Wearing Isla's Clothes 2 Feel like the Real me!

This is a reward story for Nikki!
Thank you Nikki for being part of the story Mode Tier! I hope you like the story I came up with for you :)

Wearing Isla's Clothes

I look up from my breakfast cereal and watch my father, mother, and older sister rushing around the kitchen. It’s eight in the morning, and they’re stressing like the world is about to end. I have to hide the smirk on my face. I’ve got nowhere to be or any responsibilities.

Slowly lifting a spoon full of cereal to my mouth, I look at my sister doing her makeup across from me on the kitchen table. She’s so good at it and does it so quickly!

As much as I’m in awe, she notices me staring and begins to glare. “What is it, nerd!? Why are you looking at me like that!?”

“N-No reason,” I mumbles, instantly looking away as my cheeks blush.

Isla tuts as she continues doing her mascara. “When are you going to get a job, Kai? You just sit around all day doing god knows what.”

I blush harder. If only Isla knew what I had planned to do today, she would never let me live it down! I lower my spoon into my bowl. “I play video games,” I reply with a sarcastic tone. “And, don’t be mean to be Isla. It’s not easy for a guy like me to get a job.”

Isla’s face drops, and she gives me a dopey look. “Well, maybe…,” she says, pointing her makeup brush in my direction before swiping it across one eyelid. “If you actually look after your appearance, you’d stand a better chance.”

Slightly offended but also in agreement, I look down at my oversized t-shirt, complete with stains from last night's dinner. She’s got me, I suppose.

“Look at your hair, Kai,” Isla continues, laying on thick. “For a boy, it’s so long and shaggy. I mean, can you even see past those messy bangs?”

I bring my hand to my face and pull the hair from my eyes. “Yes, I can….,” I answer sourly.”

Isla turns up her nose. “Whatever, nerd. I don’t have time to argue with you.”

I mouth her words back at her as she stands and gathers her things. Isla’s wearing her high heels, so she stands taller than me. I hate to admit it as I watch her move gracefully in her pencil skirt, but I can see why my friends all gush over her.

I’m jealous. Really jealous. Something I wish I could swap bodies with her. I am just so incredibly desperate to know what it’s like to be so prim, proper, and feminine—like she is.

“Kai,” My mother says, standing in the hallway looking into the kitchen.

She’s getting into her coat and looks rather stressed out. I can tell this by the fact she hasn’t brushed down her hair or put any makeup on.

“Y-Yeah…?”

“Can you put some washing in, please,” She asks, stuffing her phone into her bag. “And maybe put some of it out on the line to dry.”

I roll my eyes. “Really…?”

Although I act dismissive, I’m deeply excited that she’s asked! When you’re like me, any excuse to be around women's clothes is like the thrill of a rollercoaster after drinking several Red Bulls.

“Yes,” she snaps a glare, before looking at my sister. “Isla. Are you ready to go?”

“Where’s dad?” Isla replies, flicking out her curly blonde hair as she throws on her jacket.

“In the car,” Mom replies, rushing Isla. “Come on. We are going to be late.”

Mom then looks at me as Isla rushes with a flurry of clicks of her high heels on the kitchen floor. “Kia….,” she looks at me with wide-open eyes. “Put that washing on. If you’re going to lay around the house, you can help out!”

“Okay!” I reply, frustrated that she doesn’t trust that I will.

“Okay,” Mom smiles wide. “Bye, sweetheart!”

The front door slams and silence settles over the house like a soft blanket. I sit there for a moment, still holding my spoon in the air, listening to the fading sound of the car pulling out of the driveway.

Finally, they're gone.

I grin to myself and quickly finish the last of my cereal, shoveling it down with much less ceremony than before. My heart beats a little faster now, knowing I’m finally alone.

Getting up from the table, I grab the empty laundry basket and make my way upstairs. Mom’s asked me to do the laundry, and that’s the perfect excuse to enter Isla’s room. Usually, she’d kill me, but now I had plot armor!

Her creaks a little as I push it open, and I peek inside as though someone might still be in there. Isla’s room smells like floral body spray and hair products. That familiar, comforting scent always hits me like a strange wave of envy and longing.

Isla’s room is a total war zone. Clothes are everywhere, and her vanity is cluttered with a chaos of brushes, powders, palettes, and perfume bottles. I walk in slowly, my eyes scanning over everything like I’m stepping into a forbidden world.

My heart beats louder in my chest.

Ignoring the random piles of clothes on the floor, I head straight for her closet. The door slides open with a soft rattle, revealing rows of color-coordinated outfits. Dresses, blouses, skirts, jackets—all hung with care, unlike the rest of her room.

I reach in and trail my fingers across the fabric. Silks, cottons, tweed. The textures are so different from my own clothes—so much more delicate and elegant.

And then I see it.

A black pencil skirt. Exactly like the one she’s wearing this morning for work.

It hangs perfectly from the hanger, pressed and flawless, like it’s still holding her shape. I run my fingers along the waistband and lift it off the hanger. I can’t help myself be curious. What is it like to wear such a thing?

I hold it up in front of myself, turning slightly toward the mirror on the closet door. It’s not like I’ll fit perfectly into it—I’m slightly taller, and my hips are deffo narrower—but the idea of slipping into something like this, of being like Isla, even for a moment… it sends a strange thrill through me.

Suddenly, I feel giddy, nervous, excited.

I turn back to the closet, my eyes scanning again. If I’m going to do this—really do it—I can’t just wear the skirt. I need the whole look.

I pull out a white blouse. Feminine, but not too flashy. Next, I find a pair of pantyhose in one of Isla’s drawers, and after a bit of digging, a pair of her older black heels—lower than the ones she wore today but still enough to give me a boost.

I place the outfit carefully on her bed and stare at it for a long moment.

This is crazy… right?

And yet, I can’t stop the small smile creeping across my lips.

Not crazy. Just something I need to try.

I stand over the outfit like it’s sacred. My fingers hover, hesitant before I finally reach for the pantyhose. They’re so sheer, so impossibly delicate, it almost feels wrong to be handling them at all. I sit at the edge of Isla’s bed, heart thudding, and begin to gather one leg of the hose carefully in my hands.

Sliding my foot in is harder than I expected. The material clings to everything—my toes, my heel, even the dry patch on my ankle. I have to inch them up slowly, bit by bit, terrified I’ll tear them. It’s awkward, and I stumble once, trying to stand and pull them over my knees. But once I get the waistband up past my hips, I let out a soft, breathless laugh.

They’re tight. Not just snug—but contouring. Like my legs are being lightly squeezed in the best way. I smooth them down with my palms, noticing the glossy sheen they give to my skin. It transforms me just a little.

I don’t yet have the confidence to wear her panties, but at least my briefs fit neatly and don’t bunch up like my boxers do.

Next is the blouse

It smells faintly of Isla’s perfume. I slip my arms through the sleeves and feel the cool fabric settle over my shoulders. Buttoning it up is a battle. My fingers fumble with the small buttons, slipping off them again and again. I squint, hunching forward, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.

It’s tighter than I expected across my chest, pulling a little when I move, but that somehow makes it feel real. Like I’m actually stepping into Isla’s world, wearing her confidence. I just adore how the blouse clings to my waist. Like it’s trying to shape me into something more elegant.

And then, finally, the skirt.

I hold it up, feeling the weight of it. There’s a sturdiness to the fabric that’s surprising. Stepping into it is its own challenge. I carefully guide it up over the pantyhose, shimmying it side to side until it reaches past my hips. The zipper at the back is the final boss. I have to suck in slightly, holding my breath, twisting awkwardly to get it closed.

It’s on!

Much higher on my body than expected, but I guess that’s how girl-mode me would wear it!

The tightness is immediate. It clings to my waist and hips like a second skin, locking my legs together. I try to walk, and it forces me into short, careful steps. It’s limiting. Restrictive. But there’s something incredibly exciting about that. Like I’m being taught to move differently. More gracefully.

I turn slowly toward the full-length mirror by the door, and I stare at myself in awe.

I don’t look exactly like Isla, of course. But the silhouette is startlingly similar. From the blouse tucked neatly into the waistband to the way the pencil skirt curves and narrows around my legs, it’s like a different version of me is standing there—one that feels so much closer to the version I see in my mind sometimes.

I’m giddy and getting a little too excited where it counts. My cheeks flush how my new clothes stop the growth. I then spin slowly, watching how the fabric holds me.

I love it—Maybe a little too much.

But as I stand there, heart racing and mouth slightly open, a thought presses into the back of my mind.

This isn’t enough.

I don’t want to just wear the clothes.

I want to go further.

Makeup. Hair. Maybe even perfume. I want to see how far I can take this. How close I can get to the girl I’d love to be.

I glance at Isla’s vanity.

The palette. The brushes. The lip glosses. All within reach.

I take a step forward, then another, the skirt forcing me to glide.

I take a seat at Isla’s vanity, the skirt forcing me to perch delicately at the edge of the stool. The surface in front of me is chaos—palettes stacked on palettes, little jars and tubes with brand names I’ve only vaguely heard Isla mumble in frustration when something ran out.

I stare at my reflection. My clothes transport me to a place of euphoria, but my face—it does not. My shaggy hair falls in my face like always, unkempt and definitely out of place. Nothing like how Isla does hers.

I reach for one of her hair ties from the corner of the desk. A soft, pink one with a little gold detail and scoop my hair up awkwardly into a loose ponytail. I fumble a bit, pulling it up too high at first, then again too low, but finally settle for something that makes my bangs fall to the side and lifts the rest behind my head. Not perfect. But deffo different.

I lean closer and examine the change.

It’s subtle. But there’s something softer about me now. A flicker of something I don’t recognize… but want to know better.

Then, my eyes flick down to the trays of makeup in front of me. My stomach flips nervously. This feels like another level. Another line I’m crossing, but I won’t get many chances like this. Yes, I’m home alone a lot—but today, Mom gave me the excuse to be in here!

I pick up a small bottle of foundation and twist the cap open, dabbing a bit onto the back of my hand like I’ve seen Isla do a hundred times. The texture is thick creamy, and smells faintly like flowers and chemicals. I take her teardrop-shaped, slightly stained sponge and dab it on my skin.

The sensation is… weird. Like I’m painting a wall. My skin tone smooths out immediately, and my blemishes disappear beneath the beige coating. My face becomes a canvas, even-toned and strange. Almost doll-like. I turn my head from side to side, fascinated.

Next, I reach for a mascara tube. I unscrew it slowly, watching the brush slide out, already coated in thick, dark liquid. I blink. My heart thumps. I really don’t want to poke myself in the eye with this thing!

Lifting the wand to my right eye, I raise my chin and try to mimic the motion I’ve watched Isla do countless times. The bristles tickle my lashes, and I freeze, terrified I’ll blink at the wrong moment and stab myself in the eye.

A tiny smear appears on my upper eyelid.

“Crap,” I whisper, reaching for a tissue, dabbing it carefully away.

My Second attempt is slower more precise. I let out one long breath and try my best to relax. Once I’m a little calmer and the rush of what I’m doing fades a little, drag the wand gently from the base of my lashes to the tips. The transformation is immediate. My eye looks bigger. Sharper.

I finish the other eye, letting out a small breath once it’s done. I sit back and study the result.

It’s still me in the mirror… but now with Isla’s lashes. Her smooth skin. I tilt my head, admiring the girl in the reflection. She’s not quite formed yet—not Isla and not me. Something in between.

But she’s closer.

I swallow hard, then smile again. I’ve come this far, so I might as well keep going! The feelings I’m getting are incredible! It’s like the best moments of my life rolled into one.

I want more.

My hands tremble slightly as I twist open one of Isla’s lipsticks. A soft rose pink with a little shimmer. The kind of shade that whispers confidence instead of shouting for attention. Kinda like what my Mom wears.

I raise it to my lips and glide it on carefully. The waxy texture is strange at first, but as it settles into my lips, I only feel happiness. Looking at my reflection, my eyes are instantly drawn to my lips. The light color makes them glow and radiate feminity.

I’ve got ‘blow job’ lips. So, I’m not surprised.

However, what I am surprised at is what faces me in the mirror's reflection.

The girl inside me. The one I’ve dreamed about. She’s here now, staring back from the mirror, her wide eyes rimmed in mascara, her skin flawless under soft foundation, her lips tinted with this subtle, beautiful pink.

I barely recognize the face staring back at me.

But at the same time… I’ve never felt more like myself.

I smile. Then I smile wider. My whole body warms with this rush of joy, of disbelief, of…rightness.

And yet… I still want more.

I glance over the vanity, eyes landing on a delicate glass bottle of perfume. The label reads something French I can’t pronounce, but I know the scent as Isla wears it all the time. It’s fresh and floral with something soft and warm underneath.

I lift the bottle, press the nozzle, and a cool mist kisses my neck and wrists. Instantly, the air around me changes. I smell like her. Like Isla. Like a woman.

And that’s when I notice the little tray of jewelry beside the perfume full of rings, bracelets, and earrings, all thrown together in the typical manner I’d expect from my sister.

I reach up to my own ears and the studs I’ve had for years. They are tiny black ones I never really thought about. Now, they feel out of place.

I gently pop them out and set them aside.

Then, I search through Isla’s collection and find a pair of small hoops. They are thin silver with just a touch of sparkle. Feminine, but not too flashy. My fingers fumble a little as I try to get them in, but finally, I hear that satisfying click as each one settles into place.

I sit back again and look at myself.

The face in the mirror now glows with a delight I’ve always thought was out of my reach. For once, I’m not looking in jealously at a pretty woman waking past me in the street. For once, that pretty woman is me.

I don’t have a name for her yet, but she’s here. And she’s beautiful.

My gaze drifts to the floor, where Isla’s older pair of black heels sit patiently. I bite my lip, then bend to pick them up. My legs protest slightly as I lift one foot at a time, carefully slipping them on.

They’re snug but not too tight. My heel slides into place, and for a moment, I feel like my heart is going to explode. The urge to touch myself is so incredibly strong, but I resist.

I stand slowly.

The skirt tugs tighter around my thighs as I straighten, the heels forcing my posture to shift. My legs feel longer. My balance feels... challenged.

I take one step.

Then another.

The first few are clumsy. Wobbly. But I focus on the mirror, on the girl staring back, and I steady myself. Holding my chin up and my shoulders back, I remember the video I watched last week.

Heel, toe. Heel, toe.

I laugh. Quietly at first, then louder. It bubbles out of me like a secret finally released. I strut around Isla’s room, looking like her twin. Looking more than like her twin. Looking like the girl, I’m so desperate to free from her prison!

This isn’t just dress-up anymore.

This is me.

And I don’t want to take her off.