Empathy Protocol - 2/18 (Patreon)

All characters are over the age of 18 and consensual

Daniel typed his password with unsteady fingers and tried to focus on the quarterly figures. It was impossible. The satin blouse moved against his skin with every shift. The empty underwired bra pressed and shaped his chest. The narrow skirt forced his knees together. He kept his eyes on the screen, but the awareness of his own body sat heavier than the work.

At 10:17 a junior from accounts walked past and did a visible double-take. At 11:03 a project manager stopped at the edge of his desk, frowned, then moved on without speaking. Daniel’s face burned.

Lauren walked past just after eleven-thirty. She did not stop. She simply looked at him—the soft brown hair, the short skirt, the way he sat with knees pressed together—and a small, satisfied smile touched the corner of her mouth.

Lunch was the worst. He stayed at his desk while the floor emptied and filled again. Once he caught his reflection in the darkened monitor and looked away quickly, but the image had already settled: brown hair framing a face that no longer looked entirely like his own. At half past two an email arrived from Ms Voss.

Daniel — please collect the Q3 binders from the print room and deliver them to Conference Room B. Do not delay.

He stood, smoothed the skirt, and walked to the print room. The heels announced every step. Two women from marketing watched him pass without speaking. He stacked the binders against his chest and carried them back, the weight pressing the empty bra against his skin.

Conference Room B held four managers, including one who had sat three desks away from him for a year. The man looked up as Daniel entered. His eyes flicked from the lace hem of the skirt to the red soles of the heels and finally to the soft brown hair. Daniel placed the binders on the table without speaking and left. In the corridor his hands were shaking.

By four-thirty the scrutiny had become constant. People no longer pretended not to look. At five o’clock he collected the small black handbag and returned to Ms Voss’s office. She was waiting.

“Close the door. Stand there.” He stood in the centre of the room while she examined him from shoes to hairline. She adjusted the blouse at his waist, then smoothed a strand of the wig. “You walked too heavily this afternoon,” she said. “I could hear you from here. Shorter steps. Soften the knee. You will practise.” She made him walk the length of the office and back three times, correcting posture, arm position, the angle of his feet. He obeyed without argument. When she was satisfied she nodded once. “That is better for now.”

She opened a drawer and placed a tube of hair removal cream and a disposable razor on the desk.

“Take these. Tonight you will remove all body hair below the neck. I expect you clean-shaven when you arrive tomorrow. Everything—legs, chest, underarms, and the rest. Do not leave any stubble. If I find any, the programme extends by three days.” Daniel stared at the tube and the razor. The instruction settled into him with quiet finality.

“Tomorrow you will arrive already dressed. The clothes you wore today remain here. I will provide a fresh set in the morning. Do not be late.”

She dismissed him with a nod. Daniel collected the handbag and left, the taste of lipstick still faint on his mouth, the soft blouse against his skin, the brunette hair brushing his shoulders. On the train he sat with knees together and tried not to look at his reflection. Every time the carriage lights caught the glass the figure looking back was still recognisably him, but already slightly less so.

That evening he followed her instructions carefully. The cream burned faintly. The razor scraped away the last traces of the body he had always known. Afterwards he stood in the bathroom and ran a hand over the newly smooth skin of his legs, his chest, the soft skin between his thighs. The absence of hair felt permanent in a way the clothes had not. He slept poorly, aware of the residual taste of lipstick and the memory of the empty bra.

He arrived at 8:25 the next morning carrying nothing but the handbag. Ms Voss’s door was open. She glanced up, checked the time, and pointed to the cabinet.

A new set of clothes waited—a short-sleeved cream blouse with soft gathers at the shoulders, a fitted navy pencil skirt, sheer nude stockings, and nude patent high-heeled pumps. Beside them sat silicone breast forms and matching hip pads. The same brunette wig rested next to them, freshly brushed.

Daniel changed in silence while she continued working. Ms Voss then fitted the hip pads herself, securing them until they rounded his hips and softened the line of his waist before making Daniel step into the briefs. Next she settled the silicone breast forms into the bra cups, adjusting the straps carefully until the weight sat evenly against his chest. They were heavier than he expected. The unfamiliar forward pull changed his posture at once. Only then did the cream blouse and navy pencil skirt follow.

“Sit.” He sat on the visitor’s chair. She opened a slim black case and took out foundation, a compact, mascara, and lipstick. “Hold still.”

The foundation was cool as she dotted it across his cheeks and forehead, then blended it with quick strokes. She tilted his chin when she needed a better angle. The mascara came next—each lash coated carefully until his eyes looked darker, wider. Finally the lipstick. She applied it in precise passes, then handed him a tissue. “Blot.”

Daniel pressed the tissue between his lips. When he looked at the soft pink smear left behind, something in his chest tightened hard. She settled the wig into place, adjusting the fringe so it framed the new makeup, then turned the small mirror so he could see himself.

The face looking back was still recognisably his, but softened. Combined with the cream blouse, the weight of the breast forms, the rounded hips, and the soft fall of brunette hair, the overall effect was unsettlingly coherent. The navy skirt and nude stockings completed the picture until the figure in the mirror no longer looked like a man forced into women’s clothes so much as a secretary who had simply arrived for work. Daniel’s throat felt tight. He stared a moment longer than he meant to, then looked away.

“This is the minimum standard from now on,” she said. “You will arrive each morning with hair tidy and face clean. I will apply the makeup until I am confident you can do it yourself. Old clothes are no longer permitted on site. If you are seen in anything male, the programme extends by one week per incident.”

She closed the case. “Your login credentials have been updated overnight. You will find the changes self-explanatory. Get to work.”

At his desk the name on the login screen now read C. Ashford. His email signature had been altered to match. Daniel sat very still, staring at the letters. He wondered what the C stood for. The first message of the day was already waiting—an automated calendar invitation for a presentation review with Ms Voss at 5:15 p.m.

Throughout the morning the makeup and the wig made everything worse. Every time he caught his reflection in a darkened monitor he saw the lipstick, the darkened lashes, the soft brown hair that was not his. The weight of the breast forms pulled at his posture whenever he leaned forward.

At lunch he forced himself to the canteen. He chose a seat in the corner and ate quickly, head down, aware of the soft friction of the nude stockings and the movement of the breast forms with every breath. Two women from the design team sat three tables away. Their voices were low, but not low enough. One glanced over, then said something that made the other suppress a smile. Daniel kept his eyes on his plate and finished as quickly as he could.

The afternoon passed in forced concentration. He attended a brief stand-up meeting standing carefully so the skirt would not ride up. At 5:15 he reported to Ms Voss’s office once more. She inspected the makeup, adjusted a stray strand of the wig, and made him walk the length of the room again. “You’re getting better,” she said. “Still heavy on the left foot. Practise at home if you must. Tomorrow I expect improvement.”