Cause for Celebration Pt. 2

The plates were nearly empty now, just smears of sauce and the final grains of fried rice pushed lazily to the corners. The living room was filled with the soft hum of jazz—something Celeste had put on after dinner started—and the faint clinking of chopsticks tapping porcelain. A soft, satisfied sigh left Kieran’s lips as he set his plate down on the coffee table, sinking deeper into the cushions with his legs curled under him, feet still perched in a pair of strappy heels he’d forgotten he was even wearing.

That was the strangest part.

All these little things he wasn’t noticing anymore.

The way he reached for his drink with his wrist angled just so, the way his knees had started to drift apart now that the pencil skirt was long gone. The way his voice had mostly stayed up in pitch, still somewhat round and smooth around the edges, even when he was just asking for the soy sauce.

And now? He was warm. Very warm.

Two cocktails deep, with dinner resting heavily in his stomach and the buzz of adrenaline finally receding, Kieran felt it in his head—a soft haze, not quite a spin, more like a gentle tilt. He blinked slowly, his lashes fluttering with an effortless grace trained into him all week. His cheeks still held a faint flush from the cocktails, or maybe from the blush he hadn’t fully wiped off before dinner.

The conversation had been light so far—thank God. Talk of old family vacations, weird childhood memories, even a debate about which movie to rewatch tonight. For the first time in days, no one was quizzing him, correcting his posture, or reminding him to keep his ankles crossed.

He leaned his cheek against his palm, elbow propped delicately on the couch arm, his fingers brushing against his cheek in a way that would’ve looked entirely feminine to anyone watching. But he wasn’t thinking about it. He was just…tired. Buzzed. Finally letting his shoulders drop.

“Ugh, finally,” he muttered with a sleepy grin, staring at the ceiling. “I can be me again.”

Celeste glanced at him from across the room, her martini glass in one hand, her sleek ponytail falling down one shoulder. Her eyes lingered for a beat too long, just watching him. Observing. She didn’t say anything at first. Just lifted her drink again.

Because it wasn’t him anymore. Not exactly.

He didn’t notice the way his voice still had a slight soft, melodic sway when he spoke, or the way his wrists moved with a kind of practiced fluidity. He didn’t notice the way he sat with his spine lightly arched, or the way his fingers toyed with the hem of his sweater absentmindedly like a girl in a rom-com.

Celeste noticed. Of course she did.

And when Vivienne spoke next, her tone had shifted back—slightly cooler, more businesslike.

“Well,” she said, setting her wine glass on the side table, “as pleasant as tonight is, we should talk about what comes next.”

Kieran blinked and straightened slightly, sensing the change in tone.

“The board vote was the first step,” she said. “Securing your title. But the position itself isn’t permanent. You’ve got to maintain it. You need to prove to them that Kiara Laurent isn’t just a name on paper. She’s a presence. A leader. A CEO.”

“Ughhh…” Kieran groaned, throwing his head back against the couch dramatically, one hand draped across his brow. “How long do I have to keep doing all this…girly shit?”

There was a beat of silence.

Vivienne’s gaze sharpened. Not angry, but disappointed. Like a teacher whose star pupil had just flubbed an easy question.

Celeste slowly turned toward him too, expression unreadable.

Kieran, a little fuzzy from the drinks, didn’t catch the change right away. He let his head loll to the side, watching them with half-lidded eyes, fingers toying lazily with the strap of his sweater.

Vivienne folded her hands in her lap. “Until you’ve made it through the probationary period. That’s what the board agreed on. They want results. Stability. Poise. If there’s even a whiff of uncertainty—”

“Ughhhh,” Kieran groaned again, his voice lilting like a whiny girl in a romcom. “That’s gonna be months, isn’t it? Like, actual months. I’m gonna forget how to be a dude. I’m never gonna get girls again…”

Another silence.

This time, Celeste and Vivienne exchanged a look. It was quick. Subtle. But it said volumes.

Vivienne didn’t bite at the comment. She just smoothed her blouse and said calmly, “You’ve done well. But don’t assume the hardest part is over. Tomorrow is important. There’s a contract signing with the lawyers to make your position official. And then the gala in the evening.”

Kieran sat up straighter, his buzzed mind catching up.

“Gala? Like…fancy-fancy?”

“Yes,” Vivienne said. “Euphorica will be celebrating its new CEO in public for the first time. It’s a high-society event. Press will be there. Photographers. Shareholders. Our competitors. This will be your debut.”

Kieran let out a slow exhale, but his mind felt a little foggy, like the room had softened around him. Gala. Public. Debut.

Heels. Makeup. Another dress.

He slumped a little, fingers rubbing his temples. “Can we, like…not talk about it right now?”

Vivienne didn’t argue. She simply rose to her feet, glancing at the clock.

“It’s late. You should rest. We all should. It’s going to be a long day.”

Celeste stood too, stretching slightly and setting her glass down. “Yeah, come on. Let’s save some of that glam-anxiety for tomorrow.”

Kieran nodded slowly, standing as well—but even then, his movements carried the grace of someone who had been taught how to stand without adjusting their weight too abruptly, how to move fluidly, not in jerks or shrugs. He didn’t even notice it. His bare feet padded softly on the floor, each step light from a week of walking in heels. His hips still had a sway from habit, the motion baked into his muscle memory now.

Celeste caught a glimpse of it as she walked behind him. That swish, that effortless femininity. And for a second, she hesitated.

Then she smiled faintly to herself and turned away.

Kieran didn’t notice. His mind was drifting to the pillow waiting upstairs. And the gown Vivienne had picked for tomorrow’s gala.

Just a few more months.

He sighed.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

He could survive this.

But first…sleep.

Or so he thought.

Kieran’s heels clicked gently against the floor as he padded away from the warm living room light and down the quiet hallway to his bedroom. The soft rustle of his outfit followed behind, his swaying hips leading the way out of habit more than thought. The second cocktail had definitely made its mark—he wasn’t drunk, just… floaty. Lightheaded in a way that made the world feel slow, like everything moved a beat behind him.

His bedroom door closed with a quiet snick, and the silence wrapped around him like a blanket.

He leaned back against the door, eyes closing for a moment. Just to breathe. The quiet pressed in. No questions. No expectations. Just him.

Slowly, almost lazily, his fingers found the side of the skirt, tugging it down. It slipped off his hips like liquid and pooled silently around his heeled feet. He stepped out of it, his legs long and shapely in the sheer black stockings, still held taut by the high-waisted shapewear cinching his waist. The waistband dug in slightly—but it had all day—and he hardly noticed now. He quickly shimmied and struggled to get it off, but after some fumbling, he was successful.

His silhouette was still so distinctly feminine that even standing there alone, in partial disarray, he looked like a woman undressing after a long night.

His hands paused at the waistband of his panties, remembering.

Right. He was still tucked. Still taped.

Kieran hooked his thumbs beneath the waistband of the panties and rolled them down, wincing slightly as he peeled off the tucking tape that had been holding him in place all day. The adhesive tugged at sensitive skin, but the release—God—the release was immediate. Cool air swept over him, and he tossed the tape into the bin beside the vanity with a flick of his wrist.

He looked down at himself.

Soft. Unerect. But finally free.

He exhaled, deeply, like he hadn’t breathed properly in days.

Relief spread through him in a wave, subtle but real. He sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his thighs. His stockings caught the light softly, the shimmer running down the length of his calves. The way he sat, even now, was precise. Poised. Ankles close, knees tilted inward slightly. The week of training hadn’t just conditioned his voice or his smile—it had etched into his posture, his movement, the invisible choreography of womanhood.

Now though...

He reached over to his nightstand, grabbed his phone, and flopped backward onto the bed, legs dangling over the edge. The ceiling spun just a little, and he let out a quiet laugh.

“When the hell was the last time I even…” he murmured aloud, not finishing the sentence. It didn’t need to be. He already knew.

At least a week ago. Maybe more. He couldn’t even remember anymore. Between Celeste’s constant supervision, Vivienne’s lectures, the corsets, the endless hours of posture drills and vocal training—there hadn’t been time. There hadn’t been privacy. There hadn’t even been Kieran, really.

Just Kiara. The daughter. The heiress.

Now, alone in his room, free of most of the layers, no one was looking.

He scrolled through his phone, eyes half-lidded, until he found a video. Nothing special. Just familiar. Comfortable. The ceiling felt slightly too far away, like he was floating. He let his hand drift to the nightstand, pulling his phone into reach.

It took only a few swipes. He knew what folder it was in.

He didn’t even look closely at the thumbnail. Just muscle memory. Something familiar. He tapped it, let the video start, the faint sound rising from the speakers, tinny and intimate in the stillness.

He slid a hand over his stomach, fingers brushing over the faint edge where the shapewear had been, then down between his thighs. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t performative. It was for him—finally, just for him.

He stroked slowly, eyes half-lidded, not even really focused on the video. The audio was enough. The rhythm. The tone. His breath caught as the stimulation built, each stroke coaxing him further from the ache of restraint into something looser, warmer.

His thighs tensed instinctively, knees trying to press together—still trained, still ladylike—and he had to consciously relax them. A laugh slipped out at that. Even now, his body wanted to behave. To present. To perform.

The sensation was rich and slow, a kind of woozy unraveling that made his head swim. Not the frenzied, teenage kind of jerk-off—but something slower, indulgent, edged with fatigue and days of buildup. He worked himself in languid strokes, thumb circling, chest rising and falling under the snug grip of the bra. The faint bounce of the silicone inserts was oddly distracting, sensual in a way that made his hips buck upward almost involuntarily.

He let out a breathy moan, one that sounded just a little too high, a little too feminine.

And it made his cock twitch.

That moan wasn’t Kieran’s.

But it still came from his mouth.

The orgasm took him unexpectedly, cresting fast and hard. His back arched off the mattress just slightly, hips rocking up into his hand as warmth flooded over him. He exhaled shakily, blinking at the ceiling, heart racing.

Silence fell again.

He let the phone slip from his hand, the video still playing quietly as it dropped to the comforter. His legs twitched. A warm stickiness coated his palm, but he didn’t reach for tissues right away.

Instead, his gaze drifted—past the bed, past the rumpled clothes, to the vanity mirror across the room.

And stopped.

His breath caught.

Even now, spent and tousled and undone, he didn’t look like Kieran.

His hair framed his face in soft, layered waves. The light picked up the contour still lingering on his cheeks. The lashes were subtly lifted with mascara, the lips parted, slightly pink from gloss worn hours ago. His bra shifted with each breath, pushing his chest into a feminine silhouette.

The stockings still clung to his calves, sheer and glittering faintly in the dim light. The heels—tall, pointed, unapologetically pretty—were still strapped to his feet.

He looked…

He looked like a woman who had just had the kind of night that left you flushed and satisfied and delicately ruined.

His throat bobbed.

It was him. Still him. Kieran.

My name is Kiara Laurent. I am confident, graceful, and poised…

“…Not tonight,” he murmured to his reflection.

He wiped his hand lazily on a tissue, reached for a throw blanket, and pulled it over his hips. He still didn’t unbuckle the heels. It wasn’t worth the effort. And besides, a small voice in his head said…

Celeste would yell at you if she saw.

It didn't make any sense, but he didn't care.

He curled onto his side. Just Kieran. For now.

But even in the dark, the name Kiara hummed softly under his skin.