Demonstration

This secret CIA project was still experimental and hadn’t yet been tested in various situations. All information was classified, and Agent Charlie Smith was the first to be entrusted with testing the app, installed on his phone. However, at the upcoming briefing, the entire department working in this direction was informed that a new method for undercover operations had been developed. What followed was the start of an experiment no one else knew about—not even Agent Smith. At the briefing, they simply told him, “Smith will explain the details.”

And he did. In the nearest conference room, after locking himself in with the five-person team, and deciding to mess with them a little, he pulled out a yellow folder, trying his best to make it look like magic, and slowly uttered a made-up spell. His other hand, of course, was already in his pocket, where he had pre-loaded the template of a strong, masculine man he was supposed to transform into. So imagine his surprise when, instead of becoming Mr. Perfect, he found himself standing in a pencil skirt, a tight blue blouse with something pressing hard beneath it, and high heels that didn’t help much—especially since all his colleagues were now looking down at him.

He felt every stare his colleagues threw his way, and they decided to crank things up even more after Michael’s joke:

— Looks like everything’s so new for our new assistant, huh?

And suddenly, that feeling wasn’t just in his head. The space around him seemed to shrink, the sounds dulled, and everything he thought he knew—walls, lights, the faces of his coworkers—started to feel… off. The office no longer felt like a familiar workplace… he felt like an outsider.

— Seriously, Smith? — Carla suddenly scoffed, arms crossed with suspicion. — Is that a costume? Did you just fake this with your little app? Prove it.

— Yeah, — Michael chimed in with a smirk. — Maybe the assistant wants to show us how… real she is?

Charlie swallowed. His lips were suddenly dry, and the heels felt even higher. His heart was pounding—not like a man’s, but nervously, rapidly, with a weird flutter inside. He felt his skin tingling beneath the blouse, the bra digging into him—softly but firmly reminding him of its presence.

He was about to say something, but instead, almost automatically, he tugged at the edge of the dark blue blouse, like he needed to prove to himself that this was all in his head. The fabric stretched, sliding smoothly over soft skin, revealing a brown lace bra. Too feminine. Too provocative. Too real.

A strange silence filled the conference room.

— Well… — he mumbled. His voice came out unexpectedly high, almost melodic. — As you can see…

Their eyes were locked on his tits. And he could feel their stares, literally. But more than that—stronger than anything—he felt the straps digging into his shoulders, every breath squeezing his chest and pressing his boobs into the bra. This wasn’t just a sight. It was a sensation. The firmness, the weight, the pressure… and the attention.

He realized he felt uneasy. But not in the way a guy would when messing around. No, this was something else. Something more vulnerable. Weaker.

— Shit… — someone whispered. Michael? Or Smith himself? It wasn’t clear anymore.

— Smith, you’re pushing it, — Carla chuckled, but her tone wasn’t mocking now. There was something else… Uncertainty? Confusion? — You might be the new girl here, but why’d you let these idiots push you around like that?

What? Smith didn’t understand a word. Or rather, he understood, but he didn’t get if Carla was joking or not—because the way she said it, it was like she truly thought Smith was new here, and she almost sounded convinced he had never been their colleague, agent, or even a man at all.

— Wait, what? — Smith straightened up—or tried to, but the strange weight on his chest and the tight skirt made every movement awkward. — Carla, are you serious?

But Carla had already turned to Michael, tossing a remark over her shoulder:

– What was it she said her name was… – Carla drawled thoughtfully, as if trying to recall. – Lauren. Yeah. Lauren Blake.

The name hung in the air like settling dust, and yet hit like a slap to the face. Charlie… Lauren… flinched. Not from the sound—from the feeling. As if the name had always been hers. As if it echoed in her chest, in her stomach, all the way down her spine. And with that echo came a new sensation. Burning, unbearable—shame. Real, female shame.

She—yes, no longer “he,” not even in thought—only now realized she was literally standing in the middle of the conference room, arm still raised, exposing her lace bra to everyone. Her bra. And the tits inside it—not padding, not illusion. They had weight, they pulled down, and worst of all, they attracted attention.

– God… – she breathed out, clutching the folder to her chest. Her heart pounded. Her cheeks burned. Her knees wobbled inside these fucking tight stockings.

‘What… what’s happening? Phone! I need to change back, now!’

Lauren—or was she still Agent Smith?!—frantically shoved a hand into the pocket of her skirt, but the fabric was too tight to reach the phone right away. Her hips—suddenly wide and soft—made it nearly impossible to bend even slightly, and the bra, pressing tightly into her ribs, kept distracting her as she tried to stay upright in these instruments of torture, balancing on heels like she was about to fall.

Her fingers finally brushed against the smooth surface—the cold, familiar feel. Hope.

Her fingers, now with long and utterly impractical nails, slid anxiously over the screen. Her heart—no, Lauren’s heart—was pounding so loud it felt like everyone in the room could hear it. The screen lit up. The app was there. But…

“Enter password.”

– Password? – she whispered out loud, and again that voice. High, soft, unfamiliar. So… feminine.

One second. Two. No one said anything. They were all staring. Michael bit his lip, clearly not looking at her face. Carla squinted, as if she suspected something, but… not the right thing. Not it. No one saw Agent Smith. They all saw—Lauren. Just a nervous, maybe new, but definitely a woman.

‘Think, Smith… Shit, Lauren… What was the password?!’

Her hands were shaking. The manicure made it hard to press the screen. Below, the bra dug into her skin like a reminder that this was all real—and not some act.

He—she—tried something. ProjectX001. Incorrect. AgentLoren. Wrong. Password123—out of desperation. Red warning. Three attempts. One left.

– Lauren? – Carla’s voice again, suddenly closer. And her tone… was warm. – Are you okay? You look like you’re about to cry.

Smith… Lauren… didn’t know what to say. She wanted to snap back like before. But the words wouldn’t come. There was something tight in her chest. Not anger. Fear. And a strange… vulnerability. She felt her chin begin to tremble, her lips quiver. And in that moment, she realized she was about to cry—and couldn’t even stop it. Because even the tears were different now. They came easily. Quickly. No walls.

– I just… – she tried, turning away, eyes squeezed shut, already feeling the wetness – I’m just tired. First day, nerves…

She didn’t know why she said it, but it sounded like the truth. A truth that hadn’t existed a few minutes ago, but now felt completely real.

Carla nodded, almost sympathetically. Her hand landed on Lauren’s shoulder—not with hostility. With a woman’s touch. Understanding. And that gesture sent a wave of heat through Lauren’s body. Because it felt so… real.

She tried to remember who she really was, that she was a man, Agent Smith, not some weak girl on the verge of tears. But the voice in her head kept sounding more like Lauren. Lauren Blake. The words. The thoughts. The manner. Even the fear was different now. Not fear of a failed mission. But of how she looked. Of how they were staring. Of what they’d think of her after that demonstration, and how tight her skirt was digging into her stomach.

The phone flashed again. Five seconds until the app would delete itself.

‘Last try. Think. Come on. You’re a CIA agent, you can’t just…’

But her hand froze above the screen. And with it, the whole world paused. He… no, she… realized: she didn’t remember. Not a thing. The name, the code, even the mission’s start date—it was all slipping away like sand through her fingers. And somehow, it didn’t even seem to matter anymore.

Then the screen went black. The app disappeared. And with it—the last connection to the past.

– Hey, Lauren, are you okay? – Carla’s voice again. And this time, it wasn’t a colleague’s voice. It was someone older. Almost a mentor. – Don’t let those clowns get to you. Come on, I’ll show you where the coffee is. And by the way, you really need to change that blouse. It’s way too tight—everyone’s staring at you.

Lauren just nodded. Mechanically. And followed her, tottering on surprisingly shaky heels, feeling the tight bra pressing against her breasts, the swish of hair down her back, and the string thong—God knows why she put it on—cutting into her crotch and especially into that empty space...