Becoming His Expensive Plaything (6/11)

Jacob’s heart pounded as he paced in nervous little circles around his bedroom. Victor had been clear—he was expected to arrive fully dressed, makeup done, hair styled. Being turned into a girl by Victor’s hands was embarrassing enough; doing it all himself was another kind of humiliation entirely.

He glanced at the envelope of cash from last time. Still unopened. Still thick. Still more than he made in a month at his old job. The temptation pulled at him harder than his pride could push back.

With a deep, bitter breath, he turned to his closet—the one now filled with dresses, skirts, and heels—and pulled out the outfit he figured Victor would like. It was short, bold, and unapologetically sexy. The black bodysuit dipped low in front and left his sides nearly bare, the glossy metallic skirt flaring high off his hips with every step. It wasn’t just feminine—it was daring. It looked like something you wore when you wanted attention. It looked like something Samantha would wear.

He slid it on, then reached for the matching heels—tall, glossy black platforms with thin straps that buckled tightly around his ankles, forcing him to stand high and poised. Finally came the hard part: the makeup.

Jacob had watched Victor do it a dozen times—brushes and powders, mascara wands, lipsticks twisted open with lazy confidence. He remembered the pressure of Victor’s fingers against his cheeks, how easily he blended foundation, how he always knew exactly what look he wanted. Jacob, on the other hand, was hopeless. Tutorials blurred together. Eyeliner smudged. Lipstick went crooked. At least three times he almost called it quits.

But hours later, when he finally stepped back from the mirror, Samantha was staring back. Soft features, glossy lips, long styled hair cascading past his shoulders—there was barely a trace of Jacob left.

Standing outside Victor’s door, swaying slightly in his towering heels, Jacob couldn’t shake the humiliating image of himself: a skin-baring black bodysuit, a metallic skirt that flared with every nervous shift, glossy lips, and perfectly styled hair falling over his shoulders. He looked like some flirty party girl waiting for her man to pick her up.

Then the door opened, and Victor took one look at her before a slow, approving smile spread across his face.

“Samantha,” he said, his voice low and warm. “You look incredible. The outfit, the makeup... damn. You really outdid yourself.”

Jacob flushed hard, teeth sinking into his glossed lower lip. “Th-thanks…” he whispered, voice barely above a murmur. The praise made something flutter inside him. Disgust? Pride? He didn’t know. He hated that he didn’t know.

Victor leaned in, brushing a strand of hair behind Jacob’s ear with practiced ease. “Let’s celebrate. I’m taking you on a date.”

Before Jacob could protest, Victor had already taken his hand, guiding him down the steps and helping him into the car with effortless, gentlemanly grace—everything about it: the outfit, the touch, the way Victor guided him, left him feeling helplessly feminine.

The restaurant was dim and quiet. Victor guided him by the waist, his fingers firm, unapologetic as he led him in like he belonged to him. He didn’t sit across from him—he pulled him close beside him, thigh to thigh, his palm settling bare on Jacob’s leg. Warm. Heavy. Slowly sliding higher. He never looked down, never asked permission. He just touched him, casually stroking smooth skin while talking like nothing was out of place—like he was his girl, and this was normal.

And then there were the looks. Hungry. Possessive. Like Victor was admiring a prize he’d dressed up just right. The hair, the makeup, the way the outfit hugged his body—Jacob could feel it in the way Victor’s eyes moved over him. He wasn’t being looked at like a man. He was being seen as something feminine. Desirable. Owned.

Jacob tried to keep his head down, tried not to react, but it was getting harder. Every time Victor touched him, every time he leaned in close or spoke low in his ear, that strange flutter deep in Jacob’s stomach returned—and he hated it.

Now the night was over. He stood on the steps outside Victor’s door, purse in hand, heart racing.

Victor already had the envelope in hand as he looked him over slowly, those same hungry eyes tracing every inch of him. “You really do look hot tonight, Samantha,” he murmured, voice low.

Jacob didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stood there in his heels, flushed and confused, until Victor leaned in.

Without thinking, Jacob’s eyes drifted closed. His lips puckered slightly—soft, unsure, waiting.

Victor kissed him.

It was slow, sensual, deliberate—his hand lightly cupping Jacob’s chin, the kiss lingering just a second too long.

When Victor finally pulled back, Jacob froze. His eyes flew open, face burning.

He didn’t say a word. He just grabbed the envelope from Victor’s hand and turned, heels wobbling as he hurried to the car.

It was just for the money, he told himself again and again, clutching the cash like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Nothing else.