Debts of Desire (2/12)

The knock at the door jolted Ethan awake.

He looked down, seeing his caged penis and the glued breast forms rising and falling with each shaky breath. Memories of yesterday came rushing back—the silent ride back to his apartment, the guys barely speaking as they dropped him off, telling him they’d send someone to help him “adjust.”

Cringing, he shuffled to the door and opened it.

A woman stood there, confident and smiling like she already owned the place. She looked him up and down with a smirk that made him feel even smaller.

"Morning, sweetie. The guys sent me. We’ve got a lot of work to do."

Without waiting for an invitation, she stepped inside, heels clicking sharply against the floor as her eyes swept over the apartment in a slow, assessing glance.

For the next few weeks, she became a daily fixture in his life, pushing him deeper into a world he barely understood. Each morning she arrived, breezing past him with a bag full of makeup, clothes, and a tight schedule. Ethan quickly learned that resistance wasn’t an option—Maya was relentless, and the boys were clearly monitoring his progress.

The lessons began with makeup. Maya would sit him down in front of a mirror, hands lightly guiding his trembling ones as he learned to draw precise eyeliner flicks, blend eyeshadow into a soft smokey haze, and sculpt his face into something delicate and pretty. Lip gloss—always lip gloss—became a daily ritual. Pink, coral, cherry red... he had to learn them all, to glide the wand across his lips without smudging, to purse and pout like it was second nature.

When he fumbled, Maya would sigh dramatically and make him wipe it all off and start again, tutting as if disappointed in her "star pupil." Over and over, until his hands stopped shaking, until his movements were fluid, almost automatic.

Then came the wardrobe lessons. Every day a new outfit: slinky black dresses, clingy tops paired with tight jeans, flirty skirts that made him hyper-aware of every step. Maya taught him how to move, hips swaying slightly, shoulders relaxed, arms positioned just so. Strutting back and forth across his tiny living room in stilettos, Ethan stumbled and fell more times than he could count—but Maya never let up.

"Hips, sweetheart," she teased, watching him wobble. "No one’s gonna drool over a baby deer on ice. Give them a strut worth staring at."

Speech training followed. Maya corrected every word, every tone. He had to speak softer, lighter, his voice floating instead of dragging. She drilled him on giggling, on demure little laughs that he had to sprinkle into conversations naturally. Every slip-up earned him another hour walking back and forth in his highest heels, reciting flirty lines until he got it right.

Weekly trips to the salon became mandatory. His nails—once bitten short—were now long, perfectly shaped, painted glossy nude or soft pink. His hair was trimmed into a sleek bob, with the darkest jet-black dye maintaining the sharp, feminine style.

Through it all, Maya remained professional but firm. She never coddled him, never gave him false praise. Each improvement was expected, demanded. She wasn’t there to make him feel better. She was there to shape him into exactly what the guys wanted.

And once she was satisfied—once Ethan could apply a full face of makeup without smudging, once he could glide across a room in sky-high heels, once his voice sang with a soft, girlish lilt—he got a call.

The guys were having another game night that weekend, and Eva was expected to be there. He stared at the phone, a heavy lump forming in his stomach.