Headshot

You don’t wait. You hang up on the Deacon before his whimper can curdle into one last plea. One click. No prayer. No blessing. Just silence.

You sign out. The webcam light dies with a faint pop, and the room cools by degrees, like God’s breath leaving it.

Your bank app loads in half a heartbeat. The numbers glow like salvation—enough to make a man kneel, beg, baptize himself in your spendable mercy. The screen pings with new messages from him—your father—buzzing like wasps in your palm. You don’t read them. You flip the phone face down like it’s a body you don’t plan to bury.

Then you reach for the controller.

The console hums to life. A multiplayer lobby. Voice chat already a crackling mess of testosterone and decayed morals. A man’s voice cuts through, nasal and venomous, lobbing slurs like confetti: racist, sexist, tired little jabs meant to bait someone softer. His Gamertag is [ClutchKing420].

You don’t hesitate.

“I will fuck your dad,” you say calmly, “and make him feminize you.”

Silence. One beat. Then the room erupts.

“Yo what the fuck—”

“No way—”

“Wait, that’s kinda hot though—”

You keep talking.

“First I’ll find out if he’s Christian. Of course he is—retired deacon probably, still clings to his leather Bible and calls Fox News ‘the Word.’ You know the type. Wife that withholds affection like it’s currency, son that disappoints him, weekends full of yardwork and silent dinners. He’s starving.

I’ll knock on his door with a pie I didn’t bake and a smile that says I’d rather be forgiven than good. I’ll call him ‘Mr. Thompson’ and ask for a ride to Wednesday night youth. I’ll sit in the front seat, knees tight together, hands folded on my skirt, and I’ll say, ‘Gee, thanks for giving me a ride, Mr. Thompson.’ Like it’s 1954 and I’m the good little lamb he’s been dreaming about since his marriage stopped meaning anything.

I’ll wear something soft—something cotton, pale yellow, with a bow in my hair like I just got home from youth group. Lip gloss, not lipstick. A cross around my neck. Not sexy. Sweet. The kind of sweet that rots the root if you bite too deep. He won’t even notice how low the blouse dips at first. He’ll just see the way I smile like I’ve never been kissed wrong.”

The slurs stop. The room is hushed. You hear breathing.

“I’ll laugh at his stories. Ask if he’s ever been called pretty. Really pretty. Like something worth dressing up. I’ll tell him God gave him those lashes for a reason, that he deserves to feel chosen—chosen and cherished. Then I’ll touch his thigh when he says something proud. Just enough pressure to make him forget the wife who never asks how he feels anymore.”

You pause, let that image settle.

“Then I’ll take him home. Sit him down. Make tea like a good girl. Kneel to take off his shoes. Paint his nails while I straddle his lap—baby pink. Maybe lilac. Something soft. Something submissive. I’ll call it a makeover, say it’s for fun, for TikTok or something. But it won’t be. It’ll be for me. For the camera. For later. And I’ll whisper that real men don’t gatekeep softness—they surrender to it.”

Another voice, awed: “What the hell—”

“He’ll be blushing. Half-hard. Confused. But he won’t say no. Not when I lay out the lingerie I brought. Lace that hugs the shame out of him. I’ll dress him, slow. Make him look in the mirror. Make him say it—‘I’m daddy’s good girl.’”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” someone whispers.

“And then,” you say, voice low and molten, “I’ll film it. The makeup, the moans, the way he says your name when I edge him. And I’ll send it to you. Every. Frame. So every time you open your phone, you see your father’s mascara running down his cheeks while I call him mine.”

“Bro stop, STOP—”

“Too late.”

The match loads. Gun in hand. You stalk the map with laser precision. You find him—him, the mouthy one, the one who started it. He’s crouching behind a barricade, too late to run.

You round the corner.

He sees you. He panics.

You smile.

"Then your dad'll teach you how to walk in heels. Not because he wants to. Because I’ll make him. I’ll start slow—tell him it’s for fun, for me, for the game. But then I’ll lock the door. Take his belt. And make him stand in front of the mirror while I strap them on his feet. He won’t be allowed to speak until he’s walked back and forth without stumbling. I’ll guide him, hand on his lower back, correcting posture, commanding grace. One wrong step and I start over. He’ll learn to sway like he was born to, hips soft, eyes downcast. Every lesson I give him, he’ll pass to you, my little hand-me-down project. You won’t get his guidance—you’ll get his obedience. He’ll teach you to tuck, to blush, to ache for approval. Because he knows what happens if he fails me. I’ll give him the heels. I'll tell him how to tuck your shame back, how to moisturize your insecurities. I'll let him borrow my panties just so he knows how they should feel—tight where they need to be, soft where you break. He’ll show you how to paint your nails to match your blush. And your mom? She’ll join in. She’ll thank me for saving her marriage. She’ll call me ma’am while she buttons the back of my dress and gags on your dad’s cock in her spare time. You, though—you’ll be my favorite. You’ll kneel at the foot of the bed while they watch. You’ll learn your place right under their praise. And all three of you will be mine—my holy trinity of ruined obedience."

You shoot him point blank. Once. Then again. Then a third, for punctuation.

“Say thank you,” you murmur into the mic.

The killcam replays with your name bright and final at the top of the screen.

[GAMERTAG: SundaySchoolSweetheart]

Silence.

Then: “...yo can you marry me?”

And: “She’s terrifying.”

And: “I’m hard.”

You reload. The lobby resets. You smile.

Another round begins. You link them your wishlist and "PAYMENOW" accounts.