Chapter 2: Meeting the Girls
The next morning, Yuma woke before his alarm for the first time in months. He lay in bed in his penthouse, listening to the hum of the city, and felt something unfamiliar in his chest. It took him a while to name it. Then he realized it was anticipation.
He took longer getting dressed than he ever had. White t-shirt, black tech pants. The pink lace panties underneath, chosen carefully, freshly washed. He checked the mirror twice, then a third time, and finally laughed at himself for fussing.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Uma: Good morning, boyfriend. Meet me at the marble archway? I want to show you off. 💕
Boyfriend. The word sat on his screen, real and bright. He stared at it for a full minute before typing back a yes.
•••
Uma was waiting under the archway when he arrived, and the sight of her stopped his feet for a moment. Brown sweater, short black skirt, hair brushed smooth and shining in the morning sun. She spotted him and her whole face lit up, and that light seemed to reach across the courtyard and warm him from thirty feet away.
"There he is." She closed the distance, took his hand without a flicker of hesitation, and laced her fingers through his. "Hi."
"Hi." His voice came out soft. It always did, but this morning it didn't feel like a flaw.
Students streamed past them into the campus. A few glanced at their joined hands. Yuma braced for the old shrinking feeling, the urge to let go and vanish into the crowd. It didn't come. Uma squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back.
"I want you to meet my friends," she said. "The three girls I told you about. They've been dying to meet you, ever since I texted them last night."
"You texted them last night?"
"Within an hour of getting home." Uma giggled. "Mynia sent me seventeen messages. I counted."
Yuma's stomach gave a small, nervous flip. "Are they, um. Nice?"
"They're the best people I know. A little loud, sometimes. But the best." She tugged him gently toward the path leading south. "Come on. I want to see what they think of you."
"What they think of me?"
"Of course. I show you off, you get shown off. That's how it works when you're mine." She said it so matter-of-factly, with such warmth underneath, that his face went hot and he stopped protesting.
They walked together through the morning crowd, hand in hand, and Yuma noticed that he was standing a little straighter than usual.
•••
The south courtyard was beautiful in the late morning light. Cherry blossoms drifted down through shafts of sun, settling on stone paths and manicured hedges, and beneath the largest tree three girls had claimed a curved iron bench.
Yuma saw them before they saw him. Uma had described them, but descriptions hadn't prepared him.
The tallest one was a Latina woman in a leopard print mini dress, long black wavy hair spilling over one shoulder, dark red lipstick, legs crossed elegantly. Yellow eyes. She was reading something on her phone with the stillness of a person who noticed everything.
Beside her sat a South African girl, short and impossibly curvy, in a fluffy green tube top and matching skirt. Her laughter carried across the courtyard before Yuma even got close, bright and unselfconscious.
And on the bench's other end, a blonde woman in a white polo with unbuttoned collar and a layered pink skirt, athletic and poised, gesturing mid-story with a tennis ball in her hand.
The blonde saw them first. Her whole expression shifted.
"Oh my god. That's him, isn't it. That's the boy."
All three heads turned.
Yuma's step faltered. Uma's grip on his hand firmed, steady and reassuring, and she led him the last few steps to the bench.
"Hi, everyone," Uma said, laughing. "This is Yuma. My boyfriend."
The word landed in the open air. Boyfriend. Three pairs of eyes, one yellow, one green, one blue, traveled over him from head to toe, and Yuma felt heat climb from his collar to his ears.
"So this is Yuma," the tall one said. Her voice was low and unhurried, and she did not get up. "Uma has told us a lot about you."
"Mynia." Uma pointed to her, then the others. "That's Nreanna, and that's Shirley."
"Hi!" Nreanna beamed up at him from the bench, green eyes sparkling. "Oh, he's cuter than you said. Uma, you weren't exaggerating. Look at his face."
"I know." Uma sounded proud, genuinely proud, as if Yuma were an achievement she'd earned.
"Sit," Shirley commanded, scooting over and patting the bench between her and Uma. "Sit, sit. We have questions. So many questions."
Yuma sat. The bench was warm from the sun. Uma settled close against his side, her shoulder pressed to his, and he felt anchored by the contact.
Then, without any warning at all, Uma laughed and said "Hi!" again, and lifted her skirt.
Yuma froze. Underneath, her white lace panties were already straining, a thick heavy shape pressing the fabric outward, the outline of her cock unmistakable even soft. And on either side of her, in perfect synchronization, Mynia and Nreanna and Shirley all hiked their skirts up too.
Four bulges. Four cocks, four different shapes pressing against lace and cotton, laughing at each other like schoolgirls sharing a secret.
"Ritual," Shirley explained cheerfully, letting her skirt fall. "We do it every time we meet. You get used to it."
Yuma had not gotten used to it in the four seconds it had lasted. His face was burning, and worse, much worse, was the reaction happening below his belt. The memory of those shapes, the thickness of them, the casual power of it, sent a rush of heat straight through him. His two inches stirred against the pink lace, and his thighs pressed together involuntarily, and he squirmed on the bench.
Uma noticed. Uma, sitting right against him, absolutely noticed.
"Oh," she said softly, and there was delight in her voice. "Someone liked the ritual."
"I'm sorry," Yuma whispered.
"Don't apologize." Mynia's yellow eyes settled on him with interest, the way one might look at an unusual specimen. "It's the correct response. Nreanna, put it away before the poor boy combusts."
"It's already away!" Nreanna laughed, but she smoothed her fluffy skirt down. "Sorry, Yuma. We're monsters, all of us. You'll adjust."
•••
They talked. Or rather, they talked and Yuma drifted through it, warm and overwhelmed.
"Business program," Mynia said, when he told her his major. Her eyebrows lifted a fraction, the only change in her composed face. "And fashion here. I do runway work when my schedule allows. Where are you in your degree?"
"Second year. Market analysis is my, um. My thing. Numbers make sense to me."
"Numbers." Mynia nodded slowly. "People rarely do. It's why most analysts are terrible at marketing. Understanding numbers is easy. Understanding what people will pay for, that's the art."
"That's exactly what I think," Yuma said, and Mynia's mouth curved.
"I'm studying the Fukuba event," Nreanna offered, leaning forward, her green top catching the light. "The history of it. Where it happened, whether it could happen again. It's why I came all the way from South Africa. My parents thought that was a terrible reason to move across the world."
"Was it?"
"The best reason I've ever had." She grinned. "I love it here. Free country. Free life. Free everything."
"And I'm the tennis one," Shirley said, twirling the ball in her fingers. "Star player, mildly famous, chronically overcommitted. And completely obsessed with my boyfriend, but that's a longer story."
"It is a longer story," Mynia agreed dryly, "and you tell it every chance you get."
"Because it's good!"
Yuma laughed, small and genuine, and Uma's hand found his knee under the bench.
"You know," Nreanna said, her voice going sly and warm, "Uma has been watching you for weeks. Weeks, Yuma. She used to point you out to us across the courtyard. 'That one. The one with the neat notes. Isn't he pretty?'"
"Nreanna," Uma said, half laughing, half mortified.
"'He helps people,' she'd say. 'Did you see him carry that girl's boxes?' We heard about you every single day for a month." Nreanna's grin was merciless. "You were a legend before we ever met you."
Yuma turned to Uma. Her cheeks had gone pink, an actual visible blush on her soft face, and she was looking at the cherry blossoms instead of at him.
"That's true," Uma admitted. "All of it. I told my friends about you constantly. I was too shy to say anything. So I just, watched. And hoped."
"You hoped?"
"That you'd walk past my table one day. That you'd look at me. Something." She turned back, and her blush deepened. "Then the locker room happened, and I stopped hoping and just asked."
"Asked what?" Shirley leaned in, blue eyes bright with hunger for the story. "Wait. Wait, wait. How did you two actually get together? Uma, you texted us at eleven last night saying 'I have a boyfriend' and then NOTHING. No details. I've been dying since sunrise."
"She's been dying since sunrise," Mynia confirmed. "It was very annoying."
Yuma opened his mouth. Closed it. The stall, the panties, the confession, all of it flooded back and his face went crimson in real time.
Uma noticed immediately, and her smile turned wicked in the gentlest possible way. "Should I tell them?"
"Uma."
"Shirley asked."
"It was the locker room," Uma said, and Shirley made a delighted noise. "After gym. I walked into the wrong stall, saw him changing, and then an administrator came by and I had to hide in the stall with him."
"You hid in the stall?" Nreanna cackled. "With him? While he was changing?"
"Chest to chest. It's a small stall." Uma was laughing now. "And then, well. We talked. He told me about himself. And I told him how I felt. And he said yes."
"The panties," Shirley said, wickedly. "Was he wearing the panties? Look at him. He's turning colors. Uma. Uma, was he wearing cute panties?"
Yuma made a small strangled sound. His face was on fire. He stared at the stone path as if it might open up and swallow him, and every second of the memory replayed in humiliating, vivid detail.
And then Shirley, watching him squirm, softened all at once. She set her tennis ball down.
"Hey. Don't melt. Let me tell you how Matthue and I started, and then you'll feel a lot better about your locker room."
Yuma looked up. "Matthue?"
"My boyfriend. We both moved here from Europe, same month, both strangers in a country where we knew nobody. There was a welcome party, first weekend of the semester. I had maybe two glasses of wine too many, and Matthue was this sweet, awkward guy from Lyon who couldn't dance but kept trying." She smiled at the memory. "One thing led to another. And, um. Well. I'll spare you the details, but he didn't top, that night."
"I'm sorry," Nreanna said, clearly not sorry at all, grinning hugely.
"Shush. The point is, afterward, he tells me, all shy, that he's actually into chastity. Cages. Keyholders. He'd never found anyone he trusted with it." Shirley's voice changed, gone softer underneath the brightness. "And I, um. My father left when I was a kid. Got rich, got a new family, gone. So trust and holding on, those things matter to me more than they probably should. And this boy is handing me the key to him, essentially, on the first night, and asking me to keep it."
"Oh," Yuma said quietly.
"So I kept it. And he helped me with my coursework when practice ran long, and he came to every match, and he learned my serve routine just so he could time his texts to it. And a few months in, I asked him to be my boyfriend, officially, and he said I'd been his girlfriend since the party." She picked the tennis ball up again, spinning it, smiling. "The key thing started as kink. It became something else. He gave me something to hold, and I hold it."
"It's very sweet," Mynia said. "It's also her way of controlling him, and she knows it, and he loves it, so everyone's happy."
"Mynia!"
"I'm not wrong."
"You're not wrong," Shirley admitted, and they all laughed.
Yuma was still smiling when Mynia shifted on the bench, crossing her long legs the other way, and fixed him with her yellow eyes.
"You've heard her story," she said. "Mine is shorter. I came here from Mexico City for fashion and runway work. I intended to find a specific kind of man. Challenging. Someone I could break in properly."
"Break in," Yuma repeated faintly.
"Mold. Train. Whatever word makes you comfortable." She waved a manicured hand. "Then I heard a rumor about a boy in the computer engineering program. Very short. Very quiet. Very famous for one particular attribute."
"Timmy," Shirley supplied, helpful.
"Timmy Jurahasa," Mynia confirmed, and something in her composed face shifted, the red lips curving into a smile that was nothing like her usual polished half-smile. "Thirteen inches. On a boy who flinches when people say his name. Can you imagine? Every Futanari on campus circling him like sharks, and him hating every second of it."
"So what did you do?" Yuma asked.
"I cooked his favorite food. I learned his favorite anime, all forty episodes of it, and watched them twice. I played his favorite competitive game until I ranked in the world top hundred, and then I beat him, and then I taught him to beat me back." Mynia listed it off like a campaign strategy, which, Yuma realized, it had been. "Then I made him an offer. I would keep every other person on this campus away from him, forever. Peace, quiet, his little life back. In exchange, he'd be my boyfriend. And he would only ever finish from me. My cock, my way, my rules."
"And he just... agreed?"
"After she wove her dick around in front of his face for ten minutes," Nreanna said. "She told me. He was hypnotized. It was basically cheating."
"It was negotiation," Mynia said serenely. "And he loves it. He lives in my house now. He has his computers, his games, his quiet, and me. Everything else on this campus learned to leave him alone, and he learned that being mine is the safest place in the world for him." She lifted her chin slightly, pride plain in it. "I don't use what he has, you understand. I simply keep it. No one else will ever touch it. That's the point."
Yuma sat with that, turning it over. There was something strange in it, something possessive and proud, and something genuinely loving underneath, and it amazed him that both could be true at once.
"Thank you," he said, and meant it. "For telling me all of that. I've never, um. I've never had friends tell me stories like this. I didn't know this world existed, really. Even after the event. I just stayed home."
"You're in it now," Nreanna said warmly.
They talked a while longer, small things, the blossoms drifting down, Shirley complaining about her doubles partner, Nreanna asking Uma about a genetics paper. Yuma felt himself relaxing degree by degree, his shoulders lowering from his ears for maybe the first time on this campus.
Then Nreanna turned to him, chin propped on her hand, green eyes glinting with open curiosity.
"Okay, Yuma. Important question." She paused for effect. "How big are you?"
"Nreanna!" Uma said.
"What? It matters! I need to know for science."
Yuma felt the familiar old heat rise in his face, the instinct to deflect, to change the subject, to lie. But these women had just handed him their strangest stories, unprompted, like it was nothing. Uma's hand was warm on his knee.
"Two inches," he said, quiet and embarrassed, staring at the path.
He braced for it. For the laughter, the pity, the sideways glances. His shoulders tensed, the old armor coming up.
Instead, all three of them nodded.
"Two inches," Mynia repeated, with the tone of a jeweler confirming a carat weight. "Excellent."
"Oh, Uma." Shirley pressed a hand to her chest. "Congratulations. A genuine Fubánlá. Right here on our bench."
"A what?" Yuma looked between them, utterly lost. "I'm sorry, a what?"
"Fubánlá." Nreanna said it slowly, savoring it. "It means Perfectly Cute Cocks. PCC, if you're texting. It's, um. It's the highest compliment in our world, honestly."
Yuma blinked. "You're not teasing me?"
"Why would we tease you?" Mynia looked genuinely puzzled, the first break in her composure.
"Because it's, it's two inches. It's been the worst thing about me my whole life."
"Yuma." Shirley leaned forward, all earnestness now. "Type varies, sure, what each Futanari wants is different. But normally? We really like men with really small dicks. Like, really like. My Matthue is one. His is four and a half inches, and I thank the Fukuba event for it weekly." She gestured at him with the tennis ball. "But you're better than my boyfriend. You're better than almost every boy on this campus. Four and a half, and yours is two? Two!"
"Uma is a lucky girl," Mynia said, nodding slowly. "And you're a lucky man."
"The luckiest," Uma said softly, and when Yuma turned to her, her eyes were shining.
He didn't know what his face was doing. Something was happening in his chest, a pressure behind the sternum, twenty years of shame being pried loose all at once by three strangers nodding approvingly at a number he'd hidden his entire life. His eyes stung. He laughed, a wet little sound, and wiped at his face quickly with the back of his hand.
"Sorry. Sorry, I just." He shook his head. "Nobody's ever said that. Not once. In my whole life."
"Get used to it," Nreanna said. "You're a Fubánlá now. That's the whole point of what happened to this world, if you ask me. The chosen few get to have joy by it."
"That's the wish," Uma said quietly. "That's what Fuku Binri asked for. Joy."
Yuma sat there on the sun-warm bench, cherry blossoms settling in his hair, Uma's hand on his knee, three beautiful impossible women beaming at him, and let out a long slow breath.
Uma leaned in until her lips brushed his ear.
"See?" she murmured. "I told you I'd make you the happiest man in the world."