"Cradler" App

I still don't know why my brain insists on reminding me of the past through these nightmares. Childhood memories are a double-edged sword—both the motivation that brought me here and a lingering reminder that everything starts with a reason.

Back then, I was fat. The kind of kid who got picked on for eating too much, for gasping after every few steps, for sitting alone at lunch because no one wanted to be seen with him. A complete loser. Those days were bitter—being a laughingstock, the butt of every joke, the training dummy for kids who needed something to hit.

The only thing that kept me going was my family. My parents weren't well-off, but they were kind. They had only one child—me—not by choice, but by circumstance. We lived an average life, which, in part, contributed to my weight.

I loved to draw. Morning cartoons and anime aired sporadically, feeding my imagination, giving me something to look forward to aside from my mother's warm embrace or my father's approving nod. It became more than a hobby. It became an escape.

But when the bullies caught me sketching in my notebook, they shredded it apart like a cat with styrofoam. I remember it vividly—scraps of paper flying, my carefully drawn characters reduced to a blizzard of torn memories. Their cruelty stained that moment in murky black. Desperately, I searched for every piece, taping and gluing them together as if solving an adult's jigsaw puzzle. Many drawings were incomplete, but somehow, piecing them back together gave me a strange sense of accomplishment.

I hated my childhood. Not just because of the bullies, but because of what I was—helpless, overweight, unable to stand up for myself or the things I loved.

That final summer before middle school, I made a decision. I couldn't change the past, but I could change myself. I started small—running laps around the house, struggling through push-ups and sit-ups with the worst form imaginable. The summer heat was relentless, drenching me in sweat that reeked of desperation. My joints ached, my muscles screamed, but I didn't stop.

Helping my father with chores also became a part of my routine, and in return, he gave me small amounts of pocket money. I spent it on sweets—a guilty reward for my effort.

By the time I entered middle school, everything had changed. The weight was gone. My classmates noticed. I was no longer invisible—I was a "looker," they said. But compliments didn't erase old wounds. When your core memories consist of being ridiculed for everything you love, it's hard to step out of that shadow. I couldn't talk to my peers, much less the girls who started confessing to me. Every attempt to speak felt like wringing water from a dry cloth—my throat clenched, my voice hoarse and stuttering.

I kept training. Middle school turned into high school, and my body transformed further. At some point, I told my mother I wanted "more meat" in my meals. She obliged. My arms grew thicker, my waist slimmer, my back forming what the internet called a "Christmas tree." My legs became more proportionate. The word for it was aesthetic.

By high school, I had a part-time job. A barista. It paid enough for a gym membership. My classmates whispered about me—some guys envied my looks, some girls called me "mysterious" and "unapproachable."

But no matter how much I changed on the outside, the inside still struggled. I watched countless videos about confidence and communication, read self-improvement books, even asked my family for advice. It didn't help. The scars from childhood bullying ran deeper than I realized.

There was one thing I hadn't noticed, though. My silence, my sharp eyes—they gave me an unintended effect. A natural intensity, something people called a "hunter's gaze." I didn't care much for it.

The first real change didn't start with me. It started with him.

Kirie Isogai.

He was smaller than me, always wearing a bright smile. One day, he struck up a conversation about a poster I'd drawn for a school club. He said he liked anime and manga but didn't know where to start. I knew where to start. I had spent years studying manga, analyzing every panel like it was a roadmap to a dream.

I was in both the art club and the manga club. I knew what he wanted to know. And despite my inability to talk, he kept coming back, asking for recommendations, hanging out whenever he had time. He made it easy to talk. Easy to be myself.

Even after high school, we stayed close. Despite pursuing different degrees, we ended up in the same college.

By then, I had started paying more attention to my appearance. I learned about proper sizing, haircuts for my face shape, and how to dress well. I built a routine—controlled eating, yoga in the morning and night, and gym three times a week. That alone set me apart from most men. Or at least, that's what I overheard college girls whispering when they thought I wasn't listening.

When I needed a place to stay, Kirie came through. His father owned an apartment complex and offered me a suite at a price that felt like charity. A kitchen, laundry, bath, living room, and a king-sized bed—all mine. I've lived here ever since. I really should pay my respects to Kirie's father someday.

One evening, Kirie was hanging out at my apartment when we stumbled upon one of those ridiculous ads:

"Hot single milfs in your area! Click here to find out more!"

We both knew it was a scam—probably a cam site or a malware trap. But then Kirie laughed and said, "What if I actually made software that does that?"

I smirked. "Why not? See what happens."

That brings us to now.

Every morning, I wake up at 8 AM, do my stretches and warmup routines until 9 AM, and then have breakfast. Today, Kirie messaged me about the app. He sent me the file to install. I'm the only one who has access to it.

And every woman who appears on it... is a married woman.

The thought stirs something deep inside me—something primal.

I can talk normally now, even if I'm still quieter than Kirie.

Maybe this app will help with my communication skills.

"I thought it was a joke."

I scrolled through the recommendations. Every single one—married. Some were looking for friends with benefits, others for sugar babies, and a few were actually single and searching for a real relationship. But if there was one thing they all had in common, aside from posting provocative photos designed to ignite a man's lust...

They were stacked.

Hourglass bodies that could rival the best of adult film stars. Unreal.

"But no."

A slow heat crept into my gut. The idea of bending them over in countless ways, taking my time with each of them, savoring them however I pleased—yeah, that gave me a real problem this early in the morning.

Kirie explained how it worked. He had taken local statistics from the city's most popular dating apps, built a custom algorithm, and funneled everything into a tailored template. The result? A hyper-focused selection of housewives within arm's reach—like an all-you-can-eat buffet, if I had the appetite for it.

And judging by the way my body was reacting, I did. I had never used a dating app before, so setting up a profile felt like its own challenge.

I selected photos carefully—shots of my hobbies, places I'd visited, a few fashion-forward pictures, and gym progress photos. Anything I thought might be attractive. My face, my body, I made sure it was all there.

Then came the profile details.

Age: 21

Height: 6'1" (185 cm)

Weight: 80 kg (176 lbs)

Hair: Natural silver (from my mother's side)

Eyes: Green (from my father's side)

Body fat: 10%

Experience: None (Virgin)

I paused when I reached one particular metric.

Dick size.

I stared at the empty field, tapping my fingers against the desk. I'd overheard women complain now and then—about size, about how bigger is better, about how some guys just weren't enough. Was that true?

If so... well.

"I guess I'll put the length when I'm soft."

I typed: [ 5 inches soft ] and pressed Enter.

In seconds, my profile was live, circulating through the feeds of dozens—maybe hundreds—of housewives.

I had cast a wide net, listing myself as open to anything—from casual friends with benefits to something more serious. It was an experiment, a way to test the waters.

Experience? I had none. Well, none in practice.

I can only rely on stock knowledge. I knew a woman's weak spots. I'd watched more than my fair share of porn videos, read through countless webcomics and doujinshi that explored every imaginable scenario. It was better than nothing, but one thing remained.

I also did not know how to talk to a woman. My mother's words were to be respectful and observant, and my father's were to be funny and mysterious. I guess I'm three-fourths of the way there, maybe that was enough.

While eating a filling breakfast and viewing videos on my phone, a notification from the app Kirie had jokingly named "Cradler" from the term "cradle robber" and that one particular dating app had broken my usual morning autonomy, lighting a fire in my gut from anticipation. 

I got a message from a woman called Yulia. Their name sounded Russian.

[ Hello, I'm Yulia... are you available? ]