as if Chris had mixed exactly the right amount of “community” into his answer. From the side came the exaggerated clapping of the D&D boys again—Ben, Jay, and Max, far too loud, far too proud—and although it once again brought color to Chris’s face, it also somehow kept him upright.\n\nHe thanked them briefly, stepped back from the microphone, and returned to the other contestants. His heart was racing, but not only from fear: part of him was relieved that his voice had held. That he hadn’t stumbled. That the moment was over—at least this one.\n\n''How does the second round go?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $stil > 7 >>[[Chris makes it into the third round.|Chris kommt in die dritte Runde.]]\n<<else>>[[Chris is eliminated in the second round.|Chris scheidet in der zweiten Runde aus.]]\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

It was already extremely embarrassing for Chris to lie on the bed like that in front of a man, even if he was a doctor. Chris’s bottom curved upward, soft and round.\n\nAfter Dr. Coleman had taken several photos of Chris as he lay there, including the way his legs were positioned, he began to “examine” him there.\n\n“Do you shave?” he asked, his touch making Chris freeze with embarrassment. Chris nodded; he couldn’t bring himself to say anything.\n\nThe doctor pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. Using a bit of lubricant, he parted Chris’s buttocks. "I’m going to examine you gently," he said, pressing his finger into Chris’s asshole.\n\nChris moaned aloud, tensing up as the finger penetrated him. He hadn't expected this sensation. It didn't hurt, but it was uncomfortable. Chris’s asshole was tight; no one had ever fingered him there before. For Chris’s backside was, of course, still a virgin. With small movements, Dr. Coleman began to finger-fuck Chris, noticing how Chris squirmed back and forth and how his little hole began to dilate. He was able to slide his finger deep inside with ease and palpate Chris’s prostate.\n\n"You’re healthy," he said, making a few long strokes with his finger—pulling it almost entirely out of the tight canal before pushing it deep inside again. Very slowly.\n\nChris whimpered softly, "Please stop. I want to get dressed. Please." For a brief moment longer, Dr. Coleman continued to finger-fuck him while rubbing himself against his trousers with his other hand. His penis was rock hard.\n\nHe withdrew his finger and peeled off the rubber gloves.\n\n"Please stay lying just like that for a moment so I can take some pictures." After snapping several photos, he said, "You can get dressed now. Then we’ll have a quick chat with your mother." As he did so, Dr. Coleman touched his back, let his hand brush over his bottom, and finally gave him a pat on the rear.\n\n[[Continue|Gespräch mit der Mutter.]]\n

Chris raised his head as far as he dared. “Then do whatever you want.” His voice was thin, but firm enough.\n<<set $SusanMemory[0] to 1>>\nThe supervisor raised his eyebrows, his grin briefly tipping. “Oh? No deal? Fine.” He held out his hand. “Phone.” Chris handed over his smartphone; the man thumbed through the lock screen with skepticism. “Unlock it.” Chris entered the code, his fingers trembling. Seconds later, the supervisor called Chris’s mother. “Good afternoon, this is the market on Maple… yes, your child… we have an incident here.” He spoke slowly, savoring every word.\n\nThe wait was sticky. Chris heard his heart and the exhale of the air conditioner. When the door opened, Susan was already half storm: coat open, gaze sharp. “Chris.” The air grew colder.\n\n“Your… daughter stole something,” the supervisor crooned, placing the condoms on the table almost with relish. Susan gave him a look that, in another galaxy, would have been enough to make stars go out, then turned to Chris. “What were you thinking?” Anger and disappointment rubbed against each other. Chris managed nothing except a strained “I’m sorry.”\n\nShe turned back to the supervisor. “We’ll settle this. No charges.”\n“That’s not how this works,” he said, tilting his head, but his tone was already softer. Susan took one breath, her voice now smooth: “We pay for the merchandise, plus a handling fee, and I guarantee you: this will never happen again. Besides—” She pulled out her wallet, laid down bills, almost as if throwing sand on a fire. “—you’ll see me here again. As a customer.” A thin smile, sharp enough to mark boundaries.\n\nThe man weighed the situation, running his thumb along the edge of the condom pack. “One-time thing?”\n\n“One-time.” Susan left no room for doubt.\n\nHe pushed the pack aside. “Then we’ll record it as a warning. Next time we call the cops. Understood?” He looked at Chris, who nodded as if his voice were stuck to the floor.\n\nOutside, the smell of the parking lot hit them—rain, exhaust, wet cardboard. Zoe leaned against the wall, hood back up, chewing gum. She giggled, raised two fingers in a nonchalant greeting. The look Chris threw her was helpless and burning; she saw it and only grinned wider.\n\nIn the car, it was silent until the doors clicked shut. “What was that supposed to be?” Susan’s voice was lower now, more dangerous. “Stealing. Condoms, Christoph.” She said the last word as if it could burn. “Have you lost your mind?” He stared at his hands. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, smaller.\n\nAt home, the storm followed. Susan sent him into the living room, left him standing there like a student before the blackboard. The words came in waves: responsibility, shame, gratitude that it had “only” remained a warning.\n\nChris nodded. It felt as though a spotlight lay on him, hot and white. Embarrassment crawled all the way to the roots of his hair. He didn’t talk about Zoe. Not about the note. Not about the blackmail. Every version he began already failed in his throat—no one will believe me, it’ll only get worse, I should have just said no.\n\n“To your room,” Susan finally said, calmer, more exhausted. “Think.”\n\nHe took the stairs silently, one step after another. In his room, he sank onto the edge of the bed. The walls seemed rosier today, the vanilla scent sweeter, both wrong. In his head, the day ran backward: the note, Zoe under the awning, the harsh lights, the office. His stomach tightened once more. He pressed his palms together, as if that way he could hold on to something that would not slip away from him again.\n\n[[Continue|Zähneputzen mit Christine.]]

Chris stopped on the stairs, listened to the house for a moment—Christine’s music from her room—and then slipped into his own room as if the hallway had eyes. The door closed softly. He leaned his forehead against it and breathed until the pounding in his temples grew calmer.\n\nMakeup. Asking his sister. The thought alone made his ears burn hot. At the same time, something gnawed at him: If he was exposed, wouldn’t it be his own fault for being too proud to accept help?\n\nHe sat down at the desk and opened the laptop. In the search bar, he typed “makeup for beginners.” A flood of thumbnails, smiling faces, pastels, big eyes. He clicked. The first voice was bright and breathless, every product had a pet name. “…and then just buff-buff a little like this—” He lasted three minutes.\n<center>[img[pics/makeup.jpg]]</center>\nNext video. “The trick is that you really only—” Click. Another one. After five attempts, he switched off the device and looked at his reflection in the black screen.\n\n“Okay,” he murmured. “By myself.” In the drawer were Christine’s discarded things: a brush, a still half-full blush, a mascara, a lipstick that smelled like strawberry. He stood in front of the mirror, as in Susan’s posture training, and worked mechanically. Cheeks: a hint of color, more shadow than blush; he could do that. Lips: too much, too uneven, he smudged, wiped it off, applied it again—now it looked as if he had kissed someone passionately and sucked a cock. Eyes: the mascara clumped, and a trembling hand did the rest. One line smeared, as if he had been crying. He cursed softly and wiped again with a tissue.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeupfail_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeupfail_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nWhen he finally stepped back to look at the whole thing from a little distance, a strange fright shot through his stomach. Not because it had gone wrong—it had—but because something about it worked. The cheeks. The softer contours. The overall image was not “Chris in disguise,” but… someone he might have wanted to know. Someone he—the shame lashed after him at once—found attractive. Was that vanity? Need? The abstinence from jerking off that had settled over the past months like a thin film? He looked away, then back again. The mirror was silent. And to his horror, he felt the tingling in his cock that he usually got from others.\n\nChris was horny, but still hesitated before leaning forward and looking deep into his own eyes, the way he would with a girl. As soon as his nose touched the mirror glass, he tilted his head slightly and pressed his lips against the glass, giving himself a kiss.\n\nHe gathered up his long skirt. Good thing the skirt is so wide, he thought. He had to grab it a few times before he had it high enough to push down the girls’ panties and free his already hard penis.\n\nChris could no longer stop himself and began jerking off with one hand while the other held up the long skirt. How must this scene look to an outsider, Chris thought. There stood a boy in a long dress, jerking off in front of his own reflection. And just as he thought about it, he came. He jerked his cock upward at the last moment so he wouldn’t soil himself. The orgasm almost robbed him of his senses. He grew hot; he could practically feel the heat in his face. Only very slowly did he calm down, breathing heavily.\n\nAlmost automatically, Chris carefully pulled the white panties over his still-erect penis. Then he let the long skirt fall. He looked around and spotted tissues. With them, he cleaned the splattered mirror.\n\n[[Continue|Kurz vor Schulbeginn.]]

After the credits, the group broke into fresh bustle: cans clicked, zippers whirred, someone dragged over a basket full of little jars. “Self-care o’clock!” Penelope called and set a tray of beauty stuff in the middle: clay masks, sheet masks, brushes, cotton pads, little bottles of oils, sticks, files, polishes in pastel rows.\n\nChris hung back half a step behind the enthusiasm. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. Penelope leaned toward him, with that friendly matter-of-factness only she could manage. “What would you like?”\n\nHe was still thinking about her naked ass and answered with a delay: “Um… maybe a… face mask?” he said, as if there were a risk of choosing the wrong thing.\n\n“Perfect. Lie down, eyes closed.” Penelope laughed softly. “Even better: eyes closed and keep them closed.” A girl pressed two cool, damp pads over his lids—chamomile, smelling of tea—and the world turned black and mild. A soft brush tip stroked over his forehead and cheeks, cool and smooth, clay and a hint of rosemary. Someone giggled, someone else fanned him with a magazine.\n\n“Don’t forget lip care.” A sugar-honey scrub tasted sweet and slightly grainy, applied in circular motions. “Rub. Yes, like that—and off.” A warm cloth, a satisfied “pretty.”\n\n“Um, guys,” a voice spoke up—Charlotte, half amused, half critical. “Look at her nails.”\n“Long, but… a little neglected,” Penelope observed matter-of-factly. “Manicure alert.”\n“And pedicure!” another girl called, far too enthusiastically.\n\n“W-wait, what—?” Chris instinctively raised his hands, but blind with eye pads, all he had was the gesture. “I… can’t see anything, okay?”\n\n“Trust the process,” Penelope reassured him. “We’ll make it pretty.”\n\nIt sounded as if a small task force was getting to work. Someone took his hand, gently stretched his fingers, filed in even strokes. “Not too round, that gives grandma vibes,” one lectured. “Slightly oval is modern.” Another dripped cuticle oil on, massaging with tiny circles. At his feet, it tickled shamelessly; Chris flinched, giggling despite himself. “Hold still,” a voice admonished, needing no threat. “Otherwise everything smudges.”\n\n“Base coat,” someone said, and someone else commented on the care like an operation report. “Dry.” Fanning. “Color.” He heard a little bottle pop, smelled something sweetish that smelled like strawberry milk and at the same time said “salon.” A tiny brush stroked over his nails: first his toes, then his fingers. “Another coat. And topcoat.” It sounded as if they had practiced a procedure that allowed no mishaps.\n\n“Pads off,” Penelope decided at last. “Curtain up.”\n\n<center>[img[pics/hand1.jpg]]</center> The light sprang back, and with it the shock: ten fingers, ten toes—all in a flawless, delicate pink. Not loud, not childish; a shade that whispered “sexy” and “finished.” The surface shone smooth as glass. “Tadaaa,” one sang. “That suits you. Totally.”\n\n“It really does look good,” Penelope nodded. “Clean, polished. And the shape—nice.”\n\nChris’s stomach tied a small knot. Part of him liked how neat it looked; another part suddenly felt wrapped up. “I look like…” He searched for a word, found “bimbo” and didn’t like it, even in his head. He lowered his hands as if he could hide the shine from the world. Another piece less, he thought, without wanting to finish the sentence: less of the boy he had been.\n\n“Upside: you won’t scratch anyone with sharp corners anymore.” Christine grinned, wearing peach polish herself.\n\n“And now when you type on your phone, you’ll sound like ASMR,” Penelope added. “Here.” She handed him a small bottle—“quick-dry drops, just in case.”\n\nChris took a breath, let his hands rest on a pillow as if they were borrowed. Around him, the girls kept chattering, comparing masks, laughing. The pink shimmered whenever he looked down. Between satin, string lights, and the scent of honey, he realized how the new version of “me” was writing itself another millimeter into his skin—ticklish, unasked, and yet surprisingly careful.\n\n''👠 Style +1''\n\n[[Continue|Flüsterrunde in der Kissenburg.]]

<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Description:''\nChris is naturally rather slender, with a soft, youthful aura: brown hair that is now usually styled in a girlish way, long legs, delicate hands, little body hair. Because of the hormones, small but visible breasts are forming, his hips and butt are becoming rounder, his waist narrower—contours that stand out clearly in tight tops, skirts, and tights, and that frighten him especially in moments in front of the mirror. In girls’ clothes, he appears convincingly “like one of them” to the outside world, which earns him looks, compliments, and sexualized attention; inwardly, however, he experiences his body as a contradictory in-between form: a boy in a costume that looks less and less like a costume, and it is precisely this slow blurring that scares him.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n''Statistics:''\nChris has jerked off <<print $jerkoff>> other people.\nHe has received <<print $oral>> blowjobs.\nHe has given other men <<print $woral>> blowjobs.\nOf those, he swallowed <<print $swallow>> times.\nHe has had a finger in his ass <<print $fingerass>> times.\nHe has had a penis in his ass <<print $anal>> times. (Creampied: <<print $creampied>>)\n<<nobr>><<if $sex == 0>>Chris is still a virgin.<<else>>\nChris has fucked <<print $sex>> women.<br>\nHe came inside them <<print $cameinside>> times.\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\nNumber of partners: <<print $partner>>\n\nChris has been sexually harassed <<print $harassed>> times.\nHe has been filmed/photographed <<print $film>> times.\nHe has been raped <<print $rape>> times.\n\nChris has kissed his sister <<print $kisssister>> times.\nHe has kissed his mother <<print $kissmom>> times.\nHe has kissed boys <<print $kissboy>> times.\nHe has kissed girls <<print $kissgirl>> times.\n(His first kiss was with Charlotte.)\n\nChris’ sexual preferences: "I like girls. I don’t like boys."\n\n[[Chapter 3|Kapitel 3e]]

Chris swallowed once, put on the most neutral smile he could, and stepped closer. “Sorry,” he said softly, politely, as if apologizing for his existence. “I need to get to my locker real quick.”\n\nThe two cheerleaders turned around at the same time. Not startled—more annoyed, as if a piece of furniture had suddenly started talking.\n\nThe first let her gaze slide slowly over Chris, from his hair down to the hem of his skirt, as if working through a rating scale. “Oh…” she went, as if she had only just remembered that other people went to this school too.\n\nThe second raised an eyebrow and said, in a tone that meant “Why are you talking to us?” without actually saying it: “Hm.”\n\nChris felt warmth creep into his cheeks. He kept his gaze steady, only nodded once more, as if asking permission.\n\n“Yeah, sure,” the first finally said—not really friendly, more generous. She shifted half a step to the side, just enough that the locker was no longer completely blocked. The second followed reluctantly, as if making room for something unpleasant that ought to disappear again quickly.\n\n“Literally, where were we?” the second asked immediately, before Chris had even reached the lock.\n\n“The shoes,” the first answered, and both of them turned back to each other, as if Chris had only caused a brief interruption in the background noise.\n\nChris positioned himself between their elbows, so carefully that he didn’t touch them. He turned the combination of his lock, his hands suddenly too big, too loud. Click. Locker door open. He reached for the sheet, for the notebook—everything in one quick, concentrated movement, as if every extra second of closeness were dangerous.\n\n“And then she said she didn’t have time for practice? Girl, excuse me?” the first giggled.\n\n“That’s so embarrassing,” said the second and laughed.\n\nChris pulled out his things, pushed the locker shut again, the lock clacking. He murmured a “Thanks,” even though they weren’t looking at him at all. As he walked away, he heard their voices continuing behind him, undisturbed, as if he had never been there.\n\n[[Continue|Später im Unterricht.]]

Chris had never tasted his own semen before, but what the hell, he thought. Zoe seemed to want it, and he desperately wanted to make her happy. At first he grimaced a little indignantly, but then licked the drop of semen off after all. It was salty and a little bitter. The consistency was somehow disgusting, making it hard to get used to.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nSoon Zoe’s fingers fetched another helping from his stomach, and she pushed another load of his semen between his lips. Chris wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do and licked her finger again.\n\nShe fed him slowly and sensually until every drop from his stomach had disappeared into his mouth.\n\n“Good girl,” she said.\n\nIt was already dark outside when Chris got on the bus. He sat down by a window, the city sliding past in wet streaks of light. The encounter clung to him like a melody too loud and not quite right. Reward. The word felt wrong, but the warmth in his face, the afterglow of his orgasm, had been real. They had come closer to each other—and yet everything seemed strangely businesslike, as if Zoe had settled a bill only she had written.\n\nHe knew Zoe didn’t want anything steady. She had never promised it between the lines—not today, not ever. And yet… she had been beautiful in that half-dark room, despite the chaos and sticky candy wrappers, and something about her mixture of sharpness and directness stuck to him. Maybe something more could come of it, someday. He had never met a girl like her before. Maybe, on another occasion, on another evening, it could go further—all the way to what she was steering toward so casually and what his head didn’t know whether it wanted or feared.\n\nThe bus rumbled over an intersection, and his reflection in the window looked back at him questioningly. Zoe played by her own rules. He leaned his forehead against the cold glass and let the lights of the city flow past him, while two feelings tried to make room in his stomach at the same time: confusion—and a quiet, curious hope.\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch.]]

Chris grabbed her head and she resisted. But Chris immediately noticed that she wasn’t resisting with all her strength, and so he managed to bring her head closer and closer to his penis.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nHe felt her pressed-together lips on his rapidly growing shaft.\n\n“Open your mouth!” Chris demanded with unusual force.\n\nAnd sure enough, without any further hesitation, Chris felt her lips around the tip of his cock, and a moment later the glans had disappeared into her mouth.\n\nNever before had he experienced such wonderful sensations, and the longer Zoe sucked him, the hornier he became.\n\nIn his mind’s eye, Chris was already imagining how he would properly fuck her in a moment.\n\nBut suddenly she bit down on his glans. “Ow!” he shouted and instinctively shoved her away while his hands moved protectively in front of his crotch.\n\n“If you can’t handle a little pain, you’d better be careful where you put that thing,” she giggled cheerfully. “Well,” she said, “I’ve seen what I wanted to see.”\n\nIt was already dark outside when Chris got on the bus. He sat down by a window, the city sliding past in wet streaks of light. The encounter clung to him like a melody too loud and not quite right. Reward. The word felt wrong, but the warmth in his face, the afterglow of his orgasm, had been real. They had come closer to each other—and yet everything seemed strangely businesslike, as if Zoe had settled a bill only she had written.\n\nHe knew Zoe didn’t want anything steady. She had never promised it between the lines—not today, not ever. And yet… she had been beautiful in that half-dark room, despite the chaos and sticky candy wrappers, and something about her mixture of sharpness and directness stuck to him. Maybe something more could come of it, someday. He had never met a girl like her before. Maybe, on another occasion, on another evening, it could go further—all the way to what she was steering toward so casually and what his head didn’t know whether it wanted or feared.\n\nThe bus rumbled over an intersection, and his reflection in the window looked back at him questioningly. Zoe played by her own rules. He leaned his forehead against the cold glass and let the lights of the city flow past him, while two feelings tried to make room in his stomach at the same time: confusion—and a quiet, curious hope.\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch.]]

<h2>Prologue</h2>\nChris sat ramrod straight on the bus, his knees pressed together, and forced his breathing into a steady rhythm. But the engine, the jolting, and the voices around him loosened the knot in his head. Memories surged up like water in a cup that was too full. <<set $wochentag = 0>>\n\n<hr>\n\nHe had been a completely normal boy. Germany. A row house, gray winters, the quiet walk to school through familiar streets. Parents who at some point had stopped arguing and only fallen silent; the silence was worse. After the divorce, he stayed with his father in Germany. Not because he didn’t love his mother—it was simply his life there. His room, his routines, the familiar corners of the city. Then his father got the new job: commuting, overtime, nights when the refrigerator hummed and nothing else did. “It can’t go on like this, Chris,” his father had said, his hands around the coffee mug as if they were cold. “You have to go to your mother in the USA. Just temporarily.” Temporarily had felt like a door falling shut.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Maplewood.jpg]]</center> \nAt the start of summer break, he landed in [[Maplewood|Maplewood]]. His mother Susan hugged him briefly, his sister Christine threw her arms around his neck and spoke so fast that the words stumbled over each other. But behind Susan’s smile lay something cold. Not openly malicious, more like a noticeable refusal to forget. He had “left” her; that was the taste hanging between them, even if he said a thousand times that it hadn’t been against her.\n\nOne Saturday morning—the air already warm, the light sweet—Susan had fluttered through the house at high speed. Perfume, the click-clack of heels, lipstick like a seal. “You two are going out now,” she said, pressing money and a shopping list into Chris’s hand. “Milk, eggs, dish soap. And you”—her gaze ran through his hair as if it were weeds—“are finally going to the hairdresser. That mane has to go.” Christine grabbed her backpack, threw her brother a conspiratorial look that wasn’t really one—more the kind that said: Let’s just go before her boyfriend gets here.\n\nThey turned the corner, and then the world crashed into him. A body, hard and warm, shoulder against chest; the shopping list sailed to the ground like a startled bird. “Whoa, sorry!” The boy in front of him was motion cast in flesh: training shirt, sweat on his forehead, that springy stride only people have when they know rooms make space for them. He offered Chris his hand and pulled him up with such ease it was as if he weighed nothing. “You okay? I really didn’t see you.”\n\n“Yeah, all good,” Chris managed, and his pulse hammered so loudly that the sentence vibrated. Beside him stood Christine, suddenly silent, her eyes wide, a smile that was cautious at first and then beamed from ear to ear, making her fixed braces flash in the sunlight. “Hi, Dylan,” she said, and her voice took on that tone that lives inside balloons just before they burst.\n\n[[Dylan|Dylan Carter]]. The name fell like a key into a lock. He was the high school’s star quarterback; even Chris knew that, though he hadn’t spent a single day there yet. “Everything okay?” Dylan repeated, and his hand remained on Chris’s forearm a moment longer than necessary. Chris nodded, said “yes” again, and at the same time noticed how his sister was looking at the boy—as if she could keep him warm with her eyes. No girl had ever looked at him like that. He was nineteen and had never really been kissed; not in any way that counted. At parties he had hesitated too long, in the park he had made jokes when things got serious. In everything that mattered, he was late.\n\n“See you around, then,” Dylan said, raising a hand in farewell before jogging on as if the street belonged to him. Christine watched him until he disappeared around the next corner. Then she picked up the shopping list and pretended nothing had happened, though the lovestruck grin refused to leave her face.\n\nThe hairdresser’s was in a small strip of shops, between a nail salon and a store that sold only candles. The moment Chris stepped inside, he realized he wasn’t in a “men’s” salon. The hum of hair dryers was higher, the air smelled of hairspray and coconut, and pastel photos with waves and balayage hung on the walls. “Just a trim?” Christine giggled, poking him in the side.\n\nBefore he could say anything, a voice called, “Next!” A tall woman stepped out from behind a chair and looked at him. She was Black, wearing a tight yellow top that shaped an ample silicone-enhanced bust capable of slowing traffic on billboards. Her smile was warm, inviting, but her voice had a velvety, slightly deeper vibrating timbre that resonated in Chris’s chest. Something about her was powerful and feminine at once; her movements precise, like someone who had learned to inhabit every inch of space deliberately. Her name tag read “[[Laverne|Laverne Johnson]].”\n\n“Sit down, honey,” Laverne said, draping the cape around him with practiced ease, almost comfortingly. A strand of hair fell over his forehead, and Laverne brushed it aside with a large, surprisingly gentle hand, testing it the way one rubs fabric between fingertips. “So how would you like it?”\n\nChris swallowed. In his head, his mother’s voice buzzed: That mane has to go. But he liked his long hair. It was the last piece of “before,” of Germany, of the boy he had been.\n\n<<if $newgameplus == 0>>“Um …” he began, looking at Laverne in the mirror. His fingers kneaded his own knee beneath the cape. “I …”<<else>>“Um …” he began, looking at Laverne in the mirror—and for a fleeting moment, the scene felt as if he had taken this breath before, somewhere in another loop of the same story.<<endif>>\n<<set $haar to 0>>\n''What does he do with his hair?''\n❯ [[Sacrifice the long hair and submit to what his mother expects of him.|Haare kurz schneiden.][$haar += 0]]\n❯ [[Leave his hair long and hold on to what little remains from before.|Haare bleiben lang.][$haar += 1;$stil += 1]]

On Saturday, Chris took more time than usual. Not because he wanted to be vain—but because he hoped that everything between him and Charlotte that had been off-kilter for weeks might straighten itself out again for a few hours.\n<<set $wochentag = 6>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">>\nHe stood in front of the mirror and thought back to the time when Charlotte had still believed Chris was a girl. Back then, she had looked at him as if he were a secret you were allowed to touch. With every meeting, she had come closer, had touched him, had barely let go of him. Chris remembered that feeling of certainty—as if there had never been any question of whether he “fit.” And now everything was a question.\n\nThat was precisely why he chose clothes that emphasized his feminine charms without shouting. A skirt that cleanly defined his waist and gave him a pretty butt, a top that hinted at his cleavage, and a cardigan he could button up at any time—as a safety net. He paid attention to little details: the fit of the tights, the shine of lip gloss, a hint of perfume, not too much. It was supposed to feel like: I made myself beautiful for you. Not like: Please, please stay.\n\nWhen he came out of his room, his mother Susan was standing in the hallway, looking him up and down. This time there was genuine, positive surprise on her face. “Wow,” she said. “You look… really good.”\n\nChris felt his cheeks grow warm. “Thank you.”\n\nSusan leaned against the doorframe, her voice suddenly almost casual. “When will you be back?”\n\nChris hesitated for only a moment. “Um… maybe… could I stay the night at Charlotte’s?” He said it quickly, before he could think about the fact that he wasn’t even sure whether Charlotte wanted that at all. But he hoped. He hoped for closeness, for normality, for a return to something soft.\n\nSusan raised her eyebrows, then smiled. “You’re old enough to spend the night at your girlfriend’s.” She sounded pleased, as if it fit into her picture. “And honestly? I’d be happy if you brought Charlotte home sometime. Eventually.”\n\nChris nodded, relieved. “Okay. Thank you.”\n\n“Text me when you’ve arrived,” Susan said, already back in her controlled tone, but without the harshness. “And behave yourself.”\n\nChris grabbed his handbag and pulled the door shut behind him.\n\n[[Continue|Chris beim Homecomingball.]]

<<back "Back">>\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/Charlotte.jpg]]</center> ''Name:'' Charlotte Walters \n''Age:'' 18 \n''Birthday:'' July\n\n''Relationships''\nJoseph Walters (41) - father\nGianna Walters (†) - mother\n\n''Biography''\nCharlotte Walters grew up faster than children should have to. When her mother died, the cheerful elementary school child became the “little adult” in the house: she learned to write shopping lists, remember birthdays, and hand her father a good cup of tea when the evening grew heavy. She saw Joseph—the otherwise steady, unshakable dad—begin to doubt himself after the loss: too quiet in the kitchen, too long out by the garage, sometimes with a look that asked whether he was still doing all of this right.\n\nAt school, she was the one with the well-thought-out outfits and open manner; popular. While others were still feeling their way, Charlotte sensed early and clearly that she was attracted to girls. At first, it was a whisper—a glance toward a friend from art club, a quickened heartbeat during a hug—later, a quiet certainty. She talks about it without drama and without apology: loyal, tender, sometimes stubborn, always with the wish that closeness should be allowed to be honest.\n\n''Shared Moments / Memories''\n<<nobr>>\n\n<ul> <<if $CharlotteMemory[0] eq 1>><li>Charlotte looks back with a smile on how she kissed Chris for the first time in the hot tub and how touchingly awkward he was.</li><</if>> <<if $CharlotteMemory[1] eq 1>><li>Charlotte remembers with laughter how embarrassed Chris became when a gust of air in the mall caught his skirt and his face instantly flushed red.</li><</if>> <<if $CharlotteMemory[5] eq 1>><li>Charlotte remembers with wounded pride how Chris, of all people, pointed at her during “Who would be more likely to... cheat?”—and how she defiantly avoided him for the rest of Penelope’s pajama party afterward.</li><</if>> <<if $CharlotteMemory[2] eq 1>><li>Charlotte remembers the night at Penelope’s pajama party when she and Chris were truly close for the first time.</li><</if>> <<if $CharlotteMemory[3] eq 1>><li>Charlotte remembers how Chris finally entrusted her with his big secret: that he is actually a boy.</li><</if>> <<if $CharlotteMemory[4] eq 1>><li>Charlotte remembers warmly how safe Chris looked sleeping in her father’s arms—and how peaceful and content the two of them looked.</li><</if>> </ul> <</nobr>> <div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Charlotte’s feelings for Chris</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>hate</span> <span>love</span> </div> <div class="axis-barlove"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $charlotte_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $charlotte_opinion < 20>> hate <<elseif $charlotte_opinion < 40>> aversion <<elseif $charlotte_opinion < 60>> okay with each other <<elseif $charlotte_opinion < 80>> in love <<else>> deeply in love <</if>> </div> </div> <<back "Back">>

The scissors snipped like a clock that had suddenly started ticking louder. “Short-short?” Laverne asked, holding the comb like a baton. Chris nodded as if he were signing a contract.\n\nLaverne gave a brief, appraising smile. “Got it.” She pulled the cape tighter and started the clippers. The buzzing ran over his scalp, vibrated in his ribcage. The sides fell first—little dark snowflakes that tickled his cheeks—then the nape, a cool breeze, and suddenly there was light where there had been weight before.\n\nLaverne worked in arcs, with the confidence of a conductor. “Tilt your head a little, honey.” Comb, scissors, comb. The outline around his ears became flat and elegant, the sides close but not bare, the nape cleanly tapered. On top she left a few inches, point-cutting, tugging at strands, creating texture that could later fall forward, to the side, wild or neat. While blow-drying, she pushed the roots up with her fingers, weighing a forelock between thumb and forefinger as if testing the weight of a decision. In the mirror, Chris saw an almost new face: cheekbones clearer, eyes larger, nape sharp. He felt lighter and more defenseless at the same time.\n\n<center>[img[pics/frisur_kurz1.jpg]]</center> “There,” Laverne said, smoothing the last strand into place and setting the scissors aside. Behind him, Christine gave a soft whistle through her fixed braces. “Looks good on you,” she said, and a little pride flitted across her face. Chris nodded, swallowed, paid. The mirror image lingered with him as they stepped into the broader heat of the day.\n\nOutside, heat shimmered over the parking lot. “Quick, the groceries,” Christine said, marching toward the supermarket as if they were in a race. The supermarket was cool and smelled of plastic and lemon. Just beyond the sliding doors, Christine grabbed his forearm. “I really have to pee,” she whispered, rolling her eyes toward the restrooms. “Start without me, I’ll catch up in a second.” Chris knew what “in a second” meant with his sister. He sighed, pushed the cart, pulled the shopping list from his pocket. Milk, eggs, dish soap. He tossed in the milk, placed the eggs carefully beside it, paused for a moment by the cereal, and stared at a cartoon bee as if it were telling him something important.\n\nChris pushed his cart into the hygiene aisle and slowed down involuntarily.\n\n<center>[img[pics/zoe_laden.jpg]]</center> Between one shelf of women’s razors and another of deodorants stood a girl, maybe his age. She wore a tight light-pink top that left most of her stomach bare, and skintight jeans that held her beautiful perky ass. Her chest wasn’t too big, made up of two cute, firm little tits that the top showed off well. Her navel piercing flashed in the fluorescent light, and her wild, dark-brown curls framed a cheeky face. Her fingers played with a price tag without tearing it off. Her eyes darted: left, right, camera dome, floor.\n\nChris would have simply rolled past if she hadn’t made that brief, strange movement: she opened her handbag just a crack, as if it had to happen very quickly. Then her other hand reached into the shelf—not hesitantly, but practiced—and let a small box disappear into the bag. Chris recognized the logo as it flashed in the light for a moment: condoms. One grab, one slip inside, bag closed again. The whole thing took barely two seconds.\n\nAfterward, she acted as if nothing had happened. She picked up a shower gel, turned it over, and stared at the ingredients as if she were seriously comparing them.\n\nChris stopped. His mouth went dry. Shoplifting. He should say something. Get an employee. That was how it was done, wasn’t it?\n\nAt the same time, heat rose into his face because he imagined what it would mean for her: getting caught, embarrassing questions, maybe a call to her parents, drama. Small-town Maplewood had that “everyone knows everyone” feeling—and then they knew you because of something like that.\n\nReporting it would be “right.” The rules were clear: you don’t steal. At the same time, his heart felt like a coin standing on its edge, wobbling.\n\nChris heard a scanner beep somewhere, heard the air conditioning kick up. He noticed that Christine wasn’t coming back. Typical. A supervisor in a blue polo shirt wandered past the end of the aisle without looking over.\n\nThe girl raised her head. Her eyes met his. Just for a moment, a barely audible click. There was something in them—not cheekiness, not defiance. More like a tiny, naked “please don’t.” Or was he imagining it? He felt his face grow warm and felt how awkwardly much he had just “seen.”\n\nThe supervisor made a round. Chris’s mouth was dry. His tongue searched for a sentence and found only cotton. He could simply move on now, pretend he had merely been studying toothbrushes. He could cough and go looking for his sister, who was of course still “in a second.” In his ears, the air conditioning hummed like moral tinnitus.\n\n''Report the shoplifting or not?''\n❯ [[He decides to do the right thing—even if it might expose her.|Er meldet sie.][$ladendiebin += 1]]\n❯ [[He stays silent and acts as if he didn’t see the theft.|Er meldet sie nicht.][$ladendiebin += 0]]

Chris shook his head, smiled apologetically, and called out over the noise: “No… it’s okay like this.” He preferred to stay down, close to Zeke, where he could feel the ground beneath his boots and was not suddenly hanging in the spotlight above the crowd. Zeke only nodded, without pressure, as if that answer was just as fine as the other one.\n\n“Glassfields” carried them onward. Chris kept his gaze fixed on the stage, but he felt Zeke behind and beside him like a reliable warmth. The beer made his thoughts softer, made the seconds less sharp-edged. He laughed quietly once when a guitar run came in exactly the way he loved it, and Zeke laughed with him, as if they had the same inner commentary.\n\nThe rest of the concert flowed like one enormous wave: slow, floating passages where everyone only swayed, and then again those moments when the music tore open and the whole room seemed to think “oh” at once. Chris noticed that he was “noticing” Zeke’s closeness less and less, and simply allowing it more and more. If someone pushed from behind, Zeke automatically stood more firmly. If Chris took a step forward, Zeke took it with him. It was a silent choreography no one had agreed on.\n\nDuring one song—one of those that begin almost empty and then suddenly thicken the air—they came dangerously close. Chris turned briefly to say something, maybe a “This is the part!” or only a breathless laugh, and suddenly found himself standing right in front of Zeke. Their faces were close enough for Chris to notice the scent of Zeke’s aftershave. Zeke said nothing, but his eyes held Chris’ gaze a beat too long. For a moment, there was that narrow, dizzying edge: one step forward, and something would happen. Chris felt it like electricity.\n\nThen the song broke open again, the crowd pressed, and the moment fell apart without breaking—it simply remained there as a warm echo.\n\nDuring the next song, as the band played a quieter passage and the people around them lifted their arms, Zeke pulled Chris into a hug, completely naturally, as if it belonged to the chorus. Chris was surprised at first, then let himself fall into it, his forehead briefly against Zeke’s jacket, the weight of his own body suddenly less exhausting. He felt Zeke’s hand between his shoulder blades, calm and safe, not demanding. And he thought—almost startled—so this is what it feels like, without knowing exactly what “it” was: security? Closeness? Something he had otherwise not allowed himself?\n\nWhen the final song was announced, the crowd cheered. Chris’ ears were ringing, his cheeks were warm from the beer and from smiling for so long, and his heart was still beating in time with the drums. Zeke leaned toward him, said something Chris could not understand in the noise, and Chris laughed anyway. Then he turned to Zeke, because it felt right to look him in the face and not only live into the stage.\n\nAnd then it happened.\n\nNot like a plan, not like a big decision. More like something spilling over the edge because the evening was too full of music, warmth, closeness, and that shared “We love this.” Chris raised his hand, touched Zeke’s jacket collar as if he wanted to hold on—and in the next moment they were kissing.\n\nChris himself did not understand exactly how it had happened. Only that Zeke’s lips were warm and the kiss was not wrong. That his body did not flinch back, but stayed. That it felt good—surprisingly good—and that a quiet, honest joy moved through his stomach, larger than his fear.\n\nWhen they parted, the crowd screamed because of the final chords, as if no one in the world would ever become quieter again. Zeke looked at him, a brief, searching smile. Chris’ breathing was fast, his heart pounding like crazy, and yet he had to smile too—because he knew he no longer wanted to take that moment back.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n[[Continue|Fahrt vom Konzert nach Hause.]]

<div class="psychedelic-text">Charlotte and Lila, who had joined them by now, supported Chris up the stairs together. For him, it was only an up and down of steps now, a shift between light and shadow. Charlotte’s shoulder was steady under his arm, Lila securing him on the other side, one hand on his back in case the heels completely gave out.\n\nUpstairs, they found a room that apparently hadn’t yet been claimed. The light was dimmed, a small sofa stood against the wall, the bed messy but free. Charlotte and Lila carefully maneuvered Chris onto the sofa and slid a pillow under his head.\n\n“Stay lying here, okay?” he heard Charlotte say, her voice suddenly soft, almost as if through cotton. <<if $haar == 1>>A hand briefly brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.<<endif>>\n\nHe wanted to answer, but his tongue didn’t react the way he wanted it to. Only a murmur came out. His limbs felt heavy, pleasantly heavy, as if gravity were finally holding him down.\n\nThe sounds in the hallway grew quieter, the thudding of the music more distant. Chris blinked, his eyelids heavy. When he managed to open his eyes once more, he looked blurrily toward the bed.\n\nCharlotte and Lila were lying there, close together. Their lips met, first tenderly, then more decisively. Chris lay still and watched without really understanding. The girls didn’t notice that he was looking.\n\nCharlotte’s hands had slipped under the other girl’s top and were caressing her tits. Lila, in turn, had her hands on Charlotte’s butt and was kneading her ass cheeks.\n\nTheir hands very quickly began to wander, and after only a short time both of them were sitting in front of him in nothing but bras and panties.\n\nCharlotte had pretty, large breasts, wrapped in a very beautiful white lace bra. Lila’s breasts were even bigger and lay in a black fabric bra. Well, lay wasn’t really the word for it. They stood out somewhat from her chest. When Charlotte freed them from her brassiere, Chris saw why.\n\nLila had had them enlarged. They looked firm and plumply filled. Charlotte’s breasts, after being freed by Lila’s skilled hands, had been pulled down a little, but they were still an absolutely hot sight.\n\nThe tender undressing games of the two girls in front of him naturally didn’t leave Chris cold. Although he wasn’t taking in much anymore, his best part was pressing quite firmly against his miniskirt.\n\nAs the next step, the two had freed themselves from their panties. Chris saw that Lila was completely shaved. Both girls’ labia glistened with wetness. Lila now lay on her back and spread her legs. Charlotte crawled between them, and her right hand moved tenderly down along Lila’s stomach.\n\nShe reached the girl’s pubic area and stroked her labia. A soft moan escaped the dark-haired beauty. Then Charlotte bent down, and with her tongue she stroked over Lila’s sex. Lila moaned louder. It now looked as if Charlotte had worked her way with her tongue to Lila’s clitoris. Her tongue seemed to lick quickly around the love pearl.\n\nChris had a beautiful view of Charlotte’s slightly spread butt cheeks and her pink slit. Lila gasped and moaned faster and faster. By now she had also taken her large tits in her hands and was kneading them thoroughly. In between, she pulled on her nipples, which had risen hard.\n\nShe even managed to press one of her powerful breasts upward so that she could lick her nipple with her own tongue. She also took it into her mouth and sucked on it.\n\nLila’s pelvis arched up, and Chris saw her orgasm. A drawn-out “Yeeeees” escaped her mouth.\n\nNow Charlotte turned around so that she positioned her sex above Lila’s face. Slowly, she lowered herself onto her friend’s face. Lila extended her tongue and now licked over Charlotte’s pussy. Chris now saw Charlotte’s breasts dangling in front of him.\n\nWhile Charlotte let herself be licked, she pushed two fingers into Lila’s blood-red swollen vagina. She finger-fucked her very quickly. What happened next, Chris had never seen in any porn. Both exploded at the same time, and Chris saw their contractions, their twitches, and the greedy lust.\n\nTiredness rolled over him like a wave. His eyelids became too heavy to keep open. The room blurred, the outlines of Charlotte and Lila dissolving in the half-dark.\n\nChris closed his eyes.\n\nThen there was only darkness.</div>\n\n[[End of Chapter 2|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 2d]]

Later, in his room, Chris wrote a farewell letter. The paper lay on the vanity between a perfume bottle and a hairbrush, and his handwriting trembled at the edges. He didn’t write everything – he couldn’t write everything. But he wrote enough so he wouldn’t simply disappear: that he had to leave, that he couldn’t take it anymore, that this was not a request for permission. That he didn’t want to hate himself for what had been made of him.\n\nWhen he put the pen down, his hand hurt. He folded the letter, placed it somewhere his mother was sure to find it, and looked at it for a moment as if it were an object that weighed more than paper.\n\nThen he packed only the essentials. Things that smelled like him. Things that didn’t look like Maplewood.\n\nIn the morning, he ran into Christine in the kitchen. She looked tired. Chris couldn’t get an “I’m leaving” past his lips.\n\n“You’re up early,” his sister said, pouring herself some water.\n\n“Yeah,” Chris said. “I… just wanted to quickly—” He broke off, because any honest continuation would have been dangerous.\n\nHe went over to her and hugged her. It was a quiet hug, without drama. Christine held on briefly, then let go. “Everything okay?” she asked, suspicious, as if she had learned to read his pauses.\n\n“Yeah,” Chris lied, and it tasted bitter. “Everything’s okay.”\n\nChristine nodded, but her eyes stayed on him a moment too long. “Take care of yourself,” she said quietly.\n\n“You too,” Chris managed to say, and that was almost worse than any truth.\n\nHe left before his face betrayed him.\n\nZoe was waiting a few streets away. She didn’t say much when Chris arrived – just a brief nod, a look that asked: Really? and said at the same time: Now.\n\nThey left Maplewood together, without looking back. The place remained behind them like an image one had looked at for too long: familiar and suddenly unbearable.\n\nPittsburgh was bigger, louder, grayer. A city that didn’t ask who they were as long as they kept walking, breathing, not standing out. There, they disappeared – not like in movies, but like two people who simply stopped being recognized in a strange crowd.\n\nAnd as the bus rolled through the last suburbs, for the first time in days Chris felt not only fear. But also something that felt like possibility.\n\n[[Continue|Leben in Pittsburgh.]]

Thursday hummed. Everywhere in the hallways, they were talking about the Timberwolves’ first big home game as if it were a holiday: betting tips at the lockers, improvised fan chants in the corridor, red-and-silver ribbons on backpack straps. Chris knew he would be at the stadium tomorrow—stands, warm jacket, hands clapping, gaze fixed on the field where Christine would perform. The thought made him nervous and proud at the same time.<<set $ort to "school">>\n\nIn the cafeteria, Chris’s gaze fell on Adam at the food counter. The kitchen staff seemed to know him—not like “anonymous kid with a tray,” but like a regular: a “Hey, Adam,” a brief laugh, an extra-large spoonful of mashed potatoes while they exchanged a couple of sentences about something everyday. Adam smiled crookedly as he did, visibly relaxing for a moment. Then Penelope stepped up to the counter as if bringing her own little trail of light with her. Adam’s shoulders immediately drew up; he went quiet, automatically took a step to the side, and let her go ahead without her even addressing him. Chris saw that and understood again how school worked: not just cliques at tables, but also invisible priorities in lines—who becomes bigger and who becomes smaller as soon as someone “more important” appears.\n\nAfter school, he went to the theater room. Rehearsals, text work, that familiar quiet between black curtain and dust motes in the slanting light. During the break, Ruby held out a folded note to him. “For you,” she said, one eyebrow raised a fraction higher than usual.\n\nChris took it, feeling his pulse rise briefly. He opened the small card: neat handwriting, a shy tone. Do you want to go to the Homecoming dance with me next week? Underneath were three boxes: yes / no / maybe.\n<<set $choice_homecoming to 0>>\n''What does Chris check?''\n❯ [[Chris checks “no.”|Chris kreuzte nein an.]]\n❯ [[Chris checks “no”—and writes something nice underneath.|Chris kreuzte nein an und schrieb etwas nettes darunter.]]\n❯ [[Chris checks “maybe,” without meaning it.|Chris kreuzte vielleicht an, ohne es so zu meinen.][$choice_homecoming += 1]]

In the afternoon, Susan dragged Chris along to go shopping, “just quickly picking up a few things.”\n<<set $ort to "drugstore">>\nIn the drugstore, the beauty section was as always too bright, too full of mirrors, too full of promises. Shelves gleamed, tester strips hung from little hooks, smiling faces beamed from posters everywhere.\n\nChris headed straight for the shampoo shelf. “I just need this,” he muttered, reaching for his brand.\n\n“Oh, you have such beautiful hair!” A saleswoman appeared beside him, maybe in her late twenties, flawless eyeliner, a name tag that looked far too cheerful. She smiled at Chris as if he were a familiar subject. “If you like, I can recommend a matching perfume to go with it. Something… fresh, but still sweet, would really suit you.”\n\nChris’s fingers froze around the shampoo bottle. Perfume? He wanted to say: No thanks, I’m only here for shampoo. But his mother was already standing a few steps behind him, and he felt her gaze like a gentle pressure against his back.\n\n“Um… okay,” Chris heard himself say. He put on the smile one wore in situations like this and nodded politely. It didn’t sound like “Chris,” he thought; it sounded like the girl everyone saw.\n\nThe saleswoman led him to the fragrances as if she had only been waiting for that invitation. “Do you prefer vanilla, floral, or something fruity?” she asked. “You seem like someone who…” She deliberately left the sentence open and had already pulled out two bottles. “Here, smell this. It’s really floral, but not too much.”\n\nChris had a test strip pressed into his hand. He smelled it carefully, as if the scent might give him away. Sweet, soft, a little too proper. “It’s… okay,” he said, and at the same time felt caught out because “okay” somewhere inside him also meant a little nice.\n\n“And this one?” The saleswoman sprayed a second strip and held it out to him. This fragrance was brighter, clearer, with something fresh underneath. Chris’s eyebrows twitched involuntarily. “That one suits you,” the saleswoman said at once, as if she had seen the reaction. “It’s so… cute, but classy.”\n\nChris nodded again. He played along because it was easier—and because part of him wanted to know what it was like to be advised so naturally, as if this were normal. At the same time, he felt like someone caught at something he hadn’t planned: that he wasn’t merely “letting it happen,” but actually responding.\n\nSusan stepped closer and took over the conversation like a conductor. “That one is better,” she said, pointing to the second strip. “The first one quickly comes across as… too heavy.” She gave Chris a look that meant: Remember that.\n\nOn the way to the checkout, Chris ended up buying the shampoo, of course. And Susan—as if it were a casual addition—also took the fragrance she found “suitable.” At home, hardly had the bag been set down before she turned it into a lesson.\n\n“Okay,” Susan said, positioning herself in front of him as if he were a model. She held up the bottle. “Fragrance is not like deodorant. You don’t spray it everywhere.”\n\nChris folded his arms. “I only wanted shampoo.”\n\n“I know,” she said sweetly. “And I want you not to smell like cheap body spray.” She took a step closer and pointed to his neck. “Here. Not directly on the clothes. And never in the hair—unless it’s a hair perfume, but that’s different. You do: wrists, once. Behind the ears, very lightly. And if you want, a mist in the air and you walk through it. But no more.”\n\n“Why not?” Chris asked, though he already suspected the answer.\n\n“Because ‘sweet’ and ‘cheap’ are only one spray bottle apart,” Susan said dryly, as if it were a law of nature. “Sweet is… close, warm, people have to like you for it. Cheap is… you walk in and everyone knows you’re there.”\n\nChris swallowed. Part of him liked the idea of seeming well-groomed. It felt safe, like armor made of cleanliness. And at the same time he hated how his mother defined every little step—where, how much, what was right. Care as control.\n\nSusan sprayed once into the air, gesturing for Chris to walk through it. The scent settled on him, fine, not too loud. For a moment, he actually felt good—neat, fresh, a little more grown-up.\n\nThen he noticed Susan nodding with satisfaction, as if she had checked another item off her list.\n\nChris stood still, breathed in the fragrance, and felt both at once: the pleasant feeling of being well-groomed—and the bitter one that it didn’t feel like his own decision.\n\n[[Continue|Donnerstag, Schminken im Bad.]]

He blinked and involuntarily looked toward the other end of the room. The boy from theater club stood there—slender, kind eyes, his hands at the edges of his pockets as if they were stuck there. He watched Chris half over the shoulder of a set piece, expectant, nervous. Chris was taken aback for a moment. He hadn’t guessed that he had an admirer—and that someone, of all places here in the theater, saw him like that. It flattered him. A quiet, warm sting that said: You stand out. In a good way.\n\nAt the same time, something inside him tightened. It was a boy. And he didn’t want to go to the dance with boys; that felt wrong to him—not now, not like this. The mixture of shame and regret made his cheeks hot. He lowered his gaze, reached for the pen on the prop table, and calmly checked no. A clean stroke, without hesitation, so it wouldn’t become crueler than it had to be.\n\n“Can you bring it to him?” he asked quietly. Ruby nodded, took the note, gave him one more brief, appraising look—no judgment, just understanding—and went over. Chris saw the boy take the note, saw his shoulders sink a little as he read. No scene, no drama—only that small, visible disappointment that briefly makes a person’s face softer.\n\nChris exhaled, placed his hands on the edge of the table, and held on there until the break was over. Then he took his position for the next scene, and the theater lights pushed the world back into order. Tomorrow he would sit in the stands and shout until his voice was scratchy. Today he only had to keep breathing, say his lines, stay standing.\n\n[[Continue|Nach dem Theaterclub.]]

Chris adjusted the pillow behind his back, set the phone to selfie mode, and turned his face half into the sidelight of the bedside lamp. The negligee, silky and pink like a dipped evening sky, clung softly to him: narrow spaghetti straps, a delicate lace edge at the neckline that shimmered finely in the light; the fabric fell in one smooth, flowing line to just above his thigh and traced quiet waves with every movement. He lowered his chin by a fraction, let his gaze travel from below upward—not defiant, more a restrained, uncertainly seductive game—and pressed his lips together just slightly, so that his mouth looked soft, as if he had just been caught in a secret thought. <<if $haar == 1>>A strand of hair fell against his cheek; he did not brush it back. <<endif>>Click.\n<<set $AdamMemory[5] to 1>>\nNo sooner had the picture been sent than regret rushed into him like a cold wind. Why did I do that? His heart fluttered, a mixture of alarm and… warmth. Why did it feel right? Why did it give him this good feeling? Very clearly, an image appeared before his inner eye of what Adam was probably doing with the photo right now. He felt his cock grow hard beneath the silk material as his cheeks grew hot.\n\nThe thought that Adam would now jerk off his cock to Chris’s photo aroused him so much that he began jerking his own rod. Soon the first drop of semen formed on his shiny glans. He took a finger and carefully smeared the drop over the whole head. He also tried to coat the shaft with it a little more.\n\nThe whole situation aroused Chris so much that after only a few strokes, he suddenly came with vehement force. He tilted his head back, began to twitch violently, thrusting his hips forward in pulses, and his cum flew in a high arc through the air and landed right in the middle of his face. A second surge reached his small breasts, and a third spurt landed on his belly.\n\nChris lay exhausted in that position on the bed for quite a while, the phone with its dark display beside the pillow, and his shame crept hotly up his throat. He stared at the ceiling, as if he could rewind the moment there. What came over me? he thought, and every time he saw the scene in his head, he wanted to crawl away and throw the phone out the window at the same time.\n\n[[Continue|Vizefreitag.]]

"Give it to me—I want it!" Christine demanded.\n\nHe paused his kissing, shifted upward, and held his cock right in front of his sister’s sweet lips. She sucked it straight into her wide-open mouth, trying to take as much of her brother’s cock inside her as humanly possible.\n\n<<if $oral == 0>>It was a completely new sensation for Chris; the thrill triggered by those unfamiliar lips was incredibly intense, and—as if on autopilot—he thrust his hips forward.\n\n<<endif>>Chris began to move inside her mouth. He was in seventh heaven. He was fucking his little sister’s mouth. Her tongue caressed him, and he felt the vacuum created by her suction. A fantastic feeling. Too fantastic to keep him from coming for very long.\n\nChris gasped. She realized he was on the verge. In the back of her mind, she marveled at herself. Her own brother—the very one she had teased so often over the past few months—was now gasping because his hard cock was fucking her mouth. And that brother was about to unload inside her, and all she wanted was to suck him completely dry.\n\nAnd then she felt him explode onto her tongue. In pulsing waves, masses of cum shot down her throat. Chris let out a long, drawn-out moan right into her face.\n\nAs Chris twitched and moaned, his sister felt the load in her mouth growing larger and larger; she closed her eyes and swallowed it all. It didn't taste like a gourmet sauce—yet she swallowed every last drop.\n\nChris could hardly believe what was happening. His little sister had just swallowed his entire load of cum. Slowly, he withdrew his now hypersensitive cock from her mouth. Still catching his breath, he lay down beside her, utterly spent.\n\n"We're terrible," she said, taking his hand. Chris had to agree with her: "Yeah, we're terrible."\n\nShe leaned toward him and kissed him; he parted his lips, and their tongues touched. He immediately recoiled.\n\nShe raised her eyebrows inquiringly.\n\n"You taste like my cum."\n\nChristine shrugged. He was repulsed by his own cum, yet he was powerless to resist his sister—and so, in their next kiss, his tongue once again intertwined with hers.\n\n[[Continue|Chris kann noch mal.]]\n

When Chris came back into Charlotte’s room, she had already changed. She was now wearing a large, soft flannel shirt that reached down below her butt. It looked cozy on her, like armor made of fabric.\n\nAs Chris’s eyes glided over her body, he realized what incredibly sexy legs his girlfriend had. And especially her pretty breasts, pressing through the soft fabric of the shirt. He had to pull himself together not to devour her with his eyes right away.\n\nCharlotte sat down on the floor in front of the television, the old DVD player beside it, the remote in her hand. She pressed buttons, waited, pressed again. The screen stubbornly stayed black, as if it were offended.\n\n“It won’t turn on,” she said curtly.\n\nChris knelt down beside her. “Let me try.” He pushed the cable in a little deeper, pulled it back out, blew exaggeratedly on the plug as if that were magic, and pushed it in again. He pressed “Power.” Nothing. He pressed it again. Nothing.\n\nCharlotte snorted. “I’ll get my dad. He always has some trick.”\n\nShe disappeared from the room. Chris stayed behind and kept trying, as if stubbornness could replace technology. He tapped the player, changed the socket, pressed the buttons in different combinations. The DVD player answered with a single, offended click—and then silence again.\n\nA little later, Joseph appeared in the doorway, his sleeves rolled up, as if he had been torn away from some other project. “Okay, what’s broken?” he asked, stepping closer.\n\n“DVD player,” Chris said, pointing at the device. “It doesn’t want to.”\n\nJoseph knelt down beside him without much fuss. “These things are like old dogs,” he muttered. “They only do what they want if you can talk to them nicely.” He grinned briefly, then leaned forward to check the cables at the back.\n\nChris leaned forward at the same time to get the remote.\n\nBonk.\n\nTheir heads bumped together—not hard, but precisely enough that both immediately jerked back. Joseph rubbed his forehead and laughed awkwardly, that warm, surprised laugh you couldn’t plan. Chris laughed too, reflexively, red cheeks included.\n\n“Sorry,” they both said almost at the same time.\n\nCharlotte stood beside them, arms crossed, but a small, unintended smile flashed across her face, as if she hadn’t expected that just now to be… somehow nice.\n\nJoseph shook his head, still grinning. “All good. From now on, we’ll do this with some distance.” He took the remote and held it up like a piece of evidence. “Batteries?”\n\n“I already pressed it like crazy,” Chris said.\n\n“That doesn’t tell me whether the batteries are alive.” Joseph opened the cover, tapped the batteries into his palm, turned them once, and put them back in.\n\nHis gaze drifted into Chris’s neckline as he crouched on the floor, bent forward. Joseph furtively looked at Chris’s pretty bra and the curve of his bust.\n\nThen he leaned toward the player, more carefully this time. “Okay… here.” He pulled the cable out, plugged it back in, pressed the plug into the power strip as if that were the decisive point. “And now—”\n\nHe pressed the power button on the device itself, not on the remote. The player hummed briefly, a small green light came on, as if it had finally realized resistance was futile.\n\nChris’s face lit up. “Oh!”\n\nJoseph raised both hands in the air, as if he had just solved a riddle. “See? You have to show it who pays the bills around here.” Then he leaned forward once more, and the television jumped to a blue menu. Success.\n\nCharlotte let herself fall theatrically onto the bed. “Finally.”\n\nJoseph stood up and patted off his knees. “Okay, I’ll leave you two.” He lingered in the doorway for a moment, looking at Chris as if he wanted to memorize every inch of his body before saying goodbye.\n\nThen he went out, and the door fell softly shut.\n\nCharlotte and Chris lay down next to each other on the bed, blanket over their legs, the DVD player humming contentedly as if nothing had ever happened. Charlotte pressed “Play.” The film began—and for the moment, it was quiet enough that breathing felt normal again.\n\n[[Continue|Chris und Charlotte schauen den Film.]]

Later, Chris crept down the hallway and stopped in front of Christine’s door. He knocked softly, waited a moment – no answer. So he carefully pressed down the handle and poked his head inside.\n\nChristine was sitting on her bed, wearing only her underwear, knees drawn up, her face buried in her hands. On the nightstand stood a half-full glass of water. Her clothes lay carelessly over a chair, as if she had simply stripped them off because they had become too heavy. She didn’t look up when Chris came in, but he heard the soft sobbing she was trying to choke back.\n\n“Hey…” Chris said, taking a step closer. He didn’t know what you were supposed to say in a moment like this. Everything sounded either too small or too big. “I just wanted to… see how you’re doing.”\n\nChristine wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand without looking at him. “How do you think I’m doing?” Her voice was rough.\n\nChris sat down on the edge of the bed, leaving some distance, so she wouldn’t feel like he was imposing. For a while he just sat there, listening to her breathe. Then the thought pushed its way forward again – the one that hadn’t let go of him since the kitchen.\n\n“Christine… about…” He swallowed. “There’s just one thing we can’t ignore. That… that I might—”\n\n“No.” She cut him off, immediately, harshly. Finally she turned her head a little, and her gaze was a knife. “Don’t say that. Don’t even start.” Her voice trembled. “Myles is the father. Period.”\n\nChris paused. “But—”\n\n“No but!” Christine pulled the blanket higher, as if she were barricading herself behind it. “I asked you never to mention that one night again. Never. I don’t want to hear it, I don’t want to think about it.” She exhaled sharply once, as if she had to calm herself down. “It didn’t happen. Understand?”\n\nChris nodded, because he knew the look in her eyes: not just anger, but naked fear disguised as anger. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I… okay.”\n\nHe searched for something he could offer without pushing her further. “I still want to be there for you,” he said. “Whatever happens. I can go to the doctor with you, if you want. Or… I can talk to Mom if she starts again—”\n\nChristine let out a short laugh, bitter and broken. “Talk to Mom?” she repeated. “What good would that do? She just lectured me like I’d deliberately thrown my life away.” She swallowed. “I’m pregnant, Chris. I’m… I’m a teenager. I’ve ruined everything.” Her voice cracked, and tears started falling again. “Cheer. College. Everything. Just—gone.”\n\nChris’ chest tightened. “You haven’t ruined everything.”\n\n“Yes, I have,” she said, now hoarse. “It’s over. I had plans.” She pressed her lips together. “And the worst part is… I used protection.” The word came out like an accusation against the world. “I took the pill. I wasn’t stupid. And still… still this happens.” She struck the pillow once with her hand, not hard, more helplessly. “It’s so unfair.”\n\nChris didn’t know how to answer unfair when it really was unfair. He carefully placed his hand on the blanket, near her arm, without grabbing her. “I’m here,” he said simply. “That’s all I can say for certain right now. I’m here.”\n\nChristine didn’t pull her arm away, but she didn’t reach for him either. She stayed curled up, as if she had to hold herself together so she wouldn’t fall apart. And Chris sat beside her, silent, with a knot of guilt and protective instinct in his stomach – and the bitter feeling that his help, right now, was arriving in the place where it was hardest to accept.\n\n[[Continue|Die nächsten Wochen.]]

When Chris was finished with Charlotte’s back, he let a little more sunscreen slide onto his palms. He let his hands glide slowly down from Charlotte’s lower back and then spread the sunscreen over Charlotte’s ass. He was absolutely aware of what Charlotte would probably think of this bold move, but the feeling of the delicate and yet incredibly plump butt cheeks beneath his hands was so arousing that Chris stroked his hands over Charlotte’s ass much longer than he had intended, and even then could only tear himself away from Charlotte with a heavy heart.\n\nCharlotte fastened the top of her bikini behind her back and then sat down beside Chris. “Mmm, that was nice! Honestly, I’d love to roll onto my back now and let you keep going on the front, but I think we’ll save that for later. Now it’s your turn...”\n\nChris sat upright, then sideways again—the hot pants pinched at first in the crotch until he found the right position and pulled the towel under his thigh smoother. Charlotte knelt behind him and spread the lotion with the same practiced care. Cool streaks became warm as her hands made them disappear. “Arms up—exactly. And turn a little so I can get your collarbones. Sunburn there is the devil.”\n\nWhen everything was rubbed in, both of them sank back into the loungers. Time grew soft. Above them, the sun shifted a little farther, something chirped somewhere in the garden. Chris felt the warmth on his skin—mapped in an unfamiliar way: shoulders, stomach, a narrow strip between bikini top and hot pants. Before, the sun had simply caught his whole upper body; now it caught on edges, making patterns. It felt strange and new, not unpleasant—just different, as if someone had drawn lines where there had been none before.\n\n“Hot,” Charlotte said after a while, tapping the empty iced-tea glass with a fingernail. “Hot tub?”\n“Good idea,” Chris replied, sat up, and stood, this time without fidgeting; the hot pants sat as if they had learned. Together they went down the two steps to the round tub. Charlotte bent down, pressed the control panel—a click, then the jets came to life with a deep hum. The water rippled, small chains of bubbles rose and burst in the light.\n\n“Get in,” Charlotte grinned, holding out her hand as if this were a small dare in the best sense.\n\n[[Continue|Im Whirlpool.]]

When the judge came back into the courtroom, everyone stood.\n\nChris did it automatically. Beside him, his father rose, one hand close to his back. On the other side of the room, Christine sat with her head lowered. She looked tired, as if in just a few days she had understood more than any person should have to understand.\n\nSusan stood at the defense table.\n\nFor the first time, she seemed smaller.\n\nThe judge sat down, opened the file, and looked out into the room over the rim of his glasses.\n\n“Susan Braun,” he said, “this court has heard the evidence. It has heard the testimony. Especially the testimony of your son.”\n\nChris felt his stomach tighten.\n\nThe judge continued speaking calmly.\n\n“This sentence is not meant to return pain. It is meant to establish responsibility.”\n\nSusan lowered her gaze.\n\n“You abused your parental authority. You made decisions about your child’s body and medical treatment without respecting his dignity. You called control love.”\n\nThe room was completely silent.\n\n“This court sentences you to two years in prison. Part of this sentence will be suspended. After your release, strict probation conditions will apply, mandatory psychological treatment, and a complete no-contact order with Christoph Braun, unless he himself applies for something different through his attorney at a later date.”\n\nThe gavel did not fall immediately.\n\nThe judge looked at Susan.\n\n“You may not approach your son. You may not call him, write to him, or use third parties to make contact.”\n\nChris breathed out without realizing he had been holding his breath.\n\nTwo years.\n\nIt sounded like too little and too much at the same time.\n\nNot enough for the nights when he had not slept. Not enough for the false name in the school file. Not enough for the feeling of no longer having a safe place in his own body.\n\nAnd yet it was a sentence.\n\nA real one.\n\nSusan was not acquitted. No one called it care anymore. No one pretended it had only been an argument between a mother and son.\n\nWhen the session ended, Chris remained seated for a moment.\n\n“Is it over?” he asked quietly.\n\nMichael looked at him.\n\n“No,” he said honestly. “But this part is over.”\n\nAt the back of the courtroom, Christine stood up. She wiped her face and remained uncertainly between the rows of benches. Michael slowly pulled away from Chris.\n\n“I’ll talk to her,” he said.\n\nChris nodded.\n\nHe watched as his father went to Christine. Michael spoke quietly to her, without pressuring her. Christine listened, rigid at first, then with trembling shoulders. When Michael carefully reached out his hand, she allowed it.\n\nChris did not know whether she would come to Germany.\n\nSusan was led out of the courtroom. She did not turn around to look at Chris.\n\nMaybe that was her final attempt to punish him.\n\nMaybe she finally had nothing left to say.\n\nChris stood up.\n\nHe felt no forgiveness. No sudden warmth, no clean redemption, no story in which everything bad disappeared because of a sentence.\n\nBut he understood something.\n\nPunishment was not healing.\n\nAnd healing did not have to wait until the punishment was big enough.\n\nWhen he left the courtroom with his father, the door behind them did not stay open.\n\nIt fell shut.\n\nThis time, Chris was on the right side.\n\n[[Continue|In Deutschland.]]

The next day, Chris walked beside Christine through the hallway, which as always was too small for so many backpacks and elbows. In front of them, a jock came out of a side door at walking pace, shoulder like the corner of a wall—and bumped into Christine. Her notebook tipped, papers sliding halfway out.\n<<set $wochentag = 3>><<set $wetter = 2>><<set $ort to "Hallway">><<set $ChrisMemory[4] to 1>>\n“Hey!” burst out of Chris, smaller than he wanted to sound. Chris took a step forward, which immediately became smaller again. The guy was a tower, smelling of shower gel and aftershave; he only turned his head briefly, and his eyes said so clearly and? as any reaction he had spared himself.\n\nChris felt his courage flare up like a match and flicker in the draft of the situation. He wanted to step between them, wanted to say “Watch it, man,” wanted to… be bigger. But the jock was big enough for both of them, and Chris suddenly felt narrow, precisely where he would have liked to be broad.\n<<set $myles_opinion to 59>>\n“Problem?” [[Myles|Myles Pierce]] was there, as if someone had called him in for an entrance. He placed himself between Christine and the guy who had bumped her. The jock rolled his shoulders, raised his hands in an exaggeratedly innocent gesture, and moved on. “All good, bro,” he muttered, and the hallway absorbed him as if nothing had happened.\n\nSomething inside Chris tightened and expanded at the same time. On the one hand, the sting: I’m the big brother. I should have… On the other, a quiet, shameful wish he could barely bring himself to think: What it would be like if a boy stood in front of me like that. The idea felt like a secret he didn’t want to admit even to himself, and he quickly pushed it away.\n\n“Hi,” Christine said softly to Myles and rose onto her tiptoes. Myles bent down, brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She gave him a tender kiss in greeting, natural and soft. Myles’s hand found her waist as naturally as if there were a handle there. Christine beamed. They set off, two bodies that suddenly knew where the other ended and began.\n\nChris lingered a second behind, watching them go, then started moving again.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $ladendiebin == 2>>\n[[Presentation in class.|Vortrag im Unterricht.]]\n<<else>>\n\n<<if $club == 3 && $charlotte < 2>>[[Presentation in class.|Vortrag im Unterricht.]]\n<<else>>\n[[Presentation in class.|Vortrag im Unterricht.2]]\n<<endif>>\n\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

<<back "Back">>\n\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/Dylan.jpg]]</center> \n''Name:'' Dylan Carter \n''Age:'' 18 \n''Birthday:'' June\n\n''Relationships''\nMarcus Carter (46) – father\nElena Carter (44) – mother\nEthan Carter (14) – younger brother\n\n''Biography''\nDylan Carter was born in Maplewood and had never really been at home anywhere else. He grew up in a neighborhood where people fixed their own cars, held barbecues in front of the garage, and helped each other without making a big deal of it. His family lived a more “lower-middle-class” life—no luxury, but with the firm pride that they managed. Dylan learned early to take responsibility: small jobs, helping his younger brother with homework, pitching in on weekends when something needed doing around the house.\n\nHis father had once played football himself (not professionally, but seriously enough to teach it to Dylan as a craft: footwork, keeping your eyes up, staying calm under pressure) and now worked as a truck driver—long shifts, early mornings, a life measured by schedules and mileage. His mother is a nurse, often exhausted but dependable; with the Carters, “I’m here” was not a grand gesture, but something you did. Dylan had a younger brother who looked up to him and wanted to copy everything—from throwing a football to the way Dylan raised his eyebrows when he made a joke.\n\nOutwardly, Dylan seemed like the confident “Golden Boy”: charming, team-minded, someone who made others feel like they belonged. Inside, however, he was much more driven by performance than people realized. He hated seeming weak, and sometimes became overly cautious when it came to mistakes—not out of fear of work, but out of fear of disappointing someone. His strengths lay more in the practical and strategic than in memorization: recognizing patterns, reading situations, making decisions when things had to move fast.\n\nDespite sports, Dylan also had a hobby hardly anyone would immediately associate with him: he played guitar. Not as a stage act, but as an outlet—a place where performance did not look like points. Anyone who knew him well also knew his protective instinct: Dylan was the type who stayed when others had already left, and who quietly asked whether someone might actually need help.\n\n''Shared Moments / Memories''\n<<nobr>>\n\n<ul> <<if $DylanMemory[0] eq 1>><li>Dylan remembers how Chris stood in front of the locker on the first day of school in his blue dress—nervous, helpless, and sweet in a way Dylan could not get out of his head.</li><</if>> <<if $DylanMemory[1] eq 1>><li>Dylan remembers how he watched Chris at cheerleading practice and was surprised to realize he could hardly look away from him.</li><</if>> <<if $DylanMemory[2] eq 1>><li>Dylan remembers how Chris sought protection in the old maple syrup bottling plant—and how vulnerable he seemed in that moment.</li><</if>> <<if $DylanMemory[3] eq 1>><li>Dylan remembers the first home game, the crowd, the noise—and how his eyes and Chris’s eyes kept finding each other anyway.</li><</if>> </ul> <</nobr>> <div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Dylan’s attitude toward Chris</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>I don’t know him</span> <span>love</span> </div> <div class="axis-barlove"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $dylan_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $dylan_opinion < 20>> superficial acquaintance <<elseif $dylan_opinion < 40>> interested <<elseif $dylan_opinion < 60>> secret crush <<elseif $dylan_opinion < 80>> in love <<else>> deeply in love <</if>> </div> </div> <<back "Back">>

The next morning, they woke up wrapped tightly around each other because metal was clanging outside and an engine was rumbling nearby. For one heartbeat, Chris still lay warm and heavy in the night – then the sound of the tow truck came clearly through the van walls, and everything became frantic.\n\n“Shit,” Zeke muttered, running a hand through his hair.\n\nChris sat up with a jerk, the blanket slipping, cold air biting at his bare skin. They both dressed far too quickly, as if speed could undo what had happened. Chris’s fingers trembled as he zipped up his jacket. He was not yet ready to carry that feeling from the night – closeness, warmth, relief – into the sober morning.\n\nOutside, the van was being hooked up. There was one jolt, then they started rolling, being pulled, not moving under their own power. The road slid away beneath them, and the interior suddenly felt too small for what stood between them.\n\nChris stared out the window and forced himself to say something, anything, before the silence grew heavy again. “So… about yesterday…” He stopped, swallowed. He was embarrassed by how much he had liked it – not just physically, but the fact that someone had wanted him.\n\nZeke did not answer right away. He seemed tense, hands clasped together, eyes fixed ahead, as if he could control the road if only he looked hard enough.\n\n“It was good,” Zeke finally said, short, almost clipped. Then he cleared his throat. “But… listen. This has to… this has to stay between us.”\n\nChris’s chest tightened. “Between us?”\n\nZeke did not look directly at him. He hedged, searching for words, as if they felt uncomfortable in his mouth. “I just mean… Maplewood is small. People talk. And I…” He broke off, exhaled. “I don’t want anyone finding out. You understand?”\n\nChris understood. Far too quickly.\n\nIt was not that Zeke regretted it. It did not sound like disgust, not like “that was a mistake.” It sounded more like fear of how he would look in other people’s eyes. As if Zeke had had his fun – and liked him – but absolutely did not want the world to know that he had had sex with a boy.\n\nChris nodded slowly, even though it hurt. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I understand.”\n\nAnd that was exactly what made him sad. Not because he suddenly wanted something public, but because in that sentence he felt the role intended for him: a secret. A part of Zeke’s night that was pushed aside in the morning before anyone could see it. In the kiss yesterday, Chris had believed he had been accepted – and now he realized that acceptance sometimes only applied in the dark.\n\n“It’s not… about you,” Zeke murmured, as if he had felt the sting. “Really, it isn’t.”\n\nChris managed a small, crooked smile that did not last. “It’s fine.”\n\nWhen they reached Maplewood and the van was finally set down, Chris moved quickly, almost too quickly. He murmured a “Thanks for driving” and a “We’ll text,” without knowing whether he wanted that. Zeke nodded, also too quickly, as if haste were the only way to keep the uncomfortable part small.\n\nChris walked away before another sentence could latch on. In his stomach was a chaos of warmth and disappointment, of pride and shame, of the afterglow of a night that had felt good – and the bitter knowledge that, for some men, “good” could still be something you hid.\n\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5b]]

The weeks turned into months without Chris being able to name the moment when it became “normal.”\n\nAt first, every evening at the Tipsy Tassel had been a battle: against stage fright, against the looks, against the feeling of slipping into the wrong skin. He had stood in front of the curtain and counted – breaths, songs, minutes – and afterward washed his hands backstage as if shame could be rinsed away.\n\nAt some point, he stopped doing that.\n\nThe routines ate their way into him like a habit that asked no questions: makeup at the row of lights, hairspray, music check, the brief glance in the mirror that no longer asked “Who are you?” but only “Is everything in place?”. Zoe had long since become part of the place’s inventory, unshakable, cheeky, with the talent of entering every room as if it belonged to her. And Chris… Chris learned that you could get used to almost anything if there was enough money in your hand at the end of the night.\n\nThe shame did not disappear in one big drama; it evaporated in small doses. At first, it was only a sting with the first step into the light. Then only a muffled echo. And at some point, most of the time it was no longer there at all – at most a rare, distant unease when he stood alone in the bathroom late at night, removing his makeup, and for one second had the feeling that someone from another time was looking at him.\n\nThe money was good. More than “surviving.” First they could pay the rent on time, then they could eat again without calculating. Then came new shoes, new clothes, a proper weekly grocery run. And finally they moved: out of the tiny one-room hole with a brick-wall view, into a better apartment with two rooms, a window that actually looked out onto a street, and a bathroom where two girls could stand at the same time without constantly touching each other.\n\nThey called it their “upgrade,” and they meant it like a joke that still made them proud.\n\nLife became… light enough to breathe in. Chris got used to the rhythm: sleeping until noon, coffee, a few hours of idling, then evening routine, then night. Zoe laughed more often, and Chris sometimes heard himself laughing along, without a bitter aftertaste. Sometimes, after shifts, they sat on the sofa, legs over the armrest, a movie in the background, money in a drawer as if it were just another household item.\n\nAnd then, one evening, when everything was as it always was – music, lights, the familiar hum behind the curtain – something happened that did not fit.\n\nChris was sitting backstage at the mirror, touching up his lipstick, when a colleague who usually always talked about her nails stopped. She looked unusually serious.\n\n“Um… hey,” she said. “There was a man out front. Asked for you.”\n\nChris turned halfway in his chair. “For me?”\n\nShe nodded. “Yeah. Not like a guest. More… official. Introduced himself as a detective.”\n\nChris’ brush paused in the air. For a moment, his body waited for the old panic that usually took over everything. But all that came was a brief, puzzled frown. Detective?\n\n“Did you tell him anything?” Chris asked, more out of reflex.\n\n“Only that you work here,” she said, shrugging.\n\n[[Continue|Wochen vergehen.]]

“Cherry Red,” Chris said after a heartbeat too long, as casually as he could.\n\nPenelope grinned, shook her head almost imperceptibly. “Wrong, unfortunately. It’s Raspberry.”\n\nA few “ooh” sounds, gentle giggling around the table. Chris shrugged with a smile. “It’s fine. I had other plans this weekend anyway.” He heard himself and thought how thin the sentence sounded.\n\n“Okay, so—movie list!” Penelope turned back to the group. “10 Things, Clueless, or something scary after all?” Voices tumbled over one another, Charlotte tossed “Brownies” into the air, Christine suggested “Face masks first,” someone called for a pillow-fight rule.\n\nChris poked at his fruit cup as if he could sort his thoughts with it. A quiet, childish defiance spread through him like tea that was too hot: I didn’t want to go to some stupid girls’ pajama party anyway. He felt the hurt underneath, just as clearly as the rustle of the underskirt with every small movement on the chair.\n\nWhy hadn’t he simply been invited as a matter of course? It felt like back in Germany: the cool parties he never went to—or was never asked to. Now he sat here, looked “like a girl,” and still seemed only allowed at the edge of the group. Am I just Christine’s tagalong to them? he thought. A leaden question that couldn’t be smiled away.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Charlotte comforts Chris.|Charlotte tröstet Chris.2]]<<else>>[[End of school.|Schulende.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $newgameplus == 0 && $charlotte < 2 && $ladendiebin < 2>><br>\n[[✨ Chris asks his sister to talk to Penelope about the party.|Chris bittet seine Schwester mit Penelope wegen der Party zu reden.][$party += 1]]\n\n<div class="box"><b>A little note for your first playthrough:</b><br> Your choices have led you onto the Ruby path. This path has its own appeal, but it is quieter at the beginning than other story routes.<br> If you would like a little more action for the start, you should choose the lower option now and go to Penelope’s party after all. This extra option is only available on the first playthrough.</div> <<endif>><</nobr>>

<div class="letter"> Dear player,\n\nif you’re reading this, you’ve truly seen everything. Every branch, every wrong door, every moment of courage and every place where you would rather have looked away. You stayed until the end – not just until one ending.\n\nThank you.\n\nThank you for accompanying me, even when I could barely stand myself sometimes. Thank you for making choices without always knowing whether they were right. (Spoiler: Most of the time, I didn’t know either.) Thank you for seeing me not just as a “story,” but as someone trying, amid the chaos, to somehow breathe, function, feel.\n\nMaybe you laughed at me sometimes – and maybe that was even necessary. Maybe you were angry with me. Maybe you wanted to shake me or wrap me in a blanket or simply pull me out of a situation. And sometimes, maybe you understood me in places where I didn’t yet have words for it myself.\n\nYou showed me that choices are not just doors, but mirrors: what you choose always says something about what you want to protect. What you risk. What you hope for. On some paths I was braver. On some, more cowardly. On some, it hurt. On some, it was surprisingly beautiful. And no matter which path you took – you followed it to the end.\n\nThat counts.\n\nIf you’ve seen all ten endings, then you also know: there is no perfect ending. Only variations of how you go on living. And that “going on living” is sometimes already a victory.\n\nSo… thank you for being with me. Thank you for making my story yours. And thank you for not stopping being curious – not even when it became uncomfortable.\n\nMaybe you’ll take only one single sentence from all of this. Then take this one:\n\nYou are allowed to grow. Even when you feel ashamed. Even when you make mistakes. Even when you believe you’re alone.\n\nThank you for carrying me all the way here.\nChris\n\n</div> [[↩ Back|Enden]]

"You don't have to be so careful," she murmured after a while.\n\nChris’s voice was rough. "Yes, I do."\n\n"Why?"\n\nHe paused for a moment, his hands warm against her breasts. "Because... you matter to me."\n\nChristine turned her head slightly—just enough to catch him in her peripheral vision. Her gaze was so direct that Chris felt as if he were turning transparent.\n\nChris’s hands began to move again, though more slowly this time. "I’m afraid of getting it wrong."\n\n"You haven't gotten it wrong for months," Christine whispered. And then, as if it were the simplest thing in the world: "I love you, Chris."\n\nChris froze. For the space of a single breath, he looked as if he were about to beg for forgiveness—for his heart, for his longing, for everything. Then he leaned closer, until his forehead nearly brushed against her hair.\n\n"I love you, too," he said, barely audible.\n\nChristine turned slowly on the bed until they were facing one another. Her hands found his; she didn't pull him toward her, but simply held him fast—as if her brother were something one could never bear to let go of.\n\nChris’s gaze swept across her face, as if he needed to assure himself that this was real. "Are you sure?"\n\nChristine smiled—a small, weary, yet resolute smile. "I’ve rarely been more sure of anything."\n\nChris raised a hand, hesitated briefly, then brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead. Christine closed her eyes at the touch, and when she opened them again, her gaze was soft.\n\nShe was the one who kissed him first.\n\nNot tentatively. Not as a test. But like a homecoming. Chris’s first impulse was to pull away—not because he didn't want it, but because he wanted it so intensely that it terrified him. Yet Christine held his hand tight, as if to tell him: -Stay-.\n\nAnd he stayed. The kiss grew deeper, warmer, and Chris’s hands found her back—this time without lotion, just skin and the secure certainty that his sister would not flee. She breathed against his mouth, and for a moment, everything fell silent: no fear of the future, no Myles, no questions about their father, no societal voices. Just two siblings who were finally holding nothing back.\n\nChristine pulled him along with her until they both lay on the bed, forehead to forehead, breathless.\n\n“If you say ‘stop,’ I’ll stop,” Chris whispered.\n\nChristine placed two fingers beneath his chin, gently compelling him to look at her. “I won’t say stop,” she said calmly. “I want you.”\n\nChris closed his eyes for a moment, as if needing to compose himself. She kissed him more intensely, letting her tongue explore his, and stroked him with her hand—first his chest, then down over his flat stomach and onto his erect penis. His sister quickly freed Chris’s throbbing manhood.\n\nA moan escaped him as she stroked him from the glans, down the shaft, to his balls.\n\n[[Continue|Sie will Chris einen blasen.][$oral += 1;$sex += 1;$cameinside += 1;$kisssister += 1]]\n

In homeroom, Chris sat in Mr. Robertson’s class, and his gaze fell on the corner of his desk. Someone had carved “Boob Chris” into it, hastily and deeply, as if it absolutely had to stay. He ran his thumb over the grooves as if he could polish them away, and felt that brief mix of anger and exhaustion before the loudspeaker crackled and an announcement filled the room.\n<<set $ort to "Classroom">>\nThe voice from the front office was neatly friendly and yet strict. “Good morning, Maplewood High. A quick reminder: Access to the roof is strictly prohibited. Please stay away from all roof exits. Violations will be reported to the office.”\n\nA few students groaned softly, someone giggled, as if the announcement had accomplished exactly the opposite. Mr. Robertson continued writing the day’s agenda on the board, undeterred, as if it were a weather warning.\n\nChris leaned back and had to think of something Christine had said in passing last week—half mocking, half knowing: Officially, the roof was off-limits, but everyone still went up there at some point. It used to be easier to get up there, she had murmured, until “something” happened. She had emphasized the word as if she knew more than she wanted to say. Chris felt the school suddenly seem bigger, full of little places with stories that weren’t in any brochures.\n\nLater, he sat in Mrs. Rivera’s room, knees parallel, hands folded on the caramel-colored skirt; underneath, the brown sheer tights tingled against the chair with every movement. The bra under the cream-colored top pulled slightly when he breathed in, while the cold still echoed inside him.\n\nThe door opened and [[Mrs. Rivera|Lucia Rivera]] entered the room. Her graceful movements had an almost otherworldly elegance. Her long, black, glossy hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders, and she had the flawless radiance of a Victoria’s Secret model rather than that of an ordinary teacher. Chris felt his eyes involuntarily linger on her dream body.\n\nMrs. Rivera noticed his gaze, and a mischievous smile flitted across her lips. As she walked to her teacher’s desk, she suddenly dropped something—a notebook that landed on the floor with a dull thud. She bent down slowly, her movements almost in slow motion, to pick it up again. Chris felt himself grow hot and forced himself to look away from her ass.\n\n“Today we’re doing an anonymous note round,” Mrs. Rivera said, and her voice was warm, almost playful. She handed out square pieces of paper, letting the stack travel once through the rows. “Anything you’ve never dared to ask. No names. No pointing fingers. Just honest answers.”\n\nThe noise level dropped into a rustling. Pencils scratched. Someone giggled in the back, then silence again. Chris held the slip of paper as if it were something too bright. He felt the edge against his fingertip, felt his heart knocking against the fabric. He wrote without thinking for long, the handwriting small and neat:\n\nHow do female hormones affect boys? And can the effects be reversed?\n\nThe letters looked foreign in his own hand. He folded the note twice, placed it in the aisle that led to the box up front, and followed the others’ example. When the box was filled, Mrs. Rivera carried it to the front, sat down on the teacher’s desk with her legs crossed sexily, and began reading aloud.\n\nFirst came harmless questions. “What’s the difference between love and a crush?” — laughter, then a clear, brief answer. “Can you get pregnant from anal sex?” — more giggling, an annoyed “No” from Mrs. Rivera and an explanatory addition. Chris nodded, heard the routine in her sentences, and for a moment felt the tension in his shoulders ease.\n\nThen she rustled open a new note. Her eyes flicked over it, and she made that small pause that didn’t really mean anything, but made everything louder.\n\n“How do female hormones affect boys? And can the effects be reversed?”\n\nThe room grew sharper, as if someone had turned up the saturation. Somewhere, a pen tapped against wood. Christine looked over at him. Not for long, just a quick cut through the air that went through his stomach. He kept his gaze fixed on the desk, his hands now clasped together, his thumbs moving restlessly.\n\nMrs. Rivera placed the note beside her. “Good question,” she said calmly. “And I’ll answer generally, medically, because it’s important to discuss this clearly and without myths.”\n\nChris felt the elastic waistband of his tights pressing at his waist. He sat up straighter without meaning to.\n\n[[Continue|Mrs. Rivera erklärt.]]

Adam did not wait long before taking the next step. When the DJ dimmed the lights and a slow song began, Adam grabbed Chris by the wrist—not roughly enough to immediately attract attention, but firmly enough that it felt like a grip, not an invitation.\n\n“Come on,” Adam said close to Chris’s ear. “We’re dancing.”\n\nChris’s body tensed. “Adam... I don’t want to.”\n\n“Yes, you do,” Adam whispered, and in his voice was that “proof” thing. Not fun. Not romance. A statement for everyone. She belongs to me.\n\nHe pulled Chris onto the dance floor, right into the middle of the slowly swaying circle. Chris immediately felt the looks. Even if no one was openly staring, there was that attentive pull of eyes in their direction—like a magnetic field. Chris heard snippets in passing, half-loud, but not quiet enough.\n\n“That’s Boob Chris...”\n“With Adam? Seriously?”\n“How did he score someone like her?”\nA giggle that deliberately did not want to sound mean and still did.\n\nChris’s stomach sank. Adam put a hand on his waist, pulled him closer, as if it were a matter of course. Chris felt the tight fabric of his dress, the bare skin on his back, the coldness there where no one was supposed to touch. He tried to keep a step of distance, but Adam immediately followed, pressing in.\n\n“Smile,” Adam murmured, almost inaudibly, and Chris knew exactly what went unsaid behind it.\n\nChris’s gaze flickered over the edges of the dance floor. So many eyes. So much noise. And yet it felt as if they were standing inside a glass sphere. He felt the shame crawl up into his throat, felt the smile freeze on his face because he did not know what else to do.\n\nAdam pulled him even closer. “Now don’t make such a fuss,” he hissed. “It’s just a dance.”\n\nFor Chris, it was not “just” anything. It was a chain. It was the video in Adam’s pocket. It was the hand “marking” him so everyone could see. It was the thought that every second he played along taught Adam that it worked.\n\nChris’s breathing grew faster. He tried to turn slightly out of Adam’s grip, politely, inconspicuously. Adam resisted and pressed his hand more firmly against his waist, as if he wanted to push him back into the pose.\n\nAnd then it just happened. No grand plan, no clever decision. Just a reflex.\n\nChris shoved Adam away.\n\nIt was not a dramatic shove—but in the middle of a slow dance, even a small impulse was an explosion. Adam took two clumsy steps back, briefly stumbled over his own shoes, and caught himself with an awkward flailing of his arms. The circle around them reacted at once: heads turned, conversations broke off, an “Ooooh” rolled through the crowd like a wave.\n\nChris’s face burned. He knew immediately what it looked like: as if he had publicly dumped him. As if he had humiliated him. And as much as part of him felt it as a release—another part saw Adam’s look and knew what that meant.\n\nAdam straightened up, cheeks red, eyes hard. “What the hell was that?” he hissed.\n\nChris could not put together a sentence that could explain why. If he told the truth, everything was over. If he lied, it would become even more embarrassing. He stood there, one step too far into the spotlight, and felt only: Out. Now.\n\nHe turned around, pushed his way through the crowd, heard Adam’s voice behind him, now loud enough to stick: “You’re going to regret this!”\n\nChris did not run—but he walked so fast that it felt like fleeing. Through the curtain, out into the cold hallway. Only outside in front of the gym did he really draw breath, as if he had been underwater the whole time. His hands were trembling as he pulled his phone from the clutch and called an Uber.\n\nIn the car, he sat stiffly, the dress shimmering in the streetlight, and suddenly he felt ridiculous in it—like beautiful packaging for a nightmare. His thoughts only jumped back and forth between two images now: his shove on the dance floor and the frozen smile from the video.\n\nHe’ll publish it, Chris thought. He’ll really do it.\n\nThe car drove through the night, and Chris stared at the passing lights as if he could find a solution there. He felt naked, even though he was polished. And the fear sat in his stomach like something heavy that no longer wanted to go away.\n\n[[Continue|Montag, das Video macht die Runde.]]

Saturday settled over Maplewood like warm light. Early in the evening, Susan drove her children up the driveway leading to Penelope’s house—more villa than house, with a high window front, a broad porch, and a lawn that looked as if it were brushed daily. “Her father must be rich,” Christine murmured as she unbuckled her seat belt. Chris nodded, swallowed, and stared at the double doors, which opened at that very moment.\n\n<center>[img[pics/neglige.jpg]]</center> Penelope stood backlit, smiling brightly. Her satin negligee was cut quite low, so Chris could see the curves of her bust and the bare, well-tanned flesh. The tips of her nipples pressed against the thin fabric as if they wanted out into the fresh air. Chris felt his cock stir slightly. <<set $wochentag = 6>><<set $ort to "Penelope’s house">> Behind her, voices and giggles were already darting about; string lights glowed softly along a staircase. “Come in! Shoes there.” The air smelled of vanilla, fresh laundry scent, and a little movie-theater popcorn. When Chris stepped into the hallway and peered into the large living room, his mouth stayed open for a heartbeat: girls everywhere in gleaming fabrics, as if someone had emptied out a box of “satin princesses”—delicate negligees, nightgowns with spaghetti straps, pastel colors shimmering silk-soft in the lamplight. This was how Chris imagined heaven.\n\n“You can change in here,” Penelope said, leading the siblings into a guest room with a narrow mirror, a chair, and the edge of a bed where two folded blankets already lay. “Call if you need anything.” The door closed.\n\n“You start changing,” said [[Christine|Christine Braun]].\n\nChris opened the bag he had brought: a loose camisole with a delicate lace edge at the top, plus gray jersey shorts. Practical, unspectacular, “safe.” He slipped into them, smoothed the fabric, which settled obediently into place.\n\n“Turn around,” Christine then said, in a voice that expected no argument. Chris obediently turned toward the wall and heard rustling behind him.\n\nThen he noticed the silhouette of her shadow on the wall—his sister must be naked by now. Her small, slender body was outlined against the wall in vivid detail. She was standing in front of a lamp, and although her legs were pressed together, a sliver of light shone through the gap.\n\n"Were those little curves her labia?" Chris wondered.\n\n"What else would they be?" his cock chimed in, beginning to stiffen. Chris didn't notice it at first.\n\nA few minutes later, Christine said, "Okay." He turned around—and his cock gave a jolt. Christine possessed a slender, petite figure and was wearing a midnight-blue satin nightgown that moved like liquid light with her every slightest step; the narrow spaghetti straps met in a subtle V at her décolletage, where a finger-width band of fine, soft lace broke the sheen of the fabric. Naturally, she wasn't wearing a bra underneath. Nor did she need one yet, for beneath the satin nightgown, only the first faint outlines of tiny breasts were visible. They were two small, pointed little mounds beneath the thin fabric.\n\nThe cut fell loosely over her ribs, lending a hint of shape, and then glided in a smooth line to just above her bottom—so high, in fact, that she would have to be careful if she bent over.\n\nHis "little friend" twitched again—twice, and with palpable pleasure—right before his sister’s horrified gaze.\n\n"Stop staring at me like that! What the hell has gotten into you?"\n\nFrom outside, a voice called out: "Is everything okay in there?"\n\n"Yeah, sure!" Christine called back.\n\nNow Chris, too, realized what had happened. His "little club" was bulging so obviously against his jersey shorts that there was no way he could go out to join the girls in his current state.\n\n"Christine, I can't go out like this," he remarked, almost whispering.\n\n"What do you mean, 'like this'?" she asked, feigning ignorance. “Well, I mean... my pants,” he said, pointing sheepishly at the bulge. “I can’t possibly go out like this.”\n\n“And how is that my fault—that you’re such a pervert you get a hard-on around me?”\n\nChristine sighed as she said this, realizing that the sight actually aroused her a little.\n\n“If you don’t want to go out like that, then just wait until you’ve calmed down. Turn around and stop thinking about those things.”\n\n''What is Chris doing?''\n❯ [[What Christine suggests.|Das was Christin vorschlägt.]]\n❯ [[He's jerking off his cock in front of his sister.|Er wichst seinen Schwanz vor seiner Schwester.]]\n\n\n

Susan had already half-dragged Chris over to the small registration booth, where a banner promised “MISS MAPLEWOOD” in glittering letters, as if it were some harmless attraction like a beanbag toss. A woman with a clipboard smiled professionally and handed over a pen.\n\n“Contestant’s name?” she asked.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. He opened his mouth to protest, but Susan was faster. “Christina,” she said smoothly, as if she had rehearsed it beforehand. “Nineteen. And she’s perfect for it.”\n\nChris felt heat rise into his face. He wanted to say no, loud and clear. But here, among families, children with cotton candy, and people bending over maple candles, he couldn’t make a scene. He could already see the looks, the phones, the embarrassing attention. So he pressed his lips together and tried it more quietly: “Mom, please…”\n\n“Just a quick registration,” Susan hissed back, sweet to the outside world, steel toward him. “Then we’ll see.”\n\nChris’s gaze darted across the square, searching for something—someone—to give him an excuse.\n\nAt that exact moment, a group from the theater club passed by the booth. No Lucas silhouette among them, but Ruby was immediately recognizable, with her red braids and alert gaze. When she saw Chris, she raised her hand in surprise. “Chris! Hey!”\n\nThe group stopped and came over as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Their voices were friendly, unruffled. “What are you doing here?” asked [[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]], glancing briefly at Susan, then back at Chris. “We’re looking for people for—well, really just for fun. Coming with us?”\n\nChris felt his heart leap. He nodded a little too quickly. “Uh… yeah. Sure.”\n\nSusan started to speak, but stopped. In front of these teenagers—people who knew Chris, who saw him in a context that wasn’t Susan’s project—she couldn’t pin him down so easily without risking awkward questions. She forced on a smile. “Just for a little while,” she said, more to herself than to him.\n\nChris used the fraction of a second. “I’ll be right back,” he lied politely, and was already a step away.\n\nHe left with the theater kids before his mother could hold on to anything. After just a few yards, the air already felt different. It wasn’t about photos anymore, not about “training,” not about the stage someone wanted to push him onto. It was about booths, silly challenges, and that loose, warm feeling of being part of a group without being tested.\n\nThey tried maple fudge that was so sweet Chris had to laugh, even though he actually hated it when sugar stuck between his teeth. They watched a street magician make coins disappear, and someone commented on everything in an exaggeratedly dramatic Shakespearean tone until even Ruby grinned. At a throwing-booth game, Chris accidentally turned out to be surprisingly good; the little prize—a tiny plush wolf—ended up going to Ruby because she claimed her horse would have “more respect” if she owned a wolf.\n\nEvery now and then, Chris even forgot how he was moving. He laughed, answered, teased back. When someone asked how things were going at school, it was genuine interest, not a controlling look. He felt… normal. Not as a role, not as a problem, but as someone who was simply there with them.\n\nAnd that was exactly the advantage: these relationships weren’t just nice. They were protection. A pretext, an escape route, a small counterweight to his mother’s grip.\n\nAs the sun slowly sank lower and the festival lights grew warmer, the group gathered at the edge of the square, where the river could be faintly made out in the distance. One of the boys from the theater club (Chris knew his face, but not every detail of his life) suddenly grinned in a way that smelled like trouble.\n\n“Okay,” he said, and there was that solemn teenage spark in his voice. “When it gets dark in a minute… then it’s time.”\n\nThe others immediately grew livelier, as if they had been waiting for that cue. Ruby raised an eyebrow, as if she were both annoyed and curious.\n\n“Time for what?” Chris asked.\n\n“For the dare,” the boy said, nodding toward the river. “Tonight we face the curse.”\n\nChris’s stomach gave a small twist, because he knew the stories: the abandoned maple syrup bottling plant by the water, once Maplewood’s pride, now rusty tanks and crumbling halls. On warm days, that sweetish smell sometimes still hung there, as if the syrup had never fully come loose from the concrete. And among teenagers, there was the unwritten rule: Don’t go there after dark. Every graduating class had at least one story that sounded too detailed to be completely made up.\n\nThe theater kids looked at one another as if tonight were the night to prove they weren’t afraid. And the sun kept sinking toward the horizon.\n\n[[Continue|Auf zur Abfüllanlage.2]]

Chris now wanted to fuck too, not just be the passive part anymore.\n\nBut with Laverne, he was pushing at an open door. “Oh, yes!” And in the next moment, Laverne was already crouching on her knees and elbows, raising her magnificent black ass invitingly into the air.\n\nChris couldn’t resist the temptation to kiss and lick the plump, round cheeks of that perfectly modeled black mare’s ass by every rule of the art, and when his tongue darted through the fine cleft, Laverne gasped loudly with lust.\n\n“I can’t take it anymore, finally stick it in me!” she hissed with almost feline wildness, and Chris hurried to grant her wish, since his own arousal was slowly but surely approaching boiling point as well. With the utmost care, Chris sank his violently pulsing torpedo into Laverne’s tight anus and began moving in her rear entrance, first very gently and tenderly, then faster and faster, more and more demanding.\n\nAt first Laverne moaned very softly and tightly, then she whimpered with pleasure, and finally she screamed out her raging lust wildly and without restraint as Chris’s hot shaft swept ever more brutally through her rectum.\n\nWith so much ecstatic rapture, Chris could no longer control his body’s reactions either. Quite suddenly, his face twisted into a grimace of pure pleasure, and with the cry: “Oooohhh, God.” he tore his boiling-hot cock, aching with lust, out of the slightly stretched rosebud of Laverne, who was sobbing uncontrollably in her sensual frenzy.\n\nAnd before he could shoot his juice, Laverne had changed position and brought her eager little mouth into place beneath his violently pulsing cock, so the whole surge of his hot cum bubbled into her greedy throat.\n\nChris, meanwhile, was completely done in; exhausted, he fell forward and collapsed with Laverne onto the sofa. They lay down side by side facing each other. Kissed for a very long time and very intensely.\n\n[[Continue|Abschied von Laverne.2]]

Chris stepped out of the gym dressed, the sports bag over his shoulder, when one of the football players came toward him—broad shoulders, helmet under his arm, the confidence of the entire week in his eyes. “Hey, Chris?” he asked, stopped, and cleared his throat. “Do you want to go to Homecoming with me next week?”\n\nChris’s first impulse was a clear no, quick, clean, painless. But in that moment Christine turned the corner with Penelope and two other cheerleaders. They saw the scene, slowed down, and quite automatically formed a little semicircle backdrop. Penelope lifted her chin almost imperceptibly, a “go on” nod. Christine tilted her head ever so slightly: Your decision.\n\nChris felt the looks like spotlights. Everything in him pushed the reflex I’m a boy forward—yet what came out was a hesitant, too-soft smile. “That’s nice of you,” he began, and his voice betrayed him, “but… I can’t. I’m sorry.” The no hung shyly in the air, smaller than he had meant it to be.\n\nThe football player nodded, looking past him as if searching for another exit from the situation. “It’s okay.” He gripped the helmet more tightly and took off. Disappointment stood openly on his face before he tucked it away.\n\nOn the way to the bus, the girls gathered Chris in; their steps threaded themselves into his pace. “He was cute,” one said. Penelope raised an eyebrow. “And brave. Not everyone asks in front of an audience.” Christine nudged Chris lightly and whispered, “Handled that neatly.”\n\n“That was embarrassing,” Chris muttered, his face still hot. “I would’ve… no idea.”\n\nThey turned the corner; the parking lot lay in the golden remains of the light. As they talked, Penelope casually brushed against a topic that fell into the group like a piece of candy: “Speaking of—[[Dylan|Dylan Carter]] asked me.”\n\nChris’s heart made that small, unwanted leap. “Homecoming?” one of the girls asked unnecessarily. Penelope nodded, lips tight.\n\nThe sting hit Chris quietly, but with pinpoint accuracy; he felt it below his breastbone, like a cold drop. He said nothing, only nodded. The girls kept talking about dress colors and corsage flowers. Chris listened and pretended he was calculating bus times in his head. As the bus pulled up, his embarrassment over the scene in front of the gym was already beginning to fade. But the little remnant of jealousy stayed, invisible and stubborn, like chewing gum you can’t quite get out of your hair.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte < 2>>[[Friday, before the game.|Freitag, vor dem Spiel.]]<<else>>[[Friday, conversation with Charlotte.|Freitag, Gespräch mit Charlotte.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

In front of the gym, the late-afternoon sheen lay on the asphalt as Chris stepped outside with the sports bag over his shoulder. His mind was still on counts and sidelines when someone stepped in front of him. [[Dylan|Dylan Carter]]. Hoodie, school jacket over it, that effortlessly calm walk. Chris felt his breathing stumble for a moment.\n“Hey, Chris,” he said, a touch embarrassed, which suited him in an unfamiliar way. “Would you go to the Homecoming dance with me next week?”\nFor a moment, everything went still. Chris felt warmth rise into his face, a fluttering feeling deep in his stomach. The air smelled of grass and rubber, and behind Dylan two jocks were gawking over with half-interest. A few cheerleaders stepped out of the gym’s side entrance; Penelope stopped, Charlotte was nowhere in sight just then, Christine was still inside. A few gazes hooked onto the scene—envious, weighing, surprised. Chris registered them like the click of a camera.\nIt flattered him in a direct, smooth way. Dylan is asking me. The name glittered briefly. Then Charlotte appeared in his mind—her room, her laughter, her “don’t rush anything.” I’m regrettably taken. Regrettably? The word darted through him, and he immediately pushed it aside. I’m a boy. I have a super-hot girlfriend. I don’t want to go to the school dance with Dylan, he told himself. The sentence sounded inside him like something you repeat loudly enough for it to become true.\nDylan waited, looking at him without pushing. “So?”\nChris drew a breath, hoisted the bag higher on his shoulder. “That’s really nice of you,” he said quietly. “But I can’t.” He tried to smile; he only half managed it. “I’m sorry.”\nDylan’s face changed in a barely perceptible giving way. A brief nod, his gaze shifting an inch to the side. “Sure,” he said, pulling the helmet closer to himself. “No big deal.” He meant it politely, but the small dent in his voice remained.\n“Thanks for asking,” Chris added, which sounded strangely awkward.\n“Sure.” Dylan put on that typical almost-smile, turned away, and went over to his teammates. The atmosphere dissolved back into sounds: voices, the squeak of a door, the dull “thump” of a ball in the distance. Chris stood there for a moment, feeling in his chest both a quiet relief and a narrow remnant of regret, which he immediately pushed back under the other thoughts. Then he walked on, his gaze fixed on the curb, trying to make his steps sound as certain as he would have liked to feel.\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte < 2>>[[Friday, before the game.|Freitag, vor dem Spiel.]]<<else>>[[Friday, conversation with Charlotte.|Freitag, Gespräch mit Charlotte.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

The cafeteria was louder than usual today, but at the “popular” table the noise felt muted—as if through glass. Chris set down his tray and forced a smile.\n<<set $ort to "Cafeteria">>\n<<if $choice_cafeteria == 2 || $choice_cafeteria == 3>>Charlotte nodded to him as if saying: Just sit down.<<endif>><<if $choice_cafeteria == 1>>One of the Pom Puffs gave him a brief nod as if saying: Just sit down.<<endif>> Christine shifted over a little, but [[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]] merely smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her top and looked him over appraisingly: stripes, cropped sweatshirt, high-waisted jeans.\n\n“Chris,” she began in the tone used for polite rejections, “you know we do a little… curation here, right?” A few girls giggled softly. “So—your look today is… hm. Basic. Very ‘laundry day.’” She smiled without letting her eyes smile. “That doesn’t fit our aesthetic.”\n\n<<if $choice_cafeteria == 3>>Charlotte immediately raised a hand. “Hey, calm down. It’s just clothes.”\n\n<</if>><<if $choice_cafeteria == 1>>Another cheerleader immediately raised a hand. “Okay, deep breath. It’s literally just clothes. We’re not at Fashion Week here.”\n\n<</if>><<if $choice_cafeteria == 2>>No one said anything. There was only that brief, uncomfortable vacuum in which everyone pretended to be examining something very important about their napkins or phone cases.\n\n<</if>>Penelope let <<if $choice_cafeteria == 2>>the silence<<else>>the remark<<endif>> pass by. “And then—I heard you joined the D&D club. First girl there? Cute. But hanging out with that crowd…” She lifted her shoulders ever so slightly, as if rinsing away something embarrassing. “That’s embarrassing. For you—and, if you sit here, for us. You do understand: we have an image.”\n\n<<if $choice_cafeteria == 3>>“Pen, seriously,” Charlotte murmured, but even she didn’t sound as if she were truly contradicting her. More as if she were cushioning the impact.\n\n<</if>><<if $choice_cafeteria == 1>>“Pen, seriously…,” the cheerleader murmured, but she didn’t sound as if she could really push back against it. More as if she were cushioning the impact.\n\n<</if>>Christine looked at her brother with that gaze that said more than any words: I told you so. If you don’t play along at being a “girl,” you’re out. She nervously tapped her straw against the rim of her cup and said nothing.\n\nPenelope moved her tray two inches, as if drawing a line. “It’s nothing personal. Just—brand management. Not at this table today, okay? Try again next week. With…” Her gaze slid from top to bottom. “…better clothes. And maybe less dungeon.”\n\nThe words settled in Chris’s stomach like cold stones. He nodded silently, picked up his tray again—the fork clattered much too loudly against the plastic—and stepped back. No one laughed openly. That made it worse. It was this polite shifting aside, as if he were a chair that didn’t match the set.\n\nHe turned around. The room kept humming. A table of band kids waved fries at one another, nerds bent over laptops, preps scrolled. That was the social hierarchy: quiet doors falling shut while you were still standing in the frame. His gaze searched for somewhere “neutral”—not cool, not crooked, just a place to sit.\n\n<<if $choice_cafeteria == 3>>Behind him, Charlotte said softly, “Sorry,”<</if>><<if $choice_cafeteria == 1>>Behind him, a Pom Puff murmured softly, “Sorry,”<</if>><<if $choice_cafeteria == 2>>Behind him, no one said anything,<</if>> and Penelope was already starting to talk about Saturday, as if she had merely moved a napkin.\n\nChris sat down at the nearest free spot at the edge. The striped top pulled tight, the high-waisted jeans pressed, and for a moment the air tasted like metal. You stand out less, he thought bitterly, until you’re no longer wanted. Hard blinking. Then he breathed through it, braced the fork against the salad, and forced his hands not to tremble. In this building, someone handed out roles every day—and today, he had been written out of one.\n\n''👑 Popularity -1''\n\n[[Continue|Einladung im Klassenzimmer.]]

The cafeteria roared as always: trays clattered, plastic forks scraped over plates, somewhere someone laughed too loudly, as if trying to prove they belonged. The smell of fry grease and sweet syrup hung in the air like a film.\n<<set $ort to "cafeteria">>\nChris headed for the popular table—Christine waved<<if $choice_cafeteria == 1>>, one of the Pom Puffs shifted a little to the side and patted the free spot as if it were the most natural thing in the world<<endif>><<if $choice_cafeteria == 3>>, Charlotte shifted a little to the side and gave him that brief, reassuring nod that said: 'Just sit down. I’m here.'<<endif>>.\n\nHe sat down carefully, as if testing the edge of the table. The high-waist tugged at his waist like an invisible hand, and suddenly his outfit felt much louder than it was.\n\n[[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]] looked past him first, then at him. Her gaze brushed over the striped cropped sweatshirt, slid over the jeans, stopped at the sneakers. Her smile was polite—and cold. “Hey, Chris.” A mini-pause. “Boldly… casual today.”\n\nHe nodded, searching for normal. “It was laundry day. I didn’t have anything better.”\n\n“Mhm.” Penelope turned the straw in her cup as if marking time. “I hate to say it, but… this table is—” She searched for a word, as if trying to make it more polite than it was. “—curated. We care about effort. About brand. This…” A small circling motion in the air that outlined his outfit. “…doesn’t fit. It drags the group down. And that’s embarrassing for everyone.”\n\n<<if $choice_cafeteria == 1>>“Pen,” a cheerleader cut in, raising her eyebrows, “if you want us to come across like a team, then stop sorting people by sneakers. That is so not our vibe.”\n\nA second Pom Puff nodded immediately. “We’re not mannequins. Laundry day is literally real.”\n\nPenelope blinked briefly—not hurt, more annoyed that someone was challenging her direction. “I’m not sorting anyone because of sneakers,” she replied calmly. “I’m sorting by standards. And yes, they apply on laundry day too.”\n\n<<endif>><<if $choice_cafeteria == 2>>No one interrupted her. There was only that brief, unpleasant vacuum in which everyone pretended to be examining something very important about their pom-poms, napkins, or phone cases. One girl laughed too brightly, then immediately more quietly again.\n\nChristine opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something—and closed it again.\n\n<<endif>><<if $choice_cafeteria == 3>>“Pen,” Charlotte cut in, “seriously? It’s an outfit, not an act of state.”\n\n“It’s an act of state every day,” Penelope replied with a smile that made the sting taste like sugar. “We’re more visible than other people. That’s the deal.”\n\n<<endif>>“She was totally—just yesterday—” Christine broke off, bit her lip. “Today she’s... Come on.” It sounded half like protest, half like a plea that Penelope’s judgment shouldn’t be final.\n\nPenelope shook her head slightly. “I like Chris. But: starting next week—another table. You stay today, obviously. But we have to hold a line.” She didn’t say it loudly, yet the sentence settled between them like a transparent wall.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. “I… get it.” He tried to keep his voice smooth. “Next time—”\n\n“That’s not a punishment,” Penelope interrupted gently, “it’s… order.” A few of the girls nodded, not maliciously, just dutifully. Two looked away, as if looking away were already a kind of responsibility.\n\n<<if $choice_cafeteria == 1>>The cheerleaders pressed their lips together as if they wanted to keep protesting—and realized Penelope had already decided.\n\n<<endif>><<if $choice_cafeteria == 2>>Christine stared at Penelope as if she wanted to say something—and then didn’t. The silence was louder than any giggle.\n\n<<endif>><<if $choice_cafeteria == 3>>Charlotte and Christine stared at Penelope as if they wanted to protest and knew it wouldn’t change anything. Charlotte discreetly nudged the milk drink a little closer to Chris—a small, silent “I see you.”\n\n<<endif>>The rest of lunch roared past Chris. He heard words about the pajama party, mascara, homecoming plans—everything seemed a little farther away, as if he were sitting one chair over. He nodded here and there, laughed once in the wrong place, and hoped no one noticed.\n\nWhen the beeping of the clock announced the end, Penelope stood, gathered her things, and smiled across the table. “Nothing personal, okay?”\n\n'Nothing personal' echoed, as if his name had suddenly stopped being assigned to anyone. Chris nodded, because you nodded when you had no room for any other gesture. He looked across the tables—jocks, band kids, nerds, the theater crowd, quiet corners at the edge. The social structure of a high school was a chessboard without a referee; pieces were moved when you weren’t looking.\n\n[[Continue|Einladung im Klassenzimmer.]]

Stil (Chris kann max. 4 haben)

The next morning, Chris wordlessly set a cup of tea down in front of Christine before she had even properly arrived at the kitchen table. Chamomile, a spoonful of honey, the way she used to like it when she was sick. Christine sat down, gave it only a tired glance and first acted as if she didn’t care—and then drank it after all.\n\nSusan stayed angry. Since the “announcement,” her voice had become sharper, every remark seeming like an accusation—about responsibility, about “consequences,” about “what people will think.” Christine tried not to fight back, often sitting there quietly and staring into her cup, but her mother still found ways to hit her.\n\n“You’re not going to just act like this has no consequences now,” Susan said one morning, when Christine could barely touch her toast. “This isn’t some… accident at work.”\n\nChris stepped between them before he even thought about it. “She’s trying—” he began.\n\nSusan seized on the sentence as if it were another insolence. “And you don’t need to play her lawyer, Chris. You’ve already done enough—”\n\nThe anger landed on him. As it so often did when he got caught between the fronts. Chris felt the burn in his throat, the impulse to simply disappear. But something in him clung to a sentence that suddenly felt like a railing: I have to take responsibility. He didn’t even know exactly for what—for Christine, for the chaos, for the family. Maybe for everything. And maybe also because otherwise he would have to feel as if he were just watching everything fall apart.\n\nAt school, it turned ugly quickly. It didn’t take long for Myles to find out. Christine had caught him during a break, and from a distance Chris had only seen how her gestures first grew small, then frantic. Myles’ face froze, his hands ran through his hair, and at some point Chris heard the fragment of a sentence that cut through the air like a slap: “You have to get rid of it.”\n\nChristine shook her head firmly. “No.”\n\nMyles stepped closer, too close, his voice muted but hard. “Christine, I’m not ready for this kind of crap. You’re ruining everything for me.”\n\n“You did it just as much as I did,” she hissed back, and for a moment she stood there, small, but immovable. “I’m not doing that. End of discussion.”\n\nMyles’ face turned red, then cold. He said something Chris didn’t understand and walked away, as if he had simply cut off the conversation like a bad song.\n\nThe rumor mill didn’t need confirmation. In the cafeteria, someone made a remark that was said too loudly to be “accidental”: “Didn’t know cheer had a pregnancy program now.” Giggles. A few eyes that quickly looked away again when Chris raised his head. Christine stared at her tray as if there were an invisible line there she could hold on to.\n\nOver time, Chris noticed how the girls’ behavior toward Christine changed. Not openly, not cruelly. More in a way where Christine was suddenly “forgotten”: no place at the table that had once been a given; messages that no longer arrived; a “We’re just going for a second…” and then they were gone. Some girls avoided her as if they could catch her misfortune. Others were nice, but overly careful, as if every word might be wrong.\n\nChris simply stayed with her.\n\nHe sat down beside her, without big speeches.\n\n[[Continue|Filmabend.]]

Next to his father stood Anja, his new partner. She looked well-groomed, friendly, and you could tell she desperately wanted to “do everything right” at their first meeting. That was exactly what made her a little too cautious. “Hello, Chris,” she said, with a smile that was a touch too polished. “Welcome. We really are very happy.” Then she hesitated, as if searching for the right next sentence, and hastily added, “You… uh… must have had an exhausting trip. Would you… would you like something to drink?”\n\nChris nodded automatically, even though he wasn’t thirsty. He was just glad she didn’t start asking questions right away.\n\nThe two girls stood a little behind Anja: the younger one, ten, with a colorful hairband and wide eyes; the older one, fourteen, with her arms crossed and that look that was already testing how far she could go.\n\nThe little one looked at Chris as if she had just discovered a movie character. “Whoa, you’re so cool!” she burst out. “Your lips look amazing! Are you good at makeup? Can we maybe do something like that together later…?”\n\nChris blinked, surprised by how direct she was—and felt a tiny bit of tension leave his back. “Uh… maybe,” he said quietly.\n\nThe fourteen-year-old tilted her head. “So you’re… Chris.” Her tone wasn’t openly mean, more like testing. “And you’re a… boy? Then why are you wearing—” She made a vague hand gesture toward the dress, as if she didn’t need to say the word.\n\n“Sweetheart,” Anja said quickly, too quickly, her smile tightening even more. “Not so… directly.”\n\n“It’s just a question,” the older girl replied, not taking her eyes off Chris. “I just want to understand.”\n\nMichael cleared his throat and reached for a suitcase handle, as if he could busy himself with it. “Right. Car. We’ll talk… later,” he said, sounding as if he himself hoped that “later” was a softer place in the day.\n\nOn the way to the parking lot, Chris felt the looks of people passing by—some not at all, some briefly, some longer. He didn’t know whether he was imagining it, but in Germany everything felt closer. More familiar. More dangerous.\n\nIn the car, he sat in the back, between suitcases and winter jackets, and looked out the window. The roads felt like something out of a memory: signs in German, familiar construction-site colors, the gray lines of the autobahn. Every exit name could belong to someone he knew. Every rest stop could be a place where an old classmate was standing and saying: Chris?—meaning the boy who had once been here as if it were the most natural thing in the world.\n\nHis heart beat faster the closer they got to the city. He smiled whenever the ten-year-old turned around to chatter on at him. He nodded when Anja kindly asked whether he was cold. He listened to his father’s overly friendly sentences, which felt like bridges that were still unsteady.\n\nAnd as the lights of home passed him by, Chris knew: here, his past was not far away. It sat on every corner, invisible—and ready to appear at any moment.\n\n[[Continue|Ankunft im alten zu Hause.]]

Chris heard his own voice before he fully understood that he was speaking.\n\n“She didn’t just put dresses on me,” he said. “She taught me that my body belonged to her.”\n\nThe courtroom became completely silent.\n\nChris kept his eyes on the microphone. Not on Susan. Not on the jury. Not on Christine. If he looked at anyone, he might stop.\n\n“She decided what I was supposed to wear. How I was supposed to walk, talk, and look. And if I didn’t play along, she got angry.”\n\nThe prosecutor remained standing calmly in front of him.\n\n“What do you mean by angry?”\n\nChris swallowed.\n\n“She yelled at me. She threatened me. She hit me.” His fingers tightened around each other. “And afterward, she said I had made her do it.”\n\nSomewhere behind him, someone was crying softly. Chris did not know whether it was Christine. He did not turn around.\n\nThe defense attorney moved as if she meant to object, but Susan briefly placed her hand on her arm. It was a small movement. Controlled. Almost loving.\n\nChris saw it.\n\nAnd this time, it did not make him small.\n\n“She brought Mr. Gilbert to me,” he said. “I thought he was a doctor. She let me believe that. But he wasn’t. He was her tax advisor.”\n\nThe prosecutor asked quietly, “Why are you telling the court this today?”\n\nNow Chris raised his eyes.\n\nHe looked at the judge.\n\n“Because she always wanted me to be ashamed.” His voice trembled, but it did not break. “Of my body. Of the fact that I was afraid. Of the fact that I wasn’t strong enough to run away immediately.”\n\nHe breathed in.\n\n“But I’m not ashamed anymore.”\n\nSusan looked at him.\n\nThis time, Chris did not hold her gaze for long. He did not have to. She was no longer the center.\n\n“I want her to be punished,” he said. “Not because I hate her. But because she knew I couldn’t escape her. She was my mother. She was supposed to protect me.”\n\nThe prosecutor nodded slowly.\n\n“Do you have anything else to say to the court?”\n\nChris glanced briefly at his father. Michael sat there motionless, but his eyes were red.\n\nThen Chris looked forward again.\n\n“Yes.”\n\nHis voice became quieter.\n\n“I want her never to be able to explain to a child again that pain is love.”\n\nNo one spoke.\n\nThe prosecutor let the sentence stand in the room. Then she said:\n\n“No further questions.”\n\nThe defense asked a few more questions. Whether Chris was angry at his mother. Whether his parents’ divorce had made everything more difficult. Whether he might have misunderstood Susan.\n\nChris answered as calmly as he could, until the judge allowed him to leave the witness stand.\n\nAs he stood up, his legs felt weak. Michael did not catch him. He did not have to. He just stood there as Chris came back and placed a hand on his shoulder.\n\nAt the front, the attorneys gathered their documents.\n\nThe evidence had been heard.\n\nThe testimony was over.\n\nNow only the verdict remained.\n\n''What is the verdict?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $temp == 5>>[[Harsh sentence.|Hartes Urteil.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $temp >= 2 && $temp < 5>>[[Just sentence.|Gerechtes Urteil.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $temp < 2 >>[[Lenient sentence.|Mildes Urteil.]]<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Chris climbed in first, so Charlotte couldn’t help but take in Chris’s perky ass in his hot pants as he climbed into the hot tub. The warmth enclosed his legs, then his stomach; when he slid onto the seat, the jets took the weight off him. Charlotte followed, a gentle wave sloshing against his small breasts. She stretched out her toes and leaned her head back. “Ohhh—exactly what I needed after a long school day.”\n<<set $CharlotteMemory[0] to 1>>\nHe laughed briefly. If only you knew. To keep from sinking into silence, he said: “The chairs at school are seriously hard. My back hates me.”\n\nCharlotte sat up, pushing a few wet strands behind her ears. “Luckily, I know an excellent masseuse.” She patted the spot in front of her. “Turn around.”\n\nHe sat with his back to her. Her hands settled warm and sure on his shoulders. Charlotte slowly began massaging Chris’s shoulders and back, and Chris quickly realized that Charlotte really knew what she was doing, because he had probably never received a more relaxing massage. Chris enjoyed the treatment, and together with the bubbling water, his whole body relaxed.\n\nAt some point, Chris suddenly felt that Charlotte had now slid so close behind him that Charlotte’s breasts were pressing lightly against his back; it was only a very slight contact, but still noticeable. “Is Charlotte doing that on purpose? Or is it just an accident?” The thoughts whirled through Chris’s head, but he had to admit that the touch was by no means unpleasant; on the contrary, Charlotte’s soft breasts felt very pleasant against his back. The feeling was so pleasant, in fact, that Chris leaned back just a tiny bit more, turning the light contact into now clearly noticeable body contact. Charlotte kept massaging him in the meantime, and Chris was so relaxed that he had to control himself not to sigh with happiness.\n\nWhen she slid to the side to get better access to his neck, he automatically moved with her. Her knee brushed his hip, and the closeness made the air between them thinner than the steam above the water. He turned his head, she leaned forward a little too—and suddenly they were so close to each other that he could see the fine droplets of water on her lashes.\n\nFor a moment, their eyes searched, as if making sure they both wanted the same thing. Then Charlotte placed her hand on his cheek—warm, wet, determined. He closed the remaining gap. Chris’s first kiss with a girl was cautious, a touch that tested the world. Then it grew deeper. Charlotte’s lips were soft and smooth, with a trace of lip gloss still on them—sweet, lightly strawberry-fruity. He felt her tilt her head minimally to the side; he followed, their mouths finding a shared rhythm, calm and then bolder.\n\nWildly demanding, he awkwardly pushed his tongue into her mouth. Instinctively, she kissed back, and her tongue danced with Chris’s tongue. The garden soon filled with the sounds of their wet kisses and soft moans. Chris hadn’t even suspected that a kiss could be this arousing. He simply let himself fall and returned the horny tongue kiss as best he could. He couldn’t be doing it completely wrong. Because he noticed that Charlotte was becoming more passionate from second to second, and he surrendered himself entirely into her experienced hands. Soon both tongues were winding wildly around each other. They both breathed harder and harder, and during the kiss, soft moans could be heard again and again from both of them.\n\nChris felt Charlotte send her hands wandering, her fingertips moving down along his neck. Soon she had reached Chris’s bikini clasp. She looked into Chris’s eyes briefly once more, and when she found no objection there, she opened Chris’s bikini top. It sprang open, and Charlotte slowly pulled both cups aside, exposing Chris’s small breasts. Slowly, Charlotte glided her flat hand over Chris’s left breast, making him tremble inside. Charlotte now also enclosed Chris’s right breast with her second hand and began gently massaging Chris’s breasts with her thumbs while the two of them continued kissing passionately.\n\n“Ahem.” A man’s voice cut through the hiss of the bubbles, dry as a towel being wrung out. Not theatrical, but impossible to miss. The sound hung over them like a shadow.\n\n[[Continue|Charlottes Vater.][$kissgirl += 1]]

The fair was in town. It was like its own little planet on the edge of Maplewood. Strings of lights flickered over the stalls, pop music blared from speakers, somewhere people were screaming on a roller coaster, and the air tasted of sugar, grease, and autumn cold. Chris walked through the crowd with Dylan, hand in hand, and for a few hours felt so light, as if someone had tricked the shadow in his head.\n\nThey went on rides where Chris first pretended he was brave, then screamed after all when the gondola tilted too fast. Dylan laughed every time Chris brushed his hair out of his face afterward and acted as if he had handled the whole thing perfectly calmly. They shared a bag of funnel cake, powdered sugar everywhere, sticky fingers, Dylan grinning as he wiped a spot from Chris’s cheek, and Chris blushed, even though it was barely visible in the dark.\n\nLater they stood at the shooting booth. Dylan took the air rifle, raised it, focused, and Chris watched him as he aimed with that same calm confidence Dylan had on the field. A metallic clang, a hit, a second, a third. The operator raised his eyebrows appreciatively and handed Dylan a huge stuffed animal—an oversized wolf, blue-gray, with ridiculously big paws.\n\n“For the queen,” Dylan said, pressing it into Chris’s arms.\n\nChris had to laugh, because the thing was so big it almost hid him. He carried it proudly through the crowd like a trophy, and every time he looked at Dylan, he felt that warm, crazy happiness: That’s my boyfriend.\n\nAt some point they stood away from the main paths, where the light was dimmer and only the distant roar of the roller coaster remained. Dylan leaned against a railing, pulled Chris closer with a little tug, and kissed him briefly—tenderly, but also with that tension behind it that Chris knew by now. Then Dylan looked at him as if he were weighing something.\n\n“My parents aren’t home today,” he said softly, almost casually. “We could go to my place.”\n\nChris felt his stomach tighten immediately. In the very first second, he knew what Dylan meant. Not Netflix. Not just “chilling for a bit.” Dylan wanted sex.\n\nChris clutched the stuffed animal more tightly. “I… I can’t,” he said.\n\nDylan blinked. “Why not?”\n\nChris searched for an answer that wouldn’t blow everything apart. “I’m just… not ready right now,” he managed, and it sounded thin, because it wasn’t the whole truth.\n\nDylan’s face fell just a little, but unmistakably. There was disappointment in it, and something wounded that hurt Chris immediately. “Chris…” Dylan breathed out, shook his head, and looked away for a moment, as if he needed to gather himself. “We’re together. We have been for weeks. I just don’t understand.”\n\n“It’s not because of you,” Chris said quickly.\n\n“But that’s what it feels like,” Dylan replied, quieter than before. He wasn’t loud, wasn’t mean—just honestly disappointed. And that was exactly what made it worse.\n\nThey kept walking, but something had shifted. Chris noticed that Dylan was trying to be normal, to laugh, to put his arm around him—but there was a layer between them now. Chris’s happiness from the evening remained, but cracks had begun to show in it.\n\nWhen they later stood at the edge of the parking lot, the stuffed animal between them like a strange witness, Chris wondered whether any of this still made sense at all. How much longer could he keep Dylan waiting? How much longer could he pretend there was no reason? And was it fair to keep deceiving Dylan, just so he wouldn’t lose this warm feeling?\n\nHe knew he was standing on an edge.\n\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[Chris keeps the secret to himself.|Chris behält das Geheimnis für sich.][$dylanbadend += 1]]\n<<nobr>><<if $dylan == 4>>❯ [[Tell Dylan the secret.|Dylan das Geheimnis verraten.]]<<else>><div class="box"><b>Note:</b> Chris’s fear had been greater than his trust. That was why, in this moment, he couldn’t make any other choice.</div><<endif>><</nobr>>

Outside, Zeke’s car rolled into the driveway. Not a sleek sports car, but a large van.\n<<set $ort to "">>\nChris was nervous. It was his first date with a man. And with Zeke, of all people – the sturdy outdoorsman from the riding stables.\n\nSusan stood at the window and watched everything. Her gaze was calm – maybe proud, maybe controlling, maybe both. Chris pulled the leather jacket tighter, grabbed his small bag, and went to the door.\n\nThe skimpy top sat with confidence. The short leather skirt, which ended a little above his knees and showed off his attractive legs well, made a faint, dry rustle with every movement. The leather jacket made him look cool. He did not look “well-behaved.”\n\nThe van parked, and Zeke got out. Broadly built, steady steps, a presence that took up space without words. He did not go straight back to the driver’s side, but came around the vehicle and opened the door for Chris as if it were the most natural thing in the world.\n\n“Wow,” Zeke said, grinning. “You look damn good. Really. It suits you.”\n\nChris felt warmth rise into his face – not unpleasant, more like a sudden light. His heart was beating too fast. Behind him, somewhere in the house, his mother stood at the window. In front of him stood Zeke, tall, friendly, honest. And between the two lay the tiny second in which Chris had to decide how he was going into this date: brave, or at a distance.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[He accepts Zeke’s compliment and risks letting his nervousness show.|Er nimmt Zekes Kompliment an und riskierte, dass seine Nervosität auffällt.][$temp += 1]]\n❯ [[He stays “safe,” but risks seeming cold or closed off.|Er blieb sicher riskierte aber, kühl oder verschlossen zu wirken.]]

Chris decided to leave. He turned away from the shadow of the corridor, climbed the steps, and squeezed sideways past jackets and cup holders back to his seat. The stands breathed in waves: scraps of fanfare, clattering boots, the stadium announcer’s voice getting lost in the floodlit air. He forced his gaze onto the field—line judges, warm-up throws, the band in a halfhearted rhythm—and tried to push the last images out of his head.\n\nA few minutes later, the entrance below opened again. Christine stepped out with Myles. He stopped briefly, adjusted his gloves, and jogged toward the team. She, however, hurried over to the cheerleaders on the sideline. Chris saw how her walk was a touch wider than usual. Her face was flushed, her hair damp at the roots and a little tousled; she tied it tighter as she walked, as if trying to put the last traces in order. Penelope said something curt, Christine nodded, took her place in the line, and raised her arms on the next call—half a beat late, then back in rhythm. Chris clapped with the stands without taking his eyes off her, and felt worry and silence hook into each other inside his chest.\n\n[[Continue|Das Spiel geht los.]]

Chris decided to leave. He turned away from the shadow of the corridor, climbed the steps, and squeezed sideways past jackets and cup holders back to his seat. He forced his gaze onto the field—line judges, warm-up throws, the band in a halfhearted rhythm—and tried to push the last images out of his head.\n\n“Everything okay?” Joseph asked. He studied him briefly, not curious, more concerned.\n\n“Yeah. I… was just looking for someone,” Chris said, forcing a small smile. His hands remained clasped together, his fingers too tight.\n\nDown below, the band warmed up the fanfare, the announcer’s voice tested the mic. Joseph silently handed him the thermos cup. “Take a sip.”\n\nChris drank, grateful for something to do. The hot rim against his lips grounded him a little. He tried to focus his gaze on the field: helpers setting up cones, the first players stretching, the cheer line rearranging itself. Everything normal, everything in rhythm—except his heart.\n\nA few minutes later, Christine and Myles came out of the corridor. He stopped briefly, adjusted his gloves, and jogged toward the team. She, however, hurried over to the cheerleaders on the sideline. Chris saw how her walk was a touch wider than usual. Her face was flushed, her hair damp at the roots and a little tousled; she tied it tighter as she walked, as if trying to put the last traces in order. Penelope said something curt, Christine nodded, took her place in the line, and raised her arms on the next call—half a beat late, then back in rhythm. Chris clapped with the stands without taking his eyes off her, and felt worry and silence hook into each other inside his chest.\n\n[[Continue|Das Spiel geht los.2]]

He made his decision. Before the bus even appeared at the traffic light, Chris cleared his throat and fell half a step behind, so that they came to a stop side by side.\n<<set $ChristineMemory[1] to 1>>\nChris swallowed, feeling his palms grow damp.\n\n“Chrissie?” he began.\n\n“Hmm?” She was tapping on her phone, but then put it away after all when she heard his tone.\n\n“I… just wanted to say something. I mean… in general.” He searched for a way in that would not reveal he had read her diary. “About boys. And parties. And stuff.”\n\n“Oh God,” she muttered, but without venom. “Sounds like a lecture.”\n\n“No,” he said quickly. “Just…” He took a breath. “You know some boys can get… pushy. Like, pressure you into things you’re not up for. Especially when alcohol is involved. Or when they think you owe them something just because you came along. Or because you’re together.”\n\nChristine stopped for a moment, turned to him, the stretch dress tracing the arc of her movement. “Chris…”\n\nHe lifted his hands a little, as if trying to catch the moment. “I don’t want to interfere. Really. Just… whether it’s Myles or anyone else—if you don’t want something, that’s reason enough. Even if he says everyone does it. Or if he’s offended. Or angry. You don’t have to let yourself be pressured.”\n\nSomething in his voice was firmer than usual, as if he were leaning on a part of himself no one had redecorated. For one tiny moment, he did not sound like her “sister,” but like the big brother he still was.\n\nChristine looked at him. Really looked at him. The street seemed a little quieter for a moment. “You’re really worried, huh?”\n\n“Yes,” he said. “I just don’t want anyone to hurt you. That’s all.”\n\nHer expression softened. The usual look was gone, replaced by something growing there that was rare. Gratitude she was not used to showing. “I know what I’m doing,” she said softly. “I’m not twelve.”\n\n“I know,” he replied. “But even if you decide to sleep with Myles, then because you want to. Not because he keeps pushing. You… you’re allowed to be selfish about that.”\n\nShe raised an eyebrow, smiled faintly. “Sounds like you’re older than you look.”\n\n“I am,” he muttered.\n\nChristine breathed out, glanced down at her boots, then back at him. “Okay. Thanks. Honestly.” Her gaze briefly slid over his outfit, saw the serious line in his face once more, and understood that something real had just spoken beneath the lip gloss.\n\nSomething warm flickered across her face. She leaned forward and pulled him into a hug. Tighter than he had expected. Her perfume mixed with hairspray and something familiar that smelled like childhood. He put his arms around her, carefully, and held her for a moment. There was nothing disguised in that hug. Only siblings.\n\n“Thanks, big… whatever,” she murmured against his shoulder.\n\n“Big is enough,” he said softly.\n\nThey let go of each other, straightened their clothes, as if they had briefly looked behind the curtain. Then they started moving again, side by side..\n\n[[Continue|Eine Busfahrt zum Vergessen.]]

Chris closed his eyes for one heartbeat and let the temptation pass him by like a train you deliberately miss. Not now. Not here. He stared back at his own locker, tightened the drawstring of the shorts, and smoothed the PE shirt until it lay halfway straight. “You okay?” Christine whispered, without turning her head toward him.\n“Yeah,” he murmured. “All good.”\n\nHe tied his shoelaces, stood up once, sat back down again, just to discover that his hands trembled less when they had something to do. The gym light fell in stripes through the small locker-room window; in one of them, dust motes danced as if they had heard the quieter rhythm in which his heart was beating again. He pulled up his socks, breathed through it, and forced himself not to let his gaze wander above knee level—neither left nor right.\n\n“Come on,” Christine said, snapping her locker shut. The metallic click was like a starting signal. Chris nodded, grabbed his old clothes, stuffed them into his bag, and shoved it into the locker. For a moment, he automatically checked whether the skirt he would have to put on again later wasn’t caught anywhere—all good. Then he grabbed the handle, pushed it shut, spun the dial, heard the locking sound. Done.\n\nThe walk to the door took only a few steps and still felt like a small march. Behind them, someone blared a joke; ahead of them, the gym’s hinge door squeaked. Christine held the door open for him as if it were nothing.\n\nThe gym took them in like a room too large, where everything became echoing: the dull thump of a basketball, the clapping sequence of jumping jacks, Mr. Moore’s whistle. “Uniform check, then warm-up!” he called, clipboard under his arm. The divider curtains were pulled up, rolled-up mats lay behind the bleachers, and at the far end the scoreboard glowed silently in red.\n\nThe girls gathered along the sideline, rows formed and broke apart again until they stood more or less straight. Chris lined up between Charlotte and a girl with a bun. Charlotte threw him a quick look, an “all easy” twitch in her eyebrows. He nodded, grateful for the silent translation into normality.\n\n[[Continue|Sportunterricht.]]

At the supermarket, everything went halfway orderly—potatoes, vegetables, a far-too-large turkey that his father held up like a triumph, as if he had hunted it down himself. But when they went to the drugstore afterward, his father transformed into a man on a mission. You could see that he wanted to “bond” with his newly found daughter. And because he had no idea how, he reached for anything whose packaging looked like daughter.\n\n“Okay,” he said, pushing the shopping cart into an aisle that suddenly looked like a jungle of pastel colors. “We’re doing this… properly. Girl Power and all that.”\n\nChris almost stopped walking. “Please don’t say that so loudly.”\n\nHis father didn’t hear. He pulled a pink mug from a shelf—why there were mugs in the drugstore at all, no one knew—and held it up. In glittering letters, it said: PRINCESS.\n\n“This is perfect!” he said enthusiastically.\n\nChris stared at the mug as if it had insulted him. “I… drink out of completely normal cups.”\n\n“But this is… nice,” his father said, pushing it into the cart and immediately reaching for a second item, as if he had to fill the moment. A pink shower gel with a unicorn. Then a deodorant with a “GIRL POWER” sticker. Then a package with a star pattern that Chris didn’t even recognize.\n\nChris felt his ears growing warm. “Dad…”\n\n“What? I’m supporting you,” his father said seriously, as if he were currently in a very important chapter of a parenting guide.\n\nHe rolled the cart onward and turned into an aisle made up entirely of products Chris only knew from the corner of his eye and had never wanted to look at. His father stopped as if he were standing in front of a map in a foreign language.\n\nThen he said far too loudly, with the sincerity of a man who believed discretion was optional: “DO YOU NEED… uh… panty liners?”\n\nChris froze. An older couple at the end of the aisle lifted their heads in sync. Chris’s face went hot in a single second.\n\n“Not so loud!” he hissed.\n\nHis father looked confused. “Why? That’s… normal, isn’t it?”\n\n“Yes. But you don’t shout it,” Chris whispered, jerking his head frantically toward the other customers. “And besides… that’s not the same as… whatever.” He searched for words, feeling at the same time like an embarrassed daughter and like someone improvising a secret handbook for human normality. “We need… just normal things. And you ask… more quietly.”\n\nHis father nodded at once, as if Chris had just taught him an important technique. “Understood. More quietly. Noted.” And he actually pulled out his phone, opened a note, and carefully typed: “ASK MORE QUIETLY.”\n\nChris stared at him. “You’re taking notes?”\n\n“I want to do it right,” his father said seriously, continuing to type: “Panty liners = don’t shout about them.”\n\nChris held his forehead. “Please don’t write it like that.”\n\n“Then how?” His father looked at him so honestly baffled that, despite the shame, Chris had to laugh briefly.\n\nThey worked their way farther through the drugstore jungle. His father asked—now genuinely more quietly—about hair ties, shampoo, about “that thing you use on your face that isn’t soap.” Chris corrected him on terms, nodded at sensible options, and discreetly pushed the “Princess” mug back out of the cart whenever his father wasn’t looking. His father, however, pushed it just as discreetly back in again as soon as he noticed, grinning a little too proudly at his own thoughtfulness.\n\nThen his father suddenly stopped. He bent over a shelf, read several bottles with concentration, smelled one, made a face, took a second, smelled again, nodded—and turned to Chris as if he had found a treasure.\n\n“This one,” he said, holding up a perfume bottle. “You wore this last night, didn’t you? That… warm scent. Vanilla… and something.” He searched for the word and didn’t quite hit it. “Like Christmas, but… good.”\n\nChris felt something inside him loosen. That was exactly it. And the fact that his father had recognized it without Chris having to explain felt suddenly like a small victory.\n\n“Yes,” Chris said quietly. “That’s mine.”\n\nHis father smiled, this time not too broadly, not too deliberately. Just real. He wrote something else in his phone: “Remember Chris’s favorite scent.”\n\nChris was still embarrassed by the whole drugstore routine. But as they went to the checkout, for the first time that day he felt not only exposed, but also… a little seen.\n\n[[Continue|Auf dem Rückweg.]]\n

After the wedding, time passed in soft stages: honeymoon, everyday life again, routines again – only with rings on their fingers and the feeling that life was finally arranging itself toward them for once, instead of constantly away from them.\n\nWhen Charlotte came to visit from college, she suddenly stood in the doorway again as if she had never been gone – only more grown-up, more confident, with her new girlfriend in tow. Chris greeted them both.\n\nAfter only a few seconds, Charlotte had already unpacked her favorite joke again. She leaned against the doorframe with a grin, looked at Chris, and said with exaggerated innocence: “Thanks, Mom.”\n\nChris froze for a second, then groaned softly. Joseph laughed, that warm, deep laugh that still reached Chris like a small electric shock. Charlotte’s girlfriend looked back and forth between them in confusion until Charlotte explained, as if it were a completely normal family constellation: “She’s married to my dad. So she’s... basically my mom. I’m allowed to say that.”\n\nChris shook his head, but he could not suppress a small smile. It was embarrassing – and somehow also a sign that the chaos from before had become an inside joke one could survive.\n\nLater, the four of them sat at dinner: Joseph at the head of the table, Chris beside him, Charlotte opposite, her girlfriend next to her. It was one of those evenings when the house smelled of food and normality. Joseph told anecdotes from Charlotte’s childhood – how, as a little girl, she had absolutely wanted a “pet dino” and then spent days sleeping with a cardboard dinosaur in her arms; how once, in the supermarket, she had made a drama because she wanted to eat “only the cornflakes with the tiger.”\n\nCharlotte rolled her eyes. “Dad, that really isn’t necessary.”\n\n“Yes, it is,” Joseph said, satisfied. “It’s part of the visiting program.”\n\nChris laughed softly and noticed how easy this scene had become for him by now: table, voices, warmth, a home that did not feel like a test.\n\nAt some point, the conversation – as often happened at family dinners – turned to future topics. Charlotte cut her vegetables and then asked, as if it were just another item on the agenda: “So? Do you actually want kids someday?”\n\nChris’ fork remained suspended in the air for a moment. Joseph cleared his throat, and for an instant they looked at each other – that brief, silent checking-in they had grown good at by now.\n\nChris felt that his first reaction was not no. More like a cautious, surprised maybe. He had never planned to arrive somewhere where questions like that were real at all. But now, with Joseph, it did not sound impossible.\n\nAfter a brief pause, Joseph said honestly: “I… wouldn’t be opposed.” And then, with a slightly crooked smile: “But that’s… complicated.”\n\n“Adoption?” Charlotte threw in, immediately in problem-solving mode. “Or foster child? Or… surrogacy?”\n\nChris grew warm in the face, not because it was indecent, but because the word slammed the whole practical reality onto the table so directly. Joseph also looked briefly caught off guard. “Surrogacy is—” He stopped, as if only just realizing how much he was thinking about it.\n\nCharlotte grinned cheekily, as if she had been waiting for this moment. “Well,” she said, far too casually, “when I have my degree, I could offer myself.”\n\nJoseph laughed reflexively. “Charlotte. That’s not—”\n\n“I’m serious,” she said, raising her hand as if giving a presentation. “Not right away. Not now. But someday. If you really want that.” She looked directly at Chris as she said it, unexpectedly serious beneath all the joking.\n\nJoseph stared at her for a moment, then rubbed his forehead, half speechless, half… thoughtful. “Then I would be…” He broke off and snorted. “Then I’d be father and grandfather at the same time?”\n\nCharlotte shrugged. “Welcome to our family.”\n\nChris nearly choked on his water and had to cough. His cheeks burned, and yet the thought remained hanging in the room like a small echo. Not decided, not planned – but suddenly there. Charlotte’s girlfriend was silent for a moment, then laughed along uncertainly, as if she had just realized she had stumbled into a very special dynamic.\n\n[[Continue|Später im Schlafzimmer.][$anal += 1]]

Chris took the jacket as if it were a completely ordinary gesture. “Thanks,” he said neutrally, briefly, and slipped the fabric over his arm without putting it on right away.\n\nLucas’s hands stayed in the air for a moment, as if he had prepared himself for Chris to say something more—a smile, an “Oh man, you saved me,” anything that would justify the sprint outside. Then he let his arms sink and cleared his throat.\n\n“No big deal,” he muttered and took half a step back. His gaze darted briefly over Chris’s face, searching there for a reaction that didn’t come. Instead, he looked at the ground, as if there were suddenly something interesting about the cracks in the concrete.\n\nChris felt the cold from the exit creeping up his legs, and at the same time that small, unpleasant tug in his chest: He hadn’t meant to hurt Lucas. He had just… instinctively kept his distance, the way he often did by now, because every form of closeness felt like a risk.\n\n“You didn’t have to bring it to me specially,” he said then, almost too late, as if tying down a thread after the fact.\n\nLucas looked up again, a brief, crooked smile that was more brave than casual. “I wanted to,” he said, but it sounded as if he were confirming it to himself.\n\nChris only nodded, the jacket held tightly in his arm. “See you tomorrow.”\n\n“Yeah. See you tomorrow.” Lucas remained standing there as Chris was already walking down the steps, and the moment ended the way Chris had begun it: neat, inconspicuous—and still with a small remainder of warmth that couldn’t quite be organized away.\n\n[[Continue|Bonding mit Mom.]]

He stepped into the back row, his knees a little too stiff, his heart too loud. Charlotte appeared beside him, silently pulled a hair tie from her wrist, and gathered his hair together. “Ponytail is your friend,” she whispered, pulled once tight, tied it twice. “Cheer physics.” Chris blinked at the mirrored wall: almost everyone wore ponytails, high, middle, low—only [[Zoe|Zoe March]] let her dark-brown curls fall loose over her shoulders, defiant as always.\n<<set $ChristineMemory[0] to 1>>\n“Five, six, seven, eight!” Mr. Moore set the counts, the Bluetooth speaker supplied a beat. Chris’s body searched for the rhythm like a radio for the right frequency. His arms came too late, his hips weren’t loose enough, the turn stuttered. But as soon as it was no longer about “flowing,” but about “pushing and holding,” he noticed: he brought strength with him. Support, jumps, stability—there the remnants of athleticism he had never really noticed in himself helped him. He focused on clean lines: elbows locked, hands firm as fists, gaze outward. Beside him, Zoe made the movements smoother, softer, but once she lost her balance on landing; he caught his own wobble with a small, ugly hop. Embarrassing? Yes. But he kept going. At some point, right in the middle of the “Defense!” chant, he realized that—despite everything—he was grinning. His ponytail whipped with every turn like its own metronome.\n\nThey ran through the short choreo three times, then once more with clapping only. Sweat gleamed on foreheads, ponytails swung in synchronized half-circles. “Good,” Mr. Moore called, clapped once, gave a short whistle. “Drink. Five minutes, then results.”\n\nChris grabbed a water bottle, sat down on the bleachers, and stared at the lines of the court as they arranged themselves into patterns. His sister Christine plopped down beside him, vibrating with energy. “You were good,” she panted. “Seriously! You hit the counts. And the High V at the end? Clean!”\n\n“I bounced around,” he muttered, still half in shame, half in surprise that his chest burned from laughter and not just shortness of breath. Charlotte leaned down from the step above them. “Bouncing is half the job. The rest is posture. You had that.”\n\nThen they lined up again. Mr. Moore held a clipboard, his voice turning neutral. “Thank you, all of you. We’re taking four new members today. The list will be posted later, but I’ll say it now.”\n\nNames. Hands gripping each other. Two from the lower grades, Penelope nodding with satisfaction. “Christine Braun.” A cheer from her corner, Christine squealed, jumped, Charlotte hugged her, the ponytail keeping time.\n\n“And the last spot…” Mr. Moore looked at his clipboard, then lifted his gaze—briefly to Chris, then to Zoe, then back to Chris. “…Christina Braun.”\n\nFor a moment, Chris thought the gym lights had played a trick on him. “What?” escaped him, far too loudly. Charlotte screamed—a bright, genuine cheer—and rushed toward him. “I knew it!” Hands grabbed his forearms, shoulders, someone briefly squeezed the air out of his lungs. He stumbled half a step back.\n\nBehind the group, Zoe stood rigid. Her lips pressed together, her eyes briefly flashing—anger, disappointment, pride fighting back. “Seriously?” Chris heard her hiss under her breath, to no one and everyone. “I was better.”\n\n“Welcome to the Pom Puffs,” Penelope said, tapping Chris once on the upper arm and grinning.\n\n“Does that mean… I’m now—?” Chris couldn’t finish the sentence. Cheerleader hung in his head like a foreign word with too many letters.\n\n“It does,” Charlotte confirmed, pushing him into the circle half jokingly, half seriously. “Team jacket incoming.”\n\nLater, when the gym had grown quieter and the excitement had flowed into a hum, Mr. Moore stood beside him, the whistle now in his hand like a key ring. “Chris—quick word?”\n\nHe led him a few steps aside, away from the others’ ears. “Congratulations,” he began matter-of-factly. “You showed courage today. That counts.”\n\nChris nodded, searching the wall for a spot to fix his gaze on. “Thanks.”\n\nMr. Moore slid the whistle into his pocket. “I want to be honest. There were athletes today who were technically cleaner. Even so, I took you. ‘Special situation,’ let’s call it—you’re navigating things here that others don’t have to navigate. The team can use reliable support. You won’t be stunting right away. Don’t expect to stand up front. Be useful. Water, mats, eyes—you’ll see what’s missing and bring it.”\n\nThe words hit like water coming out of the shower too cold. Special treatment, Chris thought, and his stomach grew heavy. Not because of performance. Because of… me. He saw himself in the choreo—too late, too stiff—and heard in his head the laughter he hadn’t actually heard anywhere. Maybe I looked ridiculous. Maybe everyone was only clapping to be nice.\n\nMr. Moore went back to the mats. Christine staggered over, still red with joy, and threw her arms around his neck. “We’re in together! Together!”\n\nChris briefly clutched her wrists as if he had to make sure this was all really happening. Then he looked over her shoulder at the gym—mats, mirrors, ponytails, bottles, the banner. Cheerleader, he thought, feeling heat and cold at the same time. He was in. Maybe not because he was the best. But in was in.\n\n''What happens?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[The date with Charlotte.|Das Date mit Charlotte.][$ZoeMemory[2] += 1]]<<else>>[[The next surprise at home.|Die nächste Überraschung zu Hause.][$ZoeMemory[2] += 1]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris said nothing. No “What?” No “Are you crazy?” He forced his face into a smooth mask and kept going as if he were just very, very focused on his character sheet. But the eyes he threw Adam’s way were not smooth. They were cold. Angry. A look that said: You are so dead.\n\nAdam saw him, swallowed, and his ears turned a little red. He went on talking hectically about the move, rolled too quickly, laughed in the wrong place. For Chris, the evening dragged on like chewing gum, but he got through it—saving throw, final hit, “Good game,” all on autopilot.\n\nWhen the club broke up and the others slung their bags over their shoulders, Chris stayed half a step behind Adam. Adam turned around—and walked straight into that look, the one Chris still had not withdrawn. Chris still did not say a word.\n\nAdam immediately raised both hands as if surrendering. “Okay. Okay. I know you’re pissed,” he blurted out, his voice quieter than it had been at the table. “But listen—I have a plan. Really.”\n\nChris’s jaw tightened. He still said nothing. Only the look: Speak.\n\nAdam tugged at his backpack strap, nervous. “My parents asked if we were going to the dance,” he explained quickly. “And I, uh… said yes. I couldn’t help it, they were so… so hopeful, okay?” He swallowed. “But that doesn’t mean we have to be stuck together there all evening.”\n\nHe took a step closer, as if trying to prevent Chris from simply walking away. “We take a photo. One. For my parents. Just so they can see it. After that—really after that—you can do whatever you want. You go to your people, I go to mine. We don’t have to dance together. We don’t even have to sit together. Just… one photo.”\n\nChris’s gaze changed minimally—not softer, more: wider.\n\nAdam nodded eagerly, relieved that he was being allowed to speak at all. “I’ll even handle the rest.” He made a helpless gesture with his hand. “You only have to be there briefly—briefly—for that photo. Deal?”\n\nChris breathed out through his nose. The anger remained like a thorn, small and precise. At the same time, the old leftover debt tugged at him—that blackmailed arrangement that had backed him into a corner long ago. At last he gave Adam one word, toneless and curt:\n\n“One photo.”\n\nAdam nodded at once, as if he had just been given his life back. “One photo. And I swear I won’t make it worse for you. Really.”\n\n“Great,” Chris said without a smile. He threw the backpack over his shoulder and started walking before Adam could find any more sentences.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte < 2>>[[Friday, before the game.|Freitag, vor dem Spiel.]]<<else>>[[Friday, conversation with Charlotte.|Freitag, Gespräch mit Charlotte.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

“It… it’s because of the underwear,” he stammered, the words too fast. “I feel—well—I like… how it fits.” Heat shot up into his cheeks. “I like being a girl to…” The rest died away.\n\nFor one breath, Susan said nothing. Then she raised an eyebrow, not surprised, but as if she had expected the answer. “Aha.” It sounded like a stamp. “Good. Then go.”\n\nHe nodded, almost grateful for the release. The clips on the garter belt gave off a barely audible tack with every step as he hurried to the door. “Get ready for later. We’ll go over the weekly schedule,” Susan said behind him, neither cold nor warm.\n\n“Okay,” he breathed, already in the hall—and dashed into his room.\n\nThe door closed softly. Chris leaned his forehead against the cool wood, breathing deeply twice. Because of the underwear. He had lied, and yet the lie felt unsettlingly close to a half-truth: the mirror image from earlier stabbed back into his mind, how right it had looked, how dangerously easy it had been to think: This suits me. At the same time, shame choked him. He sank onto the edge of the bed, felt the fine tug of the stockings on his thighs, the bra arranging his breathing, and hated how familiar all of it already felt.\n\nHe rubbed his face, as if he could wipe the red from it. I just wanted out of there, he told himself. Out quickly. And now he was out—alone with a heart that was beating too fast, and a head thinking both things at once: that he didn’t want this life, and that sometimes it felt outrageously easy.\n\n[[End of Chapter 3|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 3]]

“This is just too strange for me. I’m not into this kind of thing,” Chris said, pulling his pants back up.\n<<set $ort to "">>\n“Oh, that’s a shame,” she said. “I didn’t know you were gay.” She gave a crooked grin.\n\n“I’m not gay,” Chris said too quickly, almost defiantly.\n\n“Relax.” Zoe raised her hands as if smoothing the air. “Wasn’t an attack. Door’s over there,” she muttered, reaching for her phone as if she had merely gotten the time wrong for a moment.\n\nChris got dressed, took his bag, left the notebook with the finished presentation on her desk, and went.\n\nLater on the bus, he sat by the window, his forehead against the glass, watching the streetlights smear. His back remembered the pressure of the wall, his mouth the kiss—sudden, warm, demanding. He wondered what was wrong with him. A pretty, willing girl, and he had turned her down. Shouldn’t that have made everything easier?\n\nHe thought of Christine and Saturday, and of how “willing” and “ready” could be two very different words. And he thought of Zoe, of the chaos in her room, of the casual “No one’s here” and her “reward” like a prize you collected no matter how you felt about it.\n\nMaybe it wasn’t about whether a girl was pretty or willing at all, he thought as the bus cut through the night. Maybe it was about whether he was really himself just then. In his body, in this skirt, with all the lies clinging to him, “yes” simply didn’t feel like his word. Not today. Maybe not this way either.\n\nHe pulled the bag closer to himself, took a deep breath, and looked outside again. The reflection in the window looked back at him—tired, awake, confused—and nodded silently, as if it had understood before he did.\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch.]]

“There!” someone finally shouted, and the phone light pointed to a half-open window: not big, but big enough if you squeezed through. The pane had long since shattered, only a few blunt remnants still hanging in the frame.\n\nOne after another, they climbed out. Hands reached, feet slipped on crumbling masonry. When it was Chris’s turn, he hesitated for a tiny moment—his dress, the tights, lifting his leg over concrete… everything felt doubly awkward in this situation.\n\nThe boy from before stepped closer again, without asking much. He was there immediately, as if he had only been waiting for Chris’s turn.\n\n“I’ll help you,” he said briefly, and his voice had that tone that expected no discussion.\n\nChris was just about to start—It’s fine—when he already felt hands.\n\nNot just anywhere. Right on his butt.\n\nBoth palms settled firmly on his buttocks, thumbs in front, fingers at the sides, so naturally that Chris’s stomach gave a small leap. The boy lifted him, but not the way you merely “steady” someone. It was a proper lift—stable, controlled—and for a moment Chris really did hang there, caught between the window frame and those hands, as if his body were something the other boy took hold of without hesitation in order to get him through safely.\n\n“Okay—up,” the boy murmured, moving closer as he did, much closer than necessary. Chris felt his warm breath against his backside through the clothing. The grip on Chris’s butt grew a touch firmer, almost like a hold, I’ve got you, and then—as Chris got his leg over the sill—one hand slid over his bare thigh.\n\nIt was only a steadying grip.\n\nAnd still, heat shot up into Chris’s face that had nothing to do with exertion.\n\nHe managed to grab the windowsill, pulled himself out, slid over the frame, felt gravel under his shoes—and landed outside, a little awkwardly, but safely. Before he could even fully straighten up, there was already the impulse to create distance at once, as if he had to prove that he wasn’t… that what had just happened had been nothing.\n\nWhen Chris turned around, the boy was still standing at the window. His gaze met Chris’s for only a fraction of a second—looked away too quickly, but not empty. More as if he had caught himself having enjoyed it too much.\n\nChris swallowed. He forced his voice to stay calm. “Thanks,” he said, more quietly than planned.\n\n“Mhm,” was all the boy made, and it sounded… rough. He pushed himself through the window as if that were now the most important thing in the world.\n\nChris took a step back, unconsciously rubbing his butt where the hands had been—not because it hurt, but because he could still feel it. Warm. Tangible. And far too present in his head.\n\nThe sprayed girl came last. No one helped her closely—everyone instinctively kept their distance, held sleeves over mouths and noses, backed away as she climbed through the window. Outside, she stopped, eyes wild, hands held away from herself as if she could take off the smell like a coat.\n\n“That’s the curse,” someone said hoarsely. “It struck again.”\n\n“We were too arrogant,” another murmured, and this time it didn’t sound like theater. It sounded like an admission.\n\nChris drew in the cool evening air, deep, grateful, and felt his heart slowly finding the right rhythm again. For a moment there was only the wind, the gravel underfoot, the darkness of the river.\n\nBehind them, the factory lay dark by the river, rusty and silent—and yet the sweet syrup smell still seemed to cling to them, as if it had settled into their hair and thoughts. And something else still clung to Chris’s thoughts: two hands on his butt, a brief, firm moment of support—and the question of why it had felt both right and dangerous at the same time.\n\n[[Continue|Bewertungstag.]]

Back at the hotel, the room felt twice as small. Joseph closed the door, put the card on the table, and took one deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said, still slightly red. “My family can be… direct.”\n\n“It’s fine,” Chris murmured, although it was not “fine,” just maximally uncomfortable. He grabbed his bag. “I’m going to the bathroom for a moment.”\n\nIn the bathroom, he leaned against the sink and breathed out. Just as he began unpacking his things, his phone vibrated. Charlotte.\n\nHe answered quietly: “Hey.”\n\nCharlotte sounded… surprisingly lively. No coughing, no scratchy whisper. Almost too normal. “Well?” she asked, with a little too much curiosity. “Are you two okay?”\n\nChris’ eyes narrowed. Too healthy, he immediately thought. His stomach tightened because the suspicion suddenly assembled itself like a puzzle: the “illness,” the convenient hotel booking, the calm with which she had let him be persuaded.\n\n“Yes,” he said cautiously. “Everything’s okay. It was just… a lot of family.”\n\n“Mhm,” Charlotte went, and in that small sound there was something Chris could only interpret as satisfaction. “You know… my dad shouldn’t always be alone.” A pause. “And you’re good for him.”\n\nChris’ heart stumbled. That did not sound like coincidence. That sounded like a careful push in a certain direction. Indirectly. As if she were telling him that it would be… all right with her. Maybe even more than that.\n\nChris opened his mouth to reply – to confront her, to ask whether she was serious, whether she had ever been sick at all – but he saw the bathroom door, heard Joseph in the room outside, and he knew: He could not say it out loud now. Not here. Not like this.\n\n“I’m… going to sleep soon,” he said evasively.\n\n“Sure,” Charlotte said, almost too lightly. “Good night, Chris.”\n\nWhen the call ended, Chris stared at the black screen for a moment. He felt that mixture of relief and unease: He was not crazy – there was intent behind it. And yet he had to act as if nothing was happening.\n\nHe got ready for bed and put on his sleep negligee: satin, soft and smooth, with narrow straps and a simple, elegant drape. Nothing loud, more something that wanted to be pretty without screaming for attention. Still, it felt different in this room, because it was not a “girl’s bedroom,” but a hotel room – and because Joseph was waiting outside.\n\nWhen Chris left the bathroom, Joseph had already changed, into a simple sleep shirt and shorts. He turned around – and stood still a fraction too long. His mouth was open for a moment, as if the sight of Chris had surprised him: a sexy young satin princess in the hotel light.\n\nChris noticed the slight bulge in his shorts and froze inwardly. Immediately Charlotte’s words came back to him, like an echo that refused to be blown away, and the thought of what was hidden beneath the shorts.\n\n“Um,” Joseph said, cleared his throat, quickly looked away, and reached for his phone as if it urgently needed his attention. “Sorry. I—well… good night in a bit.”\n\nChris nodded hastily, his heart too fast. “Yes. Good night.”\n\nHe lay down in bed and pulled the large blanket up to the tip of his nose, as if fabric could muffle the embarrassment. There was only this one blanket, no second one, no dividing line except the edge of what they had both silently decided. Joseph went to the bathroom once more, the light flashing on briefly, came back, turned off the bedside lamp, and lay down as far to the edge as he could without pulling the blanket completely off Chris.\n\n“I hope this is okay like this,” Joseph murmured into the darkness.\n\n“Yes,” Chris said quietly. “It’s fine.”\n\nThey wished each other good night once more, both trying to sound normal. Then the room fell silent. Only the soft sound of the air conditioning remained – and the knowledge that between them lay a whole meter of blanket, which suddenly felt far too little and at the same time like an entire world.\n\n[[Continue|Der nächste Morgen im Hotelzimmer.]]

Morning crept slowly across the curtains, and Chris needed a few breaths to settle into his body. His tendons still pulled from the yoga—hamstrings, pelvis, even his neck complained, as if someone had tied little knots into it. The thoughts were still rattling around in his head; the scene in the shower with his mother. The unspeakable had happened, and none of it felt right.\n<<set $wochentag = 3>><<set $wetter = 2>><<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">>\nHe stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and ran his hands over his nightgown. The movement alone made him flinch: his nipples were more sensitive than usual, a sharp, surprising burning sensation that reminded him of Susan’s “You need proper underwear now.” He had pushed it aside until now—the undershirt had been his quiet compromise. Today… it wasn’t enough anymore. He needed support. And protection.\n\n“I can hardly believe I’m even considering this… but the itching is unbearable!” Chris told himself.\n\nWith a sigh, he opened the drawer Susan had restocked “for the sake of order.” Rows of bra-and-brief sets lay inside, neatly folded like color swatches in a boutique.\n\nRight at the front:\n\nBlack, smooth, seamless—a T-shirt bra made of fine microfiber, with matching hipster briefs. It looked more grown-up, simple, almost invisible under clothes.\n\nCream with floral lace—delicate cups with a semi-transparent edge; the briefs have a small lace insert at the back. Definitely “dressier”; his mother would have said “elegant.”\n\nDusty pink with little satin bows—softly padded, a small bow between the cups, matching briefs with a polka-dot print. Cute, playful, harmless.\n\nNavy blue with white piping—a sportier balconette cut, briefs in a “navy” look; almost preppy, reminding him of uniform aesthetics.\n\nRed with a subtle jacquard pattern—a hint of boldness, not garish, but clearly “daring.” The briefs are cut a little higher, very shaping.\n\nHe ran his fingers uncertainly over the corners of the stacks, as if the texture could decide for him. The sensitive points on his chest were warning him: padding is your friend today. At the same time, nothing should show through—so no dark color. And he didn’t want to feel… “too much,” when he already felt out of place as it was.\n\nHe laid two combinations on the bed. The decision would come down to these:\n\n<center>[img[pics/unterwaesche.jpg]]</center> ''Daring:'' Cream lace: delicate, lightly padded, visually clearly “grown-up.” The matching briefs with lace trim create a razor-sharp silhouette. Hardly visible under a top, but very clearly “there” when worn.\n\n''Playful:'' Dusty pink with little satin bows—softly padded, the small bow between the cups takes away some of the severity. The briefs with tiny polka dots are comfortable, nothing pinches. Under fabric, the set looks warm and unobtrusive.\n\nHe lifted the cream-colored bra—the lace tingled between finger and nerve. Then he picked up the dusty pink set—soft, yielding, less “look-at-me.” His chest spoke up again, unexpectedly firm.\n\n“Okay,” he murmured, more to the mirrors than to himself. “Today I can handle… one of them.”\n\n''What does he choose?''\n❯ [[Daring combination.|Gewagte Kombination.][$unterwaesche += 1;$chris_opinion += 10]]\n❯ [[Playful combination.|Verspielte Kombination.][$unterwaesche += 2]]

Chris slipped into the next free stall, slid the lock shut, and sat down without really needing to. He leaned his forehead against the door, held the clutch firmly on his knees, and took a few shallow breaths. Outside, the bass only vibrated like a dull heartbeat now, but in his head the singles dance was not over yet: too many bodies, too many hands, too close.\n\nThe bathroom door opened. Voices. Two girls who were not trying to be quiet.\n\n“Did you see the one in the open-back dress?” the first said, and you could hear the grin in her voice.\n\n“Yeah. She’s totally playing innocent,” the other replied. “No wonder the guys were crowding around her.”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. He pressed his lips together as if that could stop the heat in his face.\n\n“And during the singles dance...” A mocking snort. “She totally put herself right in the middle like it was her stage.”\n\n“Seriously. And then she acts like she’s overwhelmed.” A pause, then: “It’s that whole... ‘I can’t help it if I look good’ thing.”\n\nChris sat still. The words hit him unpleasantly, like cold water. First, because they were completely wrong—he had not “wanted” anyone to come closer, he had only been trying to survive. And second, because they suddenly showed him something he had not considered: For some girls, he was not just “a girl.” He was competition. A threat. Even though he himself would have loved nothing more than to make himself invisible right then.\n\nIt hit twice as hard. He felt exposed because they were talking about him as if he were an object. And at the same time he felt that strange, new weight: others took him seriously enough to be jealous. It was absurd. And yet real.\n\nThe two of them kept whispering for a few more seconds, then the door opened—this time more hastily, with a third voice that almost cracked with excitement.\n\n“You won’t believe what just happened!” the girl said breathlessly. “Myles totally got it. His date dumped her punch in his face and just walked off. In front of everyone!”\n\n“Seriously?” The other two sounded shocked and thrilled at the same time.\n\n“Yeah! He was standing there like a drowned rat,” the third giggled.\n\nChris closed his eyes. For one tiny moment, he felt something almost like satisfaction—and was immediately ashamed of it. Then he thought of Christine, of the bleacher step, of her crying in his arms. In his stall, he stayed silent until the voices outside drifted back toward the door and the whispering was swallowed by the bass.\n\n[[Continue|Best Dressed]]

That evening, Chris stood in front of the mirror and slipped into the uniform for the Pep Rally: red-and-white top, skirt, bow. The fabric lay smooth and tight, the lines by now familiar to him by heart. He breathed in, raised his arms into a High V, felt the twitch of his shoulder muscles and the slight tickle of the fabric at his waist. Then he grabbed a pillow, pressed it against his stomach, and practiced the chant into it—muffled, but with that bright, springy energy they would need tomorrow. “Let’s go, Wolves! Clap-clap!” He jumped in place twice, landed lightly, counted “five–six–seven–eight” in his head, and grinned without noticing it.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girls’ room">>\nA movement reflected in the doorway. Susan was leaning against the frame, her arms loosely crossed, a smile around her lips that wasn’t loud, but unmistakable. “You look great,” she said calmly.\n<<set $SusanMemory[3] to 1>>\nChris flinched, the pillow slipping. Heat shot into his cheeks. “I—uh—I was just… practicing.”\n\n“I can see that,” she said, her gaze warm and satisfied, as if she were inwardly ticking off a list. “Keep going.”\n\nHe nodded, turned back to the mirror, and raised his arms once more. The grin came back more cautiously. Behind him, Susan’s smile remained in the doorway, and Chris’s embarrassment mixed with that electric, nervous anticipation for tomorrow, which could no longer be entirely hidden.\n\nIn bed, he didn’t find peace right away. The special training remained inside him like an afterimage, sharp and warm: the stretch, the strong male hands on his body, the rough voice close beside his ear. He told himself it was only training. The thought toppled over and stayed there. At some point, he drifted off.\n\nIn the dream, he was standing in the gym again, only it was larger, brighter, as if it were breathing with him. Mr. Moore waited at the edge of the mat, not at the distance of a trainer, but one step closer, so that the air between them had its own temperature. “Trust me,” he said, without a stopwatch, without whistles, only with that calm gaze that held more than any hand.\n\n“Kneel here. Knees shoulder-width apart, hands on your knees!”\n\nChris followed his trainer’s instruction. He was unable to break the intense eye contact, bent his legs, and got down on his knees. Chris felt a warm tingling run through his body when he looked up at him like that. He felt quite displayed and exposed, but at the same time a pleasant paralysis went through him.\n\n“Do you wonder why you’re kneeling here?” he asked.\n\nChris nodded shyly.\n\nThe answer stunned him: “It suits you. You’ll see.”\n\nChris smiled uncertainly and heard himself say, “I want to be an obedient pupil for you.” The voice sounded soft, with a hint of song in it, and he wasn’t startled by it—on the contrary, it fit into the bright gym like a color that had been missing.\n\n“Come a little closer,” he asked Chris.\n\nChris rose from his heels and crawled closer to him on all fours, uuntil his head was only about 4 inches from his crotch.\n\n“Good girl, I like you like this.” He took his jaw in his hand and ran his thumb over Chris’s lips, inspecting them. Chris was paralyzed.\n\n“I want you to always keep your pretty mouth slightly open when you’re with me; wide enough that one can slip a finger inside.”\n\nObediently, Chris parted his lips. He looked reverently into the eyes of his coach, who was still holding his jaw. This was how he wanted it. Mr. Moore put his thumb into his mouth. Chris was surprised, but didn’t dare protest.\n\n“Suck on it!” he commanded.\n\nChris couldn’t do anything but obey. He also didn’t know what was happening to him. He lowered his lashes and closed his lips around his thumb. He sucked on his thumb. Mr. Moore slowly pushed it deeper and deeper inside. Chris seemed to expect nothing else. He sucked on his thumb as if dazed and licked at it with his tongue. Why was he doing this? He didn’t know. His trainer wanted it that way, so it should be that way. But there was more. Chris felt he was in the right place.\n\n“What are you thinking about right now, my sweet girl? I bet about my cock.” He looked at Chris triumphantly. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”\n\nHe opened his pants and… Chris jolted awake as if someone had switched on the light inside him.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/Chris_traum_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/Chris_traum_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nIt was only a dream. His heart hammered, his skin tingled, and under the blanket he felt a hot tension that made him blush. For a moment he didn’t know where he was—only the gym, Mr. Moore’s gaze, his own girlishly fallen words echoed: “I want to be an obedient pupil for you.”\n\nHe pressed his lips together, breathed in through his nose, and felt the heat echo in waves—startling, embarrassing, exciting. “What was that…?” he whispered into the silent room, half ashamed, half euphoric, as if he had named a part of himself without meaning to.\n<<set $moore_opinion to 41>>\n[[Continue|Zu wenig Badezimmer im Haus.]]

Chris pushed the curtain aside and stepped back into the daylight. The noise of the festival hit him like a wave—drums, laughter, the clinking of bottles, somewhere a vendor calling, “Maple taffy!” For a moment he simply stood there, as if he first had to sort himself back into this world.\n\nHe did not want to believe what the fortune-teller had said. It was just talk, after all. A little mysticism, a little psychology, a little show. And still something gnawed at him, because a few sentences had struck him as if someone had fired from close range. Maybe she was just good at reading people. Maybe by now he was so transparent that you could already recognize his conflicts by the way he walked, by the way he held his shoulders. Or maybe… it was simply coincidence, and his mind was desperately searching for patterns because that was easier than reality.\n\nHe walked a few steps without really seeing where he was going. He only noticed belatedly that he was passing a stand with maple candles, then a can toss, then the pavilion with the flyer people. Everything drifted past him as if he were behind glass.\n\n“There you are!” Susan’s voice cut through his thoughts like scissors.\n\nChris flinched and turned around. His mother stood a few yards away. “Where were you? I was looking for you.” Her gaze swept over him once, assessing, as if he had picked up dirt somewhere or a wrinkle.\n\n“I… was just looking around,” Chris said, not quite back in the present yet.\n\nSusan did not accept the explanation for long. Her face brightened— that dangerous, enthusiastic glow that always meant she had an idea. “Chris,” she said, as if she were about to announce something grand, “I discovered something.”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened even before she said it.\n\n“Over there is the sign-up for the Miss Maplewood Contest,” Susan said, pointing with a small, triumphant flourish. “It’s perfect for you.”\n\n“What?” Chris felt the air leave him. “No. Absolutely not.”\n\n“Yes!” Susan beamed. “Perfect training! Poise, smiling, posture, stage presence. And you would—” she looked him over as if he were already a contestant “—you would fit in so well there.”\n\nChris’s heart began to race. Images shot through his mind: stage, spotlights, questions into a microphone, people staring at him. Not just school. Not just team. A whole town. That’s the last thing I want.\n\n“Mom, please,” he managed, his voice thin with panic. “That won’t work.”\n\nSusan merely raised her eyebrows, as if that were a detail. “Yes, it will. Come on.”\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $club == 1 >>[[A group of cheerleaders.|Eine Gruppe Cheerleader.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas <= 1>>[[The theater kids.|Die Theaterkids.]]\n<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas > 1>>[[The theater kids.|Die Theaterkids.2]]\n<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3 >>[[The nerds from the D&D club.|Die Nerds aus dem D&D Club.]]<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Thursday morning, the school bus already hummed from the outside like a refrigerator on wheels. No sooner had Chris gotten on than the air conditioning hit him—a dry, icy stream of air that smelled of plastic and cleaning product. He hunched his shoulders and pushed his way down the aisle while someone laughed somewhere in the back and the radio hissed softly up front.\n<<set $wochentag = 4>><<set $ort to "School">><<set $ChrisMemory[5] to 1>>\nHe sat down by the window and immediately felt the cold creep under his skirt. The brown sheer tights barely helped; they felt more like a polite promise of warmth that wasn’t being kept. Chris pressed his knees together, discreetly tugged the hem of his skirt down a little, and slid his bag onto his lap as if it were a blanket. The draft still found every gap, brushed over his thighs, and made him curse inwardly.\n\nAs the houses passed by outside, Chris stared at his reflection in the window glass—red cheeks, careful makeup, the skirt neat and prim—and thought how absurd it was: He was freezing like crazy, and yet he sat there trying to look “normal.”\n\nWhen the bus finally hissed to a stop in front of the [[school|High School]], Chris sprang up almost too quickly, glad to escape the cold, and discreetly rubbed his thighs as he walked to bring feeling back into them.\n\nChris still had to stop by his locker quickly before first period. It was one of those mornings when every hallway felt like a deadline: bell soon, teacher soon, and of course the exact notebook he needed was exactly there.\n\nWhen he turned the corner, he stopped abruptly.\n<center>[img[pics/girls3.jpg]]</center>\nTwo cheerleaders were standing right in front of his locker. Backs to the hallway, heads close together, as if they were in a bubble of gloss and perfume. Their voices sounded like TikTok captions.\n\n“Literally, I swear, I can’t believe she wore that outfit,” one said, playing with a strand of hair.\n\n“Same. And then those shoes too? It’s giving… tragic,” the other answered, grimacing as if she had swallowed something sour.\n\nChris pushed his bag higher and stared at the number row of his lock—which lay exactly between their elbows. He needed his math sheet. Which, apparently, had become suddenly vital today. And the bell already felt like a sound that was coming closer.\n\nThe two didn’t even notice him. They tilted their heads in sync, as if jointly adjusting an invisible crown.\n\n“And then she just looked at me like that. Literally like a victim,” said the first.\n\n“Ugh. Girl, I would’ve died,” said the second, laughing too loudly.\n\nChris felt his cheeks grow warm—not from shame, more from that mix of hurry and please not now. He stepped half a step closer. Still nothing. His locker was basically a backdrop for their conversation.\n\nHe had to decide how to solve this now.\n<<set $choice_cheerleader to 0>>\n''What does Chris do?''\n<<if $club == 1>>[[Chris is a cheerleader—the girls make room.|Chris ist Cheerleader – die Mädchen machen Platz.]]<<else>>❯ [[He says politely: “Sorry, I need to get to my locker real quick.”|Er sagt freundlich Sorry, ich muss kurz an meinen Spind.]]\n❯ [[Wait and smile.|Warten und lächeln.]]\n❯ [[React passive-aggressively.|Passiv-aggressiv Reagieren.][$choice_cheerleader += 1]]\n<<endif>>

Never before had he moved inside a woman with such greedy lust. This woman had experience. She moved her body with his in a harmonious rhythm that rarely happened. In her ecstasy, she arched her full breasts toward him, shining with the sweat of their lovemaking.\n\nEventually, though, Chris couldn’t take any more. He moaned and gasped. Just before his climax, he pulled his penis out of her pussy, jerked himself briefly with his hand, and a burst of his hot cum sprayed onto Mrs. Barnett’s stomach.\n\nBreathless and completely exhausted, he sank down onto her. Mrs. Barnett also felt utterly drained. Without exchanging a word, the two of them fell into a wild make-out session, tightly wrapped around each other.\n\n[[Continue|Chris und Mrs. Barnett verlassen das Motelzimmer.]]

At first, it was briefly quiet in the car. Dylan at the wheel, polished and surprisingly calm; Chris with the clutch on his knees, his heart too loud in his chest.\n\nThen Dylan broke the silence with a light laugh, as if he had noticed that Chris was counting every breath. “Okay,” he said, and his voice sounded more excited than cool, “I’m honestly glad that, for once, there aren’t people tugging at me and yelling at me what to do.” He grinned briefly and nodded back toward the stadium, as if it were still hanging in the air. “After last week’s game, I felt like I could still hear the stands. Tonight is... finally something nice. Just music, a little dancing, photos, being normal.”\n\nChris realized how much he longed for exactly that: being normal. Just a date. No mental movies, no constant scanning of his surroundings. Dylan kept talking—about the decorations in the gym (“They’re probably hanging up a thousand string lights again”), about how Homecoming felt like its own little holiday to him every year, and that he had really been looking forward to asking Chris. The conversation became surprisingly easy, and with every sentence, another piece of Chris’ tension loosened, as if the evening were slowly drawing him into itself.\n\nWhen they arrived at the school, Chris could already see the gym from outside: string lights in the entrance area, balloons in the school colors, a banner with “HOMEcoming” and a much too large wolf head. Stage fright vibrated in his stomach—but this time, it was not panicked. More like right before a performance you truly wanted to give.\n\nInside, the usual Homecoming mix hit him: perfume, hairspray, the sweet smell of punch, sweat from too many people in too little space. String lights hung from the ceiling, the basketball hoops had been raised, and scraps of paper glittered on the floor like stardust. The band had been replaced by a DJ; the music pulsed in gentle waves, not too loud, just loud enough that you had to lean close to talk.\n\nChris stepped inside beside Dylan, and immediately he felt the looks.\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/homecoming_dylan_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/homecoming_dylan_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nOnly this time, it was different.\n\nHe noticed them—the heads turning, the brief pauses in conversation, the quick appraisal of outfit, partner, status. But instead of making his breath catch, it felt like warmth on his skin. He walked a little straighter, let his shoulders drop, as if they were finding the right position on their own. It was stage fright, yes—but also pleasure. He saw a few boys staring from the side, boys who had usually annoyed him at school, and today... it bothered him less. It was flattering. It made him feel bigger, not smaller.\n\n“Oh my God, Chris looks... insane,” a girl whispered somewhere.\n\nAnother briefly twisted her face, that half-smile that was more envy than joy. Chris let it roll off him. For the first time, he did not take the envy as an attack, but as proof that he was doing something right.\n\nDylan positioned himself slightly behind him, as if he were a shield without making a show of it. His hand touched Chris’ back. Chris breathed in, tasted lip gloss and vanilla, and for a moment it was as if the whole gym were only a backdrop.\n<<set $penelope_opinion to 96>>\nThen he saw [[Penelope|Penelope Barnett]].\n\nShe was standing with her clique near the snack tables, perfectly styled, perfectly placed. Her gaze slid over Dylan and lingered on Chris a heartbeat too long. It was not a romantic sparkle—more something cool, calculating. Status-jealous. As if someone had shifted the order in her head: “Boob Chris” of all people with the star quarterback—that did not fit into her worldview, not into the hierarchy she loved to control so much.\n\nChris felt the sting, briefly. Then he also felt how good it was that Penelope stung at all. That he was relevant at all.\n\nHe smiled, this time not perfectly, but genuinely. And when Dylan leaned toward him and asked, “Do we want to get something to drink first, or dance right away?”, Chris realized how close he was to what he had been longing for the entire drive: just being a date. A girl in a midnight-blue dress who did not want to flee this gym, but stay.\n\n[[Continue|Zuerst was trinken.]]

Chris reluctantly allowed the kiss. The trace of semen on his cheek made him inwardly recoil. Disgust briefly surged up, then he froze again in that polite stiffness he had come to know by now.\n\n“Alright, Mom,” he muttered, sullen. “See you when you get back.”\n\nHe stood up, walked down the hallway without lifting his gaze, and pushed his bedroom door shut behind him. A short, dull click. Silence.\n\nIn the rose of his room, he stood for a moment as if he had only just arrived here. He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, sat down on the bed, and looked at his reflection in the vanity mirror: the prettily styled hair, the top with the ruffled edge, the pleated skirt lying neatly over his knees. In his head, loose scenes from the past week rattled around.\n\nHe took a deep breath, as if he could press the week out of his lungs, and stretched out on his back in the satin bedding. The blanket was cool at first, then warm. One week survived, he thought. Not as bad as feared. Bad in a different way. Sometimes even nice. And in between: all the things he still couldn’t grasp—like the question of who he was when no one was watching.\n\nDownstairs, keys clattered, the front door opened, footsteps moved away. The house breathed out. Chris turned his head until he could see only a section in the mirror: his own eyes, calm and tired, and behind them that quiet, stubborn glimmer that remained.\n<<set $susan_opinion to 32>>\n[[End of Chapter 1|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 1]]

Chris reacted before he could form a clear thought.\n<<set $ChristineMemory[2] to 1>>\n“Christine!” he called, but his voice was swallowed by the bass and the tangle of voices.\n\nHe started moving, stumbled the first few steps in the heels, caught himself, and ran as fast as the tight miniskirt allowed. Myles had his arm firmly around Christine’s middle and was steering toward the stairs.\n\nOne of the boys leaning against the wall with a beer nudged his buddy with his elbow and grinned broadly. “Well, there you go,” he slurred, loud enough for the people around them to hear. “Looks like someone’s night is going well.”\n\nAnother raised his plastic cup in the air as if to toast something. “He’s taking her to the love suite!” he bawled, and several people burst out laughing.\n\nIt was that dirty, self-satisfied laughter that had nothing to do with real joy.\n\nThe stairs were full. People stood there, sat on the steps, held cups, blocked the way. Chris pushed through, muttering “Sorry,” “Let me through,” “I need to get upstairs,” but it was cramped, elbows, shoulders, someone accidentally grabbing his breast because he thought it was the banister.\n\n“Chris?” Christine’s voice was thin, indistinct. She turned her head back over Myles’s shoulder. For a moment he saw her face: glassy eyes, confused expression, a hint of panic or disorientation. She reached her hand out toward him.\n\nChris reached out too, fingers spread, as if he could grab the distance. But there were people between them, a step’s height, Myles’s body. Their hands missed by only a few centimeters. Then Myles pulled her on.\n\nChris gritted his teeth, forced his way through harder. The miniskirt clung to his thighs, the heels almost slipped away, his heart beat so loudly it competed with the bass. Finally he made it upstairs.\n\nAt that moment, the door at the end of the hallway fell shut.\n\nChris ran to it, knocked at first, then rattled the handle. Locked. He briefly rested his forehead against the cold wood, feeling the music only as a dull thudding through wall and door.\n\n“Open up!” he shouted, hammering his fist against the wood. “Myles! Open the door!”\n\nNo answer. Maybe he had heard something, maybe it was only his imagination. The laughter, the music, voices from below ate his shouts. He knocked harder, more desperately. His fingers hurt.\n\nIt changed nothing.\n\nAfter a few endless seconds, he realized he was up here shouting against a wall of noise and indifference. He had no key, no one on his side, nothing with which to open the door. He stood there in a far too short skirt, with stinging eyes, and the realization that he could do nothing right now tightened his throat.\n\nHe let his hand sink.\n\nThe hallway spun a touch as he turned around. The music pulled him back downward as if it were gravity. Step by step, he stumbled down, briefly gripping the banister, until he was standing again in the heat of the living room. The dance floor had already moved on, another song, other constellations. No one seemed to be missing.\n\nChris went to the bar without thinking much. He grabbed the next full red cup. It smelled harsh. Whatever. He drank.\n\nThe first swallow burned, the second went down easier, the third settled like lead in his stomach. He saw nothing of the party. In his mind’s eye he saw Christine upstairs in a room. Half-naked on the bed, the stretch dress pushed up and Myles on top of her. Her screaming, too loud. Her no, no. His head painted pictures. Pictures full of details of Myles stealing his little sister’s innocence.\n\nHe tried to push the images out of his head, to shove them away like empty cups. But the more he tried to suppress them, the more glaring they became. He lifted the cup, drank deeper, as if the alcohol could build the wall he needed.\n\nShe’s drunk. He’s a boy. She’s up there with him. She’s my little sister. The thought looped over and over. He tried to push it away, to convince himself that maybe nothing was happening, that she would say “no” if she wanted to. But the images came anyway.\n\n<div class="psychedelic-text"> He took another swallow. And another. The edges of his field of vision grew softer, the floor swam a little more. The cup emptied slowly, then faster.\n\nHe stared into the crowd without really seeing, drank because he couldn’t do anything else. Because helplessness needed something to hold on to.\n\nAt some point, his cup was empty.</div>\n\n[[Continue|Chris wird zum Tanzen aufgefordert.2]]

Chris stood in the front row, pom-poms at hip height, and forced his face into neutral concentration.\n<<set $DylanMemory[1] to 1>>\nPenelope’s voice from the front row: “P-O-M!”\nTeam: “Puffs!”\nPenelope: “Sweet but tough!”\nEveryone: “Pom Puffs!”\n\nTwo quick claps above the head—clap, clap—then the hip wiggle for two counts, exactly on the grid, and the pom hit to the right, pom hit to the left. The special training with Coach Moore was paying off: Chris’s arms drew clean lines, his elbows closed sharply, his shoulders stayed down. He heard Christine’s breathing just behind him and settled into her timing down to the millimeter, the way Moore had taught him.\n\n“Again!” the coach called. “Clap higher—engage your core! Five, six, seven, eight!”\n\nChris performed the sequence again. The claps overhead landed louder now, clear as markers; the hip wiggle was cheeky, seductively right on beat. On the pom hit right, he felt the grooves of the grip in his palm; on the pom hit left, the pull through his breasts.\n\nMore and more Timberwolves were gathering at the edge. Dylan held his helmet by the finger loop, his forehead slightly furrowed, as if he were counting. His gaze slid over the formation, lingered for a moment at Chris’s level, wandered on—and came back again. That made Chris’s heart beat harder. He almost hit the next clap-wiggle combo too early, caught himself, and set the pom hits with an extra snap. Not for Dylan. For the technique. Definitely not for Dylan, he told himself, while the tingling in his stomach set its own count. For the line, he told himself, and wiggled his butt toward the boys.\n\n“Good, Chris!” came Moore’s voice, brief, satisfied. “Exactly that sharpness!”\n\nThe formation breathed in together.\nLead voice: “P-O-M!”\nTeam: “Puffs!”\nLead: “Sweet but tough!”\nEveryone: “Pom Puffs!”\n\nChris invisibly lengthened the axis from neck to heel, jumped slightly higher into the transition, landed softly. A tiny mistake crept in—the left heel landed half an inch too far out—but he corrected it on the next count, didn’t let the rhythm break. Moore raised an eyebrow, then nodded on. Penelope threw him a brief look: approving, professional.\n\nAgain clap, clap. Wiggle—two, three—pom hit right, pom hit left. His heart was pounding, but it wasn’t panic pounding; it was rhythm. He felt the warmth in his shoulders, the pull in his thighs. He felt—to his own surprise—certainty.\n\nDylan now had his hands braced on his hips, said something to a teammate, then looked over at Chris again. It drove Chris on without throwing him off course. He held the counts, sharpened the edges, let the chants sound springy:\n\n“P-O-M!” – “Puffs!”\n“Sweet but tough!” – “Pom Puffs!”\n\nOn the final run-through, Chris set the claps like exclamation points, the wiggle had exactly two more teeth of bite, and the pom hits cut symmetrically through the air. When the music stopped, they stood cleanly, pom-poms at their hips, chins up. Chris’s breathing was fast, but even. He felt sweat at his temple and that bright, good burn in his calves. A smile crept onto his face, small and real.\n\n“Yes,” Moore said, as if he had confirmed something that didn’t need to be said aloud. “That’s what work looks like.”\n\nChris lowered his gaze briefly, only to lift it again. Not for Dylan, he silently insisted, with a calm, triumphant heartbeat. But the spark still glowing in his chest knew better. And it still felt right.\n<<set $dylan_opinion to 39>><<set $penelope_opinion to 48>>\n[[Continue|Nochmal zur Schule.]]

When Christine wasn’t invited to a girls’ night, he turned the gaps into little islands. “Movie night?” he suggested one evening, when Christine was too quiet again. He put popcorn in the microwave, picked an old teen movie that was so predictable you didn’t have to think while watching it. Christine rolled her eyes at first, then smiled briefly—a small, real smile that felt like a victory.\n\nLater in the living room, the lamps were off; only a small floor lamp beside the shelf was on, casting warm, amber light onto the carpet. Christine was wearing a dark, simple nightgown made of soft fabric, ending just above her knees, with thin straps and an understated, almost matte sheen. Chris was wearing a light negligee, cream-colored, with delicate lace along the hem and straps.\n\nThey sat down on the sofa, not too close, not too far. The small blanket was already there – an old thing with faded stripes that, if you were honest, was really meant for one person.\n\nChris pulled it over their legs. Christine helped wordlessly, taking one end and pulling it higher. The movie began. Some familiar dialogue, some joke they already knew. Christine even laughed once – a real laugh, quiet, surprised by itself. Chris felt something in his chest loosen, as if someone had undone a knot a little.\n\nThen the blanket slipped. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a little shifting, a tiny struggle for warmth. Chris automatically pulled it back up, Christine pulled in the same direction – and because the blanket was simply too small, the siblings inevitably moved closer together.\n\nTheir bare legs brushed against each other. Skin on skin, only briefly, only a whisper, but enough to make them both go still at the same time. Christine inhaled sharply and pointedly stared at the screen. Chris felt his cheeks grow hot. He adjusted the blanket a millimeter too quickly, as if haste could undo the feeling.\n\nThe movie went on. At some point, Christine snuggled deeper into the blanket. Chris noticed that she was trembling – not from cold alone, more like someone who had been on edge for weeks and was now briefly letting go.\n\nWithout thinking about it, he moved a little closer. Only so that the blanket fell better over both of them. Christine tensed briefly as her brother touched her body, then slowly let out the air, as if she had only just realized she had been holding it.\n\nMinutes passed. Maybe half an hour, too. The distance between them did not melt all at once, but in tiny, almost imperceptible steps: a shrug that landed against his shoulder; her knee leaning against his leg beneath the blanket; Chris’ arm, which at some point lay behind her, not quite around her, but close enough that it felt that way.\n\nChristine said nothing about it. Neither did Chris. Both siblings pretended it was the movie that made them sit like this. As if it were only the blanket. And yet there was this new, quiet weight in the air: a warmth that did not come only from the fabric.\n\nChris noticed her scent when she shifted a little – something like shampoo, like that cream she sometimes used, and beneath it a scent entirely her own, familiar, the scent of a young woman, which suddenly felt too distinct to him. His mind did that dangerous, automatic thing minds do: it drew a line back.\n\nTo that night. To the moment when they had no longer been siblings, but two people who had tangled themselves in each other in their loneliness. He remembered her heat, the trembling of his body when he came inside her, the pause afterward in which they had both been so silent because every word might have meant too much.\n\nChris’ heart gave an uneasy leap. He felt his dick stiffen reflexively, as if he had to apologize for a thought he had not even planned. No, he thought sternly. This is my little sister. Not now. Not here.\n\nHe forced himself to keep his eyes on the screen, as if he could hold on to it there. He focused on the music, on the voices, on the plot, on anything. His breathing slowly grew calmer.\n\nBeside him, Christine breathed more deeply. Her head sank a little until her temple rested against his chest. Chris raised his hand, hesitated, then carefully let it rest on the blanket – in such a way that it did not touch Christine directly, but was close enough for her to notice. Christine turned her head the slightest bit, as if checking whether it was really there, and then slid her fingertips a tiny way beneath the blanket – until they brushed his hand.\n\nVery briefly.\n\nThen she simply left her hand there.\n\nChris swallowed. He said nothing. He did not move. But he allowed himself not to pull away.\n\n[[Continue|Die Geschwister schlafen ein.]]\n

Adam dropped Chris off in front of the house, the scooter sputtering for another second before he turned it around. Chris waved stiffly, held the hem of his skirt down, and walked up the driveway. That was when he saw Susan standing in the doorway—arms crossed, her gaze sharply awake. As Adam drove off, her eyes followed him all the way to the street, as if she were memorizing the license plate.\n<<set $ort to "at home">><<set $wetter = 3>>\nInside, the front door fell shut, and Susan turned to him at once. “So,” she began, and the word sounded like a hook. “That was Adam, then.”\n\nChris pulled the bag from his shoulder. “Yes. We… baked.”\n\n“Baked.” Susan smiled thinly. “Mhm. And you two are… together now?” Her voice was curious, almost amused, as if it were about a TV plotline.\n\nChris’s neck tightened. “Something like that.” He dodged, as he had become good at doing by now.\n\nSusan took a step closer and looked him over—not caringly, more appraisingly. “You’re selling yourself short, Chris. Honestly.” She twisted her mouth. “The boy is nice, I’m sure. But…” She deliberately left the sentence open, then filled it with a look that meant everything: Adam’s weight, his manner, his nerdiness. “You could do much better.”\n\nChris felt anger that immediately turned back into caution. He wanted to argue—wanted to say that he wasn’t choosing anything, that he wasn’t “together” with anyone at all, that his mother had no idea. But the reflex not to escalate won. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered and headed toward the stairs.\n\n“It does to me,” Susan said behind him. “I just want you to… think strategically.”\n\nChris swallowed the comment down and disappeared into his room. There he set the bag on the floor, knelt down, and began unpacking—notebooks, a tin of cookies, a crumpled note with D&D notes. His hands were faster than his head, as if speed could wipe away embarrassing topics.\n\nAnd then it slipped out of the side pocket with a soft plop and landed right in the middle of the carpet: the packet of condoms.\n\nIt was as if time briefly stumbled. Chris’s breath caught. Susan, who had followed him, stopped in the doorway and stared at the packet as if it had just pushed open a secret door.\n\n“Oh?” Her eyebrows rose. Then an expression spread across her face that was both surprised and… satisfied. “Well, look at that.”\n\nChris’s face burned. “That’s not—”\n\nSusan raised her hand, as if she didn’t want to hear him at all. “So it is working.” Her tone became sweet, triumphant. “I was starting to think you’d stay so uptight forever. But apparently…” She pointed at the packet as if it were a piece of evidence. “You’re growing up. Like a girl.”\n\nChris’s throat went dry. He hastily shoved the packet back into the bag, as if that could erase the image from Susan’s mind. “Mom, please…” He couldn’t get any more out, because every further word threatened to make it worse.\n\nHis mother smiled as if she had just won without anyone explaining the game. “I just don’t want you closing doors for yourself,” she said, and her voice sounded like concern. Chris stood there, ashamed down to his fingertips, and knew that Susan now firmly believed he was sleeping with Adam—and that this false idea tasted like success to her.\n\n[[Continue|Dienstag, Figurprobleme.]]

Christine looked at him for a long time as he forced the words out. “Can you… show me how to put on makeup?” The silence afterward was sticky, like honey refusing to let go of the spoon.\n<<set $ChrisMemory[0] to 1>>\nThen she nodded. “Sure.” No mockery, just a brief look. “But we’ll do it properly. Not that Insta blob.”\n\nShe cleared the vanity, pulled open the curtain so the daylight fell diagonally across the mirror. “Light is everything,” she explained. “And care before color.” She handed him a mild cream. “Thin layer, don’t massacre it into your skin.” Chris did it, concentrating as if on a math problem. “Good. Now a tiny bit of concealer under the eyes—tap, don’t rub. The goal is ‘awake,’ not ‘mask.’”\n\nShe worked systematically. A hint of tinted moisturizer, only where the skin looked uneven. “Less is your friend,” she said, blending the edges with a sponge. Then the brows: “Only fill in gaps. Don’t draw new eyebrows; you don’t paint new ears either.” Chris had to grin despite his shame. A fine line close to the lash line, which she called “tightlining.” “No cat eye. You’re not trying to play, you’re trying to pass.” Two strokes of mascara. “Not too much, or it clumps.”\n\n“And now the most important part.” Christine applied lip balm, let it sink in briefly, then dabbed off the excess. “The mouth is shape and color. If you get the lips right, people almost believe the rest on their own.” She gave him a lip liner. “Don’t overdraw. Just define your own contour, especially in the corners. Then lipstick—not straight from the tube, you lose control. Use the brush. Apply one thin layer, then gently blot with a tissue, second layer. That way it lasts, and you get that even saturation.” She showed him how to emphasize the bow of the upper lip and how to soften the edge of the lower lip ever so slightly. “Last step: a touch of gloss in the center. It lifts. Done.”\n\nChris’s hands trembled at first, then found a rhythm. He smudged, laughed nervously, started again, corrected small mistakes with a cotton swab. “You learn fast,” Christine said, honestly impressed. “Especially the lips. You’ve got those under control now.”\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nLater he sat alone in his room, the mirror opposite him like a door leading somewhere he had never wanted to go—and now it stood open. The face in it was soft, calmer, the brows organized the gaze, the lashes cast a shadow, the mouth… He sucked in a sharp breath. A pretty girl was looking back at him. Not pretty-in-disguise, but “someone” pretty. And to his horror, he felt the tingling in his cock that he usually got from others. As a boy, he would have wanted a girlfriend exactly like that. Now he was staring at himself—and found the image attractive. Or, it shot through his mind, it was merely the hunger the last celibate weeks had created in him, deprived of all male fantasies.\n\nChris was horny, but still hesitated before leaning forward and looking deep into his own eyes, the way he would with a girl. As soon as his nose touched the mirror glass, he tilted his head slightly and pressed his lips against the glass, giving himself a kiss.\n\nHe gathered up his long skirt. Good thing the skirt is so wide, he thought. He had to grab it a few times before he had it high enough to push down the girls’ panties and free his already hard penis.\n\nChris could no longer stop himself and began jerking off with one hand while the other held up the long skirt. How must this scene look to an outsider, Chris thought. There stood a boy in a long dress, jerking off in front of his own reflection. And just as he thought about it, he came. He jerked his cock upward at the last moment so he wouldn’t soil himself. The orgasm almost robbed him of his senses. He grew hot; he could practically feel the heat in his face. Only very slowly did he calm down, breathing heavily.\n\nAlmost automatically, Chris carefully pulled the white panties over his still-erect penis. Then he let the long skirt fall. He looked around and spotted tissues. With them, he cleaned the splattered mirror.\n\n''👠 Style +1 ''\n\n[[Continue|Kurz vor Schulbeginn.]]

Chris knew he shouldn’t allow this, but he had long since given up all resistance. His fate was sealed. It all felt so right. He surrendered to the man.\n\n“That’s it, doll, just relax,” Nate whispered in Chris’s ear and cupped his breasts through the bra.\n\nEverywhere, he felt Nate’s hands on his chest. He couldn’t focus on a single touch. Even though his eyes were closed and he had withdrawn into his own world, he noticed Nate bending over him.\n\nChris briefly opened his eyes and looked into Nate’s brown eyes, and when Nate bent lower over him, Chris closed his eyes again, opened his mouth, and received his lips.\n\nChris smelled the heavy scent of his aftershave. The hands on his body seemed to go still, as if watching in fascination. Without anyone having to tell him, Chris pushed his tongue into Nate’s mouth, and Nate began to suck on Chris’s tongue. <<if $piercing == 2>>He only briefly noticed Chris’s tongue piercing, but it made the kiss even more unmistakable. <<endif>>Chris kept his eyes closed while he enjoyed the lustful feelings flowing through his body. He liked it so much that he didn’t say a word when Nate unhooked his bra, so that afterward he could press his palms directly against Chris’s naked flesh. Chris’s hard nipples pressed against his palms while he kneaded his small breasts.\n\n“Let’s get your blouse off,” Nate said.\n\n“Yeah, okay,” Chris replied hesitantly.\n\nChris raised his arms, and Nate pulled off his blouse and then threw it onto the floor. Chris’s bra quickly followed. Nate licked his lips as he got his first unobstructed look at Chris’s perky breasts, at the hard nipples that stood out and the areolas that formed pink ovals around them. Nate bent down and began to suck on one of the breasts, teasing the nipple with his teeth and the tip of his tongue. God, Nate knew exactly what he had to do to get Chris going!\n\nNate pulled away by a breath, looked at him, and there was a silent “more” in his gaze. He sucked on Chris’s nipple again, more urgently this time, and his hand wandered lower—clearly determined, as if he were testing how far Chris would go along with it.\n\nThen reality returned like a cold draft.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. His body still wanted it, but his head sounded the alarm. He couldn’t. Not here, not like this. Not with this secret lying under every moment like a taut rope. He placed both hands against Nate’s shoulder, not aggressively, more pleadingly. “Wait,” he said quickly, too quietly. “I… I can’t.”\n\nNate paused, blinked, a brief shadow of disappointment. “Okay,” he said, more softly, and sat up.\n\nChris breathed shallowly, his cheeks hot, his heart far too loud. He turned his head to the side, just to look somewhere—and his gaze landed on Zoe and the blond guy.\n\nThe two were already fucking wildly on the sofa, completely without inhibitions, as if there were no world outside their own.\n\nZoe’s legs were wrapped tightly around his ass while he fucked her and rammed his cock in and out of her pussy. He bent his face down to hers and their lips found each other in a passionate kiss. Zoe wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his body even tighter against hers. She had forgotten everything around her, and the only thing filling her mind was feeling the blond guy’s male body pressed against hers and his hard cock filling her pussy.\n\nChris’s face grew even hotter. He was embarrassed to see something like that so openly; he couldn’t look for long. He hastily turned his gaze away.\n\nNate smiled as he watched Zoe and his buddy. He pulled down the zipper of his pants and took out his stiff cock, immediately closed a hand around it, and began rubbing up and down.\n\nChris turned bright red. The warmth sat in his face, in his ears, even in his fingertips.\n\n“You can touch it if you want,” Nate said, taking his hand off his dick.\n\n''Does he do it?''\n❯ [[Yes, he does it.|Ja, er macht es.][$jerkoff += 1;$zoe += 1;$chris_opinion += 10]]\n❯ [[No, he won’t touch a stranger’s penis.|Nein, er fasst keinen fremden Penis an.]]

Chris now grew curious. He moved his hand to Joseph’s erect penis. <<if $jerkoff == 0>>He had never held anything like this before. <<endif>> Slowly, he let it glide up and down. Joseph enjoyed the feeling of his hand and closed his eyes. Even though it was strange, Chris somehow liked that he could give a man pleasure in this way. It felt right.\n\nAnd then Joseph suddenly felt something warm and wet against his glans. He looked down and saw that Chris had crouched down and was licking his glans with his tongue. Chris was surprised; the glans did not taste nearly as bad as he had always thought, it was just a little salty. Joseph enjoyed it and closed his eyes again. After some time, Chris pulled away from him and gazed reverently at Joseph’s large cock. Then Chris gathered his courage and slipped his red lips over his glans.\n\nThe contact sent an electric shock through Chris’ entire body. Quickly, he leaned farther forward and closed his lips behind the rim of the glans. It had happened. He had it in his mouth! His heart hammered wildly and underscored the thought racing through his head: I’m sucking a man’s cock!\n\nBut as if by reflex, Chris began sucking on it and immediately brought his tongue into play. He watched Joseph’s reaction and was satisfied when he moaned loudly. The more intensely Chris worked on his cock, the louder Joseph moaned. Chris licked and sucked the glans thoroughly.\n\nWhen Joseph’s cock was nicely moistened with saliva, they went to the bed, as if the room were pulling them there. Their kisses grew deeper, their embraces tighter. Hands sought each other, found backs, breasts, butt—everything without haste and without hurry, but with a passion they could no longer downplay.\n\nUnconditionally, Chris gave himself to Joseph, opened himself to him as he had never opened himself to any man before. He breathed in his scent, felt his skin, the play of his muscles, his hot breath, enjoyed his lips, his tenderly exploring hands. Every one of his touches gave him goosebumps all over his body.\n\nHe returned every single caress threefold, exploring his male body, stroking his cock, nibbling at his neck and his earlobes. And again and again their tongues played around each other, tenderly passionate, full of desire.\n\n[[Continue|Chris lässt sich ficken.][$anal += 1;$creampied += 1]]

The doorbell rang, and Chris’ heart leapt as if someone had tugged on an invisible leash. He glanced in the mirror one more time—dress, shoes, clutch. Everything was in place. Still, his fingers trembled slightly as he brushed his hair behind his ear. His stomach fluttered as if moths were beating against satin inside him.\n<<set $ort to "">>\n“He’s here,” Susan called from the hallway, as if she herself had ordered the ringing.\n<<set $dylan_opinion to 99>>\nChris stepped out, and there was [[Dylan|Dylan Carter]] standing at the door. Dark suit, not some stiff “adult outfit,” but exactly the kind of polished-casual look that always seemed effortless on him. He was holding a small bouquet—not huge, but carefully chosen. When he saw Chris, he truly stopped for a moment.\n\n“Wow,” Dylan said, and this time it didn’t sound like a line, but like an honest reflex. “You look... incredible.”\n\nThe words hit Chris like warm light. The first pressure that had tightened inside him loosened a little. He realized his smile was not entirely put on when he said, “Thank you.” The blush came anyway, but it felt less like shame, more like... being seen.\n\nOf course Susan stepped into the doorway at exactly that moment, polished and alert, and looked Dylan over with a delight that was far too obvious. Her gaze slid over him once, as if she were internally giving him a rating, and the corners of her mouth lifted. “Hello, Dylan,” she said, too friendly. “You look... very sharp.”\n\n“Thank you, Mrs. Braun,” Dylan said politely, but he smiled a little wider as he said it, as if he had noticed the undertone and did not know what to do with it.\n\nChristine stood a few steps behind, in the hallway, silent. She said nothing, but she looked at Chris briefly—a glance that held both pride and a quiet ache. Chris returned it for only a heartbeat, then the doorway was too much of a stage.\n\n“We should take a photo,” Susan announced, already holding her phone. Of course.\n\nChris stood beside Dylan, the clutch pressed to his side, his shoulders straight. He put on that perfect smile—the one he had grown so good at—though his stomach was fluttering. Dylan stepped close enough that Chris could feel his body heat through the thin fabric. An arm positioning itself behind him at his bare back. The scent of Dylan’s aftershave. A quick glance down at Chris’ shoes, then back up.\n\n“Ready?” Susan asked, and Chris nodded.\n\nClick.\n\nHe held still, held the smile, held his breath, as if the photo were a piece of evidence for something he himself did not yet understand. Dylan looked relaxed as he did it—happy, even. Chris felt the closeness, and at the same time the shadow behind it, settling in his mind: What does he expect later?\n\nThe question pressed quietly in his chest as the flash faded and Susan murmured, satisfied, “Perfect.”\n\n[[Continue|Auf zum Homecoming Ball.]]

Chris swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he managed, his voice small, his gaze fixed on some innocent point in the carpet.\n\n“That is exactly why I’m raising you as a girl,” Susan said without hesitation. “This behavior. It isn’t the first time.” Her words fell hard, as if she meant to drive in a nail.\n\nAva raised an eyebrow; the baby continued to nurse calmly at her breast. “What else did he do?”\n\n“He got caught peeking through the keyhole while I was taking a bath,” Susan said indignantly.\n\nAva’s face darkened. “Spying on his own mother? Unbelievable.” She shook her head, stroking the baby’s little head. “You’re doing exactly the right thing, Susan. Boundaries. Consequences.”\n\nChris’s stomach clenched so tightly it hurt. He knew how the scene had really happened—a coin on the floor, a reflex to bend down, Christine’s scream, the door, the bathrobe, and afterward no room left for his version. He had tried to explain it. Once. Twice. A hundred times. Each time it had gotten worse: another “Oh really?”, a longer lecture, a new check mark on some invisible list. Eventually he had stopped.\n\nNow he sat there, listening as a misunderstanding became a perverse label that could no longer be peeled off, and felt shame creep all the way into his fingers. He folded his hands tighter, let his head sink, and said nothing—because every word here was only ammunition, never protection. Ava nodded to Susan, as if they had reached an agreement among adults.\n\n“You see,” Susan said without looking at him, “that’s how one learns. Not through talking—but through change.”\n\n[[Continue|Ava verabschiedet sich.]]

<<back "Back">>\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/Latoya.jpg]]</center> \n''Name:'' Latoya Powell \n''Age:'' 22 \n''Birthday:'' October\n\n''Relationships''\nDeShawn Powell(30) - cousin\n\n''Biography''\nLatoya had grown up in Atlanta—big-city noise, quick comebacks, always people around her. At school, she was automatically the loudest person in the room, the one teachers heard first and friends found first. She had just barely made it through high school, not out of stupidity, but because she rarely had patience for anything that felt like a “plan.” For Latoya, the future had long been something you could sort out later; she preferred to live in the moment, with a laugh that never apologized.\n\nShe moved to Maplewood only last year, which felt almost like a test of courage for her—too quiet, too much space between the houses, too little nightlife. She tried her hand as an influencer, with moderate success: a few good posts, a few small collaborations, far more effort than glamour. Still, she did not give up, because she loved staging herself—style, energy, presence.\n\nWhat truly drove her was music. Clubs, R&B, Afrobeats—that was where she became soft and wild at the same time. And although she had only been in town briefly, she knew a surprising number of people, simply because she was not afraid to talk to someone as if they were already friends. She had come to Maplewood through DeShawn; he was her cousin, but more like a big brother who slowed her down when she got too wound up and caught her when she shone on the outside and briefly wobbled on the inside.\n\n<div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Chris’s attraction to Latoya</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>not attractive at all</span> <span>intense desire</span> </div> <div class="axis-barattraction"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $latoya_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $latoya_opinion < 20>> not attractive at all <<elseif $latoya_opinion < 40>> slight attraction <<elseif $latoya_opinion < 60>> clear attraction <<elseif $latoya_opinion < 80>> strong attraction <<else>> intense desire <</if>> </div> </div> <<back "Back">>

Chris cleared his throat and, with a small, brave nod, chose “truth.” Maybe because it felt “safer” than a dare that could corner him in some way.\nThe boy who had asked leaned forward a little, the phone light on his face like a small stage. His grin was not only mocking—it had something curious about it, almost hopeful. “Okay,” he said. “What do you find attractive in a boy?”\nChris’s heart jumped. In the cool, metallic-sweet air of the hall, the question suddenly felt much louder than anything before. He noticed that the boy was studying him closely as he asked—not like it was a joke, but as if he were truly waiting for the answer. And although Chris did not turn his head right away, he sensed that Dylan had also become attentive. The conversation had slowed a little, as if everyone had instinctively turned down the volume.\nChris blushed. Not dramatically, but visibly. He tried to laugh to buy time, but it sounded thin.\n“I…,” he began, and hated how honest that “I” sounded. His gaze flitted briefly over the concrete floor, over the bottle, over rusty shadows. Then he said, more quietly than intended, but clearly: “When he’s kind. Like… truly kind. Without expecting anything for it.”\nIt was not a glamorous answer. No body parts. No cool cliché. And perhaps precisely because of that, it felt like a small leap into the open. Chris swallowed and raised his shoulders minimally, as if he could hide inside them.\nThe boy nodded slowly, as if he had gotten more than he had expected. Somewhere in the circle, someone giggled, but not meanly—more embarrassed. Dylan said nothing, but his gaze lingered in Chris’s direction a moment longer, as if he were putting the answer away like a card you look at again later.\nThe bottle spun on, once, twice, three rounds. The time grew darker, the rectangles of window light on the walls paler. “Don’t go there after dark,” someone murmured, but the saying now sounded more like a reflex than a joke.\nThen it hit Penelope again.\n“Dare,” she said as the bottle pointed at her.\n“Kiss a boy.”\n<<set $choice_ahorn3 to 1>>\n''Does Penelope do it?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $temp == 1>>[[No, she does not kiss a boy.|Nein, sie küsst keinen Jungen.][$kissgirl += 1]]\n<<else>>[[Yes, she kisses a boy.|Ja, sie küsst einen Jungen.]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

One afternoon, Chris was babysitting at [[Ava Ferguson|Ava Ferguson]]’s again.\n\nAva stood in the kitchen, phone to her ear, warming herself up. “I’m telling you, Georgia, my husband is a walking reason why women buy themselves wine,” she snapped. Chris sat on the carpet and pushed building blocks back and forth for Leo while simultaneously trying to soothe the baby with a bottle.\n\n“Leo, don’t throw,” Chris said automatically as a block landed dangerously close to the base of the lamp.\n\n“He throws because he learned it from his father,” Ava growled. “Drop everything and then act like it’s fate.” She shot Chris a look that was both appraising and needling. “At least you’re useful. That’s what you’re here for, after all.”\n\nChris forced out a polite smile. He knew the game: Ava was mean because she could be. And because it made her feel briefly bigger.\n\nOutside, the sky darkened. At first it was only wind shaking the trees in the driveway, then rain rattled against the windows like handfuls of gravel. Thunder rolled so close that the baby briefly twisted its lips in fright and then started crying.\n\n“Oh, wonderful.” Ava rolled her eyes. “Of course it’s storming.”\n\nThe rain grew faster, more slanted. The light in the living room flickered once, then stayed on, but the sounds outside made it seem as if someone were testing the house.\n\nAva stopped, stared into the garden, and you could see her getting an idea before she said it out loud. “No. No, no, no. In this weather you can’t go home.” She grabbed her phone again. “I’m calling your mom.”\n\nChris lifted his head. “Why? I can—”\n\n“You can’t do anything,” Ava cut him off, already in the middle of dialing. “You’re not going anywhere. Have you seen what it looks like outside? I’m not letting you stumble home in the storm and then have people say it was my fault.” She pressed the phone to her ear, suddenly syrupy-sweet. “Suuusan! Honey! You won’t believe it— it’s the end of the world here.”\n\nChris heard only her side of the conversation: dramatic sighing, an exaggerated description of the weather, a few digs about “men who are never around when you need them,” and at the end a satisfied, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll look after her.”\n\nShe hung up and smiled at Chris as if she had just done him a favor. “You’re sleeping here. One night. No arguing.”\n\nChris’ stomach sank. No choice. He nodded slowly, while Leo called out, “Cool!” as if it were an adventure.\n\nThe evening dragged on. Leo eventually grew tired and more defiant, the baby fussed in waves, Ava kept gossiping in between—about her husband, about his new “hobbies,” about the way he was “at war with emotional intelligence.” Chris made bottles, wiped away spit-up, read Leo a story until his eyes fell shut.\n\n[[Continue|Später bei Ava im Bett.]]

Then came the name.\n\nChris felt his body immediately go stiff, as if someone had laid a hand on his back. He knew the name. He had seen it once before—on an old letter, on some document in his mother’s drawer, maybe from the divorce folder or from papers she never put away.\n\nIt was his mother’s maiden name.\n\nRuby noticed Chris freezing beside her. “What is it?” she asked, quieter.\n\nChris stared at the line as if he could think it away. “That…” His voice didn’t come right away. “That’s… my mom’s name. From before.”\n\nRuby blinked. “Your mother…?”\n\nChris nodded almost imperceptibly. It felt wrong to say it out loud, as if he were touching something forbidden. He had always experienced his mother as force, as control, as someone who filled the room and set the rules. And now there was a note about a confused teenage girl who had been found after an incident—and beneath it the name that had belonged to Susan before she had been “Braun.”\n\nRuby reached for the next scrap of paper, as if she were suddenly afraid of what came next. It was another small note, even shorter, almost bureaucratic: “Youth welfare office investigates after incident.” No details. Just that sentence, which felt like a door into a stranger’s house.\n\nChris’s head buzzed. He saw his mother’s face in his mind—the smile when a plan worked out; the hard look when he contradicted her; the way she shaped him, as if she were afraid of losing control. And now there lay the possibility that his mother herself had once been someone something had slipped away from. A crisis large enough that authorities had gotten involved.\n\nRuby did not place a hand on his arm; she did not ask further. She only held the clipping, as if it had suddenly become heavier. “That doesn’t explain anything,” she said quietly, more to herself. “But… it’s a shadow.”\n\nChris swallowed. He felt as if he had looked into a place that had not been meant for him. And yet he could no longer tear his gaze away from it. In the yellowed lines lay a tiny clue—not to an excuse, not to a solution, but to something tragic that had shaped Susan at some point. Something she perhaps had never told.\n\nAnd somewhere between the shelves, in the basement of the Gazette, Chris realized how close “Founders’ Spirit” and Susan’s way of holding onto him might perhaps be—without him knowing how.\n\n[[Continue|Donnerstag, Schminken im Bad.]]

<div class="psychedelic-text">Chris nodded barely visibly, more a buckling than agreement. “Okay… one dance,” he murmured, even though he already knew it was a lie he was telling himself.\n\nThe guy grinned broadly. “I knew it.” He immediately placed one hand on Chris’s waist, the other on his hand, pulling him toward the middle of the room with a matter-of-factness as if he had secured himself a new toy.\n\nThe bass struck deep, the lights twitched. Chris’s heels slipped briefly as the boy whirled him around. It felt as if he were being led without being asked. A doll whose joints obeyed the music and the hands of a stranger.\n\nThe alcohol hit hard now. Chris’s head was cottony, the floor soft. He tried to keep some distance, but the boy kept pulling him close again and again. Hip to hip, thigh to thigh. Every movement too close.\n\n“You’re so hot, you know that?” he murmured into his ear, the words warm and unpleasant on his skin.\n\nChris’s stomach cramped. He didn’t laugh, but he couldn’t get a clear word out either. His body reacted with a delay, arms uncertain, the miniskirt riding dangerously upward. He tugged at it half-heartedly, and the boy laughed as if it were part of the game.\n\nThe boy moved closer, his hand tight on Chris’s hip, before Chris could even form another clear thought. The bass thudded dully against his ribs, the light flickered, and then suddenly the boy’s mouth was on his.\n\nThe kiss was wet, heavy, too insistent. The taste of cheap alcohol, something sweet, and cigarettes. Not a cautious approach, but an assault. Chris’s lips stayed rigid at first, then gave way, more reflex than consent, because his body was fogged and his head too slow. It felt wrong, as if someone were reaching into his space and rearranging everything without asking.\n\nThe hand on his waist wandered. Lower. Firmer. A thumb grazing the waistband of his skirt, a grip that was no longer casual. The other hand released his fingers and settled on his side, pulling him closer, chest to chest, so that Chris could smell the alcohol on the other boy’s breath.\n\n“Hey,” Chris managed. “Not like—”\n\n“It’s just dancing,” the boy interrupted, and his grip became more like a clamp. A jerk that held Chris’s body where he wanted it. The movement swallowed the protest.\n\nThe bass thundered, lights flickered. The sounds around them turned into mush. Chris felt something inside him tighten as the boy’s hand went a little farther, distinctly, clearly, over a line that was unmistakable even in his fogged state.\n\nChris felt his hand on his butt. He groped his ass through the miniskirt. No longer an accident, no “oops, it happens while dancing.” It was deliberate. A boundary, crossed.\n\nThe guy’s hand felt like a brand.</div>\n\n''How does Chris react?''\n<<if $alkohol < 2>>[[He slaps him.|Er gibt ihm eine Ohrfeige.2]]<<else>>[[Chris is too drunk.|Chris ist zu betrunken.2]]<<endif>>

<div class="psychedelic-text">Chris let it happen.\n\n“Okay,” he said quietly, barely audible, more out of reflex than real consent.\n\nThe boy grinned broadly, as if he had been waiting for exactly that. He pulled Chris with him onto the dance floor, right into the flickering light and the tightly packed circle of bodies. The bass thumped so deep that Chris felt as if his ribcage were being conducted from the outside.\n\n“That’s a good girl,” the guy shouted into his ear, much too close.\n\nHe grabbed Chris by the hands, spun him around, faster than the heels allowed. Chris stumbled, caught himself, gave a brief uncertain laugh because nothing else came to mind. The miniskirt slid a touch higher, the air on his thighs suddenly cold. The guy positioned him closer again, as if moving a doll into place.\n\nThe alcohol finally went straight to Chris’s head. The room swam slightly. Faces blurred into patches of color; he could no longer tell whether someone was looking at him or simply standing at the edge. His body danced half a second behind, the beat and the boy’s hands determining the radius.\n\nThe boy moved closer, his hand tight on Chris’s hip, before Chris could even form another clear thought. The bass thudded dully against his ribs, the light flickered, and then suddenly the boy’s mouth was on his.\n\nThe kiss was wet, heavy, too insistent. The taste of cheap alcohol, something sweet, and cigarettes. Not a careful approach, but an assault. Chris’s lips stayed stiff at first, then yielded, more reflex than consent, because his body was fogged and his head too slow. It felt wrong, as if someone were reaching into his space and rearranging everything without asking.\n\nThe touches grew rougher. At first it was only a hand at his waist, then lower. A grip that was no longer loose, but possessive. The hips pressed more firmly against his. Chris’s breath caught when he felt his hard cock. He tried to take a step back, but the guy followed, wouldn’t let him go.\n\n“You’re really something special,” he slurred to him. “So soft…” The fingers slid farther, to where they didn’t belong. Chris felt his hand on his butt. He was groping his ass through the miniskirt.” No accident anymore, no “oops, that happens while dancing.” It was deliberate. A boundary, crossed.\n\nThe guy’s hand felt like a brand.</div>\n\n''How does Chris react?''\n<<nobr>><<if $alkohol < 2>>[[He slaps him.|Er gibt ihm eine Ohrfeige.3]]<<else>>[[Chris is too drunk.|Chris ist zu betrunken.3]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

The defense tried to bring order to Susan’s story.\n\nShe spoke of misunderstandings. Of cultural differences. Of a mother who had been overwhelmed. Of things that had been misunderstood, and of decisions that may have been unwise, but had never been meant cruelly.\n\nThe prosecutor let her talk.\n\nThen she stood up.\n\nHer questions were brief. Whether Chris had chosen the name Christina himself. Whether he had known what had been in the pills. Whether Mr. Gilbert had been a doctor.\n\nWith every answer, the room grew quieter. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just tighter.\n\nThen the prosecutor closed her folder.\n\n“The People call Christoph Braun.”\n\nFor a moment, Chris did not understand the words.\n\nThen he felt his father’s hand on his shoulder.\n\n“I’m here,” his father said quietly.\n\nChris stood up.\n\nThe way to the witness stand was not far, but every step felt as if he had to pass through something invisible. Ms. Parker nodded to him. Ruby looked down at her hands. Christine sat all the way in the back and had tears in her eyes.\n\nChris sat down.\n\nHe raised his right hand.\n\nHe swore to tell the truth.\n\nThen he was allowed to sit.\n\nThe prosecutor stepped in front of him.\n\n“Christoph,” she said, “can you tell the court what Susan Braun did to you?”\n\nChris looked at the microphone in front of him.\n\nIt was only a small black dot on a wooden lectern.\n\nEven so, it felt as if the whole room were waiting for him to finally find a name for what had happened.\n\nHe could want to take everything from his mother.\n\nHe could only want her to never have power over him again.\n\nHe could also still feel, somewhere, the part of himself that remembered a mother who, more than anything, had been just that: his mother.\n\nChris breathed in.\n\nThen he spoke.\n\n''What is his testimony?''\n❯ [[“A part of me still remembers my mother before she did all of this. I’m not asking for leniency.”|Aussage Mild]]\n❯ [[“I don’t want her to suffer the way I suffered. But I want her to be stopped. I want the court to say out loud that love is not an excuse for imprisonment.”|Aussage Klar][$temp += 1]]\n<<if $temp > 1>>❯ [[“She didn’t just put dresses on me. She taught me that my body belonged to her.”|Aussage Hart][$temp += 2]]<<endif>>

<div class="psychedelic-text">For Chris, everything moved as if through a greasy pane of glass.\n\nThe music grew muffled, voices became a single rush of noise. His head felt heavy and at the same time strangely light, as if it were dragging a step behind his body. He wanted to say “Stop,” or “Leave me alone,” or anything at all with clear edges, but the words stuck somewhere between tongue and palate.\n\nHe was only dimly aware of hands on his body.\n\nThe boy’s hands—firmly gripping his ass. He reached for Chris’ breasts, rubbing them through the thin fabric of his top. "Don't..." Chris slurred softly.\n\nThen came pulling, steering. The dance floor fell away behind him without him understanding exactly when. The floor beneath his heels changed, first hardwood, then carpet, then something else again. Somewhere at the edge, someone shouted something, a crude joke that sounded like the one from earlier—“Off to the love suite!”\n\nSomeone whistled loudly through his teeth. “Oho! She can barely walk anymore,” he said with a crooked grin.\n\n“She doesn’t have to,” another answered at once, and the group exploded into jeering laughter.\n\nChris perceived it as if it belonged to a movie someone else was watching.\n\nThe stairs.\n\nHe realized he was climbing, but not how. His hand slid briefly over a railing, lost its grip. The boy caught him, pulled him closer. Chris’ feet landed unevenly, the heels slipping, but the hand on his body kept him upright. It was like being guided, not like walking.\n\nUpstairs, it was darker. More muted. The bass only vibrated like a distant engine now. His vision blurred; hallway, doors, shadows. He could not say exactly where they were.\n\nThe boy opened a door. A brief strip of light from the hallway, then darkness with a faint shimmer from somewhere. The door clicked shut behind them. The sound was small, but final.\n\nChris felt the boy lead him farther inside. His knees gave way. The mattress beneath him appeared suddenly, taking his weight without warning. He landed facedown, his cheek pressed against the bedspread. The fabric smelled of detergent and something unfamiliar.\n\nHis legs hung half over the edge of the bed, the heels brushing the air, the miniskirt ridden up. His arms lay powerless beside him.\n\nEverything went black for Chris.\n\nSlowly, the boy placed both hands on Chris’ thighs. His sweat-slicked fingers twitched with arousal against Chris’ warm skin. He stroked gently upward until he reached the waistband of Chris’ briefs; his fingertips slipped underneath, caressing Chris’ buttocks—kneading those firm cheeks thoroughly.\n\nChris was no longer aware of any of this; his eyes were closed, and traces of saliva clung to the corners of his mouth. As if of their own accord, the boy’s hands moved to the waistband of Chris’ <<if $unterwaesche == 1>>sensual white<<else>>lovely pastel-colored<<endif>> briefs and slowly, deliberately, pulled them down.\n\nOnce he had finally pulled Chris’ briefs down past his feet, Chris’ penis came into view beneath the miniskirt.</div>\n\n[[Continue|Er macht trotzdem weiter.][$anal += 1;$creampied += 1;$rape += 1;$partner += 1]]\n

Stil +1

All at once, his penis grew painfully hard. Chris considered getting up to splash cold water on his face in the bathroom, but the temptation was too great.\n\nWhat the hell, he thought to himself, and so his fingers wandered tenderly over the soft skin of her bare bottom. He wanted to see how she would react to the fleeting touch, but Christine was fast asleep.\n\nHe now grazed his fingertips lightly over her flat chest, right through her satin nightgown. Again, nothing happened, so he repeated the motion several times, his hand lingering for longer periods each time, eventually resting the full weight of his palm against her breast. Pleasurably caressing his sister’s small tits—and occasionally toying with her sweet nipples—Chris’s gaze drifted downward.\n\nHe knelt down. He now touched her slender thighs gently, stroking with extreme tenderness over her silky-soft skin, his fingers gliding ever closer toward her pussy.\n\n"Mmmmmhhhh," Chris heard a sound—a moan of pure pleasure—escape his little sister’s lips, and in her sleep, she spread her slender legs ever so slightly.\n\nWith a quick, startled glance up at Christine’s face, Chris immediately reassured himself that there was no danger. A mane of hip-length hair framed a face that could only be described as doll-like and cute—complete with blue eyes that were, of course, currently closed. Her lips were slightly parted. Aside from that, nothing had changed; his little sister still seemed to be drifting in a blissful nirvana.\n\nBecause her legs were now spread, her panties had shifted slightly, giving Chris a clear view of her "attractions." Curious, Chris lowered his gaze and beheld a truly sweet, pink little pussy.\n\nChris’s entire body tingled with lust; his nipples had by now hardened to the point of near-painfulness, and his cock practically begged for attention. Chris didn’t know how long he had been staring, mesmerized, at the "Gate to Paradise"—his little sister’s pussy—until he finally mustered all his courage. Then, very gently, he reached out his hand, touched the slightly parted slit ever so softly with his fingertips, and tenderly traced the contours of her outer labia. And he didn’t do it just once.\n\nUpon reaching the upper end of Christine’s pussy, Chris’s finger distinctly located her little button of pleasure. No sooner had Christine felt her brother’s gentle fingertips at her most intimate spot than she murmured in her sleep: "Mhm... let me... mmmh... sleep..."—then turned away and pulled the covers up to her chin.\n\n\nChris flinched in terror as if he had been struck by lightning. His face immediately turned deep red, and his eyes widened with shame and panic. But fortunately, Christine kept sleeping soundly, as if nothing had happened.\n\nFrustrated, he let himself fall onto his back, hands flat on his stomach, counting breaths. Inhale. Exhale. The satin shorts rustled softly as his erection faded. He closed his eyes, saw her sweet pussy in his thoughts, opened his eyes again. At some point, wakefulness dissolved into the steady hum of the house, and sleep came, more quietly than he deserved.\n\nMorning came with thin light through the curtains and the smell of coffee from somewhere far off. Chris blinked, turned his head. His sister was still lying peacefully beside him, a strand of hair across her cheek. A surge of guilt shot into his chest. You must never do something like that again, a voice in his head said.\n\nIn the living room, the rustling of a departing pajama party soon returned: bags were packed, pillows put back on the shelf, Polaroids on the wall straightened—the small gap where his vanished first picture had been remained. Penelope handed out hugs and leftover cookies, thanking everyone for coming. “Saturday accomplished,” she announced, and the girls laughed tiredly.\n\nOutside, Susan honked twice, briefly. Christine and Chris put on their shoes, murmuring final “Thank you!” and “See you Monday!” sentences. Penelope waved from the porch, Mrs. Barnett standing beside her and giving Chris a warm, seductive look.\n\nIn the car, it was quiet. Christine scrolled on her phone, the seatback creaking softly. Susan asked whether it had been nice. “Yes,” they both said almost at the same time. Chris leaned his forehead against the window, watched Maplewood pass by in soft morning colors, and kept his gaze on the lines of the road until his heart was as calm again as the pale blue sky above them.\n\n[[End of Chapter 1|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 1][$party1 += 3]]

They came back late to the tiny apartment, three tipsy shadows with warm cheeks and voices too loud. The door clicked shut, and for a moment the city outside seemed pushed away. Inside it smelled of their perfume, of the bar, and of the cold night air they had carried in with them.\n\nZoe dropped onto the mattress as if it were a stage, grabbed her date, pulled him toward her, and kissed him without hesitation. Typical Zoe, Chris thought dazedly – that “I take what I want,” as if hunger didn’t only live in the stomach, but also in the way she lived. Chris stayed standing at first, half laughing, half overwhelmed, and watched. His head was soft from the alcohol, his thoughts running slower and at the same time too fast.\n\nThe man’s hands were under her top, fondling Zoe’s breasts. Chris took note of it drunkenly and sat down on a chair.\n\nThe guy – still polished, but with his hair slightly mussed – looked over at Chris now and then, as if this had been a triangle from the start and not two separate dates. Zoe didn’t seem bothered by that. On the contrary: she grinned briefly in Chris’s direction, as if to say: Well, come here.\n\nChris’s heart was pounding. “Don’t mind me,” he said awkwardly. Zoe didn’t reply, instead pulling the guy’s head toward her breasts. He caressed both of her half-globes, and slowly but surely the two of them got going.\n\nThen he got up and pulled off his pants. His cock sprang out hard. Zoe didn’t need to be asked twice and bent over the hard phallus. The guy enjoyed Zoe’s quick tongue work and didn’t miss the chance to make eye contact with Chris again, who watched the whole thing in silence.\n\n“Do you like watching Zoe suck my cock?” he asked. Chris found it bizarre that Zoe was orally servicing him while the guy was talking to him.\n\n“It’s okay,” Chris answered awkwardly.\n\nZoe didn’t take part in the conversation, since her mouth and tongue were busy elsewhere.\n\n“Have you ever sucked a hard cock?”\n\n“Um...” Chris blushed.\n\n“Want to try?”\n\nZoe interrupted her oral services. “He’s right. Come on, join in.”\n\n“No, thanks. You know I prefer women to men.”\n\n“Come over to us at least. You can take a closer look at his best piece,” Zoe suggested.\n\n[[Continue|Chris macht mit.][$partner += 1;$kissgirl += 1;$kissboy += 1;$jerkoff += 1;$anal += 1;$creampied += 1]]

<div class="psychedelic-text">"Damn. Your legs... that ass... you’re so hot, and now this..." he said, pausing for a moment to think before continuing.\n\nHe stood up, stripped off his pants completely, leaned over Chris, and delivered a hard slap to Chris’s ass before throwing his weight heavily onto him. In that moment, he didn't care whether Chris was a boy or not. Asses were tight anyway, so it made no difference to him. Thus, he rubbed himself back and forth between Chris’s ass cheeks until his cock was hard enough; then he gripped the base of his penis, guided his glans toward Chris’s back door, and slowly pressed himself into Chris’s tight hole.\n\nChris’s breathing grew heavier, yet he remained unconscious as the hard cock slid into him inch by inch. When only the final third remained outside, the guy finally let himself fall heavily onto Chris—overcome with lust—and drove his entire length inside him with a resounding -thud-. The sound of the air being forced from Chris’s lungs was audible. The guy savored the incredible tightness, giving Chris’s—until now—virgin ass time to adjust to its new intruder. But he couldn't hold back for long; he soon began his merciless rhythm, fucking Chris hard with powerful thrusts.\n\nChris suddenly stirred and tried to sit up—a move the heavy body pinning him down effectively prevented. "W... what... what... is happening?" he slurred, writhing back and forth in a futile attempt to escape the heavy weight pressing down on him. Chris could barely see anything; everything was so dark. The lights must be off, he thought to himself, just as a searing pain in his ass began to spread like wildfire.\n\nOnly very slowly did Chris realize that he was being rammed in the ass. The guy picked up the pace and shoved Chris’s head down into the pillow. Chris clenched up tight as he tried in vain to push the cock out of his ass.\n\nChris shrieked and whimpered. He was utterly helpless beneath the burly boy, who reeked of alcohol and sweat.\n\n“Get... off... me...!” His demand was chopped into syllables with every thrust—much like his battered asshole. The boy moaned louder and completely let himself go, picking up the pace once more and giving no thought whatsoever to answering Chris. His moans, his gasps, and the drops of sweat ceaselessly dripping onto Chris’s back would have to be answer enough for now.\n\n“Get... away... from... me!” Chris screamed in desperation. He felt a burning sensation in his rear, as if someone were ramming a red-hot iron rod into him, over and over again.\n\n“Sooooooo good... Yessss... Ooooooohhhhhhh...” the boy moaned, feeling his cum pulse from his balls through his cock; he thrust deep one last time and lingered inside Chris while his fluids shot, wave after wave, into Chris’s insides.\n\nChris began to weep as he felt the warm ejaculate filling him. The boy continued to move inside Chris, letting the wave of his orgasm slowly subside until his erection went soft.\n\nChris felt defiled and used, and he wept all the more bitterly—yet he was also relieved that it was finally over, and that this unbearable weight no longer bore down upon him.</div>\n\n[[Continue|Scham am Sonntag Morgen.]]\n\n

Charlotte pulled back. First a few inches. Then she pushed him away with both hands, gently but firmly, as if she had to create distance in order to breathe again. Her eyes looked large and uncertain in the television light. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, too quickly. “I… I can’t do this.”\n\nChris half sat up, the blanket slipping from his shoulder. “Charlotte—”\n\nShe shook her head, as if interrupting herself. “I tried. Really.” Her voice trembled. “But as soon as you touch me, as soon as it… becomes real, all I can think about is that you…” She didn’t finish the sentence, her gaze sliding away. “I just can’t get used to the fact that you’re a boy.”\n\nIt hit Chris like cold water. Not because he hadn’t feared it, but because he had hoped that love might perhaps be stronger than this knot.\n\n“I didn’t want to overwhelm you,” he said quietly. “We can take it slow. We don’t have to—”\n\n“It’s not the pace,” she interrupted him, her hands clenched in the flannel shirt. “It’s… I don’t know how to turn that around in my head.” She swallowed. “I’m disgusted by… by masculinity. By men. I don’t even want to say it like that, because it sounds mean. But it’s there. And I…” Her voice broke. “I can’t pretend it isn’t there.”\n\nChris’s throat tightened. He wanted to fight, to argue, to prove that he was different—but he sensed that words would only mean more pressure right now.\n\n“Okay,” he said at last, as calmly as he could. “I’m not angry. I… I just want you to be okay.”\n\nCharlotte nodded frantically, tears glittering. “I need to be alone. Please. I need to think.”\n\nChris slowly pulled back, reached for his bag, as if putting himself in order. “Okay,” he repeated, even more quietly this time. “If you… if you want to talk, I’m here.”\n\nCharlotte said nothing more. She stared at the television, but wasn’t really seeing it. Chris stayed standing there for one more heartbeat, then left the room, quietly, so it wouldn’t sound like a bang.\n\nDown in the hallway, he ran into Joseph. He had apparently already understood that something was wrong—not curious, more alert, caring. “Everything okay?” he asked calmly.\n\nChris forced a small, shaky nod. “She needs… time. I’d better go.”\n\nJoseph didn’t say “Why” or “What happened.” He only nodded, reached for his car keys, and took Chris’s jacket from the hook, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Come on. I’ll drive you.”\n\nIn the car, it was quiet. Joseph allowed the silence, like someone who knew that comfort sometimes lay in not talking. Chris looked out the window at the passing streetlights and felt the sadness settle heavily inside him.\n\nHe realized how much he loved Charlotte. How much he would do to make things right again—and how helpless he felt because he didn’t know whether there was anything he could do at all. When Joseph stopped in front of the house, he briefly placed a hand on Chris’s shoulder—not pity, more a silent “You’re not alone.”\n\nChris got out, thanked him hoarsely, and went to the door. In his stomach, a quiet ache remained that didn’t let up—because it wasn’t only about a relationship, but about the feeling that with every truth he spoke aloud, he could lose something he had truly loved.\n\n[[Continue|Nächtliche Gedanken.]]

The morning smelled of coffee and vanilla. Susan stood by the bed like a mistress of ceremonies and laid things out piece by piece: a fine, shimmering pair of pantyhose in a lovely Bahama brown; a white bodysuit (“keeps everything neatly in shape”); a soft top; and a snow-white pleated skirt.\n<<set $wochentag = 2>><<set $ort to "Chris’ girl room">>\n“Mom… I want to decide for myself what I wear.”\n\nSusan barely looked up. “Not yet. You’re not ready.”\n\nChris pressed his lips together. He pulled on the bodysuit, slipped into the pantyhose—by now it was routine: roll them up, toes in, heel, slowly pull them higher. The top fell neatly, and the pleated skirt moved perfectly the moment he merely walked from the bed to the mirror.\n\n<center>[img[pics/outfit1.jpg]]</center> “With legs like that, you can wear any skirt. Some girls will turn green with envy.” his mother said, placing a pair of black patent shoes with a small heel beside them. The leather gleamed like a freshly polished grand piano. “And these go best with it.”\n\nChris remembered the first time he had worn heels weeks ago—knees too soft, ankles too wobbly. His sister had laughed: “Bambi learns to walk.” Since then, he had gotten better, but school meant long hallways, stairs, Hall Monitors paying attention to everything.\n\nSusan looked at him in the mirror. “Your choice,” she said, surprisingly neutral. “But remember: posture is a shoe too.”\n\n<center>[img[pics/Schuhe.jpg]]</center> Chris looked from the patent shoes to the sneakers, briefly felt for his balance, heard in his head the echo of tiles at school, the looks, the rumors.\n\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[Wear heels.|Absatzschuhe tragen.][$schuhe += 1]]\n❯ [[Wear flat sneakers.|Flache Sneakers tragen.]]

Thursday was already humming in the morning. New posters in the school colors were stuck up everywhere, someone on the announcements was counting down the hours until kickoff, and in the hallways students spontaneously rehearsed chants that echoed between metal lockers and linoleum floors. Tomorrow was the Timberwolves’ first big home game. Chris heard the noise like weather—everywhere, unavoidable. He would definitely be at the stadium, he had decided that: cheering Christine on from the stands, clapping until his hands hurt, screaming himself hoarse whether he wanted to or not.<<set $wochentag = 4>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "school">>\n\nThe school day slipped by in a bright, nervous rush.\n\nIn the cafeteria, Chris’s gaze fell on Adam at the food counter. The kitchen staff seemed to know him—not like “anonymous kid with a tray,” but like a regular: a “Hey, Adam,” a brief laugh, an extra-large spoonful of mashed potatoes while they exchanged a couple of sentences about something everyday. Adam smiled crookedly as he did, visibly relaxing for a moment. Then Penelope stepped up to the counter as if bringing her own little trail of light with her. Adam’s shoulders immediately drew up; he went quiet, automatically took a step to the side, and let her go ahead without her even addressing him. Chris saw that and understood again how school worked: not just cliques at tables, but also invisible priorities in lines—who becomes bigger and who becomes smaller as soon as someone “more important” appears.\n\nThat afternoon in theater club, it smelled again of dust, wood, and a little makeup. Ms. Green had them murmur tongue twisters, then gave them a short break. Chris leaned against the edge of the stage, Lucas let his legs dangle, and Ruby sat cross-legged on a prop, twirling a braid between her fingers.\n\n“So,” Ruby said, her eyes glittering, “Homecoming next week. Does anyone have a date yet?”\n\nLucas snorted a laugh. “Me? No.”\n\n“Me neither,” Chris said, deliberately keeping his gaze loose on a pulley hanging from the ceiling. The word felt neutral and at the same time too heavy, as if it had more layers than he wanted to show.\n\nRuby nodded, curious as always. “Hm.” She let her gaze swing between them, not teasing, more on the hunt for a story. Lucas gave Chris that look—brief, soft, questioning—a If you want… without words. There was nothing pushy in it; more of a quiet offer, as friends, as allies, to stumble through a night everyone was making such a big deal of.\n\nChris caught the look and held it for one breath. Then he tilted his head ever so slightly, so that it looked like a smile, and let his eyes say what he didn’t want to speak aloud: Please don’t ask me. Not today, not now, not with all the threads already pulling at me.\n\n''Does Lucas ask?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $choice_lucasjacke == 0>>\n[[Yes, he asks.|Ja, er fragt.]]\n<<else>>\n[[No, he doesn’t ask.|Nein, er fragt nicht.]]\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Madame Lunette let a moment pass, as if listening to what was not being said in the room. Then she slowly raised her hand—not to touch anything, but as if tracing an invisible line in the air.\n\n“Future,” she said softly, “is not stone. More like… water. It takes the shape of what you decide.” Her eyes remained fixed on Chris, calm, almost kind. “I see possibilities. Paths. And I see that you are standing at a point where one step to the left changes everything, and one step to the right does too.”\n\nChris’s fingers unconsciously dug into the hem of his dress. He forced them loose again. His heart was beating so loudly that he could feel it in his ears.\n\n“You will have obstacles,” she continued. “Not only the obvious ones. Not only the ones shown to you.” She tilted her head, as if weighing something. “You will have to make decisions that feel small, but are big. Decisions about whom you believe. Whom you entrust yourself to. And what you give away in order to buy peace.”\n\nShe drew her hand back, as if wiping away an image. “And listen to me: people will try to use you.” The word fell heavier than the others. “They will push you into roles that benefit them. They will flatter you to soften you. Or threaten you to keep you small.” A brief shadow passed over her face. “Dirty secrets… may come to the surface. Not necessarily because you want them to, but because others do.”\n\nChris swallowed. A list immediately flickered up inside him—names, looks, moments—and he tried to push it away.\n\n“There will be shame,” she said, as if she could see into that list. “Fear. Humiliation. Not once, but in waves.” Her voice remained strangely matter-of-fact, almost comforting: as if she were saying that rain was simply wet. “But waves are not the sea. You can learn to stand on them.”\n\n<<if $ladendiebin > 1>>She leaned back a little. “And then… there is a girl.”\n\nChris’s chest tightened, although she had said nothing concrete.\n\n“A girl who can look like light,” Madame Lunette murmured. “Like rescue. Like a place where you are allowed to breathe for a moment.” She made a small, unreadable motion with her fingers. “But light can also blind. And closeness can—without meaning any harm—lead you deeper than you planned.”\n\nShe paused, as if deciding for herself how much she should say. “Is she your salvation?” she finally asked, more to the room than to Chris. “Or does she lead you onto a path… that tempts you? Into sin, if that is what you want to call what people call sin.”\n\n<<endif>>The words remained deliberately vague, like mist suggesting shapes without showing them. Madame Lunette only looked at Chris, as if the answer were already somewhere inside him.\n\n“That is not written,” she said at last. “Only… possible. And possible means: you can still choose.”\n\n[[Continue|Raus aus dem Pavillon.]]

One evening, the house was unusually quiet. From the bathroom came only the soft splashing of water and, now and then, a deep exhale. Christine had drawn herself a bath, as she had been doing more and more often in recent weeks—against the pressure in her back, against the heaviness in her legs, against the constant restlessness shortly before the birth.\n\nAfter a while, Chris heard a hesitant, “Chris?”\n\nHe stopped in the middle of the hallway. “Yeah?”\n\n“Can you… come here for a second?” Christine’s voice sounded strained, as if she were trying to make it sound casual. “Please.”\n\nChris knocked on the bathroom door and opened it a crack. The room was warm and steamed up, the light soft. Christine was sitting in the tub, the water high. Her cheeks were flushed—from the hot water, but also from the situation.\n\n“I can’t get out on my own,” she said quickly, before he could even ask. “My belly… I can’t get any momentum. Mom usually helps, but…” She grimaced. “She’s not here today.”\n\nChris’s own face grew hot. The request suddenly felt much more intimate than it sounded, even though it was only… help. He swallowed. “Okay. I’ll help you. Just tell me how.”\n\nChristine nodded, holding on to the edge of the tub. “Just… don’t look, okay?” she tried, half joking, half deadly serious.\n\nBut Chris automatically stared at her two small breasts, which rose from the water like twin islands. Her areolas fascinated him and held him spellbound. Farther down, too, Christine unintentionally gave him a glimpse of her pubic area.\n\nChris looked down at the wet pubic hair, but then forced himself to meet his sister's eyes. Christine pressed her legs together and crossed her arms protectively over her breasts. At first, it seemed to make her uncomfortable that her brother was seeing her so exposed.\n\n“I’m not looking,” Chris said, demonstratively turning his gaze to the side, fixing on the tile with the towel rack as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. He reached for the large towel hanging over the radiator and held it ready like a blanket.\n\n“I’m about to stand up,” Christine warned, as if she had to announce a performance to him. There was the sound of water, a cautious shifting, then a breath that sounded too big. Chris extended one arm. “Give me your hand.”\n\nHer hand found his—warm, wet, a little trembling. Chris felt the firm pressure of her fingers and realized how much trust lay in that simple touch. He planted himself steadily, both feet firm, and didn’t pull, but supported her so she could get up herself.\n\nChristine slowly lifted herself out of the tub. Her brother’s gaze fell once again upon her small breasts, her round, swollen belly, and—not least—upon his sister’s alluring lap, where her lovely womanhood lay hidden behind her damp pubic hair.\n\nNo sooner had she stood with both feet on the floor than Chris had draped the bath towel around her shoulders. He began rubbing Christine dry. His sister let him help and stayed standing in front of Chris, who dried her back all the way down to her bottom. Then Chris got down on his knees and began tackling her butt and legs.\n\n“Are you going to dry me off completely now?” Christine asked incredulously, smiling in irritation. Chris straightened up and finally stood face-to-face with his sister, who had turned 180 degrees. He had her small breasts in view, but focused his attention on Christine’s face.\n\n“That’s a special service for pregnant women,” he explained jokingly. “Today you don’t have to do anything, and I’ll take care of everything for you.”\n\nThe next moment, he rubbed Christine’s tiny chest dry with the bath towel and took his time freeing both breasts as thoroughly as possible from the trickling bathwater. Christine let him. Her initial feeling of shame had faded, and it no longer seemed to bother her all that much to stand naked in front of her brother. Chris brought the bath towel down and carefully dabbed her round belly. Then he knelt again and dried her feet, calves, and thighs. His head was level with Christine’s lap, which he had saved for last.\n\nNow he tackled the most intimate part of her body and gently rubbed the bath towel over his sister's pubic hair. He began to move the bath towel very gently back and forth, rubbing the terry cloth along Christine’s intimate area as he did so.\n\n[[Continue|Sie unterbricht ihn.]]\n

Bedingungen Beliebtheit\n(Cheerleader zu sein, hat noch keinen Einfluss, weil nur Aufnahme und noch kein Auftritt)\n\n+1 Dylan Spind klempt (lange Haare)\n-1/-2 Zoe prügelei(wenn Ladendiebin verraten)\n-1 weigern beim Cheer Tryout \n+1 Schminke\n+1 Dylan Treppenhaus Sturz (Absätzenschuhe)\n\n\nBeliebtheit\nMin: 3\nMax: 8

<h2>Chapter 4</h2> Monday caught him off guard. The alarm hadn’t gone off, and [[Chris|Chris Braun]] stumbled out of bed, cramming skincare, brushing his teeth, mascara, and a skirt from the chair into two minutes. He didn’t notice it was the wrong one—too short, barely knee-length, more “weekend” than “school.” He squeezed himself into the tights, smoothed down a simple top, grabbed his bag, and ran. <<set $wochentag = 1>><<set $wetter = 2>><<set $ort to "">> Christine was already standing at the bus stop, awake and neat as always. She looked at him once, tilted her head. “Hold still, <<if $chrisorsis == 1>>Sis<<else>>Chris<<endif>>,” she said, smoothing a stubborn strand of hair with two fingers and a hint of spit. Embarrassing—but effective. Chris murmured a “Thanks” and at the same time felt that familiar mixture of annoyance and childish comfort.\n\nOn the bus, he sank into the seat and pulled the bag onto his lap. Only then did he feel the hem—how close it ended to the top edge of the tights. Heat shot into his face. Every jolt of the bus lifted the fabric the tiniest bit, and he involuntarily pressed his knees closer together because the bus driver was staring through the rearview mirror. Great.\n\nAt school, it got worse. Climbing the stairs, he felt the draft against his butt, the gaze on his back, which he might only have been imagining, but preferred not to challenge. He tugged at the hem, step by step, and tried to breathe normally.\n\nThe hall monitor stood at the corner to the corridor as usual, ruler in hand, his gaze matter-of-fact, a little too serious for his age. “Dress-code check,” he said, pointing to the strip on the floor where everyone had to line up.\n\nChris stood there, discreetly pressing his knees together. The monitor crouched down, placed the ruler against the hem, ran it along once as if checking a measuring edge. “Skirt has to reach at least here,” he murmured, tapped Chris’s thigh, and then looked up. “You’re… just under.”\n\nChris smiled<<if $haar == 1>>, pushed a strand behind his ear<<endif>>. “I overslept. Honestly, it’s not a statement—just a Monday accident.” His voice stayed soft, not pleading. “Give me a pass today? I’ll stay extra inconspicuous.”\n\nThe monitor cleared his throat. “Rules are… rules.” He didn’t sound unfriendly, more unsure whether he wanted to stay strict.\n\nChris tilted his head ever so slightly, as if he had heard his answer exactly, and at the same moment lightly placed his fingers on the boy’s forearm—high up, just below the T-shirt sleeve. “I know you’re doing it right,” he said quietly, just loud enough that only he could hear. “You take this seriously. That’s why I’m asking you.”\n\nThe boy blinked, surprised by the contact, then visibly flattered. His gaze slid along Chris’s face, lingered on his eyes. “Uh…” He looked back at the ruler, as if he needed a fixed point to escape to. “It really is close.”\n\n“I’ll pull the cardigan over it,” Chris said quickly, tugging the cardigan tighter so that the hem looked longer. “And I’ll sit in the back row in class. Promise.”\n\nThe monitor weighed the ruler in his hand, as if he had to convince it. “Just this once,” he finally said, lowering the ruler and giving him a look that was half stern, half embarrassed.\n\nChris’s fingers released the forearm; he let them glide along his own sleeve as if there had never been any touch at all. “Thanks.” He didn’t wink—just gave a warm, brief look that felt like a compliment.\n\nThe monitor cleared his throat again, made a small check mark on his list, and stepped aside. Chris walked on, feeling the tickle of relief and shame at once in his stomach: It had worked—and he didn’t like how easily it had worked. Behind him, the boy glanced after him briefly, as if he had to make sure he’d made the right decision—and then smiled involuntarily, all to himself.\n\n[[Continue|Im Unterricht.]]

<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Description:''\nChris was naturally slender, with a soft, youthful appearance: brown hair, by now almost automatically styled in a girlish way, long legs, delicate hands, no body hair. Because of the hormones, his breasts had become small but clearly visible; his hips and butt rounder, his waist narrower—shapes that made clothes like skirts, tights, and ball gowns look “right,” even if the mirror still sometimes frightened him.\n\nOutwardly, by now he came across convincingly as “one of them”—not just through clothing, but also through routine: make-up, posture, smiles, small talk. He received looks, compliments, and sometimes unpleasantly sexualized attention; it still embarrassed him, but occasionally flattered him too. Inside, it remained contradictory: a boy—and yet a role that felt less and less often like a mere costume. It was precisely this slow blurring that scared him.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n''Statistics:''\nChris has jerked off <<print $jerkoff>> other people.\nHe has received a blowjob <<print $oral>> times.\nHe has given other men <<print $woral>> blowjobs.\nOf which he swallowed <<print $swallow>> times.\nHe has had a finger in his butt <<print $fingerass>> times.\nHe has had a penis in his butt <<print $anal>> times. (Creampied: <<print $creampied>>)\n<<nobr>><<if $sex == 0>>Chris is still a virgin.<<else>>\nChris has fucked <<print $sex>> women.<br>\nHe came inside them <<print $cameinside>> times.\n<<if $christine == 3>>(His first time was with his sister Christine)<<endif>>\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\nNumber of partners: <<print $partner>>\n\nChris has been sexually harassed <<print $harassed>> times.\nHe has been filmed/photographed <<print $film>> times.\nHe has been raped <<print $rape>> times.\n\nChris has kissed his sister <<print $kisssister>> times.\nHe has kissed his mother <<print $kissmom>> times.\nHe has kissed boys <<print $kissboy>> times.\nHe has kissed girls <<print $kissgirl>> times.\n\nChris’ sexual preferences: "I like girls. Um... I mean... I don’t like boys."\n\n[[Epilogue Chris|Epilog Chris]]

Chris fought his way back through the hallway, the buzzing in his head by now a constant background noise. When he stepped back into the living room, the bass hit him harder, the air warmer, heavier.\n<<set $ort to "party house">>\nChristine was still on the “dance floor.” Her stretch dress clung a little tighter, her movements had crossed the point between loose and disoriented. She laughed too loudly, threw her head back, swayed, briefly held on to Myles, and then drained the rest of her cup in one go.\n\nThe song changed. Drunken applause, a few whistles. In the moment when the beat dropped out, Christine tipped half a step backward. Her knees briefly gave way.\n\nMyles reacted quickly. He caught her with both arms, pulled her against him. “Whoa, easy, babe,” he laughed into her hair. She slurred something unintelligible, letting her weight sink against him.\n\nMyles glanced to the side, once around the room, as if checking whether anyone was watching. Then he put his arm more firmly around Christine’s waist, hooked her hand over his shoulder, and led her out of the crowd. Not to the couch. Not to the kitchen.\n\nTo the stairs.\n\nChristine stumbled along, half hanging from him, letting it happen.\n\nChris’s thoughts tore abruptly out of the alcohol cotton. Shit. He’s taking her upstairs. Room. Door closed. Sex.\n\nThe alcohol in his blood made it harder to sort things clearly. His heart raced.\n<<set $myles_opinion to 21>>\n''What should he do?''\n❯ [[Save his sister.|Seine Schwester retten.][$christine += 1;$christine_opinion += 10;$christine_party += 1]]\n❯ [[Do nothing.|Nichts tun.]]

<center>[img[pics/High School.jpg]]</center> <h2>Chapter 1</h2><<set $wochentag = 1>><<set $ort to "school parking lot">> The bus lurched one last time and spat the students into the morning sun like marbles. [[Chris|Chris Braun]]’s knees were weak as he climbed down the steps. The little skirt bounced as he walked. The airy freedom around his lower body made him uneasy. He kept his head lowered, his hands nervously tugging at the hem of the little skirt. The asphalt in front of [[Maplewood High|High School]] still gleamed dark from the sprinkler water; banners fluttered: WELCOME BACK, TIMBERWOLVES! Voices, laughter, the smell of deodorant and freshly waxed hallways, everything too loud.\n\nThere were hot chicks everywhere, it was killing Chris to be dressed as he was.\n\nHe forced his breathing into rhythm. Shoulders relaxed, small steps, knees together when standing—Susan’s mantras ran like subtitles. Christine had long since disappeared somewhere into a little group; she was at home here. Chris held the handbag by the strap, not against his body, exactly the way Susan wanted. Every draft beneath the skirt felt like a spotlight.\n\nIn the foyer, a line awaited him in front of the Welcome Desk. On the board behind the secretaries, neat letters read: SCHEDULES • LOCKERS • ID PHOTOS • SIGN HANDBOOK. The air conditioning hummed. He joined the line, counted the tiles in the floor until it was his turn.\n\n“Name?” asked the woman in a blouse and cardigan, without looking up.\n“Chris—” He faltered. “Christina Braun,” he corrected himself, the false name leaving chalk in his throat.\nThe secretary typed, printed, and slid him a sheet: a provisional schedule. Beside it, a number sequence for the locker: 14–22–7. “That’s your locker combo. Locker 3A-412. And here’s the Student Handbook—read it through once and sign.” She smiled routinely. “Welcome to Maplewood High.”\n\nHe took the pen. The handbook smelled of printer’s ink and rules: attendance, dress code, zero tolerance. The signature line trembled because his hand did. He set the pen down—and wrote a girl’s name. The ink was more final than it looked.\n\n“ID photo over there next.” The secretary pointed to a corner with a backdrop, flash, and a student intern boredly fiddling with the camera. Chris joined the short line, fidgeting with his dress as if it could be silently pulled longer. A girl in front of him giggled with her friend over a failed summer photo. He forced his mouth into neutrality.\n\n“Next.” The intern briefly lifted his gaze. “Please stand up straight, chin slightly down<<if $haar == 1>>, hair out of your face.” Hair out of his face. He brushed it behind his ears, the way Laverne had shown him.<<else>>.”<<endif>> The flash snapped. For one heartbeat he saw the image on the tiny screen: soft contours, the skirt just suggested at the edge of the frame, the silhouette complete. A strange, official version of him staring back without blinking. A shock moment, like ice behind his breastbone. His mother would love this photo, he thought. He hated how final it looked.\n\nThe laminated card was ready after two minutes. The plastic edge was warm. CHRISTINA BRAUN stood beneath it. Student ID: 27419. He slipped it into his bag, as if it might dissolve inside.\n\nOn the way to the A wing, the skirt kept brushing around his knees. At the entrance stood a hall monitor, broad shoulders, neon vest, clipboard in hand, ruler tucked under his arm. “Stop,” he said, and Chris’s stomach dropped. Cold shot through him. This was it. Exposed.\n\n“Dress code check.” The man sounded routine, not suspicious. He took the ruler and measured from the hem to the knee. His fingers briefly touched Chris’s skin. Chris’s ears roared.\n“Two fingers above the knee is okay,” the monitor murmured, drew the ruler back, and made a check mark on the clipboard. “All good. Keep going.” A brief nod, and he was already looking at the next student.\n\nChris blinked. “Keep going.” He did as he was told. His heart only caught up with the rest of his body after ten steps. No one had noticed anything. Not the monitor. Not the secretary. Not the camera. The world had accepted his image without asking who was underneath.\n\nHe stopped in front of the door to “English Literature – Room 204.” Voices behind the door, the scrape of chairs, bright laughter. <<if $haar == 1>>He brushed his hair behind his ears, as he had always done over the past weeks, lifted his chin a little, breathed in. <<endif>> The skirt swung slightly as he shifted his weight. He placed his hand on the handle—and paused for one more breath, just before the first class, where everything was supposed to begin, as if a moment in between could save what was already written on the ID card.\n\n''How does homeroom go?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ladendiebin == 1>>\n[[Unpleasant reunion.|Unerfreuliches Wiedersehen.]]\n<<else>>\n[[Shocking reunion.|Schockierendes Wiedersehen.]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_lang.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/makeup1_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\n''Description:''\nChris was naturally slender, with a soft, youthful aura: brown hair, by now styled almost automatically in a girlish way, long legs, delicate hands, no body hair. Because of the hormones, his breasts had become small but clearly visible; his hips and butt rounder, his waist narrower – shapes that made clothes like skirts, tights, and ball gowns look “right,” even if the mirror still sometimes startled him.\n\nTo the outside world, he now convincingly seemed like “one of them” – not only because of clothing, but also because of routine: makeup, posture, smiles, small talk. He got looks, compliments, and sometimes unpleasantly sexualized attention; it still embarrassed him, but occasionally flattered him too. Inside, it remained contradictory: a boy – and yet a role that felt less and less like a mere costume. It was precisely this slow blurring that frightened him.\n<<set $wochentag = 0>>\n''Statistics:''\nChris has jerked off <<print $jerkoff>> other people.\nHe has received a blowjob <<print $oral>> times.\nHe has given other men <<print $woral>> blowjobs.\nOf those, he swallowed <<print $swallow>> times.\nHe has had a finger in his ass <<print $fingerass>> times.\nHe has had a penis in his ass <<print $anal>> times. (Creampied: <<print $creampied>>)\n<<nobr>><<if $sex == 0>>Chris is still a virgin.<<else>>\nChris has fucked <<print $sex>> women.<br>\nHe came inside them <<print $cameinside>> times.\n<<if $christine == 3>>(His first time was with his sister Christine)<<endif>>\n<<endif>><</nobr>>\nNumber of partners: <<print $partner>>\n\nChris has been sexually harassed <<print $harassed>> times.\nHe has been filmed/photographed <<print $film>> times.\nHe has been raped <<print $rape>> times.\n\nChris has kissed his sister <<print $kisssister>> times.\nHe has kissed his mother <<print $kissmom>> times.\nHe has kissed boys <<print $kissboy>> times.\nHe has kissed girls <<print $kissgirl>> times.\n\nChris’ sexual preferences: "I like girls. Um... I mean... I like some guys."\n\n[[Epilogue Chris and Lucas|Epilog Chris und Lucas]]

<h2>Chapter 3</h2> On Monday morning, [[Chris|Chris Braun]] and his sister sat side by side on the school bus. <<set $wochentag = 1>><<set $wetter = 2>><<set $ort to "school bus">> Normally at least one of them would talk. A comment about homework, about their mother’s mood, about someone from school. Not today. The seats smelled of cold fabric and old chewing gum, the engine hummed, and a few rows away someone giggled about something on their phone.\n\nChristine stared out the window. Her skirt over her legs, her hair neatly styled, the subtle makeup carefully done. From the outside, she looked like any other student after a weekend with too little sleep. Every now and then, a small smile crossed her face when her phone vibrated and “Myles 💕” lit up. She typed back briefly, then put the phone away again. She didn’t seem excessively happy, but not broken either. More like she had crossed a line she knew would come someday.\n\nChris sat beside her, his bag on his lap, his knees neatly together. He felt every fiber of the tights, every tug of the fabric. A heavy knot sat in his stomach.\n\nBoth of them had lost their virginity over the weekend. Exactly the same, if you looked at it from the outside: drunk at a party, disappeared with some guy. A slut story, the kind retold in rumors. The difference was in the details.\n\nChristine had slept with Myles. She was in love with him, had made out with him before, texted with him, wanted him, at least to some extent. Chris could understand it without liking it. For her, it formed a line she might not have planned that way, but had sorted out inside herself.\n\nHe, on the other hand, didn’t even know the boy’s name. A face that was already blurring in his memory. Hands everywhere, a body that was too heavy, a penis in his butt that had felt wrong. A room he could only think of in fragments without feeling sick. He hadn’t said “yes.” Too drunk, unconscious, too weak to fight back. And now he sat here wondering whether that counted.\n\nDid that count as losing his virginity now? If he hadn’t wanted it? If he had been little more than a body that was taken?\n\nHe heard his own answers in his head, alternating.\n\nI couldn’t do anything about it.\nYou should have done something.\nI was too drunk.\nYour own fault.\nI didn’t want that.\n\nDisgust crawled up his throat as an image flared up: the boy’s moaning as he came in his butt. Chris pushed it all away as hard as he could.\n\nChristine shifted a tiny bit closer to the window, not away from him, but simply further into her own bubble. Once, she glanced at him briefly as if she wanted to say something, but stopped before a word could form. Maybe she didn’t know how to sort it out any better than he did.\n\nThe bus jolted over a bump. Chris held his bag tighter.\n\nHe only hoped no one had noticed anything. No comments. No “I saw you.” If the night was as blurred in everyone else’s minds as it was in his, he could pretend nothing had happened.\n\nHe wanted to forget all of it. Push it away, bury it in concrete, with homework, with red cups that only had Coke in them now. Anything that looked normal.\n\nThe bus turned into the school parking lot. Chris took a breath, stood up, and mechanically straightened the hem of his skirt. Just get through the day, he told himself. No mistakes. Not a word.\n\nForget. If he was lucky, Maplewood would do it for him.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1>>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 0 >>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas > 0>>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.3]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[Pep rally preparations.|Pep Rally Vorbereitungen.4]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

<h2>Chapter 2</h2> Monday smelled of wet asphalt and too little sleep. [[Chris|Chris Braun]] stood at the school gate, unconsciously tugged the pleated skirt a little lower, and swore to himself: No embarrassments this week. No giggling behind hands, no ruler against hems, no “Oops” at the water fountain. Walk straight ahead. Don’t stumble. Don’t blush. Don’t— <<set $wochentag = 1>><<set $ort to "Hallway">> “Morning, Boob Chris.”\n\nThe greeting came in passing, half-whispered, half-giggled. Then another at the water fountain. And a third in the doorway to English, accompanied by an exaggerated cough: “B–b–Boob—uh—Bless you.”\n<<if $haar == 1>><center>[img[pics/outfit7.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/outfit7_kurz.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nRedness rushed into his face. Why the…? He kept his shoulders still, pretended he hadn’t heard it. But the name stuck like gum to a shoe. Other girls have breasts too, he thought defiantly. Even bigger ones— The thought stumbled, corrected itself. Other girls? I’m not a girl. I’m a boy. With… breasts. The word landed heavily, a stone in a backpack he hadn’t packed.\n\nDuring break, he found [[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]]. “Can I ask you something?”\n\nShe looked up, her red braids slightly crooked. “Shoot.”\n\n“This… nickname.” He forced the word through his teeth. “Boob Chris. Where did it come from?”\n\nRuby sighed softly, as if pulling a file down from a shelf. “Okay. Last week—Thursday, I think—a girl in the hallway asked about you. ‘Where’s Chris?’” She made little quotation marks in the air. “Then another girl said, ‘Which Chris?’ because, well… Christina and Christine.” A tiny grin flitted across her face, immediately caught and tucked away again professionally. “Your name and your sister’s are just super close.”\n\nChris nodded, his stomach already preparing to knot itself.\n\n“And then the first one—trying to be stupid-funny—blurted out: ‘Boob Chris.’” Ruby twisted her mouth. “Because you—unlike Christine—obviously…” She let the sentence trail off, gesturing vaguely at chest height. “Everyone laughed. Running gag. You know how it is: one joke, five ears, and suddenly it’s a thing.”\n\n“Great.” Chris stared past her for a second. ‘I’m a boy with breasts’ was already heavy enough in his head—now he also had to be a girl with an embarrassing nickname.\n\nRuby tilted her head. “Do you want me to tell people to stop?”\n\n“Would that help?”\n\n“Honestly? Most of the time it just makes the joke bigger.” She shrugged apologetically. “But I can talk to Penelope. And if it happens near me, I’ll say something.”\n\nChris breathed out, a little longer. “Thanks.”\n\n“And, uh—” Ruby tapped two fingers against the hem of his top, searched for words, then found a seemingly neutral wrapping: “If it bothers you… layers help. Camisole underneath, overshirt over it. Especially since otherwise you wear things that… let’s say, emphasize. Not because you have to, but because then the boys won’t stare so much.”\n\nChris’s gaze shot down to his top; suddenly he saw every seam as if under a spotlight. Heat crept into his cheeks, and he nodded silently.\n\nHe gripped his backpack tighter, imagined the hallway like a level with traps that were way too obvious, and took the first step. If the week was already starting badly, at least it could go better from here.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1>>[[Lunchtime.|Lunchtime.1]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2>>[[Lunchtime.|Lunchtime.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[Lunchtime.|Lunchtime.3]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris typed over the keyboard for a while, then deleted everything and set the phone beside him. No photo. He could imagine all too well what Adam would do with it.\n\nBut when the room grew quiet and the digital clock glowed softly, curiosity crept under the blanket. Just for himself. Not sending it. He set the phone to selfie mode, sat half-turned in bed against the stack of pillows. The negligee clung coolly to his skin: silky shimmering fabric, pink, bias-cut, flowing softly over his hips; fine lace on the straps, casting a delicate shadow at his collarbone. A gossamer-thin hem followed a line that promised more than it showed.\n\nHe lifted his chin just slightly, let his shoulders sink, searched for his gaze in the display—not the practiced duckface, but something in-between: half shy, half seductive. His eyes narrowed, as if they held a secret; his mouth barely open, more breath than pose; a strand of hair fell across his forehead and made the whole thing look accidental instead of planned. The bedside lamp painted warm light over the sheen of silk, making the negligee look matte in some places and almost liquid in others.\n\nClick. The picture froze the moment.\n\nChris stared at it—and realized that it attracted even him. The silken light, the fine lace, the small breasts pressing through the thin fabric—and that face, which looked so much like him that it frightened him. He locked the phone, unlocked it again, looked once more. Finally he pressed it against his chest, breathed slowly, and felt that he had a hard erection.\n\nHe pulled down the blanket. His stiff cock rose visibly beneath the negligee. Chris wrapped his hand around his twitching shaft and began to jerk it gently. It felt good.\n\nSoon the first drop of semen formed on his shiny glans. He took a finger and carefully smeared the drop over the whole head. He also tried to coat the shaft with it a little more. Over time, more semen kept seeping out, and before long he managed to smear the whole cock with it, making it nicely slick and easy to glide over.\n\nThe sight of his own photo aroused Chris so much that after only a few strokes, he suddenly came with vehement force. He tilted his head back, began to twitch violently, thrusting his hips forward in pulses, and his cum flew in a high arc through the air and landed right in the middle of his face. A second surge reached his small breasts, and a third spurt landed on his belly.\n\nChris lay exhausted in that position on the bed for quite a while. When he came back to his senses, he cleaned himself up with tissues before falling asleep, satisfied.\n\n[[Continue|Vizefreitag.]]

<<back "Back">>\n<center>[img[pics/charaktere/Lucas.jpg]]</center> \n''Name:'' Lucas Barnett \n''Age:'' 18 \n''Birthday:'' January\n\n''Relationships''\nOwen Barnett (43) - father\nCaroline Barnett (38) - mother\nPenelope Barnett (19) - older sister\n\n''Biography''\nLucas Barnett grew up in Maplewood, in a wealthy family that was considered “presentable” in town: a beautiful house, polished manners, an everyday life that was supposed to look as flawless as possible from the outside. In this environment, he learned early to adapt—not by loudly keeping up, but by quietly thinking along. Beside him there was always the shadow of his sister Penelope: radiant, popular, seemingly effortlessly perfect. The comparison was rarely spoken aloud, but constantly felt, and it shaped Lucas’s sense of being more “the quiet part” of the family.\n\nAs a child, Lucas was quiet and spent a lot of time indoors. Books, audio dramas, small worlds where feelings were clearer than in real rooms with many voices. Later, he ended up in the theater club—at first for a silly, innocent reason, because he had a crush on his theater teacher in middle school. But “I want to impress” quickly became something bigger: theater gave him a place where he did not have to fight to be heard. Roles, lines, and rehearsals felt like a language he already knew before he had learned it.\n\nLucas is polite, sensitive, and attentive; he observes details that others miss. Often he speaks more softly than he thinks, and prefers choosing words carefully to choosing them quickly. His humor is dry and slightly self-deprecating—more a small comment at the right time than loud laughter. Socially, he works best in one-on-one situations: then he can be warm, engaged, and surprisingly open. In groups, by contrast, he often withdraws, becoming the quiet observer at the edge who notices more than people give him credit for.\n\n''Shared Moments / Memories''\n<<nobr>>\n\n<ul> <li>Lucas remembers how he saw Chris on the first day of school in his light-blue dress—and how attractive Chris seemed to him in that moment.</li> <<if $LucasMemory[0] eq 1>><li>Lucas remembers with shame how Chris caught him in his room masturbating with the Polaroid, and how terribly embarrassing the situation was for both of them.</li><</if>> <<if $LucasMemory[1] eq 1>><li>Lucas remembers how nervous he was when he slipped the love letter into Chris’s locker—and Chris came around the corner only a moment later.</li><</if>> <<if $LucasMemory[2] eq 1>><li>Lucas remembers how much fun they had playing Kinect and how naturally they grew closer to each other while doing it.</li><</if>> <<if $LucasMemory[3] eq 1>><li>Lucas remembers the party where he and Chris kissed for the first time.</li><</if>> <<if $LucasMemory[4] eq 1>><li>Lucas remembers with pride how the whole school saw that he and Chris belonged together.</li><</if>> <<if $LucasMemory[5] eq 1>><li>Lucas remembers how his and Chris’s lips could barely part from each other in the movie theater—and how embarrassed Chris looked afterward.</li><</if>> <<if $LucasMemory[6] eq 1>><li>Lucas remembers lovingly how sweet and frightened Chris was in the haunted house.</li><</if>> <<if $LucasMemory[7] eq 1>><li>Lucas remembers how he learned that Chris is a boy.</li><</if>> <<if $LucasMemory[8] eq 1>><li>Lucas remembers how wonderful the homecoming dance with Chris was.</li><</if>> <<if $LucasMemory[9] eq 1>><li>Lucas still remembers how shocked he was when he learned about the relationship between Chris and his mother.</li><</if>> </ul> <</nobr>> <div class="axis-wrap"> <div class="axis-title">Lucas’s feelings for Chris</div> <div class="axis-labels"> <span>hate</span> <span>love</span> </div> <div class="axis-barlove"> <div class="axis-middle"></div> <<print '<div class="axis-marker" style="left:' + $lucas_opinion + '%;"></div>'>> </div> <div class="axis-note"> <<if $lucas_opinion < 20>> hate <<elseif $lucas_opinion < 40>> aversion <<elseif $lucas_opinion < 60>> interested <<elseif $lucas_opinion < 80>> in love <<else>> deeply in love <</if>> </div> </div> <<back "Back">>

“Now I want to feel you,” Mrs. Barnett said and lay down on the bed with her legs spread. “Come on.”\n\nChris had the same desire and hurried to get between her legs. On the very first try, he slid into the warm, wet depth, her muscles beginning an exciting dance around his member.\n\nMrs. Barnett trembled with lust. “Come on, put it in deeper,” she gasped, aroused. “Fuck me through.” Chris thrust again, and his cock had disappeared to its full length into the warm, wet pussy.\n\nHe began fucking Mrs. Barnett with quick thrusts while kneading her magnificent tits with his hands. She grew wilder and wilder beneath him and moved her hips to meet his thrusts.\n\n“Thrust harder, I need it,” she moaned with desire.\n\nChris no longer cared about anything now; he drove his rod into her as hard as he could. I’m fucking my classmate’s mother’s soul out of her body, a woman as old as my own mother, he thought briefly, kneading her breasts even more wildly.\n\n“Give it to me, make me happy,” Mrs. Barnett wheezed beneath him.\n\nChris suddenly noticed that her pussy was tightening more and more around his cock; she was close to orgasm. He could hardly control himself anymore either. Suddenly Mrs. Barnett arched up and cried out loudly, “I’m coming, I’m coming.” That was his signal; he no longer had to hold back and shot a gush of thick cum deep inside her.\n\nExhausted, Chris collapsed on top of her; he was completely spent.\n\n<<if $sex == 0>>The first fuck of his young life, and with such an exciting woman at that—he certainly liked that. <<endif>>Mrs. Barnett showered his sweat-damp face with many little kisses.\n\nPanting heavily, he let himself fall onto Mrs. Barnett. He was simply happy. She stroked him until he had recovered.\n\nAfter many minutes, Chris lay down beside Mrs. Barnett.\n\n“I enjoyed that very much.” She turned toward him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “We have our little secret now. I hope it’s safe with you.”\n\nChris nodded: “I won’t tell anyone anything.”\n\nIn Chris’s body there was a bright, almost childlike happiness that made him feel light—and beneath it, like a shadow on the wall, guilt.\n\nLucas. The name surfaced, unpleasantly clear. And the fact that he had just crossed a boundary one did not simply step back from without leaving traces.\n\nHe slowly sat up, so carefully that the mattress barely moved.\n\n“I… should go,” Chris whispered.\n\nMrs. Barnett nodded, as if she had already known that. “I know.” Her voice was soft. “Take care of yourself.”\n\nChris got dressed as quietly as possible, called an Uber in the hallway, and crept past the stairs as if every creak were an alarm. Outside, the cold air hit him, clear and hard. When the car came, he got in, gave his address, and leaned his head against the window.\n\nOverjoyed—and yet with a knot in his stomach—he rode home.\n\n[[Continue|Wochen vor dem College.][$partner += 1;$sex += 1;$cameinside += 1;$oral += 1]]

In the evening, Chris lay in his bed, snuggled into the cool, smooth satin sheets. The negligée he was wearing felt almost weightless against his skin—fine fabric, narrow straps, a gentle fall that shimmered faintly in the candlelight and the streetlamp glow at the window. The day had been long, but at last it was quiet. Only the soft buzzing of his phone on the mattress reminded him that “quiet” in Maplewood was rarely final.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">>\nBzzzt.\n\nA message.\n\nZoe.\n\nHe tapped it—and froze.\n\nA photo filled the screen: [[Zoe|Zoe March]] in a mirror selfie. The picture showed her entire naked upper body, standing as she pressed her tits together slightly with her arms and, to make matters worse, had put on an innocent face with a pout.\n\nUnder it, a message, short and far too clear:\n<blockquote class="quote">“Well, Mr. … would you let me come to school like this? 😉”</blockquote> Chris felt himself grow hot. His heart stumbled once. He stared at the photo. One part of him wanted to click away immediately, as if he had seen something forbidden—another part lingered, far too long, and he hated himself for the tiny sting of… flattery.\n\nBefore he could even think about whether he should answer, the next message came.\n<blockquote class="quote">“OMG NO 🙈 wrong chat. Sorry. That wasn’t meant for you!”</blockquote> Chris blinked. His face grew even warmer. Not for me. Of course. What had he expected? He suddenly felt caught—as if he had been too pleased by something that wasn’t his to have.\n\nHe typed hastily, deleted it, typed again. He didn’t want to seem as if it had affected him. Or as if it hadn’t.\n\n“Uh… all good,” he finally wrote. “It happens.”\n\nHe sent it and put the phone away for a second, as if it were too hot. Then he picked it up again anyway, because his mind couldn’t stop circling around the photo. Why would she send something like that at all? And right behind it, quieter: Then who was she trying to send it to?\n\nThe phone vibrated again.\n\n<blockquote class="quote">“Ugh, kill me. Please just forget it 😂”</blockquote> Chris stared at the message and felt that strange mixture of relief and confusion. Zoe sounded almost… embarrassed? That didn’t fit her, at least not the Zoe who usually cornered him with sharp remarks. Maybe it really had just been a stupid accident. Maybe she had simply been flirting with someone and tapped the wrong chat. That banal.\n\nChris wrote back, trying to stay casual:\n<blockquote class="quote">“Already forgotten.”</blockquote> He put the phone away again, but his gaze slid back to the screen once more, as if the photo could still keep its weight in the air there. And as he pulled himself deeper into the blanket, he realized that he couldn’t “forget” the image as easily as he had just claimed.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1 && $moore == 1>>[[Thursday, last practice before the game.|Donnerstag, letztes Training vor dem Spiel.]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 1 && $moore == 0>>[[Thursday, last practice before the game.|Donnerstag, letztes Training vor dem Spiel.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club > 1 >>[[Emotional Thursday.|Emotionaler Donnerstag.]]<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Susan looked at Chris as if she had heard enough for tonight and now wanted to be alone. Her gaze lingered on Chris for another moment—satisfied, warm, but also with that strange sparkle in her eye.\n\n“Good,” she said at last. “You’ll text him tomorrow. Not right away, not desperate. Friendly.”\n\nChris nodded, even though his stomach tightened as he did. “Okay.”\n\nSusan raised her hand, almost generously. “You can go to sleep now.”\n\nHe stood up, murmured a “Good night,” and left before she could change her mind. In the hallway, the air felt cooler. He went to his room, closed the door quietly, and let himself sink onto his bed. The satin negligee slid over the blanket; the vanilla from the candles was only a lingering trace now.\n\nChris stared at the ceiling and thought about the date: about the pick-up with the loud music, about the grin, about the compliments that had felt like headlights too bright. About the moment when the hand rested on his body—too casually—and how his body had reacted anyway: his heart pounding, warmth, an uncomfortably pleasant thrill.\n\nThat was the worst and most confusing part: it had been a good date. He had laughed. He had felt alive. And he did not know whether that pleased him or frightened him.\n\nChris pulled the blanket higher, as if that could put his feelings in order. He was tired, but his mind was too awake. Inside him, shame and curiosity, defiance and a quiet pride lay side by side. And somewhere between them was the question he did not want to ask because it was too big: If I liked that… what does that mean?\n\nHe closed his eyes and tried to think only about the next day. But the boy’s grin lingered in the darkness for another moment, and Chris’s heart answered it far too honestly.\n\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5b]]

That evening, Chris sat down on the windowsill and looked out over the campus. He was wearing a pretty negligee, soft and cool against his skin, and the sounds from the hallway slowly faded until only the quiet hum of the heating remained. He felt fear, yes—the old fear that everything could tip over. But above it lay something stronger: hope.\n\nHe was out of Maplewood. Out of his mother’s grip. And even if his body set limits for him, the next step belonged to him.\n\nChris thought of the last year with Christine like a thread that never quite snapped, no matter how much the two of them overstretched it. Without her, high school would have been something he could hardly have survived.\n\nShe had clung to Myles, and when he threw her away, she had not broken loudly, but quietly, in a corner of the bleachers. Back then, Chris had thought he had to save her. Later, he understood that you couldn’t save people when they were still busy surviving.\n\n<<if $christine < 4 && $kisssister > 0>>Chris thought of the kiss. That one boundary he had crossed—out of grief, out of confusion, out of the crooked need to find something to hold on to somewhere—and afterward they silently decided that memory was a choice. Christine had asked him to bury it, and Chris had nodded because he loved her and because he felt guilty.\n\nSometimes he wondered whether the silence had protected them or merely petrified them. He did not know whether Christine could truly forget that chapter—or whether she simply hid it very well behind clenched teeth. But he knew that his feelings that night had been real, perhaps the most real thing in Maplewood.\n\n<<endif>><<if $christine == 4>>They never spoke about that one night again. Perhaps that had been cowardice, perhaps mercy. It had been wrong, immoral, confusing, and yet it had not destroyed their closeness. Christine was still Christine: someone he did not have to explain himself to, even if there were things they both left forever in silence.\n\nHe did not know whether Christine could truly forget that chapter—or whether she simply hid it very well behind clenched teeth. But he knew that his role as “big brother” that night had been real, perhaps the most real thing in Maplewood.\n\n<<endif>><<if $dylanbadend == 1>>Chris thought of Dylan like a song he still knew by heart, even though he had long since stopped wanting to hear it. At some point, they had talked things out—not dramatically, more tiredly and honestly, with that painful respect that only comes when there is nothing left to win. Dylan had listened, truly listened, and Chris had realized that some people do not hurt you on purpose, but because they are too young to understand how deeply they are stepping.\n\nWhat remained for Chris was a bitter knot of regret: that he had never told Dylan his secret. Not even in the moments when Dylan held him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Dylan had been his first great love—not his first crush, not his first kiss, but that huge, bright feeling that promises you a new life. And yet Chris had hidden behind fear, behind timing, behind “later.” When he finally caught Dylan with his own mother, there was anger, yes—but beneath it lay the realization that still stung him to this day: he had never given Dylan the chance to love him completely. Not because Dylan would not have been able to, but because Chris had not dared to truly be seen.\n\n<<endif>><<if $charlotte > 1>>Chris thought of Charlotte. She had been his first great love. The first girl he had kissed, the first he had truly grown close to—and the first to break his heart. When she realized that he was a boy, she could not reconcile it with the image she had of herself; her affection, which had been so real, turned into distance, then into a final “It won’t work.” Chris had tried to understand it, to tell himself that no one was to blame—and yet it felt as if something had been torn from his chest that had only just begun to grow there.\n\nThe hardest part had not even been the breakup, but the months afterward: the same hallways every day, the same breaks, the same cafeteria. He saw her from a distance, heard her laughter as if nothing had happened, and at some point he saw her hand in hand with another girl—as naturally as he had once wished for himself and her. Chris was left behind like a sentence no one wanted to finish writing. Now Maplewood was far away and yet close enough to hurt; and when he thought of Charlotte, there was something tender alongside the sadness: the memory of what it had felt like to truly love for the first time.\n\n<<endif>><<if $lucas == 1>>Chris thought of Lucas with a melancholy quieter than anything else. Lucas had reminded him of his former self: cautious, smart, always a little too much in his head, as if you first had to think everything through before you were allowed to feel it. With Lucas, Chris had been able to laugh without pretending, and that had been rare in Maplewood—a friendship that was not tied to glances or rumors, but to shared breaks, rehearsals, and that silent understanding between two outsiders.\n\nAt some point after months, Lucas had asked him whether they wanted to go out. Chris had turned him down—gently, honestly, and still like a door falling shut. They formally remained friends, but something cracked; Lucas became more cautious, and Chris became lonelier. In quiet hours, in his room, the thought returned like an unwanted warmth: Maybe it would not have been so bad to be Lucas’s girlfriend. Maybe it might even have been… safe. Not because Chris loved Lucas the way Lucas deserved, but because then he would not have been so alone. And the thought made him sad and angry at the same time—because he knew that no one should be “Plan B,” not Lucas, not himself.\n\n<<endif>><<if $lucas == 2>>Chris thought of Lucas with that quiet mixture of tenderness and guilt you feel for people you did not hurt maliciously—only cowardly. The breakup had been right; he was still sure of that to this day. He had played Lucas’s “girlfriend” because a kiss at a party had suddenly become a story you either had to play along with or lose. And back then, Chris had needed his reputation like armor. Still, there had been beautiful moments: Lucas’s honest laughter, the theater rehearsals in which Chris forgot for a few minutes that everything was a role, because Lucas held him beside him so naturally.\n\nLater, Lucas had gotten together with Ruby, and Chris had briefly hoped that things might still sort themselves out “properly” that way—that Lucas would meet someone who liked him without masks. But the relationship did not last. And Chris was left with the quiet thought that although he had left Lucas, he had also given him something without meaning to: proof that closeness can feel real—even when it comes from a false beginning.\n\n<<endif>><<if $club == 1>>Chris thought of his time as a cheerleader as something that really never should have happened to him—and yet it had happened anyway. He had only let Christine and the girls talk him into it, more out of survival than desire, and suddenly he was standing there in uniform, counting “five–six–seven–eight” along with them and barely able to believe he had not run off long ago. At first it was pure secondhand embarrassment: the outfits, the jumping, the cheers, that public “I am here” that felt like a spotlight aimed directly at his shame.\n\nAnd then, very slowly, it became routine. He got used to fabrics, to bows, to the burning in his shoulders after stunts, to the way the crowd roared back and, for a moment, you did not think, you simply functioned. Above all, he liked something he had never known before: being part of a team. Not merely tolerated, not merely watched, but needed—as a grip, as a voice, as a person in a formation that only held if everyone carried their share. Now that it was over, he sometimes felt melancholy: not for the uniform, but for that feeling of being loud together without having to explain himself.\n\n<<endif>><<if $club == 2>>Chris thought of the theater club as the only place in Maplewood where “pretending” did not seem like a lie, but like a language. He had ended up there because he had to go somewhere—and stayed because the stage made him strangely honest. At first it was embarrassing: warm-ups, improv, his own body suddenly expected to have “expression.” Yet with every rehearsal it became easier, not because he was less afraid, but because fear had a place in theater. You were allowed to tremble there, as long as you kept speaking.\n\nHe liked how Ms. Green never asked who he “really” was, only whether he could listen—to his partner, to the text, to his breath. In the mirror exercises, the first blocking rehearsals, the silly vocal warm-ups, he had experienced for the first time that closeness was possible without danger: a look that was only acting, a touch that was only a mark, and yet still created real trust. He grew wistful when he thought about how many things had been hinted at—friendships, courage, perhaps even another life—and how much of it remained stuck in the high school hallway. But he took one thing with him to college: that feeling that you were allowed to be someone without having to define yourself, as long as you were willing to step onto the stage.\n\n<<endif>><<if $club == 3 && $videoblackmail == 0>>Chris often thought of Adam with a sigh that was both annoyed and surprisingly normal. He had remained Adam’s “fake girlfriend” until the end of the school year—in front of his parents, in front of the guys in the D&D club, in every scene where Adam needed someone to turn his insecurity into something presentable. It had felt like a constantly running side quest: not deadly, but exhausting, because it was never truly completed.\n\nAdam had kept trying to get closer—sometimes awkwardly sweet, sometimes demandingly crossing boundaries—and Chris had kept him at a distance with varying degrees of success. Sometimes with clear words, sometimes with excuses, sometimes with a slap. Yet in the quieter moments, Chris had to admit to himself that there was also something he had secretly enjoyed: being the only girl in the D&D club, the attention, the little protective gestures, the “Is Raven allowed too?” in the boys’ voices. Maybe he had simply gotten used to it. Maybe he liked it. Maybe that was the thing that confused him: what belonging could taste like.\n\n<<endif>><<if $club == 3 && $videoblackmail == 1>>Chris thought of the D&D club as the only place in Maplewood where his “mask” was not judged, but simply part of the party—like dice, character sheets, and too many snacks on a rickety table. At first, he had only gone because he needed somewhere to be where no one talked about lip gloss or rankings. And he stayed because the game allowed him another kind of truth: not the truth about his body, but about his choices. When he, as Raven the rogue, made a plan, it did not matter what he looked like. All that mattered was whether he was brave, whether he stayed loyal, whether he accepted the dice roll even when it went wrong.\n\nHe liked how the club gave him back a sense of control—ironically, in a world that otherwise kept slipping from his grasp. In Dungeons & Dragons, he was allowed to make mistakes without them turning into a disaster: a failed stealth roll became laughter, not shame.\n\n<<endif>><<if $ladendiebin == 2>>Chris thought of Zoe like a fire: bright, hot, unpredictable. He never quite figured her out—sometimes she was cruel and sharp as a comment that found exactly the sore spot, sometimes suddenly loyal, almost like a best friend who let you stand beside her without words. He was into her, far too much, and Zoe played her little games with him: giving closeness, taking closeness away, testing whether he would run after her. Sometimes he hated her for it. Sometimes that was exactly what he liked.\n\nThen that thing with Mr. Robertson happened. No one knew for sure; it was all just hallway gossip: an incident, a conversation behind closed doors, rumors about suspension, then again the claim that he had simply transferred schools. All that was certain was that he was never seen at Maplewood High again. Shortly afterward, Zoe made her “voluntary” departure from school, and the last thing Chris heard was that she had run away from home. When he was alone at night, she sometimes came to mind like a question mark that would not close—and he wondered whether she was somewhere free and happy.\n\n<<endif>>Chris let his gaze wander over the dark paths of the campus for a while longer, until the last footsteps in the hallway had faded and only his own breathing remained. Then he closed the window, turned off the light except for the small lamp by the bed, and lay down, as if tiredness had suddenly become something permitted. In the silence, the past year no longer felt like one single knot, but like many individual threads—some cut, some loose, some surprisingly strong. He did not know how much of Maplewood he would ever fully shake off. But he knew that something new could begin here: decisions that were truly his, friends who did not only know him as a role, and perhaps, someday, a courage that did not only come afterward. Chris pulled the blanket higher, closed his eyes, and let the future appear before him like a chapter not yet written.\n\nAnd you will find out how things continue for Chris in college in the second part.\n\n''Ending 9 of 10 - "Goodbye High School"''\n<<set $ende9 to 1>>\n[[📖 Statistics|Statistik][$selbstbild += 3]] - [[🏆 Bonus & Endings|Enden]]\n<<if $newgameplus == 0>><div class="box">''You reached an ending. The generic default ending, to be precise.''\n\nAlso known as: ''the least exciting one.''\n\nNot bad, exactly — just impressively average. Maybe try again from the beginning… and perhaps take a quick peek at the walkthrough before bravely missing all the better endings again. 😉</div><<endif>>

Chris couldn’t help laughing. It just slipped out, quiet, warm, before he could hold it back.\n\n“Wow.” He leaned his shoulder against the shelf beside her and looked at her as if he had just discovered a completely new side of her. “Ruby, you sound… literally like a Disney princess about to start singing.”\n\n“Shhh!” Ruby hissed, immediately serious again, as if Chris were about to interrupt a highly sensitive diplomatic conversation. Then she kept cooing to the rabbit: “Who are youuu? Oh my Gooood, you’re so cute.”\n\nChris raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m not saying anything.” Still, he kept grinning, because he couldn’t help it. Ruby with a baby voice was absurd enough—but the truly crazy thing was how genuine it seemed. No irony, no clever comment, no “technically speaking” lecture. Just pure, undisguised delight.\n\nAnd it made her… incredibly cute.\n\nChris felt his heart give a little hop. Not that nervous, panicked stumbling like stress, but something soft. As if someone had briefly made the light in the room warmer. Ruby was usually so direct, so sharp, so clear. Now she was just… soft. And somehow it felt like a secret privilege to see it.\n\n“You really are…” Chris searched for the right word so it wouldn’t sound too cheesy. “…completely lost when it comes to fluff, huh?”\n\nRuby half turned her head toward him, her eyes wide, as if she had been caught. “I’m not lost. I’m… informed.” She gestured meaningfully at the rabbit. “This is a very serious exchange.”\n\nChris laughed again, more quietly this time. “Mhm. A serious exchange.” He leaned a little closer to the enclosure without ruining the moment. “So what’s his name? Or… hers?”\n\n“I don’t know!” Ruby whispered indignantly, as if that were an important gap in her knowledge. “But look at the tiny paws! They look like—like little marshmallows.”\n\n“Okay, stop.” Chris demonstratively held a hand to his chest. “You’re making this even cuter. That’s unfair.”\n\nRuby snorted, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “Be quiet, or you’ll scare him.”\n\nChris lifted two fingers to his lips as if taking an oath. “I’m quiet. I’m only observing… this side of you that you usually hide.”\n\nFor a moment, Ruby actually turned a little red. She pretended not to notice and quickly focused on the rabbit again. Chris grinned, but inside he grew very calm.\n\nHe would never have thought that something like this, of all things—a rabbit, a baby voice, an unashamed “aww”—would hit him so hard. But it did. And he liked it. Ruby was cute, in a way that wasn’t planned. And that was exactly why his gaze lingered on her a moment longer than he would normally have allowed.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n[[Continue|Bonding mit Mom.]]

Madame Lunette let her gaze rest on Chris for a moment, as if checking whether he truly wanted to hear. Then she raised her hand, not like someone casting a spell, but like someone carefully opening a story.\n\n“None of this is set in stone,” she said. “The future is like a path in the woods. You see the direction, but not every stone. One step can change everything.”\n\nChris’s fingers dug into the fabric of his dress. “Okay,” he managed quietly.\n\n“I see you… later,” she began. “Not here. Not in this noise.” Her gaze slipped briefly to the candle on the table, then back to him. “I see a room, warm light, quiet laughter. I see you holding someone. Not as a child anymore, but… as someone who carries.”\n\nShe paused for a moment, as if sharpening the image. “I see you as a mother.” The word fell gently, not provocatively, more like a statement. “Happy. Not pretending. A real happiness that comes from within.”\n\nChris’s breath caught. One part of him wanted to object immediately, another froze because something about it—despite everything—felt eerily possible.\n\nMadame Lunette nodded, as if she had expected exactly that reaction. “Married,” she added. “There is someone at your side. A hand you know. But the person…” She narrowed her eyes, then slowly shook her head. “They lie in the mist. Not because they are unimportant. But because you yourself have not yet decided which path you will take.”\n\nChris felt his stomach pull. “And… before that?”\n\n“Before that comes work.” Madame Lunette’s voice grew more serious without getting louder. “Obstacles. Not outside—inside.” She did not tap his chest, but it felt as if she had. “Shame. Fear. And one great decision…”\n\nShe let that hang in the air until the incense stick crackled softly.\n\n“But,” she then said, raising her hand slightly again, “I also see that you do not break. You will stand at a point where you think: If I say this now, I will lose everything. And yet… you will gain something. Not immediately. Not without tears.” A barely visible smile. “But you will breathe more easily.”\n\nChris’s throat was tight. He did not know whether he felt attacked or seen. “And if I… don’t change anything?”\n\n“Then the mist stays thicker,” she answered calmly. “Then what you are becomes a secret that grows heavy. You can live with that. Many do.” She looked at him for a long time. “But I do not believe you were made to keep yourself small.”\n\nChris lowered his gaze to his hands. His fingers trembled slightly.\n\nMadame Lunette leaned back, as if the most important thing had been said. “The happiness I saw is possible,” she said softly. “But it is not a reward for obedience. It is the consequence of allowing yourself the truth.”\n\n[[Continue|Raus aus dem Pavillon.]]

When Chris opened the door, all the conversations briefly tipped over: heads turned, gazes felt him out—new girl, category “we’ll see.” He instinctively searched for Christine’s face. She was already sitting two rows from the window—but the seat beside her was occupied by a girl in a yellow hoodie who was laughing so loudly the whole table vibrated. Christine raised her hands apologetically, a tiny “sorry” shape with her mouth.\n<<set $ort to "classroom">>\nChris swallowed and pushed deeper into the room. The only free seats left were scattered around. He chose the edge of a two-person desk, set down his bag—and only realized who was sitting beside him when the seat creaked: curly, dark-brown hair, nervous drumming fingers, a face burned into his memory. The condom shoplifter.\n\n<center>[img[pics/zoe_klassenzimmer1.jpg]]</center> She looked at him. Her gaze was a knife with a blunt blade: not deadly, but painful. In that second, he recognized how the moment in the supermarket clicked into place inside her. “Great,” she muttered, and her voice had that rough teenage sharpness. “You’re the little snitch from the supermarket, right? Real cute, how you want to play cop.”\n\nShe leaned closer, the curly strands brushing his shoulder. “I’m going to make your life hell. Promise, girl.” A word from the back alley hung unspoken in the air; she let it sound anyway.\n\nThank God, Chris thought flickeringly, she connects him with “girl in the supermarket,” not “boy from the supermarket.”\n\nChris’s mouth was dry. “I… just wanted to—”\n“Save it.” She leaned back, arms crossed, jawline defiant. “Just wait.”\n\nThe door closed, and a man with neatly parted hair and a too-wide smile stepped to the front. “Good morning, class!” His voice was bright and friendly, his tie patterned with tiny books. “I’m [[Mr. Robertson|Wesley Robertson]], your homeroom teacher this year and also English Lit. I’m glad to see you all.” He smiled across the class without making anyone feel rushed. “Okay, attendance.”\n\nThe names pattered down, hands briefly flew up, voices confirmed. “Zoe…” He looked at the list. “[[Zoe March|Zoe March]]?”\nBeside Chris, a shoulder jerked. “Here,” the girl said. For a moment, something flickered across her face—shame? History? Mr. Robertson only looked at her a little longer than would have been necessary, then checked her off. Between them lay something that had no words.\n\n“Braun, Christina?” Mr. Robertson frowned. “Christine? Where are you?”\n“Here,” Christine said, raising her arm.\n“Then this must be…” He pushed his glasses higher. “Braun, Christina—again? Do we have two Christin…” His gaze searched. Chris felt the heat in his ears. “Uh—here,” he said too late, hand half raised, voice too deep, then corrected upward too quickly. “I mean… here.”\nA few giggles in the back. Mr. Robertson grinned crookedly. “Ah, our new student from Germany, right? Chris…tina?”\n“Chris,” he stammered, “I mean—short form.”\n“All right, Chris. Welcome.” He made a mark on the sheet, and the world pretended nothing had happened.\n\n“Before we listen to the daily announcements, new students in my class always say two sentences. Just so we know who we’re dragging into the madness of this school.” A few laughs. “Chris, would you like to tell us something about the school system in Germany in thirty seconds? Just casually.”\n\nChris’s stomach rolled. “Um, well… in Germany… you have, uh, different types of schools. Like… uh… Gymnasium, Realschule, Hauptschule… I mean, at least that’s how it used to be? And then—” His voice tipped briefly, a tiny crack that exploded in his ear like microphone feedback. He cleared his throat too hastily. “—there are grades from one to six, one is good… and, uh, you have… usually fewer… clubs? More class groups.” He heard himself as if through glass, and the more he spoke, the more he heard the uncertainties stumbling over the words.\n\nIn the last row, an arm shot up before Robertson could even ask a follow-up. A small red-haired nuisance stretched forward and snapped her fingers. Chris could see how her small breasts pressed through her top and how her two braids flew wildly around.\n\n“[[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]]?” Robertson said.\n\n“Small addition: in most federal states, elementary school lasts four years, in some six. And the course system in the upper grades is different from here. Also, they used to have thirteen school years—now often twelve—depending on the federal state.” She spoke quickly, precisely, as if collecting points, then nodded apologetically over to Chris. “Sorry. Nerd mode.”\n\n“Excellent, Ruby!” Robertson beamed.\n\nChris sank back. Zoe had been scribbling on the desk the whole time; now she threw him a sidelong glance that said as much as: You and I are not done.\n\nThe speakers crackled. “Good morning, Maplewood High! Welcome back. Reminder: Dress Code will be strictly enforced during the first week—no spaghetti-strap tops, no hats, skirt length at least to the knee. Thank you, Hall Monitors!” A few boos and giggles. Chris felt his knees more consciously than necessary.\n“Timberwolves Football: tryouts today and tomorrow, 4 p.m., Field A. Go Wolves!” Cheers from a few boys in the back. “Basketball pre-season conditioning starts next week. The Pom Puffs are holding an info meeting in the gym right after school—all interested students welcome.” Two girls in front of Chris clapped, a butterfly clip bobbing. “Club Fair in the auditorium: theater, debate, robotics, yearbook, and many more. Stop by!”\n\nThe announcement ended with the school bell jingle, which was too cheerful for Chris’s nerves.\n\n''What happens after class?''\n<<nobr>><<if $stil == 7>>\n[[Help from Dylan when the locker jams.|Hilfe von Dylan wenn der Spind klemmt.][$beliebtheit += 1;$dylan_opinion += 20]]\n<<else>>\n[[Help from Lucas when the locker jams.|Hilfe von Lucas wenn der Spind klemmt.][$lucas += 1]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

He found [[Zoe|Zoe March]] in a stretch of hallway where supervision rarely looked. Zoe was leaning against the wall as if she belonged there, already sizing Chris up before he said a word. “Well? You look like you’re about to confess you’re a baby seal.”\n<<set $ort to "hallway">>\n“I need advice,” Chris said, keeping his voice as flat as possible. He explained it in short sentences: Homecoming, Dylan, all that talk about motel rooms, and that Dylan apparently expected something Chris absolutely did not want.\n\nZoe slowly raised her eyebrows. Then she grinned—not kindly. More as if she had smelled an opportunity. She thought it over, looked Chris up and down once as if turning a puzzle around, and her expression gave away that a “plan” had just occurred to her, one that probably counted as genius in her world.\n\n“Okay,” she drawled. “Listen—”\n\nChris could tell from the sound of it that he wasn’t going to like it.\n\nZoe began to hint at an idea that came down to somehow “tricking” Dylan—so Chris wouldn’t have to deliver and still no one would have any “stress.”\n\n“You go to that motel room with Dylan after the dance, yeah? So he thinks you’re in.” She held up two fingers as if they were steps in a recipe. “Then you turn off the lights—romantic, blah blah—and say something like: ‘I’ll just grab some ice from the machine.’ You go out. And I’m already standing in the hall and come in.”\n\nChris stared at her, and Zoe grinned broadly, as if it were brilliant.\n\n“In the dark, he won’t notice,” she said, completely convinced. “I’m about your build, I can even put on your perfume if you want. I’ll do it with him… well.” She made an obscene hand gesture, as if pulling a door shut. “After that, we switch back. You come in, act like nothing happened. Dylan thinks he had you. I get Dylan. And you don’t have to do anything. Win-win.”\n\nThe more Zoe painted it out, the more everything inside Chris contracted. It wasn’t just some stupid prank—it was deception in a way that could hurt someone, really hurt them. Dylan would believe he had been intimate with Chris, when in truth it would be Zoe. The thought alone made Chris’s stomach hard, as if he were expecting a blow. No matter how Zoe sold it as a “solution”: It was wrong, dangerous—and it would do something to Dylan.\n\n“No,” Chris said sharply, before she had even finished.\n\nZoe stopped, blinked. “What, no?”\n\n“No,” he repeated, quieter but firmer. “No trick. No switch. No games. That wouldn’t be okay.”\n\nZoe snorted. “You’re so… moral it hurts.”\n\nChris’s face burned, but he stayed where he was. “I just want this to stop without—” He broke off because he didn’t want to say “without Dylan getting angry.”\n\nZoe looked at him for a moment, as if sorting him into a new category. Then she shrugged, more practical this time. “Then do it like an adult. Text him that you’re going home after the dance. Period.”\n\n“And if he asks why?”\n\n“Then you say: because that’s what you want.” Zoe grinned again, sharp. “And if he absolutely has to do something else…” Zoe lifted her shoulders. “He can ask someone else. Not your problem.” Her voice grew soft, almost friendly—but there was an edge underneath. “Dylan is the quarterback. He doesn’t have to beg. He can pick the girls he wants.”\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. He said nothing.\n\nZoe leaned a little closer. “If you say after the dance: Nope, sorry, not tonight, then it’s not a drama for him. You know why? Because he can have other girls who’d be ready right away.” She let the sentence hang for a moment so it could take effect.\n\nChris felt hot, even though he was cold at the same time. “That’s… not—”\n\n“Yes, it is,” Zoe cut him off. “And you know it. You saw that list. You heard how the girls talk about motel rooms. Do you really think Dylan is going to sit alone in the car and obediently drive home if you shut him down?” She laughed softly, mockingly. “Then on Monday, some other girl will be standing next to him in the hall. And you’ll get to listen to how sweet it was that you didn’t dare.”\n\nChris’s throat went dry. The thought flickered through his head of losing Dylan—not just as a date, but as something that had given him the feeling of being wanted for the first time. The fear pressed under his ribs like a hand.\n\nZoe saw that it landed, and pushed further, calmer, almost conspiratorial: “You don’t want him thinking you’re just playing. That you get him all worked up and then chicken out.” She tapped a finger against his chest as if it were a point on a list. “So you need a plan. One where you don’t end up looking like the idiot.”\n\nChris’s gaze flickered to the side. He felt shame—and that unpleasant pressure that suddenly felt like “duty.” He wanted to argue, but the words stuck.\n<<set $zoe_plan to 0>>\n''How does he decide?''\n❯ [[Agree to Zoe’s plan.|Zoes Plan zustimmen.][$zoe_plan += 1]]\n❯ [[Don’t agree to the plan.|Dem Plan nicht zustimmen.][$dylan += 1]]

In Germany, something began for Chris that felt like freedom—and at the same time like withdrawal. He was allowed to be a boy again, but his body and his mind were still far from being “back.” The first few months were shaped by doctor’s appointments, forms, and those quiet moments when he looked at himself in the mirror and wondered whether he would ever look natural again.\n\nThe doctors stopped the female hormones and monitored him closely. After that, under supervision and with regular blood tests, he was given male hormones. It didn’t happen overnight, but it was noticeable: his voice gained more depth, the fatigue and the strange mood swings became different, clearer. And then came things that both delighted and frightened him because they were so “normal”: for the first time, he grew something like a real beard, not just fuzz, but stubble he had to shave. Chest hair came too. It was as if his body had finally received the amount of testosterone it had lacked during adolescence—and even the doctors were amazed by how well he responded to it. At first, Chris was even ashamed of being happy about stubble. Later, that small daily shave became a quiet ritual: a sign that his life belonged to him again.\n\nStill, the road remained long, difficult, and full of embarrassments. In loose clothing he felt safer, in tight shirts vulnerable again. He learned to deal with looks—not like in Maplewood anymore, but with the knowledge of how quickly people could “put things together” for themselves. There were doctor’s conversations that threw him back into old shame, examinations that made him feel small, and decisions that robbed him of sleep.\n\nThe breasts could not simply be “wished away.” In the end, several procedures were necessary before he could live again without that constant alarm in his head. Every surgery was a mixture of hope and fear: hope that afterward he would feel more like himself again—fear of scars, of complications, of the thought that he had to go through something like this at all. But step by step, it became more bearable. The physical burden grew lighter, and with it the feeling of having to “perform” something every day.\n\n[[Continue|Gerichtsverhandlung.]]\n\n\n\n\n

He turned Laverne onto her back and crouched over her. Then he lowered his ass to the level of her cock until her cock was halfway inside him again. He held still for a moment and then began to ride her.\n\nAfter two minutes of really exhausting himself, the muscles in his thighs gave out and he couldn’t hold himself up anymore. He sank down and unintentionally took her entire cock into him. Chris cried out in pain, felt impaled, and thought it was going to tear him apart. Laverne moaned because she now felt his tightness around her entire cock. A few seconds passed before she realized what had just happened. She wanted to turn to the side and free Chris from her cock, but he stopped her. Gradually, the pain faded, and all that remained was the feeling of being completely filled. He stayed crouched like that for a while longer, then began to raise himself a few centimeters only to let himself drop down again. He widened the movements more and more until he was able to let her cock slide out all the way to the head and then sit down on it completely again. But he couldn’t keep that up for long either; it was too hard on the muscles in his thighs.\n\nHe climbed off and got on all fours in front of Laverne. She positioned herself behind him, pushed her cock all the way into him, and began to fuck him slowly. Over time she got faster and faster, until she was practically pounding him. Both of them moaned for all they were worth. When Chris then heard her moan loudly and felt her drive her cock deep inside and hold it there, he felt her shoot her cum into his bowel. That was also the moment when he came.\n\nExhausted, she fell forward and collapsed with him onto the sofa. Her cock went soft, but still stayed in his ass, since even soft it had an impressive length. Then, however, she rolled off him, and they lay down side by side facing each other. They kissed for a very long time and very intensely.\n\n[[Continue|Abschied von Laverne.]]

The school bus smelled of dust and window rubber. Chris sank into a seat, counting the stops. Each stop brought the “problem” closer, the one that had been sitting in his stomach since the restroom break. Camouflage, he thought, and hated the word.\n<<set $ort to "home">>\nAt home later, he stood in front of his younger sister’s door and waited, then knocked. “Yeah?” – “I… can I talk to you for a second?”\n\nShe was sitting on the bed, phone in hand, her face half lit by the screen. When she saw him, she frowned. “What is it?”\n\nHe cleared his throat. The words stuck in his throat like heavy stones. “I… need… a sanitary pad.” The last word came so quietly it might have been a secret code.\n\nChristine blinked, slowly lifting her head. “A what?” Her gaze narrowed, suspicious, as if a sex offender were standing in front of her. “Chris, are you—”\n\n“No!” he cut in hastily, hands raised. “It’s just… for the bag. Camouflage. Today at school, a girl asked me—she’d gotten her period unexpectedly and didn’t have one with her. I… didn’t have one either. It was super embarrassing. I want to… be prepared.” He felt heat shoot into his face. “Just for camouflage. Honestly.”\n\nChristine exhaled, the skepticism easing. “Ah.” She closed her phone, stood, and went to the wardrobe. “Okay. That makes sense.” She opened a drawer, rummaged briefly, and took out a single pad. “Here.”\n\nChris hesitated, his fingers hovering over the cellophane. It felt as if he were reaching into a strange drawer in a strange life. “Thanks.”\n\n“It’s unused,” Christine commented dryly, as if holding up a label. Then, more gently: “You get used to it. You just carry one around.”\n\n“Sure.” He took it as if it were something fragile. The rustling of the pad was far too loud in his ear. “Thanks,” he repeated, already half backing out the door. “Really.”\n\n“Put it in a side compartment, not right on top,” Christine advised. “And… maybe take a tampon too. In case someone asks. You don’t have to use it, but… you know.”\n\n“Maybe later,” he muttered, overwhelmed enough by the one thing in his hand. In his room, he opened the handbag and carefully slid the pad into an inner compartment. Such a banal little thing, and yet he suddenly felt one step more like the girl everyone treated him as.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Binde.jpg]]</center> He sat down on the edge of the bed, let the handbag sink beside him. Camouflage, he said again in his head—and noticed that this time the word sounded less harsh and more like “survival.” Then he stood, reached for his homework planner, and took one deep breath. Another day survived. And one more added object in a life that needed more and more compartments.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n[[Message from Germany.|Nachricht aus Deutschland.]]

On Friday, Chris waited in front of the main entrance, where the wind made the red-and-silver ribbons on the railings rattle. He spotted Charlotte from a distance—cardigan, backpack straps held tightly in her hands, her gaze always sliding just past him, as it had for days.\n<<set $wochentag = 5>><<set $ort to "school">>\n“Hey,” he said when she was close enough. “Do you have a minute?”\n\nShe stopped, her heels making the tiniest click on the concrete. “A minute.”\n\n“I feel like you’re avoiding me. After school, you’re never free. My messages only get ‘okay’ back.” He struggled for a tone that sounded neither accusatory nor pleading.\n\nCharlotte took a breath. “It’s been a lot this week.”\n\n“Can we see each other this weekend?” he asked quietly. “Just… us?”\n\nHer mouth twisted briefly, and she thought aloud: “My dad isn’t home this weekend…” The sentence hung halfway in the air.\n\nChris blinked. “What does your father have to do with it? Can we meet or not?”\n\n“Maybe. I—” She lifted her shoulders, looking away. “I still have to see how it works out.” The evasion was friendly, but clear; something was working behind her forehead that she wasn’t saying.\n\nHe nodded, feeling the small, familiar sting. “Are we… I mean, is everything okay between us? Are we still… a couple?”\n\nThis time Charlotte looked straight at him. “Yes. I mean—I want that. But I need more time to get used to… everything.” She searched for a word, then gave up. “Just time.”\n\n“I understand.” And he meant it. A hint of relief eased the tension between his shoulders, even though the uncertainty remained.\n\nThe bell pulled them into the hallway. The school day carried the crackle of the home game in every corner: In homeroom, the speaker system crackled, and the voice from the office pushed anticipation into its sentences: “Good morning, Maplewood High! Remember: Tonight is the Timberwolves’ first home game. Doors open at 6:00 p.m., kickoff at 7:00. Students with ID pay the discounted rate. Go Wolves!” In the classrooms, handmade posters hung crookedly on corkboards; someone drummed the “Wolves Fight” rhythm on the edge of a desk with pencils until Mr. Robertson threw in a dry, “Go easy on the furniture.”\n\nIn the cafeteria, they traded tips about plays, weather, and the best spot in row G, while the cashier murmured, “Have fun tonight, sweetie.”\n\nThe afternoon passed steadily: a worksheet, a small reminder about the next test. Chris took notes, neatly crossed out a line once when he had made a mistake, and noticed the clock creeping closer to three. When the final bell buzzed, he stuffed notebooks into his bag, adjusted his cardigan, and let himself be carried toward the exit by the general excitement. Outside, the air was cool and clear. Stadium tonight, he thought.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1>>[[The game.|Das Spiel.4]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club > 1 >>[[The game.|Das Spiel.3]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris came home late that afternoon with his shoulders slumped. The job interview had once again sounded like “We’ll be in touch,” and in the end still only like “no.” Without a diploma, without references, without anything that looked like “reliable,” he was nothing in Pittsburgh but a smile with an empty résumé.\n\nWhen he pushed open the door to the tiny studio apartment, Zoe was already sitting on the floor in front of the small coffee table. A garish website glowed on her phone, and in her hand she twirled a pen like a magic wand. She looked up, and her grin seemed far too confident for her bank balance.\n\n“Okay,” she said. “I’ve got it.”\n\nChris dropped his bag. “Got what?”\n\nZoe tapped the screen. THE TIPSY TASSEL stood there in big, glittering letters. Beneath it: photos of neon, velvet curtains, a calendar with “Open Stage” nights.\n\nChris’ stomach sank. “No.”\n\n“Yes,” Zoe said, as if it were the answer to a math problem. “We work there.”\n\n“Zoe. That’s a strip club.”\n\n“Exactly.” She said the word like “bank.”\n\n“Cash. Fast. No stupid questions about diplomas.”\n\nChris shook his head, immediately, reflexively. “No way.” He felt himself growing hot, as if someone had made the room tighter. “And… I’m a boy. Hello? That’s completely—”\n\n“I know.” Zoe waved it off, as if she had already factored that in ages ago. “And listen, I already called. They’re open to it. Really. They do ‘variety’ nights, they take all kinds of acts. And honestly? You fit there. You’ve got the vibe.” She grinned crookedly. “You already get tips just for looking quietly.”\n\nChris stared at her. “That’s not funny.”\n\nZoe leaned forward. Her voice grew more serious, but the defiance stayed in it. “Rent is due in a few days. We’ve got almost nothing. And I have no desire to crawl back.”\n\nChris’ chest tightened. The word “back” immediately brought Maplewood into his mind: his mother’s look, her rules, her tone that never asked, only decided. He didn’t want to go there anymore.\n\n“It’s dangerous,” he said more quietly. “It’s… embarrassing. And if it goes wrong, then—”\n\n“Then what happens?” Zoe snapped. “Then we’re right back here, only without electricity and without food. Chris, we need money. Not next week. Now.”\n\nChris looked past her at the envelope with the rent demand that had been sitting on the only shelf for two days. He had deliberately not opened it, as if ignorance could make the bill smaller. Now it lay there like a threat in paper form.\n\nHe rubbed his forehead. Inside him, two things fought each other: the shame and fear of what Zoe was suggesting – and the panicked refusal to take even one step back toward Susan. He couldn’t go back to Maplewood. He didn’t want to. Anything else would be better.\n\nZoe looked at him as if she knew exactly where he was stuck. “We’ll only do it until we can breathe,” she said, suddenly softer. “A few nights. Cash. Then we’ll look for something better. But first we have to survive.”\n\nChris swallowed. He didn’t know what he should do. He knew only one thing for certain: he absolutely did not want to go back to his mother in Maplewood.\n\n[[Continue|Der nächte Abend.]]

Winter came and went. Then spring. School grew louder with graduation stuff: photos, final tests, rehearsals for the ceremony. Chris stood in the gym during cap-and-gown rehearsal, felt the fabric over his shoulders, and briefly thought how strange it was that he was standing here—and that at the same time, it already felt like his life.\n\nWhen graduation finally arrived, it was exactly the way graduations were: glaring light, clapping hands, names being called, a stage, a diploma in his hand. Chris smiled for photos, stood in rows, accepted congratulations.\n\nAt home, however, Susan did not become any easier. She remained demanding, sharp, unyielding – and the more Chris tried to feel his own boundaries, the more often things blew up.\n\nOne evening, an argument escalated the way many had before: Susan demanded something as if it were self-evident, and this time Chris did not immediately say “okay.” It went from one sentence to the next until Susan accused him of being ungrateful. Chris’ voice grew hoarse, his hands trembled, and at some point he simply stood up, went into his room, and mechanically packed a bag. Not dramatically, not with tears – more like someone who had finally understood that arguing would no longer change anything.\n\nSusan called something after him, but Chris heard it as if through water. He took his phone, hesitated for a moment – and wrote to Joseph.\n\nJoseph answered immediately.\n\nWhen Joseph stood in front of the house a short while later, it was dark. Chris stepped out with the bag, without looking back. Joseph did not say “What happened?” in a tone that wanted to interrogate him. He only said: “Come on.”\n\nChris got in. The door fell shut. And with that sound, there was something final about it.\n\nThe next day, Chris moved in with Joseph and Charlotte – “temporarily” at first, that was what they called it. One bag became two. A few clothes in the wardrobe. A toothbrush cup in the bathroom.\n\nAnd although they kept telling themselves they would take everything slowly, by now at the latest it was clear: None of it was just a coincidence anymore.\n\n[[Continue|Anruf beim Vater.]]

He gently placed his hand on Charlotte’s shoulder and pushed her a little away from him. “Wait,” he said hoarsely, then sat up and stood, as if he first had to find solid ground beneath his feet.\n<<set $CharlotteMemory[3] to 1>>\n“I have to tell you something.” He drew a breath. “I’m… a boy. My mother is forcing me to live as a girl.”\n\nCharlotte blinked, as if he had shown her a magic trick that was missing its punchline. “What? Stop it.” An uncertain laugh slipped over her lips. “That’s— you’re joking, right?”\n\nChris shook his head. “No. Not a joke.” He remained firm, holding her gaze. “It’s complicated. But it’s true.”\n\n“But…” Charlotte ran a hand over her arm, searching for support in some detail that would not slip away. “Your breasts…” She faltered, groping for words. “Your body. You have… and—you look…” Her gaze slid away uncertainly, as if she were trying to solve an equation that did not add up.\n\n“I take hormones,” Chris said quietly. “My mother insists on it. That’s why all of this.” He made a small, helpless gesture.\n\nCharlotte said nothing. Her face first went blank, then became far too alive; you could see the moment when her thoughts raced one by one, overtook each other, tangled themselves up. “You… you’re serious. Prove it to me.” Her voice was smaller now, almost fragile.\n\nChris nodded and lifted his skirt upward. His midsection was still covered by a thin piece of fabric. <<if $unterwaesche == 1>>It was a white lace panty, with a delicate pale-pink waistband.<<else>>It was a playful cotton panty, with a floral pattern.<<endif>> You could see the bulge of his cock outlined inside it.\n\n“Is that…?” Charlotte began, but then broke off. Chris’s face turned bright red and he nodded again. Charlotte stood up, went over to him, and without asking permission, pulled his panties down, and out sprang a stiff penis.\n\n“I’m sorry I lied to you.” He lowered his gaze. “Do you accept me anyway? Just as I am?”\n\nShe stood there, her hands folded around her upper arms, as if she had to fend off the cold in the room that was not coming from outside at all. “I—I don’t know.” She shook her head almost imperceptibly, unsettled, overwhelmed. “I can’t do anything with… boys. Really not. Especially…” Her gaze darted downward to Chris’s penis, then immediately away again in disgust. “It’s too much. Right now.”\n\nThe silence stretched between them, thin and dangerous.\n\nAt that moment, his phone vibrated on the nightstand, sharp and inappropriately loud. The display lit up.\n<<set $charlotte_opinion to 65>>\n[[Continue|Christine ruft an.]]

Chris forced the corners of his mouth upward. “I… uh… just smile and don’t say anything, it’ll pass.” As he said it, he felt something inside him make itself smaller—as if he were putting himself in a closet so the moment could pass undisturbed. A flat knot settled in his stomach: he knew what “keeping still” felt like, and he didn’t like it.\n\nThe boss seemed very pleased. He leaned back, the chair creaking. “Good attitude.”\n\n“Can you handle cash? Ever worked a register before?” he continued, his voice practiced.\n\nChris’s thoughts briefly darted to math—the recent classes in which numbers had felt stubborn, even though they used to come easily. He didn’t let it show. “Yes,” he said, curtly. The syllable sounded more confident than he felt.\n\nThe boss nodded and flipped through his clipboard, then lifted his gaze. “Our diner has skimpy uniforms. Are you okay with that?”\n\nThe sentence hit Chris like a cold hand on his hip. Immediately he felt his body—the hem of the skirt, the fabric that never quite belonged to him—and that familiar conflict between functioning and wanting to disappear. He noticed his fingertips searching for the edge of the chair. Part of him just wanted to nod and survive the wave. Another part squared its shoulders, quietly but clearly.\n\n''What does Chris answer?''\n❯ [[He says he’ll follow the dress code, even if the thought makes him uneasy.|Chris hält sich an den Dresscode.][$diner += 1]]\n❯ [[He replies that remarks like that don’t belong in a job interview.|Chris sagt, dass solche Bemerkungen nicht Teil eines Jobgesprächs seien.]]

Chris had not returned to America because he wanted to.\n\nHe had flown from Germany to Pittsburgh with a suitcase his father had checked twice and an envelope full of documents the district attorney’s office had given him. Plane tickets, hotel address, court date. Everything looked orderly, almost harmless, as if it were about some government office and not about what his mother had done to him.\n\nMaplewood was about an hour away. Small, quiet, with well-kept front yards and neighbors who had always acted as if they noticed nothing. Susan had kept him there for a little over half a year, trapped in a life that had not been his. She had put makeup on him, dressed him up, and forced him to go to school every morning as someone else.\n\nA few months could sound short when other people talked about it.\n\nFor Chris, they had been enough to make him feel like a stranger in his own body.\n\nNow he was sitting outside a courtroom in Pittsburgh, and behind the heavy wooden door waited the woman who had called all of it care.\n\nThe hallway smelled of old coffee, cleaning products, and wet coats. People walked past, lawyers with briefcases, police officers, unfamiliar families with tense faces. For them, it was Tuesday morning. For Chris, it felt as if someone had compressed the worst months of his life into a single moment.\n\nHis father sat beside him. He had barely slept on the flight. Even so, he was here, upright, alert, one hand close enough that Chris could take it if he wanted to. Michael said nothing unnecessary. Since Chris had been living with him again in Germany, he had learned that silence could sometimes be safer than questions.\n\n“You don’t have to be strong in there,” Michael said quietly.\n\nChris stared at the door.\n\n“I have to testify.”\n\n“Yes,” Michael said. “But you don’t have to be alone.”\n\nMs. Parker, the victim advocate from the district attorney’s office, stopped in front of them. She wore a dark blue blazer and held a folder pressed to her chest. Her voice was calm, but not soft enough to sound dishonest.\n\n“Chris,” she said. “In a few minutes, the judge will call the case. The prosecutor will speak first. After that, it will be about your testimony. If you need a break, say so. If you need water, say so. And if the defense tries to confuse you, just look at me or at your father.”\n\nChris nodded.\n\n“Do I have to look at her?”\n\nMs. Parker shook her head.\n\n“No. Susan is sitting in the courtroom, but you don’t owe her a glance.”\n\nThe door opened briefly. Chris saw rows of dark wood, the American flag, the judge’s bench — and Christine.\n\nHis sister was sitting far in the back. Her arms were tightly crossed in front of her chest. When their eyes met, she did not move. No wave. No smile. Just a look that held too many questions.\n\nThen the door fell shut again.\n\nA voice came from inside the courtroom. Muffled, but unmistakable.\n\nSusan.\n\nChris felt his stomach tighten.\n\nFor months, that voice had decided what he wore, which pills he swallowed, when he was allowed to object and when he was not. Not even a whole year. But long enough that his body still reacted before his mind could tell him that she had no power over him here anymore.\n\nMs. Parker stepped a little closer.\n\n“Before we go in,” she said, “you should know: Your testimony can influence how the judge sees Susan in the end. You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to be merciful. You’re allowed to be both at the same time.”\n\nMichael looked at him.\n\n“Whatever you say,” he said, “it has to be yours.”\n\nChris slowly breathed in.\n\nThen he stood up.\n<<set $temp to 0>>\n''What is Chris thinking?''\n❯ [[I want her to lose everything.|Aussage][$temp += 2]]\n❯ [[I just want her to never have power over me again.|Aussage][$temp += 1]]\n❯ [[I don’t know if I can send her to prison.|Aussage]]

The pillow fort became a whispering grotto: lights dimmed to “candlelight,” popcorn bowl in the middle, everyone half lying down, heads close together. “Anonymous confessions,” Penelope decided. “Everyone writes down their biggest secret and throws it in here. No questions, no drama—just ooooh and aaaah.”\n\nPens scratched. Chris turned the note between his fingers. The truth? Impossible. He felt his heart in his throat. Finally, as neatly as he could, he wrote: I am not what you think. He folded the note twice, tossed it into the bowl, and felt as if he had set a message in a bottle adrift at sea.\n\nPenelope swirled the notes around, pulled the first one. “Okay… ‘I’m not a virgin anymore.’” A many-voiced murmur, pillows rustled, eyes widened. “Scandal!” someone giggled. Charlotte shot Christine a curious look; Christine shook her head fiercely, red up to her ears. Obviously my little sister is still a virgin, Chris thought, and was surprised by how much that reassured him.\n\nNotes two, three, four: little confessions like glittering shards. “I cheated on a test.” – “I’m afraid of the dark (no joke).” – “I only joined math club because of him.” A chorus of “Who? Who?”, followed by laughter when Penelope reinforced the “nope, anonymous!” in a judge’s-gavel voice.\n\nThen she fished out a note that immediately looked familiar to him. “‘I am not what you think.’” A shared inhale, and the pillow fort grew even rounder. Chris’s heart stopped for a moment before speeding up. “Uuuuuh,” someone went, and suddenly eyes felt their way around the circle as if they could recognize handwriting on faces. “Okay, mysterious,” Penelope judged, setting the note aside like a joker.\n\nMore secrets: “I didn’t get my first kiss until I was 18”—sympathetic sighing. “I can move my toes individually”—general giggling; two tried it immediately, failed, and squealed. Chris tried to match faces to notes, in vain. What had Charlotte, Penelope, Christine written? The puzzle’s pull tingled.\n\nPenelope drew the next note, raised her brows. “Okay… wow. ‘I’m in love with my brother.’” The pillow fort exploded in “Whaaat?!” sounds, hands flew to mouths, someone almost tipped over the popcorn bowl.\n\nChris’s heart rammed against his ribs. Very slowly, as inconspicuously as possible, he glanced sideways at Christine. She caught his look, and an eye roll flew back at him—blatant, a “please spare yourself every thought” signal in extra neon. Then she deliberately stared at the string lights, as if she had decided that only stars deserved her attention.\n\nThe shockwave ebbed into giggly nervousness—“Probably a joke,” “Or step-siblings?”, “Or just a crush, hello!”—but the sentence lingered in the room like a quiet bell. Chris pressed his lips together and realized how the pillow fort suddenly felt again like what it was: a place where people lay close together and secrets moved through the air—light as confetti, heavy as stones.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>><<if $tempCharlotte > 0 >>[[Bedtime.|Schlafenszeit.][$harassed += 1]]<<else>>[[Bedtime.|Schlafenszeit.2]]<<endif>><<endif>>\n<<if $charlotte < 2>><<if $tempChristine > 0 >>[[Bedtime.|Schlafenszeit.3][$harassed += 1]]<<else>>[[Bedtime.|Schlafenszeit.4]]<<endif>><<endif>><</nobr>>

When the motel room door opened later, Chris stepped out first, half smiling, still dazed from the hot sex. Mrs. Barnett slipped out beside him, her fingers finding his as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and for one tiny moment it almost seemed like a secret game: a kiss in the doorway, an arm around his waist, a quiet laugh that immediately sounded out of place in the hallway.\n<<set $LucasMemory[9] to 1>>\nThen Chris saw the figure right beside the door.\n\nLucas stood there as if someone had switched him off in the middle of a movement. His gaze was fixed, his shoulders drawn up, his hands clenched into fists without him even noticing. At first his face was empty with shock — and then something passed over it that immediately made Chris’s stomach tighten: disbelief, pain, anger. When Lucas’s eyes moved from Chris to his mother, it was as if something inside him broke.\n\n“...What...?” Lucas’s voice was rough, hardly more than air. “What the hell is this?”\n\nChris’s throat closed up. He let go of Mrs. Barnett’s hand as if it had burned him. Suddenly he didn’t know what to do with his own hands, where to put his eyes. In the narrow hallway, there was no room to hide. “Lucas, I—” He couldn’t get out more than that. Shame rose hot inside him, making everything in his head dull and heavy. He felt the ball gown on him, the stockings, the sandals — everything that had made him feel confident earlier was now only a reminder of how badly he had taken a wrong turn.\n\nLucas’s gaze flickered, as if he were trying to understand the picture and erase it at the same time. “You told me you felt sick. You had to go home.” He swallowed hard, the words growing sharper. “And then... this?” He looked at his mother, stunned. “Mom. How could you?”\n\nMrs. Barnett cleared her throat and took a step forward, as if she could repair the damage with closeness. “Lucas, listen, this isn’t—” She raised her hands, almost pleading. “It isn’t what you think.”\n\nLucas gave one short laugh, but it sounded more like a choked sob. “Not what I think?” His eyes grew glassy. “I was standing here the whole time. I heard it.” He said it quietly, as if the sentence alone was already taking the air from him. “Everything.”\n\nChris felt the floor drop away beneath him. He wanted to say something, anything that wasn’t just an apology — but his mouth formed nothing that didn’t sound ridiculous. His heart hammered, and at the same time he felt cold.\n\nMrs. Barnett continued, too quickly, too smoothly, as if falling back on rehearsed lines. “You’re misunderstanding this, I only wanted to— Chris was upset and I tried to... It was just—”\n\n“Stop.” Lucas’s voice broke. Tears stood in his eyes, and he didn’t wipe them away, as if he suddenly no longer cared how he looked. “Stop it.” He shook his head, and his gaze only brushed Chris briefly now — like a touch that hurt. “You both... you just...” He couldn’t find the word. Maybe there wasn’t one big enough.\n\nThen he turned around and started moving, down the hallway, faster than the pain should have allowed.\n\n“Lucas!” Mrs. Barnett called after him and immediately followed, her steps hurried, her tone panicked. “Please, wait!”\n\nTheir voices receded, doors remained closed, somewhere a television droned behind a wall. Chris stayed standing alone in front of the room, as if rooted to the spot. His head was roaring. He felt tears rising in his eyes, but they didn’t fall — as if even his body had decided he didn’t deserve that.\n\nHe took his phone from the clutch, his hands trembling so badly that he tapped wrong twice. Uber. Pickup. Now. The minutes until its arrival felt like a sentence he had to serve in real time.\n\nWhen the car finally pulled up, Chris got in without looking at the driver. Maplewood passed by outside like something that no longer belonged to him. He leaned his forehead against the cool window, and the only thing that stayed clear was that heavy, drilling feeling: that he hadn’t just made a mistake — he had maybe destroyed the only thing that had ever truly felt like love.\n\nWhen he arrived home, he closed the door behind him as if shutting out the world. But the guilt remained, sitting beside him in the silence, whispering the same sentence into his ear over and over: You destroyed your first real love before it could truly begin.\n\n[[End of Chapter 5|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 5b]]

When the volleyball nets were raised later in PE and two captains stepped forward, Chris immediately felt that old knot in his stomach. Team selection. The classic. He heard the names being called, saw the rows thinning out, and inside him flickered the memory of how, as a boy, he had often stood there until the very end—as if he were the leftover someone took out of necessity. This time it happened differently. One captain pointed to him early. “Chris.” Just like that. As if it were obvious. Chris blinked, stepped forward, and felt something inside him straighten up: a small, outrageous piece of pride. Okay… that’s kind of cool.\n<<set $ort to "gym">><<set $ChrisMemory[3] to 1>>\nLater, once the game started, Chris realized he and Charlotte worked surprisingly well together. She called quick, clear cues—“Mine!” “Short!”—and laughed when he saved a ball that should’ve been gone. “Nice, Chris!” she said, and they high-fived on the run like it was the most natural thing in the world. For a moment, PE didn’t feel like a test—it felt like a team.\n\nAfter PE, the locker room felt like its own little planet: too cramped, too warm, too many half-naked girls. Doors slammed, lockers squeaked, clothes fell carelessly to the floor. Over everything lay that typical mix of body odor and too much deodorant—sweet, sharp, warm, fresh, and human all at once.\n\nChris stood at the edge, pulled the gym shirt over his head, adjusted his sports bra, and tried to look as natural as everyone else. He went through the movements he now knew by heart: shoes to the side, roll up the tights, don’t let his gaze linger anywhere too long. He was in that constant inner game mode that wasn’t called “sports,” but “don’t get found out.”\n\nBeside him, the typical “period talk” began.\n\n“I swear, I had such cramps this morning,” one girl groaned, plopping down onto the bench. “Like knives.”\n\n“Same,” said another, rummaging in her bag. “I forgot tampons and had to ask Ruby.” She pouted. “So embarrassing.”\n\n“Embarrassing is when you stand up in class and think you’re safe,” said a third, rolling her eyes. “And then—” She made a gesture they all understood immediately, and three voices went into a collective “Ughhh” at once.\n\nChris laughed in the right place, short and quiet, as if all of this were normal. He nodded as if he knew exactly what they were talking about. Inside him, though, a completely different dialogue was running: Okay. Don’t react. Don’t ask too much. Don’t react too little. Just… go along with it.\n\n“Are you already PMSing or still in the ‘I’ll eat everything’ phase?” someone asked with a crooked grin.\n\n“Both,” came the answer, and the bench row laughed again.\n\nChris felt his stomach briefly tighten—not with disgust, more with the fear of hitting the wrong note somewhere. The topic was so everyday for them, so natural, and that was exactly where the danger lay. Every sentence was a small tripwire: a too-hesitant “mhm” could stand out. A too-interested question even more so. So he played along: an eye roll here, an agreeing sound there, the perfect dose of sympathy without details.\n\nHe grabbed his deodorant. When he lifted his arms, the smell rose to him—his own. Sweat, yes, but different from before. Before, sports smell on him had quickly been “boy”: angular, sour, heavy, as if it crept into the fabric and lived there. Now it was… softer. Not gone, not “perfumed,” but somehow cleaner, less aggressive. Even sweaty, he smelled more like a girl who had just trained, not like a stinking guy who reeked of locker room.\n\nThe thought hit him like a small, embarrassing surprise. He paused briefly, as if someone had spoken to him. I smell… good? Not “good” in the sense of polished, but… fitting. And immediately his face grew warm, as if merely thinking about it was already too intimate.\n\nHe threw a quick glance around, as if someone could smell his thoughts. No one was paying attention to him. The girls kept talking about hot-water bottles, painkillers, and the “Worst Week Ever” as if it were the weather report.\n\nChris pulled the top over his head, smoothed the fabric. He still felt heated from training, his skin slightly damp, but he did not smell like the boy he had once been. That difference briefly shamed him—because he couldn’t explain it, because he hadn’t planned it—and at the same time, a tiny, quiet spark remained caught inside him: that even his body was now playing along with the role.\n\n“Coming?” someone asked, and Chris nodded at once.\n\n“Yeah, in a second,” he said, sounding normal, smiling normally. Inside, he kept playing “don’t get found out.” But for one moment, between deodorant and steam, he had felt something else: not just fear, but that strange, quiet reality that he was changing—right down to his smell.\n\nLater on the bus, Chris sat by the window, forehead against the cool glass. Maplewood passed by in strips: lawns, mailboxes, the gas station with the yellow awning. One week. He counted inwardly: the photo at the welcome desk, the ruler moment, the thumbtack, the water fountain. So much had been embarrassing, unpleasant, close to humiliation. And yet… he had imagined it worse.\n\nHis disguise had held, often by his own strength, sometimes with help. He had said yes where he had thought “never”—and no where his gut needed it. He saw his reflection pale in the window. One week as a girl survived, he thought, and the word “survived” suddenly had two meanings: endured—and managed something. He took one deep breath, let his shoulders sink, and watched the stop come closer.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $kleidung == 1>>[[Clothing criticism from Christine.|Kleiderkritik von Christine.]]<<else>>[[Running practice with Mom.|Lauftraining mit Mom.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Maplewood smelled of damp asphalt and freshly mown grass that morning. The sky was still milky, the sun somewhere behind the crowns of the maples, and the yellow bus growled its way up the street as if it were some sluggish beast on patrol. Chris—full name: Christoph Braun, nineteen—stood at the stop beside his mother Susan and his sister Christine, who was only one year younger.\n\nHe felt his stomach knot. He wasn’t wearing his usual jeans and faded T-shirt, but a light-blue dress with white ruffles at the hem that reached just above his knees. With it, white sneakers and a small handbag his mother had hung over his shoulder. His hair, normally wild and untamed, had been neatly styled, and a touch of makeup—just enough to make his cheeks look rosy—completed the picture. He felt exposed, vulnerable, as if he were naked in public. Why was his mother doing this to him?\n\n“Shoulders back,” Susan said sternly, without looking at him. Her voice was smooth, a knife in a velvet case. She wore a tight, light-colored top that emphasized her ample bust and a pencil skirt that fit her as if it had been poured over her magnificent ass. Her high heels clicked on the asphalt, and her long blond hair fell in wavy strands down her back. Susan was the kind of woman who turned heads wherever she went.\n<center>[img[pics/susan_bus.jpg]]</center>\nChris tried to breathe, but the air didn’t seem made for him. The dress smelled of lavender and the tights scratched. He held the handbag too tightly because he didn’t know what to do with his hands, and because he hoped a firmer grip meant less trembling.\n\nThe brakes squealed. The school bus stopped. Faces bobbed behind the windows. But their eyes, their necks, all their curious, hungry staring were not directed at Chris first, but at his mother. Two whistles cut through the morning stillness. A “Woo-ow” drifted through the front of the bus. A broad-shouldered boy in a football jacket said, “Mrs. B—always a ten,” and someone else made a heart with his fingers.\n\nEven the nerds in the back row, who were usually buried in their comics, lifted their heads and stared openly at her long legs, her sexy ass, and her big breasts. Susan merely smiled and waved to them, as if it were all a compliment. She knew the effect she had on the teenagers—and enjoyed it.\n\nThe door folded open. His sister Christine got on without hesitation, her backpack slung casually over one shoulder. She gave the driver a curt nod, already looking for an empty seat.\n\nChris remained standing. His heart raced, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He couldn’t do this. Not dressed like this. He took a step back, away from the door, as if he wanted to flee. But Susan was resolute, as always. Her hand settled firmly on his back, and with a gentle but unyielding push she urged him forward. “Go on now, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice sweet, but with an undertone that allowed no contradiction. Chris stumbled up the steps, his knees soft as pudding. Inside the bus, it went quiet. He expected the worst: laughter, pointing fingers, calls of “Hey, that’s a boy!”\n\nBut it didn’t come. Instead, a murmur, a whispering that tickled like wind through underbrush. The jocks stared—new girl?—the preps whispered and huddled their heads together, the nerds stared too long, as if trying to count the pixels. No one seemed to notice that his throat was too angular, his movements too stiff, the makeup too heavy.\n<<if $haar == 0>><center>[img[pics/bus_kurz.jpg]]</center><<else>><center>[img[pics/bus.jpg]]</center><<endif>>\nThey looked at him like a girl—a new, pretty girl at their small-town school. Chris’s cheeks burned with shame. He lowered his gaze, walked faster, felt the heat in his ears and the crackle of the tights with every step. His hands clutched the bag as if it could protect him.\n\nHe slid into the seat beside Christine. His sister placed her backpack between them. The bus lurched into motion. Through the window, Chris saw his mother standing outside. She raised her hand to wave and pulled the corners of her mouth into a small, malicious grin meant only for him.\n\n“Holy… Christine’s mom,” a voice somewhere in the back said, cracking with excitement. “Maplewood’s Mona Lisa, man.” Another: “Wouldn’t say no.” Giggles.\n\nChris barely heard it. His thoughts raced: How long would this go well? When would someone notice he wasn’t a girl?\n\nSuddenly he felt a light jab in his side. Christine leaned over to him, her voice a whisper: “Keep your legs together, you idiot. The bus driver’s already staring.” Chris’s gaze shot to the rearview mirror. Sure enough—the driver’s eyes, sharp and curious, were studying him through the mirror. \n\nLike any boy, Chris had been trying to look up the skirts of pretty girls since he could remember. The shoe was on the other foot now and he didn't like it at all.\n\nPanic rose inside him. He pressed his knees together, tugged the hem of the dress lower, and stared out the window, where Maplewood passed by: the small houses, the football fields, the world that suddenly seemed so strange and threatening. Shame burned inside him like fire, and the fear of being found out sat like a knot in his chest.\n\nThis was only the beginning—but how had it all begun?\n\n[[Prologue|Prolog]]

In the morning, the outfit was already laid out—neatly folded at the foot of the bed. Susan patted the fabric with the flat of her hand as if presenting a display piece. “Something light today for a change. Babydoll, tiered. Sweet and neat.”\n<<set $wochentag = 4>><<set $wetter = 1>><<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">><<set $ChrisMemory[2] to 1>>\nChris ran his fingers over the dress: a rosy floral pattern, short puff sleeves, a loose babydoll cut that fell in tiers from beneath the bust. The lowest tier felt denser—underneath it, a shaping underskirt with a ruffled insert that rustled softly when touched, like paper in a summer breeze.\n\n<center>[img[pics/outfit3.jpg]]</center> In the mirror, he lifted the dress, slipped into it, and let it fall. It closed around him like a curtain. He turned to the side—and stopped. His butt looked… big. He pressed the fabric downward as if he could iron it flat. The material gave way, but the impression remained. Not just the dress, he thought, and a small cold shock pulled into his stomach. The hormones had been working quietly; his butt had become rounder, fuller. A body that was no longer entirely the one he knew.\n\nCan I go to school like this? Immediately his mind asked questions he had never wanted to ask: How many looks from the boys at my butt am I going to get for this? He cursed his life, cursed his mother, cursed the fact that as a boy he had to think at all about whether a tiered minidress “attracted too many looks.”\n\n“Pretty. The dress makes it easy for you, Chris. You look like a good girl, so innocent. Like someone people want to protect. Good girls get into less trouble,” Susan said from the doorway, as if her words were a seal. “With white knee socks, flat Mary Janes. And posture, Chris. The dress doesn’t wear itself.”\n\n<<if $haar == 1>>In the bathroom, Chris stood in front of the mirror and drew the comb slowly through his long brown hair, strand by strand, until the faint crackle of plastic faded and his part sat neatly in place. Then—at Susan’s insistence—he clipped two barrettes into the side, perfectly parallel like little brackets.\n<center>[img[pics/haarspange.jpg]]</center> \nHe hated the sensation of metal against his scalp, that constant, alien tug every time he moved, but he kept them in because he knew what came next: a sweet-sounding “Then I’ll braid your hair,” which was really a threat. So he stayed quiet, pressed the clips firmly shut, and hoped they would start to feel normal.<<else>>In the bathroom, Chris stood in front of the mirror, ran his hand twice critically over his short brown hair, and tugged the stubborn cowlicks flat. A dab of gel onto his fingertips, rub it in, smooth it from front to back—done: clean, understated, schoolyard-ready.<<endif>>\n\nOn the way to school, he kept the hem in check with his fingertips, as if carefulness could make the ruffle quieter. Every step: shhh—shhh from the underskirt, a tiny but constant betrayal. On the bus, the edge of the seat caught once on the lowest tier, and he freed it quickly while two boys in the seats farther back fell silent as he passed, then laughed quietly.\n\nOn the school grounds, the air hit him like a swarm of looks: so many curious eyes on his butt. A chain of brief scans—at the tiers, at his curves. Two sophomore boys by the water fountain stopped talking; one looked him over “with interest,” the other pretended he urgently needed to unlock his phone. The shhh—shhh accompanied him, a soundtrack that made him feel louder than he was. Chris felt warmth creeping up the back of his neck. He forced his shoulders down, his chin level. Walk. Just walk.\n\nWith every step, the dress reminded him of itself: the loose bust section, the bouncing fall of the tiers, the way it hugged at the hips. In class, he slid onto his chair, paying close attention to make sure the hem lay properly. Someone behind him whispered something he couldn’t make out.\n\n[[Continue|In der Pause.]]

Chris told himself he wasn’t doing it for the boys. Not for the gaze at the edge, not for Dylan. It was about technique, about the team, about… himself. At the same time, the secret desire pulled through his stomach like a bright wire.\n\nCoach Moore raised his hand. “Five, six, seven, eight!”\n\nPenelope’s voice from the front row: “P-O-M!”\nTeam: “Puffs!”\nPenelope: “Sweet but tough!”\nEveryone: “Pom Puffs!”\n\nThe formation clapped overhead twice; Chris pulled his arms extra high, the pom-poms meeting just above the crown of his head. Then came the hip wiggle, two counts—he emphasized it, hips short and snappy. Then the pom hit to the right, to the left—sharp, on the eighths.\n\nIn his head, the secret beat was running faster than the real one. On the second overhead clap, he brought his hands together a fraction too late; the clack landed behind Charlotte’s timing. The hip wiggle shifted half a count, so his right foot was still searching for the floor while the row was already setting the pom hit to the right. He noticed the gap and wanted to close it with extra energy—but the energy went in the wrong direction: the hit to the right came too far outward, the one to the left too early.\n\n“Stop!” Coach Moore’s whistle chirped dryly. “Chris—timing! You’re pulling the row apart.”\n\nA short, merciless laugh from the sideline. Not loud, but sharp enough to cut the air. Chris’s neck tightened. He didn’t look over, but he knew where it had come from.\n\n“Again from ‘P-O-M’!” Moore called. “Count the beats, not your gut feeling.”\n\nThey started again.\n\nLead: “P-O-M!”\nTeam: “Puffs!”\nLead: “Sweet but tough!”\nEveryone: “Pom Puffs!”\n\nChris forced his arms back into line, but on the second overhead clap the pom-poms briefly snagged at his wrist, the strands catching on the edge of his top. The hip wiggle turned too wide, almost like a stumble with posture; Penelope beside him snapped her line back hard to save the formation. The right pom hit brushed Charlotte’s elbow, the left stayed too low.\n\n“Chris!” Moore sounded clipped now. “Elbows up, hands fast! And listen to the front, not yourself!”\n\nAgain that brief laugh from the football players, then a murmur. Chris risked a reflexive glance toward the sideline—and saw Dylan turn his head away, as if something else had just caught his attention. It wasn’t an eye roll, not a comment. Just a looking away. That burned more than anything.\n\nThe warmth in Chris’s face turned dull and hot. He suddenly felt every scrape of the bra, the pull of the skirt hem, the way his breath hung too high in his chest.\n\n“One more time, and clean this time,” Moore said, matter-of-fact. “If you’re unsure, make it smaller, not bigger.”\n\nChris nodded without looking up. On the next cue, his arms held the line, but his knees began to bounce as if still searching for the beat. He hit the counts just barely, without flair, only with tight correctness. Charlotte subtly kept the rhythm for him, her breathing like a metronome beside his. Still, the aftertaste remained: He had tried hard to impress—and had failed visibly because of exactly that.\n\nWhen Moore released them into basic stance, Chris stood straight as a candle and still felt beaten soft. The girls shook out their pom-poms; two or three boys laughed briefly again, then the sound flattened out. Dylan reached for his water bottle, spoke with a teammate, and did not look over.\n\nChris swallowed. The tingling in his stomach was gone. All that remained was the warmth of embarrassment, slowly sinking into his calves.\n<<set $dylan_opinion to 29>><<set $penelope_opinion to 48>>\n[[Continue|Nochmal zur Schule.]]

Chris and Latoya stayed on the dance floor as if in their own orbit. Their movements fit together, close and natural, as if they had long since found their way into exactly this beat. Latoya led without pushing—a crooked swing of her hips, a look, a short laugh—and Chris followed, increasingly sure of himself, as if his body had finally understood that it didn’t have to ask for permission.\n\nA little farther to the left, Chris suddenly saw his mother and DeShawn. Susan stood close in front of him, her gaze cool and clear, and then she placed a hand on the back of his neck and kissed him. Not a fleeting kiss, not a game. It was direct, decisive, as if she were taking back something that belonged to her—or as if she were proving to herself that she still could.\n\nChris’s rhythm stumbled for a moment. His gaze caught, his mind wanted to understand, sort, judge. Then Latoya was there.\n\nShe stepped even closer, positioning herself between Chris and the rest of the world, as if she had noticed the distraction and decided to end it. Her large eyes sparkled, and her grin was suddenly softer, less cheeky—almost serious.\n\n“Hey,” she said, close to his ear, warm. “You good?”\n\nChris nodded, though he wasn’t sure whether it was true. Everything inside him was happening at once: the music, the glances, the feeling of freedom that felt borrowed.\n\nLatoya raised a hand, briefly stroked his cheek as if anchoring him in the now. Then she kissed him.\n\nThe kiss hit him like a small electric shock—not hard, but hot and alive. Her lips were soft but firm, and she kissed him as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if there were no question of whether he wanted it, only the answer his body had long since given. Chris’s breath caught, then he leaned into the kiss, let his hands slide to her waist, felt the warmth through the fabric of her skirt, felt her closeness, her scent, that confident I am here she had in every movement.\n\nLatoya drew back a fraction, only far enough that her forehead almost touched his. Her smile was brief, triumphant and tender at the same time. “Told you, honey.”\n\nChris laughed softly, breathlessly, more overwhelmed than relaxed—but not unhappy.\n\nWhen he looked up again, he noticed that DeShawn and his mother were now standing closer together, as if they had silently decided not to discuss the rest of the evening anymore. DeShawn leaned toward Susan, said something Chris didn’t understand, and Susan did not answer immediately—just a look, a brief weighing.\n\nThen DeShawn came closer, without hurry, and spoke so that Susan could hear him, but the others caught it too: “Let’s go to my place.”\n\nSusan turned her head toward Chris. Her gaze remained on him, calm and calculating, as if she were playing through several possibilities in seconds. Chris felt his chest tighten. He didn’t know whether it was fear, or curiosity, or both.\n\nSusan said nothing. She only looked a moment longer, as if Chris were part of her plan—or a factor that might disrupt it.\n\nThen she nodded to DeShawn.\n\n[[Continue|Der Weg zu DeShawn.]]

During the break, [[Mr. Robertson|Wesley Robertson]] sent Chris to the copy room: “Could you please make 25 double-sided copies of this?” Chris took the stack from the teacher’s desk—and accidentally picked up the black notebook lying underneath it too.\n<<set $ort to "copy room">>\nThe copy room smelled of warm toner and paper dust. Chris placed the stack on the tray, lifted the lid, pushed the pages flush against the edge. “25 copies, double-sided,” he murmured, pressing Start. The machine came alive with a hum that filled the entire small room. He reached for the stack again—and only then noticed that something else was lying underneath: Mr. Robertson’s notebook, black cover, worn corners. He set it aside, half on the edge.\n\nThe machine spat out sheets. Chris turned to fan the finished copies—an elbow brushed the notebook. It slid, tipped, and slapped onto the linoleum. The elastic band sprang loose, and a few photos fell out from between the pages.\n\nHe picked up the first photo. [[Zoe|Zoe March]]. She was standing in front of a gray wall that could be found in any school, hands folded in front of her stomach as if she didn’t know what to do with them. Her gaze was shy and direct at the same time. Chris frowned. Why does Mr. Robertson have photos of Zoe in his notebook?\n\nThe next photo made his blood run cold. It was no longer a harmless image. Zoe seemed completely unaware of it when the picture was taken. She was standing in a changing room in nothing but her underwear—perhaps after gym class. It was as if someone had secretly snapped the shot.\n\nThe third photo was even more disturbing. In it, Zoe was captured in a pose that... seemed inappropriate. She was wearing her normal school clothes, but the angle of the shot had clearly been deliberately chosen to allow a view up her skirt, exposing the lower half of her bare buttocks. She was obviously wearing no underwear. Chris swallowed hard.\n\nThe next photo showed a naked Zoe from behind, writing with chalk on a blackboard.\n\nIn the final photo, the girl stood facing forward, her hands clasped behind her head and her legs spread shoulder-width apart. Her pubic area was completely shaved smooth.\n\nThe hum of the photocopier suddenly seemed louder, sharper—like an accusation. What had happened here? Why did the teacher have pictures like these of one of his students? Chris felt dirty, simply for having seen the photos.\n\nHe put the photos back with trembling hands, as neatly as if order and guilt could do anything with each other. He pulled the elastic band back over the notebook, wiped his palms even though there was nothing on them. His heart locked into a rhythm he couldn’t calm.\n\nWas Zoe involved in some kind of abuse case? Did she have something going on with the teacher? He knew he couldn’t tell anyone anything too hastily. The matter had to be handled with the utmost caution. But one thing was clear: this was more than a harmless discovery.\n\n“Okay. Copies,” he said into the room, as if he weren’t alone. He stacked the finished sheets, tapped them into alignment, placed the notebook underneath them like something he would rather not have seen. Then he carried everything back to the classroom.\n\nMr. Robertson sat at his desk, typing something into his laptop. Chris set the copies down, the notebook beside them. “Here, sir.” His voice sounded almost normal.\n\n“Thank you, Chris.” Mr. Robertson looked up briefly, smiled that routine teacher smile that was always a little too friendly.\n\nChris nodded, turned around, and went to his seat. Beside him, Zoe let her pen wander along the edge of a notebook, little squares becoming a pattern. She seemed the same as always. Chris sat down, and for a moment he had the feeling that the air between them was denser. The photos were back somewhere inside the black cover, as if nothing had happened—and yet everything was different.\n\nHe stared at the edge of his notebook, at the line he was drawing with his fingernail, and forced himself to breathe. Later, he told himself. Later, for now. His hands lay still on the table. Inside, it kept rumbling.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $schuhe == 1>>[[Mishap at the water fountain.|Missgeschick am Wasserspender.]]<<else>>[[Mishap at the water fountain.|Missgeschick am Wasserspender.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

During break, [[Adam|Adam Bowman]] appeared beside Chris as if he had conjured him out of nowhere. “After school today—dinner with my parents,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Okay?”\n<<set $ort to "">>\nChris’s stomach tightened. A deal was a deal. “Okay,” he said, forcing a neutral smile. He held on to the agreement like to a railing.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Adam_roller.jpg]]</center> After the last class, they rolled through town on Adam’s tiny scooter. Chris sat in the back, knees close together, clinging to Adam’s back as much as he hated it. The wind smelled of exhaust and wet cardboard; it tugged at his skirt, and every pothole rattled his teeth.\n\nThey parked in front of a McDonald’s. Chris blinked. “We’re eating here with your parents?”\n\n“They like it uncomplicated,” Adam muttered without looking at him. Inside, he sat Chris down at a table, hurried to the counter, and came back with a tray full of fries and burgers. “Help yourself.”\n\n“I’ll just have something to drink,” Chris said, sliding the end of the straw between his fingers. “When are your parents coming?”\n\n“Soon,” Adam said, wiping ketchup across a napkin. “Traffic and stuff.”\n\nThe minutes stretched like chewing gum. Chris checked the door, took small sips. Adam talked at him about D&D builds, about a new mini he wanted to paint. Every question about his parents he parried with a new loop of excuses.\n\nThen a group of teenagers pushed through the door—caps, hoodies, loud laughter, Adam waving exaggeratedly. “Guys! Here!” He half jumped up. “This is Chris,” he said, his voice a shade too loud, “my girlfriend.”\n\nChris felt the looks like little shoves. Adam put an arm around his shoulders; his grip was clammy with excitement. Chris stayed calm, allowed it, put on the practiced, harmless smile. A hug for the gallery. Inside, something tightened.\n\n“Damn,” one of them said. “THAT’s your girlfriend?” Another whistled softly, as if someone had shown him the finale of a magic trick. “We thought you were making it up.”\n\nAdam beamed, his chest broad with pride. “Told you.”\n\nChris heard the words as if they came through cotton. A small part of him felt strangely flattered—someone was showing him off, presenting him like something special. Then he remembered the role, the thread it hung from. He wasn’t a girl. He was playing one. This kind of attention burned on his skin like too much sun.\n\nThe door remained empty of parents. The second hand above the counter went around once, then again. Chris understood. No parents were coming. Adam had brought him here to show what he “had.”\n\nHe slipped a little out of Adam’s arm, just enough for it to remain polite. “Nice to meet you,” he said calmly. The soda suddenly tasted too sweet. He set the cup down and looked at his hands, which were pretending they belonged here. In his head, the realization clicked into place like a sound too loud: he didn’t want this kind of stage. Especially not for boys who looked at him like a trophy.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte > 1>>\n[[In bed in the evening.|In bed in the evening.4]]\n\n<<else>>[[Evening talks with Mom.|Abendliche Gespräche mit Mom.2]]\n<<endif>><</nobr>>

"Our date isn't over yet, sweetie," his mother said, seeming to enjoy the words. “A date like this usually ends in the bedroom.”\n<<set $ort to "Schlafzimmer">>\nChris felt himself getting hot. He should have said something - something to snap him out of that rut. But his voice caught in his throat, and his feet obeyed before his head followed. His mother took his wrist, hard enough to be definitive but not painful, and led him down the hallway.\n\nSusan's bedroom was warmer than the rest of the house. The candle in the living room no longer flickered; here it was just the dim light of a small lamp that softened the edges. Chris stood there as ordered and unclaimed, in the black dress that suddenly felt like a shield - one that was far too thin.\n\nHis mother came up behind him and unhurriedly untied the material on his shoulder, as if it were the most natural part of her “program.” Chris’s breathing came out raggedly. As the dress slid down his arms, only his underwear remained on him - bra and panties - but that didn't make it any easier. It was as if he was now “visible” in a way he couldn’t control.\n\n“Look at you,” Susan said quietly, and this time her voice was no longer so exaggeratedly deep. She let her eyes wander over him, slowly, searchingly - and then softly, for a tiny moment. “You… look sexy.”\n\nChris’s face immediately burned. He hunched his shoulders as if he could make himself smaller. “Please, Mom, don’t,” he murmured, more desire than resistance.\n\nSusan smiled, a small, dangerous smile, and stroked his face. “That’s what you hear on a date,” she said.\n\nChris swallowed.\n\nSusan had him sit on the edge of the bed. She continued to praise him – his pretty legs, his posture, how “elegant” he seemed when he was still. Every compliment was like a sting and something warm at the same time to Chris, and both made him angry with himself. He hoped that she would stop before there was some point where he didn't know how to get out of this situation anymore.\n\nAnd then Susan did something he hadn't expected: she stepped back, took her time, as if this was all really just a game - and left the room.\n\nChris sat there in just his bra and panties, his hands gripping the fabric of the bed sheet. He breathed, subconsciously counting his breaths as if he could control his shame. Over. It's over, he thought, and the thought was both relief and disappointment, which immediately made him even more ashamed.\n\nThe door opened again.\n\nSusan came back wearing only a dressing gown, tied loosely. Her look was again that mix of dominance and something Chris couldn't name. She closed the door quietly behind her, as if making a promise, and stood there for a moment. Chris's heart was pounding like crazy.\n\n[[Continue|Sie öffnet den Morgenmantel.]]

After the Christmas break, Maplewood felt both familiar and strange to Chris. The jet lag was still in his bones, and in his mind Germany lingered like a short, bright film: different streets, different voices, the feeling of not being constantly set to “avoid standing out” for a few days. Now it was January again, school again, everyday life again.\n\nOne afternoon, Chris and Ruby were sitting at his desk at home. Notebooks, flashcards, and a stack of printed-out assignments lay on the bed. Ruby had immediately found her mode again: highlighters, timer, little lists. Chris tried to keep up, copied down formulas, answered questions, corrected himself. It was going better than before the break, but not well enough for him to feel safe.\n\nSusan’s footsteps could be heard from the hallway. She paused briefly in the doorway without knocking, as always.\n\n“Chris, that strand there,” she said, stepping closer. Without asking, she brushed a section of his hair back, checked the position of the clip, and smoothed the collar of his blouse as if he were a doll that had to be made “presentable” before guests arrived. Then her gaze fell on the flashcards. “Good. At least that.”\n\nChris nodded quickly. “We’re studying.”\n\nSusan smiled, but it was that controlled smile. “And sit up straighter. Otherwise you’ll get that rounded back.” Her hand pressed briefly against his shoulder, correcting him like a project that wasn’t finished yet. Then she left, as if everything had been settled.\n\nFor a moment, it stayed quiet. Ruby hadn’t said anything, but Chris felt her gaze—not curious, more attentive. She made a note in her notebook, as if she had to keep herself busy so she wouldn’t stare.\n\nAfter a few minutes, when they were stuck on a problem, Ruby set her pen aside. Her voice was calm, not dramatic. “Is everything okay at home?”\n\nChris’ heart gave a small jump. He swallowed, forced a smile. “Yeah. I mean… just normal. My mom is sometimes…” He shrugged, as if that were the whole explanation. “You know.”\n\nRuby nodded slowly. She didn’t leave the question hanging like a hook. She accepted the evasion without rewarding or punishing it. Then she simply said, as if placing a sentence in the air that could be found again later: “Okay. If you ever want to talk: I’m here.”\n\nChris nodded again, this time more genuinely. He looked back down at his flashcards and realized his chest felt a little lighter—not because the problem was gone, but because someone had seen it without forcing him to explain it right away.\n\n[[Continue|Christines Geburtstag.]]

Lucas sat down cautiously beside Chris and then kept glancing over at him—as if he wanted to say something but didn’t dare. Chris deliberately let his gaze slide past him. Boys are stupid, he thought defiantly. I don’t want anything to do with them.\n\nHe turned to Ruby. “How’s it… going? School, theater?”\n“Pretty okay,” she said, took a bite, and brushed crumbs away with her thumb. “Ms. Green is planning a cold reading. And we want to try blocking for the market scene.”\n“Sounds stressful.”\n“It’s fun.” A small smile flitted across her face. “What do you do after school?”\n\nChris shrugged. “Not much yet. Settling in.” He searched for a counterattack. “And you… besides theater?”\n“Riding,” Ruby said immediately, and her eyes lit up. “I love horses. The smell in the stable, the calm when you work with them… I’m at a small riding stable on the edge of town.” She went on raving softly—about a stallion named Stardust, about autumn rides, about the first jump that had felt as if the world briefly floated.\n\n“Sounds… nice,” Chris said, trying to sound convincing. Horses didn’t really interest him at all, but the sparkle in Ruby’s eyes was contagious. And somehow he thought she was cute—the red hair, the two braids, the serious little nod when she really meant something.\n\n“You can come with me sometime, if you want,” Ruby suggested. “After school. You don’t have to ride, just… watch.”\nChris laughed softly. “Deal. I’ll come with you.”\n“Cool.” She tapped her temple, as if she had saved the appointment.\n\nAt the edge of his vision, he saw Lucas drinking his juice and staying quiet. Chris didn’t turn to him. Instead, he talked with Ruby about plays she liked and scenes he was afraid of. Outside, the sun glittered on car roofs; inside, trays clattered. When the bell rang, Ruby stood up. “See you later.”\n“See you later,” Chris said, and realized that Monday, against all expectations, felt a little lighter.\n<<set $ruby_opinion to 63>>\n[[Continue|Theaterprobe.]]

Chris was still staring at the topless photo of Mrs. Barnett when his phone vibrated again. This time it was Lucas.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s bedroom">>\nBy now, they wrote to each other pretty often after school—short updates, little jokes, sometimes just a “Did you get home okay?” Lucas wasn’t a loud type, but his messages carried that careful warmth that revealed how deeply in love he was.\n\nAnd two hearts beat inside Chris as it happened. One reminded him that he was really only playing “the girlfriend” for Lucas—a necessary part of his plan to stay close to Mrs. Barnett. The other enjoyed this fake relationship a little more every day, as if it had long since become more than just a trick.\n\nLucas wrote: <blockquote class="quote">Hey… I hope your day was okay.</blockquote>\nChris’s gaze drifted briefly back to Mrs. Barnett’s photo, then he typed:\n\n<blockquote class="quote">It was exhausting, but okay. What about yours?</blockquote> Lucas answered almost immediately, as if he had already been waiting for the three dots. <blockquote class="quote">Better after I saw you at school. 😅</blockquote> Chris’s cheeks grew warm, though no one could see him. He wrote back to steer the subject toward something safer—and because he had wanted to say it anyway. <blockquote class="quote">I went dress shopping for the dance with my mom this weekend.</blockquote> Lucas: <blockquote class="quote">Oh! Okay… just so I plan it right: Homecoming. Do you want me to pick you up, or should we meet there?</blockquote> Chris hesitated for a split second. Being picked up sounded… real. Like a couple. Like opening doors and photos and that moment on the porch you remember later. He typed anyway: <blockquote class="quote">Being picked up would be nice. If you want.</blockquote> Lucas’s reply didn’t come right away. Then: <blockquote class="quote">Okay. I was thinking 6:30? And… uh… what color are you wearing? Then I can get something that matches.</blockquote> Chris smiled at his phone. <blockquote class="quote">Midnight blue.</blockquote> A brief moment of silence followed, then: <blockquote class="quote">Midnight blue is… wow. It suits you.</blockquote> Chris felt how it caught him off guard. He wrote: <blockquote class="quote">You’re really thoughtful. And reliable. That’s… nice.</blockquote> Lucas reacted as if he were trying to stay cool and not burst at the same time. <blockquote class="quote">I’m just trying not to screw it up. 😄</blockquote> Chris’s thumb hovered briefly, then he typed: <blockquote class="quote">You’re not screwing anything up.</blockquote> The conversation drifted on until Lucas changed the subject—cautiously, almost casually, but Chris noticed the small resistance underneath. <blockquote class="quote">And… today in theater… you were totally in the spotlight. It was really good… uh… technically.</blockquote> The corner of Chris’s mouth twitched. Technically, sure. As if that hadn’t been emotion. <blockquote class="quote">Technically? Are you jealous?</blockquote> For a few seconds, there were only the three typing dots. Then: <blockquote class="quote">No. Well… maybe a little. I just didn’t like the way that guy spun you around like that.</blockquote> Chris’s heart made a small, satisfied jump. He didn’t even notice how much he liked this flirting—how easy it became, how natural, as if he were finding his way back into a language he had never learned. <blockquote class="quote">That’s kind of sweet of you. But you don’t have to be jealous.</blockquote> Lucas: <blockquote class="quote">I don’t have to be. Sometimes I just am.</blockquote> Chris giggled softly, put the phone down for a moment, picked it up again, and kept writing. They wrote each other late into the evening—between homework, TV, short pauses in which Lucas started typing “Good night?” and then found one more question after all.\n\n[[Continue|Am Abend in der Badewanne.]]

In the evening, Chris lay in his bed, the blanket pulled up to his chest, the room dark except for the gentle glow of a small lamp. His thoughts circled around Charlotte again and again. She hadn’t broken up with him—but she wasn’t there anymore either, not really. Always “time,” always “for now.”\n\nHe forced himself to think of the good moments, because otherwise it only hurt. How it had felt when he had been in the hot tub at her place—the warm air, the water that muffled the noise of the world, Charlotte’s laughter sounding close, as if it had existed only for him. The first kiss. His first kiss with a girl ever. He remembered how his heart had beaten too fast back then, and how at the same time something inside him had calmed, as if he had finally arrived somewhere he hadn’t known existed.\n\nAnd then the other image, the one that still made his cheeks grow uncomfortably hot: Mr. Walters, coming home. That one look—surprised, friendly, a little helpless, as if for a moment he hadn’t known whether to apologize or laugh. Chris without a top in the hot tub had felt like a teenager caught in a movie, had dashed past him into the house with a bright-red face, so fast that he had almost tripped over his own feet. When he thought of it, he felt that embarrassing burn again—and at the same time something strange: that Mr. Walters’s look hadn’t been mean. More… curious.\n\nAt some point, the movie in his head grew quieter. The images blurred, the sounds of the house softened. Chris’s eyes fell shut, and sleep pulled him away, as if someone were laying a blanket over his thoughts.\n\nIn the dream, he was back in Germany.\n\nThe living room was smaller than he had remembered, but it smelled exactly the way it used to: of carpet, of warm dust from the television, and of his father’s aftershave. Some news program flickered on the screen, though no one was really watching. His father sat on the sofa, one leg bent, the remote control in his hand. Everything felt safe, familiar, as if time had never moved on.\n\nChris stepped closer and sat down beside him, as he had often done as a child when he had been tired or simply wanted to be near him without needing a reason. His father glanced over at him briefly—that familiar, calm look—and asked in the voice that immediately made Chris’s stomach sink:\n\n“Why are you wearing your sister’s nightgown?”\n\nChris looked down at himself, and only then did he realize in the dream that he really was wearing a nightgown. The fabric fell softly over his legs, too delicate for the image he had of himself in his head. It made no sense, and precisely for that reason it was still true in the dream. He was confused, opened his mouth, but found no explanation that didn’t sound childish at the same time.\n\nHis father said nothing more. He didn’t snort, he didn’t laugh. Instead, he simply took a blanket and laid it over Chris’s legs, as if that were the only right response: make him warm, don’t ask. The blanket was heavy and familiar, and Chris felt his body immediately give in. He leaned against his father, shoulder to shoulder, and the old feeling of safety returned, as if someone had unlocked a door that had been closed for a long time.\n\nThey watched TV. It didn’t matter what was on. All that mattered was that someone was sitting beside him who demanded nothing.\n\nThen his father put his arm around Chris’s shoulder. Calmly. Firm enough to be there. Chris knew that gesture from childhood—a silent “it’s all right” when he had been afraid or hadn’t been able to sleep. The hand stayed there, and Chris’s breathing grew more even.\n\nHe turned a little, to make himself more comfortable.\n\nAnd as he did, he noticed, without immediately understanding it, that the arm was different. Not wrong—just not exactly the way his mind had stored it. Even so, it still felt safe. It was as if the comfort remained, even when the detail changed.\n\nThe fingers brushed once over his skin, comforting, almost absentminded. Right then, something tilted—only by a millimeter, but noticeably. Chris’s heart made a stupid jump. Not from fear. More from a new, warm pull that was no longer clearly a “Dad feeling.” Suddenly he wanted that hand to stay. For it perhaps to move a little closer to his breasts. And for the moment not to end.\n\nChris lifted his head.\n\nSitting beside him was no longer his father.\n\n[[Continue|Der Traum geht weiter]]

The bus rumbled down the road, and with every bump the heads bobbed in rhythm. Chris sat by the window, his bag on his lap, one knee pressed lightly against the other. Outside, Maplewood passed by: front yards, driveways, the same mailboxes as always, as if the world were set to “repeat.” In the glass beside his head, his face was reflected dark and soft, because the sunlight was already lower.\n<<set $ort to "school bus">>\nHe looked at himself without meaning to. The reflection wasn’t sharp, more like a memory—but clear enough. His hair fell neatly, the eyeliner was in place, the gloss shone only a little. He noticed his gaze lingering. For a moment he thought, very simply: Wow. Pretty. Not “okay” or “good enough,” but really pretty. So much so that it grew warm in his chest, as if someone had briefly switched on the light inside him.\n\nThen the second thought came like a cold draft creeping under his skirt: Who is this person? The face in the window looked as if it knew where it belonged. As if it had always been playing this role. Chris stared for a few more seconds, until the reflection mixed with what was passing outside—his profile overlaid with trees, guideposts, the bright stripe of an intersection. He blinked, as if he could wipe the image away, but it remained.\n\nThe warmth and the discomfort stood side by side, unable to get along. He wanted to be happy that he looked good—because it meant he was “pulling it off,” that he didn’t stand out, that he was safe. And yet it felt as if he were watching some strange girl living a life that was somehow his life. Chris lowered his gaze to his hands, stroked the bag strap as if he could anchor himself with it. When he looked back into the window, the reflection was briefly blurred—nothing but a shadow between the lights outside. For that moment, it was almost a relief.\n\n[[Continue|Ein Paket am Nachtmittag.]]

“And lastly, and this is the decisive point: How well do you pass as a girl?” Susan’s tone tipped into coldness, the syllables becoming sharp. “Unreliably. Sometimes… yes. Too often: no. It’s the little things: your stride, your gaze, the shoulders you suddenly carry instead of setting them. Your body doesn’t betray you—your hesitation betrays you. You stand as if you’re apologizing; you speak as if you’re about to take it back. You’re sending out little wrong signals the whole time. If you keep going like this, your classmates will only need two, three weeks, and they’ll suspect it. Then your secret won’t be a secret anymore, but a schoolyard topic.”\n\nShe leaned forward. “And do you know what happens then? They don’t laugh with you. They laugh at you. They turn you into a joke. You become a laughingstock. And that, Chris, is not ‘their cruelty.’ That is your carelessness. You open the door a crack—and then wonder when someone looks inside.”\n\nThe silence afterward was heavy. Chris heard his own blood, a thin siren. The images leaped at him on their own: looks that lasted too long; a whisper in the row behind him; a giggle that started by chance and stuck to him. He felt shame and defiance screw into each other—I’m trying, he wanted to say, I can’t do more than…—and at the same time the panic that came from Susan’s final turn: the word laughingstock like a cold stamp.\n\nSusan was silent for a beat, letting the sentences settle. Chris sat there, hands folded, heart audible in his ears, and realized that he was waiting for the next word like a verdict—even though she hadn’t spoken one yet.\n\n''What is Susan’s verdict?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $kondomedieb == 0>><<if $temp <= 2>>[[Negative|Negativ4]]<<else>>[[Positive|Positiv4]]<<endif>>\n\n<<else>>\n\n<<if $temp <= 2>>[[Very Negative|Negativ4b]]<<endif>>\n<<if $temp > 2 && $temp <= 4>>[[Positive, but...|Positiv4b]]<<endif>>\n<<if $temp > 4>>[[Positive, but...|Positiv4c]]<<endif>>\n\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Chris pushed Lucas’s hand away as if he had burned himself and shot up. “I… need to go to the bathroom for a second,” he whispered, without holding his gaze. He stumbled along the aisle, felt for the door in the half-dark, and disappeared through the next one that opened.\n\nHe went to the bathroom. In the stall, he breathed in bursts, hands on his knees, as if he had to sort his thoughts like spilled candy. Role, closeness, boundary—stay calm. He flushed, stepped out, and froze. A man at the sink looked up, frowning questioningly, a fraction of a second too long. He turned on the faucet, dutifully washed his hands, nodded awkwardly, and only when he closed the restroom door behind him did the realization hit him: he had ended up in the men’s restroom. Chris felt the blood shoot into his face.\n\nEmbarrassment burned like a fever. He smoothed down his skirt, as if that could erase the scene, and returned to the theater. Lucas straightened up, searching his face, raising his eyebrows in question. Chris sat down, threw him a small, reassuring smile—more facade than feeling—and looked back at the screen. When Lucas later carefully moved closer twice, Chris inserted a fleeting “later” tilt of his head between them, a hand on Lucas’s hand that stopped more than it held. The movie became a backdrop for a tense, polite distance.\n\nAfter the credits, they left the cinema in silence, through the sticky foyer, to the bus. Outside, the air was cool; Lucas took his hand, and Chris let it happen. The pressure was warm, not demanding. He felt both comforted and watched from within. Lucas took Chris home.\n\nIn front of the front door, Lucas stopped, a tiny arc of expectation in his posture. A goodbye kiss from his boyfriend. Chris swallowed. Then he leaned forward, kissed him briefly—a narrow, cautious contact that brushed half Lucas’s lips, half his cheek. It was more gesture than promise.\n\n“See you tomorrow,” he said softly, twisting the key from his pocket and slipping through the crack in the door. Inside, he leaned against the wall for a moment, felt the pounding in his chest fade, and breathed until the hallway was completely still again.\n\n[[Continue|Albtraum.]]

Susan was already standing in the hallway, as if she had only been waiting for the sound of the front door. “Ava needs you as a babysitter again today,” she said, as if it were a matter of course. “You’re going over there right away.”\n<<set $ferguson to 2>>\nChris’s stomach sank. “Today? I—”\n\n“No discussion.” Susan smiled a little too kindly as she said it. “Ava is counting on you.”\n\nA little later, Chris was sitting on the bus, his bag on his knees, his head full of math formulas and the dull feeling that he was being pushed into something again. The bus was late, of course. Not dramatically, but enough that when he got off, he already felt the Ferguson mother’s gaze through the door before he had even rung the bell.\n\n[[Ava|Ava Ferguson]] opened the door with the baby in her arms, polished and stressed at the same time. “Finally,” she said, without a “hello.” “The bus, right?” Her tone made it clear that apologies here would only sound like excuses.\n\nChris nodded. “It was delayed.”\n\n“Yeah, yeah.” Ava practically pushed him into the house. “We’re running late.” Leo appeared in the hallway, barefoot. The baby immediately began to fuss, first quietly, then with real protest.\n\nAva hastily pressed a bag with bottles, diapers, and something in plastic into Chris’s hand. “Everything’s in there. He usually falls asleep soon. And Leo—” She shot her son a look. “Behave.”\n\n“I will,” Leo said at once.\n\nThen Ava and her husband were already gone again, doors clicking, footsteps, and Chris stood in the middle of the living room with a crying baby in his arms and an eleven-year-old looking at him like a riddle.\n\nThe baby squirmed, its little hands clenched, its face turning red. Chris tried rocking, tried “shhh,” tried soft steps. Nothing. The crying only became more determined.\n\n''What does Chris do?''\n❯ [[He puts the baby to his chest.|Er legt das Baby an seine Brust.]]\n❯ [[He sings the baby a lullaby.|Er singt das Baby in den Schlaf.]]

The group set off, this time without jokes. The sprayed girl hurried after them, half sobbing, half cursing, and everyone automatically stepped aside as soon as the wind carried the smell over. The phone lights swayed, searching walls, doorframes, window openings. Chris stayed close to Ruby, even though every breath was unpleasant.\n\nThen they spotted it: a half-open window, high on the side of a hall, the glass long since broken. Beyond it: twilight, fresh air, a strip of freedom.\n\n“There!” one of the boys shouted.\n\nThey climbed, one after another. Hands on cold concrete, shoes on rusty edges. Outside, Ruby stood by the window, her gaze alert, her shoulders tense, as if she had been counting the whole time who was still missing. She held on to the frame with one hand; with the other, she reached for the next person and pulled him out, quickly, efficiently.\n\nWhen it was Chris’s turn, he became aware again of how unsuitable his dress was for something like this. The concrete edge looked as if it could tear fabric. He had to hold the hem of the skirt so it wouldn’t catch, and the gravel outside suddenly seemed much farther away than it should.\n\nRuby saw it immediately.\n\n“Give me your hand,” she said, without arguing.\n\nChris first pushed his upper body through the opening, then got stuck—not really trapped, more that nasty feeling that something was about to tear somewhere or that he was going to make a fool of himself. He held the hem up, his fingers already cramped.\n\nRuby leaned closer. “Don’t pull on the fabric,” she murmured, almost directly into his ear. Her voice was calm, but close enough that Chris briefly forgot to breathe.\n\nThen Ruby grabbed hold. Not clumsily, not hesitantly—she placed one hand on Chris’s butt, exactly where she could really steady him, and the other on his leg. Her grip was firm and sure. Chris felt the warmth of her hand on his skin, felt that Ruby wasn’t simply touching him, but truly holding him.\n\n“Come on,” Ruby said again, more softly. “I’ve got you.”\n\nShe lifted him. Chris’s body obeyed reflexively, drawing his knees up, trying at the same time to protect the hem of the skirt and not bump against the frame. In doing so, he inevitably came closer to Ruby.\n\nHe forced himself not to squirm. Not because Ruby was unsure—quite the opposite. But because his body suddenly registered far too strongly how intimate Ruby’s grip was. How naturally she grabbed him by the butt, how her fingers briefly adjusted when Chris slipped. A tiny tug, a firm follow-through—and Chris was outside.\n\nHe stumbled into the gravel, caught himself, and took a deep breath. So deep it almost hurt.\n\nThe fresh air helped immediately, but the stench still clung to the group like a curse. The sprayed girl came out last, and everyone instinctively made room as she landed. She stood there, stunned, and the smell was so intense that someone gagged.\n\n“Okay,” one of them said, hoarse with laughter and fear at the same time. “That… was it.”\n\n“The curse struck again,” another girl murmured, and this time it didn’t sound only like a line. “We were too arrogant.”\n\nChris wiped his cheeks as if he could brush off the adrenaline, and looked back at the dark hall, at the half-open window like an eye in the concrete. His heart was still pounding.\n\nRuby stood beside him. Arms crossed, phone light off, as if it was unnecessary now. But her posture didn’t look casual—more like she was holding herself together. As if she had only just realized how close that had been.\n\nChris’s gaze lingered on Ruby’s hands. On the spot where she had just grabbed him. And that was the problem: it didn’t feel like “just helping.” It felt like an imprint you couldn’t see but still felt.\n\nRuby glanced over at him. Her eyes met his, just for a moment. An unspoken Everything okay? lay in them.\n\nChris nodded too quickly, as if that were an answer to everything.\n\nAnd in Chris’s head, this thought remained, heavy and sticky as syrup: You could laugh at rules until the darkness made them serious.\n\n[[Continue|Bewertungstag.]]

That night, Chris lay awake, even though the house had long since fallen silent. The light was off; only the dull glow from the street traced faint stripes across the ceiling. He heard his own breathing, heard the soft creak of wood somewhere in the hallway, and yet it felt as if everything inside him was much louder than anything outside.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">>\nHe thought about Charlotte. About her face when she had pushed him away. About the “I’m sorry” that had sounded honest—and still like a cut. Chris knew that she loved him in her own way. And he knew that he loved her, truly. Not as an idea, not as comfort, but as a person he missed the moment she wasn’t there.\n\nAnd yet something stood between them that he couldn’t simply breathe away. Not his voice, not his clothes, not the role he played during the day. But that one male part of his body that was still left after all the hormones—like one last piece of proof he couldn’t erase. In his head, it became an absurd, cruel focal point: If that weren’t there, everything would be easier. If that weren’t there, she could stay.\n\nHe rolled onto his side, pulled the blanket higher, as if he could cover up his thoughts with it too. He went through possibilities like checklists. Give her more time. Go slowly. Respect distance. Talk to her. Don’t push. He knew all that—and still it felt helpless, because it changed nothing about the core of it. Charlotte’s revulsion wasn’t a “maybe later,” but something in her that switched on and off reflexively.\n\nChris felt heartbreak, physically real, like pressure behind his ribs. He wondered how he could convince her to look past the fact that he was a boy—but the longer he searched, the emptier it became. You couldn’t persuade someone not to be disgusted. You could only hope that something inside her shifted. And hope was a bad plan when you didn’t want to lose someone.\n\nFor a moment, he wished so badly to be a real girl that it frightened him. Not only “for Charlotte,” not only as a trick, but as a wish for peace: no more explanations, no fear, no boundaries you constantly crossed by accident. Just… fitting.\n\nThen a thought came to him, quiet at first, then too clear to push away: He could become a real girl. Not just dress and make-up, not just hormones. There were surgeries. Things doctors did. Permanent things.\n\nHe stared into the darkness and realized his heart was beating faster—not with anticipation, but because of the sheer size of the idea. It felt absurd and dangerously real at the same time. And it was there, as if someone had opened a door in his head that until now he had pretended didn’t exist.\n\n''How does Chris react to this thought?''\n❯ [[He allows the thought in and begins to seriously think about it, even though its permanence scares him.|Chris denkt weiter darüber nach.]]\n❯ [[He hastily pushes the thought away because it still feels too big and too frightening.|Chris verwirft diesen absurden Gedanken.]]

Chris’s mouth opened, then closed again. He felt Zoe’s words still echoing in his head—Dylan, expectations, the feeling of being replaceable. Everything in him wanted to say “no,” but his courage got stuck somewhere between shame and fear.\n\n“Okay,” he finally heard himself say. It didn’t sound like conviction, more like surrender.\n\nZoe blinked for a moment, then that satisfied, too-quick grin spread across her face, as if she had just won a game. “Knew it,” she muttered, rummaging in her bag. She tore a small slip of paper from a notepad, scribbled a number on it, and pressed it into Chris’s hand. Her fingers were cold, her touch brief.\n\n“Here,” she said. “Save it. Text me where and when.”\n\nChris stared at the digits as if they were a trap made of ink. “I… I don’t know if this is a good idea,” he managed quietly, even though he had just agreed.\n\nZoe shrugged, as if “good” were a word from another universe. “Too late for second thoughts. You wanted a solution. This is one.”\n\nChris nodded mechanically and tucked the slip into his bag, so deep it was as if he could hide it from himself there. His stomach felt tight. He didn’t feel good about this at all. The more seconds passed, the clearer it became to him how wrong all of this was—and how easily he had let himself be pushed.\n\nWhen Zoe walked away, Chris remained standing there for a moment, his hands on his bag, his breath too shallow. What have I let myself be talked into? he thought. And although no one was holding him in place, it felt as if he had just taken a step he could no longer undo.\n\n[[Continue|Samstag, Tag des Schulballs.]]

“I… sorry,” he murmured hastily, without really knowing who he was apologizing to—Nate, Zoe, himself. Then he stood up, snatched his bra and blouse from the floor, and slipped toward the hallway as if speed could make him invisible.\n\nIn the bathroom, he closed the door behind him, briefly leaned his forehead against it, and took one deep breath in—one out. His heart was still beating too fast. He turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. The cold helped, but only on the surface. In the mirror, he saw the flushed cheeks, the slightly smudged edges of his expression, as if he had briefly let himself slip out of his own hands.\n\nHow could you let yourself go like that? he thought, and it wasn’t even only shame in front of the others. It was the realization that he had liked the kiss. That he had felt comfortable in it, for a few seconds—and that exactly that frightened him. He pressed his hands against the edge of the sink until his knuckles grew lighter, and forced himself to breathe more calmly.\n\nSome time later, the door opened. Zoe came in stark naked, turned on the faucet, washed herself, and briefly looked at herself in the mirror as she did. She seemed exhausted and at the same time somehow… satisfied, as if the evening had gone exactly the way she had planned it. She said nothing about the living room, but her grin was wide enough to tell, without words, that she had enjoyed herself.\n\nChris’s stomach tightened. Everything about this evening suddenly felt too loud, too fast, too close to boundaries.\n\n“You ran off pretty early,” Zoe said, looking at him in the mirror, her voice like a pinprick that was deliberately not meant to hurt.\n\n“It’s just… embarrassing,” Chris managed. “I just want to go home.”\n\nZoe raised an eyebrow, as if “embarrassing” were a luxury problem. “Mhm.” Then she tilted her head. “At least you weren’t bored. Nate thought you were cute, in case you didn’t notice.”\n\nChris felt the blush rising again. “Please stop.”\n\nZoe dried herself off and remained standing for another moment, as if considering whether to keep needling him or really leave. “As you wish,” she finally said, surprisingly neutral.\n\nChris nodded at once, grateful. He watched her as she went back out, and remained standing alone in front of the mirror.\n\nHe felt empty and overfull at the same time. As if he had briefly lost himself and was now frantically searching for the right version of himself. He just wanted to get out of this house, out of this mood, back to his room—somewhere candlelight was quiet and no one wanted anything from him.\n\n[[Continue|Mittwoch, Schummeln für den Mathetest.]]

The decision fell like a reflex: away from the music, away from the looks. Chris pressed the door handle down and stepped outside onto the veranda.\n<<set $ort to "veranda">>\nThe air outside was fresh and clearer than inside. The sounds of the party were muffled by the closed window, the bass only a dull hum now. A few boys leaned against the railing and smoked, orange points of embers in the dark. As Chris stepped out, he immediately felt the cold on his still slightly damp thighs. The punch streaks had been dabbed away, but the skin felt sticky and naked.\n\nOne of the boys, genuinely handsome, with striking cheekbones, looked over at him. His gaze slid up Chris, lingered briefly, and he smiled—not mockingly, but clearly flirtatiously.\n\nChris’s heart gave a small jump, unsure whether from fright or validation.\n\nThen the boy noticed Lucas beside him. The smile fizzled out. He turned back to his friends, took a drag on his cigarette, as if nothing had happened.\n\nChris felt something inside him tighten, without knowing exactly why.\n\nThe coolness still felt good. He leaned against the wall of the house, wrapped his arms around himself, the miniskirt slipping dangerously, the wind brushing over the strip of bare skin between top and waistband. Goosebumps.\n\nLucas stood beside him, one step too close, then half a step back again, as if afraid of crowding him. “Pretty packed in there,” he said, too normal, trying too hard to sound casual.\n\n“Yeah,” said Chris.\n\nA small pause. The smell of smoke drifted over, mixing with the lingering perfume from the house.\n\nLucas tried again. “So… do you have plans yet? Like… after school? College, or…?”\n\nChris looked at him from the side. “I don’t know,” he said at first, then corrected himself, half honest, half role: “Maybe something with languages. Or theater. Or… getting out of here.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Things are complicated with my parents right now.”\n\n“Yeah. Sounds like it,” Lucas said quietly. “My mom’s actually cool, but my dad is so…” He made an indefinable hand gesture. “He thinks theater is a waste of time. Only things that make money are useful. Lawyer, doctor, accountant.” A crooked grin. “Ironically, I can’t even do math properly.”\n\nChris snorted briefly. “Classic.”\n\nThey slipped into a conversation that felt different from the loud laughter inside. About the future, a little college talk, the wish for a place where no one commented on every step. About parents who had expectations that didn’t fit. About dreams that weren’t quite finished yet.\n\nChris didn’t say everything out loud, but more than usual. He vaguely talked about “Germany” and “a fresh start” and “Mom’s plans,” without giving details. Lucas listened, nodded, asked follow-up questions that didn’t pry, but signaled interest. It was easier to talk to him than expected. Maybe because it was clear that he posed no danger. Lucas wasn’t one of those who pushed or tested boundaries. He was soft around the edges.\n\nEvery now and then Chris looked at his hands, at the miniskirt, at the heels, and wondered that, dressed like this of all ways, he felt a little… safer. Not from the world, but beside Lucas. A delicate spark of affection flickered up—not a dramatic blow, more that quiet feeling: with you, one can simply be. Even when everything is wrong.\n\nA gust of wind swept over his legs, sharper this time. He flinched.\n\nLucas noticed immediately. “You’re cold,” he said. Not reproachfully, just stating it. Inside, the colorful light glowed through the panes, the bass beckoned.\n\n“It’s fine,” Chris lied, while the goosebumps stood out visibly on his pretty legs.\n\nLucas looked toward the door, then back at him. “Do you want to go back in?” he asked carefully. “Maybe… dance? Or at least somewhere there isn’t a draft.”\n\n[[Continue|Zurück ins Wohnzimmer.2]]

Chris tensed like a string. Before Susan’s lips could even reach his cheek, he tore himself out of the embrace and reflexively shoved her away. “Don’t touch me,” he heard himself say—and then, sharper, venomous, a word already regretted in the air: “you slut.”\n\nThe kitchen froze. Latoya blinked, DeShawn set his cup down, the sound far too loud in the silent room. Susan stood there as if someone had cut the ground out from under her—not crying, not shouting, just stunned, with a look that hit home.\n\nChris stepped back. “I…” He found no sentence that wouldn’t make everything worse, turned around, and ran down the hallway, his hand reaching the door too late, though it still fell shut. In his room, he leaned his forehead against the cool wood, his heart hammering, and shame shot into the back of his neck like a fever. What have you done? The thought came without a voice, only as weight. He knew something would follow this moment—and none of it would be easy.\n\nOutside in the house, it stayed unnaturally quiet. No angry steps, no call. Only the clock ticked, and somewhere the coffee machine hummed after itself. Chris sank onto the bed, pulled his knees up, stared into the rose-colored room that suddenly seemed unfamiliar. He thought of all the tiny decisions of the past week, of the looks, the laughter, the whispers—and of that one final word, “slut,” which was heavier than all of it together.\n\nA new week waited behind the door. And with it, a reckoning.\n\n[[End of Chapter 1|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 1]]

Stil +1

Two more rounds, then the coach lowered the clipboard. “That’s it for today. Stretch, shower, then get outside for some air.”\n<<set $ort to "girls’ shower">>\nUnder the shower, Chris stood with his eyes closed in the stream of water and tried to think about girls—about Charlotte, about Penelope. But the images slid away like drops on tile. Instead, Moore’s outline pushed its way back in: voice, hand at his hip, lines that suddenly became right when he said “here.” He soaped his intimate area a little too long.\n\nChris pressed his forehead against the cool wall until his breathing grew calmer. Turned the shower extra cold, wanted to forget him. Still, something throbbed.\n\nHe wrapped himself in a large towel and stepped out of the wet area into the empty changing room. Right then, the door opened. Mr. Moore stepped in and stopped by the bench. His gaze rested on Chris. “Good work today,” he said, as if there were nothing more to the sentence. “Next week, same time. Drink enough. And—” a curt nod, “you can do more than you think. Trust yourself.”\n\nChris nodded, too stiffly, pulling the towel tighter around his body. “Thank you.”\n\n“See you then.” Moore turned around and disappeared again, door open, door closed.\n\nThe room was quiet again. Chris heard his heart in the silence, faster than he wanted. He sat down on the bench, felt the wood against his bare buttocks, breathed in counts: four in, six out. Outside, the gym was large and empty; inside, everything was tight and strangely bright. Attraction, shame, disgust, pride—four voices in one head trying to line them up. He stood up and got dressed. When he left the gym, the air outside was more golden than before. He walked slowly, as if the sun could pull the disorder from his skin, step by step.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Message from Charlotte.|Nachricht von Charlotte.2]]<<else>>[[In the evening.|Am Abend.]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

Chris didn’t reply to Laverne. He left the chat open, then closed it and kept scrolling. His thumb tapped on the college student from the neighboring town—profile picture with a library in the background, bio: “Psych major, coffee, cats.” He wrote a cautiously friendly message, deleted two phrasings again, and finally sent: “Hey, I’m new here—want to get coffee sometime?” Then he picked out two more profiles, phrased similar messages, polite, a little well-behaved. Send. Wait.\n\nNothing. No typing indicators, no little speech bubbles. The screen stayed silent.\n\nHe decided to wait. Nobody replies today anyway, he told himself. Saturday, they probably have plans. He put the phone away, picked it back up, refreshed. Once. Again. Silence.\n\nLater he lay in bed, the room half dark, only the remaining blue of the display drawing shadows on the ceiling. He stared at the three sent messages. The app remained a pond without ripples. In his head, a question bubbled up that he didn’t like: Should I have chosen men?\n\nHe turned onto his side, the satin rustling softly. What if I don’t find anyone by the end of next week? His mother had said “results” as if it were a project deadline. Something tightened in his stomach. He could picture her: the raised eyebrow, the “Then we’ll have to adjust the strategy,” which in her language meant punishments.\n\nHe opened Laverne’s profile again, just briefly, read the word “Trans,” and felt a mixed pang: surprise, respect, curiosity—and the sticky knot of his own situation. He typed “Hi—” into the chat window, stopped, deleted it, locked the phone, and placed it face down on the nightstand.\n\nThe vanilla candle from the night before still smelled faintly. He adjusted the pillow, breathed more slowly. Maybe they’ll write tomorrow, he thought, without conviction. Maybe his mother will forget the whole thing. The second maybe was even thinner.\n\nHe pulled the blanket up to his chin. For a long time, he heard only his own breathing and the heavy, charged silence of the app beside him, until sleep came—restless, but finally.\n\n[[End of Chapter 4|Zusammenfassung Kapitel 4]]

At dinner, they all sat around the table as if this were a normal Christmas arrival: plates clattered, cutlery scraped, somewhere a quiet radio program played muted holiday music. His father was visibly trying to carry the mood. He laughed quickly, refilled everyone’s drinks too often, asked Chris things that were so safe they couldn’t possibly have explosive answers.\n\n“So? Flight okay? Not too much turbulence?” he asked, as if it were the most important question in the world.\n\nChris nodded and pushed the potato salad onto his fork. Anja smiled kindly around the table, far too focused on making sure no one felt uncomfortable—which, ironically, was exactly what made everyone notice how uncomfortable she felt.\n\nHis father made dad jokes as if they were lifeboats.\n\n“What did the big crayon say to the little crayon? Cray-on growing!”\n\nThe ten-year-old squealed with delight, as if he had just won a comedy award. The fourteen-year-old only rolled her eyes the tiniest bit.\n\nChris smiled bravely. He could feel his father internally swinging between acceptance and denial: one part of him simply didn’t want to do anything wrong—and another part clung to the hope that this was just a phase his child was going through.\n\nJust as Chris was about to reach for the salt, something slipped out of his father without any bad intention, completely automatically, like a reflex from earlier years.\n\n“Can you give him—” He stopped in the middle of the word, as if he had bitten his tongue. “Can you give her the salt, please?”\n\nThe salt was right between them. Even so, it suddenly became the center of the universe.\n\nChris froze. Heat shot into his cheeks, and his gaze stayed glued to the tabletop. For a moment, everyone stared at him—the ten-year-old curiously, the fourteen-year-old like a little detective, Anja with a startled smile that came too quickly.\n\nA brief silence. So brief that it still hurt.\n\nHis father cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he said immediately, quieter than before. “That was… habit. I… I mean, of course…” He made a helpless motion with his hand, as if he could shape the right thing out of the air. “I’m sorry, Chris.”\n\nChris nodded without looking up. He simply passed the salt along, as if that were the whole matter. But inside him, something had caved in: the shame of being stared at, and the painful realization of how fragile “normality” was here.\n\n[[Continue|Pillen am Abend.]]

<h2>Epilogue: Chris and Zoe</h2> The weeks that followed had been a gauntlet for Chris.\n\nBy the second day, every hallway already felt longer than usual. There was no open confrontation, no big scene anyone could put a name to – just that constant, sticky awareness hanging in the air. Heads leaning together the moment he walked past. Phones being turned away too quickly. Giggles that cut off abruptly when he came within earshot, only to break out again two seconds later, quieter, more poisonous.\n\nSometimes his nickname came up. Sometimes nothing was said at all – just a look that said more than words. “Acting innocent,” he heard behind him once, and another time, “…totally enjoyed it, though,” and every time afterward his skin burned as if someone had touched him. It didn’t matter that he barely remembered the party. In everyone else’s minds, the video had written a story, and they kept telling it to each other until it felt like truth.\n\nHis reputation wasn’t just “scratched,” it had tipped over completely. To the boys, he was suddenly either a joke or a target. Some girls looked at him as if he were tainted – as if he had done something they secretly found exciting but had to condemn in public. Chris noticed himself changing his routes more and more often: different staircases, different places to spend breaks, longer detours, just so he wouldn’t have to pass through that one group by the lockers.\n\nIn class, he sat more quietly. He hardly raised his hand anymore, even though before he had at least tried to keep up. If a phone vibrated, he flinched. If someone laughed behind him, he automatically thought it was about him. At night he lay in bed and stared at the ceiling while his head replayed everything over and over – not the video itself, but the idea of how others saw it. How they paused, rewound, commented. How his face had become something people could possess.\n\nHe didn’t want to go to school anymore.\n\nMore than once, he stayed sitting on the edge of his bed in the morning, stomach heavy, wondering if he should simply not get up. He had fantasies of running away – not dramatically, more practically: somewhere no one said “Boob Chris,” where no one could undress him with their eyes, where his name would be just a name again.\n\nBut his mother forced him. To her, “not going” was not an option. She interpreted his desperation as defiance or weakness, and every time he hesitated, her voice grew harder. “You’re going to school,” she said. “You’re going to face it.” As if it were only a bad mood that could be disciplined away.\n\nSo Chris went. Every day. Like someone walking through rain without an umbrella, pretending he wasn’t wet.\n\nThe only fixed point in that chaos had been [[Zoe|Zoe March]].\n\nZoe hadn’t thought the video was “good,” but she also hadn’t acted as though Chris was finished because of it. She hadn’t looked at him with pity, hadn’t judged him morally. She had only rolled her eyes once and said it was ridiculous how hard everyone was pretending they had never done anything stupid. “As if anyone here has a halo,” she had muttered.\n\nAnd she stayed by his side. Not romantically, not sentimentally – more like a bodyguard with a sharp tongue. If someone grinned too loudly, she stepped into the way. If someone dropped a comment, Zoe cut them off with a sentence so vulgar that most people preferred to change the subject. Chris knew Zoe had done worse – she had hinted at it herself, almost proudly. And that was exactly why she didn’t understand the fuss.\n\nFor Chris, her loyalty was like a piece of railing he could hold on to when everything swayed. He was still wrecked. He barely laughed anymore, ate irregularly, slept badly. Some days he only got through because Zoe walked beside him and acted as if it was all one bad joke.\n\nAnd sometimes, when he was lying in bed again at night, Chris thought: If even Zoe doesn’t think it’s that bad… why does it feel like my life is over?\n\n[[Continue|Zoe fehlt in der Schule.]]

Chris stepped beside Christine without announcing anything. He simply knelt down, took the jammed insert with both hands, and immediately felt where it was catching. A small twist, a gentle press downward, then a short click as the track snapped into place. The compartment suddenly slid shut so easily, as if there had never been any resistance.\n\nChristine held still for a moment, then said curtly, “Thanks, Sis.”\n\nChris’s hands stayed on the cabinet for another second, even though he was long since done. Sis. The word settled into him like a drop that was bigger than it should have been. Christine had never really called him that before. Normally it was “Chris,” at most “Sis” in a mocking tone, sometimes just an annoyed “you.” This “Sis” was new. And it felt harmless and huge at the same time.\n\nHe stood up, put his shoes on properly, slung the bag over his shoulder. Christine zipped up her jacket and reached for her phone. Both of them acted as if nothing special had happened. Then they set off for the bus stop, side by side, the morning cool and quiet.\n\nChris’s thoughts still clung to the word like Velcro. Did she just misspeak? he wondered. Or was that… deliberate? He realized he was repeating it in his head, as if he could hear the tone of it there: not mocking, not sharp—more casual, almost warm.\n\nWhen they turned the corner, he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Earlier…” he began, clearing his throat. “You called me ‘Sis.’”\n\nChristine looked at him briefly. Then—for the first time in days—a real, small smile lifted her face. Not big, but there. “Did I?” she asked, as if she had only just noticed it herself. “Hm.” She shrugged lightly. “I didn’t really think about it. It… kind of fit.”\n\nChris’s mouth opened to object, but she was already speaking again, calm and surprisingly gentle: “Since you’ve been… living like this, we’ve been closer than before. Before, you were always in your room, or somewhere inside your own head. Now…” She made a small gesture between them that needed no words. “You’ve somehow… become my sister. Or—it feels that way. To me.”\n\nChris felt everything inside him bristle and soften at the same time. He wanted to say: I’m your big brother. He wanted to say: I’m a boy. He wanted to say: Please don’t call me that. And yet—there was also this warm, almost painful feeling of closeness that he had needed so desperately over the past few days. For the first time, Christine seemed a little lighter again, as if that word had set a track of her own back into the right position.\n\nHe swallowed the words down. Not because they were untrue, but because right now they would have fit like a knife into a place that was just beginning to heal.\n\n“Okay,” he finally said, quietly.\n\nChristine nodded, satisfied with that, and her smile remained for another moment. The bus turned the corner at the end of the street. Chris pulled the bag higher and walked beside her while the word Sis echoed in his head—unpleasant, unfamiliar, but also… a small promise. And although he didn’t like it, he realized that part of him was beginning to accept it.\n\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $temp == 1>>[[Continue|Dienstag.2]]\n<<else>>[[Continue|Dienstag.]]<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

Tarnung +1

<<set $wochentag = 3>><<set $ort to "school">><<if $club == 1>>Wednesday rolled through the schedule without incident—at least on paper. In the halls, however, Chris heard a new rumor about the theater club and the planned performance, and it clung to the day like a small shadow: supposedly, the club had almost had to dissolve last year. Some said that since the last performance, the theater club had never been quite the same—as if something had happened backstage that only the older members truly understood. Chris also picked up that Ruby had supposedly been on the verge of switching clubs back then—and then had stayed after all, without anyone explaining exactly why.\n\n<<else>>Wednesday rolled through the schedule without incident—at least at first glance. Between two classes, however, Chris heard a new hallway rumor: something had happened with the cheerleaders, “something with a girl,” and ever since then the mood had been weird. Later, he saw it for himself: Penelope treated Zoe as if she were air—no glance, no nod, not even the usual sharp smile. Zoe acted as if she didn’t care, but her fingers drummed nervously on the table.\n\n<<endif>><<if $charlotte >1 >>In the school hallway, Chris and [[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]] walked alongside each other for a few steps during break, almost by chance, as if the change between classes had swept them into the same current. It was unusually quiet in the corridor; no one was looking, no clique nearby, only the distant clatter of locker doors. Chris’s hand lifted instinctively, as if searching for Charlotte’s fingers all on its own—and stopped at the last moment, as if against an invisible wall. He let the hand sink again, too quickly, as if it had burned itself.\n\nCharlotte had seen it. Her gaze slipped briefly to his hand, then forward again. She said nothing, instead opening her bag and rummaging until she pulled out a small packet. Two earrings, nothing expensive—small, pretty studs that shimmered in the light. “I’ve been meaning to give these to you for ages,” she said softly, almost matter-of-factly, as if she were not solving the problem, but only picking up a thread again. Chris accepted them with warm cheeks and thanked her.\n\n<<endif>><<if $club == 1 && $charlotte == 0 && $moore == 0 >>During one break, the hallway was a single, surging carpet of noise. Chris walked right through the middle of it, his bag pressed to his chest as if it were a shield. He kept to the edge of the crowd, weaving past little groups.\n\nThen he saw them.\n\nDylan was standing by the trophy cases, casual as always, and Penelope was leaning half against the windowsill as if the spot belonged to her. She talked with her hands, quick and sparkling, and Dylan listened—really listened. Penelope laughed, that bright laugh that instantly drew attention. Dylan leaned a little closer, as if the hallway had suddenly become too loud for normal distance.\n\nChris’s chest tightened so quickly that he only felt it once it had already happened. A small sting lodged somewhere between his stomach and his ribs. He didn’t know whether it was envy or jealousy or simply the feeling of not fitting into that picture. Probably all of it together, in one knot.\n\nHe forced himself to keep walking, slower now, so it wouldn’t look like fleeing. His gaze still lingered, though, as if tied there by an invisible thread: Penelope’s head tilted slightly, Dylan with that brief grin he didn’t give everyone. It looked… natural. As if it were normal for them to stand together like that.\n\nChris wanted to look away. He couldn’t.\n\nThen, between two students hurrying past, he heard a fragment of words, by chance, like a stone falling exactly right.\n\n“…Homecoming…”\n\nNothing more. Not a whole sentence. No name afterward. Just that one word, left hanging in the hallway.\n\nAnd Chris’s mind immediately filled in the rest, as if it had been expecting it all along: They’re going to Homecoming together.\n\nIt was absurd how quickly the brain built a story out of it—Dylan asks, Penelope says yes, both of them smile, everyone knows. Chris felt his face grow warm, even though no one was looking at him. He thought of the dance theme humming everywhere around the school, and suddenly that hum was no longer neutral. It was personal.\n\nOf course, he thought. Penelope. Who else?\n\nHe noticed that he had unconsciously slowed down, and sped up again, as if the pace were proof that he didn’t care. His hand found the hem of his skirt and smoothed it, a nervous, automatic movement.\n\nAs he passed the display case, Penelope laughed again, and Dylan leaned a little closer still. Chris swallowed, kept his gaze stubbornly straight ahead, and walked on.\n\nThe sting remained anyway. Small, but sharp enough to accompany him all the way to the next door.\n\n<<endif>>After school, Chris went to the restroom once more. The tiles were cool, the fluorescent light flat. Chris had just finished his business when the restroom door opened. Footsteps he recognized. [[Mrs. Rivera’s|Lucia Rivera]] voice, muffled.\n\n“Come on, we’ll go in here,” she said quietly.\n\nA boy answered, barely audible, the words stumbling and then finding a warm tone after all: “I shouldn’t be here.”\n\nChris’s breath caught in his throat for a moment. He stayed standing in the stall. Through the gap, he saw Joshua, narrow, delicate, his shoulders drawn up a little—exactly the kind of shy, slender boy Chris himself had once been. Mrs. Rivera stood opposite him, only an arm’s length away.\n\n“What if someone sees us?” Joshua asked nervously.\n\nHer voice lowered even further. “Then I don’t care.”\n\nChris looked at Joshua’s face and saw small beads of sweat forming on his forehead. She took him by the hand and pulled him into the neighboring stall.\n\n“Pants down,” she said then, and somewhat hesitantly and embarrassed, Joshua followed her instructions. Finally he stood there, his hard cock jutting into the air.\n\n“Joshua,” she said appreciatively, “with a cock like that, you don’t have to be afraid of the girls anymore. Once they find out what you’ve got in your pants, they’ll never laugh at you again. On the contrary, they’ll be fighting over you.”\n\nMrs. Rivera unbuttoned her blouse, reached behind herself, opened her bra, and finally presented Joshua with her bare breasts.\n\n“Go ahead,” she said softly. Joshua reached for her breasts with a red face.\n\nWhat was happening in the neighboring stall was almost visible before Chris’s mind’s eye. He took half a step back, his heart trotting. Everything in him screamed wrong, no—and at the same time there was that sharp, envious spark: If he weren’t living as a girl, if he weren’t trapped between skirts and tights… could he be standing in Joshua’s place? Secretly, forbidden, the dream boys his age found themselves having at night, only to forget it again in the morning? He pressed his lips together.\n\n“Sit down on the toilet,” Mrs. Rivera finally said to Joshua. He did. She reached under her skirt and pulled off her panties. Then she flipped up her skirt and crouched over Joshua.\n\nA pause, in which only the fluorescent tube hummed.\n\nShortly afterward, Chris heard moaning from the neighboring stall. “Ahh,” and “ohh,” he heard, and “oh, yes, oh, yes,” from the teacher’s mouth. Chris could only stare, standing there with his mouth open.\n\nJoshua sank his hammer into Mrs. Rivera’s pussy again and again. Finally, Mrs. Rivera came, because she moaned loudly. Joshua grabbed her by the hips and pressed her pelvis firmly down onto his cock. He groaned too. Apparently he was shooting his seed into her pussy in pulses.\n\nChris now had a hard-on under his little skirt. But all he could do was wait until Mrs. Rivera and Joshua had left the girls’ restroom again, and then go home. His head buzzed, his crotch was hard. Part of him despised Joshua in that moment—for the boldness of sleeping with a hot teacher. Another part envied him. He felt small and out of place, as if he had seen a door into a world from which he was excluded.\n\n[[Continue|Lernen für Mathe.]]

“Okay… just a hint,” Chris murmured, more to himself than to Penelope. He took the little tube, twisted the applicator out uncertainly, and leaned toward the mirror. His heart was pounding faster than made sense. Raspberry, he thought, and the word suddenly tasted like a dare.\n\nHe set the wand down—too low—drew a line—too wide—and then dabbed at it frantically to “blend” it. Instead of a delicate hint of shine, a glossy semicircle appeared, running beyond his natural lip contour. The mirror showed a version of him that looked as if he had been making out somewhere in a hurry.\n\nA giggle rolled over from the left, then from the right. Charlotte pressed her lips together to stay fair, but didn’t quite manage it. Ruby automatically lifted her hand as if to say, “Stop, new iteration,” but let it sink again. Penelope blinked, half amused, half stunned. “Uh… have you never put on makeup before?” she asked, as if that could really be true.\n\n“A little,” Chris lied meekly, and heard for himself how it sounded. He tried to correct it with his finger, only smearing it more.\n\nBehind them came a soft chik, that sound Snaps make when someone “just quickly” takes a photo. His cheeks burned. He half turned around—too late. A girl from the Pom Puffs table already had the phone lowered, grinning crookedly, thumb on the screen. “Lip Gloss Queen,” someone giggled, and the giggling spread like sparks in dry grass.\n\nChris’s reflection stared back at him—with too much gloss and too little air. He wanted to wipe off the lip gloss, wish it away, drown it in the sink. Instead, he forced his shoulders down and handed the tube back to Penelope. “Thanks,” he said, too neutrally.\n\n“Wait.” Penelope reached for a tissue, dampened the corner, and gently dabbed at the edges. “Stay on the lip.” Her voice was friendly and annoyed at the same time, as if teaching a puppy not to pee on the carpet.\n\nChris still heard the chik in his ears and already saw the captions in his head: New German Girl, Lip Gloss Fail. He rinsed his hands, even though they were clean, took a step back out of the mirror light, and wished the break were over—or that he were invisible.\n\n''🕶️ Cover -1''\n\n''What happens?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte == 2>>[[Lunchtime in the cafeteria.|Lunchtime in der Cafeteria.]]<<else>>[[Lunchtime in the cafeteria.|Lunchtime in der Cafeteria.2]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

When Chris stepped back into the courtroom, everything was still exactly as it had been before.\n\nThe same wooden benches. The same flag. The same door behind the judge’s bench.\n\nAnd yet the room felt changed.\n\nHis mother sat at the defense table. She had her hands folded in her lap and was staring straight ahead. Not at Chris. Not at Christine. Not at Michael.\n\nThe judge read from the documents. His voice was calm, almost dry. He spoke of evidence, witness testimony, medical reports, and the abuse of parental authority.\n\nChris heard every word and none of them properly.\n\nThen came the sentence the whole room had been waiting for.\n\n“Susan Braun, this court sentences you to five years in prison.”\n\nChristine lowered her head.\n\nMichael slowly breathed out beside Chris.\n\nThe judge continued. After her imprisonment, a no-contact order would apply. Susan was not allowed to approach Chris, call him, write to him, or send anyone to speak for her. She would have to undergo psychological treatment. In addition, she was ordered to pay for part of the therapy and treatment costs.\n\nRestitution.\n\nThe word sounded small for what could not be given back.\n\nSusan briefly closed her eyes.\n\nFor the first time that day, she looked tired. Not broken. Not remorseful. Just tired, as if the world had refused to believe her version of the story.\n\nChris waited for joy.\n\nIt did not come.\n\nNo triumph. No warm feeling of victory. No moment in which everything became all right again.\n\nHe only watched as a deputy stepped to Susan’s side and told her to stand up. The handcuffs clicked softly. A tiny sound, hardly louder than the clasp on a bag.\n\nSusan turned her head.\n\nFor a moment, she looked at Chris.\n\nThis time, he did not search her gaze for an apology.\n\nHe did not search for love either.\n\nHe did not search for anything anymore.\n\nSusan was led away.\n\nThe door at the side of the courtroom opened, closed again, and the sound echoed briefly.\n\nThen she was gone.\n\nChris sat there silently.\n\nOn the other side of the room, Christine stood alone. Her face was wet with tears. Michael gently let go of Chris and went over to her.\n\nChris did not hear every word. Only fragments.\n\n“You don’t have to stay here.”\n\n“Germany.”\n\n“If you want.”\n\nChristine looked first at her father, then at Chris.\n\nShe looked lost. But no longer trapped.\n\nChris stepped over to them. His legs felt heavy, but steady.\n\nOutside the courtroom, the hallway was still bright and cold. People walked past as if nothing had happened.\n\nFor Chris, something had happened.\n\nNot everything was healed. Nothing had been undone. Maplewood remained in his memory. The pills, the fear, the shame. None of it disappeared just because a judge had pronounced a sentence.\n\nBut something had been given a boundary.\n\nA door.\n\nA lock.\n\nIt was not a happy ending.\n\nIt was an ending with a lock on the door.\n\nAnd this time, Chris had the key.\n\n[[Continue|In Deutschland.]]

In the trembling cone of the phone lights, the shadow suddenly became clear.\n\nIn front of them stood a skunk.\n\nIt was smaller than Chris’s panic had just painted it—a squat body, striped black and white, its head low, its tail like a threatening flag. But in that moment, it still seemed like a monster, because it was silent and because it refused to be impressed.\n\nA boy from the group grabbed Chris and pulled him back on reflex. Not just back—he pulled him against himself.\n\nChris’s small breasts collided with a hard chest, and arms immediately closed around him, as if the other boy wanted to pull him out of the cone of light. One hand lay broad between his shoulder blades, the other lower, at his side, just above his butt, placed so securely that Chris involuntarily held his breath. The grip wasn’t panicked—more determined. Protective. Too close.\n\nChris’s heart hammered. His breathing was shallow. And yet—or maybe because of that—this embrace felt like a brief, firm anchor. As if the chaos in front of him had suddenly moved farther away.\n\nThen it happened. The skunk made a quick, short step forward. A tiny jerk, a hiss—and a sharp, wet pffft, so sudden that no one could react in time.\n\nA girl standing where Chris had just been screamed as if she had understood it instinctively. A shrill, desperate sound, as if someone had pressed the air out of her body. The smell hit almost immediately—biting, stinging, as if the air itself were turning into alarm. It was so intense that Chris involuntarily turned his head away and squeezed his eyes shut.\n\nThe skunk immediately turned around and fled into the darkness between the tanks. Only the clicking of small claws on concrete remained for a moment, then that was gone too.\n\n“Oh my God!” someone shouted, already gagging.\n\n“That’s disgusting!” another gasped.\n\nThe sprayed girl stood frozen, then it burst out of her: a second scream, this time more angry than frightened. She swatted at the air as if she could chase the stench away. “I stink! I stink so bad!”\n\nOnly now did Chris realize he was still being held.\n\nNot just the way you briefly pull someone out of the danger zone. The boy still had him against his chest, as if Chris were something fragile you didn’t drop. The grip at his side had shifted slightly, but hadn’t gone away—thumb and fingers lay around him like a clamp, and that thumb… brushed ever so slightly over the fabric of his dress, as if it were a kind of reassurance that said more than words.\n\nChris felt warmth through two layers of clothing. The other boy’s heartbeat, fast but steady. It calmed him—and at the same time the realization hit him like a second shock: This is a boy holding me like this. So tightly. So… naturally.\n\nPart of him wanted to pull away, reflexively, because it felt forbiddenly close. The other part—the part that was still trembling and couldn’t bear the stench and the shouting—leaned the tiniest bit into it, because it was safe. Because those arms were really holding him right now.\n\nChris swallowed, lifted his gaze a little, as much as he could in the embrace. “Thank you,” he said softly, and his voice sounded thinner than he wanted.\n\nThe boy hesitated a shade too long. Then he didn’t let him go abruptly, but slowly—as if he had to force himself to. The hand on Chris’s back stayed there a fraction of a second longer, fingertips pressing once more before they came away.\n\n“Sure,” he murmured, and his voice sounded rough, as if his throat had been irritated—or as if he had just swallowed something down. He took half a step back, aimed the phone light forward again almost too quickly, as if the light were an excuse not to look.\n\nChris stood on his own legs again—and for a moment still felt as if someone had shifted the ground beneath his feet by a small degree. Safe. Confused. And far too aware of how warm it had just been.\n\n[[Continue|Raus aus der Fabrik.2]]

The afternoon hung tired over Maplewood; the sun was low, bus engines hummed in the distance, and the stop smelled of warm asphalt and chewing gum. Chris stood at the edge of the sidewalk, holding the straps of his bag like reins, letting the day rattle inside him: survived homeroom, learned the locker trick, cafeteria, PE—and no one had noticed who he wasn’t. For the first time in hours, he breathed a little more freely.\n<<set $ort to "school parking lot">>\nA jerk from behind. No “oops,” no “sorry.” A deliberate shove. Chris lost his balance, stumbled over the edge of the curb, and landed on his knees. The schoolbooks slipped out of his bag, falling open on the ground like startled birds. He groped for the nearest notebook—and then a hand drove roughly into his hair, grabbed, yanked his head back. Pain shot across his scalp, sharp and bright.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Zoe_school.jpg]]</center> “Well, heroine,” said a voice he recognized immediately. [[Zoe’s|Zoe March]] curls cast a shadow on the sidewalk. Her face hovered close above his, her eyes hard and empty. “Doesn’t feel good, does it?” Her voice was charged. “Because of you…” She broke off, clenched her teeth. “Because of you, there was drama at home. Real drama. Punishments. Thanks for that.”\n\nChris blinked, tried to get air. “Zoe, let—ow—” He reached for her hand, not to tear it away, but to ease the pressure. She loosened up for a moment, only to shove him in the chest right after. He tipped backward, his elbow struck the ground, a stale ache vibrating in the bone.\n\nA few students stopped, forming the instinctive semicircle that trouble attracts. Murmuring. No one stepped in.\n\nChris tried to sound calm, though the grip on his scalp burned. “Let—”\n“Nope.” Zoe shoved him away—a short, contemptuous push—and he fell back onto his hands. “My father tore into me over that theft, chewed me out, took away everything fun. And you? You walk around here playing innocent.”\n\nChris propped himself up. Zoe nudged a book with her foot, letting it slide a few inches farther across the asphalt. “Pick it up, princess,” she spat, “you’re so proper, aren’t you.”\n\nHe forced himself to breathe more slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ruby at the edge, hands clenched around the straps of her backpack; his sister was nowhere to be seen. Two jocks snickered, one whispered, “Drama.” A younger girl tugged at her friend’s sleeve: “Come on, let’s…”—but they stayed anyway.\n\nChris started to get up—Zoe shoved him down again, this time with a flat hand against his shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt, but exactly right to humiliate. Dust clung to his knees. He tasted metal in his throat, though nothing was bleeding.\n\n“You have no idea what you caused,” Zoe hissed. “But I’ll make sure you learn.” Her gaze flicked briefly over the spectators, registering that she had the stage she wanted.\n\nChris’s heart hammered. In his head, two sentences locked together: “Stand up and defend yourself.” And: “As a boy, you don’t hit a girl.”\n\n''What does he do?''\n❯ [[He gets up and pushes her back before it gets worse.|Aufstehen und sich wehren.][$beliebtheit -= 1;$ladendiebin += 1]]\n❯ [[He stays still, because deep down he carries the belief that a boy doesn’t hit a girl—not even in a moment like this.|Als Junge darf man kein Mädchen schlagen.]]

The sun was lower when Chris ran with the class to the gym. The smell of rubber, disinfectant, and old wood hung in the air. On a folding table lay folded T-shirts in school colors, shorts, white socks; beside them a list where you were supposed to check off your size. Chris leaned over it to find his name and tick the box. The man at the distribution table couldn’t help but look. Chris dress gave a deep view of his teen-girl tits, with the sweet little pink nipples. \n\nFor a moment Chris noticed just how oddly long the man kept looking—too focused, like he was searching for something—until the shout snapped his attention away: “PE uniforms—take one, try it on,” and the crowd split into two streams: “Locker Room—Girls” to the left, “Locker Room—Boys” to the right.\n<<set $ort to "gym">>\nChris’s stomach tightened. Changing clothes. In front of others. He mechanically took a bundle in size S, though his hands weren’t entirely sure what they were doing. The fabric was cool, smooth, somehow too official. He still stood there as if nailed in place when a deep, calm voice appeared beside him.\n\n“Chris?” [[Mr. Moore|Nathan Moore]]—broad shoulders, broad back, athletic, hoodie over his coach shirt—leaned toward him a little. “One minute?” He led Chris a few steps aside, away from the noise. His face carried that professional friendliness behind which real attentiveness lay. “Your mom contacted me before school started,” he said quietly. “I’m in the picture. If you want, you can change in the nurse’s room. No pressure.”\n\nThe word “relieved” suddenly felt like a chair you could sit down on. Chris nodded, once, briefly. “Thank you.”\n\n“If necessary, I’ll tell the girls you’ll be right along,” Mr. Moore said, placing a hand on his shoulder—briefly, grounding—and then letting him go again. “All good.”\n\nChris stood still. Through the open door of the girls’ locker room, he caught fleeting flashes of mirrors, heard laughter, the clack of lockers, the rustling of fabric. Charlotte was there, two from Christine’s clique, a few faces he had only learned today; they disappeared behind the door like fish into a tank. The stream moved on. “Locker Room—Girls.”\n\nA sentence settled in his head: If I go alone now, it’ll stand out. A single “girl” who doesn’t want to go into the locker room with the others—that makes people talk. (And beneath that—deeper, more honest—he thought of bare skin, of teenage girls in their underwear, and felt a slight twitch in his penis. He was, after all, just a boy—and that was precisely what made his breath catch in his throat.)\n\nHe weighed the uniform in his hands as if the bundle of fabric could give an answer. Mr. Moore’s offer stood open in the air like an opened side door. Nurse’s room: neutral, safe, private. Girls’ locker room: loud, normal, risky. His heart beat too fast for both.\n\n“Everything okay?” Christine asked as she passed him on the way, her hand already on the locker-room handle. She briefly saw his face and seemed to understand what was on the scales. “I’m inside, in case you…” She left the sentence open and disappeared.\n\nChris took one deep breath. He could arrange the pragmatic arguments for himself: Don’t stand out. Go along with the routine. Or: privacy. Mr. Moore had built him a bridge, and you didn’t smash it just because the hallway was louder right now.\n\nHe raised his gaze, felt the decision inside him standing on edge like a coin.\n\n''What does Chris decide?''\n<<nobr>><<if $ladendiebin == 0>>❯ [[He goes into the locker room with the girls, even though the very thought makes him nervous.|Umziehen mit den Mädchen.][$tarnung += 1]]<<else>>❯ [[He goes into the locker room with the girls, even though the very thought makes him nervous.|Umziehen mit den Mädchen.2][$tarnung += 1]]<<endif>><</nobr>>\n❯ [[He follows Mr. Moore into the nurse’s room and chooses privacy over risky normality.|Mit Mr. Moore mitgehen.][$tarnung -= 1;$umkleide += 1]]

Chris stood up, instinctively turning his back to him as he slipped into his panties, closed the skirt, and pulled the top back over his head. The clothes suddenly felt stranger than before, as if a new layer of stares had formed between his body and the fabric. He smoothed the hem, checked the bra strap under his sleeve, even though everything sat correctly.\n<<set $ort to "home">>\n“Done,” he murmured.\n\nThey went down the hallway together into the living room. Susan was waiting there, arms crossed, a hint of tension in her posture.\n\n“And?” she asked.\n\nDr. Coleman smiled that professional smile that barely reached his eyes. “Everything is in perfect order,” he said. “Your child is healthy. The current treatment is harmless, and there are no signs of any complications whatsoever.”\n\nSusan exhaled audibly, tapping her fingers against her hip. “See?” she said to Chris, with an undertone that hovered between triumph and relief. “I told you.”\n\nChris lowered his gaze. A small part of him was grateful for the verdict. Another felt pushed into a corner.\n\nThey accompanied Dr. Coleman to the door. Susan thanked him effusively, he promised to be available again if needed, took his coat from the coat rack, and put on his hat.\n\nThe front door had barely fallen shut when it opened a second time. Voices in the hallway, a bright laugh he knew.\n\n“Hey,” Christine called, kicking off her shoes. “I’m home.”\n\nChris was still standing in the living room, half in shadow, when she appeared with her schoolbag over her shoulder.\n\n“What did Mr. Gilbert want, anyway?” she asked casually, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.\n\nChris blinked. “Who?”\n\n“Well, Mr. Gilbert.” Christine pointed toward the entrance. “The man who just left. Mom’s tax advisor. He helped her last year with that income tax thing.”\n\nFor a moment, Chris heard only the blood in his ears. “Tax advisor?” he repeated. The word stumbled off his tongue. “But… that was Dr. Coleman. He—”\n\nHe broke off, looking toward the coat rack, at the empty hook where the coat had hung. The stethoscope. The notebook. The calm, confident smile. “My dear. I’m a doctor.” The sentences collapsed in his head like cardboard scenery.\n\nChris remained standing for one more heartbeat, then turned around and walked down the hallway. Every step felt dull, as if he were walking on cotton wool. In his room, he quietly closed the door, leaned back against it until the wood pressed into his shoulder blades.\n\nThe scene from the rosé room replayed itself: the undressing, the touching, the reassuring words. Modern preparations these days. Everything reversible. No dramatic horror scenarios. A “doctor” his mother had brought in. A “doctor” who was a tax advisor.\n\nShame rose in him, hot and burning. Not only over the examination, but over how readily he had believed it. How he had clung to the promise that everything was harmless, just to hear what he wanted to hear.\n\nHe sat down on the edge of the bed, then slid farther back until his back reached the wall. His fingers dug into the blanket. Tears burned behind his eyes; he blinked them away, but one broke loose anyway, rolling down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly, even though no one was watching.\n\nHow could she do this to him?\n\nThe question remained standing in the room like smoke. It was not about the pills alone. It was about the fact that she had brought someone into the house, put the label “doctor” on him, and allowed a strange man to grope him, take photos—stick his finger up his ass.\n\nHe drew his knees up to himself and rested his forehead on them. An important lesson burned itself into him quietly, but sharply: He could never trust his mother. Not her smile, not her assurances, not her “It’s for your own good” sentences.\n\nIf he had to look after someone, then it was himself.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $charlotte < 2>>[[Party with Christine.|Party mit Christine.][$chris_opinion += 10]]<<else>>[[Meeting at Charlotte’s.|Treffen bei Charlotte.][$chris_opinion += 10]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

The scooter sputtered up the driveway, and when Chris got off, his legs felt shaky—not from the ride, but from the shame that still sat in his skin. He fumbled with the key, opened the front door, and automatically listened: no TV, no footsteps, no clattering from the kitchen. The house was quiet. His mother wasn’t there, and Christine was at college.\n\nAdam pushed in behind him, as if he already belonged there. Hardly had the door fallen shut when Adam became impetuous. He grabbed Chris’ wrist, pulled him closer, and kissed him, demanding, as if what had just happened—the looks, the excitement—now had to be turned into possession.\n\nChris’ body froze for a moment, then he tried to slow the pace. He placed a hand against Adam’s chest, not hard, more pleading. “Wait…” he said quietly. “Not like this.”\n\nAdam heard it, but he didn’t really accept it. He kept kissing, pulled Chris toward the hallway, toward the stairs. Chris allowed it because he was used to allowing things when the alternative seemed worse. Because resistance had long since stopped sounding like rescue to him, and started sounding like risk.\n\nOnce upstairs, Chris pushed the bedroom door open. His room lay there like another world: the satin bed with the smooth, lightly shimmering sheets; the rose-colored light of the little lamp; the vanity, tidy, as if order could put anything inside him in order. It still smelled of the perfume from that morning and a hint of vanilla, even though no candle was burning.\n\nAdam then sat down on the chair at the vanity with a broad grin while he watched Chris slowly undress. He looked satisfied, as if he had taken a place that was rightfully his. Chris stood in the room for a moment, still holding his handbag, as if he had forgotten how to shape the next few seconds.\n\nHis fingers trembled a little as he opened his top and then pulled it off his upper body as if in slow motion. It hadn’t been especially cold in the room, but Chris’ nipples stood out on his bare skin from sheer excitement like snaps. Chris could feel Adam’s eyes on his naked body the whole time.\n\nThen Chris opened the zipper of his miniskirt at the side. All that could be heard were rustling sounds as he very slowly stripped the fabric down over his small, round ass and his bare thighs. Chris had been wearing a small red thong underneath, which really looked fabulous on his pretty, slender lower body.\n\nNow he stood there with his bare, pedicured feet on the fluffy carpet and adjusted his thong, while trying to avoid Adam’s gaze as much as possible.\n\nChris looked down at the floor and, from both sides, took hold of the small, narrow straps of his thong at his hips. He quickly pulled it down.\n\nAdam savored every square inch of Chris’ attractive, youthful body. Nervously, Chris folded his hands and ran his fingers over his arms. Every time, he felt like he was at a meat inspection.\n\n“Can we start now?” Chris asked, wanting to get the sex over with quickly.\n\n[[Continue|Adam fickt Chris.][$anal += 1;$creampied += 1]]\n

Chris finally nodded, even though his stomach gave a brief jump. “Okay,” he said, and it sounded as if he had overruled himself.<<set $LucasMemory[6] to 1>>\n\nLucas immediately beamed. They got in line, were handed two cardboard tickets, and while they waited, Chris heard the muffled screaming from inside, spilling out again and again like a wave. Cold fog billowed from the entrance, smelling of artificial vanilla and something metallic. A loudspeaker crackled with a ghostly voice, then a laugh that was deliberately too long.\n\nWhen it was their turn, Lucas pulled the curtain aside. Inside, the darkness swallowed them as if it were a door falling shut behind them. The sounds from outside immediately grew quieter, muted by fabric and wood. Only a deep bass remained, vibrating through the walls like a second heart.\n\n“Stay close,” Lucas whispered.\n\nChris did. More than he would have liked.\n\nThe first corridor was narrow, the walls covered in black fabric that brushed their sleeves with every movement. Above them, a strobe light flickered in a slow rhythm, so the world jumped in short, chopped-up images: a spiderweb of plastic threads, a crooked picture on the wall, a door that wasn’t really there. A gust of wind from a hidden fan rushed up under Chris’s skirt, cold and unexpected. He pushed the skirt down, gave a brief laugh of embarrassment—but the laugh got stuck in his throat when a loud clonk suddenly came from the floor.\n\nA mechanism made a trapdoor pop open, only a few inches in front of their feet. Something pale jerked upward—not really visible, more movement than shape—and Chris flinched, so hard that he almost lost his balance. Lucas reacted quickly, putting his arm around Chris’s body and preventing the fall. His warm hand rested on Chris’s stomach. Awkwardly, Chris bent forward. As he did, Lucas’s hand slid up Chris’s body to the base of his breasts.\n\nChris’s buttocks, separated only by thin layers of fabric, bumped against the bulge of Lucas’s manhood.\n\n“All good,” Lucas said softly, and Chris felt a pleasant shiver run through him. For a brief moment he had the feeling (or was it a wish?) that he was deliberately lingering in that position and pressing himself against Lucas.\n<<set $choice_ahorn2 to 1>>\n[[Continue|Der nächste Raum.][$kissboy += 1]]

[[↩ Back|Start]]\n\n<h2>Tip:</h2><ul> <li>''Earlier decisions can affect later ones.'' For example, skills already learned can lead to a different outcome, even if you have Chris act exactly the same way at the same point in the game.</li> <li>''Bold headings before a page change'' are a hint that the story takes a different course at this point because of earlier decisions.</li><li>For your first playthrough, I recommend Lucas’ story path. It captures the mood of the game especially well.</li> </ul><hr> \n<h2>Characters with Their Own Ending:</h2> \n[[Lucas:|Lucas Barnett]] Choose the theater club. Try to get invited to his sister Penelope’s pajama party. Invite Lucas to the party and become his “fake girlfriend.” Choose the right movie at the theater, get into the bumper car together, go with him into the haunted house, or send him a photo from the bathtub. You may accept his mother’s “tennis” offer, but at homecoming you should stay with Lucas.\n\n[[Dylan:|Dylan Carter]] Who do football players date? Exactly: cheerleaders. So make an effort—otherwise Penelope will snatch him away right from under your nose. Bring Penelope the jacket back and seek protection with Dylan in the factory. Also, Dylan only invites Chris to the dance if he is at least in the middle of the boys’ ranking. Confess the secret to him. And you’d better not listen to Zoe… or maybe you should? 😉\n\n[[Charlotte:|Charlotte Walters]] Talk to her in the cafeteria. Watch her in the girls’ locker room. Optional: Manage to get to Penelope’s party and don’t upset Charlotte that evening in order to end up in bed with her. (If Chris isn't a couple with Charlotte, he can invite her to the party—and should get drunk.)\n\n[[Mr. Walters:|Joseph Walters]] Basically follow the tips for his daughter Charlotte. Chris should watch the movie to the end.\n\n[[Sister:|Christine Braun]] Join the cheerleaders to be close to her. But don’t overdo the training—otherwise you won’t have time after school to secretly read her diary. \n(Optional: Manage to get to Penelope’s party and don’t upset Christine that evening) Talk to her before the party and try to “save” her from Myles there. Save her in the factory. Also observe Christine and Myles before the game in the locker room. Have sex with her and get her pregnant.\n\n[[Adam:|Adam Bowman]] Choose the D&D club. Allow him to touch your breasts. Invite him to the party and send him a photo of yourself. Don’t get too drunk at the party. During the kiss, don’t react with disgust and let Dr. Coleman examine you. Also win the D&D role-playing game. Don’t reject Adam at the school dance and lie to your father.\n\n[[Zoe:|Zoe March]] Don’t follow the Charlotte path. Report her to security. If she looks for trouble, defend yourself. Join the D&D club and don’t let Adam manipulate you. Also show her that you are willing to go beyond your limits for her. Go to the party alone and don’t get too drunk.\n\n[[Ruby:|Ruby Hicks]] Join the theater club and choose Ruby instead of Lucas. Lie to your father. Bonus: You get a hot night with Ezekiel if you tell her the truth about Chris’s taste in music.\n\n<hr>\n<h2>Side Character / No Unique Ending:</h2> \n[[Mom:|Susan Braun]] Do not choose the D&D Club, and do not go to the Homecoming Dance with Dylan or Lucas. You need to receive a good evaluation from her in the third week. Also, confess to her that Chris watched her in the bathroom.\nWhen she starts online dating:\n<ul> <li>Choose men if you prefer taking the more active role during sex.</li> <li>Choose women if you prefer a more passive role — but do not choose Laverne.</li> </ul>A threesome with her and DeShawn can be found in DeShawn’s path.\n\n[[Mrs. Barnett:|Caroline Barnett]] Follow the tips for her son Lucas. Everything else will work itself out. At the very end of the game, there might be a little surprise. (If Chris is only friends with Lucas, there is an additional sex scene with Mrs. Barnett in the epilogue.)\n\n[[Penelope:|Penelope Barnett]] Join the cheerleaders, but don't get your sister pregnant, and if Dylan invites you to the school dance, you’d better listen to Zoe. Lie to your father so you don’t slip into the detransition ending.\n\n[[Mrs. Ferguson:|Ava Ferguson]] Don’t follow any of the other paths mentioned here. If Ava catches you staring at her breasts, claim you were only looking at the baby.\n\n[[Laverne:|Laverne Johnson]] When Susan signs you up for online dating, choose women and contact Laverne.\n\n[[DeShawn:|DeShawn Powell]] Don’t follow any of the other paths mentioned here and under no circumstances join the cheerleaders. Don’t go to Penelope’s pajama party. Touch his cock, watch him and Susan have sex. When Latoya asks who you would rather be, don’t choose DeShawn. Lie to your father and choose DeShawn in the club.\n<ul><li>If Chris and Susan have a sexual relationship, Chris can have a threesome with Susan and DeShawn.</li> <li>If they don’t have a relationship, Chris gets fucked by DeShawn.</li></ul> [[Latoya:|Latoya Powell]] Don’t follow any of the other paths mentioned here and under no circumstances join the cheerleaders. Lie to your father and choose Latoya in the club.\n\n[[↩ Back|Start]]

After the holidays at his father’s, Chris came back to Maplewood, and the difference felt like a hard cut. There, at least for a few days, he had been able to pretend that his life was still his own. Here at home, his mother’s gaze was waiting again, the one that classified everything: clothes, posture, voice, schedules. And hardly had he arrived back in his rose-colored room when Adam’s name was already vibrating on his phone—not necessarily with threats, often just with a curt “When are we seeing each other?” That was enough. Chris knew what stood behind it.\n\nAt school, the second semester was starting, but Chris’ head stayed as if packed in cotton. He tried to pull himself together: start homework earlier, write summaries, stare at his phone less in the evenings. But by now the days were crammed full of roles that devoured each other. Classes, Susan’s constant checking—and in between, that permanent state of alert because Adam could “demand” something at any time. Even when nothing was happening right then, Chris felt the pressure like a weight on his tongue.\n\nAt some point Susan noticed that his grades weren’t going up. She didn’t wait for a report card; she only needed a few comments from teachers and Chris’ quiet evasions to get started. In the kitchen, in a tone that was sweet and cutting at the same time, she set down the threat: if his performance wasn’t good enough for college, she would send him to cosmetology school. Not as an option, but as a plan. As if she were even doing him a favor with it.\n\nCollege was the only glimmer of hope for Chris. He clung to it like a rope over an abyss: finally away from his mother, finally away from Adam, finally somewhere nobody knew him and nobody called him “Boob Chris.” Just the thought of sitting in a dorm, in a new room, with a new address, sometimes let him breathe better at night.\n\nBut his school performance didn’t get better.\n\nThe harder he tried, the more everything slipped away from him. He forgot assignments, mixed up formulas, read texts twice and still didn’t know what was in them. Sometimes he lay over a notebook and realized after ten minutes that he had only been staring at the same line. The hormones made his mood unpredictable; on some days he felt flat and tired, on others overexcited and empty at the same time. And on top of that came the constant, embarrassing vigilance as a “girl”: sitting, smiling, not too wide-legged, not too loud, not too direct—as if every normal movement could endanger the disguise. It was as if one part of his brain was constantly doing an extra job while the rest was actually supposed to be learning math or literature.\n\nChris’ hope for college slowly tipped in the spring from “If I can make it…” to “If I’m lucky…” And every time he caught himself doing that, he felt shame—not only because he was slipping, but because he no longer really recognized himself. He had once been able to fight. Now he gave in, almost automatically. To his mother. To Adam. To time.\n\nAdam stayed there the whole time, like a bracket that was never entirely visible and yet pressed everything together. Chris smiled, played along, remained “reliable.” He had countless opportunities to end the whole thing—but whenever he stood just before a real “no,” he saw that video in front of him again, the frozen frame of his own crooked smile with semen at the corners of his mouth. And then he went quiet.\n\nAs graduation drew closer, Chris somehow passed—not well, not with pride, more with the last of his strength. Prom was another humiliation: once more beside Adam, once more “we,” once more looks that turned him into a punchline. Chris endured it because by now he knew that “enduring” had become his default strategy. He smiled for the pictures. He waited until it was over. Afterward he didn’t feel relieved, only drained.\n\nAfter graduation, there was no “You did it” at home in the sense of freedom. Susan was satisfied, yes—satisfied that her project was continuing. She had already made arrangements. Before Chris could even grasp that high school was over, she laid the next track in front of him: enrollment at cosmetology school. She didn’t say it like a punishment, but like a consequence. Like something that was “simply logical.” And Chris stood there, not even properly holding the feeling of graduation in his hands yet, and realized that the ground was being pulled out from under his glimmer of hope.\n\nCollege remained a thought that smelled of freedom.\n\nAnd cosmetology school became a new cage—this time with a timetable.\n\n[[Continue|Chris in der Kosmetikschule.]]

Break pushed the students through the halls like a moody wave. Chris didn’t notice how much his hips swayed and his butt cheeks bounced as he walked. Or how the heels lifted his ass even higher.\n<<set $ort to "stairwell">>\nHe took the stairs to the second floor, heels going “tik-tik” on the stone, the pleated skirt making small, well-behaved arcs. This was his first time wearing heels at school—and the steps were steeper than they looked.\n\nOn one step, the right heel lingered a blink too long on the edge. His ankle gave way—a short, sharp stab—and the world tipped forward.\n\nBefore he truly fell, there was already a grip: two hands, securely wrapped around him, a body catching his balance as if it had been waiting right here for something like this. “Whoa—got you,” said a voice. Aftershave, a hint of shower gel, that clean sports smell, and when Chris looked up, it was [[Dylan|Dylan Carter]], the school’s star quarterback. Eyes suspended somewhere between laughter and concern, a jaw with tiny nicks from training. “You okay?”\n\nChris’s heart hammered in his throat. He felt the warmth in his strong arms and didn’t know what to do with his reaction. His ankle throbbed, and so did his pride. At the same time, there was that completely inappropriate tingling in his stomach that he hadn’t asked for. Just stand. Or say something. Anything.\n\nDylan loosened his grip without letting go. “The stairs are mean,” he said, as if it were the friendliest excuse in the world.\n\nChris felt his face growing too hot. In his head, two sentences ran toward each other, both wanting to get through the door first.\n\n''How does he react?''\n❯ [[He pulls himself together, acts deliberately casual in front of Dylan, and tries not to turn red while doing it.|Cool.][$beliebtheit += 1]]\n❯ [[He plays down the near-fall, even though the situation is horribly embarrassing to him.|Peinliche Situation runterspielen.]]

At home, Chris had almost automatically slipped into his sleep negligee, as if the smooth fabric would help him shake off the evening. It was dark and soft, satin, ending just above his butt and rustling quietly with every movement. In the bathroom, he stood in front of the mirror, washed his face, and stared at himself as if he could read from his face why he had enjoyed the date.\n<<set $ort to "at home">>\nJust as he was removing his lipstick with a cotton pad, [[Susan|Susan Braun]] called from the bedroom: “Chris? Come here for a second.”\n\nHis stomach tightened. He went over, down the hallway, his fingertips still a little damp. His mother was sitting on the bed, her legs crossed, wearing only her skimpy nightgown.\n\n“There you are, sweetheart.” Having just been sitting upright, his mother now let herself fall back onto the bed and then leaned against the end of it.\n\n“Come on, lie down with me,” she urged him, patting the empty space beside her with her right hand. “And then you’re going to tell me everything.”\n\nHesitantly, Chris went to her and settled down beside her. He had left about ten centimeters of space between himself and his mother’s body, but she quickly corrected that by sliding right up against him.\n\n“I’m so proud of you. Tell me. How was it?”\n\n“It was… okay,” he said, and heard himself how unconvincing that “okay” sounded.\n\nSusan smiled as if she had expected exactly that. “Okay means: you don’t want to talk about it because you’re embarrassed. So: did he pick you up?”\n\nChris nodded. “Yes.”\n\n“In what?”\n\n“In… a pick-up,” Chris murmured. He felt the heat in his face again, and that made him angry at himself. It was just a car.\n\nSusan raised an eyebrow. “Of course. And? Did he see you right away and—?” She left the sentence hanging, as if she could already taste the answer.\n\n“He gave me compliments,” Chris said curtly.\n\n“What kind?”\n\nChris’s gaze slid to the side. “Mom…”\n\n“Chris.” Susan said his name like a gentle command. “You don’t have to be ashamed. I just want to know how he treated you.”\n\nHe swallowed. “He said… I looked good.”\n\nSusan leaned even closer against her son. “Just that?”\n\nChris’s ears grew hot. “He said… ‘dangerously good.’” He got it out as if he were saying a forbidden word.\n\nSusan briefly closed her eyes, as if remembering. “Oh, I know lines like that.” Her smile widened. “Where did you go?”\n\n“Minigolf.”\n\n“Cute.” Susan looked at him as if she wanted to play the movie in her head. “Was he… physical?”\n\nChris froze. “What?”\n\n“Did he stand too close to you? Did he touch you?” Her voice was calm, almost matter-of-fact, but her eyes sparkled with curiosity.\n\nChris’s fingers dug into the hem of his negligee. “He…” He broke off, because he suddenly remembered again how those hands had rested on his hips. Too naturally. And how his body had reacted to it, even though he had wanted distance.\n\nSusan waited again.\n\n“At minigolf, he had his hand… here,” Chris finally said, gesturing stiffly at his hips. “As if… as if that were normal.”\n\n“Good.” Susan sounded genuinely proud, and it unsettled Chris almost more than anything else. “And you pushed him away?”\n\n“I… well...,” Chris said hesitantly. “I said ‘no.’ Several times.”\n\n“Did he accept it?”\n\n“Just barely,” Chris said. “He… tested it.”\n\nSusan smiled.\n\nChris felt his shame connect with a thin thread of defiance. “It was still uncomfortable. Sometimes.”\n\n“But?” Susan pressed, very gently.\n\nChris bit his lip. He did not want to say “but.” The “but” was dangerous because it opened up the truth. And yet it came, as if it had already been there all along: “But it was also… exciting.”\n\nSusan’s face brightened, as if Chris had given her a gift. For a moment she really looked younger, as though she were transporting herself back to her own youth: first dates, loud music, the feeling of being desired. Chris noticed how much she enjoyed it—not just his story, but the echo of it inside herself.\n\n“You see,” Susan said softly. “You needed it. You dared to do it. And you were good.”\n\n[[Continue|Sie fühlt sich bestätigt.]]\n\n

Chris kept watching, his back pressed flat against the cold doorframe. Shame rose in him like heat that got stuck in his throat—he knew he wasn’t allowed to look, that this moment didn’t belong to him. And yet he couldn’t look away.\n\nMyles positioned his large cock between Christine’s silky labia. With a little resistance, it slid into her hairless pussy. Chris was utterly transfixed by the scene unfolding before him.\n\nMyles held Christine by the hips and began to thrust into her powerfully.\n\n“Yesss...” “Hah...” “Ohhh...”\n\nChristine moaned like an animal as the hulking football player fucked her with raw intensity. Her tight little pussy was stretched to its absolute limit around his cock just to accommodate such a massive member.\n\nWith every thrust, the bench creaked: “Aaaahhh… ahhhhhh… aaaaaahhh...”\n\nChris’s briefs immediately grew tight, and although he felt a flush of shame and wanted to turn away, he remained rooted to the spot, compelled to watch the bizarre spectacle.\n\nMyles grew faster and harder, and his sister’s moans became increasingly erratic. By now, his cock was completely slicked with her juices.\n\nAfter a few more powerful thrusts, Christine let out a loud moan as her vaginal muscles seized up and her orgasm began to build. Her entire body went rigid; she thrashed beneath him like an electric eel, moaning in pure ecstasy: “AAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh...”\n\n“You are so wonderfully tight, Christine,” Myles moaned in return, pulling back only to thrust forward again the very next moment with full force—a move she met with a sharp cry. He seemed intent on tearing her apart, slamming his cock against her cervix.\n\nHer arousal had become too intense for her to endure such a brutal impalement any longer. Myles allowed her to ride out her climax, slowing his pace and simply holding her captive on his cock until the contractions gripping him began to subside and finally ceased. Her legs, still wrapped tightly around his waist, refused to let him go.\n\nNow, Myles could wait no longer either; he began to fuck her once again. He came after four or five more thrusts.\n\nThey weren't using a condom at all—he’s pumping his load right into my sister’s pussy, Chris thought to himself. Slowly, Myles pulled his cock out of her pussy; the white fluid immediately flowed out from between Christine’s pink labia, ran down her ass, and ultimately landed partly on the seat and partly on the floor.\n\nWhen they finally broke apart, hurriedly put their clothes back on, and Christine fixed her hair, Chris took one step back, then another—quietly, so his soles wouldn’t squeak. He took one deep breath, forced his face into neutrality, and went back down the corridor toward the track.\n\n“Christine will be here in a minute,” he said to Mr. Moore, as if he had seen her on the way and was only passing along a simple message. His voice sounded normal; only in his chest did something still vibrate.\n\nShortly afterward, Christine appeared beside Myles at the exit. She had smoothed her hair back into place, her lips firm, but not pressed tight. “Sorry, I got held up for a moment,” she said, as if that were the whole story. Myles nodded toward the team, a routine “Let’s go,” and disappeared to the Timberwolves.\n\nChristine lined up beside Chris, casually tugged at her bow, checked the fit of her sneakers. She acted completely normal, as if nothing had happened—a brief sideways glance at him, unreadable, then she got into position for stretching and counted along mechanically.\n\nChris’s thoughts still lingered back by the lockers. He saw the scene again and again like a GIF looping endlessly in his head. Between shame and a silent worry, all he could do was breathe in time with the warm-up. “Five–six–seven–eight,” someone called. He raised his arms, hit the count—but inside, he was still standing in the corridor, searching for the point at which a big brother should have looked away.\n\n''How does it continue?''\n<<nobr>>\n<<if $moore == 1>>\n\n<<if $schulball == 1>>\n[[The first home game.|Das erste Heimspiel.]]\n<<else>>\n[[The first home game.|Das erste Heimspiel.3]]\n<<endif>>\n\n<<else>>\n[[The first home game.|Das erste Heimspiel.2]]\n<<endif>>\n<</nobr>>

When the bell finally rang, Chris was glad that a sound tore everyone out of the moment. Chairs scraped, backpacks snapped shut, the class flowed toward the door.\n\n“Chris,” said Mr. Robertson.\n\nChris paused. His stomach tightened.\n\n“Stay a moment.”\n\nThe others kept going, and suddenly the room was far too large and far too empty. Mr. Robertson stood at the teacher’s desk, waiting until the last footsteps in the hallway were louder than the rustling in the classroom. Then he made a gesture toward the door, as if he wanted to close it.\n\n“Close the door so no one bothers us,” he said casually, as if it were purely a formality.\n\nChris’s heart beat harder. He stayed where he was, halfway between the desk and the door, and only nodded. Mr. Robertson closed the door.\n\n“Don’t put so much pressure on yourself,” Mr. Robertson said, and his voice grew softer, almost confidential. “You’re… different from most people here.” He smiled, as if it were a compliment only he could recognize. “You seem so mature. More grown-up than the other girls.”\n\nChris felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise slightly. Girls. The word hit him in a crooked corner. He smiled reflexively, a polite smile that revealed no opinion.\n\n“Thank you,” he managed.\n\n“I mean it.” Mr. Robertson stepped closer, too close, so that Chris involuntarily wanted to take half a step back, but didn’t. “The others… they’re cruel because they’re insecure themselves.” He looked at Chris as if placing him in a secret drawer. “You shouldn’t let them get to you. If anything happens—you can always come to me.”\n\nChris nodded again, too quickly.\n\nMr. Robertson raised his hand and placed it on Chris’s shoulder, as if it were comforting. It was only a moment, only light pressure—and still everything inside Chris tightened, as if someone had touched a boundary he himself had not yet clearly drawn. His skin suddenly felt too thin.\n\n“You’re doing well,” Mr. Robertson said quietly. “Really.”\n\nChris forced himself to nod.\n\n“Good.” Mr. Robertson smiled again, as if everything were perfectly normal. “You can go.”\n\nChris took his bag, murmured a “Thank you, Mr. Robertson,” and went to the door. When he stepped into the hallway, the murmur of voices was like fresh air. He walked faster, without running, and felt the heat in his face slowly fade.\n\n''What happens next?''\n<<nobr>><<if $club == 1 && $moore == 0>>[[Lunchtime.|Lunchtime2.1]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 1 && $moore == 1>>[[Lunchtime.|Lunchtime2.2]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 0 >>[[Lunchtime.|Lunchtime2.3]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 2 && $lucas == 1 >>[[Lunchtime.|Lunchtime2.4]]<<endif>>\n<<if $club == 3>>[[Lunchtime.|Lunchtime2.5]]<<endif>><</nobr>>

The host drew it out, of course. She let the microphone stay silent for one heartbeat too long, held up the envelope as if it were an Oscar, and the audience leaned forward as if Maplewood’s future depended on it.\n\n“And Miss Maplewood—Founders’ Spirit—goes to…”\n\nA name was called. Applause rolled forward like a wave. There was no confetti, only a few strips of paper someone hastily tossed into the air. The winner was given the sash and a maple-leaf crown that sparkled almost cheesily in the light of the string lights.\n\nChris heard the clapping as if through cotton wool. He stood there, smiled, clapped along, and waited for the moment when he would feel relieved.\n\nInstead, something stabbed into him: disappointment. Strange, illogical. He had wanted to be eliminated, hadn’t he? He had hated all of this. And yet—when he saw how close it had been, how near, he felt that quiet Why not me? inside him like an unpleasant, honest child.\n\nHe came second. Almost won. And the “almost” stuck.\n\nChris smiled with his face while that contradictory tug still sat in his stomach. The helper draped a sash over his shoulder—a white band with blue-and-gold lettering, “FIRST RUNNER-UP”—and smoothed it down so it lay perfectly over the bodice. Then the host pressed an envelope into his hand. “And a voucher for our wonderful Maplewood Beauty Salon—a little pampering package!” Chris nodded, accepted the envelope, which suddenly felt much too light and at the same time much too official in his fingers, and briefly held it up because that was simply what one did. Flashes clicked, somewhere the D&D boys cheered far too loudly again, and Chris stood there with a sash and voucher, as if the town had just hung a new piece of role onto him.\n\nSusan was at his side immediately as they left the stage. Her face was glowing. “Chris!” She grabbed him by the shoulders, hugged him briefly, firmly. “You were magnificent. Second place! I’m so proud of you.”\n\nChris felt his throat tighten at those words. Not from shame this time, but because it felt… good. Really good. Pride from his mother was rare and dangerous, but in that moment it was warm and real, and Chris realized how much he had longed for it—even if he would never have admitted it.\n\n“Thank you,” he managed, and he meant it.\n\n“We’re taking a photo,” Susan said at once, and Chris let it happen. He smiled into the camera, sash over the costume, number 17 on the bodice, as if all of it were normal. And somewhere in that smile there was still a small remnant: I could have won, too.\n\nBackstage, he changed quickly afterward, loosened the bodice, untied the apron, breathed freely as soon as his normal clothes were back on. The festival noise outside suddenly felt less threatening, more like background music.\n\nHe found the boys from the D&D club where they were standing like a little fan group with dice hearts. When they saw him, the cheering started immediately—Ben clapped over his head again, Jay shouted “Second place!” as if it were a championship title, and Max grinned so broadly that he was embarrassed by it himself.\n\n“You’re insane,” Chris said and laughed, this time without pressure.\n\n“You were almost Miss Maplewood!” Ben shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it. “That’s… legendary.”\n\nChris rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop himself from feeling proud as he did. With them, the whole day suddenly felt like an absurd adventure, not an exam.\n\nThey moved on through the festival grounds, ate far-too-sweet maple candies, fooled around at the can toss, loudly debated which fantasy race would best survive a parade, and Jay explained to a completely confused booth operator why a throw with the left hand was “statistically” better.\n\nChris let himself be pulled along and noticed the disappointment slowly growing smaller. Not gone—but lighter. He hadn’t won. But he had received something else: his mother’s pride, a heap of exaggerated nerd cheering, and an afternoon when he didn’t have to hide in order to have fun.\n\nAs the strings of lights seemed brighter in the darkness and Maplewood smelled of sugar and autumn, Chris thought that maybe it had been a pretty good day after all.\n<<set $choice_ahorn1 to 4>>\n[[Continue|Bewertungstag.]]

“Come on,” he said only. “To the office.”\n<<set $ort to "office">>\nChris’s mind went blank. He walked beside him, every step too loud. The hallways suddenly seemed huge and unfamiliar. It was that classic walk-of-shame phase: doors he normally never noticed, a phone ringing somewhere, voices from rooms that had nothing to do with him—and yet it felt as if everyone knew exactly where he was going.\n\nIn the office, a secretary sat behind the counter. She looked up briefly, then at a form, then back at Chris. “Sit down. Wait.” She said nothing more.\n\nChris sat down on a chair that felt like a judgment. On the wall hung a poster about “Respect” and “Integrity,” now staring at him mockingly. He stared at his hands. The room smelled of paper and copier heat.\n\nAfter a few minutes, a door opened. The assistant principal—the Dean of Students—appeared and waved Chris into an office with a curt nod. Inside it was quiet, voices muted, the door falling shut.\n\n“What happened?” the Dean asked matter-of-factly.\n\nChris tried to explain. First he stammered out excuses, then only the truth remained, in broken pieces: fear of a bad grade, no time, being overwhelmed. He felt small, not because he had been caught, but because he had watched himself doing it.\n\n“Why?” the Dean asked again, and this time he didn’t mean the method, but the point at which Chris had decided to risk it.\n\nChris’s shoulders sank. “I… I felt like I wouldn’t manage it otherwise.”\n\nThe Dean nodded slowly, wrote something down. “The office will call your mother. She’s coming here.” The tone was neutral, but final.\n\nAfter that, Chris was placed in an ISS/reflection room so he wouldn’t go back to class. A silent room, a table, a worksheet he didn’t really read. Time stretched. He heard footsteps in the hall, the clicking of heels, doors opening and closing. In his head, the same seconds from the test played over and over—the visible tugging at the hem, every quick sideways glance. And the shame of how much he had hoped to get away with it.\n\nWhen his mother finally arrived, Chris was called back into the office. The conversation was short and formal: what had been observed, which rule applied—“Academic Integrity”—and that there was no gray area. Susan sat beside him, lips pressed into a line, while the Dean listed the consequences:\n\n- 0 points for the test, no chance to retake it\n- Detention\n- Entry in his record and an “Integrity Contract” for Chris to sign\n\nChris put the pen to the paper, his hand trembling slightly. As he signed, it felt as if he were not only confirming a rule violation—but also surrendering a part of the control he barely had anymore anyway.\n\n[[Continue|Standpauke, fahrt nach Hause.2]]

That afternoon, the house smelled of detergent and warm cotton. Chris was in his room when his mother came in and placed a stack of freshly washed laundry on the bed. Blouses and tights, skirts underneath—and then, far too visible, underwear.\n<<set $ort to "Chris’s girl’s room">>\nChris’s gaze caught on a pair of panties that didn’t belong to his things. Part of him registered it immediately: Those were Christine’s. He recognized them by the color and the small, unobtrusive pattern on the waistband—one of those garments you never consciously looked at and still could place at once.\n\nInvoluntarily, he thought of the day he had accidentally worn a pair of his sister’s panties. It had happened quickly in the morning, he had grabbed something in the half-dark, hadn’t looked—and only later realized that something was wrong. The fabric had pinched, the waistband had been too tight, every movement had tugged as if the thing were reminding him: wrong, wrong, wrong. He had spent the whole morning discreetly pulling at it, without knowing how he would have explained it if anyone had noticed.\n\nNow those panties were simply lying there, on his bed, among his things, as if the boundary between “mine” and “not mine” were only a matter of laundry baskets.\n\n“That doesn’t belong to me,” Chris said quietly, pointing at it briefly.\n\nSusan followed his gaze. “Then put it with Christine’s things later.” She didn’t sound embarrassed, more annoyed by the disorder. “And you,” Susan said, “are going to fold your things properly now. None of this bunching them up. That isn’t how it’s done.” She picked up an item, let it glide through her fingers. “Lace here—careful. Smooth fabric—don’t twist it. And dark colors with dark colors.”\n\nChris’s face grew warm. He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for the first pieces. His hands worked automatically: smooth it once, fold the edges together, line up the waistband. He felt shame doing it—not only because he was folding underwear, but because his mother was standing beside him and commenting as if it were a test.\n\n“Every pair of panties you fold properly is a step away from your old chaos.”\n\nAt the same time, he noticed how practiced his fingers had become. Before, he would have hesitated, would have done it clumsily, would have felt awkward. Now it happened almost by itself, cleanly, quickly, neatly.\n\nThat routine made him nervous in a different way.\n\n“See?” Susan nodded with satisfaction as he finished a stack. “There you go. Let me guess: by now it even feels normal, doesn’t it?”\n\nChris said nothing. He folded one piece after another until a neat tower had formed. Then he took his sister’s panties, held them in his hand a moment too long, and finally set them aside—as if he wanted to prove to himself that he still knew where the boundary was.\n\nSusan ran her hand over the finished stack once more, almost lovingly. “That’s the way.”\n\nChris looked at his hands and felt shame and habit hook into each other inside him—like two threads you could no longer pull apart without unraveling everything.\n\n[[Continue|Der nächste Schultag.]]

Saturday found [[Maplewood|Maplewood]] looking spick-and-span, as if the town had spruced itself up, then spruced itself up again, and then once more for good measure. Garlands of blue-and-white fabric hung over Main Street, and small cardboard maple leaves dangled between the lampposts, clattering in the wind. Chris stood with his mother and sister at the edge of the parade, a dress on his body that played lightly around his knees with every breath of air. Around him: children shrieking, the squeak of balloons, the scent of roasted almonds and maple syrup settling over the air like a film.\n<<set $wochentag = 6>><<set $ort to "">>\nThe marching band was already approaching from far off. Drums that made the ground vibrate, brass instruments cutting bright into the sky. Susan had long since had her phone in her hand, as if it were an extra sense. “Stand a little to the left,” she said without looking up. “The light’s better there. And smile.”\n\nChris smiled. Not too much. Not too little. That “festival smile” you wore for photos. Christine stood beside him, arms crossed, her eyes half on the street, half somewhere else. She looked like someone who had decided simply to get through the day.\n\n<center>[img[pics/Stadtfest.jpg]]</center> The first big float rolled up. A sign was emblazoned on the front: “Founders of Maplewood.” Up top stood people in linen shirts and straw hats, playing at “old times”—wooden crates, grain sacks, a small wooden wheel turning decoratively. A woman cheerfully waved a basket of artificial apples, as if they were relics. On a platform beside her stood a speaker with a microphone, his voice far too cheerful.\n\n“…and that’s how Maplewood was born from true community spirit!” he called. “Craftsmanship, agriculture, free education—a place where everyone was there for everyone!”\n\nSusan took one photo after another, as if she could capture the past in pixels. “Look how pretty!” she breathed, and Chris didn’t know whether she meant the float or him.\n\nFrom the next float, colorful, shiny candies flew in arcs over the crowd. Children shot forward like little arrows, hands in the air, cries like seagulls. Chris instinctively ducked his head—too late. A candy bounced off his shoulder, slid along the fabric, and vanished… exactly where he needed it least.\n\nHe froze.\n\nIt was only a candy. A small, harmless thing. But it was lying in his cleavage as if it had chosen the most embarrassing parking spot in the world. Chris felt the heat in his face before he even knew how to move without making it worse.\n\nSusan laughed, of course immediately holding up her phone. “Wait, I have to—”\n\n“No!” Chris hissed, too quickly, too panicked, and reached for the candy with pinched fingers as if removing a living spider.\n\nChristine let out a short, dry laugh that held more pity than mockery.\n\nThe parade went on. Stalls lined the street: maple candies in little gold bags, maple soap, maple candles, maple-shaped cookies with icing. A woman sold small wood carvings, and beside her someone was playing a fiddle. Everything was loud, cheerful, sticky.\n\nA group came down the street, all in the same colors—cream and dark green, as if they had agreed on a theme. Not costumes like the “Founders,” more like… uniforms, only civilian. They walked very evenly, shoulder to shoulder, their steps strikingly synchronized. And they called out an old festival saying that the people at the edges laughingly repeated because it sounded so traditional.\n\n“One town, one heart!” called the man in front.\n\n“One town, one heart!” the row answered, in the same rhythm, in the same tone.\n\nIt sounded harmless. Almost cute. But Chris felt that strange unease—less because of the words than because of the way they were said. Too clean. Too collective. Like a chant that had already been practiced a thousand times.\n\nSusan noticed none of it. She kept snapping photos. Christine, on the other hand, raised her eyebrows slightly, as if she had heard the same off-key undertone.\n\nThe group handed out flyers. A friendly-smiling man gave Chris a sheet as if he were handing him a coupon. At the top, in ornate script, it said:\n\n“Founders’ Circle – Preserving Our Heritage”\n\nBelow were a few sentences about community, tradition, “roots,” and “solidarity.” It sounded nice. Like a local heritage club. And yet it had that recruiting note—that come join us, we know what’s right. Chris took the flyer, because that was simply what you did.\n\nAs the man moved on, the chant lingered in the air for a moment, the way music does after a concert.\n\nSusan nudged him. “Smile for once. It’s a beautiful day.”\n\nChris smiled for the photo again.\n\n[[Continue|Chris braucht Luft.]]

<<set $ort to "school">><<if $ladendiebin == 1>>Even before the bus had reached the school, Chris felt the looks. Sharp, curious, with that little spark of schadenfreude that instantly flicked away again as soon as he looked. One girl pulled up the corners of her mouth as if she wanted to say “Poor thing,” but didn’t. Two others leaned together and whispered. Chris sat still, too still, and that seemed to encourage the others—not too openly, just enough to let him know they had filed him away: as someone who had been humiliated by Zoe yesterday.\n\n<<endif>><<if $ladendiebin == 2>>Even before the bus had reached the school, Chris felt the change from yesterday. A few students gave him those looks that lasted too long to be accidental; someone grinned as if he had seen a scene with Zoe yesterday. Two boys whispered, one making a brief defensive motion with his hand—a ridiculously exaggerated pantomime—and both laughed quietly. Chris felt his cheeks grow hot, not only from shame, but also from the bitter aftertaste that he had defended himself as a boy against a girl and was still the one being laughed at now. He held his back straight as if it were armor and stared at the street until the bus finally arrived.\n\n<<endif>>Mr. Robertson’s announcement came in second period: “Reminder: Health/Sex Ed, mandatory session for all female students. Please report to Room 204 at 10:15.” The school board had complained last year about too many teen pregnancies, and this was now the result.\n\nA few boys in the classroom whistled softly, someone muttered “Have fun,” and the giggling washed through the room like a small, unfriendly wave.\n\nChris felt a sudden heat flare inside him. Only the girls? he thought. Seriously? If the school board was sounding the alarm over too many teen pregnancies, why wasn’t everyone sitting in there? At least fifty percent of the equation was walking the halls in hoodies, and yet only the ones wearing skirts were being pushed into the “mandatory course.” The injustice burned until it fell back on him like a flashlight aimed directly at his face. He flinched inwardly. For a moment, he had forgotten that he wasn’t a girl at all. The embarrassing click of that realization hurt more than any joke from the class.\n\nRoom 204 smelled of disinfectant and felt-tip marker. Rows of chairs, a screen at the front, beside it a board with neatly written bullet points: Contraception • Consent • Boundaries • Health. [[Mrs. Rivera|Lucia Rivera]], the school health teacher, stood ready with a stack of brochure-bright materials.\n\nShe was in her mid-thirties, wore heels and a far-too-short skirt. Her figure was slim and athletic. But she definitely had feminine curves in the right places. You could tell that Mrs. Rivera felt comfortable in her own skin, and secretly she enjoyed the longing looks from the boys when she strolled through the school hallways in her miniskirt and thin top. Sometimes she noticed that one girl or another watched her with desire in her eyes as well, which she certainly did not find unpleasant.\n\n“Good morning,” she began. “I know some of you would rather be somewhere else. But we’re going to take this casually today. The goal isn’t to scare you, but to give you tools. We’ll talk about condoms, the pill, and other methods. About protection from diseases. And about options if something goes wrong—including the question of who you can turn to here at school.”\n\nChris shifted on his chair, the nylon of his pantyhose whispering under the pleated skirt. He sat between Charlotte and Ruby; Zoe had dropped into a seat two rows behind them and was already scribbling across a flyer with a ballpoint pen. When Mrs. Rivera unpacked a condom—“Demonstration, so you’ve seen it once, used correctly”—a collective intake of breath went through the room.\n\nMrs. Rivera took a rather large penis model out of her bag, which first made its way through everyone’s hands before she took it back. In response to the girls’ incredulous questions, she explained that an erect penis really was approximately the size of this model, but that there were also considerably larger examples. Chris immediately developed an inferiority complex. Not even Mrs. Rivera’s explanation—that size didn’t matter, but at most how well a boy knew how to use it—could reassure him.\n\nThe prospect of one day being deflowered by such a large penis caused unease rather than pleasure, at least among the inexperienced classmates. Mrs. Rivera seemed to sense the girls’ thoughts, because she assured them that they did not have to be afraid of that moment and that ultimately no penis, no matter how large, would be too large if they were truly in love.\n\nAfter the murmuring and whispering among the girls slowly died down again, she explained very vividly which touches a boy particularly enjoys on his penis and where the most sensitive zones are. Then she demonstrated on the model how to roll a condom onto a boy. After that, each of the girls was allowed to try for herself how it worked and what they had to pay particular attention to. Some of the girls already seemed to have their own experience, because they handled the delicate latex material quite routinely. Zoe in particular caused quite a stir when she rolled the condom onto the silicone penis with her lips and then looked around triumphantly. In the end, there was huge laughter when Chris nervously fumbled with the “model” and the condom suddenly slipped from his hand and flew across the room.\n\n“The pill,” Mrs. Rivera finally continued the lesson, pointing to a slide. “Daily, at the same time. Side effects are possible; everyone reacts differently.”\n\nNot that it would affect me, Chris thought automatically, I can’t get pregnant if I sleep with a boy. The thought broke like a stumbling stone in the middle of his head. He blinked, as if he could undo the words. Sleep with a boy? His stomach tightened, his ears grew hot. I’m not planning to sleep with a boy. Never. Not in a hundred years. The inner voice sounded defiant, almost offended. But why did he have to turn it on at all? Where had that absurd thought come from?\n\n[[Continue|Pause auf der Mädchentoilette.]]

The shopping center glowed in warm autumn light, and Susan headed purposefully for the store with the formal dresses. Inside, it smelled of new fabric and perfume samples; a saleswoman with a measuring tape around her neck greeted them and began pulling over racks of shimmering dresses.\n<<set $ort to "Mall">>\nChris disappeared into the fitting room and emerged again and again in turn: first a simple dark blue with small cap sleeves—“too prim,” Susan said—then a softly falling emerald green with a high neck—“too theatrical.” A powdery rose in an A-line cut made him look delicate; Chris liked the restraint, but his mother twisted her mouth. “Homecoming, not a piano recital.”\n\n“I don’t want anything loud,” Chris murmured, just as the saleswoman was already handing over the next dress.\n\n“It should be you,” Susan said sweetly, pulling the curtain shut, “only beautiful.”\n\nFor the final round, the saleswoman came with a backless dress in deep midnight blue. The fabric had a fine sheen, almost liquid. In front, an elegant, narrow neckline; the waist gently emphasized; the skirt fell in soft panels over the legs. The special part was the back: wide straps in front that tapered into delicate spaghetti straps at the back, framing a V of bare skin. A narrow slit in the hem promised freedom of movement while dancing.\n\n<center>[img[pics/outfit8.jpg]]</center> Chris stepped in front of the mirror. The light caught in the fabric, his shoulders looked long, his back still and smooth between the straps. Heat rose into his cheeks. He blushed—not only because of the skin, but because the sight made him feel both proud and exposed at the same time.\n\n“That’s the one,” Susan said without hesitation. “Backless, elegant, but not vulgar. <<if $schulball == 1>>Dylan<<endif>><<if $schulball == 2>>Lucas<<endif>><<if $schulball == 3>>Adam<<endif>> will drop dead.”\n\n“Mom…” Chris turned sideways, checking the fall of the fabric—and made a face. “You can see the outline of my panties.” He pointed with two fingers to his hip and butt, where fine lines showed beneath the smooth fabric. “I can’t go to Homecoming like this.”\n\nSusan only raised her eyebrows, as if she had been waiting for that. “There are solutions for that,” she said with the certainty of a project manager.\n\nChris blinked. “What solutions?”\n\n[[Continue|Unterwäsche einkaufen.]]

The door of the girls’ locker room swung open, and a wave of warm air, shampoo, and deodorant smell hit Chris. Voices overlapped, locker doors banged, a hinge squeaked somewhere. The moment his foot crossed the edge of the tile, he regretted it. The courage that outside had still sounded like “not standing out” collapsed in on itself. Shame pulled his shoulders tighter, and the fear of being exposed ran down his back like cold water.\n<<set $ort to "girls’ locker room">>\nHe lowered his gaze so far that he almost tripped over his own bag, and headed for Christine, who had already opened her locker. “Here,” she said tonelessly, shifting a little to the side so he could squeeze himself between bench and metal. Chris nodded frantically, set down his uniform, and began changing as if trying to set a record. T-shirt over his head, shorts out of the bag—all with the mechanical concentration of someone who didn’t want to think.\n\nThe fabric of the school shirt scratched a little against his skin; this fabric blend that gets better after twenty washes, but still scratches today. “Okay,” he murmured, and was glad for the girlish undershirt he had reluctantly put on that morning: a thin, smooth piece of fabric between him and the T-shirt, a buffer shield for his far-too-sensitive nipples. Wearing a bra? No. That would have been too girlish for him, too final, as if setting a period he was still refusing internally.\n\nThe soundscape made it hard not to be curious. Laughter, scraps of conversation (“—Pep Rally—,” “—Tryouts Tuesday—”), the dull thump of a locker door falling shut. A thought slipped through the cracks against his will: If he was already here, if he was already enduring this fear—wasn’t it every boy’s dream to stand in a locker room like this? He blinked, straightened the hem of his shirt. Just one fleeting glance, a voice said.\n\nTo his left was [[Charlotte|Charlotte Walters]]. Athletic, slim, with that sunny undertone that didn’t disappear even in fluorescent light. Her dark bangs sometimes fell into her eyes, and then she brushed them aside with an effortless motion.\n\nTo his right stood [[Ruby|Ruby Hicks]], the red-haired nuisance with the two braids.\n\nChris’s heart was beating too fast for the cramped room. He reminded himself that any glance that lasted too long could ruin everything. So he breathed, kept his shoulders narrow, tightened the drawstring of the shorts, and let his gaze…\n\n''🕶️ Cover +1''\n\n''Where should his gaze go?''\n❯ [[A glance at Charlotte.|Ein Blick zu Charlotte.][$charlotte += 1]]\n❯ [[A glance at Ruby.|Ein Blick zu Ruby.]]\n❯ [[He resists the temptation.|Er widersteht der Versuchung.]]

Adam then stepped up to Chris, and before he knew it, Chris could suddenly feel his hand between his legs! It had been bold and outrageous of him, but instead of defending himself against this terrible harassment, Chris even spread his legs and pushed his lower body toward him.\n\nAdam’s hand fiddled with Chris’ limp penis. He could feel that Chris wasn’t aroused and hoped to get him in the mood that way. Chris’ quiet gasp, however, had been caused less by arousal than by desperation when Adam pulled his foreskin back too hard.\n\nAdam then opened his fly to take out his cock while Chris lay down on his bed. Then Adam grabbed him by the right thigh to lift his naked leg up onto his shoulder.\n\nChris simply closed his eyes and stretched out his arms. It didn’t take long before he suddenly felt the head of Adam’s penis at his anus and Adam began to penetrate Chris with his penis. Chris held his breath as the stiff sex organ was pushed into him.\n\nThey had no lubricant, so it wasn’t easy for Adam to press his club all the way into his ass. Hardly had his pelvis reached Chris’ hips when he began to build up a rhythm and fuck Chris hard and without restraint. His fingers dug so far into Chris’ thigh that it already hurt him.\n\nChris clutched his satin bedsheet with his manicured fingers while Adam used all his strength to take Chris violently in every possible way. He moaned and gasped with arousal, while otherwise all that could be heard was the slapping of his overweight lower body between Chris’ legs and the bed, which creaked quite ominously. His thrusts became faster and harder, while Chris was thrown back and forth like a doll.\n\nAdam began the final hard thrusts. When he came, it was like fireworks from a thousand cannons. He moaned out his relief without restraint and shot load after load of semen into Chris’ sexy body.\n\nChris lay on the bed. The satin sheets felt cool and smooth beneath him, and yet he had the feeling that something was sticking to him. His gaze hung on the ceiling without really seeing anything. There was a lump in his throat, and in his stomach a heavy, empty pulling.\n\nHe felt dirty and used, not because anything was visible, but because that was how it felt inside: as if he had given himself away once again, piece by piece, just to avoid trouble. He wondered what he had done wrong in his life to end up lying here now—in a room that looked like a girl’s room, in a body that no longer felt like his own, with a secret that others used like a leash.\n\nAnd somewhere inside him, very quietly, a thought formed like a final chance he had not taken: That things could have gone differently.\n\n''End 8 of 10 - "Pink Princess"''\n<<set $ende8 to 1>>\n[[📖 Statistics|Statistik][$selbstbild += 2]] - [[🏆 Bonus & Endings|Enden]]

At the kitchen table, cups and a plate of toast were already set out; the warm scent of coffee hung in the air. DeShawn sat casually at the end of the table, barefoot, relaxed, as if Sunday belonged to him.\n<<set $ort to "Küche">>\nLatoya stretched and grabbed some orange juice. “Morning,” she grinned.\n\nSusan came last; she was wearing a matching miniskirt and top and had that special glow in her eyes.\n\n“Girl, you look exhausted,” Latoya teased and bit into a strawberry.\n\nSusan shot DeShawn a sideways glance that said more than words, and smiled. “I’m doing excellent.”\n\nBreakfast drifted along in small waves—jam, butter, two loose jokes. Afterward, Susan set down her cup and turned to Chris. “We’re heading out again in a bit,” she said, her tone casually decisive. “DeShawn is going to show me something downtown.”\n\nShe stepped up to Chris, briefly wrapped her arms around his shoulders—a foul smell of semen on her breath—and leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek.\n\n''How does Chris react?''\n[[He lets her kiss his cheek.|Er lässt sich seine Wange küssen.][$susan += 1]]\n[[He pushes her away.|Er stößt sie weg.]]