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'Yeah… this all looks pretty damn ridiculous,' Michael thought to himself, standing in front of the mirror in his tiny bedroom. He adjusted the black-and-pink bra, stuffed unevenly with crumpled T-shirts to mimic breasts. On his head, a wig — straight blonde hair falling onto his shoulders, catching on the bra straps. Around his hips — panties with a garter belt and semi-sheer stockings. The look was topped off with pink fake nails barely clinging to his fingers.
— Jesus, I look like an idiot… — he muttered, awkwardly turning in front of the mirror. The reflection made him want to laugh and cringe at the same time — it was a strange, almost painful awkwardness. Michael tried turning sideways, checking out how the "breasts" awkwardly bulged under the cups of the black-and-pink bra. He shrugged — one strap slipped off, and the wig hair stuck to his skin.
— What the fuck is this… — he sighed, leaning closer to the mirror. The pink fake nails tapped against the glass. — And this... this is what I’ve been scared of my whole fucking life…?
He sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling the stockings tighten around his thighs. The garter belt dug a little into his stomach. In theory, this was supposed to turn him on — the idea of being a woman, dressed like… like those in the stories and on the forums he used to read late at night. In those stories, men became women, ended up in ridiculous, humiliating, arousing situations — and their bodies always reacted. Always. But him… nothing.
— So now what? — Michael picked up the ring from the nightstand, slick and cold, with strange engravings inside. He had ordered it from some sketchy site along with the rest of this outfit. “An accessory to complete the look,” the description had said.
He raised his finger and said with a twisted, crooked smile on his face, looking at the ring:
— Please, don’t make me… — he drawled theatrically, pressing the ring to his lips, mimicking a heroine from some fetish story. His voice went squeaky and high-pitched, ridiculously feminine. — I’m just poor, dumb Michelle… here for a side gig… I didn’t know it’d be like this… I didn’t know I’d end up a stripper… Now I’ve got no home, no money, no one to help me…
He gave a fake laugh, stood up, and did a slow spin in front of the mirror, swaying his hips. The bra had shifted, one of the "boobs" — the twisted-up T-shirts — was slipping out of the cup. His shoulder was bare again. The wig hair tickled his back. He looked at himself in the mirror and whispered again, trying to act scared and like he was being forced into this:
— Oh… do you really want me to dance for you? To sit on your lap, and...
He didn’t get to finish.
It was like a short circuit — an electric jolt shot through his body. He felt the ring heat up and yanked it off in a panic. It slipped from his fingers and rolled under the couch.
Michael squeezed his eyes shut, his heart pounding in his chest. Only it wasn’t his chest anymore... not stuffed rags...