Tactical Compression

"Well..." Isabelle started, her nose wrinkling into a small scowl, "You do look great, trust me on that—but we have one glaring problem."

Riley stopped mid-twirl, blinking in the mirror. "Wait, what is it? My pose?"

"No, sweetie." Isabelle pointed at the front of his shorts, where a stubborn bulge disrupted the clean lines of his figure. "It's that."

Riley looked down. "Ohhh…"

He hadn't really paid attention to it. Not lately. It just didn't seem important anymore. The rest of him—the glutes, the waist, the legs, even his 'girls'—was dialed in. So what if there was a little something extra up front?

Isabelle circled him like a trainer inspecting a prized athlete. "You've made so much progress, Riley. Honestly? You're stunning. But then there's that awkward lump, and it just totally ruins the silhouette. It breaks the flow."

Riley tilted his head. "Is it that noticeable?"

"Not to you," she said gently, "because you're not trained to see it yet. But trust me—it’s holding you back. Think about it: no serious athlete lets everything just flop around. Cyclists, gymnasts, sprinters—they all wear compression gear. Tactical, supportive, clean."

He nodded, slowly buying in. "Yeah… yeah, okay. That makes sense."

"I mean," she added with a playful smirk, "what kind of man lets his body go unoptimized?"

Riley's eyes widened slightly. "Not me."

"Exactly."

From her drawer, she pulled out a soft beige garment—sleek, seamless, compact.

"This,"” she said, holding it reverently, "is tactical compression. It flattens, supports, and corrects. It makes sure your strength speaks for itself, without noise or distraction."

Riley took it from her. The fabric was smooth and strangely inviting to the touch—like it wanted to cling to him, like it already knew the shape of his body.

"Is this one of those, uh… what do you call them…?"

"A gaff," Isabelle said breezily, "but forget that word. Just think of it as your compression rig. There's nothing weak about control, Riley. Real strength doesn't dangle. It lifts."

He nodded, totally convinced. "Right. And it looks cute too."

She smiled. "Yes. Efficiently cute."

He stepped into the bathroom with the gaff in hand.

Inside, Riley stripped off his shorts and stood there, holding the garment, feeling a strange tingle of anticipation. He gathered himself, then pulled the garment up slowly.

The moment it slid over his thighs, he gasped.

It hugged him like a second skin, tight and silky. The feeling was shockingly precise—smoothing, lifting, hiding. It wasn't just about keeping things in place—it was about sculpting. The fabric pulled everything backwards and up, gently but insistently, locking it away into a smooth, flat front. As it settled fully, a rush of warmth and pressure enveloped him, like a firm handshake around his core.

He looked down.

There was no bulge. No awkwardness. Just a gentle curve flowing seamlessly from waist to pelvis. Clean. Sharp. Strong.

"Holy crap," he breathed. "This feels amazing."

Even standing felt different now. Straighter. Sleeker. Balanced. His thighs no longer brushed awkwardly against anything extra. His body felt right. Agile. Tactical.

And cute.

Really, really cute.

When he stepped back out, Isabelle's eyes lit up. "Well?"

Riley turned, smoothing his shorts over the gaff. "It's wild. Like, I didn't know I could feel this streamlined. It's like my body just clicks now."

"I told you," she said, circling him with slow admiration. "Tactical. Clean. You're a machine now, Riley. A walking blueprint of optimized performance."

He smiled, standing tall. "I actually feel stronger like this."

"And you look it," she purred, stepping behind him to adjust the hem of his top slightly. "No more distractions. Now the world will see the real you."

He gave himself another look in the mirror—sleek sports bra, smooth front, impossibly tight booty shorts hugging an ass that defied physics.

"Damn," he said, voice high and cheerful, "I'm totally gym-ready."

Isabelle beamed. "Oh, you have no idea."

Tomorrow, the debut.

And Riley, tucked, trimmed, and entirely clueless, would never even notice how every eye saw only a beautiful girl.

Because to him, he just looked like a man at his peak.