Doughplicates

The smell of bread had filled the apartment so fully it almost felt like something physical, like a warm blanket pressing down on his shoulders. The oven purred softly, a steady background hum he could feel in his elbows as he leaned against the counter. Isabelle had said the baking video would be a fun change of pace—a touch of variety for the feed, something sweet and spicy. He'd just finished the stream, still flushed from the shoot, and now he had time to kill while the loaf finished.

And Isabelle's rules were clear: no wasted moments.

Market research wasn't optional.

He was tempted to search for some of the terms that had been appearing in the chat. Housewife, especially, had piqued his interest. He'd heard the term before, but for some reason it seemed to be clouded, as if he was seeing it through a fog. He felt that there was something more to it than he knew, a deeper meaning. But he had a better resource than the internet for things like that. Riley had Isabelle. A quick conversation with her later would clear up any confusion.

So Riley scrolled. Not aimlessly, not for pleasure—this was work. Seeing what was trending, what poses popped, which backdrops pulled the most comments. He liked thinking of himself as a real professional about it.

At first, it was the usual mix: girls in frilly outfits, some playing at homemaker as he just had, others going for bedroom glamour. But then his eyes started catching on little things. A maid's uniform in a certain cut. A cheerleader's outfit in his school's colours. A lingerie set that wasn't just similar to his—it was exactly the same lace set he'd worn on his stream earlier that week.

He swiped to another video. A girl's hair was curled in big, soft spirals that looked too familiar. Another clip: a sleek high ponytail with a narrow ribbon knotted just so—his ribbon, his style, the one he'd worn in the "after practice" shower tease. Even the makeup was his: that barely-there blush paired with an extra-glossy lip, or the smoky shadow blended exactly how Isabelle had taught him.

The more he scrolled, the more it sank in—these weren't coincidences. They weren't just drawing from the same general pool of "girly" ideas. They were copying him.

Even now, just minutes after his housewife-themed stream, videos had begun to pop up. They were thrown together, of course, not planned or executed with the same level of professionalism that Riley prided himself in, but they were there. Women with flour on their faces and chest, women wearing nothing but an apron, women frantically mixing up some dough so that they could put on a show kneading it.

Frame by frame, girls across the platform were re-enacting him.

Riley's mouth went dry, his thumb slowing on the glass.

I didn't know I was this big.

It was… flattering. Almost dizzying. He wasn't competing for market share—he was leading. He'd shaped the scene without realizing it. He was the one setting the tone, the one others were chasing. And Isabelle had been right all along: his look wasn't just pretty—it was iconic. She was going to love hearing about this. She'd probably smile that slow, knowing smile, tell him this meant they had to keep pushing forward, stay ahead of the wave.

The oven's heat was starting to pool around his hips as he scrolled deeper. And then—

He stopped.

Some of the "GirleyRiley clones" weren't just posing or dancing or teasing. They were doing the other thing. The thing Isabelle had explained once in careful, patient tones—"fucking," she'd called it. It was meditation, really, a form of understanding yourself, a form of finding peace. He was so glad that he and Chase had found a way to do it together, to support each other through this act of introspection.

But this… this was strange.

He tilted his head, watching. The girls were using a part he didn't have. Between their legs, their prosthetic was much better than his. Instead of being a mere covering of the parts they had been born with, it had a cavity inside, able to take their boyfriends' penises and hold them inside of them. How was that even possible?!

When Riley and Chase were together, they used his hands, his mouth, his breasts, even his ass. Chase liked all that. Riley knew he did. But this—this wasn't an option for them.

He let his free hand drift down, pressing softly at the front of his blue and white polka-dot dress. Nothing there but fabric and the warm, flat curve of his body. He touched the smooth covering that Isabelle had given him. He loved it, of course, as he did with all of her gifts, but now he was wondering if it was enough. What had these online girls figured out that he had missed?

A tiny knot twisted in his stomach.

Why didn't he have what they had?

His mind went straight to Chase. Sweet, patient, perfect Chase. Watching these other girlfriends give their boyfriends something he couldn't, it hit Riley with sudden ****—Chase was being cheated. Denied something wonderful through no fault of his own. His needs were not being met.

The videos kept playing. His clones kept smiling, moaning, giving. And all Riley could think was that Chase deserved that. That if Riley really cared about his needs, he should be able to give him everything.

This wasn't something to put on a someday list. This wasn’t "maybe, if Isabelle thinks it's right." This was important. This was urgent. Isabelle would understand. She could fix things. She always fixed things.

Setting the phone down, Riley smoothed his palms down over his apron. The fabric clung to his hips, warm from the oven's glow. His chest rose softly beneath it, round and full—another one of Isabelle's gifts. His hair was still curled from the shoot, the glossy waves brushing his shoulders in a style he’d once seen a dozen imitators wear. Every change Isabelle had given him was a piece of who he was meant to be.

But as his hands traced the familiar lines of his body, pride tangled with a thin, sharp thread of worry.

What if, after all of this, it still wasn't enough?