Dressed for the Role - Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Wardrobe Malfunction

WARDROBE MALFUNCTION

I didn’t turn on the lights when I got home.

I didn’t want to see myself.

I just stood there, in the middle of my room, still dressed in my slacks and button-down from work, like if I didn’t move, maybe the day wouldn’t be real. Maybe I hadn’t spent my lunch break painting my toes like a fucking secretary.

But the polish was still there. Still bright. Still glossy. I saw it the second I sat on the edge of the bed and my socks pulled tight over my feet. It caught the light like a sin.

I pulled my socks off. Then my pants. My boxers, too.

I needed to breathe.

Then I reached under the waistband of my pantyhose and hesitated. They were still warm, clinging to my skin like need. I slid them down in slow, trembling inches. They came off like they didn’t want to. As if even the nylons were mocking me now. My cock sprang up the moment I was free, aching against the cool air. Red polish winked up at me from my toes. I couldn’t look at it for long.

I added the hose to the small, shameful pile on the bed. Then the panties. Rachel’s black lace—just a hint of shimmer in the fabric, a soft little bow at the waistband. They still smelled faintly like her.

Rachel’s voice echoed, syrup-sweet in my mind:

“Your little toes should be polished.”
“Maybe a little heel. Something strappy.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, darling… in uniform.”

I hated how much I could still hear her. How easy it was to imagine her standing behind me now, warm breath at my neck, whispering more things I wouldn’t dare repeat.

I should’ve thrown them away. Or buried them somewhere in the closet. But instead, I walked to my dresser, opened the top drawer, and stared.

Boxers. Gym socks. A college t-shirt I hadn’t worn since I still had chest hair.

And now… panties.

I pushed the boxers to the side. Created a hollow space at the back. I folded the lace slowly, almost reverently, and laid it flat. Then the pantyhose—two fresh pairs, still in their drugstore packaging, waiting. They looked oddly innocent in their cellophane. Like something any woman might own. Like something I had no business touching.

And yet here they were. Here I was.

I stood over the drawer for too long, unsure whether I was organizing or surrendering.

Eventually, I closed it.

I told myself it was over. That I was done. That tonight would be the end of it.

But I knew it wasn’t. I went into the bathroom and found my razor where I left it.

My legs looked rough. The hair was dark and thick. Masculine.

“Tonight, you’ll take care of the rest of that leg hair. All of it.”

She hadn’t smiled when she said it.

I stood in front of the sink, just staring. The razor in my hand felt ridiculous. Cheap pink plastic, bought from the women’s aisle because she told me to. I didn’t even know how to use it properly.

But I stepped into the tub anyway. Let the water run hot. Soaked a washcloth. Lathered up.

The first stroke was short and careful. I rinsed it, checked it, stared at the thin line of bare skin like I’d cut out a piece of myself.

I kept going.

My thighs. My calves. Around the knees. Down toward my ankles. The more I shaved, the worse it felt. Like I was hollowing something out. Like I was becoming something else entirely—and not because I wanted to. Because I was told to.

And I knew—I knew—that Rachel would check. That she’d see. That she’d touch. That she’d notice a patch I missed and make some horrible, perfect comment I’d never forget.

That thought made my cock swell. Again.

I closed my eyes. Shaved higher. The air on my legs felt wrong. Sensitive. Too soft.

By the time I finished my thighs, I didn’t recognize them anymore. My legs didn’t look like a man’s legs. Not anymore. They looked… touchable. Like something made to be crossed at the ankle. Shaved thighs, red toes, and the memory of lace still lingering around my hips like a phantom.