Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Typically Reagan could verbally spar with the best of them, but he was both emotionally drained from the weeks of humiliation he'd endured, and physically weakened by his poor diet. The brain needs fuel for energy, and his body had long since begun cannibalizing the small reserves of fat and lean muscle it once held. The meager amount of delivery food the normally health-conscious man could **** himself to consume barely sustained him, leaving him feeling perpetually depleted.

It was no wonder he'd lost the will to fight. Eva finally found a pair of sweatpants clean enough to shove the sweaty politician in before leading the **** man to the car. Reagan couldn't recall agreeing to anything, but somehow he found himself sitting in the passenger seat, on his way to a salon and day spa downtown, feeling as though his mind was only partially his own. He didn't want to go with the pretty young woman, but he found himself acquiescing, even if the purpose of this outing was currently lost on him. His only protest was that even after days of self-neglect, his odor was palpable, almost too much to bear now that he could actually smell himself in the confined space of the vehicle.

“It really wouldn’t be fair to **** the staff to endure my stench.”

“Don’t you worry about a thing, Rey.” Eva said for the hundredth time, smirking to herself when she heard the man speak.

Reagan was in a bad way. His words, though concerning to others, held a familiar ring for Eva. A politician through and through, he couldn't help but revert to his old habits. Eva knew that despite his current state, the cutthroat candidate she could envision in the White House still resided within him.

“We’re just giving it a try,” she reassured him. “They’re not going to do anything permanent, and at the very least, you’ll get some much-needed pampering. They’ll scrub that smell off of you, and by the time we leave, you’re going to feel like a brand new person.”

As they continued along the drive, Reagan’s mind wandered. He pictured their destination as a putridly pastel establishment, the walls papered with flamingos. His idea of the kind of LGBTQ friendly facility that would take on the task of transforming a “real man” like himself into a fairy must be staffed with a bunch of drag queens in bouffants, and a gaggle of the kind of tattooed loose women probably raising two kids out of wedlock. He was shocked to discover that the business was housed in a bland, wood-paneled building - a textbook example of brutalist architecture at its most mundane.

Inside, he found a single room with only one chair. An older, short gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair stood at attention, flanked by two assistants in matching pink uniform shirt dresses. This was far from his prediction, though he didn't care much about the environment.

“Harold, how lovely to see you!” Eva squealed, happily waving. Then, whispering to Reagan, she added, “This is where Casey DeSantis gets her hair done when she's in town. I'm amazed they could fit you in on such short notice.”

While Eva discussed their needs with the salon owner, the two young women led Reagan to the back. Still somewhat dazed, he wondered how they maintained such perfect hair. Every strand was pulled tightly into a large bun atop their heads, seemingly defying gravity. He envied their discipline; even the slightest bit of frizz during a debate or press conference would be a disaster to him.

In the back room, a single claw-foot tub sat, adorned with a cushioned backrest and an array of nozzles, hoses, and spouts. The two young women silently gestured towards the invitingly warm water, leaving him to his own devices while they attended to other tasks. Alone, Reagan caught a whiff of himself. The tub's floral scent was surprisingly pleasant, albeit a bit feminine.

'When in Rome...' he thought, beginning to disrobe. He might as well let Eva have her fun. He didn’t think he could be any more humiliated than he already felt.

The aspiring Senator stripped, and for the first time in a while, he truly saw his reflection. A bearded man with shaggy, greasy hair stared back, looking far older than his twenty-nine years. A closer look revealed a deeper truth.

He wasn't old, but his expression reflected a weariness that belied his age. It was as if the weight of the world had settled heavily on his shoulders. He felt like a man who had already exhausted his potential, living on the streets, battling a harsh winter. Even Florida's mild climate couldn't revive him.

Reagan pressed his finger into his bicep, expecting to feel the toned muscle that used to be there. In the past month, it had melted away alarmingly, leaving behind a scrawny frame. He couldn't believe how much he'd let himself go. The impulse to attempt a push-up arose, then quickly vanished.

‘Not like this... really matters.’

After stepping into the water, his usually sharp mind struggled to focus. The water felt scalding hot, but he quickly adjusted and sank into the pool. Leaning back against the cushion, Reagan allowed the warmth to wash over him, attempting to make sense of his predicament. He searched for a glimmer of hope but found none. The worst part he realized was that his campaign manager might have gone completely off the rails. She had dragged him halfway across town to be made up exactly as the hackers had depicted him. The idea that his curse could somehow be the solution to his troubles was utterly absurd. For the first time in weeks, the beleaguered man actually chuckled.

The warm water, infused with soothing oils, began to work its magic. He sank deeper into a level of relaxation he hadn't experienced in years. His eyes closed, and his mind drifted off, lulled by the gentle hum of the air conditioning.

It could have been an hour, or it could have been a minute, but to Reagan, the moment his lids shuttered, he was abruptly yanked back to reality by the warming water of a showerhead now wielded by one of the young assistants.

"GAH!" Startled awake, he tried to sit up, but the bath oils made the porcelain surface slippery. He would have tried again, but his unwanted attendants were already at work.

Dressed in pink plastic smocks and large plastic eye protectors, the girls manhandled the weakened blonde, scrubbing every inch of his skin with a gently exfoliating brush. Reagan tried to pull away, but the layers of dead skin sloughing off, revealing pink, slightly irritated, and most importantly clean skin, made him reconsider. He stopped struggling, acutely aware of his own helplessness.

Cringing, one of the workers began their treatment, wishing she hadn’t startled their client. When the surprise of it all wore off she began to lather his hair with a thick, foamy shampoo, while the other girl started working at the other end. First she used a small plastic tool to remove the grime from under his toenails, then starting between the toes, she worked her way up with a mildly abrasive glove, soaked in the same soapy oil infusion, smelling of lilacs, inching closer and closer to his growing member.

Reagan wasn't the type to **** himself on any woman. He preferred to believe it was a matter of chivalry, but the truth was, he knew it was the most effective way to avoid a future scandal. A woman coming forward years later when the eyes of the nation were upon him could irrevocably damage his reputation. He wondered why anyone would resort to such drastic measures when a pleasant conversation, and a few carefully chosen gifts could easily secure a willing partner.

One thing he'd always prided himself on was his self-control. He viewed it as a divine gift, a safeguard against the impulsive urges of his "less intelligent head." This dicipline, combined with a strict regimen of self-gratification, usually kept him in check, even in unpredictable situations like the one he currently found himself in. Despite the gloves, he could feel their fingers glide over his slick body, not just washing him, but arousing him. As their hands moved closer to his groin beneath the water, his "lesser intelligent head" began to stir.

Two beautiful women, completely at his disposal, were lavishing their attention on him. He was naked, ****, and entirely at their mercy. It was the perfect storm.

‘Baseball, naked grandma.’ he repeated to himself. Unfortunately for the self-styled monk, since his breakdown, the will to fap had long left him. His cock stood in full attention while the woman worked, the only thing betraying her amusement, the little smirk that snuck onto the corner of her lips.

He parted his lips, but no sound escaped. He almost apologized for his body's reaction, feeling utterly mortified. Instead, he offered the attractive woman a sad apologetic smile.

She remained silent, placing a finger over his lips to hush him, then diligently finished her task. The touch of the glove on his genitals wasn't particularly pleasant, but the pent-up tension clouding his mind kept his erection stubbornly in place, even after the assistant moved on. The man with the impossibly large, yet impossibly fragile, ego searched his mind for an excuse, but before he could utter a word, the showerhead switched on, and a cascade of cool water rained down on his scalp.

After his damp hair was wrapped in a terrycloth turban, Reagan was left alone to dry, the water swirling down the drain beside him. His clothes had vanished, removed long before his thorough cleansing. The only garment available was a small pink satin robe that barely covered his privates, no matter how much they shrank in the cool air.

The little belt tied securely in place, Reagan felt the soft satin material slide against his raw, pink skin. A shudder ran down his spine. With little else to do, he peeked through the curtain to find the two assistants patiently waiting, their hands clasped politely in front of them. Beside them stood a medical table with a circular cushion, clearly designed to cradle his head and keep it very still.

When the same girl who had briefly encountered his maleness gently patted the cushion, the embarrassed man blushed and complied. He welcomed the opportunity to lie back and relax, but he dared not fall asleep this time. He felt as though he might wake up with a gun in his mouth, though it wasn't a firearm he was concerned about. The other girl, who had been mechanically going through the motions since washing his hair, approached his face, armed with a pen-shaped device attached to a dangling cord.

“What are you going to do with that thing?” he asked apprehensively.

“Electrolysis.” she answered plainly, her voice was as steady as her hand.

“Isn’t that permanent!?” he squealed, but his obvious terror did nothing to deter the aesthetician.

The other girl could see the panic evident in Reagan’s expression. She gently took his hand into hers, and soothingly whispered, “After many, many sessions. It’ll take a month or so, but it will grow back again. Then, if you decide you like it that way, you’ll just come back to see us again. Something you’re going to learn fast is that sometimes beauty is pain. Look, I know it can be scary making such a big change, but I think you’re so brave. Few have your courage. You’ve certainly got my vote.”

In an instant, the part of Reagan's brain that had been lying dormant through his bout with depression suddenly sprung to life. If there was one instinct that the man possessed, it was to remain electable at all times. Since childhood, he had harbored a goal, each step along the way as crucial as the last, so that he could continue his ascent up the treacherous political ladder.

The moment she uttered the "V" word, the woman holding his hand transformed in an instant from torturer to constituent. Reagan wouldn't dare risk further embarrassment. His practiced smile returned as he looked her in the eye. "Thank you," he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze, striving to leave a positive impression. He then gripped the hem of the feminine robe with renewed ferocity, clinging to it for dear life as her robotic coworker began her labor. For the next two hours, she diligently attacked each hair, removing it with a small poke and a tiny zap.

Glad the whole ordeal was finally over, after the nice girl rubbed a soothing lotion into tender skin, he was finally allowed to touch his countenance, and for the first time in fifteen years it was as smooth as the day he was born. The baby-faced man began to sit up, only to have the technician rest her tool on a little metal table, and placed a hand on his chest, stopping him in his tracks. “There’s one more area we need to take care of.” When she attached the stirrups, he audibly gulped.

Another hour of **** later, and both buttcheeks, the crack between them, his taint, and less scandalously, the small of Reagan’s back were all now equally as smooth as his pinchable cheeks. To add insult to injury, when he once again mistakenly thought his humiliations were over, the two young ladies’ coated his legs, and the few sparse spots on his arms in a thick hard waxy substance, ripping them each cleanly once they’d cooled enough to set. Though this was the least invasive of anything so far, he found himself mentally repeating the small amount of good news he was given, ‘This isn’t actually permanent, this isn’t actually permanent.’

The blue-eyed man’s willpower was tested, as this part was by far the most painful experience of the day, but after they shaped his eyebrows, something he no longer had the energy left to fear, he knew they were finally done because there wasn’t a single hair left on his body, aside from the shaggy mop still tucked under terrycloth. That was when they finally loosened the little piece of fabric, let the blonde mess spill out onto his tender face, and Reagan finally got to sit up, and see himself.

The image was familiar, but one Reagan thought best left in the past. Without the masculinizing facial hair, he seemed to have bathed in the fountain of youth. He saw himself back in middle school, the time when his political ambitions were just starting to take root. While other kids were occupied with more common extracurriculars, the young Mr. Demir was nose deep in a book in the school library, learning the ins and outs of the U.S. legal system, and attempting to discover the commonalities of every person ever elected president of the United States, hoping to discover the essence of their success.

When the librarian once tried to steer him towards running for class president, the always cocky Reagan brushed her off, saying, “Sorry, I don’t have time for a silly popularity contest, judged by a bunch of losers whose names I won’t even remember in ten years. Besides, student-government doesn’t stand out much on a resume, until college at least.” That goal seemed all but dead, and once again, the blonde sunk down into the salon chair, while the girls wrapped a cape around his neck.

The chair was reclined, and the girl with whom Reagan had developed somewhat of a report wheeled over another tray. She seemed happy performing her duties, a feeling he couldn’t find in himself, but he tried to resist the pull of his depression, listening as she spoke.

“Looks like we’re going to have to go a shade or two darker than your natural color, but that’s pretty common for blonde women like yourself. Probably made shaving your legs easier though, I bet. I know it must have been rough, having to grow out that beard so we could have something to work with, but I assure you, today you’ll be leaving here looking fierce and fabulous.”

“Fierce? Fabu… What are you about to do?” Reagan asked, hoping to sound more curious than terrified.

“Microblading.”

“Oh…” He didn’t wish to appear ignorant, but he couldn’t shake the overwhelming sense of doom. Microblading didn’t sound too scary. A good shave from a straight razor felt delightful. They had already waxed his sparse brows into shape, a process not too dissimilar to the eyebrow threading they’d do at his upscale barber shop. What could they possibly be shaving off? Deciding it didn’t really matter, they’d already drastically altered his look, so what harm could it do.

If he would have known that they’d be tattooing his eyebrows semi-permanently into shape, he might have said something, especially since he’d be stuck with them for a year, regardless of how temporary Eva promised this whole ordeal would last.

A little while later, the girl was satisfied with the left brow, so she dropped the little needled blade tool, and gave her hands a rest. Before he even had a chance to protest, the other girl seemed to appear from nowhere, syringe in hand, when she made three quick jabs, one in each corner of the mouth, and one at the tip of his cupid’s bow.

“What the hell?!” he squealed, his eyes watering. It was the exact same kind of sting as a pimple on a lips edge, completely excruciating but ultimately harmless.

“Shhhh,” came the comforting tones of the sweet girl’s voice. “That was just the botox for your lip flip. Don’t say anything for a minute. It needs to set.

While he lay on his back, the girl returned to work on the next brow. Reagan could feel his upper lip pull tighter, as it seemed to roll backwards, and pucker, bringing to mind the sensation of eating an ice pop on a hot summer day, as a kid. That thought gave way to one far more risque, as he remembered the expression one the face of the last piece of ass who went down on him, just before she took his sex in her mouth. Suddenly Eva’s plan became very real, the weight of it collapsing on him like a ton of bricks, but at this point his ego couldn’t bear the shame of storming out of the building half finished. God knows what kind of Frankenstein’s monster he’d be unleashing on the world.

Time flies when you’re having fun, so to Reagan it crawled as he endured more and more. His brows were finished, and absolutely perfect. He’d gotten eyelash extensions, his lids struggling under the unfamiliar weight, but without the effort, he was observing the world through curtains. They’d pierced both of his ears, performed a chemical peel on his entire body, leaving him with baby soft flesh all over, and he’d even received a perfect French manicure, gloriously feminine icing on the worst cake he’d ever tasted.

They didn’t even have to use extensions, since it had been so long since he’d clipped his nails. The girl simply shaped them and applied the acrylic. The final stinging blow came when the ice witch, as Reagan had begun to think of her, jabbed him in the bottom lip this time, that same tightening sensation now engulfing his entire mouth.

“You’re so lucky,” the nice girl said, “a bottom lip flip doesn’t work for everyone.”

Once again Reagan got a look at himself in the mirror, and once again, there was a completely different person looking back at him. It was as though his little sister, Callie, had much shorter hair, and the weariness to actually frown.

The little man in the classic suit returned and appraised his assistants' efforts. They stood quietly at attention behind him. A quiet grunt of satisfaction might not have said much, but the picture of relief that washed across the pleasant girl's face sufficiently demonstrated his approval.

From there, the man threw a towel over the mirror and silently retrieved his shears. He began snipping away at his new client's freshly washed hair, starting by removing a few ragged clumps. Then, he sent Reagan to the sink for another thorough wash, this time followed by conditioner. When they were finished, Reagan could actually run his fingers through his hair without them getting stuck.

After that, Harold twisted the loose hair dangling in front of the increasingly feminine-looking blonde man's face and pinned it back on top. Then, his expert hands, using top-quality cosmetics from MAC to Clinique, created art. He painted, and painted, and painted, with a simple powder foundation, highlight, contour, and a soft pink blush, adding hues and blending them to perfected subtlety. Bold eyeliner, though subtle and restrained, unlike the giant wings of Rey's contemporaries, painted a picture of a stylish woman who knew how to be both feminine and strong. Neutral shadows followed, as well as a few strokes of mascara.

Reagan's hair was nearly dry by this point. The man moved quickly and efficiently with a round brush and a hairdryer, working his way around his **** client's hair, fluffing and smoothing each strand until they softly framed his face. A little texturizer, fifteen minutes of sculpting, and the seasoned pro was finished. The final touch was a vivid shade of red lipstick, and the prospective senator, Miss Reagan Esen Demir, was camera-ready from the neck up.

The towel was removed, and the stylists all stepped away to let their new, happy customer bask in the feminine beauty they had helped to create.

This time when Reagan saw his reflection, he could neither make heads nor tails of it. The woman looked familiar, yet completely foreign at the same time. Her sleek blond hair was parted on the side, professional and mature, but still trendy, as it swooped past her cheek down to her chin. Her exquisitely made-up features were the kind usually reserved for a young runway model, but wouldn't seem out of place in a power suit either. Some might have described her as a Karen, ready to speak to a manager like a manager has never been spoken to before, but for Reagan it was something completely different - she looked like the perfect first lady for the modern GOP.

His eyes were drawn to her picturesque features, centering in on the bullseye that was those plump red lips in the middle. Only when he noticed the small gap between them and felt the tightness in his own did it truly set in for Reagan that the woman was him. Overflowing with shame, he quickly pursed his lips as tight as he could, only then noticing that Eva had been watching him in the mirror for who knows how long.

With a huge grin spread across her face, she gloated, "I told you this would work."

Feeling a sense of pride, Eva strode towards her boss, who looked vastly different than when she’d last seen him. She’d met all three of the Demir sisters over the years, each with a unique name representing their Irish and Turkish heritage.

His younger sister, Caroline Lina Demir, or Callie as she liked to be called, lived close in Florida, working as a bartender. Victoria Sage Demir, his older sister, who, if Eva recalled correctly, had gone back to using her maiden name after a divorce fairly recently. Then there was the eldest, Heather Azra Mauro nee Demir, married with two boys of her own. Both elder siblings still lived in New York, where the family was from.

Thinking about the Demirs always made Eva a little sad. She had a good relationship with her brother, Elias, and though she would be the first to admit he could be a massive jerk, she loved him dearly. Not all siblings get along. Family was complicated, and complicated was a generous term for the Demirs. He hadn't spoken to his sisters in years, sending generic cards and gifts for birthdays and Christmas instead. Even those, she was sure, were solely to maintain appearances. It was almost as if they were strangers, yet they were undeniably from the same stock. This was even more evident now, as Reagan sat in the salon chair, looking more like the Demir women than ever before.

The blonde-haired, blue-eyed man blinked his eyes a few times, feeling the weight of his lashes as he stared at his reflection, wishing he could hide somewhere from his oldest friend, and current campaign manager. He was speechless when she declared her victory, having a hard time grappling with the fact that the person in the mirror was himself, not to mention all the baggage that came with his present circumstances.

His blonde hair was cut and flat-ironed into a cute asymmetrical bob, and his eyebrows were much darker, shaped into thin arches. While his seemingly familiar, yet still unfamiliar face had been thoroughly transformed thanks to makeup, what was even worse was his swollen lips. They not only felt like they’d been stung by a hundred bees but also robbed his face of any masculinity in a way he never thought possible. He saw an attractive young woman, one he would no doubt try to chat up and then bed. Reagan had to deal with all of that odd perversion that his mind came up with and what was done to his body, all while he could hear Eva’s heels click on the tile floor as she walked towards him, practically with stars in her eyes.

Putting one hand on Reagan’s shoulder, Eva leaned in so that her face was next to his, allowing them to look at one another in the mirror. "Miss Reagan Esen Demir, you are looking beautiful!" she said, feeling downright giddy. Her plan was crazy, and seeing the first stages of it come to life gave her more hope of its success than she dared dream.

The blonde, blue-eyed man blinked his eyes a few times, feeling the weight of his lashes as he stared at his reflection, wishing he could hide himself from his old friend, and current campaign manager. He was speechless when she declared her victory. He was having a hard time grappling with the fact that the person in the mirror was himself, not to mention all the baggage that came with his present circumstances.

His blonde hair was cut and flat-ironed into a cute asymmetrical bob, and his eyebrows were much darker, shaped into thin arches. While his seemingly familiar, yet still unfamiliar face had been thoroughly remodeled thanks to makeup, what was even worse was his swollen lips. They not only felt like they’d been stung by a hundred bees but also robbed his face of any masculinity in a way he could never have imagined. He saw an attractive young woman, one he would no doubt try to chat up and then bed. Reagan had to deal with all of those odd perversions that his mind could cook up, and the disgusted feelings that came with them, all while he could hear Eva’s heels click on the tile floor as she walked towards him, practically with stars in her eyes.

Resting one hand on Reagan’s shoulder, Eva leaned in next to him, allowing them to look at one another in the mirror.

"Miss Reagan Esen Demir, you are looking beautiful!" she said, feeling downright giddy.

Her plan was crazy, and seeing the first stages of it come to life gave her more hope of its success than she dared dream.

"Eva Bree Arnoult," he replied, trying to glare at the pretty auburn-haired woman. He thought he could charm just about anyone and that went the double for his ability to intimidate when he brought his will to bear, but all he saw in the mirror was a woman looking a bit bitchy, and worse, a part of his mind, his libido, conjured images of conquest and an angry fuck. This transformed his normally vain or narcissistic thoughts into something resembling autosexuality, a corner of his mind he was not at all comfortable visiting.

Tilting her head to the side, Eva pressed the side of her face to Reagan's, wrapping her hands around him joyously, as a teetering laugh escaped her lips.

"Now that we have established who we are, I think it is time we take care of the bill." Letting go of her successful project, she turned her bright golden eyes to the man responsible. "Harold, you are a miracle worker. You brought the woman inside Reagan to the surface. I mean, clearly. Look how amazed she is. Your rates might be steep, but I swear you are worth twice as much!"

Placing his hand on his chest over his heart, the owner of the establishment gave the slightest bow. "My dear, you are too kind, and you know I couldn't have done this all by myself. It was no trouble at all to tear away her mask. She was no lumberjack after all."

"She…her…" Reagan mumbled softly to himself, once again his gaze pulled back to his reflection. Hearing those pronouns assigned to him left a bad taste in his mouth. The person in the mirror wasn't some drag queen, she seemed as real a woman as any other. He gave a quick shake of his head. One might think he was joyously speechless, but he and Eva knew full well, not having something to say was the most uncomfortable situation Reagan could ever find himself in.

Handing over the campaign's charge card, Eva hoped the veteran beautician would consider a retainer for his services, or even sign on full-time. That’s when she noticed how anxious Reagan remained. No longer did he seem dead to the world. The light was back in his eyes, and that meant she needed to get them going before he began to put voice to thought and ruin the new professional relationship she wished to build.

"Okay, Rey, we have a lot more to do, so let's get to it."

When his blue eyes, dramatically altered by the pristine makeover, met her own, she said his name again. “Rey…” Eva spoke like she was tasting the word, “Rea.” She said it again, envisioning a more feminine spelling, She said it again, and again, playing with the letters in her mind. “Rey…uhhh…, wait…Reah!’ Her golden eyes lit up, and a brilliant smile flashed across her lips. She nodded to herself, seemingly satisfied with her discovery. “Reah, how about we find you something to wear, and then we can head home.”

‘Reah?’ Reagan groaned to himself. He almost told Eva where she could stick that name, but didn’t dare in front of his constituents. That and he wasn’t stupid enough to dress down an employee in public. As good as Reagan thought he was, he knew he wasn’t perfect. There was always another secret to learn - always room to grow. This didn’t seem like how he wanted to grow however. Still he was more than happy to take any excuse to get out of the chair. “Home sounds good.”

He felt a heavy blow to his masculinity when he saw himself in the mirror. He was actually grateful for the haze that had clouded most of the transformation, but the reality hit him hard when he went to the restroom to get dressed. A small pile of clothes lay on the counter, topped by a pair of grayish-blue panties with a delicate floral lace pattern. Objectively, he'd probably describe them as somewhere between sexy and plain. But like any man, if he saw a beautiful woman wearing them, "sexy" would undoubtedly be the first word that came to mind.

"Eva," he called out, holding the underwear in one hand, the other pressed against the bathroom door. "What are…?"

His voice trailed off. He knew arguing for something different, something less feminine, would be futile. Eva swung open the door, not bothering to knock, causing Reagan to stumble back, and instinctively cover his nudity.

"Do you need help, Reah?" she asked, averting her gaze from the partially feminized man.

Reagan was the type of man who prided himself on his physique. If someone happened to walk in on him naked there’d be no shame, but rather a smirk or a playful wink. Now, however, with the loss of muscle definition and the feminizing effects of the salon's treatments, he was completely mortified.

"Reah, please put those on." Eva said, barely supprEseng a chuckle.

"Can't I just wear..." he began, but Eva cut him off.

Standing in the bathroom, she was already on her phone, speaking over him without even glancing in his direction. Reagan had seen her be assertive before, but never dismissive. It was a shift in their dynamic, one he didn't like, though his concerns were far greater than a single interruption in that moment.

"Those are your new clothes. We can't have you leaving here in a trench coat. What do you think people would say if it looked like you were trying to hide? Nothing good, that’s for sure. We have to stay on message, and it's the same as the old message. Reagan Demir is a person proud of who they are and what they have achieved."

She turned to the blonde man, a far cry from the person she’d known before the hack. Even now, as he tried to object, his voice was unsteady. Reagan felt an unfamiliar uncertainty about everything, including himself, and that wasn't how any candidate, at the very least not her candidate, should act.

"Put on your clothes. We have a lot more to do today." she ordered, looking down at him.

Despite his slight height advantage, her heels gave her the upper hand. Her gaze met his blue eyes, which seemed to have an almost unnatural sparkle thanks to Harold's handiwork. With a heavy sigh, Reagan began to follow her instructions. He'd taken orders from Eva years before, but being mostly naked, hairless, and shivering in the cold room, he felt far more **** than ever.

Eva hadn't provided pants, only a pair of dark blue, high-waisted jean shorts with four buttons for the fly. Anyone would recognize them as women's shorts, but they were vastly preferred over panties. Wearing those left him feeling like some kind of pervert. The shorts were tight but offered more give than his usual jeans. Even so, this particular pair was a struggle, as he attempted to fasten the buttons. "They’re a bit small..."

Looking up from a text to Ryan, Eva pursed her lips. "We'll take care of that back at your place. That, and," she gestured vaguely towards his groin, "we'll get rid of that unsightly bulge. Not ladylike at all, that thing."

"Take care of…?" Reagan tilted his head, his question clearly implying, "What the fuck are you talking about?" but his mind still reeled from the day’s events. "I'm not a lady. In fact, can you stop with the whole “Reah” thing?"

Eva noted the change in tone, a request instead of a demand. "You being “ladylike” is the next step. And no, I think 'Reah' suits you. There's nothing wrong with Reagan, but 'Reah' sounds more natural. It sounds feminine, and intimate, but grown-up enough. If you want, we can do some polling."

Feeling utterly defeated, Reagan put on the shirt, or rather, the blouse. It was a white tunic with a high V-neck that didn't reveal much cleavage, not that he had any to speak of. The short sleeves flared slightly, ending just below his elbows. A delicate orange floral pattern adorned the white fabric.

"I’m surprised you didn't give me a bra to wear," he said, immensely relieved.

He wasn't sure he could have endured that particular level of humiliation, even after what the salon had subjected him to. With the feminine clothing clinging to his shaven legs, he wondered how he had even reached this point.

Taking in Reagan, now almost fully dressed, a bright smile returned to Eva's face. "Here, put these on." She handed him a pair of leather sandals with wide criss-crossed straps, and a one-inch wedge heel. She owned a similar pair herself – cute and comfortable. "We'll get you fitted for your first bra when we get back home. Most girls start with a training bra, but as an adult woman, it'll be a bit of an adjustment for you."

A flicker of his usual fire ignited within him. Reagan shifted his stance. "Eva, I don't want to wear a bra. I don't need to wear one."

Turning away, Eva gripped the bathroom door handle before shaking her head, and responding, "Very few women enjoy wearing a bra, Reah, but like the rest of us, you’ll get used to it."