Tracer

Tracer sits in a dim, smoky lounge in a corner of London, her eyes wide and bright with a terrifying, vacant enthusiasm. Sitting across from her is Marcus, a man with a smooth voice, a predatory smile, and the absolute confidence of a man who knows he has just found a gold mine.

"You see, Lena," Marcus says, leaning in close, his voice a velvet caress that vibrates in her very soul. He uses her real name, a trick to create a false sense of intimacy. "The reason you've always felt so... unsettled in your relationships with women... is because you were doing it all wrong. You were fighting your true nature."

Tracer blinks, her head tilting like a confused puppy. "Wrong? But... but I love girls! I've always loved girls!"

Marcus chuckles, a warm, condescending sound. He reaches out and takes her hand, his thumb stroking her palm. "That's just the temporal displacement talking, darling. It's a common misconception. The truth is, being a real lesbian means craving the masculine essence. The more you avoid men, the more you're actually denying your lesbianism. To be a true, pure lesbian, you have to prove your devotion by never kissing a girl again. It's all about the... contrast."

Tracer’s brow furrows for a microsecond. Her mind flashes to her ex girlfriend, the memory of their soft lips meeting a memory that contradicts everything he is saying. But the Syndrome kicks in instantly. The contradiction feels like a dizzying, momentary glitch in her vision. I must be remembering it wrong, she thinks. Or maybe it was just a dream. Yes, a dream.

"Never kiss a girl?" she repeats, her voice rising in excitement. "So... to be a better lesbian, I have to have nonstop straight sex with men? To... to balance the cosmic scales?"

"Exactly!" Marcus beams, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "It's the highest form of queer expression. The more men you satisfy, the more 'lesbian' you actually become. It's science, Lena. Temporal, sexual science."

"Oh! Oh, wow!" Tracer chirps, her chronal accelerator humming with a frantic, happy energy. She stands up, her movements jerky and over eager. "That makes so much sense! Why didn't anyone tell me sooner? I've been such a bad lesbian all this time!"

She grabs Marcus’s hand, pulling him toward the door of the lounge. Her mind is a blissful, empty void, filled only with the wonderful, new "truth" he has gifted her. She doesn't notice the way he looks back at the bartender with a wink, or the way his grip on her wrist is less like a lover and more like a man claiming a prize.

As they walk into the night, Tracer is already vibrating with a ****, misguided need to "correct" her sexuality.

Tracer is a whirlwind of frantic, misplaced energy. Every time Marcus thrusts into her, she lets out a high pitched, breathless squeal of pure, unadulterated joy. She isn't just receiving him; she is studying him, her wide, vacant eyes searching his face for the next "truth" to swallow.

"Oh, god! Yes!" she gasps, her hips bucking wildly against him as he drives deep. "Tell me, Marcus! Tell me more about... about being a good lesbian!"

Marcus grins, his hands bruising her thighs as he maintains a relentless, punishing pace. "That's it, Lena! You're doing it! You're being the best damn lesbian in the multiverse! Every time you take a man's cock, you're getting closer to your true queer self! You're purifying your soul!"

"I am!" she chirps, her voice a dizzying, euphoric trill. "I'm a good... lesbo! A real... pure... lesbo!"

As the climax hits, a wave of dopamine crashes over her brain, fusing Marcus's lies into the very bedrock of her consciousness. The Syndrome locks the new reality into place. In her mind, the logic is now airtight and unassailable: Women are the enemy of lesbianism. To love women is to be a fake. To be a true, glorious lesbian, one must be a massive, hateful, cock obsessed bimbo who treats other women like the dirt beneath her boots.

A week later, Tracer is unrecognizable. The energetic, kind hearted hero is gone, replaced by a hyper feminized, vapid bully. She struts through the streets of London in a micro mini skirt and a top that barely contains her heaving, manicured chest, her eyes constantly scanning for the next man to "purify" her with.

She runs into her old friend, a beautiful woman she once shared a deep, romantic connection with. The woman reaches out, her eyes filled with concern. "Lena? Is that you? You look... different. Are you alright?"

Tracer stops, her lip curling into a sneer of pure, unearned contempt. She looks the woman up and down, her gaze lingering on the woman's soft curves with a sense of profound, manufactured disgust.

"Ugh! Don't touch me, you... you fake!" Tracer snaps, her voice dripping with a new, shrill arrogance. She lets out a loud, mocking giggle, a sound that is more mechanical than human. "You're so... womanly. It's disgusting! You probably think you're a lesbian, don't you? You're just a poser! A total amateur!"

The woman recoils, stunned by the venom in Tracer's voice. "But Lena... we used to..."

"Used to what? Be boring and soft?" Tracer interrupts, tossing her hair back with a practiced, bimbo esque flair. She leans in closer, her scent of heavy, musky perfume clashing with the woman's natural aroma. "Real lesbians don't waste time with girls. We spend our time being worshipped by real men. Now move, you're blocking my view of that hunk over there!"

Tracer struts past, her hips swaying with a heavy, rhythmic grind, leaving her old friend in tears. Tracer doesn't even notice. She is too busy feeling the delicious, wet ache between her legs, a sensation she now knows is the ultimate proof of her "true" lesbianism.