(TG)Under Housekeeping (2/3) (Patreon)

Entry 10: The Painted Doll

Jason’s Journal

She made me sit in the chair for an hour. She didn't let me move. She just kept layering stuff on my face—cold creams, powders, pencils that felt sharp near my eyes.

"Stop twitching," she ordered. "Beauty is pain, Jason."

When she finally spun the chair around to the mirror, my breath caught in my throat. I didn't see me. I saw… her. The skin was flawless and glowing. My eyes looked huge with the lashes and the liner. My lips were painted a soft, wet pink.

I look like a plastic doll. I look like something you keep on a shelf. I wanted to scrub it off, to find my real face underneath, but I was terrified to touch it. I was afraid I’d ruin her work. So I just sat there, staring at this pretty, empty girl in the mirror, blinking back tears because I knew if I cried, the mascara would run. And I didn't want to make a mess.

Vivienne’s Log

Subject: Jason Vane. Status: Decorating.

The canvas is finally ready for paint. The hormones have softened the skin texture enough that the foundation sits perfectly now. I spent extra time on the contouring to minimize that jawline.

The result is striking. He sat perfectly still, trembling slightly like a frightened rabbit, but he didn't pull away. When he saw himself, he didn't scream. He just stared. He is dissociating from the image. He doesn't recognize the reflection as himself anymore. That is the first step to accepting the new identity. "Jason" is the boy who makes messes. The girl in the mirror is the one who cleans them up.

Entry 11: The Girls' Night

(Image Reference: Maid (11).jpg)

Jason’s Journal

I wanted to die today. I really did. Vivienne invited her friends over for a "coffee date," but I know what it really was. It was a freak show.

She rang the service bell, and I had to walk into the living room carrying this heavy silver tray of iced coffees. My hands were shaking so bad I thought the ice would rattle, but I didn't drop a drop.

The worst part wasn't the uniform. It was the laughter. As soon as I walked in, the women on the couch started giggling. They weren't even trying to hide it. One of them pointed at the pink bow Vivienne clipped into my hair and whispered, "Oh my god, he's actually adorable."

I had to stand there, holding the tray out like a piece of furniture, while they talked about me like I wasn't even there. Then Vivienne made me take a selfie with them in the background. "Smile, Jason," she said. "Show everyone how happy you are to serve."

Look at my face. That’s not a smile. That’s me begging to disappear.

Vivienne’s Log

Subject: Jason Vane. Status: Humiliated.

The social experiment was a triumph. I invited the ladies from the club to see the "improvements" I've made to the manor.

Jason hesitated at the door, but he walked in. He wore the pink bow and the petticoats, and he served the iced lattes without spilling a drop. The girls were absolutely delighted. They laughed, of course—it is funny—but Jason took it.

He didn't snap. He didn't throw the tray. He just stood there, cheeks flushed, forcing that polite little smile I taught him. He is learning that his shame is irrelevant. If the guests want to laugh, he is there to be the joke. He is becoming an excellent hostess gift.

Entry 12: The Tightening Grip

Jason’s Journal

It’s been months now. I’ve lost count of the weeks. The hardest part isn't the cleaning anymore; it’s the... changes. My hair is so long now, it takes forever to brush out in the mornings before she makes me tie it up in this tight, high ponytail with a bow. It pulls at my scalp, a constant headache.

But the worst is this waist trainer. She says I have to wear it every day during my "exercises" to "shape" me. It’s so tight I can barely take a full breath. I caught my reflection just now after a set of squats, my hand automatically going to my chest because it felt like my heart was fluttering. I don't recognize the worried face looking back at me. The pink nails, the long hair, the pinched waist... I feel like I'm slowly being squeezed out of my own body, replaced by someone else. Someone she's creating.

Vivienne’s Log

Subject: Jason Vane. Status: Progressing.

We are several months into the regimen, and the physical transformation is becoming quite striking. The hair growth has been substantial; the high ponytail really accentuates his features and is a daily reminder of his new reality.

The waist training is also yielding excellent results. He complains it's too tight, of course—just look at that distressed little face in the photo—but discipline is key. The corset is doing its job, molding his silhouette into something much more refined. The anxiety he feels is just a symptom of his old self fighting a losing battle. The new Jason is starting to emerge, and she is going to be perfect.

Entry 13: The Mixer

Jason’s Journal

I hate parties. I used to love them—I used to be the one throwing them. But tonight, I’m just part of the catering.

Vivienne is hosting a "Fall Mixer." There are balloons everywhere, and people in suits and cocktail dresses are filling the living room. She handed me this heavy silver tray of champagne and weird little toast appetizers and told me to "circulate."

"And Jason," she hissed before pushing me out there, "if you stop smiling, you spend the night in the cellar."

So I’m smiling. I’m trying so hard. But my face hurts. My feet are killing me in these heels, and the corset is cinched so tight I feel like I’m going to pass out every time I take a shallow breath. I had to take the hourly "Clock-In" photo right in the middle of the crowd. I look terrified. My eyes are wide, my teeth are clenched... I look like a deer in headlights wearing pink ruffles. A guy in a navy suit just winked at me and grabbed a glass off my tray. I didn't say anything. I just curtsied. I hate that it’s becoming automatic.

Vivienne’s Log

Subject: Jason Vane. Status: Circulating.

The social stress test is yielding fascinating results. I filled the room with strangers—business partners, neighbors, people who don't know "Jason." To them, the creature serving hors d'oeuvres is just "Jasmine," a slightly nervous, tall brunette maid.

Look at that expression in the photo. It’s a grimace of pure panic. He is terrified of dropping the tray, terrified of the men staring at his legs, terrified of me watching from the corner. But he is doing it. He is walking through the crowd, offering drinks, and submitting to the gaze of the room. He is learning that his comfort is irrelevant; only the service matters. He’s almost ready for the main event.

Entry 14: The Reconstruction

(Image Reference: Maid (14).jpg)

Jason’s Journal

I woke up feeling like my head had been run over by a truck. My face is throbbing, tight and hot. When I tried to touch my nose, I felt tape. Hard, plastic tape.

Vivienne didn't let me stay in bed. She made me get up for the noon "Clock-In." She laid out this outfit—not the maid dress, but a fuzzy, pink angora sweater and leggings.

"You need to stay soft while you heal," she said.

I walked to the mirror and... god. The bruising under my eyes makes me look like a raccoon. My nose is completely covered. I touched my cheek, and it hurts, but the sweater… the sweater is so distracting. It’s incredibly soft. It tickles my skin and makes me feel fragile. I’m standing here, pressing my hand against my swollen face, realizing that when this tape comes off, the guy I used to see in the mirror won't be there anymore. She literally carved him away.

Vivienne’s Log

Subject: Jason Vane. Status: Healing.

Post-operative Day 3. The rhinoplasty and orbital contouring were successful, though the swelling is currently unsightly. He looks like a battered prize fighter, which simply won't do.

To counteract the violence of the surgery, I’ve dressed him in pure texture. The pink angora sweater serves a dual purpose: it keeps him warm during recovery, and it creates a sensory association between "healing" and "femininity."

Look at him in the photo. He is gingerly touching his face, looking terrified and vulnerable. The ice pack and painkillers are on the table, but the real medicine is the realization that his face is no longer his own. It belongs to the design. When the bandages come off, Jason will be dead. Only Jasmine remains.