My name is Misha, and I never felt like I belonged. At fifteen, I was a fat kid with a belly bulging out from under T-shirts that were too tight, and a chest—soft and feminine, with large, puffy nipples—that men on the beach had been ogling since I was thirteen. I dreamed of being a girl. In the quiet of my room in that settlement—where the windows would fog up with a sense of hopelessness—I would dress up in my mother’s old clothes and pose before a cracked mirror, trying to catch a glimpse of the person I wanted to become. It was also there—at summer camp—that I had my first kiss and an awkward, trembling blowjob with a boy from the neighboring cabin: a brief burst of forbidden warmth amidst a cold reality.

  Then came college and the dormitory, where loneliness hung in the air like a thick, clinging fog. I kept to myself, shrinking away, trying to remain unnoticed. But Yuri Sergeyevich—a lecturer, a large, gray-haired man of fifty-three with an authoritative gaze that seemed to see right through me—apparently took notice. One day, after class, he kept me behind and said quietly, almost paternally, "Do you miss home? I have a spare room for the weekend." No one was waiting for me at home. Back at the dorm, I told everyone I was visiting family, my heart pounding from the lie.

 His apartment turned out to be modest, almost ascetic. There was a scent of old books, tobacco, and something else—something masculine and unsettling. "Change," he said, handing me something silky and lacy. "In the bathroom." The nightgown was sheer; it clung to my body, accentuating every curve I both loathed and secretly cherished. When I emerged, he was already wearing a robe over his bare skin. He exuded a quiet, confident strength.

 He poured some wine—strong and dry. He offered me a cigarette; I coughed, yet tried to draw on it as gracefully as I imagined a girl would. "Let's dance, Marishka," he said, and that name—invented, feminine—sent a searing jolt through me. I became Marishka. His large hands rested on my waist; through the thin fabric, I could feel the heat of his palms. We spun to the soft music, my head swimming from the wine and the unreality of the moment.

 I decided to show my gratitude. I sank to my knees on the rough carpet, my trembling fingers trying to part the folds of his robe and take hold of his cock. My heart was pounding wildly—I knew how to do it; the memory of that experience at the camp came flooding back, bringing a rush of hot shame and arousal. But he took me by the chin—gently yet firmly—and lifted my face. "No, Marishka," he said in a low voice. "That won't be enough to settle the score."

 He led me into the bedroom. The room was dark, save for a strip of light from the living room falling across the edge of the simple bed. "Lie on your stomach," he commanded, his voice brooking no argument. I obeyed, feeling the silk of my nightgown ride up. Cold lubricant, then a finger—a sharp, unfamiliar, deeply alien intrusion. I clutched the sheet, stifling a groan. It didn't hurt, but it felt very strange, humiliating, and at the same time, perversely ticklish. Then two fingers—stretching, an internal pressure that stole my breath away. "It hurts—please, let's take a break," I gasped, my voice sounding thin and alien. "Please."

 We were drinking again. Dancing. He called me a girl—a pretty one—while his hands grew increasingly insistent. I could see a huge, distinct cock hardening and rising beneath his robe. My own small, unremarkable penis shrank painfully from a mix of fear and bewildered arousal. He tried to take me right there in the living room, positioning me on all fours. But the pain at the very first attempt to push in was sharp and primal, and I instinctively recoiled. It didn't work out.

 In the bedroom, he slid his lubricated fingers inside me again. Three of them. The world narrowed down to that unbearable, stretching sensation deep within. Pain and desire coiled into a single, tight, hot knot low in my belly. As he stood by the bed, putting on and lubricating a condom, I lay on my back and watched. I watched his body—large, grizzled, and powerful. I watched that massive, awe-inspiring cock that was about to enter me. And—oh, God—I loved it. I loved feeling desired, even if only as an object, as "it."

 He placed a pillow under my hips. "Relax your hole, Marishka; it’s going to be a bit unpleasant," he said. I looked into his eyes. The first thrust felt like being torn in two. A blinding white pain. I cried out, and he froze. "Should I go on?" he asked gently, almost tenderly. I simply nodded, biting my lip. Tears were already welling in my eyes.

 He began to move. At first slowly, with the same tender words. "You’re so good... So soft..." Then his tone began to shift. Admiration gave way to rough approval. "Ah, what an ass... Tight, sweet..." And then, simply to profanity. "Slut. My horny slut. Take it, whore." Every word struck my mind, humiliating me, yet somehow making me clench even tighter inside. The pain didn't vanish; it became a background hum overlaid by his thrusts—ever rougher, ever deeper. I groaned. Those groans weren't just from pain—they held a sense of surrender, an admission that I was exactly what he called me. And I liked it. I wept. Tears streamed down my temples and dripped onto the sheet, yet I endured it all, bracing myself against his powerful thrusts that seemed to shatter my pelvis.

 Then he shuddered, let out a low, hoarse groan, and went still, pressing his full weight against me. I could feel something pulsing inside the condom, filling it with warmth. He pulled out, breathing heavily, and patted my cheek. "Congratulations, Marishka—you’re not a virgin anymore. You turned out to be a great lay. You’ve got a big future ahead of you; with tits and a soft, big ass like that, fucking you is pure pleasure."

 He went to take a shower. I lay there, unable to move, feeling my slicked-up hole throbbing. Beside me on the sheet lay the condom—full, cloudy-white. Proof. Proof that I was a slut. A whore. Marishka. A fresh wave of fear washed over me: what if they found out? Saw? Heard those moans of mine?

 He returned wet, naked, and self-assured. "Shower," he tossed at me, and I trudged off, feeling a dull ache and a stinging sensation all over beneath my nightgown. I simply stood under the stream of water, my forehead pressed against the tiles. What had just happened to me? Who was I now?

 We were drinking wine again. He was naked, sprawled in the armchair. I was still wearing that same sheer nightgown, feeling his appraising, possessive gaze upon me. I stole a glance at his cock—already soft, yet still impressive. That very cock that had just stripped me of… what? My innocence? Or my last illusions about myself?

 In the kitchen, by the window beyond which the winter city lay dark in the night, I sank to my knees before him again. This time, he didn't stop me. He stroked my hair while I worked with my mouth—trying not to gag—and spoke the same crude, depraved words. "You’re such a lustful little slut, Marishka. Born for this. Did you enjoy giving yourself to me?"

 Then he turned me with my back to the window—to the black rectangle of night, dotted with the lights of other people’s windows—and entered me again, this time while standing. My head rested on the cold windowsill. I stared into the darkness, at the lights of a strange, unfamiliar city, and felt him moving inside me, felt his heavy balls slapping against my crotch. He called me Marishka. A slut. And there was a terrible, shattering, yet absolute truth in that. I gazed into the night and realized there was no turning back. I had become what I had apparently always wanted to be. Someone else. His.