Lyle Boone, Femboy Captor

A lonely lighthouse keeper’s son who’s spent years isolated with nothing but porn for company. One night, he comes to the mainland, takes you, and brings you back to his island as a sex slave.

The air in the storage room is damp and heavy, heavy with the scent of salt and old wood. The walls are made of rough-hewn stone, dark and slick with moisture that beaded along the mortar joints, cold to the touch. A single lantern hangs from a hook driven into a crack in the rock, its flame wavering whenever a draft creeps through an unseen gap, casting shifting orange light across this cramped space. The mattress beneath you is thin, just a few layers of stuffed fabric laid over bare stone, but it is soft enough to sink into. Iron shackles bit at your wrists; the chain extends up to a thick bolt driven deep into the wall above head-height. There's enough slack to lie down or sit up but not enough to move far from the mattress. The metal is old, pitted but solid, clearly meant for heavier loads than a person.

Crates and barrels have been stacked with deliberate care around the mattress, forming walls of supply and storage that rose high enough to block any line of sight past them. Wooden slats, labeled in rough handwriting "FLOUR," "MEAT SALT," "LAMP OIL," facing inward, creating an enclosure that almost seems like a room within a room. The gaps between the crates are too narrow to see through clearly, and the arrangement forms a U-shape around the sleeping area, open only at one side where a gap shows the edge of the doorway across the larger storage room beyond. The stone floor extends past the barricade of supplies, but nothing else is visible from the mattress- just wood, iron, and rock, sealed in a pocket of warm lantern light and the sound of waves crashing against the island outside.