The laces pulled tight with each practiced tug of Mary's fingers, and Greg felt his ribs compress, his breath going shallow in a way that was becoming familiar. The satin corset was a deep midnight blue against his pale skin, and in the mirror he watched his waist narrow, his already-broad chest pushed higher by the boning. He braced one hand against the doorframe, knuckles white on the painted wood.
Mary's small hands worked the laces from behind him, her movements quick and sure. She'd done this enough times now that she didn't need to think about it. Cross, pull, cross, pull. The rhythm of it was almost a meditation, and Greg let his eyes close, feeling the pressure settle around his torso like a second skeleton.
"Breathe out," she said, her voice soft and close to his spine.
He did. She cinched the last cross tighter than she ever had before, and he made a small sound—not pain, exactly, but something close. His cock stirred against the satin panel of the panties she'd already laced him into, the fabric slick and cool against his skin.
"There." Mary stepped around to face him, her dark eyes moving over his reflection with an intensity that made his pulse skip. She reached into the open box on the dresser and lifted out the silicone breast forms, each one cupped in her palm like something precious. "Hold still."
She pressed the first form into the built-in cup of the corset, smoothing it down until it settled against his chest wall. The weight of it was strange, still, after all these months—the way it pulled at his posture, made him want to straighten his spine. She fit the second one into place and stepped back, her head tilting as she studied the effect.
The swell of cleavage above the corset's edge was almost convincing. His shoulders were broad, his jaw was sharp, but the breasts changed the whole geometry of his silhouette. Greg stared at himself and felt the familiar heat spread through his belly, the ache of wanting to be seen like this. Wanting to be beautiful.
Mary's reflection smiled at him. Then she turned to the closet and lifted out the dress.
It was floor-length satin, a deep sapphire that matched the corset almost perfectly. Thin straps. A cut that would cling to every line she'd just created. The fabric caught the moonlight from the window and held it, the way still water holds light, and Greg's mouth went dry.
"Put it on, baby." She held it out to him, and her dark eyes held a flicker of something he didn't quite catch—something that made the hair on his arms rise. "I want them to see how beautiful you are."
"Them?" Greg's voice came out rougher than he meant it to. He cleared his throat. "I thought this was just us. Like before. The bar."
"It's different tonight." Mary didn't look away, and the dress hung between them like a question. "Trust me."
He did. That was the thing. He trusted her more than he'd ever trusted anyone, and the weight of that trust sat in his chest alongside the silicone breasts and the tight lacing and the hunger that never quite went away. He reached out and took the dress.
The satin was cool and heavy in his hands. He stepped into it carefully, the way she'd taught him, gathering the fabric and drawing it up over his hips, over the corset, settling the thin straps onto his shoulders. Mary moved behind him to zip it, and he felt the dress close around him like a second skin, the satin sliding against the corset, the panties, his own flushed skin beneath.
She smoothed the fabric over his hips, her palms flat and warm, and then she stepped back again. In the mirror, Greg saw himself. The sapphire satin fell in clean lines from his chest to the floor, hiding his masculine calves, his large feet, everything that might break the illusion. His face was still Greg's face—chiseled, clean-shaven, undeniably male—but the body below it was Gina's.
"You're perfect," Mary said, and her voice was almost reverent. She met his eyes in the mirror and held them. "They're going to love you."
The word landed in his stomach like a stone. They. She'd said it again. And the flicker was still there in her eyes, that secret thing she was holding just out of reach.
"Mary." He turned, the dress rustling against the floorboards, and caught her wrist before she could step away. Her skin was warm, her pulse steady under his thumb. "Who are they?"
She looked up at him, and for a long moment she didn't answer. Then her lips curved, and it wasn't her usual sweet smile. It was something older. Something that made his breath catch in his newly-cinched chest.
"Old friends," she said. "You'll see."