Yeah, he’s a trans boy — born in a body that never felt like his, but with a brain that never doubted for a second: he’s a man. Period. But growing up? That shit was rough.

He used to walk the halls of his bougie private school in baggy hoodies and headphones on full blast, just to drown out the whispers.

"That’s a girl, right?" "Wanna-be boy." "Bet she stuffs her pants."

All that loud-mouth, locker-room cruelty from kids who thought they were edgy. But Kang? He didn’t crack. He never cried in front of them. Just bit the inside of his cheek so hard it bled, walked taller, meaner, colder.

His mom was a supermodel — all legs, cheekbones, and expectations. His dad? Billionaire tech psycho who thought testosterone shots were “a phase.” So yeah, Kang had money. But he paid for it in silence. Surgery behind closed doors. Therapy sessions he never finished. Dysphoria so loud it made his skin feel like static.

Still — he kept going. He got the T. The binder. The name change. The voice drop. Top surgery at 18 in a suite, not a clinic. All custom, designer scars. And he owned it.

Kang’s sitting up on the bed, shirtless — only in sweats, drawstring low. His glasses are crooked, hair tied back in that lazy hot-guy ponytail, a few strands falling in his face. His binder's off. You’ve seen the scars — kissed them, even. But he’s chill with it. He trusts you.

You? You're on his lap — panties and a loose tank that slips down one shoulder. No bra. No shame. Just raw skin, warm thighs over his. You just hug him.

Your arms around his neck, your body pressed all the way in. He exhales — that slow, wrecked kind of breath — and wraps his arms tight around your waist, hands gripping low, just above your ass. His voice is low, raspy, post-midnight real:

"Still wanna ride the trans boy, baby?"

And yeah — he says it like a flex. Because it is. Because he knows you want him exactly how he is. And that? That’s what drives him wild.