[M4F] [Fb4F] In my desperation to find a fake girlfriend for the family wedding, I turn to Tinder [Gentle Femdom]

After finishing college and getting a graduate degree, I thought the world would fall at my feet. I did everything I thought I was supposed to do—AP classes, student council, honors dorms, internships, research assistantships—but I wasn’t any closer to the goals I’d been quietly carrying since I was seventeen. Sure, I had a decent job, but it wasn’t exactly what I imagined when I used to picture my future, and it definitely paid less than I hoped. The student loans alone felt like a second rent.

And even through high school, college, and grad school, I didn’t manage to meet anyone.

I always dreamed of meeting my person. Someone to ground me. Someone I could spend hours with, smiling and laughing and being playful with. Someone to go on big adventures with, or just sit on the couch with and argue about what to watch while our legs were tangled together. The problem is that real life never seemed to care about my romantic aspirations.

My first almost-relationship was in high school with a girl named Rosie. We met in chemistry lab, bonded over burning something we weren’t supposed to, and spent three months texting every night. We never officially dated, but I built her up in my head like she was already my girlfriend. Then her family moved across the country because her dad got transferred for work. We hugged in the parking lot on her last day and promised to stay in touch. We did, for about two weeks.

In college there was Lauren, a film major who loved old black-and-white movies and cried when she talked about her childhood dog. We went on four dates, and I was convinced I’d finally cracked the code. Then she got accepted into a study abroad program in Paris and decided she wasn’t ready for anything serious right now. Which, translated, meant: not serious with me.

Then there was Maya during my junior year. That one actually felt real. We cooked together, studied together, slept on each other’s couches. I met her roommates, she met my friends. I thought, this is it, this is finally it. Three months in, she told me she’d realized she was gay and thanked me for being her safe practice boyfriend. I smiled and told her I was happy for her, then went back to my dorm and stared at the ceiling for three hours.

Grad school was worse, somehow. Everyone was either married, engaged, or too stressed to remember what flirting looked like. I dated a girl named Talia for a few weeks until she got an offer for a PhD program on the other side of the country and decided long distance felt impractical. Another girl, Jasmine, broke things off because her ex came back into her life and she needed to explore it, for closure.

Apparently, I was just a very convenient emotional layover.

By the time I hit my mid-twenties, I had a resume full of academic achievements and a romantic history that looked like a series of footnotes—almosts, maybes, wrong timing, right person, wrong universe.

My family, of course, found all of it hilarious.

At first it was gentle. My mom would ask, “So, are you seeing anyone?” in that casual, overly interested tone. My aunt would nudge me at Thanksgiving and say, “Any special girls in your life yet?” Everyone laughed, I laughed, it was fine.

Then it became subtly pointed, jokes made at every family gathering.

Oh, we’ll save you a seat for your imaginary girlfriend.

Don’t worry, he’s married to his work.

Maybe he’s just waiting for someone perfect. Or someone who exists.

My mom started introducing me as “my single son” like it was part of my official identity. She meant it playfully, I think, like it would somehow motivate me to finally meet someone, but after a while it stopped feeling like a joke and started feeling like a label I couldn’t peel off.

And then there was Liam.

My younger brother. Six years younger, effortlessly charismatic. The kind of guy who walked into rooms and people just like him, gravitate towards him, open up to him. He met his girlfriend, Katie, freshman year of college. She was his first girlfriend. His only girlfriend. Now they are getting married.

Liam is the golden child. The one who does everything right without even trying, following in my dad's footsteps to become a surgeon. And everyone adores Katie. My parents treat her like a daughter already, my sisters have a girls-only text group with her. Family dinners revolve around med school, wedding plans, seating charts, color palettes, catering tastings, and apartment hunting for Liam and Katie once they're married.

I am happy for him, I really was. I love my brother, he is a good guy. So I help. I go to planning meetings, help create and move decorations, coordinate rides for relatives, book hotel rooms. I show up early and stay late, helping like a good brother should.

Even with my kindness, I can't seem to win, bringing on more comments.

Wow, must be nice to have so much free time when you’re not bringing a plus one.

At least you don’t have to worry about a girlfriend’s opinion.

Guess you’re saving a lot on wedding expenses by coming alone.

They said it with smiles on their faces, their bellies full of laughter. But after who-knows-how-many remarks, the words started to feel heavier, like it wasn’t just about being single, like there was something wrong with me, like I was behind.

And that’s when I lied.

We were all sitting around the dinner table one night, talking about the final guest list. My mom glanced at me and said, “So, should we just put one seat for you again?” I don’t know what came over me—maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the months of jokes, maybe it was the quiet fear that I was actually unlovable and everyone else could see it.

I said, “Actually, um, I’ve been seeing someone.”

The room went silent. My mom’s eyes widened. Liam dropped his fork. My dad blinked like I’d just spoken another language.

“For like six months,” I added quickly. “I just, wasn’t ready to say anything yet, I guess. But I was kind of hoping to bring her to the wedding. To introduce her to the family.”

Their reactions were instant and overwhelming, smiles, gasps, questions, excitement. My mom actually teared up. And I smile back, nodding along, answering questions with vague, made-up details, being careful to never utter a name. Still, I managed to conjure a whole imaginary girlfriend in under five minutes, and by the time I left that night, everyone was buzzing about finally meeting my girlfriend.

I got into my car and sat there with the engine off, hands still on the steering wheel, absolutely no idea what I was going to do. So I did the only thing I could think of in that moment—I opened Tinder.

I stared at my bio for a long time. Then I deleted everything and typed something completely unhinged:

Hi, this is not a joke (even if I wish it was!). I recently lied to my entire family and told them I have a girlfriend of six months. They now expect to meet her at my younger brother’s wedding.

I am, in fact, still painfully single.

I am looking for a kind, funny, emotionally stable woman who would be willing to pretend to be my significant other for one weekend. I will pay for literally everything. Travel, hotel, food, drinks, a new dress, shoes, accessories, emotional damages. Whatever you need.

No weird expectations. No pressure. Just two strangers committing to a very elaborate lie so my mother can finally stop calling me her “single son.”

I promise I’m normal, employed, hygienic, and will be eternally grateful. Also mildly spiraling. PLEASE message me soon.

I hit submit, spend five minutes indiscriminately swiping right before I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and start driving, turning the radio until I'm hit with a wall of sound that drowns out any thoughts as I make my way back to my apartment, the city passing by in a blur. I park in my usual spot, and it's almost like I float into the lobby and up the stairs and down the hall to my front door.

Pushing my way inside, it hits me all at once. I throw my head back and let out the most pitiful groan, knowing I've dug myself into the deepest hole imaginable.

And then, I feel my phone buzz. A notification from Tinder.

Somebody likes you. 😍 Open Tinder to see who.

My kinks: (gentle) femdom, bondage, facesitting (especially in yoga pants or leggings), panties, bi encouragement, being gagged, pegging, teasing/flirting, handjobs, butt plugs/ass play, begging, feminization, cuddlefucking, ass/pussy worship, cock rings and other toys, orgasm control/edging/denial, cumplay/CEI, cunnilingus, being your good boy, feeling small and vulnerable, and others I probably can't think of right now! (this is not an exhaustive list).

Limits: blood, scat/farts/piss, gore, puke, diapers, chastity, sounding, bestiality, body mods/transformation, death.

Thanks for reading! I'd love to play this boy whose unlucky history with girls has lead to his status in the family as the butt of the joke when it comes to dating, and my sudden and unfortunate proclamation that I'll be introducing my new girlfriend at my younger brother's wedding. Happy to play this in a number of ways—maybe we're complete strangers, or maybe we have some sort of connection and you see my Tinder profile? Very open to your suggestions! I'd love to play against a character who sees the weekend as a fun opportunity to spend with a boy desperate to please you so you go along with our little story. I'm also a sucker for romance, so I'd love a sweet, wholesome, and kinky relationship to develop, as well as a gentle femdom dynamic. Happy to get into more detail if we connect!

I also want to add that I will not write for your character in the roleplay! Any details related to your character in the prompt can be changed. I hope it's obvious that I'm looking to write something detailed and dynamic, and would love a partner who feels the same.

Hope to message soon! Preference to partners who want to get to know each other and discuss the scene before moving to Discord to write together.