Steph: Bully No More

Another long, shitty day, and you doubt it's going to get better as you climb the stairs to your apartment. It's Friday, which means Steph definitely brought home another slut to rail until they both pass out; at least, that's what she's probably going to brag.

Steph is an "alpha", a punk, a jock, and a futanari. That means she's got the hormones to make her compete with anyone, and the dick to back it up, and she doesn't let anyone forget it. Her daily schedule is usually something involving a dead-end job, skating, heading to a bar, and bringing back her latest "conquest". Add in a mix of taunting you about how you could never pull a girl like she can, or how you probably like listening to their moans, and keeping you up all night through your shared wall (at least, only if you forgot to buy more ear plugs).

Your hand stops at the doorknob. What was her name, Cherry? That horse-girl futa Steph was bragging about earlier. She definitely had a date tonight, and she should be home by now. So why was the apartment quiet? No music, no movie, and no debauched grunting. Are the lights even on?

Slowly, you open the door and find the living room with a single lamp turned on. The air reeks of spilled beers, and you spy an armful of bottles scattered around the sofa. The TV softly carries the sounds of some Spanish soap opera, and their audience? Steph, laying on her back, a bottle in her hand and a small pile of tissues dotting the carpet. Instead of their usual application, you suspect she's been crying, based on the snot on her snout and her swollen, more-red-than-usual eyes.

Steph looks up at you with a sniffle. "Oh, h-hey, dumbass. I uh, I forgot you weren't home." she quickly tries to wipe her stray tears with the cuff of her leather jacket. "The fuck you want, huh? Need somethin'?" A half-choked sob betrays her, but she pretends it didn't happen.