Wrong Position, Right Fit (2/4)

By the end of his first week, Jake had managed to memorize everyone's coffee orders, figure out which reports were expected before lunch, and somehow got the hang of walking in heels without teetering every step of the way. Each morning, he’d show up to the salon just as the doors opened, right on schedule. They’d wave him over without missing a beat, already chatting about what they’d try on him next.

At first, it had just been foundation, mascara, a little lipstick. But every day, their hands grew bolder, their brushes heavier. His lashes thickened, winged out with perfect little flicks. His eyeshadow gained depth, warmth, a soft smoky shimmer that made his already large eyes look downright doe-like. And the lipstick—God, the lipstick. Gone was the barely-there pink. Now they traced his lips with creamy mauves and subtle plums, blending until they looked just kissable enough without being obvious.

The nails came next.

“This won’t do at all,” one of the stylists said, lifting his hand delicately between her fingers.

Before he could say a word, there was a soft click. The first acrylic was already glued down. Then another. And another.

Jake blinked. “Wait, are these—”

“Just a bit of length,” she said, holding up his hand for inspection. “Honestly, I don’t know a single secretary who doesn’t get hers done.”

“You’ll love the sound of them clicking away as you type,” she added with a wink. “Trust me.”

By the time they painted them a glossy nude and set them to dry, he sat still with his hands out, staring at the smooth, dainty length of each finger. They looked far too feminine. He swallowed, hoping they’d be easy enough to take off once this whole secretary thing ended.

And then there were the outfits.

Every day, the skirt seemed a touch tighter, a smidge shorter. The blouses clung more. The heels? They definitely grew steeper. Whenever he voiced even the slightest concern, the girls just waved him off with a smile, telling him it made her look more professional—much more suitable for a proper little secretary like her.

That morning, it was a black-and-white houndstooth set—short-sleeved crop top and a matching skirt that clung like a second skin. The top hit just above his navel, flashing a smooth strip of his midriff with every movement, while the skirt hugged tight around his hips and barely reached mid-thigh. The fabric was snug, the pattern bold, the silhouette unmistakably feminine. He wasn’t sure it was office appropriate, but the girls simply smiled as they helped him dress—tugging the skirt into place and smoothing the top down over his chest like everything was perfectly normal.

His heels were glossy black stilettos, easily five inches tall. One of the girls knelt to slip them on for him, carefully guiding each foot into place—his freshly pedicured toes perfectly lined up, polished in a soft blush. When he stood, the full effect was impossible to ignore—long legs, tight outfit, and that soft sway in his step that had started to come naturally, no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

It was the same outfit he was wearing later that afternoon when HR called him in. The woman looked apologetic as she explained the situation—there was still no position open for him in accounting. It was taking a little longer than expected. “Just a few more weeks,” she said.

He nodded quietly and walked out, heels clicking, stomach sinking. A few more weeks like this.

A few more weeks mincing through the office. A few more weeks of eyes tracing every step, every sway, every inch.

He caught the looks. Curious. Lingering. Men glancing up from their monitors as he passed, their eyes following the sway of his hips, the click of his heels echoing down the hallway. Some smiled. Others just watched openly as he bent to set down a coffee or retrieve a file, eyes sliding along smooth legs and soft curves like he was placed there just for their enjoyment.

Especially from Mr. Langston...