Interview on Easy Mode (Patreon)

“Damn, was that guy staring between my legs?!” — Stephen instantly dropped his knees together, frantically trying to press his thighs shut, feeling how the thick fabric of the skirt seemed to ride up even more, as if just to finish him off.

He darted his eyes sideways. The man beside him — tall, dressed in a dark suit, short hair, bored expression — lazily held a folder in his hands, but his eyes… yeah, definitely, they were fixed on Stephen’s obviously fake but way too noticeable breasts that drew far too much attention.

— Uh... ahem-ahem, — Stephen cleared his throat, hearing his unusually high-pitched voice (thanks to that throat-spray tightening his vocal cords), but it didn’t help — the guy kept staring all the same.

He pressed his back into the seat, trying to discreetly pull the hem of his skirt down, as if that could cover his legs even by a millimeter. A sharp sting went through his chest — not from breathing, but from the way the round shapes under the white shirt seemed to swell and harden under the weight of that man’s focused gaze, turning into real breasts.

— Feeling hot? — the man suddenly spoke, tilting his head slightly to the side. — Your cheeks are red, and... — he paused, making Stephen almost choke, — your tie’s crooked.

‘Shit... the tie?!’ — Stephen swore inwardly. His hands jerked toward his chest, straightening the red tie, but the movement only emphasized the curve of his tits pressed tight under the jacket. He heard a quiet exhale from the man — like he was appreciating the view — which only made it worse.

— Thanks, — Stephen muttered shortly, staring down at the gray carpet.

— Michael, — the man introduced himself, offering his hand like it was something inevitable.

Stephen shook it automatically. He had to lean forward a little, and at that moment he felt how the tight fabric of the skirt stretched again across his thighs. The faint crackle of the material reminded him — any movement was a risk to expose himself.

— St... Stephanie, — he stammered, blurting out his sister’s name.

Michael raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly.

— Pretty name. Suits you... — his gaze slid down again, lingering far too obviously.

Stephen felt his cheeks burning hotter. Inside, he was a mess: ‘What the hell does he even see in me?! It’s me, damn it! A guy! Just a costume, a wig, a stupid bra... God, these boobs!’

Stephen already regretted having argued with his sister in their spare time that 'appearance doesn't matter.' They bickered all evening, and in the end, after Stephen tossed at her that he could easily get Stephanie's job if he were her, she snapped and said: “Well fine! Then go and get the job!”

He laughed then, and laughed even harder when she told him her plan. They're twins, their faces are identical, their bodies don't differ much, except that Stephanie has noticeable breasts — there weren't any clearly visible differences otherwise, at least to an outside observer. For them, and for their parents of course, they were completely different.

— It's just ridiculous, Stef, no one will believe it! — Stephen waved it off then, sitting on the couch, but his sister only squinted in response.

— Want to bet? — Stephanie stood up sharply, her golden hair flashing in the lamp light. — I'll make everyone believe it, I'll give you my suit, my badge, I'll turn you into me. And if you can pass the interview instead of me, I'll admit you were right. But if you don't... — she paused, folding her arms over her breasts, which made the thin T-shirt stretch over her noticeable curves, — you spend a week wearing my clothes and doing my errands.

Stephen then snorted with laughter, not suspecting what he was getting himself into:

— Pff, what's in it for me?

Stephanie stepped closer, and he suddenly realised her eyes were shining like she'd already decided everything for him.

— Actually, I know, little bro, — she leaned in, almost looming over him, and with a smirk poked a finger at his chest, — maybe if you win, you'll get my new laptop. You've been eyeing it, haven't you?

— The one with the backlit keyboard? — he frowned.

— Exactly. But if you lose... — she squinted even more, — then you live my life for a week. Dresses, skirts, bras — all real. You wanted to prove appearance doesn't matter? Fine. You'll have to feel it for yourself.

Stephen laughed and waved his hand:

— Easy, Stef. Don't even doubt it.

…

Now he was sitting in the hallway before the interview, cursing himself with every word he knew. The gray carpet under his feet, the strict walls, a few chairs lined up — a typical boring office setting, yet it felt like every single thing in that space was working against him. The skirt pressed against his thighs, restricting any movement. The jacket was so tight that his breasts were clearly visible under the white shirt, and every breath reminded him that they actually had weight now, pulling down with every inhale.

Stephen cursed the moment he agreed to this. The tie was choking him, and the red headband that Stephanie had forced on him was pressing against the top of his head. “You look too… cute. This will help,” she’d said that morning. God, what cute?!

— Next, — a strict voice announced. A woman in a business suit was holding a tablet.

Stephen jerked, got up from his seat, and at that very moment heard a low voice beside him:

— Stephanie, — Michael leaned slightly toward him, — don’t get upset if you don’t make it. I’m still sure the job will go to me. But… — he paused, his eyes sliding over Stephen’s breasts and skirt, — I’d gladly take you out for dinner after.

Stephen froze like he’d been hit by a jolt of electricity. His heart dropped, his knees trembled, and the skirt tightened, as if deliberately emphasizing every curve of his hips.

— Wh-what?.. — slipped from his lips as he swallowed the lump in his throat.

His cheeks flushed even redder. He wanted to say something back, but at that moment the woman with the tablet cut in coldly:

— Please, save your personal conversations for later. You’re holding up the line. — She didn’t even look up, but her tone made it clear: she didn’t like seeing a man’s attention directed at “Stephanie.”

Stephen swallowed hard, stepped forward, his heels clicking loudly against the carpet. Walking into that office felt worse than walking to the gallows.

Inside, a large bright table awaited him, with three interviewers seated behind it — but for Stephen, the most important thing right now wasn’t them, it was their eyes. At that moment, he realized with horror that he was absolutely unprepared for this, and all the questions and answers he’d rehearsed for the interview had completely vanished from his head.