Practice Makes Perfect

The new subliminal was ready. Isabelle had been watching her ex obsess over make-up tutorials for a week, and while it felt immensely satisfying to see him fall deeper and deeper into feminization, she wanted more.

Isabelle sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, the soft glow of the screen painting her face in quiet satisfaction. She read the new script one last time before uploading it to Riley’s meditation track:

"Information means nothing without empathy. Practicing makeup shows you understand, that you care about what women experience every day. It’s not just application—it's connection. Every brushstroke brings you closer to being the kind of man women want: thoughtful, attentive, beautifully in tune. Start practicing. The more beautiful you look, the more irresistible you become."

She smiled.

Just like every other track she'd uploaded, she was sure he would absorb this one completely. Soon anyone who knew him would have a hard time recognizing him, having blossomed into his feminine potential.

It was perfect.

She synced the new track into his nightly playlist, queued up for his next session. Then she leaned back and sighed with delight.

Riley was going to shine.

A few days later...

Riley was on the couch, legs folded underneath him, phone in hand, eyes lit with fascination. He and Isabelle were scheduled to hit the gym soon, but he was already dressed—short, candy-pink athletic shorts hugging his hips, a pale blue tank top tied at the side to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. His long hair was twisted up in a loose bun, little wisps curling around his ears.

On the screen, one of his favorite YouTubers was demonstrating a dewy, natural makeup look. Riley's mouth was slightly open, utterly captivated.

As the video finished, a thought bloomed inside him.

Watching is great. But information without empathy... without practice... it's empty.

He blinked, thoughtful.

How could he really understand what women went through unless he tried it himself? How could he ever connect with them if he didn't walk a mile in their heels—metaphorically speaking?

He stood, glanced toward the hallway, then crept into Isabelle's room.

Her vanity was pristine. Lipsticks arranged by tone. Brushes cleaned and stored in labeled containers. Palettes fanned out like a rainbow. It was sacred. But Riley felt no guilt. She'd understand. After all, he wasn't doing this out of vanity.

He was doing it out of respect.

He selected a BB cream, a brush, and a neutral-toned palette. Then he paused, remembering the tutorial's order. Moisturizer. Primer. Foundation. He found each in turn.

His hands weren’t elegant—his first attempt at foundation was streaky and uneven. He wiped it away with a tissue and tried again. The second pass was better. He blended like he'd seen in the videos, dabbing carefully, holding his breath like precision mattered more than oxygen.

Eyeshadow was trickier. His first attempt came out blotchy, too much color too fast. But he remembered: start light, build slowly. Pat, don’t drag. So he wiped it again and tried once more.

By the time he finished, he had a soft shimmer across his eyelids, a subtle contour giving his cheekbones definition, and glossy lips that caught the light.

He leaned close to the mirror.

He looked pretty. Really pretty.

And he smiled.

Women are going to love this, he thought, tilting his head.

It wasn't about being feminine. Not to him. It was about showing that he cared. That he understood. And that kind of empathy? That was hot.

From the hallway, Isabelle's voice drifted in.

"You almost ready, princess?"

Riley beamed. "Just finishing up!"

He gave himself one last look, tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, and grabbed his gym bag.

If women loved men who paid attention, who connected with what they went through, who understood beauty... then Riley was about to become the most attractive man in town.