Men's Rights (Futa/M)

Righto, so I haven't done... anything on FP in ages, but I thought up a random (albeit cliched) idea a few weeks ago, and scrapped together the first chapter of a story. I'll probably do more, but no idea how much more. I've never written anything like this before, so I hope it's up to snuff.

This story is going to be mostly Futa and male, with femdom themes and crossdressing throughout, though perhaps not in the way you're thinking. It may throw you for a bit, but I think it becomes pretty clear as the story goes on.

I wake up at the usual time, 6:35. It’s a weird time to set my alarm to, sure, but I found if I set it for 6:30, I feel terribly groggy in the mornings, and if I set it to 6:45, I always wake up before the alarm hits, then doze off right before it wakes me again. So that’s when it’s set, and that’s when I get up. My bed is pretty standard; a bit of filigree carved into the wooden headrest is the only flair on it. It’s a twin, of course. My mom wanted me to get a queen, so if I ever brought home a girl, we’d have plenty of space to fool around with, but I told her I wasn’t interested in that kind of thing. The truth was, a twin’s easier to keep clean, and the small amount of laziness that came with smaller sheets to drag to the wash was my real reason. My dad told my mom that it was just because, if I ever was going to settle down with a girl, I’d be over at her house far more often than I would be at mine, especially at night. Mom seemed happy with that. My dad’s cool like that.

I should mention that the rest of my room’s furniture was purchased by my Mom, as well, meaning it’s extremely boyish. Hearts everywhere, mostly pink, but a few violet colored ones adorn the mirror on the vanity. There’s some simple makeup there, but I hardly ever wear it. It’s for formal occasions only, or when my boss demands it because she has an important client (She once was casually reprimanded for having a “butch-ass dyke” for a secretary). I also wear it when my mom comes to visit, because it’ll save me a lecture about not caring about my appearance.

For the record, I do care about my appearance. Just because I don’t slather on the lipstick and mascara like most boys doesn’t mean I don’t take pride in how I look. I take care in my shower to not mess up my hair too much, and after it dries a bit, I make sure it’s neat and straight. I’m glad it’s only shoulder length, though (as always) my mom wants me to grow it longer, maybe get it done in twin side ponytails, as is all the rage right now. I swear, she’d have me look like a carbon copy of the boys in Glamour if she could.

Anyway, it’s 6:35. I wake up, shower, spend about 20 minutes making sure my hair looks good. Teeth are brushed, mouthwash is gargled. I shave my face and legs, because while I’m not exactly a boyish charmer, I’m not going to go full dyke any time soon. I haven’t gotten laser follicle removal, because I h