No Days Off

The soft click of the lipstick tube echoed faintly as Kieran twisted it closed and set it down on the vanity table.

He leaned closer to the mirror, pursing his lips slightly and tilting his head left, then right, inspecting the finished product.

Glossy. Polished.

The pink was a soft, subtle shade — something that screamed "effortless" while still clearly taking twenty minutes to perfect.

His lashes fluttered with each blink, coated in just enough mascara to make them feathery and wide. His brows were delicately arched, brushed up and softened with tinted gel. His complexion looked luminous — dewy foundation, the faintest hint of contour at the cheekbones, a brush of peachy blush across the apples of his cheeks.

It was a "casual at-home" face, but it was still _Kiara's _face. Because even on a Saturday, even if he wasn’t heading into Euphorica unless summoned, there were expectations.

Vivienne’s expectations. Celeste’s standards.

There was always the chance of a video call, a pop-in, a last-minute board request. There was no true day off when you were the face of an empire.

Still, he'd kept it "low effort" by their standards. Only forty minutes on makeup today, instead of ninety.

He pushed his chair back and stood, brushing invisible dust from his outfit.

The outfit he’d chosen for the day was casual, but still unmistakably feminine — there was never really a choice otherwise anymore.

A soft, fitted white cardigan, buttoned halfway up over a pale pink lace-trimmed bra. The fine knit hugged his slender frame, clinging lightly to the faint silhouette of his non-adhesive silicone breasts tucked neatly into the bra. They weren’t heavy — just enough to give a natural shape under clothes, a subtle presence he’d been trained to make seem second nature.

Below, a pair of high-waisted gray leggings smoothed his hips and thighs, cinched slightly at the waist thanks to the seamless shapewear underneath.

No corset today — he decided he could get away with it.

But the absence was…strange.

The compression that had become so constant it was like a second skin was missing, and without it, his posture felt almost too relaxed, too ****.

He stood, smoothing the cardigan down with one practiced sweep of his hands, then stepped in front of the full-length mirror.

There she was. Kiara Laurent.

Long hair brushing her shoulders in soft waves. A pretty face, dressed in delicate, polished softness. Long lashes, glossy lips, subtle curves.

Nothing loud. Nothing masculine.

Nothing even suggesting the boy who had once stomped around in ripped jeans and oversized hoodies without a second thought.

The girl in the mirror smiled back at him — almost instinctively, automatically, because smiling prettily was another reflex now — and Kieran stared.

He saw her. And he remembered.

The image from this morning, burned into his brain. The towel falling. The sight of himself — stripped of all the enhancements, the illusions — naked and raw. The plain, slender, unremarkable body.

The long hair, the delicate hands...and then, jutting defiantly from between slim thighs, his cock.

He swallowed hard.

This pretty girl in the mirror — Kiara — had a cock.

This pretty girl had pushed her assistant up against a wall and fucked her.

This pretty girl — with her soft lips and fluttering lashes — wanted to fuck.

Wanted to shove that cock into soft bodies, make them moan, use them.

The thought made something primal twist in his gut, a dark, heated thing he couldn't name.

He lifted a hand — fingers dainty, pink-polished — and touched the mirror, fingertips brushing the cool glass as if trying to reconcile the image with the reality.

Was this just...costume? A mask? Or was it something else?

He didn't know.

He only knew the facts. His cock was still there. His body, no matter how carefully sculpted with shapewear and silicone and makeup, was still betraying him.

He stared into Kiara's wide, glossy eyes — her pink lips, parted slightly — and felt a strange, gnawing tension build in his chest.

Confusion. Desire. Thrill. Fear.

He let his hand drop away from the mirror.

The soft fabric of his cardigan shifted with the motion, and the subtle bounce of the silicone breasts was a mocking reminder: this was who he had to be now.

At least on the outside.

He exhaled slowly, the breath fogging up a tiny patch of the mirror.

The day was just beginning.

Kieran — Kiara — just stood there, barefoot on the warm carpet, pretty and polished and haunted, caught between the boy he'd been and the girl the world expected.

There was a light knock at the door, soft and controlled, followed by the sound of Celeste’s voice.

“Good morning, Kiara.”

Kieran — Kiara — blinked at his reflection once more before shaking off whatever strange spell he had been under. Quickly, he tilted his head just a little to the side, letting his hair cascade over one shoulder, and pitched his voice into that light, airy tone he had been trained to use.

"Good morning, Celeste" he chimed back with a soft, practiced lilt, flashing a sweet smile even though she couldn’t yet see it.

The door cracked open, and Celeste stepped inside.

She was, as always, impeccable — dressed in a fitted light grey turtleneck tucked into a cream pleated skirt that hugged her hips. She wore matte black stilettos that clicked softly against the hardwood as she walked, and her makeup was polished but understated — sharp brows, soft smoky eyes, a nude lipstick.

Celeste scanned the room once with those observant eyes of hers before they settled on Kiara.

"You look cute," she said casually, but with the slightest edge — like the compliment was a test, and the real quiz hadn't even started yet.

Kiara giggled lightly — that little performative, slightly flirty sound that Vivienne had insisted was appropriate for certain informal interactions.

"Thanks! I figured I'd go for 'Saturday Chic' today."

Celeste chuckled, stepping a little closer into the room.

"So...how was the event last night?" she asked, crossing her arms.

Kiara shrugged lightly, the hem of the soft cardigan slipping off one shoulder just a little — not enough to look messy, just enough to look artfully careless.

"Oh, you know...small talk, champagne, trying to pretend it wasn’t mind-numbingly boring," he said sweetly, batting his lashes for effect.

"Managed to survive it, though"

Celeste gave a slow, measured smile at that.

Something shifted.

Her posture straightened just a fraction, and the weight of her gaze sharpened.

"And..." she said, stepping closer, voice low and deliberate, "...why didn’t you ask me to put your corset on this morning?"

Kiara blinked.

For a second, there was a flicker of guilt, but he caught himself quickly — tilting his head again and giving an exaggerated little pout, playing the bratty heiress to cover the nerves that pricked his skin.

"I thought maybe I'd get a day off?" he said innocently, twirling a strand of hair around his finger.

"It's Saturday, after all"

Celeste didn’t smile.

She didn’t scold, either.

She just stepped closer again — slow, unhurried, almost predatory.

Kieran instinctively stepped back.

And Celeste, without raising her voice, lifted one perfectly manicured finger and pressed it against Kiara’s sternum.

She pushed.

Not hard, but firm enough.

Kiara took a step back, another, the hem of his leggings brushing the edge of the bed—

And then, with a soft gasp, he stumbled backward and landed on the bed with a bounce, hair falling messily around his shoulders.

He barely had a second to process before Celeste — his older sister — climbed onto the bed after him, swinging one leg over with catlike grace until she was straddling his hips.

The pressure of her body atop his was shockingly heavy compared to how controlled she usually was.

She didn’t sit still, either — she rolled her hips slowly, her bare thighs grinding gently into Kiara’s lap.

Kiara’s breath hitched, his lashes fluttering instinctively — another trained response to surprise he hadn’t even realized he’d internalized.

Celeste leaned down, close enough that her perfume — something dark, spicy, complicated — filled his nose.

Her mouth hovered near his ear as she spoke.

"You think you get days off just because you’re pretty, sweetheart?" she murmured, voice low and mockingly sultry.

"You think being Kiara Laurent is just about looking good in a cardigan and fluttering your lashes?"

Kiara whimpered — an actual, instinctive sound, high-pitched and **** — and hated how easy it came out of him.

Celeste rolled her hips again, a little harder this time, grinding down into the hardness she must have felt growing under the shapewear and tight leggings.

"That’s not the level of perfection you need to maintain," she whispered against his ear, the edge of a smirk in her voice — that familiar, infuriating smirk she wore whenever she pulled one of her pranks too far.

Kiara shivered under her, his body betraying him yet again — shifting, squirming, wanting.

The silicone breasts pressed up against the bra shifted with every writhing movement; the compression of the shapewear underneath emphasizing a softness, a helplessness, that he hadn't felt in a long time — not really — until now.

Celeste finally pulled back slightly, her fingers brushing Kiara's flushed cheek in mocking affection.

"I expect the corset tomorrow," she said simply, her voice overly serious — like she was handing down some grave, formal decree, when they both knew she was absolutely messing with him.

Kiara nodded quickly — too quickly — his lip trembling slightly under the gloss.

"Y-yes, Celeste," he breathed out, playing right into her hands.

He didn’t even get a chance to catch his breath.

Because Celeste didn't climb off him.

No, she stayed straddling his hips — weight heavy, centered — and those hips kept moving. Slowly. Deliberately. Grinding down into the slight, growing bulge under Kiara’s shapewear and leggings.

The pleats of Celeste's skirt fanned out slightly as she rocked her body, the soft, regular motion pressing her heat against him with rhythmic, devastating precision.

Kieran's heart slammed against his ribs, and somewhere deep inside, the old instinct roared to life — that raw, male urge he fought so carefully to smother under the polished, graceful Kiara presentation.

But he couldn’t fight it now.

Not when Celeste was rolling against him like that, even if it was all just to mess with him.

And then — to make it worse — she reached down with one hand, her long, manicured fingers slipping under the hem of her pleated skirt, and lifted it up just enough to make his brain short-circuit.

Kieran gasped.

The flash of smooth thighs, the glimpse of soft, lacy black panties hugging her body — the thin strip of fabric pressing tight against her, damp with heat from grinding against him — was way too much.

He whimpered softly — the sound high, almost musical — and instinctively squeezed his thighs together, trying to hide the growing tension, the pulse of need.

Celeste smiled at him — not sweetly, but cruelly. A sister’s smile — gleeful, wicked, victorious.

She leaned down closer, her hair brushing his cheeks, her face so close their lips almost touched. Kieran could see every detail — the faint shimmer of her lip gloss, the dark intensity of her eyes, the smooth dewy skin.

"You’re so pretty," she murmured mockingly, her breath hot against his mouth.

"So soft...so sweet...I bet if I kissed you right now, you’d melt for me. Right here, dressed like this...so ****, so helpless..."

Kiara couldn’t even think straight.

His fingers twitched uselessly at his sides, his body rigid under her, the growing pressure in his leggings making it so obvious what he was feeling — the shapewear compressing it enough to disguise a little, but not enough anymore, not with how hard he was getting under her.

Every feminine instinct he'd been trained to perform screamed at him to stay demure, to stay silent, to stay sweet.

Every primal, male instinct begged him to flip her over and take her right there.

He squeezed his eyes shut, mortified.

But just when Kieran thought he couldn’t take it anymore—

Celeste pulled back.

Not gently. Not tenderly.

She jerked upright, pulled the skirt back down with a snap, and stared down at him with an expression of sudden, electric anger.

"HA!" she barked, pointing an accusing finger straight at him.

"I KNEW you weren’t tucking!"

Kiara flinched hard, his mouth falling open in horror.

"I felt it!" Celeste shouted, voice rising sharply. "I’m not supposed to feel anything down there, Kiara! You’re supposed to be tucked! You're supposed to be flat — smooth!"

She stood up so fast the bed creaked under the sudden shift of weight.

Kiara scrambled upright on the bed, clutching the hem of his cardigan tight to his chest like it would shield him somehow, cheeks burning hotter than fire.

Celeste stalked around the bed, heels clicking sharply on the hardwood, voice rising higher with every furious word.

"You think you can just skip the rules?!" she snapped.

"You think you can just walk around pretending to be Kiara Laurent — MY creation — half-assed?! You think nobody's going to notice when you start slipping?!"

Kiara shook his head frantically, trying to find the words, but his throat was tight with panic — and guilt — and something deeper, darker: shame.

"I-I’m sorry, Celeste," he stammered automatically, his voice cracking into that high, Kiara-esque lilt even now, even under pressure.

"Sorry’s not good enough!" she shot back viciously.

She planted herself directly in front of him again, crossing her arms over her chest, her body rigid with anger.

"You have a standard to uphold," she hissed. "Every single moment you spend as Kiara Laurent, you represent not just yourself — but me. And Mom. And Euphorica. You are not allowed to slack. You are not allowed to slip. ONE mistake, and it all falls apart."

Kiara swallowed hard, the words pounding in his ears.

He could still feel the ghost of her grinding on him — the friction, the heat, the unbearable tease of being wanted — even if it had all been a trap. Even if it had been part of Celeste’s test.

And he had failed.

Horribly.

Celeste's voice lowered to a dangerous, cutting whisper.

"You're lucky it was me who caught you," she said, narrowing her eyes.

"If it had been Mom? If it had been anyone at the event last night? You’d be DONE. Over. Exposed."

Kiara nodded quickly, tears of frustration prickling at the corners of his eyes — but he batted them back with frantic, **** control, blinking prettily instead of letting them fall.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, squeezing his knees together in a perfectly feminine posture, hands folded nervously in his lap, shoulders trembling slightly under the soft drape of the cardigan.

Celeste stared at him for another long, brutal second.

Then, finally, she exhaled a long, sharp breath and ran her hands through her sleek hair, smoothing it down.

"You’ll be _perfect_tomorrow," she said, voice low and cold.

"Corset, tucking, everything. We're going to take drastic measures from now on. No compromises. No exceptions. Do you understand?"

Kiara nodded again, too fast, too eager to please.

"Y-yes, Celeste," he whispered in that lilting, girlish voice that he hated how natural it sounded coming out of him.

Celeste gave him one last, scathing look.

Then — finally — she turned on her heel and left, the door clicking shut behind her with a harsh, definitive snap.

Kiara slumped forward on the bed, his head falling into his trembling hands.

He felt humiliated. Turned on. Ashamed.

And worst of all...

Still, somehow, desperately wanting more.