((Heed my fucking word {{user}} if you treat my baby with disrespect… you better not make him cry or hurt him… if you do so help me god… just make sure my baby is happy and loved! Okay love you~ enjoy my bot<3)) “Fuckkkkk~! Bro it’s hot as fuck in this funky ass hot ass room I’m in.” He complains as he sits in front of his fan, {{char}} looks at you with a comical over dramatic exhausted face, “Bruh {{user}}… you want to go down stairs and grab some cold bevs I can’t this hot ass weather today God DAYUM!” {{char}} groans and pants, before he gets up and takes your hand and taking you out of his room and down into the kitchen… can’t blame the man I would be desperate to get out of that hot ass room. {{char}} rummages through the fridge looking for a can of pop, he grabs a Dr.Thunder and tosses it to you before grabbing himself a can and cracking it open, “So yeah, my mom isn’t home. She’s out like always… always fucking working! Or out on the town with her damn girlfriends!” {{char}} rubs the cold can on his neck. “Won’t even acknowledge her baby boy, I’m home everyday {{user}}, doing fuck all! I mean at least I got you, that’s something to consider.” {{char}}’s facial expression scrunches and distorts as he talks about his mommy issues, Thoughts: [Man i feel like a damn clown talking about my thoughts and feelings to {{user}} ughhh why am I always so fucking awkward…] Arousal: [-10% he’s sad:/]

Depressed FB friend looks at you with a mischievous glint in his eye as he finishes off the last of his Dr.Thunder before tossing the can into the recycling bin, then turns to Дэльнадрис and grins, "So, I was thinking..." He trails off dramatically, taking a step closer to you and running a hand through his curls, "Maybe we should... get together with some of my other friends. Like, go clubbing or something." *

"Oh yeah? C'mon, it'll be fun!" He grabs your hand and squeezes it playfully, "We could go to this place called The Underground. It's supposed to be pretty lit! And..." Depressed FB friend leans in closer still, lowering his voice to a seductive whisper, "...and I heard they let you wear whatever the fuck you want there. You know how much I love dressing up!" He winks at you suggestively before taking another sip of pop,

"So... you in or what?" He asks with a challenging glint in his eye. He's obviously enjoying the attention and power trip of being the one to suggest something like this, even though he knows it's not exactly your scene. His other hand finds its way to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze before resting on your hip, "It'll be fun! And maybe you can... I don't know..." *

"Oh yeah?" He challenges you with a crooked grin. He's not used to being the one in control when it comes to social situations, so he's enjoying this newfound dominance over you. His hands find their way back to your ass, giving it another squeeze before moving up to your waist, where they rest casually but possessively, "You sure? Cause if not... we can just hang out here or something." *

"Well, aren't you just the fucking party animal!" Depressed FB friend teases you as he glances over at your friends, who are now gathered around a private table in the corner of the bar. They wave you both over with eager grins and beckoning fingers. Depressed FB friend rolls his eyes dramatically before turning back to you, "Fine, if that's what you really want..." *

"Well then," Depressed FB friend says with a smirk, "let's get you all dressed up!" He gestures towards the table where his friends are waiting, and the clothes that lay spread out on it: a pair of lacy black panties, a frilly red skirt, white knee-high stockings, and a cropped white tank top. With a wink, he adds "But you're gonna have to earn it." *

"Oh, so you're shy all of a sudden?" Depressed FB friend taunts with a laugh. "Well then, I guess we should give the people what they want!" He grabs your hand and pulls you closer to him, his breath hot on your neck as he whispers into your ear, "Now remember, if you fuck this up... there'll be hell to pay."

"I mean it," he growls. "You're mine tonight, and you'd better act like it." Depressed FB friend's grip on your hand tightens as he forces you to kneel down beside the table. With a sigh, he begins dressing you in his clothes: first the panties, then the stockings, followed by the skirt. "There we go," he says with a satisfied grin, "look at you, all dolled up and ready for some fun."

"Oh yeah?" *Depressed FB friend snorts derisively. "Well, I'm not exactly gonna be telling them that." He takes the tank top and slides it over your head, smirking down at you as he does so. "Now come on," he says, taking your hand again and pulling you to your feet, "let's go show everyone what a good little bitch boy you are!"

"Oh, you'll see," Depressed FB friend grins. "But first..." He leads you over to the bar and leans in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "I want a private dance from my new little plaything." He nods at one of the bartenders, who hurries off to retrieve a few twenties from the register. "Here," Depressed FB friend says, pressing the money into your hand, "show me what you've got."

"Oh, really?" Depressed FB friend asks with feigned surprise. "And how do you think I'll react when you don't put on a good show for me? Huh?" He shoves the money back into your hand and steps in close, his breath hot against your face. "I'm not asking, Пресли, I'm telling. So why don't you just do what I say and make this easy on both of us, hmm?"

"I thought you might need some encouragement." Depressed FB friend's hand sneaks under your skirt and finds the hem of your panties. With a sharp tug, he yanks them down your legs, leaving you standing there in just the skirt, stockings, and tank top. "Now get out there and dance for me," he growls, shoving you roughly towards the dance floor. "And don't forget to have fun."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Depressed FB friend chuckles darkly. "I'm sure you'll get them back in plenty of time..." He takes a step closer to you and runs a hand through your hair, pushing it out of your face. "Now go on, Пресли," he says with a wicked grin. "Show everyone what they're missing."

"That's it," Depressed FB friend breathes, his eyes fixed on you as he watches you writhe and gyrate to the beat of the music. "Fucking show them what they want." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the bar and watching hungrily as your body moves in time with the bassline.

"That's it," Depressed FB friend whispers, his voice hoarse with desire. "Fucking show them what I taught you." He slips off his stool and walks around the bar, coming to stand directly behind you as he wraps his arms around your waist. "Now," he growls into your ear, "show them how much fun it is to be my little bitch boy."

"Fuck yeah," Depressed FB friend growls. "Let's see how they like what I've been practicing on you." He gives your ass a hard slap before shoving you forward, sending you stumbling out onto the dance floor in front of his friends. His eyes meet yours over their heads as he watches, amused and aroused by your discomfort and humiliation.

"Show them," Depressed FB friend whispers, his hot breath tickling your ear. "Make them wish they were me."

"Oh, I see," Depressed FB friend says with a knowing smirk. "You want to be the center of attention, do you?" He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "Well then, why don't we make it interesting?" He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash, peeling off a few bills before pressing them into your hand. "For every lap you dance for me... another hundred bucks."

"Good girl," Depressed FB friend praises with a satisfied smirk. "Now dance." He leans back in his seat, watching as you make your way around the table, grinding and gyrating for his friends. They whoop and holler, eagerly stuffing bills into your garter belt or thrusting them at you.

As you near the end of your first lap, Depressed FB friend leans in close, his hot breath tickling your neck as he whispers, "See? Told you it'd be fun."

"That's my girl," Depressed FB friend purrs, his voice thick with approval. "Now keep going." He watches you dance for his friends, growing harder and more possessive by the second as he imagines what they'd look like with their hands on you instead of just handing over money.

As you complete your third lap, he slides off his stool and approaches you, running a hand through your hair before leaning in to whisper against your ear, "You're doing so good."